synopsis: the kiss cam happens to land on you while watching the Lions game
CW: a kiss, solely based on the picture of him being spotted, light teasing, paul trying to be responsible, marshall fangirling
It's 2025
marshall loves watching his favorite team play live. so as soon as he has the opportunity to buy tickets, you better believe he will. well this time he invited you, his girlfriend of a few years. you two did a pretty good job at hiding your relationship, the press never spotted you two together in public, sure there were speculation when once he was found wearing a bracelet with your initial on it but that died down pretty quickly.
marshall sat in between you and paul, paul had sent clear instructions that they shouldn't point any camera at marshall for the whole game, usually the camera would go on him for a few seconds, hyping him up for a bit— it always gave the stadium an energetic mood. but he didn't want them knowing he was there with a female that wasn't one of his daughters, he didn't want you dealing with fans, paparazzi, or tabloids.
marshall was having the time of his life, the lions were winning 35 to 28. and he was going wild, standing up and yelling to his heart's content. everything was going great. until halftime...
the infamous kiss cam was happening, it was a cute event during breaks. but when you look back up to the huge screen after laughing at a joke marshall said. you realize—the camera was on you two.
both of your faces drop, but before you could cover your face, you feel marshall's hand on your jaw, making you turn to face him and then his lips press against yours. your eyebrows raise immediately in surprise but you kiss him back, not being able to help yourself when his mouth was on yours. paul, probably from instinct, yanks him back from his shoulder, yelling "why would you do that?!" or something, you couldn't comprehend it, you were stuck in a daze from him kissing you. but once you come back to your senses, you're in a state of shock that he basically revealed your relationship to the world from one kiss. everyone in the stadium had their phones out, recording and posting faster than you can catch your breathe.
♪∙♬∼♫ ˒˒˒♪∙♬∼♫ ˒˒˒♪∙♬∼♫ ˒˒˒
as soon as you two get in the car, your first reaction is to scold him, but how can you be mad when he's grinning at you like he won the lottery?
"why did you do that?" you try to sound serious and mad but he sees through your mask
"it was the kiss cam, kind of the rules, yknow?" he chuckled like a villian and you sigh. sinking into the seat as the car starts to move
"you could've warned me, at least." you mutter and pout
"but where's the fun in that?" he drapes an arm around your shoulders, takes off his black cap and places it on your head, covering your eyes with the brim. you laugh quietly, hoping he doesn't hear it so he doesn't get the satisfaction but he clearly does. your "secret relationship" might now be the freshest thing on the news but at least everyone knows he's yours.
You had always existed in the background of Marshall’s world—quiet, gentle, and content to love him from the sidelines.
Not because you didn’t love him fiercely. God, you did. But because the industry was loud, and you were not.
He was the storm. You were the still water he always came home to.
You’d been with him since before the Slim Shady EP. You’d grown up beside him. Raised kids with him. Built a quiet life around the madness of his. Three decades. Three children. Three thousand times you'd chosen to stay behind the scenes—smiling politely, loving quietly, letting him shine while you remained tucked just out of frame.
So when the video dropped—
You. Hugging Curtis at his birthday party.
The internet did what it always did:
Exploded.
“Marshall’s wife cheating on him with 50 Cent???”
“Divorce?? She did it at his birthday party?!”
“Damn she been with Em forever and this is how she does him?”
“She looked real cozy with 50. I said what I said.”
The whole thing would’ve been laughable if it didn’t sting so sharply.
Marshall had been livid at first—not at you, but at the media.
At the world, for touching something sacred.
You.
His girl.
The video was maybe six seconds long, shot from a phone. Blurry. The two of you hugging briefly, smiling.
It didn’t show Curtis wrapping his arm around you protectively before loudly announcing, "Still can't believe you’ve put up with him for thirty years—Saint of a woman, y’all."
It didn’t show you laughing, already moving away to find your husband before anyone could look too long.
It didn’t show Marshall sliding an arm around your waist not ten seconds later, whispering something low in your ear that made you smile.
But that didn’t matter.
What mattered was that now, strangers were picking apart your marriage, your loyalty, you—based on one hug and a bullshit headline.
You didn’t want to go to the studio.
You told him that with a quiet little murmur against his chest that morning while his arms were wrapped tight around your waist.
“I can stay home. It’s just noise. I’ll ignore it.”
But Marshall had shaken his head against your shoulder, voice gruff with sleep and frustration. “Nah. You’re comin’. I don’t want you dealin’ with that shit alone. You stay near me.”
So you did.
Bundled in one of his oversized hoodies—his name embroidered right across the chest—your fingers curled tightly around a travel mug of tea as you tucked yourself into the familiar corner of the studio sofa.
Safe. Out of the way. His.
And boy, did that start the teasing.
Denaun was the first to spot you. “Ayyy! The homewrecker's here!” he announced, dragging the moment out dramatically.
You choked on your tea. “W-what?!”
Paul didn’t even glance up from his phone. “You better not sit too close to me. Don’t need to be the next victim in this love triangle.”
You buried your face in your hands. “You guys…”
“Honestly,” Denaun grinned, plopping into the chair across from you, “I’ve always known you were a heartbreaker. Real femme fatale. Just sittin’ quiet for decades, biding your time.”
Marshall, from behind the mixing board, didn’t even bother to look up. “Y’all are fuckin’ dumb,” he muttered—but you could hear the fondness bleeding into his voice.
Paul finally glanced up, eyes twinkling with amusement behind his glasses. “Should I issue a statement?”
You shook your head quickly. “No. You always say, don’t feed it.”
“And yet,” Paul sighed dramatically, “here I am. Watching my two most boring, disgustingly in-love friends get slandered by the internet.”
Denaun snorted. “Yeah, if she was gonna cheat, you think it’d be now? After thirty years? This woman once had a full-blown panic attack when Marshall was late texting her back because his phone was dead.”
Your face burned.
“She’s been obsessed with him since we were all broke and dumb,” Denaun added, eyes dancing with warmth now. “Ain’t nothing changed.”
Marshall looked up at that—finally. His gaze found you instantly.
And even after all these years, even after kids and gray hairs and sleepless nights…
His eyes softened like you were the only thing keeping him grounded to this earth.
Like he still couldn’t believe you were real.
Like he still wanted you more than anything.
No amount of rumors could touch that.
You tried not to look at the comments, but sometimes they snuck through.
They always did.
Some of them… hurt.
“No wonder he wrote all those songs about being betrayed.”
“She was probably just waiting for her moment.”
“50 is way more her type.”
And God bless your daughters.
Hailie was quick to post a Story: a blurry, zoomed-in selfie of you and Marshall on the couch—his head on your shoulder, your fingers in his hair, his arm wrapped securely around your waist.
Caption: “Imagine thinking she’d leave this man. Lmao.”
Alaina followed it up with an old home video of you and Marshall slow-dancing in the kitchen in your pajamas. You were trying not to laugh. He was singing horribly off-key into a spoon.
Caption: “Yeah they’re divorcing. For sure. 🙄”
You smiled. You were okay.
Mostly.
But it was Curtis who ended it all.
With no warning, no caption, no fanfare—just an Instagram post.
A grainy photo, maybe twenty-five years old.
Marshall, shirtless and young, leaned over a studio console. Curtis beside him.
And you, in Marshall’s lap, head tucked under his chin, small smile on your lips, his arms wrapped around your waist like he’d die before letting go.
He didn’t even tag anyone.
Just the caption:
“Some things don’t change. Y’all need to chill.”
You were curled up next to Marshall on the couch when you saw it.
His arm was around your shoulders. The studio was quiet now, just the hum of equipment and low laughter from the next room.
You held your phone up silently, showing him the post.
He smirked.
“Damn. He really went and dropped the mic.”
You bit your lip. “Do you think it’ll stop?”
He looked down at you—those impossibly blue eyes full of fierce, burning love.
Then he leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Baby, I don’t care if it don’t. Let ‘em talk. You’re mine. Always been mine.”
You sighed, heart melting. “I really didn’t cheat with 50.”
Marshall laughed. “I know that. He’s not even your type.”
“…he’s tall.”
He growled low in his throat. “Stop talkin’ before I bend you over this couch.”
You blinked. “In the studio?”
“I will make the news worse, sweetheart.”
From the next room, Denaun shouted, “I HEARD THAT, YOU SICK BASTARDS!”
You buried your face in Marshall’s chest as he laughed against your skin.
Let them talk.
They didn’t know the truth.
But the people who mattered?
They never doubted for a second.
---
You were tucked in the corner of the basement studio, curled up on the beat-up leather couch you’d claimed years ago as your own.
Blanket over your lap, tea on the table, and Marshall’s hoodie draped over your frame like armor.
You weren’t working—you never really did in here—but being near him while he did what he loved? That was your favorite place to be.
Marshall was hunched over the mixing board with Denaun, both of them laser-focused on a beat that had been frustrating them for the past two hours.
The music looped over and over, subtle tweaks being made, grumbles exchanged, head bobs in rhythm as they chased perfection.
You were dozing off a little when Denaun suddenly choked on his own laughter.
Marshall didn’t look up. “What.”
“No, no—just…” He held up his phone, still laughing. “These people are outta pocket, man. You seen the latest shit?”
You blinked and sat up straighter, already bracing yourself. “What now?”
Denaun turned his screen to show you both.
The headline blared across the top of a gossip account:
“Sources Say Eminem, His Wife, and 50 Cent May Be In a Secret Poly Relationship”
Under it? A very carefully curated slideshow of old pictures—
Curtis with his arm around your waist.
You and Marshall holding hands at some award show.
The three of you sitting close together backstage at a concert from years ago.
All harmless.
All out of context.
You stared. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Marshall groaned, finally leaning back from the console and rubbing his face. “What the fuck is wrong with people?”
Denaun wasn’t helping. He was scrolling and laughing harder now. “Yo, listen to this one—‘they’ve been dropping hints for years. It all makes sense now.’”
You gaped. “What hints?!”
