#layla el faouly whump

[you-heard-what-i-meant]

All Fall Down - Moon Knight

Summary: Marc and Steven are free from Khonshu and no longer have the suit. This is one time they really needed it. 

Warnings: graphic descriptions of injury, blood, description of dying, major character death. Happy ending, I promise.

Note: not beta’d. Probably [definitely] inaccurate descriptions of Dissociative Identity Disorder and injury / death. I apologise in advance for any offense caused!

Posted on AO3 HERE!

Do not edit or repost my fics to other sites / apps, or claim as your own! Thank you!

Initially the pain is only the tip of the blade as it pierces his stomach. After that, the sensation is more… obstructive. The steel blade pushed in where it shouldn’t be, getting in the way of his organs, like having a band-aid on a joint makes you feel like there’s something stopping it from moving properly. The pain really hits when his assailant rips the blade free - slicing at a wide angle across his body, tearing its way through his abdomen from hip-to-hip as it leaves. 

Marc staggers backwards, his hands automatically flying to the gaping wound in his middle. The man is leering at him, bloodstained linen shirt and pale, loose jeans almost flapping in the wind. Marc has a moment to register the man’s discoloured, rotting smile before it’s gone - replaced by a look of shock that remains frozen there as he hits the ground face first. The blade in his back is removed by an angel with golden wings and glowing brown skin. Her abundant ebony curls bounce as she rights herself, the blade disappearing somewhere in the elaborate armour that encases her athletic form. Her satisfied look vanishes instantly as she gets her first real look at him.

“Marc!” his name shouldn’t sound like that when it comes from his angel’s lips - choked, horrified. He realises he can no longer feel his legs, that the pain has become a raging inferno throughout his torso, and the ground rushes up to meet him. 

His descent is halted by strong arms, which manoeuvre him onto his back and cradle him against the golden breastplate. Her small features are pinched in terror and fear as she gazes down upon him, her face already beginning to blur. He’s starting to feel hollow, his heart squeezing and thudding erratically.  His lungs have become too full to breathe, as counterintuitive as that seems, but he understands why when the bubbling, gurgling sensation starts deep in his chest and hot, metallic wetness flows out onto his lips with the gasp of her name. 

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

Layla POV

She knows when she sees the wound. But somehow her mind still screams a denial… until he chokes out her name. His impossibly dark eyes are dominated by fear and pain as they lock onto her face, the bright crimson bubbling and spurting out onto his lips a stark contrast to his dark olive-toned skin. Her hand flies to his face, resting flat against his cheek as she tries desperately to bring some comfort to her husband.

“Marc, Marc, it’s okay, you’re going to be okay. Tawaret! We need help, now!”

Her panicked call is answered swiftly. The enormous Hippo Goddess materialises beside them, towering over their prone forms. 

“Oh my goodness, oh no!” Her hands flap anxiously as she kneels beside them.

“Tawaret, help him, please, heal him!” Layla begs. She knows it sounds more like a command than a request, and any other Deity would have torn her apart for it. Tawaret’s face falls, and Layla already knows what she’s going to hear before the Goddess speaks. 

“He’s no longer in the service of Khonshu, he can’t use the healing powers of the suit anymore. And I - I don’t have the power to heal him. It’s not something I can access. I’m so sorry, Layla, I really am.” 

Layla can see that she means it. The Hippo Goddess is on the verge of tears as she lays a gentle hand on Marc’s head. “May your journey be swift and the field of reeds greet you like the war-hero you are.” Then she’s gone. Layla’s blood runs cold.

Marc’s body is quaking now. The pool of blood surrounding them has spread so far that Layla can no longer see its edge in her peripheral vision. The shallow, rattling breaths are becoming quieter. A shudder runs through him - then it’s no longer Marc she’s holding.

“Lay-la-” Steven chokes out, and it’s suddenly much harder to hold in her tears at the sight of his innocent face contorted in terror and agony. She desperately tries to soothe him.

“Hey, hey Steven. It’s okay-”

“-m - ‘m s-scared-” 

Her heart shatters. His dark eyes are wide and bloodshot. 

“Shhh - shhh Steven, it’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay -” She sees him acknowledge the lie, fear wiping out the last dregs of hope in his eyes. He tries to speak again - only short, helpless noises escape. 

“Shhh - I’m sorry, Steven, I’m so sorry -” Her tears finally break free, and she holds him tighter. In that moment he locks his gaze with hers, his face spasming as he fights for breath, as the terror overwhelms him- 

Then his face goes blank, his whole form falling still.

 

The sob that punches out of her jolts the still body in her arms. Gone. The realisation that Steven died in her arms hits her like a truck, and she feels a belt tighten around her chest.

 

She barely has time to feel the shock and grief start to set in when the body jolts again, the eyelids spasming over glassy eyes. She can’t fight the flare of hope that sparks to life inside her. It gutters out instantly.

Marc struggles to speak. The weak, choking noises he manages to make eventually form a word “Ste.. Ste-ven-” and his face portrays his crushing grief through his pain “-Can’t-”.

