♱ MARSHALL . . . actually loved cuddling with you, especially when it was late at night. he loved holding you as he sat behind you, the subtle blue glow from the tv completely complimented your complexion. he loved feeling your warmth and taking in your scent like a drug. although of course he'll never physically say it out loud but you already knew from the soft mmm and hmms he would do when he had his face in the crook of your neck. sometimes he would even fall asleep within your cuddles. your rubs on his back made him fall into sleep faster, that combined with how soft you felt.
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."
I love ur pics I need smth to baby blues Ashley cooke I think I dont have any ideas but please 😫
𝓑aby, put those hazel blues away
cw: f. black reader, dilf!marshall, older!marshall, lana del rey esque themes, younger!reader, age gap, older man x younger woman trope, non-celebrity au, eater!marshall, p in v (put safety first), needy!marshall (when you squint), 1.3k wc
NOW PLAYING: baby blues by ashley cooke
downstairs was utterly quiet but upstairs within the bedroom, the click of kitten heels and small squeaks of sneakers could be heard on the wooden floors of the house.
marshall was already dressed, just sitting at the edge of the bed admiring you as you got ready
“marsh, could you help me with my necklace instead of just sitting there? our reservation is at 7:30 and you're gonna make us late!”
he gets up with a laugh and helps you put it around your neck.
“there you go.”
him not being able to resist, kisses the back of your neck. your body temporarily giving in but stopping him as you check the clock
“it's 7:31 now, we gotta hurry up”
he plops back down on the bed, undoing one of the buttons on his dressing shirt.
as you're in the bathroom, you hear him do so as you pull your dress zipper up; peeking from the bathroom doorway you asked
“why is one of your buttons undone?”
he hits you with a coy smile “i dunno” you fix up your hair as he gets up to walk to you. he raises up once again and sits on the edge of the tub to have a closer look at you.
“marshall, don't look at me like that” he kisses his teeth
what? i can't get a closer look at my beautiful girl?”
“yes, but we're really late-” he cuts off your yammering with a kiss, taking you aback.
“rude. i was talking”
you said to him with a slight pout, he rolls his eyes bending down to tie his laces but the way your long socks cut at your thigh area makes the older man go feral.
you were trying different earrings to compliment your outfit when you saw him still being beneath you.
“marshall, you ok? for the sake of me and our reservation please hurry up” he starts kissing up your leg as he was now on his knees. you shudder from his kisses, one of his hands cuffing a hip of yours
“noo, mmmm- please . . . we can do this later-”
“please, i'll be quick”
“ i-”
“we'll be able to make it there on time . . . i promise”
his sudden spark catches you off guard, your eyes going big from his pleading. in your head you were starting to consider it, but you shook your head and focused back on finding the right earrings.
“n-no. we've already lost minutes, i can't lose more!”
“seriously? you're gonna give me fucking blue balls.”
he looks at you holding eye contact as he holds your waist, those hazel blue eyes trying to make you change your answer so badly, you face is hot and your breathing is shaky.
the bathroom's air is thick with tension from the both of you. he lifts up your skirt and kisses your waist, his nose poking occasionally against your skin.
he props you on the edge of the sink, kissing the clothed core of yours, causing you to hold back your noises as he smoothly removes your underwear. looking up at you as he places it in his pocket.
“fucking pervert . . .” you say under your breath, the older man not paying attention to your words.
his head goes in between your legs once more, his soft kisses on either thigh makes small moans escape from you. his lapping starts off slow but his greediness kicks in and makes him speed up.
“marshall-”
was all you could whisper out, feeling him suck and grunt against your core. his arousal was obvious, especially since you struggled to hold onto the sink and keep your thighs from trembling.
the noises you both did would sometimes sync and become louder and louder until you came. “why– did you do that? we're already late.” you whine to him, your eyes being a little glossy from him finishing.
“i did it because you needed it. also you still worried about that? man, fuck the reservation at this point” he says to you acting like he didn't just make you release on his tongue.
he moves from in between you and you hurriedly get but felt you almost fell due to your legs still feeling like jell-o from what he did. you leave the bathroom and try to fix yourself up in the mirror in the bedroom “whoa. damn. you really worried about us being late?” he pauses to check the clock.
“it’s– 7:45, we could just cancel-”
you frown at him through the mirror as you're putting on a new pair of underwear and adjusting your hair. “nuh-uh. no. we are not canceling at all. we’re going to have dinner tonight!” you nudge him in the arm “you promised! you gave me your pinky and all.”
he laughs at your childishness, not taking you or the situation seriously. “well then, baby. maybe i can make it up to you.” he says quietly to you, moving his hand from your shoulders to your waist.
his big hands fitting your waist perfectly, he kisses from your cheek to the back of your neck. you could feel his bulge through your dress, he then moves away from your body unzipping the back of the dress and kissing down your back.
your head’s all mushy, you're conflicted because this man was supposed to take you out for dinner, you didn't really expect him to be so turned on from you getting all dolled up.