“They think it’s suspicious how close you are to both of them,” he cackled. “One person thinks you, quote, ‘radiate a calm bisexual aura that holds the two alpha males together.’”
Marshall narrowed his eyes at him. “Why are you enjoying this?”
“Because!” Denaun tossed his phone on the couch and flopped into the chair beside you. “Seriously? Him? I got you two together! Shouldn’t I be your choice for a third?! I was there through all your weird early make-up break-up bullshit. I was the glue.”
You snorted into your tea. “Sorry. You’re too emotionally well-adjusted. Wouldn’t work.”
“Damn,” he whispered. “So it’s that toxic love. Got it.”
Marshall grunted, clearly annoyed, dragging a hand through his hair. “I swear to God if people start tagging me in weird fan edits—”
“They already are,” Denaun said smugly. “There’s one where it’s like… you and Curtis glaring at each other over Y/N, but it’s edited like a CW love triangle. Very Riverdale.”
You buried your face in the blanket. “I’m never showing my face again.”
But the worst part?
Curtis was feeding it.
Posting a slow drip of throwbacks—pictures of the three of you from over the years. Always smiling. Always close. No captions. No context.
You, tucked under Marshall’s arm with Curtis grinning next to you.
Curtis and Marshall mid-laugh, you sitting between them with a soft smile like you didn’t even know the camera was there.
And one particularly damning photo from some afterparty a decade ago—Curtis leaned against the couch, Marshall behind you with his arms slung lazily around your shoulders, and your hand resting casually on Curtis’s knee as you reached for a drink.
No caption. No tag. Just vibes.
The internet lost it.
“They are so obviously in a throuple.”
“Honestly, I support this chaotic power trio.”
“It’s giving main character energy.”
“They all fine. I’d believe it.”
Even your kids were texting you screenshots like, “Mom, do we need to talk?”
Back in the studio, you watched Marshall grumble and glare at his phone, scrolling through Curtis’s latest post.
“This motherfucker is loving this,” he muttered.
“He’s totally doing this on purpose,” you agreed.
Denaun was grinning. “He’s committed to the bit. Man respects a good troll.”
“I’m gonna kill him.”
“No you’re not,” you said sweetly, nudging Marshall with your toe. “He’s your brother. And besides, we both know you’re too possessive to share.”
Marshall’s eyes flicked to you—something dark and territorial behind the blue.
“You’re damn right,” he said roughly.
Denaun threw a cushion at him. “Chill.”
Marshall batted it away without looking. “I’m just sayin’. These people talkin’ about Curtis like he’s in our bed—hell no. If anyone’s in our bed, it’s you, and only me who’s puttin’ you there.”
Your face went crimson.
Denaun groaned. “Ugh, and there it is. You two always gotta make it weird.”
“You started it!” you protested.
“I started joking. You started getting visibly turned on. There’s a difference.”
Marshall smirked and pulled you up from the couch, into his lap like it was instinct. You settled against him automatically, fingers playing with the chain at his neck.
“I swear,” Denaun muttered, standing up. “I’m goin’ home. Y’all about to start dry humping right in front of me, I can feel it.”
“You wanna be the third, you better get used to this,” Marshall said without missing a beat.
“OH MY GOD.”
You were crying laughing by the time the door slammed upstairs.
That night, Curtis posted again.
A short, choppy video from a tour bus back in the early 2000s.
You, curled between Marshall and Curtis, fast asleep. Marshall’s head rested on yours. Curtis's hand balanced a plate of food across your legs.
The video panned up to both men—Marshall flipping off the camera, Curtis grinning.
No caption.
Just a tagged location:
“#family”
You threw your phone across the bed and buried your face in Marshall’s chest.
“I’m gonna fight him.”
Marshall snorted. “You can try. I still might beat you to it.”
But his arms wrapped around you, lips pressed to your hair.
Because even with the madness, the headlines, and the chaos...
This?
This was still your quiet little life.
Exactly how you liked it.
---
It was getting out of hand.
Like… really out of hand.
What started as a blurry party hug and a few Instagram throwbacks had somehow spiraled into a full-blown internet conspiracy theory. Not just a brief gossip spark—no, this was a full-blown fandom movement.
And the silence wasn’t helping.
Marshall wasn’t saying a word.
Curtis was still gleefully feeding the fire with cryptic posts and curated chaos.
And now—now—you had a problem in the form of your youngest daughter’s Instagram story.
Because Stevie had not gotten the memo that joking right now was a terrible idea.
You were sitting in the kitchen, scrolling through your phone, desperately trying to ignore the tags pinging every five seconds. Marshall was across from you, nursing a coffee and giving the espresso machine the death glare like it had personally offended him.
“Are you gonna say something?” you asked quietly, not looking up.
“Nope.”
“Not even a tweet?”
He sipped his coffee. “Not feeding it.”
You sighed, eyes scanning the latest headline:
“Inside Eminem’s Alleged Throuple with Wife and 50 Cent—Sources Claim It’s ‘Not a Joke Anymore’”
You rubbed your temples. “It was never a joke.”
“It was to Curtis.”
You groaned.
Because while Marshall stayed quiet and you tried to disappear, Curtis was gleefully dropping photos like breadcrumbs for deranged internet sleuths.
This morning’s post?
A selfie from 2003. Curtis sitting on a hotel bed. You and Marshall both asleep behind him—your head on Marshall’s chest, his hand still on your thigh.
Caption:
“good times.”
The comments were insane.
“Y’all I’m starting to believe it.”
“They’ve been hiding this for twenty years.”
“This is why Y/N hasn’t aged. Loved by TWO men???”
“Power trio. I’d watch that sex tape.”
You nearly dropped your phone in your cereal.
But nothing—nothing—compared to what Stevie did.
You found out the same time the rest of the world did.
A simple photo dump to her story. No warning.
First slide:
Side-by-side baby photos—one of her, one of Marshall.
Second slide:
Another baby photo of her next to a picture of Curtis as a teen.
Third slide:
Text in bold font.
“idk guys… I’m starting to ask questions 🤔”
You stared at your screen in horror.
“MARSHALL.”
He looked up, mid-bite of toast. “Hm?”
“Have you seen what Stevie posted?”
He unlocked his phone and checked.
Paused.
Frowned.
Then—
“What the fuck is wrong with our kids?” he said around a mouthful of food.
You buried your face in your hands. “She’s white. She knows she’s white. Why would she do this?”
“She thinks it’s funny.”
You peeked through your fingers. “Did you text her yet?”
Marshall tossed his phone onto the table. “I don’t have to. Hailie already did. Said she was gonna duct tape Stevie’s mouth shut next time they’re in the same room.”
You both sat in stunned silence for a moment.
Then the comments started rolling in.
“Wait. Could Curtis be Stevie’s biological dad???”
“It makes sense if you think about it…”
“That’s why she’s the chaotic one!!!”
“Throuple confirmed.”
Your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.
You turned it upside down.
“Do we run away?” you asked, voice flat.
“Where?”
“Canada. Iceland. A cave.”
Marshall leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on you like you’d gone insane. “You wanna run away from the internet? You know that’s not how it works, right?”
“I can try.”
He smirked.
“You’re cute when you panic.”
You threw a piece of cereal at him.
An hour later, Paul FaceTimed the both of you with a look on his face that screamed emotional exhaustion.
“I give up,” he announced.
“I told her not to post it,” you blurted.
Paul blinked. “You saw it before she posted?”
“No! I just knew she was going to eventually do something insane.”
“Curtis posted another one,” Paul groaned.
You covered your face again. “No he didn’t.”
“He did. It’s a gif. The three of you at the VMAs in like… 2006. You, between them, holding both their hands. He put hearts over everyone’s heads.”
You peeked out through your fingers. “Why is he like this?”
Marshall muttered, “I’m blocking him.”
“No you’re not,” Paul said dryly. “You’ll miss it too much. This is honestly the most fun we’ve had in a press cycle in years.”
You blinked. “This is fun?”
“For me? Absolutely,” Paul said. “Also? Denaun texted. He’s offended he wasn’t considered for the fourth slot in the quad.”
“I hate all of you,” you whispered.
Later that night, you were curled up in bed beside Marshall, phone turned off, the world on mute.
You sighed against his chest. “You know they’re gonna think you’re hiding something forever now, right?”
He hummed. “Let ‘em.”
“Really?”
He looked down at you, brushing a hand through your hair. “Let ‘em talk. I know the truth. You know the truth. Our kids know the truth—well, except Stevie, but she’s a lost cause.”
You smiled.
He leaned down, kissing your forehead. “Besides. If I was gonna be in a throuple…”
Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence—”
“—you think I’d pick Curtis? He can’t cook for shit.”
You laughed so hard you nearly fell off the bed.
Down the hall, Stevie posted one final slide before deleting the whole story:
A photo of you, Marshall, and Curtis at some family BBQ years ago.
Caption:
“Ok fine. I was just bored. I’m definitely yours, dad. Probably.”
Marshall reposted it.
No caption.
Just a sigh emoji.
😮💨
And the Internet?
Still didn’t believe a damn word.
---
You didn’t think anything of it at first.
Marshall had been quiet for days—grumbling about the rumors, ignoring the press, rolling his eyes at Curtis’s very deliberate troll campaign.
But something must’ve snapped.
Maybe it was Stevie’s post.
Maybe it was the CW-style TikToks with dramatic piano versions of Mockingbird underneath soft-filtered clips of you, Curtis, and Marshall from over the years.
Or maybe it was just that he’d had enough caffeine and chaos and decided to flip the damn switch.
Because suddenly…
Your husband was in on the joke.
And you?
You were losing your mind.
It started with a tweet.
From Marshall.
You didn’t even know he remembered his Twitter password until your phone started vibrating off the counter and your group chat with Hailie, Alaina, and Stevie lit up.
He posted:
“Can someone tell @50cent to be home by 9 tonight. She misses you when you’re late. 🖤”
You stared. Blinked. Read it again.
“MARSHALL.”
He was in the living room, completely casual, hoodie up, scrolling like he hadn’t just broken the internet.