Layla fights down a sob. Her head bobs in an approximation of a nod, her own grief contorting her face. “I’m so sorry Marc - He - I was with him when - when he-” Marc’s eyes bore into hers, he tries to speak again, but now no words escape at all. A strange rattling whine emits from his throat, and Layla feels the panic grip her again - she knows that sound.

She rushes to speak while he can still hear her.

“- I love you! It’s okay, baby, I love - “ 

She’s still chanting her mantra as with a sigh he has no control over, Marc sinks into her arms, his eyes glazing over and his face going slack. He’s suddenly heavy, his weight no longer being held at all. His chest’s shuddering, desperate movements cease. 

This time is somehow different - before, it had been like his face had paused, awaiting his return from the headspace. Now it didn’t even look like him. Nor like Steven. The features are just… empty.  

Layla’s world freezes. It’s only when her chest starts to burn and her heart screams in her ears that she realises her breath stopped with her husband’s. Her whole body is numb, yet tingling painfully. It’s like she’s holding this moment in the palm of her hand, an inanimate object of a thing that she’s detached from. 

With a roar, reality crashes back in and she’s aware of the screaming sobs wrenching themselves from her throat. She curls herself tightly around the body in her arms, fighting her mind’s desperate attempts to look for signs of life, anything to deny reality and divert the truth. She wonders if it’s possible to tear muscles or fracture bones with the force of her sobs, the quakes of her body, as she shudders through the shock and grief. 

Then the coldness sets in.

Her shudders and sobs halt. She takes one, two, three breaths. Then she sits back on her heels to drink in the sight of her soulmate’s face one last time. She could swear there’s something behind his glassy eyes, a strange vibration running through his body like an electric current. She smiles for him, one last sight for his eyes to see before she gently smooths her fingers over them, closing the lids and putting him at peace. She begins to utter a prayer, to ask the Gods to take his and Steven’s souls to the glorious afterlife where they can live in peace and joy for eternity. Where they’ll wait for her. 

As she recites her prayers, she watches the throes of a body’s settling process after death with an almost detached gaze - or maybe it’s her grief stricken mind giving one last ditch attempt to deny reality. 

There’s the tiniest twitch under the golden-brown eyelids she’s just closed. Then the almost imperceptible spasm of the muscles on the right side of Marc’s greying lips.

She only just registers the weak shudder that runs through her husband’s entire form before an undeniable convulsion hits.

Marc’s chest jolts upward, his limbs tensing as his mouth opens in a silent gasp. Rigour Mortis she tells herself - the nerves dissipating their last impulses- 

She doesn’t finish the thought. 

An explosion of white engulfs Marc’s body. Pale bindings wrap themselves onto his upper torso and shoulders, a hood forming around a mask of dark strips of fabric - the same fabric that wraps itself snugly around each arm and leg. A bundle of white cloak pools around him, piling up on her lap and trailing into the crimson pool surrounding them.

Layla barely has time to acknowledge her terrified thoughts - Oh God, has something evil taken over his body?-  when an audible, desperate choking sound accompanies a sudden, jolting rise of his chest. He twists in her arms, and she sees barely a flash of his skin as the mask pulls away and he turns his face to the ground. With deep, guttural coughing, watery crimson sprays and drips into the existing pool of red as his lungs work to clear themselves. 

Time seems to stretch eternally until his coughing finally eases. As she helps him to lay back in the safety of her arms, she just catches the last slither of his cheekbone as his face vanishes beneath the dark mask again.

Every muscle in his body is pulled so tight he’s practically suspended, arched in her arms. A violent shudder runs through him, before he begins to relax incrementally, a tiny amount at a time, until he’s resting in her arms again.

Under the black mask she can hear the great chugs of air he’s pulling in, matching the deep, sharp expansion and deflation of his ribcage. She’s frozen in shock, adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream as she struggles to process - what just happened? What’s happening? What do I do?

Layla can’t tell if he’s staring at her, or just staring. The glowing white eyes give zero indication of the actual focus of his gaze, or the intention behind it.  “-Marc?” she finally ventures. After a second’s pause, he gives a tiny shake of his head. “Steven?” He doesn’t reply. 

She’s still trying to decide if she should speak to him again, or whether the head shake was meant to communicate that he couldn’t answer her, when the mask and hood recede to leave his head exposed. He looks… different. Well he was dead a few seconds ago. But something doesn’t sit right. 

“I - I thought you didn’t have the suit any more?” Her voice quakes in the cold of her body.

Dark eyes lock onto hers. His mouth works for a few seconds, his throat bobbing with an audible clicking sound as he clears the residual blood clogging it. 

“They don’t.”

His statement and voice unnerve her. Her adrenaline spikes again, ready to defend herself if she needs to, when something begins to form at the back of her mind. A vague memory, a suspicion. That night in Cairo - Harrow - Marc savagely beaten into the ground - and then -

“Who are you?” She doesn’t mean it to sound as abrupt as it does.

He blinks at her, his expression wary. He’s still fighting for breath.

“Jake.” He finally huffs out.

She nods her head jerkily. They thought there was a third… “Where -?” She doesn’t need to finish her question. Jake knows. 

