#eminem fluff

Tonight, you looked like sin in electric blue.

A mini dress that clung to your every curve like it had been painted on. Glitter that caught every camera flash like you were made of it. A neckline that plunged deep enough to make angels choke. You knew exactly what you were doing. And you knew exactly who would be watching.

You didn’t expect it to be him.

Your seat was somewhere near the front—Grammys liked to keep the glittery, overachieving people clustered together. Your album had just swept. Four Grammys tonight. You had already taken one photo holding three like they were your children and balancing the fourth on your head.

But none of that mattered when you turned toward your seat and saw Marshall Mathers already sitting in the chair next to it.

Black hoodie under a bomber jacket, chain glinting against his chest, hood half up like he’d only agreed to this if they let him pretend he was still in a basement in Detroit. He looked absurdly hot and equally bored, legs spread wide, fingers tapping against the armrest in quiet impatience.

You hadn’t even sat down before he looked up at you—and then paused.

His gaze dipped. Then dipped again.

“Damn,” he said under his breath. Not loud, not crude. Just… honest. Surprised. He blinked once, straightened a bit like his spine just remembered he was in public.

You grinned, delighted. “That good, huh?”

He let out a breathy laugh, then—shockingly—stood up. “You want help sitting down?” he asked, voice low, just a little amused, maybe even unsure. “Or is that dress surgically attached to your body?”

You burst out laughing, stepping carefully toward your seat. “Oh my god, are you trying to flirt with me or start a fight?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

You slid into your seat with the help of his hand at your elbow—strong, steady—and for a second, your skin warmed under the contact. He smelled like spice and clean laundry and something addictive you didn’t have the time to analyze.

“I gotta say,” you started, adjusting the hem of your dress with exaggerated innocence, “this is my first Grammy night where I get seated next to someone whose lyrics literally got me grounded in ninth grade.”

That made him smirk. “Yeah? What’d you say?”

“Oh, I was walking around saying ‘bitch I’ll kill you,’ thinking I was invincible. Turns out Catholic schools don’t find that shit very funny.”

That made him laugh—really laugh. Like a sudden bark of it, his head tipping back. “Goddamn. You serious?”

You nodded. “Dead serious. My mom thought I was possessed.”

“Guess I’ve still got it.” His grin widened, and he leaned in just a touch. “But you? You don’t look like someone who listens to me.”

You raised an eyebrow, lips curving. “What do I look like?”

“Like you’re used to people calling you ‘queen’ on Twitter while jerking off to your music videos.”

You clapped a hand to your mouth to muffle the laugh that escaped, startled and amused. “Jesus Christ—”

He looked pleased with himself. You turned slightly in your chair, facing him more now, a little surprised by how easy it felt.

“And what, you don’t get that treatment?” you teased.

“Oh I do,” he deadpanned. “But usually it’s angry dudes in their thirties yelling ‘REAL RAP’ and photoshopping me bald.”

You snorted. “God, the internet is such a beautiful hellscape.”

Just then, someone took the stage wearing… well. A thing. Neon suit, sleeves with feathers, hat shaped like a mushroom cap. You couldn’t tell if it was fashion or a breakdown.

You tilted your head, unsure. That’s when you felt it.

Marshall leaned over. Closer than he’d been. His breath brushed your bare shoulder as he whispered into your ear, “That outfit looks like a peacock fucked a vape pen.”

You choked on your drink.

And then—then—he looked genuinely startled as you howled with laughter, bending over in your seat, hand slapping your thigh.

“You can’t say that,” you wheezed, gasping between fits.

“Apparently I can’t say anything,” he muttered, smirking. “Half the time people act like I just dropkick puppies. But you… you laughed.”

You straightened up, wiping at the corner of your eye. “Because that shit was hilarious.”

He looked at you then—really looked. Like you had defied some rule in his head. His eyes scanned your face, lingering, the hint of a grin on his lips softening into something almost curious.

“I didn’t think you’d be like this,” he said quietly.

“Like what?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. Fun. Filthy. Not made of glass.”

You grinned slow, devilish. “Oh no, baby. I’m made of glitter and sin.”

He laughed again—lower this time. You felt it like a hum between your ribs.

As the show went on, he leaned in every now and then to whisper some deeply inappropriate, absolutely absurd commentary in your ear. Every time, you cracked up. And every time, he watched you with this look like he couldn’t believe it. Like he’d never met a woman who dressed like a fantasy and talked like a demon. Like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t what he expected at all.

And god help you, but you were starting to think the same.

---

The afterparty was already a mess.

Glitter on every surface. Champagne like water. Celebrities half-twisting out of their expensive outfits and ego trips. Music thumped low and dirty from the speakers like the room itself had a pulse — and it matched yours perfectly.

You had changed, of course. You always did. The post-show version of you was even more dangerous: metallic gold heels, black silk mini dress that dipped low in the back and high at the thigh, just this side of illegal. You weren’t trying to blend in — you were there to be seen, and you knew exactly how to do it.

