Sweet Thing, Lost Cause (LMG)
Series: Little Miss Gotham (LMG) ★ Wayne!Reader [1/?]
CW: A lil touchy at the start with a stranger, hints to a troubled past
Beta-readers: @vee08 & @a-taken-url
A/N: Helloooo, there’s a longer note at the end that explains a bit more of what’s going on. This was the fic I was talking about out >>here<< when procrastinating the pt 2 of the Roy fic :P.
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You’d always been more of a Wayne than a Bat.
Your brothers never let you forget it. They wore the masks, the mission, the unspoken burden of being Batman’s soldiers like a second skin. Meanwhile, you wore pearls, practiced smiles, and a laugh that sounded better at galas than on rooftops.
You and your family lived in completely different worlds, with each side using the other as a means to an end. Both crafted to reflect your father’s confusing makeup of an identity. Only yours felt like the one your father looked past.
It didn’t help that the only time you ever felt close to your father was when he was playing someone else. When he was Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s playboy billionaire, the man who could shake hands, flash cameras a grin, and pretend to belong to the world he’d built a fortress against.
That version of him was the only one you knew how to talk to. You never found a way to reach the man behind the mask, and he never seemed interested in showing you.
That hollow truth sat heavy in your chest, and every time the cape came first, it reminded you that even your best smiles couldn’t make you feel like you belonged in their family. Make you belong with The Bats.
Your family saw you as spoiled, too much of a socialite to be taken seriously. They weren’t entirely wrong.
You lived for the banquets, spending your dad’s money, the dizzy blur of Gotham nightlife— it was easy to vanish in that world, easier than trying to keep pace with heroes who measured worth in bruises and broken bones.
Though there was your occasional reminiscing on how you used to be close, how you used to put on your own tiny mask and trail after them like they were the only source of light through Gotham’s smog.
But that was before. Before Jason died, and before they sent you away.
You told yourself you didn’t want that life anyway. You told yourself you only wanted Gotham on your terms, not the team missions, not the world-saving. Just your city, your rules.
So here you were, proving the point.
The club was pulsing around you, sweat and neon dripping down the walls, bass rattling through your ribs like a second heartbeat. You weren’t the Bats daughter tonight, not the polished darling Wayne who smiled too bright for cameras.
You were just another body on the floor, letting an older stranger’s hand rest heavy on your waist, his grin promising exactly the kind of trouble you craved.
You felt extra bold tonight with your dad out of Gotham, both he and Alfred gone for the weekend doing something that they didn’t bother to tell you about.
Whatever, like you’d care either way. This just meant you could party in the city and not worry about fucking Batman dropping down at the club entrance to drag your ass home.
Sneaking out was second nature to you at this point out. They may play you as a stuck-up, stupid socialite, but you had to have skill to actually get away with all you did.
A simple footage loop of the surveillance tapes from last week, and bam! It'll seem like you were in your bedroom the whoooole night.
You’ve used this trick at least five hundred times. It got to the point where you genuinely wondered if your family knew and just didn’t give a shit.
But no, you soon realized they simply didn’t bother because they never expected anything from you.
They never considered you capable of anything but acting like Regina George. Even Alfred who you spent the most time with, hadn’t even put the effort to at least dust the security cameras in the hall down to your room.
So when you threw your fit about some girl drama, they believed you and your dramatics without batting an eye. More than happy to have you be sulking while online shopping alone in your room, and nothing more.
HA. As if you’d throw away being completely unsupervised on a Friday night.
You’re brought back to the moment when the guy presses closer. His cologne burned your nose, but you didn’t pull away. You laughed, as he turns you around and goes to kiss at your neck.
Sighing into the touch, you let him grip your hand to tip your drink into your mouth, letting the burn of liquor convince you this was exactly what you wanted.
You loved that burn. The buzz it left you with when you lost yourself like this.
You hum swaying your hips to the song letting whatever this guys name is paw at you. He was cute. Hot even. But you’d never let it blossom into anything meaningful.
He was yours for the night you’ve decided, but you’d sneak off after you got your fix. (you were your fathers daughter after all).
Your free hand slide to his hair to grip and pull his face back. There was the slight graze of stubble against your jaw when as leans closer.
The stranger grins, his eyes were half-lidded trailing over you, one of his hands slip from your hip over your behind to tug at the hem of your dress. You let him, despite the small pit that forms in your gut at the action.
