#if i have to have a fever deimos does too

[luxiferiicae]

I like to think Yuujin, Nekoya, Raphaël, and Deimos would be drawn to reciting off bits of poetry, prose, or simply making up their own in many different situations.

Yuujin would be drawn to more ancient ones, very tragic verses, especially in reference to himself. To know he is hated, left to his own, for his existence in and of itself, would be referenced often. The initial assumption about his personality is not untrue, he is very well cruel and often merciless, cold and aloof, but like all things he is far more than just these things: both good and evil these traits.

Nekoya will often draw on grand references to himself being no more than evil, corrupted, and akin himself to an angel fallen; Lucifer is very much referenced. He believes himself not an ultimate evil, but something small, nefarious, and genuinely unpleasant once the beautiful mask peels back. He is a tragic figure slipping deeper and deeper from the ledge, teetering and tottering between being pleasant, fun company and his mind being very, very fragile. The great evil that reveals itself to be nothing more than a thing to be pitied, made fun of, and, ultimately, cast away far from the memories of men. The punishment aspect of being ignored and cast aside is going to break him the rest of the way, but he is unable to change. It's far too late for him, and so long as the bird sings a dirge, he'll follow it down, down, down into hell.

In mirror to Nekoya, Deimos would use much the same references; however, i would think them more sad coming from his own mouth. Nekoya would mean them, and Deimos would be unhappy that they work to describe him. Where Nekoya seems to scream these proverbs in grand overtures, dramatic fashion that seems more like he's happy to be so insane, Deimos is remembering something so unpleasant it makes him itch in discomfort. He is someone put into a space determined by other people and he's had to live with it for so long. He's worked hard to make and unmake himself from these awful perceptions of him, force himself to be over confident in his appearance — what else does he have, if not his face ? There under all the glitz, glam, and the stupid shit he finds himself embroiled in, is the dirty little boy that the town treated like a leper. The evil lurking in their midst just waiting to corrupt their precious children. He truly believes himself lesser than, but he's trying. These moments of self-contemplation are bleak and mean to himself.

Raphaël is more like bible verses, proverbs, and commentary on the nature of the divine. It's often in reference to the wrath, the destruction, the power, and the inability to be truly ANYTHING like the average man. He often makes references to being lion and wanting to be lamb, being the exalted one and a fever dream, while showing how absolutely disgusted he is by the worship of these awful characteristics that can and will follow thoughtless actions of the divine and the worshipers that covet it. He is disgusted and sometimes he will spit these verses like bitter poison, almost resign himself to the fact that he is often unable to be less — of anything. He was created by his own father to be abrasive to the world at whole, break it and take it, or simply unmake it all together. It reflects in how abhorrent he is to the entirety to the divine. Don't get me started on the whole ‘ loving the divine ’ thing. He knows it is self-destructive, all consuming, and obsessive. He wants nothing of it, and he has a hard time not referring to it in such strangely, abstract terms.

[author-morgan]

Title: It Will Come Back

Pairing: Deimos-postDeimos!Alexios x Fem!Reader

Rating: M

Summary: You pluck an arrow from his back and he turns around like Eros and shoots you right in the heart. 

SPARTAN AND ATHENIAN dead litter the shores of Amphipolis –a feast for crows. Though among the dead few are luckily have clung to life. A wave of healers and physicians from both sides descend to collect those injured and those who had already taken the journey across the Styx with Charon.

You bear the mark of Athena –a servant of Athens. Combing the field of battle, you look for soldiers who wear the blue color of Athens. The first man you turn over is dead – his throat slashed and entrails exposed. Another is barely alive, having lost his hand and sustained a long and jagged gash on his calf. Shock will set in soon if he is not tended to. You hold up the silver medallion fastened around your neck –it glints in the sun and soon after two men come forward with a crude stretcher to take the soldier to the infirmary tent.

The next is beyond saving –his right eye is bulging from its socket, a minor grievance in comparison to the shattered back of his skull. He cannot speak, but his delirious eyes say it all. End this. I beg you. You’d never enjoyed this part of your duty. It didn’t feel right for a healer to take life –regardless, you draw the dagger from the sheath on your belt and position the tip of the blade next to his larynx. Pushing down with your weight, the dagger sinks into flesh and then you pull the cutting edge toward you. It’s a clean-cut that will grant the soldier peace before he can take another labored breath.

Rising, you find yourself drawn to a man that does not wear the colors of Sparta or Athens. A misthios, you think to yourself, but as you draw nearer you see his gold and dark steel armor is too fine to belong to a mercenary. A single arrow shaft rises from the center of his back. Kneeling, you push aside the matted locks of dark brown hair adorned with golden beads that’d fallen in front of his face. Against your hand, you can feel slow puffs of air and a pulse beneath your fingertips. He is still alive. You raise your medallion again.

Two soldiers come, though when they see who you are kneeling next to, their faces take on a deathly pallor and fear shins in their eyes. “Take him to my tent,” you instruct. If everyone is as fearful of this man as those two soldiers, no one will wish to tend to his wounds.

By the time the sun has set, those who stand a chance of surviving are within the infirmary pavilion and those who were dead or received final mercy are piled atop quickly constructed pyres. They will be sent off with Charon’s obol as honorable dead.

You draw the flaps of your small pavilion close and untie the leather belt hanging on your hips, letting it fall onto a small table next to a clay washbasin. Scrubbing your hands of the day’s work, you forget about the patient now residing in your quarters until you turn to your bedroll –which is half occupied at the moment. Small lanterns chase away the darkness.