“I've got them.” His voice has a gravelly quality that she suspects isn’t all from taking his last breath a few minutes before. 

“-You’ve ‘got them’?” Hope and fear war in Layla’s chest. She searches the oh-so-familiar eyes, finding fear, pain, and a hint of relief in their dark depths. 

“Yeah. They’re safe. They’re still… ‘unconscious’, they took the brunt of the - of it.” The effort of speaking seems to wear Jake out, he’s still breathless, but Layla can’t help herself. 

They’re safe. “-They’re ‘safe’? Safe where? Are they okay?” Layla is err-ing on the side of caution with this stranger.

To his credit, the look of impatience and irritation passes as fast as it appears. Something unreadable but somehow soft replaces it.

“- Yeah, they’re safe. In here -” he weakly gestures to his head “- like I said, they took the worst of it… I couldn’t break through their shock to take control.” he pauses for a moment, and she recognises the look that both Marc and Steven get when they’re looking inside or communicating in their headspace. “They’re gonna be fine. They need time to heal.” He finishes softly, almost affectionately.

 

Relief floods her system. They’re going to be alright. And he clearly cares about them. 

But the reprieve is short lived - they have to move.

“Ok Jake, we need to get out of here. Tell me as soon as you can walk and I’ll help you as much as I can.”

He nods. “Just need a minute… Let the suit give me enough juice to get moving.”

She nods in response, her eyes scanning their surroundings before settling back on this semi-stranger’s face.

“So… I don’t think we’ve really met before.” She ventures.

The man wearing her husband’s face blinks at her, then a slow smile spreads across his features. It’s both slightly unnerving and sweet at the same time. 

“Oh, we’ve met. I’m the one that saves our asses.”

[trickster-jpeg]

Like Crying Out In An Empty Room, With No One There Except The Moon.

This is technically a stand alone, but I did write a continuation where Marc and Jake find out about the nightmares -> Here

Summary: Steven is usually the one to help calm the others down when they get nightmares, so when he suddenly starts to get them he hides it and pulls away. Turns out he can only hide them for so long before their technically-still-wife, Layla, witnesses the aftermath first hand.

Warnings: Child abuse (Verbal & Emotional/Psychological), Death Threats (Wendy making threats to/makes a show of pretending to crash the car they’re both in).

Word Count: 3838 It's On AO3 -> Here

One thing that wasn’t a common occurrence for Steven was nightmares. Sure, he’d had his fair share of waking up in a cold sweat after the classic fear-fests that were: continuously falling only to wake up just as you hit the ground, being chased by some unknown creature, watching as his teeth fell out into the sink. The usual. But they’d never been like this. Not in a long time.

As a child he’d just assumed that they were just normal nightmares for kids to have; his mum screaming at him, his dad ignoring it like it wasn’t happening right in front of him. Just a classic childhood fear of rejection. That was until everything went to shit and he started bleeding into Marc’s life, and vice versa. Then Jake came along to spice things up just a little bit further and suddenly the weakened amnesia barriers meant other things started to seep through the cracks of the walls separating them all. Like the trauma that had caused their disorder in the first place, for example.

In the context of nightmares, Steven was the one who often ended up waking up into the tail end of them. He never really knew the content of them, just the feeling of Marc’s panic and fear as the man retreated into the headspace to recuperate. Hell, he’d even unknowingly stepped in for Jake a few times, dealt with the man’s insistence that he could handle it perfectly fine on his own and didn’t need any help. Though he’d loathe to admit it, he was reluctantly thankful towards the Brit for giving him a break and taking care of them in a way that he struggled.

It’s not like they could control when it happens, so when it did it was pretty easy for Steven to slip into the familiar role of comforting and self-soothing. He’d usually put on a nice little documentary and just ramble to himself out loud to remind them that they’re not alone in this fight.

Which was probably why it became such a shit show when Steven was the one to start having the nightmares. Something that became even worse when he realised that his other headmates were completely unaware of it.

For ages he’d been trying to take more responsibility in the system. He knew that Marc and Jake wanted to try and ‘protect him’ or look after him, despite knowing he could take care of himself. He understood the logic, he’d known the least and like Marc had said in that moment of emotion when they’d died (temporarily): That was the whole point of him. And that’s what it boiled down to, which pissed him off to no end sometimes. So he saw this new occurrence as just that, taking more responsibility in the system. Marc and Jake already had enough to deal with, having a couple nightmares was the least of his worries. Or that’s what he told himself at the start.

He didn’t want to be obvious with his avoidance, didn’t want to clue anyone in on his growing isolation. He honestly didn’t even realise it until Layla questioned him on if something was wrong, asked why he seemed like he was distant as of late. Sure he’d sent her less messages and hardly spoken to anyone that wasn’t the system or their technically-still-wife, sure he’d been less willing to meet up with her or do the stuff he usually enjoyed. So what if he suddenly started to lose the spark he carried when talking about his special interests, or was less likely to engage with system related business? It didn’t matter that he’d been struggling to get the body into bed for sleep more and more as of late. He was sure Jake and Marc were actually glad that he’d started to pull back from complaining about their late night escapades, or whatever they got up to when he wasn’t out and about.

