#Marc Spector x Layla El Faouly

[aduckinpain]

Moon Knight

Fanfiction

Not your fault

Pairing: Layla x Marc Spector x Steven Grant

Tags: Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 3.5k

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Personal Posts

No FUCK YOU my Moon Knight Era never was and.....

I love watching Moon Knight all over again and noticing new things...

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I am incredibly active on my Archive Of Our Own, user roianamustang. Every fanfiction is posted there first then here. The tags and descriptions are also more detailed. I would appreciate the support there!

-> https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoianaMustang

[juneknight]

A Rock and a Hard Place

kink: double penetration

about this: marc/f!reader/layla. Also includes: strap-ons, anal sex.

*

You feel her every breath where you lay plastered on top of her, your breasts pressed flush against each other. Sometimes she guides your head back and kisses you, sipping deep from your mouth, her hips growing restless. Every shift, every give-and-take also shifts the dildo deep inside your pussy, pressing its warm, smooth surface against the most tender spots of your walls. Marc and Layla had both taken turns fucking you until you were nearly raw, nerves overstimulated and oversensitive. 

“How’s she doing?” Layla murmurs—not to you, but to Marc who is between both your sets of spread legs. 

You whine as his fingers shift inside your ass, stroking the dildo through the thin wall which separates his fingers from Layla’s fake cock. 

“She’s taking it like a fucking champ,” Marc mutters.

Something about them talking about you this way—like you aren’t even here, like you are just some toy to be bent and twisted into whatever shape pleases them most—has your pussy clenching around the cock and Marc’s fingers. He has used an unnecessary amount of lube out of caution. The two of you had played with your ass before; fingers here and there, he rimmed you once, half-inadvertently during a very desperate session of oral sex. 

But never had Marc put his cock there. Not until tonight. You can feel his anticipation in the way his hands shake as they stroke over the curves of your body. Maybe it’s his upbringing or the women he’s dated in the past (except for Layla) but Marc still considers ass-play to be taboo. The first time you had mentioned it to him during sex, he had cum prematurely, face beet red where he buried it between your breasts. 

He’s been looking forward to this night for a while. And there was only really one other way to also include your lover, Layla. 

“Fuuuuck,” you whine, pussy and ass fluttering against your will around them. “So full.”

“I think she can take more, Marc,” Layla says, stroking her hands along your naked back. She laughs a little at the panicked, desperate sound you make in response to her words. With you, Layla was either so tender and soft or downright evil, pushing your boundaries almost to the brink of what you could handle. She loved to kiss and lick the tears from your cheeks. 

“I can’t give her another finger,” Marc mutters. “I’ll split her in half. Think she can take my cock though.”

“I can,” you slur, head fuzzy with desire. It feels hard to think, smoke disguising your thoughts in the burning building of your mind. “Lemme have it, Marc, please—want your cock in my ass—“

It is Marc’s turn to groan. He pulls his fingers out and wipes them on the bedspread, reaching for fresh lube to slick along his aching cock. Beneath you, Layla ruts her hips upwards once, twice, thrice, loving the little punched out sounds you make, like her cock is fucking the breath right out of you. 

When Marc’s head notches at your loose entrance, there is a moment of panic. It feels too big. Your limbs spasm, arms reaching frantically around Layla, looking for purchase and comfort. She hugs you tightly to her breasts, hushing you gently. With slow, rhythmic movements, she begins to work her hips up into your own, not so much fucking you as she is grinding her cock in you. 

The pleasure has you groaning, relaxing, and Marc’s head slips in without more than a slight push. Both your breaths catch. 

“Oh fuck,” Marc pants, hands gripping your hips to the point of pain. “Oh fuck me, you’re still so tight.”

You don’t breathe. You don’t move. You can’t speak. You can’t even see, your eyes open an sightless as everything narrows down to the two cocks inside you. Marc works his hips into you with soft, slow drags of his cock, and by the time his hips rest again you, you feel full to bursting. You do burst—into tears, sweet and salty that Layla wipes from your cheeks, cooing. 

“Am I hurting you?” Marc chokes out. “Fuck. I’m hurting her. I’m pulling out—” 

“You aren’t hurting her. It’s just a lot, isn’t it baby?” 

You nod frantically. You have never felt this full, this stretched thin, this splayed-open and spread-out. 

“Are you sure?” Marc asks, voice nearly a whine. “I wanna move, honey. Let me move, please.” 

They begin a slow give-and-take, two different rhythms. Layla gives those gentle rocking thrusts up into the cradle of your hips, her hands massaging your hips as she peppers kisses over the crown of your head. Marc works himself in and out of you with more intensity, single-minded purposefulness. 

“Are you going to cum on our cocks?” Layla wonders.

Marc snorts. “She can’t—she needs more than this.” 

“There is nothing more than this,” Layla laughs. “She can do it. She’s our good girl. Clench down on us, baby. Squeeze our cocks.” 

Exhausted, you do as she asks without thought, and the sensation pulls a ragged shout from your throat. Clenching down around them just seems to stimulate you more, to emphasize how full you are. It is so good, so intense that it almost hurts—and you want to do it again and again. So you begin your own rhythm, clenching your cunt and your ass as tightly as you can around them until your overworked muscles relax. Every time you tighten around them, Marc makes a sound like he’s dying. He won’t last—you never expected him to. What you also don’t expect is the feeling rising up deep in your belly, the sweetest ache, sharpening like a burner being turned on high, something inside you coming to boil. 

“Come on,” Layla whispers in your ear. “Drive him crazy.

With the timing, maybe she thinks that it was her command which pushed you over the edge—but that’s hardly true. You couldn’t have held it in for a single more moment if you tried. The ache in your belly bursts, both your holes fluttering around them. You clench so tightly that Marc feels like he can barely withdraw. He pushes in, instead, to the root, and lets your ass milk him until he finds his own pleasure bursting sweetly, filling you with his warm seed.

Minutes later, you lay pressed between them, both your holes aching, your body exhausted and eyelids drooping. 

Marc kisses the nape of your neck. “Fuck, we have to do that again. Holy shit. You were perfect, baby.” 

“I was?” you ask, throat raw, turning your head to look at him over your shoulder.

“Perfect,” Layla agrees. Both of them lean in and kiss your cheeks, and you let your eyes close in utter contentment.

[virtie333]

WIP Wednesday

*shrugs* For me.

We need to talk

There was no response right away, and Layla wondered if she had been too blunt. She didn’t want to scare Steven, but she really needed to talk to him about what Marc had done. If there was anyone who knew Marc better than her it was Steven. When no response seemed forthcoming, she decided he had probably just put his phone away to go back to work; the staff of the museum were not allowed to carry their phones on them while on the clock.

Taking a deep breath, Layla stripped the bed she and Marc had shared so she could wash the sheets, then set out to clean the kitchen. It wasn’t really that dirty, but she needed to keep busy so she wouldn’t think too much. She played music on her phone. American Country music. Because Marc hated it.

Finally, shortly after 6pm, she heard the door to the flat open and watched as Steven slipped in, his messenger bag over his shoulder and a large pizza box in his hands. He looked at her warily, and she knew he had read her last text, but the genuine smile she gave him must have comforted him somewhat, and he smiled back, closing the door behind him with his foot.

