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gul4bjamoons · 19 hours ago

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✩ worlds collide, part three;

marcus rashford ──────

confined by rigid expectations, a girl discovers an unexpected escape when she crosses paths with a daring boy on a football pitch.

⭑ wordcount : two thousand eight hundred twenty-four.

⭑ notes : i need to befriend more rashy fans :/ also this was way longer than expected

˙⋆✮ masterlist. part one. part two. ...

The days that followed were a blur. Your parents kept you on a tight leash, monitoring your every move. The freedom you’d cherished was gone, replaced by a suffocating sense of isolation.

You wanted to reach out to Marcus, to explain everything, but you didn’t know how. Your parents had confiscated your phone, and every attempt to leave the house was met with resistance. Eventually, you stopped trying.

Meanwhile, Marcus waited for you that first week, sitting on the bench by the pitch after his games, watching for any sign of you.

“She’s probably busy.” he told himself, kicking a loose pebble underfoot. “She’ll be here next time.”

But next time came and went, and you were nowhere to be found.

The weeks stretched into months, and Marcus’s hope began to wane. He’d ask around, but no one seemed to know anything about the girl who used to sit on the sidelines.

“She probably moved on,” Max had said. “Rich girls like her don’t stick around places like this.”

But Marcus didn’t believe that. Not you.

Despite the ache of your absence, Marcus threw himself into football. It was the one thing that made sense, the one thing he could control. His skills on the pitch earned him a spot in the academy, then the youth team, and eventually, a place in Manchester United.

He became everything he’d dreamed of—fast, agile, unstoppable. He was the kid from Wythenshawe who made it big, the one who defied the odds. The world knew his name, chanted it in stadiums, and plastered his face on billboards.

But even as he achieved greatness, a part of him always felt incomplete.

Late at night, when the noise of the world faded, Marcus would think of you. He’d remember the way you’d sit on the sidelines, your laughter ringing out whenever he tripped over the ball. He’d remember the way you’d encourage him to chase his dreams, your belief in him unwavering.

He’d wonder where you were, what you were doing, if you ever thought about him.

Sometimes, he’d drive through Wythenshawe, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. But the pitch was always empty, the streets quiet.

You were gone, like a dream he couldn’t hold onto.

Years later, during an interview, a reporter asked Marcus what kept him grounded despite his fame.

“My roots,” he said simply. “Where I come from. And… the people who believed in me before anyone else did.”

He didn’t elaborate, but as the cameras flashed and the reporters moved on to their next question, Marcus found himself thinking of you again.

You were the first person to truly see him, to believe in him. And no matter how much time passed, no matter how far he went, he couldn’t forget you. He longed to just speak to you again or steal a couple more laughs.

The ballroom shimmered with a golden glow, a blend of opulent chandeliers casting a warm light on the sea of tuxedos and evening gowns. The air buzzed with muted conversation, the clink of glasses, and the soft strains of a string quartet.

You moved through the room with practiced grace, your heart beating in rhythm with the cause you held dear—true philanthropy, not the showy gestures your parents preferred. It was another thing your parents had never quite understood. While your parents were busy charming their affluent peers, you were already speaking with representatives from a literacy program, planning your next charity event.

The scent of roses and lilies filled the air, mingling with the gentle hum of a string quartet that played in the background, weaving a melody that felt like a soft embrace. This wasn’t just a party; it was a celebration of grandeur and ambition, a testament to your parents’ new luxury resort chain that promised to be a haven for the world’s elite.

Near the bar Marcus Rashford could be seen, his fingers lightly tracing the rim of his glass. He wore a suit that fit him as if it were spun from midnight, every detail of his appearance meticulous, yet there was a softness in his eyes that betrayed his unease. He didn’t particularly love these events, where every smile held a hidden agenda, and every handshake was a silent transaction. But tonight, his presence was non-negotiable.

The invitation had arrived with all the subtlety of a command, his name carrying weight in circles where power and prestige were currency. His PR manager had gently insisted—“It’s important to show face, Marcus. These connections could be invaluable.” And so, here he stood, surrounded by opulence, a reluctant prince in a castle of wealth, his gaze occasionally drifting to the crowd, hoping to find an excuse to leave.

As he scanned the room, the music swelled, and for a fleeting moment, the noise faded into the background. The air seemed to still, and the world narrowed down to a heartbeat.

That’s when he saw you.

He was captivated hearing your laugh soft as you gestured animatedly while speaking to a group. You looked different—more poised, more polished—but those eyes… those were the same eyes he’d spent years dreaming about.

It had been five years, but how could he forget? The girl who’d believed in him before the world even knew his name. The one who used to watch him play with that wide-eyed curiosity. The one who had disappeared without a trace.

Marcus’s fingers tightened around his drink as he drew a breath, steadying the nerves that suddenly fluttered in his chest. The room, bustling with laughter and clinking glasses, seemed to dim around him. He wasn’t Marcus Rashford, the football star, in that moment. He was just a boy from Wythenshawe, trying to reconnect with someone who had once meant the world to him.

Gathering his courage, Marcus set down his glass and straightened his suit. He made his way across the room, weaving through the clusters of guests, his steps deliberate yet cautious, like he was approaching a dream that could dissipate at any second.

When he reached you, you were mid-laugh, your smile bright and captivating. The sound of your laughter filled him with warmth, but also a pang of longing for what once was. Clearing his throat softly, Marcus waited for you to finish speaking before gently interjecting.

