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they really did have murphy saying anything in s1-2 because wdym "i think the princess is dead, and i know the king's about to die" like we're in a high fantasy novel. it might not actually be that serious.
I’ve talked about this SOOO much before lol but considering how many allusions Murphy makes to classic literature (Shakespeare, Moby Dick, Tolkien) I think we must assume the boy is a literature nerd lol. He WOULD drop super dramatic lines like that
(Now is it probably just that the writers wanted Murphy to the snarky guy who makes quick witted pop culture jokes without thinking through the implications of their worldbuilding??? Sure. But I choose to believe he’s a literature nerd lol)
Summary: You discover Peter’s secret identity after inviting him upstairs to tour your new apartment.
Content Warnings: Kissing, grinding/dry humping, mentions of a suit kink(?), use of "good girl," and implied sex.
Author's Note: Inspired by Sabrina Carpenter's song by the same name! Please let me know if you liked this and would like to see more! Comments, reblogs, or even asks are always appreciated. Hope you all enjoy <3
TASM!Peter Parker Masterlist
“Thank you for dinner, baby. I had a really great time.”
The corner of Peter’s mouth curves up into a smile, fully registering your words and gently squeezing your hand. “I’m glad. I know it was last minute, but after they closed the lab for cleaning, I figured I could seize the opportunity to see my girl.”
“Your girl?” You could see his smile widen in your periphery as you questioned his choice of words.
“My girl.” He repeats, dropping your hand and pulling you in by the waist until you are tucked into his side. “Definitely my girl.”
You lean into his side, “For a man who’s only taken me on four dates, you’re really staking your claim.”
“Well, you didn’t seem to mind being my girl after our last date,” he teases, craning his head down just enough to whisper in your ear, “My good girl, if I recall correctly.”
“Peter!” You scold, smacking his chest as the heat of memory creeps up your neck.
“It’s true!” He muses, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Plus, you call me baby. I think calling you my girl is fair game.”
A rebuttal rests on the tip of your tongue. If this were any other date with any other guy, you would’ve shot down the playful possessiveness. But this wasn’t any other date with any other guy; this was a date with Peter: your friend and the guy you’ve had a crush on since Betty introduced you to him at the Daily Bugle’s holiday party two years ago. Being his girl was a title you wanted, and if he was willingly bestowing it upon you, you saw no reason to argue against it. “I suppose it is.”
He hums in response, clearly satisfied with your answer. “I forgot to ask, have you been to the restaurant before?”
You shake your head as the two turn the corner onto your street, “I have not. I’ve been wanting to since I moved into the neighborhood, but hadn't had the chance until you suggested I choose the spot when you called.”
Peter nods and gives your waist a soft squeeze. “I’m glad we got to try it together. I also had a really great time.”
“Did you, now?”
“I’m with you, how could I not have a good time?”
“Sweet talker,” you playfully accuse, stepping forward once the red hand of the walking sign changes to the person walking.
“Sweet enough to come upstairs and see your new apartment?”
You raise your eyebrows at him, pleasantly surprised by his ask. “You helped me move in, Pete. You’ve seen my place.”
“But I haven’t seen the place since you furnished it,” he counters.
“I see…so you want the house tour?” You tease as you reach the entrance to your apartment building.
“I want whatever you’ll let me have, sweetheart.”
You brace against the brick wall, turning to face him, taking the time to admire the way he looks under the golden glow of the street lights. There was something so romantic about the way he looked standing in front of you in a half-zipped puffer jacket that exposed the white button up and tie he had on underneath, cheeks and nose a little red from the cold air nipping at his face, with his fluffy hair left unstyled in the perfectly messy way it always was. “And if all I want is for you to come inside?”
Peter grins at your question, stepping closer and resting his hands on your hips. “What are we waiting for then? Lead the way.”
—
“Take your shoes off, baby. House rules.” You tell him as you unlock the door to your apartment, step inside, and turn on the lights
Peter shuts the door behind him, kicking his shoes and neatly placing them in front of your shoe rack. He glances around the apartment, taking in the open layout of the space and shrugging off his coat. Your cozy little kitchen was the first thing you saw when you walked in. The dark brown cabinets and wooden countertops complemented the many magnets and photographs on your fridge nicely.
He hangs his coat next to yours and steps further into the apartment, eyes roaming over the pictures before landing on a photo strip of the two of you from when he was your plus one to a friend’s wedding a few months back. He glances over his shoulder at you, watching you unzip your boots, “You know, May took this from my apartment when I told her I finally asked you out to show her book club?”
“I know and I’m honored,” you half joke, putting your boots aside and joining him in the kitchen.
“You know?”
“May and I gossip, baby. She told me all about nabbing the picture and you refusing to tell her about our dates. And I gotta say she made a shaky but damning case about how she and her friends had been waiting too long for us to get together for you to hold out on them now.”
He raised his eyebrows, “Since when do you gossip with my aunt?”
“Since I called her a few months ago to ask if she wanted to come to the dinner party I threw to celebrate my promotion. It was supposed to be a quick call, but then we started talking about our days, and you and it just spiraled from there. Now we chit chat every other week.”
“So that’s why she stopped asking me about our dates,” he thinks aloud.
You shake your head and reach for his hand, tugging him out of the kitchen, past the small dining table, and into the living room. “Partly. She knows she won’t get anything out of me aside from telling her that the date went well and that you were the gentleman she and your uncle raised you to be.”
“And that’s all you say?” He asks, glancing around at the way you decorated your living room. Everything was so…you. From the sofa to the throw blanket hanging over the arm, to the pillows, to the books scattered across the coffee table, to the framed pieces of artwork mixed in with pictures. Your apartment felt so lived in, considering you moved in only a few weeks prior.
“I don’t kiss and tell, Parker."
“I know. I know you don’t,” he responds, taking a seat on the sofa. “I love what you’ve done with the place, by the way.”
“Do you?” The question rolls off your tongue with ease and affection.
He looks up at you, the smile on his face widening into a grin as you stand between his legs. “I do,” he affirms, stretching his palms out until they were firmly planted on your hips. “I really really do…definitely a view I can get used to seeing,” he continues, eyeing you up before tugging you into his lap.
Your hands press flat on his chest, pushing him back against the couch just enough for you to readjust your position and comfortably straddle him with your knees on either side of his hips. You lean back on his thighs and admire the dopey smile he was sporting. “If you’re lucky, I might even let you admire the view in the morning too.”
“Yeah?” He questions, tugging you closer and stifling a groan when your hip rolls over his. “And how lucky do I have to be to admire you in the afternoon?”
“My nights, my mornings, and now my afternoons? I’m beginning to think you have a thing for me, Parker.”
A familiar smirk graces his face at your teasing comment. “Am I that transparent?” He asks, sliding his hands down to the curve of your ass and kneading your flesh over the skirt of your dress that was riding up.
“Mhm,” you hum, craning your head down to kiss him.
The kiss, like all your kisses had been, started off slow with his lips moving gently against, letting you set the pace but allowing himself to be a little selfish in the way his hands roamed your body. He caresses your thighs, squeezing them as you start to rock against him.
Peter groans against your mouth, his hands jumping back to your hips to guide your movement, and taking the chance to try and deepen the kiss by running his tongue over your bottom lip.
“So eager,” you mumble, rocking harder against his growing bulge, grinning when he lets out a moan.
“Can you blame me?” He breathes out, hiking up the fabric of your dress a little further until it bunches at your hips. “Look extra pretty tonight.”
“So beautiful,” he whispers, kissing along the length of your neck and reveling in the low whimpers you were letting out as you grind against him. “Can’t believe I get you all to myself.”
His quiet praises never failed to make you flustered, and tonight was no exception. “Such a sweet mouth.”
“I can get a lot sweeter,” he jokes, nipping at your pulse point.
Your hands move off his chest and towards his neck, loosening his tie and then traveling back down to toy with the buttons of his shirt. “Can I take this off?”
“Who’s eager now?”
“Still you,” you quip, rolling your hips over the tent in his pants to prove your point as you start to unbutton his dress shirt.
His head rolls back with a shaky moan, “Sweetheart, cmon—“
“What the fuck!”
Peter’s head snaps up to look at you, a panicked look on his face as he tries to figure out what prompted the wide-eyed expression on your face. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
You stammer over your words as you hesitantly touch his chest, “Y-your…are you…Is this real?”
He glances down at your hand tracing over the webbing of his spider suit and freezes. “Is this real? Are you Spider-Man?"
He opens his mouth to answer, but the words get caught in his throat. He knew he'd have to tell you at some point, especially if the budding romance between the two continued to bloom, and he was ready to do so at a later point when things were more official.
“Oh my god, please don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who dress as him and hustle tourists for money. Wait, is this a sex thing?”
“What?” He laughs, the question immediately making the anxiety weighing in his chest disperse.
You smack his chest, “Don’t laugh! I’m serious! I don’t mind a bit of roleplay, but a heads up would have been nice.”
“Not a sex thing,” he tries to assure, through stifled laughter. “It’s not, I promise. And I’m not one of those guys that walk around taking pictures with tourists in Times Square either.”
“So you’re the real deal? You’re actually Spider-Man?”
“I am.”
“Prove it.”
“Is the suit not enough?”
“You know how many guys probably have a spidey suit tucked away in their closet?”
He raises his eyebrow, “Do you know guys with a Spider-Man costume on hand?”
“Three excluding you.”
“Three?”
“Is it that surprising? Spider-Man has a ton of fans.”
“Yeah, but it’s mainly little kids that dress up as me. I’ve seen a few adults on Halloween and the ones in Times Square, but that’s it.”
“You still haven’t proved that you’re him. You could just be some guy in spandex.”
“I’m your guy in spandex,” he counters.
“But is my guy the real Spider-Man or just another fanboy?” You question, your fingertips gliding over the spider logo on the suit.
“So skeptical,” he teases as he unbuttons the cuff of his sleeve and reveals a wristband with a red device attached to it. “These are my webshooters. They have an optical sensor and when I move my fingers, it recognizes the gesture and shoots out the web.”
He aims his hand at your dining table, curling his middle and ring finger towards his palm until a loud thwip! echoes through your apartment, and a web shoots out and covers the wood.
“Woah!”
“They dissolve in about two hours.”
“Wow. I want to touch it,” you blurt out, starting to move off his lap, only for him to catch your waist and hold you in place.
“Don’t. It’s really sticky, and I don’t think either of us are interested in waiting two hours for you to get unstuck.”
You nod and sit back against his thighs. “I’m guessing this isn’t how you were planning on telling me.”
“Not at all. I completely forgot I had the suit under my clothes. Admittedly, I didn’t think the night would end like this. I thought I’d walk you home, maybe get a couple kisses before you send me on my way, but then we started flirting, and I made the comment about coming up, and then you said I could, having the suit on didn’t really cross my mind.”
He squeezes your waist and pinches the fabric of your dress between his fingers. “It’s really really hard to think about all of that when you’re on my lap and kissing me and grinding on me.”
“Too horny to think,” you conclude with a light laugh.
“Yeah,” he huffs out. “Is this a deal breaker for you?”
“Definitely not. I’m a little worried about your health and well being, but this doesn’t change how I feel about you. Or well it does, but not in a negative way.”
“What does that mean?”
“Your big brain and even bigger heart are two of the many reasons why I’m crazy about you, Pete. You being Spider-Man is just an enhancement of what I already knew; you’re a good man.”
He breathes out and drops his head to your shoulder, “Good. That’s good. This is good. I know you probably have a lot of other questions, and I’ll answer them.”
You hum in agreement and thread your fingers through his hair, gently massaging his scalp. “I do have a lot of questions, but I’d much rather finish the house tour before we get to that.”
“Finish?”
“Haven’t even seen the bedroom yet, baby. What kind of tour guide do you take me for?”
You could feel his lips curve into a smirk against your shoulder before he picks his head up to look at you. “I see. Wouldn’t want to leave things incomplete now, would we?”
“No, we would not.” You whisper, leaning in to give him a fleeting kiss and sliding off his lap. “If you’d follow me this way, I’d love to take you there. It’s my favorite room.”
He stands up and reaches for your hand, letting you lead him down the hallway. “Any reason why?”
“There’s a theory that it's a place where your dreams come true. You’re a man of science, do you want to test that theory?”
“What kind of scientist would I be if I said no?”
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⤿ JASON TODD isn't used to being the levelheaded person in a physical altercation, but when you lose it with a man who causes you issues on a little store run, he has to keep you from cracking the man's skull. And the whole time he's looking at you with love and a boner.