The room had swallowed you whole when you stepped in — heads turned, drinks paused mid-air — but none of it mattered the moment your eyes locked on him across the room.

Marshall.

Still dressed in that same hoodie-and-jacket combo, hat pulled low, but now slightly slouched into a lounge chair like he owned the place. Like he wasn’t one of the most recognizable faces on Earth. His posture was all casual defiance — legs spread, one arm slung over the backrest, half-laughing at something one of his boys just said.

But the minute he saw you?

He straightened.

Not like a gentleman. Like a man who just saw something he wanted and didn’t care if anyone noticed.

You walked over slow — hips swaying, chin up, dangerous smile loaded and ready. Every inch of you radiated “I know exactly what I’m doing.” And the moment you were close enough, he greeted you not with a hello, but with a smirk and:

“You came back dressed like a goddamn felony.”

You laughed, one eyebrow cocked. “You look like you never left the basement.”

“Yeah, well. Basement’s got better lighting than this circus.”

You sank into the seat next to him, knee brushing his as you crossed your legs. That single touch sparked heat up your thigh, but neither of you flinched. You just looked at each other for a second — that stare that said, Okay, so we’re doing this now.

You took a sip of your drink and scanned the crowd. “You ever notice how these parties always look like someone spilled rich people all over the place?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, half these people look like the wax museum melted.”

You nearly choked on your drink. “Stop.”

“You see that guy?” He tilted his chin toward a man in a leather suit and sunglasses indoors. “Looks like if Pitbull and a Roomba had a baby.”

“Oh my god.” You were crying now. “What is wrong with you?”

“Born this way.”

You kept talking. Kept roasting. Your heels bumped his boot every time you laughed, your hands brushed when you leaned in to whisper some evil little observation. You weren’t flirting, not really — you were targeting each other with heat.

At some point, he leaned in close to say something about a woman in a feathered dress who looked like a plucked chicken — and his breath hit the shell of your ear.

And you shivered.

Not subtly.

And he saw it.

His smile curled slow and wicked.

“What?” you asked, playing innocent. “You think you’re the only one who gets to have fun whispering into ears?”

“You can try,” he said. “But I bite.”

“Oh baby,” you purred, leaning so close your lips almost touched his jaw. “So do I.”

From across the lounge, his friends were watching — and they were not subtle about it.

You caught one of them making an exaggerated O-face, tongue out, hands gripping the air like imaginary hips.

You burst into laughter so sudden it startled the table next to you. “What the hell are they doing?”

Marshall turned, saw them, and groaned — but he was laughing, too. “They think they’re being hilarious.”

Another one mimed a slow thrust in the air while sticking his tongue out like a lizard on ecstasy.

“They look like they’re auditioning for a porno directed by animals,” you said, wheezing.

“They’re saying I look like I wanna fuck you right here,” he muttered, shaking his head with that barely-contained grin.

“Do you?” you asked, sipping your drink, locking eyes with him.

His gaze didn’t waver. “Oh, sweetheart. I think that’s the least subtle thing about tonight.”

You should’ve blushed. You didn’t. You grinned.

“They’re not wrong,” you said. “You’ve been eye-fucking me since seat assignments.”

“I helped you sit down.”

“You cupped my elbow like it was sacred.”

He laughed low in his chest, and you leaned your cheek into your hand, staring at him with that dangerous glitter in your eyes — the one that always came before you did something reckless.

And he looked at you like he could see it. Like he wanted to be part of it.

By the time the DJ shifted to something dirtier, bass vibrating underfoot, you had slid a little closer. Your knees were fully pressed together now, and his hand had dropped onto the back of your chair — not quite around you, but close enough to count.

“I like you,” he said finally, voice low enough that it was almost a confession.

“You barely know me.”

“I know enough.”

“Like what?”

He tilted his head. “You’re smart, sharp as fuck, and have a mouth like a sailor on ecstasy. You laugh at shit you shouldn’t, wear dresses that could kill, and smile like you’re hiding ten crimes.”

You stared at him for a beat, something slow and electric crawling down your spine. “You’re good at that.”

“At what?”

“Seeing people.”

“Yeah. Comes with being stared at too long.”

You paused, quiet for a second. Then: “You wanna get out of here?”

He grinned like he’d been waiting all night.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

You didn’t even need to say it.

Your eyes met across the chaos of the party — music thumping, people yelling, someone literally vomiting into a champagne bucket just a few feet away — and that was it. No words. Just a look that said “We’re done here.”

Marshall stood first, offering you a hand. You took it. Your fingers slid into his like they’d done it a thousand times. Smooth. Easy. Inevitable.

One of his friends spotted you both heading toward the exit and immediately launched into a slow-motion “noooo” with fake tears. Another one dropped to his knees and crossed himself like you were leading Eminem to his final judgment.

