✷ ━━━ 𝐥𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲. 9teen. she/her. ao3. full time yapper, part time lover. selina kyle’s lawyer. apples & cherries. law student. summer girl. mrs. wayne. nobara kugisaki's n1 fan. my inbox is always open for anything! 🇦🇷/🇪🇸/🇫🇷 ( 2nd account @tigcrlilly )
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you find some strange flashcards under your boyfriend's bed, and he tells you the story of how geto (and sukuna) helped him prepare for his first date with you!
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 1.2k words, fluff, crack, frat!jo is down bad, geto and gojo being idiots + sukuna, they’re all idiots esp gojo
<𝟑: this is part of a larger story im writing atm! but i thought this was too funny not to write LMAO (if anybody is interested in more frat!jjk PLEASE lmk i have soo many ideas for them)
“Oh Satoru!” He says in a high-pitch voice, trying to resemble yours. “I had the bestest date ever, let’s be boyfriend and girlfriend! Kiss kiss kiss!”
Geto quietly snickers on top of the bed. His hair is loose on the pillow and he props himself on his elbows. “I don’t ever think I’ve seen you so excited for a date.”
“Well,” Satoru drawls as he looks himself in the mirror. “I haven’t gone on a date since I was fifteen. And I’m not nervous at all!”
“You’re not nervous you’re going to mess up?”
Satoru groans and rolls his eyes. “No!” A pause. “Maybe… I don’t want to mess up with her.”
“We can practice.”
“What?” Satoru turns on his profile, slightly flexing his muscles to the mirror. He turns, and scans how the clothes he’s wearing flatter his physique.
“Stop checking yourself out and listen. We can practice talking or whatever, so you don’t scare the poor girl off.”
Satoru looks at his best friend, then at himself in the mirror. “Let’s do it.”
That’s how Sukuna finds his frat mates (friends) half an hour later.
Suguru is wearing a towel on his head, the same colour as your hair.
“No Satoru! Compliment her outfit not her tits.”
“But they always look good! They’re so—"
“You’re both dorks.” Sukuna snaps, entering the room.
Satoru smiles, as if he hadn’t been caught doing the most humiliating thing ever. “Hey Sukuna. We’d invite you to join, but you’re worse than me.”
Sukuna grumbles something and sits at the edge of the bed. “Continue.”
Geto raises a brow.
“I’m extremely bored.”
Gojo smirks evilly. “If you stay you have to help.”
Sukuna shrugs. It can’t be that bad. He stares at the towel on Geto’s head for several seconds. Then he looks at Satoru. Then back at Geto.
“You’re both such fucking losers I don’t know how you get any pussy.”
Satoru laughs. “You’re just jealous because nobody wants to date you.”
“I don't want anyone to date me.” He bites.
“Exactly. Nobody wants you.”
“That's not what I said.”
“It’s what you implied.”
Geto sighs. “Can we just get on with it?”
Sukuna drops onto the edge of the bed. “Fine. What do I do?”
Sukuna grabs the towel from Geto and throws it onto his on head. “Happy?” It’s flopped so it looks more like a strange dropping than a girl’s hair.
Satoru grins. “Very.”
Geto picks up a flashcard. “First scenario. Satoru compliments your outfit.”
Satoru straightens and clears his throat. “You look really good tonight.”
Sukuna stares at him. “That’s it?”
“What?”
“You sound like you're trying to sell her a car.”
Geto snickers.
Satoru rolls his eyes. “Fine. You look really pretty tonight.”
Sukuna recoils. “Never say that again.”
“You're supposed to be her!”
“I don't care.”
“You're ruining the exercise.”
“You're ruining your own date.”
Sukuna pulls the towel off his head. “Look, if you actually like this girl, stop acting like you're trying to get into her pants.”
Satoru's grin fades slightly. “I’m not.”
Sukuna raises an eyebrow. “You spent twenty minutes checking yourself out in the mirror.”
“That was just to check if I looked good.”
“You flexed.”
“I want to look good for her, okay?”
“That's not the point.” Suguru sighs. “This girl has been rejecting you for months. I don’t think your good looks is why she finally agreed.”
Sukuna nods. “He's actually right.”
Satoru looks between them. “Why is everyone suddenly against me?”
“Because you're an idiot,” Sukuna says.
Geto picks up another card. “Next scenario. She tells you she's nervous.”
“I tell her not to be nervous.”
“No,” Geto says.
Sukuna shakes his head. “Tell her you're nervous too.”
Satoru looks at him. “You?”
“Yes, me.”
“You're giving me romance advice?”
“I’m giving you common sense.” Sukuna leans back. “You've got half the campus throwing themselves at you. You're used to girls already liking you. But she’s not giving you the attention you want.”
Satoru goes quiet.
Sukuna shrugs. “So stop trying to impress her because it won’t work.”
Geto glances at him, slightly surprised.
Sukuna notices. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You look surprised.”
“I am.”
“Fuck you.”
Satoru starts laughing. “What?”
“You're actually helping.”
“Don't get used to it.”
It is in fact, that bad.
So that’s how the next five minutes go; Geto makes up a scenario and Satoru has to act it out with Sukuna. At some point there are some half-assed flashcards made with scraps of paper.
“Okay scenario!” Geto announces. Sukuna rolls his eyes, while Satoru nervously checks the time on his phone. He slips it away in his back pocket.
“At the restaurant, the waiter is flirting with her. What do you do?”
“Say fuck off man, and punch him.” Sukuna says proudly.
Satoru groans, as if he himself hadn’t said the same thing a while before. “No. I first check if she’s uncomfortable and then I politely tell whoever it is to fuck off.” He beams at Geto. “Am I right?”
His friend looks pleased, while the other guy is just looking dejected— still finding his answer to be correct.
Geto picks a flashcard from the desk, Satoru groans. If he brings out the flashcards it means the question is really hard.
“What do you say if she says do you do this with the other girls?”
His eyes light up. “No. I don’t date girls.”
“Good enough.” Geto smiles. “You’re getting better.” He looks at the last flashcard, his smile fades a little. “Last one.”
Satoru straightens. “Okay.”
“She asks you: Why do you like me?”
Absolute silence. Sukuna whistles, then laughs. “That's easy. Tell her she's hot.”
“Shut up,” Satoru says automatically.
Geto doesn't laugh this time. He waits.
Satoru looks at the mirror. His blue eyes blink back at him.
“Because she's…” He trails off.
“She's what?” Geto prods.
“I don't know.”
“You don't know?”
Satoru shakes his head. “I know I like her. I just don't know how to explain it.”
Geto studies him for a moment. “Then that's your answer.”
“What?”
“Don't tell her what you think she wants to hear. Tell her the truth.”
Satoru looks at the flashcard. Why do you like her?
And for perhaps the first time, he realizes that wanting someone and knowing why you want them are two completely different things. He groans, why are girls so complicated? He smiles to himself. He can’t say why yet, but he does know this girl is worth it.
“And pipe down on the perfume, she’s going to choke before you get to the drinks.” Geto suggests.
Sukuna just laughs at him.
Satoru grins and dashes out the door. He’s determined to make the date the best you’ve ever had!
“Satoru?” You wave a piece of stained paper by everything that hides under Satoru’s bed, and shake off the dust. “What is this?”
Why do you like me? Stares at him. He grins and wraps his hands around your waist. He then tells you the story of how he prepared for your first date with him.
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you and your boyfriend do the tiktok trend where one runs while the other eats
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fluff!!, 409 words, barry being an amazing boyfriend, i've never had crumbl cookies so idk if these flavours actually exist
You smile brightly at the camera, while Barry— your boyfriend— is staring at you with soft eyes and a small, knowing smile.
You show off Crumbl’s pink box, and the six cookies waiting inside to be gobbled up. “Hi! Today my boyfriend and I.” You look at the blonde, and blush when you realise he’s already looking at you. “Are going to be doing the eat and run trend.”
Behind you, the massive parking lot (the biggest one in Star City, actually) is empty. Its four in the morning so its not that surprising.
“I have to run the entire thing while she doesn’t.” He supplies.
You huff at the camera. “Obviously.” You look at your boyfriend, a fist waiting on your open palm. “Ready?”
He grins, already looking far too pleased with himself. “High stakes.”
You raise an eyebrow. “It’s rock-paper-scissors.”
“Exactly.” He mirrors your own hands.
“One, two, three, go!—"
“Yay!” You smile at the camera, that clearly caught you getting paper while Barry got scissor.
You immediately lounge at the first cookie, pink sugar frosting. You open your jaw as much as you can and take a bite. Just as you’re about to close on it— your boyfriend appears with a whoosh.
You grumble and drop the cookie. But when you look at him, you completely forget about everything. He looks far too pretty; hair tussled by the wind and eyes bright. He also hasn’t broken a sweat. Sigh.
You play rock-paper-scissor again. You win yet again.
This time you go for the cookie dough cupcake cookie, but the same thing happens again.
Barry laughs at your irritated expression, cheeks full like a squirrel, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
You play again, but this time he wins. You don’t even have time to react, as you’re breaking into a sprint.
Your chest and legs are burning by the time you come back. Shallow pants and hair stuck to the back of your neck. All in all, you think you did pretty well.
“Did you finish the entire box?” You exclaim.
Barry looks at you, then at the empty pink box. A sheepish smile slowly spreads across his face. “Maybe.”
You roll your eyes with a smile. “You’re buying me another box.”
He nods, and scoops you up. Carrying you bridal style to the car.
You laugh and hide your face in the crook of his neck. “I’m getting you another box for being the best boyfriend ever.”
Hi, I love your fan-fics that you make about Batmom and the Batfamily! And I was thinking of a plot hoping that you’ll like. That is base of when Princess Diana falling asleep at an event, and there being an announcement of her pregnancy afterwards. And thinking of seeing the reaction of the bat kids + Bruce finding out, and additional the public finding out there gonna be a new Wayne member soon. Soo… I thinking once u got done with finishing your other project u plan you’ll consider taking on this one! Lots of love 💕
hihi, tysm!! i looove this idea so much it was so fun to write heheh. lady d is such a diva i could not not do it. i hope you like it and ty for requesting 💞
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: bruce wayne x wife!reader / platonic!batfam x batmom
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: after you fall asleep at a wayne foundation gala, the media and your family goes crazy. no one knows you're pregnant.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: bruce panicking + being down bad for his wife, 2,9k words, one sexual comment, not edited sorry gang i wrote this while i was falling asleep 🚬, CRACK!!, bruce being (somewhat) clapped, ummm mrs wayne is really hot
<𝟑: thank you so much for requesting. i couldn’t stop giggling and smiling as i typed this. i hope you like it and it was what you imagined! rip lady d 🕊️
Your beautiful face is pinched with a frown, and for someone known as the World’s Greatest Detective, Bruce is surprisingly clueless about what’s wrong.
He slowly descends the stairs, adjusting his cuffs as he reaches you.
You’re already looking at him, smiling softly. “Ready?”
His arm settles around your waist, drawing you closer. He notices the faint tiredness in your eyes, the way you’re carrying yourself a little differently tonight. Until he figures out what’s wrong, he keeps you close (even though he always keeps you close).
