alittlegiraffe

[alittlegiraffe]

Title: "Not Letting Go" – Part 40

The next few days passed in a strange sort of limbo.

Marshall was still here. He was present. Attentive. Trying.

But your fear still lingered, creeping in when you least expected it.

And he knew.

He saw it in the way you hesitated before reaching for him. In the way your fingers brushed against your wedding ring absentmindedly, like you weren’t sure if you were ready to wear it with certainty again.

In the way you studied him when he walked through the door late, as if bracing for another broken promise.

Marshall wasn’t stupid—he felt it. And if there was one thing you knew about him, it was that he hated feeling like he wasn’t enough.

You were in the middle of folding laundry when you heard the front door shut.

Marshall was home earlier than expected.

You glanced at the clock—just after 7 PM. Not bad.

Still, you felt yourself tense.

He had promised he wouldn’t lose himself in work again, but that didn’t mean you weren’t waiting for it to happen.

You could hear his footsteps in the hall, slow and deliberate. Then he appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

His eyes met yours, searching.

And just like that, the tension between you stretched tight, unspoken words filling the space.

“I can hear you thinking from over here,” he muttered.

You sighed, setting a folded shirt on the bed. “Didn’t realize thinking was a crime.”

Marshall smirked, but there was something behind it—something softer. He walked toward you, reaching for your hand.

You let him take it.

“Tell me what’s in your head,” he said quietly.

You looked down at your intertwined fingers, swallowing hard. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

Marshall’s grip tightened. “You won’t.”

You exhaled. “You say that. And I want to believe it. I do believe it. But I’m scared, Marshall.”

His free hand came up to cup your face, forcing you to look at him. “I know. And I don’t know how to take that fear away except to prove it to you every day. To show up. To be here. To love you the way I should have from the start.”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”

Marshall’s lips pressed against your forehead, lingering. “Then let me be the one who’s sure enough for both of us.”

Your eyes burned.

Because you wanted that.

You wanted to let yourself fall without fearing the ground beneath you.

And maybe, just maybe, you were ready to try.

So you nodded, squeezing his hand.

And for the first time in a long time, the fear didn’t feel quite so suffocating.

[alittlegiraffe]

Just a reminder that if you come into my asks talking shit about my mutuals I'm just going to block you.

[alittlegiraffe]

Just a reminder that if you come into my asks on anon and start talking shit I just block you. My mutuals are none of your business.

[alittlegiraffe]

em smut plss😭🙏🏻

Title: Say It Again

You weren’t stupid. At least, you didn’t used to be.

But all it took was one late night call from your mother and every fear you'd spent years silencing began whispering again—no, screaming. The kind of screaming only she could provoke.

“Men like him always cheat. Especially when they’ve had a taste of power that long. Wake up, sweetheart. You really think he’s working late every night? Open your eyes before you look even dumber than I raised you.”

You didn’t say anything then. Just stared at the phone screen as it blinked out. As if that one call cracked something loose in your ribs.

He hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t. You’d told yourself that all night while he was gone, told yourself that again when he came home and dropped a kiss to the crown of your head like nothing was wrong.

Because nothing was wrong. Until you made it that way.

You were cold. Short. Quiet. The kind of quiet he didn’t mistake for tiredness—no, Marshall clocked it fast. It was one of his dangerous skills, that man could read your moods like sheet music.

And he didn’t appreciate the shift.

"You mad at me or something?"

His voice was low, gravelly from his shower, hair still wet as he leaned against the doorframe of the bedroom.

You sat on the edge of the bed, arms folded, eyes fixed on the floor.

“I don’t know,” you murmured.

His brow twitched. “You don’t know?”

Your silence throbbed in the air between you.

Marshall stepped closer. “Nah. You do. You know. You just don’t wanna say it.”

You flinched when his shadow fell over you. Not fear—just shame. Because he hadn’t done anything. Had he?

“Are you cheating on me?”

He didn’t even answer at first. Just stood there. The stillness around him was scarier than if he’d exploded.

"...What?"

You finally looked up at him, tears already prickling. “I said—are you—”

“I heard what you said.”

He exhaled slow. Turned. Walked away. You blinked after him, expecting a slammed door, a snapped word.

Instead, he came back seconds later with his phone, his face unreadable.

“You want my phone?” He held it out to you. “Go ahead. Look. Check my messages. My emails. GPS. Whatever you need.”

You hesitated. “Marshall—”

“Nah.” His voice cut through the air. “You think I’d ever step out on you? You think I’d risk this? You think I’d give up us for what—some random bitch with no clue how to look at me like you do?”

He got down on his knees in front of you, fingers gripping your thighs.

“I fuckin’ worship you,” he growled, voice trembling with emotion. “You walk in a room and I forget every other name I ever knew. You think I could even get it up for someone else? You’re the only person who knows what I need.”

He rested his forehead on your legs, exhaling hard like he couldn’t breathe until he touched you.

“I come home to you, baby. Every time. Always. You’re my peace. You’re my punishment. You’re my fuckin’ everything.”

You crumbled then.

“...She called,” you whispered. “My mom. Said men like you—”

His head snapped up. “Your mom?” His mouth curled like the word tasted like poison. “That woman’s been trying to ruin your happiness since I met you.”

“I know. I know, I just—she got in my head.”

He cupped your face. “Then let me in louder.”

He kissed you hard then, desperate and rough, like he needed to erase her voice from your body.

Between kisses, he murmured against your lips:

“Say it again. Ask me again. I dare you.”

You broke. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” he said, pulling you into his lap, wrapping his arms around you so tight it hurt. “Don’t be sorry. Just remember. You don’t have to question me when you can just come to me. I’ll remind you every damn time.”

You nodded, burying your face in his neck, and his voice dropped to that low, obsessive tone he saved only for you.

“You’re my fuckin’ girl. Mine. I don’t want anyone else. I’d burn the world before I let anyone else near what’s mine.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was lifting you.

One arm under your thighs, the other behind your back, Marshall stood with you cradled in his arms like you weighed nothing. His jaw was tight. That look in his eyes—wild, territorial—sent a flash of heat between your legs before your mind could catch up.

He didn’t speak as he carried you across the room and tossed you gently but firmly onto the bed. You gasped as the mattress bounced, but before you could move, he was crawling over you, caging you in with his body.

His mouth was at your ear, breath hot.

"You wanna know how obsessed I am with you?"

You swallowed hard.

“I’m gonna put it in your body, baby. So deep you’ll never question again.”

You whimpered under him, your hands finding his chest, but he pinned them above your head with one hand, pressing his weight into you like gravity had doubled just for him.

"You don't get to doubt me and walk away clean," he murmured, licking down your throat, pausing where your pulse raced. “You’re gonna take this reminder. All of it.”

He kissed you—hard, claiming, punishing in the way you loved. Teeth dragging across your bottom lip, tongue leaving no part of you untouched. The hand not holding your wrists trailed down your body, under your shirt, nails scraping over your stomach.

"Every fuckin’ inch of you belongs to me," he growled. “Say it.”

You gasped. “Y-Yours.”

He bit the inside of your thigh, then kissed it like an apology. “Louder.”

“Yours, Marshall.”

He released your hands, only to yank off your clothes like they offended him. His were next, shed without ceremony, until there was nothing between you.

Then he was there. Hot. Hard. Heavy against your thigh.

"You feel that?" he whispered, grinding against you slowly, teasing. “That’s you, baby. That’s every time you looked at me and didn’t believe it. That’s every lie she put in your head."

You nodded, breathless, already trembling before he’d even entered you.

And when he finally did—it wasn’t gentle. It was claiming. He pushed in to the hilt in one deep thrust, and you cried out, legs wrapping around his waist, nails digging into his back.

"Who do you belong to?"

“You—you, Marshall—”

He set a relentless pace, one hand gripping your hip so tight you’d feel him tomorrow. Every thrust shoved you deeper into the mattress. Every growl in your ear tightened the coil inside you.

“You think I’d ever want someone else when I have this?” he snarled, fucking you harder, eyes locked on yours. “This tight little cunt that squeezes like it knows who it’s made for.”

You couldn’t answer—your voice broke into a sob, pleasure flooding your veins like lightning.

“That’s right,” he whispered, kissing away the tears. “Only me. No one else gets this. No one else even fuckin’ looks.”

Your orgasm ripped through you fast and violent, your whole body shaking beneath him. He didn’t slow down. Didn’t give you time to come down. Just chased his own high with the same possessive hunger, grunting your name like a prayer.

When he came, he held you so close it felt like he wanted to crawl into your skin. His arms wrapped around you from behind as you both caught your breath, your back to his chest, his voice low and firm at your ear.

“Next time you doubt it, you come to me, you hear me?”

You nodded, boneless, spent, and totally his.

He kissed your shoulder. “I’ll prove it every damn time.”

[alittlegiraffe]

Title: "Not Letting Go" – Part 39

You wanted to believe him.

You did believe him.

But belief didn’t erase fear. It didn’t quiet the voice in your head that whispered, What if?

What if he got too caught up in his career again?

What if, one day, you woke up and he was gone—not because of drugs, not because of a fight, but because he just changed his mind?

You didn’t think you could survive losing him twice.

And yet, here you were, still letting yourself fall.

Marshall kept watching you all day, his eyes flicking toward you like he was waiting for you to bolt.

And maybe that’s exactly what you wanted to do—run before this got any harder, before you got any more attached.

Before you completely lost yourself in him again.

But the truth was, you were already in too deep.

So instead of running, you stayed.

You let him pull you into him on the couch, let his arm settle around your waist, let your head rest against his chest as the girls picked a movie.

But the fear never fully left you.

And Marshall could tell.

It was late by the time you crawled into bed.

Marshall followed, shifting behind you, his arms looping around your waist. His breath was warm against your neck, his hold solid and grounding.

