Summary: When the boys found you, you were bound to the wall, ankles and wrists blessing from the cuffs that kept you in that tiny jail, they had a feeling you haven’t even seen the light in a long time. You were scared and you didn’t even speak English.
It was Frankie who found you, he thought he heard a noise in the basement and surely enough, there you were. You were so scared you even threw a bowl and a small vase you found at him.
“We can’t bring her with us. She will slow us down.” said Ben as they all decided to do a small gathering and plan on what to do with you. Ben gave you a bottle of water and a poorly wrapped sandwich. You silently ate everything.
“So, what? You suggest we leave her?” asked Santiago.
“Probably not a good idea, she’ll be dead if someone finds her still here after what we just did.” Will made a good point. Everyone groaned.
“We can bring her to the plane, then we-”
“What we bring her home, Fish?! Are you insane? Stealing money is one thing but bringing an illeagal immigrant into the States is just-”
“I know someone, she will get a name, an identity.” replied Ben. “We can save her.”
“We are not her saviors. We can’t even talk to her, she doesn’t understand English! Can you speak to her? Spanish?” everyone shook their heads. “French” Again, everyone shook their heads. “German?” No. “Then what the fuck should we do?”
“Bring her with us, Benny’s friend will give her IDs and she will live. We killed enough people already.” said Santiago and everyone agreed, even if Tom wasn’t a fan of the idea, he decided to agree.
“We are going to save you.” Santiago said as he knelt down in front of you, offering you a smile.
You didn’t understand a word they were speaking, but you did understand their intentions.
They weren’t there to hurt you, they were there to help. Especially that really handsome one with the beautiful eyes and curly hair, you especially liked him, so you stuck with him. You followed him, watching his movement as he walked, you followed, just as silently.
You watched as they all panicked when you heard shots. You ducked behind a rock, but you couldn’t ignore that you saw an enemy with a gun behind one of the guys, you slowly walked there when no one was watching.
And just as Tom turned, he saw the gun, but the guy was pushed before he could fire and fell, Tom shot the guy before he looked up to see you crouching, he knew you pushed the guy.
“You saved my life,” he said as the others arrived.
—
You were confused. They all talked to you, saying things but you didn’t understand a thing. They all sat around a fire, talking to each other, laughing and you laughed with them, even if you had no idea what they were talking about.
You suddenly spoke up, saying your first name. And they all looked at you confused. They you said your name again and pointed at yourself.
“Ben.” one of them said.
“Will.”
“Tom.”
Okay, easy names, you thought.
"Francisco.” Oh Boy. “But call me Frankie.”
“Santiago.” another longer name.
You nodded and smiled to all of them.
You learned to say all their names. And when you finally got back, well, they got back, you were at a completely strange place.
You did what you knew would work, you stuck with Santiago. And you also knew what the gold ring on some of their fingers meant.
You were a foreigner not stupid.
Your journey with the men was… interesting to say the least.
They all made sure you were safe but Santiago in particular. And who were you to push away such a handsome hero?
—
“You can live with me while we figure this out, I’m the only one without a wife, girlfriend or kids so I don’t have any explaining to do, but you have to keep a low profile.” Santiago said and he repeated himself in Spanish, but you still didn’t understand a word. Yet, you still nodded, you understood his intentions, you understood that this was his home, typical bachelor’s home.
You were given a room and food. But you didn’t like that. Your room was too quiet, it felt cold like your cell. Even if the bed was the most comfortable you could ever ask for and the room was warm.
You still didn’t feel safe. You were lonely.
You often moved to Santiago’s room, trying to be quiet not to wake him up, you would silently laying down next to him, you felt better there, safer.
The first time he noticed you in his bed was when he woke up with you in his arms, in his sleep he unintentionally moved over to you and cuddled you.
He was concerned but he didn’t mind, he just didn’t want to overstep your boundaries. You were happy to cook for him, happy to watch movies with him, whatever he wanted really.
Days, weeks and months passed. You now had a basic English vocabulary.
“Dinner?” you asked Santiago as he was sitting on the couch.
“I’ll order something, come back the series in starting.”
This was your normal now, but you felt bad, ever since he and his team helped you, you didn’t do anything productive, and cooking doesn’t count. Not in your book at least.
You wanted to work, but with the language barrier, it was extremely difficult.
Later that evening, you were getting ready for bed when his phone started to ring.
It was Tom calling.
“What’s up?” asked Santiago as he answered.
“Pope, hi, how’s things with your new-found wifey?”
Santiago laughed a little.
“Not so bad, she can now talk a lot better, why did you call?”
“I know who she is Pope. She was taken from her village, I have a report. Her village was attacked, they killed everyone, even she is presumed dead. There was fire, gunshots, almost everything you can imagine.”
“That’s awful.”
“Yeah, and I also have some news, since she’s dead, well presumed dead, it will be difficult to get her past immigration, you are lucky I know a lot of people but she will need a new last name. I am filling in her papers and I-“
“I will marry her.”
“Sorry? You don’t need to play the hero Pope. It’s all good I put her down as a random, generic last name, but-“
“It’s not about playing the hero. I want to marry her. She’s perfect.”
Tom smiled on the other end of the line.
“Come over tomorrow, collect her papers, oh, and you better start teaching her fast, No government official will believe that she is American if she doesn’t even speak basic English.”
“Thank you, Tom.”
“I should thank her, she saved my life, this is the least I can do.”
You understood that this was needed. Giving you a new identity was difficult, but not impossible. With the correct connections, you were officially an American citizen.
“Now, you can leave the house.” Said Santiago as he gave you your brand new ID. “Leave the house, look for a house, job or whatever you want. But you can stay with me as well. I like you company you know that.”
“Stay with Santi.” You said “No leave. Stay and help.” It made him smile.
“Marry me.” He said, right there, in front of Tom’s house as you two were walking to the car. You tilted your head.
“Marry?” you thought that was a name.
“Yes, I’m asking you to be my wife.”
Now that word you understood.
“Me? Santi wife?”
“Yes. I love you.” You understood that word as well. And all those days you just thought it was one sided. That he only let you sleep next to him because he was kind.
“I love you too.” You said with a rather shaky voice. But it was the truth. Santiago smiled as he grabbed your jaw and pilled you close to kiss you.
You were so happy, you felt like your chest would burst. You not only were rescued from your prison, you got to know this lovely group of men, and you even found love.
This was the fresh new start you begged for every night in that cold, dirty disgusting cell.
Summary: You and Marc got married a long time ago, even before all this mess happened and he got the suit.
A/N: Potential SPOILER warning for those who don’t know about Marc in the comics.
Marc wanted to keep you safe.
The less you knew, the better it was. At least that is what he believed. But you knew it all.
You weren’t blind or stupid you noticed your husband changing, sure he was always a little weird, but you could read him like a book.
You could, yet it still hurt whenever he left you behind, telling you not to look for him, call him or so anything to even be close to him.
And you listened, you sure did.
Only sent him texts, to which he responded a couple of days later. Then a call came. Suddenly out of nowhere.