[360iris]

what you want to—

[sweetly-yours-and-mine]

im just thinking about that scene in episode 2 of moon knight after marc takes control of the body and transforms into moon knight to fight the jackal off

there's a brief moment where he kinda just stops, he's in full suit, it doesn't even seem like he's assessing the threat because he would have already done that

there's a break in the music, and all i can think what happens there is that marc is finally seeing layla in god knows how long after going no contact

maybe im being a little romantic, but there's just so much between them that they need to talk about (which they get to talking about on the boat), idk that much ab marc bc his face is covered but in layla i can sense that on one hand she wants to run into his arms, the other she wants to run away from him and the other is concerned about whatever the hell was beating steven up like that

and it's clear that both marc and steven have full cognitive awareness when they're in their suits, so it's not a hulk-type of transformation; so it wouldn't make sense for her to be asking him to 'get it out of here' because a) he knew and b) he can see and c) that's the whole reason he took control anyways (he tells steven in the bus window that 'somebody is going to get hurt')

i really do think that for just a moment he's glued to the spot, he sees layla and layla sees him and it's just a little eye-to-eye, yearning type of situation that doesn't belong at all in the gruesome fight that's happening at the time

because the moment marc starts to transforms look here, she runs in front of him, even if it's so much closer to the jackal, it's like there's the pull between the two of them and she doesn't want to stay away despite everything he's put her through

like i just feel like in this part (if there was even an inkling more lighting), you could just see the anguish on layla's face, i think she's trying to pull herself out of it, as well as marc, because she knows now's not the time for this, but at the same time that's her husband and she's missed him so much and it's been so hard for her to see his face and have him not recognise her because that's steven but it looks like marc

besides that, it's the familiarity of marc's suit, of the one she was begging steven to summon, and the fact that she can relax now that she knows he can take care of himself as well as the thing that's been destroying cars around her

in short she's been scared, lonely and concerned, and still not sure if she'd ever see marc again and gods does she hope that he'll stay this time and maybe they can work things out, but people are getting hurt and she cares about them too, and she tries to agitate marc again and remind him about what he's here to do now

idk i feel like rewatching this scene with a lot more context of what happened between him and layla really gives you another emotional punch to the gut, because i never really understood that pause until i looked at it like that or the whole 'get it out of here' thing

[marcspectrr]

Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: Moon Knight (TV 2022), Moon Knight (Comics) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Layla El-Faouly/Marc Spector, Steven Grant & Marc Spector Characters: Marc Spector, layla el-faouly (mentioned) - Character, Steven Grant (Marvel), Randall Spector (mentioned) Additional Tags: Pre-Canon, Canon Compliant, Post-Canon, Canon Jewish Character, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Married Couple, Letters, Missions, Introspection, Character Study, Writing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Sad Ending, at least one of the parts, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Egyptology, Astrology, Astronomy, Post-it Notes, Steven Grant Needs a Hug (Marvel), Protective Marc Spector, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Steven Grant is a writer, Marc Spector is a simp Summary:

Part 1 - How Marc and Layla connect through writing. Part 2 - How Steven and Marc connect through writing.

[coneygoil]

Hi, I’m fairly new to the Moon Knight fandom. Can anyone recommend some good fanfic and tumblr blogs for me? I prefer fanfic for Marc/Layla/Steven pairing. Also would love to read some Marc & Steven fics. Searching the tags and ao3 has been time consuming and I’m finally giving in to asking for some recs lol. Any recs would be appreciated!

[romanarose]

Screaming crying listening to Final Masquerade by linkin park on repeat thinking bout Layla listening to it while going through the divorce with Marc

“All I ever wanted, the secrets that you keep”

Even the title, final masquerade, is like a reference to the masks Marc wears, symbolic and literal

Anyway, I might have to write a song fic for this

[syrma-sensei]

Moon's Scarab → Ch. 6: Night Travellers.

Marc Spector x Layla El-Faouly.

pre-canon fic; based on the Marvel comics and Disney's series Moon Knight.

warning: violence, cursing, angst, smut maybe in the future (?), the majority of spoken Arabic in this story is in Egyptian dialect.

taglist: @kesskirata, @zinzinina, @psithurista, @urlocallsimp, @marcspectrr, @sherlolly-siya, @nowritingonthewall, @marcskywalker, @nyctophilic0vitnir...

tell me if you wanna be added to the taglist!

previous chapter | series masterlist | next chapter

° a/n: the song in this chapter is: Alf Leila Wa Leila (One Thousand and One Night) by the legendary Um Kulthum. Highly recommended to listen if you're fond of classic music.

Layla El-Faouly/Marc Spector

Layla El-Faouly gazes up at the dark sky. It's past midnight, and the moon is shining fully in the heart of the summer heavens. She smiles, leaning her head backwards as her hands set flat on the rooftop's floor.

She wears a sleeveless, cherry-red top, and a black pair of sweatpants, whereas her feet remain bare to the occasional summer breeze. Her coiled hair is loose, still slightly damp from the night shower she just took, a big crown of gorgeous, brown curls.

Her big eyes are still wandering the skies, hopping from a glimmering star to another. But every time, they go back to the white orb embedding the night sky.

The Moon is Al-Qamar in Arabic, or how the Egyptian prefer to call it; El-Amar. It's always been a place of fascination to Layla. That astral globe of silver gleam that illuminates the sky within the night. Even her name Layla has something to do with the moon; which means night darkness, that cradles the moon while it wallows in the cosmos.

“Ya habibi... my love,” A rich and resonant voice echoes from Layla's phone, “El-Leil wo samah, wo nujomo, wo amaro, wo saharo... The night and its sky, and its stars and moon, and its vigil,” The singer continues, “Enta wo ana... you and I,”

“We just ran outta tea,” Layla smiles as she hears Marc's steps on the staircase, “Remind me to buy some tomorrow, would ya?”

She looks at him as he emerges from the shadows, carrying a tray with an Arabian tea set on it. Just like her, he's wearing casual and comfy clothes; a sleeveless, dark shirt, and a pair of grey sweatpants.

“Yeah, sure,” Layla says as Marc lays the tray on the floor and sits, cross-legged, next to her.

Layla glances at the tray and grins, “Marc... what are those?”

The latter looks at her puzzled. He follows her gaze on the tray, then clears his throat, “Marshmallows...?"

“Yeah...” Her girn widens, “But what happened to "no sugars under this roof" rule tho?”

Marc smirks playfully, “Well, if you put it that way... we're practically on the roof,” She giggles. “Plus, you worked hard the past few days.”

“Well, thanks to you, Couch Spector.” With dialect fingers, Layla plucks a piece of the fluffy candy and stuffs it in her mouth. A small moan escapes her throat as the delectable savour tickles her taste buds. Although she's an athletic person, Layla is fond of sugars; she just can't help it, her weak spot for marshmallows.

“You earned it tho. But you're welcome anyway, Miss El-Faouly.” Marc smiles a bit and Layla swoons just like the candy in her mouth.