“Excuse me,” he began, his voice steady but carrying a hint of the vulnerability he felt. “I couldn’t help but notice how passionately you were speaking about the literacy program.”

You turned, your eyes meeting his, polite curiosity flickering across your face. “Oh, thank you. It’s a cause I care deeply about.”

Marcus offered a small smile. “I can see that. It’s inspiring.”

There was a beat of silence. He watched as you took in his face, searching for familiarity, but it was clear—you didn’t recognize him. The realization hit him like a wave, a mixture of disappointment and understanding swirling within him.

“I’m Marcus,” he said, extending his hand. “Marcus Rashford.”

You accepted his handshake, your grip firm but your expression remaining impassive, friendly but detached. “It’s nice to meet you, Marcus.”

He swallowed the initial sting of not being recognized. It made sense. He had changed—a lot. Gone was the boy with worn-out trainers and a shy smile. In his place stood a man who had climbed the heights of fame, his physique honed by years of discipline on the pitch. His once soft, boyish features had sharpened, now framed by a neatly trimmed beard and moustache that added a layer of maturity to his face. Every part of him, from his confident stance to the polished lines of his tailored suit, was a testament to the man he had become—refined, composed, and far removed from the boy you met on the pitch.

Forcing himself to relax, Marcus continued, his voice tinged with genuine curiosity. “It’s clear you’re passionate about what you do here. It’s admirable, really. Not everyone dedicates themselves so fully.”

Your smile widened slightly, but there was a flicker of something in your eyes—guardedness, perhaps, or distraction. “Thank you. It means a lot to me, more than I can put into words.”

The conversation felt suspended in time, the hum of the gala a mere backdrop to the tentative connection between you. Marcus wanted to push further, to bridge the gap years had created, but before he could speak again, another guest approached, drawing your attention away with a polite urgency.

You excused yourself with a soft apology, leaving Marcus standing there, his hand slipping back into his pocket, his heart caught in a quiet ache. The opportunity had slipped through his fingers, yet the resolve in his chest hardened—this wasn’t the end.

As you disappeared into the crowd, Marcus exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging with a weight only he could feel. He wasn’t the boy you once knew, and perhaps that was for the best. His childhood in Wythenshawe still lingered in his mind. Back then, all he had to offer was potential, a promise whispered to himself on the quiet streets.

Now, he stood on the opposite end of that promise, cloaked in fame and fortune, hoping these would be the tools to bridge the chasm between his humble beginnings and the life you led. He believed you deserve someone who could command a room, someone whose name was met with admiration and reverence. Someone with power, influence, and the means to give you the world.

Marcus clenched his jaw, pushing down the doubts that bubbled to the surface. Maybe you not recognizing him was a good thing. Maybe fame and success would capture your attention, perhaps even win the approval of your parents, who only saw worth in status and affluence. After all, he had built himself into a man they couldn’t ignore.

As the moon rose higher, Marcus reappeared, gliding toward you through the soft glow of the ballroom, his every step measured, confident. Your parents noticed him before you did, their faces lighting up like chandeliers at his approach. His name was music to their ears, a melody of success and prestige.

“Marcus, such a pleasure!” your mother gushed, her eyes sparkling as if she had just caught sight of a rare gem. “We’ve been hearing so much about your accomplishments.”

Your father extended his hand, his grip firm, a silent acknowledgment of Marcus’s stature. “Remarkable, what you’ve achieved.”

You turned to Marcus, a smile already curving your lips, warmed by the earlier interaction, hopeful for something more meaningful now. He met your gaze briefly, his eyes softening for a moment, before the conversation unfolded.

“Thank you,” Marcus began, his voice smooth, crafted to charm. “It’s been a journey, one that’s taken me to places I once only dreamed of.”

At first, his words held a certain allure, drawing you in with the promise of shared stories and deeper connections. But soon, the narrative shifted, the light in his eyes gleaming with something else.

He spoke of his latest acquisitions, each word gilded with the shimmer of wealth. “I’ve just added another property to my collection, a stunning estate near the Hale Barns. The architecture is simply exquisite, a perfect retreat.”

Your parents leaned in, captivated by the luxury that Marcus effortlessly wove into the conversation. But for you, each word chipped away at your initial thoughts of him, revealing a man encased in the armor of his own success. You should've known he would be just like the rest of the guests in attendance.

“And the yacht,” he continued, his smile easy, “is modest by some standards, but it turns enough heads in Monaco.”

Your heart, which had lifted at his earlier approach, now felt heavy, a quiet ache of disappointment settling in as you watched him perform for your parents, each phrase crafted to impress, but none meant for you. You were left standing amid the sparkle of riches, a sea of words that felt shallow in the grand ballroom of your expectations. A mix of irritation and disappointment bubbling beneath your composed exterior.

You forced a smile, the effort sharp on your lips as Marcus’s words wrapped around you like a gilded chain, heavy with the weight of his wealth. "Excuse me," you murmured softly, your fingers brushing your mother’s arm, a silent plea for escape. "I need to check on something."

Your mother barely registered the shift in your tone, her attention wholly consumed by the glossy narrative Marcus spun before her. She was entranced by the tale of his latest venture, too absorbed to notice the coolness in your voice, the disquiet lingering beneath your skin. Marcus’s eyes, a flash of disappointment, flickered toward you as you moved away, his lips parting as if to protest—but before the words could form, your father’s hand landed firmly on his shoulder, drawing him back into the conversation with effortless ease.

