Series: Little Miss Gotham (LMG) ★ Wayne!Reader [2/?]
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Alright, after pissing off not 1, not 2, but 4 heroes, including your lovely older brother Dick fucking Grayson, you're left to somehow outsmart them all and escape into the night.
Word count: 7414 (To make up for the long wait)
CW: Reader gets a bit flirty with a random guy, I think that's about it? Lmk if there is anything else :)
A/N at the end :)
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The music throbs around you, but all you hear is the slow drumbeat of adrenaline pumping in your chest. Every fibre of your body screams that you’ve got this. After all, you wanted this. You’re smart. Resourceful. Wayne-bred.
But then— oh, fuck.
They’re not letting you leave.
Shifting in place, you toy with the oversized sleeves of Dick’s jacket as you glance at Roy, the smirk still plastered on his face, but his eyes flicker with curiosity. Artemis is just staring you down already analyzing all angles and movement. Conner is… Conner.
And Dick. Dick is the worst. Every inch of him screams that he knows your tricks, he’s anticipating your moves, and he will not let you win easily.
Your smirk falters ever so slightly as you realize you actually have to come up with a way to escape now.
Like, do you believe in yourself? Yes. Do you know how you're going to manage this escape? Fuck no.
Your fingers flex, tapping your perfectly manicured nails against the table to the beat of whatever song was playing, trying to mask the fluttering panic with a posture that screams, I’m untouchable.
Glancing around you take notes, the club’s pretty packed if you could just get out of this seat you could probably manage something… but the booth’s layout isn’t exactly built to allow a graceful exit.
There’s a wall to your right, and the nearest exit… well, Dick’s body is effectively blocking the straightest path.
You swallow hard, heart hammering so hard you consider zipping down your dress a bit to breathe better. Think, think, think.
A distraction? You’re tempted to just start screaming to get a bouncer to help you, but something tells you that you’ll end up in a deeper grave.
Your mind races through every potential escape route, anything that could give you an advantage.
Jumping over the table? Conner would probably slam you into the table trying to stop you. Fake a left, then vault over the seat back? In this short dress? You’re getting desperate, but not enough to flash them. Under it? Maybe.
“Dicky, can I borrow your phone to check my makeup?” you ask smoothly, letting the words roll off your tongue like silk.
Under works, you can drop his phone, make a dramatic show about going to get it and then immediately dart out.
You ignore the voice in your head that’s yelling at you that it definitely won’t work, because c’mon.
Dick freezes mid-scowl, eyes narrowing already calculating how dumb you’ve been tonight.
“Your phone’s dead, isn’t it?” he asks sharply, the exasperation in his voice more than evident. “Not only did you sneak out, make stupid decisions, and— oh, right! Let some creep get close enough to you to be a problem, but you didn’t even have the common sense to charge your phone fully?”
You roll your eyes, tilting your chin defiantly. “Whatever, Dick. C’mon, let me use your phone.” You try to keep the smirk intact, but your fingers twitch against the edge of the booth
After a moment of glaring, Dick grudgingly fishes his phone from his pocket, tapping something on the screen before thrusting it at you with a warning glare. “Make it quick,” he mutters.
You take it with a flourish, you don’t pay mind to how the camera is already left open for you as you turn it over ready to put on a show. This is just to you give yourself more time to think afterall— oh god.
Your lips part slightly, and you freeze. The smudge of lipstick on your lips, the faint streaks along your jawline.
How is there more lipstick on your cheeks than your actual lips??
“Oh fuck,” you murmur. You lean in, adjusting the angle of the camera and your stomach twists. Hickies. Several, from the base of your neck to your jaw.
Ugh, you told what’s his face not to! No wonder Dick and the others gave you those looks when you were first dragged over.
You’d looked like… well, you looked like the tabloids' dream cover page scandal.
You pull out your little lip combo from your clutch, fumbling slightly as you open it. You try to focus on fixing the mess of lipstick, trying to clean up the smudges.
Your hands are shaking just slightly, and your pulse races as you dab and press, trying to make yourself look like someone in control again.
For a moment, you genuinely forget that you made a bet against four seasoned heroes, more concerned with your appearance.
The booth falls silent except for the loud throb of the music and the occasional clink of a glass. The others watch you in stunned bafflement.
Roy’s smirk falters into confusion, Artemis’s eyes narrow in suspicion, and Conner leans forward slightly, arms still folded but face tilted like he’s trying to decode your logic. They can’t tell if you’re stalling or if you’re being genuine.
You tilt the phone camera just a little, checking the lighting, and— okay, the marks are worse than you thought.
There’s not much you can do right now, you shift to grab your tiny conceler stick, it won’t help with the discolouration, but it’ll do something at least.
With one final streak of concealer over the worst of the bruises you adjust your tragically low neckline slightly to cover the rest.
