#t: frostbite | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dcxdpdabbles · 3 months ago

Text

DCxDP Fanfic Idea: Burst your Bubble

Danny makes a small mistake that spirals out of control three years later. It starts on a fateful day while working in Clockwork's Tower, covering for the Time Lord. He had pushed for the man to take a break after hearing he hadn't been on vacation since the death of dinosaurs.

It was also recommended by Frostbite. Apparently, the stress of his job was causing Clockwork to lose grip on his age shift. Much like a human grinding their teeth in sleep due to stress, Clockwork's core was rapidly shifting him through his ages, causing aches along his core. When Danny met him, the way he went from child to middle-aged man and finally old adult was just physical proof of Clockwork's stress.

His shifting got under control after they defeated Dan, but that didn't mean his muscles had a chance to relax. He was a little better off the second time Danny saw Clockwork, but when Danny asked if he could return to his parent's college days, Clockwork's form quickly started shifting again.

Danny felt horrible about it, but he was fine taking over for the ghost to relax on vacation. It wasn't even that hard. All he had to do was watch the various timelines and record large catastrophes and bursts of hope. He also had to watch hourglasses that indicated the natural flow of time in multiple worlds. Sometimes, the sand would get stuck, so he would need to stir it with a large spoon, careful to not let anything else touch the golden shine of the time sands.

It helped that the Tower was semi-sentient. It overheard him making up lies about what he was doing on a call with his parents. Danny had told his parents that this summer, he was going away to work as a summer camp counselor, while Clockwork had selected a timeline that was moving at a different speed.

One month in Danny's home dimension was a hundred years in the one Clockwork was relaxing in. When Danny's school started again, his friend would have a lovely four hundred years to enjoy. Of course, this was a tiny break for a being like Clockwork, but Danny promised to take over every summer until he graduated.

The Tower had created a room that looked a lot like a log cabin whenever his parents attempted to video call. It even created a paycheck with actual funds directly deposited into his teen account that his parents had access to.

Their doubts about Danny lying vanished when "Camp Kronos" placed a rather generous amount of money under his name. His dad was even proud of Danny going out of his way to earn his own money. It's been a long time since his Dad sounded like that when talking about his accomplishments.

Clockwork had told him the Tower spoke to him mentally because it was his Haunt, but since Danny was only Haunt sitting, he was directed to a chalkboard that the Tower could use to write messages to him. That's how he knew it was the Tower's doing that his cover was safe back home.

Danny thanked the Tower by cleaning it from top to bottom. When he asked it what its name and pronouns were, the Tower requested to be called "it" and to stop using a capital T when referring to it.

Danny tries, but he still mentally changes tower into Tower since that is its name in his head. The tiles shake in irritation whenever he accidentally says it out loud.

Besides that, the Tower didn't really interact with him. Danny made his own food, did his own laundry, and did his work. There was never a clock in and clock out; the only time he wasn't attending the timelines was when he took short breaks to sleep, eat, bathe, and clean.

But the only time he wasn't watching the time was when he was asleep, and that was because of Tower. It somehow found a way to throw the timelines in his face whenever possible.

He did enjoy using the large tub to soak in bubbles, but Tower shifted the bubbles to reflect different scenes of the timelines he was watching, causing them to flout like the tower was blowing bubbles while Danny sat in the water. If it went that far to ensure that Danny was constantly working, he could see why Clockwork had such a hard time with the core shifting.

Then, one day, while soaking, he closed his eyes, ignoring the shifting tiles and the slight rumbling of the walls as Tower grumbled. He told it that he was taking a short break and it could wait until he was done. He would rest his eyes, no matter how important it was for him to watch.

He couldn't have them close for more than a minute, but that was all the mistake needed. At that time, one of the bubbles' timelines shifted because someone in it was being an idiot and messing with time, and it started to glow with new times and forming.

Sand that Danny accidentally touched when the bubble popped right on his nose. Tower was throwing a fit, shaking everything like an earthquake as the sand fell into the soap water.

He blinked open his eyes, startled, and much to his horror, came face to face with the sand, forming a miniature window into that timeline. A human teenager was staring right back at him, jaw dropped with a healthy building flush rising on his cheeks, as the time sand danced around his eyes, though he seemed unable to look away from Danny.

Windows were often granted to specific individuals favored by Clockwork, causing them to become Seers. It was not a common blessing because, more often than not, mortals could not handle future knowledge.

Even ghosts long dead struggle with the power. The only reason Danny was able to cover for Clockwork was because his brain was both dead and alive at the same time. Madness cause time couldn't touch him because, technically, he was already crazy.

Tower shook again, the stone groaning under its disapproval as Danny became uncomfortable, aware that the only thing protecting his dignity was the white foam low on his stomach. With a yelp, he sank further into the water, his hands covering his important bits out of habit, and he waved his hand to close the window.

The teenager moved his mouth in a silent plea, but he vanished in a swirl as quickly as he appeared. It was only a few seconds. Not even ten. Surely nothing could come from that?

A mistake he pushed to the back of his mind.

Surely, not paying attention for just a tiny amount of time could not have caused anything to be too bad.

_____________________________________________________________

"Hey dude? You okay?"

"I just....I just saw an angel...."

"What?"

"An angel. He warned me....showed me....I have to tell Mr.Wayne!"

"Wait! Where are you going!? Tell Mr. Wayne what?!"

"His son is going to die next week!"

"What!?"

"Jason Todd! The angel showed me! I have to warn them!"

_____________________________________________________________

Tower didn't tell on him, and Danny didn't bring it up. Clockwork returned in mid-adult form when the summer ended, looking far more relaxed and no longer shifting forms so rapidly.

He apparently spent four hundred years on a small paradise island, sipping coconut and dancing with locals who thought him a god. He hugged Danny, another large bonus for his paycheck, and sent him on his way.

The following summer, Danny completely forgot about the little accident and never bothered to check on that timeline. Clockwork was unaware there was a major shift in it, so he assumed that the world was moving as it should, though he complained that he had to unclog it a lot more because of a Seer who often opened too many Windows.

It was a testament to how much he needed that vacation for Clockwork to forget he never chose that Seer, despite the young human proving he had the will to handle his visions.

\Danny never realized that Seer was the same teenager he saw back then until one day three years later when Seer was an established fortune teller working as a consultant with some hero society and had used some of the said heroes to try and contact Clockwork.

"Danny." Clockwork started watching the young human set up an altar. "Why is a human attempting to use himself as a virgin sacrifice for me?"

"Ummmm"

"Danny, why does my Haunt claim you gave him the Sight."

"Well....."

"Danny why is Timothy Jackson Drake, who fated to be the third Robin in this time line, now a mere consultant who use his power of Sight for money gain? He's not a hero, did you know that? He merely lives next door to one of that world's greatest heroes and is obsessed with finding his Angel"

"I may have....made a mistake when I was fourteen."

"Danny," Clockwork's faux-friendly tone grew sharper as his form shifted from the three stages of age. "What did you do?"

"I can fix it!"

"How."

"I'll....enter that timeline and set it on the right path? I can answer his summons and convince him to become a hero with the Bats?"

Tower shook as if laughing at him.

"How." The hiss that came from the Time god was almost incomprehensible, with the amount of rage crammed into one syllable

"I'll-I can-Honey pot him!" Danny whimpered, cowering under the withering death glare Clockwork was aiming at him. "I can convince him that being a vigilante is cool and hot, so he'll be Red Robin, and the timeline can be saved?"

Clockwork's eyes darken. "You better not fail me. Send him away, Haunt"

Tower- the traitor- moved instantly. It shifted its stones to drag Danny to Red Robin's cluttered hourglass. It flung him in before he could protest, using Danny to unclog it. He is nearly down in the sinking sand, scrambling for purpose before he falls flat on his bum, and the sand vanishes.

A soft gasp has him looking up. Standing before him is the Seer Tim Drake, who looks beyond happy.

"It's you! My Angel!"

#dcxdpdabbles #dcxdp crossover #Burst Your Bubble #Part 1 #Dead Tired #Civilian Tim Drake #Seer Tim Drake #Danny messed up #Danny was part timing as Time God #Red Robbin is needed in that timeline or it will fall apart #Tower was waiting for this day #Both Tim and Danny are now 17 #Jason Tod never died #Clockwork just wanted a vacy

844 notes · View notes

deansbeer · 17 days ago

Note

so uh

camping with dean/beau/jensen (i can't choose), and it's like really raining out and cold. the tent and sleeping bags are practically doing nothing to keep you warm, so the two have to snuggle up together for warmth… which eventually leads to smut may or may not be based on an experience i had (partially)

hi baby!! i meant to post this sooner but i got distracted with work <3

♡ ⋮ minors do not interact.

synopsis 𓏵 stuck in a freezing damp tent during a raging thunderstorm, you and dean find creative ways to stay warm together.

the rain hasn’t stopped for three hours now, and you’re pretty sure your teeth are going to chatter right out of your skull. this whole camping trip was dean’s idea — something about “getting back to basics” after the last hunt went sideways. you’d agreed because, well, when dean winchester flashes that crooked grin and says “come on, it’ll be fun,” you apparently lose all common sense.

except now you’re in the middle of nowhere, oregon, in what feels like a hurricane, and the tent is about as waterproof as a screen door. water’s seeping in from the corners, your sleeping bag feels like you crawled inside a wet paper towel, and you can’t feel your toes. dean’s on the other side of the tent, and you can hear him muttering curses under his breath as he tries to stop another leak with duct tape. because of course he brought duct tape camping.

