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asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5
Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
Fill Only
Fill Only
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✩ Comment anonymously with a character/pairing and a kink/prompt.
✩ Comment is filled by another anonymous with fanfiction/art/or any other appropriate medium.
✩ One request per post, but fill the request as much as you want.
✩ The fill/request doesn't necessarily need to be smut.
✩ Don't flame, if you have nothing good to say, don't say anything.
✩ Have a question? Feel free to PM me.
✩ Last, but not least: HAVE FUN!
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Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Fills Only
Discussion
Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 5.2/?
(Anonymous) 2012-12-11 11:48 pm (UTC)(link)"You know, Connor, when most men ask for their clothes to be let out, it's because they've split the back seams from their beer belly," she mused, giving him a bright smile when he looked over his shoulder at her.
"I am not most men," replied Connor.
He fidgeted, nervous, scratching at the back of his neck. Reflecting him, his wings twitched and fluffed themselves. One brushed against Ellen's face and she laughed, ticklish, then pushed it away to avoid being swatted.
"Sorry," said Connor, shoulders and body tense.
"Do not fret. I'm trying to figure out where to cut into your existing shirts. Would you mind spreading your wings as far around your front as possible? Oh, excellent," replied Ellen marking the cloth with chalk.
Connor could feel the worn nub of the stick drag over his back, one line dropping from between his wingblades to his tailbone. He forced back his reactions (mainly 'enemy, weapon, disarm') to the cold metal of her scissors as she cut open his shirt, making a second line to form a t-shape. She widened the horizontal cut, tugged on the fabric, and began to pin it.
With her right hand, she held the back of the shirt shut, while with her left she tidied the feathers, smoothing them down where she had disturbed them.
"Is the movement restricted?" she asked.
Rotating the sockets and finding his movement as free as if he'd not been wearing a shirt, Connor nodded.
"Good. I'll stitch this and sew in some lace holes."
She pulled the shirt over his head. Connor tucked his wings back, brushing against Ellen again. With a long, smooth caress, she made it fold tightly, Connor's body jolting in surprise as the touch released a shiver through his body that had nothing to do with the cold. Ellen seemed quite unaware of it, focusing on the neat stitching of her craft, and Connor, having nothing else he could do, sat next to her, swinging the chair backwards to watch.
Back and forth deft fingers plucked at the silver needle and thread, working into corners that Connor could never hope to. When he looked at her, it occurred to him how tiny she was and that his handspan wasn't much shorter than the width of her waist. Such a petite woman - it made him angry to think of her ex-husband beating such a kind-hearted lady, which must have shown on his face, for Ellen tapped his arm.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
"Your former husband," he growled.
Ellen seemed to contemplate this for a moment, her exterior calm. The only giveaway was the slightly vicious stabbing she gave her pincushion.
"He's gone now."
"Forgive me for saying so, but he was bad blood. I didn't like him."
Waving her hand, Ellen got stuck into her sewing before saying, "Well that goes without saying. It is a better life here. I knew he wasn't going to change his ways after I had Maria. It went downhill when she wasn't born a boy."
"Ah, but the benefit of a little girl is that she is smart, unlike us silly boys. Maria climbs better than any boy anyway, and can throw a rock further and fight lightly and quickly. She will do well, I am sure," Connor said.
And he wasn't just saying that either - only days before he left for Boston, before his wing-fever, he'd caught her climbing the trees like she was born from them, a true spirit of the forest. Her mother may complain of Maria's scraped knees and wild hair, but the frontier had given them both a healthy glow to their skin. They were healthier here, without having to constantly watch themselves, the stress of such activities draining their body and mind.
"She's trying to imitate you, you know," murmured Ellen.
She stopped stitching - looked straight at him, an unwavering stare - then shifted her attention to his wings. Connor shifted back, feeling much too crowded. Ellen didn't seem to mind the closeness, and for several seconds, their world shrank to just them, caught in a weird mix of pride, anger, fear, their presence to each other soothing old wounds that they didn't realise they still had. For her, it was conflicting - for all her bravado, se had been genuinely afraid to have been beaten so mercilessly that one day she would never get up again, leaving Maria behind. For him, it was a haze of emotions that had been brewing since the fire that had taken his mother - Connor didn't know how to handle the two-faced nature of both sides of this war, questioning what the hell he was actually doing, running around, killing. They took comfort in that they had both seen and done things that they bitterly regretted.