A deep breath, a smooth flick of your hair, and suddenly you’re leaning back again as you start to reach for your items to put away, the same cocky grin from before plastered across your face.
Your grin falters soon after putting away your plethora of items when your eyes catch the tiny movement.
Your precious lip pencil, the one you just pried from your clutch with painstaking care, is rolling across the table like it’s mocking you. Time seems to stretch as it teeters on the edge before it clatters down under the booth with a soft, pitiful thunk.
You click your tongue, the sharp sound barely audible over the bass, and shoot a pointed glance at Dick, expecting, almost demanding, that he reach under and hand it back like the perfect older brother he’s supposed to be.
His face is unreadable for a beat, then a faint twitch of a smirk appears, like he’s savouring the moment.
“You’re kidding,” he says flatly, voice dry, each word dripping with irritation and mild amusement. “I'm not picking it up for you.”
You give him a scandalized look of offence before you snap your head towards Roy immediately, your eyebrows arching in exaggerated woe.
“Surely you’d be nicer than my dick of a brother?” you say with faux hurt.
Roy raises an eyebrow, leaning back lazily in his chair, the corner of his mouth tugging into a smirk.
“C’mon, how are you going to have your big escape if you can’t even pick that up?” he chuckles, casual as ever, though there’s a glimmer of humour in his eyes that suggests he’s enjoying watching you squirm just a bit.
You don’t bother looking at the other two, you know better.
You scrunch your nose, muttering under your breath something about “heroes” and how they clearly have zero interest in performing basic rescues, and it comes out as more of a frustrated growl than words.
Your eyes dart toward the under-table space where your precious lip pencil has settled.
Oh god, ew, no—no no no, your brain shrieks as the reality of having to actually reach down and get it yourself sinks in.
Thank god you didn’t go through with dropping Dick’s phone, it woud’ve landed in that weird-looking goo.
You groan, pushing your hair out of your face and letting your fingers twitch against the edge of the seat. Your mind scrambles for solutions.
Maybe you could ask that guy who keeps looking your way to get it for you?
You shift to look at him and catch his eye, but the way Dick clears his throat makes you reconsider with a huff.
Finally, you let out a dramatic sigh, tilting your chin toward the ceiling as if to appeal to some higher, cosmic sense being.
“Fine,” you mutter, half to yourself, half to them, your voice thick with resignation, “I’ll do it myself.” You pause, glaring pointedly at Dick.
You lower yourself an inch, then freeze as your eyes take in the disgustingly revolting mess under that booth— gum, spilled drinks, a sticky graveyard— is that a sock???
No way are you kneeling down on the ground. Your eyes flick toward Dick’s feet. He’s in those expensive, polished shoes, black and sharp, probably the cleanest surface in a three-foot radius. Perfect.
Before Dick can even blink, you plant one knee directly on the toe of his left shoe, balancing delicately as your other hand grips his pant leg for stability.
The look on his face is priceless, a mix of confusion, disbelief, and pure silent horror.
“Are you— what the hell are you doing?” he asks, baffled.
You don’t look up, focusing instead on maneuvering your body in the narrow space, one hand still clinging to his leg as you stretch to peek around under the booth.
“Relax,” you mumble. “You wanted me to pick it up myself, didn’t you? Congratulations, I’m doing it.”
“Get off my shoe,” Dick says sharply, voice somewhere between a hiss and a growl.
“Not until I get it,” you shoot back.
Roy makes a strangled sound that might be a laugh. When you risk a glance his way, he’s grinning, one hand covering his mouth like he’s trying not to choke on amusement. “You’re unbelievable,” he mutters, voice thick with disbelief.
“Unbelievably resourceful,” you correct through gritted teeth, trying to keep your balance as your fingers reach into the darkness.
You squint, stretching your arm farther, your grip on Dick’s leg tightening as your fingers brush the cool metal of a table then— finally the smooth edge of your lip pencil.
You’re just about to grab it when Roy’s foot makes contact. The pencil slides just out of reach, moved farther underneath the booth. You freeze before your head snaps up with enough force to give you whiplash.
“Roy!” you hiss under your breath, trying to keep your tone low while simultaneously daring him to meet your glare. “Really? What the hell?!” Your free hand flails slightly as if the motion could somehow summon the pencil back to you.
Roy just shrugs, the picture of innocence though the corner of his mouth twitches. “What? Just making it a little more interesting,” he murmurs, voice teasing, eyes sparkling with amusement.
You bite back a string of curses, you hate redheaded men, all of them. The pencil has rolled deep under the shadow of the seat, which means you’re going to have to bend even further and probably get really close to the floor.
Your stomach twists at the thought. You shift your weight carefully, pressing even harder against Dick’s leg, trying to reach without falling forward.