Layla knows that Marc isn't flattering her when he said she earned it, because first of all: he doesn't do sweet talks, that's what she worked out of the time she spent with him in the past couple of weeks. Second: he literally made her see hell in those two weeks.

When Layla moved in with him to the safe house he currently resides at, Marc worked hard on making zero interaction with her. He didn't speak to her unless it was necessary despite her obvious efforts to communicate with him.

Marc just couldn't. Yes, sure, he promised to find out the truth about the link between her father and The Committee, because he feels terrible about the matter. He's bound to that, for if he does so, it may lift something off of his chest. And when it's all done, he's going to confess to Miss El-Faouly his horrible crime and what he did to her father and the rest of his team, then will disappear and will never show his face ever to her again, and if he's lucky enough and she's fast enough, she'd take revenge and kill him on the spot —and he'd let her— and release him from this torture, and send him right into hell where he truly belongs. Yes, that's what a killer eventually deserves.

Furthermore, Marc seldom feels comfortable in a constant feminine presence. Or not used to it is more like it. Sure, he has his fair share of night-stands every once in a while. But fuck, the first —and last— serious relationship he had with a girl was when he was still at high school. Her name is Marlene Alraune, a Canadian girl he met at a school party; one of those times when he managed to escape his mother's violent hand and actually lived his life as a normal adolescent. She was pretty and smart, has gorgeous blond hair and remarkable body. He still remembers how anxious he felt when she confessed her crush on him after they hung out together multiple times, and still remembers the fragments of the grand happiness he once felt at the time when knew his feelings were mutual. He thought she might be the one to save him from the hell his mother organised. He believed she might see him for what he truly is, just a boy who wanted to be loved. Fuck, he even lost his virginity to her. However, and as it turned out, Marlene wasn't the one for Marc. She was too demanding, pressuring, and sometimes inconsiderate. How humiliated she made him feel every time she claimed he embarrassed her in front of her friends, but he might done so. Given his strict upbringing in religious Jewish house, as a son of a rabbi. How often she'd tell him that's his mother is right, and he's worthless, and only she made him of value; the popular girl's pet. But all that came to an end when he signed up for the military, after that he didn't hear of her ever since. And from henceforth, he never got serious with any woman, only fleeting flings here and there. Even that has reduced significantly when he became Moon Knight. It's as though this side of his life is as screwed just as the rest of it. Perhaps, indeed, what his mother and Marlene had said is true, that he's just scum who's now seeking any kind of atonement in taking the cape of Moon Knight although he hates it. But it's not his place to hate his only way of salvation, is it?

“If you should lay with women, then lay with women,” His god had once told him, when he felt the slightest of his avatar's uneasiness and turbulence, he thought he needed some kind of ventilation, “That's none of my concern, Marc Spector.” Khonshu doesn't mind actually, or doesn't really care more to it, as long as Marc is cautious not to knock up some woman. The most important thing is not to be deflected from his duties as protector of night travellers.

Nevertheless, and even though he is aware of the fact that no wind blows in one's ship's favour, one day he broke his oath to himself. The oath of protecting the doctor's daughter as long as she's under his wing, to protect her from himself. He had to. When he accidentally glimpsed at the crack of the training room. He saw her silhouette, and heard her snarls and grunts. He knew what she was up to; she was training. Marc allowed himself to watch her, he took advantage of her being bogged down in her training, and slithered in utmost stealthiness into the room and watched. She was wearing a sleeveless top and shorts pants, and her hands were covered by white wrappings.

She has a remarkable body, as graceful as a doe's, but something was wrong, her movements were erratic, amateur. That stirred great upset in him to the point of irritation; her moves are so clashing with the agility of her body. And before he could stop himself, his mouth beat him to it.

“What are you doing?” Marc found himself utter.

Layla flinched; clearly, she wasn't aware of his presence before as she was too busy kicking the shit out of the punching bag.

“Umm... training?” She shrugged her shoulders, picking the water bottle up from the table to drink.

When Marc got a closer look at her, he wished he didn't. Under the lights of the room, her olive skin was glowing beneath a layer of fresh sweat, and her coiled hair was tied up in an elegant yet messy pony tail. She looked... beautiful, roughed up, but utterly and purely beautiful. Marc's breathing grew short. He gulped, but his usual furrow didn't leave.

“Do you call that training?” He crossed his arms as his voice came out curt, jeering.

Layla rolled her eyes, “Well, yeah, that's what they taught us at the gym.”

“Must be a really shitty gym then.” His tone remained cold.

Layla raised an eyebrow at him, “Yeah, right,” She nodded quizzically, “You're saying this just because I'm a woman?”

“No,” Marc answered firmly, “Because what you're doing is shit.”

The twitch of her perfect brow didn't go unnoticed by him. She turned her head away for a moment, muttering something in Arabic that he couldn't quite catch, before she darted upon him in a sudden onslaught. Fortunately enough, his normal reflexes didn't betray him this time, and with a swift twist of his arm, he rendered her motionless on the ground. He made sure the impact wasn't hard though as he crouch right above her head, both of her hands clasped in his large grip. Layla groaned and huffed in his face as it was just inches from hers.

Marc stilled for a moment. The sudden proximity to her made his knees buckle without solid reason. His eyes rammed her face quickly, to finally be ensnared by hers. Her usual sweet odour was mingled with the smell of training sweat.

A ghost of a smirk slipped into his lips as her attempt to wriggle out of his grasp failed, “Like I said: khara.”

She huffed a laugh, “Fi wishak,” [In your face]

Marc snored a bit and Layla laughed. The latter took advantage of this and swung her arms in order to push him down and lock him between her legs. But again, he was faster than her as he had her wrists behind her back after he flipped her over her stomach. Layla whined at her utter defeat.

“You let your movements control you more than you control them,” He commented, “You won't survive if you only rely on instincts.” He stoop up and extended his hand for the panting woman.

“But I saw your style, it's worse than mine.” She remarked, accepting his offered hand.

He let the fact that she'd been watching him training slide as he shook his head, “Yeah, but normally I have a suit that heals me and stitches my wounds close. You won't.”

“Kept me alive all this time tho,” She quirked her brows haughtily, and a sting flushed within the beatings of his heart.

“Yeah,” He said, “Last time didn't go quite well for ya, did it?”

Layla groaned, rolling her eyes, “Okay, fine! I get it! You're super cool and have super cool superpowers.”

He grimaced, “Hey, true that's the suit enhances my abilities and heals me up, but not everything comes from it.”

Layla huffed a sarcastic laugh, “Ya Allah, oh God! You're more arrogant than I originally thought.” She shook her head.

Marc's face dropped, a horrible feeling making the muscles of his shoulders ache. He watched Layla untie her ponytail and tie it again in a graceful manner. He pursed his lips thinly before stating.

“It's not so cool when it sucks the life out of you.”

Layla froze, and turned her body to fully face him now, “What do you mean?”

“Imagine with me, your fragile human body is possessed by godly powers. It takes every bit of your energy to cope with it well.” Marc answered, spite visible in his voice.

Layla blinked, whispering, “You didn't choose to be The Protector Soldier of The Moon?”

“The what?”