The arrow had pierced the metal and leather cuirass and a gentle pull on the now broken shaft tells you it had sunk into flesh too. Frowning, you prod around the entry point –failing to see how to remove his armor without inflicting more damage. You reach back, fingers curling around the hilt of your dagger and slowly you start to whittle down the olive wood shaft. White pteruges are now stained with dried blood and mud –you set them aside and find the fastenings of the cuirass. Once the ties and hooks are free, you lift the back-plate and the tapered arrow shaft passes through with ease.

Scars crisscross his corded back, though for now, your focus returns to the arrow just to the left of his spine. The barbs had not caught on flesh, nor does it appear laced with poison and for that you are thankful. You ready your supplies –clean linen, a freshly ground poultice of thyme, sage, clove, and garlic, and a needle with silk thread should the wound need stitching.

You test the shaft’s hold on the arrowhead, finding the hide glue had not loosened. Part of you thinks it will be easier to remove the arrow with one quick go, but the strength of his physique leads you to use a more delicate approach. You’d almost had your fingers broken by an archer who’d abruptly woke in the middle of being treated. The man laying facedown before you looks as though he could easily break a lot more than a finger.

Fresh blood wells up after the arrow comes free. You douse the area with a mix of water and vinegar before patting the wound dry. It will not need sutures, just a fresh bandage to cover the poultice. It takes forbearance to finish stripping him of his armor and bind the wound with a long strip of clean linen. He is heavy –fitting for his Herculean build. His features are sharp and handsome, though dark circles ring his eyes. Even at rest he looks tormented. Much like his back, his torso is bestrewn with scars –some longer and wider than others.

Knowing you do not have the strength to move him again after a long day, you gather your blanket and lay on the small part of the bedroll still free. Sleep comes easily.

By morning, Deimos is awake –the muscles in his back screaming in agony as he shifts. His armor is gone, save for his greaves, piled up beneath a low table. A bloody basin of water sits on the ground, in it is an arrowhead and broken shaft. White linen is wrapped around his torso. “You’re awake!” You exclaim, readying for your duties.

"Who are you?" He rasps. It feels like a dangerous thing to do, but you give him your name. "My sister," he spits, "where is she?"

"I don't know,” you tell him. He can tell you are being truthful. You know nothing about Kassandra and from the look of it, you know nothing about him either. "I found you after the battle,” you tell him, “you'd been hit in the back with an arrow.” That explains the dull throbbing in his back.

"Need to go," he mutters, turning to reach of his armor.

"No," you say –the boldness of your voice catches you off guard. The man glowers at you. "You're my patient. You can't leave until I clear you."

Deimos sizes you up. "You're going to stop me?" He asks, mirth lacing the question. He has the blood of gods in his veins, and you are insignificant. Breaking you wouldn’t even be a challenge.

Sighing you shake your head. You can’t stop him. It’s likely no one in the entire camp could. "At least allow me to clean the wound and bind it again.” Deimos grunts in response and sits in place while you prepare a new poultice and gather fresh bandages. His arms are thick with muscle, hands rough and scarred. He watches you with his dark gaze, unused to being shown kindness. You spread the salve over the scab and move back in front of him to tie off the new bandage. His muscles contract when your fingers brush against his stomach –it’s like Phidias had sculpted him from Parian marble. "Who are you?"

"Deimos," he answers, watching the shred of fear blossom in your eyes. He smirks. "Ah, you've heard of me."

You no longer meet his gaze, instead, you wipe your hands clean in your apron. "I heard he was demigod," you mutter, handing him the gold and steel armor. Demigods are not felled by a single arrow, though. Deimos may fight like a demigod, but he still mortal –a tortured soul.

"I am,” he says with surety, rising to leave. He would not speak his gratitude aloud, but he can repay this simple kindness by making sure the Cult never harmed you.

PILES OF HERBS lay before you –waiting to be bundled and taken to Zina, the apothecary. One of the local villages had been experiencing issues with recurring fever, and Zina cannot spare the time to collect her supplies at the moment. You’re so focused on the task at hand, you don’t hear the iron-shod footsteps approaching from behind until someone’s hand settles on your shoulder and holds a stalk of tufted vetch before you. “Deimos!” You gasp, clutching your chest as though it can slow the frantic beating of your heart.

Deimos lips tug upward into a faint smile. The dark circles that’d once ringed his eyes are fading. “Alexios,” he supplements. He intends to move forward and leave his life under the Cult’s control in the past, though since reuniting with his family on Mount Taygetos he’s often thought of the healer at Amphipolis who did not show fear, even when the Athenian soldiers cowered in his wake.

Taking the stalk of vetch, you smile and inhale the slightly sweet scent. “What are you doing here?” You ask, you never expected to see him again –part of you wished you wouldn’t given his reputation, but now his handsome face is a pleasant sight compared to the sick and dying. “How did you find me?” You pose before he can even respond to your first question. You’re a long way from Amphipolis.

“I never said thank you,” he breathes, reaching for one of your hands. Besides being thrown off a mountain as a baby, it’s the closest he’s come to meeting Hades.

You shrug. “Many of those I treat, don’t,” you tell him. It was your duty to tend the wounded, not some feat of bravery worth poems or songs.

“HEALER!” SOMEONE CALLS. You turn, seeing an Amazonian woman running toward you with someone slung over her shoulder. As she draws nearer, you notice an eerie resemblance to a certain demigod that’d been occupying your thoughts frequently as of late. “Can you help my brother?” The woman asks, panting. Blood runs down her arm and neck –it’s not hers, though.

