smoothed out slappy hours (teddyescher) wrote in oberyns,
smoothed out slappy hours
teddyescher
oberyns

ლ multifandom drabbles: november / december

various pairings/characters | bangtan, ikon, asoiaf, spica | pg to nc-17 | a total of about 3000 words
prompts from the asoiaf kink meme (spoilers for all books!), cuts from longer fics that might never be finished, parts from unworked series.


01. asoiaf. lyanna, ned. character death, mentions of blood.

The pain is unfathomable, excruciating beyond belief. It steals away anything with the barest resemblance to a breath, and leaves her heaving, teeth gritted, fingers grasping for dear life at the blood-soaked sheets beneath her. In the end, it is a reward all the same.

She gives up her life for the life of another.

"Here," she whispers, feebly reaching for the swaddle of cloth in the birthing woman's arms, ignoring the pale flashes of pain that shoot through her. "Bring him here." When the woman hesitates, gaze flickering to the maester who stands beside her, she knows what they fear. "I said, bring him!"

The woman hastily places the child in her arms. My child, she thinks wearily, as she pushes back the swaddling cloth, and presses a finger to his soft, warm cheek. He has no name. Not yet. Rhaegar had prayed for a girl, a baby girl to be the third to his other two children, Aegon and Rhaenys. A Visenya, with the silver and violet colourings of a Targaryen.

But this is her son. A single dark tuft of hair, grey eyes that remind her every last bit of the brother she'd lost, and the brother who now serves the man she'd inadventantly turned against. He is every bit a Stark, and it frightens her in the most curious way. He is the most beautiful thing she's ever seen.

"Leave," she says, voice hoarse, but loud enough to be heard by the occupants of the room. They scramble with barely a last glance, for who wants to be near when the rebellion's tides wash up against the tower as well?

"My little one," she whispers, and her son peers up at her, with those grey eyes, and she knows she will never get to see him grow. She will never get to see him hold his first sword, nor will she see him fall in love, nor will she clutch him close and tell him all about his family. "Be brave."

The door opens when she is close to forgetting herself, eyes falling shut with her son in her arms. Ned stands pale-faced, hand on the hilt of his greatsword. She knows that Ned knows just as well as she. A bed of blood, the smell of death a heavy tinge in the air, the infant that lies at her breast, as calm as the sea could be before the truest winter storm.

"Lyanna," he says, kneeling down beside her, immediately reaching to hold her hand. His voice shakes. "Lya."

"Ned," she says, and it is the voice of a little girl, the voice of young Lyanna Stark once more. Not a princess, not a lady, not a maiden fair. Just a scared little girl. "Please."

"I am here," he says, words firmer than before. He seats himself on the bed, despite the ruins that were once the sheets, now caked in the red that matches the streets of King's Landing below, and carefully wraps an arm around her. His scent is that of steel, of ice and steel and injury in itself, but she finds comfort in it, and in him. Her older brother, who has always protected her. He is no Brandon, and no Benjen, but Eddard Stark has always been there on the sidelines, watching, even if no one has ever noticed. "Lya."

"Promise me, Ned," she says, and it is all she can say. Ned's gaze flickers downwards, to the babe in her arms, and he nods, a curt motion that is the only thing holding him back. "Promise me."

"I promise, Lyanna," he says, and she has never loved her brother more in her entire life. "I swear it to you."

"His name," she says, "his name is Jon." And he will never know of his true birthright.

"Yes," says Ned, the word tumbling from his lips, his hand tightening in hers, "I will take care of him."

She smiles, a last time. Her beautiful son. Her strong brother. "Be brave," she breathes. She does not remember who she intends the words for.

And winter comes, as quickly as the summer had ended.