!! fluff. established relationship. reader is a bit of a hot head + having a bad day. fem reader. reader can pack a punch. jason is so secure in his love for you. mentions of mild violence. you clock a man. jason being 10/10 boyfriend. ENJOY.
Gotham had moods. That was the only way to describe it. Some days it felt like the city was holding its breath, waiting for something to go wrong. Other days, it exhaled chaos like it just lit a cigarette. Today was one of those days — the kind where the air felt too thick, the streets too loud, and every stranger too close. You’d woken up with a headache and a short fuse, and by noon, both had gotten worse.
Jason had offered to walk with you to the bodega, half because he wanted snacks and half because he didn’t trust Gotham not to throw another stupid thing in your path. You’d rolled your eyes, told him you could handle it, and he’d just smirked and said, “I know. I just like watching.”
The walk had been normal. Quiet, even. Jason had his hood up, hands in his pockets, boots scuffing the pavement with that lazy, deliberate gait that made people think twice about messing with him. You’d stuck close, your hand clasped in his and snug in his pocket. You had taken personal offense when he put his hands in his pockets to fight the bitter breeze, instead of holding your hand and thugging it out. So you shoved your hand in his pocket as well and intertwined your fingers with narrowed eyes.
But when you got to the corner store, it was far too crowded for your liking. There were too many people, and you had too little patience. You’d grabbed your drink, Jason had snagged a bag of chips, and you were halfway out the door when it happened.
The guy was big. Not in a trained way, instead he was just broad and clumsy, all elbows and ego. The man barreled past you, shoulder slamming into yours hard enough to knock your phone from your hand, and to make matters even worse it hit the pavement with a harsh crack.
You froze.
Jason turned, already clocking the damage, but you were faster. You bent down, picked up your phone, and stared at the shattered glass like it had personally betrayed you. Then you looked up.
The guy didn’t even glance back, which only made your blood pressure rise even more. He had the balls to just kept walking, only taking time to mutter something under his breath.
“Hey,” you snapped, voice sharp. “Watch it, asshole.”
He stopped, turned halfway, and gave you an once-over with a disgusting look behind his eyes that made your skin crawl. “Shouldn’t stand in the way, sweetheart.”
Jason shifted beside you, but didn’t speak. He knew that tone in your voice, so he knew better than to interrupt.
You stepped forward, jaw tight. “You literally just broke my fucking phone.”
The guy shrugged, “Get a new one.”
You blinked, then a sharp sound escaped you that resembled a laugh, but carried none of the joy that laughter did.
Jason’s hand hovered near your arm, not touching, but close. “Babe—”
“No. No, I’ve got it,” you said, eyes locked on the man. “You think you can just shove people around and walk off like nothing happened?”
He scoffed. “It was an accident. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”
Thaaat did it.
You closed the distance in two strides, fists clenched, heart pounding. “Say that again.”
The guy looked amused now, his eyes narrowed and aimed down at you. He was a huge man, but you didn't even blink twice at the fact that your eyes only came to his chest. “What, ‘panties’? You gonna cry or some shit?”
You didn’t cry. You swung.
Your fist connected with his jaw in a sickening crunch, and he stumbled back, crashing into a stack of crates and boxes outside the store. People gasped and someone shouted. Jason, however, moved instantly, stepping between you and the guy before you could follow up with another hit.
“Okay,” he said, voice low and steady. “That’s enough.”
But you weren’t done. Your blood was still boiling and you were already having a bad day.
“He fucking shoved me,” you snapped, trying to push past your boyfriend. “He broke my phone and acted like it was my fault.”
Jason didn’t budge, his hands firm but gentle on your wrists, his thumb pressed against your palm. “I saw.”
“He called me sweetheart.” You exclaimed and looked at Jason, finally, with slightly wide eyes and lips stuck in a tight frown.
“I know.”
You returned your glare to the guy, who was now wiping blood from his mouth and looking at you like he wasn’t sure whether to be scared or pissed. “Go ahead,” you said, voice challenging as you leaned over Jason's shoulder to shout at him. “Try it again, dickhead!”
Jason’s arm came around your waist, pulling you back with practiced ease. You fought it for half a second, then stilled, breath ragged and heart rapid.
"Control your fucking bitch, man." The man grumbled, his hand raking over his jaw and rubbing where you had socked him. In any other situation, Jason would've also clocked the guy in the jaw, but that would only egg you on and he wasn't looking to get a talk from Bruce. Instead of saying a word, his eyes darkened and fixed on the man, that was the only warning he was going to give.
“Kill yourself,” you drawled tauntingly, out of pure frustration.
Jason’s grip tightened at that, his eyes flicking to you with a heavy exhale. The guy didn’t respond, he just turned and walked off, muttering curses under his breath. You watched him go, chest heaving, your hands gripping onto Jason's arm that was secured on your waist.
Jason didn’t speak until the guy was out of sight. Then he turned you gently, hands firm on your shoulders.
“What the hell was that?”
You shrugged, adrenaline still buzzing. “He shoved me.”
Jason gave you a look. “So you told him to kill himself?”
“He was asking for it.”
“That’s not the point.”
You pulled away, pacing a few steps before turning back. “I didn’t need you to step in.”
Jason crossed his arms, watching you carefully. “I didn't step in for your safety, I stepped in for his. You underestimate your own strength. You could’ve cracked his jaw.”
“Good.” You shrugged, your eyes narrowed before they met his. After a moment of looking at him for the first time since you got bumped, you took a breath and forced your jaw to unclench and your brows to unfurrow.
“That’s not good.”
You ran a hand down your face with a huff, frustration simmering just beneath your skin. “I didn’t mean to hit him that hard.” Your voice came out a bit defeated and exhausted, your forehead dropping onto his shoulder.
Jason stepped closer, voice softer now and his hands planted firmly on the small of your back. “I know.”
“I just-.. he looked at me like I was nothing.” Your voice cracked with emotion, and at this point you weren't sure if it was from anger, frustration, or a hint of sadness.
Jason's thumbs rubbed gentle circles against your back. He was warm and smelled like leather and the faint remnants of his cologne mixed, all of that mixed with your perfume since you had been laying on him before you left. “You aren’t nothing.”
“I know that,” you snapped. “But he didn’t.”
Jason sighed and kissed the top of your head. “You’re not nothing.”
You looked at him, eyes burning. “I know.”
He nodded, then pulled you into a tighter hug before you could argue. You resisted for a moment, stiff and bristling, then melted into it, forehead resting against his shoulder again.
“I hate people,” you muttered against his jacket.
Jason chuckled. “Yeah me too, Gotham’s full of assholes.”
You stayed like that for a moment, letting the tension bleed out slowly. Eventually, you pulled back, eyes still stormy but calmer. “Sorry.”
Jason shrugged. “You hit like you mean it. I respect that. It's part of what made me want to ask you out.”
You snorted and nudged his arm teasingly. Your eyes meeting his with a softness they hadn't held all day, and something that only Jason got to see. “You’re not mad?”
His brows furrowed like that was the dumbest question he'd heard, and he let out a huff of a laugh, “Nah. Just worried you’ll break someone’s skull one day and I’ll have to bail you out.”
You rolled your eyes and swayed a bit into his side. “You’d do it, don't lie to yourself.”
“Fuck yeah I would, in a heartbeat.” His lips pulled into a grin that was toothy and mischievous.
Jason nodded, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “That being said, I did just keep you out of jail, least you could do is buy me dinner."
This caused you to groan because of course only Jason would say that with a smile. “You still want those chips?”
“Hell yeah.”
You laughed, the sound lighter now, and let him lead you away from the wreckage. Gotham could wait. Right now, you had Jason, a broken phone, and a bag of chips to share.
hey cutie patootie!! you seem so cool and i love your blog and the aesthetics of it and i think we have a lot of the same interests, all that to say do you wanna be mutuals? 😋
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ... hockey just became your favourite sport after #10 Dick Grayson would not stop flirting with you the whole time.
.tags: Dick Grayson x reader, college/uni au, american sign language, modern era, hockey!player dick grayson
word count: 12k
To be honest, hockey wasn’t your favourite sport. You knew how the game worked — the pace, the hard collisions, the way every cheer rattled through the stands — but you’d never gone out of your way to attend more than a couple of games.
But today wasn’t about you; it was about the kids.
You shifted the scarf around your neck — thick, knitted, borrowed from one of the volunteers — and blew into your hands for warmth as the chill from the rink crawled through the Plexiglas. The air was sharp and clean, full of that faint metallic bite of ice and skate blades, the faint sweetness of popcorn drifting down from the upper rows.
Thirty kids. Four supervisors. One of the loudest arenas you’d ever been in.
A little chaos, sure, but the good kind — the kind that came with bright eyes and flying hands as they signed excitedly about the lights, the music, the giant scoreboard overhead. You were busy helping one of the younger ones spell out TITANS with her foam fingers when two boys started arguing — good-naturedly — over which team had the better jerseys.
‘The red ones look faster,’ one signed.
‘The white ones look cooler,’ the other shot back.
You grinned and signed, ‘How can clothes be fast?’
That got a wave of laughter through the group, hands flickering bright and fast, their joy catching like wildfire.
You tugged your phone from your pocket when it buzzed — a message from Donna:
Donna: front section D, three rows up. i see you and your sticky kids. also your scarf looks cozy. i want it.
You: come down and get it then 😭 pretty sure i already have snot on me.
Donna: babe stay away from me. kori and rachel finally got here. they were definitely fucking in the car.
You snorted quietly, glancing toward the section Donna mentioned. Sure enough, she sat a few rows up, wedged between a redhead in a bright orange scarf and a girl with dark hair and an expression that screamed I’d rather die than clap for the wrong team. Donna caught your wave and shot you a wink, laughing before turning back to the rink.
The arena lights dimmed slightly, pulling your attention to the ice.
The boards gleamed under the spotlights, the surface flawless and untouched. The crowd’s roar softened into a low hum of anticipation. Then came the music — low bass first, then the full sweep of drums as the announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers:
“And now — your starting lineup for the Gotham Titans!”
The crowd erupted. The kids around you practically vibrated, half of them jumping from their seats. You laughed, steadying a few little shoulders so no one tumbled forward as the first players burst onto the ice.
White jerseys, blue accents, numbers catching the light. The sound of skates carving into the ice filled the air — crisp, rhythmic, hypnotic. Each player had their own little flourish, looping around, tapping gloves, testing their sticks against the boards. You could feel the pulse of the crowd through your chest, through the glass.
“In goal — Damian Wayne!”
“Number 27, defence — Roy Harper!”
“Number 45, right wing — Jason Todd!”
“Number 19, left wing — Wally West!”
“Number 11, defence — Conner Kent!”
The cheers grew louder with each name, the sound rolling through the arena like a heartbeat. The players flew past the boards, their skates carving deep, confident lines through the ice.
You didn’t follow hockey much, but you knew this team — everyone in Gotham did. The Titans weren’t just good; they were dominant. League champions two seasons in a row, a roster full of prodigies and headliners. Bruce — your boss for the arena gig, somehow — wasn’t just the owner, but the coach. Which meant a handful of his sons played for him, the tabloids’ favourite circus act.
You’d heard the names before — Grayson, Drake, Todd, Wayne — whispered in the office halls, mentioned in emails you weren’t supposed to read. The Titans were a dynasty, and Bruce treated them like one.
Now, watching from just a few feet away, you understood why. They moved like a single current, players weaving around each other with a precision that looked effortless. The kids beside you chanted “Ti-tans! Ti-tans!” in unison, the sound soft but full of life, echoing through the bass of the arena.
One of the girls tugged at your sleeve, signing: Which one is your favourite?
You signed back, I don’t know yet. I’ll tell you after I see who falls down first.
That got another ripple of laughter through your section.
Your scarf slipped loose again as you leaned over to help a kid pick up their poster, and when you straightened, the players had begun circling closer to the glass. The numbers on their jerseys blurred past — 27, 11, 45, 20 — each one a streak of white and motion.
“And finally—” the announcer’s voice cut through the din, drawn out for drama, “—your captain, number 10 — Dick Grayson!”
The crowd roared.
You flinched slightly at the noise, grinning despite yourself as the last player shot out from the tunnel in a flash of white and blue.
