Hey I love your fanfic on em 💗💗 can you make a imagine like Eminem in the 2000s X popstar like Sabrina Carpenter? (Like he is at her concert or something.)
Who’s the cute guy with the wide blue eyes and the big bad mm?
summary: Crazy how the bad boy, could be so dazed by his soo to be woman.
note: This might be a bit confusing to read, but here's the explanation: Reading this, it seems like it was written for the Eminem of today, him already an adult. Mostly because I love a small age gap in relationships, but really, if you want to imagine him as a young man, just ignore some details and that's it. xoxo
The Grammys were a blur of lights and sequins and cloying perfume clouded over nerves, fake smiles, and the whispering click of paparazzi lenses. You had done this dance a thousand times before—step out of the car, pose, smile with fangs hidden behind glossed lips, and strut into a room where everyone either wanted to be you, be inside you, or take your spot on the charts.
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…”
“Nope,” you purred. “Just a pop star with too many Grammys and zero shame.”
