Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ a good distraction

you provide a good and compromising distraction while eivor hosts an important meeting.

HIS LEGS ARE splayed open under the table, belt still loose around his waist with half the ties of his dark, woolen pants unlaced. Eivor shifts in his chair and you can see the outline of his hard cock —still hard from how you had ridden his thigh before the first of the visiting Jarls entered the hall. Unwilling to risk being caught, Eivor urged you beneath the table to wait out the meeting as it was only a preliminary gathering. You bite down on your lip, contemplating just how foolish the wicked idea dancing around in your mind is.

The muscles in his legs tense when you slide your hands up his thighs —causing him to fumble mid-sentence. You move closer to the chair and Eivor splays his legs wider, an invitation as he relaxes again. Lips kinking, you start working on the ties of his breeches, loosening them just enough to pull his cock free. From above, you hear his sharp breath when you wrap one hand around him, the other resting on his knee for balance. Eivor's cock is thick, ribbed with veins, and dripping with want. You rub your thumb over his swollen head, gathering the slickness there and spreading it over his cock when you stroke him —once, twice, thrice.

His hips buck upward when you drag the flat of your tongue up the underside of his cock, tracing one of the veins running from base to shaft. Settling on your knees, you continue stroking him —feeling him twitch and tremble under your control. For once, the famed Eivor Wolfsmal is completely at your mercy.

You wait until there is a moment of silence among the Jarls before covering the head of his cock with your mouth. Eivor lets out a low groan that he quickly disguises as a cough —clearing his throat before speaking and hurrying the meeting along. More can be said over the night's feast as it grows increasingly hard for Eivor to concentrate on what is being said for how your lips and fingers are wrapped around him, working him to release —skillful as always.

Glancing up, you find one of his hands gripping onto the edge of the table, fingers pressing hard into the wood —fighting the urge to reach under the table. One of the Jarls glances at Eivor oddly, curious for the reasoning behind his silence and nigh pained expression —half-hidden behind his hand and beard. Taking his cock as far as you can, you press your tongue against the underside and let out a nigh silent hum. It reverberates through both of you. Setting a steady rhythm, you bob your head up and down, hands stroking what the warmth of your mouth cannot.

Eivor tenses again as his hips lift from the chair, cock beginning to twitch. Stilling the motions of your head, you continue to stroke him. You'd tuned out most of the conversation, but now hear someone asking Eivor if he is all right. With a strangled response and wave of his hand to continue the meeting, he releases and is unable to stop himself from sliding a hand under the table —stroking your hair and cheek. You gently push Eivor's hand away and release his cock from your mouth, swallowing the bitter-salt warmth sitting at the back of your throat.

Sitting back, you tuck his cock back into his pants —retying the laces and straightening his tunic and belt. The stillness and droning conversations only serve to remind you aware of the pool warmth in your stomach and the uncomfortable ache between your thighs. Biting down on your lip, you wait in silence as the meeting ends and one-by-one the benches on either side of the long table are cleared.

Once the room emptied of the visiting Jarls, Eivor pushes back his chair slips to his knees to join you —his cheeks are flush, a dark glint in his eyes. "Come here, you," he demands, crooking his finger in your direction. You crawl to him and Eivor seizes you by the waist, pulling you close against him. It had been torture to not touch or praise you while sucking his cock, but he will repay you in kind. His kiss is almost a punishment in itself, rough and needy —he can taste a hint of his essence on your lips and tongue.

Breaking apart, Eivor's lips twitch, twisting into a smirk. When he rises, he pulls you up with him and over his shoulder, parading you from the feast hall and out into the muddy road leading to a small home on the outskirts of the village. Overhead Sýnin cries out midflight —the raven racing the two of you back. "You're in big trouble," Eivor remarks, pushing open the door and depositing you onto the rag-and-straw mattress.

You laugh, rising to your knees and draw him closer by the laces on his scarlet tunic. "Is that so?" You tease —the words dancing over his lips. Eivor doesn't answer, but his rough hands seek out the ties of your woolen gown in haste as he seals the space between your lips again. There is no ceremony in how you paw at one another's clothes, lips only parting to toss aside a piece of clothing until you are both bare as the day you entered the world.

One of his hands slips between your thighs —palm pressing into your clit and fingers delving and exploring the wet warmth. You gasp when two of his fingers slide into you, thrusting and stroking. Eivor groans against your neck when your hand finds his cock, already hard again. Bending forward, he drags his golden beard over your breasts —his other hand coming to cup the soft flesh of one while his lips and tongue tease your nipple into a taut peak.

"Eivor," you whimper, grinding yourself onto his hand, desperate to find friction and relief. Though as adept as his fingers were at bringing you sweet release, you need to feel him inside of you. He withdraws his fingers from your cunt and brings them to his mouth —sucking and licking them clean with a low moan.

Rising from your knees, you step around Eivor and push back on his shoulders, hard. Hard enough for him to topple back onto the mattress. With lidded eyes, he watches as you crawl atop him, straddling his hips. Eivor reaches between you, sliding his cock between your slick folds before pressing into you. You sink down on him in a smooth motion and Eivor curses as you moan, lips parting —both of you still for a moment. "Skatt mitt," he gasps when you first rock your hips against his.

You move your hips, reaching down to touch yourself as his hands stay on you, whether holding onto your hips, or stroking your thighs, or reaching up to squeeze your breasts —his hands never leave your body as you ride him. Pleasure is building, growing within you, and you chase that feeling as you dig your fingers into his pecs, feeling his strong muscles beneath your hands. Eivor breathes your name over-and-over, his own prayer.

He sounds wrecked as he urges you on, and a feral —unchained— feeling rises in your gut at his words, the sounds he's making beneath you, how his hands are stroking you. You lean forward on one arm, your body rolling as you ride and grind against him, and he swears before bending his head to take your nipple into his mouth. Eivor thrusts his hips upward, meeting each of your movements as the hand on your hip slips between your thighs —the pad of his thumb making quick circles over your clit. Stars start to dance behind your eyelids as you roll your hips in a slow tantalizing circle. "Let go," he murmurs, feeling your walls tighten around him and body tremble. And you do —panting and moaning Eivor's name as you fall over the precipice. Eivor watches your eyes slip shut, lips parted, and head tilted back toward the rafters above.

Falling forward, you rest on his chest for a brief pause until Eivor's rolls his hips up into yours again. His cock still hard though he can feel his end coming too. Gripping onto your hips, he turns —bracing his weight above you on his forearms. You wrap your legs around his waist without a second thought, grinding your hips against him. Eivor's beard tickles your cheek before his lips brush against yours. You cup his face in your hands, fingers slipping back into his hair as he begins to thrust into you —chasing his own release.

Eivor presses sloppy kisses along your neck, moaning his pleasure into your skin as he pulls your leg higher over his hip to open you further. "Eivor," you whimper, squeezing him and his cock with your thighs. He grunts, pushing himself as far inside you as he can, staying there as his cock twitches and warmth fills you.

Easing himself down until your heaving chests are touching. You run your fingers across the part of his hair that is cropped short, following the arch of the raven tattoo there and back down to the twisted scar on his neck. "Don't ever do that again," Eivor chides, breathless and smiling. But you just roll your eyes, pushing up on your elbows, you take his lips in a soft, sweet, and slow kiss —almost enough to make him forget that you're supposed to be in trouble. He pulls back, another type of dark glint in his eyes. "Besides, I haven't punished you for earlier yet," he rasps, rolling his hips into yours again —you doubt you and Eivor will be on time for the night's festivities.