You nod, grip tightening on the woven basket filled with herbs, grain and fruit. “Follow me.” The Orchomenos clinic just below the Temple of Apollo is your home at the moment –and where you lead the woman and her brother. She lays him on the table in your quarters and steps back. “Alexios,” you gasp. There’s a deep gash on his side almost the length of your forearm. He groans when his sister starts unclasping the torn leather cuirass while you prepare a needle and thread and gather rags and bandages.

Her name is Kassandra and she watches your every move as you begin cleaning the wound. It still bleeds, but barely –it won’t need to be burned. The hooked needle passes through his skin with ease, each time pulling the gash closed. “What happened?” You ask, pulling on the silk thread when it catches.

“Boar,” she responds. Since training under Hippokrates, you’ve seen your fair share of injuries caused by boars –most are not so lucky and bleed out before receiving proper treatment, or succumb to infection. The wound is no doubt grievous, but in your experience, it could be a lot worse. The line of sutures are neatly done, having used almost an entire spool of thread.

The salve you craft is made of softened beeswax, ironwort tea, and frankincense for inflammation. You dip your hand into the mixture and spread it across the stitches –his entire side has already begun shifting to deep hues of blue and purple. Kassandra helps you wind a thick layer of linen around his torso –it will help with the bruising and keep the sutures clean­– before moving him to the corner of the room where a pallet of pillows and blankets are messily arranged.

She is worried about her brother. “He’ll be alright,” you assure her –wiping down the table, “he just needs time to rest.”

Kassandra sits across from you at the table after cleaning Alexios’ blood from her neck and arms –she nurses a cup of watered wine. “He mentions you a lot,” she tells you and that catches you off guard. Since Amphipolis, he’s managed to find you on several occasions. He never stays more than a day at a time, but it was always a pleasant surprise to have company –especially when it’s. She glances over her shoulder toward Alexios. “You’ve made quite the impression on him.”

When her gaze returns to you, there’s a fleeting smile on your lips. You should see her when she smiles, sister. “I found him after Amphipolis.” Sometimes you still wake in a cold sweat, remembering the carnage –the brutality of war. It was not some glorious thing like the singers and poets claimed. “He said his name was Deimos. The men were terrified of him.”

“He was a weapon for the Cult of Kosmos,” she explains and her expression twists into one of anger. “Alexios is the name our mater gave him.” The sun will be setting soon, and she needs to return to the Adrestia. She and Alexios had been en route to the ship after receiving word about important business on Mykonos when the pack of boar attacked them. Kassandra rises. “I leave my brother in your capable hands.”

Sometime during the night, he wakes. A gentle weight is resting on his chest –your hand is splayed out on the small area not covered by linen. In the dim light, he makes out your features, completely at ease. Alexios braces his arms, intent on pushing himself up, but the hand on his chest stiffens and forces him back down. “Don’t,” you mumble, groggy and barely awake.

“Where’s Kassandra?” He asks in a hoarse whisper.

“Returned to her ship,” you answer, “said she’d be back soon. Business on Mykonos.”

Alexios rolls his eyes. Business, he scoffs. Kyra is what his sister meant by that. He settles back in, covering your hand with his own. “Fucking pig came out of nowhere,” he remarks with a dry laugh. A smile tugs at your lips, you cannot deny it is a nice change to have company –the warmth of another person next to you.

YOU LEAVE EARLY in the morning for the market with a mental list of herbs and flowers to purchase for the clinic. The sun is blazing by midday when you return. Pylenor is tending to a new patient, though when you arrive the physician pulls you asides –asking if you could deliver a fresh batch of tonic and salves to Zosimos in Lebadeia.

Behind your quarters comes the rhythmic sound of wood splitting. You drop off the basket and round the corner of the stone building. Alexios lifts the axe above his head and brings it down in a fluid motion, splitting a piece of wood in two with ease. Sweat beads on his brow and the off-white chiton clings to his chest and back. Perhaps if not for the wound on his side, you would have enjoyed the sight a moment longer. “Alexios!” He looks in your direction and immediately knows he’s in for a scolding –after all, it’d only been three days since he’d been gored and stitched up. “You shouldn’t be doing that yet,” you chide.

“I’m fine,” he says and proves his point by showing you the line of stitches –still as neat and undamaged. When you tell Alexios about needing to run an errand to Lebadeia, he offers to come with you. Trypho lends you and the misthios a horse to complete the delivery –it’s quicker and safer than traveling on foot.

On the way back, you stop for a quick reprieve, letting the horse rest and drink from a pool of water fed by a small waterfall that flowed to Lake Kopais. Today had been exceptionally warm, and now that the sun is dipping lower in the sky the dried sheen of sweat on your skins becomes tacky. You strip off your peplos and apron, sinking into the cool water in nothing but a sweat-stained apodesmos and perizoma. Alexios follows suit, leaving his tunic and sword on the banks –you’d taken his armor to the tanner to be repaired.

He circles you, as a predator does its prey –it sends a cold chill down your spine and warmth to your insides. You step into his path, both hands pressing against his chest. Beneath your palms are numerous scars and ever since you first saw them, you’ve wanted to know more. Your hands slide across his pectorals and up a pale brown scar that runs parallel to his right clavicle. He tells you it’s from when he was a child –he’d stumbled into a wolf den in the forests of Argos. “And this one?” You ask.

He looks down at the raised vertical scar on his left breast. It’s not from a recent injury as portions of it have begun fading. “Don’t remember,” he replies, in earnest. It was easy to forget the stories behind minor injuries when they were so numerous.