“this was a terrible idea,” you announce through chattering teeth, pulling your damp sleeping bag up to your chin. it doesn’t help. if anything, the wet fabric just makes you colder. “we could’ve been in a motel right now. with heat. and walls that actually keep water out.”

“yeah, well,” dean grunts, giving up on the duct tape and tossing it aside. “the forecast said partly cloudy. how was i supposed to know partly cloudy meant biblical flood?” he’s soaked too, his flannel clinging to his shoulders in a way that would be distracting if you weren’t actively dying of hypothermia.

“maybe check more than one weather app next time?” you suggest, but there’s no real heat in it. you’re too cold to be properly angry. “dean, seriously, i can’t feel my feet. or my hands. or... anything really.”

he turns to look at you then, and even in the dim light of the camping lantern, you can see the concern flash across his face. dean winchester might play tough, but he’s got a protective streak a mile wide. “shit, sweetheart, you’re shaking like a leaf.” he moves closer, reaching out to touch your face. his fingers are cold too, but still warmer than your cheek. “fuck, you’re like ice.”

“we gotta warm you up,” he says, already moving into problem-solving mode. “body heat’s the fastest way when you’re this cold.” he starts unzipping his sleeping bag with determined movements. “come on, we’re combining these things.”

“what?” you blink at him, brain moving sluggishly from the cold. “dean, that’s...” but he’s already spreading his sleeping bag on the tent floor and motioning for you to bring yours over. the practical part of your brain knows he’s right — shared body heat is survival 101. the other part of your brain, the one that’s been harboring a crush on dean since the day you met him, is screaming.

“unless you wanna lose some toes to frostbite, get over here,” he orders, and that snaps you into motion. you crawl over with your sleeping bag, helping him zip them together into one large cocoon. the whole time, you’re hyperaware of how close he is, how his t-shirt is soaked through and clinging to his chest.

“lose the wet clothes,” he says matter-of-factly, already pulling his flannel off. “they’re just making it worse.” when you hesitate, he rolls his eyes. “come on, we’re both adults here. nothing i haven’t seen before.” which is a lie — he’s definitely never seen you in your underwear — but you’re too cold to argue.

you strip down to your underwear with numb fingers, trying not to think about the fact that dean is doing the same thing two feet away. when you finally slide into the combined sleeping bag, wearing nothing but your bra and panties, dean’s already there in just his boxers. the touch of his skin against yours is like fire and ice at the same time.

“jesus,” he hisses, when you press against him. “you’re like a frozen ice cube.” but he doesn’t pull away. instead, he wraps his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. “c’mere, gonna warm you up.” his body heat feels incredible, and you can’t help but burrow closer, dignity be damned.

“better?” he asks after a few minutes, and honestly? yeah. the shivers are starting to subside, replaced by a different kind of tension. because now that you’re not actively dying of cold, you’re extremely aware that you’re pressed against dean’s very naked, very warm chest. his hands are rubbing slow circles on your back, and it’s supposed to be warming, but it’s also doing other things.

“yeah,” you manage, voice coming out breathier than intended. “so much better.” your face is tucked into his neck, and he smells like rain and leather and that uniquely dean scent that’s been driving you crazy for months. his hands are large and warm on your back, and every sweep of his fingers sends little sparks through you.

“good, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and his voice is different now. deeper. “can’t have you freezing on my watch.” one of his hands slides lower, resting just above the waistband of your panties, and your breath hitches. “you know,” he continues, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, “there are other ways to generate body heat.”

you pull back enough to look at him, and his eyes are dark in the lantern light. “dean,” you breathe, but you’re not sure if it’s a warning or encouragement. probably both. “we shouldn’t...” but even as you say it, your body is pressing closer to his, seeking more contact.

“and why not?” he challenges, hand sliding up to cup your face. “been wanting to do this for months, sweetheart. and if we’re gonna be stuck in this tent all night...” he trails off, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “might as well make the most of it.”

“months?” you repeat in slight disbelief, brain short-circuiting a little. “you’ve wanted...” but he cuts you off with a kiss, and holy shit, dean winchester is kissing you! his lips are soft but demanding, and when he nips at your bottom lip, you open for him immediately. the kiss is hot and desperate, months of tension pouring out all at once.

“fuck,” he groans when you break apart for air. “knew you’d taste sweet.” his hands are everywhere now, sliding over your sides, your hips, the curve of your ass. “been driving me crazy, you know that? walking around in those tight lil’ jeans of yours, bending over in front of me...” he punctuates each word with a kiss to your neck, and you’re practically melting.

“oh, dean,” you gasp, hands clutching at his shoulders. “please...” you’re not even sure what you’re asking for, just that you need more. he seems to understand, rolling you onto your back and hovering over you. the sleeping bag is tight quarters, but he manages it, settling between your thighs like he belongs there.

“gonna warm ya up,” he promises, voice rough with want. “gonna make you feel so good you’ll be begging me to cool you down.” his mouth trails down your neck, across your collarbone, and when he reaches the edge of your bra, he looks up at you. “this okay?”

“god, yes,” you breathe, and he grins, that cocky grin that makes your stomach flip. he unhooks your bra with practiced ease, tossing it somewhere in the tent. his mouth is on your breasts immediately, and the contrast of his hot mouth against your still-cool skin makes you arch beneath him.

“perfect, sweetheart,” he mutters against your skin. “so fucking perfect.” he lavishes attention on each breast, using his tongue and teeth until you’re squirming beneath him. when he finally starts kissing his way down your stomach, you know where he’s heading, and your whole body tenses in anticipation.

“dean, you don’t have to...” but he’s already hooking his fingers in your panties, pulling them down your legs. “oh god,” you gasp when his mouth finds you, hot and perfect and exactly what you need. he eats you out like he does everything else — with single-minded determination and skill that should be illegal.

within minutes, you’re writhing beneath him, one hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sounds you’re making. the rain might be loud, but you’re pretty sure the whole forest doesn’t need to hear what dean winchester’s tongue is doing to you.

when you come, it’s with his name on your lips, like a prayer and your fingers tangled in his hair. he works you through it, only pulling away when you’re shaking for a completely different reason than cold. “told you i’d warm you up,” he says, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he crawls back up your body. you can taste yourself on his lips when he kisses you, and it’s filthy and perfect and you need him inside you right now.

“wait,” you breathe against his mouth, reaching between you to palm him through his boxers. he’s hard and hot and when you squeeze, he groans into your mouth. “i need you. de, please.”

“yeah, baby?” he asks, but he’s already shoving his boxers down. “you sure about this? because once i have you...” he trails off, but the intensity in his eyes finishes the sentence.

“i’m sure,”,you tell him, wrapping your legs around his waist. “been sure for months.” that seems to break his control. he lines himself up and pushes in slowly, and the stretch is perfect, exactly what you needed. when he’s fully seated, you both need a moment, panting heavily into each other’s mouths.

“holy fuck,” he breathes. “you feel incredible, baby girl. so fuckin’ tight.” he starts moving, slow at first but quickly building to a rhythm that has you seeing stars. the sleeping bag restricts movement somewhat, but it also keeps you pressed close together, every inch of skin touching. “not gonna last,” he warns, and you can feel him trembling with the effort of holding back.

“don’t,” you gasp, meeting him thrust for thrust as much as the confined space allows. “wanna feel you. want you to come inside me.” the words make him groan, hips stuttering. a few more thrusts and he feels like he’s on cloud nine, face buried in your neck as he empties himself inside you.

you lie there catching your breath, still tangled together in the sleeping bag. the rain is still pounding on the tent, but you’re warm now, flushed and satisfied. “so,” dean says eventually, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “still think camping was a terrible idea?”

“the worst idea,” you agree, but you’re cheesing hard. “we should probably do it again sometime. you know, just to make sure we’ve got the whole body heat thing down.”

he laughs, pulling you closer. “deal. but next time, i’m checking five weather apps.” you’re about to respond when he shifts inside you, still half-hard, and your words dissolve into a gasp. “actually,” he grunts, voice dropping back to that dangerous register, “storm’s not supposed to pass until morning. might need to keep generating heat all night. you know, for safety.”

“yeah, yeah. for safety,” you agree breathlessly, already rolling your hips against his. after all, you wouldn’t want to get cold again. and if dean winchester wants to spend all night keeping you warm? well, who are you to argue with survival tactics?

509 notes · View notes

iyoonjh · 1 month ago

Text

A Cure for Frostbite

pairing: royal!sunghoon x fem!reader – w/c: 7209

synopsis: In the hush of the imperial palace, a forbidden romance blooms between Sunghoon—the emperor’s youngest son—and Y/N, a quiet apothecary meant to live in the shadows.