Your dress rides up just a fraction as you shift lower, contorting awkwardly under the booth, but you’re too far gone in irritation to care. Though your new state makes them look away, at least they have some common courtesy.
Your fingers brush the grimy floor, skirting around the inevitable sticky patches, and just as you start to stretch toward the pencil again, Dick jolts his feet suddenly— a stomp, just enough to startle you.
You yelp, loosening your grip on his pant leg and in panic, you grab the first thing you could— his shoelaces.
You grip tightly, your body wobbles for balance. Dick’s laugh, deep and amused, fills the small space under the booth.
“Whoa, careful down there,” he says, eyes glinting with mischief. “You just messed up my shoes. Tie them before you try to get back up, yeah?”
Bullies. All of them. Maybe it was the fact that most of them were tipsy, but you had half the mind to smack both him and Roy now.
You scowl, tugging at his laces with deliberate force, undoing the slightly messy knots in a rush of irritation.
You mutter under your breath, “Whatever,” the word dripping with annoyance.
You had no intention of actually fixing them, why should you? He’d put you through this ridiculous under-the-booth ordeal, after all. You hope that he trips on—
Wait.
As you sit there crouched awkwardly, a lightbuld goes off in your head. You glance around, checking that none of the others are paying close attention, and shift your posture just enough to make it look like you’re carefully trying to fix his shoes.
You let the noise around you fade, eyes narrowing on your new target.
Fingers ghosting over the laces again. If you just loop this one through the other… a little pull here… another twist there…
Your grin grows slow and dangerous. The idea is ridiculous, completely stupid even, but god, is it funny. And if it works? Even better.
You take a slow, steadying breath, heart pounding as you weigh your odds. The image of Dick toppling over flashes in your mind again, and it almost makes you snort— but no, focus.
You glance at the faint shimmer of your lip pencil, still lying abandoned beneath the booth, and spot the dangling strap of your clutch hanging just within reach. Perfect for what comes next.
You tug the sleeve of Dick’s coat that he made you wear to cover your hand and fully place it down on the gross floor as you reach to grab both.
You hold back your gag as the sleeve takes a moment to unstick from the ground, thank god it isn't your jacket.
Gathering the lip pencil and the strap of your bag, you feel the grin tugging at your lips, but you press it down, forcing your face into a mask of startled revulsion.
Showtime.
Then, channelling every ounce of your best high-society drama queen energy, you let out a piercing screech.
“OH MY GOD—EW!” The sound slices clean through the loud hum of conversation and bass, sharp and shrill enough to make the booth jolt.
You fling yourself backward with theatrical horror, scrambling out from under the table like something just tried to bite you. One hand clutches your lip pencil and purse strap like evidence of a crime; the other fans dramatically at your chest.
“Ew— ew— ew— oh my god, that was disgusting!” you shriek, hopping back another step as though the floor itself might infect you.
The effect is immediate chaos. Roy nearly chokes on his drink, his laughter bursting out before he can stop it. Artemis jerks back instinctively, one eyebrow arched high but her lips twitching, clearly fighting off a grin. Conner’s eyes go wide for a half second before he sighs, muttering something that sounds like, “Seriously?”
Dicks hands are planted on the table as if ready to spring up to help you. But when he realizes what’s happened, when he actually processes the sight of you standing there in a designer dress, shrieking about god-knows-what under the table and more importantly unharmed, his expression flattens into exasperation. “You have got to be kidding me.”
You don’t look at him right away, because if you do, you’ll break. You keep your eyes wide and glassy, shaking your hands as if brushing off invisible filth. “There was something under there! It— moved!” you declare, your tone a perfect mix of disgust and distress.
Before anyone can question you, or worse, you laugh, you spin on your heel, clutching your purse and lip pencil like your life depends on it, and bolt straight into the pulsing chaos of the crowd. But then—
Thump.
A sharp sound cuts through the noise, followed by another.. You freeze mid-step for half a second, just long enough to register the unmistakable cascade of chaos behind you. There’s a muffled curse, definitely Roy’s voice,
Oh. My. God.
You slap a hand over your mouth to stifle a laugh that threatens to bubble up, your shoulders trembling with the effort.
Your stupid, desperate little plan actually worked— maybe too well. You’d only meant to trip Dick, slow him down a bit. But from the sound of things, at least someone went down with him.
You don’t dare look back. The image alone is glorious enough in your head— Dick toppling first, Roy tripping over him, maybe Artemis catching herself just in time but swearing loud enough to shake the booth.
And then, cutting through the laughter and the music, comes the sound that makes your grin stretch wide and wicked—
“Go after her!”
Dick’s voice, sharp and commanding, half fury and half disbelief. Oh, he’s mad. He’s so mad.
You duck your head lower, hair falling across your face as you weave through the crowd, the adrenaline fizzing through your veins like champagne.