“What about this?” One of your fingertips follows the raised scar that crosses over his navel. Something stirs in him and a spark turns his dark eyes to burning amber.

“Training recruits,” he tells you.

“This one?” You inquire, following the crooked line from his uninjured side up to his ribs. 

“Arena in Pephka.” His voice drops and is noticeably rougher. Alexios presses your hand flat to his chest and steps closer –his heart is thudding beneath your palm. You feel a lump form in your throat when his thumb traces over your lips but it quickly fades when he settles his lips against yours.

The hand on his chest slips up to his neck and you press yourself closer to him. You’ve always wondered what I would be like to have the love of a god –this is the closest you’ll ever get to fulfill that curiosity. One of his hands finds your lower back, the other brushes against your cheek. It’s difficult to think this is the same man who was once Deimos –a weapon. His lips are soft, hands gentle. You both pull back at the same time, but then his lips are on your neck, laving, and suckling –the coarse stubble on his jaw dragging across your skin. “Alexios,” you gasp, tugging at the ends of his hair.

He finds the pin holding your apodesmos in place and opens it with one hand, tugging on the soaked material covering your breasts and then his lips are on yours again. Ravenous and needy. Without looking, he throws the strip of wool toward the edge of the pool and glides his calloused hands over your bare breasts, lightly kneading one of your nipples until it stiffens beneath his palm. You know what lies along this path and no matter how much you want him, you step back –breathing heavily. “You could tear the stitches,” you warn. Torn stitches will only hinder him from healing properly.

Alexios wades back to you, pressing his face against your neck. “Then we’ll take things slow,” he proposes, voice a heady gravel. You mold into him –like wet clay in the hands of a skilled potter. His hands dip below the water, untying the perizoma around your hips –it finds a place next to your other garments. Rough fingertips trail the length of your body and find a resting place between your thighs. “Tell me what you want,” he rasps.

“I want you,” you whisper, hand resting on his cheek. You’re not one to plead, not even for the love of a demigod, but there’s a first time for everything. Alexios catches the spark that appears in your eyes and smirks –thinking about what’s to come when his side is healed. One finger slides into you, stroking and exploring. He adds a second finger and watches the shift in your expression. You grip onto his shoulder, head falling back with a soft whine when his thumb presses against your clit. His cock twitches as a pitiful pule escapes your lips. 

His lips drag across your jaw. A precipice is fast approaching, evident in the way you’re breathing hitches and how your walls constrict around his fingers. Alexios wants to watch you come undone whilst he’s inside you. You whimper at the loss. Though when you notice him fumbling at the knot in his loincloth, your hands slip beneath the water and gently pushing his away. He takes your swollen lips again –kissing you may very well be one of his new favorite things, even more so than annoying his sister and step-brother.

He groans and bites down on your shoulder when you take him into your hand and give a tentative stroke from base to head. His cock is just as impressive as the rest of him. It takes all his willpower to pull your hand away, but then he is lifting you from the water. He groans again when your slick folds slide over him, ankles hooking low around his back. You want to protest –thinking of the stitches, but you can’t bring yourself to say anything lest the moment be lost.

He sits back on the bank in the tall grass with you astride his lap –hard length pressing against your stomach. You roll your hips forward and are rewarded with a ragged groan, but you can see it in his eyes –he likes being in control. A smile crosses your lips as you repeat the same action. It’s enough to drive him mad. The growl rising in his throat is feral –his fingers dig deep into your hips, a gentle reminder of who he is and what he’s capable of.

You shift onto your knees, raising your hips and reach between you, sliding the head of his cock through your heat before beginning to sink back down. “Fuck,” he hisses as your warmth envelops him and his hands slide from your hips around to your backside, pushing you down until your hips meet. Your head falls forward, resting on his shoulder and for the moment, the world around you vanishes.

Alexios shifts and it brings you crashing back down –skin alight with his touch. You take his rugged face into your hands and kiss him, slowly, just as your hips begin to roll into his. He breaks away and dips his head low, teeth scraping over your breasts down to one of your nipples. His name falls from your lips like a sacred prayer.

He’s moving your hips how he sees fit and lifting his to meet yours. Your hands slip into his hair, ruining the small bun of matted locks tied up with a thin leather thong. Alexios bares his teeth when you tug on his hair, hip snapping up into yours. Brown eyes flecked with gold bore into your own.

The air leaves your lung when he abruptly turns, laying you on the soft woven grass. Alexios holds tight to one of your thighs as he ruts into you –face buried deep into your neck. Your fingertips dig into his shoulder blades, between scars. It’s a slight shift in your hips that causes breathy moans to flow from your lips each time his cock slides back into your heat, hitting the one spot that makes you feel like Aphrodite herself. He thrives off the wanton sounds. “Alexios,” you pant, toes curling and walls clenching around him.

He moves erratically, grunting between thrusts and continues to strike that spot deep inside you. All is lost when the rough pads of his fingers find your clit. Alexios raises his head and basks in the moment you come undone –mouth falling open, eyes slipping shut, heels pressing into his lower back. Your grip on his shoulders loosens and your hands slide down his back, finding the scar from when you’d met in Amphipolis.

Alexios breathes your name as though he speaks to a goddess and with several slow, deep thrusts he finds his end. He hovers above you, bracing most of his weight on his forearms. You trace over the wrinkles in his brow and push up on your elbows. The kiss is so soft, sweet, and slow it makes his heart ache and understand why Orpheus would follow Eurydice to the underground.