It didn’t matter, because he was doing fine. He was functional and no one would ever find out what was going on. They’d never know about the panic attacks or the late-night breakdowns or the times where he’d had to make a mad sprint to the bathroom or kitchen sink to avoid heaving up stomach acid onto the bed after being startled awake. They’d be none the wiser to it because he was Steven, and Steven was the one alter in the system that was least affected by their CPTSD symptoms. He was the normal one, and he was doing just fine.

Layla had been out of the country for some time, barely having time to call or text between her escapades with antiquities dealing. It was understandable and Steven was almost glad that she wouldn’t be distracted from any possible dangers just because she tried to send them a quick text. But she was finally back and staying over at their flat to catch up on some much needed rest and grab her bearings, spending a week readjusting to the change in timezone. And Steven was glad, truly he was. As much as he’d been withdrawing, he did miss her dearly and was thrilled that she’d be around for a bit longer. His main concern was now that she was living with them, albeit temporarily, there was a very real possibility that his little nightmare issue would be discovered.

So far, they’d made it through most of the week smooth sailing, Layla and his headmates none the wiser. It was almost like she was some kind of nightmare protection warding charm, her presence automatically causing them to retreat somewhat. Either that or he was still very much having nightmares, he just didn’t remember them. Which would probably explain the heaviness in his chest and the pit in his stomach every time he woke up. He’d been trying to put off sleeping for as long as possible. Worst comes to worst he could simply use his neurodivergence to his advantage and excuse his behaviour as fixating on a particularly interesting piece of text surrounding egyptology. It’s not like he didn’t know plenty of sources to quote and play off as only having recently learned them.

They’d hit the five day mark of cohabiting before Steven’s facade came crashing down. It was late in the evening when Layla suggested watching something on the tele, wanting to just relax and wind down for the night with the Brit. Not thinking anything out of the ordinary, he readily agreed. Why wouldn’t he? He loved spending time with her. They spent a few minutes channel surfing before they flicked onto ‘The Mummy’. Instantly their interest peaked, a shared delight in poking fun at the inaccuracies of their shared field of interest.

They spent their time exchanging comments, briefly making a competition out of who could notice the mistakes first, and after a while it faded into simply watching the film settled into a comfortable silence. A newly bought and extremely soft blanket lay spread across the pair as they leaned against one another, enjoying the others company and warmth. The TV hummed ever so slightly, not something many people would be able to pick up on, but Steven simply allowed it to fade into the background underneath the audio of the film. Subconsciously, he leaned further into Layla’s side, his head feeling rather heavy as he gently rested it onto her shoulder. He heard her quietly huff an amused yet affectionate laugh at the action but paid it no mind, too busy relaxing into the safety her presence provided them. The safety it provided him. He felt the blanket move upwards over him just a bit higher as his eyes fluttered shut, unaware he was even falling asleep.

He was in the car, his mum sat in the driver's seat, coming back from a shopping trip or something. Just the two of them spending some time out together, like every other regular parent and child. They were driving back to the house, just sitting in regular silence. He didn’t know why he knew all of this, or how. He just did. Quietly, he watched the scenery change as they drove down the familiar roads. It was an odd time of the day, barely any cars on the road. But that was fine because it just meant they’d be home quicker and avoid all the traffic.

He didn’t know when the atmosphere changed, the hostility that suddenly spread throughout the vehicle. It was an instant change and all of a sudden Steven became incredibly aware of the enclosed close proximity that they were both sat in. He manually pushed down the tension that he felt creeping up his limbs, not wanting to appear as though anything was wrong between the two of them. Deciding to feign ignorance to whatever events would unfold in the very near future.

It started with his mum muttering under her breath. An incoherent jumble of words that strung together to form an even more intelligible set of sentences. It was as her tone began to grow more hostile and dangerous that he suddenly became extremely aware of every single one of his fuck ups throughout the day. Accidentally pushing the shopping trolley into the back of her when she’d stopped suddenly in the aisle, the thing too heavy for his arms to pull and stop it in time. Walking down the pavement behind her and stepping on the heels of her shoes, not realising how close she’d actually been. He did that thing she hated, staring down and watching his feet when he walked. All those little things and more as his brain started to gradually build up the panic and release the steady stream of adrenaline that was screaming for him to get away. But he couldn’t.

The words became more coherent, her voice climbing in volume as she ranted faster and faster, her words cutting deep into his brain and bouncing around in the space. His eyes flickering to her tightening grip on the steering wheel, her knuckles whitening at the force. Somehow the scenery had started to speed up, the trees now blurring more and more as the arrow on dashboard pointed to steadily increasing numbers. His mum was fucking furious and he only had himself to blame. As tense as he was, he still tried to not react, not wanting to be even more trouble and start winding her up further with crocodile tears. And he was doing a good job of it.

Until she started to swerve the car.

Instantly, the words started to tear from his throat in a strangle panic, rasping slightly as he faintly noted he hadn’t had anything to drink since the early morning. Apologies spilled from his lips, a silent and desperate plea for her to stop. For her to slow down, to focus on the road, to calm down, to stop shouting at him. To stop saying all of those things she was saying that were chipping away at pieces of his heart like verbal pickaxes.

