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little-miss-dilf-lover · 1 day

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THE MEDIATOR AND THE INSTIGATOR.

(moon system) marc spector x reader — angst

summary. you and marc have been casually dating for a while now, though he finds it hard to admit his feelings. steven fronts to comfort you after a tiny argument, and he finds it hard to contain his own feelings towards you

word count. 1290

wrote this to get me out of a writers block and did a spinning wheel to help. so here we are, enjoy the slight heartache x

With Marc, things weren't always so straightforward. Either things were dramatised and blown beyond proportion or, on the contrary, brushed under the carpet and ignored. It was tricky to find a plain levelling road between you.

You've been seeing each other casually for the last several months, and it was still so hard to pull a genuine emotional response from Marc. Just something to let you know he felt the same way as you, just something to let you know you were both going in the same direction.

He kept his feelings behind a stoic wall, never wanting to allow someone the opportunity to jump it. Although sometimes, he would show small snippets of his feelings towards you - doing something cute and instantly brushing it off with a casual, throwaway comment: a singular flower on your pillow in the morning or your favourite snack stocked in the cupboards, for him to then say he doesn't know how it got there.

It's little things like these that you desperately clung to, tiny moments that gave you hope.

You often felt a continuous spiral of confusion revolving around your own feelings. In your heart, you knew you wanted to give things a genuine go with Marc, but that lingering thought remained intact in the forefront of your mind. The thought that you shouldn't have to convince someone to be with you - that you should never have to force someone to want you.

You had stayed over Marc's last night, and you woke this morning to an empty bed and a flower resting on your phone atop the nightstand. You smile at the singular red rose and sit up, placing your hand on Marc's side of the mattress - feeling how warm it is. He must've been up a while because the sheets were stone cold.

Scooching across the bed, you stand and slip on your pyjama bottoms - walking out of the bedroom to locate Marc. Within a few quick moments, you find him sitting at the kitchen table - a bowl in front. He gives you a short nod, lips forming an ever-so-faint smile when you get closer.

He was distancing himself again.

"Morning," you say, walking past him. You grab a bowl from the cupboard and a spoon from the drawer and go to sit opposite him, filling your dish with the cereal on the table. "Do you want to do something today?" you ask, pouring the milk into your bowl.

"Can't. I have plans," he says, tone like that of dismissal. He stands, picking up his bowl to place it in the sink - leaving you again.

You nod, sadly smiling as you prod your spoon into the floating flakes. "What about after?" you offer, trying again.

"I'll let you know," he murmurs, barely looking over his shoulder, heading for the bedroom.

You sigh, feeling frustrated. Moments like these undid all the progress between you. Everything you worked so hard towards - gone. You no longer felt like eating your breakfast, and as the seconds passed, you stayed there at the empty table, staring at the pieces of cereal growing soggy.

You hear scuffling from the other room, presumably from Marc getting ready for the day - you hear muffled talking, though no words are cohesive enough for you to pick up on. You sit there, silently debating what to do. One part was begging to barge into the room and force him into talking. The other part had the urge to get up and leave.

You decide partially on the latter and stand from your seat at the table, walking across his apartment and into his bedroom. You knock firmly at the ajar door, peering your head through the gap.

"I need to get my clothes. Can I come in?" you ask, tone pointed.

He hums faintly, the floorboards creaking under his weight as he moves to pull on the handle - letting you in.

Keeping your eyes away from his direction, you walk around his bed and collect your things - throwing everything in your overnight bag.

"Where are you going?" Marc questions, halting in his placement by the dresser.

"Home," you reply shortly, continuing to pack your belongings. You undress and put on what you wore last night when you came over - throwing your sweats back on.

"Why?" he asks, voice far more gentle than those moments before in the kitchen.

You ignore his questioning and shove on your shoes. But Marc is quick to notice your attempts to leave, so he moves to stand in front of the bedroom door - blocking it.

Your head cocks to the side as you sigh, unamused by his sudden care. You step forward, hoping that he'll take the hint and step aside, though he doesn't.

"Why?" he repeats, his tone just as desperate - maybe even more so.

"I don't feel welcome here, I just want to go home," you reply honestly, gesturing for him to move. "We'll talk about it another day, just not now."

"Let's talk about it now," he prompts, eyes soft as he focuses on you. It was clear he didn't want you leaving him, especially right now.

"You never want to talk about anything."

"I want to now."

