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gcldie · 12 days ago

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୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ after the events of the party, you and gojo part ways — he inherits privilege and power, while you climb the ladder through grit alone. coming face to face with each other wasn’t a part of his plan. neither was it a part of yours.

part 1 -> part 2 -> part 3

after that night, you never spoke to gojo again. not in class, not in hallways, not in the quiet corners of libraries where you used to cross paths. it wasn’t even avoidance anymore — it was absence. a cold, hollow silence where something sharp and burning used to be.

you buried yourself in the rest of your final year. exams, papers, applications: you drowned in them, let yourself vanish beneath the weight of every deadline. sometimes you wondered if he looked at you in passing, if he still carried some trace of that night, but you never let yourself check.

when graduation came, you didn’t go.

you told your friends you were sick. told yourself you didn’t need a ceremony to prove anything. you already had your degree, your future waiting—or maybe not waiting, but something you’d have to claw toward anyway. you’d never been one for rituals.

the truth was simpler: you couldn’t bear to stand in that hall, cap on your head, diploma in hand, while gojo satoru’s name was called beside yours. couldn’t stand to hear the applause that always followed him, that blinding spotlight that somehow still reached you no matter how hard you’d tried to escape it. so you stayed home. sat on the edge of your bed with the blinds drawn, the muffled sound of celebration spilling faintly from the campus in the distance.

and gojo noticed. he’d known, the moment they lined up, that something was wrong. your row was thinner than it should have been, the empty seat glaring like a wound. he scanned the crowd—out of habit, out of something he refused to name—and didn’t see you. not at the ceremony, not in the chaos of photographs after, not in the groups spilling into bars and restaurants. nowhere.

and the realization settled heavy in his chest, that you’d walked away.

he should’ve expected it. he’d pushed too far that night, tried to blur lines that were never meant to bend. you’d made it clear, with your words and your hand against his cheek, that you wanted nothing more to do with him.

but standing there in his robes, the tassel brushing against his temple, diploma in hand, surrounded by laughter and congratulations—he felt it. the hollow space where you should have been.

for once, the noise around him felt empty.

he smiled for the cameras, said the right words to professors, clapped his friends on the back, but his eyes kept catching on every gap in the crowd, every corner you weren’t in.

and later, when the night settled and everyone spilled out into streets and celebrations, he let himself wonder.

if you’d been there, would you have looked at him one last time? would it have meant anything? or would it just have been more silence, the same heavy absence that had followed him ever since that night? he didn’t know. but he knew this: you weren’t there.

and that hurt worse than the slap you landed on his face. . .

either way, post-university, gojo’s life unfurled in a way that almost looked effortless from the outside.

he slipped into opportunities the way he always had. his family name opened doors before he even reached for the handle. internships led to positions, positions led to promotions, and within a couple years he was exactly where everyone always expected him to be: sharp suit, corner office, the kind of future people admired at a distance.

and he hated how easy it was.

he told himself it was what he wanted—what he’d worked toward. the grades, the connections, the internships, all of it had built to this. but sitting in meetings where half the room laughed too quickly at his jokes and the other half measured his surname before they measured his skill, he felt something gnawing.

he could do the work, sure, he was good at it, but the shine dulled quickly when he realized no one ever expected him to prove it. not really. and in the quiet spaces, late nights at the office, or mornings where the city still felt asleep, he thought about you.

not always consciously. sometimes it was just a flicker, like the sound of laughter echoing too close to yours, or a face in the crowd with your tilt of a smile. but it was there, stitched into the silence he carried with him.

he remembered everything—your sharp comebacks, the way you never let him coast too easily, the fire in your eyes when you beat him to an answer. god, he missed that. he missed someone looking at him and not seeing inevitability, but competition.

and he remembered the slap. the words. i fucking hate you, gojo.

sometimes he told himself you’d meant it. sometimes he told himself you hadn’t. either way, it stuck like a stone in his chest.

he dated, here and there. quick, easy things that never lasted. he was charming enough to pull people in, but the weight of expectation followed him everywhere, and sooner or later it smothered things. he couldn’t untangle what people wanted from him—from his name, from his future—and what they wanted from him.

you were the last person who’d never made it easy, who’d looked at him and seen something you wanted to tear down rather than use.

and now you were gone.

his friends still teased him sometimes about his “old rival.” most of them didn’t know the full story. they’d joke about how dramatic you two had been, about the way you’d snapped at each other in classes, about how “hot” it had been to watch. he laughed along, shrugged it off, let the image of rivalry stay intact because the truth was heavier, lonelier.

he worked. he climbed. he coasted.

but at night, when the city lights burned through his window and the silence in his apartment pressed in close, he thought about how you hadn’t come to graduation. how you’d chosen absence over seeing him one last time.

time had a way of sanding the edges off things.

after a while, even the sharpness of that night dulled. the sting of your words, the sound of your slap—at first, they’d haunted him like a phantom echo. but years have a way of burying memories under the grind of routine, the steady churn of success, and the endless expectations of adulthood.

gojo moved on.

he built the kind of resume people envied, even if they whispered behind his back that he’d been born with half of it. the family company was always waiting for him, a golden path paved before he was even old enough to spell his own name. and though he used to resent it, though he once wanted to prove himself outside the safety net, he found himself slipping back into it naturally.

his father started involving him more directly, bringing him into meetings not just as a representative but as an heir. the word carried a weight he didn’t want to admit he liked. heir. it meant permanence. inevitability. it meant no one could take this from him, not professors, not peers, not rivals.

and he thrived in it.

the sharpness of his mind hadn’t dulled, even if he didn’t have to fight as hard for recognition anymore. he could see solutions in seconds, read people before they finished their introductions. he was confident in ways he hadn’t been as a student—not the cocky mask of youth, but the polished assurance of a man who had both power and proof.

at some point he dated more seriously, too. women and men alike, partners who looked good on his arm at charity galas or board dinners. there were flings, yes, but also a few long-term things that lasted a year or two. none of them stuck, though. not because he couldn’t commit, but because the weight of who he was and who he’d always be hung between him and everyone else.

he was never just gojo satoru. he was the gojo satoru.

and for the most part, he accepted that. he leaned into it.

the parties got bigger, the stakes higher. he learned how to drink just enough, laugh just enough, speak just enough to charm investors and competitors alike. he was fluent in the language of wealth and power, a world he once mocked but now wore like a second skin.

sometimes, late at night, he would catch himself wondering if this was all too easy, if he’d truly earned any of it, but he buried that thought quickly, the way he buried other things.

like you.

he stopped thinking about you after a few years. not out of malice, not out of choice, but out of the same, familiar inevitability. life crowded out the space you once occupied. the rivalry, the fire, the slap—all of it faded until it was just a faint memory he couldn’t summon unless he tried.

you became a ghost story in his past. a name his old classmates occasionally dropped over drinks, followed by laughter about how dramatic you both were. he didn’t bother to correct them anymore. didn’t feel the ache he once did.

the truth was simple: you weren’t there. you hadn’t been there for years.

and he was busy becoming who he was always meant to be.

by the time gojo hit his early thirties, the unstoppable nature of, of himself, it all had settled like a mantle on his shoulders.

he wasn’t just an heir anymore. he was it.

the board members who used to smirk behind their hands at his youth now leaned toward him in meetings, measuring his words like scripture. his father had begun stepping back, his presence more ceremonial than functional, and everyone knew it was only a matter of time before gojo officially inherited the empire.

and gojo wore it well.

he’d grown into his face, into his height, into his confidence. the boyish arrogance of his student years had refined into something sleeker, more dangerous. charm was no longer a defense mechanism; it was a tool, something he wielded as effortlessly as a pen. he knew how to smile just enough, how to let silence stretch until people gave him what he wanted, how to wrap even his sharpest critiques in silk.

the city knew him. the industry knew him. sometimes it felt like the whole world did. articles were written about him, profiles framed him as a generational prodigy, investors called him visionary.

and for the most part, he believed it.

his days blurred into schedules: early meetings, endless calls, polished dinners. his nights were filled with the kind of parties that only the wealthy could access—lavish, glittering events where his presence was both expected and scrutinized. he danced through it all with ease, the perfect son, the perfect successor.

there were whispers, of course. that he was too young, that his last name carried him farther than his skill. but even those whispers began to fade when quarter after quarter, he delivered results that no one could deny.

he dated occasionally, but the older he got, the less patience he had for it. there were partners who looked good on paper, who fit neatly into the image of what his life should look like. some lasted months, others a year. but nothing stuck. not because he couldn’t commit, but because the role was too heavy for anyone else to bear.

so he let it go. leaned into work, into success. into the empire he was building with hands that had never known real failure.

sometimes, in rare quiet moments, he would wonder if this was really it. if the rest of his life would be this cycle of deals and dinners, this constant forward motion toward bigger and bigger numbers.

but mostly, he didn’t question it.

because what was there to question? he had everything. the power, the wealth, the recognition.

he had the crown.

and if there were nights where he found himself staring out over the city from his high-rise, glass of whiskey in hand, wondering why the victory felt just a little hollow—he buried it. the way he’d buried everything else.

including you.

and, well, as for you?

graduation came and went without you.

you told yourself you didn’t care. that watching everyone in their robes, watching him in his robe, would’ve been unbearable. it was easier to stay away, to bury yourself in the silence of your room and remind yourself that walking across that stage didn’t change who you were or what you’d done.

but the truth was—it hurt.

after university, the world didn’t open for you the way it did for others. especially not the way it did for gojo. jobs didn’t fall into your lap. you fought tooth and nail for interviews, clutched at internships that barely paid, balanced side jobs to keep afloat. every step forward felt like it took three times the effort anyone else needed.

and every time someone mentioned the word “connections,” you felt that familiar bitterness gnaw at you.

you told yourself you weren’t jealous. that you didn’t want his life anyway, that you’d rather carve something out with your own hands than inherit it, but it was hard, sometimes. hard not to think of him when rejection letters piled up, when bosses overlooked you, when exhaustion settled into your bones.

still, you pushed forward.

you built slowly, piece by piece. small roles that turned into bigger ones, projects that gave you enough credibility to get noticed. nothing glittered, nothing was effortless, but it was yours. the fire you’d carried at university dimmed after a while. not gone—never gone—but quieter, tempered. competition required an opponent, and you no longer had one.

you dated, too, though it always felt complicated. sometimes you worried you were too distracted, too tired, too wrapped up in proving yourself. there were moments of sweetness, of warmth, but nothing lasting.

and through it all, the shadow of him lingered.

not as sharply as before—not the way it had in those first raw years, when the thought of him was like salt in a wound. now, it was more like a ghost. a flicker at the edge of thought when you walked past a glossy skyscraper, when you overheard someone talking about heirs and legacies.

you didn’t look him up. not deliberately.but sometimes his name brushed against yours in articles, in industry chatter, in the mouths of people who liked to gossip about the gilded. gojo satoru, heir to the gojo group… gojo satoru, rising star in business…

and you told yourself it meant nothing, because your life was not his life. you weren’t chasing him anymore, no, you were chasing yourself.

the years stretched, and though it wasn’t easy, though it was a constant uphill climb, filled with long nights and quiet doubts, you built something you could stand on. maybe not an empire, maybe not a crown, but yours.

and if sometimes you wondered what it would feel like to see him again, to look into those eyes after so many years and know whether you still hated him or if the hate had dulled into something else—

well. you pushed that thought away, too.

your first job wasn’t glamorous. it wasn’t even close to what you dreamed of. you started as an assistant in a mid-tier firm, running schedules, making coffee, taking notes no one would ever read again. but you didn’t let it end there. you watched, you learned, you noticed what others missed—the way certain executives negotiated, the subtle cues that decided whether a deal went through or fell apart.

when the chance came to step in, you did. a small presentation here, an unexpected solution there. people started to notice. and once they noticed, you made damn sure they couldn’t forget you.

every opportunity became a foothold. you climbed, slowly at first, then faster, gaining speed and skill as the years went on. what others took for granted, you fought for and because of that, you owned it.

your twenties blurred into a series of long nights, sharp wins, and steady promotions. the climb wasn’t linear— you had setbacks, failures that knocked the wind out of you— but you always rose again. each stumble only sharpened you further.

by the time you hit your late twenties, you weren’t just surviving in the corporate world. you were thriving.

your name started to carry weight in the circles that mattered. not because of family, not because of heritage, but because of results. projects you led began drawing attention, not only inside your company but outside of it. your strategies worked. your leadership inspired. people began to seek you out.