“You look beautiful.”
You say nothing for a moment, far too flustered to answer. Then your eyes droop, and you lean into him for support.
“Darling.” His hands steady your waist. “What’s wrong? Do you want to skip the gala?”
You shake your head. “It’s okay. I’m just tired.”
Bruce studies you for another moment. He knows you well enough to know when something is wrong.
But he also knows you well enough to trust you when you tell him you’re fine.
So he nods, though the uneasiness in the back of his mind refuses to disappear.
It seems all of his worries were for nothing, because you’re now charming donors and guests with your smiles and sweet words.
Still, Bruce doesn’t move his hand from your waist. Even when he has to shake someone’s hand, he does it with the other.
Everyone is called to the end of the large space, where a podium and neat rows of chairs are arranged. The man in charge of the event comes up and begins his speech.
Bruce is halfway through wondering why he even bothers with these things when he notices you shift. He looks at you, but you’re fast asleep.
Your head lolls to the side, your face serene. Bruce sighs. You’re going to wake up with neck pain if you stay in that position. He gently shakes your shoulder, whispering your name.
Your eyes flutter open. “Hmm, Bruce?”
“Let’s go home, darling.” He takes off his suit jacket, draping it over your shoulders.
His gaze is so tender, you want to lean into his warmth and sleep again. But he takes your hand and guides you out.
Luckily, you two are at the end of the row, so you don’t bother anyone while leaving. Unluckily, you’re in the first row and the Waynes. Everybody notices you leaving. Including a camera that has been snapping pictures this whole time.
You’re still sleeping by the time Bruce is having breakfast. Alfred raises an eyebrow when he notices your absence.
“She was tired last night,” Bruce supplies.
Alfred chuckles. “I’m sure she was.”
Before Bruce can ask any questions, he hands him the morning papers.
On the front of absolutely all of them (including the Daily Planet, somehow) is your sleeping face from last night. Bruce’s frown deepens as he reads the headlines.
TOO GOOD FOR GOTHAM? MRS. WAYNE FALLS ASLEEP AT A CHARITY GALA
BRUCE WAYNE OVERWORKS HIS WIFE?
It’s clear who wears the pants in this marriage, and it’s clearly not Mr. Wayne! Mrs. Wayne is known for her philanthropic work and extensive involvement in the company. Has her house husband allowed her to become overworked? Read here to know more!
And from a lowbrow gossip magazine (Bruce likes to keep track of what is being said about his family. He does not indulge in gossip):
MRS. WAYNE FALLS ASLEEP AT GALA. REASON? SHE’S PREGNANT.
Bruce’s eyes widen. Do people even believe these ridiculous lies? He sighs. Some do. He continues reading the bold header:
AND THE BABY IS NOT HER HUSBAND’S, BUT BATMAN’S!
At that, Bruce snorts.
“That sound is so juvenile, Father.”
Bruce meets the judgmental stare of his teenage son. “Good morning, Damian.”
He simply sits down in his usual place, but frowns when he sees your empty seat. “Pennyworth.”
“Yes, Master Damian?”
“We have to set the full table. The others are coming.” He begins cutting into his meal.
“What do you mean, the others, Damian?” Bruce sips his coffee.
Damian glares at him. “There was a discussion in the group chat.”
He raises a brow. “I didn’t get any notifications.”
His lips curl. “Exactly.” A pause. “Anyways, after the worrying news of Mother fainting, we thought we might have breakfast together.”
Bruce pinches his nose. “She fell asleep. She didn’t faint.”
Damian picks up the newspaper with the BRUCE WAYNE OVERWORKS HIS WIFE? header. “I hate this type of literature, but I do have to agree on one thing. You are terrible at taking care of Mother.”
After dropping that bomb, he goes back to eating. Bruce swallows his coffee and immediately pours himself more.
And because peace can’t ever last long, the main door opens, and loud voices approach the dining room.
“I’ve already researched all of the probable causes and—”
“Nerd.”
“Guys, let’s not.”
The doors open, and Bruce sighs into his coffee. Alfred is just looking more amused by the second as he finishes setting the last porcelain cup.
“Good morning.”
Everyone greets Bruce, mindlessly taking their places. A minute later, Cass and Duke slip inside.
Ah, finally, rational people.
“I think Mother should go to the doctor,” Damian states.
Jason grabs a piece of toast. “I think it’s something far more serious.”
Dick pours the milk into his cereal. “She’s been overworking. You know how she is— she never stops.”
Their voices interlay into different tones, reasonings, and theories. But Bruce is just getting more and more worried by the second. Was it truly that serious? He was worried, but you always tell him he worries too much. Did he not worry enough when he actually had to worry? Or were the others overreacting because it was their mother?
He knew he should’ve called the doctors. He’d accompany you as soon as you woke up.
“And what about just asking her?” Duke suggests.
All eyes snap to him. There’s a beat of silence. Then another.
Tim blinks slowly. “Why would we do that?”
Duke sighs. “Forget I said anything.”
The doors open once again, and everyone turns towards the source of this whole situation.
You blink, still sleepy. “Good morning.” You yawn.
A chorus of good mornings follows. But nobody dares move, as if they’re scared you’ll shatter.
You rub your eyes and sit down. You pour yourself some orange juice, oblivious to the complete silence and the staring from around the table.
You pick up one of the papers and flip through it. You laugh, and Bruce realizes it’s the trashy gossip magazine.
You look at them. “What’s going on?”
“You fainted last night,” Damian bluntly says.
You freeze for a second before smiling. “I fell asleep.” You look at the others. “Any theories why?”
They immediately launch into their individual explanations. You catch Bruce’s eye and wink. (His stupid chest does something.) What game are you playing?
“Nope.” You serve yourself some eggs. “Nobody has guessed it.”
That’s probably the worst thing you can say to a group of hyper-competitive vigilantes. Immediately, their voices grow louder, and so does the proportion of their theories.
You laugh at Jason’s poisoning theory. “I’m pregnant.”
Complete and utter silence. You can only hear the faint chirp of a bird somewhere in the gardens.
Bruce is the first to react. He immediately gets up and (extremely gently) pulls you to your feet. He rests a large hand on your stomach.
“We’re going to have a baby.”
You smile and place another hand on top of his. “We are.”
Then Dick makes a strangled noise. “You’re—” He looks at Bruce then you. “You’re having a baby.”
Bruce’s mouth twitches. “That is generally what pregnant means.”
Jason slowly lowers his toast. “With him?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Jason.”
He raises his hands. “I’m happy for you. I’m just processing.”
Tim is still staring at you. “I’m going to create a document—a document and a spreadsheet—”
Damian hasn’t said anything. He’s staring at you with unnerving intensity. “How long have you known?”
“Since last night,” you say softly.
“And you did not inform Father?”
You slowly shake your head and give Bruce a sheepish smile. “I was genuinely that tired.”
Bruce rubs the skin of your hand in reassurance.
Damian’s eyes drop to your stomach. “How far along?”
“Very early.”
He nods. “You will need to cut all strenuous activity.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.” A pause. “Who will train the child?”
Bruce immediately shakes his head. “Nobody.”
“I did not say combat.”
“You were absolutely thinking combat.”
Jason snorts. “This kid hasn’t even been born, and we’re already arguing over its training.”
“I’m not training the baby,” Bruce says firmly.
Damian looks offended.
You smile at him. “You’ll get to teach them basic self-defense.”
He inflates a little at that.
Across the table, Cass quietly approaches you. She places a hand against your stomach and smiles.“Congratulations on the baby.”
You smile back, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
Cass looks at Bruce, then at you again. “I’m happy for you both.”
Bruce’s expression softens. “Thanks.”
Duke finally seems to recover. “So... congratulations!”
Everyone looks at him. “What?”
You laugh. “Thank you.”
Alfred clears his throat. Everyone falls silent. He calmly sets another cup of tea on the table.
“Master Bruce,” he then says, looking at you.
You both look at him.
“Yes, Alfred?”
“Congratulations.” He smiles, his eyes crinkling and looking a little too emotional for his usual self.
Both you and Bruce thank him, but the latter does something unlike himself— he suddenly hugs Alfred. It’s very short and slightly stiff, but he means it with his entire heart.
Alfred’s gaze moves toward you, then your stomach, and then briefly toward the increasingly chaotic table.
“I will get to preparing the nursery.”
Jason laughs. Dick groans. Tim immediately starts talking about nursery safety. Damian begins arguing about room placement. Duke looks increasingly concerned. Cass is still smiling.
And you lean back in your chair, laughing as Bruce reaches beneath the table and takes your hand.
His thumb brushes over your knuckles. For all the noise, he looks pretty peaceful.
“We’re going to have a baby,” he murmurs again.
You squeeze his hand. “We are.”
A week later, you and Bruce are having breakfast. On a small notebook, several names are written in your pretty handwriting. Underneath them are plans for the baby’s nursery (courtesy of Bruce’s five-a.m. research after patrol).
Then Alfred brings the papers. You two already know what to expect, given that, for some reason, Gotham is obsessed with everything Wayne, and the news just came out yesterday.
IT’S A WAYNE! MR. & MRS. WAYNE ARE EXPECTING
The billionaire philanthropist and his beautiful wife announced today that they are expecting a child. Gotham simply cannot stop talking about it!
WHO IS BABY WAYNE?
Gotham’s newest—and smallest (so small, in fact, it’s a bean)—member of the Wayne dynasty is already the city’s biggest story.
WHY A NEW WAYNE IS LIKELY TO SHIFT THE STOCK MARKET
(Why was the Gotham Economist turning into a gossip magazine?)
And, of course, yours and Bruce’s favourite magazine:
THE WAYNES ARE JUST ONE PLAYER SHORT FROM THEIR DREAM OF HAVING THEIR OWN SOCCER TEAM.
The haters will say Bruce Wayne has a terrible pull-out game and a Family Guy complex.
You actually laugh at that while Bruce purses his lips.
But actually, his dream has always been to have his very own soccer team! Why buy one when you can make one? (And honestly, I would too if I had Mrs. Wayne as my wife.) Congratulations to Mr. & Mrs. Wayne! We all know that baby is going to have some absolutely insane genes.
“She’s going to be lucky to have you as a mother,” Bruce says softly.
“She?”
He nods. “I just know it.”
You laugh and flip the page, where a photoshopped baby appears wearing a Batman cowl with a pink bow and a pink pacifier. The caption? Mrs Wayne’s secret baby with Batman.
bruce was your loyal knight whom you fell in love with. however, your father refused to marry you off to someone poor. to fix this, bruce leaves to earn the dowry but dies trying. five years later you are to marry the prince, but things get complicated when the mysterious and elusive dark night is after you.
warnings: sword fighting, reader lowk losing it, sword to throat (!!!), lying ig, 3k words
← chapter ii. ✷ chapter iv. →
You aren't aware of how heavy your days are until you're forced to carry them. Every morning feels like another chain fastened beneath your fine dresses, invisible but no less heavy as you move through the castle's long halls.
Thomas had been in a good mood at breakfast. That never boded anything good.
Your omen was confirmed by midmorning.