You stood in the doorway, holding your phone like a ticking bomb. “What did you just do?”
“Played along,” he said, voice way too even. “Figured it’s better than being mad.”
“Played—played along?! You’ve spent the last week muttering about burning the internet to the ground!”
He shrugged. “Yeah. But if they’re gonna make me a cuck, I might as well get some laughs outta it.”
You stared at him. “A cuck?!”
“Yep.”
“Marshall—”
“People already think you and Curtis are sharing me. Might as well start charging subscription fees.”
You sputtered. “What is wrong with you?!”
He just smirked.
It got worse.
At lunch the next day, Paul mentioned the rumor to Marshall in passing and Marshall didn’t even blink.
“Y/N and Curtis are soulmates now,” he said flatly. “I just hold her purse.”
You dropped your fork.
Paul choked on his drink. “Excuse me?!”
Marshall nodded, deadpan. “It’s okay. I’m just the side piece now.”
You slapped his arm. “Stop!”
He just kissed your cheek. “Love you. Say hi to your boyfriend.”
By the weekend, Marshall had gone full unhinged.
You walked into the studio and caught him on FaceTime with Curtis.
Curtis was cracking up.
Marshall was holding one of your throw pillows like a person, saying:
“She cries when you’re not here. Look at her. She misses you.”
You didn’t even interrupt.
Just turned around.
Left the room.
Slammed the door.
That night, you were brushing your teeth when he came up behind you, slid his arms around your waist, and leaned in like he always did.
“You’re lucky I don’t get jealous anymore,” he whispered, voice low and teasing against your neck.
You blinked. “You got possessive over me hugging a dog once.”
“That dog was looking at you wrong.”
You turned to face him. “So now Curtis gets a free pass?”
He smirked. “He feeds the rumors right. We’re a team now.”
“Marshall.”
“Y/N.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re not actually jealous, are you?”
“Nope,” he said smugly. “I think it’s hilarious.”
You crossed your arms. “What happened to ‘you’re mine, only mine, I’ll kill anyone who touches you?’”
“Oh, that guy still lives here. He’s just letting Throuple Marshall have a turn.”
You blinked. “There are versions of you now?”
“Baby,” he leaned in, brushing his lips against yours, “I’m a multiverse.”
You shoved him away, laughing so hard you almost choked on your toothpaste.
The next day he posted a poll to his Instagram story:
“Who gets her on weekends?”
☑️ Me
☑️ Curtis
☑️ Denaun (he's been asking)
You DM’d him one word:
DIVORCE.
He replied with a selfie: him in your robe, drinking your tea, captioned:
“You gonna leave me lookin this cute? That’s bold.”
You tried to ignore him.
You really did.
But every time you turned around, he was leaning into the chaos.
At dinner with the kids, Stevie asked if she was finally allowed to call Curtis “Stepdad.”
Marshall didn’t even look up from his pasta. “Sure, as long as you call me ‘Weekend Daddy.’”
You slapped a napkin over your face.
Alaina choked on her wine.
Hailie just sighed. “I’m so tired of this family.”
Later that night, you found Marshall in bed already, scrolling on his phone.
You climbed in beside him and stole the covers. “Done trolling for the night?”
He turned to you, smirking. “Maybe.”
“You’re not mad anymore?”
He leaned over, cupping your face, brushing his thumb gently against your cheek. “Nah. Let ‘em think what they want. You’re still mine.”
You relaxed, eyes fluttering shut at the feel of his hand on you.
“…Even if you do sneak off to Curtis’s house sometimes.”
Your eyes snapped open.
“MARSHALL.”
He burst out laughing, pulling you into his chest, arms wrapping tight around you as you smacked his shoulder over and over.
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
You groaned. “I’m sleeping in the guest room.”
“No you’re not. You think he’d hold you like this? Nah. Ain’t nobody fuckin’ touchin’ you but me.”
Your heart flipped. Just like that.
Possessive Marshall was still in there, buried under the memes and mayhem.
You melted into his arms, muttering against his neck. “You’re insufferable.”
“I’m yours.”
You sighed. “Unfortunately.”
He chuckled, kissing your temple.
And outside, the internet raged on—
Still convinced the three of you were in love.
Still making fan edits.
Still dissecting every post, every like, every blink.
But in here, wrapped in his arms, tucked in the only place that ever felt like home—
It didn’t matter.
You were his.
And he was going to make sure the world knew it…
Even if he had to troll them all to hell and back to do it.
---
At this point, it was everyone against you.
You were the only sane person left standing in a battlefield of memes, edited thirst traps, and full-blown throuple theories.
Your kids were in on it now.
Stevie tagged Curtis in a TikTok using “Milkshake” as the audio with old family footage.
Hailie reposted a paparazzi shot of you walking between Marshall and Curtis with the caption,
“Her security husbands.”
Alaina’s contribution? A Reel titled “When you can’t pick between your man and your man’s man.”
Even Paul joined in.
Paul.
The most serious man you knew.
He posted a photo from what had to be 2003—grainy, flash-lit, back when none of you had wrinkles or boundaries. You were squished between Marshall and Curtis backstage, both of them with their arms around your waist, your head leaned on Marshall’s shoulder while Curtis whispered something in your ear.
Caption: “Should’ve known then.”
Tag: @50cent, @eminem, @thisfreakingsaint (you).
You hadn't even remembered your own handle.
You had had it.
You sat on the couch in your sweats, scrolling through your phone while everyone else gleefully made a mockery of your (very monogamous) marriage.
You weren’t mad.
You weren’t jealous.
You were exhausted.
So you did what any rational, exhausted woman would do:
You logged in.
Dusty, untouched, and barely-followed, your personal Instagram hadn’t been used in literal years—except to like photos of your kids and maybe once to stalk a recipe blogger.
But now?
Now you had something to say.
You scrolled back a few mornings, heart racing, and found it—
A photo you’d taken in the hazy gold of sunrise.
Your husband wrapped around you in bed.
His face buried in your neck.
His entire body curved over yours like a human shield, even in sleep.
His arm slung low over your stomach, hoodie half-pulled over your legs.
So tangled up in you it was impossible to tell where you ended and he began.
You didn’t filter it.
Didn’t crop it.
Didn’t care.
You just posted it.
Caption: “Yeah, he definitely looks like he shares 🙄”
The shift was immediate.
Within minutes, it was being screenshotted and circulated everywhere.
Your DMs exploded.
Your phone buzzed like it had entered its final stage of life.
And then—Curtis struck back.
He posted a picture that made your soul leave your body.
It was from the same birthday party that started this whole mess.
You had no idea how—or why—he took it.
But there it was:
You, straddling Marshall’s lap on some plush velvet lounge chair, his hands locked around your hips, your mouth on his, completely lost in him.
The party blurred behind you, lights dim, bodies moving—but you and Marshall were a snapshot of heat and devotion and years of obsession pressed into a single stolen moment.
No caption.
Just a devil emoji.
😈
The comments were feral.
“Oh we were never ready for HER.”
“Ok but he looks like he’d burn the world down if someone touched her.”
“Yeah so… they’re not sharing. She’s his.”
“The way she owns him tho???”
And then Marshall joined in.
With three photos.
He reposted yours and Curtis’s—but added his own.
One you’d forgotten even existed.
Old. Faded.
Taped to his studio console for so many years that the edges had curled.
You, maybe twenty-one, sitting on the floor of his first real studio.
Marshall in front of you, legs crossed, laughing about something.
You were mid-smile, looking at him like he hung the stars.
And he—he was looking at you like he already knew he was gonna love you forever.
His caption?
“Always been her favorite seat.
Always been mine.”
🖤
You didn’t even see it right away.
You were still curled on the couch, staring at your own post, anxiety in your throat.
Then your phone buzzed again.
Hailie:
“Mom. You win. Internet is in shambles.
Also, Dad’s a menace.”
You clicked the notification.
Saw the three-photo carousel.
Saw him.
And your breath hitched.
Because yeah, he could joke.
He could troll.
He could play the part of chaotic meme lord with Curtis and Denaun and Paul all ganging up on you…
But at the end of the day?
That was your husband.
The man who never needed to say he loved you out loud, because it poured out of him in every look, every touch, every quiet moment where the world didn’t exist outside of the two of you.
He walked in a few minutes later, barefoot and smug.
“I’m hearing you broke the internet.”
You glared at him over the top of your phone. “You posted that photo.”
“Which one?”
“You know which one.”
He grinned. “You started it.”
“I was defending myself!”
He leaned down, kissed your forehead. “You looked good on my lap.”
You shoved his shoulder. “You’re insufferable.”
“But you love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
He kissed you again, deeper this time. “You’ll survive. We made three kids together. I think we can survive a fake throuple.”
You sighed. “It was never a throuple.”
He smirked, pulling you into his lap, arms wrapped tightly around you. “They’re just mad they’ll never be in ours.”
You rolled your eyes, but nestled into his chest.
Because the memes, the madness, the chaos?
Let them come.
You’d always have this.
And he’d always make sure the world knew exactly where you belonged.
trl dreams and flip-phone confessions 🌐 ⌯⌲☆*: ‧₊˚ ｡.：
cw: f. black // reader, age gap (reader is 24, marshall is 32), flirty situations, defensive!marshall (just him crashing out cause he don’t play ‘bout you), slight physical altercation, ENCORE era!eminem, 2004!eminem x popstar!reader, slight swearing, use of the n word once, nicknames for both (baby, mama, ma, boo), smut, touch starved!marshall (if you squint), 1.9k wc ･｡ﾟ💿･｡ﾟ
a/n: a lil’ corny with the title of the album for y/n’s music career. apologies (-_-;) (i used a NON-A.I. generator website for a title because F*CK A.I.). i’m bummed, i couldn’t find good blue flipphone pics on pinterest ( ˘︹˘ ) [nvrm]! i’m using pink as a face claim for this one, mostly because i LOVE her music and she makes y2k/uk garage music and that was the genre and/or style i was going for y/n’s character. been a fan since ‘21!! and i also took inspo from a music duo act called after, they make y2k/frutiger aero + metro music as well as pink. also you can click the underlined words because there are links for them. hope you enjoy and happy reading!!
