#deimos x reader

[whitte314coffee]

🚬

[anastasius-writes]

I don't know if you do individual ones but I'll just ask

Is it okay to ask for an angst on how 2BDamned, Hank, Sanford and Deimos individually and separately react if they lose their partner?(Romantically) During a mission where G/N Reader protected them from something that could've killed them?

And if it's okay if this could be like an on going parts?(Ex: Part 1 or 2 and etc)

I am so sorry I am struggling with English right now I just woke up 😭

Try to guess which character is my favourite </3 I wrote this and then stared at it for a bit wondering just WHY, WHYYYYY

This is the short drabble version I will be writing them all as individual parts with slight changes but here's what I've cooked up so far

TW // Graphic descriptions of injury, classic madness combat violence levels (which are quite high) Please do not read this if you have issues with visualizing pain and injury.

2BDamned

You ran as fast as you could, legs aching as you ran towards your lover, too focused on running to yell for him to duck or run as you grabbed and threw him away from the danger, overestimating the stability of your footing causing you to throw him onto the floor, and yourself? Straight onto a machete swung full force into your waist and managing to cut halfway through your midsection's width. You fell to the floor, the pain too great to even scream as you gasped for air, the world suddenly unfamiliar and growing increasingly cold.

Doc — he's used to his crew dying, but never this close and never had it been someone so special to him, someone who finally broke through his cold exterior and made him feel like he can relax and take some time for himself for once. He scrambled up from where you had shoved him to the floor and blasted the enemy agent to bits with his sniper from up close, not even aiming properly, the agent wasn't his priority it was you.

You were mostly unconscious by now with little life left in you as he dropped to his kneels over you, for once his hands shaking as he desperate reached for any point of contact he could without hurting you, holding your wrist and quickly moving onto your hand as he caressed your face, his mind completely blank, unable to even offer you any words of comfort as he just held you close, careful not to move you as you continued bleeding, the spill soaking the material of his trousers.

He promises himself he'll bring you back, he managed to save all 3 of the trio, what's another? He thinks that to himself for hours as he tries his best to locate you in purgatory, your shattered glasses laying next to his computer which failed to load any information about your location.

Hank

You grabbed Hank by the back of his mask and yanked them to the side full force, pulling them away from the ledge where an agent was attempting to push him off the edge of the building, but what both you and him didn't predict would be the agent stumbling to the side and pulling you along with him off the edge. You let go of your lovers clothes as you tried to push the sudden force off of you, but quickly become enlightened to the fact you were falling — fast. You got to look up one more time before the world went black.

They hadn't managed to get a hold of you in time, for once standing still as they stared at the spreading pool of blood around your body that had essentially splattered against the floor like a fly. Snapping out of it he rushes downstairs, not choosing to end up the same even if his understanding and fear of morality flew out the window after the first time he'd been revived. The idea of you dying had never passed their mind because of this, and especially with the fact that the AAHW makes most of their goons look the same he forgot mortality was a genuine thing in Nevada.

The hulking killing machine stood over you, deliberate hands scooping up what was left of the original form of your arms but quickly dropping them as your bones cracked from the movement. He stares, almost confused on why you were bleeding this much or not getting up before they unstrapped your weapons or whatever survived from them and holstered them on himself before trying to scoop you up, for the first time they shivered, disturbed by how limp you were and how your limbs and body twisted and bent under the weight of gravity as they held you.

He takes you to 2BDamned, expecting to be allowed to search for you almost immediately, so its no surprise that their companion sedated him in order to break the news that he's unable to do that for the foreseeable future.

Sanford

You were swarmed and nearly tripping over bodies piling along the floors in the halls as you ran with Sanford, cursing at the pain throbbing through your legs, you looked up to see a crack in the wall that wasn't there a moment ago, the sound of it forming disguised under the overwhelming ring of bullets and explosions. You ran to the side of your partner closest to the wall, a grenade with a pin in hand for when it breaks, expecting just a random demolition unit.

To you surprise, it wasn't a demolition unit, it was a Mag agent, its fist breaking through the wall and grabbing you, massive hand wrapping easily around your torso and wasting no time in crushing you like a can. Sanford felt the spray of blood hit him from the side and turned to see the source, unable to help his curiosity. He went into a bloody rage as he saw your limp figure drop from the blood stained hand of the agent. He'd seen Deimos die before yet didn't get a second to mourn him, and the same was happening again, he allowed history to repeat itself. Rage flooded his mind and the world was lost to him, not aware of where he was or what he was doing until Deimos and Hank tackled him to the floor in order to get him to calm down, he was covered in both shades of blood, not a single section of him clean.

He doesn't return to the scene, too distraught, so Deimos is the one to bring a small cut of cloth he'd gotten you as a gift that you used to wear. He now wears it tied around his wrist and never takes it off no matter what. He grew silent. Sanford was never silent. Always loud and proud, voice booming down the halls. Now? He sat quietly in the corner of the room, free hand curling the edges of the fabric you once wore between his fingers.

Deimos

You both laughed as loud as you could, successfully driving away from the mob of agents who were previously on your tail that you and Deimos managed to mow down. You smiled at him and he returned it before turning his eyes back onto the road, preparing to make a turn to follow the road. You heard a whistle, not a man-made one or an animal, nor was it the shitty car breaking again. You recognized it as the sound of a sniper round flying through the air. Without warning you placed your hand on the scruff of his neck and shoving his head down to which he yelled in surprise, but you both never got to hear the end of his complaint as the force you applied with your arms suddenly lifted, accompanied by a loud splat.

Deimos fell silent, stopping the car as he inhaled deeply, feeling blood trickling down the right side of his face as he slowly turned to see your headless body still buckled into the passenger seat. He had to stop himself from screaming, something he hadn't done in years. He can't focus on driving and ends up nearly driving off the ledge when he begins to speed, trying to hard to ignore how your blood was covering most of the right side of the truck. He doesn't even find the strength in him to put a cigarette in his mouth as he pulled up to the base, shaking as he stepped out and collapsed onto the floor, Sanford running to him as Deimos began to scream, allowing himself to finally process what he'd had to experience a few minutes ago.

He wasn't the one to clean your body up, he didn't have the strength to do it, and the following months he began to smoke more and more, trying his best to stop his hands and legs from shaking, just trying to occupy his mind with anything but you, still refusing to believe you're dead as the radio he had built for you from scratch was now strapped to the strap of his backpack.

[thehoneybeestings]

‧₊˚── 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 '𝟐𝟓: 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟎

‧₊˚── 𝐃𝐞𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐬!𝐊𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐚 - 𝐄𝐱𝐡𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐦

Word Count: 2.3k Content/Warnings: top!deimos, bottom!reader, dom!deimos if you squint, sub!reader if you squint, gn! reader (no pronouns used), reader has female anatomy, sex work/prostitution (reader is a pornai in ancient greece), orgy, dub!con b/c deimos is terrifying and because of the nature of reader's job A/N: surprise, surprise... the deimos fic is my longest kinktober fic yet. also- this is like... a dash of exhibitionism in the midst of a whole lotta me just thirsting over deimos, to be honest. sorry not sorry. also also; deimos is evil! let's not forget! this fic is morally grey because i like evil women. sorry not sorry AGAIN!

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐁𝐞𝐞 ୨ৎ

 ──˚₊୨ৎ‧₊˚──

Your hands are far too shaky as you tilt the jug of wine over the cup below it.

You had been hoping to dodge this cup tonight, but considering your luck, you figured this moment was inevitable.

Still, that doesn't make you any less terrified.

Not of the cup, of course.

The cup's owner, on the other hand? You're afraid you'll piss yourself before you can finish pouring her a drink.

