Em secretly likes cutesy things. Like the hello kitty plush a previous ask said! Anything that is pastel and made to be cute, Marshall actually likes in secret. In real secret.
So whenever his partner of sorts gets a cutesy things, he gets excited with her. But he tries to hide it.
I'd imagine a girl who just so happen to like cute things being a perfect pair for this intense rapper guy who is actually a normal, even soft dude in private.
Not a request! Just asking for thoughts.
I feel like as a girl dad...he could appreciate them.
I think if his girl was into it he'd be excited/happy for her and feed that, but genuinely excited? Eh. It's just another thing you bought.
You best believe he's on eBay though getting the rare/limited edition ones of the type she likes and gets genuinely pissed if he gets outbid.
Angsty Recovery fic is coming either today or tomorrow depending on how my day goes... Just know it's pretty sad and we're dealing with heavy emotions and the thought patterns that go along with loving an addict.
Angsty Recovery fic is coming either today or tomorrow depending on how my day goes... Just know it's pretty sad and we're dealing with heavy emotions and the thought patterns that go along with loving an addict.
hii could u go marshall mathers with beard x age gap younger woman
You didn't give me a lot, but @charitylynn02 and I were talking about the beard the other day and this just fit....
Title: Brat
You glanced at your phone for the third time in five minutes, the sleek black device buzzing with yet another email from a label exec who clearly didn’t understand the meaning of “Marshall’s not available for meetings today.” You sighed, thumbs flying across the screen as you typed a polite but firm response. It had only taken two years as his assistant before everything changed, and you still handled the chaos with the same quiet efficiency that had first caught his eye. Sweet on the surface, always the one bringing coffee exactly how he liked it, remembering birthdays for the crew, diffusing tensions with a soft smile...but God help anyone who pushed too hard.
Especially Paul.
“Jesus Christ, kid, you gonna let him hide in the studio all day or what?” Paul’s voice boomed from the doorway of the home studio, arms crossed as he leaned against the frame like he owned the place. Which, in a business sense, he basically did.
You didn’t even look up at first, just arched an eyebrow and kept typing. “He’s working, Paul. You know, that thing he does when the muse hits? I know you live to be a human cock-block..I mean, manager, but if I let people distract him every time he gets momentum you'd never get your check.”
Paul snorted, the sound half-annoyed, half-amused. The two of you had been doing this dance for years. To the outside world, it looked like oil and water. To anyone who paid attention, which neither of you would ever admit, it was closer to siblings who secretly had each other’s backs. He knew you kept Marshall grounded. You knew Paul would walk through fire for him. That didn’t mean you had to make it easy. “Yeah, yeah. Sass me all you want. Just make sure he eats something that isn’t protein bars and spite before this afternoon’s session.” Paul’s eyes softened a fraction, the tell he’d never say out loud. You’re good for him.
You gave him a tiny, genuine smile in return before flipping back to full brat mode. “Tell you what, I’ll feed him if you stop cock-blocking his creative flow, and stop making me remember how fucking bald you are. Deal?” Paul muttered something about “pain in my ass” as he left, but you caught the smirk. Good enough.
You slipped into the studio quietly, the low hum of beats still playing through the monitors. Marshall was hunched over the board, hood up, that familiar focused scowl on his face. Your heart did the same stupid flip it always did. Daddy. The word lived in your chest like a secret even when you were just his assistant in the daylight.
He didn’t turn around, but you knew he sensed you. “Paul bitching again?”
“Always,” you said lightly, setting a fresh water bottle and a protein bar within reach. “I handled it. You’ve got two hours before the next call I couldn’t push.”
He spun the chair, eyes dragging over you slow and deliberate. That look. The one that stripped away every layer of sass and left you soft and aching. “Good girl.”
The praise hit low in your belly, warm and immediate. You’d been his assistant for two years with professional, friendly, boundaries firmly in place before that night at the club. You’d gone to blow off steam after a brutal week, the prettiest uncollared sub in the room and fully knowing it, looking for release. He’d been there too, anonymous enough in the dim lights. The spark had been instant. Dangerous. Addictive.
For three years after that, the rhythm was perfect: days filled with schedules and studio time and friendship laced with tension; nights where he became Daddy, unraveling you in every way imaginable. No feelings. Just need.
Until five years ago.
---
You’d tried to end it. The realization that you were falling, way too hard, had terrified you. You couldn’t keep being his secret submissive while your heart cracked open every time he touched you. You’d shown up at his place that night with every intention of walking away clean.
Marshall hadn’t let you.
Even now, the memory still made your thighs press together. He’d listened to your shaky explanation in silence, jaw tight, eyes darkening with something feral. Then he’d moved, fast. Before you could protest, you were in his bedroom, wrists bound to the headboard with silk ties, legs spread wide and secured. Naked. Exposed. His.
“You think you can just walk away from me?” His voice had been low, rough, that Detroit edge sharpening every word. He’d stripped slowly, eyes never leaving yours. “After everything? Nah, baby. You’re mine.”
Then the edging had started.
Hours of it. His mouth, his fingers, his cock bringing you right to the brink over and over, only to pull back with a dark chuckle every time your pleas turned desperate. Tears had streamed down your face by the third round, body trembling, pussy soaked and swollen and aching. He’d hovered over you, thick cock teasing your entrance, thumb circling your clit just enough to keep you frantic. “Say it,” he’d growled, sinking in just the tip before stopping again. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“Daddy...fuck! Please—”
“Not good enough.” Thrust. Withdraw. “Again.”
You’d broken eventually, sobbing the words: “I’m yours. I’m yours, Marshall. I’m yours.” Only after you’d come so many times you were boneless and hoarse did he finally let himself go, fucking into you deep and claiming until you saw stars. When you were both wrecked, sweat-slick and breathing hard, he’d pulled you into his chest.
Later, in the quiet, he’d admitted it. “I don’t fuck my subs in this bed.” His voice had been barely above a whisper, fingers tracing your spine. You’d looked up at him, confused, you’d only ever been with him here. He’d shrugged, almost shy, and tugged you closer. “You’ve been different… I just didn’t know how to tell you.”
---
Back in the present, Marshall’s hand caught your wrist, pulling you into his lap. The studio chair creaked under your combined weight. His mouth found the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “Been thinking about you all morning,” he murmured. “Sweet little girl out there handling Paul for me. Being my good girl. Even if you're a sassy fucking brat.”
You melted against him, the sass evaporating the second his voice dropped into that register. “Only sassy with everyone else, Daddy.”
“Damn right.” His hand slid under your skirt, possessive and sure, fingers teasing the edge of your panties. “You know better than to give me your shit... Paul knows it too, that's why he makes me give you bad news. He likes you, y’know. Won’t admit it, but he does.”
You huffed a laugh that turned into a soft moan as he cupped you. “I know. I like him too. Doesn’t mean I won’t keep giving him shit..." Then you pause, suspicious, "What bad news?”
Marshall chuckled, dark and warm. “That’s my girl.” He nipped your neck, then pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. The dominance was there, but so was the softness he only ever showed you. “There's a marketing meeting this afternoon…Then I want you tied up again. Been too long since I reminded you exactly who you belong to.”
Heat flooded your face. Completely missing the dropped mention of the meeting, focusing only on the dark promise in his voice. “Yes, Daddy.”
He kissed you then slowly at first, then claiming, the kind of kiss that blurred every line between boss, friend, lover, and owner. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.
---
The rest of the morning blurred by in a haze of emails, calls, and the low-level chaos that always seemed to follow Marshall’s projects. You handled it with your usual quiet competence, sweet smiles for the studio assistants, sharp efficiency for the vendors, but the tension was already coiling under your skin. The marketing meeting loomed like a storm cloud. By the time everyone filed into the conference room, you were already on edge. Marshall sat at the head of the table, casual in a black hoodie and jeans, looking every bit the focused artist. Paul lounged to his right, flipping through notes with that perpetual half-smirk. And then there was Laura.
Fucking Laura.
She perched across from Marshall, glossy hair perfectly tossed, her voice honey-smooth as she launched into her presentation. “I really think aligning the campaign visuals with this softer, more introspective vibe would resonate, especially after the last album’s reception. What do you think, Marshall?”
The way she said his name made your stomach twist. Subtle. Always so fucking subtle. A lingering look here, a thoughtful tilt of her head there. Never overt enough to call out without sounding insane. You’d been biting your tongue for months. Paul caught your eye from across the table and winked. Bastard. He lived for this. You leaned forward, voice sweet as sugar but edged with venom. “I disagree. The introspective angle risks coming off too vague for the core fanbase. We should lean harder into the raw, unfiltered energy, that’s what Marshall does best.” You didn’t care about the visuals. Not really. But you’d argue paint drying if it meant pushing back against her.
Laura smiled, all professional politeness with a glint of challenge. “That’s an interesting take. But data from the focus groups suggests—”
“Data can be spun,” you cut in, crossing your legs and fixing her with a pointed look. “Marshall’s authenticity isn’t something you ‘align’ though it just is. That's what fans respond to.”
Marshall rubbed his temple, clearly amused but trying to stay neutral. “It’s not ridiculous, baby... I mean, we should consider both.”
Paul chuckled under his breath, the sound low enough that only you and maybe Marshall caught it. He loved this shit. “Alright, let’s get Marshall’s take. Boss? Softer visuals or raw energy?”
Marshall glanced between you and Laura, then shrugged. “Laura’s got a point on the visuals syncing with the narrative beats. It could work.”
Your jaw clenched so hard you thought your teeth might crack. The room went quiet for a beat. Heat flooded your cheeks. Not just anger, but that sharp, possessive sting that always turned you into a needy, bratty little sub underneath it all. He agreed with her?
“Then why even fucking ask me to be here?” The words slipped out before you could soften them. You crossed your arms tight over your chest, refusing to meet his eyes. The silence stretched. Laura raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, playing it right back with a tiny, innocent tilt of her head that made you want to scream.
Paul bit back a grin, thoroughly entertained. Marshall sighed, but you didn’t stick around for whatever placating words were coming. The meeting dragged on for another twenty agonizing minutes, every second pure torture. You contributed the bare minimum, voice clipped and professional, while inside you simmered. The second the meeting wrapped, you gathered your things quickly. Marshall’s hand brushed your lower back as people started filing out, a silent we’ll talk after this. You shrugged it off sharply, stepping away.
