Author: Zarah

Pairing: "Eminem" Marshall Mathers/Justin Timberlake

Rating: NC-17

Warning: Harsh language.

Note: I wanted to wait a while before sending this out. After the recent happenings, it just didn't seem right. But I get the impression that we all could use something to take our minds off of these horrible attacks, so, after some thinking, I changed my mind. Maybe this will be enough to distract you for at least a few minutes.

Dedication: To those who died and to those who are left behind, shocked and in disbelief. I hope you all are okay, physically as well as emotionally.

Thanks to: Most of all: To Sai, because she helped me all along the way while I was writing this, no matter if I needed information, someone to discuss Eminem's character with, or someone to do the beta-reading. I'd also like to thank Penelope for reading it over, Maria for getting me informations.

Summary: Wherein Justin shakes his head at himself and Eminem doesn't ask the designated pop prince to like his music.

Timeline: This is set during/after the MTV Video Music Awards 2001. And yes, I know that Eminem most likely wasn't there, but: This is fiction, baby!

Disclaimer: I don't know *NSYNC or Eminem. I don't mean to imply anything about them. And I'd be very surprised if any of this were true.

Stop right here. Don't read any more. Why? Because I want to ask you something first: Are you able to see Eminem as anything but a mean-spirited little fucker (copyright by Sai)? As someone who might be worried about losing custody of his daughter? If the answer is no, I suggest you don't read this story. If the answer is yes:

You're allowed to move on to the story now. How generous of me! J


Open Fire

The limousine pulled to a stop in front of the red carpet, and Justin watched as Joey's face suddenly lit up, saw the sunny grin spreading over JC's face, the sudden appearance of Lance's smile and Chris's smirk. He felt the corners of his own mouth lift automatically, didn't even have to think about it. They were so used to the routine by now: Represent your image. Smile. Be happy. Be nice. And if you have a bad day, then don't show it.

It was all part of being *NSYNC, part of being a celebrity. Justin had to be Mr. Nice Guy in public, even though sometimes - today - he just didn't feel like smiling and laughing. Sometimes he wished he were, well,... Eminem, for example. Being able to tell people to fuck off if he didn't feel like talking to them, not having to watch his mouth all of the time, no smiles... There weren't many things he would enjoy more right now.

Although that might get annoying after some time, too, having to represent this bad guy image. Maybe Eminem actually wanted to be nice once a month and couldn't, at least not in public, because it didn't go along with his public persona?

Yeah, right.

Justin shook his head at himself and followed his four friends out of the limousine and into the flashes of light.


Let them have their pictures.



Fucking teenybopper bubble gum pop groups. Fucking teenybopper award shows. Fucking teenybopper award shows after show parties.

The peroxide blond man leaning against the wall was tempted to kick something, and the half filled garbage can just a few feet away seemed like a good option.

How the hell was he supposed to stand all those fake smiles, gleaming white teeth - probably fake, too - and carefully lifted faces? Watching all of them during the show had been bad enough: Having to sit quietly in his seat while Ms. Hit Me Baby One More Time - Gladly! he thought - was doing her own porn version of the Jungle Book, not commenting on the appearances of the Genie in a Bottle - should have just stayed in there, Christina! -, and, worst of all, not being able to diss the dancing, smiling image of insignificance, also known as *NSYNC.

Well, that and the fact that he hadn't won a single one of the categories he had been nominated for.

And now fucking record company wants me to stay for the fucking after show party and bear seeing all those fucking performances over and over again on a fucking big screen.

Well, hopefully no one would disturb him here, in the darkest corner of the roof terrace. After all, everyone was way too occupied with sucking up to other celebrities to think about going outside to enjoy the beautiful night.

Eminem sure wasn't complaining about that. It was absolutely none of his concern if Britney and Christina were trying to blind each other with the brightness of their smiles - although he would pay good money to see them performing a real life version of MTV's Celebrity Deathmatch.

Opting to kick the wall behind him with the heel of his sneakers rather than the garbage can, the rapper took another drag of his cigarette, stared miserably over the city stretched out beneath the building: New York, post of the Statue of Liberty.

He couldn't help the sarcastic snort. Freedom? Oh yeah, he was free, alright. Fuck this. He wasn't even free to leave this suck up after show party because record company wouldn't let him. He wasn't free to leave the country without consulting his lawyer first - the man sure was glad to have such a profitable client.