He cut across the ice like it belonged to him — fast, easy, blades slicing clean through frost. His stride had that kind of unstudied confidence that came from years of repetition; muscle memory turned art. The spray off his skates caught the light like glitter. The kids gasped when he pivoted sharply near center ice, flicking the puck toward the net in one smooth motion. It clanged off the post with a clean, metallic ring you could almost feel through the glass.
The section around you went wild — kids throwing their hands up, trying to sign ‘did you see that?!’ all at once. You laughed, nodding, eyes tracking him as he looped around again. There was something in the way he moved — something alive, like he was having the time of his life out there while everyone else was still catching up.
Number 10 coasted by once. Twice. On the third pass, his gaze caught yours.
At first, you didn’t think it was possible. There were hundreds of people in the stands, dozens pressed to the glass. But his head turned just enough — helmet tilted, blue eyes beneath the visor — and the moment stretched. Long enough that you knew.
Then came the grin. Wide, easy, devastating.
Your stomach did a tiny, traitorous flip.
He slowed as he approached your section, stopping so close you could see the frost building along the edge of his glove. Then, with the same smooth showmanship that made the kids squeal, he lifted his stick and tapped the glass. Once. Twice. A teasing, rhythmic knock that echoed through the Plexiglas.
The kids went feral. Hands flying, faces bright, all of them trying to sign at once — ‘he saw us! he saw us!’
You pressed your hand to your chest in mock offence. 'No, no, he smiled at you guys,' you signed exaggeratedly, but that only made them more chaotic, bouncing in their seats, shrieking silently with laughter.
Number 10 laughed too. You could see it, even through the helmet — the tilt of his head, the curve of his mouth. He pointed at one of the upside-down posters the kids had made, then at you, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it.
You mouthed, show-off, knowing he couldn’t possibly read it, and yet — his shoulders shook with quiet laughter. Like maybe he understood anyway.
Then, just as easily as he’d appeared, he pushed off again — a streak of motion and frost disappearing into the weave of players.
The kids lost it, trying to recount what happened in bursts of signs so fast even you had to laugh, nodding along as they insisted the hockey guy smiled at you.
You shook your head, warmth blooming somewhere deep in your chest.
Across the ice, Number 10 had already joined his team in a passing drill, helmet off now. His hair was dark, damp with some sweat, curling a little at the ends. He looked lighter than you’d expected — like someone who didn’t just carry the weight of being captain, but loved it.
The announcer called another name. The crowd screamed. The game hadn’t even started yet, but your pulse had already synced to the rhythm of the rink.
Your gaze caught on the back of his jersey again — the bold lettering clean and sharp against white.
GRAYSON.
Number 10.
And when he glanced your way one last time — just once, quick — you pretended you didn’t notice.
Someone tapped your shoulder. You turned to see a staff member in a black jacket, headset crooked against her cheek.
“[Name], right? You’re up in two minutes,” she said. “You can bring three kids for the ceremonial puck drop.”
You thanked her than signed quickly to the kids, 'Three of you with me.' Tiny hands shot into the air immediately. 'Alright, you, you, and you. Let’s go make history,' you said as you signed, guiding them out of their seats.
You could feel the cold hit your cheeks as the tunnel opened onto the rink. The lights were blinding at first — brilliant white reflecting off the ice, shimmering across the boards. The crowd noise became a dull, vibrating roar in your chest, muffled slightly behind the Plexiglas, but enough that you could feel the pulse of excitement radiating through the arena.
The kids clutched each other’s hands as you led them through the side of the rink, then onto the carpet expanding onto the ice. Their mittens brushed your coat sleeve, tiny fingers gripping tight, full of nervous energy. You knelt for a second so you could sign slowly, clearly: ‘Two of you will stand on either side. One of you will drop the puck. I’m behind you the whole time. Just watch and smile.’
The youngest’s eyes went impossibly wide. ‘We… get to drop it?’ she signed.
‘Yes,’ you signed back, exaggerating each motion for clarity.
A flush of pride warmed your chest as you watched the kids straighten, shoulders back, puffing out their little chests. You could tell they were nervous, shy even, but their excitement buzzed through the air, almost visible, like sparks along the ice.
From the corner of your eye, Number 10 skated forward. Helmet off, dark damp hair curling at the ends, a faint sheen of sweat catching the arena lights. His shoulders were relaxed, moving with the effortless ease of someone who didn’t just carry the weight of being captain but genuinely loved the game. Every stride was fluid, precise, yet playful, like he could have been dancing across the ice instead of leading a professional hockey team.
His blue eyes scanned the kids first — wide eyes, trembling hands, tiny mittens clenching and unclenching. Then his gaze flicked to you, just for a heartbeat, and his smile softened. It wasn’t the show-off grin the crowd expected, loud and performative. This one was quiet, almost shy, a small curve of his mouth that felt intimate, like a secret only you were meant to see.
The announcer’s voice boomed across the arena, warm and commanding:
“Please welcome our special guests of the Wayne ASL program! They will be performing the ceremonial puck drop tonight alongside Home team Captain Dick Grayson and Visiting team Captain Spencer Boyle!”
The crowd erupted, a tidal wave of cheers bouncing off the rafters. The kids jumped, hands shooting to their mouths, wide-eyed giggles escaping despite themselves, trying and failing to act like grown-ups in front of thousands. Your chest swelled, tugging the scarf higher around your neck against the cold, and you laughed with them, fingers flying as you signed: ‘You guys got this!’
Dick crouched slightly, blades scraping softly on the ice, fist-bumping each child in turn. One little boy froze for a split second, then grinned ear to ear when Dick’s gloved knuckles tapped his mitten. The girl next to him followed, bumping her knuckles gingerly, and Dick’s eyes flicked to her with a soft, approving curve of his mouth, like he couldn’t believe how earnest and cute they were.
And then the opposing captain glided in — tall, blond, impossibly charming — and winked at you.
You shifted your gaze politely to the puck in your hands, heart beating faster than the music in the arena. You could feel the electricity in Dick’s glance — the quiet sharpness of someone noticing everything, his head tilting just enough, a soft smirk on his lips, like he already knew exactly what was happening and found it… amusing.
The kids arranged themselves, standing with careful concentration on either side of the one holding the puck. You crouched behind them, hands hovering just above their shoulders, guiding without touching unless needed. You could see the tiniest tremble in the youngest’s fingers, the way the middle child’s mouth pressed into a determined line, the way the oldest’s shoulders stiffened with concentration. You beamed at them, heart full — this was their moment, and you were just lucky enough to be there to see it.
The ref gave the nod. You watched the little hand drop the puck — it clacked against the ice with a satisfying ring that echoed under the lights. The two captains mimed a playful skirmish, tapping sticks lightly, spinning around once before standing, amused and graceful.
The crowd roared, and the kids shrieked, hands flailing, faces lighting up in joy and disbelief. You bent down to sign encouragement, laughing with them, feeling that warm burst of happiness in your chest, almost overwhelming.
Dick crouched again, hands on his knees, watching them like they were fragile little wonders, a soft, almost tender smile on his face. You could see the way his eyes lingered, tracking each movement, his lips twitching in quiet amusement at their wide-eyed awe. He tapped his stick against the ice, an unspoken good job that made the kids beam brighter than the floodlights overhead.
You helped herd the kids off the red carpet, brushing snow and ice crumbs from their boots. Their chatter in sign language was frantic, overlapping — ‘did he see me? did you see that? he smiled! he waved!’ Your own cheeks hurt from smiling, but you didn’t care. They were alive, radiant, and part of something bigger than themselves.
And when you glanced back, heart still fluttering, you saw him again — Number 10, Dick Grayson, standing there just for a second longer than necessary. Helmet off, eyes soft and bright, a smile that wasn’t meant for the crowd but somehow for you.
Your pulse stuttered. You turned quickly, signing instructions to the kids again, trying to act like you didn’t notice, but you did.
And he definitely did.
The carpet rolled up behind you as you guided the kids back toward your seats. Their little mittens were sticky with sweat and ice, cheeks flushed from the chill and excitement, and their chatter was constant, frantic, full of signs and wide-eyed gestures.
‘Did he smile at us?’ one signed.
‘Did he really look at me?’ another asked.
You laughed, tugging your scarf tighter around your neck and crouching to sign with them. ‘He saw all of you. All of you did amazing. I’m so proud of you,’ you signed, actions full of warmth. Their faces lit up like someone had turned on a spotlight in their chests, and you couldn’t stop the grin spreading across your own face.
“You did it! All of you!” you signed to them again, sweeping your arms wide. The youngest practically bounced in place, then grabbed your hands and spun in a tiny victory dance. You laughed, letting her go, feeling a little of your own exhilaration tumble out.
From the corner of your eye, you spotted Donna waving frantically from a few rows up. Her grin was wide, bright — that effortless mix of mischief and affection you were starting to recognize as her signature. She leaned over to point at you, mouthing something you couldn’t read over the roar of the crowd.
She leaned back, and you noticed the two girls with her — Kori and Rachel — each wearing wide, slightly skeptical smiles, clearly amused by your animated waving. Donna’s phone was out, probably already snapping pictures of your triumphant little crew, and she caught your glance and winked.
“Alright, kids,” you signed again. ‘Time to get back to your seats before the game starts. But remember — you just made history.’
The kids groaned dramatically, half wanting to linger, half desperate to sit and recount the experience. You helped herd them down the steps, their tiny feet clomping on the polished concrete, mittens occasionally brushing against yours. You kept glancing toward the bench, partly out of habit, partly because… well, you weren’t sure why.
Dick Grayson was there — leaning slightly forward, elbows resting on his knees, helmet off, gloves dangling from his fingers. His dark hair curled damply at the edges, still wet from the skate, a few strands sticking to his temple. From where you sat, you could see the faintest flush across his cheeks, that sharp focus in his eyes.
His gaze looked casual, easy even — but you could tell he was tracking everything. The movement on the ice, the coaches shouting from the bench, the buzz of the crowd. And maybe, occasionally, the way your laughter cut through the noise when one of the kids got a sign wrong and made everyone giggle.
You helped them all back to their seats — thirty little jackets and blankets and gloves — their chatter bubbling nonstop in overlapping sign language and whispered exclamations. Tiny hands still pointed toward the ice, miming the puck-drop over and over, their faces flushed with excitement. You crouched to keep up, signing fast, laughing with them, your heart swelling in that slow, aching way that happiness sometimes does.
Once they were settled — mittens still clutched in small fists, hot chocolate sloshing in paper cups — you sank back into your seat. Your scarf brushed your cheeks, still damp with melted ice from your walk across the rink. The chill seeped up from the concrete floor through your boots, the kind of deep, crisp cold that lived in your bones but didn’t quite bother you anymore. You were rink-side — right against the glass, just to the left of the home team’s bench — close enough to see the tape on their sticks, the scuffs on their helmets, the breath fogging out beneath their visors.
The goalie’s crease was to your left, his pads squeaking faintly as he stretched. The boards were low enough that you could lean forward and smell the faint metallic bite of the ice. Every so often, the cold would press through your jacket in a wave — sharp, fleeting — before the hum of the crowd and the warmth of the kids’ excitement drowned it out again.
Your phone buzzed.
Donna: remember that time, like… ten years ago, when we were at my ninth birthday party?
You smiled, thumbs flying.
You: yeah?
Donna: remember that kid who threw up the cake cuz he ate too much?
You froze.
You: no. you’re fucking joking.
Donna: nope. that was my old neighbour. Dick Grayson. Number 10.
Your thumb hovered midair. The same kid who had thrown up pink frosting all over Donna’s Barbie cake was now skating literal circles around grown men — captain of the Gotham Titans, crowd screaming his name, jawline sharp enough to cause structural damage.
You: when the fuck did he get hot?
Donna: it was a miracle tbh.
You bit back a laugh, setting your phone down before you accidentally snorted out loud.
Warm-ups had ended. The lights dimmed to a cinematic low, painting the ice in blue and silver. The announcer’s voice echoed through the speakers, deep and booming, bouncing off glass and steel. The sound wasn’t just loud — it vibrated, right through your chest. The crowd’s roar rose to meet it, a single heartbeat made of thousands of voices. The smell of popcorn, hot pretzels, and cold beer swirled in the air.
The kids froze mid-sign, eyes wide as the team emerged from the tunnel again — a rush of white and blue and thunderous noise.
And there he was again.
Number 10.