headhunting offers followed. firms whispered promises of higher salaries, bigger teams, more visibility, and though you didn’t always take them, you could. that freedom alone was its own kind of triumph.

your thirties arrived, and with them came the roles you once thought were reserved only for people like him — executive-level positions, international opportunities, invitations to sit at tables you’d only dreamed of.

except you weren’t dreaming anymore. you were there.

and the best part was that every step, every achievement, was yours. not inherited. not handed down. earned. carved out of long hours and sharp choices, sacrifices and resilience.

there were moments you allowed yourself to stop, to look back at how far you’d come, and marvel at it. the younger version of you, the one who’d sat bitterly in her room on graduation day, would’ve never believed it.

but you’d done it. you were no longer chasing anyone. you weren’t trying to outpace a ghost, or prove a point to a boy who once thought you were just a rival in a game.

this was your life and you’d built it from the ground up.

but success didn’t feel the way you thought it would.

when you were younger, it had always been this shining, unreachable thing in your mind. a promise that once you touched it—once you finally made it—everything would make sense. the exhaustion, the endless work, the bitterness of watching people like gojo glide past you as if the world were designed for them. it would all be worth it, you told yourself, if you could just get there.

and in many ways, it was.

there was satisfaction in walking into a boardroom and knowing people listened when you spoke. in seeing your name in industry reports, tied to successes no one could take from you. in receiving invitations you once thought were reserved for the untouchable elite.

there was pride, too. deep, steady pride, like steel in your bones, because every title, every promotion, every recognition — it was yours. no legacy, no surname, no family fortune propping you up. only work, persistence, and the refusal to quit when the world gave you every reason to.

however there were quieter moments when success felt different.

sometimes it felt hollow. like standing at the top of a skyscraper and realizing the air is thinner up here, colder. you looked around and realized how much you’d sacrificed for the climb—relationships that never had the space to grow, friendships that withered because you didn’t have the time to water them, nights where you traded rest for progress.

you weren’t lonely, exactly. you had people, colleagues, even friends who admired and respected you. but there was a kind of solitude in being the one who had clawed her way up the hardest route possible. no one else could fully understand what it cost.

other times, it felt bittersweet. like standing in front of your reflection after a long day, dressed sharply, makeup perfect, another victory under your belt—and thinking, i did it. i actually did it. only for the thought to be followed immediately by: and tomorrow, i’ll have to do it again.

there were nights when you lay awake and asked yourself if this was it. if the endless climb, the constant forward push, was all there was.

but then there were days—glorious days—where success filled you with something radiant. like when a younger colleague told you they looked up to you, that you made them believe they could do it too, or when you closed a deal no one thought possible, or when you realized that you no longer felt small, overlooked, powerless.

because the truth was, no matter the weight, no matter the hollow parts—you’d proven yourself. not to anyone else. to yourself.

and that mattered more than anything.

by the time your early thirties rolled around, you were solidly established. not just climbing anymore, but standing in a place most people never reached.

you were an executive now—regional head at a respected multinational, with a team that actually listened, a budget that meant something, and projects that rippled across industries. the kind of position people fought tooth and nail for, sometimes their entire careers, and you’d landed it before most even hit their stride.

your calendar was packed with meetings, flights, dinners, negotiations. weeks blurred with jet lag and back-to-back calls, but you moved through it with the kind of precision only years of hard practice gave you. people had begun to describe you as sharp, formidable, reliable—words you once dreamed of having attached to your name.

your apartment reflected the life you’d carved. sleek, minimal, expensive without being ostentatious. a view of the city you once thought you’d never have. proof, in concrete and glass, of how far you’d come.

socially, you’d built a circle too. colleagues who turned into friends, friends who turned into anchors when the job threatened to consume you. and though you still sometimes wrestled with the solitude of success, you weren’t alone.

financially, you were stable—no, more than stable. comfortable. secure. you didn’t worry about bills anymore, about whether you’d make it to the next month. your name carried weight now. not the kind of inherited weight gojo once flaunted, but earned. weight people respected.

and for the first time in a long time, you were breathing easier. not coasting, but steady.

you weren’t the girl grinding herself down, desperate to prove she could keep up. you weren’t the “rival” consumed with someone else’s shadow. you were yourself. successful. established. proud.

the fire that drove you was still there, but it burned cleaner now. less frantic, less jagged. you’d learned to harness it, to direct it.

and if sometimes you caught yourself wondering what it might feel like to cross paths with the past—to see his face again, older, sharper, touched by the same years that had shaped you—well, you dismissed it.

because you had no reason to look back.

your life was full, your future brighter than ever.

and then, just when you’d settled into that certainty, life began moving its quiet pieces. the kind you never noticed until you were standing face-to-face with someone you once swore you hated.

—

the ballroom was everything it was supposed to be: glittering chandeliers, champagne flutes clinking in practiced rhythms, a string quartet humming away in the corner while laughter and congratulations swelled and broke like waves.

it was the kind of event gojo had been raised for. the kind where his name opened doors before he even stepped through them, where people hovered just close enough to catch his attention, eager to curry favor.

tonight was no different.

the deal had been massive—his father’s company merging with a foreign powerhouse, a partnership that meant headlines, wealth, security, prestige. he’d led the final negotiations himself, presented the plan, smoothed it all into place. and now, as the ink dried, the celebration was his to own.

he stood at the center of it, as he always did. tall, sharp, dazzling in a suit tailored within an inch of its life. people laughed at his jokes, toasted his brilliance, congratulated him on being the face of a new era.

and he felt nothing.

their praise slid off him like water on glass. every “well done,” every “you’ve made your father proud,” every “you’re the future, gojo-kun”—empty. meaningless.

he smiled, of course. he always smiled. grinned wide enough to blind, tossed his champagne back with the ease of a man who knew he was adored, but beneath it, the emptiness yawned wider.

he’d done everything right. followed the path carved out for him, exceeded every expectation. he was rich, powerful, admired.

so why did it all feel so hollow?

he laughed at another toast, the sound sharp, practiced, echoing a little too loud in his own ears. and then—

a voice. not directed at him, but close enough to cut through the din. clear, professional, carrying the weight of authority. his gaze tracked toward it, half idly, expecting some familiar executive, another gray-suited power broker.

but instead—

it was you.

standing across the room, glass in hand, surrounded by colleagues who looked at you with admiration and respect. older, sharper, polished by years of effort he hadn’t witnessed. no longer the student he’d sparred with in lecture halls, but an executive; someone who belonged in this room — not as a guest, not as a hanger-on, but as an equal.

your name rolled off someone’s tongue in introduction, paired with a title he hadn’t expected: executive director, high enough to make the crowd around you pay attention.

and suddenly, the air in the room shifted. for him, at least.

his pulse kicked hard against his ribs, that practiced emptiness cracking for the first time all evening.

you. here. not a memory, not a ghost, but flesh and blood.

and not just here—you were part of this. one of the executives of the very company he’d just closed the deal with.

his first instinct was disbelief, as if the universe had decided to play a cruel joke. his second was something sharper, messier: a rush of everything he thought he’d buried.

anger. nostalgia. regret.

he laughed again, but this time it was softer, almost breathless. the people around him kept talking, kept praising, but he barely heard them. because across the room, you existed in a way that made the emptiness inside him feel like it had just been waiting for this.

for a heartbeat, he wanted to convince himself he was imagining it. graceful in a silky gown, poised with years of experience, even more beautiful than he remembered—but unmistakably you. there was no mistaking the way you carried yourself, the precision of your movements, the tilt of your chin when you addressed a colleague.

he leaned slightly toward the executive next to him, pretending to inspect a champagne glass, his voice lowered just enough to pass as casual.

“hey,” he murmured, tilting his head subtly toward you, “do you know who that is?”

the executive glanced, smiled politely, and shrugged. “sorry, not sure.”

gojo blinked, internal panic flaring in the quietest, sharpest way. “you… you don’t?” he asked, voice a fraction too low, too forced.

“don’t know?” the other repeated, smiling faintly. “maybe a new director or something? I think they’re from the company you just finalized with. the CEO mentioned her earlier.”

gojo’s heart caught. from the company I just finalized with. the words landed heavy, suffocating.

he followed your movements as you strode with a small group of colleagues, poised and efficient, toward the center of the room. the CEO of the company approached first, polished and confident, extending a hand for congratulations.

then you stepped forward, and for a moment, he could only stare, his hand frozen around his glass.

you extended your hand politely, businesslike.

“congratulations,” you said, your tone measured, professional, completely devoid of the personal history that had once ignited every nerve between you two.

gojo blinked, caught between recognition and protocol. he forced a smile that was all teeth and no warmth, and took your hand firmly, the touch brief. impeccable.

“thank you,” he said, voice steady enough for the room to hear, smooth enough that no one nearby suspected the storm behind his eyes.

the handshake ended, but the electricity lingered between you, quiet but sharp, like a wire stretched tight across the room.

he realised: the girl who had hated him, the one who’d refused him a single inch in university corridors, had become someone he could not simply ignore—not here, not in this room, not under these glaring chandeliers.

the CEO offered a polite comment, nodding between the two of you, but gojo barely registered it. all he could feel was the tight coil of something he thought he’d buried: awareness, recognition, a pulse of unresolved history.

you were here, in his world, in a way he hadn’t anticipated. and despite the applause, the celebration, the success he had spent years building, he felt… hollow.

a pang of something sharp and dangerous slid along his chest. the world around him had grown big, bright, and full of acclaim—but none of it mattered, not really, compared to the impossible fact that you were standing there.

and he had no idea how to navigate it.

he didn’t speak immediately after you were pulled away into a conversation by one of his colleagues. after the formalities of the handshake and the CEO’s polite chatter, he drifted back, letting you move with your colleagues for a moment. he watched from a distance, scanning the crowd, calculating the moment.

and then, when you stepped slightly away from the cluster, checking notes on a tablet or adjusting a folder in your hands(revising even at a formal event, how expected of you), he made his move.

the crowd parted almost politely around him, though no one gave him more than a passing glance. he navigated the throng with practiced ease, smile fixed, eyes locked on you. his pulse thudded quietly beneath the surface—a steady, controlled rhythm—but there was a heat behind it, something old and jagged that had never really left.

“you’re… alone,” he said softly, voice just above the hum of the room, careful to mask the quick edge of something he wasn’t ready to name.

you glanced up, raising an eyebrow, lips pressed in that professional line he remembered so well. “i’m not sure this is a good time for… casual conversation,” you said, your tone measured, too polite and ever so distant. exactly how he expected you would be.

“right,” he said, nodding slowly, letting the politeness act as camouflage. “i get it. work, company, big night. all that.”

you nodded, returning to your notes. the tension between you was almost physical. he could see the subtle shift of your shoulders, the way your fingers lingered over the tablet, the faint tightening of your jaw.

and yet… he had to try.

he stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough for only you to hear. “maybe… just for a moment,” he said, “we could dance?”

you froze, one hand still poised above the tablet, the other tightening around your folder. “excuse me?”

“a dance,” he repeated, with that familiar cocky grin — one he’d wielded for years, though tonight it felt almost raw in its honesty. “music’s playing. everyone’s celebrating. nothing official, nothing serious. just… you and me, for a song.”

you looked up fully this time. eyes meeting his, sharp, calculating, and for the first time since university, he saw the same fire that had once made your rivalry crackle. the look was almost incredulous, like you couldn’t believe he’d just asked. and maybe you couldn’t.

“i… i don’t think so,” you said finally, tone polite but firm, a wall against him.

he stepped slightly closer, just enough that the faint scent of his cologne brushed against you. “please,” he murmured, softer this time, “just one. nothing else. just a dance. for tonight.”

the room continued around you both—champagne, chatter, laughter—but the noise dimmed, the edges of the ballroom fading into the background. it was just you and him, suspended in the heat of recognition, years of history and rivalry tightening the space between you.

and for a moment, you considered it.

the fire flared again—not old rivalry, not resentment, not hate—but something complicated, unpredictable. something that made your chest tighten in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

and gojo, reading the subtle shift, let the grin falter into something quieter, more earnest, just long enough for the question to hang in the air.

you hesitated, hand still on the folder, heart beating a little faster than you wanted to admit. there was something in his eyes—no, everything in him—that made it impossible to say no.

finally, you set the folder aside. “fine,” you said, voice steady, though a hint of something softer slipped through. “one dance.”

he blinked, just for a moment, caught off guard by your acquiescence. then that familiar grin stretched wide, just enough to make your stomach tighten, and he offered his hand.

you took it. slow, careful, measured. the room around you blurred again—the laughter, the music, the glittering chandeliers—but this time it was closer, warmer, more dangerous.

he led you to the center of the ballroom, and for a second, you almost felt like university all over again—the stolen glances, the electric tension, the unspoken challenges lingering between you.

the music shifted, a slow, melodic tune that wove itself around your movements. he guided you gently, his hand firm on your waist, your hand resting on his shoulder. it was intimate without words, familiar without familiarity, a delicate tension that neither of you could — or wanted to —break.

