buzzcut season
In which Marc does for you an act of service. ˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚ Tags: 18+; Marc Spector x Reader; Anon request; No use of Y/N; One-Shot; Established relationship; Fluff; Confession; Shower scene; Reader's gender is not stated; Tasteful nudity; You can't prove I named this after the Lorde song. Not Beta'd. Word Count: ~2,942. Warnings: Shaving razors, bullet wounds, body hair, Marine Corps references, implied age gap, brief injury. Briefer mention of death. ˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚
Sometimes, when Marc caresses your skin with the lightest of touches, you wonder if he is trying to wipe the blood from his palms.
It's a permanent red stain that only he can see. Invisible gore greases beneath his fingernails, slithers down to the lines etched in his knuckles. Spots and spatters across old, textured scars marring the sharp curves of his knuckles.
It will never wash away. Not in the way that matters.
There is not a single universe wherein Marc Spector allows himself to relax. To feel safe. To let go of the iron-clad sense of control over every aspect of his life.
But, lately, you think…he might be trying.
And it's such a vulnerable, tender realization that you're never, ever going to verbalize it, for fear of him reverting, erasing, covering up. You hold it like a secret and breathe it to a star.
You first realized something was different last month when you woke up and Marc was still in bed with you. Not asleep, but resting. And then some weeks ago, he had offered to grab coffee with you—Coffee! Entirely mundane, and entirely unprovoked. You were so startled that you almost refused the offer.
It's not that Marc is some perfect, unfeeling machination of the God to whom he's sworn to serve. He's still a man, and your partner, and he treats you well. It's just that he doesn't always remember this, and usually you're the one doing the reminding.
So today, when Marc picked you up from work, settled you in Steven's flat, and asked if you'd like to take a shower with him, you'd jumped at the chance.
(Well, asked is a strong word. He simply left the bathroom door open and let steam fill up half the flat until you walked in, closing the door behind you. "Took you long enough," he'd said, as if this were a normal person thing to do.)
And now, when he spreads his fingers across your scalp, massaging in an unnecessary amount of shampoo, you are distinctly aware that at any point he could smash your forehead into that shower wall and kill you.
Maybe that's a bad thing. But you close your eyes and lean into his touch, and you reflect on this: Marc is capable of great violence. And such gentleness. He lathers your hair, cradling the side of your jaw from where he stands behind you, just so that you don't have to even hold your own head up.
It's things like that.
You lean your head back, so that Marc might have easier access to the rest of your hair. When you do, he slides his palm from holding your chin to cup around your neck. You keep your eyes closed until he's finished.
He releases you after a moment, and then you're free to turn around and rinse out the suds. Facing him, you don't smile, but you feel yourself soften. Absorb it all in.
"You got a staring problem?" he asks, but there's no bite in it.
Sometimes, Marc looks at you like you aren't a real person. Like you're some Good Thing to put on a pedestal, as a way of justifying his poor self-esteem. And you hate it.
But he's looking at you now and seeing you, and it makes you so happy that you lean forward, hold the sides of his face in your hands, and kiss him, soft and slow.
You don't even notice when Marc holds you by the waist, pulling you close; it just is, and the both of you just are. Wet skin on skin, breath on breath. Taking your time. Tasting. Savoring, not devouring.
He kisses your mouth, the corners of your smile. Your face. Mapping, memorizing. Parting your lips with his, inviting and familiar. Your stomach flips when he trails down your neck, ghosts across your skin, noses your jaw. You lace your fingers through his wet hair, other hand on the back of his neck. Holding on, but holding him. When he returns to you, it's soapy and soft and warm.
Marc doesn't really do boyfriend things. But when you're both sated, he rests his forehead on yours, and closes his eyes.
You're lost in it, this feeling. Bodies pressed against bodies. Entirely open and exposed. Giving and taking. Trusting. Kissing, just because. Marc hums in satisfaction, a low, throaty noise.
And it could be more. It could be hotter, wetter, hungrier.
But, God, this is enough.
This is all you've ever wanted.
Eventually, you must realize that he's probably getting cold. You are taking up all the water. So you part from him, and step around, switching places.
"Let me wash your hair," you say, wishing to return the favor. Marc shrugs with a shoulder, assenting. He grabs around you for his shampoo, as if you couldn't move literally half an inch to do so—but you don't mind terribly. Not when it means he stretches over you, as if it's an excuse to touch again.
And, admittedly, your eyes catch.
There are four concave impressions on Marc's chest, littered over either lung. Stippling and tight, stretching, awkwardly healed over. His Star of David necklace rests in the dip of his collarbone, right next to them.
Bullet holes. Killing shots.
Two from his Commanding Officer. Two from Arthur Harrow.
Four permanent reminders that Marc should have died, but did not.
Twice.
"I'll say do not resuscitate next time," Marc says flatly. He hands you the shampoo bottle.
"Next time?" You frown. "What, third time's a charm?"
He smirks a little at that. In the humidity of the bathroom, his curls—if it's possible—give him almost a boyish look, like it's Steven huddled next to you instead.