What begins with stolen glances and subtle gifts deepens into something dangerous and all-consuming. Y/N knows the risk. Sunghoon does not care. When their closeness is discovered, she pulls away to protect them both—but Sunghoon, desperate and lovesick, would burn the whole kingdom for one more moment by her side.

genre: romance, longing, historical romance, inspired by the apothecary diaries, fluff? idk, this is just a short drabble

In the eastern quarter of the Imperial Palace—past the lacquered gates where the painted cranes arched their wings eternally in mid-flight, and where plum blossoms fell like memories onto pale stone—there resided a young woman of no lineage, no crest, no glory but for the clarity of her mind and the elegance with which she existed.

Her name was Y/N, though in the palace she was called nothing so intimate—merely the apothecarian, the clever one, or sometimes, in the hushed voice of women who admired and resented her in equal measure, the beauty in white. She wore no silk but her modest uniform, no gold save the sheen of oil that glossed her hands after grinding herbs for the dowagers' sleep and princes’ fevers. Still, she carried herself as if the air bowed for her passage.

She had eyes like tea under moonlight—dark, clear, reflective of depth not seen but only guessed—and a mouth that rarely smiled, though when it did, it made even the most solemn of guards avert their eyes, ashamed to have witnessed it.

Though she never meant to be seen, she was always noticed.

To the north of that same palace, behind the walls embroidered with dragons in thread spun from silver, lived the youngest son of the Emperor.

His name was Sunghoon, the frost prince. The court called him His Serene Highness, or sometimes simply the son of Winter, for he rarely spoke in public and bore himself with a distance that even snowflakes respected. He was as beautiful as a sculpture chiseled from ice and candlelight: all pale skin, raven-black hair, and long eyes that seemed to know too much.

Yet his closest friends—noble but not royal—knew another Sunghoon. Heeseung, with the mind of a scholar and laughter like wind through open fields, and Jake, ever the diplomat’s son, quick-witted and honey-tongued, both saw through the iciness. Behind the closed shoji of his chambers, Sunghoon was warmth incarnate. He laughed at Heeseung’s ridiculous poems. He argued passionately over the best blade oil. He lay on his stomach in boyish laziness while Jake debated love and loyalty like a playwright.

He was brilliant with the sword. Too brilliant. So brilliant, the Emperor forbade him from battle.

Still, sometimes—when the moon was fat and the guards were drunk with wine—Sunghoon vanished from his quarters. And when he returned, bruises bloomed like violets along his ribs. Jake sighed. Heeseung scolded. Sunghoon only smiled, one incisor peeking out as he whispered, “I’m not dead yet.”

The two might never have crossed paths—he, a constellation born to rule; she, a shadow who kept others alive—but fate has a taste for irony, and palace walls are not made to keep hearts in.

It was early winter when Sunghoon saw her for the first time. The palace was full of cold breath and firelight. The Empress Dowager had taken ill—fevered, delirious, calling for her lost sister—and the court physicians, all swollen with status and silk, debated in circles that bled into days. Decoctions failed. Prayers echoed unanswered.

Then the apothecarian was summoned.

She entered the Dowager’s chambers like a whisper. A bundle of vials at her hip. Hands scrubbed to sanctity. She did not bow to impress, nor tremble under the weight of royal eyes. She asked only for quiet and for linen steeped in white chrysanthemum.

Sunghoon was there, in the shadow of a carved screen, bored and suspicious, idly listening to the Emperor rage at useless cures. He had no interest in women of the court—they preened like birds but spoke like reeds: all rustle, no root.

But then she spoke. Calm. Certain. Clear.

“The fever is not of the lungs but of the gut. She was fed peach kernels in her wine. The poison sleeps in sweetness.”

And the world paused to listen.

Sunghoon leaned forward.

“Who is she?” he asked, voice barely more than a breath.

Jake, beside him, shrugged. “They say she’s from the southern provinces. No family of name. She treats the kitchen maids and concubines like they were sisters.”

Sunghoon’s gaze remained fixed.

“She’s lovely,” Heeseung noted, tilting his head. “Though you’ll find no courtship there. She is wedded to her work.”

Perhaps it should have ended there—a silent admiration, an echo of curiosity, something he could dismiss with a sparring session or a bath in the onsen.

But the gods had not designed Sunghoon’s heart for quiet.

Three days later, Y/N was tending to a minor injury in the soldier’s infirmary—a foolish boy had broken his thumb while wrestling a pig, and the shame hurt more than the swelling—when she turned and found him at the door.

She knew him by title. Knew him by face, too, for who in the palace didn’t? The frost prince himself, sculpted by the heavens, lips too red, eyes too clever.

But she did not lower her gaze.

“Your Highness,” she said with the same tone she used for burnt cooks and sobbing handmaidens. “Are you ill?”

His lips curved just slightly.

“No,” he said. “But I could be.”

She blinked. Not a blush. Not a smile. Not even a breath of amusement. Just—

“Come back when you are,” she answered, turning away.

And Sunghoon—youngest son of the Emperor, undefeated in sparring, master of every noble art—stood there, momentarily robbed of speech.

He was not used to indifference.

It was intoxicating.

In the palace, time did not move; it sighed.

The courtyards bloomed in sequence like breath drawn through the mouth of heaven—first the plum blossoms in the eastern court, then magnolias by the main veranda. In the inner palace, light slanted gently through latticed windows, dust motes dancing like polite ghosts.

And somewhere in the middle of all this—between the call of the imperial bell and the rustle of silk across polished floors—Y/N was busy being useful.

She worked like a hymn—quiet, necessary, elegant in rhythm. Her footsteps made no sound in the sick wards. Her hands moved with exactitude, her eyes alert, always measuring. When she passed, the guards straightened. The other apothecaries took note. She belonged to no noble family, had no title—but in the hush of the Emperor’s palace, her name was a soft reverence.

And still, she believed she moved unseen.

She was wrong.

It began with a fever.

Not hers.

Prince Sunghoon—third son of the Emperor, youngest of the blood, and colder than jade in winter—was brought to the southern infirmary with a low-grade fever and “mild dizziness.” A meaningless case. The other court physicians had deemed it unworthy of real concern, barely requiring an herbal rinse.

But still, the order had come directly.

“Summon her,” said the guard, voice subdued. “The apothecarian.”

So she went.

He was sitting up when she arrived, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He wore no crown, no badge of status—only a pale robe embroidered with cranes, the gold thread shimmering when the light caught it.

She bowed. “Your Highness.”

“You’re not what I expected,” he said.

She raised a brow. “And what did Your Highness expect?”

He tilted his head slightly, as though studying her shape might answer the question.

“I supposed someone less… something.”

That was the first time she was summoned to tend his wounds. She diagnosed nothing unusual—likely heatstroke from overexertion. He thanked her with a polite nod, then left.

Two days later, he returned.

“A headache,” he said. “Persistent.”

She asked the routine questions: pulse, appetite, light sensitivity. Nothing of note.

“Have you been sleeping, Your Highness?”

“Not well.”

“There must be reason then.”

He looked at her for a moment too long, then said, “Restless thoughts.”

She prescribed valerian, a gentle sedative. She handed him the powder in a folded slip of paper. He held it longer than necessary, fingers brushing hers.

“Your hands are cold,” he murmured.

She pulled away. “Apologies.”

He said nothing. But when he left, he wore a ghost of a smile.

The third time, it was a cut across his palm.

Thin. Clean. Precise.

She did not look up as she began to treat it.

“Sparring?”

“A door.”

“Really?”

“A very sharp door.”

She glanced at him then, and his mouth twitched.

“You enjoy being difficult,” she said.

“I enjoy seeing you.”

A pause. Her hands stilled, breath caught between one heartbeat and the next.

“You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Then I won’t.” A beat. “Unless you want me to.”

By the fifth visit—something about bruised ribs and “falling down”—Y/N was no longer convinced he had any true ailments at all.

Which is when she began to notice the pattern.

Every excuse was measured. A scrape on the right elbow just deep enough to require her attention. A cough that never quite returned once her tea reached his lips. He was never dramatic, never demanding. He didn’t beg for her time; he simply made her curious.

And curiosity was a dangerous thing in a place like this.

They were tucked behind the stables where no one came at this hour — too far from the scholar’s garden, too shadowed for courtiers, too ordinary for the royal sons of heaven.

But that’s what made it safe.

Jake leaned against the wooden beam, arms crossed lazily. His outer robe was half-unfastened, exposing the ivory collar of his undershirt, still damp from sword practice. Heeseung sat on an overturned water barrel, balancing a twig between his fingers like a fan. Sunghoon was the only one who remained standing, back to them, eyes on the cloudless horizon.

It had been quiet. But Jake, as usual, couldn’t let it stay that way.

“How’s your third fever this week?” he asked, voice dry.

Sunghoon didn’t turn.

“Gone,” he replied simply.