You’re sitting on the windowsill beside one of the great windows reaching all the way to the ceiling, the forest stretching beyond the glass in every direction. Your needlework lays abandoned in your lap, loose golden threads spilling between your fingers, mocking you.
Something prickles between your shoulder blades. You ignore it. It grows worse. Slowly, you turn your head.
At the far end of the room, Lady Selina sits with two other court ladies, their heads bent together as they exchange whispers behind delicate hands. Every so often one of them glances towards you. Then comes more giggling.
Heat crawls up your neck. Your stomach turns sour. You look back down at your needlework, though the stitches have long since stopped making any sense. Their laughter continues behind you, soft and elegant and too poisonous.
You can’t stand it. You rise, pressing the needle against your fingertip just enough to feel its bite. A small pain, something you can control. You gather your things and leave the room.
The laughter follows you into the corridor.
The door has barely closed as you lift your mattress, already fumbling with the lock of the chest. Your heart stops. It 's empty. For a moment, you simply stare.
The little wooden box sits open in your hands, its hinges creaking softly beneath the weight of your grip. The faded velvet lining is bare. There is not a single scrap of paper.
Your fingers go cold. No. You turn the chest over. Nothing falls out. You shake it once, harder. Still nothing.
"No." The word comes out breathless.
You drop to your knees. Then you rise with a spasm, your movements jerky and frantic.
The mattress is thrown aside. Then the pillows. Then the blankets. You wrench open drawers so violently that their contents spill across the floor, silk and linen tumbling into disarray. You tear through the wardrobe, through the vanity, through the shelves where old books have gathered years of dust. Nothing.
Your hands begin to shake. You search places you know are impossible. Beneath the bed. Inside the fireplace. Behind the wardrobe. You tear through every drawer twice, then a third time, because surely you must have missed something. Surely the chest could not simply have—
Your breath catches.
"Maids." The word barely leaves your throat. You stumble towards the door and wrench it open.
"Maids!" Your voice echoes down the corridor.
Footsteps come running. The first maid arrives with her skirts gathered in her hands, the second close behind, both already frightened by the sound of your voice.
"My lady?"
"Where is it?"
They stare at you then each other.
"The chest."
"What chest?"
"My chest." You point towards the room with a trembling hand. "The wooden one. Under my mattress. Where is it?"
Neither answers.
"Where is it?" Your voice breaks.
They hurry inside. For the next quarter of an hour, your chambers become a battlefield.
The maids search beneath furniture and inside cupboards. One kneels beside the hearth with soot staining the hem of her dress. Another empties every drawer onto the floor. You pull apart the wardrobe until your clothes hang in disordered heaps, then accuse yourself of having hidden it somewhere else and begin searching all over again.
You find things you'd forgotten existed; a pearl earring, a pressed flower gone brown with age, a ribbon from another time, a ruby necklace Thomas gifted you while he courted you.
But the chest is nowhere.
Your knees ache from kneeling. Your palms sting from catching against splintered wood. There is a strange pressure beneath your ribs now, as though something is tightening around your heart.
Someone took it. The thought arrives quietly. It settles. Someone took it. But your maids haven’t done it– and even if they did, they wouldn’t just suddenly confess.
“I’m sorry.” You whisper.
The maids exchange a frightened glance. "My lady—"
"I’m sorry for the ruckus, and interrupting your chores."
You don't wait for their answer. You leave the room as they call for you. However, they do not follow.
You don't remember crossing the courtyard. Only the cold air against your face, the sharp smell of hay and horse sweat in the stables, the stable boy's startled expression when you demand your mare.
"My lady, where are you—"
"Open the gate."
"I’m afraid the Prince has instructed us to not give you your mare– or allow you to leave.”
Your stomach twists with guilt. "I’m sorry, but I need to leave."
He looks at the floor, and then at your lovely eyes. “Oh-okay, fine.”
You force a smile. “Thank you.”
You mount without a cloak, without gloves, without anything that might identify you as anything other than another rider fleeing the castle. Only once the walls have disappeared behind the trees do you realise your hands are shaking.
You ride until the castle is no longer visible and the road widens. You pull your hood over your head before entering. It is easier this way.
The townspeople know your face, some of them would even recognise you immediately. Others would bow, and you cannot bear the thought of anyone bowing to you when you feel so desperately close to breaking. So you become nobody. Just another woman on horseback in a dark cloak.
The town is busy despite the late hour; merchants are packing away their stalls, children weave between carts, shrieking and laughing, while somewhere nearby a baker pulls the day's last loaves from an oven. The smell reaches you before you see the shop— warm bread, yeast, something sweet beneath it.
Your stomach twists. You haven’t eaten. You haven’t realised. You dismount and lead your mare through the market, keeping your head down.
A small boy crashes into your skirts. "Oof!" He falls backwards into the dirt.
You catch yourself before snapping at him.
"I'm sorry," he says immediately. His eyes are wide.
Behind him, three other children have stopped to stare. They are filthy. One has a missing shoe. Another's hair is tangled into a nest. The smallest girl is clutching her stomach.
You look at them. Then at the baker. You sigh. "Wait here."
The children stare as you cross the street.
When you return, you carry a paper-wrapped cream-filled loaf beneath one arm and several little pastries balanced in your hands.
Their faces transform. The smallest girl makes a noise of delight.
You tear the bread apart and distribute it between them. "Slowly," you warn.
The boy who knocked into you grins around a mouthful. "You talk like my mom."
You smile. "Your mother sounds sensible."
He laughs.
Something inside you loosens. For the first time since opening that chest, you breathe properly.
The little girl looks up at you, eyes wide and bright. “Are you an angel?”
You laugh, and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’m not.”
The girl doesn’t look too convinced, but she goes back to happily munching her treat.
The children swarm around you after that. They show you a game involving pebbles and chalk. You lose immediately. They accuse you of cheating. You accuse them of making up rules as they go. One of the girls braids a piece of your cloak. You thank her with a ridiculous low bow and she slightly lifts her skirt, emulating a princess.
For a little while, you forget. But then your mind– without wanting to– goes back to the missing letters. Your smile falters. Where was it? Who had taken it? Why? The questions return all at once, sharp as splinters beneath the skin.
"My lady?"
You look down. The youngest girl is staring up at you. "Yes?"
A boy stands behind her. You hadn't seen him approach. He's older than the others, perhaps twelve or thirteen, with mud on his knees and an expression far too solemn for a child. "I need your help."
Your stomach tightens. "With what?"
He glances towards the forest beyond the town. "My sister."
Something about the way he says it makes the laughter around you seem suddenly distant.
"She's hurt."
You study him. There is something wrong, but you cannot name it. Perhaps it is the way he refuses to meet your eyes. Perhaps it is the fact that none of the other children seem to be familiar with him. Perhaps it is simply the prickling sensation that has been crawling beneath your skin since the cemetery.
You should say no. You should return to the castle. Send guards instead of you. However, you do nothing of the sort.
And instead, rise. "Where is she?"
The boy points towards the trees. "There."
You look towards the forest. The road disappears beneath the canopy, swallowed by shadow. For a moment, every instinct in you screams to turn around.
Then the boy starts walking. And, despite yourself, you follow. Quickly, you hand your mare to one of the older girls and ask to please take care of her. She nods quickly, taking her task too-seriously.
The boy walks quickly, but you follow briskly on your feet. The last houses of the town disappear behind you with surprising speed, their warm windows swallowed one by one by the thickening trees. The road narrows beneath your fine shoes until it is little more than two muddy tracks winding between the trunks. The air changes, it is far colder beneath the canopy. You feel it first at the nape of your neck, where the wind finds the small gap between your collar and your skin. Gooseflesh rises along your arms despite the cloak wrapped tightly around you. Your fingers begin to stiffen around your clenched hands, the joints aching with the cold.
"How much farther?"
The boy doesn't answer.
You frown. "Where is she?"
Still nothing. He keeps walking. The forest seems unnaturally quiet; no birds or insects. Only the crunch of dead leaves beneath you and the occasional creak of branches shifting overhead. Your unease sharpens. It has been there since the cemetery. That same sensation of being watched— you glance over your shoulder.
The path behind you is empty.
"Wait, please!"
The boy stops.
You catch up to him. "Where are we going?"
He turns. For the first time, you see his face properly. His cheeks are red from the cold. His eyes are wet, and your heart clenches. "I'm sorry."
Your stomach drops. "What?"
"I'm sorry."
He runs.
You stare after him and once more call, "Wait!" You start forward, but he has already vanished between the trees.
The silence that follows is absolute. You turn slowly. Something is wrong. Very wrong. Your hand slips beneath your cloak. There is no sword at your hip. Of course there isn't. You have left the castle in such haste that you have thought only of getting away. Your fingers curl uselessly into the fabric. Then you hear it: a quiet, amused breath. Your head snaps towards the sound.
A figure stands between the trees. Black from head to toe. The cowl— with small horns, making him look akin to a bat— conceals his face, the edges of the mask disappearing into the shadows beneath his hood. Armour catches what little light filters through the branches, dull and dark rather than gleaming.
The Dark Knight.
Your heart slams once against your ribs. Then you see what he is holding; a piece of paper, yellowed with age and creased along the folds.
Your breath stops. "No."
He tilts his head. The letter hangs loosely between two gloved fingers. One of the hundreds Bruce had written to you. All that is left alive of him for you. Those letters— they are your anchor.
"You." Your voice comes out strangled.
He laughs, low and cruel.
You step towards him. "Give me that."
He looks down at the paper. Then back at you. "You want this?"
You raise your chin, pretending to be far braver than you are. "Give it to me."
He unfolds it. Bruce's handwriting stares back at you. My dearest—
"Please."
His shoulders shake with another silent laugh.
Something hot erupts beneath your ribs. "Give it to me!" You lunge.
He moves the letter out of reach. You stop yourself before colliding with him, fury making your breath come in ragged, shallow pulls. "How did you get that?"
He says nothing.
"Where did you find it?"
Nothing.
Your fingers tremble. "You stole it."
The Dark Knight's head tilts.
"You stole my things." A pause. You stare at him. "You have no business taking what's not yours."
He says nothing once again. You clench your jaw, ire bubbling through your blood. "Give me my letters."
"No."
The simplicity of it makes something inside you snap. You lunge, grabbing the sword hanging at his hip. (He lets you. That is the first thing you should notice.) The blade comes free with a metallic hiss. You barely have time to think before you swing. He dodges. The sword cuts through empty air. You turn and strike again. He parries. Steel rings through the forest. You attack harder.
Years of training live inside your muscles. Bruce has taught you how to hold your weight over your feet, how to turn your wrist at the last possible moment, how to use someone's strength against them rather than wasting your own. You remember every lesson. Every correction. Again. Don't look at the blade. Notice the direction they intend to take and adapt. Your boots slide through damp leaves and your breath burns your lungs. Cold air tears down your throat. You swing. He blocks. You feint left and come from the right. He steps aside. You recover immediately. Another strike. Another. Another. Another. Another–
The Dark Knight barely seems to be trying.