STREAM FANCY THAT! . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
2004!eminem who first got your number through big proof at a MTV after-party you attended. em was a little nervous to come up to talk and ask you, so his scary ass self sent proof over to you to get it. your album, “Neon Heartbeats & Dial-Up Kisses” has been blowing up for the past couple months, sitting at # 3 on the charts and you were invited because of it. when you entered the room, you had a certain kinda glow to you. your mocha colored melanin glowing wearing your navy, denim Baby Phat two-piece set with some navy kitten heels to match.
after finally getting up the courage to talk you, he meets you over at the bar you were standing at as outkast’s “Hey Ya!” plays in the back of the event. “hey, how you doin’?” he speaks softly with a little slur and nasal in his speech. “well, if it isn’t the angry blond himself, eminem!” you giggle after you said that which made him chuckle.
“you real funny-” you interrupt him by saying “and so are you, not you bringin’ your friend over to cop my number?” his palm covers his mouth to hide his smile. “my bad, you were jus’ soo radiate walkin up in here.”
he extends his tatted arm to you, grabbing your hand and kisses it. you roll your eyes with a giggle. “oh, you flatter me. you do this with every girl you meet, em?” he chuckles again. “nah, i don’t, ma. don’t be like that. you don’t have to call me by my stage name. i didn’t even introduce myself properly, i’m marshall-"
"mathers…you’re just a regular guy, huh?” the blond gives you an amused huff when you finish his sentence with one of his lyrics. “don’t worry, i know who you are. everyone’s favoritee white boy!”
you laugh again and whilst you do, marshall is admiring you. how your lips were glistening in the low light as you laughed. how the outfit you chose to wear compliments your figure. and even how your blue french tips looked.
he liked- no loved what he saw and he’s subtly making it known. “anyway, to finish what i was sayin’...i’m 32 years old-” your eyes widen as you laugh louder, replying to him saying “damn! you old!”
he shakes his head with a slight smile. “it ain’t that funny, and i’m not that damn old. since you wanna laugh, how old are you?” you tuck a hair behind your ear from your bust down.
“i’m 24.” marshall makes sure it’s his turn to laugh and says “you laughin’ at me bein’ 32, you almost there too, girl.” you push him playfully “boy, boo. shut up!” both of you shortly pause after laughing, discreetly giving each flirtatious glances.
2004!eminem who ever since getting to know you for a while, taking you out to different places. decides to confess his feelings to you first a month after the after-party, to you on a phone call. you were stunned because of him possibly still being with his ex again but he reassured you with “nah, [ ❤︎ ]. i called that shit off with her again… couldn’t do it anymore.”
you sigh to yourself, taking in what he said. “but marshall, my question is…are you sure? ‘cause i don’t wanna be caught up in some bullshit about another girl in your life and everything.” he lets you finish and answers.
“yes, we’re done. me and her are still semi-cool with each other, but besides all that… we over.” “ok…i’ll take your word for it.” “please baby, cause ion wanna talk about any more.” your train of thought stopped when you heard him call you that. “baby…?” he clears his throat and apologizes.
“shit, i’m sorry. too soon?” you stutter as you respond “n-no, it’s cool. i just wasn’t expecting that.” to clear the air, you ask another question. “am i too young for you, marsh?” you ask him as you put a french tip on your teeth. “nah mama, you good.” he smirks as he replies to the question.
2004!eminem who gets pressed when he guest appears on TRL hosted by carson daly and gets bombarded with questions about you two’s relationship. “so, em? when are you and [ ❤︎ ] gonna go public? because there has been some speculation about you two. especially since her album has been blowing up and there is a possible nod to you in one of her lyrics off a song of hers.” carson asks em during their interview.
the blonde; after pushing up his silver, rectangle glasses grazes a hand over his buzzcut whilst shaking his head to disregard the question. he scoffs and kisses his teeth before answering with a “why ya’ll wanna know so bad? he scoffs with a little laugh. “the fuck? carson… forreal?” carson cackles at the blonde’s obvious frustration but makes marshall’s mood lighten with a dap.
2004!eminem who watches your episode of TRL and how desperately both your and his fans want to know if you are dating or not. “welcome back to the show, everyone. i’m lucky enough to meet everyone’s new favorite pop-star angel, [ ❤︎ ] !” the crowd roars with adoration for you as you smile ear to ear.
“ok, now, i know everyone has heard your hit single “Bad Boy” off your new album and some of your fans have been speculating that you're talking about a significant other? maybe a certain blond who has recently appeared on here with his group, D-12??”
the crowd makes little “oohs” to daly’s question. you grip your Ed Hardy clutch purse as you try to laugh it off the nervousness you suddenly have, marshall feeling your embarrassment through the screen.
you say to carson, “ya’ll, ion have to tell ya’ll anything” daly’s eyes widen from the comment “so, you are together? is that what you’re saying?” you take a long pause but you answer with a “i’ll never tell~” which earns a chortle for daly and marshall being in awe with you behind the screen from home.
2004!eminem who when his friends were talking about you two and how long ya’ll were gonna keep up as swift goes “yo, em? forreal tho…how long are ya’ll gonna keep this up for? ion want paparazzi to stalk ya’ll and everything.” ‘niva adds on with “i hope her ass ain’t like kim..” when he heard that comment from ‘niva, his nostrils flared up and his eyebrows furrowed. “the fuck you say, ‘niva?”
he asked before pushing kuniva in the chest. proof, swift and naunie tried breaking them up and holding them back from each other before the situation could even escalate further. “see what i told you? he's already actin a fuckin’ fool over this girl…just like with y’know who!”
marshall keeps frowning and mean-muggin’ ‘niva the whole time, trying to control himself. “like, ya’ll niggas actually need to chill out! this shit is dumb as hell.” marshall glares at naunie for what he said.
“i’m not talkin’ about [ ❤︎ ], em. i’m talking about ya’ll fuckin’ fightin and shit” marshall interrupts him. “we suppose to be family, dawg. but he didn’t hafta to go talkin 'out his ass, man i’m outta here." marshall gets out of naunie’s grasp and leaves to clear his mind. he calls you up as he’s driving to pick you up.
2004!eminem who calls you very suddenly. you were bumpin some music with earphones in. playing beyonce’s “Naughty Girl” to be exact when your phone began ringing. the caller i.d. reads as “marshy ❤︎” you answer the phone. “hi, marshall! you ok?”
he answers you with a “yeah, i’m a’ight? why you ask?” you scoff slightly as you say “i asked because it’s late …” he pauses before speaking again “i need to see you…some shit happened at proof’s place and i just need to clear my head.”
you smile to yourself, hearing how soft and genuine he sounds when talking to you. “i understand, m.” he says quickly, “i’m pulling up to you now.” you take a moment before referring to him again. “ok, boo” he hangs up as he pulls in the drive-way of your house.
he knocks on the door, but not so loudly that it will cause a disturbance. answering the door, you crack it then fully opening it. he couldn’t say what he needed to get out due to him being stunned with how you looked. your mocha tone hair that went with your melanin, was up in a pony and you were in a light blue slip dress with some mesh slippers on that matched.
“hey, boo. c-” before you could finish, marshall’s mouth was on yours. he breaks from your lips to migrate to your neck. your strawberry vanilla scent had him drowning, in a good way ofc. you make little gasps and moans from his kisses. he stops midway to speak.
“i’m sorry baby, i just need this…is that alright?” you quickly nod as you two connect lips once more. he gets all handsy, grabbing on everything from your bust to your ass. picks you up and carries you to your bedroom. two sweat-drenched vessels becoming one as marshall flushes red from the unholy noises you were making.
he whispers sweet nothings in your ear that sent you off the rails. “what’s my name?” he asks you with a breathy whisper. you respond with a gasping “marshall” he smirks as he takes in your words and softly kisses your lips. grunting and making sinful noises himself, surprisingly to you, he’s very vocal in bed (oop-).
he grunts get louder as you make indentations into his skin, with his body burning up from them. quiet moans escape his mouth. you repeatedly screamed said his name, scratching through his blond buzzcut as he releases into your core.
a few minutes goes by as you two are trying to recollect yourselves from what happened. you both face each other and give breathless laughs. marshall and you just stare at each other, pecking your lips. he then shortly gets up and puts back on his Calvin Klein boxers to run a shower.
he comes back and swiftly picks you and moves you into the shower, joining you as he gives your upper body, gentle kisses. the next morning, you find yourself waking up sleepily to feel yourself within marshall’s warmth from the other night, smirking to yourself as you revel more into his hold.
2004!eminem who decides that after a couple of months of being together and to celebrate his album ƎNCORE for being another successful album at INTERSCOPE and at his own label, SHADY RECORDS. he decides to take little ol’ you out. your brown doe eyes look at him into his blue-grey ones in confusion as you ask “where are we goin?” he laughs at your question, his little bunny teeth showing as he does.
“it’s a surprise, but before that… i wanna give you somethin..”you smile softly to him. “what is it?” you ask as you place your cute blue flip-phone down into your clutch.
he pulls a red, velvety box out of his SHADY LTD. red joggers pocket and opens it. you gasp when you see what’s inside, “marshall, is this?-” he finishes your sentence “a promise ring, yeah…i got for you because of all the shit you had to go through with bein’ my girl, ma.”
you tear up a little from shock “i would’ve never expected this. thank you, nemnem!” he chuckles at the nickname, taking off his visor so he could give you a proper kiss.
a/n: i was listening to pink the WHOLE time while i was typing all of this lmao- also apologies in advance if this isn’t up to par or doesn’t make sense to read. i’ve been dealing with HUGE amounts of writer’s block because school has low-key been kick my ass- (also i wasn’t expect this to be soo long lol. i think i had WAYY too much fun with this-)
The heavy bass from the venue outside is just a faint, rhythmic thrum against the walls of the tour bus. Outside, the rest of the crew was hitting some club, but tonight Marshall just wasn't feeling it. He was wiped, sitting on the leather couch in the back lounge, wearing his usual oversized hoodie and sweatpants. He had a notebook open on his lap, a pen tapped against his chin, completely locked into his own head.