You've only ever heard stories of her- golden armor glinting and covered in the blood of those who dare defy her. Body littered with scars of battles that should have been her end. Stare hardened, expressions hollow, eyes dead.

She's devoid of a soul, some say.

But her wine needed refilling, and you were the only one left to do it.

The rest of the pornai- tonight's entertainment- were otherwise… occupied. You had been warned of the debauchery that would surround you as soon as the hour grew late, but you're jarred just the same.

It's all a bit much, really; grunts coming from your left, moans coming from your right, and the cup's owner straight ahead, staring you down as you knock it over.

A sharp gasp rips through you, your eyes wide in horror as you scramble to place the amphora down and pick up her now-empty cup. You spew apologies, keep your head down, and try to blink away hot tears before they fall.

You're in the middle of yet another, "I'm sorry," when,

"You're pretty."

Your eyes shoot up before you can help it, and now, you're face-to-face with Deimos. The Cult of Kosmos's very own living weapon, lounging on the sofa in front of you, appraising you with a lazy grin. One arm rests against the back of the sofa, her head nestled against her knuckles.

You don't have time to find your words before she continues with more of her own.

"You're lucky for that, too," she continues, leaning forward to pluck a berry from the bowl on the low table you're kneeling in front of. "Otherwise, I'd be very angry that you just wasted my drink."

She speaks playfully, but you know she once had a servant's tongue cut from his mouth for daring to steal a cup of her favorite wine.

This woman angers easily, and when she is angered, she is violent.

But you didn't expect her to be so beautiful.

"I-I know," you stutter. "I really am sorry. Terribly so. Allow me to-"

"You're new, too?"

She interjects again with her observation.

"I am, yes," you confirm with a shy nod. "I apologize that it's so obvious."

"It is," she blunty states.

And then, she holds out a hand, suspiciously inviting.

"Stand up. Come 'round."

Your own hand still shakes as you place it in hers, eyes glued to her in apprehension as you slowly rise and make your way around the table.

"Sit," she commands.

You make a move to take the place beside her- but, then, she's shaking her head with a devious smirk.

"Mm-mm," she hums.

She spreads her legs and pats a strong thigh.

"Right here."

You freeze for just a moment, but gather yourself and sink down onto her lap just as quickly as you remember that Deimos's orders are to be followed without hesitation.

Your knees shift on the cushion beneath them, your hands tentatively finding purchase on her shoulders.

"…Like this?" you whisper.

"Like this," she nods. "Very good."

At first, you reckon that it's the initmacy of this position that makes you feel as if all eyes in the room are on you; but when you steal a quick scan of your surroundings, you find that tonight's guests are eager to see who Deimos has deemed worthy of her attention.

"You're tense," she notes.

"I'm sorry," you quickly reply.

"Do you always apologize this much?"

The question catches you off guard. You aren't really sure how to answer, so you're relieved when she speaks before you have the chance to.

"Don't apologize again. If it's the spilled wine you're worried about, know that you're about to make up for it."

A chill runs down your spine.

"Are you afraid?" She tilts her head.

You exhale shakily. "I don't know."

A playful smile tugs at her lips as her hazel eyes scan your face. You're not sure where people got the idea that Deimos's eyes are dead.

In them, you see only fire. Raging and wild.

"Are you afraid of me?" She probes.

You aren't sure whether or not she wants honesty. She's known to be so volatile- so easy to set off- that you worry any answer you give will be the wrong one.

You dare to share that with her.

"I'm not sure what you want me to say," you shake your head, body adjusting awkwardly.

Her arms move from where they were resting on the back of the couch, her hands settling on your hips.

"I want you to tell me if you're afraid of me," she repeats.

And the gods-honest truth is…

"I know I'm supposed to be."

She quirks a brow, prompting you to continue.

"But… I don't think you're going to hurt me. I'd like to think you aren't, at least… though I know you could."

She seems pleased with that answer.

"Are you attracted to me?"

This question needs no consideration.

"Yes," you breathe.

"Good," she nods. "Can I fuck you?"

Your eyes go wide.

"Right now?"

"Not right now. I'll warm you up before I'm inside you."

You can't help but chuckle, though you know that laughing in Deimos's face is a death wish.

But, she thinks you're pretty. Her amused smile says she likes your laugh, too. Your luck is looking up tonight.

"No," you smile, "that's… not what I meant. I just mean… here?"

She scoffs and waves a hand in the air, gesturing toward the godsdamned orgy happening around you.

She's witty. Quick. And really starting to grow on you.

"Fair," you nod.

"May I, then?" She purrs.

"You needn't ask. I'm here for the taking."

Something flashes across her face. Something akin to disgust.

"I don't take my women."

That, you don't expect. Perhaps it's because she's a woman herself, that inflicting herself upon another is a line she won't cross. Still… you're surpsied. Pleasantly so.

"I'm sorr-"

She cocks her to the side. A warning. She'd told you not to apologize again.

"I'm…" you have to swallow another one. Finally, you opt for, "Yes. You can… fuck me."

You're pinned underneath her gaze for long enough that a, "please" escapes you.

The wolfish grin that stretches across her face goes straight to your core.

"Come here," she nearly growls, grabbing the back of your head with a large hand.

For a woman as privy to agression as she is, Deimos's kiss is remarkably tender. Her lips are soft, warm, slow-moving against your own. Her tongue against yours doesn't feel like an invasion, but rather, a practiced dance. Her hand in the hair at the nape of your neck doesn't pull or tug; just cradles, steady and grounding.

By the time she pulls away, your lips are swollen, your breath labored, your body buzzing.

She brings a thumb up to wipe at the spit pooling on your lip, and without thinking, you suck.

Her eyes go wide as your lips wrap around the digit, your cheeks hollowing and your toungue swirling.

"You're dangerous," she chortles.

You remove her thumb from your mouth with a pop.

"Says the war weapon," you muse.

"A good tongue is far more dangerous than any blade I've wielded," she quips.

You giggle as you lean in to kiss her again. She straightens up to meet you in the middle, one hand kneading at your hip, and the other making its way underneath the fabric pooling at your thighs.

You suddenly pull away, bracing yourself with a hand against her breastplate.

"I don't know if I'm wet enou-"

"I know," she assures you. "Take your time. I just want to feel you."

You attempt to bite back a whimper.

Your attempt is rendered useless when she presses two fingers to the aching bud of nerves between your legs.

She leans back with a smirk, letting her fingers dip down into the ample slick you said wouldn't be there.

You can't help but rock into her fingers, gasping nearly every time their tips prod at your clit.

A sudden squeeze on your hip halts you.

"Are you trying to keep quiet?" Deimos asks dissaprovingly.

Your face burns. You almost apologize.

"I don't want to… make a scene."

"And I want them to know that you feel good," she suddenly jeers. "They know better than to say a word about it. Let them hear what you sound like."

It takes concious effort to let yourself go like that in this circumstance. Not because you're uncomfortable; on the contrary, in fact- you're a bit more thrilled by the prospect of people seeing that Deimos chose you than you thought you'd be. But this is still only your first symposium. She knows, that, too. It's why she's patient as you work up your rhythm again, thumb rubbing soft circles into your hip as she waits for what she knows will be music to her ears.

The grin of approval on her face when she finally hears it makes your heart wrench in a manner completely unexpected.

As the overhwhelming urge to do whatever it takes to maintain her approval takes over you, you find yourself wondering why anyone would ever bother standing against her when she makes obedience this tantilizing.

Your grip on her shoulders tightens as you rock back far enough that her fingers nearly slip into you.

"Can I?" You plead, brows knit together in pleasure.

"Take whatever you want, agapi."

You? Taking Deimos?

You'd laugh if you weren't busy sliding onto her long fingers and choking on a moan.

