All about Marshall Mathers

You’d learned not to read too far into it. But still.

“Yo, where’s the—” Paul’s voice boomed into the kitchen before he caught himself, “Ah. There you are. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You gave him a little smile. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just came to grab more napkins.” He leaned on the counter, watching you for a second. “You holding up okay?”

“I’m good,” you nodded, glancing into the living room where Marshall was half-reclined on the couch, beer dangling in one hand, eyes on the screen—except they weren’t. He was watching you. His gaze soft, settled, like the whole party had faded behind him.

Paul followed your line of sight. Smirked. “You know he looks at you like that even when you’re not watching, right?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Like what?”

“Like you’re the only person in the room. Like you’re some kind of peace he didn’t think he’d ever get.”

You looked down, brushing crumbs off your apron. “I don’t always feel like I fit, you know? Like I’m not his kind of person.”

Paul gave a low chuckle and began stacking paper plates. “You’re not. That’s kind of the point.”

You looked up.

“He’s all sharp edges and fire,” Paul said. “And you… you’re the soft place he lands. You don’t have to be loud to be good for him. Hell, he’s loud enough for the both of you.”

Your eyes stung a little. You turned to the sink under the guise of rinsing off a spoon.

Paul clapped your shoulder, gentle. “You’re good for him. Better than good. And he knows it.”

Later, when the house was quiet again and Marshall tugged you into his lap without a word, burying his face into the crook of your neck like he always did when he needed grounding, you thought maybe Paul was right.

You might not fit into the world on paper.

But you fit into his.

---

The kitchen was quieter now, though it still held the echoes of the evening—beer bottles clinking in the trash, the faint buzz of the game’s post-show commentary drifting from the living room, the low murmur of goodbyes and back-slaps as people filtered out the front door.

You were stacking dishes in the sink, sleeves rolled up, soft curls falling around your face as you worked, when a familiar voice behind you said, half-slurred:

“Yo. Where the hell are the cookies?”

You turned with a laugh. “Hi, Denaun. Not even a hello first?”

He grinned sheepishly and leaned against the doorframe, red Solo cup in hand. “I knew you made those cookies. I told Proof’s cousin, like, ‘watch—she probably made the good kind with the sea salt on top.’” He peered around you exaggeratedly. “Am I wrong?”

You grabbed the plate from the counter and held it up with a little curtsy. “Sea salt and all.”

“Yes!” He took one with the reverence of someone who’d just found gold. “You’re too good for this place. For him.”

You raised a brow, amused. “Is that your way of saying thank you?”

Denaun took a bite and groaned like it was a religious experience. “Nah, that’s my way of saying… listen. Marshall used to be a dick.”

You snorted, half-turning to rinse a bowl. “Used to be?”

“Okay, okay,” he conceded, laughing. “He’s still an asshole. But now? He’s, like… a better kind. A domesticated asshole. Like one of those angry raccoons that found a warm attic to live in.”

You pressed a hand to your mouth to stifle a laugh.

“I’m serious,” Denaun continued, now gesturing with half a cookie. “There was a time you couldn’t talk to him before noon without risking your life. Now he’s out here asking people if they want ‘another slider’ and keeping your pink dish towels folded. I saw him fold a towel earlier, swear to God.”

You shook your head, cheeks warm.

“He’s different,” Denaun said, tone softening just a touch. “Still him. Still angry at the world. But with you? It’s like the anger doesn’t own him anymore. You’re the calm in his storm, and I think he finally figured out that he needs that. Needs you.”

Before you could respond, Marshall’s voice cut in from the hallway. “You giving my wife a hard time, Denaun?”

“Just saying nice things, swear on my mama,” Denaun called back with a mouthful of cookie.

Marshall stepped into the doorway, one brow raised, arms crossed. “Better be. You mess with her, you mess with me.”

Denaun held up the cookie like a peace offering. “Tell her to make more of these and I’ll never speak ill of you again.”

You and Marshall locked eyes, and despite the tiredness in his face, he gave you that look again—that steady, quiet one that made your chest go warm.

Denaun wandered off, muttering something about stealing a Ziploc bag.

Marshall crossed to you and wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, chin resting on your shoulder. “Don’t listen to him.”

You leaned back into him. “I liked what he said.”

He kissed the curve of your neck. “Yeah? What part?”

You smiled. “The part where he called you domesticated.”

Marshall groaned. “Jesus.”

You turned in his arms and cupped his cheek. “Don’t worry. You’re still my asshole.”

He smirked and kissed you slow, sweet. “Damn right.”

Marshall’s lips were just about to meet yours—hands firm on your waist, his breath warm and steady—when the kitchen door swung open again.

“Yo!”

You both startled slightly, and Marshall groaned audibly, dropping his forehead against your shoulder as Royce burst in like he was announcing the second coming.

“Tell me Denaun’s not the only one getting cookies. That’s favoritism, and I know that’s not how this house runs.”