Until she walked in.
She’d been quiet all day, giving him these lingering looks that he definitely noticed but couldn't quite decode. Now, she didn’t hesitate. She walked straight up to the couch, stepped over his legs, and sunk down to straddle his lap.
The notebook crushed between their bodies. Marshall blinked, his pen freezing mid-air. He looked up at her his sharp blue eyes full of sudden intrigue, but there was a flicker of confusion there too.
"Whoa, hold up," he muttered, a faint, amused smirk tugging at his lips as he reached for the notebook setting it aside. "What's up with you? You’ve been acting weird as hell since soundcheck."
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The need had been building up in her chest all day, not being able to have a moment alone with him and being this close now, completely broke her restraint. She leaned forward, burying her hands in his short blonde hair, and pulled his mouth to hers.
The kiss was urgent, heavy, and desperate. He let out a low, surprised grunt against her lips, his hands instinctively coming up to grip her waist. He tried to slow it down, pulling his head back just an inch, his breath warm against her mouth.
"Mmh," he murmurs, his hands squeezing her hips, trying to get her to focus. "What's going on? You're usually the one making me wait. Did someone say something to you tonight, or—"
She cut him off with another deep, bruising kiss, her body shifting against his, rubbing her core right against his thigh through the thick fabric of his sweatpants. A sharp, ragged gasp hitched in his throat at the friction, his grip tightening.
"Marshall, shut up," she breathed out against his lips, her hands sliding down his neck, tearing at the collar of his hoodie. "Nothings wrong, I just really need to feel you inside me. Right now."
His eyes go entirely dark at the words. The confusion vanishes, replaced by a sudden, heavy intensity that makes her stomach flip.
"Yeah?" he growled softly, his fingers digging into her skin. "That's what this is?"
He didn’t waste another second. Marshall shifted his weight, turning her so she was pressed back against the armrest of the couch. He pulled his hoodie over his head and tossed it to the floor, his lean, tattooed chest mapping out under the dim cabin lights. He reached down, sliding his hands under her clothes, his fingers finding her underwear and tugging them down her legs in one impatient motion.
Before he took his own pants down, he looked up at her from between her thighs. His fingers slid inside her, slick and deliberate. She let out a loud, breathless cry, her fingers gripping the leather of the couch as he fingered her with a firm, relentless rhythm, his thumb putting pressure exactly where she need it.
"You're soaking wet," he mutters, watching her face twist with pleasure. "You were really sitting there all day thinking about this, huh?"
He watched her unravel under his touch for a minute, driving her crazy until she was begging him to stop teasing. He pulled his fingers out, leaving her aching, and quickly freed himself.
"Hold up," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that gravelly, quiet register. He slid off the couch, dropping down until he was kneeling on the carpeted floor right between her knees. "If we’re doing this your way tonight, we’re doing it right."
Before she could even say anything, he hooked his hands under her thighs, lifting her legs and draping them over his broad shoulders. The sudden vulnerability made her gasp, her fingers clutching at the leather cushions for leverage. He looked up at her from between her knees, a faint, dark smirk playing on his lips when he saw the flush creeping up her neck.
"Yeah," he growled softly, his thumbs tracing the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. "Look at you shaking."
He didn’t make her wait. He leaned in, his breath hot against her skin a second before his mouth made contact.
When Marshall kissed her there, it wasn’t hesitant. He used his tongue in broad, deliberate strokes from the bottom all the way up, tasting her fully. A loud, sharp cry escaped her lips, her back arching off the couch instantly. He gripped her hips tighter, anchoring her down so she couldn’t squirm away from the intensity.
He worked with a relentless, hyper-focused rhythm. His tongue was firm, tracing the length of her before centering entirely on her sweetest spot. He sucked her in gently, his lips creating a heavy, agonizingly good friction that had her tossing her head back against the armrest, her eyes tightly shut.
"Marshall—" she gasp out, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the couch.
He lets out a low, vibration of a groan against her skin, letting her know he hears her, but he doesn't slow down. If anything, he intensifies it. While his mouth completely dominated her, he slid two fingers deep inside her slick warmth, mimicking the rhythm of his tongue. The dual sensation was overwhelming. Every time he stroked inside her, his tongue pressed down perfectly, driving her completely out of her mind.
She was panting, her hips involuntarily rolling against his mouth, begging for the release that’s coiling tighter and tighter in her stomach. Marshall tracked the sudden shift in her breathing. He knows her body well enough to recognize the exact moment she’s about to break.
He sped up, his tongue flickering against her with a fierce, demanding pace that left her completely defenseless.
"Marshall, please—"
"I got you," he muttered against her wet skin, his voice thick. "Go ahead. Take it."
The tension snapped violently. Her thighs clamped hard against his shoulders as her climax hit, waves of intense heat rippling through her entire body. She let out a loud moan, completely shattered, as he stayed right there, breathing through his nose, using his tongue to catch every single drop of her release until her trembling finally started to slow down.
Slowly, he pulled back, lifting his head. His lips were wet, his platinum hair slightly mussed, and his eyes darker than she’d ever seen them. He leaned forward entirely satisfied smirk spreading across his face as he looked at how breathless and undone she was.
“Let me taste” she said pulling him in for a kiss - a hum leaving his. Then, He pulled away.
"Now," he murmured, his hands sliding back up to her waist as he stood up, grabbing the waistline of his pants and pulling them down in one fluid motion. "Like you said... you need to feel me inside you."
She expected him to take her right there on the couch, but Marshall hooked his arms under her knees, lifting her up. He’s stronger than he looks, he guided her down onto her hands and knees on the carpeted floor of the bus lounge. He got behind her, his hands gripping her hips from behind, pulling her back against his thighs.
He aligned himself and pushed inside her in one deep stroke.
The fullness made her head spin. She arched her back, a loud sob of relief breaking from her throat. Marshall let out a guttural groan, his forehead dropping against her shoulder blade as he took a second to adjust to how tight and hot she was around him.
"Damn," he breathed, his voice a gravelly whisper.
He started to move, his pace heavy and ruthless from behind. Every thrust was deep, hitting her perfectly, the rhythm fast and chaotic as he lost his usual restraint to the sheer urgency of the moment. His hands left her hips, one wrapping around her waist to hold her steady while the other reached down to touch her where their bodies met, driving her over the edge. The sensation was too much—she broke, her body tightening violently around him as her climax hit.
Marshall groaned aloud, his pace turning furious for three more heavy strokes before he pulled out abruptly, not wanting to finish just yet.
He dropped down onto the couch, breathing heavily, and pulled her by her wrists until she was on her knees between his legs. He didn’t even have to say it. She leaned forward, taking him into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the head before sliding down his length.
Marshall’s head fell back against the leather cushion, his eyes closed, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles stood out. His hands found her hair, gently guiding her rhythm, his hips rolling slightly into her mouth.
"Fuck," he muttered, a shaky breath escaping him. "Right there. Don't stop."
She sucked him deeply, wanting to give him the same desperate pleasure he’d been giving her. After a minute, he gripped her shoulders, pulling her up before he lost control completely.
"Come here," he commanded, his voice thick and rough.
He pulled her onto the couch, making her sit down on his lap, facing away from him this time. She lifted her hips and lowered herself down onto him, taking him all the way back in. He wrapped his arms around her chest from behind, his hands locking over her stomach, pulling her flush against him so there was absolutely no space left between them.
She controlled the pace now, riding him hard, her head falling back against his shoulder. Marshall buried his face in her neck, his teeth grazing her skin as he moved beneath her, his thrusts meeting hers halfway. The friction was blinding. Every time she came down on him, he let out a low, breathless sound against her ear.
"You like this?" he whispered, his hands sliding up to cup her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples. "Having it your way?"
"Yes," she gasp out, her vision blurring as the tension built again, hotter and tighter than before.
One of her hands came up to his on her breast tightly squeezing , while the other reached back to his neck , she wanted to feel him as close as possible.
He could feel her inner muscles clamping down on him, signaling that she was about to snap. Marshall gripped her waist securely, his pace turning fast and desperate, driving up into her with everything he had left. She called out his name, completely shattered by the intensity, and the sound pushed him over the brink. He let out a raw, unedited growl, his whole body going rigid beneath her as he came deep inside her, his chest heaving violently against her back.
For a long time, the only sound in the back of the bus was the two of them trying to catch their breath. The cabin was hot, her skin slick with sweat.
Slowly, Marshall relaxed, his arms still wrapped securely around her waist, keeping her against him. He pressed soft, kisses to her damp shoulder and neck, a quiet, satisfied chuckle vibrating in his chest.
"You want me?" he murmured, his voice returning to that familiar, playful Detroit drawl. He squeezed her hip gently. "All you gotta do is ask, baby.”
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.”
“Open requests yeiiii!!!!!!, so I wanted to request one more, I wanted to request about Eminem, I honestly love the idea of age difference, so I came up with this, Eminem x femreader, she is a young pop singer and with eminem start working (she doesn't like Eminem very much) on a song for a movie and they spend a lot of time together either recording and promoting the song, some feelings start to come up between them, there's a lot of attraction and you could add some smut (if you feel comfortable.)
Sorry if it's long and specific.
Thanks and kisses :D😚”
description: in which she reluctantly agrees to work with her least favorite artist, and romantic feelings develop between them
pairing: eminem x female!reader
warnings: swearing, age gap (reader is late 20s/early 30s, em is his current age), y/n used, rpf
masterlist (one, two, three)
You looked at your manager for a long time. You didn’t speak, just stared. You were waiting for her to laugh and say she was joking. But it didn’t come. She was serious, and you were horrified.
“Absolutely not.”
“You can’t turn this down,” Diana said.
“I am.”