“you’ve changed,” he murmured, almost conversational, though the sound of his voice brushed against your nerves like fire.

“so have you, it seems,” you replied, voice level, though your pulse betrayed you. you weren’t sure if that statement was true, but it seemed like the right thing to say.

he smirked, tilting his head slightly, studying you the way he used to across lecture halls and library tables. “i don’t know if i like it… or if i’m intrigued.”

“maybe both,” you said softly, matching his pace step for step.

the dance moved slowly, rhythmically, but every motion carried weight: every glance, every touch, every millimeter of space between you two. years of history, rivalry, hate, curiosity, unspoken admiration—all packed into this single, tenuous moment.

he leaned just slightly closer, enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath without him speaking. your heart fluttered against your ribs, and you reminded yourself to stay composed, to remember why you hated him, or at least why you used to.

but even as you reminded yourself, you felt it —the strange pull, the tension, the electricity that had never fully left the air between you.

for the first time in years, he didn’t look like a polished, untouchable heir. he looked… human. vulnerable, even, if only for this one dance.

with a dull ache in the back of your mind, you realized that this wasn’t just a dance. it was a test. a measurement of what remained between you.

and neither of you could predict the result.

the music wrapped around you both, slow and melodic, each note dragging out the seconds like syrup. gojo’s hand was firm at your waist, hot even through the fabric, guiding without force, while your own rested lightly on his shoulder, weight measured but precise. every step was careful, deliberate—almost like testing the waters, almost like neither of you wanted to fall too far into the familiarity of this proximity.

and yet, proximity had a way of undoing years of restraint.

“you’ve done… well,” he said, low, almost conversational, letting the words hang between you. the corner of his mouth twitched in a grin, but there was something tentative there, something softer than the arrogance you remembered from university.

“thanks,” you replied, careful. “you too. looks like you’ve… settled in nicely.”

he chuckled softly, a sound that felt both familiar and foreign. “yeah. settled. everything’s in place, smooth… too smooth, maybe.” his gaze flicked away for a moment, scanning the room, then back to you. “i thought it would feel different, though. being here, having all of this. you know… everyone praising you. all this success.”

you didn’t answer immediately. instead, you let the movement of the dance keep you engaged, each step deliberate, each turn measured. your pulse was high, the warmth of his body close enough to make your thoughts tangle. you hoped he wasn’t able to feel it.

“doesn’t feel… fulfilling?” you asked finally, voice soft. not accusatory, just curious.

he blinked, caught off guard by the question.

“sometimes,” he admitted, and it was the first crack in his polished exterior. “i mean… it should. it’s everything i worked for. and yet… sometimes i wonder if i earned it or if i just… inherited the stage.” his laugh was short, almost bitter. “funny, isn’t it? how easy it all looks from the outside.”

you swallowed the lump rising in your throat. “i know what you mean,” you said quietly. “hard work doesn’t always feel like enough, even when it’s… everything you’ve got.”

he turned his gaze fully on you then, searching, studying. “and you?” he asked, softer this time. “i imagine you’ve… done well for yourself too. probably better than anyone could’ve expected back then.”

“i… manage,” you said, shrugging just slightly. “i’ve fought for everything. nothing was handed to me. no one’s waiting to open doors.” your voice hardened for a moment, memories of your fight with gojo flooding your mind unnecessarily quickly. “so when people ask if i’m lucky… well. luck had nothing to do with it.”

he nodded slowly, gaze almost reverent. “you always were relentless,” he murmured. “i should’ve… i should’ve said something back then.”

you frowned, confused by the weight in his voice. “said… what?”

gojo swallowed, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through the polished mask he’d worn for years.

“i should’ve… apologized.” the word came out before he could stop it, rough, unpracticed, raw. “for… everything. for being… me. for making things harder. for… not seeing you, really. i was a jerk. i—”

you froze slightly at the admission, feeling the heat rise in your chest. his gaze was earnest, open, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

“gojo…” you murmured, uncertain what to say. years of anger, injustice, hate—all tangled in a knot inside you. the memory of university, of the slap, of every competition and clash—simmered, alive and sharp.

“i know,” he said quickly, as if reading your pause. “you hated me. i get that. and… you had every right.”

the music carried on around you, oblivious to the tension between you. and yet, in that suspended bubble of movement, of brush of skin and warmth of proximity, something had shifted. the apology hung there, raw and unguarded, and for the first time in years, the walls between you felt like they might crack.

your fingers pressed lightly against his shoulder, uncertain, measured, but you didn’t step back. not yet. he assumed that you’ve stopped hating him, which was correct. right?

and gojo, noticing the small pause, leaned just slightly closer, his breath warm near your ear. “i’ve spent years… thinking about how to say it. and now… i guess i don’t care if it’s awkward. i just… needed to.”

you exhaled slowly, the tension in your chest tight and loose all at once. the dance moved on, your steps in rhythm with the music, but the words lingered, charged and impossible to ignore.

for the first time in a long time, the past and present collided, all in the span of one slow, suspended dance.

the music ended, soft notes fading into polite applause and chatter. gojo’s hand lingered at your waist a moment too long, like he couldn’t quite let go, and when he finally released it, the space between you felt heavier than before.

you stepped back, smoothing your dress, forcing your posture upright, but the heat from him clung, like a shadow. your pulse hadn’t settled, and you could tell he was feeling it too—the subtle catch in his breath, the tight line of his jaw, the restless gleam in his eyes.

“thank you… for the dance,” he said, voice low, almost husky, though his usual grin was back, but just barely. it was an attempt at lightness, but it failed. the weight in the air refused to be glossed over.

you gave a polite nod, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “you’re welcome.”

he studied you, just for a beat, his gaze sharp, almost calculating, and then softer, almost vulnerable. “i didn’t know it was you, but i’ve seen your work. you’ve… really built something,” he said quietly, like a statement, not a question. “i mean it. all of it. you didn’t just survive—you dominated.”

you exhaled slowly, because the compliment was dangerous. praise from him had a way of scraping at your defenses, leaving raw patches beneath. “it wasn’t easy,” you said, tone steady, though your chest tightened. “but it was worth it. for me.”

his grin wavered, becoming something close to awe—or maybe envy. “i… never doubted you,” he admitted, “but seeing it—seeing you—it’s… unsettling.”

“good,” you said, sharper than you intended. “maybe it should be.”

the words hit him like a spark. he smirked, a little off-kilter this time, the practiced charm giving way to something more dangerous. “you’ve always had a way of getting under my skin,” he said, voice low, teasing, challenging, but there was an edge to it now, raw and unpredictable.

you straightened, crossing your arms, feeling the familiar fire flicker back. “and don’t think that’s changed,” you shot back, tone clipped, though your pulse betrayed the way it raced.

he stepped just a fraction closer, uninvited but not unwelcome, the tension in the space between you coiling tighter with every heartbeat. “maybe it hasn’t,” he whispered, half a grin, half a dare.

you stepped back and suddenly the room felt louder, harsher, brighter. the applause, the chatter, the clinking of glasses—all of it pressed against your ears like it had been amplified.

your chest was still tight, your pulse quickened in a way that made you uncomfortable. you forced yourself to adjust your posture, straighten your shoulders, smoothed your dress again, anything to remind yourself you were in control.

he still stood there, just a fraction closer than propriety demanded, his eyes fixed on you with that impossible mix of charm and something sharper—something dangerous and familiar. your stomach fluttered against your will, and you hated it.

you hated him.

you repeated the words to yourself like a mantra, grounding yourself. years of competition, of betrayal, of cold, relentless self-assertion had built this wall inside you. you weren’t going to let it crumble now — not over one dance, not over one apology, not even over the way your heart had fluttered in your chest like a traitor.

was it excitement of putting him in his place? or was it just a thought of the slightest possibility of exceeding him even now?

but even as you told yourself this, you couldn’t deny the pull. the memory of university, the long years of competition, the fire of hate mixed with fascination—they all surged to the surface. it was messy. unpredictable. maddening.

“you’ve changed,” you admitted quietly to yourself, recalling his words during the dance. not in a flattering way, but in a way that made your chest tighten. years had polished him, sharpened him, made him… untouchable in a different sense. and yet, in that moment, in that proximity, he was startlingly vulnerable.

and that vulnerability, you realized, was dangerous.

you allowed yourself a small exhale, just enough to remember that you were still standing on your own ground, still built a life of your own, still earned every step forward without his interference or influence. the fire inside you wasn’t extinguished—it had evolved. refined. it wasn’t just hate or old competition anymore, not after this interaction. it was something complex, something sharp-edged that you weren’t ready to name.

you scanned the room, noting the swirl of glittering gowns and polished suits, the way people laughed and clinked glasses, oblivious to the storm that had just passed between you and him. everyone else was distracted. they had no idea.

and maybe that was comforting. maybe that was your armor.

gojo was already pulled into another conversation. you took a slow breath, letting your pulse calm just a little, reminding yourself why you’d come here in the first place — to celebrate the deal your company had just closed, to mark your own success, not to get caught up in the ghosts of the past.

but as you looked over the room, you caught his gaze again, sharp and unreadable, lingering like a shadow that refused to vanish.

gojo raised his glass in your direction, head tilting in a mock-toast, and you grabbed your own from the table to do the same, refusing to succumb under the pressure of his presence.

his blue eyes glimmered with something new.

—

as he gulped down the rest of his drink, eyes never lingering away from yours, for the first time in years, gojo felt a thrill that had nothing to do with power, money, or success. it was about you.

and somehow, terrifyingly, impossibly, that was enough to want more.

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gcldie · 14 days ago

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I remember being 12 and listening to this album for the first time 😭 oh, how quickly time flies

going through the badlands archive for anniversary celebrations and found these New Americana stills from some set ups that didn’t make the final vid. I love the whiplash of moods lol little baby.

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gcldie · 16 days ago

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meet cute — dick grayson

synopsis. dick finally meets his match.

contents. fluff, meet cute, banter!!, dick found someone that matched his freak, matchmaker haley, established relationship

notes. quick drabble. there’s nothing i love more than writing banter for dick

The first thing Dick registers is the smell of coffee, its scent curling through the morning air. The second thing is the warmth pressed against his side, a familiar weight shifting slightly as the bed dips.

"You make the coffee, or am I dreaming?" he mumbles, cracking an eye open.

"Dreaming," you tease, brushing your fingers through his hair. "But I got up first, so I figured I'd be nice."

Dick hums, pulling you back down beside him. "Mm. Marry me."

"Already did, remember?"

"Best decision of my life." He presses a lazy kiss to your temple. Dick softly grips your chin before slotting his mouth against yours. Outside the bedroom, Haley lets out an impatient whine, toenails clicking against the hardwood.

A smile curves against your lips as Dick deepens the kiss, his free hand trailing down your back, holding you close like he never wants to let go. His grip is firm, his warmth intoxicating and you already know exactly where this morning is heading.

But the insistent scratching and pitiful whines from outside the door refuse to be ignored.

You pull away just as Dick leans in, earning yourself a dramatic whine of protest. His lips chase yours, his grip tightening. "Babe," he murmurs, a little breathless, "she can wait."

"She’s been waiting," you counter, amused. "And she’s missed you."

"Well, I missed you," he huffs, leaning in again, only for you to dodge him, fixing him with a knowing look.

He sighs, defeated. "Alright, alright. Duty calls."

Grumbling, he rolls out of bed, and you laugh, tossing a pillow at his back as he trudges to the door.

“Be nice,” you tease as he lets Haley in.

The second the door cracks open, she barrels into him, tail wagging so hard she practically vibrates. Dick catches her effortlessly, laughing as she smothers him in licks, all lingering traces of sleep and reluctance melting away.

“She’s our little matchmaker, after all,” you remind him, watching the way his face softens.