You couldn’t help it—you burst out laughing, gently pulling back from Marshall’s arms to grab the small blue-lid Tupperware you’d prepped just in case. You held it out to Royce like it was a peace treaty.

“Already packed. I know how you guys operate.”

Royce’s eyes widened like you’d handed him treasure. He took the container reverently, then looked at Marshall, utterly serious. “I get why you love her, man. She’s the best of us.”

Marshall snorted. “Don’t tell her that. She’s already impossible to live without.”

Too late—you were smiling, cheeks warm.

Royce turned on his heel with a gleeful, “Denaun! Suck it, I got mine pre-packed!” as he disappeared back down the hall.

Marshall sighed, deadpan. “Next time, we fake our deaths and move to Montana.”

You laughed, turning back to him. “With your friends? That wouldn’t stop them. They’d still show up like, ‘you got Wi-Fi? And snacks?’”

He shook his head with a chuckle, then slid his arms around you again, tucking you close. “You’re too good to them.”

“I’m good to you,” you said quietly.

That finally settled him. He leaned in again, slower this time, pressing a kiss to your mouth that was all gratitude and grounding.

And no one interrupted this time.

---

It took some convincing, a glass of water, and a very firm “You can either sleep in the guest room or I’m calling your mom” before Denaun finally flopped back onto the bed with a dramatic groan.

You tucked the blanket over him like he was a sulking teenager instead of a nearly six-foot grown man. “You’ll thank me in the morning.”

“Gonna steal your throw pillows,” he mumbled into the mattress.

“Fine. Just don’t puke on them.”

You turned off the lamp, pulling the door halfway shut behind you—and nearly bumped into Marshall, leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed, wearing that unreadable half-smirk, half-melted look he always gave you when you did something that cracked him open a little.

“You enjoy bossing my friends around?” he asked, voice low, amused.

“I enjoy keeping them alive,” you said, brushing imaginary lint off your sundress.

Marshall reached for you, pulling you in without effort, tucking you into his side as the hallway dimmed behind you both. “You always this sweet to my friends, baby?” he murmured against the shell of your ear, lips trailing lower until they found that spot on your neck he knew made you sigh.

“Only the drunk ones,” you teased, smiling against the warmth blooming at the base of your throat.

He huffed a laugh, nose brushing your skin. “Lucky me, then.”

You walked together down the hall, his hand splayed warm and heavy on your hip, his body angled toward yours like even gravity favored pulling him closer.

“You’re really good at that, you know,” he said quietly, almost like it was a secret. “Taking care of people. Even the ones like him.”

“I like taking care of people,” you said. “Especially the ones who don’t always know how to ask for it.”

He hummed against your skin. “You sure you’re not too good for me?”

You stopped, turning to face him fully, your hands smoothing over his chest. “Maybe I’m just right for you.”

Marshall looked at you like you’d said something holy, and then his mouth was on yours again—deeper this time, slower, like he wanted to carve the truth of that into memory.

Behind you, Denaun let out a heroic snore that made the walls vibrate.

You both broke the kiss with a laugh, and Marshall grinned. “Guess we’re not getting much sleep tonight.”

You grinned back. “Speak for yourself. I packed the cookies and tucked in your drunk best friend. I’ve earned at least six hours.”

Marshall swept you into his arms anyway. “Fine. But I’m still making it hard.”

“You always do,” you giggled, as he carried you off toward your room.

---

By the time the bedroom door clicked shut behind you, your body felt like it had been wrung out and gently folded. The noise of the day had faded, leaving only the hum of the house and the low sound of Marshall moving behind you—setting his phone on the dresser, kicking off his shoes.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, fingers working at the tie of your dress, when his hands came to rest gently on your shoulders.

“Let me,” he murmured.

You dropped your hands into your lap and let him take over. He undid the knot with slow, careful fingers, letting the soft fabric fall away from your frame like petals. There was no rush in him tonight—no teasing, no heat behind his touch—just that quiet kind of reverence that always caught you off guard. Like every part of you mattered. Like he saw you.

“You did a lot today,” he said, voice low as he leaned down to press a kiss to the curve of your shoulder. “Didn’t sit down once.”

“I’m okay,” you murmured, even though your legs ached and your back was tight and your eyes stung just a little.

He didn’t answer. Just helped you out of the rest of your clothes, his touch soft and patient, like he was unwrapping something precious. You lay back against the pillows and he tugged the blankets up around you, settling beside you without a word, arm curling protectively around your waist.

“Turn over,” he said gently.

You blinked at him. “What?”

“I’m giving you a massage. Don’t argue.”

You laughed, too tired to protest anyway, and rolled onto your stomach. A moment later, his hands were on you—firm, slow pressure working into your lower back, then gliding up your spine, his thumbs finding every knot and easing it out with practiced care.

You let out a soft sound as your body began to melt under his touch. He leaned down, brushing your hair aside to kiss the back of your neck.