"What? When I'm trying to leave? That's when you care?"

He stills, his expression firming. Unknowingly you hit a sore spot. "Yeah, go on, then. Leave. Everyone else does, anyway," he sneers, moving from the door - walking to stand in his previous spot in front of the dresser.

You pause, taken aback by his comment. Does he not know how hard you've tried with him? How patient you have been?

"What's that supposed to mean?" you ask turning to face him, voice firm and frustrated.

He's focused on the mirror ahead, looking at himself - muttering things to the other person in the reflection.

You linger in your spot, waiting for Marc to say something. Though he never does.

"Alright?" he greets - the face is the same, but the accent is not.

"Steven?" you question, your tone far softer now.

He hums, taking a seat at the edge of the bed, patting beside him. You follow suit, sitting next to him - hand beside his.

"He's trying," Steven says, speaking like the mediator. "He just finds it... hard."

You nod. You understood, you understood it all. You knew of his past, and why he is the way he is - and that's why you were always so patient with him. It wasn't his fault. It's just how he is, the way he grew up. You were just hoping that by now, he'd be comfortable enough to let you in the same way you did him. If there is no trust, how ever can it work?

"I just wish..." you pause, twisting around to face Steven. "I wish he was honest with me— you are," you pick up his hand, holding it in yours. "You're honest."

He sighs faintly with a soft shake of the head, retracting his hand from your hold. "Give him a chance— just one more, yeah?"

You awkwardly place your hands on your lap, moving them away from Steven.

"Marc loves you, you know. He really does," he says, voice gentle, his face wounded. He diverts from your gaze, turning away to look at the mirror. "He just can't admit it to himself."

You follow his eyeline, trying to see what he sees, but he's quick to turn back around - his gaze now locked on you beside him. He's quiet as he places his palm over your knee, the warmth and touch familiar like all those times before - it's Marc.

"I'm ready to talk now."

never wrote them together before/ part of the moon system, scary shit

#marc spector #marc spector x reader #marc spector angst #marc spector x you #steven grant #steven grant x reader #steven grant angst #steven grant x you #moonknight x reader #moon boys #moon knight #moon system

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milkypompon · 1 day

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Chapter 3 | Pick Up

pairing: Marc Spector x Reader (implied Steven Grant x Reader, implied Jake Lockley x Reader)

summary: Even after a year living with Steven and Jake in the headspace, Marc struggles to quiet the buzzing chatter. He finds himself frequenting Coffee for Two, a place where brewing roasts fill the air and the cookies are as sweet as the barista.

this chapter: you finally receive a phone call...?

content: Mentions of Marc's past, plotty plot plot

wc: 2k+

a/n: I'm exploring the dynamic between the moon boys! Specifically on Steven and Jake's understanding of the system.

Moon Knight Masterlist || Main Masterlist

Coffee Doodles Masterlist

< Previous || Next >

–

Take it out of that pile of shit, Stevie.

“I won’t.”

Ay, do it before I sit your ass to the back.

Steven stares into the rubbish, listening to Jake’s half-hearted threats.

It didn’t matter if he tossed it into a trash compactor and cast it into the open sea, they both memorized the number on the cup.

How else could they have survived as Khonshu’s avatar?

The god spouted astronomical coordinate systems during missions, instead of cardinal directions. It was disrespectful of his domain to merely water down the night sky into four words or their combinations, according to the squawking bird.

Regardless, no point of direction from his alter or the moon god could shift his moral compass.

“I dare you, mate.”

Jake grumbles under his breath.

Neither of them liked to tug on the string that forced control over the body. They wouldn’t be any better than Khonshu rattling his wrapped talons over their lifeforce — a puppet at the hands of its master.

We’re allowed to live our own lives. Isn’t that what you wanted?

“This isn’t just about me anymore. Or just you for that matter.”

Once, Steven wanted nothing more than to free himself of the sleep-deprived nights and taste a drip of normalcy. He thought the only way to do that was to overcome whatever was going on in his head.

Egypt.

Khonshu.

The happenings in the Duat with Marc and Jake.

But now, his life, their life was more than that.

Steven was more than elated to discover support from a place he couldn’t even begin to fathom.

Finding a way for each of them to front was a balancing act through understanding. It isn’t created by compartmentalizing the week into color-coded days or agreeing to a first come first serve basis. Their system was far from perfect, but it was their’s.