Dick looks up at you, a smile tugging at his lips between Haley’s eager kisses. His laugh fills the room, warm and familiar. Your favorite sound.

"How could I ever forget?"

Dick hadn’t expected anything unusual that day. It had been a normal walk. Until it wasn’t.

Haley was a good dog. A well-trained, even-tempered pitbull who never pulled on the leash, never bolted, never strayed. So when she suddenly yanked forward with enough force to nearly dislocate Dick’s shoulder, he barely had time to react before she took off.

"What the–" He staggered after her, half-jogging, half-stumbling as she dragged him down the street. "Haley, slow down! What has gotten into you?"

She wasn’t listening. Her ears were perked, tail wagging like she’d just spotted the world's biggest stash of treats. Dick barely had a second to brace himself before she barreled straight into a woman standing at the corner, nearly knocking her over.

"I'm so sorry–Haley!" Dick gasped, yanking the leash back.

The woman let out a startled laugh, catching herself just in time. "Wow, okay. Not how I expected to start my morning."

Dick winced. "Yeah, sorry about that. She doesn’t usually– uh– body-check people. Are you okay?"

"I think so. Can’t say the same for my dignity, though."

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, if it helps, she only does this to people she likes. Which is a very exclusive club, by the way."

"Oh? So I should be honored?" you asked, arching a brow.

"Very." He smirked. "You’re in the same category as rotisserie chicken and that one mailman she has a crush on."

You snorted. "High praise. I’ll try to live up to it."

The two of you linger on the sidewalk, grinning at each other like idiots. The moment stretches just long enough for him to realize he had forgotten to introduce himself.

“Oh– uh, I’m Richard. But everyone calls me Dick.”

Your lips twitch as you nod slowly. “Nice to meet you, Dick.”

The way you say it is so smooth, effortless. It shouldn’t make his brain short-circuit, but damn if it doesn’t send a spark straight through him. He swears he can feel it in his fingertips.

Great. He’s a fully grown man, and somehow, you’ve got him feeling like a teenager with a crush.

Haley’s tail was going so fast her entire body wiggled with it, pure joy wrapped in fur. You crouched down, scratching behind her ears. “Well, aren’t you gorgeous?”

Dick cleared his throat, barely audible. “Yeah, you are.”

Your head snapped up. “What was that?”

“Must’ve been the wind.”

“Oh,” you mused, turning back to Haley. “Your dad’s got a pretty face, but I think he might be a little unhinged.” You don’t bother being discreet.

The pitbull tilted her head, eyes flicking between the two of you like she was weighing the evidence.

Dick huffed a laugh. “She’s deciding whether to defend my honor or side with you.”

“Smart girl, taking her time with the verdict.” You grinned, giving Haley an approving pat. “But seriously, I’ve never seen a dog so determined to tackle a stranger. Did you train her to be your wingman, or is she just naturally talented?"

Dick placed a hand over his heart. "I would never exploit my dog for romance."

"Uh-huh. So this is just a coincidence?"

"Purely."

"Right." You smirked. "And I’m supposed to believe this isn’t a well-rehearsed scheme?"

Dick grinned. "If it were, I’d like to think I’d have prepared better material. I’m usually much smoother."

"You’re really not."

"That’s the tragic part."

You laughed, standing up and dusting off your pants. "Well, Dick, I think your dog just got you a date."

He blinked. "Was that a yes? Or did Haley just finesse me into this?"

"Guess you’ll have to keep up and find out."

Dick opened his mouth, then paused, brow furrowing. "Wait, did I even get your name?"

You grinned. "Did I give it?"

"No, but I feel like I should have it before I let you con me into a date."

You tilted her head, considering. "I suppose that’s fair. But where’s the fun in just handing it over?"

Dick huffed a laugh. "So what, I have to earn it?"

"You’re catching on."

Haley barked once, tail thumping against the pavement like she was enjoying this far too much.

"Alright." Dick crouched, giving his dog a scratch behind the ears. "Haley, girl, looks like we’ve got a mystery to solve."

You laughed, shaking your head as you turned to walk away. "Try to keep up, Dick."

In that moment, he knew he was in trouble.

Dick didn’t have to be told twice.

comments n reblogs are appreciated!

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gcldie · 19 days ago

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Ummmm, omg?? Thank you so much?? I’m actually so astonished that my little hobby has garnered this much attention 😭 to thank you for this ridiculously awe inspiring accomplishment, i’m gonna finish one of my fave drafts, expect a new fic soon 😋💌

#gcldie

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gcldie · 19 days ago

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Blue lace II - Dick Grayson + part 1

His lips against the dip of your throat are agonising.

Hands, large and rough, hidden behind the fabric of his costume, roam your body as if committing each curve to memory.

Heat pools in your stomach, unyielding in its desire for his touch.

His mouth swallows the gasp that escapes your lips when his clothed dick grinds harshly against your folds.

‘Dick-‘

‘Hush, pretty.’ His groans cause a shiver down your spine. ‘This is what you wanted, remember?’

Lips, dragging heavily against every part of your skin, make way for his tongue as it licks a stripe up your throat.

Your moans fill the apartment as you feel Dick’s hips roll and roll against your own.

‘Fuck, just put it in already.’ You whine.

‘So very impatient.’ Dick teases but you can tell that he’s just as wrecked by the sound of his voice.

He kisses your lips harshly before leaning back, fighting with the fabric of his suit as he struggles to take it off.

You can feel your desire turning into annoyance as you watch his costume snag on yet another part of his body.

Your brain can hardly catch up as your hand snakes down to your stomach, toward the wetness of your folds.

Your fingers reach your clit just as Dick manages to slip out of his suit. As he glances down, he looks stunned at the scene under him.

You’re rolling the bundle of nerves between your longest fingers, biting your lips to hold back the whines.

A chuckle escapes his lips as Dick’s fingers wrap around your wrist.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Deep voices wraps around you like silk. ‘None of that with me, sweetheart.’

For a second, you doubt if you hear offence in his voice but before your mind can decide, his hips snap forward and his tip slips between your folds.

‘Ah-‘ his palm covers your mouth, eyes snapping shut as Dick groans against your collarbone.

‘Shhhh, we have neighbours.’ He tuts.

You try to respond but his length keeps stretching you, inching closer and closer toward your cervix.

Moans and whimpers leave your lips as Dick’s palm stays slapped against your mouth.

One suffocating inch after the other slips inside your cunt, and it feels like an eternity before his skin meets yours, balls slapping softly against your ass.

For a second, you feel your vision blur.

Dick, while lacking a little in girth, makes up for it in length, the mushroom tip of his cock kissing your cervix.

Your breathing comes quick and shallow even after he takes his hands off your mouth.

He gives you a minute to adjust, whispering soft praises in your ear.

‘You’re doing so well, sweetheart.’

‘Treating me so nice.’

‘So wet for me, aren’t you, pretty?’

When you feel like you can breathe again, you tap his shoulder, urging him to move and what can Dick do but oblige.

He draws his hips back slowly, pulling out until it’s just his tip left in you, and then he snaps forward, knocking the air out of your lungs.

‘Yes—‘ you moan, when he repeats his action, setting up a brutal pace. ‘Ah-‘

‘Shh, I know, baby, I know.’

Dick sits back on his knees, his length never slipping out of you, and places his hand under the soft curve of your thigh, kneading the skin.

His other hand reaches for your bra, as his balls keep slapping against your ass, not faltering even as he pulls the fabric under your tits.

The stretch in your muscles is heavenly as he leans over you, one of your thighs thrown over his shoulder as his mouth connects with your nipple, hardened with arousal, rough fingertips rolling the other bud between them.

The sensation leaves you speechless, moans and slurs of his name tumbling out of your mouth as your grip on his hair tightens.

With every slide of his tongue against your nipple, your folds spasm, drawing him in closer, and you swear you can hear Dick whimper against the soft skin of your boob.

You’re headed toward your orgasm, he can tell with the familiar clenches of your pussy, but even in your senseless state, you can tell that something’s missing.

‘Ah—‘ you gasp when he shifts, looking for that sweet spot of yours. ‘Hngh-‘

The hand holding your thigh over his shoulder leaves your skin, replacing his mouth on your nipple, as he attaches his lips to yours, pulling you in a desperate kiss where all you can do is pull at his hair and moan in his mouth. His groans of pleasure are swallowed by you.

You swear you can hear yourself scream when Dick finds the spot that makes you see stars.

His chuckle into your mouth is satisfied and immediate.

You think you’re ready to ascend with how precisely his hips are snapping into yours when his long slender fingers find your clit, rubbing the infinities he knows make your toes clench.

‘Yes—‘ you cry out. ‘Yes, please don’t stop— just like that— god—‘

Lost in your pleasure, your cunt clenches around him, and it keeps clenching, leaving him whimpering and groaning into your jaw.

‘So good for me.’ He slurs, gasping at the feeling of tightness. ‘So pretty, all dressed up, so wet, so gooey, sooo tight-‘

His pace is brutal, dick hitting that same spot over and over again as his hands work on your two buds, leaving you breathless.

Dick grows quiet, mouthing at your skin, kissing and biting all over your throat and chest, no doubt leaving the undeniable trace of him you can never bring yourself to scold him for.

The heat in your stomach keeps pooling, the string growing taut, and as Dick’s hips keep snapping, you tumble over the edge, voice lost to a silent scream as your mouth falls open, clenching around him so deliciously that it has him following you down the precipice.

He fucks you both through your orgasm as you milk him dry, cunt painted white in his essence.

The roll of his hips eases up but doesn’t stop, not until you’re both squirming from overstimulation.

Dick plops down on you, wrapping around you like a waited blanket, reverting to his post-sex self.

His dark hair is buried into the dip between your neck and shoulder, one hand placed softly with the ends of your hair, while the other moves to where the two of you are still connected, swiping his fingertips between you, collecting the mix of your arousals.

You watch with mild curiosity as he brings it up to his mouth, wrapping his lips around his fingers and sucking them dry.

You don’t know if you’re impressed or disgusted.

His head moves as he looks up at you, pushing his slick covered fingers between your lips.

You oblige his obvious request and suck on his fingertips, humming softly at the taste of both of you.

When Dick takes his fingers out of your mouth, his lips touch yours, pulling into a lazy smirk as he pulls away, mischief playing dangerously in his eyes.

‘We forgot to use a condom.’

Well, shit.

A little treat to make up for my disappearance :P

#dick grayson x you #dick grayson x y/n #dick grayson x reader smut #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson smut #dick grayson #nightwing smut #nightwing x reader #nightwing x you #nightwing x y/n #dc nightwing #nightwing #dc comics #gcldie

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gcldie · 20 days ago

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will they wont they – dick grayson

synopsis. he had one job. but when it comes to you, dick grayson has never been good at following the rules.

contents. fluff, (implied) exes to lovers, catwoman!reader, batcat dynamic, theyre in love your honor

notes. i wanted a bruce and selina parallel except these two finally give in. this concept has been plaguing my for far too long. everyone thank blair for the idea + part 2

“And under no condition should you flirt with her,” Barbara’s voice crackles through his comms, sharp with warning. “This is a quick intel mission. You’re in and out, Nightwing.”

Dick chuckles. “Got it. Best behavior.”

Word had gotten back to the Batcave that, after Catwoman’s arrest, Catgirl was making moves to finish what her predecessor started. Even worse, there were rumors of Catwoman’s involvement in the riots of Blackgate Penitentiary. Usually, Gotham’s affairs stayed strictly in Bruce’s hands, but Dick had fought hard for this case. Maybe too hard.

“Nightwing,” Oracle’s voice falters as the group watches the hidden camera feed from his suit. “Did you… style your hair?”

Dick freezes mid-motion, his fingers still carding through his dark locks in the reflection of a nearby window.

“Dunno what you’re talking about.” He clears his throat, schooling his expression. Jason’s laughter bursts through the comms like a gunshot.

“Oh, this is priceless,” Jason wheezes. “Loverboy's got it bad.”

Dick exhales through his nose, shaking his head as he continues forward. “Can’t believe you guys planted a camera on me. Have you no trust?”

“It’s not about trust, Dick,” Bruce finally speaks, his voice cool and measured. “It’s about intelligence gathering.”

Of course. Ever the pragmatist.

Dick rolls his shoulders, trying to shake the unease creeping in. “Nah. My girl would never do anything to hurt me.” His voice dips. “Nothing I wouldn’t enjoy, anyway.”

Jason groans. “Barf.”