"The idea of this is that it laces here."
The strange moment had passed. Ellen pointed out how the shirt worked, and started bouncing ideas off him as to how this would translate into heavier clothing. He didn't really hear her and she didn't really need to say anything - Ellen knew that Connor didn't understand most of what she was saying, but they had to fill that gaping hole with something. Humans were such complex and surreal creatures, thought Connor, himself included.
Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 5.2/?
(Anonymous) 2012-12-14 07:00 pm (UTC)(link)Aaaww... how old do you think Maria is? I actually picture Connor playing with the Homestead children
Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 5.2/?
(Anonymous) 2012-12-20 01:51 pm (UTC)(link)Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 6/?
(Anonymous) 2012-12-20 01:53 pm (UTC)(link)"I'm going!"
"No!"
"I need to know how to to use them."
Silence. Checkmate. They'd been arguing over this for hours, and had finally come to a more civil volume.
"It'll be a waste of time. Don't get upset if it doesn't prove fruitful."
A warning that wouldn't be taken lightly.
"I won't. I'll see you soon, old man!"
A promise and the sound of hooves dashing the ground. Achilles could only hope that Connor wouldn't return to them in worse condition than last time.
***
Water was dripping down his collar again. Connor supposed it was because he had the first few buttons of his waistcoat and shirt undone, allowing a small glimpse of his chest, his necklace sitting like a possessive claw above it. Despite Ellen's best efforts, they hadn't managed to fasten them, even after she'd let out the seams. He resisted the urge to squirm as the cool droplets slid over his stomach and soaked the waistband of his trousers. It was only a mild discomfort. He could stand it.
His wings were tightly tucked against his body, a heavy cape pinned to his shoulders disguising them as a hump in his back and keeping them dry. Connor yanked on it to cover his chest, the textured black fabric helping him melt into the shadows as a crippled beggar, damaged by the war and begging for alms. Putting on a false limp, Connor ignored the jeers and insults as he passed by the door of a tavern, and circled the building to arrive at the temporary encampment on the other side. A certain figure caught his eyes, tucked away to the side.
He snarled. Haytham. Father. Why was he at such an insignificant camp? The tall, enigmatic figure of his father was partially hidden by shadow, sheltering under the ledge of a nearby building as he spoke to whom Connor assumed was the captain. A glimpse of matching rings told Connor all he needed to know. The Templars were attempting to seize control of the district once more. Connor had to warn his brethren to deal with it before it got out of hand. Dobby would be up for it - she always had enjoyed knocking a few heads together, especially idiotic men.
He ducked his own head to shake some of the water from his hood and was about to leave when the ledge shadow moved. Connor froze, staring, realising that if he was currently sitting in the gloom then the weak sun couldn't possibly be casting shade over Haytham as well. The angle was completely wrong.
He stared longer, thinking it could have been his imagination, and suddenly it moved again, twitching in a very familiar manner. The outline of the shape became clearer as it folded into an arch, disturbing the thick wool of Haytham's coat, and the light caught the edge of one of the shapes and the black exploded into jewel-like colours, reflecting the sun into emeralds and sapphires with flecks of amber. It wasn't a pure black - more grey, now that he looked at it closely, maybe natural, maybe from age - and the undersides were mottled with cream and brown stripes. Connor reluctantly admitted to himself that it was rather beautiful.
It was also obvious. Connor had to find out how Haytham was hiding it - there was a small chance that the captain was aware of the extra limbs extending from Haytham's body, however that chance evaporated as soon as one considered the few citizens that had braved the seasonal downpour went past without a second glance. (Well, there were second glances, but it wasn't for the wings. Connor couldn't deny that his father was a handsome man.) Neither they nor the captain seemed to notice.
Shifting his wings under his cape, Connor could only watch on in envy as Haytham stretched and flexed his wings, letting them fluff and move and generally be comfortable. Connor had learned the hard way that his wings had come with an ingrained instinct to express his emotions, sometimes spreading to their full span if he was invested in the topic at hand. They also ached if he had to keep them perfectly still for long periods of time.
Haytham turned to leave the captain with one wing carelessly brushing his subordinate's face. The man shivered.
"Are you cold?" asked Haytham, his deep tone clear as the wind changed direction.
