Markiplier Imagines

101 // Arranged

ft. tyler & rich!mark

words ; 4134

warnings ; nah

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"How about these?"

"Fantastic," Mark mumbled.

"Oh! What about these? They will definitely match the wedding hall. What do you think?"

He didn't look up from his phone. "They're great."

"These are definitely going to be there, too!"

He didn't care. The last thing he cared about was this damn, pre-planned wedding. He didn't want it, he didn't want the tuxedo, he didn't care about the carnations and the lilies and the roses and the daffodils, he didn't care what color the bouquets and flower crowns were, and most of all, he didn't care about this woman.

As inconsiderate as it might be, he really didn't. He barely knew her, seeing as they had only met a couple weeks ago, and his family couldn't have cared less about what he wanted, and more about what they wanted. "Live up to the wealthy Fischbach name, my boy," Mark's father had told him, as if he even cared about Mark being his son.

Truth be told, Mark was tired of the "Rich Rules the World," act. Everything about him as a person never said "I'm wealthy and you better respect it, you filthy scum," no; his best friends were never on the wealthy side of the scale, his job didn't pay millions of dollars a year, but his soon-to-be wife was rolling in money and she showed it.

Any time they went out to a restaurant, the waiters and waitresses always walked away grumbling about her behavior, about how arrogant and rude she was. Mark would've gladly walked away with them if it were up to him, but sadly, he had a family to please.

Tearing his eyes away from the phone, he looked up to see her conversing with a green-haired florist. He didn't care about that dude, either. Sighing to himself, he looked around the venue, silently hoping she wouldn't notice him start to walk toward the clearly-marked exit.

Taking a few quiet steps backward, he kept his eyes on the conversing people, glaring when the Irish-sounding florist would look toward him. This made the man look back at Steph and act like he'd totally heard what she was rambling at sixty miles-an-hour about. Mark quickly sped-walked to the exit, making it out just in time to hear Stephanie finish her spiel over something dumb.

Next thing he knew, his phone was buzzing in his hand, the contact blank. "Yes?"

"Where the hell do you think you're going!?"

"Away."

"I don't think so! You bet─" He hung up.

Not today, not tomorrow, not the next day, or the next, would he sit and listen to her yell about how he should get back to where he was behind her. Not gonna happen. Looking down at his phone, then to the busy streets in front of him, he went to his contacts and dialed his good buddy's number.

On the third ring, he picked up, "Hello?"

"Hey, Tyler. Would you mind comin' to get me? I'm outside the flower shop."

"She finally wore you out, huh?"

"Yep. I'm so tired of hearing her whine about how her perfume isn't the right brand, or how her heels aren't exactly five and three quarters inches. It's fucking sickening."