Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ midnight confessions

in which a dream leads to something more. 

GENTLE IS NOT how one would describe Deimos —the bane of Sparta and Athens, a demigod and champion— but if you had to choose one word, gentle would be it. He had found you during a fort assault bound in the polemarch's chambers; wrists and ankles bloody and raw from struggling against the ropes. When Deimos appeared through the smoke, he looked like a harbinger of death garbed in gold-and-white armor streaked black by smoke and running red with the blood of Athenians.

Deimos had carried you from the burning ruins to a war galley with the seal of Phokis emblazoned on the sail. His hands were rough as they cleaned and dressed the bloody wounds with a sweet-smelling salve. After, he had looked up at you with clear tawny-gold eyes burning with warmth. "Are you hurt?" He asked, voice a low, soothing rasp. All you could do was shake your head.

Rolling onto your side, you take in his sleeping form —painted silver by moonlight. Deimos' expression is at ease and his chest rises and falls in a slow, even rhythm. Transfixed, you reach out tracing a scar on his breast with a feather-light touch. His lips twitch, kinking into a soft smile. He rolls onto his side too, facing you, eyes opening and adjusting to the dim light. "What is it?" Sleep still fogs his voice, the words slurring together. Deimos catches your hand, holding it flat against his chest —under your palm you can feel the strong thump of his heart.

"I had a dream about you," you whisper, leaning closer. You had lost count of the days that passed since he carried you to safety, but now it had been months —a distant memory. He raises a dark brow. "About when we first met," you add, and Deimos runs his thumb across your wrist, following the scar left behind by the ropes. He had not expected to find you that day, but he is glad for it. It feels good to have a kind soul to return to after assignments from the Cult. Someone to tend his wounds and wake him from nightmares. Life has not been as cruel since you elected to stay with him.

But now, there is a glint in your eyes he has not seen before —or has been unable to place until now— and it stalls his heart. You slide the hand on his chest up to his cheek, tracing over the short scar there too. Everything falls into place —you love him, and he can see it written on your countenance and knows your actions reflect the same sentiments. "Don't," Deimos breathes, almost pleading, "I'm no good for you." He is a weapon —a monster. "Don't think about falling for me." He does not want you to get hurt because of who he is.

You run your fingers over his brow, smoothing out the deep furrows. It is difficult to say when you came to the realization. Perhaps it was when he took you back to your home to see (or stay with) your family. Or one time when you had seen him bloody and half-conscious, muttering to the physician that he wanted to see you —and only you. "It's too late for that," you muse, both your hands moving to cradle his face —eyes tracing over the sharp lines of his jaw and nose. "I love you," you tell him, no room for uncertainty in the whispered confession. Love is the only thing that could explain how you felt toward Deimos.

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. I do not deserve this he thinks but he wants to love you —he does love you. "I don't think I know how to love," Deimos admits, his voice cracking. Chrysis has told him time and time again that love is weakness and has no place in the Cult's champion —he is certain now it had been another lie told by the priestess.

"Well I think you do a rather good job," you remark, and a smile threatens to form on his lips. Deimos has never hurt you in action or words. Ever since the day you had met, he had been nothing but gentle, kind, and attentive, albeit you could tell when he was temperamental some days. "You're good to me and for me," you assure him. He falls silent, golden eyes flitting back-and-forth across your face. "You don't have to say anything. I just wanted you to know."

Deimos is a man of few words. He speaks through action as he does now upon surging forward, closing the space between you. His lips are rough against your own, as are his hands when they slide up your sides and arms. You have kissed him before, many times, yet this feels like the sweetest kiss you ever felt. It ends too quickly and before either of you can recover your breath, you are kissing him again —another short, meaningful kiss.

Pulling back, Deimos gathers you in his arms, he does not say anything, but he holds you tighter —unwilling to let go. Deimos runs his fingers along your shoulder and through your hair, quietly sighing to himself. When he thinks you are asleep again, his lips brush against your temple and the words that pass through them are quieter than a gentle spring breeze. I love you too he murmurs and a moment later Deimos feels you smile against his chest.