Marcus’s gaze held on you for a moment longer, a magnetic pull, but the gravity of your parents’ interest soon anchored him to the crowd. You slipped away, the weight of his eyes a soft pressure at your back, yet the gentle hum of the party receded as you made your way into the cool embrace of the kitchen.

Here, the air was different—fresher, lighter, a refuge from the glittering chaos that had felt so suffocating moments ago. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon mingled in the air, comforting and familiar, wrapping around you like an old, well-worn sweater. You exhaled slowly, your lungs filling with the quiet, and leaned back against the counter, allowing the stillness to wash over you.

Mrs. Peters, the cook and wife of the family’s driver, stood at the heart of the kitchen, her hands steady as she placed a delicate dessert onto a porcelain plate. She was a woman whose presence always soothed you—silver hair soft as moonlight framed her face, her eyes sharp with a knowing kindness that saw more than most could imagine.

She met your gaze immediately, reading the quiet turmoil behind your eyes. Without a word, she slid the plate toward you, the sweet aroma of the cake mingling with the soft warmth of the room. A knowing smile curled at the corners of her lips, like she understood more than you’d let on.

“What’s got you frowning sweetheart?” she asked, her voice a gentle balm to your frazzled nerves.

You sank into a chair, the wood cool beneath you, and let the words spill out, the frustration in your chest finally finding its voice. “Just egotistical guests, his name is Marcus.” you huffed, the name falling from your lips like a tired sigh. “I thought there was something real there, something different. But all he does is brag about his fortune... his connections… it’s like he’s just another one of them.”

Mrs. Peters, who had been tidying the counter with a dish towel, paused and raised an eyebrow. Her hands rested on the cloth, her gaze steady, considering. “Marcus Rashford? He seems like a nice young man to me. Infact helped me earlier tonight, when I was struggling with the trays. A real gentleman.”

Your mind flickered, caught between two conflicting images of the man—one of a suave, self-assured charmer, the other of the man she described, helping, gentle. You couldn’t reconcile them. “Maybe he’s good at pretending,” you murmured, the words thick with uncertainty.

She chuckled softly, the sound a melodic hum that seemed to settle the air around you. Her eyes twinkled with something unspoken as she moved toward the stove, her voice carrying the comfort of experience. “He’s done more than you know, love. Charity work, from what I hear. Doesn’t boast about that, though.”

You blinked, the words catching you off guard. Is that why he was so intrigued earlier?

“Charity?” you repeated, your voice softening, a flicker of curiosity replacing the simmering frustration.

Mrs. Peters nodded, her smile gentle but knowing. “Yes, dear. He’s made a real difference for many people. Not just with his wealth, but with his time. He gives when it’s asked of him, no questions, no fanfare.”

Her words settled in your mind like soft rain on dry earth, the image of Marcus shifting, slipping from the polished façade you’d created in your mind. He had been a mystery to you, but now there were layers you hadn’t considered, depths you hadn’t seen.

Your fingers drummed lightly on the edge of the counter as you mulled over her words. Marcus—this man you had dismissed as another one of the polished, self-absorbed rich men you’d grown so weary of—wasn't quite the person you'd thought he was. There was more to him than the image he so carefully cultivated, more beneath the surface than the stories he told.

For the first time that evening, a flicker of something like hope stirred in your chest—a glimmer of the possibility that perhaps the footballer wasn’t entirely what you had imagined him to be.

#marcus rashford #soccer #imagines #manchester united #manchester united imagines #football imagines #premier league #marcus rashford x reader #rashford x reader

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gul4bjamoons · 2 days ago

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✩ wedding plans;

jamal musiala ft. michael olise ──────

planning for michael’s wedding makes jamal wonder about his own.

⭑ word count : one thousand six hundred twenty.

⭑ notes : i wanted to write fluff, but hopefully its not too overbearing

˙⋆✮ masterlist.

The crisp spring breeze carried the promise of summer as Jamal pulled you closer, his hand snugly clasping yours. The two of you had just arrived at Michael Olise’s favorite café, a modest spot tucked into a quiet corner of Munich. Michael and his fiancé were already there, seated at a small table adorned with wedding planning binders, color swatches, and an open laptop. The scene was so unlike the Michael Olise you’d come to know that you couldn’t help but stifle a giggle.

Michael was usually the embodiment of cool indifference—a player so composed on and off the pitch that it bordered on comedic. Nothing fazed him. He always had a deadpan response for every situation, even when Jamal would crack the kind of jokes that had everyone else doubled over.

But today?

Today, he looked like he was plotting the heist of the century as he discussed floral arrangements with his fiancé, an absolutely lovely woman who was as detail-oriented as Michael was laid-back.

“About time Jamal.” Michael stated to the two of you as Jamal helped pull out your chair.

“You told us to meet you at noon; the clock hasn’t even hit twelve yet.” Jamal pointed out, grinning as he leaned back in his chair, his arm draping instinctively over the back of yours.

Michael’s fiancé, Imani, laughed, her eyes sparkling as she reached over to pat his hand. “He’s just stressed. Don’t mind him.”

“Stressed?” Jamal asked with raised eyebrows, glancing at you like you were both witnessing a rare phenomenon. “Michael doesn’t get stressed.”

“He does now,” you teased, shooting Michael a smirk. “Apparently, weddings are his kryptonite.”

Michael rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, which was a win in itself. You’d learned over the years that Jamal and Michael’s friendship was built on this kind of easy ribbing.