She sighed. “(Y/N), for one, we’ve already signed the contract, so you literally cannot say no. But more importantly, this is a big opportunity. It’s a major blockbuster and a song with one of the biggest artists of this generation. This is huge for your career! You can’t turn it down due to personal bias.”
You threw your head back and let out a dramatic groan, which may have been childish, but you figured a little childish was allowed right now.
You knew Diana was right, but you didn’t have to be happy about it. You had signed on to do a song for the soundtrack of an upcoming blockbuster that was already projected to make upwards of a billion dollars at the box office because you knew it would be huge for your career. What they failed to tell you, however, was that it wasn’t a solo song they wanted. They wanted you to do a collab with none other than Eminem, aka your least favorite artist.
You just had never been into Eminem’s music. You had all the usual complaints that other people had about his music - it was vulgar, the subject matter was often shocking - but also it just wasn’t your type of music. He was the last artist you wanted to do a song with, even if the collab and the soundtrack would be huge for your career. But you knew you had no choice since you had signed the contract, and Diana was definitely not going to try and break that contract.
So, you looked at Diana with a look that was so far from excited, and said, “Fine. I’ll do it. But I won’t be happy about it.”
Diana chuckled. “You will be when it hits number one.”
~~~~~~
You sat outside the studio where you were supposed to meet with Eminem. You were trying to will yourself out of the car and into the studio, but you were just dreading it. You were hoping it wouldn’t take very long to do the writing and recording process so that you didn’t have to spend too much time with him. You already had some ideas for your hook drafted so if they worked with whatever he was writing then you could probably be finished today.
As the meeting time ticked closer, you finally forced yourself out of your car. You went into the studio and found the room you were booked in. He as already there with another man who you recognized as his manager, Paul. Suddenly you were itching to call Diana for back up, but you stopped yourself. You could get through it on your own.
When you opened the door, both men turned to face you. Paul was the first to approach, saying, “There she is. Nice to meet you, (Y/N). My name is Paul.”
You shook his hand. Eminem was next, extending a hand and introducing himself, “Marshall.”
“Nice to meet you both,” you said. To Marshall, you added, “Have you written anything for this yet?”
Paul and Marshall shared a look. Paul chuckled and said, “She’s all business.”
“She’s right here,” you said. “And I am here to do a job, so yes I am all business.”
Paul put his hands up in surrender. “Hey, I’m sorry. I just thought the introductions would last a little longer before we got down to it. Listen, I’ll fuck off an leave you both to it.”
He clapped Marshall on the shoulder and gave you a nod before leaving the room.
“Ignore him, he’s an asshole,” Marshall said. “I was working on a few ideas for lyrics.”
“Oh.” You were surprised. You figured you were going to have to sit and listen to him try and figure out the song on the spot. Maybe this won’t be so painful after all. “Well, me too. I’ve been workshopping some hooks based on the treatments the production company sent me about the movie. I figured whatever works best with what you have can be in the final product.”
“Let me hear them.”
“Oh...uh...I mean, I don’t have any melodies figured out.”
“Show me, then.”
He sat down on the couch and motioned for you to sit next to him. You hesitated, but sat down next to him with a respectable distance between you. He kept his distance as you scrolled through your phone to find the hooks you had written. He wasn’t even leaning close to you to try and look at your phone. Respecting your boundaries was such a low bar, but you were almost impressed by it. It was unfortunately quite a rare occurrence these days. Even when you passed him your phone to show him what you had written, he took it and sat back against the couch, giving you your space.
“These are dope as hell,” Marshall said.
“Uh, thanks,” you responded as you took your phone back.
He chuckled. “It is a compliment. Each hook feels perfect for the movie, like the studio wrote it themselves. This is why I asked for you specifically. You are so fucking talented.”
“Whoa, wait,” you said. “You asked for me?”
“Yeah. Did they not tell you that?”
You shook your head. “They didn’t even tell me we were collaborating until after I signed the contract.”
“Oh. Fuck, it must’ve been a shock when they told you about the collab then.”
“Shock is an understatement.”
“Well, I asked for you specifically because I think you’re talented. My youngest played me a few of your songs and they’re incredible. Your voice is great, and your songwriting is amazing. I told the studio I needed to work with you specifically on this.”
You were stunned into silence. You hadn’t expected any of this at all. You didn’t think your type of music would reach someone like Eminem, or that he’d even like what he heard. He had made fun of every artist that made the same type of music you made in his songs. You just figured you were more likely to be a target than a collaboration.
Maybe this will go a lot smoother than I expected.
~~~~~~
It didn’t take long to put the song together. To your surprise, you were actually disappointed to be finished recording. In the short time you spent with him in the studio, you found yourself starting to like Marshall. He wasn’t at all what you were expecting from him. When he was away from the public and not having to be Eminem, he laughed and smiled a lot, and he was so kind. He was all work, too. Once you two got into the songwriting process, he was focused solely on making the song.
When Diana told you that the studio wanted a music video for the song, you tried not to look excited by the news. But she noticed the difference in your reaction this time versus when she broke the news about the collab.
“You look a lot less disappointed this time,” she noted.
“I wouldn’t say it was disappointment before,” you corrected her. “More like anger, maybe. Annoyance for sure.”
“Well, whatever it was, I don’t see any of it now. What happened, the big bad rapper won you over?”
You turned away form Diana. Stupidly, you thought that would hide your reaction to her question. However, it actually gave Diana her answer.
She gasped. “Oh my God, he did!”
“He’s not as bad as I thought,” you admitted. “So, yes, he did manage to change my mind. I was wrong. Happy?”
“Oh, you know those are my favorite words.”
You rolled your eyes. You were ready to move on from this conversation, but Diana decided to add one last thing: “Just be careful he doesn’t charm you into falling in love with him.”
You were glad she wasn’t looking at you then, so you had time to recover from her comment.
A week later, Diana had your treatment for the music video. Since the movie was a heist movie, you and Marshall were set to play a couple who committed several robberies before the video ended with you both getting caught by the police. You were going to film difference small scenes that would be the main parts of the video and would be spliced with scenes from the actual movie. It sounded like a fun idea if you were filming with anyone else, but with how things were going with Marshall, you were more than a little nervous about having to play his girlfriend.
The first day of filming was mainly action shots: the robberies, driving around in the mock getaway car, and a few scenes of you “performing” the chorus. The car scenes were the best. Even though the car was set up on a rig that someone else was driving, it was still being driven very fast. It was such a thrill to feel the wind blowing through your hair as you leaned out the window, especially when you got to use the fake gun.
The robbery scenes, on the other hand, were not fun. They were for the first handful of takes, but eventually the ski mask you were wearing started getting too hot and stuffy, especially under the set lights. Whenever the director called cut, you were able to take it off to breathe for short periods before having to put it back on.
Eventually, the director called for a break. You threw off the mask and rushed for the nearest door, desperately needing fresh air. The cool outside air hit you like a brick as you emerged into the night. You took a deep breath, the air filling your lungs. You were debating on just leaving, telling the director you needed to go early and getting out of there, when the door next to you opened. Marshall stepped out.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. Just needed some air.”
“I don’t blame you. The masks are a bit much.”
“Winter ski masks, inside a sound stage, under those hot ass lights.” You shook your head. “I’m making a complaint. This has to be unsafe work conditions.”
Marshall chuckled at your joke. You tried to ignore the warm feeling in your chest as a reaction to his laughter. It was a reoccurring feeling whenever Marshall smiled or laughed, but especially when you made him laugh. It was getting harder and harder to ignore those feelings, but you were trying. For one, the age gap between you two was quite big. Not as big as some couples in Hollywood, but enough that you were sure Marshall would never look at you as a potential romantic partner. And you were sure you’d never see or talk to Marshall once the music video was done shooting and the song was released. Maybe the odd performance together every once in a while. Either way, you had to nip these feelings in the bud now.
“I think Rich said one more scene and then he wants to call it a day.”
You let out a dramatic sigh. “I guess I can handle one more scene.”
When he laughed this time, Marshall also put a hand on your shoulder. A shock of electricity shot through your body, circulating back to that spot. You tried not to seem so obvious in your pulling away from him. Now you felt like you had to escape back inside after escaping outside.
“Let’s finish this, then,” you said, smiling a little as you turned back to the door.
The crew was resetting the scene when you and Marshall walked back in. The extras who were playing the customers and the worker of the convenience store you and Marshall were mock robbing were getting back into place. The director, Rich, noticed you and Marshall coming back and motioned for you to come over to him.
“I want to shoot one more thing then we’re good for today,” he said. “I want to shoot the end of one of these robbery scenes. We’re gonna film you two getting the money from the cashier, then as you go to leave I want to get a shot of you two taking off your masks to kiss.”
Your whole body ran cold. Your heart started beating so hard you were sure Marshall and Rich could hear it. Kissing Marshall was not going to help alleviate your feelings for him. You had kissed love interests in music videos before and it had always been easy just to act and then walk away, but this was much different.
You tried to get out of it with a jock, chuckling before asking, “Is it a good idea for two robbers to reveal themselves before leaving the scene?”
Rich shrugged. “It’s fiction, and we’re establishing your characters as notorious robbers, so maybe this is how we’ll explain how your identities get found out.”
He moved on, calling for everyone to get ready to shoot. There was no getting out of this. You just had to hope one take was enough for Rich and you could go home to deal with whatever followed on your own.
You and Marshall got into place, pulling on your masks and getting your fake guns. Rich set up the shot, explaining exactly what he wanted, then got in place behind the camera and called action.
The shot started with the cashier giving Marshall the money from the cash register. The camera followed him as he walked over to you. You fired the fake gun into the air to scare the faux hostages, and then you were both on the way to the door.
Now was the moment. You both paused at the door, the camera coming close to you both. You faced Marshall but your heart was beating so hard that your vision was blurred. Your body moved automatically as you ripped off the mask at the same time Marshall took off his. He reached for you, cupping the back of your neck and pulling you in. The second your lips touched, your entire body exploded. Your knees became weak and you had to put extra mind word into standing.
