Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳pesky cuts

ivarr's the worst kind of patient but he always gets his way. rated 18+ for smut. 

IT WOULD BE easier to finish what the Saxons started instead of fretting over him like a mother hen. At least then, you wouldn't have to listen to his constant complaints and endure his obstinacy. Ivarr the Boneless could come to you with a limb barely clinging to his body and claim to be fine. That same cocksure attitude leads him to believe the open gash running across his left breast is nothing more than a scratch to be healed with a rag and water, but you know better, and by now, he should too.

Ivarr hisses at the pungent sting of the diluted cider vinegar hitting the torn flesh, squirming back from you with a sharp glare —he hadn't expected you to douse the wound without warning. The stinging fades when you wring a damp cloth over his breast, dappling away the blood still welling to the surface. It is not severe enough to warrant burning, but it will not seal on its own, either. He watches you with narrowed eyes, seeing you gather a curved sewing needle and a long thread of catgut. You pass the needle through the flame of a tallow candle, looking over your shoulder to find his bitter and pensive stare on your —blood already dripping down his chest again.

The stench of burning flesh jumps into the air with the first pass of the needle, and he hisses —unafraid to show his pain and discomfort to you. Ivarr's hands close around your hips, his fingers digging into your skin. You give him a harsh look, continuing the line of sutures —it is late, and you are too tired for his ill-temperament ad stubbornness— but he's intent on dragging out this chore. "Be still," you grit out, half-tempted to let the cut fester rather than deal with his petulant antics. His pale eyes flare with madness —as if this is a game or challenge.

He listens —surprisingly— though his hands slide around to your backside, finding handfuls of your ass. You do your best to ignore him, wiping away the blood from each pass of the needle and the weeping gash itself, continuing with a neat line of sutures. Ivarr is silent, something that never bodes well. And when your gaze flits up to meet his, you can see the dark hint of lust in his eyes and the scowl on his lips as he watches you work. Tying off the catgut thread, you crane your head down, tearing away the excess with your teeth —lips and warm breath ghosting over the smattering of dark chest hair and blue-black ink on his chest.

Straightening, you kiss his chin, then his maimed cheek —purposely overlooking his lips. He frowns, seeing you slip from his hold and replace the threaded needle to its place in a small sewing kit. You've no intention of staying with him for the night it seems. "Where are you going?" Ivarr demands.

"Bed," you answer, unbinding your hair and unlacing the ties of your leather jerkin. "Get some rest, Ivarr." Rest would see him heal quicker, and afterward, you could properly celebrate his return.

"No," he says, sounding like a child fighting with his mother to stay up past their bedtime.

"Yes," you reprimand, not wanting to deal with an injured Ivarr any longer than you have to. Gods grant you the patience not to strangle him should he manage to tear the stitches before they dissipate or let them fester. He catches you in his arms, pulling you back against his chest. You see the unmistakable glint in his eyes when you glance up, feeling the hard outline of his cock pressed against your backside. Only he would have a raging hard-on from being sewn up. It's taunting and nigh impossible to resist the burning ache between you both at the touch of his lips against your shoulder and the rough hand sliding beneath the hem of your tunic across your stomach. You know what it is he wants from you. "No." You shake your head —resolve beginning to crumble as you turn to face him— hand pressing to the center of his chest and pushing him back toward the bed as you take a step back toward the tent's exit.