But you still felt like you were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Like you were holding onto something that could slip through your fingers at any moment.

“You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?” His voice was quiet, but there was no judgment in it—just understanding.

You swallowed, staring at the ceiling. “I don’t know how to stop.”

Marshall exhaled slowly, pressing a kiss against your shoulder. “I don’t know how to make you believe me, but I need you to. I need you to trust that I’m not gonna run. Not this time.”

Your throat tightened. “I do trust you.”

He was silent for a beat. Then—“But you don’t trust this.”

You closed your eyes, hating how well he knew you. “I don’t trust that life won’t find a way to take you from me.”

Marshall shifted, pulling you closer until you had no choice but to turn and face him. His blue eyes were steady, unwavering.

“You have me,” he murmured. “And I know I’ve said that before, and I know I’ve broken a lot of promises. But this isn’t one I’m gonna break.”

Your heart ached at the certainty in his voice, at how desperately you wanted to let it wrap around you like armor.

You wanted to believe that this time was different.

That he was different.

And maybe—just maybe—you could let yourself hope.

So you nodded, letting him kiss you, letting yourself melt into him.

Because right now, in this moment, he was yours.

And for tonight, that was enough.

[alittlegiraffe]

could we have a chapter where Marshall’s wife is his match, she is feisty, flirty and playful personality.

Title: "Careful, Baby Girl"

You were in one of your moods again.

Feet in his lap, phone in hand, smug little smirk on your face that made Marshall glance at you over the rim of his glasses — that slow, knowing look that said “Don’t start, baby.”

But of course, you started.

“So, when are you gonna admit I’m the real talent in this house?” you ask innocently, twirling a piece of your hair like you’re not waiting for him to bite.

Marshall doesn’t even blink. “You think singing off-key in the shower counts?”

You gasp, all mock offense. “Excuse me, that was Beyoncé.”

“That was criminal.”

You shove his thigh with your foot. “Rude. I'm a national treasure.”

He sets his pen down and leans back, spreading his arms across the back of the couch like the king he knows he is. “You’re about to be a sore treasure if you don’t cut it out.”

Your heart stutters — the threat is subtle, easy, delivered like a promise. And you live for it.

So naturally, you push more.

“I mean, I do have better stage presence than you,” you say, drawing your toe slowly up his thigh, “and my fanbase is very loyal. There’s, like, five of them now.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That so?”

“Mhm,” you hum, tapping your phone. “I posted a thirst trap an hour ago. Bet it has more likes than your last album post.”

The change in him is instant.

He grabs your ankle — not hard, but firm — and drags you into his lap in one smooth pull. You squeal, trying to wriggle away, but he wraps an arm around your waist and pins you in place like a goddamn trap set just for you.

You don’t even get a full second to breathe before he’s speaking low against your ear.

“You just had to start, huh? You know what happens when you run that smart mouth.”

You tilt your chin defiantly. “Someone’s gotta keep you on your toes, old man.”

The growl that rumbles from his chest is feral.

He flips you forward over his knees before you can blink.

“Hey—!” you shout, squirming. “This is abuse of power!”

“This is what happens,” he says, raising your pajama shorts, “when you get too comfortable with that mouth, baby girl.”

Your breath catches. His voice is like velvet and steel all in one, his hand stroking over the curve of your ass like he’s memorizing every inch. It makes your thighs press together — not that he doesn’t notice.

You feel the first spank before you even register the windup — hot, sharp, and just this side of too much.

“Ow—!”

“Aww,” he coos mockingly, rubbing where he hit. “My poor sassy baby. Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you opened that mouth.”

You twist to look at him over your shoulder, grinning even through your gasp. “That all you got, Daddy?”

He laughs — low, dangerous, dark.

“You really wanna test me tonight, huh?”

You flutter your lashes. “Just a little.”

He lands another, this time on the other cheek, and your back arches off his thighs.

“Five more. You count, or I start over.”

You pout but obey, voice breathy. “One…”

He hums approval, his palm trailing over your skin between each strike, keeping you grounded. You squirm, soaked, knowing he can feel how badly you need him by the way your thighs are trembling.

“Three,” you whisper, moaning into the couch cushion.

By the time you whimper out “Five,” he’s already pulling you back into his lap, cradling you like you’re made of spun sugar.

His voice softens immediately. “There’s my girl.”

You bury your face in his chest, flushed and warm and satisfied, even as your mouth twitches like you’re gonna say something else. He senses it.

“I swear,” he warns with a smirk, “if another smartass word comes outta that mouth, I’m tying you to the headboard ‘til morning.”

You grin. “Promises, promises.”

He growls again — but this time, he kisses you, slow and punishing and possessive.

“God help me,” he murmurs against your lips. “I married the fucking devil.”

You giggle. “Nah. You married the brat who worships you.”

He cups your face, gaze suddenly molten, deadly serious.

“And I love every second of it.”

---

It was too hot for jeans, which is exactly how the yellow sundress ended up hugging your curves that afternoon.

The one that always made Marshall scowl when you put it on — not because he didn’t love it, but because everyone else did.

Thin straps. Soft cotton. The kind of fabric that clung when you walked and swayed when you didn’t.

And no bra.

And no panties.

You were already in trouble, even if he didn’t know it yet.

The studio was buzzing. Marshall was in the booth laying vocals, headphones on, and you were out by the monitors checking notes with the engineer. You should have been focused. But then Jason — one of the newer sound guys — leaned in just a little too close and said:

“Didn’t know the sunshine came in human form today.”

You blinked at him, laughing lightly. “What, this old thing?”

You twirled the hem of your dress a little, just enough to make it dangerous.

His eyes dropped. Just for a second. Just long enough.

You could feel the thrill crawl up your spine like static.

You didn’t need Jason’s attention. You didn’t want it. But your husband was in the next room with glass between you, and you wanted his attention so bad it ached.

So you pushed it.

“You always this smooth with your boss's assistant, or is it just because you know I’m married and untouchable?”

Jason smirked. “Married women are always the ones dressing like they want trouble.”

Oh, you were gonna get it.

You turned away before your grin gave you away — but Marshall was already stepping out of the booth, towel around his neck, eyes narrowed, and zero fucking smile on his face.

You felt his gaze before you saw him.

And then—his voice.

Low. Measured. Dangerous.

“Baby. Come here.”

You obeyed immediately — not because you were scared, but because your whole body lit up at the way his voice dropped that octave you knew meant it.

As soon as you reached him, his hand wrapped around your wrist and tugged you behind the door to the empty hallway beside the recording room.

The second it clicked shut, he caged you against it.

His nose brushed yours. Hot breath. No space.

“You havin’ fun?”

You fluttered your lashes. “Just bein’ friendly.”

He let out a soft, bitter laugh. “That right?”

You looked up at him, coy and teasing. “You mad, Daddy?”

He growled — actually growled — and dragged your dress up with both hands. Rough. No patience.

“The fuck is this?”

His voice dropped to a rasp.

“Where the hell are your panties?”

You gave the sweetest, most fake-innocent smile. “Didn’t feel like wearing any.”

He stared at you like he was ready to eat you alive.

“You know what that does to me,” he said through clenched teeth. “And you walk into my studio, where men are lookin’ at what’s mine—”

“I didn’t flash anyone,” you said, lifting your chin.

His hand came down. Once. Sharp. Right on your bare ass.

You gasped. He grabbed your jaw, tilted your face up.

“No. You knew what that dress would do to me. You knew what I’d do when I found out you were bare underneath it. You wanted me to snap. You wanted Daddy to punish you.”

You whimpered. His thigh slid between yours, pressing right where you were already soaked.

He hissed. “Jesus, baby… you’re already dripping, huh?”

You nodded breathlessly. “For you.”

He kissed you — all teeth and tongue and domination — before pulling back to growl in your ear.

“You like playing my brat in public? Gonna make you regret that shit.”

He turned you around to face the wall, pressing your front against the cool surface as he bunched your dress up around your waist. Fingers skimmed between your legs — slow, teasing — but didn’t give you what you wanted.

You whined.

“You don’t get to make demands, sweetheart,” he said low, voice like thunder. “You wanted Daddy mad? You got him.”

He didn’t fuck you. Not yet.

He edged you, fingered you slow and tight, breath hot against your neck while you squirmed and begged. Told you to keep your moans quiet because the walls were thin, and everyone out there would know exactly what you’d done.

Every time you got close, he stopped. You nearly cried.

“Such a needy little slut when she’s been bad,” he murmured. “You love being punished, huh? Love being owned?”

You nodded desperately.

He wrapped a hand around your throat and pulled you back into him, lips brushing your ear.

“You’ll come when I say. And not a second before.”

You were trembling. Drenched. Your thighs sticky and your pride long gone.

And when he finally let you break — it was with his name on your lips and his hand in your hair.

Afterward, he kissed the top of your head, smoothed your dress down, tucked your hair behind your ears like you hadn’t just been wrecked against a studio wall.

“Still feelin’ sassy?” he asked.

You smiled like the devil.

“Always.”

He smirked.

“Then next time you wear that dress, you better be ready to crawl home.”

[alittlegiraffe]

i need a sad chapter of marshall and reader

You didn't expect this I'm sure of it.

Title: “For When He Misses Me”

It started with the diagnosis. Stage four. Fast-moving. Inoperable. The kind of words that change everything in a single breath.

You didn’t cry—not in front of them. Not in front of Marshall, not in front of Hailie. You smiled through it. You let your hands shake in the bathroom sink. You kissed Marshall’s tired eyes when he couldn’t sleep. You braided Hailie’s hair like it wasn’t the last time.

But privately, somewhere between denial and devotion, you started planning for what came after.

That’s how the storage unit started.

You pulled the door open with a soft creak, Hailie’s small hand tucked into yours. She was grown now, in so many ways—too grown. But her eyes still found yours like they did when she was five and scraped her knee, needing comfort.