You rub your hands together, evenly distributing shampoo across them. "Turn around," you order, and Marc does as you ask. He's just tall enough that the shower head doesn't hit him in the face.
And, oh, his back. Broad and defined and meaty. You could take a bite of his thick trapezius muscle like an animal and feed your young for weeks. There's one scar, an exit wound where the bullet went through, that streaks out like a star.
Clearing your throat, you comb through his dark hair with your fingers. Focus. "I can't believe you used to cut your hair," you say.
"Wasn't up to me. Regulations."
"Then thank God you were discharged," you mutter darkly.
(It's not an appropriate thing to say, and it definitely shouldn't make Marc's shoulders tighten in an effort not to give a startled laugh.)
That's how this night goes. You take turns cleaning, tending to one another. Scrubbing off the day. And, before he can turn the shower off, its head hissing in release, you take one of Marc's hands in yours and gently wash it off.
It's so clean it could sparkle, but you hold it anyway, drawing circles with your thumbs into the sides of his hand. No blood. No blood. You will keep him safe and clean and there will be no more blood.
You make nothing of it—just a simple act of domesticity, that's all—but when you glance up at Marc, he knows.
Neither of you verbally address it. The moment passes.
Once you've both stepped out of the shower, you get to enjoy the visual of Marc soaking wet and impossibly human. Broad shoulders, warm brown skin, head bent while he searches for a towel. Every time Marc Spector moves, an angel gets its wings.
You drag your gaze lower, and wish you were an artist.
When he wraps a tatty mauve towel around himself, you're a little disappointed. But the trail of dark hair leading underneath the towel can satiate you for now.
"Stop eye-fucking me," he deadpans, and that's when you realize he'd been furrowing his eyebrows at you.
"I am not," you protest, darting your gaze upward. "Prude."
Marc tilts his head ever so slightly, narrowing his eyes. His soldier's body straightens. Appears bigger, stronger than he is. It's something masculine and vaguely threatening.
There's two ways this could go: you could tease and pick at and provoke him, and then you'd have take another shower after getting fucked dry and senseless. That's the way, you've learned, that Marc expresses himself most freely. And he likes to express himself often.
Or, you could do something differently. Something you've toyed with in your mind for a while now.
"I have a request," you say. Your voice snaps the tension neatly in two. "It's, um, a personal one."
Marc's eyebrow raises. "Shoot."
You lean against the bathroom sink, body still dripping on the floor. "Would you—this is going to sound dumb." Your ears burn with embarrassment, especially since Marc is just standing there, waiting. "Would you mind helping me shave?"
Marc doesn't say anything at first, but crosses his arms. "You want me to help you shave."
"Yes." Vaguely, you gesture toward the lower half of your body.
Marc gives a considering little nod of his head. "Okay, sure. Where's your stuff?"
You blink. That was…a lot easier than expected. Once you had the idea, you thought you'd have to convince him.
But Marc is trying. Remember?
"I'll grab it," you say, turning and crouching to open the sink's small compartment. Inside, you fish around until you catch an unopened pack of triple-bladed razors.
When you lean up, Marc takes the pack from your hand. Opens it. Grabs what he needs and places the rest of the pack on top of a small laundry hamper.
"Is your shaving cream scented?" You ask, reaching above his shoulder to grab a towel for yourself, as the post-shower air has started to thin and cool.
Marc shakes his head no. "Is that a problem?"
"Not really," you say. "I've heard it could be, though. Chemicals or something."
You open the bathroom mirror door, towel draping across your shoulders and down your back. Marc's shaving cream is a nondescript thing. Just a bottle.
"Sit." It's Marc's turn to tell you what to do. He gestures toward the shallow shower ridge; you have to slide the curtain and liner to the other side in order to make room for yourself. Once that's done, obediently, you sit.
There's a little cup on the bathroom sink (isn't there always a random little cup in a bathroom?), which Marc fills with hot water.
As you sit and watch him, you turn the bottle of shaving cream around in your hand. You expected to feel nervous, anxious, embarrassed. Like this is a totally abnormal thing for a couple to do. That this is too much.
Marc knows about being too much for someone.
So with his hands full, he moves to sit on the cold tile in front of you. Places the cup down. Grabs the shaving cream from your hands.
"Spread 'em," he says, patting your knee.
You readjust yourself, opening your legs—baring yourself to him.
And it's just another Wednesday night.
You drop one side of your towel back onto your shoulder and reach out to slick back his hair, as he usually likes it. In the blueish light of the bathroom, you think there's little streaks of gray mottled in.
You tell him so, too. "You're getting old."
Marc frowns, distributing a bit of shaving cream to his open hand. "No, I'm not."
"You are. You're practically geriatric. It's public service, what I'm doing right now. Volunteering to hang out with the elderly."
Marc gives you an unimpressed stare from where he's at, angled slightly below you. "You can go home anytime you want, y'know. Won't bother me any."
"The second I leave, you could fall and break your hip."
At that, he rolls his eyes. Marc is about to reach out, to touch you, but pauses. The look he gives you now is pliant, patient. "Still good with this?"