“Why don’t you go ‘align vision’ with Laura,” you hissed under your breath, low enough for only him to hear. The jealousy burned hot and irrational, feeding that subby ache deep in your chest. You wanted him to grab you, pin you, remind you exactly who you belonged to, but not here. Not now. You didn’t wait for a response. You turned on your heel and walked out, ignoring the concerned look from one of the interns and Paul’s barely-contained laughter echoing behind you.
Fuck pretending to work. You grabbed your bag, shot a quick text to the team that you were handling “personal errands” for the rest of the day, and drove straight home. The house was quiet when you arrived. Marshall’s place, technically, but it had also been yours too for years now. You kicked off your heels, poured a Diet Coke you barely touched, and curled up on the oversized couch with your arms wrapped around a pillow. The brat in you was loud today. The sub in you was already anticipating the consequences. You checked your phone once, twice, no messages yet. He may not even realize you'd left yet... Fine. Let him stew. Let him come find you.
Because he would. Marshall always did.
---
The front door slammed hard enough to rattle the framed photos on the wall. You didn’t flinch. You’d been expecting it, two hours of stewing in the house you shared, cleaning mindlessly to burn off the jealous energy. The loose gray sweatpants hung low on your hips, the waistband of your panties just peeking out, and the tight black tank top clung to your chest, the hem riding up to show a generous strip of bare midriff every time you moved.
Marshall’s shoes echoed across the hardwood as he stepped into the kitchen. You felt his stare before you heard his voice, heavy, assessing, pissed. “What the fuck?”
You glanced up from the dishwasher, sliding a plate into the rack with deliberate calm. One eyebrow arched, the picture of faux innocence laced with venom. “You and Laura get the details ironed out?”
His jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jump even under his beard. Those blue eyes flashed with that unmistakable dominant spark, the one that usually made your knees weak and your pussy wet in seconds. “Cut the brat shit right the fuck now, baby girl. You’re already in the shit.”
You shrugged, turning back to the dishes like it was the most fascinating task in the world. The clink of glass filled the tense silence. “If you say so. You and Laura have plans tonight?”
He moved closer, boots heavy, that coiled energy rolling off him in waves. You slipped away smoothly, circling the island to load the next set of utensils, still chattering in that sweet-but-cutting tone you reserved for everyone except him. “I’m honestly surprised you’re home already. Figured you two would have so much to discuss. Aligning visions and all that. Wouldn’t want to get in the way of your creative synergy.
“Enough.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. He tried again, stepping around the counter with purpose, reaching for your arm. You danced just out of reach, hips swaying as you bent to push the rack back in. The sweatpants slipped a little lower on your hips, and you knew exactly what view you were giving him. “I mean, she’s really good at what she does, right? So professional. So subtle.” You emphasized the word with a little huff, closing the dishwasher door harder than necessary. Inside, your heart hammered. You knew the rules. Leaving without telling him was a hard limit...something you’d broken today in your jealous fit. You’d considered waiting in bed with your fingers buried deep inside yourself just to push him further, but you weren’t that stupid. Not tonight. Marshall hated the idea of anyone touching what was his, even you, and last time you’d tried something similar, he’d edged you for days before refusing to fuck you for a full week. You’d nearly lost your mind. You wanted his hands on you tonight. His cock. His ownership. So instead you poked… but not that hard.
Marshall’s patience snapped. He closed the distance faster this time, one big hand catching your wrist and spinning you around to face him. His grip was firm, not bruising, controlled dominance that made heat pool between your legs despite the bratty fire still burning in your chest. “You walked out after the meeting, left work without a word, and came home just to mouth off about some imaginary bullshit with Laura?” His free hand gripped your chin, forcing your eyes up to his. “You’re mine, remember? Not just when it’s easy. Not just when you’re feeling sweet. All the fucking time. And right now, you’re acting like you forgot who this pussy belongs to.”
You bit your lip, the subby little brat in you warring with the ache to drop to your knees. Your voice came out smaller, but still edged. “Maybe I just thought you’d rather be aligning visions with someone who doesn’t argue back.”
His eyes darkened. The hand on your chin slid down to wrap around your throat—not squeezing, just holding. Possessive. Claiming. “Bedroom. Now. Lose the clothes on the way. We’re gonna fix this attitude until you remember exactly who I come home to.”
You swallowed hard, the venom draining into pure, needy heat. You knew the punishment was coming. You craved it. With one last tiny, defiant glance, you turned and headed for the stairs, hips swaying, sweatpants already slipping lower as you peeled the tank top over your head. Marshall followed close behind, the storm in his eyes promising you’d be a sobbing, obedient mess before he was done with you. And God, you couldn’t wait.
You were halfway up the stairs, fingers already hooking under the hem of your tank top to obey like the good girl you usually became the second he used that tone, when Marshall’s phone buzzed loudly on the entryway table. The screen lit up.
Laura - Marketing
The name flashed like a red flag. Something ugly and hot twisted in your chest, drowning out the submissive urge in an instant. Fuck obeying.
Instead of continuing upstairs, you yanked the tank top off in one smooth motion and tossed it carelessly over the railing. It fluttered down, leaving you in just the pretty pink lace bralette that cupped your breasts perfectly, the delicate straps framing your skin. The matching lacy pink panties peeked out as your sweatpants hung way too low on your hips. You didn’t even glance back at him. You turned on the landing and detoured straight toward the home office instead, hips swaying with every step. “Maybe I should get some work done,” you called over your shoulder, voice dripping with fake professionalism and pure brat. “Since apparently I’m so replaceable these days.” You heard his sharp inhale, the heavy footsteps following you. The phone buzzed again on the table Laura, no doubt, but you didn’t stop. You pushed open the door to the office, the cool air hitting your exposed skin and making your nipples tighten against the lace.
Marshall’s voice was low, dangerous. “Get your ass in the bedroom. Right now.”
You ignored him, dropping into the chair behind the desk and crossing your legs slowly. The sweatpants slipped lower, revealing more of the thin lace waistband of your panties. “You should probably get that,” you said sweetly, nodding toward the distant buzzing. “Wouldn’t want to keep Laura waiting. She seems so eager to align everything with you.”
His jaw was locked, eyes blazing as he stalked closer. But before he could reach for you, or the phone, you pulled your own cell phone out of your pocket, scrolling casually. “Maybe I’ll call Jason in promotion,” you continued, tone light but laced with venom. “See if he’s free for that dinner meeting he keeps begging me for. You know, to go over your schedule for the launch. He’s been so persistent about it…”
The shift in Marshall was immediate and electric.
Jason. The one man he’d explicitly forbidden you from being alone with months ago. Marshall was convinced Jason wanted to fuck you, and he was right. You’d seen the way the other man looked at you, the lingering invitations, the “just business” dinners he kept pushing. You’d been sitting on them deliberately, waiting for the perfect moment to weaponize that jealousy. You wanted this Marshall. The dark, obsessive, possessive one who lost every ounce of restraint and reminded you with his entire body that you were his.
The phone on the entryway table kept buzzing. Marshall didn’t move to answer it. His full focus zeroed in on you like a predator, chest rising and falling as he rounded the desk. “You really wanna play this game right now?” His voice was gravel and smoke. One hand slammed down on the desk beside you, caging you in. The other snatched your phone from your fingers and tossed it aside. “Talking about meeting up with that little shit who’s been trying to get in your pants for months? After throwing a tantrum over Laura?”
You leaned back in the chair, arching just enough to push your breasts against the pink lace and make the fabric stretch enough to become see-through, eyes locked on his with defiant heat. Your heart raced, pussy already throbbing at the storm you’d deliberately unleashed. “I don’t know, Daddy,” you said softly, the word dripping with mockery and need. “You seemed pretty interested in her vision earlier. Figured I’d find someone who appreciates mine.”
Marshall’s hand shot out, fisting your hair at the nape of your neck and yanking your head back. Not gentle. The dominant spark had ignited into full flame, obsessive, claiming, furious. “You’re done,” he growled, lips brushing your ear. “No more running your mouth. No more Laura. No more Jason. Just you, tied down and screaming my fucking name until the only thing in that bratty little head is who the fuck you belong to.”
His free hand shoved the sweatpants down your thighs in one rough motion, exposing the soaked lace of your panties completely. You gasped, the jealousy and possessiveness flooding back tenfold, yours and his colliding.
This was exactly what you’d wanted.
And Marshall was about to give it to you.
You barely had time to register the heat in his eyes before Marshall’s hands were on you. He hooked one arm under your thighs and the other around your back, lifting you clean off the office chair like you weighed nothing. The sweatpants were already pooled around your ankles; he kicked them aside as he hauled you against his chest, leaving you in nothing but the pretty pink lace bralette and matching panties. “No more games,” he growled, voice low and final. The dominant edge in it sent a shiver racing down your spine.
Still, the jealous brat in you wasn’t quite done. You squirmed in his grip, pushing against his shoulders and kicking your legs half-heartedly as he carried you out of the office and down the hall toward the bedroom. “Put me down, Marshall,” you huffed, even as your body betrayed you—nipples tight against the lace, thighs pressing together at the effortless way he manhandled you. “I wasn’t finished talking about Jason’s dinner-”
His grip tightened, one large hand sliding down to palm your ass possessively, fingers digging into the soft flesh just below the lace. “You’re really testing me today, baby girl.” The words rumbled through his chest as he took the stairs two at a time, completely unbothered by your wriggling. Being petite had its downsides, you were tiny compared to him, and right now that meant he could carry you wherever the fuck he wanted, especially when fueled by that dark, obsessive jealousy you’d deliberately stoked.
You twisted again, trying to slip free just enough to make him work for it, your fingers tangling in his hoodie. “Maybe I should text him back right now. He’s probably free tonight—”
Marshall’s response was immediate. He shifted you higher in his arms, pressed you hard against the wall at the top of the stairs for a moment, his body pinning yours so you couldn’t move an inch. His mouth crashed against yours in a bruising kiss... angry, claiming, all teeth and dominance. When he pulled back, his eyes were nearly black. “You even think about texting that motherfucker and I’ll edge you for a month.” He bit down on your lower lip, then started moving again, kicking the bedroom door open with his boot. “You’re mine. This body. This pussy. Every jealous little thought in that head. Mine.”
You were still half-fighting, half-melting as he carried you inside and tossed you onto the big bed. The mattress bounced under your back, pink lace the only thing left covering you. Marshall stood over you, yanking his hoodie off in one rough motion, revealing the hard lines of his chest and shoulders. His gaze raked over your body like he wanted to devour you whole. “Hands above your head,” he ordered, voice rough. When you hesitated just a second too long, still riding that bratty high, he grabbed your wrists himself and pinned them to the mattress above you with one hand. His free hand hooked into the front of your bralette, tugging it down roughly until your breasts spilled out.