“baby, please- i need this” his kisses are hypnotizing, to where he was able to get your shoes off.
you two finally reach the bed, both of you scrambling to get off your clothes, you help him take his dress shirt off, feeling up and down his abdomen, reaching down to the bulge in his pants. his left eye twitches from the touch.
when he saw you about to take your socks off, his hand stopped you “nah, leave ‘em on f’ me” leaning down to kiss where the socks cut off on both legs. spreading your legs a little more, he centers himself to align with your core.
as he slowly inserts himself your eyes roll to the back of your head, “fucckk . . .damn” he said under his breath. you moan loudly as his thrusts gain a little speed enjoying how good you feel, you feeling the same way about him.
“i did say . . . mmm- that i would be quick, didn't i?”
“haah- you asshole! i didn't say fuck me- unh-”
“you're always so- fucking cute when you don't mean what you say”
he pins your hands up, his repeated thrusts continue to hit your spot. you were even starting to see stars. “m-marshall? mmmmh” he let out a low grunty “yes baby? god! you feel so damn good”
as he responded back to you. “we're gonna be l-” he covers your mouth “shh. there's always next time, pretty” he whispers to you “now, let me finish making you feel good”
your whines muffled through his hand, you came first and then he finally came right after you, thrusting some of his release back into you.
he slides out of you smoothly, putting his boxers on as he goes into the restroom to grab a towel.
he kissed you and began to wipe you down. after he finished wiping you, he kissed your forehead, walking back into the bathroom.
you checked the clock on the dresser, being angry at him as he walked back into the bedroom.
“its 7:58 and i really wanted to go! you pervert!” you hit him with a pillow, eyebrows furrowed as you talked.
“tough shit, you shouldn't have looked that damn cute. not my fault really”
“it is, marshall! we could've came back home to do that.”
“but y'know i wouldn't be able to wait it out, angel” getting into the bed, he kisses the side of your neck. smirking against your skin.
“nope. not again.” you put a hand over his face and put a pillow between you two. “are you serious,[❤︎]?” you roll your eyes as you turn away to go to sleep. “good night, hun” you said with a small sly smile on your face.
“again with the blue balls shit?” he kisses his teeth, mad from you putting the pillow to separate y'all. “man, whatever”
i'm just so bad. i'm so good but i'm so BAD *ੈ🍹✩‧₊˚
cw: f. black reader, 2010!marshall, playboy!marshall, p in v (always be safe), eater!marshall, non-famous au, based completely off of “So Bad” on Recovery, 1.1k wc
NOW PLAYING: so bad by eminem
the hotel bed was creaking underneath the both of you. although earlier, you both met at a bar where you two were basically just eye fucking the whole time.
your conversations went for small talk to lust filled flirtation. you were whispering shit to him that made his pants tighten from the thought.
hearing you talk was enough but hearing you say these lewd ideas to him just made it even better. getting to a point where y'all almost fucked in the bathroom, but you two made it to the hotel room.
he could barely unlock the door from you two almost devouring each other's faces.
after successfully opening the door finally, he picked you up and your legs wrapped around his waist as he continued to kiss you up against a wall.
you claw through his hair as he roughly pulled on yours to kiss your neck. you let out a yelp followed by a giggle.
he breaks away from you, automatically making you pout from his lips being gone. laying you out on the table and started kissing down your stomach until he stopped at your pants waistline. unzipping your pant’s zipper with his canines, he pulls them off and immediately sees your underwear.
he hooked a finger under the frilly lace you wore a subtle snap sound hitting your flesh. “these are cute, mind if i keep ‘em?” you opened your mouth to answer but you were too embarrassed from him stuffing the undergarments into his leather jacket’s pocket and shortly taking it off after.
taking two of his huge digits, he made small circles around your core. you were squirming so much that you could've fallen off the table but he kept you in place by putting his other hand on your stomach.
he was feasting on you like you were the last thing he'd ever eat. “oh my god! right THERE!” he was enjoying those pornographic moans that loudly came from you as he continued to hold you in place before you released on his tongue. he was out of breath when you finished, happily licking his lips and wiping some access off with a smirk.
with the camcorder already being set up, you wanted to be cute so you waved to the camera and blew a kiss at it, which made him go a little feral for you. you were on top, he was admiring you as you did.
the marks he left on your body, the small cut on your lip from biting down on it so much, and especially how your curls and chest bounced together in sync with each other.
he had a huge grip on your waist, leaving some indentation on either one of them.
still chasing the highs of the pineapple Schnapps you two had earlier, flipping you onto your stomach he pushed your face into the sheets.
mindlessly thrusting into you as he would have glanced into the camera, smirking as he pulled your face up from the mattress. you bit your lip to contain your noises.
“show the camera that smile you gave me earlier, pretty.”
you try to give a smile but his thrusts kept hitting your spot just right that he had to stop to get you to smile (even though you whined from the loss of friction.)
you smiled at the camera, making the man kiss your curls and continued thrusting into your core. “ahh FUCK-” you wailed out to him, the brunette bit his lip, enjoying the cries that came out of you.
“you look so beautiful like this, [❤︎]. you just had to give me “fuck me” eyes at the bar, didn't you? now look at you . . .” your face flushed, his words made you squeeze around him, earning a grunt from his lips.
“shit- you're taking me so– well” he said through gritted teeth as his slow strokes got faster.
“i'm hah- g’na” you try to speak as your nails dig into his back, his eyes were lidded as he stared down at you.
