It started as a joke—just a harmless tease while you two lounged backstage, waiting for soundcheck. You were scrolling through your phone, music playing softly, when you offhandedly said “Mmm, this guy might be my favorite singer…”

The reaction was immediate

Violent J, who had been sipping Faygo and half-distractedly doodling on a napkin, froze. His eyes snapped up like you’d just insulted his mom, and slowly—dramatically—he set the bottle down

“What?” he asked, voice flat, deadpan, but his painted brow twitched like he was holding back a tantrum

You barely had a second to react before he was flopping back on the couch with a groan, arms crossed, lips puckered in a mock pout “That microphone never held you the way I do, babe,” he muttered, stealing glances at you like he wanted you to feel the betrayal

Still sulking, he grabbed the mic from the stand nearby and held it up to his chest with exaggerated affection “Oh, this your new man now? Huh? Mr. Crystal-Clear Vocals?”

He kissed the mic “Does he carry your snacks in his hoodie pocket? Didn’t think so.” But before you could tease him back, his eyes softened a little

He leaned forward, resting the mic against his knee and looking at you with that sweet, crooked little smile he only ever gave you

“I’m kiddin’,” he said, voice gentler now “Kinda. But… you know, just sayin’—I may not be the world’s best singer, but every song I do? Got you in it somewhere. Whether people hear it or not.”

And with that, he scooted closer, head tilting to nuzzle into your shoulder like a sleepy cat “So go ahead,” he whispered “joke all you want. But just know—no one sings for you like I do.”

Then, after a beat, he held the mic out dramatically and added “Also, if that dude’s your favorite singer, I demand a sing-off. For honor. And snuggle rights.”