You felt it immediately — that pulse of energy that hits the air just before the puck drops. The tap of sticks on boards, the rasp of blades carving across the rink. The players shouted to each other, voices muffled under helmets, the scrape of movement fast and constant. You could see it all perfectly from your seat, the bench to your right alive with motion. Coaches leaning forward, players pacing, one tapping the boards in encouragement.
Dick was everywhere. One moment crouched low for a faceoff, the next gliding backward, scanning the ice with that same sharp, predatory awareness. His movements were precise, efficient — but there was something almost playful underneath it, that kind of ease that came from someone who loved every second of what they were doing. He skated like gravity wasn’t a rule, only a suggestion.
The kids were in awe, bouncing in their seats, signing too fast for you to keep up. ‘He has it! He’s got it again! He’s passing! He’s—oh my god, he’s back!’ Their faces glowed from the light reflecting off the ice, each one lit with unfiltered joy. You laughed, trying to sign along, your breath fogging faintly against the glass.
And then —
A crack like thunder shattered the rhythm.
You jumped. The glass rattled under your palms, vibrations jolting up through your arms as a player in black slammed shoulder-first into the boards right in front of you. The thud reverberated through the air, deep enough that it hit your ribs. For a heartbeat, the world shrank — sound and motion collapsing into that single point of collision.
And there, in the middle of it, was Dick.
He had the other player pinned, stick caught between them, his whole body angled low and sure. You could see the concentration etched into every line of him — his jaw clenched, breath fogging against the glass, eyes cutting sharp beneath the visor. His gloved hands twisted for leverage, his shoulders flexed, and even through all that padding and fabric, you could feel it — the raw strength coiled in his frame, the control behind every shove.
The kids squealed, half thrilled, half terrified, and you couldn’t move — couldn’t even breathe properly — because then he turned his head.
And looked at you.
It was barely a second, maybe less, but it landed like a hit. His eyes met yours through the thin layer of glass, blue and bright, and then—he smiled.
Not the practiced grin of a captain. Not the camera-ready smile.
This one was smaller, crooked at one corner, wild in a way that said yeah, I saw you jump.
Your heart tripped over itself. This guy is fucking insane, you thought, and the words felt like an exhale.
Because he was.
He laughed as he ripped the puck free, spun, and bolted down the ice like a spark caught flame. The crowd roared. The boards shook again as he passed the puck, fast and clean.
You exhaled finally, realizing you’d been holding your breath, laughing breathlessly as the kids slapped their hands against the glass in delight.
When the whistle blew for the line change, Dick coasted toward the bench. He slowed as he passed your section, helmet tilted slightly, mouth curved in something softer — like he’d left a part of that grin just for you.
You looked away first, pretending to fix the kids’ blanket, pretending your pulse wasn’t hammering loud enough to hear.
You signed to them, ‘He’s insane. Totally insane.’
Their laughter sparked around you, quick and bright, and as the sound filled your chest, you realized you were smiling too.
And maybe — just maybe — that warmth wasn’t from the scarf anymore.
You were in trouble.
The first period blurred into rhythm — the kind that left you breathless without realizing why.
The puck dropped again after an icing call, and the sound of it hitting the ice snapped through the air like a spark. The Titans took control fast. You could feel it — their energy, their coordination, the way the entire game bent around their speed. Every pass was clean, deliberate; every formation broke apart and reformed like a heartbeat.
And right in the middle of it, him.
Dick moved like gravity didn’t apply to him — cutting through defenders, pivoting on sharp edges that carved perfect crescents into the ice. The cold radiated through the glass, brushing over your skin in little bursts each time he swept past. You’d thought maybe the novelty would wear off — the ridiculous, pulsing awareness of him — but it didn’t. If anything, it grew.
The kids were bouncing in their seats again, shrieking when he nearly got a shot in. The goalie barely got a glove on it, the puck ricocheting off with a sharp crack before the defence scrambled it away. The crowd roared, a wave of voices rising, then falling back into a hum of restless energy.
You leaned forward instinctively, elbows braced against the ledge of the glass. The cold bit through your sleeves, numbing your forearms, but you barely noticed. The ice glowed under the bright lights — that perfect, artificial blue — and every time Dick came near, that glow seemed to find him first.
He skated backward at one point, checking behind him as he called for a pass. For just a second, his head tilted — and his eyes caught yours again. Quick. Unassuming. But deliberate. Like it was habit now, like he couldn’t not look.
You pretended to focus on the game, but your pulse had other ideas.
‘Watch—watch, he’s got it again!’ one of the kids signed frantically toward the ice.
You followed their gestures just in time to see Dick take the puck up the boards, moving with that same impossible grace. He ducked around one defender, then another — too quick to track — before sending a clean shot toward the net. The goalie lunged. Caught it.
The crowd groaned, collective disappointment rippling like static.
Dick laughed. Actually laughed, smacking his stick against the glass in good-natured frustration before gliding back to center. His grin was pure mischief — bright, reckless — and your stomach flipped so hard you nearly dropped your jaw.
He looked back once more as he passed, helmet tilted, expression unreadable but lingering just a little too long.
And then the whistle blew.
The kids were still vibrating beside you, replaying every move with quick hands and even faster words. You tried to match their energy, to keep up with their retelling, but your eyes kept drifting back to him. To the way he leaned on his stick, catching his breath, hair damp under his helmet, mouth curved in that infuriating smile.
He skated back toward the faceoff circle, ready for the next play. The puck dropped. The Titans surged forward again.
You should’ve been watching the game. You were. Mostly. But every shift, every line change, every blur of motion on the ice — your gaze kept finding him.
And somehow, every time, he found you right back.
Intermission came quickly. The pace the Titans were setting felt almost cinematic — a blur of movement and precision that barely gave you time to blink. By the time the horn sounded, your shoulders were tense from leaning forward too long, and your cheeks were warm despite the cold curling around the rink.
The kids were buzzing, practically vibrating in their seats, signing at you in overlapping bursts — ‘Did you see that pass? Number 10 almost scored! He’s so fast!’ You laughed, tugging one girl’s jacket zipper higher when she shivered. ‘There,’ you murmured as you signed, patting her shoulder. ‘Better?’ She nodded, mittened hands shooting back up to sign something about how she ‘wanted to skate like that one day.’
“Yeah,” you said softly, smiling. “You and me both.”
Then, instinctively — stupidly — your gaze found him again.
Dick was by the boards near center ice, slowing to a glide as the last few seconds of play ticked down. Helmet still on, visor pushed up, that easy grin flashing under the harsh lights. But then you noticed — he wasn’t skating toward the bench.
He was facing someone.
The other team’s captain, taller, bulkier, standing stiff and squared up like he had something to prove. From this distance, you couldn’t hear what was being said, but you could read the body language clear as glass. Dick leaned in just enough to say something — casual, offhand. The smile didn’t waver.
The other guy didn’t smile back.
If anything, the glare he shot Dick could’ve burned straight through the ice.
You shifted slightly in your seat, heart thudding faster than it should. The air felt colder suddenly, or maybe that was just the tension pulsing between the two of them. You didn’t know what Dick had said, but whatever it was, it had landed perfectly. Because he looked amused. He was grinning like he was genuinely enjoying himself, like the guy’s rage was the best entertainment he’d had all night.
The captain said something sharp — you could see the way his jaw clenched, his hands tightening around his stick — and Dick just tilted his head, eyebrows raising in that infuriatingly calm way that said, Really?
And then it happened.
Dick’s eyes flicked up, cutting across the rink, and found yours through the glass.
You froze.
The moment hung suspended — you, seated just to the left of the home bench, scarf still loose around your neck, the faint reflection of the rink lights trembling across the glass between you.
And then, while the other guy was still fuming, Dick said something else. Something short. Something that made the other captain’s expression twist tighter.
Because Dick was pointing at you.
You blinked, disbelief punching through your chest as his gloved hand gestured casually in your direction — like it was nothing, like you were just part of whatever joke he was spinning. He turned his head back toward the other player, that grin softening into something unbearably smug.
And before you could even process what the hell just happened, he was gone.
He pushed off from the boards and skated toward his bench with that same effortless glide, bumping shoulders with one of his teammates, laughing about something you couldn’t hear. The other captain was still staring after him, absolutely seething.
You sat there, half-stunned, pulse tripping over itself as you realized he’d done it on purpose.
He’d looked right at you — pointed — because he knew you were watching.
The glass still hummed faintly from where he’d passed, and you swore you could feel the echo of his grin somewhere in your bones.
One of the kids tugged on your sleeve, snapping you back to earth. You blinked, exhaled. “Sorry, hun” you said with a small laugh, signing, ‘What’s up?’
She pointed to the ice, where the zamboni was beginning its slow crawl out of the tunnel. ‘He’s funny,’ she signed, giggling.
You looked back toward the bench just in time to see Dick removing his helmet, shaking his hair loose, that boyish grin still tugging at his mouth as he talked to one of his teammates.
Yeah. Funny.
And completely, hopelessly insane.
You shifted in your seat, the sudden realization hitting you: all that excitement, the hot chocolate, the racing around with the kids—it had consequences.
“Maggie?” you called out, loud enough to be heard over the hum of the crowd.
She looked up from her clipboard a few rows down and smiled. “Hey, what’s up?”
“I need to hit the washroom,” you said, standing and brushing snowflakes of ice dust off your scarf. “Could you watch the kids for me for a sec?”
Maggie grinned and gave you a thumbs-up. “Got it. Go!”
Relieved, you waved briefly to the kids as you passed, their excited chatter spilling over like a river of tiny, uncontainable energy. You ducked past the crowd, the chill of the concourse hitting you in contrast to the rink’s warmth, the distant echo of the game following faintly through the walls. Intermission hadn’t even started for you yet—you were already planning how to catch every moment.
The washroom was quieter, the hum of the fluorescent lights a sharp contrast to the steady roar of the arena outside. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and winter coats, a sterile pocket of calm after the storm of noise and energy you’d just walked out of. You slipped into a stall, letting the metal door clatter shut behind you, and exhaled slowly, trying to steady your racing pulse.
The game. The kids. The chaos.
And Dick.
God, you could still see the grin he’d thrown your way before the last whistle — the curve of his mouth against the glass, the way his eyes had flicked up just to find yours. You didn’t know what the hell to do with the way your chest fluttered.
When you were done, you pushed open the stall door—
—and froze.
Donna.
She was leaning against the counter like she’d been there forever, arms crossed, one brow arched, wearing that familiar grin that could slice through any moment.
You screamed. A short, sharp yelp that bounced off the tiles. “Holy—what the—!”
Donna burst out laughing, bright and unbothered, the sound echoing against the cold walls. “Relax, it’s just me, babe,” she said, rocking lazily on her heels.
You pressed a hand to your chest, the other braced against the counter for balance. “You scared the absolute shit out of me,” you muttered, half-laughing, half-glaring.
She only grinned wider. “Boo.”
“Yeah, hilarious,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “So, you just… lurking in the women’s restroom now? Standing here waiting for me to finish pissing?”
“Yep.” She tilted her head, unbothered. “I saw you leave your seat, and knowing you and your tiny-ass bladder, I figured I’d catch you before you snuck off.”
You groaned, leaning back against the counter — but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. “Good to see you too, I guess.”
“Always a pleasure,” she said, her grin softening as you reached for a paper towel.
You dried your hands, then leaned forward to wrap her in a hug — warm and quick, the kind that said you’d missed each other but didn’t need to say it out loud. “So, what’s new with you—”
She cut you off, grabbing your forearms and tugging you back, her fingers firm but affectionate. “Shut up,” she said, eyes bright, grin turning wicked. “We’re not talking about me right now. We’re talking about whatever you and Wonderboy have going on.”
You blinked. “What—”
“Don’t ‘what’ me.” Her tone sharpened just slightly, though she was clearly enjoying this. “Look me in the eyes and tell me nothing is happening or gonna happen with you two.”
You froze, pulse kicking up again. “Donna—”
“Because I’ve been watching,” she went on, words tumbling out with gleeful precision. “I can’t see your face, but I can see his. And holy shit, he’s practically eye-fucking you every time he skates past. Don’t even try to tell me you’re not noticing him noticing you.”
Heat flared across your cheeks so fast it made you dizzy. “I—I don’t even know him! I mean—he’s—he’s good on the ice and—”
“You mean hot.” She didn’t even blink.
Your mouth opened, then closed.
Donna’s grin softened, though her gaze stayed piercing, like she was reading every unspoken word in your expression. “You’re glowing, babe. Don’t fight me on this. Every time he looks your way, your face lights up like you’re under a spotlight.” She reached into her back pocket, flashing her phone screen for a second. “And yes, I got video. Of the way you practically melted during puck drop.”