“WHAT’S STOPPING ME FROM CRASHING THIS FUCKING CAR RIGHT NOW? I BET YOU’D FUCKING LOVE FOR THAT TO HAPPEN. FOR ME TO DIE HERE AND NOW. FOR THIS TO ALL END BECAUSE YOU CLEARLY THINK I’M SUCH AN AWFUL MOTHER, ISN’T THAT RIGHT?”

He watched as his mum let go of the steering wheel for a moment, the car instantly drifting straight towards the ditch on the side of the road, before jerking away and being set back on course. Tears poured from his eyes as he struggled to catch his breath, thrown headfirst into a panic attack at the imminent threat on his life as well as his mother’s. He tried to gasp out a response, an apology begging for her to stop. To understand how sorry he was. To try and convince her how much he loved her and cared about her. But his throat was too tight and his mum was just too loud, not even giving a moment's pause between her shouts.

“AFTER EVERYTHING I HAVE DONE FOR YOU, THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY ME? AFTER EVERYTHING YOU DID TO THIS FAMILY. YOU’RE LUCKY THAT I’M EVEN WILLING TO BE SEEN WITH YOU IN PUBLIC OR TAKE YOU OUT. FUCKING EMBARRASSMENT.”

His hands were clasped around the seat belt, his legs trying to draw upwards to his chest in an attempt to curl up and protect himself from what he believed could be the very real threat of serious injury. His eyes frantically scanned the road ahead to look for another car, a part of his mind telling him that his mum would get in trouble if anyone saw the way she was driving. His body swayed from side to side in the seat as the tires screeched on the road, the vehicle weaving manically under the control of his mum. Chest burning as he tried to catch his breath, he tried to scrunch his eyes shut in fear as if being unable to see what was happening would somehow protect him. His mum continued to speak, her tone slightly lower but still just as threatening. Still just as damaging.

“You’ve always got to be such a spoiled brat and ruin my day. I bet you fucking LOVE seeing me like this- So pleased at seeing me suffer and struggle. I bet that’s how you felt when you fucking killed hi-”

In an instant, Steven was gasping awake and propelling himself away from the warm body next to him. He blindly tumbled back off of the seat and crashed down to the floor, shuffling backwards on the hardwood until his back collided with something inanimate and solid. Still scrunching his eyes shut hard, he continued to rattle out pleas, heartbreakingly desperate attempts asking his mum to stop the car. Reassurance that he still loved her so much, that she didn’t need to do this and that he was so incredibly sorry for the things he’d done. Promises that he’d be better, that he’d be a good son for her, that he’d make it up to her.

He felt a hand brush over his shoulder, the touch light but unexpected enough and so fearfully unwelcome that a whimper escaped his mouth as he forcefully flinched backwards away from it. The hem of his soft and slightly oversized sweater was balled in his hands, fingers tightly clutched around the material and clinging to it like a lifeline. Teardrops streamed down his face harshly as he continued to try and minimise the noises he made as he sobbed, trying not to make her even more angry at the dramatic display.

Distantly, he hears the sound of something gently shuffling, moving back and forth before stopping across from him. The noise grows closer and approaches, instinctually causing him to try and curl up even more and make himself smaller. To his side, he suddenly heard something light hitting the floor and landing right next to his figure, something else gently being placed on his other side. The weirdly soft material that brushed against his leg was so distracting it almost snapped him out of his blubbering stupor. It felt nice though. Different. Almost reassuring.

Prying the fingers of one of his hands away from his sweater, he shakily darted his hand out to grab the thing, pulling it close to him in an instant. He felt it unfold on top of his legs slightly as he moved it, the type of pressure making him feel secure instead of terrified. His other hand gingerly and curiously shot out to grab the other thing resting against his other side, fingers wrapping around it and hugging it into his chest to cradle it. It was a vaguely familiar feeling as he shifted fearfully to hide himself under the soft material.

His breathing still heaved painfully as he fought to keep the jerking rising-falling movement of his shoulders as small as possible so as not to draw even more attention to himself, but it slowed down fractionally along with the tears rolling down his cheeks. The buzzed shouting of his mum screaming in his head lowered ever so gradually as another voice that wasn’t his own filled the air. It was calm and collected, a steady and familiar tone saying something. Reciting something.

It wasn’t something he understood, not at first, not in english. It took a moment before he processed what the phonetics sounded like. It was french. His favourite poet. Marceline Desbordes-Valmore.

As the voice spoke, delivering more stanzas of poetry, Steven copied. His thoughts running on autopilot as he mimicked the words being spoken by the voice, the safety it carried. Then half way through one of them, he began to translate it, his body taking over and steadying his breathing as it started to settle it back into the automatic and subconscious process.

“N’écris pas. Je te crains ; j’ai peur de ma mémoire ; Elle a gardé ta voix qui m’appelle souvent. Ne montre pas l’eau vive à qui ne peut la boire. Une chère écriture est un portrait vivant. N’écris pas.”// “Do not write. I fear you. I fear to remember, for memory holds the voice I have often heard. To the one who cannot drink, do not show water, the beloved one’s picture in the handwritten word. Do not write.”