The music swells, the lights flicker, and every step feels like victory. You don’t stop moving— not even when you hear someone curse your name, or the faint shuffle of pursuit starting behind you.
You’ve escaped the booth, outsmarted Gotham’s most overprotective boy wonder, and managed to turn your own clumsiness into a tactical advantage. You’re so doing some online shopping to congratulate yourself when you’re home.
You moved quickly, weaving through the crowd with all the quiet confidence you’d built over years of slipping past trained reflexes, every motion deliberate and calculated.
You knew they probably expected you to make a beeline for the obvious exits— the ones lined with bouncers, the flashing neon “EXIT” signs.
So, you steered sharply away from them, your heels clicking softly against the floor, and angled toward the men’s bathroom instead.
What? The women’s bathroom would be the next place they’d look. You couldn’t imagine any world where they’d think to check the men's room for you— and there was a decent chance of a window somewhere
You paused when you pushed the door open, immediately freezing at the sight before you.
A couple were tangled together in the corner, lips locked, hands roaming.
Barf. God, was this what your brother had almost caught you in?
You rolled your eyes slightly and paid them no mind, letting your attention slide past them. To the window that was at the back, okay, perfect, you could totally reach that—
…Wait.
The girl was about your size, with a build close enough to yours that an idea began to bloom in your mind.
A smirk touched your lips as you stepped fully inside, approaching the couple without the shame any normal person would have approaching a couple making out.
You didn’t bother looking at the man—your gaze went straight to the girl as you shrugged off Dick’s jacket and dropped it on the sink.
“Oh my God, how did you get your hair to do that?” you gushed, hands fluttering in the air. “It looks like you just stepped out of a magazine.”
She broke away from the kiss, glancing at you with mild surprise. Her boyfriend made a noise of confusion, his lips chasing hers as his brows knit together.
“Uh… babe?” he murmured, clearly caught off guard by her attention shift. He glanced at you doing a double take. “Wait— why are you in the men’s bathroom?”
You ignored him entirely, letting the small moment of confusion work in your favour. You stepped closer to her, smiling faintly, the warmth in your voice pulling her back toward you.
“Like, holy shit, your hair— I had to say something.” You tilted your head, tone softening with a hint of admiration. “It’s just… perfect. How do you even get it to fall like that?”
She blinked, startled for half a second before breaking into uncontrollable giggles. “Oh my God, stop, you’re gonna make me cry,” she laughed, reaching out like you were already best friends. “No one ever says that about my hair!”.
You leaned forward, catching her hands in yours, eyes wide with exaggerated awe. “Shut up! Girl— your hair is perfect. You're perfect!” you exclaimed, nodding like it was the most obvious truth in the world. “But… you’d look even better if you were wearing my dress. It’s a designer, and seriously, you need to wear it. We should totally switch— like, right now.”
She blinked at you, caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief, but the corners of her mouth twitched with a smile, clearly intrigued by your enthusiasm.
Moments later, the two of you step out of a stall, giggling as if you've been friends for years, both wearing the other's dress.
She practically glowed, her face bright with delight as she ran her hands over the sleek lines of your designer dress, marvelling at the way it felt against her skin.
Her eyes met yours, wide and sparkling, and before she could contain herself, she threw her arms around you in a tight hug. “I love you!” she said, voice muffled against your shoulder, squeezing you.
Pulling back, she grinned, her excitement uncontainable. She spun once, then twice before darting toward her boyfriend.
“Look!” she called over her shoulder, arms out as if she were on a runway. The fabric shimmered under the cheap fluorescent lights, hugging her curves perfectly. Her boyfriend froze, jaw slack, eyes wide with awe, completely captivated.
You chuckled softly to yourself, shaking your head as you made your way toward the open bathroom window. But when you turned to glance back, intending to give her a thank you, you paused.
They were already locked in each other’s arms. He’d clearly liked the sight of her in that dress a little too much, tugging her in for a kiss that quickly deepened, all urgency and awe. She melted into him, laughing against his lips before kissing him back.
You turned back to the window with a soft laugh under your breath, letting them have their moment while you slipped toward your own escape. You plant your hands firmly on the window frme, the cool metal biting against your palms as you brace yourself.
With a soft grunt, you hoist yourself upward, dress snagging briefly on a jagged edge before you wiggle it free.
Your heels scrape against the tile wall then the frame, and for a second, you balance there half inside the bathroom’s stale light, half in the shadowed unknown of the outside.
Finally, you release your grip and drop down. Your heels hit the uneven pavement with a soft click, knees bending to absorb the impact.
The alley greets you with damp stone, the faint reek of trash from an overturned bin, and the lingering smoke of someone’s forgotten cigarette.
You brush dust off your hands and straighten, pulling your shoulders back as though stepping onto a stage rather than into a dark cut of the city.