He rolls off to the side, and you weakly protest the loss and warmth running down your thighs. Then you are slipping effortlessly back into the role of his healer. You sit up, looking over the sutures in his side. None of them have torn, but several are trying to bleed again. Alexios rolls his eyes –he’s endured far worse than bloody stitches. He sits up –looking like both Ares and Adonis– and gathers his damp undergarment to clean both of you up.

You both lay back in the grass, legs intertwined and tracing obscure patterns over one another’s skin until darkness looms on the horizon. Alexios traces a line down your cheek when you prop your chin upon his chest. “We should head back,” you tell him, “these forests are treacherous at night.”

Night falls, and the main gates of Orchomenos come into view. Alexios stables the borrowed mount and drapes his arm over your shoulders as you both return to the clinic.

Days pass and Alexios takes up completing odd tasks for people around the city while you work with Pylenor tending to those who come sick and injured. Every morning you and Alexios break your fast on jams and bread and every evening you share a meal too. It frightens you to think about how accustomed to his presence you’ve become.

Finally one evening, you motion for him to sit for you to remove the sutures before the wound completely seals. A few days later you bring his leather cuirass back from the market, fully repaired by the tanner. You expect him to leave soon after, but he stays and each kiss and tender caress will make it even harder when he does rejoin Kassandra.

A GOLDEN EAGLE named Ikaros brings word that his sister has docked in Lokris and it just so happens that you have a delivery to take Marpsas in Alponos. By the day’s end, you find yourself standing on the docks of Opous with Alexios. Your fingertips ghost over his cheek, following the scar below his eye. “I’ve quite enjoyed having my own misthios around,” you admit. He’d been with you now for more than a full lunar cycle. Between this time and his sporadic visits, you cannot deny the extreme fondness you hold for him. Given more time, it may blossom into something more. 

“Every misthios needs a healer,” he remarks. During his time with Kassandra and Barnabas, he’s witnessed the damage pirates, bandits, and other mercenaries can do, especially when no one aboard the vessel is trained in medicine.

“I could come with you,” you offer –life at sea does sound like a fun adventure.

Alexios glances back at the Adrestia and knows deep down that he cannot take you from your calling as a healer without condemning innocents to death, but he can always be a misthios on land or sea. Besides Kassandra can look after herself. He takes one of your hands and kisses the center of your palm. “Or I could stay,” he whispers. Your lips part in surprise and Alexios sees it as a good excuse to crane down and place a soft, lingering kiss upon them. Against his lips, he can feel your smile. “Let’s go home,” he breathes.

[bleedingheartnebula]

✈ - an eye-opening memory

TWs: heat stroke, hospitalization, alcohol imbibed in copious quantities. 

It was so hot. Had it always been this hot?

Mars stared down into the bottle she’d near-emptied. Perhaps she was imagining… perhaps it was the bottle. The liquid no longer felt cool against her heated skin. 

Her hair clung to her face, and the underclothes of her uniform she still wore– essentially a turtleneck and pants– felt too tight. They always did, but now it seemed worse. 

There was a strange sort of ringing in her ears. It sounded like… she could still hear her Purugly, her partner Pokémon… whom she’d released, left to a better life…

She leaned against the wall now. It felt hot. It always did, nowadays. Metal heated quickly. Everything was metal. Without even realizing it, she’d slid to the floor, her legs having given out– no, the floor had simply tilted to meet her, and the air was a bit lighter here…

The last thing she remembered was a reddish haze around her vision, reddish black. The next thing she knew was a set of cool hands, fixing cool, smooth sheets, a touch on her cheek. 

Words. She couldn’t process them yet. Her eyes had opened, but everything was blurred. 

“…very lucky…”

Maria closed her eyes. She had no idea where she was. Had she died? Was she dreaming?

Had Cyrus come back for her, after all?

She wanted to greet ‘Cyrus,’ though her fevered mind only allowed her to produce an incoherent mumble, closing her eyes. 

‘Thank you for coming back. I waited, you know. I knew.’

“…mmnbak…”

The hand on her cheek came once more, and then she slept. 

The next time she came to, she was a bit more present. Her entire body felt terrible– heavy and cramped, as if it were simultaneously made of Durants and lead. There were pale pink walls, was she in a Pokémon Center?

Preposterous. What Center would treat her?

There was a Purugly nearby, and she couldn’t help an audible gasp. Deimos opened one yellow eye– he was mad about being kicked out, to be sure, but clearly madder still about… this. And yet, immediately after she managed to reach out (so heavy… why?), he was there, grooming her cheek, her nose, her forehead. Like he’d always done. 

Had she died?

If she had, did that mean he…?

No, Deimos was right there. Purring loudly enough to be material indeed. 

There was no doubt about it being a Pokémon Center now. There had been a Joy up and down the hallway. A Chansey in tow. 

She hadn’t appeared in person, however, until now. 

Maria was still having trouble focusing on everything, barely awake, but she managed to piece together:

you’re safe. 

barely. 

you were very lucky he found you. 

you were lucky somebody realized. 

it’s not too late to turn your life around. 

please rest. 

She’d later find out that Deimos had saved her. He’d dragged her as far as he could, yowled until somebody had called emergency medical services. And she’d needed emergency rehydration. Alcohol detox, too, her blood content had been too high…

Joy had been adamant it wasn’t too late. She knew who she was. Obviously. It was likely that everybody in the region did. She’d been the Galactic spokesgirl for a time. Appeared on TV once or twice. 

And yet, she wanted her to change. To live. Maybe there was some hope?

But what if Cyrus comes back? No! What’ll happen when he does? And none had waited? She’d been the last…

Deimos nudged her arm. She raised it, and he decided to settle in right alongside her. His head was on her chest. He wanted to know she was breathing right. 