As he thinks the words, he feels a rush of confidence at the lack of immediate danger, tentatively peeling his eyes open and peeking up from underneath what he now sees is a blanket. It takes a moment for them to adjust to the darkness of the room, a single dim lamp acting as a spotlight, highlighting a single figure sat across from him on the floor with her legs crossed and a book in hand. He knew her. He knew this place. This wasn’t the car, his mum wasn’t here. He was in his flat in London, and sitting adjacent to him was Layla. Steven’s lip trembled slightly, the overwhelming emotions not having completely settled down yet, jaw clicking quietly as he opened his mouth to speak in a rasped yet hushed tone.

“Your voice is lovely.”

Instantly, Layla’s head snaps up and looks towards him, her eyes full of surprise but also joy and reassurance at the sight of a mostly grounded and present Steven. She smiled, a dash of worry still evident but mostly hidden by relief. Softly, she closes the poetry book and places it to her side before slowly shuffling towards him, leaving enough time for him to say something if he doesn’t want her to be near. Eventually, she makes her way to be just in touching distance to the man, but still not touching him and instead waiting for any contact to be initiated. In a voice that’s so uniquely safe to Steven, she speaks.

“Hey, Steven. How are you feeling?”

The Brit swore he could’ve almost started full on crying again at the softness in which she said his name. He nodded gently in response, glancing down briefly to see the teddy he was holding hugged to his chest. As childish as it might’ve been, Steven treasured that item more than he could ever truly convey, and it warmed his heart to know that Layla not only acknowledged that without judging but also willingly gave it to him as comfort when he couldn’t accept it in any other forms. He looked back up to meet her eyes and knew the silent question she was asking. Do you want to talk about it?

They’d started trying to be more transparent about things with her about their childhood. Not to the extent of relaying everything, but she knew enough to paint a clear picture in her mind as to what they went through. He knew that she knew exactly what the subject of the nightmare was about, if not for the faint memory of all of the things he said out loud while he still thought he was stuck inside of it. And as much as he hated the idea of admitting the problem after months of hiding it, he wanted nothing more than to rid himself of the burden of carrying the weight alone. So he lifted his arm up to expose some of the blanket, nonverballing asking her to sit beside him, and started to talk.

“Why did she have to do those things to us? We were a child. We were scared and we were grieving and we’d just lost our brother. Marc had just lost his brother and all he needed was his mum, we needed our mum. We needed someone who cared about us. And instead, we had to deal with it ourselves. We had to care for and look after each other because no one else would. We were just a kid, Layla. We shouldn’t have had to do that. None of this should’ve ever happened. She’s the reason that we’re even a we in the first place and we got away from her and she’s still managing to break us even now. It’s not fair that we had to- I hate it so much- I just- I just want it to stop. Why can’t we just make it stop?”

Stray tears trickled down his face as he leaned into Layla just as he’d done earlier in the night, her arm wrapping around him in a hug and rubbing small circles into his shoulder as he rambled. A heavy silence settled over them as his words fell to a close, a shuddering breath shaking him slightly before he forced himself to relax. Steven didn’t expect a response from her, he was just glad he had someone who listened to him. He felt her add a bit more pressure to his back before pausing and slowly drawing him in closer for a hug, in which he gladly allowed himself to be pulled and enveloped into her arms. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, the faint smell of incense lingering in her hair from having burned some earlier.

He knew he’d have to talk about things later in more depth. Layla would never force him to talk about something he didn’t want to, but he knew he’d feel better getting it all out in the open, and he knew that she’d listen to anything he had to say without judgement. Sure, it was uncomfortable sitting on the hard wood of the old floorboards, and they’d probably regret not getting up sooner and moving to somewhere more comfortable later on. But for now he just wanted to exist safely, sheltered in the protection she provided him, so that’s exactly what he intended on doing. He closed his eyes and allowed her to just hold him. To give him the comfort and compassion he had been denied as a boy. It wouldn’t magically fix everything in an instant, but it was a start and that’s all he could ask for.

[mthofferings2023]

augusteofarles

See augusteofarles’s existing works here.

Preferred contact methods: Tumblr: augusteofarles

Preferred organizations: - Center for Reproductive Rights - International Rescue Committee - Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network (RAINN) (See the list of approved organizations here)

Will create works that contain: angst, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, whump, team-ups with other heroes/avengers, mental health struggles, found family

Will not create works that contain: omegaverse, reader inserts, non-con, incest, anything too explicit/ kinky, too much fluff

  -- Fic or Other Writing --

Auction ID: 1093

Will create works for the following relationships: Jean-Paul DuChamp/Marc Spector - MCU Steven Grant & Jake Lockley & Marc Spector - MCU Layla El-Faouly/Marc Spector - MCU Moon Knight fandom any gen - MCU Marc Spector-centric - MCU Steven Grant & Matt Murdock & Jake Lockley & Marc Spector - MCU Frank Castle & Steven Grant & Jake Lockley & Marc Spector - MCU