The window swings shut behind you with a dull thud. Alone now, it’s not exactly welcoming, but it’s freedom.
You smooth down your new dress, fingers brushing over the fabric. Dick and the others weren’t idiots, after scouring the club, they’d be forced to fan out. Figuring that you've somehow managed to get out.
Any minute now, one of them could step outside, sharp eyes sweeping. Walking aimlessly into the open streets was practically begging to be spotted, and calling a ride? Impossible, thanks to your actually dead phone.
You curse yourself silently— why hadn’t you just asked that girl in the washroom to order you an Uber?
Your heels click softly against the uneven pavement as you move, wary of every echo bouncing off the brick walls as you walk to what you assume is the parking area for the club.
You pause mid-step when you catch sight of a man— broad shoulders outlined by dim outdoor lights, the ember of his cigarette glowing in the dark.
He leans casually against a polished black motorbike, all leather jacket, boots planted wide, an image straight out of your old Wattpad mafia fanfics.
You're quick to size him up. Not the safest-looking option, but beggars can’t be choosers!
You tug the hem of the already short dress just a touch higher, enough to make it seem intentional but not desperate.
Your stride shifts subtly, hips swaying with an ease you’d practiced at too many galas and charity dinners.
The sound of your heels was an announcement for all your glory as you approch him. He glances up at the noise, lingering where you wanted it to before climbing to your face. You answer with that flirty grin that’s half mischief and half invitation.
The smoke curls lazily from his lips as he watches you approach, and you let your eyes flick briefly to the gleaming motorbike he leans against.
A low hum escapes you as though you’re impressed, like the sight of the machine alone is enough to make you stop and alter your path.
Then your attention drifts back to him, the sparkle in your expression saying you’re curious about him, about the bike and the trouble the two of you could get into if he takes the bait.
By the time you’re standing close enough for him to catch the faint trace of your perfume over the scent of smoke and leather, you tilt your head, giving him the same effortless expression that’s carried you through countless rooms filled with hungry-eyed men.
The air between you feels electric as you give him a soft, measured grin and let your voice drop into that perfect tone that feels both teasing and casual.
“Hi there,” you say, drawing it out just enough to make it sound spontaneous. “You out here on your own?”
His eyes linger on you for a moment, taking in the dress, the way you carry yourself and the confident tilt of your head. There’s a flicker of amusement in his expression followed by a slow smirk.
“Yeah,” he replies, voice low. “Just needed a break… thought I’d get some air. You?” His gaze shifts briefly to your dress, then back to your face, his tone carrying both guarded interest and a hint of something like bemusement.
“Me?..” you murmur, the sound low and teasing, “just got bored in there.” Your eyes flick toward the cigarette dangling from his fingers, the tip glowing faintly in the night. You let your gaze linger playfully.
He follows your eyes to the cigarette, his brow arching in a subtle mixture of surprise and curiosity. There’s a brief pause as he studies you, as if trying to figure out whether your approach is flirty or just mischief.
“Want one?” he asks.
“Mmm…” you murmur, letting him wait just a heartbeat too long. Then you shake your head, brushing the cigarette lightly with your fingertips without taking it. “I don’t smoke… I just like how it looks,” you add, giving his mouth a pointed look. “I like to get my… fix in other ways.”
As you speak, your fingers trail lightly along the sleek curve of his motorbike. He leans more against it casually, one hip pressed to the frame, eyes following your movements as your finger glides over the metal, tracing its lines with exaggerated care.
Stepping back slowly, you create a small space between the two of you before looking up at him with feigned awe.. “That’s… a nice bike,” you hum.
“Would you mind giving me a ride?” you ask, letting your voice drop just slightly, widening your eyes a bit in mock worry. “I’m trying to get home without some people following after me…”
Your eyes flick to his briefly, then back to the bike, letting the pause hang. “And you look like you could keep me… safe.” The last word is just a teasing whisper.
There is a slow shift in his posture with his shoulders relaxing and the spark of eagerness in his gaze. He exhales, a mix of amusement as he flicks the cigarette to the ground and uses his boot to put it out before closing the gap you’d left.
“You know…” he says, “I think I could make that happen.” His tone carries that subtle weight of a man pleased to be trusted with something he perceives as special. His fingers twitch slightly toward the bike, but his eyes never leave yours.
“Thank you,” you murmur letting the simple words carry the weight of both appreciation and playful invitation.
He moves with purpose now, pulling the helmet from the bike and offering it to you. “Let’s get you out of here,” he says, his voice taking on a hint of protectiveness.
The way he says it, like this, is his idea makes you grin to yourself.
You slip the helmet over your head, adjusting the strap as the roar of the engine fills your ears when he starts it, and you can’t help but let a small laugh slip through.