Oracle sighs. “Loverboy, focus.”

Dick lifts his hands in mock surrender, but his smirk lingers, betraying him. “Alright, alright.”

By the time Dick reaches the coordinates he was sent, the abandoned building seemed to be empty. Devoid of any criminal activity that was suspected.

Or at least, that’s how it looks.

Nightwing lands silently on the rooftop, scanning the darkened windows. No movement. No heat signatures. Just the city humming below, a steady pulse against the quiet.

Any amateur would enter the building to start his investigation, but Dick knew you better than that.

A slow smirk tugs at his lips.

You’re here. Somewhere. Watching.

His lips twitch. “Y’know, most people say hello first.”

Silence.

A shift in the shadows, a whisper of movement, too fast for anyone else to catch.

He’s airborne for half a second before his back slams against the rooftop. His breath escapes in a sharp huff, and before he can fully register what was happening, a warmth presses close, your weight against him, a knee braced against his ribs, gloved fingers skimming the hollow of his throat. Light. Barely there. A tease, not a threat.

“Thought I’d mix it up,” you murmur.

The moonlight frames you in silver, your mask casting half your face in shadow. He watches the way your lips quirk, the way your breath fans against his jaw, closer than necessary. Closer than you should be.

He should move. Counter. Flip you.

Instead, his fingers curl around your wrist, his thumb ghosting over your pulse point.

Dick blinks up at you, the city lights outlining the curve of your smirk.

“Well,” he breathes, grin unfazed. “You sure know how to make a guy feel wanted.”

You hum, tilting your head. “I’d say sorry, but you walked right into it.”

Your knee eases up just enough for him to shift. It’s all he needs.

With a twist, he sweeps your leg from under you, flipping them. Now you’re the one pinned, but your expression doesn’t change—if anything, your smirk deepens.

“Better,” you muse. “Almost had me there.”

“Almost?” He tuts. “You wound me.”

Then, without hesitation, you hook your leg around his waist and throw your weight into a roll. The two of you tumble, shifting control back and forth, dodging and countering, neither ever fully committing to an actual strike.

It’s a dance. One you both know by heart.

You feint left and he dodges too slow. Your fist brushes his jaw, not a real hit, just enough to make him feel it.

“You’re distracted,” you observe, eyes glinting.

He exhales, grip tightening around your wrist just enough to keep you close. “Maybe I just like having you this close.”

“Always the flatterer.”

For a moment, neither moves. Your breaths mix, city lights reflecting in your masked gaze.

Then, you blow him a kiss, fingers ghost over his lips before twisting free.

A quick, effortless slip, like smoke through his fingers. By the time he blinks, you’re already a few feet away, perched on the edge of the rooftop, ready to make your exit.

His comm buzzes. Jason’s voice, laced with amusement: “Tell me you’re at least trying to win.”

Dick ignores him.

Instead, his eyes flick toward the shadows. "C’mon, sweetheart, you really want it to end so soon?" He calls, the playful edge to his voice betraying the pulse of something more intense. “I’m starting to have fun.”

“Yeah?” You step into the moonlight, half a step in front of him. “You’re losing, horribly.”

You paused.

“But I’ve always liked how optimistic you were, Grayson. It’s cute.”

He can’t help but smile at the sound of his last name leaving your lips with a casualness that does something to him. He’s heard it from everyone, whether it be taunts or flirty whispers, but from you, it lands differently.

“I’m losing?” He raises an eyebrow, a challenge in his voice, but his heart pounds just a little faster. “I don’t think I feel like a loser.” In fact, he feels more alive than ever, adrenaline coursing through him, sparks erupting with every quip you exchanged.

You let out a laugh, the sound light and effortless. “I’ve transported all of the artifacts from the Gotham Museum hours before you even got here.”

His eyes narrow slightly, but he stays relaxed. He’ll deal with that later. “You know that’s not why I’m here.”

You tilt your head, smirking. “No?”

He steps closer. Slowly. “No,” he repeats, his voice dropping to a softer tone, low enough that it’s just for you.

You watch him, waiting.

He stops when you’re chest to chest, both of you breathing a little heavier now. The proximity is too close. Too much. And yet, neither of you move away.

“Then, what are you here for?”

For a heartbeat, the world slows, and he sees it, something soft in your eyes, hidden behind the mask. Something more than the game you’ve been playing.

“You know,” his voice softens.

But it’s fleeting. Gone before he can fully grasp it, and it hits him harder than he expects.

For a moment, he sees your own eyes underneath the black eye mask softening as they flicker between his own. But it’s gone as soon as it comes and Dick mourns it.

You break the moment first, pulling back just slightly, the warmth of your body still lingering as you glance away. “I’m not… involved with that and you know it,” you say, tone sharp but steady.

You’re not naive. He knows you’ve heard of the rumors circulating about Blackgate and Selina’s growing influence in the prison.

He catches your hand when you try to push him away, his fingers wrapping around your wrist. It’s the same dance they’ve done for years—one step forward, then the pull.

“Yeah, I know,” he murmurs.

“Obviously not.” Your eyes flash as you look away, trying to hide the strain in your voice. “You don’t trust me.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “You know I do, sweetheart.” His voice softens, and he steps even closer, bringing his other hand to your jaw, his fingers gently guiding your gaze back to his.

“I just needed to confirm.” His breath catches in his chest as he leans in, his lips almost brushing yours. “You know. B and his procedures.”

He doesn’t miss the way your breath hitches. You’re not backing away, but you’re holding yourself together with that quiet strength of yours.

“Dick,” Oracle warns him through the comm. He can feel Bruce’s silent warning echoing through his mind. He’s overstepped.

But Dick doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care about the mission anymore. Not when you’re standing there, eyes locked on his, body close enough that all he can think about is what it would be like to not fight this anymore.

With a quiet resolve, he reaches for his comm, deactivating it, then rips the camera from his suit, crushing it under his foot. The sound of the camera breaking echoes through the silent night, and he watches as surprise flickers in your eyes.

“You’re insane,” you murmur, the disbelief in your voice mixing with relief.

Dick steps even closer, no words now, just the steady thrum of his pulse and the way his body wants to close the distance. “Mission completed anyway,” he mutters, his lips curving into a grin, but it’s softer now.

“As always,” you whisper, your eyes flicking to the shattered camera. There’s a quiet moment where everything feels like it’s teetering on the edge.

Then, without another word, he pulls you in, his lips crashing into yours, soft but insistent. It’s everything he’s wanted, everything you’ve been dancing around for far too long.

Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling into his suit as he deepens the kiss, his body pressing into yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The kiss is slow, almost agonizing in its sweetness. No more games, no more hesitating. Just the two of you, finally letting go. His hand rests on the back of your neck, fingers tracing down every curve.

“That,” he says, voice husky, “was a mission well done.”

Your eyes twinkle, and you don’t pull away. “You know you’re never going to hear the end of this, right?”

“Worth it,” he grins. “Every second.”

thank you for reading! reblogs n comments are appreciated :3

#gcldie reblogs

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gcldie · 2 months ago

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I may… or may not have just listened to nobody by Hozier and gotten inspired… expect a fic

#gcldie #damian wayne x fem!reader #damian wayne #hero au

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gcldie · 2 months ago

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just thinking about laying with jason on the 4th, your hands over his ears as the colors pop in the sky—he feels silly, being afraid of fireworks when he shoots guns every night, but he’s so scared… scared he’ll go into some pavlovian shock where all the muscles in his body go taut, and his only impulse is to maim.

He loves you, too much to ever hurt you, yet as the booms reach their crescendo and your little apartment fills with light, he feels himself falling back into that old routine.

“It’s okay, Birdy,” you tell him, sweeping your hands through his hair and down his neck. “everything will be quiet soon…”

He hears the hope in your voice, the quiet prayer that the world will hush—that the only sound to be heard will be your breathing. He hopes so too… he hates worrying you, even though the worry is the third wheel in your relationship; He hates it, rather keep you content than concern.

“I love you,” he tells you, shuddering at the next bang, “so much, I’m so sorry.”

But when have you ever cared about anything but him? With your hands intertwined and your legs fit between each other, you tell him—honestly and truly—

“Worrying about you is one of my greatest treasures, if i didn’t worry about you, I’d be worried about something else,” he’s frowning even more now, even as his green eyes light with happiness. “And just between you and me, I’d rather be thinking of you than anything else.”

Jason smiles, an expression that ignites the room and the flame in your belly. You love him, he knows you do, and he would do anything to get you to keep looking at him.

When he kisses you, you taste like gummy worms and late night soda—a flavor so distinctly him it causes an eruption of goosebumps on his skin.

“I love you, honey.” he says between kisses, catching your answer in his mouth. “I love you.”

He kisses you even as the fireworks crash, he kisses you until after they go out… The whole time praying you’ll still be here next year to kiss his injuries away.

#gcldie reblogs

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gcldie · 2 months ago

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Hi gorgeous! I love your new theme and all your writing!! ♡

I came to ask for something from Regulus, he being very protective, IMAGINE in the time of the Death Eaters and someone insults reader for being half-blood 🫣

And he's so scary when he's angry, how I love him <333

Blood On Silk

regulus black x fem!reader

synopsis: in which you attend a ball hosted by the House of Black, an unwelcome presence marked by your bloodline. an act of cruelty leaves you injured, shattering the fragile facade of their world. in response, regulus rises fiercely to defend what he loves, breaking free from the name that bind him.

warnings: motional violence, physical assault, humiliation, family conflict, psychological trauma, halfblood!reader, manipulation, power imbalances, prejudice based on blood status, making out, suggestive comments, slight mentions of sex, social exclusion, regulus being so in love, vivid depictions of blood and injury, blood supramacy, happy ending. i listened to the rains of castamere while writing this? tw: this was written in an airport lounge…not proofread!!!

w/c: 4.3k

masterlist

You are standing in front of the tall mirror, the pale silk of your dress catching the candlelight in a way that makes it look like you’re wearing moonlight.

The fabric falls soft against your skin, elegant and seductive all at once, the kind of dress that feels like it doesn’t belong on someone like you.

Regulus would disagree.

He approaches without a sound, all warmth and certainty cloaked in silence. You see his reflection before you feel him—the flicker of his dark eyes, the slow lift of his hands.

From a velvet box, he retrieves a necklace: silver, fine as a thread, strung with a single obsidian star.

The charm glimmers with something ancient, a pulse of enchantment just beyond recognition. You don’t recognize the symbol at first, not until the pendant brushes your collarbone and you feel the enchantment hum gently against your skin.

The chill of the metal is brief, and then there is the heat of his fingers, brushing the back of your neck. He lingers there and when he leans in he presses his lips to your skin, right where your pulse flutters.

“I still can’t believe you’re making me wear this,” you whisper, trying to steady your breath and failing.

Your voice trembles at the edges, not because of fear, not entirely, but because you know where you’re going.

Because you know who will be there.

“Your mother is going to behead me with her eyes. And your cousins, I don’t think they even bother hiding their hatred anymore. Not that they ever did. I mean, do you remember last time? Narcissa told me I looked like a swan drowning. I don’t even know what that means.”

Regulus doesn’t interrupt, he never does.

“I just don’t want to embarrass you,” you admit softly, your hands wringing themselves in your lap now, fingers tangled in nervous threads. “They’re going to look at me and see someone who doesn’t belong, someone who shouldn’t be there, someone who—”

“You belong to me.”

You freeze. His hands are still resting on your shoulders, thumbs tracing tiny circles that you didn’t even realize had soothed you into silence. You look up at him in the mirror, and his gaze is already waiting.

“They can say whatever they want, amour,” he murmurs, eyes dark and steady, “and they will. They always do, but I stopped caring about their opinions the moment I realized they couldn’t love anything without destroying it.”

Your heart folds at the edges, soft and aching. He has always been like this—quiet, composed, never loud with his affections, but devastating with them all the same.

He doesn’t promise things with grand declarations or raise his voice to drown out the noise. He simply stands with you, day after day, word after word, until his loyalty becomes the one thing you don’t question.

He leans forward again, arms wrapping around your waist now, and rests his chin lightly against your shoulder.

“You walk into that ballroom,” he says, barely more than a whisper against your skin, “and you hold your head higher than any of them. Not because of them, because of you, because you are more than they will ever understand.”

“I still think I’m going to throw up,” you murmur, half-laughing.

“You won’t,” he says, kissing your jaw. “But if you do, you’ll do it gracefully. And I’ll hex anyone who dares to comment.”

