Chapter Text
Usually, the inside of Marc Spector's mind is a picturesque, violent landscape, touched by Egyptian mythology, Judaic folklore and fragments of his past. But now, Spector envisions an uneasy dream, submersed in deep sleep, with his soul soaring in the calm darkness.
Suddenly, he opens his eyes and his instinct makes him look above, looking for answers.
Countless, bright stars decorate the nightly sky alongside a barely visible moon. Marc marvels at the unusual sight of blue and pink, blurred into distant nebulae, full with even more stars, but not even that can appease the growing feeling of discomfort. As soon as his eyes are set in his surroundings, Spector beholds a dark, devastated street, inhabited by enormous, numberless dunes of sand that covered more than half of the buildings. It marked a sharp contrast with the darkness taking all over the city. It was as if New York had fallen under the siege of an extra dimensional threat.
Marc continues to walk over the block, going up a dune to see the unthinkable: Khonshu's temple. The anteroom of redemption through blood.
"Marc, can you hear me?"
Spector steps back. His lungs stop breathing, repeating to himself over and over again in a maddening, maniac echo that this well-known voice was just a product of his imagination. When Marc lowers his head, he realizes that he is barefoot, wearing a sweater and white pants, which he soon recognized as the outfit he wore in the--
"Marc, is that you?" Khonshu speaks again.
Silence. Petrified, Marc limits himself to eye his surroundings, looking for his former master to appear. He gulps nervously. The fear makes him feel like a child, and he hates it. He hates how that fucking vulture uses it against him.
"I'm not sure," Marc answers with a broken voice.
Another prolonged lapse of sepulcral muteness reigns between them, before Spector takes a step forward. He feels so defenseless once he stands in front of the colossal statue, holding that solemn, petrous expression he knew so well.
"Come then, my son. Come see your true face."
The buzz reverberating through his brain obliges him to stop. The exhaustion coming from Khonshu speaking was worse than letting him use him as his voice. The uncertainty of not understanding why just increases his physical discomfort.
Once he passes through the door, any thought of confusion disperses as the uneasiness leads to terror: Marc sees an asylum hall, full of dead bodies. The same one he had explored with Steven in the afterlife.
He turns around, calling his alter's name while looking for a reflection to contact.
"Khonshu?" he asks fearfully.
"You won't find me if you keep still, Marc."
He gathers enough strength to pass over the corpses. A sharp pain nests in his chest the farther he stays from the hall. He managed to lock the door with great effort, now that the pain had spread to his insides. With a weak groan, Marc leans over the small, metallic table for support.
"This isn't right. I thought I was in…" he gasped. He found himself now in a dark hallway, full of closed rooms. He now leaned over the wall, resuming his journey.
"Come just a little farther, my son."
Marc trips over another metal table, full of syringes, drugs and bandages, harming himself with the needles, angrily tossing them aside. He can't understand why his strengths are abandoning him the closer he gets to the back door. A disabling, painful numbness spreads all over his legs, making it impossible to stand on his feet for too long.
"I'm scared, Khonshu. Something– something isn't right…" he gasped, bewildered as now his very breathing started to fail. It was as if his lungs had turned into stone, for greater torture, "I don't feel well… feels like my guts are slipping out of me."
"You're dying, Marc" Khonshu replies with his typical yet ominous calmness.
"But I don't want to die. Hurts" Marc barely breathes, appalled by how the mere presence of his former master caused so much damage on him. How was it that a deity associated with protection, whose light in the dark was supposed to shelter the travelers of the night, would also be capable of such cruelty?
"If you are to be reborn, you must suffer through pain. It is the way of things, my son."
Marc eyed the roof of the hallway, as if trying to find something to distract his mind with, just to make his imminent demise more calm. But his instinct to survive is stronger, crawling to the door and pulling the handle to open it.
The rough feeling of sand on his face made him lie on his back. Soon, Marc sees the place he's in now: a cold, desolated railway station with pitch dark tunnels, long motionless lines of empty trains. The curiosity reverts the physical pain, and Marc Spector can stand again. Though still convinced his guts are falling, the knight continues his way to uncover what is going on.
"You are nothing. Not anymore. But before you can become something new, you must remember who you have already been…"
To be 'reborn through pain'? 'To become something else? What did Khonshu mean by that? But any further wondering stops when a loud thudding ends the silence. Marc turned around, looking for the origin of the noise, softly mumbling his alter's name. The thudding becomes quieter, weaker but Spector suddenly sees a form in the distance. Its light color makes it easier to distinguish it from the dark reigning over the station but as he gets closer, Marc realizes what it is: An ivory sarcophagus, with a winged goddess in the center, beautifully adorned with hieroglyphics, identical to the one that held–
"STEVEN!" Marc howls, falling over the cover, removing it with burning desperation just to find him bruised, scarred and barely breathing. Spector throws his hands at Steven to snatch him out of the sarcophagus. He doesn't understand anything that's happening and that is the worst part of all.
Steven coughs blood while shaking uncontrollably. Marc tries to keep the composure, gently pulling the British to cradle him and embrace him. This was worse than witnessing the cold, hellish sands of the Duat claiming him, paralyzing his body to dwell with other unfortunate souls in depressing, silent stillness for all eternity.
"Please, no! Steven!" Marc rocked the trembling body, screaming his alter's name in such a way that he felt his vocal cords bleeding. The nerd attempts to speak, reaching out to Marc's face with his hand. Spector beholds his mouth, trying to understand the syllables Steven struggles so much to articulate.
But then, another loud thudding overlaps with his desperate sounds. Marc silences himself immediately, turning around while clutching to Steven.
"Help me…" he whispered.
His prayers are not heard and a nightmarish apparition reveals before his eyes. It is powerful enough to petrify Marc, whose eyes behold a gigantic, mummified skeleton of Khonshu. Those black, lifeless eye sockets pierce through his soul and all Marc sees is hate. Hate, contempt, derision. However, the horror of not finding any redeeming epithets becomes nothing when Khonshu steps menacingly towards him. Marc crawls back with Steven in one arm and leaning with the other in order to reach the darkened corridor.
"Help you?! All I have ever done is help you! What about when I saved you from death in the desert all those years ago?!" Khonshu screamed, accusing his ungratefulness with his sharp phalanx pointing at Spector, while realizing the other one clutches with iron grip a dark red sarcophagus that looks eerily familiar.
"I have paid my debt, you gave your word you'd release us both!" Marc screamed despite the profound, distressing fear caused by the obscure, crimson coffin, which was now shaking with unbridled, desperate violence.
"I gave you life and I have warned you, Moon Knight… My patience is not endless!" Khonshu roars angrily, stepping closer to his avatar, "You forget who you always were! An amoral, cold-blooded murderer!"
"No! No, I'm not!" Marc snarled, struggling to stand up against the vulture, "You wanted me to finish off Harrow and I didn't! Because I have a choice! I'm not your slave anymore, Khonshu–" but all the deity does is cackle at his feeble defense.
"You cannot change your past nor who you are inside!" Khonshu yells at his unfaithful servant. The ear-splitting rumble forces Marc to look for a way to shield his ears, but his hands holding Steven made it impossible.
Disoriented, Marc looks up at Khonshu again. The vulture sees a single tear tracing a thin line on his cheek. The deity doesn't hesitate to keep spitting hurtful memories on his avatar, regarding his situation as an eternal outcast, to weaken his mind even more, while the crimson sarcophagus continues shaking. Each time, more violently. Marc can hear a smothered, angered voice, fists and feet hitting from the inside, incapable of distinguishing the words.