They were polar opposites in many ways—Jamal was warm and expressive, while Michael was cool and reserved—but their bond was undeniable. And as Jamal’s girlfriend, you’d been lucky enough to be pulled into their tight-knit circle.

Imani laughed softly. “Honestly, he’s been amazing. You should’ve seen him at the cake tasting. He took notes.”

“Notes?” Jamal said, feigning shock. “Olise took notes?”

Michael shot him a glare that was more amused than annoyed. “Do you two want to help, or are you just here to annoy me?”

“Bit of both,” you said cheekily, and even Michael had to laugh at that.

The next hour was spent flipping through endless photographs of flower arrangements and venue setups. Jamal kept leaning over to whisper funny comments in your ear, his breath warm against your skin. You tried to keep a straight face, but when he pointed out that Michael’s intense focus on table linens looked like he was deciding on where to aim a penalty kick, you lost it.

“Okay, okay,” Michael said, pretending to be exasperated as Jamal tried to keep a straight face.

“Laugh it up. But wait until it’s your turn. I’m going to make you suffer through cake tastings and centerpiece debates.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Jamal replied, winking at you.

The wedding planning wasn’t just confined to these casual afternoons, though. In the weeks leading up to the big day, you found yourself spending more time with Imani than you ever thought possible. The two of you had bonded over dress fittings, invitation designs, and brainstorming ways to keep this information away from the public.

She was sharp-witted and kind, with a calm presence that seemed to balance out Michael’s newfound stress. It was clear to everyone who saw them together how much Michael adored her.

“Have you ever seen him like this?” you asked Jamal one evening as you lounged on the couch in his apartment. The two of you were scrolling through pictures of potential bridesmaid dresses.

“Never,” Jamal said, shaking his head with a smile. “It’s hilarious. Michael’s the guy who barely flinches when Davies tackles him at full speed, but when we went to the jewelers he’s suddenly sweating.”

You laughed, leaning into Jamal’s side as he slipped an arm around your shoulders. “It’s sweet, though. You can tell how much he loves her.”

Jamal kissed the top of your head. “Yeah, he got lucky. Kind of like I did.”

It was moments like these that made your relationship with Jamal feel so special. Even amidst all the chaos of wedding prep, he always found ways to remind you how much he cared.

The week of the wedding, the Bayern Munich squad got involved in the preparation. Alphonso Davies, Harry Kane, and a few of the other players insisted on throwing Michael a dinner celebration. The night was full of jokes and friendly teasing.

“So, Michael,” Alphonso said as they all lounged in a private booth at a trendy Munich bar. “What’s it like being whipped?”

Michael gave him a withering look as Imani blushed. “Do you ever get tired of talking?”

Harry Kane laughed, shaking his head. “He’s been whipped for years. He just hid it well.”

Jamal, who was sitting next to you, smirked. “It’s true. Remember when he bailed during our FIFA match to go watch a movie with her?”

“That was one time,” Michael muttered, but the tips of his ears were pink.

You and Jamal exchanged amused glances. It was rare to see Michael this flustered, and you had to admit, it was fun to watch. But, of course, the teasing eventually turned on you and Jamal.

“So, when are we getting invites to your wedding?” Alphonso asked, grinning mischievously.

Jamal choked on his drink, and you felt your face heat up. “Um—”.

“Oh, come on,” Harry said, clearly enjoying this. “You’ve been together for years. What’s the hold-up?”

Jamal shot him a glare, but there was no real malice in it. “How about we focus on Michael’s wedding first?”

The wedding was everything Michael and Imani had envisioned: elegant, romantic, and full of personal touches that perfectly captured their relationship. As the ceremony unfolded, you couldn’t help but squeeze Jamal’s hand tighter. The cool breeze from the vineyard mixed with the soft murmur of the guests, and for a moment, it felt like time had stopped.

You, ever the observant one, seemed to notice all the small details—Michael’s hand shaking as he held Imani’s, the way Imani beamed as she walked down the aisle, and how Michael’s eyes softened when their hands met. Jamal’s thumb gently brushed over your knuckles as you both watched the couple exchange their vows.

“You good?” he asked in a quiet tone, his breath warm against your ear.

You nodded, blinking back a tear. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… a little overwhelmed, I guess.”

Jamal’s smile softened, and he leaned in closer, his forehead lightly touching yours. “I get that. It’s a lot of love in the air.”

“You’re not wrong,” you whispered back, feeling your heart flutter. “It’s just so… real.”

Jamal squeezed your hand tighter, his voice a little lower now. “I know what you mean. But hey, I’m glad we’re here. Together.”

You turned your head slightly, catching his eye. “Always,” you said, the words feeling like a promise as much as a response.

The ceremony continued, but you could feel Jamal’s attention lingering on you. As the vows were exchanged, he kept glancing at you with that signature, soft smile of his—the one that made your heart skip a beat. You both watched Michael, a man who had always been so composed, lose his cool for the first time in a long while. His eyes glistened as he looked at Imani, and that made Jamal chuckle beside you.

“You think he’s gonna lose it when they kiss?” Jamal murmured, his lips near your ear again.

You let out a quiet laugh. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

When they did share that first kiss as husband and wife, Michael wiped his eyes quickly, and you caught Jamal’s eye, both of you trying to suppress your laughter.

“Okay, I admit it,” Jamal said in a mock-serious tone, “that was a really sweet moment.”