“You wanted my focus?” He leaned down, mouth latching onto one nipple, sucking hard enough to make you arch and whimper. “You’ve got it. Now you’re gonna take every fucking inch of it until you remember who the hell you belong to.” His other hand shoved your thighs apart, fingers pressing against the soaked lace between your legs. You moaned, the fight draining out of you as the reality of his size, his strength, and his raw possessiveness settled over you like a heavy, delicious weight.
This was going to be rough.
And you needed it more than air.
You writhed beneath him, the cool sheets contrasting with the burning heat of his body pressing you down. His mouth was relentless on your nipple, tongue flicking before he sucked hard again, while two thick fingers rubbed firm circles over your clit through the soaked lace. The sensation had you gasping, hips bucking up desperately. "You’re the one who forgot who I belong to…” you whined, the words spilling out in a breathy, bratty challenge even as your voice cracked with need. You twisted under his grip, testing the hand pinning your wrists, your back arching to push your breasts closer to his mouth despite yourself.
The effect was instantaneous.
Marshall pulled off your nipple with a wet pop, his head snapping up. His eyes were dark, stormy, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. That single sentence flipped a switch, pissing him off more than all your earlier taunts about Laura and Jason combined. “I forgot?” His voice dropped into that dangerous, low register that always made your stomach flip. He released your wrists only long enough to grab both your hands and slam them back above your head, holding them with one iron grip while his other hand shoved your panties roughly to the side. Two fingers plunged deep inside you without warning, curling hard against that spot that made you see stars.
You cried out, thighs shaking around his hand as he fucked you with them... fast, deep, punishing. “I forgot?” he repeated, leaning down so his face hovered inches from yours. His breath was hot against your lips. “You’re the one who walked out on me. The one who threw a fucking tantrum and threatened to go to dinner with some prick who wants to bend you over his desk. And you think I forgot?”
He added a third finger, stretching you, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. You moaned loudly, writhing harder, but he used his weight to pin your hips down, controlling every movement. “You belong to me,” he snarled, thumb pressing hard on your clit while his fingers drove into you. “This tight little pussy? Mine. These tits?” He leaned down and bit the swell of your breast, hard enough to leave a mark. “Mine. Every jealous, bratty, sweet inch of you is fucking mine.”
You whimpered, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming intensity, pleasure bordering on too much. He was pissed, actually pissed, and it showed in every rough thrust of his fingers, every possessive word growled against your skin. He suddenly pulled his hand away, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing. You whined pathetically at the loss, hips chasing his touch. Marshall sat back on his knees, yanking your panties down your legs and tossing them aside. His eyes raked over your naked body, lingering on the marks already blooming on your breast. “Say it,” he demanded, shoving his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock, thick, hard, and leaking. He rubbed the head against your slick folds, teasing your entrance but refusing to push in. “Tell me who the fuck you belong to, baby girl. And you’d better mean it this time.”
You were panting, squirming, the brat in you finally crumbling under the weight of his dominance. But you still managed one last shaky, breathless whisper. “…I don't know, Daddy.”
You swallowed roughly, the shift in his voice hitting you like a live wire. “You want me to fucking show you, baby doll?”
The pet name landed heavy and dark. Baby doll. Not baby girl. Your pulse spiked. Marshall only pulled out “baby doll” when you’d truly snapped his control, when the possessive, obsessive side of him took over completely and reason went out the window. The last time you’d pushed him this hard, he’d fucked you for hours hard, relentless, round after round until you were a sobbing, limp mess. The next day you’d been so sore he’d literally carried you from the bed to the shower, the couch, even the kitchen. You hadn’t been able to walk properly for nearly two days.
And now he was calling you baby doll again.
Marshall didn’t wait for an answer. He flipped you onto your stomach in one fluid motion, yanking your hips up so your ass was raised high and your chest pressed into the mattress. His hand came down hard on your ass. Once, twice sharp smacks that made you cry out and jolt forward. “Bratty little baby doll,” he growled, lining his thick cock up with your dripping entrance. “Threatening me with other men. Walking out on me. Forgetting who owns this pussy.”
He slammed into you in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch was intense, bordering on painful in the best way, forcing a broken moan from your throat. He didn’t give you time to adjust. He pulled back and drove in again, setting a punishing rhythm that was deep, hard, relentless.
“Fuck—Marshall—” you gasped, fingers twisting in the sheets as he railed you.
His hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back so he could growl directly into your ear. “Say it. Who do you belong to?”
“You—” The word broke on a cry as he angled his hips and hit that perfect spot inside you over and over. “I belong to you—Daddy—fuck—”
“Not good enough.” He reached underneath you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, merciless circles while his cock continued its assault. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, mixed with your desperate whimpers and his low, angry groans. “You’re gonna scream it, baby doll. Gonna fuck this attitude right out of you until the only name you remember is mine.”
He pounded into you harder, the headboard slamming against the wall with every thrust. Your legs shook, pussy clenching around him as pleasure coiled tight and vicious in your belly. Every brutal stroke reminded you exactly how much bigger and stronger he was, how easily he could manhandle you, own you, ruin you.
Marshall leaned over your back, teeth sinking into your shoulder as his beard scratched at your soft skin even as he fucked you even deeper. “Mine. This tight cunt is mine. This body is mine. You try to give any part of it to someone else and I’ll remind you exactly who the fuck you belong to every single day until you can’t even think straight.”
You were sobbing now, pleasure crashing over you in waves, the orgasm ripping through you so hard your vision blurred. But he didn’t stop. He kept thrusting through it, chasing his own release while growling filthy, possessive promises against your skin.
You’d pushed him.
And now your Daddy was going to prove, over and over again, exactly who you belonged to.
---
Even after he came hard inside you, thick, hot pulses filling you deep while he growled your name like a curse, Marshall didn’t give you time to catch your breath. He stayed buried deep for a few seconds, hips twitching through the last aftershocks, before pulling out with a wet sound. You whimpered at the sudden emptiness, your pussy clenching around nothing, his cum already starting to leak down your thighs. Before you could collapse fully into the mattress, he flipped you onto your back with effortless strength. Your legs fell open automatically, boneless and trembling. Marshall loomed over you, chest heaving, eyes still dark with that unrelenting possessiveness. Sweat glistened on his skin, his cock still half-hard and slick with your combined release.
The only “break” you got was the few seconds it took for him to shove three fingers back inside your cum-filled cunt.
A broken cry tore from your throat as he immediately started fucking you with them, deep, filthy strokes that pushed his release even deeper. The wet, obscene sounds were louder now, squelching with every thrust. “Who’s tight little cunt is this, baby doll?” His voice was rough, commanding, thumb pressing firmly on your swollen clit as he curled his fingers against that devastating spot inside you.
You whimpered, back arching off the bed, hands fisting the sheets. The overstimulation had tears spilling down your cheeks, but the pleasure was sharp and addictive. “Yours, Daddy… just yours!” you sobbed, voice cracking.
“Louder,” he demanded, pumping his fingers faster, harder. His free hand pinned your hip down when you tried to squirm away from the intensity. “Tell me again. Who owns this pussy?”
“You!” you cried out, legs shaking violently around his arm. “It’s yours, Daddy—only yours—please—”
He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy, claiming kiss that scratched you face in that sweet way that made it feel filthier while his fingers continued their relentless assault. When he pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours, eyes locked on your tear-streaked face. “That’s right, baby doll. This cunt is mine. You’re mine. Don’t you ever fucking forget it again.”
His fingers curled cruelly, dragging another shattering orgasm out of you. Your whole body seized, walls fluttering and pulsing around his fingers as you screamed his name. Marshall watched every second of it, hungry and satisfied, like he was committing the sight of you falling apart to memory. You were barely coherent when he finally slowed his hand, but you knew this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. He was still hard again, pressing against your thigh, that dark obsessive look still burning in his eyes.
He wasn’t done proving it.
Not even close.
---
Marshall didn’t give you any real reprieve.
He withdrew his fingers slowly, watching with dark satisfaction as his cum and your release dripped from your swollen pussy. Then he gripped your thighs, spreading you wide open, and climbed fully between them. His cock, thick and hard again, slid against your sensitive folds, teasing your entrance.
He leaned down, chest pressing against your breasts, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice came out in a low, venomous hiss that sent fresh shivers racing through your overstimulated body. “Now be a good girl for me and cry on this fucking dick. I wanna see how fucking sorry you are.”
Before you could even respond, he thrust back into you in one brutal stroke, bottoming out so deep you felt it in your stomach. A broken sob tore from your throat immediately. He set a punishing pace right away with long, hard strokes that had the bed creaking violently beneath you. Every thrust dragged against that raw, sensitive spot inside you, the mix of pleasure and overwhelming intensity bringing fresh tears to your eyes. You clutched at his back, nails digging into his skin as you cried out.
“I’m sorry—Daddy, I’m sorry—” The words came out in shaky, tear-filled whimpers, your voice cracking each time he slammed back in.
“Yeah?” He growled, fisting your hair and yanking your head back so he could watch your face. “You sorry for acting like a jealous little brat? Sorry for threatening me with that fucker Jason?” He punctuated each question with a particularly deep thrust, grinding his hips against your clit on every downstroke. Tears streamed down your cheeks now, mascara probably ruined, but he didn’t care. If anything, the sight seemed to drive him harder.
“Yes—yes, I’m sorry!” you sobbed, legs wrapping around his waist despite the way your body trembled. The overstimulation had you shaking, pussy clenching desperately around his cock as another orgasm built far too quickly. “I’m yours—only yours—please—” Marshall hissed in approval, his mouth latching onto your neck to suck a dark mark into your skin in the midst of the beard burn that was slowly marring your skin, while he fucked you even harder. The wet slap of his hips against yours mixed with your cries and his low, filthy groans.
“That’s it, baby doll. Cry for me. Let me feel how fucking sorry you are.” He reached between you, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing tight, ruthless circles until you shattered around him with a loud, broken wail. Your whole body convulsed, fresh tears spilling as the orgasm tore through you. Marshall fucked you through it, chasing his own release, hips stuttering as he spilled deep inside you again with a guttural groan.
Even then, he stayed buried inside you, rocking slowly as you sobbed and trembled beneath him. His hand gently brushed the tears from your cheeks, the gesture almost tender compared to the way he’d just ruined you. “You’re mine,” he whispered against your lips, voice rough but softer now. “Don’t make me remind you like this again… unless you need it.”