“you're gonna what? say it louder for the camera”
“i'm gonna come fuck- please . . .”
“i know”
he cooed at you, biting and licking your neck as you came around him, he did the same right after releasing into the protection he wore.
he slides out from you slowly, you let out a little whine as he did. kissing your forehead and then kissing you he makes his way to the camera.
he stops the footage and turns the camera off but when he turned around, you were tuckered out and already in slumber.
he smiles softly to himself, enjoying how sweet you looked when you sleep. getting under the covers, he wraps his hands around your waist as his eyes start to flutter shut.
the sun gave the room a slight orange tint as he woke up. marshall turned his head to you while you were sound asleep and your arm was on his chest.
the brunette quietly moved your arm and got up from underneath the covers.
checking his G-Shock as he slid out of bed, he starts getting dressed and heads into the bathroom to freshen himself up.
going back into the room, he gazed over at you, still sleeping softly (after blowing out your back not too long ago.)
deep down, he felt a little bad that he had to leave you to meet up with some other chick who he liked more than you, well because he did just meet you like a day ago at a bar.
after putting on his jacket, he decided that you at least needed something sweet before he eventually left. he wrote you something and leaving a small gift on the bed
after doing so, he moved some curls from your face and kissed your cheek, quickly leaving the room.
you woke up a little later to find the other side of the bed was empty. you sulked for a little until you picked up the note he left on the pillow.
good morning, pretty. sorry about leaving so suddenly, i had to go because i always have business in the evening. real important shit, you understand right? i had a fucking great time with you. oh yeah and by the way; enjoy our movie. - M
your face became warm as you looked down at the tape he left on the bed.
a/n: I CAN HOLD YOU IN THE MORNING, BUT IN THE EVENING I GOTTA GO - WHOA - WHOA! CUZ I'M ON TO THE NEXT GIRL AND THE NEXT GIRL I KINDA LIKE OH! OH! YEAHHH!
(lowk even more filler until i finish something i was working on also i don't know wtf came over me to write this . . .)
ugh u don't understand how much i love ur em fics they're just TOO good
that is so sweet! i'm so glad that you love them so much, it feels nice hearing compliments like these. i always have like . . . writer's guilt due to me always thinking that my bodies of work aren't readable? feeling dysphoric in a sense sometimes (i can't take these compliments because they're so nice 🥺)
Nobody expected the worlds of Broadway and hip-hip to collide.
The internet had always loved a surprising pairing, but even the most creative fans couldn't have predicted the sight that sent social media into chaos: Marshall Mathers---better known to the world as Eminem, Slim Shady, the man whose lyrics had defined generations of rap---walking into a Broadway theater in New York.
And then, hours later, walking out beside Y/n L/n.
The photographs spread everywhere.
Not because they were simply together.
Because of the way he stood beside her.
Marshall, usually known for his sharp tongue, guarded privacy, and intimidating stage presence, had his arm positioned around her almost instinctively. His body angled slightly towards hers, like he was blocking the chaos of the crowd without even thinking about it.
Fans joked that it looked less like a celebrity couple leaving a theater and more like a knight escorting a princess safely through a battlefield.
The funniest part?
Marshall probably would have rolled his eyes at the comparison.
But he also probably would have secretly liked it.
Because that was the thing about him---beneath the sarcasm, the jokes, and the carefully built walls, he was someone who cared deeply about the people he let close.
And somehow, against all odds, one of those people was a Broadway star.
Y/n L/n.
The woman who had transformed herself into queens, witches, and legends onstage.
The woman who had played Katherine Howard in Six, Mona "Lipschitz" in Chicago, and Elphaba in Wicked, among countless other roles.
A theater icon.
A performer whose entire life revolved around storytelling.
It started because of Curtis.
Or, as the world knew him, 50 Cent.
Marshall had known Curtis for years. They had worked together, collaborated together, and shared the kind of friendship built on endless jokes and mutual respect.
Which was exactly why Marshall should have known something was suspicious.
The moment Curtis said, "I want you to meet someone," Marshall should have been prepared.
But he wasn't.
The event was crowded, filled with actors, musicians, producers, and people from every corner of entertainment. Marshall wasn't usually the type to work a room. He preferred finding a quiet corner, observing, and occasionally making a comment that made someone laugh when they least expected it.
Then Curtis appeared beside him with a woman.
"Marshall, this is Y/n."
She smiled.
"Hi."
Marshall nodded politely.
"Hey."
Simple.
Normal.
Except something about her immediately caught his attention.
Maybe it was the fact that she didn't seem starstruck.
She knew who he was, obviously. Everyone did.
But she didn't approach him like he was some untouchable legend. She treated him like a person.
Curtis noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
Because Curtis had absolutely planned this.
A few minutes later, after introducing them, he casually looked at his phone.
"Huh. I gotta take care of something."
Marshall narrowed his eyes.
"You're leaving?"
"Yeah."
"That's convenient."
Curtis just grinned.
"Have fun."
And then he disappeared.
Marshall watched him walk away.
Then he looked back at Y/n.
A realization slowly crossed his face.
"Oh my God."
She laughed.
"What?"
"He set this up."
Y/n covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.
"You think?"
Marshall shook his head.