You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Oh my god. Delete that. Immediately.”
“Absolutely not.” She was laughing now, but her voice gentled, teasing with just a thread of care woven in. “I just wanna know—are you gonna do something about it? Or are you gonna sit there pretending you’re not totally gone for the guy who keeps staring at you mid-game?”
You sighed, tilting your head back toward the ceiling. The hum of the lights seemed louder now, matching the thud of your heartbeat. “I don’t know,” you said, voice low. “It’s—complicated.”
Donna gave you that look — the one that was all empathy wrapped in chaos. “Everything’s complicated. That’s not a reason to hide from something that makes you smile.”
You stared at her for a long second, the truth of it sinking in. Then: “Okay. Obviously, I’m gonna see where it goes. I mean—he’s… wow, okay. Super fine. And, yeah. I definitely notice.”
Her grin bloomed like she’d just won something. “There it is.”
You shook your head, laughing. “You’re the fucking worst.”
“I know,” she said, looping her arm through yours as she started toward the door. “But I’m also right. Now let’s go, before the next period starts and he scores some miracle goal just to impress you.”
You nudged her shoulder, still smiling despite yourself. “You’re insufferable.”
She smirked, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “And you love me for it.”
And yeah. Maybe she was right.
You and Donna were still leaning against the counter, arms brushing, when she leaned closer, eyes sparkling with that impossible grin.
“I’m so excited to be an aunt,” she said, voice dropping conspiratorially. “You better give me credit for this on your wedding day — I can already picture your baby, and it’s gonna have your eyes and his athletic ability, I’m talking D1 baby. Holy shit, you hafta tell me how he is in—”
You choked on your laugh, waving a hand in mock protest. “Donna, stop—”
And that’s when the faint sound of a toilet flushing echoed through the room.
Both of you froze mid-movement. Your eyes met hers, wide and panicked. Before either of you could react, the bathroom door creaked, and an old woman emerged from a stall, moving with surprising decisiveness for her age. She shuffled right between you and Donna and went straight to the sink, scrubbing her hands in silence.
Donna’s lips twitched in an attempt to hide her laugh. She was shaking slightly, trying so hard not to snort. You? You were screaming internally. Every time you dared to glance at her, her barely-contained grin made your chest hurt with laughter, and you quickly averted your eyes, pretending to dry your hands while your heart hammered.
The silence — except for the old woman’s deliberate scrubbing — stretched on, each second feeling like an eternity. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, she turned toward the door.
But before she could leave… she paused.
“I’ve lived a long life, from what I’ve heard, sounds like you met your husband today, young lady,” she said over her shoulder, voice carrying that casual authority only an old lady can wield, then she exited, the door clicking closed behind her.
You both froze, staring at each other for a heartbeat, and then the dam broke.
Donna doubled over, laughing so hard she had to lean against the counter for support. You covered your face with both hands, hiding your own uncontrollable laughter, your shoulders shaking, trying not to inhale too sharply and ruin your composure completely.
“Oh my god,” Donna wheezed, finally straightening a little, tears in her eyes, “even she knows. ”
You pressed a hand to your chest, trying to catch your breath. “I’m never coming back here. Ever.”
“You’re lying,” she said immediately, smirking. “You’ll be watching his games for the rest of your life. She said so, lady wisdom. Can’t fight fate.”
You groaned, laughing again, shaking your head, because of course, this was Donna — and of course, this was exactly how every interaction with her went: chaotic, impossible to stay composed, and somehow, entirely perfect.
The start of the second period was just as electric as the first, maybe even more so. This time, the away team’s net was closer to your section, which meant the Titans would spend most of the period charging up your side of the ice because they were dominating on offence. The smell of cold metal, sharp leather, and melting snow from the players’ skates filled the air. Your scarf pressed a little tighter around your neck, partly from the chill, partly from the anticipation buzzing through your chest.
Dick Grayson was everywhere again, center ice, orchestrating the offence like a conductor. Every pass, every sprint, every feint drew your attention — you couldn’t look away, even as you tried to keep up with the excited chatter and signing of the kids beside you.
He had more opportunities this period, skating closer to your section multiple times, giving you glimpses of that impossible grin whenever the puck slid his way. You caught the way his dark hair curled damply at his temples, the way his gloves flexed as he gripped the stick, the effortless power in every stride.
Then it happened.
He skated hard toward the net, weaving through the defence like it was a warm-up drill. The puck squirmed loose in front of the goalie, and Dick leaned in, trying to nudge it past. One of the opposing defenders, caught in momentum, collided with him just slightly off-balance. Dick stumbled forward — and for a heart-stopping second, it looked like he was going down. But instead, he ended up leaning into the goalie, almost landing on him in a tangle of white and blue.
The arena erupted in shouts and gasps. You froze, eyes wide, heart in your throat. The other team’s players immediately skated toward him, glaring daggers at the chaos he’d caused.
Dick, though, didn’t flinch. His body language shifted from playful agility to calm command, shoulders squared. He raised his hands slightly, a signal that he didn’t want trouble. He wasn’t reckless — he was a captain, after all. Maintaining control was part of his job.
But the other team’s captain wasn’t having it. He skated up, practically nose-to-nose with Dick, voice sharp, accusing. Dick leaned back just enough, trying to defuse it, his expression polite but firm. “Hey, it’s fine. No harm done, relax.”
The captain shoved him — lightly, but enough to break the line of decency — and Dick’s jaw tightened, a flash of annoyance crossing his features. His eyes, however, never left the captain’s as he stayed calm, poised.
And then the captain spoke again. This time, it was personal, aggressive, testing boundaries. Dick’s composure snapped.
The captain swung at him, catching the side of his helmet. Time slowed, the sound of impact resonating in your chest. You flinched, gripping the edge of the glass as if it could anchor you.
Dick didn’t hesitate. His fist met the captain’s with precision, sharper and stronger than the first swing. The hit rattled the other man, leaving him staggered. The refs blew their whistles immediately, skating in to separate the two. The arena roared with a mixture of cheers, gasps, and whistles, your heart thundering along with it.
Both captains got a minor penalty — each was escorted to the penalty box on opposite sides of the ice. You watched as Dick skated over, shoulders squared, helmet still slightly crooked, hands raised in a mock “peace” gesture toward the stunned opposing captain, a flash of humour in his dark eyes. He leaned against the glass of the penalty box, exhaling slowly, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, clearly enjoying the mix of chaos and control.
Your scarf brushed your cheek as your hands trembled against the glass. The kids beside you were bouncing in their seats, signing rapid, excited updates as they tried to process the action: ‘He hit him! He’s in the box! Wait he’s smiling?!’ You laughed breathlessly, half from excitement, half because the sheer audacity of it all was dizzying.
Even from the penalty box, Dick’s eyes found yours again. Just a flash — mischievous, knowing, soft — and you felt your stomach twist. He wasn’t just controlling the game on the ice; he was controlling the moment, making sure you saw it.
The other captain was glaring from his own box, scowling, clearly not appreciating the humour in the situation, while Dick leaned back against the glass, helmet tilted, fingers tapping on his stick, like he’d just won a private little victory.
Dick sat in the penalty box for five minutes, helmet slightly crooked, gloves resting on his knees as he watched the ice like a general observing a battlefield. From your spot, just a few feet from the glass and to the left of the home team bench, you could see him scanning every pass, every shift, every movement, quietly calculating and waiting for his moment. Even stationary, he exuded presence — the energy of a player who could change everything, and you were acutely aware of it.
The Titans weren’t floundering without him. You could see #45, Jason Todd, weaving dangerously close to the goal, nearly scoring on one slick move that had the puck slipping past the goalie’s pads but just narrowly blocked. And #11, Wally West, was a blur of speed, tearing down the lane, stick swinging, fighting for control like a flash of lightning across the ice. The crowd roared every time Wally streaked past the glass near your section. You were half-signing to the kids, half gripping the glass, breathless with excitement.
But you could tell — even from your vantage point — that the team was holding back just slightly. They were strong, yes, coordinated, even impressive. But the spark, the chaos, the edge, the raw unpredictability, that was missing.
Then, the penalty clock expired. The buzzer sounded, and Dick leapt from the box, skating onto the ice with that effortless glide that made it look like he was floating. His eyes immediately locked onto the puck, the players, the flow of the game — and suddenly, the Titans were another beast entirely.
Every pass was sharper, every shift faster. He moved like he was conducting an orchestra, and the other players responded instantly. Todd fed him the puck; Wally streaked past the defence to open lanes; the whole team seemed energized by his presence, as if the air itself shifted.
You barely had time to blink before Dick was charging, puck at his stick, weaving through the defense with a fluidity that left the opposing team scrambling. Your hands pressed against the glass, heart hammering, kids beside you squealing and signing frantic updates: ‘He’s got it! He’s going! Go, go, go!’
And then, after just about two minutes back on the ice, it happened. He wound up, maneuvered past a defender with a smooth pivot, and fired a shot — clean, precise, unstoppable. The puck slammed into the net on the opposite side, the arena erupting around you.
The glass shook from the force of the crowd’s cheer — a deafening, thunderous wave that rolled through the arena. You saw the net ripple, the red light flash, and then Dick — Number 10 — throw his arms up in triumph. His stick clattered against the ice as his teammates swarmed him, helmets knocking together, gloves pounding his back.
A victorious grin split his face, wide and radiant, and he looked every inch the captain in that moment — confident, magnetic, glowing under the harsh rink lights. He did a small victory lap, cutting tight, effortless turns in front of the boards, spinning the stick in his hand before tapping it against the glass where the fans pressed up. You saw him point to someone in the stands — then to you.
He caught your eye as he coasted past your section, skating backward for a second just to hold your gaze. The grin softened into something smaller, private — and then he lifted his glove and waved at the kids, a playful salute before flicking his stick against the boards in front of them. They jumped, half in shock, half in delight, almost falling out of their seats.
Your chest tightened. You pressed your hand against the cool glass, laughing with the kids but barely hearing yourself. He didn’t just score; he reminded everyone why he wore that captain’s “C.” Every move he made radiated control and heat— the kind that pulled every eye in the rink toward him.
You tried to focus on the chaos — on the red jerseys swarming him, the echo of skates cutting through the ice, the ref’s whistle blowing somewhere — but your gaze kept finding him. The way his shoulders rose with his breath, how his hair clung to his forehead beneath his helmet, the smirk that lingered even after the team began to skate back toward the face off circle.
The kids beside you were bouncing off the seats, pointing, signing, shrieking, and you laughed with them, trying to match their energy but failing spectacularly. You didn’t care — you were too busy watching Number 10 work his magic.
Two minutes on the ice and he had shifted the entire rhythm of the game.
And maybe — just maybe — the rhythm inside your chest, too.
The buzzer wailed through the arena, long and triumphant, and the crowd erupted. The scoreboard glowed 4–1 in bright red numbers, and the Titans bench emptied in seconds — gloves tossed, sticks clattering, helmets coming off as they swarmed the ice.
You were on your feet before you even realized it, clapping, laughing, the kids around you losing their minds. They were banging on the glass, waving their foam fingers, shouting the players’ names — and you matched their joy, dizzy from the noise and the light and the sheer thrill of it.
It was chaos in the best way. Jason Todd — #45 — had his helmet off and was yelling something over the noise, his grin wild and unrestrained as Dick slung an arm around him, shaking his shoulders. Wally West skated past, hair plastered to his forehead, fist-bumping Damian Wayne — the youngest player on the roster — who looked like he could explode from pride and was failing to seem nonchalant. You could tell it was his first big goal, and the way the older players mobbed him, cheering and ruffling his hair as he pushed their arms away made your chest ache in the sweetest way.
The ice glittered under the lights, scuffed and slick, reflecting every streak of red and white jersey. Helmets and sticks were scattered everywhere, the sound of laughter carrying up through the boards. You couldn’t help but grin when Dick finally took his helmet off — hair damp, cheeks flushed, that smile still unwavering.
He looked… free. Unshakeably happy in a way you hadn’t seen since—well, maybe ever.
He skated lazily in a wide circle, tapping gloves with his teammates, and then glanced toward your section again. Just a flicker of recognition, but enough. His eyes met yours for half a second through the glass, and you swore his smile tilted up just a bit higher — the kind of smile that wasn’t for the crowd, or the cameras, or the team.