You could only nod weakly, still crying quiet tears as you clung to him, utterly spent and thoroughly claimed. The brat was gone. All that remained was his sweet, sassy, completely owned girl..
---
Marshall finally pulled out of you with a low groan, rolling onto his back and dragging you with him in one smooth motion. You went willingly, curling tight against his chest like a cat seeking heat. Your legs tangled with his, one arm draped over his stomach while you nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him; sweat, cologne, and home. His strong arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close as his fingers traced lazy patterns up and down your bare back. For a few blissful minutes, the only sounds were your slowing breaths and the steady thump of his heartbeat under your ear. You soaked up his warmth, his strength, letting it settle the raw, emotional storm he’d just put you through. The soreness between your legs was already setting in, a deep, satisfying ache that made you press even closer.
Then his voice rumbled against your hair, rough and deceptively calm. “How many fucking times has Jason asked you to dinner?”
You whimpered softly, burrowing deeper into his chest as if you could disappear into him. “Doesn’t matter…” you mumbled, voice muffled against his skin. You were too comfortable, too blissed out and owned, to want to ruin the moment.
Marshall was quiet for a second. You felt him look down at you, that soft, almost tender gaze sweeping over your curled-up form. Then he shook his head. “Oh, it fucking matters to me.”
You sighed, reaching down to tug the arm he had wrapped around your waist even tighter around your body. Your fingers laced through his, squeezing. “I don’t know… two or three times a week?” you admitted quietly.
Marshall froze beneath you. His entire body went still, muscles tensing. “You got pissed about me liking Laura’s idea on a fucking merch color way…” His voice was low, dangerous again, “and you’ve got Jason trying to get you alone two or three times a fucking week?”
You whined at the mention of Laura, pressing your face harder into his chest, legs tightening around him. The jealousy you’d tried to bury came rushing back, even as you clung to him like a lifeline. “Because he knows I have a boyfriend,” you muttered, voice small but edged with lingering frustration. “Laura pretends like I’m just an assistant who’s fucking the boss.”
Marshall’s hand slid up your back and into your hair, gripping just tight enough to tilt your face up so he could look at you. His blue eyes were intense, a mix of lingering possessiveness and something softer, something that always made your chest ache in the best way. "She’s wrong,” he said firmly. “You’re not just my assistant. You’re mine. My girl. My submissive. My fucking everything.” His thumb brushed over your bottom lip. “And Jason’s about to learn real quick that he doesn’t get to keep asking my woman out to dinner like I’m not right here.”
You shivered at the dark promise in his tone, but you also felt the tension ease a little as he pulled you back down against his chest, holding you even tighter than before. His lips pressed to the top of your head. “No more hiding that shit from me,” he murmured. “And no more storming off. We fight it out, like this, if we have to.”
You nodded against him, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone. The brat was quiet now. All that was left was the sweet, sassy girl who knew exactly where she belonged... wrapped up safe and claimed in the arms of the man who both owned and loved her.
Marshall needs a hello kitty plushie. I cannot tell you why. The younger the Marshall the more silly having the plushie would be. He needs it.
I'll see you your Marshall with a Hello Kitty plushie and raise you my personal head canon that he steals his girl's jewelry before he performs so he feels like she's close. Bracelet, necklace, Slim Shady era Marshall would even take an earring...whatever he doesn't care.
AND he doesn't tell her. So she just thinks she misplaced it until suddenly it's back in her jewelry.
The bass was rattling your bones, the crowd’s energy a tidal wave you could feel even from where you stood in the thick of it. Marshall was in his element, spitting every word like it was life or death, sweat glistening under the lights, the kind of fire in his eyes that still made your stomach flip after all these years.
Then—
It happened fast. Too fast for your brain to process. A sharp crack that didn’t belong in the music. Another.
The crowd screamed, rippling like something alive. You barely had time to turn before the people around you surged forward, panic thick in the air.
“Shots fired!” someone yelled, probably security, and suddenly you were being shoved, pulled, your body caught in a stampede you couldn’t stop.
You looked toward the stage just in time to see security grab Marshall, dragging him back into the wings. His face was wild, frantic as he scanned the crowd, looking for you.
Paul appeared out of nowhere, cutting through bodies with that immovable force only he seemed to have. “Come on, hey come on, we gotta go,” he said, gripping your arm and steering you toward the side barricade.
You nodded, too stunned to argue, letting him lead you past security and into the dark of backstage.
At first, you thought you were fine. Shaken, heart pounding, but fine.
Then you felt it.
Warm. Wet. Running down your side.
Your hand came away red.
Not a lot. Not pouring. But enough. Enough to know what it meant.
Paul saw your face change, his brow furrowing. “What—?”
You shook your head sharply, glancing toward the stage where Marshall was still being held back by his security, fighting to see you. “Don’t,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Don’t let him see.”
“Y/N—”
“Paul.” You stepped closer, lowering your voice to a raw, urgent rasp. “I need to go to the hospital. But I don’t want him there.”
He stared at you like you’d grown another head. “Are you out of your mind? He’s—”
“I remember the hospital,” you cut in, your voice breaking before you steadied it again. “When Proof died. I remember him in that waiting room, Paul. I remember him falling apart. I can’t—” You swallowed hard, fighting back the heat in your eyes. “If it’s bad… I can’t let that be the last thing he sees. I can’t let him go through that again.”
Paul’s jaw worked, the war plain on his face. He knew you were right. He also knew what Marshall would do when he found out you’d gone behind his back. When he found out he'd gone behind his back. About you.
But then your knees buckled, just a little, a faint sway that sent a bolt of alarm through him.
That was all it took.
“Alright,” he said, voice clipped. “Let’s move.”
He grabbed his phone, barking orders into it as he looped an arm around your waist to take your weight. You could hear the chaos behind you. Marshall’s voice, loud, furious, yelling at security.
You didn’t look back.
You couldn’t.
---
The SUV roared down the side street, away from the arena chaos. Paul had one hand on the wheel, the other gripping his phone on speaker as he glanced at you every few seconds, his jaw locked so tight you could see the muscle twitch.
Your side was burning now, your body trembling, the hoodie he’d tied around you growing heavier, wetter. You could feel the pulse of it with every bump in the road.
Your phone lit up Marshall’s name glowing across the screen. Paul’s eyes flicked to it, and you could tell he wanted to snatch it away. But you grabbed it first, thumb swiping before he could protest.
“Baby?” His voice came through rough, frantic, already halfway to a shout. “Where are you? What the fuck is going on? They said there were shots, and—”
You cut in quickly, forcing calm you didn’t feel. “Don’t worry, I’m with Paul. You stay put, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
The lie tasted like copper in your mouth, your voice steady only because you were holding it there with sheer will.
There was a beat of silence on the line. You could hear him breathing, hear the tension vibrating through him. “Don’t fucking tell me not to worry—”
“Marsh.” You tried to make it gentle, soft, the way you talked to him when you wanted him to listen. Your head was starting to feel floaty, the edges of your vision fuzzing. Paul’s jaw flexed harder as he checked the rearview mirror, accelerating. You felt the hoodie soaking faster now, warm and sticky against your skin. “I’m fine,” you lied again. “I promise. Just...stay where you are. Please? I need you safe. I'm just a girl in the crowd, no one's looking for me.” You saw Paul’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. He knew. He could hear your breathing getting labored.
Marshall’s voice cracked through the line, ragged. “I don’t care if I’m safe, I care where you are. Let me talk to Paul—”
“No,” you said quickly, before Paul could open his mouth. “Hey… Marsh?” You had to pause to steady your breath, to keep the fear out of your voice.
“Yeah?”
You swallowed, throat dry. “I love you. I’ll see you when this is over, okay?” Your voice wavered, just a little, but you prayed he didn’t hear it.
Another beat of silence, and then, soft and rough all at once, “I love you too? Baby what's going on? Talk to me.”
Paul reached over, squeezing your shoulder, his touch grounding but urgent. “Signal’s gonna cut,” he lied smoothly. You ended the call before you could hear his panic break all the way through. The car was quiet except for the hum of the engine and your uneven breathing. Paul’s jaw hadn’t unclenched once. You could feel every second stretching longer, heavier, knowing you were running out of time.
---
The hospital sign was still too far away. You could see it through the blur of passing lights, but it felt like the road was stretching just to keep it out of reach. Your breathing was shallow now, each inhale catching against the throbbing heat in your side. You knew exactly how bad this could go, knew it in your bones. It's why you couldn't let Marshall be here. You couldn't let him know you'd been shot, especially not knowing that's exactly how Deshaun had died.
“Paul…” Your voice was hoarse, quiet, but his head turned instantly.
“Don’t,” he said, warning in his tone. “Don’t you start that shit.”
“Paul, don’t forget to call the girls.” You forced the words out before you could stop yourself. “Don’t let them fight each other. Especially Hailie and Alaina. You know how they get… and Stevie...” You swallowed hard, your chest hitching. “Stevie can’t go quiet. If she’s too quiet, she’s thinking too loud.”
His hands tightened on the wheel. “We’re not doing this.”
“They need to be here for Marshall,” you pushed on, your voice cracking but firm in the way only desperation could make it. “He’s going to shut down. We both know it. But don’t let him go dark. You know what happened last time…” Paul’s jaw was a solid line, his throat working like he was swallowing glass. Your vision was dimming around the edges now, but you kept talking. “He needs to know I love him. If he starts going dark, just remind him—”
“Stop.” His voice was sharper now, the word breaking out before he could catch it. “Don’t talk like that.” But your eyelids felt so heavy. Paul’s hand shot out, shaking your knee lightly. “Hey. Stay with me. You hear me?”
You forced them open again, and his voice softened, like he knew yelling would push you further away. “What about your girls, huh? You gonna leave them without their mama? They can’t go a day without calling you, you know that.”
It was a feeble attempt at lightness, and you could hear the strain under it. The way he was screaming on the inside. “They need to call Marshall,” you whispered. "He'll be okay if he's taking care of them...he just needs somewhere to put how much he loves me..."
Paul’s eyes flicked to you for just a second, something raw breaking through before he looked back at the road. The hospital’s red EMERGENCY sign finally loomed large, filling the windshield. He hit the turn hard, tires squealing, and you felt the shift in the car as he pulled right up to the entrance. You didn’t remember him putting it in park. You just remembered his voice, low and urgent in your ear as the doors swung open, calling for help before your body could decide it was done holding on.