And where would we go? How? When? Who’d give her a roof, or an income?

The cat began to purr. She’d never been able to keep her eyes open too long when he wanted her asleep…

For now, sleep. And then she’d make up her mind. 

[the-marshmallow-and-the-mou-blog]

25 Days of Starfighter

Deimos can’t remember what the day was supposed to be, but he sort of smiles as he thinks of the knives he’ll get for Christmas while laid up in the Med Bay.

[author-morgan]

Angst Prompts 3 and 13: “Why are you awake right now?” “If you don’t hug me right now I think I might fall apart.”

Deimos!Alexios x Fem!Reader

Requested by @nemo-my-name-forevermore

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

IT’S UNCOMMON FOR Deimos to wake in the night and find the spot next to him empty and cold. He sits up with a soft groan, looking around the small stone house situated near Nafplio on the Argolic Gulf. Tallow candles still burn on the low lying table near a half-empty kylix of sweet wine. Rising from the low pallet bed, Deimos shrugs his chiton back on, steps outside into the cool night air. Small waves roll onto the shore, breaking into white foam on the pale sand. This place is so peaceful, he can’t help but feel he does not belong.  

Glancing around, he finally looks up —finding your legs dangling off the edge of the flat roof. If you’re there at this hour, Deimos knows there is a reason behind it. He rounds the corner of the house and climbs the short wooden ladder —he’d forego it most of the time, but his battered shoulder stops him. 

Moonlight paints your skin silver. If not for the soft breeze rustling your hair, you could be mistaken for a marble statue of Aphrodite. He finds a spot next to you and looks over the gulf in silence for several long minutes. “What are you doing awake right now?” Deimos asks, still looking straight ahead —he hasn’t noticed the tears streaking down your cheeks yet. 

You swallow the lump in your throat as you think about your brother. My brother, my sweet brother. “They told me what my mother did to Dolops.” Your voice cracks and Deimos finally realizes you’re crying. He looks down at his hands, unsure of what to say or do. You’ve always worn strength with such grace, though Deimos supposes even the strongest must break at some point. 

Dolops mostly raised you on his own —he hadn’t wanted his little sister to be corrupted by Chrysis when his mother’s lust for power grew too strong. He’d done well for himself as a Priest of Asklepius —helping orphans— but after taking you into his care Dolops decided on the life of a farmer. 

It was a good and simple life. Neither of you ever wanted for anything, even when times seemed dire. You’d learned how to plow a field, sow seeds, and reap a harvest. The women in the small village had shown you how to weave and shape clay, too. It was your impressive patterned fabrics that’d let you purchase the small house near Nafploi —where it was easier to come by materials for your weaving and sell the finished fabrics in the agora.  

Earlier in the day, a vanguard of Cult guardians had come to your door and passed off a sealed scroll delivering the news. Chrysis paid to have her son killed. Dolops had been murdered in his home. You dread to think what she may do to you —especially if she learns of you and her beloved champion.

Deimos reaches for your hand and runs his thumb across your knuckles. You appreciate the gesture, but it’s not enough to quash the extreme grief in your heart. The past moon had brought a series of unfortunate events upon you. The old crone who taught you to weave perished in a mysterious fire. A small orphan you and Dolops often played with and fed from your table contracted a deadly fever and no prayer or sacrifice could appease the gods to spare her. And now your brother. There was only so much a person could take before breaking —and your heart is shattered. 

You glance down at your and his hands. His are the hands of a killer you think and yet you trust them completely. You trust him. “Please hug me, Deimos.” It’s a faint whisper. “If you don’t I think I might fall apart.” You know he’s not an affectionate person, but he does show he cares in his own way.

It surprises you when he shifts, bringing you into his arms —his embrace is tender and warm. You press your cheek into his chest, clutching the black-and-gold fabric of his chiton, and start to quietly sob —you’ve tried to be strong for so long, but now you just can’t. Deimos places his chin atop your head, and his arms tighten around you. The hand on your waist moves up to cradle the back of your head —fingers loosely combing through your hair. He’s only ever seen other people do this and he hopes it’s enough to keep you from breaking.

In the depths of your mind, you cannot help but wonder if you will be next. Deimos presses his lips to your temple. “I’ll never let them hurt you,” he promises, voice low and dangerous. So long as there was breath in his lungs, no one would ever harm you. Not your mother or the Cult. No one. Your heart skips a beat and slowly you draw back from his embrace —hands still lingering against the solid muscle of his pectorals.  

He lifts his hands, rough thumbs brushing away the dampness beneath your eyes. His brow is furrowed, and there’s a distant look in his tawny-gold eyes —as though he’s overthinking something. Deimos reaches for a matted lock of his hair and begins tugging on one of the golden beads. “What are you doing?” You ask, but he doesn’t answer at first. 

“Each of these represents a victory,” he explains, holding out a gold bead taken from his head of dark hair for you to take. 

You shake your head. “I’ve won no victory,” you tell him, softly. You’re not a warrior, just a simple farmer, and weaver. He won’t accept your reasoning, though —you’ve won many victories, even if they seem small. Deimos picks up a lock of hair from behind your ear and divides it into three sections. He hopes he’s watched you braid your hair enough time to mimic the pattern. 

Three attempts later, a slim, neat braid is held in place by a golden bead. Moonlight catches the bead, and you notice the soft glint from the corner of your eye. Deimos cups your chin, bringing your eyes back to him. You bite down on your bottom lips, cheeks warming under his intense gaze. He starts to move forward, and you do too. Your lips brush over his, hesitant —even after all this time— but his are resolute in comparison. 