His lips hovered a breath from yours, a reckless, dangerous dare you leaned into—
The word cut sharper than the music, slicing straight through the haze. You froze, not because you didn’t recognize the voice, but because you always would.
A hand seized your wrist before the kiss could land. The stranger swore as he’s shoved, stumbling back, but one glare from Dick Grayson sent him vanishing into the crowd like smoke.
Fucking coward, you seethe to yourself as you’re essentially left to the wolves. You slowly lift your head. The strobe lights painted his anger in harsh whites and shadows, and you hated that it made him look more like a Bat than a brother.
“Are you insane?” he snapped, dragging you off the floor as if the walls might cave in if he let go. The music thundered on, but the grip of his hand was louder.
“You shouldn’t even be here!” Dick’s voice cracked like a whip, low enough not to draw attention but sharp enough to make you flinch. “Do you even realize how old—”
“Let me go,” you hissed, tugging against him. Heads were starting to turn, and the last thing you needed was a scene.
But he didn’t. Of course, he didn’t.
Not when you twisted, not when you dug your nails into his wrist, not even when you hissed his name through clenched teeth.
He hauled you off the dance floor like a crook in cuffs, weaving through the crowd until you realized he wasn’t heading for the door.
Instead, he beelined deeper into the club, much to your confusion, before eventually stopping at a booth tucked in the corner, and your stomach plummeted.
Oh, great. What was this? A reunion tour?
Artemis leaned back in her seat, arms folded, sharp eyes flicking between you and your brother, her brows furrowed. Roy lounged with his usual smirk, though it faltered when his gaze really settled on you. And then there was Conner, who sat stiff as stone, arms crossed, and jaw tight, but his eyes softened.
You froze, caught like a spotlight had slammed onto you. These weren’t just heroes. These were people who’d once adored you almost as much as you adored them. For years, you’d wanted nothing more than to be one of them.
Before Bruce had sent you away. Boarding school, miles away with entitled classmates who measured worth in money and power instead of scars; and teachers who completely crushed any faith you had in adults protecting you.
By the time you came back, you weren’t the same and neither was their image of you.
You’d traded training for galas, patrols for paparazzi, and every glimpse they caught of you was in a tabloid headline or splashed across some social media page. Gotham’s glittering Wayne, the spoiled socialite with the city wrapped around her pinkie finger.
You knew they thought you were rebelling, but not like this.
Dick shoved you into the booth before you could find your footing, the drink in your hand spilling a bit, which you fumblingly placed on the table.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he snapped, fury barely leashed. “You’re underage, drinking, and— God! Him!? Do you have any idea how bad that could’ve gone?”
Dick’s hand was still clamped around your wrist, anchoring you to the booth like you might bolt if he let go. His voice came low, sharp enough to slice through the music.
You jerked your wrist, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Ugh, calm down. You being over dramatic!” you snapped, sinking into the booth like you owned it. “I was just having fun, Dick. It’s not the end of the world!”
You reached for your glass with your free hand, ready to dig your grave deeper with another sip only for it to be snatched from your hand.
You blinked, and Roy was already holding it out of reach, his jaw tight in a way you weren’t used to seeing.
“Seriously?” you snapped, glaring at him.
He shook his head. “You don’t need this. You’re already in enough trouble.” His voice wasn’t angry, not like Dick’s, but the quiet disappointment behind it somehow landed harder. You just scoff, looking back at Dick with a glare.
Artemis exhaled, sharp and low, the sound cutting through the thrum of bass. “This isn’t having fun, it’s being reckless. You know better.”
You didn’t look at her. You kept your eyes on Dick, lips curling in a smirk you didn’t really feel. Ignoring Artemis was easier than hearing her tone, easier than letting it sting the way it always did.
Having not had a mother of your own, you tended to latch onto Dick’s female friends. Artemis was no exception. You used to adore her, even despite her finding you a bit annoying at first, but you grew on her.
How could you not? With the way you clung to her; wide-eyed and adoring, waiting for the smallest scrap of approval. But that was then, when you were younger, sweeter, different.
Artemis didn’t comment on how you blatantly ignored her. Instead, she just snagged Dick’s jacket from the booth and snapped it around your shoulders, tugging the collar up. “Cover up,” she said, clipped and firm.
You scoffed instantly, shoving the jacket off your shoulders and onto the seat beside you. “Why would I? It’s hot in here.” Your voice dripped with indifference, though heat still burned in your cheeks.