“Guess I owe you one,” you murmur, climbing onto the bike behind him, the cool metal pressing against your legs. The air hums with a quiet promise as he leans forward, his hands steady on the handles.
You rest your chin lightly against his shoulder, letting the words linger in a way that makes him glance back with a half-smile.
He revs the engine as the bike moves forward, the low rumble vibrating under your thighs. You lean forward slightly, pressing your body closer to him, letting the scent of his leather jacket and the faint tang of smoke drift over you.
A small, triumphant smile curls on your lips. Yes, yes, yes, you think to yourself, feeling that rush of mischievous victory.
He eases the bike out of the shadowy back parking lot of the club, the tires crunching softly against gravel, then pulls smoothly onto the street.
The air is cooler here, carrying the faint hum of distant traffic, and for a second, it feels like you’ve escaped completely.
But then… voices.
Low but unmistakable.
It seems like they finally left the inside of the club, now gathered at the entrance, which the bike had to pass on the way to the main intersection.
A spike of dread runs down your spine, but you force yourself to ignore it. Instead, you turn your face sharply toward the opposite side of the street, pressing your cheek and shoulder more against the man in front of you. You settle on pretending you’re just some random girl enjoying a ride.
The streetlight above catches your swapped dress in patches of light and shadow— a new texture, a differnt colour. It fit your frame differently— basically a new identity.
It is fine. No one will see your face well enough in the dark to make the connection.
You force yourself to relax as the bike hums past the cluster of voices. You tense for a moment anyway, muscles coiling as the sound of boots crunching gravel fades behind you. Then, as naturally as you can, you let yourself exhale when you pass them.
From the corner of your eye, you catch a flicker of movement in the bike's rear-view mirror— Conner’s head turning ever so slightly in your direction. His brow furrows for a split second, but then his attention slips away.
He doesn’t recognize you, not from the back of a speeding bike. Relief floods through you, and your shoulders loosen just a fraction. Yes! Okay, good.
A quiet laugh escapes you, though you keep your voice low so it doesn’t draw attention. Maybe you should try your luck with gambling if your luck is— The bike slows. You glance up, confused.
A red light.
Today has been nothing but ups and downs for you, hasn’t it?
The faint glow of the traffic signal gleams back at you, and your stomach twists as you realize you’re still within sight of Dick and the others.
Great. Just great.
Your fingers tighten unconsciously on the man’s jacket. You shift your weight forward, peeking more at the rear-view mirrors.
They’re still there, hovering near the entrance of the bar and the alley to the parking area. Still talking in hush whispers, but it gradually gets louder.
You catch it before you even realize you’re listening. Conner’s voice, carried faintly through the night air, drifted to you over the hum of the idling bike. “We could check surveillance,” he suggests, his voice measured with a smidge of panic.
Roy’s voice follows, “shell probably just get tired of walking in those heels and take a break somewhere.” The comment doesn’t seem to carry mockery this time, if anything… it seems reassuring?
Then Artemis chimes in, her voice low but direct. “We could grab the car, check the streets— She’ll be fine Dick.” It’s a practical option, but the way her words seem more comforting than plotting catches your attention.
You don’t fully process your confusion at their apparent 180 in attitude until you catch Dick words. His tone is different. Not the clipped, sharp annoyance you’ve grown used to in the past years.
This time, it’s worry. Genuine worry. You strain to catch his words. “Her phone’s dead…” he mutters, voice low, tight with concern. “She’s out there by herself… anyone could just—” He trails off.
“She’s… she’s too young to be left alone like this.” The usual edge in his tone is gone, replaced by something softer and protective, like he can’t stand the thought of you being in danger.
The sound of his voice hits you in a way you didn’t expect. And even though you’ve spent the night plotting your own escape a pang settles in your chest.
For a moment, your mind drifts, a quiet, uncomfortable thought threading through your relief at having escaped. He’s worried. I made him worry.
You make the small mistake of glancing back, curiosity and something else stabbing into your chest, almost as if you needed to physically see him to confirm that the worry and care really came from him.
Your eyes find his, and for a suspended moment, it feels as though the world has narrowed down to just the two of you. Every other sound and movement around you blurs into nothing.
In that instant, you see it all— recognition sparking in his gaze, the subtle easing of tension in his shoulders, the rush of relief flooding across his face as if he’s just been allowed to breathe again. That rare, unguarded expression so fast and genuine that it catches you off guard.
But then his eyes shift. Just a flicker at first, a subtle widening that makes your stomach clench.
They sweep over the older man your fingers have latched onto, the chrome of the motorbike, the way you’re perched on the back with no real protection between you and the street besides the helmet that you hadnt even swiped the visor down.
His relief twists sharply into disbelief, and then anger— boiling, explosive, and immediate.
Oh shit. The words don’t escape your mouth, but they hammer in your mind as you realize just how fast he switched up.