You both draw back, foreheads pressed together —fingertips ghosting over each other’s cheeks and neck. Deimos slides his hand into your hair and places his lips on yours. His kisses are a thing of wonder —rough but still gentle, dominant and somehow uncertain. When you part with uneven breaths, Deimos draws you against him —your back to his chest— and wraps his arms around your middle, resting his chin on your shoulder. 

“Deimos?” He makes a low sound in the back of his throat in acknowledgment. “Thank you,” you whisper. One of Deimos’ arms tightens around your waist, and you can feel the smile on his lips as he presses them against your temple —holding you close as the night sky begins to shift to dawn. 

[tagging my other Deimos!Alexios lovers @nonelleke​ and @levikra​ too]

[author-morgan]

Title: Dread and Destruction

Pairing: Deimos!Alexios x Fem!Reader

Rating: T

Summary: You left the Cult of Kosmos, it’s time he does too.

THE FEVER BREAKS but you still wake in a cold sweat surrounded by darkness. A dull throbbing in your leg returns. The poisoned arrow leaves its mark on you and the minds of the Cultist. You’re no longer immortal to them –your usefulness has run its course.

Out of the darkness, a flickering light appears and grows brighter –larger and reflects off golden armor. Deimos. You’re both relieved and terrified to see him. "They're going to kill you," he says and you draw in a deep breath, looking around the prison for a weapon. You couldn't fight him though, not in this state. Deimos throws down a pack and dark cloak next to you and kneels. You lean back, eyes meeting his –waiting for him to draw his blade to do the Cult’s bidding. "You have to leave," he tells you.

Your brows knit together. Deimos shoves the hem of your stained chiton up and takes a strip of linen, laying it over the wound on your upper thigh and wrapping it tightly. You can’t help the chill that creeps down your spine at the feel of his rough fingers against your heated skin.

You want to ask why he is going to such lengths to help ���deep down you already know, but you want to hear it in his own words. Deimos pulls you off the ground and leads you deeper into the cave, past the Cult of Kosmos’s meeting chamber. The path grows narrower and then turns upward. Star and moonlight filters through a dense canopy covering the hidden entrance. A horse is waiting –your sword and bow already secured to the saddle. You turn back to Deimos. "What about you?" The cult would not let him act without punishment –demigod or not.

Deimos shakes his head. "No questions-" he motions to the horse "-go."

You and he are kindred souls, bound by misfortune. Trembling, you surge forward, pressing your lips against his. He seizes your waist, drawing you closer. You’ve always been his source of rapture away from the dread and destruction. Your hand caresses the side of his face, following the scar below his eye –you’d put it there yourself years ago. Stepping back, you mount the pale mare and look back over your shoulder. “I’ll find you,” you promise. Fate had always led you back to one another.

FREE FROM THE Cult’s control, you seek retribution for the years of pain endured under their heel. Freedom makes you see you’d only ever been a puppet in their schemes and Deimos is still their pawn. They’d given you training and praised, called you the daughter of gods, but never once thought what should happen if you went rogue.

Perched in the rafters of a temple –you wait. You’d always been the more patient one. Worshippers rise and flee when he enters. The Cultist kneels, placing a coin at the feet of Plutus in offering. You move in the shadows, then pounce.

Midas slumps against the altar, hand clawing at the open gash on his neck –prayers unheard. Before the gurgling stops, you kick his body over and drive a bronze dagger through his heart. The last thing Midas sees is you smiling with blood on your face. Rising from the slain Cultist, you wipe the blood from the dagger in a stained cloth –not realizing you aren’t alone. The point of a blade digs into your back. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you right now." The voice is familiar. The Eagle Bearer.

“Because I just did your work for you,” you remark, glancing down at Midas’s lidless eyes.

“Try again,” Kassandra sneers.

You sigh, dropping the dagger you’d had pressed into her side. “I left the Cult,” you tell her. The Eagle Bearer steps back and you present her with the golden artifact that belonged to Midas. She does not sheath the broken spear though. "And I can help you bring them to their knees.” You’d been hunting Cultist and their accomplices like animals. Midas was the thirteenth to fall on your blade.  

“I saw you with my brother,” she hisses, disbelieving.

Though before you can say anything else a civilian enters the temple and screams after seeing you and Kassandra standing over the corpse of Argos’s banker. Soon after soldiers and guards are shouting in the distance. "Your brother is the only reason I'm alive," you admit –the thought of Deimos softening your expression. "I suggest we leave quickly."

Kassandra lowers her spear, reluctant and you flee. "Malákas!" The Eagle Bear curses, giving pursuit before she is found standing over the body of Midas –she doesn’t need another mercenary looking to collect the bounty on her head.

WAVES ROCK THE Adrestia to and fro. A lit brazier separates you and Kassandra. Since deciding to work together, five more cultists have fallen, but now it is time for answers that did not come from the dying. The Eagle Bearer demands answers and you offer them freely. "Chrysis always took children in pairs," you explain. "My mother abandoned me the same night yours was told Alexios was dead." Fate had brought them together, just as Chrysis said the Pythia ordained.

"We grew up together. Trained together. Fought together-" the briefest of smiles flash across your lips "-we were unstoppable." People feared the very mention of your names, of the things you could do. Together you and Deimos could bring cities to their knees in a night, could shape the tides of war. Still, despite the titles and praise, you were only mortal. "But we were sloppy sometimes and that came with punishment."