“You ready, bug?” you asked quietly.

Hailie nodded, tears already in her lashes.

Inside was a carefully constructed time capsule of your love for him. Dozens of boxes, perfectly labeled. Wrapped gifts, ribboned in soft colors and twine. Notes tucked in delicate envelopes. Everything you couldn’t say out loud, you sealed inside these boxes.

She looked around in awe, her eyes wide as they caught the neat labels:

"For his first birthday without me."

"For when he’s missing me and pretending he’s not."

"For our anniversary – don’t let him skip it."

"For the first album after I’m gone – tell him I always believed in him."

You crouched beside her, pulling out one of the smaller boxes. It had a blue satin bow, your handwriting delicate on the tag: "For when he can’t sleep."

Inside was a worn hoodie of his that you used to steal, stitched with a tiny heart you embroidered near the cuff. A lavender sachet. A flash drive of voice memos—your voice telling him stories, singing off-key, whispering goodnight.

“He won’t open them all at once, right?” you whispered.

Hailie shook her head, wiping at her eyes. “I won’t let him. I’ll give them to him when he’s ready. When he needs them.”

You smiled through your own tears. “He’s gonna be mad.”

“He’ll survive.”

“He’s always been bad at grief. You remember that.”

She gave a broken little laugh. “Yeah, but he’s worse at pretending he doesn’t care. He’ll break. But he’ll still write. He always writes.”

You nodded. “Good. I want him to put it all in the music. Every bit of it.”

You reached for a small black box, the one labeled: "For when he thinks he failed me."

Inside was a letter, just one page.

Marshall,

You didn’t fail me. You gave me more love than I knew what to do with. You made me feel safe in a world that rarely is. You were my home. Please don’t let the end of this be the end of everything.

Keep going. Keep breathing. Keep being you.

I’ll always be proud of you.

—Your Girl

You didn’t have much time left. The doctors had said as much. But here, in this quiet storage locker, you’d built something to outlast it all. A map through grief. A love letter in pieces. You gave your girl the key, the instructions, the weight.

And when the time came, you knew she’d carry it.

A Few Months Later...

Hailie found him in the studio, staring blankly at a beat on loop. He hadn’t written in days.

She sat beside him and placed the first box on the table.

He stared at it, his jaw clenching. “What’s this?”

“She said to start with this one,” Hailie murmured.

He didn’t say a word. Just peeled the tape slowly, like his hands were too heavy to move fast.

Inside: a silver chain with her wedding ring threaded through it. A note tucked beneath it that just said:

"For when you don’t know what to do with your hands."

His shoulders shook. He didn’t cry, not yet. But she saw it—the way his knuckles whitened as he held the chain, how he pressed the ring to his lips like maybe he could breathe her in.

He wore it that night. And he didn’t take it off again.

Over the years, more boxes came.

On the anniversary, a photo album of their quietest moments.

On his first solo tour without her, a hand-written letter: "You’re still never alone."

On Hailie’s wedding day, a box labeled: "For the day our baby girl is no longer just ours."

Each one cracked him open. Each one saved him.

And maybe she was gone. But she stayed with them—stitched into the fabric of everything.

Not just in what she left behind.

But in who she left behind to carry it.

Two months later

His birthday.

Marshall wasn’t celebrating.

He hadn’t celebrated a damn thing since she left. The house was too quiet. The studio too still. His hands were empty unless they were shaking.

But Hailie showed up anyway, carrying a wrapped box the same size as a shoebox, labeled in your looping handwriting:

“For his birthday. Give him this one in the morning, while he’s still pretending he doesn’t care.”

“You gonna open it?” Hailie asked gently, setting it down on the kitchen table beside the untouched coffee.

Marshall stared at the box like it might explode. “I don’t need—”

“She wanted you to.”

He didn’t argue. Just exhaled through his nose and slowly peeled back the paper.

Inside, folded in layers of tissue, was a black hoodie she had designed herself—his favorite kind. On the front, stitched in neat white thread, it read:

“My girl loves me.”

Not loved.

Loves.

He laughed through his nose, the sound so tight and bitter it nearly choked him.

There was a note inside the pocket.

You always hate this day, but I never did. You were born, and the world got better. I’m still here, Marsh. Still loving you. Still proud of you. Still yours.

Now go write something today. I know you haven’t in a while. Do it for me.

He wore the hoodie for the rest of the day. Didn't even change for the studio. That night, a pen finally moved in his hand again.

Three months later

Anniversary.

He almost skipped it.

It was too heavy, too quiet, too full of the way your absence sat in every corner of the house.

But then Hailie texted: “Storage. You know the drill.”

He went alone. Parked. Keyed in the code with shaking fingers.

It was the first time he’d walked into the locker by himself.

The box was already out, set on top of a blanket chest. A cream-colored card on top:

“For our anniversary. I know you forgot to get me anything. That’s okay. I got you something.”

He smirked despite himself. “Smartass.”

Inside: a photo album. Not of red carpets or paparazzi flashes. Just them.

Sunday mornings. Grocery lists in your handwriting. Selfies with toothpaste on your nose. Scribbled doodles from tour nights in hotel rooms.

Tucked into the last page was a polaroid—one he’d forgotten completely. You were asleep on his chest in the studio, headphones askew, his hand resting on your back like a shield. The note beside it read:

You were always home.

He sank to the floor in the middle of the storage unit and stayed there for hours.

Six months later

The first album after.

It had taken nearly a year since she passed to even try. The first few attempts were angry. Then they were hollow. But eventually the beats started sounding like him again. And the words—God, the words burned. All of them were about her. Every. Last. One.

The day it went live, Hailie didn’t say anything. She just dropped the next box on the studio couch.

“For the first album after I’m gone.”

It was heavier than the others. Wrapped in dark blue paper with no bow. Just her handwriting again, steady and sure.

Inside was a leather journal.

The first few pages were filled with quotes she loved. Lyrics of his she’d written in her favorite pen. Then, toward the back—your final letter:

You did it.

You survived this.

I knew you would.

And I know it still hurts, Marsh. I know there are days where the only thing keeping you going is spite, or guilt, or Hailie.

But you’re still here.

And you’re still writing.

And you’re still mine.

Keep making music. Keep telling the truth. Don’t let grief be the only thing you carry. Carry me, too. In the rhythm. In the rhymes. In the parts of yourself you forgot you could still love.

You never had to do this without me. You just had to do it with me a different way.

I’ll meet you in the lyrics.

—Your girl

He locked himself in the booth that night. Wrote until the sun came up.

And when Hailie checked on him the next day, he didn’t say much.

Just handed her the journal.

“I need another box,” he said, voice hoarse.

Hailie blinked. “There’s one left. From what I found.”

He nodded. “Yeah. That’s not what I meant.”

He pulled a clean black notebook off the shelf and tossed it on the desk.

“I wanna start one. For her.”

---

The first time he went to your grave, he didn’t tell anyone.

He thought he could do it alone.

The morning was gray, Michigan-sky kind of cold. The grass around the headstone was damp from last night’s rain, and Marshall’s boots sank into it without a sound.

He stood there with his hands in the pockets of the hoodie you gave him—“My girl loves me” stitched across his chest—trying to breathe through a pressure that hadn’t left him since the day he watched them lower you into the ground.

He didn’t bring flowers. Didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to say. Didn’t even know why he was finally here.

He just knew it was time.

Behind him, Hailie’s car pulled up quietly.

He didn’t turn.

“I figured this was where you’d be,” she said gently, her arms wrapped around a small box. Different than the others. This one was white, tied in a soft gold ribbon.

She held it out to him, like it weighed nothing.

But his hands shook when he took it.

Because they both knew this one wasn’t like the others.

This one was final.

The tag read:

“For the first time he visits me.”

Marshall sat down in the grass.

He ran a hand over the headstone first. Just your name. No dates. No titles. Just you. It was all you ever wanted—don’t make me a tragedy, Marsh. Just remember me the way I was.

He swallowed and opened the box.

There was no letter this time.

Just a single key.

It was old, brass, and attached to a tiny silver tag that said:

“Unit 92 — for the rest of forever.”

He stared at it.

“…What is this?” he asked, his voice rasping.

Hailie crouched beside him. Her voice cracked when she answered.

“She rented another one. Bigger. This one… it’s not just for you.”

His breath caught. “What?”

“She started it after she got sick. Filled it with stuff for your future. For me. For... grandkids. Holidays. Milestones. All of it. Decades of love. She planned it all, dad.”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“She made me promise I wouldn’t show you until you came here. Until you were ready.”

He gripped the key in his palm like it might slip through his fingers, his knuckles going white. His chest shuddered.

Then, finally, it happened.

Not a single tear.

All of them.

The kind of breaking that comes from finally letting go. Not of her—but of the grip grief had around his throat. The weight that had been suffocating every inch of him. The anger, the guilt, the ache—splintered apart as he sobbed into the earth above where you rested.

He folded over his knees, face pressed to his forearms, and let it all out.

Hailie held him.

Not as a daughter comforting a father.

But as someone who loved her just as much.

They visited Unit 92 together that night.

The metal door rolled up with a groan, revealing a room full of boxes, just like before—but this time the labels read things like:

"For Hailie’s first baby."

"For Marshall, when he wins another Grammy and pretends he doesn't care."

"For when he starts forgetting how it felt to hold my hand."

"For the grandkids – tell them all the stories."

"For the day he says 'I'm okay' and finally means it."

"For the day he falls in love again — tell him it’s okay. I want that for him."

That one broke him all over again.

He sank to the concrete floor with the box in his lap, and for the first time in over a year, he smiled through the tears.

Because she wasn’t gone.

She was here. In every ribbon. Every box. Every quiet memory she built to outlive her body.

And for the first time, he felt her again.