You didn’t even turn around. Just raised a middle finger high and proud as the two of you slipped out through the side door, laughing under your breath like teenagers ditching class to go ruin each other.

The car was already waiting outside. Long, black, low to the ground. The kind of car people step into when they know they’re not going home alone.

He let you in first. You slid across the seat, legs crossed, back arched just slightly — because you knew he was watching. He followed, closing the door behind him, and just like that, the noise of the party was gone. It was quiet now. Just the low purr of the engine and your breaths, suddenly louder than they had any right to be.

The lights of the city flickered across your skin as the driver pulled away, but you didn’t notice. Neither of you was looking outside.

He leaned back in his seat like he was trying to stay calm. One hand on his thigh, the other running slow over his jaw.

You watched him for a moment. Then smiled. “You always this polite after flirting like a dog in heat?”

He side-eyed you. “That’s rich coming from you, Miss I’ll-Ruin-You-on-Purpose.”

“You wish I would,” you teased, shifting just enough to make your dress slip higher on your thigh.

His jaw clenched. “You tryna test me right now?”

“I’m tryna figure out if that hoodie hides daddy issues or stamina.”

He let out a low laugh — dark and sharp — and suddenly the space between you felt hotter. Smaller.

“You talk so much,” he said, voice rough now, dropping an octave. “It’s cute.”

“You keep saying that like you’re not five seconds from crawling over here.”

“I’m giving you a chance to behave.”

You leaned in, close enough to feel the heat off his skin. “And I’m giving you a chance to break that ‘no kissing fans’ rule I know you pretend to have.”

He looked down at your mouth.

And finally — finally — he moved.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. Just reached across the seat, took your jaw in one hand, and kissed you like he’d been starving for it. Hard. Hot. Filthy. It wasn’t slow, or soft, or hesitant. It was urgent — like he’d been waiting all night to get his mouth on yours and now that he had it, he wasn’t wasting a second.

You moaned before you could stop yourself. Hands finding the edge of his hoodie, gripping, pulling. He tasted like whiskey and mint and something male and expensive, and you couldn’t get enough of it. His tongue slid against yours like he owned the rhythm, biting your bottom lip just to feel you gasp.

And then his hand — big, warm — dropped to your thigh, fingers tracing the edge of your dress, slipping under just enough to make you lose track of your own name.

The car hit a red light, and the driver didn’t even look back.

He pulled away just a little, just enough to talk, lips brushing yours.

“You kiss like a fucking problem.”

“You’re the one with both hands on me.”

“Not both yet.”

You laughed, breathless. “You always kiss people like you wanna wreck their whole week?”

“Only when they talk back like you.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning your forehead to his for half a second. “God, I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You kissed him again. Harder this time. And when he groaned into your mouth, his hand slipping higher up your thigh, your teeth scraped his bottom lip on purpose — just to hear it again.

By the time the car slowed in front of the hotel, you were a mess of flushed skin, rumpled clothes, and filthy grins.

He glanced at the door. Then back at you.

“You coming up?”

You blinked, pretending to think. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you plan on making me regret it,” you said, tugging lightly at his chain.

He leaned in again, voice like velvet dragged over gravel. “I don’t do regret.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Neither do I.”

The elevator ride was a whole other kind of torment.

You were standing in front of him, back pressed lightly to his chest, his breath fanning against your neck like a threat. Neither of you touched — not technically — but the heat between your bodies felt like it was humming. Like the whole air inside that elevator was tuned to the exact frequency of you want this.

He didn’t say a word.

You didn’t either.

Not until the doors dinged open and he reached forward — slow, deliberate — and wrapped his fingers around your wrist like a secret he wanted to keep.

You let him lead.

The hallway was all plush carpet and moody lights and way too quiet for the kind of chaos brewing between you. His keycard barely registered before the door clicked open, and he held it for you like a gentleman. You stepped in like a menace.

The moment the door shut behind you, it was over.

You turned — fast — and he was right there, pressing you back against it before you could even breathe. His mouth was on yours again, this time more desperate, more messy — like he was done pretending he had any self-control left.

You gasped into it, fingers tugging at his hoodie. “Take this off—”

“Say please.”

You bit his lip. “Please, daddy issues.”

He laughed against your mouth, but he peeled it off fast — and suddenly, fuck, there he was: toned, inked, warm skin and sharp edges, the kind of man who looked like he’d fuck you like a threat and then write a whole song about it after.

His hands slid up your thighs again, under your dress this time — fingers finding bare skin and gripping hard enough to bruise.

“You wore nothing under this?”

You grinned. “I had a feeling the night might escalate.”

“‘Escalate,’” he muttered, lips trailing down your jaw, “is the understatement of the fucking year.”

You moaned when he sucked a mark into your throat, loud enough to echo. Somewhere in the background, you heard your phone buzz with a notification — probably some assistant or manager or distant relative telling you to behave.

Too late.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, pupils blown, jaw clenched.

“You sure?”

You didn’t even blink. “Do I look unsure?”