“Hi, Honey.” you said picking up.
“O-Oh Sorry.” the guy on the other end said with a heavy accent. It made you tilt your head and he quickly hung up.
You tried to call him back but he didn’t pick up, so you just let it go.
Then Marc came home, saying he will spend the weekend with you. And you were happy.
Happy enough to bring that strange call up.
“Soooo, are you going to tell me who the sexy English man was?”
He looked at you questioningly as he stopped the movie you were watching.
“You called me last week, I picked up but a British guy answered and after babbling he hung up.”
“Oh.” was all he said, and you just waited.
And then, slowly he stood up, sitting down at a chair by the table and started to talk.
He walked about his childhood, his life and his mental issues. He told you about his identity disorder too.
And it all made sense.
Your heart broke for him. Marc was such a great person, kind, affectionate and trustworthy. And yet, here he was breaking down like a child.
You on the other hand was the kind of person who would rather laugh than cry. And your aching heart needed a distraction.
So, after Marc finished explaining what happened to him, you sat there for a moment, thinking about what to say. And the best you could come up with was.
“So, you are like a two for one special?” you asked and Marc just stared at you. “You know like those special offers in stores. I got you as a husband but I also got Steven and Jake, or how does that work?”
This was probably the first time in your life that you have seen Marc confused and not sure what to say.
“Don’t get me wrong your trauma is awful, I’m here if you want to talk about it more. I’m just not sure how to help. Maybe Jake or Steven wants to talk?” he just blinked, and it made you sigh. “Did I say something weird again?” you had a tendency to say weird things when you wanted to defuse the tension. But you two just stared at each other.
This went on for about five minutes.
Then he finally moved his arms from his legs.
And he laughed.
“I can’t believe you said “like those special offers in stores”. Who do you think I am?”
“You’re my husband, and I just want to know, how- IF this will change things. D.I.D. is serious, Marc, and I just want to be sure you are at least okay.”
“You know I’m okay, Sweetheart. And this will not change a thing. I always will be okay as long as I have you. This-“ he said gesturing to his head. “Is something you have to learn to live with. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I’m sorry, I was scared of your reaction.”
“You shouldn’t be, Marc. I love you, all of you. Even if they might not love me.”
Marc made a motion with his head like someone just told him something before he smiled.
“They do, at least Steven does. And you met Jake before.”
“I sure did. He is a flirty one.” you did, but you only realized now that it was him and not Marc. You laughed and stood up to hug him. He hugged your middle while you ran your fingers through his hair, slightly scratching his scalp. “Thank you for telling me all of this.”
“I love you. We love you.”
“And I love all of you too.”
You would be lying if you said you weren’t worried, of course, you were, but you also knew that you loved him and as long as you had him and he had you, everything will be okay.
Summary: It was only supposed to be a day, one day to get him into his new body. But that one day turned into weeks, months, years, decades, centuries. However, you never forgot him, you never forgot your true love, En Sabah Nur.
People used to worship him, pray to him. And yet, they betrayed him.
You watched the pyramid collapse. And you understood why he didn’t want you to be there, this is what he feared, but now, you had to live without him.
You had to hide in order to survive so you could so him once again.
And so, you hid your powers, you hid your true identity and let the world forget about you.
You had powers, just like your love, but you were nowhere near as powerful, you could merely talk to animals and calm people.
When word got out that En Sabah Nur was dead, “The fake Gods are gone.” is what they used to yell, you feared they’ll find you.
And people’s intention was to kill you as well. So, you ran, far far away.
They used to call you by many names. But over the time, people forgot about you.
However, you didn’t care about that. You just wanted to see your love, that’s all you ever longed for. Over the centuries you realized your anger was not there anymore, you were not angry, you were mourning.
After so long, so many decades without your love, so many nights where you dreamt of him, and after so many changes in the world.
He was back.
You felt his energy, distinct. You immediately ran to him. Not even caring to lock the pathetic apartment you called home now. Who were you kidding?! You used to live in a palace!
You found him easily, or rather he found you.
“My Goddess.” he said and you missed him way too much, running into his arms so he could hold you once again.
“You are really here.” you wanted to cry. “After so long.“ you let yourself get lost in him. "You said it will only take a day to get a new body. A day turned into eternity without you, My Love.” he hold you tight just as you imagined and dreamt of.
“I am sorry.” he sounded sincere, although he was not one to apologize. “I was afraid after I realized so much time passed, I thought you might have found another.” You looked at him, holding his head in your hands.
“How could I ever? You are everything to me En Sabah Nur.”
“I dreamt of you.” he smiled recalling his amazing dream where he entered his chambers after a long day and saw you, sitting there, surrounded by your cats, smiling at him, he loved you maybe too much. “I saw you in my dreams, being so perfect, always smiling.” he looked into your eyes for the entire time. He finally leaned in to give you the kiss you have longed for since the day he left.
You finally had him back.
“And now, My Goddess, we will take over the world, for what they did to us, they all deserve to die. We will build a new world.”
Summary:When your mother has an accident it was no question that you’d go to take care of her. During your time away, Nathan realizes a couple of things he rather not admit.
Nathan got out of the shower, water dripping down his toned back, he let out a sigh.
He was annoyed.
Annoyed with himself and with you.
You had to leave to go back home to your parents. Of course, Nathan couldn’t leave his work behind, so he stayed while you left.
This was two days ago and Nathan already missed you.
The day you left, he was relieved, he often told you how much you annoyed him, how much he wanted to be alone, so it felt like a blessing.
Then, on the third day, everything came down crumbling.
He woke up and realized you were not there, he went downstairs and you weren’t in the kitchen either. You weren’t there to make him breakfast, to annoy him with your terrible jokes, he was just like he used to be, alone.
Nathan was so used to having you there with him. For the last five years, you only left for vacations, but even then, he was with you.
Out of instinct, he yelled for you, “Y/N! Do you know where I put my phone?!” but no answer came.
He missed you, and he was too proud to admit it.
He wanted to call you, text you, anything. He wanted to hear your voice, see your smile.
Fuck, he MISSED you.
And he hated it.
He never wanted to get so attached to anyone. Which is why he had robots. But now, now he had you, now he had someone to miss.
And he hated it.
He hated that he loved you.
Then his phone started ringing. After a good few seconds, he finally found it, and he saw your name across the screen, he immediately picked it up.
“Nate! Hii.” he heard your voice, you were smiling, he could tell.
“Hi.” was all he could say.
“Hi, how are you? I hope you ate and slept well, I did leave you food in the fridge.”
Oh. He didn’t see that.
“Yeah.”
“Good, look so, Mum fell and twisted her ankle, but since dad has to work I will have to stay a bit longer than I anticipated. So, I guess you’ll get the peace and quiet you wanted.”
“Everything’s perfect…How long will you stay?” he asked although he was rather afraid of the answer.
“About a…month.” Nathan nearly chocked. “But it should be fine, you can get more work done with me gone, just like you said.”
He lied, of course he lied, why did you believe him?
“Yeah. I’ll be able to.” No, he won’t.