"There we go," she purrs. "That's it."

Your body calls all the shots for you. You prop youself up with your hands against her breastplate. Your hips roll against her, languid and filthy. Your head lulls back, your eyes flutter shut, your jaw goes slack.

And the mewls that pour from your lips?

Every head in the room turns to seek out the source of such unbridled noises. This isn't a performance- not like the other pornai are offering.

This is real, and you're so lost in it, you couldn't give a damn who bears witness.

it isn't long before you topple over, burying your head in her shoulder, too wrecked to keep up the pace you've set.

"You gonna let me help now?" She chuckles.

"Please?" You pant, wrapping your arms around her neck.

She wraps hers around your waist, holding you tight to her chest as her fingers begin to plunge in and out of you. She works slowly at first, searching for what makes you keen; and when she finds it- quick, shallow strokes with her palm grinding against your clit- she's relentless.

She's perfect.

"Oh, fuck," you whine, "right-" a gasp, "right there… please, please don't stop, please don't-"

"I'm not going anywhere," she says, her voice low.

Gods, her voice is gorgeous.

She's gorgeous.

You want to see her, you think. Need to see her.

You manage to push yourself up to face her, just enough to rest your forehead against her own as you rapidly approach your release.

"I'm gonna come," you pant, nodding against her.

"Let's see it," she smirks. "I bet it's so pretty."

You nearly fall back onto her shoulder, but her free hand grabs your jaw before you can, holding you in place.

"I said," she grits, "let us see it."

You clamp down around her fingers, eyes squeezing shut as your wanton moans finally cease. With the breath stolen from your lungs, all that manages to escape you is a squeak as you twitch uncontrollably atop her.

"Let them hear, you" she warns. "Take a breath, and let them hear you."

You frantically shake your head. "I can't," you mutter. "I-"

She sits up straight, pulling you in by your jaw.

"Take a breath," she repeats sternly, "and let. Them. Hear. You."

A loud sob of pleasure wracks through your body, and she leans back with a victorious grin, fingers still pistoning.

She's long since worked you through your orgasm when she finally relents, your coiled mucles finally relaxing. As soon as she pulls her fingers out of you, you fall against her chest, her breastplate cool against your burning cheek.

The hand covered in you stays put on your thigh, while the other traces mindless patterns on your back. She says nothing as you catch your breath- just sits and waits, far more patient than you've ever heard of her being.

When your eyes finally flutter open, you find that most of the room has cleared out.

You shoot up, eyes going wide as you realize you'd definitely fallen asleep against Greece's most feared.

"Easy," she whispers, her own eyes going wide as you jerk awake. "You alright?"

"I didn't mean to fall alseep. Was I a bother? Did I keep you from leaving?"

"No," she shakes her head, "it gave me an excuse to send the guests home. You needed the rest, and I wanted the quiet."

A small, surprised smile appears on your face.

"You didn't answer my question," she continues. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," you quickly nod. "Quite. Are you?"

Her eyes narrow for a split second.

"Do you stay in Korinth?"

Deimos, on the other hand, doesn't have to answer questions unless she wants to.

"Yes," you chuckle at her diversion.

"Have you ever been to Athens?"

You shake your head. "I haven't. I've never gotten the chance. That's where you reside, yes?"

"Where I reside?" she echoes incredulously. "It's where I rule."

You avert her gaze with a shy smile in exchange for an apology. She grabs your chin with her thumb and pointer finger, tilting your face back toward her.

She wears a warm smile now. One you didn't think was possible for a viscious warlord.

It suits her.

And she says that Athens will suit you.

──˚₊ 𝐄𝐍𝐃 ‧₊˚──

Taglist: @lonerslug, @glassesnoraenjiz, @0ngeeked, @graciedollie, @lilredbird101, @rawrspacecat, @ash273819

[the-ganymedian]

if you feel like doing so, i think a main 4 x aahw defector reader would be neat. bonus points for an atp defector

Four egg yolks hot and ready!

MAIN 4 X EX ATP READER

---------------------------

Hank:

-It still baffles him to think about. How could somebody who brings him such joy use to be part of one of the many banes of his existence?

-At least that explains some familiar behaviours he's seen in you. Whether it be in how you fight, your technical capacities, or just general habits you've picked up from the AAHW, he's spent too much time being hunted for sport not to notice.

-He'll ask you what yellow blood tastes like. And also ask for a taste. What? He's curious!

-They like to have sparring matches with you. They'd like it regardless of your background, but it's especially interesting now, especially if you know a few weaknesses of his based on what they've seen at the agency, he likes a challenge.

-It's sort of weird to see the man you were attempted-brainwashed into killing be so... calm. He isn't very good at affection, so he hopes their staring, defending you in battle, head pats or decreased grumpiness makes you understand he appreciates you.

-If your old job had somebody specific tourment you in any way, pass him the word. He's always happy to kill, especially if it's more violent than ususal, and especially if it's for you.

Sanford:

-He has... mixed feelings. On one hand, it's good to have some genetically engineered expertise on hand, plus one less AAHW member, but on the other he's always had a vicious hate of anything ATP, both on the field and even with the prototypes back when he was still an agent. Don't take it against you though, his intial aprehension will eventually melt down.

-However, as a lover of chemistry and bomb-making himself, you most likely have more than one opportunity to bond over what you know. It's sweet to see him so passionate about what he does and how he does it.

-He's rather worried about you being an AAHW dissenter. They have a very strong vendetta against thair traitors, and he really hates the idea of you having to face the consequences of a power hungry organization, just because you wanted a more deserved life.

-Sometimes he thinks about the "logistics" of you being an ex agent. He doesn't like to think about how any of those mooks he has killed or tortured in cold blood at best, and with delight most often, could have been you if you were just at the wrong place at the wrong time. It's something that makes him realize these are people he's murdering.

-If you kept any of your gear, he's actually quite curious to try it! For what it is, the stuff ATP units are given can be quite interesting technology, especially the headgear. Not the suits though, those were always too tight for him.

-He's also pretty curious about your organs and such. He's overheard a little about the machines making up ATP bodies, or the differences in metabolism from that yellow blood, but he's never had any sort of testimony on what it actually feels like. Plus, he's a bit of a gym rat, so he likes to hear how differently your body works from his.

-(Bonus: I like to think ATP engineers have more type 1 muscles fibers, while ATP soldats have more type 2.)

Deimos:

-"Yeah, they suck, don't they?" Lots of shit-talking the agency and reminiscing on bad memories between you two.

-He's actually quite curious about you being an ATP. Likes to ask a bunch of questions, like how the upgrade process goes, what was different about the work assigned, if you got paid better than him, etc etc.

-Gives you a bunch of yellow based nicknames. Sometimes it's cute, like 'lemon cake', sometimes it's cuter, like 'jaundice'.

-He likes to take selfies with you and hack them onto the AAHW websites and computers along with one to twenty messages made just to piss them off.

-And he'll invite you to vandalize and mock the AAHW with him! You can help him out in slathering their walls with graffiti or partake in a bit of online trolling!

-"Say, uh, do you still have one of those suits or something?" He'll try to convince you he's just curious to see what you would have looked like back in the agency days, but you can tell why he wants you to wear your old suit again. The dusting of red on his face when he thinks about it is enough to know.

2BDamned:

-He already knew. Even if the circumstances would have made it hard to find out, he could have guessed from the yellowish skintone alone, and that's not counting after he's made and got the documents about you.

-Will most definitely ask you questions about the AAHW. He already knows a lot from being an ex-agent and S.Q info stealing, but you most likely have some extra information he doesn't.

-You definitely notice how some of these questions seem a little more personal though. Like how you were treated, how monitored was your personnal life, if there was anyone in particular you didn't like... Safe to say, he's more worried about you than he lets on.