And that was all it took.

He picked you up like you weighed nothing, carried you to the bed like you were the only thing that mattered, and laid you out like a goddamn fantasy. Hands everywhere, mouth following, dragging filth across your skin with every kiss, every bite.

Clothes disappeared between kisses. The room got hot. You said things that would’ve made Grammy voters faint. He answered them with actions — with hands and teeth and hips and that rough little growl in his throat every time you said his name just right.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft.

It was messy. Loud. Fast and slow and everything in between — like your bodies couldn’t decide if they wanted to fight or fuck or both.

You tangled your hands in his hair. He bit your shoulder like he wanted to mark you. You laughed breathlessly halfway through, muttering “You’re so fucked when I write a song about this.”

He groaned into your neck. “You think I’m not gonna write one first?”

“Babe, I own the charts.”

“I’m about to own you.”

And then you were kissing again — harder now, deeper, like there was something in it you couldn’t say out loud. Something stupid. Something dangerous.

Afterward — wrecked, bodies tangled in twisted sheets, your dress on the floor and his chain still around his neck — you lay next to him, catching your breath. Sweat cooling on your skin, your legs still shaking slightly, your pulse everywhere.

Silence.

Then:

“So,” you said, staring at the ceiling. “On a scale from one to ‘you’re gonna ghost me,’ how awkward is tomorrow gonna be?”

He turned his head to look at you. His voice was rough. Honest.

“Ghost you?” he repeated. “You think I can go back to regular women after that?”

You grinned. “Just making sure you weren’t gonna panic and pretend I never happened.”

“I’m the one who should be worried,” he muttered. “You could replace me with a tweet.”

You rolled over, propping your chin on his chest. “I could. But I won’t.”

He looked at you for a long second. Then smiled — slow and small and way too real.

“Good.”

The silence stretched. Not awkward now — just... comfortable.

And suddenly, that terrifying thought popped into both your heads.

Fuck. What if this actually means something?

---

The lights dimmed. A heartbeat thudded through the sound system. Then—

“MAKE SOME NOOOOOIIISEEEE!!!”

You burst onto the stage in a flash of glitter, light, and unapologetic sex appeal — all legs, all smirk, all fire. The screams were deafening. Phones lit up like stars. Your name rolled through the air like a thunderclap, the stadium’s walls shaking with every chant, every cry, every unhinged “I love you!”

“Okay okay okay,” you purred into the mic, swaying your hips like it was foreplay. “Y’all ready to get filthy or what?”

The crowd exploded.

“Good. ‘Cause I didn’t cancel my plans for mediocre moaning.”

Chaos.

Cameras shook. Grown men sobbed. Women threw bras. Security guards looked like they needed prayer.

And somewhere, tucked into a sleek little VIP pocket off to the side — a roped-off section no one else could even get near — he was watching. Marshall. Hood up, hat low, shades on. But the smirk gave him away.

He had the best seat in the house. Right there, close enough to see the shimmer of sweat on your collarbone. The mic between your lips. The way you’d look over your shoulder like you knew exactly where he was.

And you did.

You knew every camera angle. Every beat. Every fantasy.

Halfway through the set, the lights went dreamy — purples and deep reds and a single spotlight beaming down as the first beats of Juno rolled in, smooth and dangerous. The crowd screamed in recognition. You gave them a knowing smile.

“This one’s for all my flexible bitches,” you said. “And yes, that includes me.”

They lost it.

And when the line hit — “Have you ever tried… this one?” — you dropped.

Straight into a deep squat, knees spread, back arched, tongue against your top lip. Every inch of you sinful and stunning, a walking warning label.

The stadium went feral.

You popped back up with a wink, tossing your hair and laughing like a demon. “I’m just trying to keep y’all hydrated!”

But in the corner of your eye — you saw him. Marshall. Sitting like he’d just been personally attacked.

His hand was on his jaw. His lip curled. He shook his head once, slow, like “you’re really doing this to me?” and it only made you grin harder.

And then came the finale.

Bed Chem.

The lights dimmed. A red wash bathed the stage. The beat kicked in low and slow, sexy and taunting.

The lyrics poured from your mouth like honey spiked with venom.

And when the moment came — “Who’s the cute guy with the wide blue eyes and the big bad mm? Like—” — you didn’t hesitate.

You pointed directly at Marshall.

Spotlight on him. Blue eyes glinting behind his glasses. The crowd lost its goddamn mind. People were sobbing. Jumping. Screaming. Phones shaking in hands.

He laughed — loud, real, shocked — hand over his mouth like you’d just stripped on live TV.

You broke character for a second to laugh, too — big and wild — and then leaned into the mic again with a grin that should’ve been illegal.

“Tonight, I really hope I get to see if it’s actually a big bad mm.”

Gasps. Screams. People dropped. Security guards gave up on keeping order.

And then — someone handed Marshall a mic.

He took it. Slowly. Still smirking.