"That man..."
But instead of being annoyed, he laughed.
Because honestly?
Curtis wasn't wrong.
The conversation should have been awkward.
Two people from completely different worlds.
A rapper known for brutal honesty, controversial lyrics, and dark humor.
A Broadway performer known for emotional performances, theatrical storytelling, and commanding a stage.
But somehow, it worked.
Immediately.
They started talking about movies first.
Then comics.
Then somehow, hours passed.
"You're telling me you've read that storyline?" Y/n asked.
Marshall looked genuinely offended.
"Of course I have."
She laughed.
"No, because people underestimate how much comic stuff you know."
"I've got interests."
"I know. That's what makes it funny."
They ended up talking about the MCU, characters, story arcs, and debates that became increasingly passionate.
Neither of them realized how much time had passed.
Curtis watched from across the room with a satisfied smirk.
I knew it.
He knew their personalities would click.
They both had the same strange combination of intensity and humor. They cared deeply about their craft but didn't take themselves too seriously.
Eventually, the conversation shifted toward how they discovered their passions.
Y/n talked about theater.
She had been a theater kid for as long as she could remember.
But not the stereotype people imagined.
She wasn't someone who fit neatly into the cliché.
"I swear, " she said, laughing, "you'd think some of those kids' blood type is jazz-hands positive. Had me wishing those prop guns were real."
For a second, Marshall just stared.
Then a loud laugh exploded from him.
Not a polite laugh.
Not a fake celebrity laugh.
A genuine, uncontrollable laugh that came straight from his chest.
He bent forward slightly, shaking his head.
"Okay."
He wiped at the corner of his eye.
"That was actually funny."
Y/n smiled.
"I try."
Marshall looked at her for a moment.
You're funny, he thought.
That mattered.
Humor mattered to him.
Especially because so much of his life had been spent surrounded by people trying to impress him or tell. him what they thought he wanted to hear.
Y/n didn't do that.
She just talked.
And he liked listening.
When Marshall talked about rap, Y/n noticed something.
People often focused on the controversy, the fame, the persona.
But when he spoke about music itself, there was something different.
He talked about being young, discovering rap, and realizing that writing and performing gave him a way to express things he couldn't always say otherwise.
For him, rap wasn't just entertainment.
It was storytelling.
A way to turn experiences, frustrations, and observations into something meaningful.
Y/n understood that.
Because theater was the same thing.
Different stage.
Different language.
Same purpose.
"You're basically doing that same thing," she told him.
"Marshall raised an eyebrow.
"How?"
"You take pieces of yourself and put them into a performance. I do the same thing. The only difference is you have a microphone and I have a costume."
He smiled.
"That's actually a pretty good way to put it."
By the end of the night, anyone watching them would have assumed they had known each other forever.
They laughed constantly.
Every few minutes, one of them said something that made the other laugh again.
Marshall became more animated as the night went on.
He talked with his hands.
He got excited about random topics.
He jumped between thoughts.
And whenever Y/n spoke about something she loved, he listened.
Really listened.
She had this way of explaining things that pulled people in.
Her eyes lit up.
Her voice carried emotion.
Her hands moved as she described scenes, characters, and moments that had mattered to her.
Marshall absorbed every word.
Like a sponge.
Curtis watched from a distance, still smiling.
Years later, Marshall would look back on that night and realize Curtis had done him a favor.
The first time Marshall saw Y/n perform on Broadway, he understood something.
He understood why people loved theater.
Y/n invited him to see Six.
She was playing Katherine Howard.
Marshall knew music.
He knew performance.
But Broadway was different.
There was no hiding behind a recording.
No second take.
No editing.
Just the performer, the stage, and the audience.
When Y/n walked onstage as Katherine, he immediately understood the character.
At first glance, Katherine was bright, bubbly, and playful.
A confident girl who seemed obsessed with romance and attention.
But beneath the glitter and energy was something heartbreaking.
A young woman whose story had been shaped by manipulation, exploitation, and people who saw her as something to possess rather than someone to love.
Y/n captured every layer.
The confidence.
The humor.
The pain underneath.
Especially during "All You Wanna Do."
Marshall watched as the upbeat energy slowly transformed.
The performance started like a pop anthem, full of charisma and attitude.
But then the meaning became clearer.
The smile became heavier.
The story became darker.
The audience wasn't just watching a fun song.
They were watching Katherine reclaim her own voice.
Marshall sat there completely absorbed.
He laughed during the comedic moments.
He was impressed by the energy.
He admired the skill.
But by the end?
He was moved.
Because he understood what it meant to take pain and turn it into art.
When the final notes faded, he stayed quiet for a moment.
Y/n noticed when she met him afterward.
"So?"
Marshall looked at her.
"You know, I was gonna come up with something cool to say."
She smiled.
"And?"
"Yeah, I got nothing."
She laughed.
He shook his head.
"No, seriously. That was incredible."
Coming from him, she knew he meant it.
"You were funny, you were intense, you had the whole place locked in."
He paused.
"And that last part..."
His expression softened.
"That hit."
Y/n smiled.
"Thank you."
Marshall nodded.
Then, because he was Marshall Mathers and subtlety was not always his strongest quality, he cleared his throat.
"So..."