“Really sweet,” you agreed, your voice teasing but with a fond undertone.

Once the ceremony ended and the reception kicked off, the playful atmosphere returned. You and Jamal found yourselves twirling on the dance floor, his hands secure on your waist as he moved you in a slow circle.

He leaned down close, his lips brushing your ear. “How’s this? The song’s not overly romantic, is it?”

You chuckled, feeling his warmth radiating against you. “It’s way too cheesy.” you said softly, your fingers brushing the back of his neck.

Jamal smirked, twirling you with a little flourish, making you laugh. “Oh? So, why are you still here then? Am I just that good of a dancer?”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “You wish.”

His smile widened as he pulled you back into a close hold. “Well I must be decent enough to keep you around, huh?”

You pressed your cheek against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and calm beneath your ear. “You’ve definitely got me. For good.”

Jamal’s voice dropped low again, the teasing tone from earlier gone. “I can’t imagine my life without you in it. I don’t want to, either.”

You lifted your head to meet his gaze, the sincerity in his eyes making your chest tighten. “Me neither.”

As the night went on, the fun continued—jokes from the other boys, Michael rolling his eyes at Jamal’s speech, and plenty of cake. But through it all, Jamal never let you out of his arms. He was constantly pulling you closer, stealing small kisses, and murmuring little sweet things that made your heart feel full.

#jamal musiala #soccer #imagines #football imagines #football #bayern munich #alphonso davies #harry kane #michael olise #musiala x reader #jamal musiala x reader

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gul4bjamoons · 2 days ago

Text

✩ worlds collide, part two;

marcus rashford ──────

confined by rigid expectations, a girl discovers an unexpected escape when she crosses paths with a daring boy on a football pitch.

⭑ wordcount : two thousand four hundred thirty-six.

⭑ notes : idk if i should edit my writings to make them shorter but oh well

˙⋆✮ masterlist. part one. ... part three.

After that first encounter on the pitch, a door inside you creaked open. It wasn’t sudden, like a storm breaking, but a quiet shift—a tremor that only you could feel. At first, it was just a spark: a smile from Marcus that made your chest flutter. But soon it became harder to ignore. Each time you walked into the silence of your piano room, the space between the keys felt heavier. Your fingers, once accustomed to the smooth glide of polished ivories, itched for something else, something that made you feel.

The lessons went on, as planned. Dutiful. Predictable. But it was the hours after—those stolen minutes—that began to breathe new life into you, that small, secret world where no one could touch you.

It started with little lies. You’d tell Mr. Peters you needed just a bit more time on your scales. “My instructor wants me to practice longer,” you’d say, though the words burned on your tongue, thick with rebellion. He never questioned you—just nodded politely and left you in peace. But the scales? They didn’t matter.

The pitch did.

You convinced yourself it was curiosity that pulled you there, the way the boys moved with the ball, their feet working in perfect sync, as though they spoke in a language only they understood. You watched Marcus like he was the sun, glowing too bright to touch but impossible to ignore. When he sprinted, his legs worked like fluid, muscles rippling beneath his shorts.

And when he caught your gaze, when that grin flickered across his face, it set something off inside you. You'd play it cool, of course, but you’d never be able to hide the way your heart raced.

"You don't have to pretend," he’d tease, those words slipping through the air like a dare. "I know you think I’m good."

You’d shrug, your cheeks warm despite the bravado. “You’re alright, I guess.”

His eyes would light up, mischief dancing there. "Alright? I’m the best on this pitch.”

The way he said it wasn’t boastful—it was just fact, a truth he carried so naturally that anyone who had seen him play would agree. And you? You didn’t need to see more. You could hear it in the sound of the ball thumping against the ground, in the way his friends cheered when he scored, in the sharpness of his movements that made the whole game feel like poetry in motion.

Marcus had a way of teaching you about football that was both casual and patient, like he was handing you the secrets to a world you’d never quite understood before. He’d start small, explaining the basic rules while you sat cross-legged on the grass, the evening sun casting long shadows across the pitch. The other boys would drift in and out, offering tips here and there, teasing you in a way that made you laugh instead of feel self-conscious. They were all surprisingly kind, helping you with your footwork, showing you how to balance on the ball, how to kick it with the right amount of power without overthinking it.

One evening, after you’d missed a pass and sent the ball rolling awkwardly to the side, Marcus grinned and shook his head, pulling something from his bag. "Here," he said, tossing you a pair of scuffed cleats. "You need something with more grip." You took them, unsure at first. They were a little too big for you—his old pair, clearly well-worn and loved—but there was something about them that made you feel like the likes of Maradona. “Thanks,” you said quietly, already feeling the weight of them, the smell of leather and grass lingering in the air.

“I had them when I was younger,” Marcus said, almost as if the cleats held some quiet, unspoken story. “They’re a bit loose, but they’ll help you out.”

You smiled to yourself as the leather straps barely cinched around your ankles. They were too big, but somehow they made you feel... connected to something bigger. You’d hide them in your bag afterward, nestling them beneath textbooks.

And every time you put them on, every time you ran across the grass, the shoes seemed to fill you with something more than just a love for the game. They filled you with the thrill of having something just for yourself—something no one else could take away.

At first, the minutes you stole were small. Just fifteen extra minutes after lessons, then thirty, sometimes an hour. You’d tell Mr. Peters the same lie about needing more time with the piano, but it wasn’t the piano you wanted. It was the feeling—the rush of running across the field, the cool grass underfoot, the sound of your breath in the quiet space between.