The SUV door swung open, cold air rushing in as ER staff ran toward you. Paul was already moving, one arm braced behind your back, the other waving them in.
But before they could pull you out, you grabbed his wrist. Hard. “He has to know, Paul.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, ragged with pain and fear. “Don’t let him forget.”
His gaze snapped to yours, dark eyes sharp and panicked in a way you’d never seen before. “Y/N—”
You tightened your grip, nails biting into his skin. “Promise me. Don’t let him forget I love him. No matter what happens.”
The nurses were there now, tugging at you, urging you onto the gurney, but you didn’t let go. “Y/N, we don’t have time for—”
“Promise,” you cut in, breath hitching. “Say it.”
For a second he just stared at you, his throat bobbing, like the words would taste wrong coming out. Then low, rough, almost like it hurt—
“I promise.”
Only then did you let go, your fingers slipping from his as they lifted you onto the gurney. You kept your eyes on him while they started rolling you inside, the fluorescent lights already swallowing you whole. He was still standing there, watching, until the doors closed between you.
---
The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee. Paul hadn’t sat down once. He couldn’t. Every time he tried, his leg would start bouncing, his hands itching for something to do. So he paced, up one side of the room, down the other, ike the movement might keep his mind from running too far ahead. A nurse had come out twice. Once to say they were getting you stabilized. Once to tell him you were headed for imaging. Both updates were deliberately vague, and it made his skin crawl.
His phone wouldn’t stop lighting up.
Marshall – Incoming Call
Marshall – Incoming Call
Marshall – 6 new messages
Marshall – Incoming Call
Paul shoved it into his pocket the first few times, muttering under his breath. But with each buzz, the guilt sank in heavier. He’d made a promise to you. All he had to do was keep Marshall calm, keep him from going dark, but lying by omission was getting harder by the second. The phone pinged again, but this time it wasn’t a call. A notification slid across the screen.
Lockdown lifted – Arena secure
Paul froze mid-step. That meant the chaos at the venue was done. Which meant Marshall…
Fifteen minutes later, the waiting room doors slammed open so hard they hit the wall.
Marshall didn’t just walk in, he stormed.
His hood was up, jaw clenched, eyes blazing with the kind of fury that made people step out of his path without a word. And in his hand? His phone, screen still lit up with a map. Paul knew that interface instantly: Life360. He’d tracked your phone.
“You wanna tell me,” Marshall’s voice was low but venomous as soon as he saw Paul, “why my wife’s phone is showing up at a fucking hospital?”
Paul didn’t move. Didn’t look away. His voice came out low, heavy, like it was made of stone and breaking all at once. “There was only one injury at the venue, Marshall.” Marshall’s shoulders tightened, the air between them crackling. Paul swallowed hard. “Only one person got hit. It’s already been confirmed.”
For a beat, the world seemed to go still. Then Marshall’s eyes went black, cold, endless, the kind of look Paul had only seen once before, years ago, in another waiting room.
“Who?” The word wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.
Paul opened his mouth, but the sound stuck. His throat felt like it was closing. Because saying it out loud meant it was real, and the second it was real, Marshall would be through that door whether security stopped him or not.
“Paul—” Marshall took a step forward, voice dropping to something lethal. “Who?”
Paul’s eyes softened just a fraction, but his voice stayed low, steady, like he was trying to keep a live wire from sparking. “You already know who Marshall, don't make me say it” he said.
Marshall’s jaw flexed, a muscle ticking. His breath came sharper, heavier, but before he could move, Paul stepped in closer, steering him toward one of the stiff vinyl chairs against the wall. “Sit down.”
“I’m not—”
“Sit,” Paul repeated, firmer now, hand gripping Marshall’s shoulder just enough to make him pause. “You need to call the girls.”
Marshall shook his head, disbelief still written all over him. “Paul—”
“You need to be their dad right now,” Paul cut in, the weight in his voice leaving no room for argument. “You keep them steady until we know more. Don’t let them spiral. They need you calm, not tearing through this hospital like—” He stopped himself before the rest came out. Marshall just stood there, breathing hard, eyes darting to the double doors he knew you’d disappeared through. Paul gave his shoulder one last squeeze. “I’m not asking you to be okay. I’m asking you to hold it together long enough for them. She wanted you to take care of them ”
Paul pressed the phone into his hand, and for a long moment, Marshall just stared at it. His knuckles were white around the edges before he finally swiped the screen and scrolled to Hailie’s number. She answered on the second ring. “Dad? What’s going on? I saw the news, I’ve been trying to—”
He cut her off gently, forcing the calm into his tone like it was something he could muscle into place. “Hailie… baby girl, I need you to listen to me. The shooting at the show tonight....Your mom—” He swallowed hard, his throat threatening to close. “She’s in the hospital. She’s getting taken care of.”
Silence. Then a sharp inhale, shaky. “How bad?”
“She’s in good hands,” he said quickly, the lie hovering between them. “I need you to keep it together until I know more. Can you do that for me?”
A pause. Then: “Yeah.” Small, but steady enough to make him exhale.
“Good girl. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”
He hung up before she could ask more and immediately dialed Alaina. She didn’t even know it was obvious in her voice. “Dad? Is Mom okay? She didn't answer me earlier, I tried to call and ask about—”
“She’s in the hospital,” Marshall said, his tone already fraying at the edges. “They’re taking care of her. Don't worry about her, I'm just letting you and your sisters know what's happening.”
“Okay,” she breathed, but he could hear the tremor in her voice.
Finally, he called Stevie.
She answered with a simple, “Dad?” Her voice was soft, hesitant, since usually you called.
“Yeah, baby, I’m here. I'm just letting you know that something happened at the show tonight. Your mom’s in the hospital, but she’s strong. You hear me? She’s gonna be okay.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he coughed to cover it.
“I hear you,” she whispered.
“That’s my girl. Stay close to your sisters. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
When the line went dead, Marshall just sat there, phone still in his hand, staring at the floor. Paul didn’t say a word.
It was only a few minutes later when the double doors swung open and a nurse stepped out, scanning the room.
“Mr. Mathers?” she asked.
Marshall was on his feet instantly.
She hesitated for just a breath before saying, “Your wife has a little internal bleeding. We’re moving her to surgery now to get it under control.”
---
Paul had his phone to his ear, voice low but clipped as he rattled off instructions. “Yeah, I don’t care what time it is. Get them on the next flight out of Detroit. All three of them. No, I’ll handle the transport from the airport. Just book it.”
Marshall sat hunched in the stiff waiting room chair, elbows on his knees, his hoodie pulled forward like it might block the world out if he held it low enough. He hadn’t said a word since the nurse’s announcement. Not to Paul. Not to the few hospital staff who’d walked past with polite smiles.
His wife. The mother of his kids. The only person who could cut through all his noise and make him feel human. And all anyone would tell him was internal bleeding.
His whole fucking life was behind those doors, and he had no idea if you’d ever walk back out. The clock on the wall ticked, too loud in the otherwise sterile quiet. A full hour crawled past before the doors opened again. This time, a man in surgical scrubs.
“Family for Y/N Mathers?” Marshall was on his feet before the sentence finished, Paul right beside him.
The doctor’s tone was measured, careful, like he knew the ground he was standing on could blow apart. “She’s in surgery now. The bullet perforated her stomach, and we’re working to repair that damage.”
Marshall’s jaw flexed, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “And?” already knowing that wasn't all.
“There are other complications,” the doctor went on. “We’re seeing some signs of secondary internal injury, possibly from the force of the impact or her fall afterward. We’re managing it, but…” He glanced between them. “There’s significant blood loss. She’ll likely need a transfusion.”
“Fine,” Marshall said instantly. “Test me. Take what you need.”
Paul echoed him with a curt nod.
The doctor gestured toward a nurse who was already approaching with a cart. “We’ll type you both now. If either of you are a match, we can expedite.”
It was quick, just a draw of blood from each of them, labeled and sent off.
Marshall paced until the nurse returned, her expression already telling him what he didn’t want to hear. “Neither of you are an ideal match,” she said carefully. “Sometimes children are better matches for transfusion, or family, especially direct relatives.”
Marshall’s head snapped toward Paul, his voice sharp. “Get them here now.”
“They’re already in the air,” Paul said, phone still in hand. “They’ll be here as soon as possible.”
Marshall just stood there, breathing hard, the sterile smell of the hospital suddenly too thick to swallow. The thought of your blood being drained away while you were still under that knife made his stomach churn. And now, it wasn’t just you he was waiting for, it was your girls, his girls. The only people who might be able to keep you alive.
---
The automatic doors slid open, and the girls came in together. It almost hurt to see three different versions of your face, each shadowed with worry.
Hailie was the first to speak. “Dad—”
“No time,” Marshall cut in, his voice rough. “They need to test you, all of you. Mom’s lost a lot of blood. You might be a match.”
Their eyes widened, but none of them hesitated. Stevie nodded first, then Alaina and Hailie followed, each glancing toward the double doors like they could see you through them.
Paul guided them toward a nurse who was already waiting, clipboard in hand. “We’ll take care of them, Mr. Mathers,” she promised.
Marshall just gave a short nod, watching until they disappeared down the hallway.
The silence that followed should have brought relief, help was here, you might have a match within the hour, but instead, his mind replayed something else.
That phone call.
Your voice, soft and steady, telling him not to worry. The way you’d said, “I love you. I’ll see you when this is over.”
It clicked. You’d known. You’d known how bad it was and you’d kept it from him. Kept you from him. Fear curdled into something sharper, hotter, sitting heavy in his chest. You’d been bleeding out and still worried more about him than yourself. Still tried to shield him, like he couldn’t take it, like he wasn’t strong enough to stand there with you in it. His jaw clenched until it ached, his fists curling tight.
Paul caught the change in his posture instantly. “Don’t,” he warned quietly.
Marshall didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the OR doors, dark and hard. When you woke up, he’d have questions. And you were going to answer every single one.
---
The nurse came back quicker than Marshall expected, a clipboard in her hands and a pinched look on her face.
“All three girls are a match,” she said. Marshall’s breath caught, because that should be good but good didn't match her face, then she kept talking. “to you, Mr. Mathers. Not to your wife.”
For a second, he just stared at her. Then a short, humorless laugh slipped out, low and sharp. He shook his head, smiling without a trace of warmth. “Of course,” he muttered. “Of course my wife has three daughters who could keep me alive, but not her.” Paul shot him a warning look, but Marshall’s eyes were still on the nurse. “You’re telling me I’ve got three perfect matches standing right here for my blood type,” he said, his voice dry as bone, “and none of ‘em can help their mom? The one who actually made ‘em?”