“Hmm. A miracle,” Heeseung added. “Must be that genius nurse in the infirmary. What’s her name again?”

“Y/N,” Jake supplied, the name slipping off his tongue like he’d been waiting to say it. “The one you pretend not to look at.”

Sunghoon’s shoulders rose — barely. Controlled. Still, his silence cracked the air like a blade drawn slowly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said.

Heeseung grinned. “You’ve had a cut, a cough, bruised ribs, and now a migraine. All in six days. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were fighting wild boars on the palace roof.”

“Or,” Jake said, pushing off the beam, circling him now, “you’re just in love with a girl who smells like camphor and violet water.”

At that, Sunghoon turned. Slowly. The sun lit one side of his face and cast the other into shadow — one eye unreadable, the other glinting like a secret.

“You think this is love?”

Heeseung shrugged. “We think it’s something. Don’t you?”

Jake gave him a meaningful look. “You show up to practice late, you disappear after council lessons, and you flinch when her name is mentioned.”

“I do not flinch.”

“Sunghoon,” Heeseung said carefully, tapping the edge of his boot against the barrel, “you’re the son of the Emperor. Not just any noble boy with a soft heart and an empty title. You don’t get to fall for someone just because she wraps your hand in silk and scolds you when you won’t rest.”

A beat passed. No one breathed.

Then Sunghoon said, very quietly:

“I know.”

And something in his voice silenced even Jake.

He wasn’t denying it anymore. Wasn’t laughing, wasn’t dodging. There was no smirk, no clever retort. Just a kind of quiet devastation, like a vase you see fall before it hits the ground — the knowledge that it’s already shattered.

“But I think about her,” he continued, voice barely above a whisper. “Everywhere. In court. On the practice grounds. When I try to sleep. I see her hands folding herbs, her lips when she speaks, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she thinks no one’s looking—”

“Gods,” Jake muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re doomed.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Heeseung sighed. “And what exactly is your plan? Keep faking injuries until someone catches on? What then? You’ll get her dismissed. Or worse.”

“I don’t have a plan.”

Jake leaned in, all sarcasm gone from his tone. “Then you better get one. Because this—this isn’t just a passing interest, is it?”

Sunghoon looked down at his hands. Pale, unmarked. The cut she stitched had healed already. But the memory of her touch had not. He could still feel her thumb against the bone of his wrist, soft and steady. As if he wasn’t dangerous at all.

As if he were just a boy.

“She sees me,” he said. “Not the title. Not the weight. Just me.”

“That’s what makes it dangerous,” Heeseung said gently.

Jake exhaled, long and slow, then clapped a hand to Sunghoon’s shoulder.

“Well,” he said, tone brightening with mock cheer, “if we’re going down, might as well go beautifully. Just… try not to fall off a roof next time, yeah?”

Sunghoon almost smiled.

“No promises.”

The palace was quieter in the mornings — a kind of hush that clung to the marble floors and whispered along the silk tapestries. Even the birds outside seemed to know not to sing too loud. In the East Wing, where few dared to wander without purpose, the apothecarian’s room remained still, perfumed with crushed herbs and sun-warmed parchment. Y/N had long made peace with the silence there. It filled the corners others found empty. She liked it, preferred it — until he began visiting.

At first, Prince Sunghoon had been a curiosity. Now, he was a habit. One she couldn’t afford, and yet, didn’t wish to break.

She was midway through grinding dried elderflowers into powder when his shadow slipped under the threshold — silent, and annoyingly graceful for someone so supposedly clumsy with “stairs,” “fencing accidents,” and “unexpected sword-related tripping hazards,” all of which had been excuses to find himself in her doorway these past weeks.

“Don’t you ever knock?” Y/N asked, not looking up.

“I tried.” His voice carried that unbothered lilt she hated that she loved. “But your door doesn’t make a very dramatic sound.”

She finally raised her gaze — and, as always, immediately regretted it. He wore blue today, deep like lapis, with gold stitching at the collar. He looked like a painting. Like something someone else should be allowed to look at. Not her.

“Let me guess,” she said, setting the mortar aside. “You’ve come to sprain your dignity again?”

“No.” His tone was mock-hurt. “Today, I come bearing peace offerings.”

He stepped inside and held out a bundle wrapped in deep crimson cloth. She frowned, but took it — her fingers brushing against his. A spark. Annoying. Predictable.

Inside was a tiny box carved from black walnut, the grain smooth and polished. She opened it carefully. Inside lay a pressed camellia — white, preserved perfectly in wax paper. It shouldn’t have meant anything. But her breath caught.

“You steal flowers now, Your Highness?”

“It wasn’t stealing,” he said, leaning against the wall like he belonged there. “It was a diplomatic transfer of assets. The camellias by the south pond were looking too proud. I humbled one.”

Y/N snorted despite herself. “And what makes you think I’d want this?”

“Because I noticed you keep dried petals tucked into your books,” he said, too casually. “And I thought — perhaps the apothecary who lives among crushed things might like something still whole.”

The words landed quietly between them, heavier than the flower.

Y/N turned away before he could see the heat in her face, busying herself with empty jars that needed no rearranging. “You should go,” she said, softening the words by not meaning them. “If your father finds out you’re sneaking around the herb rooms again—”

“He won’t,” Sunghoon replied, strolling deeper into the room, idly picking up a cork-stoppered vial. “No one follows me here. You’re the only one who bothers to talk to me for longer than a bow and a breath.”

She glanced at him sidelong. “That’s because I have no sense of self-preservation.”

“No,” he said, turning to face her properly. “It’s because you see me.”

Y/N froze.

There it was again — that subtle thread he always managed to pull. The one that tugged her thoughts loose, made her chest feel too full, her carefully composed indifference fray at the edges.

She recovered quickly. “You’re not very hard to see. You dress like a storm cloud at a wedding.”

He smiled. Slowly. “And you deflect like a cat cornered in sunlight.”

She looked down, trying not to. Trying not to give him the satisfaction of knowing how easily he undid her, just by standing there, just by bringing her quiet things and asking for nothing. Or pretending to.

“You can’t keep doing this,” she said after a moment. Her voice was steady, but only just. “Bringing me things. Spending time here.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” She turned to face him. “Because it means something.”

His gaze softened, the jest in him gentled. “It already means something,” he said. “The difference is—I’m not afraid of that.”

Y/N’s breath trembled before she could catch it. The truth was, she was afraid. Not of him. Of what he made her want.

The room felt too quiet then. The walls too close. She hated how much she wanted him to stay.

She didn’t stop him when he sat across from her on the low bench by the window, nor when he rested his elbow on the table, propping his chin in his palm like a boy too young to be royal, too sincere to be a prince.

“Tell me what you’re working on,” he said.

“You’ll be bored.”

“I’m already bored,” he replied. “That’s why I’m here.”

She hesitated. Then reached for a bundle of dried angelica root. “It’s a formula for headaches. Not that you nobles ever suffer from such mundane ailments.”

“On the contrary,” he said. “Palace life is a headache.”

She looked at him again, and this time, allowed herself to smile — just a little. He smiled back, like it was the only thing he needed today.

Outside, the sun crawled along the stone floor. The silence returned, not unwelcome, but newly charged — no longer an absence, but a presence.

And when he left — hours later, after they’d spoken of everything and nothing, after she’d almost, almost leaned too close — he left another camellia on her desk. This one pink.

And Y/N sat there long after the quiet reclaimed the room, staring at the flower, and wondering which would be her undoing first: the silence… or the boy who kept breaking it.

It had rained that morning— one of those patient, whispering rains that speak not to the ears but to the bones— making everything soft and grave, as though the earth itself bowed its head. The palace corridors, built of quiet and secrets, gleamed faintly with light that had not quite forgiven the clouds.

The apothecary wing, tucked in its solemn corner, held stillness like a breath. Y/N stood at her worktable, grinding valerian root with the sort of focus born only of desire to forget. She knew he would come. He always did. Before she heard him, she felt him—a shift in the air, the drop in her stomach that never warned, only reminded.

“You’re early,” she said, not lifting her gaze.

“You sound disappointed,” came his reply—low, silk-lined, already smiling.

She ground the root with more purpose. “I’m not. Only concerned. Your appearances are beginning to resemble habits.”

“I’m told habits become sins,” he mused, stepping further in. “And I do enjoy sinning, when it leads me here.”

Y/N looked up, against her better judgment. He stood with the storm still clinging to his cloak, a soft sheen to his hair, lashes damp from the air’s affection. And that face—he wore it like a mask of royalty, but his eyes betrayed him every time. Too honest. Too intent.

“Cloak off,” she muttered. “The floors are older than your lineage.”

With a theatrical sigh, Sunghoon complied. “How tragic, to be bested by floorboards.” He hung the garment neatly by the door, revealing a simpler tunic beneath—though even his simplicity was threaded with gold. A boy born of thrones pretending to be common.

She turned back to her bench, her fingers now arranging glass vials. “I should forbid you.”