Not like a ghost.

But like a heartbeat, steady and true, right there in his chest.

A few years later...

His granddaughter opened a box on her 10th birthday. Inside was a plush bear that said "My Girl" when you squeezed it.

There was a note tucked into its arms.

I wish I could've met you.

[alittlegiraffe]

do you plan on posting tdy?

I don't know when this was sent, but probably 🤣🤣🤣🤣

[alittlegiraffe]

Title: "Not Letting Go" – Part 38

The morning had felt good—normal. Almost like nothing had ever broken in the first place.

But normal had a way of lulling you into a false sense of security.

Because the truth was, Marshall being here—being present—was still new. Still fragile.

And it could slip away in an instant.

It hit you later that afternoon.

The girls were off doing their own thing, and Marshall had stepped outside to take a call.

You were just cleaning up the kitchen when your mind started racing.

You thought about how good this morning had been—how easy it had felt.

But it had only been one morning. One good moment.

And that scared the hell out of you.

Because what if that was all it was?

What if this was just temporary?

What if, one day, he got lost in his music again?

Or worse—what if he woke up and realized he didn’t want this anymore?

What if he left?

What if you woke up alone again and this time, he didn’t come back?

The thought nearly knocked the air from your lungs.

Because for all the times you had told yourself you could do this on your own—had done this on your own—there was no denying the truth.

You didn’t want to.

You wanted him.

Here.

With you.

For good.

But wanting him didn’t change the fact that he could still disappear.

And that realization sat heavy in your chest, suffocating.

You barely registered the sound of the back door opening until you felt Marshall’s arms wrap around you from behind.

“You okay?” His voice was low, cautious, like he could sense the shift in you.

You wanted to say yes.

Wanted to tell him you were fine, that you weren’t standing here questioning everything.

But your silence must have been enough of an answer because Marshall turned you around, his brows furrowing. “Talk to me.”

You swallowed hard. “I just… I’m scared.”

His hands tightened on your waist. “Of what?”

You exhaled shakily. “Of this being temporary. Of feeling like we’re okay just to have you slip away again.” Your voice wavered. “Of losing you all over again.”

Marshall’s jaw tensed, something flickering in his eyes—guilt, understanding, regret.

“I don’t want to be scared of you,” you whispered. “I don’t want to wonder every day if you’re gonna wake up and decide this isn’t what you want anymore.”

His grip on you tightened. “That’s not gonna happen.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“Yes, I can.” His voice was firm, steady. “I know I fucked up before. I know I made you doubt me. But I need you to believe me when I say that I’m not going anywhere.”

You searched his face, desperate to find something—anything—that would make you feel safe.

And maybe it was the way he was looking at you, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

Or maybe it was the way he had stayed.

The way he was still here, holding onto you like he wasn’t willing to let go.

Either way, you let yourself believe him.

At least for now.

So you nodded, leaning into him, letting him hold you.

Because you didn’t know what the future held.

But in this moment, he was yours.

And that was enough.

[alittlegiraffe]

We need a story of marshall being obbessed over readers body (also with smut, please)

Title: “Only Mine”

The world was too loud sometimes. That’s why you stayed close to him.

Even now, in the green room before a show, you sat curled into the corner of the worn leather couch, legs tucked under you, eyes down, hands nervously twisting in the hem of Marshall’s hoodie you wore—again. It was comically oversized, the sleeves swallowing your hands, the hem hitting your thighs like a dress. You wore nothing underneath but panties and the little gold chain with his name on it. He’d given it to you on your wedding day.

Marshall was pacing. Energy buzzing, mind racing like always before he went onstage. But his eyes never left you for more than a few seconds at a time.

You knew the moment he had enough of the distance.

He crossed the room in three long strides, grabbing you by the waist with a grunt and hauling you right into his lap like you weighed nothing.

“Marsh—!”

Your soft gasp was swallowed up by his chest as he pressed you there, arms circling around you in that vice grip you secretly craved.

“Don’t act surprised,” he murmured against your temple. “I saw you fidgetin’. You want me, don’t you?”

Your head bobbed in a tiny nod, face already buried in his hoodie, fingers clinging to the fabric like you might float away without it.

“I always want you.”

He smirked at the way your voice came out shy and small. That sound alone made his blood run hot.

“You know what you do to me when you get like this?” he muttered. “All quiet, tucked away in my clothes like you belong there. Fuckin’ hell.”

He shifted you easily, one hand gripping your thigh to pull you across his lap until you were straddling him. His other hand wrapped around the back of your neck, not tight, but firm. Like he liked how perfectly your body bent to his hands.

“You don’t even try to fight me,” he murmured, voice a little darker now, lips brushing your jaw. “You just let me put you where I want. Like you know better.”

You whimpered. Literally whimpered. He felt it against his throat where your mouth was now pressed, hiding again.

“Goddamn, baby.” He chuckled low, his hands smoothing over your hips, down to your thighs, before gripping again and lifting you—just lifting you—like you were weightless. “Look at this. You’re so fuckin’ tiny. I could toss you around with one hand.”

He shifted you up his chest until your legs dangled on either side of his waist, your breath caught in your throat.

“You like it when I move you around, don’t you?”

You nodded, face red hot, still unable to meet his eyes. “Yes…”

“Use your words, baby.”

You swallowed, shy voice trembling. “I like it when you handle me.”

His groan was immediate, thick and low, as he tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling like he was trying to get a grip.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy.”

Your hands slid up under his hoodie to cling to his T-shirt this time. You didn’t need to ask for what you wanted—he already knew. You wanted to be as close as possible. And you wanted him to take control. He always did. You needed it.

He stood up suddenly, taking you with him, arms locked tight under your thighs. You gasped again, clinging harder.

“Where are we—?”

“Back room. No one’s fuckin’ lookin’ at you right now but me.”

The jealousy always ran hot in his veins. And you? You loved it. Because it meant he needed you just as much—if not more—than you needed him.

He set you on the edge of the makeup table in the small back dressing room, towering over you.

“Stay there.”

You didn’t move an inch. You’d never even think about disobeying him. Your thighs pressed together as you looked up at him, wide-eyed, needy.

Marshall leaned in, hands braced on either side of your hips, his nose brushing yours.

“You belong under my hands,” he said quietly. “Only mine. You get that?”

You whispered, “I’m yours.”

He kissed you hard after that, with everything he was feeling—ownership, obsession, heat. His hands roamed your body like it was his territory to claim, again and again.

And you let him.

Because he was the only one who ever made you feel safe like this.

The only one who made you feel small and protected and wanted.

Forever his.

And he loved you more than his own goddamn life for it.

Marshall’s show started in less than fifteen minutes.

His in-ear monitors were already around his neck, the black hoodie swapped for his stage jacket. But you were still perched on the dressing room counter, legs swinging slightly, fingertips wrinkling the fabric of your sleeves as you watched him pace again.

He kept glancing at the clock. Then at you. Then the door.

You didn’t speak. You knew him too well by now. He wasn’t anxious—he was starving.

For you.

“Come here,” he finally growled, low and rough.

You slid off the counter immediately, the concrete floor cold under your bare feet, his nameplate necklace bouncing against your chest with every step as you padded over to him. You barely had time to blink before his hands were on you—spinning you around and pressing your back to the door, slamming it shut behind you.

His eyes darkened as he drank you in, voice dropping to a gravelly murmur.

“You got no clue what you do to me, do you?”

You shook your head, breath catching as his hands slid up your thighs under the hem of his hoodie.

“You sittin’ over there with those pretty fuckin’ eyes, lookin’ all soft and sweet in my clothes…” He trailed off, nose brushing your jaw as he pushed one of your legs up, knee bending instinctively to rest on his hip. “And you think I can just walk out there like everything’s normal?”

You whimpered softly, fingers digging into the front of his jacket.

“M-Marsh…”

“I just need a taste,” he muttered, voice tight with restraint. “Just one fuckin’ taste, baby. Gimme that.”

You nodded, completely under his spell, as always.

You didn’t know how he could make you feel shy and stripped bare with just a look, but he did. Every time.

Marshall dropped to his knees in front of you like it was nothing. Like this was routine. Because it was. You were his routine, his obsession, his peace and his chaos all rolled into one.

You gasped when he grabbed your thighs and yanked you forward, pulling you down until your back hit the door and your hands scrambled for something to hold. You ended up grabbing his shoulders, wide eyes locked with his.

You barely had time to think before he shoved the hoodie up, mouthing over your panties with a groan that vibrated through your entire body.

“Fuck, this is what I needed,” he growled against you. “Can’t think right ‘til I taste you. Can’t breathe right.”

Your head hit the door with a soft thump, the heat of his mouth already searing through thin cotton.

“You always so fuckin’ wet for me,” he muttered, dragging your panties to the side and pressing a kiss where you needed him most. “You know that?”

“Y-yeah,” you gasped, chest rising and falling fast, hips bucking instinctively, but his hands pinned your thighs down hard. You were completely at his mercy—right where he liked you.

He groaned again, then finally—finally—dragged his tongue over you, slow and greedy. Your soft cry made him curse into your skin.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “That’s my girl. My perfect, pretty little thing. You taste like fuckin’ heaven.”

It was messy. Desperate. He wasn’t taking his time—he didn’t have it. But he made every second count, tongue working you over like he was trying to memorize you all over again.

You bit your lip, trying to stay quiet, your thighs shaking against his grip. “Marsh—I—y-you have to be on—”

He pulled back just enough to growl, “I don’t care. You come first. You always come first.”

You shattered after that. Just like he knew you would.

Your body trembled as he held you through it, kissing you gently between your legs as if he hadn’t just devoured you like a man starved.

When he stood, you were still catching your breath, cheeks flushed, lips parted.

He leaned in, nose brushing yours, lips glistening with you.