The nurse hesitated. “Blood compatibility can be complicated. Your wife's blood type is—”
“Yeah,” Marshall cut in, that bitter laugh still in his throat, “complicated. Figures.”
He dragged a hand down his face, the edge in his voice not quite hiding the panic underneath. “So what now?”
“We’ve put in an urgent request to the blood bank. We’ll have what she needs as soon as possible,” the nurse said carefully. “We’re still working to get the bleeding under control in surgery.”
Marshall nodded once, curt, and turned away before she could say anything else. Because the truth was sitting heavy in his chest: if this had been him in that OR, you’d have saved him by now. But for you, all he could do was wait.
And waiting was killing him.
---
Marshall sat slouched in the stiff chair, elbows on his knees, staring at the speckled tile floor like it might give him answers. Paul had drifted a few seats away, murmuring into his phone about hotel rooms for the girls.
The sound of sneakers squeaking on the floor made him look up. Stevie was coming back from the hallway, her expression tight but trying, always trying. Just like her mama when you get upset.
She sank into the chair beside him, hands folded in her lap. For a minute, she just sat there, swinging her foot lightly, eyes on the floor. Then she said, “Well… at least you know we’re all yours, Dad.” Marshall’s head turned slowly toward her.
She gave him a half-smile, the kind that was supposed to be lighthearted but cracked under the weight of the room. “I mean...blood match and all. Kinda seals the deal.”
He let out a sharp breath that might’ve been a laugh in another life, but now it sounded more like an exhale through clenched teeth. “Not funny, sweetheart,” he said quietly, his eyes dragging back to the floor.
“I know,” she murmured, her voice small. “I just… hate seeing you like this. Mom usually makes a stupid joke and it helps.”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t trust himself to. Because the truth was, he hated your girls seeing him like this too, like a man waiting for the world to tell him if his reason for breathing was going to survive the night. And he didn't even have your stupid sense of humor to make it easier, so instead he just wraps his arm around your baby and lets her curl up against his side like she used to when she was little.
---
The five of them sat in a loose cluster in the waiting room, the harsh overhead lights doing nothing to soften the sterile hum of the place. Hailie and Alaina had been working double-time to keep their dad from slipping too far into whatever storm was swirling behind his eyes, asking him about flights, hotel rooms, even a stupid argument from a week ago just to make him talk. While Paul handled logistics and Stevie stayed pressed into his side, her head on his shoulder, fingers absently playing with the hem of his sleeve like if she kept him anchored there, nothing bad could happen.
It wasn’t working.
Marshall’s gaze kept finding the double doors to the surgery wing like they were the gates to something he wasn’t sure he could walk through. Alaina had been mid-sentence about how they’d need to call Nate when her words caught. She was looking past her dad, her brows knitting together.
Paul was sitting off to the side, elbows on his knees, phone dangling forgotten in one hand. His shirt, white this morning, was now a stiff, mottled rust color down the front. Your blood. Dried now, but still vivid enough to make her stomach knot. No one had noticed before, but her sudden silence pulled the others’ attention, and in that one beat of quiet, the weight shifted. The air felt heavier.
They all knew it then, not just in the abstract, not in the way you know surgery is risky, but in the visceral, unshakable way that meant this could end really bad. Hailie’s voice broke through, quieter than usual, like she was afraid of what the answer might change. “What… what did she say? Before they took her into the emergency room?”
The question hung there, a live wire no one had wanted to touch. Marshall’s jaw flexed. He’d been avoiding thinking about that moment on purpose, because replaying it was like ripping open his chest. Paul let out a heavy sigh, the kind that seemed to come from somewhere far deeper than his chest.
He rubbed a hand over his face, like maybe if he stalled long enough, they wouldn’t make him say it. But all three girls were looking at him now, and Marshall… Marshall was watching him like he already knew but needed to hear it anyway.
“Your mom…” Paul’s voice was rough, reluctant. “She said—” He stopped, glanced toward the floor, then pushed through. “‘You and Lainey… you’re not supposed to fight.’” His eyes shifted to Alaina briefly, the words hanging there like they were meant to be taken home and kept safe. He turned to Stevie next. “‘And Stevie only gets quiet when she’s thinking too much… so don’t let her do that.’” His voice caught just barely on the last part.
Paul hesitated, his gaze flicking to Marshall, and that pause was enough to make the older man’s stomach twist.
“And—” Paul cleared his throat, but it didn’t help. “She said, You’re supposed to call your dad when you want to call her… because he has to remember that she loves him, and that he needed somewhere else to put the love he has for her in order to be okay."
It was quiet after that. No one breathed too loud, no one moved. Marshall’s jaw tightened, and his hands had curled into fists in his lap, nails biting into his palms. The girls didn’t say anything, but Stevie's fingers tightened on his sleeve, Alaina’s chin dropped, and Hailie blinked fast like she could stop the sting in her eyes before it showed.
Those words sat in the room like a living thing, soft, final, and laced with the kind of fear no one wanted to name. Because you had said goodbye. You'd made sure Paul knew how to make everyone as okay as possible by telling them how to say goodbye.
Marshall was on his feet so fast the chair scraped across the tile, the sharp sound making all three girls flinch. He didn’t say a word, just turned and strode out of the waiting room with that coiled, dangerous energy that meant something inside him was about to snap. Stevie straightened like she was ready to go after him, but Paul’s hand was already on her shoulder, firm. “I got him.”
He found Marshall in the hallway, pacing in short, uneven strides before stopping with his back against the wall. His head was tipped back like he was trying to keep it together, but his fists kept clenching, his jaw flexing hard enough to ache. Paul stopped a few feet away, giving him space but close enough to catch him if he broke.
“She’s always thinking about everyone else,” Marshall said suddenly, his voice low and sharp, like he was spitting the words out before they burned him from the inside. He didn’t look at Paul, just stared at the ceiling like the tiles had all the answers. “Always. Doesn’t matter if she’s hurting or scared—she’s worried about the girls, about me, about what happens to everyone else if…” He swallowed hard. “If she’s gone.” The words were like glass in his throat, jagged and cruel.
His eyes finally cut to Paul then, and there was nothing calm left in them, just raw, unfiltered fear trying to wear the mask of anger. “But she’s never understood…” His voice dropped, quiet but fierce. “We’re not going to be okay if she’s gone. I’m not going to be okay."
Before Paul could say a word, before he could try to pull Marshall back from that edge, two nurses in scrubs came tearing past them, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. Their voices were clipped, urgent, carrying just far enough down the hallway to reach them. “Female patient in OR 2 crashing, get the cart.”
The sound hit Marshall like a physical blow. He froze mid-step, every muscle in his body locking tight. For a split second, it was like all the air had been sucked out of the corrido, no hum of lights, no distant chatter, just those words echoing over and over. Paul’s heart dropped into his stomach.
Marshall’s face went white, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat before his hands curled into fists so hard his knuckles went bone-pale. He turned toward the double doors at the end of the hall like he could force them open by sheer will, like he could tear his way into that room if it meant getting to you. Paul didn’t give him the chance to bolt. His hand clamped down hard on Marshall’s shoulder, fingers digging in just enough to make him move.
“Come on,” Paul said, his voice low but firm, the kind of tone you used on someone standing too close to the edge.
Marshall didn’t fight him at first, his legs just moved because Paul was steering them, but his eyes stayed locked on those double doors until they were out of sight. The moment they rounded the corner, his body jolted like he’d just realized he’d been pulled away.
“Paul—”
“No,” Paul cut in, not looking at him, just guiding him down the hall like he weighed nothing. “You can’t help her in there.”
By the time they stepped back into the waiting area, all three girls were on their feet, faces tight with worry. Stevie’s head snapped up, and she took one look at her dad before starting toward him. But Paul’s hand was still on Marshall, steering him into a chair like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Marshall sat, but his knees bounced, his hands flexing restlessly in his lap. He didn’t speak, didn’t look at anyone, just stared at the floor like he could burn a hole straight through it.
The air felt heavy again, but this time it wasn’t the quiet kind, it was the kind that crackled, the kind that meant something could break any second.
---
The hours blurred together in that waiting room, long stretches of silence broken only by the shuffle of footsteps in the hall or the distant beep of a monitor from somewhere they couldn’t see. Every time a door opened, all four of them would snap their heads up, and every time it wasn’t news, the tension wound tighter. Marshall hadn’t said a word since Paul sat him down. He’d leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, just breathing through the waiting like it was a punishment. Stevie sat next to him, leaning into his side, small but solid, her presence the only thing keeping him from pacing a hole in the floor.
When the door finally opened again, the sight of a man in scrubs sent every one of them to their feet at once. The doctor glanced at Marshall first, and there was no hesitation in his voice when he said, “She’s stable. We’ve got the bleeding under control, and she’s being moved to recovery now.”
The words seemed to hit Marshall in pieces, first “stable,” then “bleeding under control,” and finally “recovery.” His shoulders sagged like someone had taken a hundred pounds off of him, but he didn’t say anything. Didn’t trust himself to. Hailie’s hand went to her mouth as she let out a shaky breath. Alaina squeezed her eyes shut for just a second before pulling her sister into a hug. Stevie’s arm tightened around her dad’s wrist, and he squeezes her closer with the arm around her in return, pulling her close like she was the only thing keeping him from coming apart completely.
“She’s still going to need time, and we’ll be monitoring her closely,” the doctor added. “But for now… she’s out of danger.”
Marshall nodded once, sharp, but his eyes were already fixed on the hallway beyond the doctor. The only thing on his mind now was getting to you. Marshall cleared his throat, his voice low but edged. “When can I see her?”
The doctor hesitated, glancing toward the double doors like he was weighing the answer. “Usually,” he began carefully, “we wait until the patient is fully out of anesthesia before we allow visitors…” Marshall’s jaw tightened, but before he could push back, the doctor’s tone softened. “…but… given the circumstances, I don’t think it would hurt if we let you into her room now.”
Marshall didn’t even bother hiding the way his shoulders squared at that. “Tell me where.”
The doctor gave a faint, almost knowing smile. “OR recovery, Room 4. I’ll have a nurse take you back.”