He approached quietly, placing something beside her hand—a small, folded parchment. She opened it. Inside, between wax paper, lay forget-me-nots. Bruised blue, delicate as breath.

“They grow by the east garden wall,” he said. “No one ever looks. I thought of you.”

She swallowed. Her hands, traitorous things, lingered too long on the stem.

“What do you want from me?” she asked, softer than before.

Sunghoon leaned on the edge of her table. “Nothing,” he said, “you do not already give me freely.”

“That’s dangerous talk.”

“I’ve never feared danger.”

“You should.”

“I do,” he said. “But I fear you more.”

She dared glance up again. Mistake. He was too near. Too near and too beautiful and too aware. His smile did not ask—it confessed.

“Your Highness,” she said, voice barely spoken, barely hers. “This is madness.”

He tilted his head. “Then let us go mad together.”

Before she could reply, the world shifted—sharp as a blade drawn in sleep. A knock. Firm. Two strikes against the heavy door.

Her heart caught flame. Sunghoon moved faster than breath. To the back wall, where apothecaries kept their less lawful secrets, and she, without speaking, reached under the second shelf. A hidden panel. It clicked open. He vanished.

By the time she turned, her hands had already remembered calm. The High Steward’s assistant entered—neat, bloodless, and suspicious.

“Apothecarian,” he said, “the Empress’s physician requires belladonna.”

“Of course,” she replied, not smiling. “It’s ready.”

She retrieved the sealed vial. “Two drops, no more. It is a generous poison.”

He took it, then paused. “I thought I heard voices.”

She let her lashes fall. “Dried herbs whisper, when they settle. They are not polite.”

His lips twitched. He left.

She waited. Waited—until the silence returned to its rightful shape.

The panel creaked. Sunghoon stepped out, brushing cobwebs off his shoulder.

“Herbs whisper?” he said.

“Do not ever make me lie like that again.”

He looked at her—not with amusement this time, but with something gentler. Almost reverent.

“You risked yourself.”

“You would’ve done the same.”

He stepped toward her, his expression rare and unfamiliar. Stripped of wit.

“I’ll stop,” he whispered. “If you ask.”

The room stood still. Even the tinctures held their breath.

But she—she said nothing.

A quiet exhale left his lungs. He stepped closer, not touching, never touching. His eyes were dark and steady. His lips slightly parted, like he wanted to say something else — or kiss her instead.

“Next time,” he said, “I’ll bring violets.”

And yet, the next time Sunghoon came to see her, he broke his promise — and brought no violets.

Y/N no longer startled at the sound of his boots on the stone. Her breath always caught, but she no longer flinched.

Sunghoon had a manner of entering her space as if it were a secret they shared. He never announced himself loudly. He would lean a shoulder against the doorway, gloved fingers smoothing over the doorframe like it was a violin string, something to coax sound from. His voice, low and calm, carried the weight of meaning only she could hear.

"Tell me," he said once, eyes trained on the steam rising from a copper pot, "do you ever mix something too beautiful to use?"

Y/N glanced up, wary of the trick behind the question. “Sometimes,” she said. “And sometimes I make it just to see it undone.”

He smiled — one of those half-smiles that never touched his mouth, only his eyes. “Like poetry. Or politics.”

They talked. Always. Yet always around the thing.

Each word was a petal plucked and dropped, an offering, a risk. There was a strange formality between them, as if they had signed a treaty neither remembered writing, and it held — barely — by the virtue of long, drawn glances and averted eyes.

She should not have liked how often he stayed. Or how he never came without a token. Once, a thin chain of silver, smooth as river water. Another time, a piece of pale blue sea glass. “I found it on the windowsill,” he had said. “Or perhaps it was meant for you.”

He didn’t ask to stay. But he did.

Tonight, it was nearing dusk. The sky beyond the narrow slats of the window had turned pale with lilac — that sharp color of confession — and the wind scratched at the stones. Y/N moved quietly between shelves of vials and scrolls, her fingers absently arranging things that were already arranged.

She could feel him.

He had been sitting at her worktable for nearly twenty minutes, one leg crossed over the other, running his thumb along the edge of a small, leather-bound book he hadn’t opened.

“You know,” he said, his voice sudden in the silence, “if I were less restrained, I might steal a bottle or two. Something to fake my own death. Or sleep for a hundred years.”

Y/N exhaled, slow. “And what would that accomplish?”

He tilted his head. “It might buy me time.”

She turned her back to him. The scent of clove and crushed rosehips masked her disquiet.

“You already steal too much,” she said, her voice cooler than intended. “You take my hours.”

That made him laugh — a sound like snow melting too fast.

“But you never ask me to leave.”

She turned then, the twilight catching in her lashes. “Would you, if I did?”

He looked up at her. Really looked.

“No.”

There was a beat — long, strange, reverberating.

The room pressed in with its warmth, the scent of boiling thyme, the hush of wind through stone. Outside, the palace was a thousand windows lit with a thousand lies. Inside, the air between them crackled — but softly, the way a fire does when no one is watching.

He rose, slowly, as though standing undid something inside him.

“I brought something,” he said, reaching into his coat.

Y/N’s breath hitched. The offerings always frightened her more than his gaze. A man like him — born to the edge of crowns and war councils — should not know how to choose soft things. But he did.

He placed the object in her hand. It was a ring of carved wood, shaped like a lily, the grain polished until it glowed like honey.

“I saw it,” he said simply, “and thought of your fingers.”

Y/N did not reply. She couldn’t. Not with her throat tightening.

Sunghoon leaned a little closer — closer than the day before. His voice dropped into something just above a hush.

“Will you ever tell me the truth?” he asked. “If I asked for something dangerous.”

She met his eyes — foolishly. It was always a mistake, but one she made again and again.

“What is it you’d ask for this time?”

He didn’t smile this time.

“Your want.”

The words were clean. Precise. Unflinching.

Y/N held her breath so tightly it hurt her ribs. She wanted to step back, to be clever, to vanish into tinctures and linens and respectable restraint. But all she could say — weak and scalding — was:

“You wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

Sunghoon's mouth curved, slowly.

“No,” he said. “But I’d like the chance to try.”

And then he was gone. The door clicked shut behind him like a confession swallowed.

Y/N stood alone in the warm hush of her chamber, her heart knocking against the ribs that kept it captive. The ring sat in her palm, delicate and treacherous. Like him.

Like her.

She closed her fist around it.

The apothecary’s workroom lay quiet beneath the weight of late afternoon, gold and shadow laced across the stone floor in slow, flickering patterns. The air smelled of dried rosemary and orange peel, warm and crisp, as though the walls themselves had absorbed the scents and refused to let them go. Y/N was slicing valerian root with studied precision, the motion mechanical, her thoughts far from the blade. She had not seen Sunghoon in days.

And yet, it was the memory of the last time that haunted her most.

He had come empty-handed, no violets, no little token tucked behind his back or cradled in his palm. Only his voice, low and honey-warm, and his eyes — luminous, exhausted, pleading for something he hadn’t dared name. She had been laughing at some dry, clever nothing he’d said, her fingers stained green from herbs, when the door opened with a hush, not a bang — but it was worse that way. Quieter things cut deeper.

She didn’t hear them at first. Only the change in Sunghoon’s eyes — that flash of something gone cold — made her turn.

Heeseung stood just inside the threshold, expression unreadable, though a shadow of amusement danced at the edge of his mouth like a secret he hadn’t decided whether to keep. Jake lingered just behind him, eyes sweeping the room with a curious sort of slowness, like someone looking for the shape of something they already suspected.

“Didn’t know you’d taken up herbal studies, brother,” Heeseung said softly. Not biting. Not warm.

Y/N went still. Not a dramatic gasp, not a flinch — but the kind of stillness born of instinct, like a deer in tall grass.

She did not look at Sunghoon. She looked at her hands. She looked at the flask of steeped feverfew she hadn’t yet poured. She looked at the distance between her and the prince and found it suddenly, unforgivably small.

They didn’t look at her face.

That was what made her throat tighten.

They looked at the curve of her spine, at the disarray of the worktable behind her, at the ribbon coming undone from the end of her braid. Jake’s gaze caught on the worn edge of the stool where Sunghoon had been sitting. Heeseung’s gaze drifted to the windows — closed. The door — bolted before they'd arrived.

There was no accusation. Just awareness.

Sunghoon, to his credit, did not falter. His voice was the same careless silk he always used when pretending not to care.

“A tincture,” he said, lifting an empty bottle like a jest. “Terribly dramatic cough, as I’m sure you’ve both heard.”

Heeseung arched a brow, not smiling, not frowning. Just seeing.

Jake tilted his head. “And only our palace apothecary could soothe it, of course.”

There was no laughter. Only the echo of it, implied.

Y/N moved before she could think. She turned from the table — not toward them, not toward him. Just away. She gathered stray petals with trembling fingers and tucked them into the herb press, not trusting her voice, not daring to exist more loudly than the silence had allowed.

She had not looked at Sunghoon. She had not spoken. She had wrapped herself in the invisible distance that women like her were always meant to maintain in palaces like these — the veil between the bloodlines and the hands that tended them.