"No, sir. Someone walked over my grave, sir."
'Interesting,' thought Connor, 'I wonder if all of the "grave-shivers" are caused by wings?'
Haytham slipped down the alleyway opposite, and Connor took to the rooves. He would find out how Haytham deflected the attention. When Connor had seen Haytham before, Connor certainly hadn't spotted any wings. Maybe it was different now that he had his own? The trick that Haytham used might not be effective on other winged beings. Whatever it was, it was good, and Connor desperately needed to know so he could continue his work.
***
As expected, it would be quite unlike Haytham to give up the secret so easily. Connor dropped from the rooftop, slamming his hand into the vulnerable flesh at the base of the wing in hopes that he might daze Haytham for a moment, if not dislocate the socket entirely (and hadn't that been a delightful education in pain when Achilles had discovered the weak spot, exploited it, then popped Connor's wing back in.) However the muscled cords that wove around the base were thick and strong with age, and the wing wasn't shifting quite as easily, despite a promising pop. Given a few more moments and Connor was sure he would have had it from it's socket.
But he didn't have that long with Haytham and Connor found himself thrown into the wall, then delivered to the ground with a sweeping kick under his feet. He cursed inwardly - his balance was off, but he didn't want to reveal his secret to Haytham yet. He felt too heavy at the back. Connor rolled and narrowly dodged the knife that embedded itself into the mud where his head had been. He lunged, knocking the second knife from Haytham's hand, and landed a square punch before being tossed to the ground again.
"This had better not be about Charles. My dear boy, you are in very poor fighting condition - were you sick? Or have you simply lost your nerve? I can't say that I've seen worse balance than on the greenest soldiers."
Haytham tilted his head in an avian manner. His eyes swept over Connor's body, taking in the cloak, the slightly hollow face, and the awkward back arch Connor was trying to keep.
"It is not about Charles," spat Connor. "It's about an inheritance."
"I deal in many, keeping them safe, so unless you're a little more specific -" replied Haytham, trailing off.
He planted his foot on Connor's chest and pushed down. With that sort of force, it was impossible for Connor to keep his wings tucked up as they were, instead splaying enough so he was lying flat. Connor gasped, feeling them shift, and tried to pull them back but with his father's foot still firmly on him there was no room to do so. A smirk appeared on Haytham's lips.
"Of course. Your inheritance. Your only inheritance, mind you, the rest belongs to the Templars or a distant cousin. Not entirely my choosing, but then again you don't exist on paper."
Flipping the cloak's hem from Connor's body, the wings were revealed, and the pleasure at this development was clear upon Haytham's face.
"You are so much like your mother, yet these," he gestured to the wings, "These are the mark of a true Kenway child."
Kenway. He was nothing but Kenway. Connor was doubtful that Haytham even remembered Kaniehtí:io's face after this many years. The attempt Haytham was making to soothe Connor was disgusting, implying that he could barely be physically recognised as kin, insulting the memory of a dead woman. A diversionary tactic.
Connor snarled, trying to get up, but Haytham kept firm, his patterned wings flapping to maintain the pressure and stay balanced. Mud was soaking into his feathers, through his clothes, and not only was it cold, but it reeked of human and animal waste. Carefully, avoiding the wild fists Connor was throwing at him, Haytham pulled at a wing, stretching it as far sideways as he could. Those dark hazel eyes never left Connor's body, judging every thought and expression, calculating and extrapolating upon the variables his mind presented. He followed the sharp snapping motion Connor's wing made as his son finally found the strength to pull away.
"They're not much more than two months old," Haytham murmured, "Core strength is still building, span is broad but short feathers, reminiscent of a migratory raptor, capable of above average speed, although your strength lies in the endurance of flight. Curious."
As Haytham removed his foot, Connor lurched up to face his father standing, raising a hand to block an incoming blow. Now that he wasn't concerned about keeping them hidden, his wings spread, lifting the cloak up. Clutching at the fastening with his other hand, Connor tore the fabric off to let it fall in the mud.
"And what exactly are you?" he snarled.
"Falcon. Peregrine," replied Haytham. "I thought it would have been clear from the markings."
Ah, another white man's name for some poor bird.
"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"
Haytham took a step back, bending his knees as if ready to pounce, immediately putting Connor on the defence.