02. spica. boa/bohyung. part of the interhouse quidditch series!au.

it's always her. that same ravenclaw from her arithmancy classes. she always takes the back table in the corner of the library, a stack of books before her. her quill seems to never cease its effortless gliding across the parchment she's laid out on the table.

boa busies herself with a book she'd randomly pulled out from one of the shelves, and continues to observe. not stalk. this does not constitute stalking at all. or, well, she guesses it doesn't. but it's harmless, really. harmlessly observing the way she absently pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose with the back of her index finger, or the way she tucks the same strand of hair behind her ear every five minutes.

observations. that's all they are. no ulterior motives whatsoever.

mr. shim coughs lightly from behind her, and she nearly jumps. "i suggest you either sit down and stop blocking the runes shelves," he says, "or head for the exit."

boa fumbles with her bag, and somehow manages to steer herself over to where the lone girl is sitting. "hello," she says, and when has she ever been this tongue-tied over someone before? "mind if i join you?"

"oh, i. go ahead, i mean. it's cool." the stack of books is (gently) shoved aside to make space for boa's things.

there's a slight pause before boa says, "i'm boa, by the way."

"bohyung." the ravenclaw tugs her glasses off, and blinks. "did you want homework help, or something? that's usually what all the slytherins want whenever they come over to my table."

"your table?" the words fall out of boa's mouth before she can stop them. bohyung flushes. "i mean--i'm not. i just. you're always sitting here and i just wanted to say hello."

"oh." bohyung looks confused. it is an adorable kind of confused. boa decides she rather likes that. "hello, then?"

well. maybe this isn't going the way boa had planned (she hadn't planned this at all, to be honest). but it's a start, at least. it's a start.






03. ikon. yunhyung/bobby. inception!au. warnings for explicit content.

Don’t fuck around on the job, his very first mentor had told him, straight up, on the back of their first meeting. A cafe in Sinchon, the rain drizzling down around them as the crowd scattered about. He’d felt the water roll off the heels of his palms. He’d smelt the fresh aroma of the coffee in the cup sitting before him. Everything had been perfect.

His mentor had meant it both ways. Don’t trust anyone. And down here? You can’t even trust yourself.

He’s never been particularly good at listening. Bobby has wonderful hands.

Those hands, curving along the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, pressing down the creases and sliding along the seams, lighter than anything. It hadn’t been a dream. They’d fucked each other right into the mattress of his own hotel room, two hours after a butchered job and one hour after promising himself he wouldn’t repeat the same mistakes. Bobby had stepped in through the door, and smiled.

It hadn’t been a dream. Bobby left bearing marks, and he'd stayed bearing some of his own. It had been a foolish move. He’d thought that’d be their last job together. Bobby had smiled at him, kissed the back of his neck, and left his phone on the crumpled pillow.

Later, the phone had rung, the voice of their employer detailing a flight from Moscow to Tokyo direct. He never found out about the others. They’d taken separate flights. It had probably been for the better. He’d never found out what had happened to their extractor, the one who’d called them on the job in the first place. Still, probably for the better. They could never come close to his real team anyway.

Trust no one, his mentor had said, right before his mentor had shot him between the eyes.

Yunhyung had woken up, heart seizing in his throat.






04. asoiaf. arya/aegon, ned.

Mayhaps it is the will of the gods. No, thinks Ned, standing at the window of his solar, glancing out across the courtyard, across the greenery that stretches true, under the soft blanket of the whitened skies' leavings. It is most definitely the will of the gods.

That does not mean he has to like it.

Father, the letter had said, in familiar scrawling hand that had resisted the changing of the tides, I leave for the Free Cities by morning, and by the time you have found this letter, Aegon and I will be riding swift down the Kingsroad.

Hand in hand with a Targaryen she goes. Ned had almost flung the letter into the hearth, but had settled on placing the letter back down upon his table, though with a heavy hand. He does not understand these tricks the gods play, these cruel japes they flick towards him and his own.

Ned had reread the second half of the letter over and over. I am sorry, it had said, the ink curling and stilting, as if Arya had sat there in her room, a quill in hand, carefully scratching out the words as they had come to mind. I have never wanted to be a lord's wife, nor have I ever been a lady, you know that, Father. Aegon promises me fine steeds that we may ride across the lands with nothing but our swords strapped to our waists, he promises the excitement of Pentos and Lys and Myr and all that surrounds. He promises me the freedom I have always longed for.