“You stay in here,” he ordered gently. “Don’t open the fuckin’ door for anyone but me. You understand?”

You nodded, eyes still glassy, so in love it made his chest ache.

He kissed your forehead. Then your nose.

“Good girl.”

And with one last, lingering look, he stepped out onto the stage—

—with your taste on his lips, your breath in his lungs,

—and your voice echoing in his head like a prayer.

---

You didn’t mean to disobey him.

You really didn’t.

You’d just been sitting quietly, curled up on the little loveseat in the back dressing room where Marshall left you, still wearing his hoodie—his scent, his warmth wrapped around you like armor.

The show roared in the distance behind thick walls, muted bass and crowd energy thrumming like a storm far away. But you didn’t move. You did what he said. You waited for him.

Until the knock at the door.

You froze, heart skipping, voice caught in your throat.

“Hey, it’s just me,” Paul said, voice low and calm through the door. “I just need a second away from the noise. You in here?”

You bit your lip. He sounded tired. You knew how chaotic shows were for him too, especially when trying to keep Marshall focused.

So you hesitated. Just for a second.

You cracked the door open and peeked out with a soft, “Hi…”

Paul smiled gently. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Can I just sit in here for a second?”

You nodded. “Yeah… Marshall’s onstage, I was just waiting.”

He gave a soft thanks and sat down across from you, rubbing a hand over his face. You sat quietly, hugging your knees, thinking nothing of it. You were still buzzing from before. Still warm.

Five minutes passed. Maybe ten.

Then the door swung open with a bang.

You flinched violently.

Marshall stood in the doorway, drenched in sweat, chest heaving, eyes locked only on you.

You could feel the rage before he even spoke.

“The fuck is this?”

Paul stood, hands raised slightly. “Hey—she was just being polite. I told her I needed a quiet spot for a minute, man. Don’t snap.”

But Marshall’s eyes never left you.

You stood, tiny and trembling, the sleeves of his hoodie still covering your hands. “I—I didn’t think—”

“Didn’t think?” he cut in, voice deadly low. “You didn’t think I meant it when I said not to let anyone in?”

Your heart dropped to your stomach. “I—I thought you just meant like… strangers or fans—”

“Baby.” His voice was quiet now. Quiet in that dangerous way that made your throat tighten. “I don’t give a fuck who it is. When I tell you to do somethin’, I mean it.”

Paul had the decency to back out without another word.

The moment the door clicked shut again, the silence burned.

You stood frozen, staring at the floor, hands twisting in the hem of your hoodie. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.

He was across the room in two strides, grabbing your chin and tilting your face up roughly—not to hurt, but to command. Your wide eyes met his, instantly watery.

“I don’t like sharin’ you,” he growled. “Not your time. Not your voice. Not even your eyes.”

Your breath hitched. “I didn’t mean to upset you—”

He leaned in, mouth brushing your cheek as he snarled, “You let someone else in when I told you not to. You think I’m just gonna let that slide?”

You whimpered, blinking fast. “Please don’t be mad…”

He exhaled sharply, thumb rubbing roughly over your bottom lip. “You know I’m obsessed with you, right?”

You nodded. “I know.”

“I don’t want to punish you, baby,” he murmured, “but if I don’t, you won’t take me seriously.”

Your knees went weak. Not from fear—but from the sound of his voice. From the way he held your face like you were fragile and precious and his to correct.

“Get on the couch,” he said, stepping back. “Face down. Hoodie stays on.”

You did exactly as he said, eyes wide, heart pounding. You stretched out across the leather, thighs trembling already.

Marshall walked slow behind you. Deliberate. Controlled.

“You’re gonna remember next time,” he muttered, kneeling behind you, flipping your hoodie up and dragging your panties down slowly. “You’re gonna remember who you belong to.”

And when his palm cracked across your ass the first time, firm and sharp, you gasped.

But what made your heart ache was what followed:

His hand soothing the sting, then his voice—low, possessive, close to your ear.

“You’re my girl. Say it.”

“Y-Yours…”

Another smack. Then a kiss on the small of your back.

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I’m yours, Marshall!”

“That’s right,” he growled, pulling you back into his arms after the fifth strike, cradling you against his chest like he hadn’t just spanked you breathless. “Only mine. Always.”

And you melted in his arms, teary and soft, clinging to him with everything you had.

Because no matter how rough he got—

He always held you after.

Always reminded you who you belonged to.

And that you were loved more fiercely than anything else in his world.

You were trembling in his arms.

Not from fear—never that—but from the overwhelming flood of sensation: the sting of his palm still blooming warm across your skin, the ache in your thighs from how tightly he held you, the deep, breathless need that always followed when Marshall reminded you who you belonged to.

---

He was seated on the couch now, your body cradled sideways in his lap, wrapped entirely in his hoodie like a blanket. You pressed your face into his chest, skin still flushed, breathing slow and shaky.

His arms were around you like a cage. Not to trap you. To protect you.

“Breathe, baby,” he murmured into your hair, voice low and soft now. “Just breathe for me.”

You nodded against him, inhaling his scent—sweat, cologne, and something sharp and electric that was just him.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” you whispered. Your voice cracked. “I thought I was being good.”

His jaw tensed, and his arms tightened around you instantly. “Shh. I know. You were tryin’. I know you didn’t mean to disobey.”

You blinked slowly, your lashes damp. “You still love me?”

That made his head snap down. He pulled you back just enough to look at you, hands framing your face like you might break if he wasn’t careful.

“Don’t you ever ask me that,” he said fiercely. “You hear me?”

You swallowed hard, lips trembling.

“I love you so much it fuckin’ hurts,” he said. “You’re the only thing that keeps my head straight. The only soft thing I got left.”

His thumb stroked under your eye, brushing away a stray tear. Then he leaned in and kissed your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, your lips—over and over like he couldn’t stop.

“You’re everything to me,” he breathed. “You could burn the whole fuckin’ building down and I’d still crawl through the ashes to hold you.”

Your breath hitched. You buried your face in his neck and clung tighter, needing to be closer.

He felt it—how small you were, how clingy you got when you were scared he might pull away.

He never would. Not in a million years.

“Gimme your hands,” he murmured.

You slid them out from the too-long sleeves. They were cold, shaking just slightly. He brought them to his mouth, kissing each knuckle with reverence.

“Mine,” he whispered against your fingers. “All of you. This body, this mouth, these little hands that can’t even wrap all the way around me.”

You let out a quiet, bashful whimper, and he smiled.

“There she is,” he said, brushing his nose against yours. “My sweet girl.”

His palm slipped under the hoodie again, rubbing slow, gentle circles over the skin he’d reddened earlier.

“You okay?” he asked, the edge in his voice completely gone now.

You nodded. “Better than okay.”

“You still know who you belong to?”

You looked up at him, wide-eyed and utterly soft. “Yours. Always.”

He kissed you deep and slow, sighing into your mouth like it was the only place he wanted to be.

And even though the world outside that door was still loud, still spinning, still pulling at him—

Right here, with you?

He was grounded. Anchored. Obsessed.

And he’d make sure you never forgot how loved you were—

Even when you needed a reminder.

The ride to the hotel was quiet.

Marshall had you tucked under his arm in the backseat of the SUV, your legs across his lap, his fingers stroking your thigh through the oversized hoodie you still wore. He didn’t speak, and neither did you—not out of tension, but because his silence said everything.

He was locked in. Focused.

Possessive energy still radiated off him like heat.

He kept glancing at your face. Your hands. The way your head leaned against his shoulder like you couldn’t bear to be apart even for a second.

He kissed your temple once, then again. Then again.

Like he couldn’t stop.

The moment the hotel door clicked shut behind you both, his hands were on you.

Not rough. Not rushed. Just needy.

He didn’t even turn on the lights. Only the faint glow from the city outside lit the room, silver and soft across the walls.

He pulled the hoodie off you slowly, exposing your bare legs, your little panties, your flushed skin.

“Look at you,” he rasped, voice low, thick. “My perfect fuckin’ girl.”

You shivered, breath catching as he backed you toward the bed.

“You know what you do to me, baby?” he asked. “You walk around in my clothes, all shy and sweet, lookin’ at me like I’m your whole world—like you need me?”

You nodded, lips parted. “I do need you.”

“Damn right you do.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling you into his lap until you were straddling him, tiny and soft against his solid chest. His hands roamed slowly, up your back, under your thighs, gripping and petting, soothing and claiming all at once.

“I think about you constantly,” he whispered into your neck. “Even when I’m onstage. I finish a song and the only thing in my head is—Where is she? What’s she doin’? Does she miss me?”

“I do,” you whispered, curling your fingers into his hair. “I always do.”

His hands clenched around your hips. “You got no idea how obsessed I am with you. I need to touch you to think straight. I need to smell you on my skin.”

You whimpered, overwhelmed by the intensity in his voice—like it physically hurt him to be away from you for too long.

He picked you up then, like you weighed nothing, laying you down gently in the middle of the bed and crawling over you. You blinked up at him, eyes wide, heart pounding.

He kissed every inch of you.

Slow. Devout. Worshipful.

Your collarbone. Your ribs. The soft skin at the bend of your elbow.

“Your body’s perfect,” he murmured. “Fits me like it was made for me. You were made for me, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathed, trembling under the weight of his gaze. “I’m yours.”

He growled softly, burying his face in your chest, pressing kisses between your breasts before pulling back again just to look.

“You don’t gotta be loud. You don’t gotta dress up. You don’t gotta be anything but mine.”

He hovered over you, cradling your face in both hands, his forehead pressed to yours.

“You’re all I want, baby,” he whispered. “You keep me sane. You keep me good.”

You reached up with shaking hands to cup his jaw, eyes wet with how much you loved him—how much he loved you.

“Then show me,” you said softly. “Show me how much.”

And he did.

All night.

