#“I see you draw your final breath.” Apollo jumping into Chaos | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

author-morgan · 4 years

Text

Fluff Prompt #11: “Are you flirting with me?” “You finally noticed?”

Deimos!Alexios x Fem!Reader

requested by @vesuvias-caravanserai

[have a request for Alexios or Deimos!Alexios? Check out the prompts and request away]

DEIMOS STRIDES FORTH having won another victory. The leader of Euboea has fallen under the Cult’s sway and has paid tribute to the organization in return for support should Skyros attempt to rebel again. Chests of gold coins, jewels, weapons, and dinnerware are upturned in the sanctuary beneath Delphi —contents spilling out over the floor to be sorted. A silver-gold circlet catches his eye, and Deimos plucks it from the pile.

A small house sits above the Temple of Apollo —isolated from the ebb and flow of people in and out of Delphi who come seeking an audience with the Oracle. Within the four clay walls and under the burnt red tile roof is the one place Deimos knows some semblance of peace in the chaos of life.

The cold anger in his tawny-gold eyes fades in an instant upon finding you. At first, he found it infuriating to know someone could hold so much sway over him with only a look or a smile. He’d since gotten over that and found himself always eager to be back in your presence. Now the hour is late, and you sit before a silver looking-glass, fingers combing through a loose braid —preparing for another lonely night.

He steps into the room and doesn’t make a sound until his black-and-gold breastplate hits the floor with a thud. You jump at the sudden noise and spin around the stool —hand curling around the sharp edge of a shell hair pick. The grip on your makeshift shank loosens as soon as you see him. Deimos finishes shedding his armor and you watch in the mirror, scanning over for any sign of injury. To your surprise there are none.

With the circlet in hand, he goes to you and sits it upon your brow before crouching down —rough hands resting on your bare knees. “You could be queen,” Deimos notes. It is not just your beauty that makes him say such a thing, but your nature too. You’re kind —even to a monster like him— and just, despite the Cult having their claws dug into you.

You look at your reflection —the silver-gold circlet is adorned with small green jewels and pressed with laurel leaves. Queen of what? But that is not the question that slips from your lips. “Then who would be my king?” You ask meeting his dark gaze. There’s a glint in eyes and his lips kink into a subtle smile, but he does not answer.

IT IS NOT often you are summoned by the Cult, but when you are it’s never a good sign. This time is no different. Two guardians escort you to the Cave of Gaia and into the depths of an antechamber. Deimos is there with a physician working to remove two arrows from his torso and another from his thigh. You dart forward and sink to your knees next to him.

He is pale —blood trickles out in rivulets around the arrowheads. The physician looks up at you, realizing this is the goddess he’d demanded to see. Though his eyes are closed, Deimos can sense your presence by the scent of your perfume alone —nectarines and roses. He is certain you are there when your gentle hand falls to rest against his cheek.

You shift and bring his head to rest in your lap. “My Aphrodite,” he breathes, gaze focused only on you. Deimos reaches up despite the physician’s warnings, letting his rough fingertips brush over your cheek and neck. The journey back to Phokis from Korinthia had been long and he’d tasted the peace darkness could offer several times, but there was always a light to pull him back and it always took your form. Perhaps Theia would be a more apt comparison, but he’s certain you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever looked upon.

His dark eyes are burning amber and gold —trying to conceal the pain. “You shouldn’t compare me to the gods,” you gently chide despite the flush of warmth spreading across your nose and cheeks. Nothing good ever came out of comparing mortals to the gods —and Aphrodite could be especially vengeful.

The physician frees one of the arrows and Deimos grimaces. Fresh blood wells upon his chest. “Why not? They should be envious of you.” The gods are cruel and have caused many woes, but not you. You should hate him for the things he’s done. Yet you’re always there with open, forgiving arms. “Besides,” he starts, glancing down to see the second arrow pull free of his flesh, “I don’t need a golden apple to know you’re the fairest.” Perhaps if he was lucky, he could be loved by the fairest woman in the Greek world. You only smile, fingers loosely combing through his matted hair —brushing aside the strands clinging to his damp forehead. A piece of you cannot help but wonder if Deimos’ flattery is sincere, or just the pain talking. Either way, your heart leaps.