Your dress was short, showed a lot more than it should. You knew that. You picked it out for that reason. But now in front of them, you felt more uncomfortable than you did all night.
Dick’s jaw locked as your scoff rang in the heavy air. The jacket you’d shoved aside slid half off the booth, its dark fabric pooling like a shadow you refused to claim.
For a second, he just stared at you— at the defiance in your chin tilt, the burn still clinging to your cheeks, the expression that screamed untouchable.
Then, without warning, his hand shot out, fingers fisting the jacket with the same precision he’d use on a grapple line.
In one rough motion, he hauled it up and over your shoulders again, not giving you the chance to shrug it off this time. His grip was unyielding, pinning the collar in place as though he could anchor you to the fabric by sheer force of will.
“Dick—” you snapped, trying to twist away, but he was already zipping it up, the sound loud and final. The zipper caught at your throat with a sharp click, sealing the jacket up to your chin.
You were trapped in the heavy folds of his jacket, the scent of him and leather pressing close. You felt your heart squeeze for a moment as you realized you didn’t recognize his smell anymore.
He leaned in, bracing one hand flat on the table beside you, the other still gripping the jacket at your collar. His eyes burned under the strobing lights, catching every flicker of your stubborn defiance and daring you to meet it.
“You think this is a game?” His voice was low, sharp enough to cut through the thrum of bass, steady enough to drown it out. “Sneaking drinks, letting strangers try to kiss you, laughing like it’s nothing— what the hell is wrong with you?”
The words weren’t shouted, but they landed harsher than any scream could have. For a moment, the rest of the booth didn’t exist; all of it faded under the weight of Dick’s fury.
“You’re not walking out of here half-dressed and drunk,” he continued, voice dropping lower still, almost a growl. “Not while I’m around."
The collar of the jacket pressed tight against your chin, his hand still holding it like a lock, and you hated that for a flicker of a second, you felt safer for it.
That moment of safety didn’t last because the expression he gave you reminded you of someone you knew Dick tried so hard to be different from. Someone you knew who he’d tell everything about tonight to.
Your stomach knotted so hard it almost hurt.
You could handle Dick’s disapproval. You could even handle the team staring at you like you were some reckless kid instead of the sweet, wide-eyed Wayne they’d once adored.
But your dad? You’d built an image for him, a careful facade of being the polished socialite who at least pretended to act with some restraint.
He was fine with you at those posh parties, fine with the charities, the galas; his indifference was something you’d learned to survive. But this? You were spoiled, sure, but not drunk in a club, letting some guy paw at you. He’d lose his mind over this.
Especially since he still believed you were the “soft” one. The one with limited skills, hesitant to get their hands dirty, the one who wouldn’t dare do anything that could break a nail. The one who couldn’t protect herself against something as simple as petty theft, where a pool noodle was the weapon.
What would he even do once he found out?
Would he finally turn a quarter of his attention back onto you?
Would he cut the tree you use to get in and out of your window, the one thing you have that lets you slip past the manor’s walls?
Or would he see this as one more mess he doesn’t have time to deal with and send you away again?
Your stomach lurched. You couldn’t go back there.
Not to that place— that school, that exile disguised as a safe haven.
The thought alone made your throat close. For one dizzy second, the club spun with it. Neon and sweat and bass dissolving into the image of your father’s voice in your head.
You had to think fast. What could you do to outsmart Nightwing? You mind races for a moment before you decide to do what you do best.
Fake it until you make it.
Taking a quick breath you swallowed it down, hard, forcing your mouth into a smirk you didn’t feel.
Your voice cut through the heavy silence, sharp and brittle all at once. “I can handle myself,” you spat, your nails digging crescent moons into your palms before a hand moved to shove his hands off of you. He let his hands fall away but it didn’t slip past you how his hands clenched into fists.
“I had everything under control until you came.” You tried to make the words sound solid, unshakable, but they rang thin in your own ears.
Dick’s laugh was humourless, jagged as broken glass. He leaned close enough that you could see the tension in his jaw, the irritation etched into the corners of his eyes.
“Control?” he echoed, voice low, dangerous in its restraint. “You call letting some creep twice your age put his hands on you control?”