“Great, just don’t forget to sleep and eat normally please, I have to go now, okay, text me and I’ll call you tomorrow. I love you.”
“Okay, bye.”
You smiled and put your phone away, this was normal Nathan behaviour, little did you know just how much he missed you.
He couldn't even get one project done.
He couldn't focus. He had way too many emotions in him.
He was lonely, angry, and horny.
Oh, just how horny he was. He was seriously contemplating turning his old machine back on, but he knew you’d leave him if he did. And he would not even dare to do anything that would make you leave him.
He sat in his favourite chair with a beer in hand.
A week passed, then another, and he started to become worse and worse.
Even if you called him almost every day, it wasn’t enough for him.
He missed you too much.
So, he did what he thought to be the second most logical thing after drinking his sorrow away and packed a bag.
“Mum? Would you like something to drink?” you yelled from the kitchen to your mother. Even after two weeks, her ankle started to get a lot better but you decided to stay for Nathan’s sake. He needed the time alone, even if you missed him so much.
“I’m good, Honey, thank you.” she replied from her room. “Did you speak with Nathan today?”
“Not yet, I’ll call him after lunch.”
Then there was a knock on the front door, you dried your hands and headed to see just who it was.
“Nathan?" you were shocked to see your boyfriend in the door. "Wh-”
You wanted to ask why or how was he there but he was quicker as he captured your lips in a kiss. You didn’t even have time to fully process what was happening.
When he pulled back from the kiss, he pulled you in for a hug.
“I missed you too.” you said, smiling. You knew he would never admit it, but his actions spoke louder.
“Who is it Y/N?” asked your mum as she peaked out of her room. “Oh. Sorry.” she said after seeing you two in the doorway, you tried to pull back, but Nathan didn’t let you, he still wanted to hold you, just a bit longer.
Once the two of you finally headed inside, you noticed that Nathan looked tired.
Truth was he found out that he just cannot sleep now without you. He ate the food you left for him, but that wasn’t enough for him to feel better.
He needed you.
So, once he trimmed his beard, shaved his head off and slept, he looked like the man you left behind in that lonely house.
After that even, Nathan never, ever wanted to be separated from you. Maybe just for a couple of days.
A/N:No summary for this, the tailer inspired me, so here’s a little something. I cannot wait for it! Hope you enjoy this one~
Your husband always had difficulties sleeping.
From terrible nightmares to sleepwalking, he was always restless. The dark circles under his eyes were a proof of that.
You tried your best to help him, took him to doctors, gave him medication, but nothing ever seemed to help.
Then it got worse.
It got to the point where he had to chain himself to the bed, surround the bed with sand so he can be assured he wouldn’t leave during the night.
He started to have hallucinations, causing him to freak out in the middle of the day when an elderly lady just wanted to enter the lift.
You were genuinely worried for Steven, but you didn’t know what to do.
One evening, he woke up, screaming. He started to run but the chain stopped him, causing him to harshly hit the ground as you woke from your dreams. Seeing him on the ground with that awful thing around his ankles make your heart ache. You felt like you were failing as a wife.
If you can’t comfort your own husband, who would?
With tears in your eyes you made your way to him on the ground as he slowly started to get up to sit on the floor.
“We will find answers.” you told him as you hugged him close to your chest, surrounding him with your warmth. “There has to be someone who could help.”
You truly believed you would be able to find a solution for him. Even if you never knew where to look.
But for now, holding him on the ground, occasionally kissing him on the head was enough.
He calmed down, letting himself get fully surrounded by you. He knew if he was thinking about you and nothing else, he would be able to get over this.
Summary:Alternatively titled: “Fuck You To Sleep”.
Pairing: Marc Spector x Reader
Word count:1.5K
Warning: PWP, dirty talking, mutual masturbation, fingering, hand job, unprotected p in v, side-way tango, stomach bulge, male ejaculation
A/N:I didn’t plan to write another Marc’s filth, but @fluffyprettykitty inspired me ahaha! Everyone say thank you to Selene! Literally, this is just PWP. If you enjoy this brain rot, please reblog and comment. I greatly, greatly appreciate it so much! No beta, so any mistakes I missed, are mine.
***Do not copy, repost, or translate my works without permission
You cannot sleep.
You have been tossing and turning for an hour now, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in. One minute you were covered in the comforter, the next you found yourself kicking the thing off of you. Marc has been noticing it too as he was still on his phone, going through his clients’ emails. It doesn’t bother him as much as it’s more of his worrying about your irregular sleep schedule.
He is aware that he’s partially responsible for it as well since he got back from Cairo as he is trying to get over his own jet lag.
Another huff coming out of your mouth pulls Marc away from his “reading”.
“That’s it,” he mutters before turning and pulling you back till you are flushed against him. Your ass is flushed against his groin. His thick thigh drapes over you, trapping you in place. Your head tucks beneath his chin. Goosebumps spread across your skin as you feel his warmness radiate off of him. You can feel yourself become hyper-aware of his presence, especially by the undeniable throbbing of your pussy, thinking about how his dick would feel rubbing against you.
→ warnings: mentions of sex, angst and sadness i guess?
He was spring and I was winter.
When I saw him, it was as if its roots and its most beautiful flowers bloomed in cracks in ice. Coming to life and color. He was like the sun on an algidity day, the abating feeling of the sunlight kissing you so softly while everything looked so blue. He was also the sunset on dazzling afternoons, the cool breeze that blew across the ground of flowers.
The world looks gloomy when I walk the heather London streets. Few snowflakes fall quietly across the concrete, breaking up into small puddles of water. I see my reflection in them and I despite it. Hating the dark circles that persist, the melancholy looks as if something is wrong. It was, but pretending it wasn’t was still my best option.
Words haunt my insides and tease me as I try to hold back tears as I cross the nearly empty bridge. It’s almost 3 pm. and I think about him once again.
I think of the weight of his hand on my waist, the way his fingers curled into my flesh almost naturally, and how I reacted to his touch like a dazed little girl. I think about the melodic sound of his voice and it feels like my ears betray me all over again, because I hear it as clearly as if he’s here with me, right now. The balmy, dulcet sound I love. Still.
I love you, but I need to break up with you.
All my life I’ve always cherished sincerity, but the moment those words invaded his lips, I wished it was all a lie. I wished he’d lie to me, that he’d tell me he loved me, that his arms would wrap around me and his lips would make the familiar path to my mouth and that he’d kissme,loveme,takeme. Couldn’t make a sound other than crying like a helpless little kid, because that’s how I felt. I could look into his eyes once more and I could see the hopelessness, the effort he was making to end our love. I was in anguish because I couldn’t touch him one more time, I needed to feel him, kiss him, love him one more time.
But he was gone, with notice, leaving my heart, body, and soul in splinters.
It’s 4 pm. when I pass the charming coffee shop around the corner. Its architecture reminds me of small Parisian cafes and the heater inside the establishment makes me whine softly with joy. The tables are empty because it’s New Year’s and nobody is lively enough with their life to go to a cafe, in the middle of winter and snow. People are at home, thrilling with their families or traveling with their partners.