The crowd fell into a stunned silence, like God himself had entered the chat.

He raised the mic to his mouth, leaned back in his chair, and said, deadpan:

“You already did. Your screams gave me a hint. I already knew you could hit high notes.”

Armageddon.

People collapsed. Medics were probably dispatched. You doubled over laughing so hard you almost missed your cue. The band cracked up behind you. The backup dancers looked like they couldn’t believe this was real.

You straightened up, still grinning, and said into your mic:

“Oh my god, I’m getting banned from every network after this.”

Marshall winked from his seat.

And you knew.

The performance was iconic. The headlines tomorrow would be insane. Every fan theory would spiral into madness.

But none of that mattered.

Because he saw you. And you saw him.

And you were both so far gone.

---

The roar of the crowd still echoed in your ears when you stepped off stage — glitter stuck to your thighs, heart pounding, hair a mess, skin electric.

Everyone backstage was yelling, cheering, hugging. Someone handed you a towel. Another tried to get a selfie. A stage manager screamed something about “record-breaking viewership,” but all you heard was the dull thump of adrenaline and the buzz still running under your skin like a live wire.

You were still floating on that high when you turned the corner into the private wing—VIP only, media banned, security posted like guards at the gates of horny Olympus—and saw him.

Leaning against a wall like sin incarnate in a black hoodie and jeans, Marshall was watching you with this crooked half-smile like you were both the joke and the punchline.

“You always dedicate songs like that to innocent men minding their business?” he asked, voice low and teasing.

You snorted, walking up without slowing down. “Baby, if you were minding your business, you wouldn’t have looked at me like that the whole damn show.”

His smile deepened, blue eyes darkening behind his lashes. “You looked like you were trying to get arrested.”

You stepped right into his space, tossing the towel over your shoulder and tilting your chin. “What gave it away? The squatting? The moaning? Or when I pointed at you and told the world I wanted to ride your face like a Peloton?”

He laughed — a real, short, surprised laugh — and god, the smirk that came after?

Deadly.

His voice dropped even lower. “You keep talking like that, and I’m gonna do something stupid.”

“Oh,” you whispered, “I’m begging you to.”

That was it.

Whatever string of self-control had held this ridiculous tension in place since the Grammys snapped like cheap lingerie.

He grabbed your hand and started walking.

No one dared stop you. Not security, not his friends (who you passed making the most obnoxious fake-orgasm faces), not even your manager, who opened their mouth to say something and immediately closed it again when they saw the way Marshall’s grip tightened around your hand.

Out the back door. Into the private car already waiting. As soon as the door clicked shut, the silence hit like a thud — thick, buzzing, dangerous.

You turned toward him, lips already curling into a grin. “So… about that ‘try me’ thing…”

He didn’t say anything.

He just reached across the seat, hand sliding along the side of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw. The way he looked at you — head tilted, eyes sharp and burning — it wasn’t gentle. It was hungry. Curious. Like he’d been holding back all night and now the leash was off.

You whispered, “What are you waiting for, Em?”

“Just making sure you know what happens if I do this,” he murmured.

Then he kissed you.

And fuck.

It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t sweet. It was all teeth and tongue and hands — like he was trying to taste the parts of you that had moaned through speakers half an hour ago. His hand cupped your jaw. Your nails scraped into the side of his hoodie. His breath hitched when you bit his lip, and he pulled back just enough to mutter, “You’re fucking evil.”

You smirked, already climbing onto his lap. “You think that’s bad? Wait ‘til you see what I do with the mic when I’m offstage.”

He groaned, low and deep, as you ground down into him, hands tangling in his hoodie. “Jesus Christ…”

You reach your hand out to look for your phone in the messed up sheets to check the time. You find your phone and bring it up to your face, 8:02am, still early. you could sleep in or get up. your eyelids droop signaling that you're too tired to get up so you settle with the first option. but before that— of course you had to check your notifications. obviously.

You scroll through the notification that had appeared overnight, then see one with a camera logo,

Instagram

You had forgotten you installed it the other night, it couldn't hurt to see what everyone was so hyped about. Your fingers tap on the icon and you scroll through. just news, pictures that his friends posted like 50, Royce, and Denaun.

Your finger slips and the camera turns on, you look at yourself, smooshed against marshall, him contently unaware as he was deep in slumber. you smirk as you get an idea.

You nuzzle your face in the crook of his neck, he stirs a bit but doesn't wake up, just tightens his arm around your waist.

You snap a pic, leaving his face out but his jaw line in clear display. your face out of view since it was against his neck. part of his unclothed chest visible in the picture. the soft glow of the rising sun making the photo look almost romantic. you don't think twice and post it. no hashtag, just a short caption that says

my love 🖤

you set your phone down and forget about it, falling back asleep, comfortable in his arms.