"So?"
"You wanna get something to eat sometime?"
She raised an eyebrow.
"Like food?'
He gave her a look.
"Yeah. Food."
A beat passed.
"Definitely not a date."
The corner of his mouth lifted.
"Obviously not."
She laughed.
And that was the moment.
The moment their worlds officially collided.
A rapper.
A Broadway star.
Two completely different paths.
Same rhythm.
Years later, people would still talk about how unexpected they were.
The internet would still obsess over photos of them.
Fans would still joke about Marshall Mathers, the intimidating rap legend, becoming the protective boyfriend who looked ready to fight anyone who got too close to the woman he loved.
But the people who knew them understood.
It wasn't surprising.
Because beneath everything---the fame, the awards, the stages, the personas---they were just two artists who understood each other.
hii could u make a fic where em and reader have been arguing all day and when it's time to sleep reader got so used to sleeping in his arms she stays awake for a while until he wakes up and gruffly let's her back into his arms and they apologize to each other! any era is fine tyy!
Title: Last Place
The tension had been simmering since breakfast, or maybe even before that. At least since the alarm went off at 5:30 a.m. and Marshall was already reaching for his phone, groaning about how early it was already. He was droning on about the next studio session while you tried to shove coffee into his hand along with a microwaved breakfast sandwich. As his assistant, you were used to the chaos and getting calories and caffeine into his system . As his wife, you were exhausted by it.
Football season made everything worse. Sundays were sacred, or at least semi-sacred in the off-season, but this year the Lions were actually contenders, and Marshall treated every game like a personal crusade. When he wasn’t planted in front of the massive TV in the living room, yelling obscenities at the refs like they could hear him, he was dragging you along to Ford Field in that private suite he always booked. You went because you loved him and going to a game was always fun, especially because watching him light up when the team did something right was one of your favorite versions of him. But you always ended up tucked in the back corner, nursing a coke and scrolling through emails on your phone while he stayed front and center, close enough for the cameras to catch the occasional glimpse of him, but you never sat close enough for anyone to really see you with him.
The world knew Marshall was married. The glimpses in his music videos, usually soft home footage of you laughing or some family event you got caught up in, or once your hand in his during a quiet moment that Hailie captured and sent him, but those little controlled glances were all he ever gave them. He was notoriously private, almost pathologically so, and you respected it. Most days.
Today was not most days.
You’d been sniping at each other since the moment you walked into the studio that morning. You’d pointed out, reasonably, you thought, that he had three back-to-back meetings scheduled for tomorrow that overlapped with the only window of time you had to actually get some rest and handle personal life. He’d snapped back that if you couldn’t handle the schedule, maybe you should hire a new assistant for him. You’d fired back something about how maybe you should hire him a new wife while you were at it. It escalated from there. By the time the afternoon rolled around, you were both bristling, trading barbs over every little thing: the way he left his hoodie draped over the chair, the way you “organized” his emails which apparently meant you were deleting important ones when in fact you were putting them in the folder starred at the top of his email so he'd know they were important, the fact that you'd ordered lunch for him and the crew but hadn't actually remembered to order anything for yourself didn't help.
Now it was evening, the Lions game long over, a win, thankfully, or the mood would’ve been nuclear, and the two of you were on opposite ends of the massive sectional in the living room like it was a goddamn battlefield. The TV was off. The only light came from the low lamp on the side table and the city glow filtering through the windows. Marshall had his legs stretched out, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle ticking. You were curled up against the opposite armrest, knees drawn to your chest, refusing to even let your socked feet brush his.
“You gonna keep that up all night?” he muttered, voice low and rough, eyes fixed on the dark screen like it had personally offended him.
“Keep what up?” you shot back, sweet as poison. “Existing? Breathing in your general direction? Sorry, I’ll try to schedule that better next time.”
He let out a sharp breath through his nose, the sound almost a laugh but meaner. “Jesus Christ. You’ve been on my ass since we woke up. What the fuck is your problem today?”
“My problem?” You turned to glare at him fully, heart hammering with that mix of anger and the deeper ache underneath it. “My problem is that I’m your wife, not just the person who keeps your calendar from exploding. But lately it feels like I’m just another item on the list squeeze in some time for her between the studio, the label bullshit, and screaming at the TV every Sunday like it’s your full-time job.”
Marshall’s head snapped toward you, blue eyes flashing. “You knew what this life was when you signed up for it. I don’t hide shit from you. You’re in every meeting you want to be. You sit in the suite at the games—”
“Yeah, in the back,” you interrupted, the words spilling out sharper than you meant. You were poking on purpose now, needling the spots you knew would sting because you were tired and hurt and wanted him to feel some of it. “Wouldn’t want the world to actually see us together, right? Just those little clips you sprinkle into videos when it suits the narrative. I get it, Marshall. You’re private. But sometimes it feels like I’m your dirty little secret instead of your partner.”
He sat up straighter, the couch creaking under the shift. “That’s bullshit and you know it. I take you everywhere. I come home to you every night. What more do you want? A fucking parade? A goddamn Instagram post? Your fifteen fucking minutes?”