The guy behind the counter grins gently as if he understands my grief.
The table is still in the same spot, unoccupied, with the same little crack on the right side. It’s like I can see my life as a film, the two of us sitting there, him holding my hand close to his lips and kissing it mercilessly because he’s always enjoyed teasing in public places like it’s the dirtiest, sexiest thing ever. He never knew, but every time I said to stop my unconscious screamed keep going, always.
I leave, leaving Oscar and the “me” of the past in that ghostly memory that no longer belongs to me.
The walk seems endless. I ignore the messages in the company and family groups, everyone making their preparations for the New Year’s celebration. I don’t see any reason to be cheerful anymore, drinking champagne, if not with him. I was deplorably miserable and didn’t make a point of hiding it.
The horizon is a massive blur of silver. The snow’s heavier now as if it were forcing all London residents to go to their homes because the situation was going to get worse in the next few hours. But I didn’t actually care. I sat on the bench in front of the lake, watching the icy water move slowly in the cool breeze, just as I did.
The tea is already cold a few minutes later and honestly, I don’t care, it tastes too bitter when I feel it go down my throat. It’s no longer sweet, smooth, and pleasurable like it used to be.
Little flora growing on the concrete are painted in frost, almost inert. The most beautiful part is veiled with a thin layer of crystal, which hides what’s most precious to her. But I know that in spring they’ll bloom in their most vivid colors and people will treasure each one, even if hidden under the ground or in tall green grass.
Because spring’s always the best season, it brings heart and soul to things, unlike winter.
There’s not much for me out here, so I decided to go back. The apartment’s small and cold, but I’ll make it as cozy as possible for tonight. Maybe make a lasagna that’s been frozen for almost a month and make a sweeter tea later. Maybe I’ll put on an action film so my heart flutters with so much epinephrine that I can finally feel something other than the acidity that bursts through my veins.
The small, three-story complex is covered in snow, even the crops that grow around the clay-colored bricks. The slippery steps dance at my feet and I have to balance myself to reach the bottom step. I make a mental note with a list of what I could do to make the night more likable. Calling my parents, watching lots of films, eating any kind of junk… I’m a little out of breath by the time I reach the third step and I remember trying to plan for exercise, maybe walking and running a few blocks would help.
I reach for the key in my coat pocket and my eyes catch two feet of inexpensive shoes on my rug. And tailored pants, thick coat, and a scarf. Gray locks and slicked back, round glasses that add an inimitable grace to that millimetrically thought out, architected, and perfect face.
He stands as he freezes in time.
“Hey.”
His gruff, warm voice hits me. Strongly. I feel like my knees are too weak to support me right now. I need to sit down and lean on something before I tumble down the stairs.
My lips tremble as I try to formulate a sentence, but nothing comes out. I feel pathetic, but my chest hurts so much, it’s such a comforting pain that I wouldn’t mind feeling it for the rest of my life, if it were for him.
“Are you going to invite me in?”
So I force my arms and legs to move. I open the door, even feeling his gaze on me, burning and unmasking me completely.
The lights come on, he walks past me and I feel defenseless. Slowly, he removes his gray scarf and tosses it onto the nearest chair. The silence is lethal, only the wind’s breath outside trying to infest space’s heard and perhaps, consequently, the heavy beating of my heart.
“What are you doing here?” I say, mumbling. “Shouldn’t you be on a plane right now?”
He should be traveling to the States, where the parties are dandy and glamorous, where the heat always radiates, unlike here.
Oscar walks over to me, his eyes warm, piercing my skin.
His soft hands feel my face and I sense peace. My vision blurs and I know I can cry anytime because I missed his touch so fucking much. His fingers fondle my skin tenderly, so carefully I feel like I’m about to breach. His lips stretch in an almost imperceptible grin, but I know every inch of him and notice every hidden part.
“I was stupid.” His deep voice cuts through me like stab wounds. “That’s not where I belong.” His fingers continue in a slow clutch and I’m tempted to close my eyes, but I want to see him. Every second of my life.
And as I suspected, his lips devour mine, in a wistful and tragic reunion, but sensual, passionate, and carnal. His lips move in sync with mine, as if he’s connected body and soul, knowing what each one needs. I grip his soft gray hair, filling my hand with his scent. Oscar kisses me cruelly, gripping my waist, pressing his fingers hard around so many layers of clothing.
“Ishere.” He finishes.
And like spring, he warms me, disrobe me, soothes me, kisses me with his warmth and his glow. He gives me life and makes me see things as they should be. His hands are painting me with the most sublime color. And I feel like one of those little flowers on the concrete, thawing its thin layer of ice in the middle of spring, showing its true chroma, its scent, its life.
Oscar and I are like winter and spring. His lips trace kisses over my body, over every inch of my body and I’m given. Body and soul. I fade in his hands and allow myself to feel the heat his skin emanates from mine, like the sun itself, invading me, driving me insane, and burning every nerve, every cell inside me.
And when I’m so lucid, panting, with his body on mine, I feel my heart fluttler with love. His face, fingered as if I could feel every inch of him. And I want to feel, I want him forever and ever. His lip sounds like the most tactful and beautiful orchestra, taking me to the edge of an abyss that I’m happy to throw myself into. His movements ooze love, his kisses on my face, his fingers gliding over my skin, and the way his mouth worships my body. His eyes claim much more than his lips.
In the end, we are like wintertime and springtide. Sapphire and gilt at twilight.
Met Halfway [ Steven Grant/Moon Knight/Marc Spector x Reader ]
Summary: When Marc asks you to make sure Steven does not figure out about his mercenary life, you wind up making things more difficult.
A/N: Hello! Just want to clarify that this is ONLY based on the first episode, not the following ones as they have not been released! So if the storyline is a bit off or seems inconsistent, that is why! I wanted to write something already and have no patience lol
Other than that, I hope you enjoy and know that there is SPOILERS AHEAD!
It was a normal night, really, in your defense. There was not a thought in your mind that would have guessed you would be comforting your nice and mannered neighbor, Steven Grant.
Well, it was your promise to Marc to make sure he did not pursue the phone further or the reflection shaking his head in the mirror.
You had been relaxing peacefully in your apartment one Sunday night when you heard Steven screaming and yelling different things and doors slamming around. You were quick to react and exit your apartment only for the elevator doors to close with him in it.
It was difficult to keep up with this newfound life. Marc, who spoke normally and often had a confident manner, had approached you when you were trying to open your door with handfuls of grocery bags. He had offered you help and gotten to know you well.
However, sooner or later he knew that he had to tell someone the truth… and he quickly made the decision that you would be the exception. His neighbor who would likely hear his mercenary side kick in and experience it first hand. So, he revealed his alter and how he needed your help to make sure Steven did not wander too far off the deep end.
You surprisingly took it well as you were a retired SHIELD agent who took to London for a breath of fresh air after SHIELD had fallen to Hydra. It was a mess but London had screamed your name for an escape.