And now, in the dim, the world was quieter without him. But it did not feel safe. It felt like exile.

She did not go near the eastern hallways where he often walked. She passed his shadow in the garden without turning her head. She handed tinctures to court ladies with her voice like poured water, never lingering. And though no one said anything — though Heeseung and Jake made no scandal, no whisper behind fans or folded letters — she knew what the silence meant.

Sunghoon, for his part, did not relent.

She found, three days after the visit, a folded slip of paper on her table — the corner weighed down with a smooth, black riverstone. She told herself not to read it. She did.

“If you must pretend not to see me, then at least let me look. You’re in everything I notice anyway.”

Her hands had trembled the entire morning.

Then came a sprig of lavender tucked beside her mortar. A note scrawled in a lazy, boyish script: “This smells like how you speak. Calm, but with the threat of storms.”

And finally — this morning — a book.

Worn, water-stained, slipped between her ledgers. The cover, a faded brown. Inside, pressed between pages, a feather. Pale, grey-blue. His writing on the inside cover:

“I found this and thought of you. Even when you avoid me, I find you.”

She nearly wept.

But she could not go to him. She dared not. She saw the way Heeseung watched her now. The way Jake’s eyes softened with pity.

Sunghoon was the emperor’s son. She was a woman who smelled of rosemary and flame, whose hands healed but did not belong at court.

And yet—

And yet, when she heard his voice at the edge of her door one evening, whispering her name as though it was something holy, her resolve crumbled like dried petals.

“Y/N.” A whisper. “I know you’re in there.”

She did not respond. Her breath caught in her throat.

A pause.

“I think of you at night. When the palace is quiet. When the oil lamps make everything look like candlelight. I think of you every time I walk through the gardens, and I hope — I hope you’ll look at me again. I’m not asking for scandal. Just… a moment. A breath. Yours.”

Silence.

“I never cared what Heeseung or Jake thought. But I care that you won’t meet my eyes anymore.”

Her hand rested on the doorframe. Her body leaned toward him before her mind gave it permission.

“I feel,” he murmured on the other side, “as though I’ve done something terribly wrong. And yet, I’d do it again, just to hear you laugh.”

A throb in her chest.

She stayed silent. But her hand drifted to the door, fingers pressed to the wood where his voice had lingered. And he—on the other side—rested his palm in the same place.

No words.

Only that stillness.

Only that ache.

He left soon after. She heard his steps retreat, slower than usual.

But when she opened the door ten minutes later — the hall empty, the lanterns flickering soft — she found a single violet pressed to the floor.

A promise. A waiting.

And for the first time in days, she allowed herself to smile.

It was not a clean absence.

Y/N did not vanish in the elegant way of snow melting at dawn, nor in the dignified manner of a flower curling back into itself at dusk. She withdrew with a surgeon’s precision — averted eyes, shortened words, missing hours. Her distance was quiet, but brutal. A thousand tiny cuts beneath the surface.

And Sunghoon was bleeding.

He had tried to be patient. Dignified. He had tried, in the first day, to believe she was simply tired. Busy. The second, he convinced himself she was angry — justly so — and would come around. The third day, he stood at the far edge of the apothecary’s corridor like a man waiting for an execution, watching the door remain closed, listening to the echo of her not coming.

By the fourth day, he began to unravel.

There was a peculiar kind of madness that accompanied wanting someone you could not touch. He had endured the ceremony of court, the empty chatter of noblewomen, the endless scrolls of diplomatic grievances — all with her ghost pressing against his ribs. Her voice, her frown, her mouth — her mouth — all of it lived behind his eyes now. Memory had sharpened her into a weapon.

He saw her everywhere. In the slope of a wrist at dinner. In the laugh of a passing servant. In the lavender light before morning. And it was never her. Not her.

She had ruined solitude for him.

He could no longer sit in silence without imagining what she might be doing — where she stood, if she was thinking of him, if she hated him now. And worse — far worse — he feared she did not hate him at all, only feared him. Feared them.

As she should.

Because what they had — what they had almost had — was blasphemy. An apothecarian and a prince. A quiet girl with ink-stained fingers and a man raised in silk and distance.

But he had tasted the idea of her. And now everything else was ash.

He did not sleep. Not truly. When his body did surrender to exhaustion, he dreamt in fever. Of her breath against his throat. Her voice saying his name in a tone no court would dare speak it. He woke with the taste of longing like metal on his tongue.

He kept the ribbon she had dropped. Blue, frayed, unremarkable — and now the holiest thing he owned.

He would take it out at night, when the palace was still and the moon lay against the windows like a watching eye. He would hold it between his fingers and imagine the weight of her hair, the curve of her neck, the warmth of her cheek if he ever dared brush it.

His thoughts were obscene. Not for their vulgarity, but for their intimacy.

He thought of her hands — not on him — but doing ordinary things. Threading a needle. Stirring a tincture. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He thought of her voice in the morning, low and rasped with sleep, and what it might sound like laughing beside him in bed.

He thought of her in every version of a life he was forbidden to have.

It made him furious. And hopeless. And alive in a way he had never been before.

She had become a wound he did not want to heal.

And so he found himself haunting the spaces she might occupy. Not speaking, just… hoping. A glimpse. A shadow. A sigh. He would take anything.

He told himself he would not go to her again. He had already given her too many chances to break him.

But then the rain came — thick, sudden, angry — and he remembered the way she never ran from storms.

And that was all it took.

He did not think. He ran. Not for the court. Not for the family name. Not for dignity.

He ran for her. Always, always for her.

And if she did not want him — he would hear it from her lips. Not her absence. Not her silence.

Her voice.

If he was going to be destroyed by love, it would be by her hand. And he would thank her for the mercy of it.

The rain had begun sometime past dusk — first as a whisper, then a warning. The sky bruised violet and steel. The clouds sagged with a weight they could no longer bear.

And Y/N ran.

Not fast. Not foolishly. But with a resolve that burned through the marrow of her bones. She had meant to go only as far as the conservatory’s side door — meant only to clear her thoughts, to feel air that wasn’t thick with dread and guilt and his name in her chest.

But she had wandered too far.

And he had followed.

The storm cracked open overhead, not loud — not yet — but with a rolling growl like something ancient waking up.

Y/N turned only when she heard his voice, ragged against the wind.

“Y/N.”

She froze, the syllables like a thread caught at her spine. She had not heard that voice in days. She had avoided him. Faithfully. Brutally. She had turned corridors. Sent messengers in her place. Hidden behind propriety and fear and trembling silence.

And yet here he stood.

Soaked. Disheveled. Breathing as if he’d been running after something he could no longer bear to lose.

“What do you want, Sunghoon?” she asked, without turning.

“I want—” his breath caught on the storm — “I want to know what crime I committed that was worse than loving you.”

Her eyes stung. Rain or not.

“You don’t get to say that,” she said, voice low. “Not when it can ruin us both.”

“I would be ruined a thousand times over,” he said, stepping closer, “if it meant one more moment with you.”

The wind dragged his hair into his eyes. His cloak was soaked through; he hadn’t brought a hood.

“You are the Emperor’s son,” she said bitterly. “And I — I’m the girl who measures out lavender in teaspoons and brews fever tinctures for people who forget my name.”

“You think I forget your name?” His voice cracked. “You think I forget the way you speak when you’re tired, or the way you smell like chamomile even when you’re angry? You think I don’t remember every time you touched my wrist without meaning to, or the way you never look at me the same way twice?”

She turned then, water streaming down her cheeks, rain or tears — she couldn’t tell anymore.

“It’s not fair,” she whispered.

“No,” he said, voice thick. “It isn’t.”

Lightning shattered the sky in the distance — silver slicing through blue.

“Do you know what it’s been like?” His voice trembled with the storm. “To be watched every moment? To have nothing of my own — not even my heart? And then to find it — you — and realize even that I cannot keep?”

Her chest ached. Her hands trembled at her sides.

“You were never supposed to come into my life,” she said. “Not like this.”

“And yet,” he said, a crooked, broken smile on his lips, “I have memorized your footsteps in the hallway. I know the exact hour the light hits your table in the morning. I carry the sound of your laugh like a prayer.”

“Stop,” she begged, voice splintering. “Please.”

He took a step forward.

“Do you want me to?”

Her silence was a wound.

The rain beat against the marble, against the ivy-covered walls, against the skin of two people too young to know how to carry love like this, and too old to pretend it didn’t matter.

“You make me want to be reckless,” he said, quietly now. “You make me hope, even when I know better. You make me believe I was made for something more than duty.”

“I’m afraid,” she admitted.

“I’m already afraid,” he replied. “Being with you wouldn’t change that. But at least I’d be afraid with you.”

She didn’t move.

And then he whispered, “Tell me to go. Look me in the eye and say you feel nothing and I will never trouble you again.”

The air hung between them like the breath before a kiss.

Her lips parted — but no lie could form.

Instead, she said: “If you stay, Sunghoon, we fall. You and I — we lose everything.”