That makes you laugh, properly this time, and he smiles against your skin.

You glance sideways at him, take in the sharp lines of his profile, the way his hair falls loose at his collar, the curve of his mouth set somewhere between solemnity and affection.

“I know I’m overthinking it,” you murmur, the silence too loud around your thoughts.

“But sometimes I feel like walking into these places is like being willingly set on fire, just to see how long I can smile through it.”

He looks at you then—fully—and stops walking. “Don’t do that,” he says gently, tugging your hand until you turn toward him. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“So am I,” he says, and then, without giving you time to step back or brace for it, he spins you softly in place, pulling you into him so that the fullness of your dress sways around your ankles.

You land against his chest, your breath catching in your throat as his arm slides around your waist. The other lifts to cradle your face, thumb brushing against your cheek, his gaze fixed on you like you are the only thing he’s ever seen that made him question the world he was raised in.

“Do you know what I see?” he whispers, voice dipping lower with each word.

“I see grace in motion, I see strength wrapped in beauty, I see someone who stands in rooms full of cruelty and still holds onto softness, and I see the most beautiful woman I’ve ever touched and I still can’t believe she lets me touch her at all.”

Your breath stumbles out of you in a small, startled laugh, but he’s already leaning in, lips grazing your neck where your pulse beats so clearly beneath your skin.

The kiss is feather-light, almost reverent, and then another follows, just below your ear, then lower still, and your hands curl in the lapels of his suit to steady yourself as your knees begin to forget how to hold you up.

“Regulus—” you breathe, but it comes out as more of a sigh.

“You wear white like it was spun for you,” he murmurs into your skin.

“You speak and my world quiets. You worry and I want to carry every weight until you forget how to frown. You reach for me and I forget everything I was ever taught to want, because none of it ever came close to you.”

Your fingers climb to his shoulders, clutching tighter now, your body drawn to his like a tide pulled toward gravity. The silk of your dress rustles as you shift against him, and the scent of him makes your head spin.

You tilt your face, brush your lips against his jaw, a silent invitation that speaks louder than anything you've said aloud.

He chuckles softly, not unkind, but with that aching kind of fondness that wraps around you like warmth in winter.

“No, amour,” he murmurs, voice threaded with restraint that costs him something. He presses one last kiss to your collarbone, slow and deliberate, before pulling back just enough to look at you. “We have to go.”

Your groan is dramatic and half-playful, your fingers still tangled in the folds of his robes. “You’re cruel.”

He smiles. It’s crooked this time, boyish in the way it rarely is, and entirely undone by you. “If I don’t leave now, I won’t leave at all,” he admits, brushing your hair back from your cheek with gentleness.

“And if I give in, we’ll be late, and I won’t be able to stop. And tonight, of all nights, I need them to see you. I need them to see what I chose instead of them.”

Your throat tightens.

Regulus leans in again, his lips brushing the shell of your ear now, velvet and promise and flame. “But when we’re back—” his voice dips, warm and low, “—I’m going to spend the entire night showing you how much I love you. Every minute of it, slowly.”

You shiver. Your heartbeat is a hymn in your chest.

“And if you still think you don’t belong,” he adds, kissing your temple, “I’ll remind you again, and again, until you forget they ever made you doubt.”

You close your eyes and breathe him in. And for the first time since the invitation arrived, you begin to believe you might survive this night—because you are not walking into it alone.

The air outside the dressing room clings with a kind of hush, broken only by the gentle click of your heels and the rustle of silk with every step.

Regulus walks beside you, silent as always, but present in a way that steadies the tremor in your chest. His hand rests over yours, fingers tangled just tightly enough to keep you tethered.\

The carriage waits outside, polished black and moonlit, drawn by a pair of thestrals that flick their heads but make no sound. He helps you in with the ease of habit, and when you settle into the dark leather seats, you realize he hasn’t let go of your hand.

You ride in near silence, the quiet between you made of shared thought rather than absence. He watches you out of the corner of his eye as though he’s memorizing you again, dress and necklace and all, but says nothing.

You glance out the window as the manor comes into view—Grimmauld Place transformed. The windows shimmer with charmed frost, and light pours from within like liquid gold.

A quartet plays softly somewhere inside, and you can already see the silhouettes of guests drifting past tall arched windows. You swallow.

“I still think your mother is going to hex me on sight,” you murmur.

“She won’t,” Regulus replies, calm and certain.

“No offense, but I don’t think certainty applies to Walburga Black.”

He smiles faintly. “If she does, she’ll regret it. I’ll make sure of it.”

You glance at him—at the quiet promise in his voice, the way it’s laced not with arrogance, but loyalty. He isn’t loud in his defiance. He never has been.

When you enter the ballroom, it feels like walking into a relic—heavy with history, thick with enchantments that tangle around your ankles like smoke.

The chandeliers float above like frozen constellations, dripping crystal and silver, casting fractured light across the black marble floors.

The entire space glows in cold elegance: long tables draped in obsidian silk, wine dark as garnet glinting in goblets, every movement reflected in the polished floor beneath your feet.

Regulus doesn’t loosen his grip on you.

You feel the eyes before you see them.

“She looks odd,” someone murmurs behind a fan.

“Is that silk? Bold choice,” says another, sharper voice.

“Didn’t know half-bloods came in white,” someone else laughs, too quiet for most ears.

Regulus hears. Of course he does. His jaw tightens, but he keeps walking, his hand warm and steady against your spine. You press a little closer to him.

“Don’t give them the reaction they want,” he murmurs without looking down. “They’re only brave in groups.”

You exhale slowly, nodding.

He leads you into the middle of the floor, and everything else fades into hush. The world narrows to the soft glide of his steps, the rhythm of the dance between you, the heat of his palm against yours.

“You’re holding your breath,” he says softly.

“I’m trying not to look like I want to flee.”

He turns you in one fluid motion, your skirts sweeping the floor like mist. “You don’t look like that,” he says. “You look like you know exactly what you’re doing.”

“I don’t.”

“Then you’re very convincing.”

You smile despite yourself. “You’re surprisingly charming tonight.”

“I’m always charming,” he replies, with the barest edge of amusement.

You laugh, and the weight in your chest lightens.

Later, you slip away for a moment of air, ducking near the arched corridor that leads to the gallery.

That’s where you find Andromeda, standing with a glass of wine, her posture regal without effort. Her dress is pale silver, understated but elegant, her hair pinned into a low twist that speaks of old money and quiet rebellion.

She turns when she sees you.

“My, you clean up well,” she says, voice smooth and laced with fondness. “Though I must admit, I was beginning to wonder if you’d survived the entrance.”

“Barely,” you murmur. “I think someone tried to curse my hem with a trip-jinx disguised as a compliment.”

“Ah,” she says lightly, sipping her wine. “Welcome to the House of Black.”

You laugh.

Andromeda tilts her head slightly, her eyes sharp, thoughtful. “You look lovely,” she adds, more sincerely. “That colour suits you.”

“Thank you. I wasn’t sure if it was too much.”

“No,” she says. “It’s exactly enough.”

You glance away. “I feel like I’m trying not to unravel.”

“Then you’re doing a fine job of it. I learned long ago that here, grace is a kind of armor. Wear it until they tire of throwing stones.”

You nod. “How did you survive this world?”

“I didn’t,” she says simply. “I left it. But Regulus—” her voice softens slightly, “—he’s not like the rest of them. He’s quieter about it, but the break is there. You’ve helped him make it real.”

You’re not sure what to say to that. So you say nothing, but your heart feels steadier.

Before long, Regulus finds you again. You don’t see him approach, but you feel him—his presence brushing close. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing effortlessly.

“Stealing you for a moment,” he says, glancing at Andromeda.

She nods. “Only a moment. I’ll keep your absence noticed.”

He leads you down a side corridor, then through another, past heavy curtains and walls lined with bookshelves. You don’t speak until the noise of the ballroom has faded to a distant hum.

“Where are we going?” you whisper.

“Here,” he says simply.

It’s a small study—dark and quiet, firelit. The door closes behind you with a soft click.

Before you can ask, he’s already pulling you to him, hands at your waist, mouth finding yours with the same quiet hunger he’s been holding in all night.

You melt into him, your fingers sliding up into his hair, your body arching with practiced ease into his hold. The kiss deepens, slow and warm, and you moan into it, the tension slipping from your shoulders like silk sliding from skin.

His hands travel gently, possessively, over the curves of your back, his lips brushing your jaw, your throat, the dip beneath your ear.

“You’re driving me mad,” he murmurs, barely a breath. “Do you know that?”

You smile against his mouth. “I was starting to suspect.”

He laughs, a soft, breathy sound against your skin. “You look so beautiful, amour, Tu es la plus jolie fille que j'ai jamais vue, mon amour.”

“You keep talking like that and I’ll never make it through the rest of the evening.”

He leans back just enough to meet your eyes, still breathless. “Then we’d better go back now,” he says, though he makes no move to release you.

You blink at him. “You’re stopping this?”

He smiles, warm and wicked. “We have hours yet,and I plan to spend all of them after this reminding you why I’m worth enduring these evenings for.”

You breathe out a slow, dazed laugh.

“Now come,” he adds, brushing a final kiss across your cheek. “They’ll miss us, and you still haven’t danced with me twice.”

You straighten the bodice of your dress, fingers brushing over the silk as if smoothing fabric could ease the tremble beginning in your ribs.

The heat of Regulus’s kisses still lingers against your throat, and though your mouth tastes like wine and him, there’s something else now pressing in at the edges—responsibility, decorum, the weight of being seen.

“I think I’ll stay here for a minute,” you murmur, adjusting your neckline with a soft sigh. “Freshen up. Fix this hem before it unravels completely.”

Regulus’s brows draw together. “You sure?” His voice is quiet, but there’s something firm beneath it, like the idea of leaving you alone, even in his own home, puts him on edge.

You smile up at him, brushing your fingers over his chest as if to reassure him. “Yes. I’ll only be a moment. And besides—Andromeda’s probably still near the gallery. I’ll find her.”

He doesn’t speak right away. His eyes flick over your face, searching for something you’re not sure he names. Then murmurs, “I don’t like the idea of you wandering this house alone.”

“I’m not a child,” you reply, gently but amused. “And you promised your mother you’d speak to the guests from St. Petersburg. You’ve spent nearly the whole night glued to my side.”

His mouth twitches, but not in disagreement.

“I won’t be long,” you add, smoothing the lapel of his robe. “You’ll find me before the next dance?”

“Always,” he says.

He kisses your cheek before he leaves, his hand lingering just a second too long on your waist. And then he's gone—swallowed into the golden thrum of the evening, back into the tangle of names and obligations that the House of Black never stops demanding from its heirs.

You stand still for a moment in the quiet room, letting your breath settle.

The mirror is old, etched with ivy vines in its silver frame. You lean toward it, dabbing at the corner of your lip with a lace handkerchief, checking that your necklace hasn’t shifted, that the pale silk still sits smooth against your skin.

You murmur a quick cooling charm, press a softening spell to your lips, and slip out the side door—intent on finding Andromeda.

But the house is a maze. Somewhere between the east corridor and the gallery, you miss a turn. The halls here twist in silent curves, lined with portraits whose eyes follow you like questions, and the flickering sconces seem too dim, too far apart.

Your heels click softly against the floor, and the further you walk, the more you start to feel the chill seeping back in. .

Eventually, you spot the entrance to the ballroom again—the carved double doors wide open, music swelling gently beyond. You exhale in relief and head toward the sound, hoping to find Andromeda or Regulus again before anyone notices your brief absence.

You step just inside, and the shift is immediate.

They’re gathered near the wine table—half a dozen purebloods, all in deep jewel-toned robes, laughing softly over the rims of their glasses.

You recognize some of them. Mulciber, Selwyn, Avery, and Rosier, with his ever-present smirk. A few you don’t know by name, but you’ve seen them enough to recognize the tilt of their mouths when they look at you.

Their eyes find you the moment you enter.

The laughter dies down, not all the way, but just enough to sharpen.

You turn, slow and poised, planning to walk calmly back the way you came and find Regulus or Andromeda.

But you only take two steps before three of them peel away from the others, stepping into your path like they were waiting for this exact moment.

The room does not stop, the music doesn’t falter, the wine still pours. But for you, the air sharpens.

The one who approaches first is tall, pale, with an expression carved from disdain. His robes are midnight blue, his ring heavy with a Black family crest, though you don’t think he belongs directly to it.