Promise me, Ned. The words echo in his mind, words from another time, and he has to turn away from his window.

The snow reminds him of her, still. And now, it will remind him of another.

But I will return, his youngest daughter promises, I will return some day, any day, but I will not stay another day, Father. The Seven Kingdoms is no longer place for me. I will make my own.

The world certainly is a cruel thing.

Do not miss me, she says last, and be well. Be well, father. Promise me, father, she writes, even though she has no way of knowing if he ever will, and Ned's heart squeezes painfully in his chest.

Promise me, Ned, to promise me, father.

He has made too many promises, now.

It is strange how it all works out, despite this. The Targaryen boy poses no threat to the throne any longer, and neither does his aunt, for all that she has decided to never cross the Narrow Sea, choosing to remain with her Dothraki warlord husband instead. Robert's son will inherit when Robert passes, and his grandson after. Peace comes, and peace remains, but for now.

"Winter is coming," Ned says quietly, to himself, to the air around him, to the fire that crackles, and the words soothe instead of warn, this time. For winter comes, and drapes itself across everything that has burned, and makes it heal.






05. ikon. jinhwan/hanbin. a cut from a longer fic. warnings for collar kink, minor d/s themes.

It is many weeks later, many weeks, when Jinhwan first presses a soft kiss to Hanbin’s forehead, just as he’s drifting off to sleep.

Hanbin’s eyes open, and he stares up at Jinhwan, expression unreadable. Something lodges itself in Jinhwan’s throat, and he makes to move away, but then Hanbin catches his wrist, tugs him back, and the want is obvious in his eyes, the way he looks at Jinhwan with his lips slightly parted and his body angled towards him.

“Can I?” asks Jinhwan, and the rest is implied, and Hanbin nods, benignly touching his fingertips to Jinhwan’s face, telling him to come closer, to close the gap, and Jinhwan does, pressing their mouths together in a warm kiss, chaste at first.

Hanbin’s lips are soft and pliant, a pretty pink that curves under Jinhwan’s own lips easily, and it doesn’t take much to coax his mouth open, yielding to the hot press of Jinhwan’s tongue against his teeth, against his own tongue, against the roof of his mouth. Hanbin’s fingers curl into the back of Jinhwan’s shirt lightly, even as he makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, a little hiccup of a moan that sends a sweet vibration through their mouths.

He takes his time with Hanbin, takes his time learning the inside of his mouth, tracing every seam of his lips, learning how Hanbin shudders when he nips and licks and bites, when he tangles their tongues together, when he pulls away and presses light, smaller kisses, from the corners of his mouth to his lower lip.

“Jinhwan-hyung,” comes Hanbin’s voice in a small whine, and Jinhwan kisses him even more, lazily licking into every corner of his mouth, tugging lightly at his hair, at the ring of the collar around his neck, and Hanbin makes more sounds, soft little whimpers, tiny gasping moans that shoot straight down Jinhwan’s spine. “Hyung, please.”

“Hush.” It’s not a request, it’s not a question, and Jinhwan is surprised at how easily it slips from his lips. Hanbin goes silent, and he looks up at Jinhwan, eyes soft, surrendering. Waiting for what Jinhwan is going to say next.

Something catches in Jinhwan’s throat, just looking at Hanbin being like this. Submissive is the word that comes to mind, but Jinhwan just swallows hard, and concentrates on what Hanbin wants, and what Hanbin needs, now.

The pads of his fingers skim lightly along the back of Hanbin’s collar, just barely brushing along skin. There’s a visible shiver that runs along Hanbin’s spine, but the look in his eyes holds steady. Jinhwan rests a finger against the ring attached to the collar, and says, “Lie down, Hanbin.”

Hanbin complies, and Jinhwan shifts over to straddle him, knees bracketing his waist as he leans down. There must be a hundred different emotions running through Hanbin right now, eagerness and nervousness piling up together to form a mismatched set of feelings. Jinhwan feels the very same way, too.