Restraint was the seed of their problems, among other things, but the anxiousness of being confined (like they were in the sarcophagus) was something they couldn’t stomach.

An attempt to claw himself out would forego the delicate trust built on an unsteady foundation.

No more lies.

No more secrets.

And definitely, no more double duties.

“Besides, you said it yourself. We should live our own life. If either of us rings up the barista, despite all her loveliness, you’d be pretending to be Marc.”

Jake knew what was coming next. Don’t tell that story again–

Steven turns up his nose toward the reflection on the toaster. “Need I remind you, the last time you filled in my shoes, I ended up at a steakhouse for a date?”

You’re never gonna let me live that down, eh? At least it got you outta the stuffy museum for the night.

“Hmph, I’m never take dating advice from you, no matter how desperate I get.”

Well, desperate times call for desperate measures.

How about you take those pretty little fingers and pick up that damn cup! And use your other set of five to press the numbers into your phone.

Jake tended to spear-head ways to bring the out of their shell, it stemmed from years of hiding away. His actions came from good intentions, though the sentiments among the three weren’t always shared.

“Not gonna be late for my first day, you twat.”

Steven tugs the handles of the trash bag into a neat bow, double-knotting it to emphasize the point.

He chews the inside of his cheek. It’s been a day, but he still couldn’t feel Marc’s presence after retreating into the recesses of their mind. He’d be lying to himself if he said that things were a little easier this time around.

Despite going through hell and back (almost quite literally), maybe there would be a shared bonding experience that would lead them on the right track. But it always seemed like something veered them a little bit off-center. This time it wasn't a life-threatening mission...

Steven shrugs on his jacket and tinkers with the doorknob.

–

Since the last time Steven worked at the gift shop, he swears the British Museum didn’t sell the stone statues of the Ennead. (He wonders what else popped up during his absence). At least nine deities are behind the display case, instead of the misprinted eight on the poster.

How the toymakers laid their hands on strangely accurate models of the ushabtis is beyond him. It isn’t his problem anymore, the days of working inventory are over.

Whoever is responsible for the new figurines must be the same person who sorted out his new job. After the loo and jackal incident, he swore up and down that he blew the opportunity to become a tour guide.

He shoulders his bag and heads to the information desk, where a familiar blond sifts through papers.

Steven clears his throat. “Morning, Donna!”

“Stevie.” She peers up, a strained smile splitting her face, and hands him his nametag.

It doesn’t matter if she calls him the wrong name, nothing could take away the bubbling joy in his heart. He holds it in his two hands as if cradling a duckling.

Steven marvels at it briefly and smiles, noticing the engraved designs. He runs his thumb over it.

A scarab and a moon.

Layla must’ve put a good word in for him before she left for Egypt.

He clips it onto his breast pocket.

Steven Grant Tour Guide

Donna pipes up, “After you’re done ogling, group A is waiting up front. Speak up a bit for that bunch. Mostly grandparents looking for a day out.”

Steven weaves between visitors meandering through the halls before standing in front of about ten people. A few wandering eyes behind a pair of thick glasses are already looking past him and at the exhibit. Others are fidgeting with their canes.

“Hiya, there everyone! I’m Steven with V and’ll be your tour guide for the day.” He claps his hands with a bright smile.

Steven walks backward to face the group while explaining each artifact with animated hand gestures and fluctuating voice impressions. There are tidbits of information he sprinkles in pulled from personal encounters with the gods. But, he skirts around how the unfriendly croc wanted to consume the souls of the living.

The tour ends in a little under an hour, leaving enough wiggle room for a q and a portion. He rounds them up in front of a sectioned-off hall where they are free to discuss the pieces without the usual prattling of sugar-infested children.

“Anything you’d like to know more about off the top of your noggin?”

A shaky hand raises, a paper bracelet decorating the granny’s wrist.

People rarely asked questions, so Steven beams at the prospect of going off into another tangent with someone as captivated as he is in Egyptology.

“Yes, please! Go ahead.”

She smiles curiously and points to the unopened area of the museum. “What’s in there?”

“Ah, your guess is as good as mine. It’s my first day here so the curators haven’t filled me in on what’s going.”

“Could we take a peek?”

The hall isn’t open to the public for various reasons – there are fragile steles, brittle canopic jars, and parchment that resemble closer to dust than paper. Still, it tickled his fancy to be one of the first few people to check out the unearthed pieces.