-He knows how brutal the agency can be towards any dissenter it finds; he's suffered the consequences himself. So he wants to make sure he knows what it did to you. (So he can know how he can take revenge.)

-S.Q doesn't actually have that many ATP members, not as much as redbloods at least, so you might get a liiiitle bit of a higher rank over the others. It's not favouritism, it's strategy!

-He'll also ask if he can taste your blood. Though he's a lot more civil than Hank, as he says it's for science that he spills the blood drawing syringes content into his mouth; hidden from you of course, he's got some discipline and a respectful attitude to uphold. Though you definitely notice how he can start staring for a little too long when he's healing you. Maybe the unliscensed medicine has gotten to his head a little bit...

---------------------------

[author-morgan]

Title: Unwritten Prophecies Pairing: Deimos!Alexios x fem!Reader Rating: M Word Count: ~6.3k Summary: You are meant for the gods, but beneath the wrath of the storm, he asks the one question no oracle is ever granted—what do you want?

...but your sweet sinless sensation is not my style...

THE MASKED CULTISTS trickle from the cave. Eupheme—your sister in training—leaves too and urges you to do the same and be free of the darkness hidden below the sacred Temple of Apollo. But you won’t go. Not yet. All evening, the Pyramid under the great, bronze serpent has called to you, a moth to a flame. You move toward the artifact in a trance, the voices you’ve heard since entering the cave growing louder with every step...until there’s silence. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

You know the rough voice and to whom it belongs. “Deimos,” you breathe, heart racing at the sight of the Cult’s champion as he emerges from the shadows—his golden armor nigh glowing in the dim firelight.

He steps closer, warm-tawny eyes darting from the artifact to you. Most of the cultists are frightened by the power of the Pyramid—a force they cannot truly comprehend or control—and none of the would-be Oracles have ever shown any inclination for being able to harness its potential for prophecy. Deimos looks down at the artifact and can feel its call and energy thrumming in his veins. He has never doubted that he has the blood of gods. But to find another like him? A blessing and a curse.

“Does it speak to you as well?” He asks. The edge in his prior words faded.

“Yes,” you answer. The voices grow more numerous, louder. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to focus on a single thread of the tapestry of history and fate. “Of the past.” There are glimpses of Leonidas at Thermopylae, Themistokles at Salamis, and battles even more ancient for which there are no tales to be told or heroes to be celebrated. “The present.” Perikles gathers with his generals in the shadow of the Parthenon, and Spartans train for the upcoming war. But then the landscape becomes unfamiliar—seven hills—and wood and mud villages spring up on the banks of a mighty river, growing larger, grander, until the city of bricks turns into one of marble. An Eagle rises. “And of events that have not yet come to pass.”

Deimos extends his hand, fingertips barely touching the smooth bronze plates covering the artifact, a gesture for you to do the same—and a test. You know not what you’ll see—the future or the past, but the Cult’s champion hopes it will be the latter. Stepping closer, you reach out to the Pyramid, pressing a hand against one of the sides as Deimos does the same.

The oracle has spoken! To prevent Sparta's fall, the child must fall first. Your breath catches as a woman lunges forward. Her face twisted in anguish. She fights against the hands restraining her but her cries are swallowed by the wind and rain. “Please! You can't! No! No, no.” Lightning streaks across the dark sky. “Nikolaos!” At the cliff’s edge is an ephor of Sparta, holding a swaddled babe aloft in the air, inching closer to the chasm below Taygetos.  

And then the fall. The scream. A sister’s outstretched hand.

The vision twists, shifting like smoke, and you see something else—the boy again, older this time. His body hardened and face set in an expression too cruel for a child. A woman stands before him, cloaked in shadow, her voice smooth, coaxing. "Your family abandoned you,” Chrysis tells Deimos. Lies repeated so often they become the only truth the boy has ever known. “Your mother left you to die.” The priestess steps forward, cradling an object swathed in dark linen. She lays the gift before Deimos and reveals a sword—the Sword of Damokles. “But I will give you new purpose, my child."

You stumble back from the Pyramid and glimpse Deimos, breath coming in sharp, shallow pulls. He stares down at you, his expression a storm of barely contained rage, but there’s a rawness, vulnerability even, that you’ve never seen before in him. "You saw it," he murmurs, his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it. Not the voice of Deimos—the Cult’s blade—but the voice of a broken man who has spent his life trying to reconcile with the prophecy spoken by Praxithea when he was only a babe. A prophecy that tore his family apart and doomed him to this life of pain and suffering.

You swallow, hard, and nod. "Yes."

Deimos reaches for you—rooted in place beneath the great bronze serpent. You’re unsure what the Cult’s champion will do. You imagine few in Hellas know the full truth of what happened that night on Taygetos and the years following as they molded him into nothing short of a monster. His callous fingertips brush against your cheek, and trail to stop at your neck, his hand hovering there. He leans closer, breath ghosting over your cheek. “If they know you can use the artifact...” Deimos doesn’t have to finish the statement for you to understand—it is a rare show of mercy.

PRAXITHEA TELLS YOU to take leave of the lesson. Between her two students, you have always excelled in learning and perfecting new teachings compared to Eupheme. A clear sign of the gods’ favor. At this point, it seems obvious you will be chosen to wear the title of the Oracle of Delphi—the highest servant of Apollo—after Praxithea.

Returning to the home Elpenor gifted you in Kirrha, you find Deimos sitting on your floor, his back and arm contorted to stitch a wound on his shoulder blade with one hand. You cross your arms, frowning—at both the sight of the Cult’s champion injured and the dark stain on prized Tyrian red and blue fabric. “You’re bleeding on my favorite rug,” you chide, stopping in the doorway with arms crossed.

He looks back and meets your gaze, a flicker of relief brightening his scowl. Sighing, you go to Deimos and kneel, taking the threaded needle from his blood-slick hands before sitting behind him. He doesn’t flinch or tense when the hot point passes through flesh. “Did you foresee this?” He asks. You think there’s a hint of humor in how he says it.

“Your stubbornness leading you to my home instead of Lykaon when you’re hurt?” You query in turn, equally amused. “The gift of foresight would not be needed for that,” you tell him. It’s a terrible habit of his, turning up unannounced and uninvited, more often than not covered in the blood of others and not his own—this time is an oddity, but you’ve found yourself in this moment before, too.

There’s a dry chuckle in Deimos’s throat, though it’s cut short by a sharp pull of the catgut thread through his torn skin. He exhales heavily, tilting his head slightly, but he still does not flinch—of course, he doesn’t. Pain is an old companion. One he has long since ceased to acknowledge. You work in silence, one stitch after another. “You should be more careful,” you murmur. A pointless request, but one you speak often in hopes he will listen one day.

Deimos snorts, shaking his head. “Careful?” He sounds appalled by the thought—being careful hasn’t won him battles or infamy. He is dread incarnate, ruthless, and indomitable. “Is that what you want me to be?”

Your fingers still for half a breath before you resume your work with a sigh. “I would prefer it over reckless,” you tell him. There are times you worry his wounds will be beyond your and Lykaon’s skills to mend. He may have Ares and Athena’s favor in battle, but he is only a man, in the end.

“You wound me,” he deadpans.

“You’re already wounded,” you retort, knotting the stitch and cutting away what’s left of the thread and needle. “But that’s hardly new.” He hums, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, but he does not argue. His hand lifts absently, fingers brushing over the back of yours where they rest against his shoulder. You’re always here for me, Deimos thinks. The voice in his head is quieter than usual. Even when you shouldn’t be.