"It means that if I were inclined to leave you behind - " His wings stroked the air with power Connor hadn't quite expected, launching Haytham into the air, " - you would not be able to catch up."
His cloak was whipped this way and that by the wind his wings generated, and Connor swore as Haytham caught an updraft and glided over several streets before dropping of of sight entirely. The man had the advantage in crowded landscapes, not to mention a superb vertical take-off, years of experience, and probably proper guidance from other Kenways. Connor slammed his fist against the lumber of a solid cottage squeezed in between two brick buildings. Begrudgingly he collected his cape, made even more unpleasant by the mud soaked into the heavy fabric.
Achilles had been right - this trip had been a waste of time and he was still no closer to getting back into the field. There wasn't even the slightest chance that Connor would be able to find his father now. On alert, the man didn't allow people to follow him. Those who did tended to end up at the bottom of a river or bled out in a dark corner behind a fence. Haytham's mind screamed "Templar", but his body ignored it, revealing his Assassin origin. Connor didn't place too much on Haytham returning. The older man did have a knack for running away from confrontation - he was never there when you needed him and always there when you didn't. Stupid man.
Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 6/?
(Anonymous) 2012-12-25 07:35 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 6/?
(Anonymous) 2013-01-01 11:48 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 6/?
(Anonymous) 2013-01-18 06:11 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 6/?
(Anonymous) 2013-01-18 08:43 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 6/?
(Anonymous) 2013-01-18 10:56 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 6/?
(Anonymous) 2013-01-18 09:51 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 6/?
(Anonymous) 2013-01-19 01:09 pm (UTC)(link)Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 7/?
(Anonymous) 2013-02-03 04:57 pm (UTC)(link)He didn't understand why he hadn't felt this in previous grooming sessions. He couldn't see who was giving him such pleasure. When the hands began to rub circles into his neck, Connor grabbed one. It was pale, small, with long fingers, calluses decorating the pads. Undoubtably it belonged to a woman. The hand drew back. It traced the underside of Connor's jaw and cupped his ear, a few puffs of air tickling it before a rough, cracked voice said, "Darling, this is no place to sleep."
He jerked, hidden blade sliding into his hand, raised and ready to strike. A soldier - British - was leaning over him and at the sight of the blade, he jumped back. Connor could feel where the soldier had taken his shoulder to shake him. The sensation made Connor squirm although he didn't try to shake it while the other man was still watching. Scowling darkly, he put his knife away and tried to hobble off. Yes the man was a redcoat. Connor recognised him as a common soldier, probably drafted against his will in a tavern back in England, a homesick man doing his job and wanting to survive this war without major injury.
Sadly, he'd probably die. Connor didn't want to shorten what was already a clipped life.
"Where are you going, friend?" cried the soldier. "I need to ask you something."
Ignoring him, Connor kept walking and was halfway down the street when he heard footsteps running behind him, and a gasp for air as the soldier trotted beside him.
"If you are who I think you are, then I wouldn't go this way. There's an encampment of redcoats who all know your face around that corner there," said Connor's redcoat.
"Why should I trust you? There is probably an ambush from all sides."
"There isn't, and you don't have to trust me. I'm sure you'd be fine with the men down here, but they're two weeks from going home. They have sweethearts and wives, daughters and sons, publicans, tailors, farmers, high society and low. Don't you think they deserve to live, if not for themselves, but for the happiness of their families?" replied the redcoat.
Connor considered this for a moment.
"This is true. There is good in your ranks, sol-" started Connor.
The redcoat was gone. It was not possible. They had been standing in the middle of the street in the middle of the night with nobody else around. The young man had been right there. Connor had felt him lean slightly as he pointed out the camp. His second sight snapped into place, but the trails of blue - blue? - stopped next to where Connor was currently standing. One for himself and the other for this unlikely ally. He couldn't have disappeared without leaving a trail.
There was an echo from the end of the street, and a flash of red alerted him to the guard watch marching down the street. Quickly, he threw himself against a wall, pulling himself to the top of the building to peer at the men that passed. None of them were blue. Still, they did not need to die tonight. If what his mysterious friend had said was true, then they would be gone soon anyway. It would be better to leave them in peace. He pushed his second sight away and plunged his knife into the belly of his companion.