He kissed you until you were breathless. Held you through every peak and fall, murmuring how good you were, how sweet you were, how you were his only one.

When you were too sensitive to move, he cleaned you up carefully, whispering promises against your skin:

“Never gonna let you go.”

“You’re everything to me.”

“Mine. Always mine.”

Then he curled around you in bed, arm locked around your waist, face buried in your neck.

And before you drifted off, you heard him murmur, like a vow in the dark—

“I’ll burn the whole world down before I let anyone take you from me.”

[alittlegiraffe]

Title: “Just One Good Swat”

You’re not usually like this. You’re the sweet one. The quiet one. The one people describe as “soft-spoken” and “gracefully reserved.”

But tonight?

Tonight you’re three cocktails in, your husband is onstage sagging his damn pants again like he’s still twenty-two, and the man has the audacity to keep turning his back to the crowd with his mic tucked behind him like he doesn’t know his ass looks that good.

Please.

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Baby’s feelin’ herself,” Hailie teases beside you, catching the way you lean forward in your seat like a predator sizing up its prey.

You wave a hand, half-dismissing her, half trying not to grin like the devil. “He’s lucky I haven’t jumped the barricade.”

Marshall finishes up the final verse of "Till I Collapse" and stalks to the side of the stage, sweat slicking his neck, beard damp, shirt clinging to every sculpted inch of him. And those damn pants—gray joggers sagged just enough to show the waistband of his boxers, the V of his hips driving you insane.

And you? You don’t even think.

You stand up.

“What are you doing?” Hailie whispers with a laugh, watching you head backstage like you’ve got business.

“I’m gonna spank my husband.”

“You’re gonna what—”

You don’t hear the rest. You're already slipping past the backstage crew—nodding like you're sober and important—heels clicking a little too hard, heart racing. The buzz has dulled your filter but sharpened your confidence.

And there he is. Just off-stage. Catching a towel from his assistant, huffing out a laugh at something Paul said. Shirt riding up as he wipes his face.

You sneak up like it’s a military operation.

Stealth mode: activated.

One step. Two. And then—

SMACK.

A loud, perfect, unapologetic slap to his ass.

Marshall jerks forward mid-step, nearly dropping the mic still in his hand. “What the fuck—”

He spins around, and when he sees you, his eyes go wide—shocked, delighted, a little turned on.

“You just—”

“Sure did,” you say sweetly, standing with your hands behind your back like you didn’t just assault the man in front of half the road crew.

His mouth hangs open for a second before breaking into a grin, beard lifting with it, a slow, dangerous kind of smile.

“Ohhh. You had drinks.”

“Two. Three. Maybe four.” You squint. “But your ass has been asking for it all night.”

He huffs out a low laugh and steps in close, ducking his head to murmur just for you. “You know what happens when you start shit like that, right?”

“Thought I was finishing it.”

His eyes flash. “Nah, baby. You just started something.”

He leans in so close your breath catches, big hand slipping around your waist like he’s trying to remember if there’s a private green room nearby.

“You’re gonna take that little hand and do it again,” he says lowly. “Right fuckin’ now. And then I’m takin’ you home and returnin’ the favor.”

Your breath hitches, pulse jumping, and you—very innocently—tilt your head and purr, “Only if you keep sagging ‘em.”

He groans. “Girl, I swear to God—”

A few stage hands pass by, and you both freeze like you weren’t seconds from dry humping behind the curtains.

“Later,” he growls under his breath. “Soon as I’m off for real. You better be ready.”

You grin wickedly, no longer the quiet wife. “I’m counting on it.”

And you swat him one more time for good measure.

Because when the man sags his pants like that—he’s asking for it.

---

He doesn’t wait until you get home.

Not really.

The second you’re both in the SUV, the door clicks shut and you barely have time to blink before Marshall’s hand is curling around your jaw, beard scratching at your cheek as he kisses you hard—messy, like he’s still sweating out adrenaline and can’t believe you had the nerve to slap his ass in public.

"You wanna act like that now?" he mutters against your lips. “Tryna test me in front of everybody?”

You just grin, smug. “Didn’t hear you complaining.”

“Oh, I’m complainin’. You think you’re cute, huh?”

“I know I’m cute. You married me, remember?”

That gets a low, dangerous laugh out of him—the one that makes your thighs press together and your stomach flip. The one that usually means you’re not sleeping tonight.

He leans back, eyes raking over you, still panting like he’s on stage. His hand drops from your jaw to your thigh, gripping hard. “Nah. Cute don’t cover it. You’re outta your fuckin’ mind if you think I’m lettin’ that slide.”

“And if I liked it?” you say too sweetly, knowing exactly what you’re doing. “If I liked getting your attention?”

Marshall growls.

By the time you get home, you’re dizzy from his touch, and he’s worked up like it’s fight night and you’re the main event. He lets you walk ahead of him into the house—but only so he can watch you.

“Go on,” he murmurs, closing the door behind you with a heavy thunk. “Show me what you were feelin’ bold about.”

You pause near the kitchen island, turning slowly to face him.

He cocks his head. “What, you shy now?”

Your eyes flick to his waistband. Still sagging. Still deliberate. You narrow your gaze. “You’re doing it on purpose.”

“I know exactly what I’m doin’.” He steps forward. “The question is—do you?”

You let your hand trail lightly down his chest, then lower. “Let’s find out.”

He’s already hard. Already twitching under the fabric. But you press past that—press around him—until he makes a low noise in his throat and spins you fast, hands gripping your hips as he bends you over the island like you weigh nothing.

“Count of three,” he growls, voice low, rough. “And I better hear it, or I’ll start over.”

You shiver.

He yanks your dress up, your panties down, and his palm hovers over your ass—taunting.

“One,” you breathe.

SMACK.

The sound cracks through the room, followed by the sting and the heat and your whimper.

“T-two…”

SMACK.

He grunts low, his other hand sliding down your spine, steadying you.

“Three,” you gasp.

This one lands heavier, rougher, his whole palm flat against your skin before he grabs, squeezing like it’s his—which it is.

“You think you can play with me in public?” he rasps, leaning down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You think I won’t remind you exactly who you belong to?”

You nod desperately, words caught in your throat.

“You’re mine,” he says, grinding into you. “You smack my ass again like that—do it again in front of everybody—I’ll bend you over my dressing room table next time and let 'em hear who’s really in charge.”

You whimper. “Maybe I want them to hear.”

He curses, dark and low, and flips you around, lifting you effortlessly to sit on the island now, wedged between his hips and his stare.

“You’re outta control tonight,” he mutters.

“I blame your pants.”

“You blame my pants,” he repeats like it’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard.

You nod, dead serious. “They offended me.”

He smirks and tugs your dress over your head. “Then I guess I gotta make it up to you.”

His mouth finds your neck, then lower, and by the time he sinks to his knees on the tile, you’ve completely forgotten why you ever let him onstage in joggers in the first place.

But you are gonna let him do it again.

And next time?

You’re not waiting for backstage.

[alittlegiraffe]

you have no idea how much i love ur eminem fics omgggg 😍😍😍

fr tho ur writing style and portrayal of him is PERFECT youre soo talented keep it up

Awe, you're too sweet! It's nice to hear because I hate probably half of what I write 😂

[alittlegiraffe]

hii, what is your new story about? will they already be together or is it building into they’re relationship?

It's going to start with them married but move into flashbacks! But it's going to be about Marshall and his childhood best friend and neighbor finding each other after his divorce and their life together.

[alittlegiraffe]

@andreaaaaa23 okay, you broke me down 🤣🤣🤣

Title: "Yours to Wear"

The door slams behind him, his voice low and sharp as he calls out, “Babe? You seen my gold—?”

He’s halfway through the house, tension coiled in his shoulders, the weight of too many hours, too many people, too many expectations pressed against his skull. It’s another industry event, another night in a crowd and fake smile, another fucking thing pulling him away from the one place he wants to be—with you.

But he needed that chain. The thick gold one you always said made him look like himself again. The one he only ever really wore when he wanted to feel grounded. Tonight, he needed that more than ever.

The bedroom door’s cracked open. The lights are low.

He steps in—

And stops breathing.

You’re on your knees in the middle of the room, back straight, hands resting on your thighs just how he taught you. Completely bare except for the chain—his chain—draped heavy and gleaming against your throat and the curves of your soft, exposed chest.

Your eyes find him immediately.

Wide. Soft. Wanting.

Waiting.

The burn of shame flits across your features for a second, like you think maybe you’ve pushed too far. Like maybe he’ll be mad. You were supposed to be the quiet, good little wife, waiting by the door with a kiss and a smile. But tonight, the ache in your chest had grown too loud.

He hasn’t touched you in days. You’ve barely spoken—he’s been so locked in the booth, the meetings, the late calls with Paul, the dinners he couldn’t say no to. And you’ve tried to be understanding. You always do. But tonight… you needed him to see you again.

His breath is ragged when he finally speaks.

“…Baby.”

Just that. Barely even a whisper.

But you hear it.

And it roots you deeper into that spot on the floor—submitting, offering, pleading without words.

“I didn’t know where else to be,” you say quietly. “I just wanted you to look at me. Just for a minute.”

Marshall doesn’t move for a long time. His jaw clenches. His eyes are hot. And then slowly, like a man waking from a trance, he shrugs off his jacket, tosses it to the floor, and comes to you.

The weight of his gaze pins you in place even harder than his hands ever could.

“You feel like I’ve forgotten you,” he says, sinking to his knees in front of you, fingers coming up to trail along the edge of his chain around your throat. “Is that what this is?”

Your voice trembles. “I didn’t want to be a brat. I didn’t want to make it about me. But I—”

He cuts you off with a kiss.

Deep. Possessive. Apologetic. Furious with himself.

When he pulls back, your lips are swollen, your breath stolen. He strokes your cheek with his knuckles, reverent.