“I’m going to kiss you again,” says Jinhwan, very softly, and Hanbin’s lower lip falls a little, as if just waiting for Jinhwan to close the space between them, “and I want you to tell me just exactly what you need me to do for you.”

“Yeah,” says Hanbin, breathless, even though they’ve barely done anything, “okay, hyung.”Jinhwan rests his palms against Hanbin’s face, thumbs over his cheeks and the corners of his lips, before leaning in all the way again, mouths meeting. Hanbin has never really kissed anyone before, he knows this well enough, and it shows, his inexperience, it does, in the way he doesn’t really know what to do with his hands, eventually fisting them into Jinhwan’s shirt as they kiss languidly.

Slow, sleepy, searching kisses, they share. Hanbin makes soft noises, every time Jinhwan skims his fingers along the collar, or down his front. Jinhwan wants to hear more of them, and the kisses deepen to a point where both of them are left with their chests heaving, and their inhales outpacing their exhales. Jinhwan almost doesn’t want to admit to himself how aroused he is. He can feel that Hanbin’s the same way too, just barely holding back from rocking his hips back against Jinhwan’s, even as Jinhwan shifts to kiss down his neck.

“Hyung,” whispers Hanbin, and Jinhwan sucks a kiss under his ear, light enough that no one will notice in the morning when they’re sleep-logged and busy fumbling with their toothbrushes, but noticeable enough that Hanbin will be able to see it when he looks into the mirror to wash-up. “Please,” comes Hanbin’s voice again, softer. “Jinhwan-hyung.”

Jinhwan isn’t sure if he’s supposed to be feeling the ache in his chest, the quiet tug that signals something more than he knows. All he knows for sure is that Hanbin is right here, saying his name, saying it with some strange new tenderness that he’s never heard before in his life. Maybe Jinhwan just wants to hear it again, for some reason.





06. bts. taehyung/jungkook. a cut from a fic. warnings for non-explicit crossdressing kink.

He watches those fingers curl over the tube of lipgloss. He watches Jungkook run the tip of the tube along his mouth, a soft, glossy pink. The colour of the sky last Thursday evening, when the sun had painted a trail in all sorts of hues.

“Taehyung.” Jungkook’s voice comes quietly. “Could you help me with my shoes?”

A pause, and a breath, before Taehyung reaches down out of his own accord, hooks his fingers into the backs of the little heels that stand beside the door. It seems too slow-moving to be real, this very moment. Jungkook, holding out a foot towards Taehyung. Taehyung, his left hand gently holding Jungkook’s ankle, the other one sliding the shoe on, first one, and then the other.

And Taehyung straightens back up, finds himself standing way too close to not notice—to not notice the way Jungkook’s lashes have lengthened, the way his mouth looks under the light, the way his gaze bores into Taehyung as if questioning, wondering what he’s about to do.

Terrifyingly quick, the pace of his heart runs, the complete opposite of the kiss he presses to Jungkook’s lips. Another breath, and another pause, and Taehyung’s hands are sliding up to splay gently across the sides of Jungkook’s neck, thumbing along the line of his jaw, even as Jungkook lets out the softest of sounds. He doesn’t pull away, though. He doesn’t push Taehyung away.

Tugging away, barely tugging away, Taehyung nudges their noses together, and observes the way Jungkook’s eyes open, tiny blinks. “You look so pretty like this,” says Taehyung softly, and Jungkook’s mouth falls open slightly, breath hitching, “can I kiss you again, Jungkookie?”





this post only happened because i haven't posted stuff in what feels like ages. now that i've gotten it all out of my system, it's exchange fic time! god help my soul.
Tags: f: asoiaf, f: bts, f: spica, f: team b, p: fanfiction, r: pg, r: pg-13, r: r, s: arya/aegon, s: boa/bohyung, s: hanbin/jinhwan, s: taehyung/jungkook, s: yunhyung/bobby, w: mcd
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