“Well, well,” he says, sipping from his glass and letting his eyes drag slowly down your form. “I thought the help wasn’t allowed to mingle with the guests.”

Your fingers tighten around your clutch. You take a small step to the side.

He mirrors it.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, head tilting. “Lost your pureblood escort?”

Behind him, another smirks. “Careful,” he drawls. “They say she's clever. You might get hexed.”

“Not by her,” the first replies. “She wouldn't dare.”

You draw a breath and lift your chin, spine lengthening with practiced grace. “Excuse me,” you say, voice cool but steady. “I was just leaving.”

But he steps closer.

And the exit feels farther than it did a moment ago.

It happens too fast to stop but slow enough that you remember every detail.

The man with the wine doesn’t speak. He simply steps closer with a kind of ease that drips arrogance, his expression coiled into something that resembles amusement but hums with quiet malice.

The crystal goblet in his hand tilts ever so slightly. For a heartbeat, you think—perhaps hope—it’s an accident.

But it isn’t.

The red spills like venom across your bodice.

It pours over the neckline of your white silk gown, blooming across the fabric in heavy, blood-colored streaks. It splashes onto your stomach, your waist, your arms. The silk darkens instantly, clinging to your skin, seeping into the stitching, crawling over the satin like rot.

You gasp, staggering back a step, hand flying to your chest, trying uselessly to stop the stain from spreading.

The man smiles as he lowers the now-empty glass.2

“Well look at that! It seems blood always stains,” he says loudly, clearly, deliberately.

It lands with the weight of a curse.

The surrounding crowd is silent for a moment, and then soft laughter rises like smoke, too smooth, too rehearsed, too cruel to be anything but intentional. No one steps forward. No one scolds. No one so much as flinches.

You’re frozen in place. The wine is cold, as it seeps through the fine fabric and chills your skin beneath. But it’s not the temperature that has your chest tightening—it’s the way they’re watching. Like your pain was planned, like this was a performance and they’ve all just taken their seats.

You turn to leave. Your steps are stiff, your throat burning. You want to find Regulus. You want to find Andromeda. You want to wake up from this, tear the ruined dress from your body and disappear into a night where you never came at all.

You take only a few steps before a hand closes gently but firmly around your wrist, halting you. You do not see the owner of the hand—only feel the sudden restraint. Before you can pull away, a deliberate push unsettles your balance, sending you off course.

A sharp scrape runs across your upper arm. It burns briefly, then stings.

Looking down, you notice the fabric of your dress torn where a ring snagged the seam. Blood wells slowly through the satin, vivid against the pale silk. It mingles with spilled wine, staining the fabric as though it were always meant to be.

The laughter around you does not cease. If anything, it deepens, curling around your ears like a thick velvet thread.

You do not cry, not now, but your breath begins to catch, trembling slightly.

Then a hand rests lightly on your shoulder. It is neither harsh nor unkind, but sudden enough to startle you. Turning, you find yourself no longer alone.

Regulus stands before you, a calm yet resolute presence separating you from the others. The atmosphere shifts subtly but unmistakably.

His gaze does not seek yours. Instead, it settles on the man who still clutches the empty glass—the same one who shoved you moments before.

Regulus’s eyes snapped to your arm where the blood welled beneath the torn silk, dark and vivid against the delicate fabric.

It wasn’t just a wound—it was an insult writ in crimson, a raw mark of the contempt you had endured. The mingled wine stain and blood on your dress screamed humiliation, and it shattered something deep inside him.

His breath hitched, trembling with something fierce and uncontrolled. The laughter—low, cruel, mocking—wrapped around you like suffocating chains, each chuckle a slap against his heart.

Without thinking, he seized the empty wine goblet from the man who stood too close, the one who had shoved you, whose laughter still echoed like a blade in the heavy air.

The glass was cold, fragile in his hand, but Regulus held it like a weapon.

His voice broke free in a savage roar that shattered the fragile veneer of the ballroom’s polished grace. “Do you think blood stains?” His words sliced the silence, jagged and merciless.

“Do you think that because she bleeds, because her blood mixes with your filth, she is anything less than any of you!”

He thrust the glass forward, eyes blazing. “I’ll show you how Black blood stains.”

With a brutal shove, he slammed the man backward against the carved stone pillar. The goblet slipped from his fingers and shattered, shards scattering like the shattered pride of those around him.

In an instant, the room erupted. Wands whipped up, light flashing like blades drawn in panic and outrage. The air thickened with magic and tension.

But Regulus was unshaken. His own wand sprang from his sleeve with a flick of his wrist, a dark, lethal promise gleaming in his hand.

“I will not hesitate,” he growled, voice low and charged with wrath, “to tear apart anyone who harms her again! I don’t fucking care who any of you are!”

The crowd held its breath, caught between fear and fascination.

Then Walburga’s voice, sharp as a whip, cut through the chaos. “Enough, Regulus!”

Her presence was cold command. Her eyes flickered with disdain as she stepped forward, her lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line.

He spun toward her, every muscle coiled in fury. “You will not silence me, Mother!” he spat, voice ragged and fierce. “Not after what you’ve done.”

“You disgrace this family with this girl,” Walburga said icily. “Lower your wand and leave this hall.”

Regulus’s hands clenched the wand so tightly his knuckles whitened. His breath came ragged, voice rising in a crescendo of unrestrained anger.

“Disgrace? She is the only thing here worthy of honor. The only blood that matters, and you—you are poison!”

Without warning, he shattered the empty goblet in his fist, the crack of breaking glass echoing like thunder. The jagged shard flew through the air, catching Walburga’s cheek with a sickening cut.

Gasps tore through the stunned crowd.

Regulus’s voice dropped to a low, venomous hiss, thick with contempt. “Even your blood stains, Mother. Filthy red, just like the rest of this rotten house.”

Regulus turns.

And the moment he sees you, really sees you, his fury falters.

Because you’re shaking. Your hand is clutched at your side, trying to hide the blood, the silk soaked with wine and something far more human.

Your lip trembles, and your eyes shimmer, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it now. The humiliation. The fear. The way they all watched.

Tears pour from your eyes before you realize it, the sob catching at your throat like it’s been waiting all night to be let out. You try to step away, try to hide—but Regulus is already at your side, his arms pulling you in like the world is ending.

“No,” he breathes, over and over again, kissing the crown of your head, holding you like you’re made of glass and flame all at once. “No, no—I'm here, you're safe now, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You bury your face into his chest, sobbing harder than you have in years, your fists clutching at his blouse, smearing blood and wine into velvet.

He doesn’t care. His hand is cradling the back of your head, his other arm wrapped fully around your waist, rocking you just slightly as if trying to comfort the storm out of your bones.

“I’m so sorry, amour, ” he whispers, voice raw and low, “I should’ve stayed. I never should’ve let you out of my sight. I knew they’d try something—I knew—”

“Regulus,” you choke.

“I’m here, ma belle.” His jaw tightens again, but his voice stays gentle.

You cling to him like you’ll fall if you don’t. He lifts you gently, one arm under your knees, carrying you through the parted crowd. No one dares speak, not even Walburga, not even Bellatrix. The room has gone quiet as stone.

Only the fury in Regulus Black’s eyes dares meet theirs.

He doesn’t stop until you’re upstairs. He finds the guest room furthest from the ballroom and kicks the door shut behind him.

He sets you down softly on the velvet chaise, then drops to his knees in front of you. His hands tremble as they brush over your stained dress, searching for the cut.

“Let me see it,” he murmurs. “Please.”

You nod, breath catching. The torn silk peels away, and he sees it—a shallow slash, bright red and angry.

His face crumples.“I’ll fix it,” he whispers, voice barely audible. “I’ll fix it all.”

“Come on,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “Let me take you away from here.”

And this time, when he carries you through the hall, no one dares look him in the eye. Not even the portraits.

They all turn their faces away.

Because Regulus Black has chosen.

And he chose you.

You knew it before he spoke, before his fingers found yours with a reverence that felt like a vow—he had chosen you, not just in that moment, but in every quiet glance, every defiance that led him here.

He would never return to this house, and you would never need him to.

As for Regulus, nothing he left behind could measure against what he held in his arms. In his eyes, you were purity uncorrupted, something sacred they could never touch.

He would tear down bloodlines, unmake legacies, dismantle every stone of the house that made him, if it meant being loved by you. And as always, he would take you home—carry you from cruelty, dress your wounds with devotion, and leave you blanketed in a love that demanded nothing and gave everything.

And in the end, he understood: just as their cruelty stained silk with blood, your love had stained him with something far deeper, something no name or legacy could ever wash clean.

#gcldie reblogs #THIS IS SO CUTE #regulus black is a devotee confirmed in the big 25??#my man my man my man #regulus black #regulus

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gcldie · 2 months ago

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Cross the road when you see me walking down the street, bruce 🫵😐

The fact that this isn’t the first time that happened makes me wanna jump off a cliff

#jason todd #bruce wayne #tim drake #gcldie reblogs

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gcldie · 2 months ago

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Sunburns - Damian Wayne

The sun is bright and scorching, as you sit on the beach bed.

Your skin, red and pulsing, almost hisses in the slight breeze, pain bubbling under where Damian’s hands touch you.

The gel is cool and soothing as the scent of aloe fills the space, but the weight of his hands are too much for you to enjoy the chilling effect of the gel.

‘TT’ Damian sighs as you hiss, throwing you an empathetic look.

‘It hurts.’ You complain, yet again, fighting the urge to jump when his distracted hands stay for too long in the same spot.

‘I know, beloved.’ He kissed your hair. ‘I’m sorry.’

You can tell he’s fighting the urge to say I told you so.

Because he did tell you so. He warned you to not stay in the sun too long, to not forget to reapply your sunscreen, but you, ever the stubborn little thing, had brushed him off, had said that you knew when the sun was too much for your body to handle.

And yet…

The relief is immediate when his hands part from your skin, the gel providing you with a moment of comfort.

Damian lays down next to you, curling the ends of your hair against his finger.

‘I should listen to you more often.’ You mumble against the thin pillow.

Damian chuckles next to you.

‘It wouldn’t hurt if you did.’

‘Am I a horrible person for being mad that you’re not burnt, too?’ You ask after a moment, torn between shame and laughter.

Damian’s grin is immediate and almost as blinding as the sun.

He looks at you and seems to be considering for a little while before he nods.

‘A little.’

You wince as your shoulder bumps into his side. The laughter that bubbles out of his mouth is boyish and private, the kind that only you ever get to hear from the boy many believe is too stoic to ever laugh.

‘Hitting me while I’m down, eh?’ Your arms move to lay beside you, along your sides, shoulders too burnt for them to take on a more comfortable position.

‘Only trying to cheer you up, habibti.’ He props himself up on his elbow, his flexibility mocking you as you hiss when turning your head to face him. ‘Don’t worry, beloved.’ His voice is soft like the waves in the ocean before you. ‘I’ll take care of you and your sunburn.’

His lips touch your temple and you sigh, a feeling as warm as the sun filling your heart.

‘I’ll have one hell of a tan, though.’ You mumble, reaching for the aloe gel.

Your hand finds his and you pass the bottle to him, collecting your hair and moving it away from your neck.

‘Soothe me in the mean time, will you, my love?’

Damian moves to his knees, long slender fingers opening the cap before squeezing the liquid into his open palm.

His hands hover over your back as he places a soft kiss against your burning shoulder.

‘Always, hayati.’

Currently sunburnt and in need of Damian. Also, quick disclosure, i don’t speak Arabic so feel free to correct my use of arabic words and nicknames!!

#damian wayne #damian wayne x reader fluff #damian wayne fluff #damian wayne x reader #damian wayne x fem!reader #damian wayne x female reader #damian wayne x you #damian wayne x y/n #damian al ghul #damian al ghul x reader #curly haired damian wayne #x reader #dc comics #dc robin #fluff #robin x reader #robin fluff #gcldie

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gcldie · 2 months ago

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pain 😃

selfishly, just once.

#gcldie reblogs

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gcldie · 2 months ago

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Promise of tomorrow - Regulus A. Black

The lamp casts a warm yellow light in the underground Slytherin dormitory.

The halls are quiet and dark, the hour far too late for any sensible student to be awake.

And yet, here you are, wrapped warmly in a dark green blanket and Regulus’ arms.

His body is soft and pliant under your touch. The paleness of his skin gives way to the blue veins making themselves known at his joints, as you draw calming circles above his heart.