Dark clouds gather on the horizon as you mix a sweet-smelling poultice to soothe the puckered skin around Deimos’s fresh stitches. And though he should return to Delphi and report on his mission in Achaia, he lingers, sipping watered wine and eating grapes with fresh cheese—content with this fleeting moment to be in your company.

He lingers until the summer storm takes hold of the evening—wind howling, rain lashing, and thunder rolling between flashes of lightning. It does not seem as if Zeus’s wrath will end before the morn breaks. “Stay,” you tell Deimos, seeing he means to leave. The Cult does not like him to roam Phokis at his own bidding—Praxithea will be none too happy to learn of this night either, but consequences be damned. A part of you has grown tired of the sacrifices required to please the gods. “I would not force you out in this storm.” As if commanded by your words, a clap of thunder rattles the small villa. You step closer to Deimos, reaching for his hands. “Stay,” you say again, softer this time. Not a demand. Not a command. A choice.

Deimos stays.

The first kiss is chaste. It’s careful—tentative. Just like the very first. His fingers brush along your jaw, moving back into your hair. Deimos’s breath catches—just barely—but you feel it warm against your lips. His eyes flick to yours, searching for something unspoken. You could pull away. You should pull away. But you don’t.

And the second kiss…the second kiss is not chaste. His hand knots in your hair, pulling you closer as if the gods themselves might rip you from him if he loosens his grip. You melt into him, tasting salt and copper where a fresh split on his lip lingers as he urges you to lay back on the pallet of linen and silks.

“Deimos!” You gasp, pressing against his shoulders, but it’s like trying to move a stone wall. Truthfully, though, you only want to pull him closer—you have since the first time he decided to kiss you by the falls of Lalaia. But the years of training and lessons under Praxithea and the Cult’s desire for you to succeed as the Oracle of Delphi scream at the forefront of your mind. “You know the Pythia must be untouched,” you remind him.

“I know,” he breathes, his voice low and rough. Deimos doesn’t move, still caging you between his musculature and the floor pallet. There’s something different in his eyes as he looks down at you, keeping your gaze —something dangerous. And it’s not just the raw strength and fury he carries into battle or the untamed rage that makes him the Cult’s Champion. It’s something treacherous, something he’s supposed to never feel. Longing.

“You’ll belong to the gods,” he says, the words taste bitter on his tongue. You and he are kindred. You should not belong to the gods; you should be with him. “That’s what they say, isn’t it?” Deimos’s eyes are burning with darkness and madness. He shifts, one hand cradling the back of your head, his thumb running over your jaw. The Pythia must remain pure. Sacred. Untouched by mortal desire and hands. You swallow the growing lump in your throat. “But what do you want?” Deimos asks.

It’s the first time anyone’s asked of your desires since Praxithea took you and Eupheme in. Your fingers tremble where they press against his chest. He is warmth, strength, and everything you have ever been told to resist. You want this. You want him—more than you’ve ever wanted to be the Oracle of Apollo, lying to the masses at the Cult’s bidding when you see truths in the Pyramid. Perhaps, in his own selfish way, this is another show of mercy, to save you from a life that now terrifies you.

Deimos tilts his head, waiting—daring—you to give a truthful answer. His breath is warm against your skin. You can feel the weight of his question pressing against your ribs, stealing the air from your lungs. What do you want? The words coil around your mind and heart like a snake, sinking its fangs into every doubt, every moment you’ve silenced your desires in hopes of appeasing the gods and the Cult. Everything to carry out your duties but still keep Deimos for yourself.

“You already know what I want,” you whisper, fingers curling around the back of his neck, under his matted and adorned locks. He almost smiles as his thumb traces the curve of your cheek, then lower, featherlight against the column of your throat. Possessive. Claiming. And yet, he hesitates. The Cult has stolen much—his childhood, his family, his identity. They have taken from you, too, twisting your visions, binding you to a fate you never chose. But this moment? It will only ever belong to you and him.

So, you do the only thing you’ve never been allowed to do. You pull him down—taking his face in your palms and angle his head in the way that you like best—and kiss him. Deimos groans into your mouth, surprised by your eagerness. Your lips part with his only for breath, and even then, he chases you—mouth brushing yours again in a kiss deeper, slower, more desperate than the first and the second. You’re not sure which of you is trembling more.

His lips leave your mouth, trailing along your jaw until settling just below your ear. “The gods cannot have you,” he breathes. The remnants of whatever resistance in you are lost to the wave of him, and the only thing that’s left in its place is a raw need like you’ve never felt before. You don’t know what to say, so, in the end, you settle for his name. Just his name. Said quietly with all the desperation and longing that has been making your life hell ever since he first kissed you. Deimos. He inhales sharply, leaning down to rest his forehead on yours.

You press against his uninjured shoulder, not to push him away, but to give yourself room to sit up, to breathe. He sits back on his haunches and sluggishly reaches for the linen ties holding your dress together, and you give him a small nod, encouraging him to unravel you. As he gently tugs upon the tie, the fabric sags upon your shoulders, allowing you to push it aside, and then rise to step out of it altogether. His breath catches at the sight of you standing above him—flesh never touched, never kissed, never marked by a mortal.

Deimos’s jaw tightens, restraining himself from touching you as he pleases. But the longer he sits there staring—gawking like some clueless boy and reverential as a devotee at prayer—the more emboldened you become. You kneel in front of him and reach for the bronze pins at his shoulders, the ones keeping his dark chiton in place, and unfasten them. Deimos shrugs the linen away and lets you guide one of his rough hands to your chest as you lay back again amongst the linen and silks, pulling him with you.

“Touch me,” you whisper, noticing the way his tawny-gold eyes darken when his calloused palm fully embraces one of your breasts. It’s all the urging he needs. He surges forward, mouth moving toward the spot where your jaw and neck meet, the stubble on his cheek scratching ragged against your flesh. He palms your breasts, reveling in your softness against his rough-hewn hands. The backs of his knuckles trail along your ribs, tracing along your hip until he squeezes the meat of your thigh. His mouth. His hands. It’s already almost too much.

And then his fingers find the weeping want between your thighs—all for him—and slide through your folds, gathering the slick there. You gasp, mouth falling open, eyes slipping shut, and legs parting just a fraction more. Deimos watches the rise and fall of your chest quicken, and your fingers twist into one of the blankets beneath you as he draws out the slow torture. But then, just as you want to speak protest, a finger slips into your cunt, curling pleasantly.

Nipping kisses bite and trail down your neck, leaving mark after mark as his finger slips in and out of you before easing in another. Your hips begin to roll of their own accord into the heel of his hand, craving the unfamiliar friction. Deimos feels his cock twitch beneath his loincloth with your little moans, incessantly throbbing and straining against the material, longing to be inside of you—to claim you as his own.

“They would have denied you this,” Deimos breathes at your ear. “You would have never known a man’s touch” —he moves quicker, and your breath hitches when his fingers move a certain way, catching a spot deep within that makes stars explode behind your half-lidded eyes— “never would have known my touch.” Your back arches from the pallet. It’s as if you’d been struck by the lightning and storm raging outside, body bristling with long-repressed pleasure, something only Deimos can cure. You reach for him, fingers twisting into his matted locks, beckoning him to kiss you again, and he does.

Your release is fast approaching, like a tidal wave of heat flooding across your body with its intensity. Deimos’s name emerges from your lips as if it is the only word you know. He takes pride in being the first to see you like this. The first to make you feel like this. The pinnacle of your release makes you feel like you're floating, legs weak in the blissful aftermath. You exhale, chest heaving from exertion as you loosen your hold upon his dark hair.

Deimos withdraws his fingers from your warmth—glistening in the low light—and brings them to his mouth. He groans. It's as if he’s sampling the fruit of the gods. You shiver under the heat of his gaze, but then, he’s kissing you again. Open-mouthed, desperate, and rough. You cling to him, hands running over his chest, finding the scars on his arms and back.