“Maybe I want you to sit next to me for once instead of treating me like staff!” Your voice rose, echoing off the high ceilings. “Or maybe I want one Sunday where you’re not glued to football or the studio or whatever else is more important than actually being here with me. I’m lonely, okay? And yeah, I’ve been picking fights all day because at least then you’re paying attention to me instead of everything else.”
The silence that dropped after your words was heavy. Marshall stared at you, chest rising and falling, that familiar mix of frustration and something softer flickering across his face. He looked like he wanted to argue more, his mouth opened, closed, then opened again, but instead he just ran a hand over his short hair and muttered a string of curses under his breath.
You didn’t move closer. Neither did he. The space between you on the couch felt like miles, both of you stubbornly refusing to bridge it even as the fight drained some of the heat out of the air. Your arms stayed wrapped around your knees. His stayed crossed.
“Fuck,” he finally said, quieter. “You really wanna do this right now?”
You lifted your chin, eyes still narrowed even as tears pricked at the corners. “Yeah. I do. Because I love you, you idiot. And right now I also kind of hate how easy it is for everything else to come first.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just watched you with that intense gaze that always saw too much. The couch remained a divided territory, the sniping paused but the tension thick enough to choke on. Neither of you was ready to touch. Not yet.
But the fight wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
---
The argument dragged on for another hour, sharp and circular, like a knife twisting in the same wound. You threw barbs about how he treated the studio like a mistress and the Lions like his first-born. He fired back that you knew exactly who you married, a workaholic from Detroit who didn’t do “balance” and never pretended to. The words got colder, more precise, each one designed to sting without quite drawing blood. You both stayed on your separate sides of the couch, bodies angled away, voices low and clipped.
Eventually the venom ran dry. The clock on the wall ticked past midnight. Neither of you suggested fixing it. Marshall just stood up, jaw tight, and muttered, “I’m going to bed,” before heading upstairs without waiting for you. You followed a few minutes later, the house silent except for your footsteps.
By the time you slipped under the covers, the anger had burned itself out, leaving only a heavy, aching sadness in its place. Marshall was already on his side of the bed, back turned to you, the broad line of his shoulders rigid even in the dark. You lay there on your back, staring at the ceiling, feeling utterly alone despite the fact that your husband was less than two feet away. It was a special kind of fucked up, being this lonely right next to the person you loved most. You listened as his breathing slowly evened out, deepening into the steady rhythm of sleep. He always fell asleep fast after a fight, like his brain had a shutdown switch. You couldn’t. You were freezing. The bed felt too big, too empty. You were so used to tucking yourself against his chest, leg thrown over his, his arm heavy around your waist like an anchor. Without it, the sheets were cold, the pillow wrong, every shift uncomfortable. You turned onto your side, then your other side, curling into a tight ball, but nothing helped.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. Your eyes burned from exhaustion and unshed tears. The quiet pressed in, amplifying every small sound, his soft exhale, the distant hum of the street outside.
Then, without warning, a firm arm slid across the mattress. Warm fingers found your waist and pulled, dragging you backward across the sheets until your back hit his chest. You went willingly, breath catching in your throat as Marshall’s body curved around yours solid, familiar, warm. His lips pressed to the pulse point just below your ear, soft and lingering, before he grumbled in that gravelly, half-asleep voice, “I’m sorry I’m a fucking dick, baby. C’mere.”
He wrapped himself fully around you then, one leg hooking over yours, arm locked tight across your middle, face buried in the crook of your neck. The relief was immediate and overwhelming. You hadn’t expected the way your breath hitched or how quickly tears stung at the corners of your eyes, but you turned in his arms and snuggled deeper into him anyway, pressing your face into the steady rise and fall of his chest.
“I shouldn’t have gotten so upset…” you murmured against his skin, voice small and shaky.
Marshall chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through his chest even though he was still mostly asleep. “Baby, you should be more upset. You’re way too good for me and my bullshit.” His hand rubbed slow circles on your back. “I just don’t want you in the shit, you know that right?”
You nodded against his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of his soap, the faint traces of his cologne, home. “Just… sometimes maybe I want to remember you love me. And it’s hard if you’re so busy. I feel like I’m in last place.”
His arm tightened around you instinctively, almost possessively. Then you felt him shift, waking up a little more. His free hand came up, fingers gentle but firm as they tilted your chin until you were looking up at him in the dark. His eyes, heavy-lidded and sincere, found yours.
“You’re not in last place, babydoll.”
The words hung between you, quiet and heavy with everything still unsaid. You stayed curled against him, his heartbeat steady under your cheek, the loneliness finally easing its grip as sleep started to pull you under. Tomorrow might bring more fighting, more of a schedule that made your husband feel further away, more distance that was suffocating. But for tonight, at least, you were right where you belonged, tucked safe in his arms.
The late afternoon was quiet as she sat in a chair in the middle of the kitchen , a white towel wrapped around her shoulders as Marshall stood behind her, a pair of scissors and a comb in his hands. His tongue poked against the inside of his cheek as he studied her hair like he was preparing for surgery instead of an impulsive Friday night haircut.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
He let out an amused snort, shaking his head as if she’s asking the dumbest question on earth.
“Relax, I cut my own hair all the time, you know this” Marshall kept his gaze focused on the task at hand.
“That’s not an answer”
He snorts. “Baby… it’s hair.”