That makes you angrier. You drive him backwards. (He allows it). You strike his shoulder. He staggers. You strike again. He stumbles. You follow. Your heart hammers so violently it seems to bruise your sternum from the inside. You are good. You know you are good. Bruce has made you good. And for one delirious moment, you think you might actually—
Your blade slips beneath his guard. He freezes. The tip rests against the bare skin beneath his jaw. You are breathing so hard your vision trembles. He doesn't move. Neither do you. A bead of sweat travels from your temple despite the cold. Your fingers are shaking. Actually, your whole body is shaking. The sword is not. Its point remains perfectly steady against his throat. "You." The word barely survives your throat.
He says nothing.
You swallow. Tears blur the edges of his silhouette.
"Do you want to kill me?” His voice is low, almost a rumble. “ Knowing I killed your lover?"
The world stops. A beat, then two. It feels as if a branch has been violently snapped in two. Crack! You stare at the man, your eyes blank.
"What?" Your voice comes in a broken whisper.
His head tilts slightly. "I killed the knight known as Bruce." His tone is void of all emotion. "He begged me not to— told me his love was waiting home for him." He tilts his head. "But you've moved on with another man. Haven't you? I can't really blame you. It's been a long time."
"You killed him." You repeat it very slowly, as if each syllable is too heavy on the tongue. "You killed Bruce." The sword trembles. You press it closer. "Do you know how long I waited?" No response from him, of course not. "Two years." Your breath hitches. "I went to his grave for two years." Your knuckles have gone white around the hilt. "I spoke to him." Your voice grows smaller. "I told him things as if he were still with me." A tear slips over your mouth, you taste salt. "I told him about my father. About the palace. About Thomas. About our future. Because we could've had one." Your lips tremble, a humourless laugh escaping your lips. "How dare you say I've moved on, when I'm more with the dead than the living."
The Dark Knight remains utterly still. You completely miss a shudder, or the way his eyes have no bite or fire behind. Just pure longing. Longing to the point of torture.
"You know what I never told him?" Your voice drops to a whisper. "What I should've told him? That I loved him ever since we were children and he hid under the table with me. That I would've chosen him no matter what."
Your chest hurts. Every breath seems to scrape something raw inside you. Your eyes search the darkness beneath the cowl. "He left because he loved me enough not to make me choose even though it never was about choosing. It's not choosing when only one answer exists." Your sword wavers. Your throat tightens until speaking becomes painful. "And he died because of that."
The Dark Knight's head lowers. You mistake it for shame. That only makes you angrier. "I hate you." Your voice is barely audible, but laced with so much hate and spite your teeth clench. "I hate you so much." You press the blade harder against his throat. "If I could bring him back by killing you, I would." Your breath shudders. "If I could trade your life for his, I would do it without thinking."
You stare at him through the tears. "I want him back." There it is. The truth beneath everything; not vengeance or hatred or anger, grief. All that love that has nowhere to go, and so exists as grief. "I want Bruce back." Your sword hand finally begins to tremble uncontrollably. "I want him back."
The Dark Knight closes his eyes. And then, so quietly that you almost miss it—
"As you wish."
Your blood runs cold. Your eyes widen in horror and your mouth falls open with a silent gasp. The sword falls from your grasp.
sorry for the cliffhanger! ummm idk if this chapter makes any sense im kind of dizzy rn, lmk if there are any mistakes :) and ik selina seems lowk awful right now but TRUST
taglist: @asteria35308, @astr4liss, @queengirl2345, @warm-gamer1121, @stepbymeu, @all-around-weird0 (comment to be added to the taglist!)
AS YOU WISH [ CHAPTER II: EVEN FULL OF LOVE A GHOST CAN ONLY HAUNT. ]
bruce was your loyal knight whom you fell in love with. however, your father refused to marry you off to someone poor. to fix this, bruce leaves to earn the dowry but dies trying. five years later you are to marry the prince, but things get complicated when the mysterious and elusive dark night is after you.
warnings: 1.9k words, 1 sexual innuendo, grief, stalking (lowk?)
← chapter i. ✷ chapter iii. →
All love stories are ghost stories.
Because the dead cannot be contained in cold graveyards. No, that would be too easy. They follow you to warmer places until you’re constantly haunted by an apparition. Bruce is in the steel of a sword, the fruit or the bread, he’s the chirp of a bird, or the end of a song he liked. You think you hear his laughter at a ball, and chase his shadow at the end of a long hall before realising it's just a servant.
It’s only fitting you go visit him at his home; the graveyard. The path was littered with leaves in every stage of dying. Some still clung stubbornly to the branches overhead, others had only just begun their slow descent, while the oldest had already surrendered to the earth, soft beneath your horse's hooves.
You tied your mare to the low branch of a yew tree, giving the reins a firm tug before leaving her to graze at the thinning grass. Your father's headstone stood nearest the church. You paused there first. It had become easier to speak to him after he'd died. Funny, that. When he'd been alive, every conversation had curdled into bitterness before either of you reached the heart of it. Death had stripped the anger from him, or perhaps only from you.
A bouquet of white lilies rested against the pristine stone.
"Good morning, Father."
You frowned, your bottom lip quivered for a second before you moved along. You lowered yourself onto the damp earth beside Bruce’s tombstone. Here, you allowed yourself to sink into the soil and rest your forehead against the cool stone.
You told him of your day, a slow and uninteresting affair. Then you rambled about Thomas, adding little quips and jokes like you would’ve if Bruce had really been there to listen.
You trace the letters of his name with your fingertips, trying to morph with your brainpower alone, the stone to warm skin. You pretend it's his cheeks, then the slope of his nose and then his… lips. Your cheeks grow too warm for such a cold place. (And for someone who’s engaged).
A twig snapped behind you, breaking you out of your dreaming. You went still, all your muscles tight and ready.
The wind moved through the trees, sending a scatter of leaves skittering across the graves. You listened more closely. Nothing.
Slowly, you lifted your head; the churchyard looked the same as it had when you'd arrived. Crooked headstones. The old yew trees. A thin veil of mist gathered between the graves as the evening drew closer.
Nothing moved. You told yourself it was a fox. Or maybe deer. Something small and harmless you could easily best.
Then another branch cracked. This time much closer.
Your heart kicked. You scrambled to your feet, gathering your skirts in one hand as you hurried back towards the mare. She was already uneasy. Her ears had pricked forward, nostrils flaring as she stared into the trees.
"Easy." You untied her with fingers that suddenly seemed far too clumsy.
The mare whined. You froze. That hadn't come from her. Somewhere beyond the churchyard, another horse answered. A low, distressed sound.
Your mare jerked against the reins.
"Easy, girl."
She wouldn't settle. Neither would you. You mounted without bothering with the stirrups properly and kicked her into motion.
The churchyard disappeared behind you. Branches whipped at your shoulders as the mare tore down the narrow path, hooves striking hard against packed earth. You glanced back once.
Nothing. You faced forward again. Then you heard it. Hooves. Behind you. Your blood turned cold. You urged the mare faster. The sound followed. Four beats. Then four more. Close enough now that you could hear the animal's breath between them.
Someone was riding after you.
You didn't turn around. You couldn't.
The forest blurred around you, trunks and branches becoming streaks of black between the fading light. Your mare's breath came in harsh bursts, white against the cooling air.
The hooves behind you drew closer. Closer. You gripped the reins until your fingers hurt. And then— silence. You risked a glance over your shoulder. The road behind you was empty. No rider and no horse. Only the long path winding between the trees, littered with leaves.
You stared for another heartbeat. Then you turned back and rode. Your pace was brisk, but not urgent anymore. You did not look behind you again. But the uneasiness followed you up to the castle.
You followed the routine seamlessly; handed your mare over to the stable boy, climbed through the servants' entrance, and slipped into your quarters for your two maids to prepare you for bed. Their fingers were nimble and careful as they released your hair from its day's elaborate arrangement and gently combed through the tangles.
You watched yourself in the looking glass; there were leaves caught in the hem of your dress. A tear ran through one sleeve. Your cheeks were still flushed from the ride.
You looked tired. Were you really the kingdom’s princess? You just felt… woefully unsuit for the role. And not because you didn’t care about the people or the role– you absolutely did. But because you didn’t feel strong or good enough to be who the people needed. How could you help anyone if you couldn’t help yourself? You continued inspecting your features, growing more and more disgusted as you did.
Your eyes fell on the meadow that extended through the glass… at the end, the edge of the forest started. Dark and sprawling, like a living army of wood and flora.
The door opened with a boom.
You rolled your eyes and thanked the maids for their work. They disappeared without a word, closing the door behind them. They knew what was coming, and so did you.
Thomas stood in the doorway. His brows were pinched in that familiar sneer, the one that made something sour twist in your stomach.
"You went riding alone."
You continued untangling your hair, still looking at the dark meadow. "I visit my family’s grave every week."
"I know." He bit.
You continued your movements, slow and sure. You knew it upset him when you acted indifferent– but you genuinely could not care. "Then why are you asking?"
"Because you were seen."
You glanced at him through the mirror. "How unfortunate."
His jaw tightened. "The Dark Knight was seen again."
Your hand stilled. Then resumed its actions.
"Near the western road."
You said nothing.
"Closer to the palace than ever before."
Still nothing.
"And where were you?"
"The graveyard."
"Alone."
"Yes."
His expression hardened. "Do you have any idea how foolish that was?"
You placed the comb on the vanity. "I’m alive and well, aren’t I?”
"That isn't the point."
You had to suppress your eyes from rolling. "It seems rather like the point."
Thomas crossed the room. "You've always been stubborn."
I've been called worse, you thought.
He stopped behind your chair. For a moment, his reflection appeared beside yours in the mirror. He stared at his face, gently combing one of his dark curls. He tilted his head, observing his jaw from that new angle.
His eyes slid to your face. It felt like a thousand ants crawling up and down. Then his eyes fell to–
"You know," he said, quieter now, "you make it very difficult to be angry with you."
His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair from your shoulder. You stiffened.
He smiled. "There."
You moved your shoulder out of his reach, scooting towards the end of the chair. "Don't."
His smile faltered. "Don't what?"
"Touch me."
"You'll have to get used to it." His voice had softened into something almost coaxing. "You're going to be my wife." A pause. “And we'll have to consummate marriage.”
He reached for your hand.
“I know.” You pulled it against your chest.
His nostrils flared. For a moment, anger threatened to break through.
Then, strangely, he smiled again. "You're difficult."
His hand found your waist.
You immediately caught his wrist. "Thomas."
"Relax." He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "You don't have to love me yet."
Yet. The word made your stomach turn.
"I don't love you. You know this.” Your voice softened, sounding more like pleading. You almost missed the glint in his eyes. “I told you when you started courting me, that I won’t be able to love you.”
"I know." He said it almost indulgently. "As I said, you don't have to." His thumb brushed against your side. "But you will."
You shoved his hand away. "No."
His expression changed. "Excuse me?"
"I said no."
The softness vanished. "You've been indulged for too long."
You stared at him. "Indulged?"
"Yes." His voice rose. "Your father allowed you to run wild through your castle as though the world belonged to you. You follow your obligations but don’t indulge in court. You disappear whenever you please. You ride alone. You visit the dead every week and expect everyone to simply tolerate it."