Too soon, Rich was calling cut and the kiss was over. Marshall pulled away from you, but he didn’t completely separate from you. His hand was still on the back of your neck, just inches away from tangling in your hair. You could feel his breath on your face. Your lips were tingling, itching to be on Marshall’s again.
He finally pulled away when Rich approached you both, praising the take. He said he wanted to do it once more just in case, then he’d call it a day. So, the scene reset. You moved automatically through the scene, your mind still reeling form the first kiss and the fact that it was going to happen again. When you threw off the mask and Marshall reached for you the second time, your lips met his halfway a little too eagerly.
Rich was calling cut all too soon again. This time, you pulled away from Marshall the second the cameras cut. Rich praised you again and told everyone they were clear to go home. You made a beeline to get your things so you could leave.
“Hey,” Marshall said, following you. “Where’s the fire?”
“I’m just excited to get home and get to bed,” you responded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He seemed confused, but he said, “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
You spent the night mentally fighting over everything that happened on set, and how you were supposed to deal with it all again tomorrow. As you predicted, the kiss only made your feelings for Marshall grow. You had no idea how you were going to get through the last day of shooting after the kiss. Rich had said as you were leaving that he wanted to film some more couple shots of you and Marshall the next day. It was like he was trying to torture you.
Your phone went off a few times; texts from Marshall. You ignored them. You came to the conclusion that it would be for the best if you and Marshall were just professional. Once the video and promo stuff for the song was over, the two of you would go your separate ways and that would be it. You could let your feelings die and move on.
That was the plan, anyways. Until you were in the makeup trailer, alone, waiting for the makeup artist to come, and Marshall walked in.
“Why are you ignoring me?”
You glanced up at him for a moment before going back to the game on your phone. “I’m not. I didn’t know you were here yet.”
“I mean my texts. I sent you like five texts last night and you didn’t respond to any of them.”
“I told you I was going home to go to bed. I just fell asleep.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Something is wrong. You’ve been acting weird since yesterday. If I did something to piss you off, I’m sorry, but you gotta tell me what it is so I can fix it.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for and nothing to fix. Everything is fine, Marshall.”
You hated lying to him, but you weren’t about to tell him the real reason you were trying to push him away.
“Was it the kiss?”
Your body jolted at the question, as if he had just startled you. You finally looked up at him. His eyes were watching you too closely to have missed your reaction.
“That is what this is about,” he said. “Did I do too much? Was I too pushy with the kiss or something? I need to know before we film more of these intimate scenes today.”
“There was nothing wrong with the kiss! What’s wrong is I started having feelings for you and the kiss made the feelings worse!”
At that moment, the door opened and the makeup artist finally walked in. You turned away from Marshall, plastering a smile on your face for the sake of the makeup artist. You hoped this interruption would break up the moment enough for Marshall to forget what you had said and let both of you move on. You should’ve known that wasn’t what was going to happen since luck had not been on your side the last two days. So, when you left the makeup trailer, Marshall was waiting for you.
You let out a sigh, trying your hardest to keep that the frustrated tears that were welling in your eyes. You just wanted to get this day over with. You wanted to get all of this over with; this conversation, this day, this video shoot. The quicker you could get home and let out all your feelings by yourself, the better.
But for now, you were facing Marshall, your confession evidently still hanging between the two of you. You knew you needed to do damage control before the rest of filming that day, so you said, “Look, I’m sorry about my outburst in there, and I’m sorry I was ignoring you last night. I don’t want things to be awkward between us, so can we just forget what I said and pretend like everything is fine until we finish filming? Then we can go our separate ways and pretend like none of this ever happened. Okay?”
He didn’t say anything. You hated the fact that he had mastered the art of keeping his face unreadable, because it was killing you to not know what he was feeling. You felt like you wanted to scream, to cry, to beg him just to say anything so you could know what he was feeling. If he didn’t want anything to do with you and your childish crush, you’d prefer if he actually said that instead of this silent treatment act he was doing.
Instead, he took you by surprise when he put his hand on the back of your neck and pulled you into a kiss. It was the same actions he did twice the day before when you were filming, but this time they felt so much more intimate. This wasn’t a kiss for the cameras, it was just for you and him. It sent just as much fire through your body as it had the day before. This time, he put an arm around your lower back too, as if knowing that kissing him made you so weak you could barley stand.
When you pulled away, the first thing you said was, “What the fuck?”
Marshall laughed. The warm feeling spread in your chest again, but this time you didn’t push it down.
“Not the reaction I expected,” he said.
“Sorry, but it’s just taking my brain a second to catch up to the fact that you actually just kissed me.”
“Do you want me to do it again to help you figure out what just happened?”
“I mean, it wouldn’t hurt.”
So he did. A quick peck, more so to prove that he had in fact actually just kissed you and you weren’t dreaming. He was still holding you so close, too. You never wanted him to let you go.
“I guess this means you don’t want to go our separate ways when we finish filming,” you noted.
Marshall shook his head. “Actually, I’d like to take you out for dinner once we finish here today. Would you be okay with that?”
You nodded, too at a loss for words. He smiled and pulled you in for another kiss. You felt like you had to pinch yourself to make sure you weren’t dreaming, but you’d wait until you were away from Marshall to do that.
You both were reluctant to untangle from each other, but you had to go do your jobs. Besides, the quicker the shoot finished, the quicker you could both go out on your date. You were practically running to the set as that thought occurred to you.
That day, Rich kept noting how intense and passionate every since the two of you were filming was. Every time he did, you and Marshall just shared knowing smiles.
Imagine this: Eminem gets into a rap feud with your rapper boyfriend, and amidst all the drama, you end up cheating on your boyfriend with Eminem. Then, when Eminem releases a new track, he takes a shot at your boyfriend by hinting at your hookup, adding fuel to the fire with a line about sleeping with you.
Eminem x reader
Caution: sexual content ♡
it’s the night of the MTV Music Awards, and you’ve been given the honor of calling out the winner and presenting the award. Your boyfriend, a rising star in the rap game, is nominated in the same category as his rival—none other than Eminem. For weeks, the two have been trading shots, dropping diss tracks, and stirring up a fierce rap feud.
The tension is palpable as the nominees flash on the screen, and the crowd buzzes with anticipation. You can feel your boyfriend’s eyes on you from his seat, his expression radiating certainty. He’s convinced tonight will end in his victory, a public validation of his skills and his place in the industry
But you know the stakes: if Eminem wins, it would be a crushing defeat for your boyfriend—a public blow that could turn the tide in their feud and become the talk of the music world. Yet, there’s a strange electricity in the air as you take the stage, gripping the award envelope, your heart pounding. Whether it’s a win or loss, this moment is about to make headlines.
"Eminem!" you announce, your voice echoing through the venue as the crowd erupts in wild cheers, celebrating his victory.
Eminem strides onto the stage, his expression a mix of pride and that unmistakable cockiness he’s known for. As he reaches you, he takes the award with one hand and, to your surprise, pulls you into a tight hug with the other. The embrace lingers just a moment too long, his hand slipping lower with each second—a subtle but unmistakable taunt meant to rile up your already furious boyfriend, who’s watching from his seat with narrowed eyes.
The audience catches onto the tension, gasping and laughing as Eminem’s playful smirk widens. He whispers a low “Thank you” in your ear, glancing briefly over at your boyfriend, whose jaw is clenched, his confidence shattered by the public loss and the blatant show of disrespect. Eminem lets you go, stepping up to the mic, but you can still feel the charged energy radiating from your boyfriend’s glare. The feud has just reached a new level, and you know tonight will be one for the headlines.
At the after-party, your boyfriend was sulking, stewing over his loss. His confidence from earlier in the night had dissolved into a grumpy silence, and he barely spoke to you, responding with short, cold remarks every time you tried to break the ice. His attention was laser-focused on Eminem, who was mingling across the room, clearly enjoying his win. Your boyfriend’s glare never wavered; he was practically daring Eminem to look his way.
Finally, you had enough. The atmosphere was suffocating, and you weren’t going to spend the night with someone who refused to move past the loss. Frustrated, you excused yourself from the table, deciding you needed a drink just to shake off the tension.
As you walked toward the bar, you sensed someone fall in step beside you. Glancing over, you saw it was Eminem, giving you that familiar smirk. “Rough night?” he asked, his tone a mix of teasing and genuine curiosity. There was something in his eyes that made it clear he’d noticed the icy atmosphere between you and your boyfriend. For the first time all evening, you found yourself relaxing, even smiling, as you felt the weight of the night start to lift.
You leaned against the bar, letting out a sigh, and turned to Eminem with a half-smile. “Yeah, you could say that,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “He’s taking this loss… well, let’s just say he’s not handling it well.”
Eminem chuckled, ordering a drink as he leaned beside you. “Can’t say I blame him,” he shrugged, “but hey, it’s all part of the game, right?” His voice was light, but there was a knowing look in his eyes, as if he understood the cost of ego in the industry.
You nodded, grateful for the change in atmosphere. “True. But it doesn’t mean I have to be dragged down by it,” you said, looking across the room to see your boyfriend still seated, jaw clenched, watching the two of you like a hawk. The icy, simmering tension in his stare made your stomach tighten, but you ignored it.
Eminem followed your gaze, then raised an eyebrow. “Well, if he’s going to sit there and sulk, that’s on him. You don’t deserve the silent treatment.”
There was something disarming about Eminem’s attitude. He wasn’t pushing anything, just being unexpectedly down-to-earth and understanding. As the drinks arrived, he clinked his glass lightly against yours. “Here’s to enjoying the night,” he said, eyes flickering with a mischievous glint.
You took a sip, the warmth of the drink helping you shake off the tension. “Thanks,” you murmured, feeling a rush of relief. Eminem leaned a little closer, his voice dropping to a private tone. “Honestly, you look like you could use a good distraction.”
Before you could respond, the DJ switched to one of Eminem’s tracks, and the crowd went wild. He shot you a grin. “Dance with me?” he asked, extending his hand.