And now, once again you were wrapped up in a world of chaos and a little crush on both Marc and Steven. While Marc took control and was very adamant with you, Steven was often polite and kept simple conversations with you. Marc had convinced you to go out on a date with Steven to get more involved with that side of him. While you were often confused about your feelings, you fell for Steven who was always so confused and tired but was a love sick puppy.
However, when he agreed to your date, you found yourself wondering why you agreed to do this. You knew eventually this would fall apart, like Steven had told you… don’t get too attached because he does not know how it will all end.
But as you watched Steven run back from the elevator, you knew you were in for the long run.
“Steven! Everything alright?” You said hurriedly and ran to him. You met halfway and he immediately grabbed your shoulders.
“I don’t… I don’t know what I saw and everything is flickering and there was this mummy…” he was blabbering on and you knew that this would lead to nowhere good. You could almost hear Marc saying to defuse the situation.
“Hey, why don’t we go back inside your place and make some tea, okay? We can go and relax and get your mind off of this.” You smiled at him to hopefully help him calm, which helped him in the slightest. He would later admit that your smile was the one thing that always made his heart thump wildly and his thoughts seem to slip away.
You both entered his apartment where you began to set the kettle and Steven sat down on a nearby chair.
“I’m going insane,” he whispered and looked down at his shaking hands. He was on edge and you knew that you had to get his mind off of everything.
You knelt down to his level and grabbed his cold hands. He glanced into your eyes and there was a moment of complete, comfortable silence that he appreciated.
Steven knew you were not judging him but simply letting him calm down. He could trust that you would not run away, scared he was a mad man.
And for what he was too afraid to do the night of your first date, he leaned forward and you met him halfway, lips meeting and eyes closing in content.
He was gentle with you as he cupped his hands on your cheeks, while you placed your hands on his knees.
It wasn’t long before he pulled away and placed a delicate kiss on your forehead instead.
“Thank you,” he said quietly to you.
“For what?” You also spoke low as to not disrupt the special moment.
“For not being scared of me but rather offering to help me out. Others probably would have thought I was crazy and called the cops.” He chuckled, but you could tell it was not a genuine laugh. The brokenness and tired expression spoke for itself.
“Anything for my favorite neighbor,” you joked.
While the future was uncertain for you and Marc, you knew that at least you had Steven to worry about for the time being. And Steven wanted to worry about you too in a sense of protection and wanting to be by your side every day.
warnings: implied smut, angst, mentions of stalking, everyone just being a mess, especially marc, obsessive behavior
summary: Your relationship with Steven is constantly strained by the presence of Marc’s disdain for you.
author’s note: I tried to be careful to be conscious of the presence of DID on this property, but if I wrote anything that is offensive or ignorant, please please please let me know.
The restaurant’s staff did a poor job at masking that they were sending you looks of pity every so often. Much like you, they were wondering when you were going to give up and shamefully admit that you had been stood up. You twiddled with your freshly polished fingers and checked your phone often as you nibbled on cold appetizers. It kept you busy since you had already tried calling thirteen times. Yet, it took the tenth couple eyeing you with concern on their way out for the embarrassment to finally make a bed under your skin. You ordered the first thing you could pronounce, and afterward, left the restaurant gripping your to-go plate as you looked at your phone one last time.
This experience wasn’t new, but you were already tired of having to find a restaurant that hadn’t seen what you looked like when you were in denial. It’s not like Steven didn’t want to come. It was the fact that he and Marc’s schedule clashed, and you were always at the receiving end of Marc’s negligence—you considered it forgetfulness to give him the benefit of the doubt.
The eyes he looked into were glassy–the kind that did not want to cry but ones that also could not help that they would. He was hurting. He couldn’t stay.
So, he swallowed his pride, admitting he wasn’t sure.
“I don’t know.” His own voice betrayed him. Here, in this two-bedroom apartment in Manhattan he had been in one thousand times, he finally shattered and nearly gave up on himself.
But it was this street. It was the memories tethered to it that made life unbearable and the admission that he needed to get away was difficult, but true. And you knew that… you had to.
“Is it selfish to say what about me?” You laughed, tears leaving your eyes in delicate drops he wanted to wipe away–his hands frozen in his lap. Marc shook his head, looking out the window where the cars were parked and the tree outside of your building was beginning to lose its leaves for the fall.
“You’ll be ok…” To you, it sounded as though he was trying to convince himself that without him here, in New York, that your life would be fine. You would move on, graduate from college, get a job, build a family with someone who wasn't… broken. Maybe if he convinced himself, you could have the dream of 2.5 kids and a white picket fence.
“You’ll be ok…” To you, it sounded as though he was trying to convince himself that without him here, in New York, that your life would be fine. You would move on, graduate from college, get a job, build a family with someone who wasn't… broken. Maybe if he convinced himself, you could have the dream of 2.5 kids and a white picket fence.
“And you?” Marc could never get used to the kindness you gathered in pain.
“What about you, Marc?” His name caught in your throat as you sucked in a breath. “Are you going to be ok?”
Transitioning from the window to the comforter of your bed, the pale blue flowers he could see in his dreams danced beneath his fingertips. Tracing for memories beyond this block, beyond this city, and somewhere he could go without the people of his past knowing every inch of his trauma. Marc could not answer with words because a part of him already knew a ‘yes’ would have been a lie. So, he shrugged.
“Will I ever be able to contact you? Is this it?” Steven.
The memory was becoming convoluted. It was no longer two people inside of a bedroom, but three and then four; a voice calling out to mute the memories words.
Steven let’s go.
“No…” Marc’s reply went flat as he responded to the girl. Steven’s arm received a sharp tug, but his eyes couldn’t tear themselves away from the sight. Marc, so broken and vulnerable, and a girl he had no memory of.
“Steven!” The Marc he was familiar with cut in front of the scene before him. His eyes pained, stressed, panicked. Steven lifted a finger, pointing beyond Marc’s shoulder was.
“That’s not Layla.”
“No, it’s not… let’s go now.” Marc’s threatening tone did not frighten him as it used to. The scale was not balanced. So much of Marc’s life was a mystery and he begged to remain that way, but Steven wanted to live, as did Marc–which had surprised him. However, each memory that progressed through Marc’s life made it increasingly difficult to reach that balance.
“Marc!” Steven’s own voice was frantic, not understanding Marc’s motivations. “We are never going to be able to go back if you don’t tell me what has happened.”
“This is a good memory… There are very few good memories.”
“Good!? This is what you consider to be good?” Steven asked, astonished at the ex-mercenary’s behavior.
“It doesn’t matter.” Marc pulled on his arm, turning Steven around and back out the door from whence he came. “It’s irrelevant to what we need to do. She’s got nothing to do with this.”
“I think seeing a girl as broken as the mirrors you like to smash is indeed important.” Steven wiggled, breaking his arm free of Marc’s grip, and facing the man as the apartment got further and further away and the hallway returned to the psych ward. “Who is she?”
Marc sighed, looking at Steven as if he was a walking parasite. Steven held his ground, not searching for the next door nor wanting to return to the memory.
“Who is she, Marc?”
“She’s not important.”
“She’s not Layla.”
