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Fuck.
Marc knows full well where his head should be. He knows it's there, but it isn't. His head is where it should be, but it's gone. The mood, the momentum. It's here, but it's not.
Fuck.
Missions. All he should know is missions. Bend to the needs of his God and deliver his every will. Marc used these missions as a means of relieving pent-up energy, focusing frustration on only those who deserve it. Only those whose blood is worth spilling.
Missions were as much an escape for Marc as they were his given service to Khonshu, his worship required at the very minimum. Any further acts gave way to freedoms an Avatar does not acquire in their years of service, freedom rarely granted by the Moon God; freedoms Marc is willing to work for.
The touch of his work lingered, warmth tingling underneath the bandages of his armour. A shiver gave way in acknowledging it, remembering the gentle caress. The touch to last a lifetime.
Spying on criminal night-dwellers gave no distraction. Tearing a blade into their skin only reinforced the memories.
His God would never let this pass.
What rang differently in his mind to determine that his recent additional worship had been any different than others? What persuaded his God to revel in his offering and yet feed into Marc's desires in return?
What had his God given him now, to melt his hold in such a way? To leave him tingling for hours to come?
His words.
That was it. His words .
Words that Marc could almost dare to say rang of compassion , of genuine care . Words that could twist the illusion he was with a lover , rather than a God .
Gods were not human. If they ever were, their time with status allowed them to forget the ways of their past, forget the system of human emotions. They focus on the bigger picture, rather than the small details; the details that mattered . Gods are told as bad lovers. But they don't have to be.
Only words could have broken Marc the way they did. Bliss in the moment, lingering confliction through the night.
Only Khonshu's words.
But he doesn't love him. Not in the way a human can love another human. Not in the way a human can love a God.
What kept him replaying the fresh memories was not the idea that his God loved him, more than as a loyal servant and occasional receiver in bed; what kept him up was the idea that he could ever love him back.
Their relationship was twisted, complicated, a power imbalance; Marc was broken enough to fit in perfectly.
He's broken beyond repair, and Khonshu has no plans of fixing him.
He can only make him worse .
Making him worse than a nighttime murder vigilante? Marc wanted to scoff at the idea, but he couldn't decide what was worse: the mindfucking or the murdering.
Nothing that would be up for debate, he had to settle. Bringing his blade through the final criminal in his nightly listed escapade was the only thing that brought him back to the real world.
It almost didn't feel real. It almost felt like an illusion, standing amongst the destruction.
All this blood, these bodies. Only ever blood .
Worst than anything else is that the act never deterred him anymore. No thoughts needed – no thoughts he could spare –, for the ever-consuming emptiness that shrouded his every mission.
A reward or a punishment, Marc couldn't decide. But the act of killing in his God's name left him empty .
Or did it?
It was hard to combat the thought, how his emptiness did not stem from his near-nightly initial orders. Only the act of killing left him this way.
The actual request… the baritone in his God's voice… his pride …
No wonder his heart carried through, giving him the warmth and pleasure of life, surrounded by death.
"Well done, my Knight."
An all too familiar low rumble makes himself visible, appearing in front of the man. His all too slow walk makes it hard for Marc to stand without fumbling, shining as his Knight status in its finest example.
Normal it is for the God to stand at a distance, imposing power, taking in the sight. Normal a day it is now.
Another struggle to stand straight, never fumble, never falter. As the God's presence approached at an ever agonizingly slow pace, Marc knew only to face him, prepare for whatever may happen.
Not as if the worst possible scenario bothered him.
When his God's hand trails under his chin, lifting it to face him higher, Marc struggles to hold back an impulsive swallow. When the wrappings of his mask wilt away at his God's will, he knows he's done for.
"All this bloodshed… all for me ."
The skulled head tilts, staring down Marc in what has to be… adoration . Such a movement brings their bodies closer, almost touching .
If his words hadn't been enough… some other god come to his rescue.
Marc's breath hitched, struggling even more to keep himself at bay. Fuck . Always Khonshu and his damned little actions, his damned words… his praise .
His breath would have to steady just to get a word out. A goddamn measly word. Any word.
Alright… despite his struggle and its present inability to subside, he stood stronger, taking pride in the sound of blood dripping off his weapon.
"With pleasure, my Love."
Pleasure.
