Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ training games

eivor helps you train as a warrior, though some of his tactics aren't traditional. rated 18+ for smut.

SPLINTERS FROM THE wooden staff dig into your palms —hands tightening around the training staff as Eivor circles you. He wields the same training staff, eyes narrowed as he anticipates your first move. Thrusting the blunt end of the staff toward his gut, Eivor knocks it away and reciprocates with a tight swing of the staff —you spin out of the way, smiling. The wood clanks together over-and-over, interrupting the silence around your shared home in the woods, neither of you able to gain the upper hand. He has strength, but you are nimble and able to evade many of his blows.

Dodging another blow, you slip into arm's reach before he can recover the lost momentum and lay the tip of the staff against his chest. Eivor glances down —disbelieving he had been off-guard so easily and quickly. "Off with it," you laugh. It was a game you and Eivor had devised, even if you both claimed it was training. He steps back unfastening the pelt of brown-black fur on his shoulders and drapes it over the rails of a split wooden fence. Stooping down, he picks up the training staff and settles into a warrior's stance again.

He feints and you bring the staff up to block a blow that never comes. Instead, Eivor swats your thigh. "Off with it," he echoes with a low, rumbling chuckle. Sýnin croaks, disproving of Eivor's tricks. You untie the short, wool cloak and place it next to Eivor's fur mantle, patting the raven's noggin too, before returning to the match at hand.

You block a strike from above, though before you can bring the staff back to an offensive position, Eivor has hit your forearm. Frowning, you move to the fence on which the raven still sits, watching the ordeal with attentive dark eyes. "That's cheating," Eivor grumbles as you untie the laces and step out of your patched wool breeches. You were meant to remove the linen tunic —that is where he had struck you, after all. He bites down on his bottom lip regardless, eyes narrowing as they trail up the length of your calves and thighs. Warmth stirs inside him, and impatient to have you squirming beneath him.

"Don't want you getting too distracted," you muse with a wink, taking up the training staff again. Bare feet twisting in the soft earth, you crouch then lunge. Sýnin squawks, providing the distraction you need to push the staff into his shoulder. Eivor staggers back, silently cursing the raven and his false alarm. Had it been a true battle such a blow could have been fatal.

Dragging, the faded blue tunic overhead, he tosses it aside. Eivor's lips kink into a cocky smile when he notices your gaze. You cannot help but steal a lingering glance at the broad planes of his chest and the thick, corded muscles of his arms —adorned with dark, blue-black tattoos encircling his forearms and biceps. Snapping out of your stupor, you readjust your grip on the staff. He does the same.

Eager to be done with this sparring session, Eivor swings the staff, knocking you to the dirt with a dull thud. He is quick to straddle your thighs before pinning your hands next to your head. Unabashedly, he takes in the view before him —your chest heaving with exertion, a glowing sheen covering your face and neck, and how wild your hair looks against the dark earth. Eivor bends forward, his beard tickling your jaw and cheek, pulling a soft laugh from you. "I think this means I won," he remarks.

You will not give him the satisfaction of besting you again. Drawing your legs up against his sides and locking your ankles around his waist, you twist. He rolls onto his back with you atop him —hands braced on his chest. Leaning down, you kiss him. His and your lips synced together, both sighing into the fervent kiss. Eivor's hands slide over your sides, hips —still covered by a thin linen tunic— and around to your bare bottom, which he gives a light squeeze. "The game isn't over yet," you tease.