The kids caught it too. ‘He looked at you!’ one of them shook your arm, pointing. ‘He waved earlier and now he’s—!’
You tried to play it off, laughing, shaking your head — but your heart wasn’t exactly cooperating.
Around you, the announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers, congratulating the Titans on another win, calling out the scorers in order — Grayson, Todd, Grayson again, and Wayne. Each name drew another round of cheers. The team lined up to shake hands with the opponents, sportsmanlike as always, even as the other team still looked sour from the loss.
When it was over, the Titans gathered at centre ice, raising their sticks to the crowd. The arena thundered with applause. You lifted your hand too, clapping until your palms stung, your smile stretching wide and real.
And when Dick finally skated off, helmet in one hand, stick in the other, you could still feel that pulse of energy — the echo of the game, the sound of his name shouted in celebration, the sharp, bright heat of being part of it.
By the time the ice cleared and the crowd began to file out, the kids were still absolutely electric — all chatter and bouncing energy and half-signed, half-yelled excitement about the goals. You and Maggie had to practically herd them down the stairs, matching their pace but keeping them from tripping over each other in their excitement.
The woman from before — the same one who’d brought you both down for the puck drop — was waiting by the rink entrance, clipboard tucked under her arm and a proud, practiced smile on her face. “You guys ready to meet the team?” she called, and after you interpreted it for the kids, that was all it took. They went feral.
You laughed, exchanging a quick glance with Maggie, who looked equally delighted and mildly terrified. Together, you led the group through the lower concourse — concrete floors, the faint chill of the rink still seeping through, the sharp tang of ice and sweat and fresh tape heavy in the air.
Every few feet, one of the kids asked, ‘Do we get to talk to them?’ or ‘Can we take pictures?’ and Maggie would sign back with patient, excited nods, her grin never faltering. You added your own reassurances, your heart thudding harder than it should’ve.
It wasn’t just about meeting the team. It was about seeing him again.
The hallway leading to the locker rooms was narrower, quieter — only the hum of overhead lights and the distant echoes of laughter and clattering sticks from behind the double doors at the end. A few staffers passed by, congratulating each other, the faint smell of coffee and detergent lingering under the sharper bite of ice and gear.
You stopped where the woman gestured, just beside the frosted glass door with the TITANS logo across it. “You’ll be able to go in soon,” she said, smiling knowingly. “They’re wrapping up interviews and a quick debrief.”
You nodded, adjusting your coat, trying not to look like you were waiting for one person in particular — but your pulse betrayed you anyway.
The kids lined up near the wall, fidgeting, signing excitedly to each other about who they wanted to meet first. You leaned back against the opposite wall beside Maggie, who caught your eye and raised a brow, that teasing look already forming.
“What?” you whispered.
She just smirked. “You’re doing that thing again.”
You frowned. “What thing?”
“That thing where you look calm but your shoulders are literally up to your ears,” she said, fighting a laugh.
You groaned softly, glancing toward the locker room doors again — still closed, the low murmur of voices carrying faintly from the other side.
“I’m fine,” you muttered.
“Uh-huh,” Maggie said, clearly not believing a word.
The sound of loud laughter broke through from inside, a mix of familiar voices, the clatter of sticks hitting the ground, someone yelling, “MVP! MVP!” followed by more laughter.
You caught yourself smiling, helplessly.
The woman with the clipboard checked her watch and said, “Alright, just a few more minutes.”
You exhaled, steadying yourself. The kids were practically vibrating with anticipation, whispering about autographs and selfies, while you tried not to think too hard about the fact that in a few minutes, Dick Grayson be right through that door — still flushed from the game, still glowing from the win, still with that grin that had your entire heartbeat out of rhythm.
The wait felt longer than it probably was, but when the lady with the clipboard finally reappeared, she was carrying a small stack of glossy cards — the Titans logo stamped bold across each one, the team colors gleaming under the overhead lights.
“Here,” she said, handing them to you and Maggie. “Each kid gets one — the players will sign them. Just makes it easier than chasing down stray paper.”
You smiled, taking the stack and nodding. “Perfect, thank you.”
Then came the small flurry of passing them out — tiny hands reaching eagerly, some signing thank you! so quickly you could barely keep up, a few kids bouncing on their heels from sheer excitement. The energy was contagious. Even Maggie looked like she might start vibrating.
You tucked the last few extra cards under your arm, glancing toward the locker room doors again as the muffled laughter inside grew louder, sharper — the kind of post-game joy that buzzed right through the walls.
“They’re ready for you,” the woman said finally, smiling as she pushed one door open and stepped aside. “You can bring them in. Stay to the side near the benches, and let the players come to you, okay?”
You nodded, heart thudding once — twice — way too hard for something this normal.
Turning back to the group, you signed quickly to get everyone’s attention, clapping once for focus. The kids quieted almost immediately, eyes wide and shining.
“Okay,” you signed and spoke at the same time, making sure everyone could see your hands. “We’re going in to meet the players now. You can wave, say hi, ask for a picture, and give them your cards so they can sign them.” You smiled, exaggerating the expression to keep it bright and easy. “If you need help, just grab me or Maggie, or one of the volunteers, okay?”
Dozens of little nods, some enthusiastic, some nervous. You could practically feel the room’s pulse — excitement rippling from one kid to the next, fingers twitching in anticipation, eyes darting toward the open door.
“Alright then,” you said softly, signing ready?
The chorus of ready! hands flew up so fast it made you laugh.
You pushed the door open wider, holding it as Maggie ushered the first few inside. The air changed instantly — warmer, thicker, carrying that post-game blend of sweat, detergent, and faint cologne. The sound hit next: laughter, conversation, the clatter of skates against tile, someone blasting music from a speaker in the corner.
The Titans locker room was a whirl of movement — helmets and sticks piled neatly near benches, towels draped over shoulders, players half in uniform, half out. The blue-and-black team logo stretched across the far wall, bright against the gray tile.
The moment your group entered, the noise shifted — laughter softening into surprised, delighted greetings. Players straightened, waving and calling out as soon as they spotted the kids filing in. Jason Todd lifted a hand, grinning wide. Wally was already kneeling down by the bench, waving exaggeratedly. Even Damian, barely taller than some of the kids, nodded stiffly before the corner of his mouth twitched up.
The kids responded instantly — a flurry of movement and signing and giggles as they waved back, some clutching their autograph cards so tightly they were starting to bend.
It was chaos — sweet, bright chaos — and for a split second you almost forgot to breathe.
Right. You had to thank someone. Before you completely made a fool of yourself gawking at professional athletes and one in particular whose eyes you could already feel on you.
You found him near the far end of the room — Bruce Wayne, unmistakable even out of a suit, standing beside one of the assistant coaches. He caught your approach before you even spoke, his posture as composed as ever, presence filling the space without trying.
You smoothed your scarf and smiled. “Thank you so much again for this opportunity,” you said, voice steady even as the words felt small next to him. “The kids had such an amazing time, Mr. Wayne. And—” you nodded toward the team, toward the burst of laughter near the benches, “—congratulations on the win.”
Bruce’s expression barely shifted, but you caught the faintest hint of warmth in his eyes as he inclined his head. “Thank you for being such an asset to the Wayne ASL Club,” he said, voice low but certain. “The kids clearly adore you. It’s the least I can do.”
You blinked, surprised by the sincerity under the formality, and smiled. “That means a lot. Really.”
He gave a curt nod in reply, the kind of acknowledgment that said more than it looked. “Enjoy yourself,” he added, then stepped aside as another coach came up beside him to talk strategy or scheduling or something that sounded very Bruce Wayne.
You turned back toward the group, relieved to breathe again — only to catch sight of a familiar figure leaning casually against the wall near the benches, still in full gear, helmet off, hair damp and curling just a little from sweat.
Dick.
He was laughing at something one of the kids had signed to him, crouched down so he was eye-level, hands moving in an attempt to sign something back. It wasn’t perfect — far from it — but the kids were eating it up, giggling, correcting him, showing him the right shapes with their fingers.
And he was actually trying, focused in that way he got when he wanted to get something right, his smile crinkling at the corners as he nodded along.
You couldn’t help it — your heart did that stupid fluttering thing again.
Maggie caught your glance and smirked knowingly before walking off to help another volunteer hand out Sharpies.
You were about to check in with Maggie when you felt a small tug at your coat. Then another.
Two of the youngest kids — a little girl with pigtails and a boy with a crooked name tag — were looking up at you, wide-eyed, signing come here! as fast as their little hands could move.
You blinked, amused, and crouched slightly so you could see them better. “What’s up?” you asked, hands already moving with the rhythm of the words.
The girl pointed toward one of the players by the far bench — #12, bright green hair messy from where his helmet had flattened it, freckles scattered across his nose, grin wide and boyish.
Garfield Logan.
He was already crouched down in front of a couple of the older kids, holding out his glove for high-fives, clearly mid-story about something ridiculous if the way he was gesturing wildly meant anything.
You followed the tug on your sleeve as the two little ones half-dragged, half-guided you over to him.
“Hi,” you started with a smile, gesturing a small wave when he looked up. “These two want to ask you a question.”
Gar leaned forward, elbows on his knees, grinning. “A question? Shoot.”
The girl pointed right at his hair, eyes huge. The boy started signing something fast and excited, hands moving in an unsteady blur. You caught enough of it to understand: ‘How did you get your hair that color?’
You bit back a laugh and translated, “They wanna know about your hair. Specifically—how it’s green.”
“Ohhh,” Gar said, mock-serious, glancing between them. “That’s classified info.”
The kids gasped as you interpreted his words. The girl covered her mouth dramatically.
You leaned in slightly, playing along. “Classified, huh?” you said, hands moving quick as the kids watched you interpret. “So you can’t tell us?”
He tapped his chin, pretending to think. “Well,” he said finally, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret, “if you eat enough broccoli—”
‘No way!’ the boy jumped, signing ‘liar!’ so fast you almost snorted trying to keep up.
Garfield laughed, tilting his head. “Okay, okay, maybe it’s just dye. But broccoli definitely helps.”
The kids dissolved into giggles, and you found yourself laughing with them, the tension of the day bleeding out of your shoulders.
Gar handed each of them his marker, signing their cards with exaggerated flair — huge looping letters, a little cartoon doodle beside his name. When he was done, he winked and handed the cards back. “Tell everyone else the secret, yeah? Broccoli power.”
You translated, and the kids immediately nodded, serious-faced, like they’d just been entrusted with top-secret information.
Gar laughed again, watching them go, and then looked back up at you. “You’re really good with them,” he said, tone softening slightly. “They’re totally glued to you.”
You smiled, shrugging a little. “They’re easy to love.”
His grin widened. “Yeah, I can see why he likes you.”
You blinked, the words catching you off guard, warmth creeping up your neck before you could stop it. “Who?” you asked, even though you already knew.
Gar’s grin turned downright mischievous—but before he could answer, a low throat-clear sounded behind you.
You turned, and there he was. Dick Grayson, half suited down from the game, helmet tucked under one arm, a faint flush still on his face from exertion. His hair was damp, curling slightly against his forehead, and there was that same infuriatingly warm smile he always seemed to have when he saw you.
“Hey,” Dick said lightly, his voice still rasped from the rink and the cold air. His gaze flicked from you to the kids, softening immediately, like the chaos around him didn’t exist for a moment. Then, as best as he could, he signed toward them: ‘happy?’
You crouched beside him, smiling, and translated for the kids in real time. ‘He’s asking if you’re having fun,’ you signed, fingers moving quickly to match the excitement radiating off them. The kids’ faces lit up instantly, eyes wide and bright, hands flying as they signed back: ‘Yes! So much!’
Dick’s dark eyes followed each little gesture, and he crouched fully to their level without hesitation. He tried to sign back, but his fingers fumbled slightly—close, but not quite there. The little boy with the mittens tilted his head in confusion, brow furrowed. The tiny girl beside him scrunched her nose and laughed softly, sensing something wasn’t quite right.
You leaned closer to Dick, brushing lightly against his hand as you caught his fingers mid-motion. The faint scent of his cologne—woodsy, fresh, just faintly sweaty from the game—hit you, and for a second your brain short-circuited. “Almost,” you said softly, guiding his hands into the correct shape. “Like this.”
He studied your movements intently, eyes flicking between your face and your hands, then mimicked you again. “Like this?” he asked, fingers twisting slightly but landing perfectly this time.