“No.”
“But Layla is your wife.”
“No…yes, but we are separated.”
“Then who is she?”
“Why? You want to find her after we get out of this mess and ask her on a date? We all know how the last one went!” Marc got defensive again, storming off down the hall with a grudge and heavy footsteps. Steven followed, feet pattering along the tile floor as the doors remained without memories behind them.
“That is not what I said!” The English man laughed, unnerved by the attitude. “Could she help us?”
Marc stopped, whipping around, and pointing at Steven. “She has no part in this, do you understand?”
“No, no I don’t.” Steven swatted Marc’s hand down. “We need to balance the scale. I do not want to be frozen in sand because you can’t handle your own memories.” Steven did not know what he was asking of Marc.
“She is not part of this life.”
“What life? This one–” He pointed to facility around them. “Like Khonsu and your… jobs.”
“Yes, that one.”
“Alright then, so before all of this… how long ago did you last see her? When was this?”
“This was…” He coughed, scratching the back of his head and racking his memories for a date. “Two days before I left the city… joined the military and never really looked back.”
“Never really? So, you have not seen her since?”
Marc was unwilling once more to answer that question. Steven tried not to think the worst, but there were two ways the 'worst scenario’ could go. One, where he never saw that girl, you, again because of an accident or disease or something worse; or two, he did see you again and he cannot admit it because of Layla.
“Marc…”
“Why don’t we move on, huh?” Marc motioned carelessly at the door across from him. “I’m sure all of my life is here for your amusement so why don’t we see what these shitty gods have cooked up for us, yeah?”
“Marc, come on…”
Before Steven could receive a reply, Marc opened the door and another memory opened. Slowly, the tales of Marc’s life became known to Steven.
Trauma, resolution, trauma, death, trauma, and the people that perpetrated it. Steven was an empathetic soul–but he hated to see the man he had known as strong, resilient, and fearless, break.
The next time he had seen you, their mother had just passed.
Marc had missed the burial–intentionally so. The shiva began at the house that he had been berated in, beat in, lost, and loved in, and he could see the mourners gather inside.
Steven could not see the shiva. His arrival brought him at the end of the street and all he could see was a drunk, distraught Marc unable to face his father because he hated his mother and missed his brother at the same time. The pain of the past often found no resolution, but the people those in pain can lean on can lessen the torment–if even for a moment.
A figure appeared in the window of the townhouse. Dad, it had to be. Although Steven had no memory of this, he could sense the familiarity behind the stone. Steven observed Marc shake his head, take a shot from the flask, and stumble away, mumbling to himself as the emotions overtook him.
Halfway to him, Marc stumbled, sobbing to the ground.
Down the block, the townhouse door opened and the girl, you, older now, looked across the street and back down to where Marc was kneeling–making haste toward him. Neither could see Steven.
The closer you got to Marc, the louder your steps became, and Marc looked over his shoulder, shaking his head at you.
“Just go back… please.” He croaked, tears flowing freer than before, and Marc pulled the yarmulke from his head.
“You know I can’t do that.” Your voice was soft, comforting. He clutched the yarmulke on the ground and felt the woven yarn become strangled underneath his fingers–it was not the same feeling as the blue, flowered comforter of the past.
You knelt beside him–not caring if the black tights became ripped or the shoes scraped the cobblestone street. Resting a light hand on Marc’s shoulder, he leaned into the touch.
Steven felt he knew the answer of his scenario. Love was a complicated thing, even if he was unfamiliar of it himself.
“I’m here…” You whispered to him, letting him cry and not telling him the classic lines of 'you’ll be ok’ or 'you don’t have to be sorry.’ “I’m here…”
Laylawasn’t. And that said something to Steven.
Wrapping your arm around his shoulder, you laid a kiss on his dark curls and held him as he sobbed harder and harder, breaking away when he pounded the yarmulke into the ground before cradling to his chest.
“We don’t have to go in.” We.
How much did you know? Did Steven knowyou?
There was a strange familiarity to the moment. The dress, the hair, the face. He had seen you before.
“We can leave.” To where?
Steven thought for a moment Marc was going to reply but instead, he turned to the side, his eyes rolling backwards, and you pulled back. Your face was confused, alerted, concerned but then suddenly it became sullen–as if you knew it would happen.
In a second, Steven was looking at himself, not Marc.
That is where he had seen you before.
“What?” Steven said aloud and glanced at you, startled at your presence but you did not flinch.
“Oh! I am so sorry!” His accent felt so loud in that moment. “Do I know you?”
Marc had warned you of this moment. One day it would come.
You shook your head, pointing to the taxi at the corner. “No, no… I thought you needed help, but I am just on my way… are you alright?”
“Fine, fine. I–actually… I seem to be a bit lost.”
Your smile was strained, eyes hurt, and deflated.
“You’re on Milwaukee Avenue, just make a call and I’m sure someone can help you.”
“Thank you, Miss. I’ll just be on my way then.”
Steven got up, calling up 'mom’ on his cell phone and Steven, still knelt on the ground, felt defeated–for himself but mostly Marc. It was then that the man reappeared to him as Steven went about on the phone.
“This is it.” Marc said, reliving the memory against his will. “Mom’s death and Shiva two months ago. This was the moment our lives started bleeding into each other.”
Steven looked to Marc as the man stayed staring as you remained knelt on the ground, missing the taxi you claimed was yours.
“I just couldn't… I just couldn’t face that again. All the things I had done…”
“Marc…” Steven spoke honestly, “all those horrible things that she said to you, she was wrong. It wasn’t your fault.”
Marc’s eyes became red, his willingness to share pain now here. “I shouldn’t have brought him in the cave.”
“You were just a child. It wasn’t your fault.”
Marc nodded, not genuinely believing but somewhere in-between. And then he looked down again, watching you sit there with a sadness he had seen too many times before.
“This was, though.”
Steven looked too. You picked at the underside of your nails, the sound rhythmic and distracting.
“She does that when she’s upset.” Marc said, chuckling and running a hand through his hair. After one resolution, another break occurs, and another mend must be made.
“She’s the only person who could have handled the switch that way. She’s the only one who knew.”
“But I don’t know her.”
“I was gone a lot…” Marc admitted, not giving every detail. “I’ve lived in a lot of places, seen too much.”
“Does she know about Layla? Does Layla know about her?”
That side-eye that Steven had been accustomed to was chilling but filled with so much truth. No. The answer was no.
“Maybe if they did, they could help us.”
“Layla chose this life, Y/n didn’t. I won’t put her in danger to save me.” Y/n. Name. Me, not us.
“Do you love her, Layla?” Steven asked Marc, narrowing his eyes to balance the scale. One more truth, just one.
“Steven…”
“If it’s true it shouldn’t be hard! DO you love her? She put her life on the line for us and all I am asking is do you LOVE her, Marc?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Why not? WHY NOT!?” Steven pushed, the time ticking, the end was so close.
“BECAUSE I LOVE HER TOO! I have my own goddamn life!” Marc yelled back, pushing Steven’s chest as the buildings began to rumble. Steven shook his head in both disgust and disbelief. Steven only knew of Layla, maybe he would think differently if he met you too.