"Don't speak about what you do not understand."
"I will speak about whatever I please." His voice cracked across the room. "You are not a child anymore.”
"And neither are you. Start behaving like it."
His face reddened. "Do not speak to me that way."
"Then don't speak to me as though I'm another possession for your collection."
"I'm trying to protect you!"
"No. You're trying to control me."
Silence.
His chest rose and fell. Then he stepped forward again, anger giving way to something colder. "Look at me."
You didn't.
"I said look at me." His voice was eerily calm, and you suddenly felt very vulnerable with your back towards him.
You finally did.
He stared at you for a long moment before his expression softened again, almost disturbingly quickly.
"There." He reached towards your face.
You flinched away.
His hand stopped.
"You see?" he murmured. "You make everything into a battle." He tried to brush his fingers along your cheek. “But it 's okay. I’m yet to encounter a battle I can’t win.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “I’ll win… one way or another.”
You slapped his hand away. "Leave."
His face went blank. "What?"
"Leave my chambers."
He laughed once, disbelieving. "You cannot order me from my own future wife's room." He laughed again. “And in myown castle!”
"I just did."
His jaw clenched.
For several seconds, neither of you moved.
Then he stepped closer. Your breath caught in your chest. He stopped, mere inches away from your skin. Something in your face finally made him understand that another step would be too much, even for him.
His expression hardened. "Fine." He turned towards the door. Then looked back. "You will learn."
The door slammed behind him. You stood perfectly still. Only when his footsteps faded did you look towards the vanity.
Your reflection stared back at you. For a moment, you imagined another face beside yours. Your throat tightened. You turned away from the mirror.
You gently got up, careful not to scrape the wooden chair against the floor. Mechanically, you crouched to the floor and lifted the mattress of your bed. A little wooden chest waited for you. You picked it up, brushing your fingers on the rusting lock.
Dumping the contents on the bed, you lifted the covers and picked a random one.
My dearest…
You sobbed into your pillow, clutching those letters like a life line. Sometimes you wondered if ghosts could haunt one another. Bruce had been buried six years ago. You wondered, which of you had truly been laid to rest.
hi lovelies! I hoped you enjoyed this chapter even if it was a bit slow (sorry :p) but in the next one we get into the plot!! (and meet selina hehe). also, sorry for the delay sigh life has been HECTIC and I haven't had access to the internet for a few days (I know, the horror). omg and poor reader she's going through it
(sorry for the long ass yap i got wayyy too excited)
YESS OFC!! im currently in s2 (i have only one episode left i think?? and oh my god?? what the hell is going on shibuya).
geto and gojo are legendary lovers you CANNOT convince me otherwise and i lowk think megumi has a crush on yuji. or at least in s1 he did, then it changes to friendship ?
i LOOVE all of the girls esp nobara, maki and the white haired lady (im sorry i cannot remember her life for the life of me) ummm i feel so bad for shoko wtf and MAJOR SPOILER WDYM NANAMI DIE BREHHHHH WHAT IS THIS ITS NOT FUNNY ANYMORE MAJOR SPOILER ENDS honestly i love all of the characters except that bitchass m*hito he ragebaits me so bad (why is sukuna lowk fine)
and yes i am incredibly basic and madly in love with gojo!!! what can i say he’s like the opposite of nonchalant && really tall😛😛
the world building is cheff kiss and the missions and magic system is honestly so interesting
OH and i hate toji he’s lowk a slut why are you wearing compression shirts everywhere you go AND how can you treat your kids so badly ?? i get he does love megumi (deep down) but he was a terrible father to him and tsumiki. im lowk pissed MAJOR SPOILER the second time he died he didn’t contribute more to the overall fight eugh what a waste END OF SPOILER ill prob change my opinion on him but right now he’s at the top of my opp list
and my top 5 favourite characters in no particular order!!
1. panda
2. NOBARA !!!
3. gojo
4. megumi & yuji (they’re side by side)
5. geto
HB: todo & nanami
so far i haven’t cried but i’ve heard things get WORSE idk how that’s even possible but we’ll see
bruce was your loyal knight whom you fell in love with. however, your father refused to marry you off to someone poor. to fix this, bruce leaves to earn the dowry but dies trying. five years later you are to marry the prince, but things get complicated when the mysterious and elusive dark night is after you.
warnings: jealousy, 5.8k words, angst, fluff, childhood best friends (jsjskwk), yearning!!, can be read as a one shot
← series masterlist. ✷ chapter ii. →
He was too young to call it grief. It was only the hole in his chest, tucked beneath ragged clothes and a breastbone that never seemed thick enough to hide it. Bruce didn’t feel there most days. After his parents died, the days stopped arriving one at a time. They blurred together into the same grey afternoon; the steady tap of rain against windows he wasn't allowed to open, footsteps in empty stone corridors, voices speaking over his head as though he weren't standing there, Alfred’s words that never penetrated through his skull.
Then spring came.
Spring had burst with bright colour that year, cool breezes and warm mellow sun. Bees wandered lazily through the hedges, drawing invisible patterns in the air, the apple trees decorated with those red rubies… That was the day he met you.
Surrounding the middle tree— the thickest and tallest— were three servants. Their worried voices immediately reached Bruce, and he decided to come closer. He should've kept walking. Instead, he stopped. The servants hadn't noticed him and neither had the climbing girl. He lingered anyway, watching.
Halfway up, was a girl dressed in a dress that definitely wasn’t made for climbing. She must’ve been about his age, but that was where their differences ended.
“Please, my lady, come down!” The stout servant called.
You didn't so much as glance at your servant. You only reached higher, balancing on a branch that bent alarmingly beneath your weight until your fingers closed around the highest apple. He saw the side of your profile light up with a smile.
Bruce took a step back.
You slowly descended, your feet blindly guessing where the next branch was to come down without a plummet. Clenched tightly around your little hand was the apple you had troubled those poor three servants for.
What a brat, he thought. The lord's daughter, risking her neck for an apple when the kitchens would've filled a basket if she'd asked. The moment you hit the ground you offered it to the tallest woman, rail thin with silver hair. “Please give this to your son.”
The woman blinked. “My lady… you remembered?”
You shrugged, as if it were nothing remarkable. Then, you gave your muddied skirts only the most token brush before tearing off deeper into the gardens.
The other woman called after you, picking up her skirts to chase you. “My lady, your lessons!”
Bruce watched you disappear between the hedges before remembering he was already late. He turned around. Alfred would have words for him.
Spring was almost brushing summer when you two properly met; in the kitchens, you were hiding under a table nibbling a raspberry tart. Red guts around your mouth and stains on your fine dress. Didn’t you have a tutor to teach you manners?
“Hello,” you said and stretched the tart towards him.
Bruce took a step back. His eyes darted around the empty kitchen.
“Do you want some?”
“No.”
“Okay!” You smiled, and happily kept munching. “My mother said sharing is caring.”
Bruce blinked. As far as he knew, there was no lady of the castle. He told you that much.
“She died.” You stated, your eyes not meeting his but the food. “But it's okay. Father says she watches over me.”
Bruce hesitated. Then he ducked beneath the table and sat beside you, leaving enough space between them that your shoulder and his couldn't possibly touch. “My mother is dead too.”
You cut that appropriate distance, your clothes brushing against his. “Are you sure you don’t want some?”
He sighed. “Fine, give me some.”
Two winters later, the servants had stopped looking for Bruce in the training yard. If he wasn't there, he was with you.
The stone bones of the castle had grown cold, so the two of you spent most afternoons huddled beside crackling hearths. Playing chess on the floor— you insisted you didn’t need a table— or reading, or playing make-pretend.
That day you were a pirate; fearless and gold hungry. Bruce didn’t exactly remember what you said, just that it made him laugh so hard his chest ached and the muscles of his mouth stretched. You blinked, momentarily surprised, before you smiled ear to ear.
“You should laugh more!" You pointed your poker-sword at him. "You have the prettiest laugh in the whole castle."
Bruce’s cheeks burned. Definitely because of his closeness to the fire.
The next three seasons passed much the same. Lessons and sword drills, stolen afternoons and muddy boots. The castle expected one thing of the lord's daughter and another of the orphan boy Alfred was raising, but neither of you seemed terribly interested in those expectations. The real day didn't begin until one of you found the other.
By autumn, it had become routine to find you perched atop the fence surrounding the training yard, your legs swinging idly between the rails while Alfred barked corrections Bruce had long since memorised.
(Of course Bruce didn’t put in more effort whenever you were watching).
You always arrived carrying something from the kitchens. Usually a tart. Sometimes an apple. Once, an entire loaf tucked beneath your arm because Cook had declared Bruce ‘all bones and elbows’. Alfred received a share by virtue of standing nearby. Those lessons never lasted quite as long as they should have.
Other days, Bruce learnt exactly which page your tutor would ask you to read next. Tucked between dull passages of history or etiquette were little notes folded into squares no bigger than a thumbnail, or dreadful sketches of knights whose helmets were much too large for their heads.
Your laughter would drift down the corridor moments later. The tutor always sighed. Bruce considered the operation a success.
It was rare for him to interrupt your lessons in person, and when he did it was under some miserable pretence: "Your father needs you” or the classic, "Alfred told me to fetch you."
Neither of those things was ever true. Your tutor knew it, too. She merely pinched the bridge of her nose and dismissed you with a wave that suggested she had surrendered to the inevitable months ago.
Bruce would lead you somewhere new he'd found; a forgotten stairwell winding into the oldest tower, a robin patient enough to eat from his hand, a patch of wildflowers hidden beyond the orchard wall. He never said he'd gone looking for those things because he thought you'd like them.
He thought he didn't have to.
It was the sixteenth year of your name, eight springs after Bruce first found you halfway up an apple tree, and your father marked the occasion with a grand ball.
Bruce spent most of the evening where his place was; standing along the edge of the great hall in polished plate, his newly forged sword resting against his hip beside those of the other young knights.
Then someone asked you to dance.
The boy couldn't have been much older than either of you. Well-born by the look of his embroidered doublet, smiling with the easy confidence of someone who'd never wanted for anything.
You accepted with a polite smile— small, nothing like the ones you reserved for Bruce— and followed him onto the dance floor.
Bruce watched because it was his duty to watch. That was all. The music swelled.
The boy placed a hand at your waist.
Bruce's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword until the leather bit into his palm. Only then did he realise he'd been holding his breath.
You looked... different tonight.
Not because your maid had woven white ribbons through your hair. Not because the midnight-blue gown suited you better than any you'd worn before. He'd seen you dressed for feasts and ceremonies since the two of you were children.
It was something else.
When had you stopped looking like the girl who climbed trees? The thought followed him long after the music ended.
After that evening, conversation no longer came as easily. Sometimes he'd catch himself watching you speak instead of listening. Sometimes he'd forget what he'd meant to say altogether.
Something had shifted. Bruce wasn't certain he liked it.
The letters began soon after. Every night, beneath the wavering light of a candle burnt almost to its end, he'd fill a page with all the things that refused to leave his mouth during the day.