---

He wakes up at around 10, stirring with a quiet groan as the sun glows on his face, blinding him as he blinks his eyes open. glancing down at you sleeping on his chest, a smirk pulls at the corners of his lips. pressing a kiss to the top of your head then grabbing his phone and opening it. he had a some messages from Paul and Denaun. a couple notification from Instagram.

as he reads Denaun's messages his eyebrows furrow

"didnt know you were such a cuddler, loverboy"

the fuck?

he reads Paul's messages

"Have you been on Instagram today?"

he didn't give two shits about what was going on, on social media but he knew Paul wouldn't just say that for no reason. he opens the app and the first post he sees is the one you posted.

the two of you, in bed, cuddling. it was cute, he almost forgets why its wrong. but how could he be mad? you were adorable.

once you wake up, the first thing that you hear is

"so you posted us cuddlin' n shit, huh?" he doesn't sound mad, if anything he sounds...amused.

you tilt your head up "maybe..." your voice a little rough with sleep. "couldn't help it, we looked cute."

"you ain't wrong but Paul's on my ass now." he gruffs

"are you mad?"

"nah, I ain't mad baby."

he feels you nuzzle into his chest after he confirms that he's not mad, that earns a chuckle from him. the sound vibrating in his chest. you smile against his chest.

"you can at least ask me 'fore you post shit like that, yknow" he suggests with a smirk

"you were sleeping, didn't wanna wake you"

"right, and you couldn't wait till I woke up?"

"I didn't think bout that..." you murmur

he laughs softly

"youre adorable."

"I like to think so"

"confident, are we?"

"very." you tilt your head up again, he presses a sweet kiss to your lips. you could tell he wasn't mad, not at all.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

-Oh, piss off!

Shouts could be heard from the Mathers residence that night. Y/N and Marshall were arguing over something stupid, again. They seemed to be having these arguments more and more often these days. This time, however, they were arguing over Marshall’s lack of communication. He’d have a bad day, be rude to Y/N, and when she’d ask what was wrong he’d blow up at her without telling her what bothered him. Today it seemed like he’d had an extra bad day. 

…

He got home from the studio later than usual. Y/N was reasonably worried, and when she called, he wouldn’t answer. So, once he got home, she asked him a ton of questions; questions like “where were you?” “what happened?” “are you alright?”. This angered him to no end since he hates explaining himself to people.

He refused to answer questions. Y/N knew he’d probably just had a rough day so she decided to make him his favorite home-cooked meal and some hot cocoa and treat him to a lovely night at home. But, when she brought him his food and drink, he just told her he wasn’t hungry, even after seeing all the effort she was putting in for him. 

That’s when something inside of her just snapped. She set the plate and mug on the table fecklessly, spilling some cocoa in the process. Marshall seemed a bit startled, knowing Y/N doesn’t usually throw fits like this and she usually keeps her temper in check. 

-God, Marsh! Would it kill you to at least give me a thank you? I’ve tried so hard to find out what’s wrong, and you won’t tell me! What happened to me being your #1 and your best friend? And come on! Look at this meal I made for you! Can’t you see how badly I want you to let me help you? 

-Fuck! I’m sorry I’m not living up to your boyfriend standards, Y/N! But, clearly, I had a rough day so just drop it! 

-You know what Marshall? I have bad days too! But you don’t see me bitching about it and acting like a little kid every time something doesn’t go my way! And even when I do feel upset, I tell you what’s wrong! Because I actually care about your feelings and I wouldn’t want you to worry!

- Oh, so, now I don’t care?! All I ever do is care about you Y/N! I write songs about you, I buy you everything you look at to make you happy, not to mention I make you feel pretty damn good!

- It’s not about that Marsh! God, are you even listening to me?! I don’t care that you’re upset, or that you’re in a bad mood or feeling mean; I just want you to tell me! I want you to communicate with me! I want us to work through our problems calmly, without me having to shout to get your attention!

-You always say that, but you never actually do it! Whenever you’re upset you just stay quiet! So don’t go telling me how to deal with my problems because you sure as hell don’t know how to deal with yours!

-Fuck you!

-Oh, piss off!

-Fuck, Marsh! This isn’t about me! We can work through what I do, but you seriously need to stop! 

-Stop it, Y/N! Stop already! If everything I do is so terrible and wrong, then why not just break up with me already? 

-Because I love you! I care so much about you and I just wish you could see it.

-You’re just saying that because you know I don’t need your ass. You know I can get with whoever the hell I want and they won't criticize me or complain about everything I do half as much as you do!

Y/N stayed silent for a bit. Her heart dropped and she could feel the lump develop in her throat. All this time she was with Marshall, she’d had her insecurities. But, he helped her work through them slowly. He helped her make sure she knew he’d never hurt her like that.

But, now, all that hard work was out the window. With those simple words. The tears began to prick her eyes and she looked down at the floor to try and conceal it. She felt like a little girl being yelled at. She felt helpless, and small. The man who was supposed to love her the most, to protect her, had failed her. He made her feel alone.