Work Description: Length: minimum 3k, though I am open to more depending on inspiration/plot I prefer to write fics including hurt/comfort and some angst, though I am happy to discuss any ideas you may have. Please contact me with your ideas before the bidding to make sure it's something I'd be able to write to your satisfaction. My current ship interests are mainly Marc/Frenchie or MK sys/Layla and also gen fics involving MK and other characters (though I'd prefer to discuss the specific characters you'd prefer beforehand). I am also open to writing continuations of my existing fics (Marc/Frank) if the prompt inspires me, so feel free to contact me about it. Scheduling: Due to other commitments/life, and being a generally sporadic/slow writer, I cannot promise a specific finish date, though I am open to updates and discussions in the meantime!

Ratings: Gen, Teen, Mature

Can pods bid on this auction? Yes - Podbids welcome!

CLICK HERE TO BID ON THIS WORK

The auction runs from October 22 (12 AM ET) to October 28 (11:59:59 PM ET). Visit marveltrumpshate.com during Auction Week to view all of our auctions and to place your bids!

[ao3feed-moonknight]

Fill Me Till I Drown

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/flTF9re by Wolfcry22 Water was never something that Marc feared despite what he’s been through; maybe it should’ve been. Part of Whumptober 2023 Whumptober No. 14 “Feed me poison, fill me ‘till I drown.” Flare| Water Inhalation| “Just hold on” Words: 3088, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Series: Part 14 of Whumptober 2023 Fandoms: Moon Knight (TV 2022) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Categories: F/M, Gen Characters: Marc Spector, Steven Grant (Marvel), Layla El-Faouly Relationships: Layla El-Faouly/Marc Spector, Steven Grant & Marc Spector Additional Tags: Hurt Marc Spector, Hurt Steven Grant (Marvel), Protective Marc Spector, Marc Spector Needs A Hug, Marc Spector Needs Therapy, Steven Grant and Marc Spector Share a Body, Marc Spector Has Issues, Marc Spector Angst, Marc Spector Has PTSD, Marc Spector is Bad at Feelings, Marc Spector Has a Bad Time, Adorable Steven Grant (Marvel), Protective Steven Grant (Marvel), Soft Steven Grant (Marvel), Marc Spector Loves Steven Grant, Steven Grant Loves Marc Spector, Anxious Steven Grant (Marvel), Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Caretaking, Angst, Heavy Angst, Minor Layla El-Faouly/Marc Spector, Protective Layla El-Faouly, Drowning, Blood and Injury, Blood, Major Character Injury, Rain, Whump, Whumptober 2023, Whumptober No. 14, “Feed me poison fill me ‘till I drown.”, Flare - Freeform, water inhalation, ”Just hold on”, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Marc Spector Has DID, Canon Disabled Character, Disability, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Mental Health Issues, Trauma, Past Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Childhood Memories read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/flTF9re

[whumpypepsigal]

Moon Knight s01e04: “I Can’t Save Anyone Who Won’t Save Themselves.”

[cupids-crystals]

Sam Wilson

Copycat - you surprise Sam by dressing up as your favorite superhero for Halloween (fluff)

Sam Wilson Mood Board

Loki Laufeyson

Endearments - Loki likes nicknames but only from you

Love and War - it was a battle of the ages, a collision of shooting stars (slight whump/angst, fluff ending)

Meet Again - this is not the end; somewhere, you’ll meet again (whump, character death)

Dancing with Loki Mood Board

Wanda Maximoff

Respite - everyone needs some time off work, especially the Avengers (fluff)

Yelena Belova

Complete - Reader gives Yelena the best Halloween possible (fluff)

Peter Parker

Secrets Unveiled - Reader unveils a secret about their boyfriend after trying to surprise him (fluff)

Spider-Man Mood Board

Bruce Banner

Bruce x affectionate!reader headcanons

Moon Knight System

Layla El-Faouly Mood Board

Marc Spector Mood Board

Steven Grant Mood Board

Coffee Date with Steven Grant Mood Board

[ao3feed-moonknight]

Crushing And Falling

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/Iji7BCD by Wolfcry22 Marc goes into battle with a few remaining Harrow sympathizers at an abandoned dig site when it caves in. He really wished that he had thought to bring Layla for backup, especially when the memories start. Part Of Whumptober 2023 Whumptober No. 5 “You better pray I don’t get up this time around.” Debris| Pinned Down| “It’s broken” Words: 2493, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Series: Part 5 of Whumptober 2023 Fandoms: Moon Knight (TV 2022) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Categories: F/M, Gen Characters: Marc Spector, Steven Grant (Marvel), Layla El-Faouly Relationships: Layla El-Faouly/Marc Spector, Steven Grant & Marc Spector Additional Tags: Marc Spector Needs A Hug, Protective Marc Spector, Soft Marc Spector, Hurt Marc Spector, Marc Spector Needs Therapy, Steven Grant and Marc Spector Share a Body, Marc Spector Has Issues, Marc Spector Has PTSD, Marc Spector Has DID, Protective Steven Grant (Marvel), Protective Layla El-Faouly, Married Layla El-Faouly/Marc Spector, Minor Layla El-Faouly/Marc Spector, Mentioned Khonshu (Moon Knight), Dissociative Identity Disorder, Mental Health Issues, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Altered Mental States, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma, Childhood Trauma, Psychological Trauma, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Broken Bones, Injury, Major Character Injury, Blood and Injury, Blood, Rescue Missions, Whump, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Whumptober 2023, Whumptober No. 5, ”You better pray I don’t get up this time around.”, debris, pinned down, ”It’s Broken” read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/Iji7BCD

[mthofferings2023]

kimmycup

See kimmycup’s existing works here and here.