It had been entirely by instinct. The redcoat frowned. Connor pulled it out, and pushed the man down to put his hands over the wound. But no blood bubbled beneath his fingers, nothing wet even touched him, and the redcoat laughed.
"That wasn't very nice!" he scolded. "I did just get you out of a sticky mess."
Connor lifted his hands slowly and found no wound under it, not even a hole in his uniform.
"How did you do that?" he demanded.
"The same way I vanished. The same way I was drawn to you. I simply do not know. But this is a little tip coming from me - if you don't want them to see your wings, then force the thought that they don't exist, Connor," replied the soldier. "Just like me."
"Wait, how-"
The man vanished, leaving naught but cold hands and a little wisp of fog. Now he understood what his friend had been - a spirit.
***
A horse was trotting along the high pass, the tawny colour offset by the figure dressed in white and blue. They were scarcely visible through the thick leaves of the trees, but the young girl perched near the top of a particularly good pine recognised them instantly.
"Connor!" shrieked Maria.
Easily descending exactly as Connor had taught her, Maria dropped to the ground and raced towards her home. Connor had been away for months and to her that seemed like an eternity. She had missed his lessons and his careful attention to everything she said. It never felt like she was boring him - Connor always had time to talk, even if it was only a short conversation.
And of course, she'd noticed the way her mother looked at him. He did the same to Ellen - although a little more hesitant and unsure, as if he were trying out the steps of a new dance for the first time. It was sweet, much sweeter than her memories of her father. Maria had decided long ago that her father didn't know how to love, not properly anyway. If he did, the emotion had long been abandoned.
She met her mother on the way down the rough track that led to their house. Ellen looked surprised to see Maria back so early in the day.
"Connor's back," Maria said excitedly, and she bounded off to tell the other children of the Homestead, whom, in turn, would tell their own parents and neighbours.
Soon the sound of hooves echoed off the small passage in the rock that protected the Homestead. Connor emerged not long after, his horse laden with parcels of supplies. A crowd had gathered around him, giving him good cheer, Lance taking Connor's horse by the reins to lead him to the tavern. Tired, and showing it by the weariness in his face and slouched body, Connor let him, pleased to be making the last hundred metres or so of his journey in the company of friends. He waved to Ellen as he passed and tossed one of his paper parcels to her.
Deftly catching it, Ellen waved back and went to fetch her shawl to walk down to the tavern. The package probably contained the spindles she'd given him money for before he'd left. Neatly, she snipped off the tightly knotted yarn and spread the parcel on her work table. Inside was indeed the spindles, but also a small length of the prettiest silk she'd ever seen, delicately embroidered and decorated with tiny glass beads. As she held it up to admire the colours, Ellen realised it was a scarf for her hair. She looked in the package again and found a tiny pendant of a feather, with a tag addressed to Maria on it.
She folded the silk back up and tucked the parcel away, determined that she would wear the scarf the next time she visited the manor. It was too pretty to wear everyday - it would have to be kept for special occasions. Something as fine as that would have been very costly and Ellen hoped Connor wasn't put out of pocket. Maria would be absolutely delighted by her gift.
The tavern was noisy when Ellen arrived, Connor handing out deliveries while sipping at a tankard of fresh water. Not many of them had the chance or means of travelling to the larger cities, which left Connor as the main buyer for their comfortable community. But something wasn't right this time, something was wrong when she looked at him, like there was supposed to be something there.
"Oh," she breathed.
Well that required an explanation. Connor's wings had disappeared. He must have figured out the answer while in Boston. As he handed the last parcel out, Connor made eye contact. Ellen subtly tilted her head towards his back. He replied with a tiny smile over the lip of his tankard.
"Later?" she mouthed.
Connor nodded. Well. She had patience, now was the time to make use of it. Fortunately the majority of the hullabaloo cleared up as the residents went back to work, although the sun had set by the time Connor finally made it from the tavern.
"Good evening, Connor. Did Boston treat you well?" she asked.
"Well enough in what mattered most," he replied.
The rest of their walk was quiet, Connor enjoying the calm and Ellen finding it companionable. As she unlocked her front door, Connor froze in the doorway. It took a moment for Ellen to realise this was the first time Connor had been inside her house after it was finished. She gestured for him to in. Noting the carpet, Connor unclipped his muddy boots and left them by the door.