“You don't know what the hieroglyphics decorating your own suit mean, do you?” There was both shock and disappointment in her voice. Marc felt a bit uneasy. “Damn, you really don't.”

Marc looked at her in puzzlement, “When I took the cape of the moon... He called me his Moon Knight.”

Marc was taken by the way Layla's eyes sparkled and by the her lips stretched in a wide smile. “But of course!” She exclaimed, smashing a grip into her other palm, “The word Knight didn't exist in ancient Egyptian languages!” Her glimmering eyes snapped back to him, “God, this is brilliant, Marc!”

The latter found himself scratching the back of his neck, a very slight blush rising to his cheeks, “It is?”

“You don't see it, do you, Mr. Spector?” Layla smiled at him knowingly, “You're a soldier of a god, Marc, a guardian of people. You... you defend the weak and venge the wronged.” Layla let a laugh of excitement, “You give people hope...”

And hope he is indeed, at least for Layla El-Faouly he is. Her dad died at the moon's tomb, and the moon's knight saved her, and still keeping her safe, and helping her to find out the truth about her baba. If not that a sign, she doesn't know what that is then.

“Ya habibi... my love,” The singing voice exclaims, “Yallah ne'esh fi oyoun el-leil, wo no'ol le ashams ta'ali ba'ad sana, mush abl sana... Let's live together, in the eyes of the night, and tell the sun to come after a year, not before a year,”

Layla notices Marc staring at her, and the moment he's aware of that he tears his eyes off of her. He clears his throat, jutting his chin in Layla's phone's direction.

“Um Kulthum, right?” He questions.

Layla's eyes brighten, “Aywah, yeah. It's Alf Leila Wa Leila, one of my favourites.”

“Mine is Al-Atlal.” Marc smiles.

“Oh, so you listen to her?” She gives him a gentle smile of her own.

“Yeah, I mean who wouldn't listen to Kawkab El-Sharq, Star of the East?” He shrugs, but deep down, there's a hope huddling within his chest that he may impress her by that.

“Do you understand the full lyrics tho?” Marc picks up on the curious sparkle in her dark eyes. He's pleased.

“Yeah, kinda,” He drawls, scratching his chin mindlessly, “I speak Egyptian Arabic pretty well as far as you know.”

She nudges his arm playfully, “Show-off.”

He chuckles, “Your English is perfect by the way.”

Layla feels the heat raise to her face all of the sudden, this is the second compliment he says tonight, and it makes no better. She tugs a curl behind her ear nervously.

“Thanks,” Layla sips from her tea, “I speak French too,”

She face-palms herself internally. Why did I say that?! It's completely unnecessary!

Marc's forehead creases, his hand behind his head scratching his scalp, “I speak Hebrew and Yiddish,” He glances down at his Megan David. “Obviously,”

“Obviously.” She hums delightfully, and for a moment, Marc feels a pressing urge to kiss her lips; the way they pursed so delectably in a small smile, he craves to have a taste. Desperate for their touch on his. But his lips press against the rim of his tea cup, nevertheless.

Layla learnt about his Jewishness by accident, when they were having a training wrestle. His pendant hurled out when she managed to throw him onto the ground and straddling him. He was too astonished to notice his necklace was visible to her eyes.

“That's a win for me!” She cheered, a giddy smile adorning her perfect lips.

Marc grunted, “Yeah, there's a first for everything.” He rolls to his right thigh as Layla got off of him.

“You make it sound as if it's my first and last win against you.” She teased.

Marc's eyes widened when he realized his David Star is shimmering on his chest. “Yeah, we're done for today.” He said absentmindedly, and swept out of the room as she began to unfold the wrappings around her fists and wrists.

Late that night, when they sat at the table to have dinner, or late lunch, together. Mulukhya and rice, cooked by Layla herself. After years of running away from his home, depending on himself entirely, Marc of course had to feed himself; the crap he cooks and eats developed an astounding talent of detecting the good cooking and savouring it. It's one of the fewest things he let himself enjoy from time to time. Meat is something Marc appreciates the most in food. He doesn't know how Layla could perfect such skill, but he had to admit, she does it well, and maybe too well that he was so immersed in his dish when she asked him.

“So, you're a Jew.” He stilled; he knew how most Arabs reacted to Jews.

He gulped down the food in his mouth before answering, “Kinda.”

Layla chuckled a bit, and he felt a coil at the tip of his stomach, “You have a problem with that?”

Layla shook her head, “No, not at all. But I find it a bit ironic.”

Marc raised an eyebrow, “How so?”

“You're Jewish, and an avatar of an Egyptian deity.”

Marc caught her drift and nodded, “My God abandoned me a long time ago, so I didn't see any reason why not to abandon him as well and adhere to another.”

Marc's voice came out cold and solemn, a mask he learnt to wear when a train of awful memories of his past life would come gushing into his mind.

Where was his God when Randall, a child, had to drown and die. Where was He when his mother showed him hell throughout the years. And where are his proclaimed soldiers? His father was one of them, but he was too weak to snatch him out of his misery. Where was this God when Marc tried to save Abdullah El-Faouly's life against the greed of his partner. But Khonshu was there, and he gave him his life back. He rather serves a cruel god than an indifferent one.

“I have issues with him too, y'know.” Layla commented, bringing him back to their lunch. “Allah...”

“Oh, you do?”

“I've been raised by a Muslim father.” She replied, “Even though baba did believe in the existence of other deities, but his faith in Allah didn't waver.”

“But... shouldn't a Muslim deny other gods?”

“Pretty much so,” Layla confirmed, “But baba believed that denying other gods do not necessarily erase their presence.”

“Oh,” Marc raised an amused eyebrow, “Wish mine had been that open-minded about the matter.”

“Why?” Layla shook her head a bit.

“My father is a rabbi.” Marc said blankly, “He's the sweetest and gentlest man I've ever known. But when it comes to faith, he's the strongest of all.”

“Well, if you put it that way... the two are pretty similar in that regard.” Layla chuckled.

“Can't disagree.” Marc let a chuckle of his own.

“Marc...”

“Yes, Layla?”

“We are gonna catch them, right?”

A small smile crept into Marc's lips. “Yes, we are.”

“Di laylat hob helwa be alf leila wo leila... This is a beautiful love night, worth of one thousand and one night.” Um Kulthum's sonorous voice continues, “Bkul el-omr, howa el-omr eh gher leila zay el-leila... In one's lifetime, what is a lifetime if not this night...”

“You know, I don't think you work alone, Marc.” Layla says, after swallowing another piece of marshmallow.

“What gives you such idea? I have a god by my side.” Marc raises an eyebrow, pouring tea for the both of them.

“You're more of a field kind of individual.” She thanks him for the cup and continues, “You must have a man behind the screen, do the gods of Egypt know how to hack security systems and stuff of the sort?”

“Oh,” Marc grins playfully, “Yes, I do, have that one.”

“Mind I meet them?” Layla sips from her tea.

Marc chuckles, imaging how Frenchie would react if he were to meet Layla. He'd absolutely freak out, and scold him for being such a reckless idiot, and he is an idiot. But Marc thinks he'd hit it off with Layla immediately.