He didn’t wait for anyone to volunteer to go with him, though he felt Stevie shift like she wanted to. Paul put a hand on her arm, shaking his head gently. Marshall had the look of a man who needed to be alone with his wife before anyone else got a word in. The nurse met him halfway down the corridor, murmuring something about you still being under, that you wouldn’t be able to respond yet, but he barely heard her. All he could hear was the rush of his own heartbeat, all he could feel was the phantom memory of your hand in his, warm and alive. When they reached the room, he braced himself before stepping inside. The nurse’s voice was steady, professional, but to Marshall it was just background noise, words swimming around him like static.
“Because of the surgery, she’s going to have a harder recovery,” she explained, adjusting a monitor. “Especially when it comes to eating, so we went ahead and placed a feeding tube for now, just to give her body a chance to heal before she has to—”
He wasn’t looking at her.
All he could see was you.
You looked impossibly small in that hospital bed, swallowed up by blankets and white sheets, a tangle of wires trailing from you to beeping machines. The soft hiss of oxygen filled the quiet, and his gaze caught on the thin tube taped to your cheek, disappearing past your lips.
It should have broken him, seeing you like that, but instead… he finally breathed.
You were here.
Your chest was rising and falling.
You were breathing, and for the first time since that first shot when he realized he'd lost sight of you, so was he.
His shoulders sagged as if the weight of the last few hours had been ripped away in an instant. He took one slow, shaky step toward the bed, his hand hovering over yours like he was afraid to touch and find this wasn’t real.
She’s alive.
The thought hit over and over again like a drumbeat, steadying him more than anything the nurse could say.
Marshall lowered himself into the chair beside your bed, the metal legs scraping softly against the tile. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, staring at your hand where it lay against the blanket still, pale, delicate.
He didn’t reach for it.
Part of him wanted to, desperately, but another part…
Another part was afraid.
Afraid that if he felt the coolness of your skin, the weight of it in his palm, it might make this all too real. Or worse, what if you didn’t squeeze back? What if his touch didn’t bring you closer, only proved how far away you still were?
So he just sat there, watching your fingers like they might twitch any second.
His own hands curled into loose fists on his knees, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Just… wake up,” he whispered, so low the machines might have drowned it out. “Please.”
He stayed like that, close enough to touch but too scared to bridge the gap, letting the minutes stretch into something heavier.
---
Fifty-seven minutes and forty-nine seconds.
He knew, because he counted.
Every single second from the moment he sat down to the moment your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, he’d been ticking them off in his head like a lifeline, each one another moment you were still here.
By the twenty-minute mark, his knee was bouncing. At thirty, his palms were damp. By forty-five, he was sure his chest couldn’t take the pressure building inside it.
And then—
A small, shaky breath escaped you, your fingers twitching just enough to send a jolt through him. His chair screeched across the floor as he leaned forward, eyes locked on yours as they slowly opened, hazy and disoriented. “You’re here,” he breathed, voice breaking like it had been holding itself together by sheer force until now.
He didn’t even remember deciding to reach for you, but suddenly your hand was in his, and he was holding on like if he let go for a second, time might start counting down instead of up.
---
You groaned softly, the sound small but enough to make his head snap up, every muscle going rigid. Your eyelids felt heavy, but when you managed to lift them, the blur in front of you sharpened just enough for you to find him.
Even through the fog, even with the ache deep in your body, you saw him clearly. Saw the furrow etched deep between his brows like it had been carved there over hours of worry. Your hand felt weak, but you still lifted it, fingers trembling as they found his face. The pad of your index finger smoothed over that crease, slow and gentle.
His breath caught. His eyes closed for half a second like the touch was too much.
When he opened them again, you smiled. Small, tired, but real. “You look worried, baby,” you whispered, voice rasping but warm.
The sound undid him. “You scared the hell outta me, babydoll,” he said, shaking his head slowly, voice rough like gravel from holding back too much for too long.
Your fingers slid a little lower, brushing over his jaw before stroking gently through his beard. “My bad,” you murmured with a small, sleepy smile. “Next time—”
Marshall let out a short laugh, one that cracked in the middle, his hand coming up to curl over yours. “Baby, if you think we’re doing this again…” He trailed off, unable to finish, the weight of the last hours pressing in.
You kept scratching lightly at his beard, your smile still soft but your eyes glassy. “I missed you,” you whispered. His chest rose sharply, breath catching like he hadn’t expected you to say that, not here, not now.
The room stayed quiet for a few minutes after that, just the sound of the monitors and his thumb sweeping over the back of your hand keeping it pressed against his face like he had to keep confirming you were real.
A soft knock came before the curtain was pushed aside and the nurse stepped in, smiling gently. “Alright, just checking vitals before we move you to your recovery room,” she said in that calm, measured tone that made it sound like everything was normal. "You have other visitors waiting to see you."
Marshall shifted reluctantly, still keeping his hand in yours while the nurse worked. She took your blood pressure, checked the IV, glanced at the monitor, and nodded. “Looking good.”
“Good,” Marshall muttered, his eyes never leaving you.
Within minutes, she was unlocking the brakes on your bed and easing it toward the door. “We’ll take you upstairs now so the rest of your family can see you,” she said.
Your lashes fluttered at that, the faintest smile pulling at your lips. Marshall leaned in close so only you could hear, “Girls are gonna lose it when they see you.” You didn’t miss the way he squeezed your hand tighter as they wheeled you toward the recovery room, like letting go even for a second wasn’t an option.
---
Once the nurse had you settled, monitors hooked back up, extra blankets tucked around you, Marshall stayed planted in the chair at your bedside, one arm draped across the mattress so he could keep holding your hand. You blinked at him sleepily. “Can you go get the girls?” you asked, your voice still scratchy from the anesthesia.
He didn’t move. Instead, he fished his phone out of his pocket, thumb tapping quickly. “I’ll text Paul the room number,” he said, sliding the phone back away without looking at you.
You gave him a tiny smile, a little amused at the stubbornness you knew so well. “You’re not gonna leave, huh?”
His gaze softened, but his grip didn’t. “Not after the day I’ve had.”
He leaned forward, brushing his lips against your temple as you waited for the sound of incoming footsteps echoed down the hall, but he was anchored firmly in place.
---
The door eased open with a soft knock before Paul’s head poked in. He stepped aside, letting the girls file in one by one, their faces tight with worry until they actually saw you sitting there, propped up against pillows.
Hailie was the first to move, crossing the room quickly and leaning down to hug you carefully around the shoulders. “You look… better than I thought you would,” she said with a watery laugh, though her eyes were still glassy.
Alaina followed, brushing a hand over your hair like you used to when they were sick, her voice quiet. “You scared us.”
Even Stevie, hanging back a little, edged closer and took your free hand, though Marshall still hadn’t let go of the other.
Paul stood near the foot of the bed, giving you a warm, relieved smile. “It’s good to see you awake, kiddo.”
You squeezed each of their hands in turn, feeling their relief wash over you, and when you glanced to your left, Marshall was still right there, his arm draped protectively across your blanket like he was daring anyone to think they could take his place.
---
It took longer than you expected to convince your girls you were really okay, at least okay enough for them to stop hovering like mother hens. You let them touch your hand, asked about their day, even cracked a small joke just to get a smile out of each of them. It wasn’t until you promised, twice, that you weren’t going anywhere that they finally agreed to head down to the cafeteria for something to eat.
Marshall leaned back in his chair the moment they were gone, shoulders still tight. Paul didn’t move from his spot at the foot of the bed, arms crossed like he was physically holding himself together. When his eyes met yours, his relief was still there, but now it had cooled into something sharper. “I swear to God,” he muttered, shaking his head, “if you ever do that shit to me again…”
You just smiled at him softly, the kind that didn’t have the strength to hold anything but gratitude. “Thanks for saving my life,” you whispered.
And just like that, the anger slipped away. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before letting it drop. “You’re not allowed to leave me alone with Marshall,” he grumbled. “He’s insufferable when you’re not around.”
Your lips curved, eyes fluttering half-closed, a little too exhausted to laugh but still warmed by the sound of his voice. From his chair, Marshall made a low noise half scoff, half laugh. “You’re standin’ right there talkin’ shit about me like I’m not in the room?”
Paul didn’t even look at him, still watching you. “I’m not talking shit. I’m making an accurate observation.”
Marshall leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes narrowing. “Accurate, my ass.” Then he reached out, his big hand covering yours like he was staking his claim all over again. “You hearin’ this, babydoll? Man can’t handle me for five minutes without you around.”
Even through the exhaustion, you smiled faintly, giving Marshall’s fingers a little squeeze. “Sounds like you need me,” you teased softly.
Marshall huffed out a laugh but didn’t let go of your hand. “Damn right I do.”
Paul just shook his head and muttered, “You’re both exhausting,” but there was no heat in it, only relief that you were here to be exhausting.
There was a quiet knock on the door before your surgeon stepped in, white coat crisp, a folder tucked under her arm. Marshall sat up straighter instantly, his hand still around yours, thumb moving in slow, grounding strokes.
“Alright,” he said gently, offering you a small smile. “I wanted to go over your aftercare plan while it’s still fresh for all of us.” He glanced between you and Marshall, clearly gauging his level of alertness, he was coiled tight, but listening like every word might save your life again.
He explained how the surgery had gone, how they’d had to remove part of your stomach tissue to stop the bleeding and prevent future complications. “That means eating will be a challenge for a while,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “Small, frequent meals. Mostly liquids at first. We’ll work up from there, but you need to be patient with your body.”
You nodded slowly, taking it in, even as Marshall’s hand tightened slightly around yours. When he moved on to travel, you interrupted softly, “We… live in Michigan.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “We can arrange for medical transport to get you back home,” he assured. “That part will be handled for you. But once you’re home, ” he paused, making sure her words landed. “You’re going to need pretty constant supervision for at least the next three months. No heavy lifting, no sudden movements, no being alone for long periods. Your body’s going to need help while it heals.”
Straight to lockdown mode.
Marshall’s jaw flexed, the faintest ghost of a nod passing between him and the surgeon. You could practically feel his mind locking onto those words, constant supervision. He’d already been glued to you since you opened your eyes; now he had medical orders to back him up. You felt the weight of Marshall’s stare without even looking at him. Yeah, you knew exactly where his brain had gone.
“Okay,” you said slowly, keeping your voice even, “when you say constant supervision… what exactly do you mean?”
The surgeon glanced at Marshall like he already understood why you were asking, then looked back at you. “I mean exactly that. You’ll need someone with you at all times for the first three months, especially the first six weeks. If you get dizzy, if your incision bleeds, if you can’t keep food down, you’ll need immediate help. It’s not negotiable.”
You groaned softly, letting your head fall back against the pillow. “So… like, even if I’m just taking a nap?”