You nodded, smiling, and gave him a little thumbs-up. “Perfect.”
You turned back to the kids and interpreted the corrected sign. ‘He says: ‘I got it now! Do you all have cards!’’ The kids squealed, little hands waving as they signed back excitedly: Yes! Yes! Please!
Dick’s grin widened, a mix of mischief and pride, and he picked up a marker to start carefully signing. You narrated for the kids in real time: ‘He says Garfield will sign your card first, then he’ll move to you next. Look at how focused he is—he wants it to be perfect for you.’
The kids leaned forward over the benches, tiny noses practically pressed to the edge, their mittens slipping off their hands in excitement. One little boy grabbed your arm and signed something quickly. You turned to Dick, “He says you’re really good at signing, and he likes that you’re trying.”
Dick’s grin softened, warmth flickering in his gaze. He look back toward the boy and smiled, “I’m learning from the best,” and you translated, letting the kids erupt into delighted giggles and squeals again.
Garfield, still dyed streaks of green in his hair, leaned in to see what the commotion was, laughing softly
You interpreted for him too, and the kids immediately bombarded him with questions and requests. ‘Can I see your hair?’ one little girl signed. Garfield mimicked brushing his hair back and shrugged, and you narrated it all, the kids collapsing into fits of laughter.
Dick, still crouched beside them, caught every reaction. He waved to each kid as he signed, signing slowly so you could interpret exactly what he was doing. One by one, he checked in with them, signing simple phrases like ‘good job’ and ‘so happy you’re here’, and you kept the energy flowing, hands flying as you translated every little bit.
The locker room was alive with chaos and warmth—the scent of sweat and detergent mingling with the faint, sweet tang of energy drinks and post-game adrenaline. Markers squeaked, laughter echoed, and you felt a bubble of pure happiness around you, watching him interact with these kids, trying his best, fumbling at first, then nailing it, their joy mirrored in his grin.
The kids, still buzzing with excitement, suddenly tugged Garfield off toward the next group of signatures, little hands practically dragging him along. You and Dick were left standing near the bench, the echo of tiny giggles fading behind you.
He straightened a little, brushing his dark hair back from his forehead, and tilted his head toward you. “I’m Dick Grayson,” he said, voice low but carrying easily over the background noise, a small, playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Nice meeting you here.”
You blinked, caught off guard for a fraction of a second, then smiled warmly, extending your hand as you introduced yourself.
He gave a small nod, but his grin lingered, eyes sharp and curious. Then, almost casually, he added, “Yeah… actually, I’ve heard a lot about you.”
You froze mid-handshake, eyebrows shooting up. “Oh? Really?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady despite the fluttering in your chest.
“Mm-hm,” he said, tilting his head slightly, dark eyes glinting. “Apparently you’re one of the few employees Bruce actually likes. And a person Donna talks about a lot.”
You felt your cheeks heat instantly, the corner of your mouth twitching with both amusement and mortification. Your fingers itched to fidget, to smooth your scarf, anything to buy yourself a second. “God. What does she even say?” you asked, eyebrows climbing higher, trying to keep your voice steady but failing slightly.
“All good things,” he said, smirk widening just slightly, almost conspiratorial. “She says you’ve got… a presence. The kids adore you. And apparently, you’re my type.”
Your chest stuttered, heat blooming across your face and down your neck. You tried to blink, to look anywhere but him, but his dark eyes pinned you effortlessly. The words hung in the air, electric, and all you could think was Donna, thank you for the beautiful assist.
Within a second, you composed yourself—this wasn’t the first time you’d had a conversation like this. So you smiled, eyebrows raised, and spoke.
“What is your type, Grayson?”
He smiled, eyebrows drawn in mock concentration at your question. “Someone who wears a pink scarf, who can teach me how to sign, someone I’ve been waiting to grab the attention of since a certain nine-year-old birthday party… someone very beautiful. Something else too… shit, I forgot.”
You laughed.
“Well, was she right?”
At that, Dick’s eyes widened as he grinned, full and unabashed. “So far, yeah. Completely.”
God, he was your type too. Dark hair that he swept back from his face. Blue eyes that weren’t the freaky piercing kind. A smile that almost made all your worries fly out the door.
Yeah, thank you fate.
“[Name]!”
Nevermind.
You turned to find Maggie across the room, and with all the post-game noise, she just signed quickly, ‘Group picture?’
You nodded back, brushing imaginary lint off your scarf and clearing your throat, then took a step toward the center of the room. The kids immediately turned their attention to you, little faces lighting up with excitement. Their eyes were wide, sparkling, and it was like you were standing at the center of a mini solar system — the gravity of their attention pulling everything else out of focus.
Even the players paused, glancing over at you with curious expressions. You could tell they didn’t understand the rapid-fire signs you were throwing out, but they were watching anyway — the way you moved, the energy you radiated, the way your hands seemed to dance in perfect rhythm with your smile. You felt like the room had shrunk down to just you and the kids, the rest of the world reduced to background blur.
Turning toward them, you raised your hands, signing clearly while speaking at the same time so everyone could follow along:
‘Okay, everyone! We’re going to take a group photo!’ you said. ‘The kids will line up in two rows, the players stand behind you. Try to smile and—’you gestured to the kids—’keep your hands where I can see them, yeah?’
The kids immediately scrambled into position, some tugging at one another, some bouncing excitedly on their toes, their tiny faces glowing. You walked among them, adjusting a scarf here, a jacket there, whispering encouragements and translating signs back and forth. ‘Perfect! That’s a great smile!’ ‘Yes! Look right at the camera, honey!’
Behind them, the Titans were watching, their arms folding, helmets still in hand, leaning casually but paying close attention to your instructions. Dick, of course, was crouched down to their level again, his grin softening as he mirrored your motions to help the kids understand what you wanted. You noticed him sneak glances at you between directing a child or two—his smirk like a secret only the two of you shared.
You clapped your hands lightly to get the group’s attention again. ‘Alright! Players behind, kids in front. Everyone ready?’
Hands went up. Nods all around. You could feel the excitement hum like electricity in the air. Even the kids who had been shy before were leaning forward, mimicking the motions you’d taught them, eyes shining.
‘Okay!’ you signed to the players and spoke aloud. ‘Stand nice and tall, put your hands on your knees if you need, and… big smiles, everyone!’
One of the younger players, Damian, tilted his head in confusion, and you walked over quickly to show him how to line up. “Perfect! That’s it,” you said softly, encouraging. You could hear the faint rustle of jerseys, the soft tap of skates adjusting on the floor, the way everyone was finally settling into place.
Dick, still crouched at the front, glanced at you again, eyes dancing with mischief. You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. This—this chaotic, bright, warm mess of people, laughter, and hockey magic—was exactly why you loved these moments.
“Ready… everyone?” you signed and called aloud. “Three… two… one…”
The camera flashed, and the room erupted in cheers. You laughed, clapping your hands, and Dick shot you a wink before standing back with the players, letting the kids bask in their glow.
You were crouched down, helping the kids wave goodbye to the players, signing each of their excited little goodbyes, translating as best you could, keeping them on task while they jabbered and mimed in their own frantic, adorable way. “Yes! Say bye! That’s it! Big wave!” You laughed, tugging a mittened hand gently to make sure everyone’s motions were visible.
The players grinned, waving back, calling soft hellos, pats on shoulders, or thumbs-ups, letting the kids bask in the post-game glow. Some of the younger ones were practically bouncing, shouting “thank you!” over and over. You kept up with them, translating, correcting little hand shapes, repeating words and phrases so everyone felt seen.
Finally, the last kid waved, a tiny little spiral of fingers, and you stood, brushing imaginary lint off your pants, finally letting yourself relax. The locker room had quieted slightly; the players were starting to gather their gear, pockets of conversation forming as they packed up.
And then — that familiar voice, smooth and just low enough to make you turn your head instinctively.
“You still got some of those cards?”
You froze mid-motion, hands hovering over the last kid’s Titans card. You blinked, then glanced up. Dick. Standing there, leaning slightly against the wall, helmet tucked under one arm, that grin you’d be thinking about for the rest of the night in full force.
“Yeah,” you said, heart picking up speed, trying to sound casual. “Why? You want one?”
He smirked, tilting his head, eyes bright and teasing. “Yeah, actually.”
You shrugged, letting the card slip out from under your fingers and into your hand. “Alright, one for you,” you said softly, extending it.
He held up a Sharpie you hadn’t noticed before, and before you could think too much, he passed it into your hand. “Could I get your number with it?”
The words hit you like a slap of warm air. Your fingers fumbled slightly with the card, the Sharpie, trying not to look completely flustered.
You blinked, then tilted your head, smirk tugging at your lips despite yourself. “You—” you laughed, a little breathless, “I should’ve known you wouldn’t do this halfway”
He leaned closer, eyes glinting, playful and confident, and nodded once. “Yep. Just… I figured, since I’ve been annoying you on the ice all night anyway, might as well bug you off the ice too.”
You bit back a laugh, shaking your head, but you felt your pulse spike. Slowly, deliberately, you took the Sharpie and wrote your number on the card, hands trembling slightly because he was right there, smiling down at you.
Handing it back, you kept your eyes locked on his, letting the teasing edge linger. “There. Don’t lose it.”
He accepted it with that grin that made your knees go a little weak, tucking it carefully into his pocket. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said softly, eyes flicking toward the kids for a fraction of a second, then back to you. “Thanks… for this. For cheering me on tonight.”
You shrugged lightly, smiling, feeling your chest tighten just enough. “Anytime, Grayson. Let me know when the next game is.”
He laughed, low and warm, before turning toward the door, giving the kids one last wink and wave. But when he looked back at you, that grin stayed. Full. Unapologetic. Completely his.
You couldn’t stop smiling.
Hockey would definitely be your favourite sport from now on.
a/n: would you believe me if i said based off of my own experiences?ANYWAYS might be turned into a mini series!
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I should lock the fuck in *half an hour passes* I should lock the fuck in *half an hour passes* I should lock the fuck in *half an hour passes* I should-
— pairing: dick grayson x gn!reader
— summary: dick is late. again. it's starting to get old (angst, hurt/comfort, pre-established!relationship, detective!dick)
— a/n: honestly, i don't think it's angsty enough but we roll, let me know what you think!! this was written with a fem reader in mind but i think there's nothing descriptive towards the reader
Dick Grayson was a busy man. You knew that. With the position on the Blüdhaven police, the patrols and the vigilante duty on top of it all, your boyfriend had his hands full. So, when he called ccancelling a date for the second time in a row, you brushed it off. You understood it, or you tried to. He had a lot on his plate that week, and cancelling — rescheduling — a date night with you was hardly the end of the world.
You didn’t mean to set a precedent. He didn’t mean to set a precedent. Or so he said.
It was the third night that week that he ghosted you. You sighed as you placed your phone back down, how hard could it be for him to just answer you? Fifteen minutes, if not less, was all you were asking, and still, it didn’t seem like he could find time in his busy schedule. It was wearing you down, faster than you’d like to admit.
At first, you try to brush it off. Call it just another busy night, like you knew he had — many, lately. Normally, you wouldn’t dare to call him. You’re still half unsure as you dial his number and wait. The line rings, the phone screen pressed between your shoulder and ear where his head would be, on a good day. It hasn’t been for a while now.
You count it, four, five, six times, until you’ve lost all hope. Like the messages that sit unanswered and unseen in your chat with him, it seems that tonight, at best, Nightwing is too busy to check his phone. You try to not think of the worst; if it was that kind of news, you’re sure it would’ve made its way to you way quicker. You never had to be the one to call to listen to a terrifying update, it would already be on the news, on your phone like one of his teammates stalling to tell you, on receiving a bat-alert. Bad news arrived fast, but silence tortured you. On some nights, you wish he didn’t have to leave.
You understand why he does, of course. He has to, duty calls and Dick is diligent with it. He answers, he steps up, he goes. He always goes.
Even on quiet nights like these, where everything feels so calm, Gotham gives an supposed air or grace tonight. But the city is never calm, never silent, and you can feel your boyfriend’s arm hair standing when his phone rings with a notification.
It breeds a trap, it smells danger, but Dick goes. WIthout fail, you watch by your bedroom door as he suits up, gets his escrima sticks from the small arsenal built into your home, puts his mask on.
He doesn’t tell you what’s going on, you don’t ask. You watch as he kisses the crown of your head like a silent promise and just like that, he leaves.
The silence he leaves behind in your apartment is deafening.