Most were ordinary; how Alfred had knocked him flat during training, how Cook had threatened to ban you both from the kitchens for stealing pastries or how one of the horses had escaped its stall again.
Sometimes, though, the words wandered somewhere more dangerous. They spoke of missing you on the rare days your lessons kept you apart. Of how the castle felt quieter without your laughter echoing through it.
Those letters were folded carefully and hidden beneath his mattress. By morning, he always convinced himself not to give them to you.
Weeks become months and the mattress had been fattened by the bulk of his words. One evening, after a bruising day in the yard that had left every muscle in his body protesting, Bruce found himself unable to sleep. He rolled onto his side, listening to the wind rattle the shutters.
With a sigh, he reached beneath the mattress, his fingers blindly palming for the familiar parchment. The first letter was almost laughable.
Alfred finally let me hold a real sword today.
The second complained that Cook had hidden the raspberry tarts in a cupboard neither of you could reach. The third described a lame foal born in the stables.
Bruce smiled despite himself.
He kept reading.
Somewhere between one page and the next, Alfred appeared less often. Training, too. Instead—
You laughed so hard today that milk came out your nose. Another. You beat me at chess again. I’m still convinced you cheated. Another. You fell asleep in the library. Your book nearly broke your nose when it slipped. Another. Your father kept you in meetings all afternoon. The castle was awfully quiet without you. Bruce frowned. He reached for the next. You have been humming the same song for three days. I think you don't realise you're doing it. Another. You looked tired today. I hope you're sleeping enough. I sent chamomile to your chambers but I don’t think you realised it was me. Another. I found the first snowdrops by the eastern wall. I almost came to fetch you before I remembered your tutor had locked you away with your embroidery again.
His fingers slowed. He unfolded another. There were whole pages where his own name never appeared.
Only yours; what you'd said, what you'd laughed at, whether you'd eaten, whether your cough had gone. He confessed the hundred of quiet things he made so you’d be happier or better like going to fetch your favourite flowers all the way across the village because they made you smile.
Bruce stared at the stack spread across his blankets. He couldn't remember deciding to write about you. It had simply… happened.
He looked towards the newest letter, still glistening where the ink hadn't quite dried. Halfway down the page, one sentence caught his eye.
I wish you'd been there.
His brow pinched. Been where? He read the paragraph again. It had only been training. Alfred had finally admitted Bruce was becoming the better swordsman.
Ordinarily, he would've gone to bed pleased with himself. Instead, the first thought that had crossed his mind was that you hadn't seen it.
Bruce swallowed. Slowly, he reached for another blank sheet of parchment. He dipped the quill. Today Alfred finally— The nib hovered. His hand wouldn't move. For the first time in years, he didn't know what to write.
Because he knew, now. None of these were about training. Or Alfred. Or the horses. They never had been.
The room felt strangely smaller.
He gathered the letters into an untidy pile and slid them back beneath the mattress, as though hiding them from himself.
The candle burned low. Outside, the castle slept.
Bruce remained awake until dawn, listening to his own heart beat against the hole in his chest.
It didn't feel quite so empty anymore.
That, somehow, frightened him more.
Love did not arrive all at once, but that spring did. The winter had been hard and cruel, most of the trees were naked and colour still hadn’t come to the estate.
Bruce had spent the prior months convincing himself it was a passing thing. A consequence of growing older. Of seeing you less, now that your father found reasons to parade you before neighbouring lords and their sons while he spent his days drilling until his shoulders trembled beneath steel.
It would pass. It had to. Instead, it rooted itself deeper. Until every room in the castle seemed to remember you after you'd left it.
The first warm evening of spring found the two of you atop the western wall. You'd discovered the spot years ago after following a family of swallows through a crumbling stairwell. Alfred had nearly gone grey searching for the pair of you, and from then on the tower had become yours.
Nothing had changed; the stones were still warm from the day's sun, the wind still carried the smell of damp earth and apple blossom from the orchards below. Only the two of you had grown.
Bruce sat with one knee drawn to his chest, absentmindedly turning a pebble between thumb and forefinger before flicking it over the battlements.
You lay on your back beside him, watching clouds drift lazily overhead. "I met another one today."
Bruce already knew who you meant. "Oh?"
"The Duke of Ashcombe's eldest."
He nodded slowly, resuming his movements with the pebble.
Silence settled between you.
"He was pleasant."
Bruce nodded again.
"He danced well."
Another nod.
"He complimented my dress."
The pebble slipped from Bruce's fingers. It bounced once against the stone before disappearing into the valley below.
You turned your head. "I thought you might have something to say."
"I don't."
"You always have something to say." You poked his side, Bruce remained still.
"Not today."
"Hm." You rolled back onto your spine.
For a long while neither of you spoke.
The breeze tugged loose strands of your hair across your face. Without thinking, Bruce reached over and tucked them behind your ear. His hand lingered. Only for a heartbeat. Then he snatched it away as though the touch had burned him.
"I'm sorry."
You frowned. "What for?"
"I shouldn't have—"
"You've done that since we were children."
"It isn't the same." He immediately answered.
"No?"
Bruce looked out across the valley. "It shouldn't be."
You watched him instead, he could feel it. "You've been avoiding me."
"I haven't."
"You have."
"I've been busy."
"Liar." You sing-songed.
He smiled despite himself.
"You've always been terrible at it."
The smile disappeared just as quickly. "I don't know what I'm doing." It came out so quietly he wasn't sure you'd heard it.
But you pushed yourself upright. "Neither do I."
Bruce laughed once beneath his breath. "I doubt that."
"I mean it." You folded your legs beneath yourself until you were facing him completely. "When did everything become so..." You searched for the word. "Strange?"
Bruce finally looked at you. Your eyes were exactly as he'd remembered them every day since he was eight years old. Only now they made it difficult to breathe.
"I've written to you..." he began before stopping.
Your brows lifted. "What?"
He shut his eyes. "Nothing." He was so incredibly stupid.
"No." You leaned closer, his pulse quickened. "What were you going to say?"
He almost lied. He'd become rather good at lying to himself. "I've written you letters."
"Letters?"
"Hundreds of them."
Your lips parted.
"I never gave them to you."
"Bruce..."
"I couldn't."
"Why not?"
Because every single one of them loved you. He couldn't make himself say it. Instead he looked down at his hands; scarred knuckles and calloused palms. Hands made for swords. Not cupping your soft cheeks and confessing.
You stared at him for a long moment. Then, very softly— "I know."
Bruce frowned. "You... know?"
"I found one."
His heart stopped. "What?"
"A year ago." You muttered.
"You read it?"
"It fell out of your history book."
Mortification washed over him.
"I only read the first page."
"You shouldn't have." He bit.
"I know."
Another silence, this one was gentler. His pulse was an unbridled horse, but the soft day outside made it very difficult for him to keep panicking
"I've been waiting ever since."
Bruce blinked. "For what?"
You smiled sadly. "For you to stop pretending they weren't about me."
Bruce stared at you, his mouth had gone dry. "You've... known all along?"
You nodded, shyly meeting his eyes. "For a year."
"And you never said anything?"
"I thought if I did..." You looked down at your hands. "you'd only deny it."
He would've— sometimes he thought you knew him better than he knew himself.
Bruce laughed once, humourless, and rubbed a hand over his face. "I don't know what you want me to say."
"The truth."
"It isn't that simple."
"It has always been that simple."
"No." His voice came out sharper than he'd intended. "No, it hasn't."
You didn't flinch.
"You are the lord's daughter."
"And?"
"I'm a knight."
"And?"
"I'm an orphan."
The word hung heavily between you. Bruce forced himself to meet your eyes. "I own nothing."
"I know."
"I have nothing to offer you."
"I know."
"You deserve—"
"Oh, stop deciding what I deserve!” You pinched your eyebrows. "I've listened to you tell me what I should want for months, Bruce." You shifted closer until your knees brushed his. "I don't care about titles."
He opened his mouth.
You spoke over him. "I don't care about lands or dowries. I care about you." The words landed with terrifying gentleness. "I have always cared about you."
Bruce looked away. He was a coward at heart. Despite fighting men with axes, men bigger than him with more experience and skill, staring down at charging horses, and facing his lord without trembling… four little words refused to leave his mouth.
Your hand found his, it was soft and a little cold. "You once told me," you murmured, "that my laugh was so loud it frightened birds away."
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I don't remember saying that."
"You did."
"I was probably right."
"You also said I looked ridiculous covered in raspberry."
"You did."
"And every spring you disappear for half a day just to find the first flowers before I do."
Bruce blinked. "I never told you that."
"You didn't have to." Your thumb brushed over his scarred knuckles. "You've been loving me in every language except words."
His chest tightened painfully. "I'm trying," he whispered.
"I know."
"No." His voice cracked. "I'm trying not to."
The admission escaped him before he could catch it. The silence boomed in your shared space. Bruce closed his eyes.
"There." A hollow laugh left him. "You finally got it out of me."
When he looked back, there were tears gathered along your lashes. "You fool." You smiled through them. "I've been trying to make you admit it for a year."
He let out a slow breath. "I love you."
The world did not change, the sun did not stop setting and swallows still wheeled lazily over the orchard below. Only the hole in Bruce's chest— the one he'd carried since he was a little boy— seemed, for one impossible moment, small enough to live around.
You reached up and cupped his face as though it were the easiest thing in the world. "I love you too."
Bruce rested his forehead against yours. He'd imagined this a thousand times. None of those imaginings had prepared him for how quiet it would be. How right it felt.
"I want to marry you." The words left him before duty had the chance to strangle them.
You laughed softly. "I was beginning to think you'd never ask."
His brow furrowed. "Is that a yes?"
You leaned forward and kissed him. It was brief; sweet with the strawberries you'd stolen from the kitchens after supper. He chased your lips. Hadn’t your tutors told you to never feed a starving man? He’ll just crave more and more. Greedy. Bruce Wayne is a greedy man.
When you pulled away, you were smiling. "I've been saying yes since the day I shared with you my raspberry tart."
Summer came before either of you realised; that season was marked with sweaty drills with Alfred and the other knights, midnight swims at the village’s lake and strawberry-stained kisses behind closed doors.
But the sweltering heat also made it hard to think, and so Bruce spent three days rehearsing. Every spare moment between drills and his time with you, found him quietly mouthing different versions beneath his breath.
My lord, I wish to ask for your blessing. No. With the deepest respect— No. Too rehearsed. Too stiff.
Alfred caught him at it on the fourth morning.
"You've been polishing the same breastplate for twenty minutes."
Bruce looked down. The metal already reflected his face. "Have I?"
Alfred hummed. "You've also sighed seven times."
Bruce sighed again. A reflex he caught mid-action.
"Eight." A corner of Alfred's mouth twitched. "What's troubling you?"
Bruce stared at the armour in his hands. "I'd like to ask something of the lord."
"I suspected as much."
Silence lingered. "About his daughter."
Alfred's polishing cloth stopped moving. He looked at Bruce for a long while. His old face did not look surprised, just thoughtful.
"So," he murmured.
"So."
"I wondered when you'd realise."
Bruce frowned. "You knew?"