He feels your fingers move towards the ties of his perizoma, and he doesn’t stop you, observing you in rapturous hunger instead. His breath hitches, mouth moving inward to press a string of hot kisses against the column of your throat. Freeing his cock from its confines, you move yourself up upon your knees, aided by his strong, firm hands, coming to rest just below your bottom. The flushed tip of his length nudges against your cunt, prompting you to sigh. “Please.”

In a sluggish descent, he lowers you onto his cock—gently as he can manage—the both of you shivering in tandem. The low, throaty groan that escapes him makes your stomach churn with molten heat, letting you find your own pace. He’s big, but he fills you perfectly. Mouths dance together and then clash again, kiss after kiss of pure ardor, and you brazenly give his lower lip a tug with your teeth. It’s messy and hot, feverishly so, bringing both of you to heel as you happily drown in desire and pleasure withheld for so long.

Your cunt is tight around him, slick with arousal as you continue to lower yourself, inch by blissful inch, until he’s fully sheathed inside of you. Deimos’s heavy pants flutter across your throat, mouth pressing near the curve of your jaw. His hands are resolute in guiding you, rocking you up and down along his cock, chest to chest with you.

Tangled sighs and low, heavy breaths weave together, forming a heated cacophony that fills your chambers. The feeling of his calloused hands sinking into your flesh is mesmerizing, leaving a wave of goosebumps to crawl across your skin. The sensation of his cock filling you completely, nearly kissing your womb, almost makes you sob from delight. The friction of your bodies, with your chest brushing against his, knees squeezing near his waist, hands gripping his shoulders. This must be better than even the Golden Fields of Elysium.  

A burning sting begins to dance along your thighs, the exertion of muscle as you ride him, moving up and down in somewhat rhythmic motions. His cock spearing you over and over again, filling you completely before you nearly draw yourself out and back down again.

“Gods,” You sigh, nails sinking into the muscle of his shoulders, your countenance one of complete and utter pleasure. Leaving behind angry red crescents against his sun-kissed skin, you don’t want the feeling to end. “Deimos, please!” With a simpering moan, your head begins to roll back slightly. Spurred by your softly-spoken praise and breathy sighs, Deimos does not relent, hands sinking into your thighs as he guides you against his cock—the angle causes friction to blossom, chests bumping together, bodies wholly tangled up within one another.

He nips his way along your collarbone, bringing you up enough to trap one of your nipples within his mouth. The head of his cock remains buried within your cunt, the warming of it making you writhe. He holds you steadily, greedily. It’s his turn to take what he desires. One of your hands twists into his matted dark locks, tugging on them as if you were attempting to wrangle him into submission. His mouth peppers warm, needy kisses around the valley between your breasts before he lets you sink yourself back down, cunt clenching around his cock.

Shameless strings of sinful noises leave you in droves, eyes closed in a state of ecstasy. Deimos groans with you, vocalizing his own pleasure as he coaxes you down towards the silk and linen pallet. With a brief bob of the head, you find yourself beneath Deimos, content between your thighs as he hitches one leg around his hips. The calloused plane of his palm slides down to your ankle before coming back up to wrap around your calf—you shiver at his touch, even with the warm, humid air and the building heat between the two of you.

Like this, Deimos can look upon your face and see the way your visage contorts into pure pleasure when he rocks forward, his cock burying itself deep into your cunt. His skin is flushed, and his expression is a mix of reverence and awe, even if you’re too lost to notice.

Your hands move, one finding purchase against his bicep, the other on his shoulder as his pace quickens. It’s a chase, galloping after his release as he bends to kiss you, releasing a grunt into your mouth when you roll your hips into his. You don’t care if he’s a touch rough with you—gods, you needed him, just like this. Just as he is. Rough and brutal. Heat swirls within your stomach, gnawing at your bones and making your toes curl in delight.

“Deimos,” you cry, and that nearly sends him soaring over the edge, cock throbbing inside of you. The friction of your pelvis grinding against him almost makes his resolve shatter into two. He’s lost count of how many times his cock has sank into you—it’s all blurring together. The inevitable rush of euphoria reaches him as his release comes, hot and blistering, making his vision blur. Teeth bared. He groans your name. Your nails dig into his bicep, a gasp torn from your throat when he thrusts into you again before stilling—his weight braced above you on trembling arms.

You coax him down, letting him rest atop you. He pillows his head upon your breast, breathing erratic but calming. You run your fingers through his damp hair, down his back. It’s a moment you’ll savor—a moment you may never have again. Another flash of lightning cuts through the warmth of the firelight, a clap of thunder following, but the silence between is longer. The storm is passing.

After a while, Deimos moves to lie beside you, half-propped on one arm, his tawny-gold eyes fixed on your face—the glow of the sheen of perspiration, the flush of your cheeks, and the soft smile upon your lips. He’ll commit it all to memory, just in case…he shakes away the dark thoughts of what the Cult would do if they knew. His other hand rests on your stomach, fingers spread out almost possessively.

For a long time, neither of you speak. Words feel clumsy, and there’s little to be said when actions speak so much louder. Eventually, you turn on your side and move closer to him, brushing a knuckle along the stubble on his jaw. Deimos. His name lingers in the air between you. He exhales, hearing you breathe his name like that is a balm and a fresh wound all at once. You curl farther into him, and his hand moves up, splaying across your ribs, feeling the rise and fall of your breath. Deimos rolls onto his back, drawing you with him, and you rest your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes. “Get some rest, my love,” you tell him. He presses a kiss to your temple—soft, a vow. You are his, and no man—not even the Cult or Praxithea—or god can have you now.

PRAXITHEA IS FURIOUS. Her protégé ruined. Years of meticulous training carelessly thrown away without a second thought—the marks on your neck speak unto themselves, as did your request to a servant for a cup of silphium tea. A moment of weakness, lust, and worldly desires. All things Apollo’s servant must be free of, immune to.

“You have been defiled!” She shouts, pacing before stylobate rostrum. “The Pythia must be chaste.” It was among the first lessons she taught you and Eupheme—to always shun the attention of men and love only Apollo. “A virgin!” Praxithea turns to face you, eyes burning with her fury and grips your face with bony fingers, nails digging into your cheek and jaw. If she cannot have you to do the gods’ bidding, then she must smite the man who had the gall to ruin you. “Who has sullied you?” The old oracle asks, voice like a serpent’s hiss.

You squeeze your eyes shut, flinching away but unable to escape the crone’s grasp. Heavy footfalls echo off the temple floor, and you meet Deimos’s tawny-gold eyes as he walks into the firelight of one of the braziers and smile, slowly, deliberately. There is no shame nor regret in your eyes or expression. Praxithea follows your gaze, and realization dawns upon her. “You.” She spits, turning to see the Cult’s champion—she should have known.

Deimos comes closer, his presence a tempest. His black-and-gold tunic hangs loose around his broad shoulders, and in the dim light, you can still see the faint crescents of your nails raking down his chest. Shadows flicker across his sharp features, his golden eyes gleaming with pride and defiance. You were meant for the gods, but now you are his. 

Praxithea lifts her hand to strike you. Punishing Deimos is beyond her, but you are still her student and ward. “Hurting her would be unwise,” he grits out.

Deimos does not bow before gods or mortals. He does not shrink beneath the weight of an old oracle’s rage. He steps onto the dais as if to defile it further. Praxithea stiffens as he nears both of you. Her grip tightens on your jaw before she wrenches her hand away as though your flesh has burned her. Her fury is still palpable, though—eyes blazing with righteous wrath. “Of course, champion,” she placates.