“I think you're gonna meet him at some point, yes.”

Layla smiles before gazing up at the moon again. Marc follows and he plunges into the sky with her. For once, he feels like one of travellers of the night he's complied to protect. And he finds the night sky unexpectedly alluring.

Marc feels Layla's hand touching his, and he doesn't flinch away. But in contrary, he welcomes her warmth, her scent, her presence next to him.

“Ezzay awseflak ya habibi ezzay, able ma hebbak kunt ezzay kunt wlla imbareh fakrah... How should I describe to you how, my life before I loved you, how was I, how I don't remember yesterday... Wlla andi bukra astnnah, wlla hatta yomi ayshah, khadtini behobbak fi ghamdet ein, warrtni halawet el-ayyam fin, wel-leil ba'ad ma kan ghurba malletu aman... I didn't have a tomorrow to wait, I can't even live within my current day, you took me in your love in a blink of an eye, you showed me the beauty of the days, and the night is no longer a stranger under your protection...”

The moment she squeezes his hand, the singing of Um Kulthum gets interrupted and replaced by the ringtone of her phone. Layla draws her hand away and picks her phone up. “Sorry.”

He shrugs and waves his hand as she picks the call.

“Aywah ya Usama?” [Yes, Usama?]

Marc keeps looking at her. The smile adorning her face vanishes, her eyes go wide. “What?!” She stands up from her place on the floor, and Marc follows her.

“I'm on my way.” Layla says before hanging up.

“What happened?”

Layla gulps, shock still from whatever she just received. “Our leader, Khaled Mahmoud.” Tears gather in her big eyes, “They killed him.”

“Fuck.” Marc hisses.

“Marc...” She inhales, “They've taken his daughter as a hostage as well.”

[toracainz]

Anyone know of a good fluff/angst fic where after the events of the show Marc and Layla are still together but Steven has his own partner/significant other (possibly got together prior to the events of the show)

When Steven gets back to London obviously his SO is happy to know he’s alive but now they have to work through how their relationship can work while Marc and Layla still have their relationship

Basically looking for Steven to be bold and protective and not backing down when Marc and Layla are unsure how that can work

I can see Steven being like “oh so the two of you can be together, all happy and in love and that’s all well and good. But I want to have someone of my own, cause heaven knows I can’t have Layla or so much as look at her…Marc.”

Just Steven being confident and fighting for what he wants and maybe a smidge of drama cause he did kiss Layla and not sure how SO feels about that

SO doesn’t want to be a home wrecker and come between Marc and Layla but also just can’t give up Steven

I’m not much of a writer but if this doesn’t exist then….*thanos voice* I’ll do it myself (with some help from more experienced writers that want to assist lol dm me lol)

[juneknight]

One and One and One

Kink: cuckolding

Layla/f!reader/Marc

Features: cuckolding, cumming untouched, strap-ons, oral sex, mentions of safewords.

*

“Can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Marc murmurs beneath his breath as you cuff his hands behind his back to the slats of the chair. One of his ankles are cuffed to the chair legs—though why he and Layla only have one cuff, you have no idea. This is the closest you’ve ever been to Marc. Close enough that you can see his every eyelash, the different dark hues in his irises, the little indentation in the tip of his nose. As close as you are, you know that he is scrutinizing you as well, dark eyes sweeping over the plains of your face. You wonder if he can feel the heat being thrown off by your cheeks. 

“I didn’t talk you into this,” you remind him shyly. “Layla did.” 

Marc’s mouth—full and pink and so fucking soft looking—quirks upward at the edges. “I can’t believe you let her talk you into this.” 

“Me either,” you admit dryly.

You can’t, really. You and Layla had been friends for so many years—and yes there had been a few nights when you were younger that you had explored each other physically and romantically, but it had been so long. When she came to you and admitted Marc had this fantasy, and that her only caveat was that you be their partner. Did she know about your (harmless!) little crush on Marc? Surely she knew about your (even more harmless!) crush on her.

Regardless, if Layla’s stories were anything to go by, she and Marc got up to some very kinky stuff. 

Have you ride Layla while Marc watched might take the cake, though. 

“Getting friendly?” Layla asks when she comes in, wearing only one of her satin-silky robes, the hem of which brushes just above her knees. You can see her hard nipples through the fabric. Layla loves having her breasts stimulated—suckled, nibbled, fondled. Maybe she’ll let you do more than just ride her strap-on before the night is over. 

“I’m having second thoughts,” Marc says lowly, eyes flickering back and forth between the two of you. “Mostly thinking that I’m an idiot for agreeing to let myself be tied up when you’re both in the room having sex.” 

“You know your safeword,” Layla says with a grin. She looks to you and mouths ‘Moon’. You nod to let her know you understand. Her smile only grows at your obedience. Turning to face you head-on, she lets her hands fall to your hips. She ducks her head and kisses you, and you are already moaning into her mouth. Layla kisses like she does everything in life: with honed practice, with passion. You hear the cuffs rattle as Marc fights against his bonds, and it only makes you realize how wet you are, how wet you have been all night, so eager for dinner to be over so that the three of you could begin this. 

“Fuck,” Marc groans. “Untie me. Let me out.” 

“No,” Layla says after parting from you reluctantly. You chase her mouth a little and she laughs at how desperate you are. 

“Fucking—I mean it Layla!” 

“He likes to be a little brat,” Layla whispers to you conspiratorially. Her hand comes up to cup your cheek. “But you—you’re my good girl, aren’t you?” 

You nod, feeling struck dumb by her. 

“Let’s find you a nice big cock get fucked by, huh?” she says with a grin, her cheeks flushed warm and eyes glittering with mirth and mischief. She goes to the bed where the different dildos lay out like hor’dourves to be sampled. They are all of different length or girth or color, some textured, others smooth. Whispering just loud enough for Marc to hear, she asks: “Shall we choose one that’s bigger than his? So that we can feel what it’s like to really get fucked?” 

“I’ll show you what it’s like,” Marc vows darkly. 

“I wouldn’t know which to pick,” you admit. It’s not as if you’ve ever seen Marc’s cock. 

“Hmm, my choice, then,” she says, tapping her chin. At last she settles on a monster—if she truly was trying to find one that was bigger than Marc’s and this was her last resort, then Marc must be pretty well hung. You can’t help but glance toward him, taking in the picture he makes. Dressed in only his jeans and the white t-shirt he had changed into after spilling soy sauce on his dress-shirt at dinner, his muscles bulge against his bonds as he tests them again and again. His eyes are unfathomably dark, his breaths fast and shallow. 

His cock, hard and pressing at the denim confines. When his eyes meet yours, you feel liable to explode. You turn away quickly, just as Layle focuses on you. She undresses you with gentle, tender touches, pausing every now and then to stroke a new expanse of skin until you sigh with pleasure. 

When she works the lacy little set of panties down your hips, she holds them up to Marc like a spoil of war, her expression smug. 

“Be a good boy, or I’ll gag you with these,” she warns him. Marc opens his fucking mouth. Layla breathes an incredulous little laugh. “Oh, you want them anyway? Proactive. What a good little slut you make, baby.” 

