Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ only if for a night

you know to enjoy every moment with deimos, because each one could very well be the last. 

ONE LAST NIGHT you sigh, looking down at a low table covered with freshly milled blades and fletched arrows. The Cult would be meeting in Delphi on the morrow, but you had already been given a new assignment in Messenia and would be leaving at first light. They had not said how long this would take, though you suspect it is a ploy to keep you away from their prized champion.

Some of the members of the Cult had already tried to force the two of you apart. It hadn't worked. Turns out, you were Deimos' temper —the only person in Hellas capable of calming the beast. You recognize the sound of his footsteps resonating off the pale marble floor, purposeful and proud. Deimos.

He's covered in blood and filth when he enters the villa courtyard, dark eyes still aflame with the thrill of battle. Deimos was not supposed to return to Phokis for another four days, but when Elpenor mentioned you'd be on a ship to Messenia by the time he returned, he'd made it a point to get the job done quicker. The grim, deep-seated anger in his expression starts to fade when he sees you —looking over a slim throwing knife.

Deimos traps you in his arms —his nose pressed into your hair, breathing in the faint hint of rose petals and figs. He reeks of sweat and spoiled wine. You turn to face him, and he dips down for a kiss, but you turn your cheek laughing softly. "You smell atrocious." It's the truth, but the kink in your lips makes it more of a teasing remark than anything.

He scoffs, taking a long whiff of himself. "This is the scent of victory," he proclaims, and you roll your eyes. Luckily, a bath had been drawn upon your insistence —you'd always liked to have a proper soak before a mission, it could very well be your last until you returned. Deimos starts to strip off his armor when you point to the sunken pool of steaming water. Each piece clatters on the smooth stone floor, leaving a bloody trail to the edge of the bath.

Pleased with the state of your armor and weapons you move toward the bath as well, circling around the circumference —removing the pins from your hair and the ties of your peplos. Deimos watches every move you make until you slid into the warm water across from him. "You're back early," you muse, eyes tracing the sharp lines of his face as you rub a piece of pumice down your arms. Handsome as ever. He shrugs, unwilling to give you the satisfaction of knowing his hasty return is because of you.

Pushing off the edge of the pool, he reaches out, gripping your hands and pulling you to him and half in his lap. He's always been different when the two of you are alone —softer than when the eyes of the Cult are upon him. There's a scar on his breast shaped like a waning crescent moon, your fingers trace the raised patch of skin. It is one of the only scars he bears, save the long jagged one on his back. It'd been then since he was a boy. Deimos' thumbs rub circles on your thigh and lower back.

"Can I have that kiss now?" He queries. You roll your eyes, unable to hide a coy smirk. Laying your hand on his cheek, you lean toward him —lips settling against his. Deimos' hand flattens against your back, urging you closer. Emboldened, you tug on his bottom lip with your teeth. His soft groan reverberates through his entire body. He pulls away for a brief pause, eyes flitting from your eyes down to your lips before surging forward again. His kiss is demanding and full of unbridled fervor.

Even after the kiss has ended, Deimos holds you in his arms. One last night he thinks. In this profession, there were never any guarantees you or he would live to see the next day or one another again. Every moment could be the last —that is how he treats this moment right now. "Deimos?" you whisper, lifting your head from his shoulder. He makes a noise in the back of his throat hmm. "The water's getting cold." Steam had stopped rising some time ago and now it was clear the only warmth was him. He rises, you in his arms.

Your shared bedchamber is a sanctuary —everything outside these four walls ceases to exist when you and Deimos lie together, limbs entangled. He brushes the hair from your face, fingertips wandering to trace over your lips too. "Come back to me," Deimos breathes. There are many meanings disguised in the gentle plea. You nod with a faint smile before scooting closer to him and pressing another gentle kiss to his lips.

Deimos wraps you in his arms wholly, unwilling to let go though he knows he must. His strong, steady heartbeat a lullaby sweeter than even Orpheus' lyre could play. The dawn will come too soon.