The ground beneath them shook.
“Did you feel that? It feels like we just stopped.”
As they ran, Steven looked to Marc one last time and said:
“Maybe the truth has set you free.”
London was rainy—as you expected it to be. Having never visited, your beliefs had been based in fiction. Did Love, Actually really represent English values or was it fiction? You wanted to explore the answer but a higher purpose was calling.
Marc.
You had seen him on the news, global news. An attack at the British Museum had left you to consider your future for the better—sit waiting for Marc to (maybe) return or go looking yourself.
So, you stopped sitting around and booked a plane ticket with no return flight and the first place you stopped was the museum.
It had reopened a week ago with signs blocking the Egypt wing. The vast halls didn’t surprise you, nor did the collection of surely stolen artifacts gleaming from the projected lights. In one particular exhibit, Roman vases had caught your eye and distracted your attention.
“Have a fondness for early Roman pottery?” A man, American man asked. You looked through the glass at the reflection of a man with longer hair, a black cane, and boho-chic look aced.
“Not particularly.” You responded, looking to move away from the case to give him space but he lingered—setting off the alarms in your mind immediately.
“American? Where from?” He smiled with a kind face but his eyes recalled a different story. He moved with you to the next exhibit.
“Midwest.”Vague. He caught on.
“I’ve been meeting many Americans lately. They all seem to be coming from the same place…” he trailed off, looking at the pottery in the case you settled at. You went to move away but quickly realized this man wasn’t alone.
The room was filled with people watching, waiting. They were so close and inching toward you at a slow and steady pace.
“It is amazing what a little research can lead to, isn’t it Y/n?” He said your name; the blood inside of you ran cold.
“Tell me, are you looking for someone?”
“I think you have the wrong person, I’m sorry.” You tried to get around him but his cane shot out and pushed you back. The people kept getting closer.
“I think we are both looking for something…” he talked slow and low. His eyes traced every inch of your face—trying to memorize it in case something went awry. “We are off for Egypt tonight and I think you may find what you are looking for there… he always seems to follow me.” Taunting.
This man didn’t give you a choice.
“On second thought, you are coming with.” He pointed to the followers behind him and your world went dark.
The next thing you knew, you were in Egypt, sitting in a car watching as a scarab compass found a tomb.
You truly doubted love would find you here. No resolution could be made.
Steven was too shaken to take control of the body, ceding it to Marc the moment they both became aware again.
The blackout had been shorter than the last one but more worrying. Fear of what they would find as they woke infected both men, sharpening their anxiety to almost unbearable levels. Steven could feel himself verging on hysteria in his desperation to know and yet not know what had happened while they were unconscious.
Marc expected blood. The last few times he had blacked out, there had always been blood and bodies, save for that moment in the taxi. All other times, it had been a massacre.
Therewas blood, but it had dried. You were clothed, long sleeves almost covering the bandages laced up your arms. The cuts had been deeper than he had realized, the flesh scored by your nails. In the time Steven and Marc had been unconscious, you had not only dressed yourself and your wounds, but you had also done everything necessary to render your nails blunt.
Marc didn’t know what to say or ask as he surveyed the surprising lack of damage in the space. Aside for a towel crusted with dry blood, everything was as he had left it.
“You’re…okay,” he managed to say.
You shrugged, stared down at your newly trimmed nails. Lethargy coated your movements, lined your face alongside mild strain. Whatever had happened had taken everything from you, leaving you exhausted and potentially numb, if your expression had anything to say about it.
Marc sat down beside you on the bed. He felt as clueless about how to proceed as Steven, who fretted in his mind and in the reflections of the room. What could he say in response to what he had seen? What could he say when he didn’t even know what had transpired in the blackout?
A sudden fear lodged ice cold in his stomach. Swallowing thickly, he almost didn’t voice it aloud, afraid to hear the answer. “Has that…happened before?”
For several heartbeats, you didn’t answer. You hardly stirred in response to the question, as though rendered comatose. The fear thickened in Marc’s guts, sending Steven haywire. If you said no, then that meant your hurt, the damage you had inflicted on yourself, was a direct result of their attempts to intervene. Instead of helping, they had hurt you, driven you to hurt yourself.
Marc wasn’t sure he could live with that. He had blood on his hands, but he could honestly say he had never put blood on someone else’s, least of all their own. The very thought drove him to the brink of despair and the most intense self-loathing he had ever experienced. If he had done this—if you had suffered because of him and Steven—then he was no better than his mother, perhaps even worse because he thought he had been helping.
You sucked in a breath, startling him to the present, sending his heart leaping against his chest. “Yes.”
Relief had never felt so good. Marc exhaled explosively, unaware he had been holding his breath so tightly, every muscle in his body coiled with anxiety. Your response slowly sunk in, dropping down like a stone through the depths of his relief, until it settled at the bottom, kicking up silt and muddying the waters.
“That doesn’t sound healthy,” he heard himself say.
“I know it isn’t healthy! But I’m not healthy, and I never will be, so I have to fucking make do, don’t I?”
Marc leaned back from your sudden vehemence. Tears rimmed your eyes, but you blinked them away furiously, knuckled them away hard enough to leave the skin underneath momentarily inflamed. You clenched your fists.
Some blood seeped through the bandages, staining it as your sudden violence broke open the healing flesh anew.
Guilt gnawed at him again. Again, he struggled to find words.
Hanging your head, you raked a hand across your scalp, blunt nails dragging audibly, and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You were just saying the truth. I know, because I tell it to myself all the time. I know it’s not…but there’s this little part of me that says—that says I can handle it. That next time it won’t be as bad.” You stared down at your hands, scrutinizing them as though suddenly aware of the pain they could inflict. “Sometimes I tell myself I need help, and then in the next breath, I’m saying, No, I can’t expect someone else to understand. This is my burden.”
Marc went still, Steven along with him. Your words echoed in his skull, reflecting his own beliefs back to him. He knew those words, those fragile lies built into truths.
“You know that Christian thing about the footprints in the sand?”
“No,” he managed through the thickness in his throat.
“There’s this…I don’t know, story or whatever where it says you are walking along the beach, and God is walking with you. There are two pairs of footprints in the sand. But then storms come, and you’re suddenly alone, and it’s only one pair of footprints in the sand. And one day, when the storms have passed and God is beside you again, you ask, ‘Where were you? I needed you.’ And…” Your voice grew thick. “He answers, ‘I didn’t abandon you. When you saw only one set of footprints, they were mine. During the storm, I carried you.’”
You suddenly choked back a sob, so sudden and violent that it scared you as much as Marc and Steven combined. “And I want to believe that, but I can’t. No matter how hard I try, I can’t believe it, because I feel so alone. Those are just my footprints on the beach. There was never a second pair. And the storm is never going to end. I’m stuck in it forever.”
Your hands were clamped between your knees, your body shuddering with your attempts to stem the sudden emotion crashing through you. Strangled sobs slipped past your lips, preventing you from speaking further.