"If you're not a murderer, tell that to him," the deity points at the adorned coffin.
Steven's head abruptly turned to see it, just when the cover fell, finally revealing its host. Both contemplate an angrier, darker self completely drenched in blood, with a darker armor on, holding a still gushing head in one of his hands. There was an unhinged wrath in those eyes, shining with malevolent resentment. Marc is appalled by the demented, homicidal expression on his face. It was a twisted perspective of what his victims saw before perishing.
He mutters some words but Spector doesn't have time to decipher them, for the severed head of Arthur Harrow staring back at him is all he can focus on now. Steven cannot take his eyes off it either, convinced the cultist could see them through his dead eyes but that becomes a fond memory when both finally get to hear some words from this unknown, deranged alter, whose hood and mask gracefully vanish.
"Hijo de puta," He hissed, tossing the bloodied head aside with utter contempt to take a step forward. What's left of that crazy cultist rolls over the floor, leaving thick, dark crimson traces just to collide against the sealed sliding door from the train behind the three men.
"What are you?!" Marc screamed, panicked. Like a rabid animal, the vigilante growls at the former mercenary and Steven feels as if it was a corpse grimacing right at them.
"After all I did to keep us alive during all these years, you left me to rot inside that fucking coffin! Is that the thanks I get?"
"What?!" Steven croaked, turning to look at Marc, trying to find the answer to what he just said.
"Stop playing fool with me, maldito bastardo" he hissed, "You built us this way! Steven is the balance, you're the voice of reason and I get to deal with the grimy leftovers!" But Marc refuses to listen to any other word, shaking his head.
"Khonshu, stop this! I am not your slave anymore!"
"He released you both, not me" the alter snarled, "and besides, Khonshu chose us because this is what we do best, amigo."
Spector holds his head, trying to suppress the violent involuntary images plagued by bleeding corpses, maimed limbs and faces contorted in horror. He clutched at Steven again, palming his forehead aggressively. No, he was tired of being a killer. His hatred for his former master reaches unthinkable dimensions, yet he has no strength to shout it to him.
Neither of them do.
"Does the moon rest, Marc? No, it rises and ebbs, causing the tide to flow and life to exist. You chose your destiny the night you wore his armor!"
"Don't you see?!" Marc howled defiantly, as if trying to wake himself up with his own screams, "I don't want to stain myself in someone else's blood ever again! Now I can finally have a happy, peaceful life and I won't let Khonshu or anyone else ruin it!" But all this corrupted self does is to laugh at him, as the vulture hits the floor with the tall, lunar staff.
"You selfishly indulge yourself in the joys of the flesh, while there are lives in danger!" Khonshu roared, "You know how much I despise selfishness, for it won't guide you to comply with your sacred duty!"
It wasn't enough for him to control Moon Knight. He now wants to be his conscience, isolating him from the only person he had ever loved. Was it that bad daring to think about his happiness? Wasn't there another man that could serve as a legionary to keep bathing Khonshu's altar in blood?
Marc closed his eyes, clinging to Steven while maniacally repeating to himself to wake up. And after several seconds, he suddenly feels lighter, as if he was floating in water. Everything disappeared, Steven, Khonshu, the rail station… everything feels so heavy and blurry, it's dark underneath his feet. Spector looks up and sees a curved, whitish line glowing through distorted in waves endlessly flowing–
Marc opened his mouth, but no one could hear him screaming. Watching the bubbly torrent triggered his body to swim up, latching himself to the first solid structure he found. The first thing he felt was a shivering cold and later, he saw an extended garden under the attentive gaze of the moon and its entourage of stars. The moonlight bathed the bucolic sanctuary in a dreamlike bluish hue, which helped to ease down Spector's frantic breathing.
"What the fuck am I doing here–?" Marc growled under his breath - "Steven? Steven, are you there?"
No answer came from within. Spector still coughs up water, wondering how the hell did he end up in his private pool. His palm hits his forehead several times, to make sure everything's real now. Marc curled into a ball as soon as a gust of wind shook the trees. Then, a light from inside distracted him. He finally stood up when he saw it was Layla, calling his name with a worried expression in her face, which only worsened as soon as he fell on the grassy ground.
"Marc!" He could hear from afar, hearing the footsteps becoming louder but he remained motionless. He barely opens an eye to see the moon, looking for Steven on it or maybe silently demanding Khonshu to stop tormenting him. Nonetheless, Layla has come for him, taking him in her arms like in his worst moments. Marc feels so weak, so tired, so cold…
"I'm sorry–" is all he can whisper, sheltering his undressed body by holding her own but a wide, comforted smile extends all over his lips when he feels a soft, warm compression around his body, "Idon't--I don't remem-"
"Are you kidding me? Naked, right here in the garden?" Layla adjusts the warm blanket to then hug him as she leads him back home. He blinks once, twice and finds himself in their bedroom. An old film was playing and though the volume was at minimum, he could clearly hear birds and low, slow steps. The silence is shattered by a rattling noise followed by a rumbling, terrified scream that manages to make Marc jolt.
"It's all right Rosser, it's all right! Those old bones can't hurt you!"
Marc feels the terror creeping up his spine, realizing it was that same fucking film whose reenactment had doomed his brother Randall to a gruesome demise.
"No!" The demented mercenary rushed in mad race to turn the device off before he could hear the film's further dialogue but the extended, painful numbness prevented him from doing so, "No! Nononononono-! Stop, please– stop!"
The television turned black and now Spector inhales and exhales deeply, holding himself while recovering from the panic attack. Layla threw herself to embrace him, gently rocking him. Only sobs and shortened breathing can be heard. Watching and hearing a few seconds of that film were enough to disarm him completely, since his brother's death had indeed cursed it.
"Easy… I got you," she calmed him down. Marc rubbed his face with both hands while he kept silent, recovering from his shameful helplessness.
"I'm sorry, Layla…" he croaked, to then turn around to face her, "it's just… Khonshu again. He's tormenting me even in my sleep… telling me that I'll always be a murderer, I see Steven dying–" Marc cuts himself off, believing that something worse would fall upon them if he dared to verbalize what he had seen.
"It's alright, don't rush yourself" she patiently comforted her husband, "you almost drown in that pool!" Layla runs her fingers through his dampened hair, softly cooing to ease him down. Marc hides his face in his hands, remembering the fear in Steven's eyes while he was made a prisoner of the sands of the Duat. He would never let anyone or anything hurt him like that ever again.
Ignoring his inner turmoil, Layla kissed his cheek, standing up with him in order to reach the bed.
"I'll find something to help you," she knelt before the nightstand, searching for medicine. A sleep inducer would do.
Marc takes long, deep breaths, eyes half open, with a sick, torpid expression on his face. Layla brings a glass of water and a pill for him to take. He doesn't even flinch at the sour flavor, just waiting for the pill to take effect to let his defenses down, but something more pleasant precipitates his surrender: Layla took a small towel to dry the damp remains on his hair. Her hands are gentle, taking care to not leave any inch unattended.
As if her gentleness had snapped his mind out of his trance, he turned around, staring at her for long seconds. To distend the situation, Layla playfully batted her eyelashes, tilting her head.
"Sweetie?" She called him, putting a rebellious, curly lock behind his ear. Marc crawled towards his wife, leaning on the bed to possessively cling to her. He gravitated towards the bedsheets, blissed out as Layla positioned herself on her side to cuddle him, tucking him in to then turn the lights off while both drifted to sleep.