Your chest tightened, and God, you hated that his words made you flinch. You rolled your eyes to cover it, pressing your back harder into the booth. “He wasn’t dangerous. He just wanted—”
“Exactly,” Dick cut in, the word like a blade. His hand slammed down on the table, making the half-empty glasses rattle. “He just wanted. And you have no idea how quickly that could’ve turned into something you couldn’t laugh your way out of.”
For a second, no one breathed. Then Roy cleared his throat, muttering, “He’s not wrong.” His tone lacked its usual edge, more uneasy than mocking.
Conner’s arms remained folded, but his brow furrowed, the tight set of his jaw softening. “You don’t always see danger until it’s already too late,” he said quietly, not a lecture, not an accusation, just a fact.
You scoffed, the sound sharp enough to cut through the weight in the air. “Please,” you snapped, tossing your hair back with a defiance you didn’t quite feel. “I could’ve gotten away any second I wanted. I can even get away from this.”
Shit, you actually said that— why don’t you go find an actual shovel to dig your grave deeper?
The words hit hard as their reactions settle around you: Dick’s jaw tightening, Roy leaning back with that sharp smirk barely hiding annoyance, Artemis’s eyes narrowing into calculated lines.
For a second, you let the panic flutter, the rush of being cornered—
Get away from heroes, yeah right!
You’re screwed. Completely fucked. You could start crying thinking about seeing the headmaster again—
Suddenly you pause, letting the world sink in. Why the hell are you underselling yourself?
Sure, you haven’t been swinging across rooftops or cracking criminals’ heads in years, but you’ve had your own missions.
Not flashy, not public, not exactly heroic in the traditional sense but ones that showed you were precise and at your core, effective.
Slipping past surveillance cameras without leaving a trace. Dodging paparazzi that track your every move. Even crafting a mask so perfect that even your father, the master of reading nanoexpressions, couldn’t tell the smallest twitch away from the real you.
These were missions of skill and calculation. Skills that had you staying one step ahead while the world thought you were nothing but a socialite.
Above all, you’ve mastered the art to get away. Not with brute force or with muscle. But with patience, stealth, and sheer nerve.
And despite them being seasoned heroes who have faced mind manipulation, endured the sharpest verbal assaults from the most irritating villains, you had one advantage; their overconfidence when it came to you.
They thought they knew you. Thought the years away, the tabloids, the gossip, and the glittering public persona had stripped away whatever edge you once had.
They thought the little girl who used to have potential was gone, replaced by a reckless, spoiled socialite who couldn’t survive a night without their intervention.
And they loved believing that. Loved it the way heroes love being right, loved it like it gave them certainty in a chaotic world. They relished the idea that your wide-eyed, reckless reputation was all you had become.
For once, knowing they thought that if you made you gleam. Their certainty became your weapon. Their dismissal became your leverage.
You could work with that. You just had to push them, bait them, let their egos convince them they were in control.
The thought coils in your chest like fire, reckless and alive, making your grin sharper, more deliberate.
This wasn’t just defiance anymore. This was strategy. Dangerous, delicious strategy.
You wore a cocky grin as your glare swept across the table, daring anyone to challenge you.
Roy’s smirk reappeared, but this time it didn’t reach his eyes. He leaned back, shaking his head. “If you really believe that,” he said, voice dry but tinged with unease, “then you’re dumber than the tabloids make you out to be.”
“Roy,” Artemis warned, her tone sharp as her gaze flicked toward him. But she didn’t look at you with softness either. Her eyes stayed locked on yours, unflinching, like she could see straight through the brittle walls you kept throwing up.
You rolled your eyes, flicking your hair back with a deliberate snap, letting the defiance taste sharper than it felt.
“I’m not some stupid socialite,” you spat, voice clipped, snapping at the silence around the table. “I know I can get away.”
The words hung there like a challenge, and you saw it immediately. Shared looks darting between them, quick and subtle, the way people who’ve faced real danger recognize a taunt the second they hear it.
Roy’s smirk faltered, just slightly, though the corner of his mouth tugged in that familiar, warning way. Dick’s jaw tightened, the set of it rigid, restrained, like he was calculating how far he’d let you push before it snapped.
Conner’s arms folded a fraction more rigidly, shoulders squared, eyes narrowing at the challenge your words had planted. Even Artemis’s gaze sharpened, cold and precise, tracking every small movement, every flicker of expression, scanning you like a hawk weighing prey.
For a heartbeat, the world shrank to the table, to the unspoken challenge vibrating in the space between your words and their reactions. You let it linger, tasting the silence like it belonged to you.