Love.
What the fuck Marc .
Against the God's hold, Marc broke his former hold of direct contact. He couldn't look Khonshu in the eyes. Not after that .
The man's gaze fell towards a puddle – of water – desperate to escape, to find any excuse.
The only thing he saw was a pathetic man, his pathetic slip-up, and the way his God ate that up .
Tilting head again, only this time, in curiosity. Worse than that? He was too quiet. As if waiting . If Marc had a hope in this world that the slip missed the bird's perception, he was way too goddamn hopefully.
"...My Lord."
An attempt made to save himself. Poorly disguised as it was, it was an attempt.
Would this change anything? Fix anything? Was there anything to fix in the first place? Fuck, he was never going to recover from this-
"Marc."
He was never going to recover from this.
The man's head remained hung low; he could not look his God in the eyes, not now, not the way he had.
"Yes, my Lord?"
He could not make the same mistake twice.
For his mistake, he would be punished – that he could not escape with a fix of words. His head was turned upwards, rather aggressively at that, reminding him of the hand. The hand so large; delicate when it wished to be, and only then. Oh, how he desired the soft touch from mere hours ago.
The hand settled, loosening its grip only the lightest amount. Marc could breathe freely again – or was it all a tease? Fingertips trailing to the back of his head, resting among the curls… oh, what had he done to deserve this?
Something in him hesitated. Despite the involuntary shudder, begging to know why his God tortured him this way… he resisted. He resisted the urges deep inside, deeper than they even have been. Instead, he allowed the hand to ruffle through every low-hanging curl, agonizingly intimate.
It wouldn't be his choice to retract, to back away if desired, because that’s the last thing he wanted.
So Khonshu had to make that choice for him.
"You know better than to look away when I'm talking to you."
The God stood straighter, not distancing himself, but it all meant the same. He was the God here, and Marc was his Avatar, his stress relief on a good day…
"Apologies, my Lord."
How many more times would he have to say it?
Marc, he… he didn't mean what he said. Dazed by his own fantasy, he must have projected a deeper desire. It was all a mistake, though. He didn't mean it, didn't mean to make more out of what must have been the God's pity to him in the first place. If he was here to indulge Khonshu, or Khonshu indulged him, what did it matter?
…all of this, and yet, it can take but a slip-up to find one's true intentions. That small, insignificant term of endearment… Marc was lying to himself if he could call it insignificant.
Love isn't real. It can't be, if he can't come to terms with it. Go through any treacherous leaps and bounds to avoid admitting his love with Khonshu was anything but normal.
Why the hell was he just standing there?! Marc stood despite himself, but he couldn't stand it. This God, just… if he never had unsettled urges in the deep hours of the night, would his God ever have indulged him the same way? If he never needed someone to take his edge off, would he be here, standing, begging for it to mean something?
All this torment… and Khonshu just stood there, studying him.
Until he stopped. Their job was done here, so they could leave. Khonshu picked up his staff, walking away, ever so slowly.
"Very well."
Before Marc could comprehend it, Khonshu tapped his staff on the blood-stained ground, once again making the choice for him.
-
A bed. Marc jostled awake in a bed, but it was not his bed.
It was not the bed.
The sheets… rubbing his fingertips along the soft surface did nothing for him. The mattress, perfectly flat other than where he sat – a sad, flat mattress.
Perfect by any other definition, but not perfect for him .
He didn't need the pity, he didn't need the indulgence… fuck , he didn’t need it.
Marc swung his legs over the edge of the bed, staring blankly out in front of him for a while. Unconsciously, he wrapped the sheet over his shoulders, pretending it was not himself who comforted him at this hour. His eyes eventually wandered to his side, which only met his disappointment. His Love was not here for him now .
Loving Khonshu could only fix so much…
Despite every fix, every disappearing inconvenience, Marc still yearned for more .
The suit? Gone. That mild injury earned fighting that one guy? Gone. Khonshu could heal everything at will… yet he willed not to heal Marc of everything.
At the end of the day, this yearning was all just selfish. Khonshu was his God, and Marc was Khonshu's Avatar. A few one-night stands and words of affection didn't change that. It wouldn't change anything, because it didn't mean anything.
At the end of the day, Marc Spector was not meant to be loved.
Certainly not in the way a God could love a human.