You step away from Praxithea and to Deimos’s side, your choice made, and path changed. You will not serve as a false oracle. You will not be bound by Apollo and his temple. You are his. And the gods nor Praxithea can have you now…but the Cult, they will still get what they desire, one way or another.

THE ORACLE OF Delphi packs a small bag with shaking hands. She must leave, quickly, before more of the Cult soldiers arrive, or worse, their champion. Because of her, Elpenor is dead. And one of the only people in all of Hellas who has the power to stop the Cult now knows the workings of the shadow organization. You try to calm her when you arrive at the chora, but she is hysterical. “Eupheme, what is it?” You ask, pleading, taking her hands into your own.

“The sister came to me,” Eupheme admits. Kassandra. You have heard the name whispered in the shadows—have seen her in visions and memories not your own. “I must leave Delphi,” she cries. After facing the Monger, she needs to get far away from Phokis before it is too late. She stiffens in your embrace. “Deimos,” she utters, looking over your shoulder, her voice trembling. You step away from Eupheme—still grasping onto her hand—and turn, seeing him stride forth into the villa’s courtyard.

Eupheme’s grip on your hands tightens for a moment before she lets go, stepping back as though distance can protect her. But there is no outrunning Deimos—not here, not now. He tilts his head, seeing the Pythia’s plan clearly laid out—she means to run. You feel Eupheme’s breath hitch beside you—so soft no one else would notice. But you do. “I could take your head,” Deimos says, voice low and dangerous. “Just as Elpenor’s was taken.”

You step into his path when he moves forward, stopping him before he can reach the sitting Oracle with a hand flattened against the center of his golden breastplate. “Deimos, please” —his tawny-gold eyes flit down to you, his lips pressed into a taut line, the harsh lines between his brows lessen, if only a little— “Eupheme had no choice,” you tell him, a convincing lie.

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

You keep your hand against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath the plate. His body is tense, a coiled serpent ready to strike, but he hasn’t pushed past you—and you know he won’t. “I have foreseen this.” Another lie. “The Gods—Khaos and Kosmos—willed this to be.” You stand a far better chance against his wrath than Eupheme ever would, and for that, you will risk the storm to save a friend.

Deimos looks between you and Eupheme, jaw tightening, then he nods in the direction of the door—a noise somewhere between a sigh and grunt leaving his throat. “Go,” he tells the Pythia with reluctant restraint. Eupheme gathers her things and rushes out of the chora, fleeing into the night, and you know you’ll never see her again.

His attention returns to you—there’s a spark of danger in his eyes, burning gold in the firelight. Deimos reaches for you, his hand rising to rest on your cheek, and you close your eyes as his thumb trails across your cheekbone before slipping lower to your neck. “What else have you not spoken of?” He asks, tilting his head as he looks down his nose at you, fingertips pressing into flesh, but not ungently.

“Only that which will forfeit my life,” you tell him. And yours.

“Come with me.” It is not a request this time. You follow him from the villa—a white horse is waiting at the entrance. Deimos places you astride the beast's back, then mounts behind you, spurring the stallion toward the Sanctuary of Delphi high in the mountains. He doesn’t speak—never having been one for needless words—but the look in his eyes when you glimpse him over your shoulder is unfamiliar. Kassandra’s arrival in Phokis has shattered the careful balance of things. The old order crumbles, and in its place, chaos reigns.

The Temple of Apollo looms above. But it is not your destination. He brings you to the Cave of Gaia.

You look around the empty chamber and then down at the Pyramid, pulsating with energy even though the bronze plates are coated with blood and scattered around the floor—a remnant of his rage. “Why are we here, Deimos?” You ask, a whisper swallowed by stone.

"My sister," he starts, face twisting in anger. "She was here among the Cultists. I–" He stops himself, stops pacing too, jaw clenching. His hands curl into fists at his sides. His memory and hers are the same but different. For years, he knew the truth of his past. There was no doubt what happened that night on Taygetos, but now...Deimos shakes his head and looks at you. "I need to know," he tells you.

"Know what?" You challenge.

The truth, but his pride won’t let him say it. He swallows hard, his voice dropping lower than a whisper. "My fate."

You study him—can see his anger give way to something else. It nigh breaks your heart. You know he is not a god, not even a demigod, just a man, but to see him act as such. He’s never looked this vulnerable, broken. "You’ve never believed in fate,” you counter.

He exhales sharply, frustration flickering across his face. "Tell me anyway,” Deimos grits out.

Taking a long breath, you reach out to the Pyramid and let the artifact's power take over. There are flashes of red and blue flames and battles on land and sea, but he stands in gold-and-white, drenched in blood. “You walk the path of fire, but the flames do not consume you. Not yet.” And then there is a flicker of hope shining through the violence and suffering—redemption. Deimos doesn’t move. He barely breathes.

Your voice drops to a hush, yet your words strike him like a blade. "Blood calls to blood, Deimos.” You can see his sister and mother—and him—standing atop Mount Taygetos, an echo of the night when he was only a babe. Both he and Kassandra have their blades drawn, and Myrrine of Sparta weeps for her children, Kassandra and Alexios. “You will have to choose. Between the path of the serpent” —you look up at him— “and the path home.” His face twists, as though he will refute that this is his home, but before he can speak, you continue. “And you already know which will lead to your destruction.”

Sighing, you step around the Pyramid, your hands rising to cradle his face, to force him to focus on you—not the dark thoughts burrowing into his mind or the decades of lies. “Deimos.” The feather-soft whisper of his name brings his gaze to yours. Alexios. Your smile is faint, fleeting. He will not believe what his sister or mother says, but you—he hangs off your every word as though they are a lifeline. “When those who would name you Alexios, speak, you must listen.”

His fingers curl around one of your wrists, keeping your hand against his cheek. Everything will be different now—there will be no return to the old ways. And should the Cult learn of what you’ve told him this night…he dreads to think of what they will do. “You should leave too,” Deimos mutters. “I can no longer promise to keep you safe.”

THE SHIP WHICH will bore you away from Phokis and the Cult of Kosmos is The Nauplios, a merchant vessel bound for Thrace. They are meant to sail with the rising sun, but a full purse of drachma and jewels assures the cover of darkness will be an ally. Kirrha’s harbor is silent in the early morning, save for the wind rustling the rigging and cloth sails of the docked boats and triremes and the breaking of small waves against the pale stones and wooden piles. Deimos has come to watch you leave—his bidding is the only reason for your departure.

The captain nods for you to join them aboard, but you’re not ready. Lowering the hood of your chlamys, you turn to face Deimos—for the last, but not final time—you rise, settling your lips upon his. Deimos doesn’t move at first, but then his hand finds your waist, fingers tightening into linen and wool, pulling you closer. His lips are warm, windburned from the sea, and rough from battle, but they part beneath yours, answering in kind. The wind tugs at your cloak, urging you away, but you linger, pressing yourself into the heat of him as though pleading with him not to send you away. A shout from the ship reminds you that time is slipping through your fingers. The captain waits. The sails are ready.

“Remember,” you breathe against his mouth, fingers curling into the open neck of his black-and-gold chiton. “You are Alexios of Sparta before Deimos.”

His fingers curl around your wrist, holding you back from stepping aboard the ship. He knows he is not supposed to feel like this, but he has—for years. Deimos hesitates, keeping you with him for a moment longer before he finally ousts the reticent question haunting his every waking thought since the path forward became clear. “Do we meet again in this life?” He asks.

Deimos is relieved to see you smile—an answer on its own. Yes. You lift a hand to rest on his scarred cheek, thumb tracing the raised scar before slipping down, combing through the growing stubble on his jaw. “As strangers, my love,” you tell him softly, a glimmer shining in your eyes. “And as old friends.”