Preferred contact methods: Discord: kimmycup

Preferred organizations: - ALA "Unite Against Book Bans" Campaign - Assistance Dogs International - Médecins San Frontières (Doctors Without Borders) (See the list of approved organizations here)

Will create works that contain: Fic: At longer wordcounts I am predominantly good with plotty stuff. Preferably canon divergence but some AUs work too - coffeeshop or other fluffy ones I'm better at - I weave angst into that rather than using angsty setting. I can do whump, I can do action. I am weirdly specialized in angsty kidfic, apparently, as I realized.

Will not create works that contain: For fic: zombies, infidelity, dark settings (slavery, dystopia etc), supernatural AUs, omegaverse, overly explicit stuff (i can throw in a sex scene in a whole fic but not write a smut only fic). For candles: Overly elaborate desigs in wax, basically anything with too many pieces forming the shape. Like Tony's arc reactor.

  -- Fic or Other Writing --

Auction ID: 1127

Will create works for the following relationships: Frank Castle/Foggy Nelson - MCU Frank Castle/Matt Murdock - MCU Matt Murdock/Foggy Nelson - MCU Layla El-Faouly/Marc Spector - MCU James "Rhodey" Rhodes/Tony Stark - MCU Harry Osborn/Peter Parker - MCU, Spider-Man (Raimi trilogy), TASM Layla El-Faouly/Jake Lockley - 616, MCU Frank Castle/Matt Murdock/Foggy Nelson - MCU Matt Murdock/Foggy Nelson/Marci Stahl - MCU Jean-Paul DuChamp/Steven Grant - 616, MCU

Work Description: This is the insane auction you've been looking for. I'm offering a fic without top wordcount limit. Every 10 dollars is 1k words. Yes, that means 500 dollars is 50k. That means a thousand is 100k. I don't predict more but you can do more! Go wild! Ruin me! Set me a challenge like I never had before! Due to wordcount, I would like to ask anyone bidding over 20/30k words to contact me if I am for sure happy with the prompt. I can't write long fic for stuff I don't like. Due to the nature of a fic being a long form, your prompt should reflect that. Canon rewrites (or crossovers and fusions, as long as I'm familiar and okay with the other piece of media) or plotty stuff preferred. If you don't want something too long you can also break the auction wordcount into up to three separate fics. I am also happy to do other ships, especially poly related to the people already listed, like Layla/system or Frenchie/system, Frenchie/Jake, Marci with either of the avocados instead of together, or even gen fic. Once again please ask first if you're unsure if I will write what you want.

Ratings: Gen, Teen, Mature, Explicit

Can pods bid on this auction? Yes - Podbids welcome!

CLICK HERE TO BID ON THIS WORK

-- Craft or Merchandise --

Auction ID: 2063

Will create works for the following relationships: Jeff the Land Shark-centric - 616

Work Description: This auction will be a figurine in polymer clay of Jeff the land shark. The size is customizable (up to 10cm), and so are the colors. We can discuss potential positioning him into a different pose than standing or adding accessories if auction hits 50 dollars. Winner pays shipping.

Ratings: Gen

Can pods bid on this auction? No - I'd rather not be bid on by pods

CLICK HERE TO BID ON THIS WORK

-- Craft or Merchandise --

Auction ID: 3023

Will create works for the following relationships: Tony Stark-centric - Any Universe Bruce Banner-centric - Any Universe Natasha Romanov-centric - Any Universe Clint Barton-centric - Any Universe Bucky Barnes-centric - Any Universe Avengers fandom any gen and ship - Any Universe X-Men fandom any gen and ship - Any Universe Defenders fandom any gen and ship - Any Universe Moon Knight fandom any gen and ship - Any Universe

Work Description: This work is for a custom candle. It's up to you what it will look like. I can do shapes in the wax, I can do layers, inbeds, a lot of different ways to incorporate characters. See images for examples (the Hawkeye logo could also be a free standing candle on its own). What I cannot do is elaborate designs like arc reactor - it's too many pieces to center. Ideally contact me if you have an idea that seems more complicated or about specific characters from the "any" section. Winner pays shipping.

Ratings: Gen

Can pods bid on this auction? No - I'd rather not be bid on by pods

CLICK HERE TO BID ON THIS WORK

The auction runs from October 22 (12 AM ET) to October 28 (11:59:59 PM ET). Visit marveltrumpshate.com during Auction Week to view all of our auctions and to place your bids!