Your eyes flick back to the street ahead, to the red light pausing you, and back at Dick in panic now. His expression, that mix of shock and fury, is burned into your mind.
The thrill is still there— but so is the undeniable pulse of terror, knowing that your older brother, protector and fucking Nightwing, has now fully registered just how careless you are with your life.
The shout of your name rips through the night air, carrying the kind of weight that makes your stomach drop straight to your ass. The moment it leaves his mouth, you know you’re as good as dead if he catches you now.
Your heart stutters painfully in your chest, a cold rush of dread prickling along your skin. Oh no. Oh no, oh shit, I’m so screwed.
You freeze, like a deer caught in headlights, every ounce of bravado you’d been wearing like armour stripped away in an instant.
All at once, Artemis, Roy, and Conner snap their heads toward you, their eyes locking on the bike and on you.
Their expressions mirror Dick’s— shock first, then realization, then a storm of emotions you don’t even want to name.
For a heartbeat, the only thing you feel is raw, genuine terror. Your lungs seize up, your mind races, if you get off now and start crying, maybe you can—
The traffic light above changes, casting its green glow across the pavement, and it’s like the world throws you a lifeline. The engine beneath you growls as the man eases the bike forward, oblivious to the vigilantes planning your murder.
Relief slams into your chest so hard it almost hurts, and you press yourself closer against his back, clinging as if physical contact can shield you from the burning eyes still locked on your retreating form.
The city rushes past in a blur of neon and shadow, but all you can think is how close you came to being dragged off this bike.
Your heart pounds, torn between the giddy adrenaline of the escape and the suffocating knowledge that Dick and all of them saw you.
They’ll be on you in minutes— Artemis mentioned a car, Dick’s look was pure hunter, and the thought of the surveillance cameras Conner mentioned already maps your route.
Every intersection you pass flashes red or green like a countdown; you can practically hear the way they’ll be catching up.
Keeping on the road is stupid and roofs are out of the question. Your brain scrabbles through every reckless, glamorous, ridiculous thing you’ve done to avoid capture.
Then it lands on something older, secret, and useful— the sewer tunnels. You’ve used them before to sneak into wild underground parties, where socialites let loose— hell, you’ve even thrown your own parties there. A grin, small and feral, crawls up your face.
You scan the sides of the street for an area with limited cameras. Ahead, under the long span of a bridge, a drainage tunnel. Perfect.
“Hey,” you purr, leaning forward so your whisper lands close to the guy’s ear, breath warm against his neck.
“Can you pull down that tunnel? I think the long way through would be… quieter.” You keep your hand casual on his shoulder as you say it, the motion half-flirt, half-command.
He hesitates, but the gleam in his eye at the idea of being the one to get alone with someone like you wins out. The bike’s handlebars turn as he shifts the bikes path off the main road.
As you settle into the tunnel, you let yourself relax for just a fraction of a second. You had to act fast. Squeezing him again as a subtle signal, you nudge him toward the side for him to pull over. You have to pull this right, knowing exactly what he’s thinking— that you’ll be having some fun together.
When he slows and stops, you slip off the bike with grace, heels hitting concrete with a click and you take off the helmet and toss it to him.
Without hesitation, you dig into your purse and pull out a wad of cash, thick and uncounted. It isn’t even half of your weekly allowance, but it’s enough to keep him from doing too much.
“Here,” you say softly, pressing the bills into his palm. “For your trouble.”
His gaze flickers over you, completely baffled as if this has never happened to him. Leaning forward, you press a quick kiss to his cheek, letting your lips linger just enough to make him blink.
Then, without another word, you pivot and stride toward the sewer manhole just a few feet away.
His gaze follows, brow furrowed. “What the hell are you—?” he starts, stepping off the bike.
You ignore him, already bending at your knees to hook your fingers under the heavy metal edge of the grate. It’s cold, damp, and rough under your fingers, but you move with precision, muscles flexing under the dress.
The metal groans as you lift it just enough to slip inside. His voice calls out behind you, muffled and uncertain. “Wait— are you serious?”
Without looking back, you pause at the tunnel entrance just long enough to flash a quick, confident smile. “Oh, very serious,” you murmur, slipping into the darkness. The grate clangs shut behind you.
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Wrapped in the warmth of your bed, the steam from your shower still clinging faintly to your skin, you pull your phone from the nightstand. It lights up instantly, and you smirk as your thumb hovers over your contacts.
You tap it with deliberate ease, calling Dick, but your tone as you greet him is a melody of mock innocence.
“Hi, Dick! Been a while since we talked,” you say sweetly, leaning back against your silk pillows, letting your voice stretch lazily as if you’ve just stumbled out of bed from a normal night. Your tone doesn’t carry an ounce of guilt— only amusement.