She goes to him and feeds the scrappy piece of lace into his mouth. Stepping aside, she rifles through the bedside drawer for a moment to find a ball with a bell inside. She presses it into his hand: a non-verbal safe word. His knuckles stand out as he grips the ball tightly, perhaps silently trying to show that he wouldn’t be dropping it—not for anything. 

Layla comes back to you and kisses you until you’re dizzy. Her hands trace along you, relearning the plains of your body the way they did all those years ago when the two of you first explored each other and your sexualities. Her fingers are nimble when they find your nipples, plucking at them softly in a way that has you breaking from her mouth to gasp. Your head turns and you take in the sight of Marc: his hard cock an impressive bulge in his pants, your panties in his mouth, his eyes heavy-lidded and burning hot. 

Then Layla’s hand slips down between your thighs and you nearly shout as two of her fingers swipe through your folds, finding your aching clit and smearing your own arousal against it. “Oh Marc,” says Layla, looking to him with a wide grin. “She is so, so wet.” 

Marc makes a pathetic little sound. This bit of weakness is like blood in the water to the shark inside Layla. She slips away from you again, holding up her soaked fingers for him to inspect in the dim lighting. Then she smears them across his parted lips, knowing that he will be unable to taste you with your panties in his mouth. Marc’s eyes roll back; he is the picture of tortured ecstasy. 

“Fuck, Layla,” you whine, rubbing your thighs together. “Come on, please…” 

She slaps Marc’s chest softly. “See what you made me do? I’m neglecting our girl.” 

You shiver at those words, at being called their girl. God, this is only meant to be a one-time thing, but you have known for so long that no time with Layla would ever be the last time. Flushed warm with her ownership, you drop down onto your knees and crawl to her, heart pounding at the way Marc groans at the sight. You sit on your heels and open your mouth, a silent invitation. 

Layla’s fingers stroke your face softly. “I have two little sluts…you want to suck my cock, baby?” 

“Uh-huh,” you breathe, mouth open. She rests two fingers on your tongue and you suck softly. 

“I’ll let you suck my dick—on one condition.” 

“Anything,” you mumble around her fingers. She removes them and takes your chin in her hand, your own saliva smearing across your cheek as she tilts your eyes up to her. 

“When you suck my cock, I want you to pretend it’s Marc’s.” 

Marc’s groan is mirrored by your own. Your eyes flicker to him, your face burning hot. His eyes are wide and dark, tracing over the plains of your face. Beneath the lust, you can almost see the question: would you do this? If you did agree to do this—why? Marc has no idea that feelings that have started to grow inside you the day that Layla introduced you both. 

You didn’t know that Layla had any idea either. But when your eyes flicker back up to her, you see the warmth in them, the silent assurance. She wants you to do this. Almost as badly as you do. 

Instead of turning away, you press out your tongue. The perfect place for her to rest the head of her fake cock. Your eyes flutter shut as you try to imagine it the way she says, to imagine that this is Marc’s cock you’re sucking. Instead of plastic, there would be warm, soft skin. Velvet overlaying steel. His smell would be all around you, that earthy shower gel he uses (and you use, sometimes, when you stay the night. Just to smell like him). 

Marc would feed his cock past your lips til the fat head nudges against the back of your mouth at the entrance of your throat, and still you would want more, swallowing your drool tilting your head to hopefully be able to take more of him into your mouth. Fingers twine into your hair, and it only enhances your fantasy when they guide you up and down their cock, using your mouth for their own pleasure. That is how Marc would be; you’re sure of it: confident, entitled, even as he is gentle. 

A choked sound catches your attention, jolting you from this little fantasy. Layla pulls your head back by your hair, and both of you turn to look at Marc whose head is thrown back, arms straining at his bonds. A growing stain at the tented crotch of his jeans…

“Oh my god, baby, did you just cum? Did you just fucking cum?” Layla asks, voice growing higher with barely restrained glee. Her thumb swipes over your swollen lips, but you can’t even turn to look at her, not when Marc’s face is red, his chest heaving, his cock still twitching in his pants as he just watched Layla fuck your mouth. 

Marc groans, writhing more. His demand is clear. He wants out.

Layla turns your head up so that you meet her eyes again. They are warm, pupils huge with arousal and the dim lighting. She grins, pretty mouth stretching wide with joy. 

“He wants me to set him free—but we’re not finished yet, are we love?” 

You shake your head. No, the night is just beginning—even for Marc. 

[blade-liger-4ever]

Comic Analysis: Toxic and Healthy Relationships, Part 1 - Moon Knight

Now, before I begin, there are a few things I need to clarify. Firstly, I have only seen/read a few scenes and comics featuring Moon Knight; that said, what I have gathered from both (as well as other sources) is enough, I believe, to make a decent review of Marc Spector’s relationship with his two most prominent love interests. And second, this is all my opinion. If you disagree with my points, that’s fine; you are not obliged to adopt my viewpoint. I’ve just had plenty of thoughts about the relationships between Marc and his girlfriends, and I have a need to get said thoughts off my chest.

With that said, let’s delve into the first part.

The Toxic Relationship with Marlene Alraune

To give a brief summary for those out of the loop, Marlene Alraune was the daughter of Prof. Peter Alraune, and accompanied him on his expedition in Egypt when Bushman attacked them, and who was killed when Marc instinctively warned Bushman of an attacker behind him (sound familiar?). Shortly afterwards, Marc scared off the furious Marlene before attempting and failing to kill his boss. Once he became Moon Knight, Marc returned to the States with Frenchie and Marlene to fight crime and make up for his past. Marc also subsequently created the false identities of millionaire Steven Grant and cabby driver Jake Lockley to aid in his ventures, normally having to switch between the two phony IDs and Moon Knight.

You may notice I didn’t add his life as Marc Spector to the list above, and that’s because Marc, quite possibly out of shame/necessity, gave up his life as Marc Spector. That’s not to say he was dead inside (at least, I hope not); in fact, he was quite the wise-butt in the early days of his run. But Marc didn’t leave any time for himself outside of those three lives, instead focusing on making up for lost time. Anyone with a brain would be driven crazy by this daily juggling show that Marc performed, and it’s a testament to his mental strength that he was still able to know right from wrong.

Now some of you might be wondering: how does Marlene fit into this? The answer is, she was his girlfriend - who did her darnedest to mold Marc into the millionaire playboy she desired.

Allow me to show you some panels with the two from their debut. Frenchie’s here, too, and trust me when I say his minor role in the panels are important for the points I’m making.

The giveaway to Marlene’s true intentions are in how she interacts with him. As you can see, she consistently refers to him as Steven Grant - the millionaire - despite the fact that they’re generally alone when they talk to each other. By contrast, Marc’s best friend calls him by his birthname. Over comms. When leaving the scene. And even when he’s taking on a different identity. Calling him Marc would naturally keep our beloved Silver Crusader (did I seriously just coin that??) from losing his sanity and remind him that he shouldn’t cut himself off from his past, no matter how painful it is.