They’d expect arrogance. They’d expect recklessness. Let them. Because deep down, you weren’t reckless. Not really. You were raised by the fucking Batman. You were smart.
Roy cleared his throat, slow, deliberate, leaning forward just enough that his eyes caught yours across the table. “You’re… really sure about that?”
His tone was casual, almost teasing but the slight edge underneath made it clear he wasn’t joking. “Because, we catch a lot bigger and scarier on daily basis.”
You knew he’d bite first.
“You mean people who don’t know better,” you snap back, each word clipped and uninterested, your tone carrying the same effortless bite you used on Gotham’s elite when you wanted them to squirm. “They’re easy. Predictable. They fall for the same tricks, every single time.”
Your eyes lingered on him, narrowing in mock pity before you let the smirk return, sharper now. “Catching me would take actual skill.”
The words hung in the air like Gotham smog, heavy and poisonous, curling around the table until even the music thumping outside the booth seemed distant.
You leaned back in your seat with studied nonchalance, one leg crossing over the other, your too tall heels tapping the leg of the table.
It’s as if you’d already dismissed the whole conversation as beneath you. The defiance in your posture was unmistakable, radiating arrogance like a second skin.
Roy’s jaw ticked, his smirk faltering for the barest fraction of a second before he covered it with a sharp exhale and a swirl of his glass. His mutter was low, almost to himself, but the edge in his voice carried easily across the table.
“You’re crazy,” Roy muttered, almost to himself, though his voice carried.
He tipped his glass, watching the liquid swirl as if it could distract him from the itch to say something he shouldn’t to his friend's little sister. “Little Miss Gotham thinks she can just get away. I almost wanna see her try.”
“Roy,” Dick warned again, sharper now, but even he didn’t sound entirely convinced. His voice had that clipped edge it got when he was losing his grip on the reins.
Artemis arched a brow, mouth twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “She’s taunting us.”
Conner shifted, heavy arms unfolding as he leaned in. His voice was steady, but quieter, almost like a verdict. “You’re in over your head, kid.”
You only grinned, sharp and unshaken, revelling in the weight of all their eyes pressing down on you. “Maybe I am,” you said, lifting your chin like you owned the table, the booth, the whole damn club. “But you all look like you’re too scared to find out.”
That broke them, just like you knew it would. Nothing sets someone off like an arrogant little sibling after all. It didn’t help that they were all more than a bit tipsy, save for Mr. Easily Aggravated.
Dick’s jaw flexed as you smirked at him. The silence at the booth had become suffocating, thick with judgment, tension, and something sharper beneath the surface, something personal.
Everyone else had said their piece to your challenge, but he hadn’t let up, hadn’t even blinked. He was watching you too closely, and you hated how exposed it made you feel.
Then he leans forward with an ease that grates on your nerves. His voice came low, dangerous, with that clipped edge he only ever used when he’d run out of patience.
“What's your game here, huh?” he demanded. “I know it's not just to piss us off.”
Your smirk faltered, but you masked it quickly, chin tilting higher, posture sharpened into defiance. You tried to play it off, but his stare pinned you, heavy and relentless.
For a beat, you almost said nothing but you shift to raise your chin to look down at him— you’re so close. You can do this.
“You’re right,” you said, low, measured, like admitting it on your terms would keep you in control. “It’s not just about pissing you off. It’s a bet.”
That got everyone’s attention. Chairs shifted. Brows furrowed. “A bet?” Roy scoffed. “With who?”
“With all of you.” Your words were steady, though your heartbeat was climbing fast. You let your gaze sweep across the table, meeting each of theirs like you were calling them out one by one.
“If I can get away— if I can slip out from under your watch, even with all your training, you don’t say a single word to my Dad about tonight.”
The table went still. Even the thrum of the club seemed to fade, the bass swallowed by the gravity of what you’d just put on the table.
“And if you lose?” Artemis asked, voice sharp, cutting straight through the tension. Her eyes were locked on you like an arrow aimed at a target.
Your jaw tightened. You wanted to smirk, wanted to shrug it off, but the stakes demanded more than bravado.
So you leaned forward, resting your elbows on the table, your eyes never wavering. “If I lose, I’ll tell him myself. Every detail. Underage drinking. The creep. This club. All of it. Straight from me.”