“Especially if you’re taking a nap,” he replied without a hint of humor. “You’ll be weak. Your energy will come back slowly, and sometimes you won’t realize you’re overdoing it until it’s too late.”
Yeah… you were screwed.
Marshall’s thumb was still stroking your hand, but you could feel how rigid he’d gone beside you. You closed your eyes for a beat. “Great,” you muttered, “guess I’m getting a 24/7 bodyguard.” From the corner of your vision, you caught the faintest smirk curl at Marshall’s mouth. But his eyes? Dead serious.
Marshall leaned back in his chair, still holding your hand, the smirk deepening into something that was equal parts cocky and terrifying. “Constant supervision,” he repeated slowly, like he was tasting the words. “Guess that means you’re stuck with me, babydoll. Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week. For the next three months.”
You gave him a look. “You sound way too excited about that.”
“Oh, I am.” He squeezed your hand and leaned in closer, voice dropping so low only you could hear. “Means I get to watch you. Every second. Make sure you’re eatin’ what I tell you, restin’ when I tell you… breathin’ when I tell you.” The way he said it was half teasing, half deadly serious.
“Marshall…” you warned, but your voice was already softening.
“Nuh-uh,” he cut in, brushing his thumb across your knuckles. “No arguments. Doctor’s orders, right? And I’m the guy making sure you follow ’em. So yeah, forget hiding in the kitchen or sneaking out for coffee. You’ll have me, right there, makin’ sure my girl’s safe.”
Before you could even roll your eyes, Paul, who’d been leaning against the wall, was already dialing his phone.
“Hey,” Paul said into the receiver, “clear Marshall's entire calendar for the next three months. Yeah, everything. Tell whoever needs to know that Marshall’s on medical leave, family emergency. He’s not leaving Michigan, he’s not traveling, and he’s not working unless it’s from home.”
You stared at Paul. “You’re actually doing it?”
Paul shrugged like it was obvious. “I’d rather babysit his career than babysit him pacing a hospital room.”
---
Marshall leaned back in his chair again, smug as hell. “See? Even Paul gets it. You’re my only responsibility for the next three months, babydoll. Might as well stop pretendin’ you’re not gonna love it.” And from the look in his eyes, you knew he meant every word.
When the girls came back, arms full of takeout bags and drinks, you figured it was your chance. You patted the bed, smiling innocently after Marshall explained the post-care orders. “So… you guys are on my side, right? You’re not gonna let your dad go completely overboard with this whole ‘constant supervision’ thing?”
Stevie just looked at you like you’d grown a second head. “You mean… like, try to talk him out of it?”
“Yes!” You gestured toward Marshall, who was leaning back in his chair like a guard dog, arms crossed, watching the exchange like he already knew how it would end. “Exactly that.”
Alaina set the drinks on the little rolling table and shook her head, grinning. “Not happening.”
Hailie smirked. “We’re not stupid.”
“Yeah,” Stevie chimed in as she handed you your drink. “Better get used to it, because it’s probably just going to become Dad’s default with you now.” That made Marshall’s lips twitch in amusement. He didn’t even bother denying it.
You groaned. “Traitors. All of you, you remember how I literally made and then birthed all of you with my body, right?"
Hailie laughed as she took a seat at the foot of your bed. “Nope, just survivors. We’ve lived with him long enough to know it’s easier to let him think he’s in charge.”
Marshall snorted at that, clearly pleased with himself. “Think I’m in charge? Sweetheart, I am in charge.” The three of them just kept smiling at you like they’d already mourned your freedom and moved on. You gave him a flat look, but it only made him smirk wider. “You think I’m kidding,” he said, leaning forward in the chair so his elbows rested on his knees, his eyes locked on yours like you were the only one in the room. “You heard the doc. Constant supervision. Means I’m in your space twenty-four seven, bathroom breaks included if I feel like it.”
“Marshall you are not following me into the—” you started, but he just lifted a brow in warning.
Hailie snorted. “Oh my God, Dad, she’s gonna lose her mind.”
He didn’t even look away from you. “Nah. She’s gonna learn to like it. And when she doesn’t? Too bad. Not negotiable.”
Stevie shook her head, sipping her drink. “See? Told you. Default setting unlocked.”
You tried one more time, reaching for logic. “It’s not like I’m gonna be helpless. I—”
“Yes, you are.” His voice softened but stayed firm, laced with something that made your stomach flip. “You almost died. You don’t get to decide how okay you are right now. I do.”
Paul, still on the phone in the corner, raised a hand without looking up. “Already cleared the calendar, man. Next up is figuring out how to get her home.”
Marshall leaned back again, clearly satisfied. “See? Team effort. And you’re the MVP, baby, so you get the full-time coach.”
You groaned, flopping back against the pillow. “This is gonna be hell.”
---
Alaina grinned. “Nope. This is gonna be Dad in his full glory.”
The room felt impossibly quiet once Paul and the girls left for the hotel nearby, their voices fading down the hall until all you could hear was the soft hum of the machines and the occasional beeping from your monitor.
Marshall had been pacing in the corner, still in the hoodie he’d been wearing since this morning, arms crossed like he was guarding something priceless, which, you supposed, in his mind he was. He’d already made it clear he wasn’t going back to the hotel. Not tonight. Probably not tomorrow either. “Baby,” you said gently, watching the tight set of his jaw. “I’m okay. I’m here.”
He just shook his head, not trusting himself to speak right away. You knew that look, there was too much going on behind his eyes, too many what-ifs he wasn’t willing to put into words. So you tried for something lighter, your lips quirking. “Stevie told me you got confirmation they’re all yours.”
His gaze flicked to you, and the corner of his mouth lifted, but it wasn’t his usual grin. More of a tired, humorless smirk. “Still not funny.”
You sighed softly, shifting just enough, carefully, so you didn’t pull at your stitches. “Come lay with me.”
He hesitated for a second, like he wasn’t sure the bed could handle both of you, or maybe like he didn’t trust himself to get that close without falling apart. But then he toed off his sneakers, moved the IV line just enough, and slid in beside you.
---
He was careful, almost painfully so, not to jostle you. His arm settled lightly over your waist, and then his face was pressed into the curve of your neck, his warm breath ghosting over your skin. You let your fingers find his beard, scratching gently the way you knew he liked. His shoulders eased under your touch, but he didn’t say anything, just breathed you in like the sound of your heartbeat was the only thing keeping his own steady. You kept tracing slow patterns along his jaw, willing your own calm into him, even if you weren’t sure it would take.
You stayed like that for a long time, his weight warm against you, his breaths slow but still uneven enough that you knew his mind was far from quiet. You didn’t push him, Marshall didn’t talk until he was ready, and you’d learned not to force it.
It could’ve been minutes or hours later when his voice finally broke the silence, low and rough against your neck. “I was supposed to be mad at you when you woke up.”
Your fingers paused in his beard, then started moving again in slow, soothing circles. “Mad at me?” you asked softly.
He gave a quiet, humorless laugh, the sound vibrating through your collarbone. “You knew, babydoll. You took my phone call and said all the right things. You fuckin’ knew…”
There was no bite in his tone, no anger, no accusation. Just that aching kind of disbelief, like the memory had been playing on a loop in his head since it happened.
You knew exactly what he meant. The one where you told him you were fine, where you reassured him so sweetly he almost believed you, when really, you were already in trouble.
Your chest tightened. “Marsh—”
He shook his head against your skin before you could finish. “I keep hearing your voice. Like you were tryin’ to make it easier for me. And all I can think is, if you hadn’t… if I hadn’t gotten here… Baby we fucking fought this morning. The last thing I said to you before the show was 'talk to me when you're done acting like a cunt'. What if that's the last fucking...”
He trailed off, but you didn’t need him to finish. His grip tightened around you just slightly, careful not to hurt you but enough to remind you exactly how close he’d come to losing you. You pressed your lips to his head, murmuring, “I’m here. I’m right here.”
He didn’t answer, just held you tighter, his face still buried in your neck like if he let go for even a second, you might slip away again. You drew in a slow breath, your fingers moving to start combing through his hair, willing yourself to say it even though it made your throat ache.
“I needed to know you were safe, Marsh,” you whispered. “I needed to know you weren’t going to walk into another situation like…” You didn’t finish. Couldn’t. The words stuck, heavy and jagged, because you both knew exactly where that sentence ended.
And just like that, you were both back there. Flashes of sirens, hospital corridors, the weight of grief so crushing it had nearly taken him with it. You could feel the shift in his breathing against your skin, how his whole body went rigid.
He didn’t speak right away, the silence stretching long enough to hurt. When he finally did, it was barely above a whisper. “It would’ve been worse.” You blinked, your heart thudding painfully. “Nothing would’ve pulled me out of it,” he went on, his voice rough like it was cutting him from the inside out. “Not time, not the girls calling me when they miss you, not Paul trying to remind me…”
You closed your eyes, the pain in his voice sinking into you, filling your chest until it was almost hard to breathe. “There’s no me without you, babydoll.”
The truth in it was terrifying. Not because you didn’t believe him...but because you did.
You tightened your arm around him, ignoring the dull throb in your stitches, tucking him closer like somehow you could shield him from a world that would ever make him say those words. "Marsh..."
He shakes his head, "You're getting cleared to go home, and then you're letting me take care of you babydoll, because I can. Because you're here. Because I don't give a fuck about anything else."
You swallow hard and rest your head against his, fingers never stopping their gentle pattern through his hair, "Okay Marsh."
He hums, finally satisfied, "Now get some sleep baby. Your body needs to heal."
What if you were asked to write something that you thought of? An idea you have. I would definitely read it. Because you write very well, maby you have an idea..
Im struggling with trying to come up with an idea for you.
I mean I do write a lot of things I come up with. Some of it I post, some I don't. Reader requests are just open if people have something they really want to read.
What stuff would you be comfy enough to write and the stuff you wouldn't?
There's not a lot I won't write, so long as I'm in the mood for it if that makes sense.
I don't write for people of color or LGTQ people to honor their experience. I don't know what that's like and I don't find that to be appropriate for me to write because of that. As a bisexual woman I will write that if the mood strikes, but honestly I haven't really had the inspiration for something that fits in that vein that I think fits Marshall.
I also won't write plus sized readers, because I am in ED recovery and for a while I was getting a lot of requests for it, and I found in trying to write that it would trigger my ED behaviors. Which led to a full blown relapse into my ED.
But for the most part I'm not closed off to writing anything, I just have to be inspired by the request.
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