"My boy." Alfred smiled with something painfully close to pity. "The entire castle knew."
Bruce closed his eyes. "Wonderful."
"The lady herself has looked at you as though you hung the moon since she was ten."
Heat crept into Bruce's ears. "I hadn't noticed."
"I know." He laughed, and rested a hand upon his shoulder. "Go and ask him."
Bruce nodded. "And if he refuses?"
Alfred was quiet for a moment. "Then you'll have done the honourable thing."
The lord received him in the solar. Maps covered the great oak table, weighted at the corners by carved stone lions. Afternoon light spilled through tall windows, catching dust that drifted lazily between them.
Bruce stopped three paces from the desk. "My lord."
"Bruce." The older man looked up from his papers. "You wished to see me after patrol."
"I did."
The lord studied him for a moment. "You've served me faithfully."
Bruce swallowed forcefully. "It has been my honour."
"You've become a fine knight."
Bruce inclined his head. "I owe that to you."
A comfortable silence settled. Bruce drew a careful breath. It was now or never.
"My lord..." His heartbeat thudded beneath polished steel. "I have a request."
The lord folded his hands. "Go on."
Bruce had faced charging men, bandits, steel and endured training like no other. None of them had ever frightened him like this. "I wish to marry your daughter."
Silence. Utter and complete. The lord did not blink. For one impossible heartbeat, Bruce thought perhaps he simply hadn't heard.
Then the chair scraped sharply across the stone floor. "You what?"
"I love her." The words sounded steadier than he felt. "And she—"
"I know exactly what my daughter thinks."
The interruption struck like a slap. The lord rounded the table slowly. "You presume greatly."
"I do not presume, my lord."
"You ask for the hand of the Lady of this house."
"Yes." He said calmly.
"You." He spat.
Bruce met his gaze. "Yes."
The older man's expression hardened into something Bruce had never seen directed at him before. "You were brought beneath this roof with nothing."
Bruce said nothing.
"I clothed you." Silence. "I fed you." Silence. "I knighted you." Still silence. "And this is how you repay me?"
Bruce lowered his head. "I have never forgotten what you have given me."
"No." The lord's voice had become frighteningly calm. "You have merely mistaken gratitude for entitlement."
Bruce's jaw tightened. "I have never felt entitled to her."
"No?" The older man laughed once but it held no humour. "Then why stand before me asking for what you could never afford?"
Bruce felt the words before he understood them. Afford.
"You are an orphan." Each syllable landed with surgical precision. "A good knight." He conceded. “A loyal knight. But my daughter will not spend her life buying bread while her husband clings to honour."
Bruce's hands curled into fists. "I would spend the rest of my life providing for her."
"With what?" Silence. "What lands do you own? Or title? What fortune?"
Bruce couldn't answer. Because there wasn't one. There weren’t words to convince him, because there was nothing Bruce owned. He only had himself and his unwavering love for you. And love didn’t feed an empty stomach.
The lord looked almost disappointed. "When my daughter marries, she will strengthen this house." Another step closer. "She will not squander her future on a penniless orphan."
The room seemed suddenly smaller. "My lord—"
"No." The word echoed through the chamber.
"You will bury this foolishness."
Bruce swallowed. "I cannot. I love her.”
"And I love my daughter." For the first time, the lord's voice cracked. “I promised her mother I would take care of her. Which is precisely why I will not condemn her to the life you can offer."
Bruce stood motionless.
"What happens when she wants one of those tarts? Or dresses? She has never known struggle a single day of her life. She loves you madly— everyone sees that— but I will not allow her to want. I’m sorry, I forbid it."
Nothing more needed saying. Bruce bowed slowly, a reflex rather than an action. After all, he was nothing but a knight and that was his lord.
"Yes, my lord." He turned. Walked to the door. Only when it closed behind him did he realise his hands were shaking and the hole was gaping— open, close, open, close.
Bruce found you where he always did after difficult days. The western wall.
The sun had already dipped below the hills, leaving only streaks of amber caught along the horizon. Swallows skimmed the evening air beneath the battlements, dipping and diving as though the world had not just ended.
You looked up the moment you heard his footsteps. Your smile appeared instinctively. Then vanished. His heart fell to his feet.
"Bruce?" your voice wavered, you tried to smile but it wobbled and fell. “What’s wrong?”
He couldn't make himself come any closer.
You crossed the distance instead. "What happened?"
He tried to answer. Nothing came out.
Your expression slowly changed, morphing into horror. "No." You searched his face as though hoping you'd misunderstood whatever was written there. “No?"
"He knows." Silence. "I told him."
Another silence.
"And?"
Bruce looked past you. The orchards had begun to flower again. Eight years ago you'd climbed one of those trees for an apple. It felt like another lifetime. An easier life time. He didn’t entirely miss it. He would not change the love you had for each other, no matter the pain it carried.
"He said no."
Your shoulders sagged only for a heartbeat. Then they straightened. "Then we'll leave."
Bruce blinked. "What?"
"We'll leave." You said it as simply as suggesting a walk through the gardens. "There are hundreds of villages beyond Father's lands. We don't have to stay here."
He stared. "You'd leave?"
"For you?" You laughed softly. "I'd leave right now."
Bruce's chest tightened so sharply it almost hurt. "You shouldn't."
"I should."
"You'd lose everything."
"I don't care."
"I do." The words came harder than any confession ever had. "You have a home."
"So do you."
"No." He smiled sadly. "I have a room."
You stepped closer until there was barely any space left between you. "You are my home." You frowned. “Bruce, I don't care about the dresses or the jewels, I care about you. I’ve always cared about you. I don’t need anything but you.”
Bruce shut his eyes. Please. Please. Please don't make this harder. "I won't ask that of you."
"You don’t have to— it’s my decision."
His voice rose despite himself. "You'd lose your father."
You looked away. "He made his choice and I will make mine."
"He made it angry."
"He made it nonetheless." You rebuked.
Bruce shook his head. "He loves you."
"So do you."
"I do."
You cupped his face exactly as you had the night before. "He doesn't get to decide that his love matters more than yours."
Bruce leaned into your touch before he could stop himself. "It isn't about me."
"It is."
"It isn't."
"It always is with you." You laughed once through gathering tears. "You've spent your whole life deciding what everyone else deserves." Your thumb brushed the scar beneath his jaw. A tingle went through him. "When do you get to decide what you deserve?"
Bruce didn't answer. Because he didn't know. "I'm not asking you to abandon your father."
"I would."
"I know."
"And I'd do it gladly."
"I know." His voice had become almost unbearably gentle. "That's why I can't let you."
The words seemed to steal something from your face. "You've already decided."
He nodded once. "There are campaigns in the south."
You frowned. "What?"
"The King is granting lands." Bruce looked beyond the castle walls. "They say men who've distinguished themselves can earn titles."
Understanding dawned slowly, he hated the way your eyes widened and your touch tightened. "No."
"I can make enough."
"No."
"A dowry."
"Bruce."
"I'll come back."
Your head shook before he'd even finished speaking. "You don't know that." Tears finally escaped you. "I've only just got you." You sniffled. “I’ve spent my entire life loving you— waiting and waiting until you finally wanted me back. I can’t– I won’t— Please Bruce, I can’t lose you.” Your tears were falling freely now.
He reached for your hands. Held them as though they were something infinitely precious. "I’ve always been yours.” His smile broke. "No matter how far I go, I will always be yours"
The silence stretched between you. Cruel and endless.
Bruce pulled you into him. Not because it would fix anything. Not because it would change his mind. Simply because, for one selfish moment, he wanted to remember what home felt like. When you finally stepped apart, dawn no longer felt impossibly far away.
Neither did goodbye.
He slowly wiped the ongoing tears, smoothing your stained cheeks. “I love you.”
Your head fell, but he cradled it in his large, scarred, hands. “I love you too.” You looked up, your wide and wounded eyes burned his soul. “Promise me you’ll come back to me.”
“As you wish.” He captured your lips, a little ball of fire igniting in his stomach. You cradled his cheeks like he did with yours, bringing each other impossibly close. Maybe if you two got close enough, you’d never be pried apart.
“Under my mattress are all the letters I’ve written to you, take them. They’ve always been yours.”
You cried in his chest, and he could only surround you with his strong arms. Soon, he thought. Soon you two would have a happily ever after.
Bruce left before sunrise. Coward. He told himself it was because goodbyes had a way of becoming reasons to stay. That if he saw your face one last time, if you asked him only once more to remain, every promise he'd made about returning worthy of your hand would crumble where he stood. Coward.
The stable yard still slept beneath a veil of morning mist. His mare pawed impatiently at the humidity of the stables.
Alfred tightened the last strap securing Bruce's pack to the saddle before stepping back to inspect his work. "I have something for you."
Bruce frowned. “You have?"
Alfred reached forward and tucked the silver ring more securely beneath the leather cord around Bruce's neck. "You'll be wanting that."
Bruce's hand rose instinctively, fingers curling around the cool metal hidden beneath his tunic. "Thank you."
Alfred looked at him for a long while. “That was your father’s before he died. I was going to give it to you on your birth day but… well.” A pause. "You've become a good man."
The words struck harder than any blow Alfred had ever landed in the training yard.
"I only hope," the older man continued quietly, "that one day you'll believe it."
Bruce smiled faintly. "I had the best teacher."
Alfred huffed. "I taught you how to hold a sword."
"You taught me everything else."
Silence settled between them. Neither seemed eager to disturb it.
Finally, Alfred stepped forward. He embraced Bruce. It lasted only a moment. The first— and only— time either of them had done so. "Come home."
Bruce swallowed. "I will."
He mounted his horse. The castle gates groaned open. For just a heartbeat, he looked towards the western tower. A tiny figure stood upon the battlements. Far too distant to make out. He knew it was you anyway.
Bruce lifted one hand.
You did the same.
Then the gates closed behind him.
Autumn came slowly and left with even a slower pace. By the time the first day of winter struck, Bruce’s letters had been well-thumbed by your desperate hands. You could probably recite most of them by memory.
Your father spoke little. And you spoke even less.
The castle seemed strangely quieter, as though it too had noticed the absence of the young knight who'd once laughed only when you were near.
His letters came whenever they could. Not often, and definitely not enough. They smelled faintly of smoke and horse leather. He wrote of rain-soaked camps and endless roads, of mountains so high they still wore snow despite the summer heat. Of Alfred's inevitable scolding once he returned. Never once did he complain.
Every letter ended the same way. The same way his old letters did.
Yours, Bruce.
The first snow fell early that year. Winter was eager to take over autumn. A rider arrived shortly before dusk. Both him and his horse looked exhausted. You called for a servant to aid him but he refused. Said he had urgent news.
The wax seal upon the letter bore the King's crest.
Your stomach dropped.
The riderwho brought it to you would not meet your eyes. "My lady..." His voice faltered. "It came from the southern campaign."
Your fingers had already begun breaking the seal. The parchment trembled. The handwriting was unfamiliar.
You read the first line. Then the second. The rest blurred.
The letter slipped from your hands. It drifted soundlessly onto the stone floor. Someone called your name. You didn't answer. You couldn't. How could you?