Kassandra clasps her hands together, feels something twist in her stomach. Chrysis will die for the things she'd done. You glance down at the scars on your arms then look to the heavens. "We were taught to expect pain." The world is pain. At first, it was lashes, then brands –if a Child of Kosmos ran out of room for a mark they were discarded.

Though for Deimos and you, the Cult had to become creative in their punishments. A brand did nothing to someone who did not cry out in agony or beg for release. "What they found is they could hurt us more by hurting each other." The first time Deimos let a target escape their grasp, Okytos the Great had carved lines into your back and rubbed salt in the wound. Deimos swore he'd kill Okytos for that.

"What is he like?" Kassandra asks. Her little brother is a stranger to her.

You shrug. "Irascible and stubborn mostly." That tended to be the temperament of most men though, but Deimos is different. He brought the wrath of gods and was like a rock rising from the sea. "Even the Cultist fear him." He was a puppet for the Ghost of Kosmos, but sometimes he tested the length of his leash. There was a time when both you and he commanded the Sages and Adepts.

"He's always been different with me, though," you admit. There had always been a certain degree tenderness in his touches and gaze. Even his words were not harsh. "Softer." Is the word you use to describe the Deimos no one but you know.

The Eagle Bearer's face falls. "You love him." She's seen that type of expression before many times in her travels. It is the look in a woman's eyes as she sends her husband to war.

You look away. "I love the man he could be. I will help you hunt down every cultist crawling over the Greek world-" you rise to your feet. "-but know we're fighting for different people, Kassandra." You return below deck, hoping the memories would let you know peace for one night. 

AT THE BACK of the cave is a man garbed in silver and gold armor. You recognize him at once, a few seconds later the Eagle Bearer does as well. Kassandra strides forward, but you grip onto her arm, pulling her back to the cave’s entrance. “Let me go alone,” you whisper. Deimos can kill you if that is what the Cult wishes, but Kassandra needs to live.

"Have you lost your fucking mind?" She hisses. "I can't leave you with him!" Your harsh glare makes her reconsider and alas she turns back, returning to the Adrestia.

You descend into the dim cave. Footfalls silent. “Deimos,” you breathe, pushing back the hood of your cloak. Almost two years have passed since you’d fled execution. Now fate brings you together again.

In two large strides, his hand wraps around your throat, pushing you back against the rock. "You left me," he shouts –voice echoing deep in the darkness.

You wrap a hand around his wrist –terrified of the moment when he decided to squeeze. Despite his strength, his face looks thin –tormented. Dark circles ring his eyes. The Cult chips away another piece of him –of his resolve. "You helped me leave," you tell him, breathing shallow.

His face twists, but he drops you and steps back –chest heaving in sync with yours. He’s dreamt of killing you for betraying him, leaving him, but all it takes is one look and he can’t do it. "They said you abandoned me," he grits out.

Rising, you take a step toward him. “I didn’t.” Your fingers brush over the scar on the back of his right hand. You can leave too." He still won’t look at you, but he doesn’t move when you slip your hand into his. "Come with me," you whisper. "The Cult has used us. Broken us." You had only been able to see the truth after leaving and though you were still on a path of vengeance, it was better than being a puppet. "We can be whole."

Deimos shakes his head, chuckling and turns back to face you. There was no going back, no leaving this life. "Not after the things we've done,” he says.

You let his hand go. "But do we not deserve the chance?" You ask, reaching out to touch the scar below his eye.

He knocks your hand away, knowing your touch would ruin him and bring more pain. "I will not listen to your lies," he snarls.

"Alexios." He lashes out, shoving you. Something in you back cracks as you hit the cave wall. "Don't use that name!" Deimos roars, shoulders shaking.

You sit up, closing your eyes and ignoring the pain. “It’s who you are,” you breathe, hands shaking. Your whole body feels as though it is shaking. You open your eyes. Deimos is crouched down before you, dark eyes full of pain and anger, but there is still a glint of the gentleness you’d known before. Your breath catches and takes that as a queue, kissing you.

You hesitate, mind racing. He may have been about to kill you. One last kiss before death. The cold bite of iron never comes. You lean into him and his anger subsides. His hands run down your arms, finding new scars. “Where have you been?” He asks.

"Searching," you shrug, then the briefest of smiles appears on your lips and makes Deimos want to kiss you again. "To discover who I truly am." You reach out toward the scar on his cheek again, this time he does not resist. 

He leans into the touch, unable to admit to himself that he'd missed this. "I cannot leave,” he utters. You already knew that, though. "If they find out you're alive, they'll kill you.” You rest your forehead against his.

You nod, knowing well how the Cult of Kosmos operates. "I would expect nothing less.” Then something akin to fear appears in your eyes. "But what if they gave you the order?" You ask.

Deimos turns his head, swallows hard. "I-" he hesitates – the answer should have been easy, but it wasn't. "I couldn't," he whispers. The words should have brought you relief, but they did not.

You lift your hand to his cheek, bringing his troubled gaze back to you. “We are bound by fate,” you murmur, leaning forward. He grabs the back of your neck, closing the distance between you. You brace one hand on his breastplate, the other tangles in his hair. His kiss is bruising –a punishment in itself. Pulling away, you run your thumb over his lips. When you kiss him, it makes his heart ache and his body go weak. "The gods will always bring us back together," you tell him as you part, hands caressing both sides of his face.

You both rise. He has been away too long, the Cult will begin searching for him. Deimos grips onto your hands before you can leave the cave. "Stay out of my way, please." He doesn’t want to be faced with a decision he'd grow to regret.

You smile and Deimos knows a piece of your former self persists. "Only if you stay out of mine."