The Rapper's Favorite || An Eminem Fanfiction

Chapter 2: Meeting Aria

Marshall's POV

The studio hums with the beat looping for what feels like the hundredth time today. The bass vibrates through the floor, and I'm sitting here, hoodie pulled low, tapping the pen against a blank notepad. The track's good—dark, heavy, exactly what I want—but the words? They're stuck somewhere, buried under the noise in my head. I lean back in the chair, staring at the control panel like it'll magically cough up lyrics.

Paul said this songwriter, Aria, was supposed to help, like she's some sort of lyrical fairy godmother. I'm not buying it yet. I hear the door creak open, and my eyes flick over, half-expecting the usual—someone eager, nervous, trying too hard. But in walks Aria, calm as anything.

She's got this easy confidence about her. Long dark hair falling past her shoulders, black leather jacket zipped halfway over a band tee, ripped skinny jeans, and a pair of scuffed sneakers that look like they've seen some miles. There's no hesitation in her movements. She steps in like she belongs here, flipping open a beat-up notebook before she even says a word.

"Traffic was a nightmare," she says, glancing briefly at me before she drops her bag onto the couch with a thud.

I don't get up. "I was starting to think you weren't gonna show."

She glances up, and there's a quick flicker of amusement behind her smirk. "And miss out on this? Please."

I size her up for a second, expecting the usual nerves or fan-girling energy most people walk in here with. But she's cool, settled in her seat, flipping through her notebook like we've done this a hundred times. Most people act like walking into this studio is stepping into a temple. Not her.

"Paul says you've got ideas," I say, testing her, waiting for the first crack in her calm.

Her eyes lift from the page, meeting mine dead-on. "Yeah, I've got a few. Let's see if you're ready for them."

I snort, leaning back in my chair, the leather creaking beneath me. "Let's skip the suspense."

I hit play on the track, letting the beat thump through the room again. It's pounding, dark, just the right amount of tension. But the words are still nowhere to be found. I glance at her, expecting her to falter, but she doesn't. She leans back on the couch, legs crossed, pen tapping against her notebook in time with the beat, taking her time.

Good. She's actually listening.

After a minute, she flips to a new page. "I've got something for the hook."

I raise an eyebrow, surprised. "Already?"

She shrugs, her eyes still on the notebook. "Talent doesn't need a warm-up."

I chuckle under my breath. "Alright, let's hear it."

She straightens up, her voice calm but confident, and starts reading. The words come out steady, but they hit hard. Simple, raw, and real. These aren't just lyrics—they're lived. I can hear the weight behind every line, feel the pain she's wrapped in each word.

"You've been through some shit," I say, more of an observation than a question.

Her smirk softens for just a second. "Haven't we all?"

I don't push for more. I know better than to dig into someone's baggage when it's all in their words. Whatever she's carrying, it's showing up in every line she's spitting, and that's all that matters. This track needs something that cuts deep—something real.

"Let's hear it with the track."

She stands, stepping into the booth with that same easy confidence. No hesitation. I watch through the glass as she adjusts the headphones, completely in her element. Most people freeze up the second they get in there, but not her. She's already locked in, like she's been waiting for this moment.

I lean forward, fingers ready on the controls as I cue up the beat. When she starts, her voice slices through the track, clean but with an edge, like she's letting something real break through. It's not just a performance. Her voice cracks slightly on the last line, and that's when it hits the hardest.

I hit the talkback button. "Good. But make the last line hurt."

She nods, adjusts the headphones, and runs it again without missing a beat. This time, the crack in her voice is more deliberate, and it's exactly what the track needs—real, raw, and broken in just the right places.

"That's the hook," I mutter, more to myself than her.

We spend the next couple of hours bouncing ideas back and forth. It's weird how quickly we fall into a rhythm. She's relentless, never hesitating to push back when I throw out a line that doesn't hit hard enough. It forces me to go deeper, to dig into places I wasn't planning to. The words finally start flowing, one after the other.

"You're looking less... stuck," she says, leaning back on the couch, notebook balanced on her knee. Her smirk's still there, but now there's a trace of amusement.

I snort, smirking back. "Yeah, you're not completely useless."

She laughs, shaking her head. "High praise, coming from you."

I chuckle. "What's your deal? You always write hooks that heavy?"

She looks down at her notebook, her fingers tracing the edges of the worn pages before flipping it shut. "You write what you know."

The weight of her words hits me again. These aren't just lyrics. They're lived. She's pulling them straight from something real. I glance at my own notebook, suddenly aware of the weight of my own words. Am I ready to go as deep as she's already gone?

By the time we finish, the track's still playing softly in the background, but the room feels quieter. There's a different kind of silence now—the kind that comes after something real has been created. Aria stretches, standing up and tossing her bag over her shoulder. Her leather jacket creaks as she moves, her dark hair falling back into place.

"Not bad for a first day," she says, heading for the door.

I lean back, exhaustion settling into my bones, but it's the good kind of tired. "Yeah. Not bad."

She stops just as she opens the door, glancing back at me with that knowing smirk still in place. "And don't worry, you're not as washed up as you think."

I raise an eyebrow. "You sure about that?"

Her grin widens. "We're just getting started, Marshall. And I'm not going anywhere."

With that, she steps into the hallway, leaving the door open just a crack. The light from the hallway spills into the dim studio, casting long shadows on the floor. Her words hang in the air, heavy, but not suffocating. For the first time in a long while, the silence doesn't feel threatening. It feels... right. Like something's finally happening.

Maybe she's right. Maybe I'm not done yet.