Marc can feel her thighs pressing his hips, as if making sure that her grip on him wouldn't let his form unprotected. He happily smiled when she also constricts her arms around him, becoming lost and free of Khonshu's enslaving grip, taking utter delight in the beauty of everyday things just as his alter would do.
"Steeeeevennnnn…" he muttered lazily, while sinking his face in her neck.
"What's wrong with him, my love?" She lovingly asked, playing with a few curls.
"Please-don't– don't– don't forget about him," he muttered while his muscles finally laxed around her waist. Layla kissed his hair, shortly following him in slumber.
Jake Lockley has no warmth in him. This much he knows.
Spector has had many lovers in his life. But that's all they were. Lovers. Women without memorable faces or traits. Women who only shared nights in his bed. All of them were similar. Dark skinned, long, black hair… None of them spent nor lasted a whole day with him after sating his carnal desires, no matter how much of a good lover he was. It was because sometimes he ended up fronting, scaring them by speaking with a different accent or language, instead of the usual, disturbing threats to himself.
Whenever the occasion allowed something different than broken bones or bloodcurdling screams, Lockley would usually chose a lady's company. The girl in the National Art Gallery would have been a nice distraction after recovering the damn golden scarab but Steven and Khonshu fucked everything up, as always.
He remembered one occasion where some fine lady immediately took a few bucks he had left for her in the nightstand after their deed had taken place. Jake Lockley lit up a cigarette, giggling. He stares at the starry night sky, puffing out the smoke. The woman dressed up and muttered some things in Arabic, regarding his sanity. Jake just cackled, grinning at her from afar.
"Hasta luego, mi amor!" He blew a kiss to the Egyptian woman, who just stared at him with disgust. She then left the room. Loveless, lonely nights like this were usual so many years ago, where he roamed all over the world working to the highest bidder, taking lives, inspiring horror in everyone who dared to cross him and Bushman. There's no room for weakness in a job like this. Marc had no time for affections and even if he had, no woman would have patience with a demented bastard like him.
No woman in her right mind would love such an unhinged individual. But Jake couldn't care less about that. It was better this way. Waving a few bucks to some pretty lady was enough to sate his natural needs. Then, Spector changed his mind and paid a high price for it, though it didn't make much of a difference in his existence. Just fronting when it was necessary.
Because that's what he was meant to do.
The wife was another story. The biggest liability in all this. He had seen her from a distance, furiously riding Spector the night both reconciled… just to see Grant being also subdued by her moments later. He now remembers the occasion where she was lying beside him, unaware of his presence. Jake wished to catch a closer glimpse of her, to at least know who she was.
A sudden warmth, however, interrupts his thoughts. Grumpily groaning, Jake now senses a strange constriction in his limbs, one that didn't allow him to move freely. He soon realized he was lying on his side, regarding the numbness stunting his arms. He sighed, annoyed by a sweaty, sticky hotness in his face.
"¡Maldita sea!" Jake grumbled under his breath. He managed to move his right arm, after long seconds of struggling with the daze on his limb. Lockley then feels a hand caressing his hair. It is shocking enough to snap him out of his dullness, getting to see himself holding on to a warm, feminine figure whom he didn't take too long to recognise as Spector's wife.
"Ay, coño… no, no, no–no" the cabbie murmurs, panicked.
He nimbly disentangled the embrace that had him tied to her, backing away from her body to distance from her. Guilt nests in his heart when he sees the wife, with arms open and empty. Lockley was surprised that his sudden move had not awakened her. A tense silence reigns over them, until a gust of wind shakes the branches of the trees outside. It is strong, as it manages to wave the curtains. Fate was so hilariously cruel, conceding his desire to see her more closely in the most awkward way possible.
Jake keeps still, fearing the slightest move will reveal his presence, though it doesn't stop him from admiring the gorgeous creature placidly sleeping in front of him.
He leaned slightly towards her, noticing her chest calmly going up and down, spellbound by that falling curly mane, fascinated by those full lips he so much longs to taste now. He carefully extended his hand towards her face, setting aside some hair locks, daring to come closer to Spector's wife.
"Jonsu me ayude…" the driver muttered breathless, lost in her peaceful features, not believing that she was holding him in her arms only a few moments ago.
Suddenly, she arched her back, stretching her form while letting a soft groan escape from her mouth. Jake immediately backed away, believing his stillness would help him to go unnoticed. He didn't say anything, feeling cornered during the fleeting seconds her eyes briefly opened, whose blackness evoked a beautiful obsidian. Then, a smile curves her lips.
The gesture is powerful enough to render Jake Lockley, the very man who was at no one's peril, completely breathless.
Ever since the dawn of his existence, violence is all he has known. He's supposed to deal with horrified faces, bloodbaths which Marc now fears so much to be stained in but in that moment, something different stirs in his chest. He does not know exactly what it is but the cabbie doesn't have time to think about it when the wife lazily throws her arms to his neck, crashing her lips with his in a sleepy, sweet kiss.
"Habibi…" Layla muttered after breaking the caress, latching to his body to imprison his hips with her legs, bringing him back to her. She would never know the effect of that endearing word in him, exorcizing the usual dread ghosting his thoughts to replace them with something unthinkable.
Hope.
Hope to think that maybe a smile would await him after the blood, after the violence instead of going dormant. Then, the cabbie eyes down her body, delighting with those firm, well-sculpted thighs pressing his hips, nuzzling her face to feel her mouth closer to him.
The idea excites Lockley, whose fear of being caught slowly morphed into an ardent, irresistible craving to be seen, without worrying about evildoers to punish.
"Te comería toda, mi amor…" Jake purred against her mouth to wake her up, anxious to meet her. Another strong gust of wind shook the curtains, whose coldness distracted him from his initial goal. His eyes diverted at the window, noticing the new moon shining while hiding between thick, dark clouds as if some ominous thing was about to take place.
Jake stared at the left corner of the room, exactly where the lights cannot reach. He instinctively looks for a distinguished form but eventually, he finds nothing and decides to stop worrying about everything because deep down, he does his will.
For whenever Khonshu caused the crescent moon to shine, nostrils were full of pure air, cattle was fertile and women's wombs were full of life, so why would his fascination over her would mean any wrong against him?
In the radiant sky, the sun is courted by a few, white clouds that impede the full light to grace everything beneath it. Sunlight filters through the flaming, white tulle hanging in front of the half opened window. With the birds mirthfully chirping, those green fields endlessly extending over the ground would convince Marc he is in Eden's Garden. But not even this paradisiacal sight, nor the fresh, noon breeze help to soothe his scarred psyche from the gruesome vision of Steven Grant dying once again and from that primitive, unhinged version of him that had emerged from that red sarcophagus.
"I just fell in the pool after a nightmare during a sleepwalking episode. That 's all. I forgot the ankle restraint in the fucking flat and that's exactly what happened," Spector grouches, shaking his head and rubbing his face. He turned around and went to the private restroom, leaning into the sink so the cold water would dishearten his mind from further torment.
"I think I'll take half a pill next time," he joked at a confused, disheveled Steven, who was thankfully ignorant about this incident.
"Oh, bugger… that explains the numbness," he whispered, stretching while yawning, "seems we had a bit of trouble getting some sleep, innit?"
"Yeah, sort of…" Marc shakes his head, trying to avoid any word that would lead to tell him about the sleepwalking incident. He doesn't have time for more horror. Less now.
Especially now.
Even if fate still attempts to stress him out in a moment like this, Marc won't surrender to unease, so he walks out of the bathroom, searching for his phone to text her.