“…That also wasn’t an answer.” She slowly turned her head just enough to glance at him over her shoulder.
“It grows back.”
With a grin that immediately makes her regret agreeing to this, he leaned the comb in to her scalp, her hand instinctively came up to grab his, “wait..”
He rolled his eyes dramatically. “You got trust issues.”
“I have Marshall issues.” She glared at him slightly yet he still laughed.
“Same thing.”
Five minutes in, the scissors settled into a steady rhythm as small pieces of hair drifted down onto the towel covering her shoulders. Every now and then she felt his fingers tilt her head or brush loose strands off her neck with surprising gentleness.
Against all odds… It isn’t terrible.
Marshall quietly hummed to himself, completely absorbed in what he was doing, nodding every few seconds like he’s impressed with his own work.
“See?”
“You worried for nothin’.”
“I haven’t seen it yet.”
He smirked at her reflection in the microwave door.
“Just trust me man”
Another minute slips by. Then…Nothing. The familiar snipping sound disappeared so abruptly that the silence almost rung in her ears.
Her eyebrows knit together. “…Marshall?”
No answer.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up.“Marshall.”
A moment passed before he finally spoke.
“…Yo.” His voice was different. Smaller and unsure.
The kind of voice people used when they’re deciding how bad the news actually is.
Her stomach immediately sunk. “What?”
He didn’t answer. The silence somehow felt louder.
“What?!.” She was impatient now.
“I think…I fucked up.”
Her heart dropped straight into her stomach. “You think?”
“Don’t panic.”
“I wasn’t panicking until you said that.”
“Nah, nah, hold on—”
“Marshall.”
He squint at the side of her head, leaning in until his nose was practically brushing her hairline.
“I’m assessin’ the damage.”
“DAMAGE—”
“Don’t move!”
“I’m gonna move!”
“If you move it’ll look worse!”
“I DON’T KNOW HOW THAT’S POSSIBLE.”
He leaned even closer, lips pursed in concentration.“…Huh.”
Her eyes widen. “Huh?”
He stayed quiet.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN HUH?”
He scratched the back of his neck. “…You ever thought about bangs?”
She froze. Not just physically but mentally. Every worst-case scenario flashed through her head in the span of two seconds.
Slowly, very slowly, she lifted her eyes toward him. “…What did you do?”
Marshall immediately shook his head, far too quickly for someone who definitely did something.
“Nothin’ crazy.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Marshall.”
“I just…” He trailed off, scratching at the back of his neck. The silence said more than anything he possibly could. “…accidentally took a little more off than I planned.”
Her stomach sunk. “How much is ‘a little’?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he studied the floor with an intensity usually reserved for solving world hunger.
“Marshall!.”
He finally glanced back up at her, wearing the expression of a kid who’s about to admit he broke something expensive.
“…Quarter-sized?”
She didn’t blink. She didn’t even breathe.
He immediately backpedaled . “…Maybe DVD-sized.”
She whipped around so fast the towel nearly slid off her shoulders.
Marshall reacted on pure instinct, shoving the scissors behind his back like hiding the evidence is somehow going to undo what just happened.
She zoomed towards the bathroom looking at herself in the mirror. “Oh… Oh no” she spun around again to him.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“WHERE’S MY HAIR?”
He gestured vaguely toward the side of her head.
“It’s pretty much still here.”
“WHERE?”
He pointed toward the kitchen floor. “…On the floor.” A nervous chuckle leaving his body.
Her eyes slowly followed his finger. Sure enough… A depressing little pile of hair was scattered across the floor.
She stared at it.
Then back at him.
He stared back with the nervous smile of a man who knows he’s about five seconds away from becoming a homicide statistic.
After what felt like forever, he cleared his throat. “…You own hats, right?”
Silence.
The refrigerator hummed.
A car passed outside.
Somewhere in another apartment, somebody laughed.
But neither of them moved.
Then Marshall nodded to himself as though he’s just solved an impossible problem. “It’s cool. You can wear one of mine.”
She blinked at him. “I don’t want one of yours.”
“They’re nice hats.” He shrugged like that was the obvious solution.
“I want my hair back!”
“What did you do?! I asked for a little change, not the G.I. Jane starter pack! Look at the back of my neck—wha—why can I feel a breeze?! Put it back!"
That does it. The laugh escaped before he could stop it. Then another and within seconds he was completely gone.
Not a polite laugh.
Not even a chuckle.
He leaned over with one hand braced against the kitchen counter, shoulders shaking so hard he nearly lost his balance. “Oh my God…”
She folded her arms across her chest.
“This isn’t funny.”
He tried to compose himself. Really, he did. “kinda is.”
“My hair is gone!”
“You chopped so much off the side I look like the sixth member of NSYNC!"
He pointed at her expression, laughing so hard he could barely form words. “You should see your face.”
“You should see your obituary.”
Instead of scaring him… It somehow made him laugh even harder, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes.
“I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I swear I wasn’t tryin’ to—”
“You gave me a crop circle.”
His head snapped up. For one second he just stared at her. Then he was absolutely finished.
“CROP CIRCLE?”
“You heard me.”
He stumbled backward until he was leaning against the refrigerator, clutching his stomach because he literally couldn’t breathe anymore.