You told yourself it was all about practice, that you were refining something. But what you were really refining was the ability to breathe—to exist somewhere without the weight of your parents' expectations pressing on your chest.

But despite the careful lies—about a recital or memorizing notes—there was something in Mr. Peters' eyes that made your stomach twist. He never said a word, but you caught the way his gaze lingered a little too long when you’d show up with grass on your clothes. The small, knowing pauses. It made you wonder if he saw right through it all.

His silence felt like an unspoken understanding, one that made your chest tighten. You were careful, so careful, to keep it all hidden. You’d always be 10 minutes early to the other side of the block to get picked up, or have the cleats hidden beneath layers of clothes, never letting them see the light of day. You’d race to meet Marcus after your lessons, heart thumping in your chest, always half-expecting Mr. Peters to catch you, to ask you where you were really coming from, what you were really doing.

And then there was Marcus. The more time you spent with him, the more you saw beyond the easy confidence, the smirk, the laughter. One evening, after the game, when the field had emptied and the sun hung low in the sky, he sat beside you, his expression unguarded for once.

“I don’t know,” he murmured, staring down at the ball like it held the answers to a question you couldn’t hear. “I don’t know if I could ever play for a real club.”

You frowned, unsure of what he meant. “What? Why?”

He shrugged, kicking at the grass. “What if I’m not good enough?”

Your heart ached. The boy who seemed to glide across the field now sounded unsure, small in a way you hadn’t expected. You leaned in, your voice firm.

“Marcus, that’s ridiculous. You’re incredible. Anyone can see that.”

He glanced at you, searching your face, as if he needed to hear the truth from your lips. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” you said, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to pause.

A grin spread across his face, one that was real, unguarded. “Alright then. Maybe I’ll give it a shot someday.”

That day came sooner than you thought.

Weeks later, he dropped the news: “We’ve got our first match this weekend.”

You felt your breath catch. “That’s amazing!” The thought of him playing at something bigger, something more real, filled you with pride you hadn’t expected.

But as the months passed, and the victories piled up, something else started to grow between you—something quiet, something steady. You’d tell him about your parents, how they never really saw you. “They don’t care about what I want,” you confessed one evening, eyes downcast. “It’s always about what looks good on paper. Piano lessons, galas, perfect behavior... none of it feels like me.”

He stiffened, voice tight. “That’s crap. You should do what makes you happy.”

It made you laugh—bitter, hollow. “Easier said than done.”

“Well,” he grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief, “at least you’ve got me to keep things interesting.”

And for a moment, in the quiet between you both, it felt like a promise.

The evening started like any other. You were waiting by the pitch, still humming the scales in your head, heart racing with that familiar anticipation. And then you saw them—your parents, standing by Mr. Peters’ car, their bodies rigid, their expressions too knowing.

“What is going on here?” Your father demanded, his voice sharp as a blade.

Your heart skipped a beat. Panic flooded your chest, suffocating you.

“I—uh, I was just—” You swallowed, trying to find the words, but your tongue felt heavy.

Your mother cut in before you could finish. “Not practicing your piano?” Her voice was an icy whisper, and you knew it wasn’t a question—it was an accusation. Her arms crossed over her chest, her stance unyielding, as though she already knew everything. “Do you think we don’t notice? You’ve been sneaking off, haven’t you?”

Your pulse pounded in your ears. They couldn’t know. They couldn’t have found out about the cleats.

“I wasn’t—” You hesitated, desperately searching for a way to twist the truth, but everything seemed to crumble as the lie formed in your throat. “I was just... watching. I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

Your father raised an eyebrow, his expression unimpressed. “Watching?” His voice lowered dangerously. “You’ve been here more than once. We’ve heard things, from Mrs. Davies. She saw you with a boy. Who is he?”

Your mind raced. What boy? You tried to keep your face neutral, but the blood had drained from your cheeks. “I—I don’t know what you mean. There’s no boy. I’m just... friends with some of the people here.” You could hear the panic creeping into your voice. You knew they wouldn’t believe you, but you couldn’t stop yourself from trying.

"Really?" Your father's voice was like ice. "Is that what you’re calling him? Some friend?"

Your mother didn’t wait for you to answer. “Are you really acting out of line for some boy? Is that what this is about?” Her voice sliced through the air, sharp and laced with disdain.

It wasn’t about some boy at all. It was about something far more complicated—something she wouldn’t understand. Something you couldn’t put into words. The truth was, Marcus was only a small part of it.

Yes, his presence was nice, his smile contagious, the way he moved on the field something that made your chest flutter. But in reality it was this hobby that allowed you to finally have something that was yours, despite how awful you were at it. It wasn’t just about him—it was about how you felt when the ball was at your feet, when everyone outside seemed to fade away and all that mattered was the rhythm of your body, the chase, the joy of movement. In those stolen moments on the pitch, you felt something you hadn’t felt in so long: alive. You felt like you could breathe without the weight of expectations crushing you down, like you could shed the perfect daughter you were supposed to be and just be yourself, messy and free.

Your mothers glare taking you out of your thoughts, her eyes like two cold knives. “Do you have any idea what people will think if they find out our daughter is running around with people from—”

“No!” you interjected quickly, your voice trembling. You could feel the walls closing in, the heat of their stares making it hard to breathe.

You glanced over your shoulder, hoping Marcus might appear, some kind of rescue, but the pitch barely held anyone. Where was he?