“You do too much,” he whispered. “Always taking care of everyone else.”

“I like it,” you murmured into the pillow.

“I know you do,” he said. “That’s what makes you... you. But you don’t have to do it alone all the time.”

His hands slowed, resting against your shoulder blades. “You come in here, soft voice and pink dress, and you don’t even realize you’re the strongest one in the room.”

Your throat tightened at that, but before you could speak, he shifted beside you, curling you into his arms as he lay down, holding you close and warm against his chest.

“I got you now,” he said softly. “Let me take care of you for once.”

You didn’t answer—not with words. Just tucked your face into his chest, let yourself finally relax, and breathed him in.

And he stayed right there, one hand stroking lazy circles on your back, the other holding you steady—quiet, grounded, safe.

You weren’t sure how long you lay there in his arms, skin warm against his, wrapped in that stillness that only came with being completely known, completely safe. His hand never stopped moving—those slow, steady circles along your back that started out soothing but gradually dipped lower… brushing the curve of your hip, tracing the dip of your waist.

You sighed into him, soft and breathy, and you felt the way his body responded to the sound—his breath catching slightly, the arm around you tightening.

“You’re relaxed now,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple.

“Mhm.”

“I like you like this.”

His voice was low—rougher now, darker at the edges—and it made something in your stomach flutter. He shifted beside you, coaxing you gently onto your back, his eyes searching yours in the dim light.

“You sure you’re not too tired, baby?” he asked, fingers brushing your cheek.

You shook your head, already arching slightly into his touch. “Not with you.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed you slowly at first, like he was still handling something fragile—mouth soft, patient, coaxing. But when your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, something shifted. The kiss deepened, his weight settling over you, hands sliding over your skin like he was relearning every inch.

“You take care of everyone else,” he whispered, his lips trailing down your neck, along your collarbone. “Tonight, I take care of you. No interruptions. No distractions.”

You gasped as his mouth found that tender place just beneath your jaw, his hand slipping beneath the blanket to trace the inside of your thigh. “Marshall…”

“Shh, baby. Just let me make you feel good.”

And you did.

You let him take his time—let him worship every part of you with his mouth, his hands, his voice murmuring soft praises against your skin. He moved like a man who knew what it meant to fall apart, and how to put someone back together again—slowly, reverently, with just the right amount of heat to remind you how deeply he loved you, how much of himself he’d always give to you.

By the time you were breathless and shaking beneath him, his name on your lips like a prayer, he kissed you again—forehead pressed to yours, the words “I got you” whispered again and again like a vow.

And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, you knew: the world could fall apart outside those walls.

But in here, you were home.

---

The morning light crept in slow, golden stripes through the blinds, brushing soft across the room. The scent of rain lingered faintly from the storm that rolled in sometime during the night, and somewhere down the hall, Denaun snored like a dying lawn mower.

You stirred beneath the sheets, sore in the sweetest way, skin still humming with memory. A warm arm was slung across your waist, and when you shifted, Marshall murmured low behind you.

“Mm. You movin’ already?”

You smiled sleepily, nestling back into the curve of his chest. “Trying to, but apparently I’m trapped.”

His voice was rough and lazy. “Damn right you are.”

His hand slid a little lower, fingers brushing along your hip possessively. You let out a soft laugh.

“Someone’s feeling smug.”

“You’re warm, you’re naked, and you moaned my name like a song last night,” he mumbled into your hair. “Course I’m smug.”

You reached back to swat at him, but he caught your hand easily, lacing your fingers with his and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“You sleep good?” he asked, voice gentler now.

You nodded. “Like a rock.”

He smiled against your shoulder. “Good. That was the goal.”

Just as you were melting into the quiet again, a knock sounded at the bedroom door—too enthusiastic, too familiar.

“Y’all decent?” came Denaun’s unmistakable voice. “Because I’m making coffee and I swear the cookies are gone and I’m suspicious.”

You groaned into the pillow. “He’s relentless.”

Marshall sighed, flopping dramatically onto his back. “I should’ve let him drive home drunk.”

You laughed and rolled over, leaning up on one elbow. “You love him.”

Marshall scowled half-heartedly. “I love you. Him? He’s like athlete’s foot. Won’t go away, mildly irritating, but you learn to live with it.”

You bit back a giggle, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Well, athlete’s foot made coffee. I’m gonna go make sure he doesn’t burn down the kitchen.”

He caught your wrist gently, looking up at you with that rare, unguarded softness.

“Hey.”

You met his eyes.

“Thank you. For yesterday. For last night.” His thumb traced a line along your wrist. “For being mine.”

You leaned down and kissed him, slow and lingering. “Always.”

And then you slipped from the bed, pulling on one of his shirts—the hem brushing your thighs—as you padded barefoot down the hall, laughter already rising in your chest at the sound of Denaun arguing with the coffee machine.

Marshall watched you go, head tipped against the pillow, a lazy smirk tugging at his mouth.

Yeah, he thought.