Every time he started to calm down, he muttered “crop circle” under his breath and started laughing all over again.
Finally, after several long seconds, he dragged in a deep breath and wiped his eyes one last time.
“You know what…” He straightened up, looking at her hair with exaggerated concentration, turning his head from side to side like he was inspecting a painting.
He nodded once, confident again. “…I can fix it.”
“No.”
“Seriously”
“No.”
“I just gotta even it out.”
She pointed toward the scissors still hidden behind his back. “That’s what got us here.”
He opens his mouth to argue but nothing came out.
“…Fair.”
She stood, snatching the little hand mirror off the kitchen table, and slowly bringing it up to her face.
Marshall suddenly became fascinated by absolutely anything else in the room.
The ceiling.
The pizza box.
The magnets on the fridge.
Anywhere except the mirror.
Her eyes landed on her reflection again. A very long silence followed, along with a frown.
“…Marshall.”
He didn’t answer.
She doesn’t even think he’s breathing anymore.
“You made me look like I got run over with a lawnmower.”
His lips pressed together so tightly they practically disappeared. He was trying. Trying so unbelievably hard not to laugh again.
His nostrils flared.
His shoulders twitched.
The corner of his mouth betrayed him first.
“Don’t.”
He shook his head violently. “I’m not.”
“Marshall.”
“I’m—” A tiny snort slipped out. They both heard it.
Then another.
And just like that… He was gone again.
Laughing as she ripped the towel off her shoulders and threw it directly at him. It smacked him in the chest. He caught it automatically, still laughing.
After a moment, he managed to stand up straight. “ c,mon I’m buyin’ you dinner.”
“My hair.”
“Whatever you want.”
“My hair!”
He gave her the most apologetic smile he could manage. “I can’t buy that.”
The amusement finally faded from his face. He crossed the small kitchen until he was standing right in front of her. Carefully—almost hesitantly this time—he reached up and cupped her face in both hands. His thumbs brushing lightly against her cheeks.
“Don’t need that much hair anyway …You still look pretty.”
She breathed in waiting for a punchline. She narrowed her eyes. He knows that look. It’s the same one that says he’s one bad joke away from sleeping on the couch.
“Even with the accidental… artistic improv.” His eyebrows lifted innocently.
“Artistic?” A chuckle escaped her, despite herself. “You vandalized me.”
A crooked grin spread across his face. “…Yeah.”
Then it softened. The grin stayed but there was genuine guilt sitting behind it now. His voice dropped almost to a mumble. “…I’m really sorry.”
She tried to stay mad , she really did. She told herself she was not letting him off that easily.
But he was standing there looking genuinely ashamed while also very obviously trying not to laugh at the memory of sixth member of NSYNC
The idiot.
A reluctant smile creeped across her face. She shook her head, and before she could stop it… She started laughing too.
His arms gently pulled her into a hug as he patted a hand on her head.
“You’re never touching my hair again”
He immediately nodded. “Absolutely” as his hand still tried to smooth down some of the hairs that were left sticking up.
For a whole second, she thought maybe he actually learned something. Then…
“But you know what?”
She let out a long, exhausted sigh as she made her way into the living room, already regretting giving him another chance to speak.
She rolled her eyes. “What.”
Without missing a beat, he reached behind him and grabbed his clippers instead of the scissors off the counter, making his way to her , holding them up like he was presenting the world’s greatest invention, he pointed them toward her.
“Let’s buzz it. Start over.”
She didn’t speak, or blink. She didn’t even move.
Marshall mistook her silence for consideration. He tapped the side of his own head with a finger.
"Look… the asymmetrical look is huge right now. Or, hear me out, we go full Shady. Two minutes with the clippers n’ a bottle of peroxide, you'll be good." He said with complete confidence, like there was absolutely no universe where she’d say no.
“What are you on, drugs?!.”
He shrugged one shoulder. Completely unfazed. A smug little grin spreading across his face.
“I’m just giving you solutions.”
She narrowed her eyes until they were practically slits. “Marshall, absolutely not.”
Instead of taking the hint, he stepped closer, lowering his voice like he was about to let her in on a secret.
Eyebrows raised, looking entirely too proud of himself “C’mon. You never gotta worry ‘bout a bad hair day again. Just wake up, slap on a hoodie, and boom—Shady 2.0.”
She opened her mouth, ready to list every reason why that was the worst idea he’s had all week.
He beat her to it. A knowing smirk creeping across his face. “Think about it.”
She doesn’t have to.
Instead, she grabbed the nearest pillow off the couch and launched it straight at him. It caught him square in the chest with a thump.
He let out an exaggerated grunt as he stumbled back a step. “Alright, alright! Won’t give you the Eminem special”
His laughter filled the apartment again, echoing off the walls. She shook her head, unable to stop the smile pulling at her lips.
“Besides, you think I care? Bald, neon green, whatever—I’d still fuck you with no rubber”
“…You’re such an idiot.”
He peeked over the top of the pillow with that unmistakable crooked grin. The same one that got him out of trouble far more often than it should.
And somehow… despite the missing chunk of hair… despite the fact she’d probably be wearing a hat for the next month… she couldn’t help but laugh with him.