As soon as he had pushed the door shut, his wings materialised, at first faint, but becoming more solid as the seconds passed. They were tight against his back so they didn't knock anything over - not that there was much for him to bump into as Ellen and Maria's home was sparse from their hasty retreat from New York. There was a fine oak table in the dining room, stained dark with elaborate carvings in the feet, with matching chairs. Some of Lance's work, no doubt. In fact, nearly all of the furniture was new or borrowed; Connor spotted a few chairs from the tavern, and Norris' old bed, and a cupboard from Doctor White.
The dream returned as he stared at Ellen's hands. A flush threatened to rise from his neck, embarrassing him further. It was a good thing that Ellen wasn't facing him, instead plucking two glasses from the top shelf of her cupboard and pouring a goodly amount of red wine into them. She gestured for him to sit, setting a glass before the chair opposite to hers.
"How are you?" she asked.
"I have, as you noticed, been relatively successful," was the soft reply as Connor sipped from his wine. "And yourself?"
"Business has been picking up. Maria has been climbing again. The community hums on, in our usual manner," said Ellen carelessly.
"Not much can stop them," agreed Connor.
Revelling in the hidden space, he stretched his wings, bones cracking and muscles tensing and relaxing, making his body buzz with the sensuous feeling of contentment. It felt fantastic to be loose with his actions. He felt safe.
He couldn't stop staring at Ellen's hands and it was distracting. Folding his arms over the back of the chair, Connor rested his head on them, burying the lower half of his face into the limbs. Dragging his eyes up, he forced himself to maintain eye contact. She didn't seem to - or didn't want to, a cruel voice said in the back of his mind - notice his specific attentions. Instead, she'd picked up an embroidery stretcher. In, out, in, out, with precise stitches.
"I found my father again. He was surprised to see me," Connor began, nuzzling further into his seat.
Sensing a bad conversation if she were to sway it into the topic of Connor's father (as if the stony face and hollow tone wasn't enough of an omen), Ellen pushed the original topic.
"How does this all work?" asked Ellen.
"I project my thoughts, and they respond appropriately by bouncing off you. You do not see the wings, and I tuck them close, keeping them out of the way."
"It sounds like magic," said Ellen.
Connor grimaced.
"It does not work all of the time. Strong-headed people can still see outlines and shapes, and the best can still see them entirely, although I have only come across one of those - a child, strangely enough," he mused, rubbing at his cheek briefly. "I suspect that if you already know about this sort of thing, it makes them easier to spot."
"I didn't see them when you came in today."
"Ah." Connor wryly smiled. "I am sure you will now though. It is exhausting to mask them."
"Then maybe you should retire home for some rest. I am sure Achilles will be pleased to see you."
Staying the night was a consideration that briefly fluttered through Ellen's mind. A thought she was sure had occurred to Connor as well.
"Yes, perhaps I should."
Pushing his chair away, Connor headed to the door with his wings flickering. They faded but Ellen knew they were there and, as predicted, they came back. They pulled together as Connor leaned over to retrieve his boots.
"Will you please come up to the manor tomorrow? I have some adjustments I would like on my coat," stated Connor, clipping one boot into place, hands fumbling for the other buckle as he maintained eye contact with Ellen.
Head dipping, Ellen glanced at his hands, watching them as they slid over his thigh. Or was he imagining it? It had been so sneaky and discreet that Connor found himself doubting the movement.
"Of course."
A tiny quirk appeared at the edges of his lips, almost amused, and it changed Connor's demeanour entirely. She liked that. His smile was special - it was not given freely, but kept for moments of pure joy. It made him look young again.
With a jolt, Ellen remembered that Connor was young. Younger than her by seven years. Whatever he did for a living, whatever deadly craft he'd become a master of, it had destroyed his innocence. He had seen war, witnessed far too much brutal death for any one person to bear.
Blissfully unaware of what was going through Ellen's thoughts, Connor waved to her and walked down to the tavern, where his horse was hitched, and rode off to the manor. She waved back, and wondered what she was going to do with the her glowing embers of attraction. Quincey emerged in her memories, cold and cruel, savagely beating her. Could she expose her vulnerable heart to someone else so soon?
No.
She quietly snuffed the coals in her heart and buried the feelings. Not yet. Eventually. Eventually, Connor would become her kindling, but for now, she didn't need an extra scorch mark upon her heart.