And there is no getting back, no return, triumphant or in defeat, as the hours stretch themselves against Gotham’s twilight. The shadows grow longer, and you grow tired. You leave the front door locked and your bedroom door open.
When he enters the room again, it’s quiet. Like he knows you’re there, even though he can’t see your silhouette with the closed blinds. A small, chilly breeze whispers against them, not so closed after all. You’ve left an inch of your balcony open, your way of subtly inviting him in. He closes it.
He can hear the sheets ruffling, your subtle movement under it caught by the dim streetlights. Then, your voice. Soft, sleepy, tired. He feels it like a punch in the gut nevertheless. “Dick?”
It’s something he can’t name. Or won’t even dare to try. You sound raspy from sleep, and the thought of you falling asleep alone, with a sliver of hope he might come, the smallest way to keep that door open, the balcony unlocked for him, tugs at his heartstrings. It’s more than he deserves, right now.
Leaning down, he presses a kiss to your temple. “Hi. Give me a minute.”
So simple, so… sweet. Like he has never left this routine, like he never vanished from your side, metaphorical and literally speaking. Maybe, if it was just the second, or third time, you would’ve brushed it off too. But you can’t.
It’s cold, all cold except from the warm spot on his pillow where your hand ghosted into your sleep. Like you were reaching for his body, even though you knew he wasn't there. Looking for him, even though he hadn’t returned. He wondered at what time you had given it up to exhaustion and went to sleep. He hopes it wasn’t long.
Dick raises your hand delicately from the spot where it rested, and wraps it up again around his midriff. His silent way of saying that he’s here now, that it’s okay. He hopes it is, at least.
You shift on your sleep, not your hand, laying still across his rips, but your hips, shoulders, recognising the dip on your bed as him. You pull him closer — or maybe it’s yourself, he can’t tell the difference, head nestled on the crook of his neck, snuggled up against him. He almost believes you’re mumbling nonsense from your dream into his ear, but then he catches it.
“It’s late, Dick…”
He nods imperceptively. It is late. His nose snuggles against your neck, tracing along your throat all the way to your nape softly, like he’s asking sorry without really saying it. Afraid to break the moment so delicate that it lingers between you. Silent that felt not oppressive, not heavy with the doubts clouding your sleepy mind, but calm, still, and gentle. Like right there, by his side, you were aware of something in Gotham City that no one else knew. A secret shared between lovers, made of bedsheets and sweeter dreams than sugar and honeycomb.
“I know…” His voice is raspy, hoarse, worn out. It sounds broken, tired even, from the night he had. “I’m sorry, baby… I’m here now.”
Conscience slips in and out of focus as he rasps against your nape, voice pressed so close it could be coming from inside your skull, no line to where he ended and you began.
The city calls and his answers are getting rougher, more frequent, more difficult. It’s taking its sweet time taking that toll through your boyfriend’s head and heart. Slow like torture, some days.
But he always came back. You try to focus on that. That sweet spark of devotion that drove him through the lone streets back to your bed. Back to you.
“How did it go?” You whisper in the darkness, your hands coming on top of his to trace along his knuckles, counting silently sweet nothings. The bruises are almost fully healed now, would be sooner if he wasn’t so stubborn about them.
“Uhm, good… City’s quiet, I don’t know…” He pauses, and you hear that sigh over your hair that tells you he’s thinking. It’s probably something, you both know Gotham too well to hope otherwise. The city was never quiet; it was plotting, scheming in the dark if anything, waiting for people like him, its fierceless protectors, to slip up.
You let out a low hum under your breath. For once, you wished it could be nothing, over-awareness making you wary, just so you could have this one stolen moment with him grow longer, peaceful, sweeter.
“Yeah… It’s been so lately, hasn’t it?” There's just the slightest hint of bitterness on your tone.
“It worries me.” It’s the kind of admission Dick can only make in the dark, in moments like this.
“You’ll figure it out. You always do.” You whisper, smiling as you turn around to face him, and press your face closer to his neck. He still smells like Gotham, petrichor and something motor oil, rot that grows even on the most polished surfaces. Adoptive son of a billionaire or not, it shows you that Gotham doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints.
But beyond all that, it’s still him, you catch it. Like a phantom note, sustained from air alone, impossible to be there and yet, it’s so certain, so obvious, so senseful. Of course, your boy is there beneath all that Gotham dirt and grime you have to scrub off.
“I have to.” There it is, that late night tone, that burdensome mood that creeps up on him from time to time. Your own Atlas, carrying the world on his shoulders.
“You have to rest right now, boy wonder. Rest of the world can wait.” You bargain, pressing a gentle kiss to the line of his jaw, meant to be soothing, it comes out only as mildly concerned. “The city's not going anywhere for a few hours.”
You both know it's a half-truth, but he lets himself believe it. To will the city still in his mind, so he can rest with you. “I know you're pissed.” He whispers, a beat of silence that lingers between you.
“I- It's not that I'm mad at you.” You say, another half-truth, he clocks it. He can feel your jaw clenching as you look for the right words. “I know you have to do what you do, but sometimes...”
“Sometimes you wish I could leave the life behind.” He finishes the sentence again, like he knows you don't have the courage to, working the pads of his fingers against your jawline, willing you to unclench it. It's a selfish request, but he knows it's true. It's even reasonable, he knows he owns you that much, if not more, but he can't. “I know, we can try that in a few years.”
You bite your tongue, it's the kind of empty promise he would get away with, if this wasn't tonight. “I don't know where we'll be in a few years, Dick.”
The words feel like someone just kick the air out of his lungs, like somehow, there's a hand around his heart and it's squeezing it. “Don't say that.” His voice carries that tender ache, his hands tighten around you like you're vanishing any second now. “We- We'll be fine, just stick around, please.”
His voice breaks on the last word. “I want to.” You say, meeting his eyes, his blue irises almost black, pained. “Will you let me, Dick?”
He nods like you just concede him a miracle, feverishly. “Just tell me what you need, we- We'll find a way to work on it, I promise, sweetheart.”
“I need you to be here.” You sigh, like you know it's selfish, in its own way. “I need you to care enough to save us when things get hard, Dick. You do it when you're wearing the mask, out there, I'm just asking... Please, do the same between us. I don't want to walk away from you, but you're pushing me away and you're not even realising it. I don't want perfect, I want you, but I need to know you want it too...”
Silence grows between you as he takes in your words. They're true, and he knows it, every single one of them. “I... God, I want it, so bad. You- You have no idea how much you're on my mind. I love you, and I know it's been fucked lately. I'll cut down the patrols, okay? And the late shifts, they can find someone to cover me, if they need it. To hell with it.” His hand finds yours in the dark, giving it a light squeeze. “I'll be here.”
You smile, blinking back tears. “Yeah, okay...” Your voice weakens, you nod against his shoulder.
“Let's just sleep now, uhm?” He suggests, placing a kiss on your wet cheek. He wipes away your tears with his thumb, bringing you closer. He speaks with something gentle to his tone, almost coaxing you into it effortlessly.
It’s the kind of thing that comes with years of knowing each other, of sharing secrets, of knowing each other's set of steps, rhythm of breathing, pace, talk, to be able to translate each other to the very last cell. It’s built over years of fights and misunderstandings and understanding again and it’s dirty, holy, work. You wouldn’t trade it for the world. Him pressed against you in that restless Gotham night, even though he woke you up, even though you both have busy days tomorrow. It’s the kind of relationship that tells the world, and tomorrow, and all your schedules and obligations can wait another hour or two. Right now, Dick holds you like you’re the only thing that matters and right now, you let yourself believe in it. The world can have its way with you tomorrow, and it surely will. Tonight, his lips tender against your forehead press a silent promise that you both vow to each other. Without words, without so much as moving, you both know what it tends to. You’ll come back and try another day, you’ll resurface together.
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lady luck .ᐟ hacker. unnoficial vigilante helper. 333. the runaways. minty cigarretes. triple shot. rum and coke. cold french fries. wired headphones. cherry chapstick. teenage dirtbag. vintage cars. lipstick stains.
cherry!reader who had it rough growing up and learned to survive by bottling her feelings up and making herself useful. she won't talk about her past to anyone, maybe making jokes that drop a hint, or make people raise a brow, but never venting.
cherry!reader who can hack and invade any system and code her way into any program with enough time, she's as smart as she's stubborn, and she won't stop until she gets it right. she taught herself a million different abilities, everything she could get her hands on.
cherry!reader who nobody knows where she's from, maybe she has rented that spot right next to the crime alley forever? it's not homey, but it gets her right into business (and into the radar of one or the other vigilante, but oh well).
cherry!reader who can come off as cold and bitchy, but opens up to the right people, who's highly selective of who gets her loyalty, but once she makes the decision, there isn't takebacks.
cherry!reader who smells like cigarette smoke and cherry flavoured chapstick half of the time, who loves to stain cheeks with it, who lives on takeout and a few staples, blasting the runaways and paramore full volume.
— summary: you have an unusual request for your beloved boyfriend, peter parker.
— a/n: reader's nickname is inspired by @webslingingslasher (hi j!!) frat!peter and trouble, go check them out!!! i used to read them before i began to write anything on here guyss
Peter looks at you like you might've grown a second head in the meantime he got up to go to the corner store. He swore he couldn't have taken that long, but your request is so unusual that it might be the only exception.
"What?" He squints his eyes at you, his 'you can't be serious' face. But you are.
"I mean it." You nod to him. "Bite me."
"Bite you?" His eyes widen, the space between his brows furrows. "I'm not going to bite you!"
"Not full force, Petey." You can see him scowl at the nickname. "Just a little, teeny-tiny bite." You show him a small space between your index and thumb, 'teeny-tiny' indeed, you know anything else and he might actually tear a part of your arm out. You never studied that part of his super strength so attentively.
"I'm not biting you." He doubles down on it, your lips jut in a pout.
"You're being mean." You decide, shifting on your couch so you're facing the opposite side.
"I'm not- For not biting you?!" You still won't turn, but if you did, you'd see a very exasperated Peter, gesticulating his arms like trying to make sense of you right now is harder than all his spiderman work, combined.
"Yes." You say solemnly. "If you loved me..."
Peter doesn't have any of it. "I do love you, very so much, trouble. Doesn't mean I'll bite you." He takes a step closer to you, just one, like he's trying to be in your field of vision without getting on biting length. It's a bit ridiculous.
"Trouble, look at me."
You don't, stubbornness winning over even your favourite nickname.
"Trouble," He calls again, this time brave enough to cup under your chin and turn your face — your mouth could be full of razorblade sharp teeth, as far as he knows, handling you as if it really is — to meet his eyes.
"Light of my life, trouble, I swear- Is this a kink thing?" His voice dips low at the question, looking around like he's trying not to be heard in your three-story, gentrified apartment complex. Noble effort of his part.
It's your turn to be exasperated. "No!" You take a hand to your chest like you're actually offended and Peter actually believes you could be.
"Because if it is, then-" He's teasing now, speaking like you've only see him speak to juniors, articulated and clear, but the smug on his face doesn't let it land.
You groan dramatically, pushing a throw pillow against your face.
"Oh, so you hate me. You hate me and you want me to die, unbitten by my hot boyfriend." You say it for the drama, but Peter's mouth gaps like you might just tried to shoot him, offended.
You barely have time to think before he's all over you, trying to pull your off your last defenses as you squirm.
"Oh, you didn't say that. You so didn't say that." His hands are all over, pulling the pillow away from your body while trying to hold you still.
He ducks his head on the opening he finds, gripping your sides firmly to pin you in place, breath ghosting hot on the crook of your neck, before he plants a kiss against your jawline. Hot, breathless, hungry, he peppers a few against your skin before it grows teeth. Half-braced for it, you yelp and push him away without any real effort behind it.
Peter still relents, still lets you pull him, but only to smear his lips against yours feverishly. It would be pushy if you weren't so in for it, this mess of tongue and teeth clashing, and hands pulling you closer as your aim for his neck, smiles turning a bit feral as his canines nip on your bottom lip.
"Baby..." You pant, touching the spot where he had carved his teeth into you, feeling the small indent of his dental arch. You smile like it's precious.
That's how Peter knows you're erasing that affirmation from your mind forever, deleting it completely. He presses a chaste kiss against your lips as a reward. "Atta girl." He mushes the words against your mouth, it tastes sweet, sugary, like orange soda and chocolate, and then with another, "Come here, I'll give you another."
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