'PLEASE COME QUICKLY. WE BOTH NEED YOU,' While waiting for her answer, Steven screams all of a sudden:
"Oi, mate! I just remembered that I left Layla's gifts in the library, on the first floor!"
Marc cackles, taking a cotton coat to wear on as he heads to the aforementioned place. Steven's lightheadedness never fails to break the tension, and Spector prefers to play along rather than rotting in doubts and unease.
"Ugh, I hope Layla doesn't see how much of a plonker I am! First I was late for our first day as her boyfriend and n—"
"You're not a plonker, Steven. You're just excited," Marc quickly took the gift over the long table, throwing the receipt to the trash can, running back to their room to resume what they were doing. Of course he understands. During those last two days, Marc had seen their interactions from afar, loving how they walked around the yards tenderly holding hands under the new moon, sleeping together, holding each other tightly and sharing books during meals.
Though Steven has Marc's full permission and blessing to be Layla's boyfriend, that doesn't make his anxieties disappear. With the aforementioned situation delaying any carnal encounter, the mercenary thinks there's nothing wrong to spark some action between them. What Marc has in mind for both his partner and his alter is something that would be seen as an oddity coming from an unhinged, tortured psyche for most people, but for Layla had been the most exciting, thrilling thing Marc had ever asked to her in intimacy. From now on, consummating their marriage isn't just a conjugal matter anymore. It is more like a personal ritual inside their own, little world.
Marc won't let anything botch this moment, even though disguising his anxiety as rampant sexual desire to not raise any suspicion of hypervigilance greatly eroded his psyche. He shook his head, trying to appease his mind while taking off the coat, discarding it on the floor, shrinking like an forgotten accordion.
"I hope I don't ridicule myself with this," Steven muttered nervously, shattering the inner silence as he saw themselves almost naked in the mirror near the bed if it wasn't for the black boxers Marc usually wore.
"Quit your bullshit, will you?" Marc hissed annoyed. Then, a feminine voice echoed from a distance:
"Sorry?"
Marc gasped, turning to see Layla. She is sitting on the bed, chewing some chocolate with a bewildered expression all over her face. Though her note betrays a false feel of offense, Spector plays along.
From within, he hears Steven letting out an hilarious, nervous gulp. It's funny enough to make Marc smirk, something Layla didn't take long to mimic.
"I didn't mean that to you…" he shook his hands, forgetting he still held the crimson red box. The object flaunted a small golden ribbon, with a little card adorably addressed to her. It catches her attention, which makes Marc take a place beside her.
"He got these for you," Spector handed the gift to an enthusiastic Layla, who quickly resolved to find out what it was. Her face brightens with a loving, moved expression once she sees the adorable plushie of the deity she briefly served to, holding it against her chest as if it was the most precious thing she ever had. Some tears ran down her cheek, forming thin, glistening lines.
“Oh, my God” Layla chirped happily, “this is so sweet of him!” She now checks the books, one being about magic and sex in Ancient Egypt and the other being an encyclopedia containing everything related to their mythology, “it's better than getting divorce papers, huh?” She joked, looking at Marc while drying the damp vestiges on her cheek. He chuckled and crossed his arms.
“Well, Steven quickly figured out what to give you before he gets to fuck you,” he quipped, rising an eyebrow and turning to the mirror just to irritate his alter and his modesty but all he finds is a lovestruck, besotted Steven, unwilling to feel ashamed for being a third in this union, since that was precisely what Marc intended to do ever since their reconciliation took place.
“If he goes full professor on me like when he met, we can definitely work this out,” she commented as she saw the contents in the first book, to then look at the mirror with a sultry, seductive expression that pierced through Steven's soul and modesty, promising him so many good things, though from her perspective she can only behold a hungry, desirous Marc extending his hands towards her waist.
“Good. I'll be happy to watch how it goes,” Marc cackled, with a cheeky expression taking over his face, eager to love her under the sun and bidding farewell for good to his life as a vigilante, to the hateful habit of being afraid to let her love him, and to cease the noxious belief that distance was the only way he couldn't harm her, allowing her to love him in his complex, tantalizing wholeness.
Once Marc carefully settles Layla on his lap, his digits roam free on her curves, devouring her lips now as his hands sneak underneath the short, strawberry pink nightgown she wears, patiently looking to tug at that lovely, white thong that barely covered her privacy.
"I'll let him do whatever he wants to me,” Layla purred in his ear, sliding her hands over his hair, "so I can give my husband a good show."
Ceasing the caress, Spector distanced a bit from her, clicking his tongue, slowly nodding as a smirk forms in his lips once his eyes set on the mirror. Steven closely follows every move, unable to utter a syllable, overpowered by the sensual scene unfolding before his eyes.
“Did you hear that?” He said to the reflection, while clutching at her, ”she really is in the mood.”
“Let me in! Give me the body, Marc!” The British pleaded, shaking his hands, growing more and more impatient but Marc doesn't yield so fast. Instead, he slowly turns to Layla and says:
"You're allowed to touch her.”
Bowing his head, Marc closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Layla felt a shiver down her spine when his features abandoned its usual harshness, replacing it with a candid, gentle expression. She abandons herself to the pleasant feel of his broad shoulders relaxing under her touch. A sharp gasp cut his breath as soon he regains consciousness, quivering when her chest is just a few inches away from his face all of a sudden.
"Finally," the Egyptian wife muttered, playing with his rebellious curls. For a long time, she tangles them between her fingers, feeling their silky texture while fixing her eyes on Steven's, who happily subdued to her charms. Grant tries to articulate a coherent sentence but his lips move soundlessly, like a dying fish.
This hilarious but adorable disbelief makes Layla break the silence with a soft chuckle, "I wanted to see the man who saved my husband..." she whispered, tenderly rubbing her face against Steven's. He licks his lips, closing his eyes as their mouths melt together seconds later. Gone is the heartbreaking image of Grant trying to escape the cursed sands of the Duat, as now Layla's loving and warm arms claim the nerd in a tight embrace. She held him with such strength, such power as if to bring every broken piece of his soul back together.
"Our wife is beautiful, don't you think?”
A weak, lazy nod is all Marc can notice.
“You want to fuck her? You want to fuck her and make her cum hard like I do, right?" Marc's voice keeps saying, attempting to tease his gentle nature with the foul nature of his words. "Do you want to feel how tight she is and hear how she moans when she lets you finish in her?" But the nerd doesn't utter a word.
Of course he does, but Steven clings to his wife as if his sanity and life depends on it. Layla mistakes his ticklish nuzzle on her neck as another display of his urging need for intimacy, although his stunned expression and stillness prevented him from snapping out of it.
The wife moved away from him a little, with an impish expression on her face.
"Maybe I should give you an incentive, Steven Grant," she murmured sensually, breaking the hug to stand in front of a hurt Steven, whose hands resented the cessation of contact as he tried to extend them to draw her towards him again, but his languor turned into vehement admiration when he watched her sliding her hands over the hips, which she undulated provocatively as she took off her nightgown, pulling it up from her skirt, oblivious to Marc's hungry eyes devouring her from the distance of the reflection.
"Is that better?" she asked, smiling after throwing the nightgown to her side, "Or do you prefer--?" She was about to discard the tiny thong that traced a thin line of white lace over her curves when Steven crawled towards her, like a famished, maddened beast.
"No-! No!" He cut her off, shakily waving his hands while his eyes couldn't believe what they were seeing, even now. He is unable to look away from that splendid and divine nudity, which Layla so gladly displayed for his satisfaction.