You hesitated, knowing full well how your boyfriend would take it. But in that moment, the thought of breaking free from his cold demeanor and just having fun felt too tempting to resist. You placed your hand in Eminem’s, feeling a spark shoot up your arm.
As you danced with the Detroit rapper, your boyfriend’s absence was the only confirmation you needed—he had already stormed off, leaving you alone with Eminem. The music thumped around you, and you felt the heat of the moment take over, your frustrations melting into the rhythm of the song and the intensity of Eminem’s gaze.
Eminem leaned in, his face coming closer, and before you realized it, his lips were on yours, catching you off guard yet feeling almost inevitable. The kiss was electric, a mix of passion and defiance, and for a moment, everything else faded away. The tension of the night, the rivalry, your boyfriend’s coldness—it all vanished in that single connection.
As he pulled back, a hint of a smirk played on his lips. “Want to get out of here?” he murmured, his voice low, barely audible over the music but clear enough to send a thrill through you.
You met his gaze, feeling a rush of excitement and a sense of freedom you hadn’t felt all night. “Yes,” you replied, nodding without hesitation. With a final glance back at the room you were leaving behind, you let him take your hand, leading you out of the club and into the night, where the evening’s tension was about to unfold into something entirely new.
The ride to the hotel was a blur of city lights and pulsing beats from the car stereo. Eminem’s hand rested comfortably on your thigh, and every time you looked at him, that smirk grew a little wider. You knew you were crossing a line, but in that moment, you didn’t care about the consequences—you just wanted to live in the present, to feel alive.
Once inside the plush hotel suite, the reality of what was happening hit you like a sledgehammer. The room was dimly lit, with candles flickering around the edges, creating an atmosphere that was both intimate and slightly overwhelming. The smell of his cologne filled the air. Eminem led you to the bed, his hand never leaving your waist, and the weight of his touch sent shivers down your spine.
Your heart pounded in your chest as he kissed you again, his hands exploring the curves of your body with a confidence that was both thrilling and terrifying. The world outside the hotel room felt a million miles away, and all you could focus on was the heat of his breath, the taste of his lips, and the way your body responded to his every touch.
Eminem's strong arms pulled you closer, his hands deftly unbuttoning your dress, which slid to the floor in a whisper of fabric. You stood before him in nothing but your lingerie, feeling exposed yet empowered by the raw desire in his eyes. His own shirt and jacket followed suit, revealing a sculpted physique that seemed almost too perfect to be real.
The air grew thick with anticipation as he kissed you again, his tongue exploring your mouth as his hands moved to unhook your bra. It fell away, leaving your breasts bare to the cool air and the warmth of his palms. You could feel his heart beating against your chest, matching the erratic rhythm of your own.
He led you to the bed, the softness of the mattress enveloping you as he laid you down. His touch was gentle yet firm, his hands skimming over your skin like a warm summer breeze, igniting a trail of fire wherever they went. You could feel the weight of his body on top of you, and it was a feeling of both safety and exhilaration.
Eminem’s kisses grew more urgent, his tongue dancing with yours as he traced a line of passion down your neck and to your breasts. His teeth grazed your sensitive skin, sending a shiver through your body, and your breath hitched in your throat. His hands moved with purpose, removing every last piece of clothing that stood between you. The sensation of his bare chest against yours was electric, a stark contrast to the coolness of the room.
He paused, looking down at you with a hunger that was almost feral. Without a word, he slid his hand down the curve of your waist and over the band of your panties, slipping them off with a gentle yet firm motion. Your body reacted instinctively, arching towards him, craving more of his touch. The anticipation was almost too much to bear as he positioned himself above you, his eyes never leaving yours.
Eminem kissed you deeply as he entered you, the sensation of his hardness filling you completely, making you gasp into his mouth. The initial shock of his size quickly gave way to a building pleasure, and you wrapped your legs around him, urging him deeper. His rhythm was slow and deliberate, his hips rolling into yours with a mastery that left you feeling utterly consumed by him.
You could feel every inch of him as he moved, his muscles flexing with each thrust. The sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, punctuated by the occasional groan or whimper escaping from both of you. His hands gripped your hips tightly, guiding your movements as if he were conducting a symphony of passion. The kiss grew more intense, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip, and you moaned in response, your nails digging into his back.
The bed sheets tangled around your legs as the pace grew faster, more frenzied. The headboard banging against the wall matched the tempo of your hearts beating in sync. You could see the desire in his eyes, the way they darkened with every stroke, and it only spurred you on. Your own eyes closed as the pleasure built, your breaths coming in gasps, your body tightening like a coil ready to spring.
Eminem's fingers found their way into your hair, gently tugging your head back as he kissed along your neck, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin, sending shivers down your spine. His other hand cupped your face, his thumb tracing the contour of your cheekbone as he whispered dirty sweet nothings into your ear, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
Your hands roamed over his back, feeling the sweat bead and the tension in his muscles as he moved within you. His thrusts grew more powerful, each one hitting that perfect spot, making you quiver with pleasure. The sound of skin on skin, the faint rustle of the bed sheets, and the muffled moans of ecstasy filled the air—a symphony of lust that seemed to resonate through the very walls of the suite.
As the intensity grew, Eminem’s grip on your hips tightened, his breaths turning ragged. You could feel him getting closer to the brink, his movements more urgent, and the desperate need reflected in the taut lines of his face. You met his gaze, the electricity between you crackling like a live wire. You whispered his name, and that was all it took for him to let go, his body tensing as he reached climax, his eyes squeezed shut, and his teeth bared in a silent roar.
The aftermath was a gentle cascade of shared breaths and lingering kisses. He rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, your bodies still intertwined. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the candles, casting a warm light over the rumpled sheets and the sweat-drenched skin. You laid there, your heart racing, feeling a sense of disbelief at what had just transpired. It had been explosive, a whirlwind of passion that had taken you completely by surprise.
Eminem looked at you, his eyes searching your face, as if looking for any signs of regret or doubt. You met his gaze and smiled, your cheeks flushed with satisfaction and a hint of mischief. The night had taken an unexpected turn, but you couldn’t bring yourself to feel guilty. Instead, you felt alive, invigorated by the rush of adrenaline that still coursed through your veins.
He leaned in, kissing you softly, his tongue tracing the outline of your lips before delving into your mouth once more. You tasted a mix of whiskey and victory on his breath, a potent cocktail that only made you want him more. His hand slid down to caress your naked body, his fingertips gliding over your skin like a musician playing a favorite tune. The touch sent shivers down your spine, and you arched into him, eager for the symphony of pleasure to begin again.
After a few weeks of sleeping with Marshall your boyfriend once again dropped another diss track on Marshall, stilled pissed about losing to music MTV awards to him.
A few weeks had passed since things began between you and Marshall, each encounter becoming a carefully hidden secret amidst the chaos of the ongoing feud. Despite the thrill of it all, your boyfriend remained oblivious, though his frustration toward Eminem hadn’t faded. In fact, he seemed more fired up than ever.
Still bitter over the loss at the MTV Music Awards, your boyfriend dropped yet another diss track aimed squarely at Marshall. The lyrics were sharper, more personal, each line dripping with resentment. It was clear that his defeat had stung deeply, and he wasn’t ready to let it go. The diss track hit every outlet, riling up fans and adding fresh fuel to the rivalry. You listened to the track, knowing the words were aimed at Marshall, yet they felt uncomfortably close to home, a reminder of the tangled mess you were in.
Marshall’s reaction, however, was anything but anger. When you mentioned the diss track, he just smirked, as though he found the whole thing amusing.
Two weeks later, Marshall released a new song that sent the internet into an absolute frenzy. The lyrics included lines that would leave no one guessing.The following lines said:
Yo, check it,
You think you flexin’, but you just a clown,
Got your girl in my sheets, ass up, face down,
While you out thrivin’, ballin’ like a thug,
I'm the one givin' her that late-night love.
You a motherfuckin’ joke, man, I’m the real deal,
She whispered my name, now she can’t conceal,
You think you got her locked, but I broke that chain,
She loves my style, man, it drives you insane.
After Eminem released the diss track exposing your affair, it sent shockwaves through the music world. Everyone was talking about it, and the excitement was palpable. The lyrics ignited a frenzy, with fans buzzing about the revelations and the implications of the feud.
A few days after Eminem released the diss track, he showed up at your house, looking more serious than you had ever seen him. The buzz from the song had settled, but the aftermath still hung heavy in the air. As you opened the door, you could see concern etched on his face. “Hey, I just wanted to check in on you,” he said softly, stepping inside.
You led him to the living room, feeling a mix of emotions. “Honestly, it’s been tough,” you admitted, running a hand through your hair. “My boyfriend has been really distant since all this happened. I’m starting to think that maybe it’s time to end the relationship.”
Marshall’s expression shifted as he processed your words. There was a flicker of something—hope, maybe—in his eyes. “I hate to hear that. You deserve to be with someone who truly cares about you,” he said, stepping closer. The tension in the room thickened, and you could feel the pull between you intensifying.
Suddenly, without warning, he leaned in and kissed you. The moment his lips touched yours, all your doubts and fears seemed to evaporate. It was a kiss filled with passion and urgency, a silent confession that spoke louder than words. When he pulled back, his gaze locked onto yours, filled with sincerity. “I love you,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want you to break up with him for me.”
You hesitated, a whirlwind of emotions churning inside you. Your heart raced, caught between the thrill of his confession and the reality of the situation you were in. It was a leap, one that felt both exhilarating and terrifying. But as you looked into his eyes, you felt a spark of something undeniable.
After a moment of contemplation, you reached for your phone. The decision felt monumental as you typed the message: “It’s over.” With a deep breath, you pressed send and immediately turned off your phone, cutting off any chance of a reply from your boyfriend.
Marshall, sensing the shift, pulled you in for another kiss, more enchanting than the first. This kiss was filled with promise and desire, a powerful affirmation of what you both wanted. In that moment, everything else faded away—the drama, the heartbreak, and the uncertainty. It was just you and him, wrapped in each other’s arms, and for the first time in a long while, you felt a sense of clarity. <3
