You love to hear him talk on the phone, and sit close just to feel his voice. His Detroit accent is gruff, overpowering all sounds in the room. It sounds best when he showers you with affection, complimenting a new outfit you're wearing or just admiring your beauty. You've found that it sends you into euphoria as he recounts stories of wild parties and his ride through fame. He's pacing around the room now, holding a phone up to his ear. It must be Paul or Mr. Porter, maybe even Dre. Marshall's running his fingers through his short brown hair, occasionally nodding approvingly to the voice on the other end. His hair looks so good today, as per usual, and his face, and his body...
You motion him over and hold your arms out wide. He walks over, an approving smile relaxed on his face. Capturing him in a hug, you rub your cheek against his face as he chuckles softly. He pecks you on the lips fast to avoid interrupting the conversation. As you leave the hug, you take his free arm and trace your finger on the tattoos. You imagine him sitting in the shop years before, having these stories painted on his arms. Your favorite is the Rot in Pieces tattoo that rests low on his torso, below his soft abs you spend hours laying on. You felt comfort knowing that he was always close to you, always bringing you along with him no matter what. Of course, Marshall got his own space too, especially when it came to writing lyrics.
"Yeah that sounds good Paul, see you tomorrow," Marshall said, setting himself down on the couch.
"I'm assuming that went well."
"It went great (y/n), you know how much I love my fans, they mean a lot to me."
"What do we do now Marshall?"
"Well, we could go to dinner, we could watch TV, or we could do something a lot more fun,"
"I'm in love with the sound of that last option, but I wanted to ask you something first."
"Ask away (y/n),"
"Do you have any of that Shady Ltd. clothing? I've always wanted to try it on."
"Sure, let me go look for something to suit that body-ody-ody-ody," he laughs as he goes up the stairs to his room.
I can't believe he knows all the lyrics to that one. You pull out your phone and gaze at pictures of Marshall fitted in his fashion line. You imagine him clad in his bright clothing, commanding the attention of the crowd as he conducted those incredible concerts. A particular picture strikes you as you scroll through all the images.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
All those baggy clothes suited him so well, and even though he doesn't wear them as much now, he still looks so fine. Now you could hear him closing up drawers. It was hard to sit still now, thinking of all the nostalgia that could be induced by the clothing. Marshall appeared at the top of the steps along with a neatly folded bundle of clothes in his strong arms.
"I hope you like this outfit baby. I tried to pick something (your favorite color) for you."
"You're the sweetest Marshall, I'll be right out."
Taking apart the bundle, you find a (your favorite color) beanie, a (your favorite color) shirt, and a (your favorite color) pair of pants. The shirt and pants being almost comically oversized of course, courtesy of y2k fashion. You couldn't help but giggle as you slipped on the combo.
"Are you done yet? I'm dying to see how hot you look!" Marshall calls from the living room.
"Just adding some finishing touches, I want to take your breath away."
You give yourself one last look in the mirror, fixing your hair and checking your makeup. You walk out of the bathroom trying your best to embody a supermodel's walk. You find Marshall laid out on the couch, his divine blue eyes glued on a basketball game. His eyes lose their grasp on the players jumping around on the court as you make your way towards him. He lets out a small gasp as you spin to show him the full look.
"Looking good... Slim Lady!" He cheers as he holds your hands.
"I love it! But I can't pull it off like you can honey."
"Well, I can make that happen."
He pulls you into a kiss, tugging on the shirt. You throw the shirt across the room and after, start to tug on his. Marshall pulls you to the couch and leaves the passionate tangle to check on the game.
"Hey! I'm right here!"
"Just need to make sure Detroit's winning this one."
You pull him back into the kiss. You both grunt softly, entwined in each other's arms. Curious to see him in his once-beloved clothes, you take off the beanie and slip it on his head. He chuckles and rubs his thumb against your cheek softly. He kisses your eyes, cheeks, and forehead. The TV turns off, and a great, yet passionate silence, fills the room.