The hole in your chest had found its way home. Someone called your name but you didn't answer. There was no word in any known language by man that could express your pain.
The days stopped arriving one at a time. By the time spring came, you were a ghost haunting the castle.
❝ AS YOU WISH ❞ ━━━ bruce was your loyal knight whom you fell in love with. however, your father refused to marry you off to someone poor. bruce leaves to earn the dowry but dies trying. two years later you are to marry the prince, but things get complicated when the mysterious and elusive dark night is after you.
𝐢. ── .✦ once upon a time
𝐢𝐢. ── .✦ even full of love a ghost can only haunt
𝐢𝐢𝐢. ── .✦ be ware of wishing
𝐢𝐯. ── .✦ knights are just glorified dogs
𝐯. ── .✦ heavy is the crown
𝐯𝐢. ── .✦ lady of the lake
𝐯𝐢𝐢. ── .✦ all the king’s horses and all the king’s men
𝐯𝐢𝐢𝐢. ── .✦ my dearest…
𝐢𝐱. ── .✦ yours, bruce
𝐱. ── .✦ happily ever after
𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞. ── .✦ shooting stars
further notes:
✷ warnings: mild stalking, kissing, mentions of murder, some very light cursing (?), tension, angst, happy ending. i think those are it but if there are more, they will ofc be added!
✷ snippets, memes, and stuff like that will be in this account: @tigcrlilly under the #as you wish ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
✷ this is (very) loosely based on the movie the princess bride!
✷ enjoy! and thanks for reading :) (this story can also be found on ao3 under the same username)
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: gojo satoru x wife!reader + their daughter ( & yuji)
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: yuji expects that babysitting yours and satoru’s daughter, will be a calm and easy thing. that suddenly changes, when she glues a blindfold to her hair, so she can be just like her daddy!
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 1.6k words, FLUFF!!, domestic gojo, first post for jjk AHHH, tiiiiiny pinch of angst but not really?, daughter has a name, not edited sorry gang
Yuji is ecstatic to take care of yours and Satoru’s daughter, Akari, for the night. She’s the cutest thing ever; smooth balloon cheeks, bright eyes, and floppy little pigtails Satoru insists on doing every morning.
You smile at Yuji, pulling him into one last hug before stepping towards the door. The apartment smells faintly of tomato sauce, pizza dough, and your fancy perfume.
“If anything happens,” you say, holding his shoulders, “please don’t hesitate to call us.”
Yuji laughs, giving you a confident thumbs-up. “Everything's going to be great.”
A warm hand settles against your waist. You don't even think before leaning back into Satoru's touch. His thumb lazily traces circles against your side while he opens the front door with his other hand.
“You know,” he murmurs against your temple, “we could always cancel dinner.”
You look up at him. “Oh?”
“Mhm.” A small smirk already growing on his face.
“I thought you were desperate for a date night.” You click your tongue. “I think you miss a certain little gremlin.”
He sighs loudly. “Maybe.”
You reach up to smooth the collar of his jacket.“You're hopeless.”
“For my girls?” He leans down until your foreheads almost touch. “Always.”
Heat creeps into your cheeks, it’s as effortless as breathing to get carried away with your husband.
“Come on.” You kiss his cheek. “Bye, Yuji!”
“Bye!” Satoru waves as the front door clicks shut.
Yuji hums to himself while sprinkling cheese over the pizza. The kitchen is warm from the oven, and the smell of garlic butter fills the apartment. It feels cozy.
Until he senses someone standing behind him. He turns on instinct— and his soul nearly leaves his body.
Akari stands perfectly still in the middle of the kitchen wearing her unicorn pyjamas. Okay. That's perfectly normal. Except she’s wearing a thick black blindfold tied around her head.
It's so oversized that it covers half her tiny nose, leaving only the tip poking out beneath the fabric. She looks less like Satoru Gojo and more like an adorable haunted doll.
“Akari?” His jaw drops.
“Yuji!”
Instead of running towards him, she runs straight into the counter. A massive thunk! echoes through the kitchen.
Yuji physically winces.
Akari bounces backwards before plopping onto her bottom, little hands immediately clutching her forehead. A heartbeat later the crying starts.
“Oh no, no, no...” Yuji rushes over before she can take another breath.
He scoops her into his arms with practiced ease, her tiny body surprisingly warm against his chest. She smells like her strawberry shampoo.
She trembles with every hiccupping sob, tears soaking into the shoulder of his hoodie.
“Shhh...” he whispers, rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades exactly the way he's seen you and Satoru do countless times. “You're okay.”
She sniffles in response.
“Do you want some ice?”
Akari shakes her head fiercely, a lone tear slides down her cheek. “No.” Another hiccup. “I have to practice... so I can be just like Daddy.”
Yuji almost melts on the spot. It might be the cutest thing he’s ever heard.
“Okay,” he says carefully. “That's adorable.” He smiles. “But we need to take this off before you hurt yourself again.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Um.” She frowns. “That's a no-no.”
“Really? Because I think that's a yes-yes.”
She stubbornly shakes her head. “Mio glued it with her daddy's glue gun.”
Yuji freezes. “She what?”
“She glued it to my hair so it doesn’t fall.”
Very, very carefully, Yuji lifts the edge of the blindfold. It doesn't budge. He parts the messy strands around the knot with trembling fingers.
There it is; an ugly jumble of black fabric, hair, and park debris with twigs and sand.
His own scalp starts hurting just looking at it. “Oh... shit.”
“Hey! Mommy says no cursing.”
“Um.” What the fuck is he going to do? “Sorry.”
He's dead. If he pulls it— Akari cries. If he cuts her hair— Gojo cries. Honestly... Gojo crying sounds scarier.
“Okay...” Yuji mutters mostly to himself. “New plan.”He forces on a grin. “How about pizza?”
She nods.
“And a movie.”
Another nod.
He smirks. “Oh, right. You can't actually watch one.”
A tiny hand immediately smacks him across the nose.
“Ow!” He rubs it dramatically. “You're a meanie.”
She humphs and crosses her arms. “You are the meanie.” She turns her head away from him.
Yuji sighs through a smile. “Yep. You’re definitely your father's daughter.”
Akari sleeps peacefully against him on the sofa.
One rosy cheek is squashed against his thigh, leaving a little pink mark. Her tiny fingers remain stubbornly tangled in the front of his hoodie as though she'll wake up the second she lets go.
The television quietly plays My Little Pony. Apparently blindness doesn't stop someone from enjoying the soundtrack or the voices. And to be honest, Yuji is kind of seeing why she likes the series so much.
He absentmindedly strokes her hair, careful not to touch the glue. He mentally sighs, poor kid.
Then he hears a faint jingle of keys, and a second after the click at the entrance's lock. Cool evening air slips into the house, before the door is closed with a soft thud.
Yuji has never been happier to hear footsteps.
Akari's eyes snap open. “Mommy! Daddy!”
She launches herself off the sofa.
“No—”
But it’s too late. A massive thunk reverberates through the space. Straight into the wall, again. Yuji's soul leaves his body for the second time tonight.
You and Satoru appear in the doorway just in time to watch her collapse onto her bottom.
“Oh my God!”
“Princess!”
Satoru crosses the room in two long strides. His shoes squeak against the wooden floor as he drops to one knee.
Before another sob can escape, Akari is tucked securely against his chest, her tiny body fitting perfectly in his arms.
“Princess?” He chuckles, brushing messy strands away from her face. “Trying to steal Daddy's whole look?” He smiles proudly. “I knew I started a trend.”
She buries herself deeper into his neck, her crying muted against his skin. She’s slobbering all over him, but he doesn’t seem to care whatsoever.
He gently tugs the blindfold. “Huh?”
Nothing. He blinks and tries again a little harder. Again, nothing.
His smile slowly disappears. “Why isn't it coming off?”
Yuji rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah... about that. She said her friend Mio glued it on with her dad's glue gun.” He sees both your horrified face and Satoru’s shocked one, and immediately drops his eyes to the wooden floor. “I tried but she wasn’t having it. Besides— I figured ripping her hair out wasn't exactly Plan A.”
You gently cup Akari's head, your fingers carefully comb through her hair. The dry glue catches beneath your nails, tiny leaves crumble onto the floor while strands refuse to separate from the cloth.
Your chest tightens. “Oh, sweetheart...” You swallow. “She's lucky she didn't hit her head harder.”
Satoru nods once. His thumb slowly strokes circles into Akari's back without him even thinking about it.
“Princess...” His voice has gone quiet. “Why did you want to be like Daddy so badly?”
Akari rubs watery eyes against his shirt. “Because...” Hiccup. “You're the best daddy ever and you protect Mommy and me.” Another sniffle. “And... You love us lots!”
A smile tugs at Satoru's lips. “I do.” He brushes another loose strand away from Akari's face. “Princess, you don't have to wear a blindfold to be like Daddy.”
She blinks. “I don't?”
“Nope. You're already like me.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You're stubborn.” You laugh. “That part definitely came from your daddy.”
He gasps dramatically. “Excuse me?”
“You also happens to be ridiculously cute.” You add, looking at your daughter.
“Oh?” He wiggles his eyebrows at you and you playfully shove his arm.
“And whose fault is that?”
His free hand quietly reaches for yours. His fingers lace between yours so naturally you barely notice until his thumb brushes over your knuckles. “Definitely her mother’s.”
The warmth in his smile lingers before he looks back down at Akari. “You're our daughter.” His forehead rests gently against hers. “You don't have to become me, because being Akari Gojo is already much cooler.” He smiles. “But don’t tell anyone.”
Her lip trembles. “I just... I miss you.”
Silence settles over the apartment. Even the television suddenly feels too loud. Without a word, Yuji reaches for the remote and mutes it.
“I miss you when you leave.” Akari clutches Satoru's shirt with tiny fists. “And Mommy misses you too.”
You blink but say nothing.
“I thought...” She whispers so quietly you almost don't hear it. “If I wore this then it'd feel like you were here.”
Satoru closes his eyes just for a second. When he opens them again they're softer than you've ever seen. He presses a kiss to her forehead. “I'm sorry, Princess. I can't promise I'll never have to leave.”
She nods slowly.
“But...” He looks at you, really looks at you. Seeing the guilt you'd hidden behind reassuring smiles every time he left. “I can promise I'll stop saying yes to every mission.”
“Satoru.” You whisper his name.
He squeezes your hand. “I'm serious.”
You search his face; there isn't even the tiniest hint of teasing, only certainty. You smile. “I know.”
He smiles back, then returns his attention to Akari. “I'm going to make more time for my girls.” He hooks out his pinky. “Deal?”
She slowly links hers with his. “Pinky promise.”
“Pinky promise.” He kisses the tip of her nose. “So...” He taps the stubborn blindfold. “Can Mommy and Daddy rescue your hair now?”
The biggest sigh escapes her. “Yes, please.” She pats his cheek. “I don't know how you wear this every day, Daddy.”
He laughs, the sound warm enough to fill the whole apartment. “Years of practice.”
You lean into his shoulder. “And thankfully no glue.”
He laughs again, wrapping an arm around your waist while still holding Akari close. “Definitely no glue.”