But most of all, he wasn't even free to see his little daughter when he wanted to.

The wall had to endure yet another kick, more forceful this time. Angry. Frustrated.

Should have taken something to drink with him, something to drown in. But he wasn't free to do that, either, unless he wanted to spend the next few years of his life behind bars. Fucking lawsuits.

Eminem cursed under his breath, let his head fall back against the wall with a soft thud.

One more hour. One more hour, and then he would leave this shit behind and go to his hotel room where no one would be able to see him, and maybe then he would down a drink or two, something to take away the initial pain. Only one more hour. He could do this.

To his right, the doors opened with a jerk, slammed shut a second later as if someone was mistreating them in fury, and then there were angry, fast steps towards his hiding place, stopping at the railing directly in front of him. Arms braced on the iron bar, the male newcomer mumbled something, bent his head, his breathing heavy and erratic.

Fucking fantastic. Exactly what Eminem needed right now.

After all, it wasn't as if he had chosen the darkest corner because he didn't want to deal with any other human being beside himself, right?

Motherfucker's forehead was resting on his crossed arms now, not yet having noticed that there was someone staring holes in his back. And what the hell was Justin fucking Timberlake doing out here, anyway? Shouldn't he be in there to have his ass kissed by all those people who wouldn't recognize good lyrics even if they had it shoved in their faces? All those motherfucking assholes who didn't even try to understand because they never in their whole life had to fight for something, because they couldn't even spell the word "poor".

Just like Justin Timberlake.

Hadn't the spoiled brat said that he listened to his music? As if Justin Timberlake would understand anything of what he was rapping about. Had the kid ever been laughed at? No. Not Justin fucking Timberlake, Golden Boy of the Media, with his fucking pop princess girlfriend. How could he dare saying that he liked Eminem's music if he so obviously couldn't even begin to understand it?


And not only had he said that he liked rap, no, asshole had said it with such an air of friendly condescension that it just made Eminem want to throw up right then and there. Had he asked the designated pop prince to like his music? Did he want the designated pop prince to like his music?


Damn right.

Yet fucking asshole acted as if he should be flattered that someone as golden and godlike as Justin Timberlake would like his music. What gave the kid the right to treat every other human being like some sort of servant?


Damn right again.

And what was motherfucker doing now? Turning his back to him, staring out over the city and ignoring that there was someone else on that roof terrace as well. Too high above Eminem to acknowledge his presence? Pretending not to notice him so that his purity wouldn't be stained by something as worthless as Slim Shady, eh?

But guess what? Slim Shady is going to destroy your purity, whether you like it or not.

The man at the railing heard the angry footsteps approaching him just in time to whirl around, finding himself face to face with a rather furious looking rapper. Not someone you'd choose to shake you out of thoughts you've been lost in. - Not that Justin Timberlake had any options to choose from.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I..." Automatically leaning backwards, away from those burning eyes, from that angry face, that nose that was almost touching his own.


"No!" Too quick. Not convincing.

"Didn't you say you listen to my music? Didn't you?"

"Yes." Talk. Keep talking. "I like it."

"Oh, do you? You know my lyrics, then?"

"Yes, of course." Come on, keep on talking. "I know them by heart."

"Is that so?" A cruel grin, like a predator a moment before attacking its prey.

Justin didn't like it, tried to get further away, but the railing was digging in his back, preventing him from backing away.

"If you know my lyrics, then you sure know the parts about what you call your little music group, don't you?"




"So, now that I got you alone, tell me: What's stopping me from doing what I rap about? From throwing you over that railing, for example? Can you give me one reason why I shouldn't do it?"

Eminem gripped the railing tightly, trapping the young singer with his own body.

It was strangely satisfying, having Justin Timberlake in a position like this, seeing everyone's darling bending backwards. He didn't really plan on actually hurting the little fucker, but it was about time to let him know who was dominating whom here. Eminem grinned, met the blue eyes staring up at him, saw them going wide and afraid and fucking... Pretty.

There was a sudden change in Eminem's expression, the flicker of an emotion Justin couldn't quite place; then the rapper angrily punched the railing, making it tremble slightly. He had missed Justin's side by mere inches.

When the young man looked up a second later, Eminem was gone, only the sound of the closing door proving that the encounter had actually happened.

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