Roy let out a low whistle, leaning back against the booth with an exaggerated shake of his head. “Damn, I think all those parties scrambled her brain.”
Conner’s brow furrowed deeper, his eyes looked over your expression as if trying to read your mind and pick it apart.
Artemis’s lips pressed into a line, her gaze sharp as ever. She wasn’t impressed, but she wasn’t dismissing you either. Her silence said enough; she was weighing you, measuring the steel in your words against the reckless heat in your eyes.
Dick leaned closer, his voice low and sharp enough to sting. “You'd better think real hard before you commit to this, because once it starts, there’s no halfway. No excuses. You either win, or you face Bruce yourself.”
Your smirk sharpened into something steadier this time, no longer the flimsy mask you’d been wearing all night but a deliberate curve of your lips, a smile that settled like a blade being drawn.
The weight of Dick’s words didn’t scare you— it lit something in your chest, dangerous and alive.
You leaned forward, letting the dim light catch in your eyes, “I’m all in.”
The smile lingered, sharp and unyielding, and the air around the booth seemed to crack under it. You weren’t bluffing anymore. You weren’t performing. You had committed, and they could all see it.
Roy straightened, eyebrows rising, a disbelieving laugh escaping him before he tipped his glass again. “Well, shit. Guess the princess wants to play for real.”
Artemis’s eyes narrowed, calculating, her mouth curving just enough to show the challenge wasn’t lost on her.
Dick didn’t smile. He didn’t blink. He just let the silence hang for a long, punishing second, before leaning back with a sharp exhale, like he’d resigned himself to the storm you’d invited.
“You’re gonna regret this,” he muttered.
Your grin only widened as you leaned back into the booth, satisfaction radiating off you like heat. The tension that had hung over the table cracked, shifted— no longer suffocating, but coiling into something electric. A challenge. A game.
You lifted a hand, gesturing lazily toward the door like the outcome was already sealed. “As long as I can get away and make it back to the manor before I’m caught, I win. Deal?”
That made them pause. The manor. Not a block away, not ducking into some alley around the corner. You were talking about crossing the entire goddamn city with the team’s finest breathing down your neck.
Roy let out a bark of laughter, smacking the table once. “Oh, that’s rich. You’re insane, kid. You really think you’re making it across the city?”
Artemis arched a brow, unimpressed but faintly amused, like a cat watching a mouse step into a trap. “You won’t even make it out of the booth.”
Conner frowned, his arms unfolding as he leaned forward. “This isn’t running away from a drunk in a club. This is running from us.” His tone was flat, final, like he thought he could give you some common sense.
But it only made your smile grow sharper. “Exactly,” you said, leaning back with an air of smug confidence that made your point sting sharper than any retort. “If I can slip past all of you and make it back home… then you’ll have no excuse left not to admit I’m capable. And if not— well, my dad finds out, doesn’t he?”
Dick rubbed a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath that sounded like a prayer for patience. “You’ve officially lost your damn mind. " He murmurs.
When his hand dropped, his eyes were blazing. "But fine. You already screwed up our night, we should at least get some entertainment from this."
You ignore his comment about you screwing up, focusing more on the fact that you got exactly what you wanted.
And the cruellest part? They were relaxed now. Easing back into their seats, trading skeptical glances, even smirks. They thought you’d never make it.
They were so confident, so certain that you’d fumble before you even left the booth. After all, why wouldn’t they be? They had training, experience, and powers. They had a half-Kryptonian, archers, and Gotham’s golden boy wonder.
And you were a socialite princess— the one they’d seen in last week’s tabloids, with your security guard carrying you up the stairs because you simply couldn’t be bothered.
They thought you were doomed from the start.
You hold back your grin as you lean back, more than content with yourself than ever, because underestimating you was the very first mistake they’d made tonight.
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The other version (If I ever get around to it) is the reverse where she wants nothing more than to just be a hero and forget who she is under the mask :P.
Both runs involve Bart as the love interest but I’m thinking to do one-shots on the side for some scenes with other characters if you guys wanna request it later on :).
Some of the characters will come off as OOC, but they are described how ★
perceives them! Also so sorry for how my A/N’s take up so much space but I wanna talk to yall about what’s going on in my brain when it comes to my fics </3
If you’d like to be tagged please leave a comment on the series masterlist!
Series: Little Miss Gotham (LMG) <<< Here!
(Also I have no idea how to tag this story, so please excuse the mess below)
