Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

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Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 7/?

[(Anonymous)]

The hands stroked his back, the fingertips brushing sparks through his body, making his wings quiver in delight. They rubbed and groomed the feathers, rustling them, somehow knowing which ones to pluck out, their dead roots causing him to itch. With a light pressure, they guided his wings to fold, now tidying the large primaries. Connor pressed against the chair he was sitting in, grateful for the solid backrest to hide his growing arousal.

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.