“I’d rather fall with you than rise without you.”

And finally — finally — she closed the distance.

Rain between them. Fire within.

She touched his face, trembling. He leaned into her palm like a man starved for warmth.

Their kiss — when it came — was not soft.

It was desperate. It was furious. It was years of loneliness unraveling in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

The storm howled on.

But in that moment, neither of them heard it.

author's note: hiiiiiii! so… surprise?! I decided to write this short story because, as you can probably tell, I became obsessed with The Apothecary Diaries (I fell in love with Jinshi and my best friend—shout out to heejamas—and I haven’t been able to think about anything else).

after I finished the frog episode (if you know, you know), I dreamed of Sunghoon as the emperor’s son and I just knew I had to write something about it.

this is my first time writing a short story, but I think I managed to put everything I wanted into words! I hope you enjoy it—it's very different from what I’m used to writing, but it was necessary to remind me that I love writing and that it’s a hobby that brings me so much joy!

#enhypen sunghoon #sunghoon #sunghoon x y/n #sunghoon x reader #enhypen au #enhypen fanfiction #park sunghoon #park sungho x reader #enhypen romance #enhypen fluff

541 notes · View notes

itsabird-itsaplane-nopejustabird · 7 months ago

Text

DPxDC Prompt

I've had this idea for a while (since seeing that art of Johnny and Kitty robbing a bank so Danny can get Top Surgery lol) but I haven't even had the brain to work on my own fic recently (sorry about that btw) so I'm writing this instead

So the concept:

T4T Johnny and Kitty, who died in the 80s after running away together.

Johnny was the kid of some rich asshole automobile mogul from Bristol, and Kitty was one of the workers' kids from the Narrows. They become friends, fall in love, both realize they're trans around the same time and then decide to run. They know that being trans on top of tax bracket difference gives them almost no chance of making it. Johnny steals a bike and a fuck-ton of money from his parents, and Kitty's parent(s) helps them leave.

They're still toxic and spiteful as hell, but nothing the other does can change the fact that they know and understand each other better than anyone else could.

They travel around the country being menaces together for a while until they decide to settle down in a strange city called Amity Park. They figured it could handle a couple more anomalies. But before they can get there, they get into a bike wreck with their final thoughts being of each other and Johnny specifically cursing his bad luck in life.

The next thing they know, they're in the infinite realms being given the chance to stay together and the freedom to simply exist with no strings attached. (Other than each other cause I firmly believe that they're mutually the others' obsession)

About 20 years have passed, a portal to their old world is permanently open and this scrawny little ass kid ghost that they've never even heard of keeps stopping them from going through it.

It isn't until Johnny actually starts paying attention a few months into it that he notices that first, the little shit can actually fight, and second, HE WAS FIGHTING THEM WITH A BINDER ON. (Johnny also vaguely wonders why Danny looks so much like his old neighbor Brucie, but that's less important than the binder thing). Johnny lets out the universal ghost fight timeout signal and vaguely explains the situation to Danny, who seems confused about the noise he made and why it made him stop.

Johnny gets Kitty to spread the word that if the timeout isn't called off by the next morning, stay TF away until they get an all-clear.

That night, *after yelling at him a bit*, he starts teaching Danny how to reshape his ghost form to his preference and even his vocal cords.

From there, Johnny and Kitty sorta ghost adopt him as a sibling and then take him to Frostbite to make sure his T-shots are ecto compatible.

(I hope this was coherent it's 4am for me and I haven't slept lol)

#dc x dp #danny phantom #dp x dc #johnny 13 #kitty dp #t4t #trans danny #tw: unsafe binding #damian and danny are twins #dcxdp #dpxdc

1K notes · View notes

angellily920 · 28 days ago

Text

Siberian Nights

Pairing: John Walker x reader

Oneshot... John Walker Masterlist

Word Count: 868

Warnings: none.

Summary: One bed trope! Stuck with John in Siberia!

Harsh, cold winds smacked against you and John as you trudged to the nearest hotel. Stomping the snow off your boots, you and John burst through the doors, warmth flooding your senses. John stalked toward the front desk and started speaking to the man, who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but talking to John.

"English?! Do you speak-ugh, forget it!" John shoved his hand into his pocket and slapped some euros on the desk. "A room. Two beds!" John held up two fingers to get his point across.

Your eyes traced John's angry expression as the man behind the desk grabbed the money. John turned to you, soft snow crystals nestled in his hair and beard before pointing to the man. "Can you believe it? He doesn't speak English!"

"Well, we are in Siberia, John." You roll your eyes. "I think the snow froze your thinking."

The man behind the desk held out a key, and you gently took it from him. "Thank you."

As you and John started to walk away, the man started to mutter under his breath. "Crazy American."

John's eyes narrowed, and he tapped your shoulder. "Did you hear that? He can speak English!" He went to turn back around, but you grabbed his tactical belt and dragged him to the room.

"Come on." You shoved the key into the lock and opened the door.

The room was small, but it was better than freezing to death outside. A singular bed lay against the wall and you frowned. John's voice came behind you in a deep rumble.

"Guess we're getting cozy tonight. "

You elbowed his stomach, causing him to let out a pained exhaled. "No funny business Walker."

Both of you took turns taking showers and getting out of your cold clothes. John had suggested you both "conserve" water by showering together but you gave him a hard pass. You tried to fiddle with the comms but you couldn't get anything. Being stranded in Siberia was totally on your bucket list. John exited the bathroom wearing a soft faded Army t shirt and some gray sweatpants. His hair was still damp and you watched as a few water droplets trailed down his neck before disappearing into his shirt. He looked tired.

"Hey." You toss him the comms. "Couldn't get anything."

He caught them with ease. he rolled them between his fingers before setting them down. "We'll try again in the morning. We need to rest." He slipped into the lifting the covers over himself. You turned off the light and settled in one of the corner chairs.

After a few minutes, John peeked his head up. He blinked a few times in the darkness before settling on you. "You okay?" His voice was soft, no hint of his usual cockiness.

"Yeah, I'm okay." Were you though? Your mind was racing with all sorts of scenarios about how the mission could have gone better or how you were gonna get out of Siberia. John grunted in response before sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes.

"I'm not buying it. But I promise we'll figure everything out. You're not hurt, are you?" His voice took a concerned edge. "Frostbite? Hypothermia?"

You shook your head. "No, no, I'm fine."

He seemed to take a relieved exhale. "Good, I don't like seeing you hurt. Now would you come to bed, so we can sleep."

It had been a long time since you've slept by someone. You decided not to risk it. "I, um, I'll keep watch."

John sighed and ran a hand over his tired face. "Don't make me go over there and drag you. I won't bite...unless you want me to." He chuckled softly but when he saw no signs of amusement on your face he grunted. "Sorry, just come to bed."

You could see the soft reflection of the moon in his blue irises and you couldn't say no. You made your way over to the bed and John quickly tucked you against him. The bed was small so you really had no choice. Warmth blossomed against your body and you found yourself enjoying it. John's breath tickled the back of your neck.

"I've got you. Go to sleep."