Marlene, on the other hand, is always, always trying to keep him from accepting his past, and embrace an identity he clearly has disdain for. She repeatedly hounds him to be Steven Grant, and only barely tolerates cabby Jake Lockley by the end of the second issue. That’s right, that final shot is from the second comic with Moon Knight, and not once does she refer to him as Marc Spector in either comic.

Another key detail is how self-absorbed she is. Marlene has an absolute fit when he has to continue his vigilante work, saying he has stood her up for the sixth time in a week. While it’s understandable that one would grow frustrated with not being able to spend time with their lover, it is not excusable to use that as a means of guilting/making an ultimatum with the person in question in order to get them to pay attention to you. By throwing this in Marc’s face, Marlene is essentially telling him to forget the killers and robbers in the world so Marc can be with her all the time.

The immediate flaw with her logic lies in the fact that Marc is a superhero. Not being present every second of every day is literally a part of the job, and the fact that they’ve been together for some years, and she still throws a temper tantrum over this shows just how vain and superficial she is. Marlene Alraune only ever saw Marc Spector as a handsome man who seemed to have a change of heart, but as soon as he came back to the States and created a millionaire persona, she dropped all interest and pursued the money, the prestige, and the high life that identity offered. And if that meant Marc had to lose his sanity and the bridge to his past, then so be it.

The Healthy Relationship with Layla El-Faouly

Forgetting for a moment that Layla is a composite character, when we’re introduced to her, Layla is married to Marc Spector. That immediately puts her light years ahead of Marlene, because it shows that she’s honest in her relationship with Marc. Is she petty when she meets with Marc again in Cairo? Yes. Is she still frustrated with him until the finale? Yes. However, every couple on Earth has moments like that in their marriage, especially when you throw in a divorce (which was solely done to protect Layla).

And in spite of those shortcomings - as well as the unnecessary drama and similarities to Marlene - Layla continues to reach out to Marc. She knows his struggles with communication and vulnerability, but despite that, not only does she continue to choose Marc, but she continues to be patient and receptive with him. Layla doesn’t care for his money, his looks, or his abilities - she cares for Marc as a human being, even above her own safety.

Don’t believe me? Just look at the fight scene at Mogart’s. Marc has the power to literally become a living pincushion without suffering permanent damage, and the woman still rushes over to shoot at his attackers. And again, when Marc has “died”, she grieves him and hunts down Harrow to get revenge, repeatedly referring to Moon Knight as Marc.

Not the agreeable, well-meaning Steven, but the noble-unto-death Marc, who is the man she loves. The man who gives her strength, respect, safety, and a love no one else could possibly offer. Their entire relationship is healthy, with the only trouble in it coming from Marc’s inability to communicate. glares viciously at Wendy Spector

Layla never tells Marc to stop being a hero, to leave the unfortunate Travelers of the Night to whatever grim fate awaits them. She accepts his duties, accepts his flaws, accepts him for who he is, not what she can make/gain from him.

Where Marlene is a bratty socialite who abandons Marc at the slightest hint of emotional instability, Layla is a loyal wife who stays by her man through the hardest moments of his career. Marlene seeks riches and connections from Marc, while Layla only asks to share her life with him. That is the key difference between these two women and their relationship with Marc, and why Layla El-Faouly is arguably the greatest thing to come out of the Moon Knight series.

Before I sign off, you may recall that this is my first relationship analysis post. I have another in mind, although I don’t know when I’ll be able to get to it. If you wish to know what comes next, I will only say that the couples are from DC Comics. Until then, I wish you all safe journeys.

[writefightandflightclub]

As awkward as steven is, he asks when he dosnt understand something. If he is issuing an information "are u asking me out?" HOE THE FUCK did Mark tied the knot with Layla? She must have asked HIM out. There is no other explanation. Mark could never

Oh, I love how Steven communicates. He’s forthright and funny and inquisitive and sharp and kind and unfiltered and so many great things!

I think Marc could have asked Layla out under different circumstances, even though he’s typically less communicative, but that given Marc was there for the reasons he was, it would totally make sense if Layla was the driver.

Marc’s heart is so open and I can imagine, if Layla was the first one to show him a love that is gentle and giving and buoyant (when he hasn’t had a whole lot of that) that Marc would fall so quickly. That he’d want to cling to her like a life raft even as he felt like he was the one sinking her.

I can imagine Layla asking all of the questions. Asking him on a date, asking him to move in, to get married. Because Marc -this whole while - keeps thinking “I’m not even supposed to be here.” He came here to confess. How did he end up cooking together and sleeping in her arms and going shopping at the market and playing on arcade machines and kissing that freckle on her shoulder and laughing. How did he end up feeling happy? And his guilt is so powerful, and all he keeps thinking is about how he could have let this go so far? But every time Layla asks him a question - every time she offers more even though he doesn’t think he deserves it, he can’t bring himself to say no. He’d take everything and anything she has to offer, even if he feels like he can’t give anything back.

“How about we get married, you and me?” Layla asks one night when the moon is big and round in the sky.

He knows he should say no, but he can’t bear to let go. Thanks to Layla he’s been floating, and he doesn’t know if he can bear to go back to how it was before.

“Yes,” Marc says. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

She smiles and it is like the sun.

He shouldn’t be here.

He belongs to the night.

[marcspectrr]

When I say I've been thinking about this every day since I first saw it a few months ago, I wish I was joking.

First of all, the sheer depth of the implications behind 'and she met his mother and father' ... that's Layla meeting Elias and getting a look into something Marc has turned away from, something he's lost touch with, this person holding faith that Marc instead buries deep, deep down. That's Layla meeting Wendy and instantly knowing there's something wrong, unable to place it exactly but noticing the way Marc just...locks up. That's Marc having seen his father years earlier than it was made out to be, it's him having seen his father after he left home and not just because of the Shiva. That's Marc having seen his mother after he left home, actually being in the same room as her after he literally ran away from her. That's...it changes so much in my head you guys ahdkfkfl

[stormkobra-5]

Hello my fellow “the moon boys need to get pegged” truther. I’m gonna say something controversial and admit my headcanon that Layla got Marc to propose by her strap game

Hello there.

The Moon Boys do indeed need to get pegged by me

Ok but. Wow. Oh my god. Marc and Layla are a bi’s dream.

Just picturing Marc fisting at the pillows and begging and whining and easing himself backward to get her to go deeper, while she’s slowly grinding into him and teasing him and then the next day Marc is literally like “fuck it all nothing’s ever gonna be good again if I don’t seal the deal on this goddess” and going straight to the jeweler.

Just so you know, this has the official Slut Seal of Approval because hot damn.

[romanarose]

And So It Goes

Marc Spector X Layla El-Faouly

All fanfic masterlist.

Summary: A song fic to Billy Joel's and so it goes. Marc reflects on with childhood, Steven, and Layla. Takes place not long after Moon Knight season 1 ends.

A/N: I'm reposting this because I didn't like how it was formatted before, and I wanted some edits so I just redid it.