Marshall instantly felt a wave of regret wash over him. He felt it surge from his mind up to the tips of his ears down to the points of his toes. He looked at the girl he loves, knowing how badly he just hurt her. He opened his mouth to apologize, knowing he’d gone too far and he didn’t mean it; but, before he could, she had walked past him and into their bedroom. He quickly turned on his heels to follow her. 

Y/N was grabbing a few of her things: a hoodie, her phone charger, some gum, her earbuds, and some shoes. He once again tried to apologize but she wouldn’t hear it. He followed her all the way down to the garage and watched as she hopped in her car and sped off. He wasn’t sure where she was going, and, to be honest, neither was she. 

She hated herself for complaining and she hated him for being so mean to her. But, deep down, she knew she loved him more than anything and everything. She gripped her steering wheel harder, and turned up the volume of the song she was listening to. 

She pulled into the parking lot for some random bar she heard of from one of her friends. Her friend said it was the best place to go if you’re feeling sad or having a rough night. 

When she walked in, the bar looked exactly how she felt. It was dimly lit, the room reeking of alcohol and cigarette smoke. There were barely enough people to call a crowd in there, all sitting far apart with a drink in hand. Everyone looked glum in there, so she’d blend right in. She sat at the bar and ordered herself a few shots of rum. She downed them quickly, not feeling much different. She then ordered herself a vodka, which she kept refilling until the bartender just gave her the bottle. 

She kept feeling her phone buzz in her pocket. She assumed it was Marshall. She didn’t really want to respond, but she still looked, just in case. It was actually a text from her best friend asking what happened. Of course. Marshall texted her friend to see if Y/N was okay (since she usually goes to her best friend in times of need). Y/N decided not to answer, she was in more of a “fuck the world” kind of mood.

She set her phone down on the counter, finally feeling the effects of the alcohol. She wasn’t sure how she was going to get home or if she was going to get home at all. Before she could continue that thought, she saw a series of texts, making her phone buzz repeatedly. 

The contact name read “marsh :)”. She truly didn’t want to speak to him at the moment. She wasn’t sure why what he said affected her this way, but it did, and he knew that. She knew she was probably just being sensitive, but she couldn’t help but feel attacked. 

She looked at her phone again and saw Marshall’s concerned text chain.

“hello?”

“babyyy??”

“look baby i’m so sorry i know i messed up big time. please call me back so i can fix this.”

She didn’t bother reading the rest. She got more texts from him and her best friend. They seemed really concerned now. It was unlike Y/N, not answering the phone. It was cold, far too cold for someone of her character. However, Y/N wasn’t in the mood or the headspace to care about her character. She was too busy trying to keep her head upright as her vision blurred a bit from the effects of the white russian she was creating in her stomach at the moment. From that point forward, she couldn’t really recollect anything that had happened. The next thing she knew, she felt a pair of strong arms lifting her up by the waist and into their arms bridal-style. 

…

The next day, Y/N woke up in her bed alongside a snoring Marshall that had his arms wrapped around her tightly. She slowly shimmied out of his embrace, head beginning to pound when she stood up. She went downstairs and sat at the kitchen table with a small tonic for hangovers in hand. 

As she was washing the cup she was just using, Y/N heard a set of booming footsteps as they pounded against the wooden staircase. She turned around to look at Marshall. He looked incredible. His hair was a bit tousled and his eyes and lips were puffy. He came down and approached her without a second thought. The first thing he did was put his lips against hers. The kiss was warm, brilliant. 

Y/N crumpled under his touch. He pulled back and smiled slightly at her. His heart grew seeing her in front of him. He smiled even wider when he saw her smile back; however, he knew he wasn’t forgiven just yet. 

-Wait, look, I gotcha something.

He quickly walked into the living room and grabbed a small box and turned to the kitchen.

-I bought this a while ago. I wanted to give it to you somewhere better but this seemed like the right time.

Y/N opened the little box gingerly, a little nervous to see its contents. Her jaw dropped a tad when she saw it. 

A small ring, diamond encrusted and the exact type of metal she wears. It was perfectly tailored to her tastes. She looked up at him, eyebrow slightly raised.

-It’s a promise ring. I know what I said last night was fucked up but I didn’t mean it at all. I love you more than anything and you know that. I could never be with anyone else knowing that you’re out there in the world. 

He took the ring out of the box and secured it onto her finger. He then kissed her hand softly. She smiled taking in the view.

* Marshall has said it loud and clear in interviews : he is done with marriage. However, he’s come to change his mind when he meets you.

* At the beginning of your relationship, he’s made it clear though : if you’re in search of a husband… well, you better search for someone else because he is not husband material. First of all, he doesn’t want to get married again. Second of all, he doesn’t think of himself as hubby material. He is very much aware of his flaws and trust issues and how that might get in the way. And, third of all, has he mentioned that he really doesn’t want to get married ?

* Anyone who knows him knows that it takes a miracle to change his views on marriage. And as it turns out, that miracle is you.