The emotions Marc had been feeling moments before relief, the despair and self-loathing, palpably radiated off you as you fought with yourself to rein them in. It oozed over Marc with a stickiness he recognized.
But instead of agitating him, it set him in motion. He reached out, gently touched your shoulder.
The sobs poured out freely the moment he did, as though he had given you permission.
Looping his arm around your shoulders, he drew you to his chest, let you cry into his neck and shirt. In moments his collar was soaked from your tears and snot. Your fingers clutched at him, seeking an anchor in the storm.
You slept hard after your emotional release. Swaddled tightly in sheets and pillows, you breathed shallow but evenly, your expression smooth and slack. Marc and Steven watched you for almost an hour, checking to see if nightmares or something else disturbed your slumber. Only when they were assured that you were sleeping soundly did they retreat to the balcony outside the hotel room.
Sliding the glass door shut behind him, Marc paced, trying to expend the restless energy clawing through him. Your emotions had struck too close to him, brushing up against his with bristles that irritated him. The only person whose emotions had ever nearly triggered his was Steven, and that was a whole other box to unpack.
“Marc.”
Steven’s soft voice slowed him. Marc glanced at his reflection in the sliding glass doors. Steven attempted a sympathetic smile, but the slash of his mouth was grim, worn down by the emotional turbulence. Neither of them had signed up for someone as troubled as themselves.
“You sure know how to pick ’em, Steven,” Marc half-heartedly joked.
“Well, I picked you, didn’t I? Or, erm, you picked me.” Steven shook his head. “A month ago, we wouldn’t have made it through that, yeah?”
“No, we wouldn’t have.”
They sat with that thought, processing it. A month ago, they had been in denial, fighting each other with the conviction that only one of them was in the right. A month ago, Marc would have fled the room in the face of your words and emotional vulnerability, would have preferred to fling himself off the balcony in his efforts to escape.
That he had not only not run but had actually stayed to help, to hold you up, was progress. That he could live with.
“Next steps,” he prompted Steven, resorting to what he did best: action. “How do we find an expert on this stuff, like you suggested?”
Steven rolled his eyes. “The internet.”
“Right.” Marc pulled out his phone, realized belatedly it was not a smart one. “We need a computer.”
~~
An hour later, they sat on the balcony, nestled in the corner between the edge of the glass doors and the wrought-iron railing, a laptop balanced on their knees. Steven took over, having a better idea of what to look for.
He glanced through the doors frequently, checking on you while the hotel’s mediocre wifi took its time loading web pages. You slept soundly, the weight of your burden invisible or perhaps gone altogether in your sleep.
“Do we ever look like that?” he asked absently.
“We do now, those blackouts aside,” Marc answered.
“I can’t think about that right now.”
“I know.”
Steven resumed searching. He narrowed down his parameters to professors in psychology, sociology, and anthropology. Of the three, he expected the last to be the most fruitful.
After an hour and a half of searching, he felt like abandoning the idea. Nothing was yielding fruit. Tapping his fingers against the laptop, he tried to approach the problem from a different direction. He searched for biologists specializing in parasites, waded through twenty minutes worth of material before having to close out of the browser entirely in a futile attempt to delete the information from his brain, his skin crawling.
He cast his net wider. Searching through professors of literature across the world, he tried to find anything that even closely resembled knowledge of parasitic gods and their interactions with humans, even if it was only to be found in the pages of fiction. He sifted through folklorists and those specializing in urban legends.
Hopelessness began to snare his efforts. Rubbing his eyes, Steven leaned back in his chair, stared up at the night sky. Too much light pollution prevented him from seeing the stars, but the moon hung ponderously above him, staring down like an evil eye.
He refused to consider Khonshu’s prolonged absence.
“Maybe we have to do this a different way,” Marc suggested as Steven straightened again and stared at the blank Google search box.
“Do you have any ideas?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so,” Steven quipped.
He googled theologians. Inundated in results across a variety of beliefs but mostly Christian, he searched half a dozen pages before returning to the blank search page. With an exasperated sigh, he typed in gods and humans.
The topmost result caught his eye immediately. Google had spat up a list of books and where to purchase them at the top of the page, the actual website search results underneath them. Two books from the left was something titled Human Nature and Divine Interference by a professor from an Ivy League university.
Hope flickered in Steven’s chest. He read the book jacket, then hastily typed the professor’s name into the search bar. Several results quickly populated, among them YouTube links to clips of various lectures the man had given around the world. Steven clicked on one called “When Gods and Humans Meet.”
The professor was perhaps in his early forties with a head full of short, silky hair. He unironically wore a tweed jacket with elbow patches, but his color scheme of navy, white, and tan worked well on him. He looked at home upon the podium, eyes bright with excitement as he conveyed his knowledge to the auditorium.
“The vast majority of Christians believe that divine interference is the best thing in the world. To have God step in and resolve problems is the height of faith. ‘Give it all up to God,’ they say, ‘for He is benevolent and only wants to help, if you let him.’ This, of course, is an incredible belief, built off the Judaic belief that God searches for man.” He smiled. “As an aside, please see Abraham J. Heschel’s quintessential work, The Prophets, if you wish to understand how God uses prophets in an attempt to do just that, as well as his God in Search of Man.”
Clearing his throat, the professor continued, “The reason these beliefs are so astounding is because all other faiths, Islam excluded, of course, did not see all their gods as benevolent. If anything, they were, at best, indifferent—at worse, malevolent. Consider the Greeks and their pantheon. Unlike, say, the Egyptian pantheon, which built its mythology on explaining abstract concepts and elements and nature, the Greeks populated their pantheon with gods that were all too human. They drank, cavorted, lusted, cheated, failed. They were as fallible as humans.”
He paused, scanning the crowd of faces before him. “What did this mean for humans?” He waited for a response.
“It explained their own debauchery and shortcomings,” someone answered off camera, their voice tiny without a microphone to amplify it.
“Yes, it did. But it meant more than that. Greek literature is filled with gods and humans. And what happens to each human that interacts with a god? Something terrible.”
Steven sucked in a breath, hunched over the laptop as the professor cleared his throat, made a show of shuffling through the papers in front of him on the podium.
“To interact with the divine was to suffer,” he said, his voice low. “If you came upon an unaware god in the forest, your punishment was swift and immediate, usually involving transfiguration from human to something like a tree or animal. If a god came to you, it could mean any number of things; if Zeus came to you, there was a good chance his vengeful wife Hera would follow to slaughter you and any offspring he sired on you.”
Uneasy chuckles rippled through the crowd.
“If you take anything away from this lecture, it should be this: If the deity isn’t God or Allah, run—and pray the deity doesn’t care. Otherwise, you’ll be in for a world of hurt.”
Steven leaned back in his seat, the excitement of discovery coursing through him. Drafting up an email, he shot it off to the address provided on the professor’s faculty page.
It bounced back seconds later with an out-of-office reply stating he was on sabbatical.
“Bollocks,” Steven muttered, slumping back in his seat.
“That just means we have to do this the hard way,” Marc stated.