You decided not to fight sleep any longer and relaxed against him. He hummed in approval and gently tightened his grip. "Good girl."

~~~~~

Sharp banging startled the both of you awake. John instinctively pulled you tight against him as he blinked the sleep from his eyes. His beard gently scratched the back of your neck as he shushed quietly against your hairline. The banging happened again, this time followed with a disgruntled, "It Bucky, open up."

The both of you relaxed and John quickly moved to open the door. Bucky was standing there, a smug look on his face. "You two okay?"

You rubbed the sleep out of your eyes and John nodded his head and spoke, his voice still raspy from sleep. "Yeah, we're fine. Thanks for coming to get us. How'd you find us?"

"Your suits have trackers." Bucky tapped the doorframe and clapped his hands together. "Jet's outside. be ready in 10."

He was about to walk away but he turned around and said. "Also, did you know they speak English here? Crazy."

#john walker #john walker x reader #john walker fanfic #thunderbolts #thunderbolts john walker #john walker positive post #wyatt russell #one bed trope #thunderbolts x reader #marvel fanfic

336 notes · View notes

gojoscumrag · 25 days ago

Text

ღ his best friend’s sister - part 3

> part 1 | part 2

warnings: sex, bondage, gagging, fingering, dark!gojo, attempted sex in front of geto (no incest), manipulation

You hadn’t left your room in two days. Gojo hadn’t let you. You were sore, ruined, marked in places no one else would ever see. There were bite bruises on your thighs, fingerprints on your hips, his cum dried between your legs more than once. Every time you tried to leave, he pulled you back into bed, face down, knees apart, mouth too tired to beg anymore.

“Just one more time,” he whispered against your neck, dragging the fat head of his cock along your messy slit. “You can go after this.”

But he never let you go. He fed you stolen snacks from the kitchen and made you wear nothing but his old black t-shirt. He kissed your wrists when the belt left red lines. He pulled your panties back up after he fucked you and told you not to shower. He wanted his scent to cling to you like proof.

You were his. You’d always been his. And now, Geto knew.

He hadn’t spoken to you since he found Gojo between your legs. He hadn’t come back to the dorm. The silence felt louder than yelling. And Gojo—Gojo was smiling.

“Now he knows,” he whispered while he knelt between your legs again, hands firm on your thighs as he spread you open wide. “Now he can’t pretend.”

You whimpered as he slid back inside your raw heat, still sensitive, still dripping with the last time. “Satoru—please—”

“You think I don’t see it?” he growled, thrusting deep and slow. “The way he watches you? The way he tries to protect you from me?”

He leaned down, pressing his weight over you, eyes glowing like frostbite. “But he can’t. Not anymore. You’re not his to protect.”

You cried out as he hit your sweet spot, legs trembling.

“He gave up that right the first time you crawled into my bed and begged me to ruin you.” He fucked you harder. Meaner. With no mercy.

“And now?” His lips brushed your ear. “Now I want you ruined forever.”

Later Gojo made you wear his shirt again and nothing else down the hall to the dorm kitchen. It was 3 a.m. The place was quiet, but still your thighs were sticky, the shirt barely covered anything and his cum was drying down your inner thigh.

“You don’t have to do this,” you whispered as he trailed behind you, eyes fixed on your ass like he owned it.

He grinned. “You need milk. And I want Suguru to see what you look like when I’m done with you.”

You froze. “Satoru—”

“He should know.” Gojo’s hand slid between your thighs, two fingers pressing up into your swollen pussy. “He should see.”

You moaned softly, clinging to the counter.

“Just imagine him coming in now,” Gojo murmured, licking a stripe up your neck. “You bent over in the kitchen, dripping with my cum while I finger you like a toy.”

You squirmed, but his other hand held you still.

“And you’d let me. Wouldn’t you?” he growled. “You’d moan while he watched. You’d let me make you cum while your brother stood there helpless. Because I own you like you own me.”

You came like that, with your cheek pressed to the cold countertop. Gojo whispering filth in your ear and the threat of Geto catching you keeping your cunt soaking wet.

The next night he tied you down again. Tighter this time. Wrists cuffed to the bed with actual restraints. Ones he ordered online and picked up himself. You were gagged with your own panties now, mouth stuffed full while he kneeled beside you and ran his tongue slowly up your thighs.

There were cameras this time. Little red lights blinking from the dresser and the shelf. You struggled and Gojo just smiled.

“I’m not gonna post them,” he said. “They’re just for me. For when you’re gone. For when he takes you away.”

You made a desperate sound, eyes wide.

“Don’t worry,” he cooed, sliding two fingers inside you. “I’ll keep them safe. Just like I’ll keep you.” He kissed your stomach. “He’ll never let us stay like this. You know that.”

He fucked you slow and deep, like he was memorizing every inch from the inside out. One hand on your throat, the other holding your thighs open as your body arched for him without permission.

“I’ll have to take you,” he whispered. “We’ll run. Hide. Change names.”

You came without meaning to. Your cunt squeezed around him helplessly, slick and overstimulated. And Gojo, he smiled like a man possessed.

“Yeah,” he breathed, still buried inside you. “That’s what we’ll do.”

The next day Gojo leaned against your dorm door, smiling like the devil he was. A bite mark on his neck, scratches on his forearm. He didn’t even try to hide them. Suguru stood at the end of the hall silently with his arms crossed. For a long time neither of them spoke.

“You knew what you were doing,” Geto said lowly.

Gojo shrugged, eyes flicking down the hallway toward you. “So did she.”

“She’s my sister.”

“She’s not a child.”

Geto stepped closer and hissed, “That doesn’t make it better. You’re me. You’re the one person she should’ve been safe with.”

Gojo smiled wickedly, but empty. “She is safe. Safer than she’s ever been.”

“No, Satoru,” Geto said, voice shaking. “She’s not safe. She’s yours. That’s not the same thing.”

Later Gojo found you asleep. His shirt barely covering you, cheek pressed to his pillow. You smelled like him. You always smelled like him now.

He sat beside the bed, dragged a finger down your exposed thigh. “Your brother’s mad at me.”

You stirred. “He should be.”

“He said I’m dangerous for you.” He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Do you think I am?”

You didn’t answer. Because yes, he was. But you couldn’t leave and Gojo knew it.

The second confrontation came two days later. This time Geto didn’t wait. He kicked open Gojo’s dorm door and found you curled up in his bed, naked under the sheets, with Gojo shirtless beside you. You screamed. Gojo didn’t flinch.

“Suguru—”

“No,” Geto barked. “You don’t get to say anything.”

You grabbed the sheets and covered yourself, heart pounding. Gojo sat up slowly, expression calm.

“I told you to stay away from her,” Geto said, voice like ice.

Gojo stood, bare chest exposed, body covered in new scratches and lovebites. “And I told you it was too late.”

“You manipulated her.”

“She wanted me.”

Geto’s fists clenched. “She’s not some thing you get to claim just because you got to her first,” he growled.

“I didn’t ‘get to her,’” Gojo spat. “She’s not a prize. She’s mine because she chose me.”

“And what happens when she stops choosing you?” Geto’s voice cracked. “When she wakes up and realizes what you are?”

Gojo didn’t answer. Just stared with his gaze cold and jaw clenched. Because that was the only outcome he feared.

After Geto walked out, after the silence had sat thick and ugly for hours, you finally dressed yourself and left Gojo’s dorm. You found your brother sitting outside, smoke curling from the cigarette in his hand. He didn’t look at you.

“Why him?” he asked.

You sat beside him, hands trembling. “I don’t know.”

“Do you love him?”

You paused. “I think I do.”

“And if he ruins you?”

You closed your eyes. “Then I guess I was already ruined.”

Geto turned to you. Eyes full of grief, betrayal, and something worse. Pity. “You don’t have to stay with him.”

You bit your lip. “I don’t know how to leave.”

Geto didn’t argue. Didn’t scream. He just nodded. “This isn’t over.” And walked away.

The fallout didn’t happen in private. No, Gojo made sure of that.

You’d followed the sound of raised voices down the long hall of the training wing. Geto’s sharp, furious tone against Gojo’s low, dangerous calm. You turned the corner and froze. Geto was already in Gojo’s face. Jaw clenched and fists trembling.

“She’s not some fucking trophy you can parade around,” Geto spat.

“She’s mine,” Gojo said flatly. “You think I’m parading her? No. I’m protecting her. I’m loving her.”

“You’re possessing her.”

Gojo smiled, teeth flashing. “Is there a difference?”

Then he saw you. And that look in his eyes changed. It went hotter, crueler, more needing.

“Come here,” he said. You hesitated. “Come here, baby.”

Like a thread pulled tight, you obeyed. You stepped toward him slowly, trembling as Gojo pulled you in by the waist and turned you around, pressing your back flush to his chest, his arms caging you in place. His hand slid up under your shirt, braids of cursed energy tickling your skin. You gasped.

“She needs this,” Gojo said, staring straight into Geto’s wide, horrified eyes. “She needs me.”

His hand cupped your breast and his fingers curled around your nipple.

“Satoru—” you breathed, shame and arousal tangled in your throat.

He leaned down, kissing your neck, biting at the spot that always made you cry out. “Tell him. Tell your brother how much you need me.”

You didn’t speak. But your body betrayed you, arching back. Your breathing turned shallow, thighs pressed together as Gojo worshipped you in front of the one person who should never have seen this.

“Look at her,” Gojo whispered, voice almost reverent. “She’s so good for me. So perfect. You want to tell me to stop, Suguru? Look at her and say it.”

Geto’s jaw ticked and his hands curled into fists before he moved. He yanked you out of Gojo’s arms with a force that nearly made you fall. He shoved Gojo back so hard he hit the wall.

“Don’t you ever touch her like that again,” he growled, eyes burning. “Not like that. Not in front of me.”

Gojo wiped the blood from his lip. “Then don’t look.”

“She’s not a thing,” Geto snapped. “She’s not your proof of love. She’s not a fucking weapon in whatever fantasy you’ve built for yourself.”

Silence fell, cracked only by your shaking breath. A whisper fell from your lips, “I need to say something.”

Both of them turned to you.

“I’m always yours,” you said to Gojo, eyes shining. “You know that. I chose you. Over everyone. Even him.”

He stared, devoted and deranged.

“But I need my freedom, Satoru,” you said softly. “I need to breathe. I need to be able to walk away if I want to. And if you love me—really love me—you’ll let me go.”

Gojo’s chest rose and fell. His fists clenched and unclenched. A thousand thoughts flickered behind his eyes, none of them sane.

You stepped closer, fingertips brushing his. “But if you trap me—if you cage me—I’ll die. And I don’t think either of us can survive that.”

Another pause. Geto waited. You waited.

And Gojo… didn’t speak. He just stared at you like you were already gone.

#gojo satoru #gojo smut #satoru gojo #satoru gojo smut #satoru smut #gojo x reader #gojo x you #jjk smut #jjk x reader #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru x reader #satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen

195 notes · View notes