“You are the thing,” he murmurs. “You understand me? Not the music. Not the fame. Not any of this other bullshit.”

His hands skim down your sides, pausing at your hips, his thumbs brushing over your skin like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“And that chain? Looks better on you than it ever did on me.”

You flush, eyes wet now, the tears you didn’t want to let fall starting to slip.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

“I know, baby. I know.” He leans in, rests his forehead against yours. “I’ve been gone too long. And I don’t mean the studio—I mean here. With you. I see that now.”

A beat of silence.

Then his voice drops—low, possessive, rough with need.

“Get on the bed.”

Your breath catches.

“Now.”

You move without hesitation, climbing up and settling back on the sheets, spine arching, thighs parting instinctively for him. Still wearing nothing but the chain he came looking for.

Marshall stands at the foot of the bed, undressing slowly now, eyes never leaving your body.

“You wait here for me like this every night,” he says, voice thick. “You let me come home and forget how lucky I am.”

“Marshall—”

“Uh-uh.” His tone sharpens. “No talking unless I ask you to. Tonight, you don’t have to beg for my attention. Tonight I show you who you belong to.”

His palm slides up your thigh, fingers ghosting over your aching heat without giving you what you want. You squirm, but he holds you steady with a firm grip on your hip.

“You know what this chain means?” he asks softly, wrapping it around his fist so it tugs lightly against your throat. “It means mine. That’s what it means.”

You nod quickly, too breathless to answer.

“I’m gonna spend the rest of the night reminding you of that,” he murmurs, climbing over you now, body caging yours in. “You gave me everything, baby. I’m not about to let you forget how much that means to me.”

And when he finally presses into you, slow and deep, you feel it in your bones—that you’re not forgotten.

You are his.

You barely had time to catch your breath.

One minute, Marshall was hovering over you, eyes dark, voice rough as he promised to remind you exactly who you belonged to. The next—your legs were spread wider, your thighs pressed apart by firm, unrelenting hands as he settled between them with a low, hungry growl that vibrated through your skin.

“Fuckin’ missed this,” he muttered, voice muffled as his mouth brushed hot against your inner thigh. “Missed you. This perfect little pussy.”

You gasped, back arching off the bed when his tongue dragged through your folds in one slow, deliberate stroke. He moaned—moaned—like the taste of you was a high he’d been desperate for, starved for.

"God damn," he breathed, pausing just to look at you. “Look how fuckin’ wet you are for me, baby. That just from kneelin’ in my chain?”

You whimpered, nodding, eyes fluttering as your fingers twisted in the sheets.

“Good girl,” he growled. “That's what I like to fuckin’ hear.”

And then he was back on you.

No teasing now. No hesitation. Just need.

His tongue was ruthless, dragging tight, skilled circles around your clit while his hands gripped your thighs like they were the only thing keeping him grounded. He devoured you like a man who hadn’t eaten in weeks. Like he was making up for every night he’d come home and gone straight to sleep. Every day he’d been locked in the studio while you waited, aching, in silence.

“Mine,” he murmured again and again, between kisses, between sucks that had you trembling. “This sweet little pussy’s mine.”

You couldn’t speak—could barely think. Every flick of his tongue, every inhale of his breath made your world blur. You sobbed his name, twisting under him, but he just held you tighter, deeper, groaning like your pleasure was his oxygen.

“Don't run,” he murmured, dark and warning as your hips jerked up. “You wanna come, you ask me.”

You nodded frantically, moaning his name again, your voice breaking as your body climbed higher and higher toward the edge.

"Please—" You gasped, your voice raw. "Please, Marshall, I need—please, can I—?"

He groaned against your soaked folds, the vibration almost violent, before he pulled back just far enough to rasp, “Come for me, baby. Now.”

And just like that—his mouth sealed over your clit again, tongue flicking with filthy precision—

—and you shattered.

You screamed, legs clamping around his head as your orgasm tore through you like a wave, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes as every inch of your body arched for him. And still, he didn’t stop.

He held you through every pulse, every aftershock, licking and sucking until you were nothing but a trembling, whimpering mess under him.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth was wet with you, and his eyes—God, his eyes—looked almost wild. Possessive. Reverent.

“You taste like fuckin’ heaven,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “And now that I got you all soft and ruined…”

He leaned up over you, big hands sliding under your knees to drag you down the bed beneath him, chain still glinting around your neck.

“…I’m gonna fuck you so deep you feel me for the rest of the goddamn week.”

Your body was still shaking—numb in places, too sensitive in others, like every nerve had been stripped raw and left exposed.

But he didn’t care.

Marshall loomed above you now, shirtless, belt undone, his jeans pushed low on his hips. You caught a glimpse of the ink on his stomach, the familiar cut of his hips and that look in his eyes—hot, dark, determined—and your breath hitched.

You’d seen him like this before.

But not like this.

This was the version of him that came out only when he felt you slipping too far from his grip. When guilt and hunger and obsession fused together. When you’d dared to ache for him in silence—and he realized he hadn't been paying enough attention to his favorite thing in the world.

“Look at you,” he muttered, running a hand down your stomach, stopping just above your still-pulsing heat. “Laid out in my fuckin’ bed… wearin’ nothin’ but my chain. You know what that does to me?”

You tried to speak, but only a soft, broken sound left your throat.

Marshall smirked—dark and low—and leaned in close, pressing a kiss just under your jaw before whispering, “That’s okay, baby. You don’t gotta talk. You just take what I give you.”

He dragged the tip of himself through your folds, groaning deep in his chest when he felt how soaked you still were for him. You whimpered, hips bucking helplessly, but he just held you there—pinned beneath the weight of his body, his hands gripping your wrists above your head.

“I’m gonna fuck you now,” he said softly. “Nice and slow. Just the way you need it.”

And then he slid in.

All the way in.

You sobbed at the stretch—too much, too soon, too good—your legs locking around his waist on instinct. But Marshall didn’t move. Not yet. He just stayed buried inside you, forehead against yours, breathing hard.

“I should’ve been takin’ care of you like this every night,” he murmured. “Shoulda never made you feel like you had to beg for me. That was my fuckin’ mistake, baby.”

You nodded weakly, tears slipping down your cheeks again. Your body was already trembling, oversensitive from his mouth, your heart pounding with the weight of how deeply you needed him.

“You gonna forgive me?” he asked, pulling back just enough to thrust in again, slow and deep. You gasped, clinging to his shoulders. “You gonna let me make it up to you?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Yes, Marshall—please…”

That was all he needed.

He started moving—long, grinding thrusts, designed to drive you insane, not fast enough to finish you off, but deep enough to make you feel every inch of him.

Again. And again. And again.

The sound of skin meeting skin, the low groans rumbling from his chest, your broken little whimpers echoing off the walls.

“I want you ruined,” he growled, voice shaking now. “I want you so fucked out you can’t even say your name, only mine.”

You cried out when he hit that spot inside you that made your legs shake, and he smirked at the sound, keeping his rhythm as his hand slid down between you to rub tight circles over your clit.

“You gonna come again for me, pretty girl?”

“I—I can’t—” you sobbed, hips twitching from the overstimulation. “It’s too much—”

“Bullshit,” he growled, pressing harder, thrusting deeper. “You can, and you will. C’mon, baby… give it to me. Give me all of it.”

You shattered again, screaming his name as your second orgasm tore through you, your body thrashing beneath him—helpless and wrecked and sobbing.

But Marshall didn’t stop.

He didn’t stop.

He wrapped his arms around you, holding you down, and just kept going—grinding, thrusting, dragging you through wave after wave until your cries turned into desperate gasps.

“Say it,” he ordered, voice right against your ear now. “Say who you belong to.”

“You—you, Marshall—”

“Say it like you fuckin’ mean it.”

“I’m yours,” you sobbed. “Only yours. Please, please, I can’t take anymore—”

“Yes you can,” he growled. “You take what I give you, remember? You’re my good girl. You belong to me.”

Your body clenched around him again, and he groaned—deep, filthy, broken.

And then he snapped.

His rhythm faltered, and he buried himself to the hilt one last time, cursing against your throat as he came hard, holding you through it, body pressed so tight to yours you couldn’t tell where he ended and you began.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing—shaky, shallow, ruined.

Then you felt him shift, pulling out slowly, carefully, and gathering you into his arms.

You were still trembling, still wearing his chain, your lips kiss-bruised and swollen.

Marshall pulled the comforter over you both and kissed your forehead like you were something sacred.

“You ever feel like I forgot you again,” he murmured, tucking you close, “you better put that chain on and make me remember. You hear me?”

You nodded, tear-streaked and soft, your fingers curling into his chest.

“I’ll never forget again,” he whispered.

And he meant it.

You don’t remember falling asleep.

Your body had collapsed against him—sore and boneless, the kind of exhaustion that came from being loved too hard, too deep. And Marshall had just held you. Stroked your hair. Kissed your shoulders. Let you sob quietly into his chest while he whispered Mine, mine, mine.

You only stirred when his voice reached you again—low, raspy, tender.

“C’mon, baby. Let’s clean you up.”

You whimpered softly in protest, face still buried in his chest.

“No, I got you,” he murmured. “Let me take care of you now.”

His arms were strong and steady as he lifted you, bridal-style, out of the bed. Your body ached from head to toe, thighs trembling, lips kiss-swollen, neck still marked by the weight of his chain.

You didn’t have the strength to open your eyes.

Didn’t need to.

You could feel how careful he was. How gentle.

The bathroom light was dim, soft yellow against your skin as he knelt by the tub, adjusting the temperature, letting the water run warm. One arm still around you, never letting you go.

“You were so good for me tonight,” he said quietly, like he was afraid to speak too loud and shatter the moment. “So fuckin’ good. Took everything I gave you. Let me see all of you.”

You nodded, barely.