"Leave it on! Leaveit--leave it on–! You look… you look so beautiful!" Now he threw his eager hands towards her exposed figure, to revel in the garment he just alluded to.
Layla smiled, laughing softly as she indulged in Steven's inexperienced but fervent touch, so distant from Marc's possessiveness and impatience. It was so shocking to see this peaceful and lonely man so absorbed and determined to distribute kisses along her thighs, her belly and waist with that violent outburst typical of someone who has been deprived of affection for so long.
"Magnificent... She's magnificent, Marc" he faintly muttered as he nuzzled his face obsessively against her belly, causing Layla to let out a soft moan, followed by his name. A sudden, abrupt movement ended the stillness, making her gasp as an encouraged Steven grabbed her tightly, wrapping his arms around her delicate waist to bury his face between those naked, perky breasts, reveling in the warm smoothness of her skin as he led her towards the bed between stumbles to become full in each other's bodies.
"We started off on the wrong foot, didn't we, Mr. Grant?" she gasped fascinated, as she scratched the back of his neck gently, fully embracing her lover once they were over the bedsheets. The wife ardently responds to his touches, clinging to his back and shoulders, while Steven keeps his eyelids tightly closed to hold back his tears, because everything is perfect in that moment. It seems so perfect that he can't help but think about how fragile a moment like this was, fearing that any wrong word or move could ruin it.
"I can make it up to you," he wheezed, stunned with pleasure as he felt Layla riding on her hips, admiring those lovely breasts, now adorned by small beads of sweat that fell and left long, wet traces.
"You're so good to me," she whispered against his face, caressing his cheek with the back of her hand, making the nerd lean towards her to cover it with kisses. Layla laughed softly, giving herself in. It was evident that he was not used to being treated with love and patience and it broke her heart. No matter how dominant she appears; Layla is unable to resist that sweet meekness, his pristine tenderness, and his fervent willingness to submit to her desires… and how easily he gets aroused.
“You should have told me about him, Marc. You're not this sweet to me!” she joked. Her words make him smile, they are like a balm that heals his heart after so much torment. Any other day, Steven would be walled among books, reviewing information that he already knew in order to forget that he was a sleepwalker with no friends. Or perhaps he would be dealing with Donna's usual disdain for being an overqualified clerk, confined to simple tasks rather than being a prestigious guide.
Steven can't take it anymore. The affection is too much, and even a feeling as good as this causes a slight pain that spreads through his chest. But that didn't matter at all, because now Grant clung to her waist with the devotion and passion of a staunch religious man. It's then that Layla feels his salty, copious tears falling down her chest. She feels those heartbreaking sobs that ripped the air out of him, ending in dying gasps, and she responds to his embrace without saying a word, because now she obtains what she wanted so much from Spector: honesty.
Even though Marc can barely move in his depersonalized perspective, that doesn't stop him from enjoying the scene in front of his eyes. All his will is now centered on memorizing every second of this moment, which unfolds with exciting slowness. Clarity becomes another reason for joy, for his memories would no longer be a jumble saturated with violence, blood and madness, since his conscience no longer weighs the painful duty of being honest with his alter, nor reliving past miseries in order to achieve eternal peace, leaving only the precious atonement through Steven's flesh and desire.
“Sweetie?” Layla asked, worried. Steven dried the shameful tears away, trying to recompose himself after the emotional outburst but they kept falling down.
“I'm sorry, did I ruin it?” Grant's voice cracks, fighting the lump in his throat through the sobs. Layla shook her head, sliding her fingers over his face in tender solace. Steven bowed his head, just to hide his face in the crook of her neck, mumbling:
“Bit unfair, innit?” But the wife hums confused, distractingly running her fingers through his hair, awaiting for Steven to further explain himself, “a month ago I had no one… then you came and changed it all. I don't think I'll ever be able to live without you, love.”
His words cut through her heart. In the past, Marc would have never admitted something like that. It was sad that it took another person to tell her this, to hold on to dear life when their mother died, to be so easily bewitched with a few caresses.
Layla took Steven with her over the bed, leaning down to face him, making it easier for her lover to admire her, so he can throw the horrifying memories of the Duat to oblivion. No tormented souls are claiming him to dwell in everlasting, depressing silence. He felt like falling into a pool of warm waters, surrounded by the softness of the cotton bedsheets and Layla's gentle embrace. Looking down her body, Steven blinks and clicks his tongue, aroused to see his girlfriend displaying such uninhibited, exciting disposition.
“How could I live without… this?" Steven gasped, sliding his right hand over her cheek, down her neck to carefully fondle the round shape of her breast, which made Layla squirm and moan, closing her eyes while a blissful smile brightened her features.
“Yes, Steven, yes…” her chest swells with the whisper of his name, causing her orbs to bounce. It awakens something downright animal in him, prompting the British to place himself above Layla, unleashing voracious kisses that wore out their lips.
“N'ecris pas. Je suis triste, et je voudrais m’éteindre…” Steven began to recite, after a few silent seconds, restarting their story from that moment. He becomes lost in those feminine attributes, embellished by a thin sweaty layer in her olive skin, gliding his inexperienced, tremulous hands down her waist and hips. The wife slowly opened her eyes, playing along the following rhyme, “les beaux étés sans toi, c’est la nuit sans flambeau…” both smiled and recited in wonderful unison, once again.
“I– I have to say… I've been waiting for this moment my whole life” his voice trembles with emotion, looking down at her body, enamored by the barely covered breasts by her cascading curls, carefully setting them aside. His fascination grows as he leans down to plant kisses over her chest, tickling her. The mellifluous sound startles Steven, who ceases the contact just to stare at Layla. It ignites Marc's impatience again, though there's no aggression in his voice:
“Don’t stop it, Steven. She likes it.”
Steven turns to his right, in an involuntary move to look for guidance. All he sees is Marc Spector staring back at him, with fierce determination.
“You said it yourself back in the Duat, remember? If you're me, it means you got this too. Don't disappoint us.”
Layla now delights his ears with more mellifluous sounds, slowly sliding down the boxers to make Steven fully naked, something he immediately helped her with, tossing it aside, “Can I... can I really do whatever I want to you?” he asked, trying hard not to sound like a pervert, even though he couldn't stop squeezing her breasts, unable to get enough of his softness.
"Of course," she replied, and then looked in the direction of where one of the given copies, the most interesting of the pair, had been left. Steven had already studied it in depth during his sleepless nights, knowing by heart the chapters and explicit illustrations of the intimate lives of the ancient Egyptians. He was sure that she had already read it but that did not take away the charm of the situation, since the topic of the volume gave a lot to talk about.
“I'm really jazzed about the things we could do…” he gasps, feeling his blood rushing down his groin. She then locks his hips with her legs, holding his face in her hands.
“Then show me what you've got, British boy,” Layla provocatively hummed, while touching herself without looking away from him.
“I've seen the things Marc does to you with his mouth,” he whined, gently fiddling with the nipple between his fingers, as if deciding what to do while examining it closer. She's flushing red and her skin glistens in a copper-like hue. Layla is so beautiful in her natural state that Steven dares to commit a blasphemy thinking that even a goddess would envy her, allowing Steven to abandon the last traces of modesty to let his mouth catch the erected nipple, eagerly tasting it. Layla says his name now, running her hands up and down his back and hair. Grant is fascinated, and further subdues to her charms, lapping the areola with paused, devoted desire, to gently tug the spoiled part afterwards, without taking his obtunded eyes off of her.