*********

In every heart there is a room

A sanctuary safe and strong

To heal the wounds from lover's past

Until a new one comes along

Marc Spector drew a long drag of his cigarette. He wasn’t one to smoke, but today was a special occasion. A terrifying occasion. It was the first time he was meeting Layla since their battle with Harrow 2 weeks ago, despite Steven’s goding to call her. He couldn’t do it. Now that Marc was free of Khonshu, he knew technically Layla was safe, but he had also massively fucked up with her. They never really talked about what happened, not yet. That’s what today was about. Marc was waiting outside the park for her to arrive. He was painfully early. An hour early, to be exact. He couldn’t sleep, so he went for coffee which only gave him anxiety. He tried to walk around, but found he just wanted to get to the park and wait. So he did. He was waiting. Marc had no idea what he was going to say.

I spoke to you in cautious tones

You answered me with no pretense

And still I feel I said too much

My silence is my self defense

He knew what he wanted. He wanted her. He didn’t know if she wanted him, and that terrified him. Marc wasn’t sure if he could take the rejection. Steven had assured him that no matter what happened with Layla, Steven would still be there as always. Steven really was a saving grace. Steven had promised that he would leave the consciousness to give them privacy, but Marc was now wishing that Steven had stayed, maybe Steven could take over, he was better with his words. More patient, more thoughtful, more observant. Steven was everything Marc wasn’t. That was part of the problem, wasn’t it? Layla had kissed Steven. Did Layla want Steven, but not him? Marc had promised that he would stay away from Steven forever if he wanted… Steven had insisted that he didn’t want that, but Marc wasn’t so sure. Why would Steven want him around? What did Marc offer Steven? ‘ Everything you touch you ruin. You hurt people’ Steven also had insisted that nothing would happen with him and Layla that Marc wasn’t comfortable with, but Marc had never put his comfort into consideration for most of his choices.

And every time I've held a rose

It seems I only felt the thorns

And so it goes and so it goes

And so will you soon, I suppose

Marc, for the last few decades, had tried his best to ignore every need he had. He wouldn’t eat for days, he would live off of alcohol, and purposefully make choices that would fuck up his life just to punish himself. That is, until Steven happened. He had been there for a long time, of course, but when Steven began having a life of his own, Marc felt this urge to protect him. Marc wasn’t stupid. He realized that this was a projection of his feelings over his brother's death. That was obvious. But as much as he hated the heavy handed metaphor he was given, he needed to take care of Steven. Marc thought Steven should hate him. Everyone hated him. He was an asshole. Steven didn’t know what was best for him, that’s for sure. Marc was used to everything he had being ripped from him. There was Randall, of course. The event that was the catalyst of it all. Randall was his best friend, and he died, thanks for Marc being reckless. Then his mom. Marc ruined that too. In his actions with his brother, he lost his mom forever. The mom he knew anyway. Even his dad was lost, what kind of father doesn’t protect his son? Once Marc lost respect for his dad, his dad was largely gone for him. Layla had stuck around longer than most, and Marc had managed to push her away as well. How could he explain to her how badly he wanted her in his life? The general concept of what he wanted to say was in his head, but the words wouldn’t come.

But if my silence made you leave

Then that would be my worst mistake

So I will share this room with you

And you can have this heart to break

Logically, he knew that Randall’s death wasn’t his fault. Logically, he knew he didn’t deserve his mothers abuse and he knew that he should’ve been worth his fathers protection. At least as a child, anyway. Less so now, but as a child he was. He knew it logically. But there was a gut feeling, deep down that he deserved it all. And that gut feeling told him that he didn’t deserve Layla. She deserved to be happy, with a man who could pay attention to her, a man that knew her needs and fulfilled them, a man that wasn’t broken. She deserved to have loving in-laws and have children with dotting grandparents. This was not a life he could give her. Even now, however, there was a voice in his head. Not Steven, not Khonshu, and whoever the fuck else was in his fucked up brain. It was Layla’s voice. The voice of reason. The voice telling him oh fuck off, Marc. Stop the self pity, just for once. You can make your own choices. Own up to your actions and only your actions. No one else’s. She was always there, in the back of his head, telling him that he was wrong when he felt guilt and telling him he was correct when he felt anger. Layla, with her softness on the rare occasion Marc left himself feel sadness. Layla, telling him to cut his bullshit out when he was acting up. So that’s what he was doing. He was going to at least try to get her back. Say his piece, at the very minimum.

And this is why my eyes are closed

It's just as well for all I've seen

And so it goes and so it goes

And you're the only one who knows

Layla, with her softness. Her soft, soft skin… He missed feeling that skin. Her arms, her stomach, her breasts, lower, lower… He missed the feeling of taking her everywhere possible: On their bed, in the shower, the kitchen counter, backseat of the car, front seat of the car, hood of the car . That car saw a lot of damage. Fuck, she was perfect. Her big, beautiful hair, her eyes that seem to look past every single barrier, her ass, her tight- concentrate Marc, you gotta think about what to say. Think about how to get her to stay. Definitely don’t think about the night she gave you a striptease for your birthday, the way she looked in that red lingerie, they way she slide up and down your- fuck. It wasn’t just about the sex, but god was the sex great. It was a cliche, but if sex could be earth shattering, thats what sex with Layla was. But it wasn’t just about the things she could do, it was how she made him feel. The sex wasn’t just amazing because of way she would arch her body to meet him, or the sounds she would make, it was amazing because Marc was able to fully let go. He could trust her. With Layla, Marc could be his most vulnerable. It wasn’t like Marc didn’t have sex with anyone before Layla. Oooooh no. He had that department covered. But it was never like it was with her. For years, Marc couldn’t put his finger on why the sex was so different. It wasn’t like anything was wrong with the other girls. The sex was good, they were pretty, they were nice. He might have had feelings here and there. But Layla saw him for everything he was. Broken, angry, harsh. But she also saw and brought out sides of him he didn’t think even existed. Protective, loving, determined. What could he say to make her think of him that way again?

So I would chose to be with you

That's if the choice were mine to make

But you can make decisions too

And you can have this heart to break

He hoped that she still saw those traits in him. He hoped to god she still saw things in himself that he couldn’t believe were there. Things that he wanted so, so bad to be. For her. For Steven. Ah, Steven. What if she saw those things in him? Steven was warm, kind, smart, and thoughtful. And looked just like Marc. Marc was not a confident man in most things, but he knew he was good looking. And jacked. Now there were positive traits he could list about himself. Fuck, better add vain to the list of negetive traits. What if Layla wanted Steven not him? He would leave them be, he would have to. Marc finds it very difficult to say his feelings, that much was obvious. But Steven was the best part of him ‘ you were the only real super power I ever had’ . That stood true. But Layla? She wasn’t his super power, no, she didn’t exist for him. That was the thing. She was a solely autonomous person. Marc knew what he had to say. He didn’t need to convince her to come back, he didn’t need to talk his way in or out of anything. He needed to be honest. He would lay it all out on the table and let her make her choice. It was completely her choice, not his. He needed to give up control. God, just for once. Give up control. He saw her approach. Half an hour early, just like him. He knew she’d be here early, because he knew she’d known he’d be there early, like he was for everything. She smiled at him. He wanted to run. He wanted to persuade her. But no, this was about her… this was her choice. And god, he hoped she chose him

And so it goes, and so it goes

And you're the only one who knows

*************

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