Marshall kissed your temple. “I missed this. You. I’ve been a fuckin’ idiot lately, huh?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he cut you off with a look. That firm one. The one that didn’t tolerate your attempts to deflect.

“I wasn’t here. Not really. But you—” he looked at you like you were a painting, something holy. “You still waited. Still wore my chain. You’re the softest, strongest thing I’ve ever had, baby. Don’t know what I ever did to deserve you.”

He helped you into the tub with such care, lowering you into the water like you were made of glass.

You whimpered when the warmth hit your sore skin.

“Shhh,” he soothed, sliding in behind you. Pulling you into his lap with your back to his chest. “I got you. Just let me hold you.”

The water lapped around you both. You could feel his heartbeat thumping against your spine, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his arms wrapped tight around your waist like he couldn’t bear the idea of you slipping away.

His hands moved slowly—coasting down your arms, over your hips. He cupped your thighs, thumbs brushing over the faint bruises he’d left there. You should’ve been embarrassed, but you weren’t.

You were proud.

Because they came from him.

Because he knew how to take you apart and put you back together better than anyone else ever could.

He reached for a soft cloth and lathered it with body wash, running it in slow, gentle circles over your skin. Over your chest. Your belly. Between your thighs.

You twitched, oversensitive, but he only kissed the side of your neck.

“I know, baby. I know it’s too much. I just wanna make you feel good.”

And you did. You felt worshipped.

When he was done, he rinsed you carefully, kissing your shoulder as he whispered, “You’re so good for me. Always are. I don’t say it enough.”

Your voice was barely a whisper. “You showed me.”

Marshall’s hold tightened.

“Still gonna keep showin’ you. Every day. Every fuckin’ night.”

You turned your head to look up at him, water dripping down your collarbones, your cheeks still flushed and raw. He kissed you slow, hand cupping your jaw like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

And when he lifted you from the water and wrapped you in a warm towel, cradling you against his chest, he whispered one more promise against your damp skin:

“You ever doubt how much I want you, how much I need you, you come find me, alright? You don’t ever sit quiet and ache like that again. You come take what’s yours.”

And you knew, right then—

No matter how far the world pulled him, no matter how many hours he spent behind a mic or on a stage—

You were the center of him.

And he was never going to let you forget it again.

Eminem Fanfic Request

Marshall Mathers x Reader

Description:

Marshall comes home to find you wearing his chain... only his chain.

Smutty smutt smutt with a little smut on top, please 😘🙏

[alittlegiraffe]

can we have a chapter of reader being possessive and Marshall turned on by it please, take care g

Title: “Mine to Keep”

The studio was buzzing—crew members weaving between light stands and camera rigs, call times shouted, music echoing between takes. You’d been to sets with Marshall before, always content to hang back, sipping your tea and watching the man you loved slip into his stage persona.

He’d asked you to come today, his tone a little more coaxing than usual. "Just wanna see you," he'd murmured that morning, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Even if you’re just sittin’ there lookin’ pretty. You calm me down.”

So you came, quiet and dressed in something soft and simple, staying out of the way, tucked into a corner just off-set. But from the second the camera started rolling, something inside you began to twist.

The model was gorgeous. You weren’t blind. Long legs, barely-there outfit, and all the confidence in the world. That alone didn’t bother you—Marshall was used to working with beautiful women, and you trusted him without question. But this one?

This one had no sense of boundaries.

You watched, stomach clenching, as she laughed a little too loudly at something he said between takes. Her hand lingered a second too long on his chest when she adjusted his necklace, her gloss-slicked mouth pouting on cue when she was told to lean into him during a closeup. And the worst part? Marshall—ever the professional—was polite, unfazed, not noticing the way your jaw was clenching tighter every time she touched him.

He glanced your way once, giving you that little crooked smile he always saved for you. But it wasn’t enough.

Something inside you stirred. That deep, slow simmer of something primal. Possessive. Protective.

When the director finally called out, “That’s a wrap!” and everyone clapped, you were already moving. You slid off the stool and stalked across the set, weaving through lights and crew and makeup artists like a woman on a mission.

Marshall barely had time to register the heat in your eyes before your hand wrapped around his wrist.

"Baby—" he started.

"Room. Now," you said low, urgent, already tugging him back toward his dressing room.

He blinked at you. His steps quickened to match yours, his long legs stretching as you yanked him down the hallway, past the wardrobe racks and prop tables, your fingers tight around his.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, chuckling as he let you drag him. “Didn’t know you had that in you, sweetheart.”

Once inside, the door slammed shut and locked behind you. You turned, wild with want and frustration. “She touched you.”

His brow lifted, slow, amused. “Baby… I wasn’t exactly feelin’ it.”

You reached up, grabbing the collar of his hoodie and yanking him down to your level. “Doesn’t matter. She thought she could. Thought she had a chance.”

Your lips were on him before he could tease you further—claiming, messy, needy. You pushed him back toward the couch, breath coming fast as your hands fumbled with his belt. He groaned into your mouth as your fingers slipped beneath his waistband, wrapping around him with shaky determination.

“Fuck, okay,” he gasped, eyes darkening. “Look at you takin’ what you want.”

"I need to," you whispered, sinking to your knees between his legs, licking a slow, deliberate stripe along the underside of his length. “You’re mine, Marshall.”

That cracked something in him. His hand tangled in your hair as you sucked him deep into your mouth, your soft submission replaced by fierce desperation. You didn’t stop until his thighs were shaking, his jaw tight, his praise falling like a prayer from his lips.

But you couldn’t keep control forever.

He let you play dominant—for a while.

Until your pace slowed, and your lips trembled from effort. Until your eyes flicked up at him, pupils blown wide, silently asking.

Then his hands gripped your arms and pulled you up fast, lips crashing into yours as he turned you, pressing you face-first against the dressing table.

“You did good,” he rasped into your ear, grinding into you from behind. “But let’s not get it twisted, baby.”

Your breath hitched.

“I let you take control.” His voice was pure gravel, rough and hot against your skin. “Now it’s my fuckin’ turn.”

His hand came down on your ass, sharp and claiming, while the other slid between your thighs.

“You get all jealous and crazy over me, huh? That little show back there?” He chuckled, cruel and low. “Sweet thing, don’t even try to out-possess me.”

You whimpered, needy and pliant now, letting him bend you to his will.

“I’m yours,” he whispered, thrusting deep, possessive. “But you? You’re mine. Every fuckin’ inch.”

And in that room, far away from the lights and cameras, you let him remind you—every word, every touch, every breath—that you always would be.

You didn’t remember exactly how many times you came.

At some point, your knees were pressed into the carpet, face and chest against the cool leather of the dressing room couch, your moans muffled by your own arm while Marshall owned you from behind. His voice low and wrecked, his hands everywhere—holding your hips still, gripping your throat as he made you look at yourself in the mirror, whispering every filthy thing he’d been holding in since the second that model touched him.

“You wanna mark me? Wanna claim me?” he panted into your ear. “Look at yourself, baby. You already have.”

By the time he finally let you fall into him, boneless and trembling, he caught you gently. His hands—once gripping you like he was scared you’d disappear—now stroked up and down your sides with maddening softness. He kissed the spot behind your ear as you lay in his lap, your breathing still uneven.

“You okay, sunshine?” he murmured, voice rough but tender now. “Didn’t mean to go that hard, you just—you snapped on me.”

You nodded, smiling weakly into his hoodie. “I’m fine. I just… I hated her touching you.”

“Yeah?” He smirked against your temple, still high on the rush of being claimed by his shy, sweet wife. “You scared the shit outta half the crew dragging me back here like that. I swear one guy dropped his headset.”

You let out a hoarse laugh, and Marshall reached for a water bottle, holding it to your lips.

“You know,” he added, brushing sweaty strands of hair from your face, “you get that jealous again, you might have to take responsibility for what happens next.”

Your head tipped back lazily against his chest, teasing. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

“Didn’t say I did.” His hand came up to squeeze your throat, gentle but possessive, thumb brushing the bruises he knew he’d left. “But if you ever wanna stake your claim again, maybe wait ‘til I don’t have half a crew waitin’ outside?”

You flushed, realizing just how loud you must’ve been.

“I’m serious,” he said with a grin. “I love when you get bold, baby. That shit? Fuckin’ hot. But next time? You don’t get to walk away when you’re done. You want me that bad, you stay. You take everything I give you 'til you can’t talk right.”

You shivered, already squirming against him again.

A knock on the door interrupted the moment. “Yo, Em, you good? They need you for a few wrap shots.”

Marshall rolled his eyes. “Tell ‘em give me five.”

You giggled against his chest. “We really should get out there.”

He groaned like you were asking him to carry bricks. “I should make you walk out there first. Let the whole set see what a mess you are.”

You tried to sit up but winced at the soreness blooming between your legs.

He grinned smugly. “Yeah… Nah. I’ll help you out. My sweet little wife tried to play rough, now she can’t even walk.”

“You’re impossible.”

He pulled you into his lap again and cupped your jaw, kissing you slow, deep, claiming you all over again with nothing more than his lips.

“Maybe,” he murmured. “But I’m yours.”

Then he helped you up carefully, straightened your clothes with a wink, and tucked you protectively into his side. He opened the dressing room door with all the cocky swagger of a man who’d just been thoroughly worshipped and reminded the world who he belonged to.

And when that same model passed by again—giving him a shy smile—you didn’t even need to say anything.

Marshall’s arm tightened around you. “Don’t even look,” he muttered under his breath. “She’ll throw hands.”

You smirked. "Try me."

[alittlegiraffe]

will u still post other chapter while ur writing ur new marshall x OC story

Yes! I have been! I just decided not to post long stories until I have all parts completed right now!

[alittlegiraffe]

Do you know around what time the whole thing will be posted?

I'm hoping to get part one up for Marshall's birthday!