“Good boy,” the tender compliment only increases his appetite, devouring her breast with animal voracity. That caused a slight sensation of irritation, when his gesture lasted longer than she expected, although she was unbothered by the fierceness Steven indulged himself in her body, “be gentle…” she purred now, closing her eyes to fully become lost in his attention.
Grant doesn't shy away anymore and for the first time he is grateful for having been so alone, for this is not just sex, but rather a religious experience. Because one cannot fully enjoy happiness without first having known the most desolating loneliness first. The exquisite taste of her breast has made him forget that embarrassing phone confrontation with Dylan that Sunday, the nightmarish visions in which Khonshu stalked him and the pathetic nature of venting his frustrations with a human statue who was as indifferent as everyone else in his life. He doesn't think twice about adoring her, tasting with fervent zeal the smoothness of her skin, feeling those perfect curves trembling under caresses, taking pride in being the cause of her pleasure.
"Voilá!" Steven exclaims triumphantly and mischievously, recovering his breath, after detaching his lips from the stimulated area to grant the same treatment to the other one. Layla looked back at him for a moment with the same mischief, hoping his mouth would continue doing its wonders. She felt how her body cried out for him, how his presence inside her depths urged her after his prolonged and sensual routine of stopping briefly and then stare at her, enthralled just to taste her back again.
“You're such a good boy,” the sweet flattery makes Steven smile from ear to ear while subduing himself in her charms for a while longer before licking his way up to her neck, to face her again. He now slid his fingers over her well-sculpted thigh, tracing invisible and distracted lines near her thin garment that prevented her complete nudity. The wife is more receptive than ever, admiring his boldness in her silence.
“Want to know something? Ancient Egyptians used magic to make someone fall in love,” Steven began to explain, before giving in to sexual madness, “they used papyri to invoke the gods and thus inspire love in the favorite person... they were also very ahead of their time, because they did not attribute fertility to women alone, but…”
“Yes?” The wife's lips curve into a toothy grin, prompting Steven to keep playing the game she has proposed from the beginning: assuming the role of teacher while Layla pretends to be an enthusiastic neophyte. The nerd continued, less nervous than before.
“Egyptians had male deities related to fertility. Min was one of them and over time, he was amalgamated with other gods so all of them shared his vitality,” his hands now caressed her waist and hips, as their private, little lesson continued, “and over time, he was associated with Horus, because if the Pharaoh became like him in the next life, he must have inherited his sexual prowess in the first one.”
“That explains the statues with…” Layla reasoned with false innocence, looking down to gently caress his stiffness. Startled, Steven gasped, feeling how that part of his anatomy responded to the stimulus, captivating Layla with his extreme reactivity. The nerd took a deep breath before resuming the conversation, despite arousal making him lose his mind.
“The phallic figure–” Steven made an almost superhuman effort to string together coherent sentences, in the midst of his labored breathing, as his mind became increasingly clouded by that almost narcotic effect that she had on him, “it was... a symbol of strength and viri– virility! Because it was said that Atum created the first generation of gods after-” now he moaned as Layla wrapped her hand around him to eagerly caress him from bottom to top.
“After what, Mr. Grant?”
Steven opened his eyes, still regaining his senses after the shock of seeing that part being so well taken care of, when not so long ago only his hand had been there. Even when they were naked and embracing each other, just a thrust away from becoming one, Steven was still processing what he was going through.
“After... giving himself a hand,” upon understanding its obvious meaning, they both laughed out loud but Steven quickly returned to the topic, highlighting the parallel that the Egyptians made with the earth which created life by itself, without the need for a partner, which is why they considered said act as something of a sacred nature.
“Now you understand why the Egyptians were so uninhibited in sexual matters, right?”
“Yes,” she answered, now standing up to leave Steven on his back in order to pepper his face with kisses once she climbed on top of him, ”it is very, very clear to me,” she whispered conspiratorially, while making undulating movements to continue bewitching her lover, feeling his firm hardness against her silky, wet femininity. Steven writhes in pleasure, moaning against her mouth while his hands hold her hips tightly in order to feel her warmth, which leaves wet trails around him.
"Wait, are we going to do this... without… without a c–?" Steven stuttered, not letting himself hyperventilate from the sensations.
“Huh?” Layla blinked, then tilted her head, confused. The nerd took a deep breath, licking his lips as he saw their differences just inches away from joining.
“We're not going to use…uh, protection?” Her frown gave way to a wide, playful smile as she understood what he meant.
“I already told you,” she settled herself even more on his already rigid intimacy, using a gentle movement to rub herself and to feel that strong firmness so close to her privacy, so that he could feel how needy she was for him, “I don't need protection.”
Steven Grant arched his back, feeling that area so ardently stimulated. That garment whose thinness barely covered his sex felt so damn good against his exposed length. Little by little, the loner ardently rubs her hips, her waist and her breasts as if he were sculpting her curves, like a skilled craftsman. He shivered at the soft texture against his skin, trapped between her petals, not yet attached to her, looking so monstrously large in comparison to the entrance he was rubbing against. Layla stopped for a moment, just to look directly at her sex. Much to the nerd's displeasure, the Egyptian stopped her lilting moves to brush her lips against his neck, and then down the collarbone.
“Egyptians were fascinated by another sexual practice, so much that they didn't hesitate to portray it in their iconography. It was very common to see it illustrated in sacred books and on walls,” Layla said seductively, spreading kisses over those toned pectorals, nibbling them with animalistic appetite, descending to his belly and letting her hands roam over his waist and thighs, Grant looked at her with wide eyes, jaw dropped, remaining completely still as Layla focused her attention on the enormous, pulsing erection in front of her, realizing what she was going to do.
"Marc told me that you were going to have a date with a colleague, before all this," she purred to her silent surprise, continuing to caress him while she observed his strong manliness with special desire.
“I swear nothing happened!” he rushed to explain in order to convince her that he had not committed infidelity, “Marc had gone on a mission somewhere, so I missed it! I'm glad it didn't work!” but she made a gesture of denial, calming all concern.
“So you couldn't get a date in all the time we were apart, huh?” to which Steven just phlegmatically shook his head, “well, more for me!” Layla joked and then, she accommodated herself over the bed so that her back was exposed to the mirror for Marc to have a clear perspective of what was about to happen.
Once her tongue lightly brushes the tip, Steven spasms violently, followed by a long, low whimper. This was only the beginning and he can already feel passing out.
This was more than he could bear but as her touch became more intense, with her hand and mouth giving him such good treatment, his sounds varied from pathetic whines to broken, ecstatic lethanies and all she can do is reward his reactions with more paused, devoted licks just before disconnecting her mouth from the erected, firm masculinity without breaking eye contact.
"Do you want me to continue?" She asked, although she already knew the answer. Steven threw a long, agonizing moan to then exclaim:
“YES! Oh, bloody hell, I do! Take me! You feel–you feel so good– don't stop, please!” He screams as if his soul was escaping him, writhing like a dying man. Steven had a dumb, overjoyed smile traced over his lips, throwing his head back and clutching to the bed sheets as control became unnecessary. Having uttered his passionate and lustful request, Layla continued her journey from bottom to top, taking her time to taste him and moisten his hardened sex so he could get used to her affections.
She is such a sight in herself: her plump lips are wrapped around him, letting her tongue greedily taste the tip, catching it with her mouth to continue bobbing her head faster and faster. Steven doesn't repress the primitive need to thrust into her, intoxicated by her muffled moans travelling through his nerves.