"Don't lie to us," your father snapped, cutting through your thoughts.

"You're coming home now." Your mother grabbed your arm, her fingers digging into your skin with surprising strength, and started to drag you toward the car.

You tried to pull away, but her grip was ironclad, and the only thing you could do was stumble after her, feeling every ounce of your defiance slip away.

It wasn’t until you were in the backseat of the car, the door slamming shut with a finality that made your stomach lurch, that you felt the heat of the shame settle in. Your parents didn’t speak as they drove, but their silence felt heavier than any argument. You kept your gaze fixed on the window, watching the streetlights blur past, wishing the world outside could swallow you whole.

When you finally arrived home, your parents wasted no time. Your father’s lecture commenced and all you wanted to do was disappear.

And then, just when you thought it couldn’t get worse, your mother started going through your bag. You saw her hand pause, hovering over the bag as if she could sense what was inside. Your stomach dropped.

“What's this?” she asked, pulling the bag out with one smooth motion. The unmistakable shape of cleats pressed against the fabric. She yanked them out, and there they were—the old, worn cleats, scuffed and faded from years of use.

Your breath hitched.

No. No, no, no.

“Whose are these?” Your father’s voice was dangerously quiet now. He held them up, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

You froze, your mind a blank canvas. You started to speak. The lie was on the tip of your tongue, but there was no way to twist the truth now.

“Enough!” your father barked, his voice shaking the walls. “You’re done with this. No more football. No more lies.”

You opened your mouth again to protest, to say that they didn’t understand, but he was already taking charge. “I’ll just pay for your instructor to come to the house. You need to focus on your future young lady.” he demanded.

“I am focusing on my future! All I wanted was some free-” you shouted, but the words were already swallowed by the oppressive silence.

Your mother yanked your collar as she cuts you off, her eyes cold. “This ends now. Do you understand me?”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

Later, as the night stretched on in that oppressive silence, you sat in your room, your heart a heavy weight in your chest.

The cleats lay in the trash can, a reminder of the world you’d lost.

You hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye.

And as you looked at them one last time, the weight of your parents' fury felt like it was crushing you. You didn’t know when you would see Marcus again. You didn’t know how long the silence would last.

But you knew one thing for sure: something precious had been ripped from you. And you knew, with a sharp ache in your chest, that this—whatever it had been—was over.

#rashford x reader #marcus rashford x reader #premier league imagines #football imagines #marcus rashford #rashford #football imagine

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gul4bjamoons · 2 days ago

Text

✩ worlds collide, part one;

marcus rashford ──────

confined by rigid expectations, a girl discovers an unexpected escape when she crosses paths with a daring boy on a football pitch.

⭑ wordcount : one thousand six hundred sixty-six.

⭑ notes : this is my first fic so hopefully the writing + formatting isn’t horrendous, enjoy!! <3

˙⋆✮ masterlist. ... part two. part three.

The old piano sat in the corner of the dimly lit room, its once-pristine keys now yellowed and worn with age. To you, they felt as foreign as the glimmering chandeliers back home—symbols of wealth, status, and comfort, yes, but also of something suffocating, a life polished to perfection but hollow at its core. The air was heavy with the dust of forgotten melodies as you sat on the hard, unforgiving bench, your fingers pressing random notes, the sound brittle and faint in the stillness.

Your piano instructor had stepped out for just a moment, but you barely noticed. Every week, your parents sent you to Wythenshawe for these lessons. Not that you had a choice. Your father, with his stern beliefs and unyielding expectations, often said, “A young lady must cultivate grace.” And grace, apparently, was to be found by hammering out tedious, unfeeling notes on a piano you had no passion for. Football? That wasn’t even a conversation you were allowed to have. While the boys in your neighborhood ran free in their gardens, kicking a ball in the crisp air, you were instructed to sit still, to stay poised, to never let anything ruffle the perfect image your parents had crafted for you.

But there was one small comfort in these trips—one glimmer of warmth in the cold routine—and that comfort was Mr. Peters. Your driver. A quiet, older man with silver hair and a soft smile that never seemed to waver, even when the world around him demanded nothing less than perfection. He and his wife, Mrs. Peters, had worked for your family for years, and though your household was built on a foundation of rules and rigid expectations, Mr. Peters had always been a kind presence, understanding without judgment.

Sometimes, he ran late. But you never minded. It wasn’t an inconvenience—it was a small reprieve, a sliver of freedom that you secretly cherished. The few moments after your lesson, before he arrived, felt like a rare opportunity to breathe.

Wythenshawe was nothing like the sterile world of your home. The streets pulsed with a life you could never quite grasp. Kids dashed through narrow alleyways, the air rich with the scent of street food, and laughter echoed from every corner. It was messy, chaotic, and yet there was something deeply comforting about it, something your carefully constructed world of glass walls and perfectly arranged table settings could never offer.

This evening, as you stepped out of the piano studio, the familiar sound of boys shouting and laughing caught your ear. Across the street, a ragged football pitch came to life under the fading light. The boys ran after the ball with a raw energy you envied, their carefree movements a stark contrast to your own constrained existence. The freedom they wore like a second skin made your chest tighten.

You should have walked away, you told yourself. You should have waited for Mr. Peters, gone home to your world of order and expectations. But curiosity pulled you in like a magnet, and without a second thought, you crossed the street, your heels clicking on the pavement, feeling out of place among the dust and grass.