He scratches the back of his neck. “The guided tour has ended, but feel free to stick around with me and the missus here if you’d like to look in.”

The group is seemingly uninterested, except for her. They disperse with an appreciative nod and head toward the exit.

“Well, aren’t you a sponge for knowledge!” Steven unclips the rope from the pole and ushers her inside. “Watch your step, might be bits and pieces of packing stuffs.”

Wooden crates line the walls along the respective categories of tools, ceremonial weapons, and non-utilitarian objects. The last are Steven’s particular favorite.

His eyes land on a slab of stone with carefully carved hieroglyphs. “This poem is dedicated to Hathor, the Goddess of Love. How lovely!”

It’s set inside a glass case, Marc stares back at him on the reflection with a slight frown, but it isn’t directed toward him.

Her hand sidles up to the barrier, Steven glances at the strip of paper around her wrist… it’s a hospital bracelet.

“Can the other two read this like you can?”

Steven’s mouth gapes open and before he can reply she recites the hieroglyphs to his (and Marc’s) surprise.

One plus one Equals two One for me And one for you

Frantic footsteps near them, J.B. sets the rope back in place and tuts. “Oy! That’s where you went off to. I couldn’t find you on the cams. Off you go, you two.”

Steven tucks his chin down, voice going into a low whisper. “Think the missus here got lost.”

“What’re you going on about–” J.B.’s gaze flits over to her.

He rolls his wrist to emphasize his point.

“Gotcha, I’ll call security. Can’t believe she’s back.”

“Back?” He whispers to himself, just barely catching J.B.’s last sentence.

Steven adds, “Heya, no need for a big fiasco. She’s a nice one.”

–

The chime of the entrance bell hasn’t rung all morning at Coffee for Two.

You gnaw at the end of your pencil in deep contemplation. Your decision darts between opening the shop to kill the boredom or listening to Nan about joining her for a break after she was given strict doctor’s orders for bed rest. Years of baking sweets and brewing coffee weren’t easy on her knees or head for that matter.

Either way, you were supposed to be on vacation, yet here you were working on a new bread recipe.

You worked around the clock before she practically forced you to hit the pause button. Even with the help of your part-timer, she couldn’t hold a candle to Nan’s experience with folding dough, piping frosting, and roasting beans.

Though sitting behind the counter were moments few and far between, you missed the daily hustle and bustle of serving the regulars who were often in pairs.

The gray hairs of a Mister and Missus would peek from the velvet couch as they dipped a biscotti into a dark roast. Or a budding romance between a young couple would lead to sharing an affogato by the wooden stools. You’d smile to yourself and throw in extra cookies for them, claiming that you miscalculated the measurements and made more than usual.

You aren’t a stranger to the coffee shop meet-cute. It happens often enough to warrant the thought of writing a collection of romance novels.

Between work… and work, there wasn’t much time to do anything else.

The tangents meet when Marc showed up.

At the right moment and time.

You flinch when your phone plays a jingle, fumbling to grab it and pressing the green button.

“Hello?”

–

When you prayed to any god listening about receiving a call out of sheer boredom, you didn’t expect a call from the Royal London Hospital. You gripped your phone waiting for the nurse’s message.

“This is the number we had on file in case of emergencies.”

“Yeah, yes. That’s me, I’m her granddaughter.”

“We’d like to inform you that she’s left the premises… again”

“Left the– Bloody hell! You could’ve started with that! You would think after the first time, you’d keep a closer eye on her, eh?” You accidentally bite your tongue after hurtling word after word at the nurse.

“We’re not responsible for the patient who’s left the area. But, we–”

“Tried?” You make your way out of the coffee shop, nudging the door close with your hip. “Yeah, like the first two times? Third time’s a fucking charm. You better hope she’s at the same place as last time.”

A call from another line intercepts your current one.

“Uh, hello, Miss!” A light voice chirps from the other side. “We’ve got a bit of a situation at the British Museum.”

You groan inwardly, she was there again. No wonder why the incoming number was familiar. (Not that you were expecting an unknown one from a particular curly-haired regular...)

“Did you find Nan?”

“If you mean the nice granny with the dangly bracelet, then it’s safe to say, yes.”

“Did she– Is she okay?”

He chirps, “Oh yes, mhm! No need to worry, we’re sat down together.”

“Good, okay. Thank you, by the way, uh…”

“Oh bollocks, forgot to introduce myself. It’s Steven. Steven Grant.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen.”

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