Eminem Fan Fiction Shorts II

Eminem's Ruination

"You gotta be fucking kidding me." Jazz said, her voice shocked. I frowned, uncertain as to how, exactly, I was supposed to respond to that. She stood and walked over to me, her bright blue eyes staring into mine. I cocked my head at her as I spoke.

"Uh, what?" I asked. She shook her head, her large eyes disbelieving.

"You can't be serious." She said and then the damn woman started pacing and mumbling under her breath. I watched her for a moment before I spoke again.

"You could have just fucking said no." I commented, my tone dry and irritated. Her eyes flew to mine, wide and almost looking panicked.

"No!" She said. "I mean, yes! Fuck!" She said, putting both hands over her face. "Yes, Marshall, I want to have dinner with you." She said around her fingers. "I'm a moron, though, so it'd be great if you could pretend that I didn't just make an ass out of myself." She continued.

I couldn't help it. The clear mortification that was overlaying her voice and that was apparent in her posture; it was just too much. I started laughing a full, bend at the waist belly laugh that I couldn't control for the life of me.

I realized part of the way through my laughter that Jazz was laughing, too. As my own calmed to chuckles, I looked at her flushed face. My naughty co-ed looked fan-fucking-tastic with that rose coloring her cheeks. It made me wonder how much better she'd look if her lips were bruised and wet from kissing. As her own laughter eased, she shook her head.

"Right. So, now that we've gotten the part of the night where I'm awkward and ridiculous out of the way, perhaps we can talk about when you'd like to go to dinner?" She asked, her tone rueful. I nodded and walked toward her, stopping just shy of where she stood.

"I was kind of thinking now, actually." I said.

Her reaction was perfect. It was in that moment that I knew I was right to have effectively told Paul to jump off a cliff. She looked excited and happy and there wasn't a bone in me that didn't revel in the knowledge that I'd made her feel that way.

"Alright," she said, her smile softening. "I'll go get changed."

---

Dinner with Jazz was like breathing fresh, winter air after being stuffed inside a hotel room for a week. It was crisp and invigorating and left me just a little breathless. I loved every minute of it.

Once she'd gotten dressed in a sun dress that frankly looked sinful in how innocent it was, we had left in my car to a local Mexican place. Over tacos and flautas, Jazz told me stories about some of her fan base and the crazy antics that she'd seen in her most recent tour. I would never have thought that readers could be so into something that they'd pull the kind of shit I'd seen on some of my tours, but with each story from Jazz, I quickly learned that the music industry wasn't the only one with fanatical followings.

As I traded her story for story, I fell into the crystal pools of her eyes. Jazz was lively and energetic and the way she weaved a story left me feeling like I'd experienced it first hand. It wasn't hard to see how she had done well enough to be published; her way with words created a continuum of images in my brain that were potent and wonderful. She was a natural at explaining a situation, at pulling emotion from it and putting thought to words.

I didn't want to stop when we were done with the meal, and so I convinced her to walk with me for ice cream. As we strode the sidewalks of Detroit, I caught more than one man looking at her with interest, but she seemed oblivious to it. Instead, her sole focus was on talking with and listening to me. It was a boost to the fucking ego, the way she was with me. Rather than just an adoring fan, Jazz left me with the distinct impression that she wanted to know me - like she was peeling back pieces to understand who I was. As much as it would have normally felt intrusive, with her, it just flowed naturally.

"You know, if I'd known there was a chance that you'd ask me out, I'd never have told you that I was obsessed with you once upon a time." She said, finishing off her strawberry cone in the daintiest way I'd ever seen.

"Yeah?" I asked. "Why not?"

"Well, it's generally bad form to tell someone that if there's a chance they're going to want to kiss you. It's almost certain you'll scare them off." She said, her eyes twinkling. I stopped and faced her, raising a brow.

"And you think I'm going to want to kiss you?" I asked, fucking with her because I was becoming more certain as the time passed that, for as much as she turned me into a mud puddle of ridiculousness, I seemed to do the same thing to her.

"Well, shit." She muttered, looking away. "I thought so. Fuck," she mumbled and then started walking again.

I tagged her elbow, turning her to face me, and looked into her now doubting eyes. I stepped closer, lifting her chin with my thumb and forefinger as I bent my head and barely tasted her lips.

I'd intended to just do a light, first-date-appropriate kind of kiss. Unfortunately, my body and my mind weren't on the same page because the second I tasted the ice cream on her lips - the contrast of the heat from her mouth and the cold from the treat - I was fucking gone.

What started as a mere tasting turned into a deep, delving kiss that had her flush against me in a moment. I could feel the crush of her breasts against my chest as my arms slipped around her waist. Her long hair tickled at my forearms as one of her legs fell into the hollow of my own. It was perfection itself, but still not enough.

She hummed in her throat as she parted her lips to meet mine, her soft tongue sliding past my bottom lip just barely. I groaned at the feel, needing more. My left hand shifted up, tangling in her hair as I pulled her head to allow me to deepen the kiss further, to devour her mouth.

Jazz sucked on my tongue slightly, the erotic feel driving a spike of desire right to my dick. I tightened my hold on her, my hands probably gripping too tightly, but I was helpless to stop the reaction. I wanted her naked and underneath me, moaning and writhing. The mental images of her pleasure at my hands were so potent that I was aching for it to happen.

When I pulled back from the kiss, Jazz's eyes were sparked with dark blue around their rims. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips wet and slightly parted. She looked like I imagined she would just before climax and it was a sight that I knew, with absolutely certainty, that I needed to experience again.

"Well," she said as she looked up into my eyes. "You've ruined me for everyone else, now."