Dick’s voice cuts through, low and controlled. “Where the hell are you?”
You let out a small laugh. “Dick, what are you talking about? I’ve been at home all night,” you say, the words coated in enough innocence to sound believable. You draw out the “all night” just enough to add to the performance.
A sigh escapes him, one that you can almost picture as exasperated, followed by a hint of something deeper– worry, maybe frustration.
You hear footsteps in the background, Roy’s voice grumbling, clearly ready to chime in, but you cut him off before he can start.
“Oh, hi, Roy,” you say softly, eyes twinkling despite the distance. “You keeping my brother out of trouble?”
Dick’s sharp inhale and a muttered curse from the redhead fill your speaker before rustling from what you assume is him having to physically move away from the others to continue the conversation.
You shift slightly on the bed, pulling the blankets around your shoulders. Your lips curve into that familiar, calculated smile.
“Anyway,” you begin, voice light and teasing, “just thought I’d check in… in case you wanted to give Dad an update. Can’t have him worrying for no reason, can we?”
Through the faint static of the call, you hear him finally exhale, the sort of controlled breath that signals he’s trying to balance irritation with reluctant acknowledgment.
“You–” he starts, but you cut him off with a small laugh, letting it linger just enough to disarm him further.
You sink deeper against the pillows, letting your hand trace lazily along the edge of the blanket. “I mean,” you continue, “you’re not going to break our little deal, are you? You’ve broken enough promises, don’t you think?”
Silence fills the line for a heartbeat. You picture Dick’s brow furrowed, lips pressed in thought, searching for some way to assert control. He lets out a low breath before speaking. “You’re unbelievable.” And you grin, knowing exactly how true that is.
“And you’re a loser.” The words tumble out of you with a laugh, light and teasing. God, you wish you could see his face.
“Anyway, night, Dicky!” you chirp, the nickname dripping with mock sweetness. You don’t give him time to respond before hitting the end call button.
The sharp click echoes slightly in your quiet room. For a moment, you just sit there, the glow of the phone fading into the dim light of your bedroom.
Then you throw your head back and laugh to yourself— a breathless, satisfied laugh that carries the weight of winning something far bigger than a simple bet.
A/N: Hi guys... Firstly, I am so sorry </3 I'm posting wayyyy later than I said I would. My midterms were horrid, but it's okay, I'm getting my marks back and guess who's getting straight 90s B). Anyway, my lovely friend whom I have forced to become my beta reader @vee08 (who also came up with the title + made the banner for this post) requested I post ★ Wayne!Reader first, so here we are :P. I realized after posting the first part, I actually had to come up with a plausible way for the Reader to escape... so I apologize if it's absolutely ridiculous. Also! I will get to everyone's messages and replies. I skimmed through it to grab anyone who wanted to be tagged for this, and omg thank you guys so much for all your sweet words mwah mwah mwah! (I'll continue the mom!reader later this week... I have a mid-term on Wednesday to survive first.)
If you’d like to be tagged please leave a comment on the series masterlist! It’ll be easier for me to not miss anyone that way :)) LMG Series masterlist, you can find it in my pinned post>>> masterlist>>> nyni’s series :D
Again, I'm still learning how to do tags, so ignore the mess below :P
Yes, and can I get that fictional woman covered in blood? Does that cost extra? No? Perfect. And do I want it to be her own blood or someone else’s, that is a great question. Can I do both? You know what, surprise me. It’s Wednesday and I’m feeling a little adventurous
i LOVE secret identity shenanigans. now imagine a scenario with the og young justice gang, where because of batman’s extreme protection and paranoia, they still have no idea who nightwing’s real identity is (even wally). the team’s just chilling in the cave after training (in civies, tired, and sprawled on mats) somehow the conversation drifts to dick grayson, and they start talking about the jason todd tragedy. and dick is just. sitting there.
kaldur has just left to retrieve intel from aquaman, and wally is scrolling through instagram or something on his phone, eyebrows raised.
“yo, gotham news is wild. apparently richard grayson bailed on school for, like, the third time this week.”
artemis snorts, stretching her shoulders.
“must be a slow day in gotham if rich kid problems are making headlines. probably decided his personal butler could do algebra for him.”
conner tosses his towel aside. “thought bruce wayne had him under lock and key after… that thing a few months ago.”
“‘that thing’?” m’gann tilts her head, innocent concern.
wally waves a hand. “his brother. the one that— y’know. gotham tragedy number eight hundred.” he winces like he knows it’s dark, but keeps talking anyway. “i swear, every gotham kid comes pre-traumatised.”
artemis clicks her tongue. “don’t joke about that.” then, softer, “…but yeah. that jason kid. that was rough.”
silence for a beat.
conner shrugs, not unkind, just blunt.
“still. doesn’t give grayson a free pass to act out forever.”