"Marc, Marc, she's wonderful, she's..." he now whimpers, not knowing what else to do to fight the dizziness, believing all around him has disappeared, leaving him floating in nothingness. He instinctively searched for her hair, pushing away those curly strands that hindered the explicit sight of Layla eagerly indulging in him, “She's so good to me– to us–”
“I know. Try not to blow your load too soon, will you?” the mercenary quips from the mirror.
“Oh, piss off!" Steven exclaimed, startling his wife, who interrupted her attentions. His expression of anger becomes ephemeral once it morphs into regret as the pleasure abruptly ends, moving him to tenderly caress her hair to scare off any feelings of hostility, “Please, sorry–I wasn't telling that to you, love…”
Layla rolled her eyes, while gently pumping him, “yeah, I can see that.” Steven extended his hand to fondle her breasts, as a small payback for what she's doing for him, “Marc loves this... and I'm sure you'll do too,” Layla settles on him, carefully setting his hand aside in order to achieve her goal, giving him long and dedicated licks before fully taking him. Grant is unable to control the trembling in his legs, as he is convinced that climax was just one caress away from happening. His voice gradually broke into loud moans and incoherent babbling, making Layla proud of her work, for it is a delight to see this man, so different from her husband, surrendered to her charms at the slightest touch and so hungry for love. She now holds onto his hips, extending the contact between her mouth and him, reveling in the reactions of her lover.
“You’re perfect– oh, bugger, I can’t stop thinking about that night– I could only think of you as the best bloody thing that has ever happened to me–” the nerd's voice dissolves into breathy praise, little by little losing his fear and he extends his hand, pulling her hair to relive those intense sensations, something that Layla happily accepted, "please--please, love--keep doing it like that--"
A noisy and indecorous sound, that happened to be caused by Layla disconnecting her mouth from his length, had him nearly passing out.
“You don't love the moon only when it's full, right? You love her in all her phases, even when you can't see her," she winked flirtatiously, devouring him again, lubricating him with her tongue in order to enjoy the rigidity and soft texture of his skin, moaning around him to continue shaking his nerves, trapping the tip in her mouth to take it slowly until she felt it in his throat, moving away after seconds of containing it to repeat the deed over and over again.
The wife is more than satisfied to see that his honesty speaks louder than himself: his screams, his violent shakes while she delights in his masculinity betray his inexperience but it does not take away the splendor of seeing him so far from his usual meekness, of seeing a different perspective of his humanity through his alter.
His chest filled and emptied so dramatically amidst his strident vocal expressions, worrying Layla to the point she rubbed his thigh to then briefly intertwine her hand with his, reaching toward his chest to pat the area where his heart beat.
“Wait– wait!” the nerd let a faint wheeze while waving his hand, focusing the little energy he had left on not passing out. It was like getting hit like a bus but Steven doesn't give up. The impact of seeing their bodies naked and agitated has become too much for his troubled mind to resist, eager to extend the act beyond its natural end.
“What are you–? Oh!” her glossy lips broke their bond with an deliberately obscene sound again, though a thin line of saliva still connected her to him. Steven pulled her body towards his to latch on her chest once more. She looks at the scene with a broad smile, lolling her head back when Steven returns the good gesture with his mouth, desperately surrounding her waist with his arms. Any other time, she would have to deal with Marc's typical roughness just before the glorious climax would take place, so Steven's tender sweetness comes as a surprise. He takes his time of course: first he fondles them, relishing in their softness to bury his face afterwards for long seconds, as if wanting her scent on him.
“He can't have enough of them, can't he?” She giggles turning at the mirror, seeing herself ardently imprisoned by Steven's strong form instead of obtaining a cheeky reply from Spector, “are you going to be a good boy for me, Steven?” she asked, sliding the back of her hands on his cheeks, lovingly staring down at him.
“Yes! Just do whatever you want to me, please!” he gasps, convinced that further slightest contact down there will make him reach his peak, especially when Layla fervently grinds her still clothed intimacy against the rigid, swollen privacy, holding onto his shoulders to maintain a stable rhythm, fascinated by the enraptured expression on his face, one she would never find in Marc Spector. There's tenderness and vulnerability, reminding her of their awkward, first kiss and motivating her to harden her pace on him. Within seconds, Steven detaches from her chest, upset to feel that familiar shiver preceding to the end, unable to control the nervous trembles that shook his body.
“Oh, bugger–” he groaned, ashamed to see threads of himself erupting from the twitchy stiffness. The wife seems surprised at the climaxed intimacy, rushing Steven to pronounce about it - I'm sorry, I'm sorry… it's didn't mean– But Layla raised an eyebrow, leading her hand down her curves while she impishly smiled at the nerd and all he could do was to nervously smile back. The wife placed her hands on her chest to better help Steven lie down on his back.
“And here she goes…” he can hear the tender mischief in Marc's words but he doesn't mind to solve its meaning, for he's so weak and ecstatic that he doesn't put up any resistance. Steven feels as if he were floating on clouds, free of any problems, full of happiness. His face exhibits total bliss, having completely surrendered to the intoxication of love, failing to see how Layla finally takes off that white garment and it is only when he feels the pleasant weight of his over taking place on him that he opens his eyes: The explicit image of her wet, aroused femininity about to receive the tip quickly made him regain his senses, realizing what was going to happen.
“Wait–lo-love! What are you doing–?!” but instead of replying, Layla perfectly aligned her sex with his length, slowly descending to fully impale herself in the still erupting rigidity.
The sudden union makes Steven bawl and rear up with unbridled, fervorous violence, as if he had been attacked by a shocking wave and when he first sees it, Marc can't help but to think about the endless times he had been electrocuted during his years in the asylum. But this time there are no uncaring nurses and condescending doctors saturating him with pills and sedatives, justifying anything to make the treatment more aggressive.
All that exists now is Layla surrounding him and his disoriented, ecstatic glare is all she can see as Steven becomes used to her silky walls adhering to the pulsing gristle, as if embracing him from inside. That's why when he hears Steven's thunderous bawls, he smiles. He smiles when he sees his alter clawing at the bedsheets, kicking and moaning his lungs out, doing his best to remain conscious to keep admiring his wife.
“That was a hell of a fuck there, huh?” Marc giggles from his side, not missing any second of the frenzied, feverish lovemaking. The scene seems to be taken right out of his wildest dreams, where he could live a normal, simple life away from blood and violence as a married man. It can't be more perfect than it is now, with Steven Grant turned into a feral lover whose animalistic attempts to keep fucking Layla only amuse Marc, who now mutters an obscene, lewd demand:
"Fill her up, Steven. She's loving it.”
The orgasm is overwhelming and fascinating, making the nerd believe he has ascended to heaven, where only good things awaited him. He surrendered himself to her exquisite tightness, whose aching walls quickly latched to his presence. The pleasure of the union spread not only through his skin, but through his soul as well. The purest aspect of Marc Spector manifests itself in its fullness in that beautiful moment and Layla could not help but to marvel at the thunderous moans that wore out his lungs, shuddering at the feeling of her lover's trembling hands on her hips, clinging to them as if death would claim him of he didn't, dazzled by the explicit image of their unified sexes, overflowing with opalescent threads of his masculinity.
The erotic vision unleashes an animal desire to end his stillness just to push deep inside her with urgent and unthinkable violence, surprising both Layla and the mercenary himself. Steven keeps doing his part perfectly, brutally burying himself to the hilt to repeat that feeling of fullness over and over again failing to immortalize her blissed out expression but it's worth it, as she recreates exactly what they had done that night as a reward for the bold move.
“Yeah, keep fucking her just like that,” Marc orders, unashamedly proud of the raw display of pleasure from his alter, “don't you see how much she enjoys it?”