* You don’t even have to scheme or plan something elaborate in hope that he changes his mind. He is a big man who does it all by himself when he realizes what a privilege it is to have you as a wife.

* Before, he used to think that marriage equals duties. And, while it’s technically true, he soon realizes its full of privileges. And, too bad for him, you’re not giving away husband privileges to someone who only has subscribed to the boyfriend package.

* He thought he didn’t want to live with anyone. Be in a relationship ? Sure. But having to share his space and make arrangements ? Hell no ! At least, that was until he became obsessed with the idea of living with you. Seeing you everyday would not be enough. He wants to share your space, wake up next to you in the morning. He’s practically begging for your skincare products to invade his bathroom.

* When he brings up the possibility of maybe moving out together (because, you know, it’s convenient) and you say you don’t think it makes sense to give up on that independence unless you’re married and building something with someone, he is flabbergasted. Because how dares a lady turn down the opportunity to live with him ? But once his ego calms down, he soon comes to the conclusion that if putting a ring on it is what it takes, he will happily do it.

* And not only does he want husband privileges, you also make him crave husband duties. He is so in love with you that he would consider it an honor to serve, protect and take care of you.

* He knows you’re independent - that’s one of the things he loves about you - and he knows what an honor you’d do him if you consented to giving it up in order to put up with his grumpy ass.

* This man loves you so much he considers himself lucky to breathe the same air as you. So of course he’s doing everything he can to get you to say yes. He starts slow and easy at first. He makes it a priority to make your life easier, be there for you. Basically trying to tell your subconscious he is absolutely husband material.

* And when it comes to the proposal ? He is on another level. The man is capable of making quintuple entendres in his raps. So of course he’s just as meticulous when it comes to asking for your hand.

* Basically, he sees the proposal as the ultimate opportunity to prove himself to you and show you he is worthy of being your husband.

* The proposal itself is not necessarily flashy. He’s not necessarily pulling a Kanye, renting a stadium, an orchestra and doing fireworks. But it is extra thoughtful. He is involved in every little detail and includes little nods to your relationship and the aspects that make it unique.

* When you say yes he is so happy and emotional.

* The wedding is just as meticulously planned. He wants to make sure you have the day you deserve. He is very involved in the preparations but, ultimately, what you say goes.

* Basically, from the moment you agree to marrying him, he becomes a « yes, dear » husband. You mention you can’t pick between two dresses ? He hands you his credit card and tell you to buy everything you want, you can just decide what feels right at the last minute. You insist on having specific flowers, even though they’re not in season ? He will fly them in. Can’t pick a honeymoon destination ? Don’t. He’ll take you in twenty different honeymoons if you want. Honestly, if you wanted Elvis to sing as you walked down the aisle, he’d go and dig that man from his grave.

* He loves you so much he’d agree to not wearing sneakers on your big day.

* He does not cry when you walk down the aisle. He bawls. And we all know he is an ugly crier.

* As soon as he is legally allowed to call you his wife, it becomes his favorite word. Forget your first name, it’s useless now. You’re « Mrs Mathers » or « wifey ».

* He never shuts up about you either.

* The only time he declines an opportunity to talk about you is when the media is involved. You’re the most precious thing to him and he will not do anything to jeopardize that.

* He is honest about his marital status and shares that he got married. But the more he can protect your privacy, he happier he is.

* If you’re spotted in public, the most he will do is hold your hand. Other than that, no PDA.

* In private, though, he is all over you. All. The. Time.

* And don’t you dare use your wifely duties as an excuse not to cuddle with him. You need to take care of the house ? He’ll hire staff. You need to cook ? He’ll hire a chef.

* He doesn’t require you to do anything around the house. He’s grateful for anything you do but your only duty is to live in your shared home.

* You want to keep working ? He’ll support you in your professional endeavors. You want to be a stay at home wife ? You have his full support.

* He is absolutely intent in taking care of you financially. Any money you earn is yours. Do not even think about « contributing » or whatever that is. Providing is his job.

* He’d hate to be with a gold-digger but the thought of having his woman pay for anything hurts his pride. So if you’re married, he is absolutely the provider of the household.

* You can have full custody of his credit card for all he cares. As long as you spend reasonably, he doesn’t care.

* Honestly, being married to Marshall is pretty sweet. He is supportive, loving and caring.

* The only thing he asks for is your respect and support. As long as you respect his work and passions and that you’re supportive, he’s happy.

* The only arguments you have is if he feels you’re not supportive enough. Other than that, he doesn’t even dream of arguing with you. Why bother though ? You’re always right. And if you’re wrong - well he is wrong for thinking you’re not right.

* If he has hurt you or pissed you off in any way, he is quick to apologize and make it up to you.

* You always get your way. You don’t want to go out ? He will help you undress and get a snack while you pick what you want to watch on TV. You don’t like his outfit ? He’ll change. And he’ll never be upset at you.