[Deimos taglist: @alexandra-alle / @athy-lex / @certifiedlittleshit / @chaotic-spooky / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @gallimaufrea / @hereforreadandwrite / @Idkjj04 / @jadynchronicle / @joossieisdabomb / @kitkitvm / @ksziggy / @missmannequin / @morganamayne / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @novastale​ / @qhbr2013 / @rigshak / @stormyblue90 / @thatrandomfeministgamer / @thepreciouspurrsian / @vymyn / @wallsarecrumbling ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Deimos taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

[vicksalot01]

their design in chapter 3, I gave them two hair designs because I thought they looked cute on them, (bonus: some interactions and cuteness after chapter 3)

[paxran]

WORSE THAN A PERV - ft. Deimos

perv (noun) - a person whose sexual behavior is considered strange and unpleasant by most

I tried to challenge myself to write a fluffy thing for Deimos.. didn’t work out as you can see. I offer this blurb

WARNINGS: suggestive but not explicit, gender neutral reader, use of “darling” & “sweetheart”, implied age gap, implied power imbalance

Gerald “Deimos” Morris’ age shows. Not in a traditional, physically weakening or mentally mellowing-out kind of way–but in the way he acts like a creepy old man around you. The type you can find anywhere by simply wearing a low enough cut shirt or short enough shorts.

“Darlin’, if I had more than 2 minutes until this meeting,” he started, thumb stroking your jaw. “I’d tear this little number off of you.” His other hand tugged on the hem of your shirt for emphasis. From his seat he was looking up at you, standing between his legs. Despite your height over him in this position, you felt no power.

Your stomach turned uneasily at his damning smile and the even more damning implications. But before you could reply, he let go of you and stood. With a pat to your flank and a lean in as you stumbled back, he whispered: “You’d like that wouldn’t you?”

Okay, so maybe he’s worse than your average perv, but that’s only because of and for you. Certainly not his entitlement and ego. How could you say it’s his fault his actions were enough for any and all HR-adjacent channels to abandon containing this issue due to the sheer absurdity of it when he suffers so consistently due to your actions?

You were bent at the hip; reaching into some cabinet for god-knows-what when you heard footsteps make their way to and past the door behind you before promptly returning with a low whistle. You craned your neck to properly view the culprit.

“Now that’s a view I don’t mind.” His broad shoulder met the doorframe, leaning against it like he has all the time in the world.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll do that and so much more, sweetheart.”

Many of such things befitting a man half his age, but he’ll never deny himself a prize like you.

[luckstermoonstuff]

I Will Poison All Your Happy Thoughts,I Will Love You Like The Ashes In My Cigarettes Buds

A stupid Deimos X reader fic.

Tags:Angst, Hurt/comfort,Hurt No Comfort,Implied sexual content,masochism,some implied sadism,gender neutral reader, relationship issues(?)

Notes:I posted this on AO3 and thought I would post it on her too,enjoy the shit show or do whatever.

How did this happen?

How did it end up like this?

You half naked and Deimos at your side fully clothed in bed.The smell of cigarettes,burnt tobacco and chemicals,it made you feel sick but it was comforting.The chainsmoker,gliding the damn cigarette across your back, marking you.

You can tell he was enjoying this,even though he was surprised at first that you wanted this.

You winced at the pain of the burn but relished on the pleasure of being marked by him and only him.

Then why did it hurt?Well more emotionally then physically.

You were a nice,a good person if you can call it that.You used to be a by the book person even after Nevada fell and became a kill or be killed wasteland,even if you did anything bad it was for your own survival.

Then you met Deimos.

Maybe it was your own fault for being involved with one of Nevada's most wanted mercenaries,but something about Deimos drawn you to him.

He was different. Carefree, unserious, a jokester with a smoke always between his fingers. You were the opposite. By the book. Structured. Controlled. Yet somehow, you worked. Somehow, you loved him and he loved you.

You two were an odd pair.

But you both made it work,you grew to love and care eachother.You jockingly said that you could “fix him” and he also found it funny.Did you sometimes take it seriously when you said that?Maybe? Only because you wanted him to quit his smoking because the smell was giving you a headache.

But over time, that joke “I could fix him” twisted into something darker on his part. “I can make you worse,” Deimos jockingly said with his raspy voice.

Every laugh you shared, every joke you made, felt like a tiny ember, burning away the innocence you had left. He was changing you.

Each passing day, Nevada’s chaos seeped into you. You weren’t just surviving anymore,you were becoming part of the mess, part of him. And you weren’t sure if you liked it… or if you feared it too late to stop.

“Uh… babe, you okay? You’re tearing up…” Deimos notices, voice softening.

Shit. You swipe at your face, but the tears still come.

“Sorry… I just—was thinking,” you say, sitting up, wincing as the burn on your back pulses.

“You want to stop? We can—” He sets the cigarette down.

“No! No… it’s just...fuck, just give me a minute,” you choke out, the tears flowing freely now.You sat, trying to control your tears your emotions this was supposed to be a passionate moment and your fucking ruining it with your crying.

You probably look so damn pathetic in his eyes.

“I’m fine,I'm fine...” you say too quickly, too quickly, words clipped and sharp. You force your hands into your lap, pressing them tight, trying to block out the sickening swirl of guilt, desire, and self-loathing. You cannot feel this, not now.

“No you aren't, you're shaking like a damn leaf in the wind just tell me what's wrong—”He almost takes your hand in his. You flinch away and take his hands away from yours.

“I said fucking I’m fine!” Your hands slam against your knees, a burst of frustration and shame all at once. “I don’t need your pity, Deimos! Just,just leave it!”

An awkward and tense silence fills the bedroom and he spoke his voice quieter this time “Did I do something wrong...?”

You felt immediate regret with yourself

“No it's just—I've just been thinking about us...”

“Well if it's about us then I must have done something wrong to make you feel like this—Please just tell me so I can fix it,please.”Deimos says his temper flaring with his words but his tone in the end turns into a desperate plea.

You finally find the words choking your chest,that made your heart ache, the lump in your throat heavier than any cigarette burn.

“I… I don’t know how to say this, without hurting you.” you whisper, voice trembling. “I don’t regret… us. I don’t regret loving you. But… I feel… wrong. Dirty. Like I’m not me anymore.”

Deimos felt stiffen,like his whole word crashing down,eyes narrowing,fingers tightening on the sheets.“I… I didn’t mean… I didn’t want this—fuck. What did I do?”

You hear your heart pound in your ears, seeing him like this made you feel worse than you already are.“I-It’s not that I regret us. I love you, Deimos. I just… I feel like you’ve… changed me. Made me worse.”

You see so many emotions flash in his face guilt, regret and anger.And suddenly he's out of bed pacing at the side of the bed. “Made you worse?!” His voice is harsh, shaking. “I… I thought you wanted this! I thought we were fine!?I thought you were fine,and I thought I was fine—”

“Stop!” you cut him off, voice sharp, almost pleading. “Stop talking. Stop saying you didn’t mean it. Just… just listen!”

He stops his pacing,his hand fell to his side and a long tense silence stretches the bedrood.Then he speaks, quieter now, almost a growl of self-loathing “God… I hate that I made you feel like this. I hate that… I can’t fix this. That I can’t fix you.”

Your body feels like it’s unraveling, every nerve screaming. Without thinking, without planning, you let your head fall against his shoulder, letting the heat and weight of him anchor you.

He tenses at first, rigid as steel, before slowly wrapping an arm around you.

Not a word. Not a kiss.

It's protective and tender.

Just the press of his chest against yours, the warmth that says he’s here, he’s not leaving, he’s not hurting you more.God,He doesn't want to hurt you anymore.

And somehow, in that silence, that unbearable, suffocating quiet, there’s… a fragile kind of peace.