“Argh… stopit– stop it!'', Steven loudly groans at Spector's lewdness, battling the intoxicating sensation that insisted on stunning his muscles. He caught a brief glimpse of his mischievous expression on the reflection on the instant his body stood still. It's exactly like that time in the museum, except that now Steven had full control of the situation. A gentle caress over his chest put his mind back on track.
“Are you alright? Marc? Steven?”
Grant turned to her once he heard his name, to appease any bad thoughts “Sorry– didn't mean that–” he whispered breathlessly, leading his fingers to trace invisible lines down her waist, anxious to reach her hips to keep returning the tender touches. He smirked at the sight of Layla’s splendid figure glistening with beads of sweat with him still buried inside of her, “he just– Marc wants us to continue…”
An impish grin took over Laylas' lips.
“Does he?” she hummed, caressing his chest to support herself later, “is he telling you how to fuck me, right?” the wife turned around, hoping to see Marc even though she knew she would only find an anguished, aroused Steven Grant instead, who barely nodded, “that's fucking hot.”
“Oh, bloody hell– yes!” the nerd babbled between laborious, frantic breaths. He enjoys their stillness, grateful to just feel her, grateful for the lonely, sleepless nights that had led them to this exact moment but soon, he agonizingly extended his large hands towards her hips while slamming up once more time with a mindless, unhinged urge, as if trying to elevate her as the goddess she is, unwilling to let the slightest sense of modesty regain over his mind, “Please h-have it– have it-Iswear–it's–it’s been two times we've done this and I feel and I can't stop– I feel I can't live without it!”
Layla moans, holding still to better feel the sharp, sore invasion that made her so full, throwing her head back, hoping the scandalous act would satiate Marc's lustful desires.
“Good,” she replied, leaning down to plant a kiss on his lips, which seemed to spark a feral desire to correspond to her caress, locking her in his arms. Steven kneads her curves, holding her waist while Layla keeps on sliding with him over the bedsheets, panting against his ear, surrounding his shoulders in a close embrace, whispering his name as if it were a prayer, resonating in his soul like a siren's song, and even though it reverberates again and again, Steven does not stop rejoicing, especially when he felt that tight, pulsating tension growing more and more intense around him, as if their differences had a life of their own.
"Look at me," Steven could barely say, extending his hands towards her curly hair to push aside those thick locks in order to contemplate her beautiful face. It wasn't an order, but a desperate plea, “please love– look at me-” he gasped again, smiling when she quickly granted him his wish just before witnessing the glorious end: the pleasure hit her with the force of a raging wave, carving a vivid expression of ecstasy in her features, which Steven will remember for the rest of his life, letting his mind wallowing in those lively, blaring moans that soon were silenced by exhaustion. Layla collapses with dramatic grace besides an equally exhausted Steven, allowing their lungs to breathe and their hearts to calm down.
Although the rapture plunged him into a heavy, soporific lethargy a sudden, soft sigh managed to make him open his eyes.
“You did so good,” Layla smiled at him from her comfortable stillness.
The tender compliment ceases any desire to prolong his personal delight in her serenity, throwing himself to devour her lips through an impulsive and voracious kiss, with which he seemed to intend to compensate for his recently regained individuality. It doesn’t displease the wife, however, who gladly allows herself to be touched and kissed, reciprocating his caresses with equal ardor, laughing softly when she felt Steven trying to position himself on top of her.
"My God, that was fantastic," Steven huffed after breaking the kiss, fixing her gaze on his. He would never forget what he saw in those eyes, black like tourmalines: love, desire and passion, nor would he forget the disastrous evidence of her union located in her still stinging, worn femininity, for it is undeniable proof that she had been his. He is so immersed in the fascination of seeing her, so happy to be overwhelmed by his presence and so ready to continue satiating herself with him, that he does not notice when her beloved speaks to him.
“Wait, what?” Steven suddenly snaps out of the trance, “I'm sorry, I –” but Layla gently takes him off of her, standing up and heading towards the left door of the bedroom, whose inside Grant still wasn’t familiar with. Layla stops just before entering, smiling maliciously at him and giving a nod for him to follow her. Steven launches into a mad race and as soon as he reaches his wife, she opens the door, guiding him to the opulent and splendid space that served as a recreation room, jacuzzi included.
"Oh, bollocks…” he muttered, amazed at so much luxury, "I feel like a king," he commented, laughing.
“I thought you'd like it, so we could continue exchanging knowledge and put it into practice, you know?” Layla approached, hugging him from behind. Steven experienced an intense and exciting shiver rising up his spine as he felt her breasts press against his back. Everything feels so much around him, yet he wishes for the precious, lovesick numbness to never end.
"Yeah,” he hardly replies, anxious for more intimacy to unfold.
“Steven.” Spector hisses from the other side, startling the nerd.
Seconds later, Layla hears a loud, displeased groan that moves her to undo the embrace, thinking at first all this was just too much for him to bear so quickly. He shakes his head confused, remaining silent to recompose himself.
"Honey, are you okay?”
“Oi, mate. Just what do you think you’re doing?!” Steven exclaims, turned into a depersonalized reflection in one of the oval, wooden mirrors in the room, “You have no right! Give me my body back!” further protests over the lost control follow but Spector is unwilling to hear any complaint. Once he turns around, all Layla finds is a frenzied, almost furious predatory expression on his face, so far from the candid sweetness of–
“Marc!” she exclaimed, not having time to process how her husband imposes his broad form to hound her out of the room, holding her form and soaring back to the still warm bed. The violent outburst reminds her of the many nights he had returned to her after serving Khonshu, starving for her flesh like a hungry beast, leaving her no choice except giving in and clinging to his battered body, to regain his sense of humanity.
“You didn’t expect me to interrupt your little affair with your Steven, didn’t you?” the mercenary quips while impatiently placing his body over hers on the bed sheets again, “well, that's bad for you, he may be your boyfriend but I am still your husband.”
Marc turns around, watching an outraged Steven this time in the nearby mirror, gifting him a perverse smile just to focus back on her body, licking his lips while deciding where to start worshipping Layla, “you thought I was gonna sit and see Steven fuck you?” he asked now, nuzzling her face to later plant soft kisses on her lips, “I can return the favor… and teach him how to do this,” now he crawled down to bury his face between her legs, eagerly attaching his mouth to the delicate and sensitive flesh.
Layla now cries his name, tugging at his curls and locking his head between her thighs when she feels his rough stubble in her skin and his tongue making its way inside of her, not caring if his intensity was driven for mere and absurd jealousy.
Nothing ever remains sane with Marc Spector, for his love unfolds with an unhinged, devoted fervor. Layla knows it but doesn't think about it for too much longer once the climax spreads its tremulous daze all over her.
Marc smirked, releasing her to sit and watch his deed with solemn, silent pride.
“Are you seeing this, Steven?” He slowly slid his fingers down her moistened, warm sex to lead them into his mouth seconds later, lasciviously licking them while looking down at his wife, “I hope you learned something from this, buddy.”
“Damn right, mate” he answered, just as pleased as he was, “I think I should have a chance to practice, don't you think?”
Marc grins and nods before leaning down to prey upon her body, loving how her body writhes with undying devotion. He wishes Layla could hear him, but that doesn't spoil the fun of expressing it:
“Steven is eager to fuck you again.”
Her chest swells with thrill, locking her legs around his hips to feel that crazed heartbeat over hers, proving that Marc Spector indeed, has a heart.
“Tell him I'm all for it,” she simply replied.