The sheer fondness you feel for him could knock you over. "I'm still good. You still good?"
Marc doesn't entertain that answer—he would tell you if he had a problem. Once he's sure you aren't going to change your mind, he applies shaving cream to the soft, downy fur between your legs as though it's as normal as spreading jam over toast. It's cool against your skin, velvety and soft.
"So," you say, as Marc carefully—oh, so carefully, so gently—begins to scrape the razor flush against your fur. "Can you summon the suit anytime, or is it only for emergencies?"
"Emergencies."
"But what triggers it?"
"It…" Marc pauses, waves the razor in a tiny circle in the air, then continues his task. "Adrenaline, mostly. It knows when I need it."
"So, it senses when your body gives off danger signals. Your blood pressure, heartbeat, how fast you're breathing."
"No, no, yeah. Something like that."
"If you we were fucking, like, crazy hard, would the suit take over?"
"Stop talking."
Biting down a smile, you watch him. It doesn't hurt. Nothing pulls. Just like anything else, Marc does this with a clinical precision, brows drawn in focus.
There's not a man alive you'd ever trust with this aside from him. Marc has saved your life time and time again—being in a relationship with the Fist of Vengeance isn't exactly a walk in the park. He would put his life on the line for you.
But this is zero-stakes. An act of service.
The two of you alone in London, alone in a yawning flat, cooped up in the bathroom. Like there's no angry God in his head. Like things are okay.
It floods over you all at once, the truth of it, the part you've been saving. For what, you're not sure. But you've known for a long time. Months now. It's a force, a joy, a cup that keeps on filling. Not what Marc provides to you—not the sense of safety, of security. Knowing he's always looking out for you.
This is what you can give him.
Not just a body to hold at night. Not someone to pretend everything will be okay with. To escape with. This is real, and it's climbing up your larynx and out of your mouth.
"Hey, Marc?"
"I said stop talking."
"I love you."
Marc's hand slips, and so does the razor. Instinctively, your body jolts at the sharp sensation—you hiss a breath through your teeth when the blade bites into you.
"Shit." Marc curses, flinches, assesses the damage. There's a thin, messy line of red across the skin below your belly, blood beading at the corners. "Shit. Hold still."
"Yup," you say, clenching your jaw hard. It's not as painful as it is startling, and you look upward—if you can't see it, it won't sting as bad. That's what you're telling yourself.
Marc stands and soaks a soft cloth with warm water. Kneeling before you, while you cross and uncross your ankles in an attempt to be utterly unbothered, Marc gently pats your skin with the cloth until all the shaving cream is gone. His other hand holds your thigh, widening the gap between your legs.
"Is it bad?" You ask, studying the line where wallpaper meets ceiling.
"No. Does it feel bad?"
"Not at all," you say, even though it does, and Marc knows it. And then, "I'm going to have to get stitches. I'm going to die in the ambulance before we get to the hospital."
"So you're fine."
You glance down. Marc's holding the washcloth against you, soothing the sting—and he looks so serious about it, and there is worry swimming in the dark of his eyes. More blood on his hands. It's written across his face, how quickly his guard slid right back into place.
"I hope it leaves a scar," you say quickly.
Marc scowls. "No, you don't. You don't want them."
"Oh, yes. It'll stay there. And I'll like it."
Genuinely confused, Marc meets your eyes.
And you're grinning, despite the fact you're breathing with your chest as to not risk disturbing the cut. "Because it'll remind me of the first time I said I love you."
Marc looks down again. "I just cut you."
"Yes. And I still love you. That kind of thing can't be revoked so easily."
Uncomfortably, Marc repositions himself. With some difficulty, he says, "I'm sorry."
"I'll forgive you if you say it back. That you love me."
"You know I do." And he's right. Marc shows his love to you every single day in every way he knows how.
But he's so tense right now that you have to egg it on, to interrupt whatever he's thinking about. If you leave Marc to his own devices, his night is going to spiral.
That's what you do for one another. You're a grounding force for Marc, and he teaches you how to dream.
So while he makes sure the bleeding stopped, you say, "That was half-assed. Barely a declaration."
Then you know you're getting somewhere, because he drags out as if it's a chore. "Sure...I--love--you."
You can't help but to laugh. "Say it more romantically! Like you mean it."
Immediately, Marc moves upward, hands on either side of your thighs where you balance against the shower rim.
He's so close that you can see the individual lines where his left eyebrow was split years ago.
You open your mouth to say something—apologize for being too candid, annoying, even—but before you can, Marc cups a hand around the back of your neck and says, "I love you."
And he means it.
˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚ Tag list: @wspia @julisvessel @loki-love @lunacreepy6 @draggolblackthorn @northsilverstar @radiocerk The humble tip jar (ko-fi) A/N: give Jalen Brunson the keys to the city. Holy shit, the Knicks won. As promised, the next fic will be quite raunchy to celebrate. (I was writing this fic as I watched the game...if that explains any erraticism.) Anyway, special thank you to the anon who requested this!