His breathing is steady and you want to place your head over his heart and fall asleep to his heartbeat, but you just can’t seem to tear your eyes away from his face.

His sharp nose, deep-set eyes, and ink coloured lashes remind you of a painting, long brushes dipped in expensive oils as they set about immortalising his features.

Sometimes, in your weakest moments, you doubt that he’s even real. Your mind feeds into your paranoia, washing away the look on his face, the touch of his soft fingertips, the feeling of his arms around you, leaving you breathless and without a home.

But then he finds you again, like a creature born from the light finds the sun, cupping your cheeks in his hands and whispering soft nothings to you as his lips drag across the skin of your face, reminding you that he’s real, that he’s here, and that he’s yours.

As if on cue, ready to free you from the bruising grip of your anxiety, Regulus stirs.

His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks before opening, obsidian lashes circling the grey of his eyes.

‘Hi.’ His voice is groggy, rough against his throat.

You hum back a hello.

‘What time is it?’

‘Late. I’m not sure.’ He groans, drawing you closer, placing his chin on your head as his raven curls fall back against the pillow.

‘Couldn’t sleep?’ He asks, long fingers tracing the curve of your spine. You hum in agreement.

‘I keep thinking you’ll disappear if I close my eyes.’ You mumble against his throat, shame bubbling beneath your skin, hoping he doesn’t feel your heart beating loudly against his own.

He sighs and you feel your heart plummet to the ground.

He’s sick of you, of course he is, who wouldn’t be? Who would want to spend the rest of his life reassuring an insecure, scared little kid, whose life is plagued by unending anxiety and panic attacks and paranoia and pain and suffering and—

His free hand wraps around yours, fingers finding their place between your own, as he brings your intertwined hands up to his mouth.

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ He asks, voice so self-assured, as if his words alone can cure your woes and calm your heart as it beats its way up in your throat.

And it does. Somehow, his voice beckons you toward the light, wrapping around your wrist as he guides you out of the haze.

He kisses your fingertips, one after the other.

‘I’m here.’ He says after his lips touch your index finger. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ Mouth, soft and tired, places a kiss against your middle finger. ‘I promise.’ Your ring finger. ‘Alright?’ Your pinkie.

He kooks at you then, waiting for your answer, and what can you do but allow him to reassure you, as he always does.

‘Alright.’

His hand, still wrapped around your own, is the only thing between his chest and yours, as his other arm wraps around your shoulders, drawing you impossibly close, legs intertwined with yours under the heavy blanket.

‘Now, sleep, my love. I’ll be here when you wake up.’ He promises against your forehead, and you let his voice lull you to sleep, because, while his words alone are not enough to free you from the vines of anxiety wrapped tightly around your spine, they’re enough to trust his promise of tomorrow.

Ugh, everyone deserves their own Regulus :((

#regulus black #regulus black x reader #regulus black x you #regulus black x y/n #rab #marauders #x reader #fluff #regulus black fluff #regulus black x reader fluff #slytherin #slytherin reader #anxiety #gcldie

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gcldie · 2 months ago

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Blue lace - Dick Grayson + part 2

The wind is chilly as it weaves through your hair, sudden frustration overtaking your features.

Another night spent awake, waiting for your lover to swing by your shared apartment. Another date night cut short in favour of his vigilante work.

Another outfit wasted, the lace beneath your clothes left unwrapped like an abandoned Christmas present.

Your feet hang over the fire escape, swinging in the air as the smoke leaves your lungs, exhaling through your nose.

The moon is full up in the sky, mocking you as it sheds light over the suddenly calm Gotham skyline.

You don't bother reaching for your phone, it lays somewhere back in the apartment, because he won't call you, won't let you know where he is or when he's coming back.

You can't even be mad, because he gave you a choice when he revealed his identity, told you that you were free to leave, that he'd let you go, if the burden of his secret was too grand and unbearable.

But you'd claimed that you were a big girl, that you could take being in a relationship with a vigilante. A flicker of doubt had sparked in his eyes but then you'd kissed his worries away.

Now, here you are, annoyed, sleepy, and frustrated, both mentally and sexually.

You reach for the pack at your side to pull another cigarette when Dick plops down on the fire escape next to you, eyes hidden behind his mask wearing a toothy grin.

'Well, hello there, pretty lady.’ His voice is chipper, as if he didn't abandon you in the middle of cutting the well-seasoned steak you'd spent an entire week perfecting.

'Well, if it isn't my favourite morally grey hero.' The sarcasm feels right on your tongue, feeling a perverse sense of satisfaction when you see his grin falter for a moment.

'Your hero saved a couple lives today.’ The uncertainty is clear in his voice, even though he tries his best to mask it.

'If only he could have saved our date night.'

You grab your pack of cigarettes and retreat into the apartment, Dick's shadow following you closely.

'You're mad.’ He seems surprised.

‘I'm not mad-‘

'Yes, you are. Hey, don't hide from me.’ His fingers wrap around your wrist and turn you towards him, pinning your jaw in place, forcing you to look at him. 'I'm sorry.’ His voice is quiet, sincere.

You feel bad.

'I shouldn't have ditched you on our date night. I know how much you were looking forward to it.’

You feel yourself slump against him.

'How can I make it up to you?' He asks. 'Name anything you want. Right here, right now, come on.’

Even through the mask, you can tell that his eyes are scanning your face, brows furrowed in concern.

'Well...’ You start after a silent moment. 'You didn't get to eat your dessert.’

You watch as a look of confusion takes over his features.

‘I didn't know you made dessert—‘

'Not that dessert.’ You can feel your face flush, turning away from him to hide your growing blush, but then he catches your jaw between his fingers and smirks.

‘Oh, sweetheart, why didn't you say something sooner?' His voice takes on a teasing tilt, as he moves to remove his costume, before your hand comes to rest on his arm.

'The suit stays on.’ A cheshire grin breaks out on his face at your command.

'Kinky.’ Dick wiggles his brows.

‘If I'm getting screwed over by Nightwing, I'm getting screwed by Nightwing.’

'Yes, ma'am.’ His breath is warm against your skin as Dick begins mouthing at your throat, lips soft but firm against the sensitive skin.

A content sigh leaves your lips as the back of your knees hit the cushioned sofa. Dick follows you down when you lay your head against the armrest, mouth never leaving your skin, as his lips trace up to your jaw.

Dick manoeuvres his way between your legs, knee pressing against where your dress folds between your thighs and the sound that escapes your lips is heaven to his ears.

'Did you miss me, baby?' His voice is saccharine in your ear and you feel yourself melt against him.

'Yes.’ You breathe out as his right hand claws at your waist, desperate to hold you.

You feel the pressure of his left arm under your thigh, as his fingers knead your skin, working over the soft fabric of your dress.

'Did you get all dolled up for little old me?' You hum in agreement and he chuckles behind your ear. 'And I didn't even pay any attention to you, what a bad boyfriend I am.’ You whine when his lips wrap around your ear lobe, soft as he sucks, hands not leaving your body even for a moment.

'Well, baby.’ He lets go of your ear with a pop. 'Let me make it up to you.’

You feel his left hand snake up your thigh, dragging the fabric of your dress up with it, exposing your skin to the night air.

Dick kisses his way down your throat, making sure to suck on the soft spot on your collarbone, before placing teasing kisses on your tits, as they all but spill over the neckline of the dress.

You make a mental note to curse him out about ruining your new dress as he leaves wet open-mouthed kisses on the fabric, groaning when you arch your back into his mouth.

Soon his right hand joins his left and they lift the dress over the swell of your hips as he whispers a quiet ass up in your direction.

The sight that meets him there has Dick biting back a groan. When he looks up at you, he sees a knowing teasing glint in your eyes and laughs, breath tingling your skin.

'You're evil for this, baby.'

You're dressed in blue lace underwear, blue like the bird that covers the expanse of his chest.

Lace soft and frilly, just how he likes it.

'And here you were, running on rooftops.’ You tease, gasping when he lays an open-mouthed kiss against your covered folds. 'Shit!' You hear your voice jump an octave, as Dick licks a stripe along the entire length of your cunt.

'You're such a tease.’ His breath fans heavily against your thigh, as he wraps his big hands around them, spreading you apart.

As you think he's about to place another kiss, Dick sits back.

A sound of protest leaves your throat before he starts kissing up your leg, starting at the ankle, alternating between legs.

And he's judging you about being a tease, you roll your eyes mentally.

You wrap your legs around his head, urging him towards your cunt when he gets up to your thighs.

'Always so impatient, my love.’ His chuckle echoes up your thighs and you fight hard not to shove his mouth onto your panties.

But, for once in your life, you're glad that you keep your impatience in check, because Dick starts licking at your bundle of nerves over the cloth and you start seeing stars.

When he notices your whine get particularly high-pitched, Dick takes pity on you and starts sliding your panties down your legs, until they're bunched up at your ankles.

When Dick catches a glimpse of you, glistening under the warm light of the apartment, wet beyond comprehension, he has to fight the urge to just sink his cock in you. But tonight, he has to make it up to you, which means prioritising your pleasure, so, instead, he dives into you like a man starved.

His tongue is warm and wet against your clit, drawing lazy circles that drive you mad.

Dick, because he's a teasing son of a bitch, plays with his tongue as he feels your hand grab at his hair for support.

One moment his tongue is flat and you're grinding against his face, the next, you feel the tip of it pressing into your bundle of nerves, slow and steady as it nearly drives you up the couch.

After a moment, you think you've figured out his rhythm, but then he presses the tip of his nose into your mound and his tongue enters your folds, soft and sweet as it makes you sing melodies of pleasure above him.

In and out, in and out.

His tongue is steady, safe for the few jerks he teases you with when you yank at his hair to get him to go faster.

You feel the familiar pressure build in your stomach, muscles growing taut, thighs wrapping tighter around his head.

Your breath starts to hitch, one slow lick up your folds after another, and when you think you're about to snap, when you feel like you're about to fall off the precipice, his face retreats.

A single strangled cry leaves your lips.

You draw yourself up on your elbow and are about to yell at him, when his long slender finger slips between your folds.

All complaints die on your lips as you fall back against the armrest.

You can feel his eyes on you, can hear the mean chuckle that escapes his mouth, but then his lips are sucking on your clit again and you don't give a single damn.

His finger is long and it fills you up in all the right places.

Before too long passes, Dick slides his middle finger into you as well, your wetness dripping onto the couch as you moan into the night.

His mouth keeps working at you, unrelenting as his fingers pick up pace, drawing back and slamming into you faster and faster.

Your hand tightens in his hair, stuck between drawing him closer and pushing him away, not even caring if you're gripping too tight, but by the way he's groaning against you, you'd guess he's rather enjoying himself.

You feel yourself drawing closer and closer to your breaking point when his mouth leaves your clit, replaced by his thumb, as it draws lazy infinities on your pleasure point.

His mouth moves south, below even his fingers as they carry on with his brutal pace. Instead, his tongue laps at the wetness leaking from you, drinking before it has the chance to stain the couch.

'Nightwing-' the name slips from your lips before you can think better of it, as you arch your back, drawing him closer by his hair. His deep groan makes you happy that it did.

You don't know what does it. But a combination of all three numbs your mind until you're panting like a dog in summer heat, grinding against him and his fingers, chasing a release that's around the corner, always one step ahead.

And then Dick's fingers hit a particular spot that has you melting under his hand on your stomach, meant to keep you in place, and you feel yourself fall apart. Thighs twitching and shaking as a silent moan of his name is ripped from your throat.

Dick guides you through it, the climax, the aftershock, his fingers slowing as he looks up at you, listening as your breathing starts to calm.

When he's sure you're done, Dick slithers his way up to your face, kissing you as his tongue spreads the remains of your own climax in your mouth.

You taste sweet.

When his mouth breaks from yours, Dick props himself up on his elbows and grins down on you.

'Have I made it up to you, yet?' His gaze, even from beneath the mask, is intense and teasing.

'Not even close.’ You whisper against his mouth, pulling down the neckline of your dress, revealing a matching bra to the panties still wrapped around your ankles.

This is the dedicated to the mfs that bullied me into posting this, you’re welcome 🙄🙄

#dick grayson smut #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson #dick grayson x reader smut #dick grayson x you #dick grayson x y/n #nightwing #nightwing smut #dc robin #dc nightwing #dc comics #dcu #dc universe #smut #x reader #gcldie

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