It’s a slow process to remove the arrows, clean the wounds, and bind them properly, but you stay through it all —helping where you can and distracting Deimos from the dull ache encompassing his body. The physician takes his leave, and the hour grows late. “Rest,” you tell him, placing a chaste kiss upon his brow.

Deimos grips onto your arms. “Only if you stay,” he breathes and you’re unable to deny the softly spoken request.

SEEING HIM DRESSED in anything other than his armor is an odd sight, but for this evening Deimos wears a deep green exomis fastened at one shoulder with a bronze pin. It reveals the linear scar running across his right pectoral —a result of your terrible skills with a needle, otherwise, the cut may have healed cleanly. Regardless, he is a handsome sight.

You’re both to attend a party of sorts in the chora of Delos and as women are not permitted at such affairs, the Cult has told you to serve of Deimos’ escort. They need assurance he will not act out and risk losing powerful allies and you are the best temper they have for their champion.

The peplos lying across the low bed is made of thin green linen embroidered with gold thread. It’s scant in comparison to your usual attire, and you have to remind yourself that you’re meant to be a courtesan for the night. “Did you pick this out?” You enquire, noticing the shade of green matches that of his exomis.

Deimos glances between you and the dress. There are years of pent up longing inside of him, pleading to be released —he’s but a man who can only take so much and his control has steadily been slipping away. He swallows the growing lump in his throat and gives a slow nod. “I knew it would look divine,” Deimos says watching as the flush he adores turns your cheeks a soft rosy color, “but even better on the ground,” he adds. Your cheeks turn crimson, and it confirms he feels the same way as you.

Emboldened, you take a step toward him. “Are you flirting with me?” You ask, unable to keep from smiling.

He reaches out, seizing your waist and draws you up against him. “You finally noticed?” He asks in turn, faintly amused. For as long as he can remember, he’s dropped hints, some more subtle than others —calling you a queen, comparing you to the gods, reserving rare smiles and gentle caresses only for you. But it had taken a more direct approach for you to fully realize it. Deimos cranes down, lips brushing over yours —still hesitant, but you push up.

His kiss is rough and overflowing with passion, just as you imagined countless times. You grip onto his arms, tugging him closer. There’s a break when Deimos pulls back, eyes darting across your face but falling to your parted lips. He’s quick to surge forward and close the small gap again —this time he can feel your smile against his lips. Your hands slip to his chest and gently push him back. “I still need to get ready,” you remind him. He nods, reluctantly stepping away from you and leaving the room.

The knee-length blue-and-violet chiton slips from your shoulders, leaving you in an undyed strophion and perizoma. Stripping off the undergarments, you wrap yourself in the diaphanous linen and fasten it in place over both your shoulders. “Deimos,” you call, impulse taking over. You’ve seen courtesans wear their peploses other ways as well.

Deimos enters and cannot stop his gaze from trailing up the length of your body —the soft curves of your figure are only thinly veiled by the linen. He may very well have a hard time keeping his hands to himself this night, and gods help the fools who tried to take what is his. “Which way do you like best?” You ask, unclasping one of the shoulders to situate the peplos so it resembles a man’s exomis though still conceals both your breasts.

He steps in front of you, hands running up your arms to the golden fibula. “Like this,” Deimos responds, undoing the pin —the fabric slides down your body as a green wave and pools around your feet. You stand bare and vulnerable before him, but he looks as though he’s ready to fall to his knees and worship you.

“Deimos,” you breathe, attempting to remind him that there is still a party that must be attended. He bends, lifting the green fabric from the ground but stops when his nose nears your naval. The warm caress of his lips causes you to jump. Deimos’ hands settle on your hips, and he continues the line of open-mouth kisses up the valley of your breasts, and finally claims your lips again. He’s waited so long for this —now he must wait again.

This time he helps you dress and then offers his arm to guide you to the symposium at the leader’s home. It will be a long night, for both you and Deimos want nothing more than to lose yourselves in one another, and cherish these moments away from the harsh and judging eyes of the Cult.

#Alexios #Deimos #Alexios x Reader #Deimos x Reader #Alexios Imagine #Deimos Imagine #Alexios Fanfiction #Deimos Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed Imagine #Assassin's Creed Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed Odyssey #Assassin's Creed #AC: Odyssey #my writing #requested

123 notes · View notes