You stayed at the edge of the pitch, half-hidden in the shadows, watching the boys play. Their energy was magnetic, their movements effortless, unburdened by the weight of appearances. They didn’t care who was watching, didn’t care what anyone thought. They were free. And for a moment, you wanted nothing more than to be part of that world.

But your attempt at remaining invisible didn’t last long.

One of the boys—a little taller than the rest, with a playful spark in his eyes—kicked the ball too hard. It flew through the air, heading straight for you before you could even react. It struck your shin lightly, the impact sharp enough to snap you out of your reverie.

“Oi, who’s that?” the boy called out, jogging over with his friends trailing behind. The group circled around you, their laughter sharp and teasing.

“Why’re you wearing heels on a football pitch?” one of the boys called out, his voice dripping with mockery. “Did you get lost on your way to the posh side of town?”

You shrank back, suddenly acutely aware of how out of place you must look. The laughter around you felt biting, relentless, and you didn’t know how to respond.

Then, from behind the crowd, a voice cut through the teasing like a cool breeze. “Oi, Max. Shut it.”

The group fell silent for a moment, and you turned to see the source of the interruption. A boy, your age, stood a few feet away. His dark eyes were calm but sharp, his posture relaxed, but there was an undeniable air of quiet authority around him. He wasn’t loud, wasn’t boisterous like the others, but there was something about him that commanded respect.

Max groaned in frustration but didn’t argue. “We’re just messing about, Marcus.”

Marcus didn’t flinch. “Next time, make sure the joke’s actually funny,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind.

The others mumbled under their breath, but one by one, they returned to the game, leaving you alone with Marcus. He didn’t move immediately, his gaze still fixed on you.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice softer now, more concerned.

You nodded, though you were still shaken. “Yeah. I’m fine. Thanks.”

He smiled, the kind of smile that made you feel like you could finally exhale. It was warm, boyish, and suddenly, everything felt a little lighter. “Don’t mind them. They’re just messing around. They’re harmless, really.”

You studied him for a moment, intrigued. His clothes were simple—a faded hoodie, scuffed trainers—but there was a quiet confidence in the way he carried himself, something that made him stand apart from the rest.

“What about you?” you asked, your voice hesitant. “You’re not like them.”

He chuckled, a light, easy sound. “Guess not. But I’m still one of them.”

For a brief moment, the two of you just stood there, in the stillness of the moment, until Marcus picked up the ball that had rolled to the side of the pitch and spun it absently in his hands.

“You play often?” he asked, nodding toward the ball.

You shook your head. “Not really. My parents… they don’t think it’s proper,” you said quietly. “It’s not… lady-like.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Proper? Football’s for everyone.”

“Not in my family,” you muttered under your breath.

He tilted his head, his gaze curious. “Wanna give it a try?”

You hesitated, looking around. “I don’t know…”

“Come on,” he said, his grin widening. “I’ll show you some tricks. No one’s watching.”

The warmth in his smile was impossible to resist. Tentatively, you stepped onto the pitch, your heart pounding just a little faster. Marcus handed you the ball, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Alright,” he said, stepping back a few paces. “First rule of football—don’t be scared of the ball.”

You laughed nervously. “Easier said than done.”

“Trust me,” he said, his voice reassuring. “Just keep it moving. Like this.”

He demonstrated, dribbling the ball expertly, keeping it close, his movements smooth and fluid. Then, he passed it to you.

The ball slipped away from your feet almost immediately, rolling further than you’d intended. You stumbled forward, awkwardly trying to regain control, but Marcus was already jogging to retrieve it.

“Not bad for a first try,” he teased lightly, but there was no malice in his voice—only encouragement.

For the next few minutes, Marcus patiently guided you, showing you basic moves, teaching you how to control the ball, how to move with it. His hands were gentle, his voice calm, never mocking when you fumbled. He made everything feel possible.

“You’re a fast learner,” he said, passing the ball back to you.

You grinned, feeling a spark of something—joy, maybe. “You’re a good teacher.”

He shrugged, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve been playing since I was little. It’s kind of my thing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to go pro one day?”

Marcus’s face lit up with a quiet fire. “Yeah. I mean, it’s a long shot, but… I’d love to play for Manchester United.”

There was something in the way he said it—no hesitation, no doubt—that made you believe him. “I think you could do it,” you said sincerely.

He glanced at you, surprised. “You don’t even know me.”

“Maybe not,” you smiled. “But I can tell you’re good at this. And you’ve got that… fire. You’ll work hard enough to make it happen.”

For a moment, Marcus didn’t speak. Then, slowly, he gave you a smile, softer now, more genuine than before. “Thanks.”

The sound of a car horn broke the moment. You turned to see Mr. Peters pulling up to the curb, his familiar smile visible through the window.

“Guess that’s my ride,” you said, regret settling in your chest.

Marcus nodded, stepping back. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

You turned toward the car, but as you did, you glanced back at Marcus. He was still standing there, the ball at his feet, watching you with that warm, easy smile.

Mr. Peters opened the door for you, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Made a new friend, have we?”

You blushed, ducking into the car. “Maybe.”

He chuckled as he started the engine. “Good. Everyone needs a friend.”

As the car pulled away, you found yourself looking back at the pitch one last time. Marcus was already jogging back to join the game, blending seamlessly with the other boys.

But to you, he stood out.

There was something about him—his kindness, his warmth, his quiet confidence—that left a lasting impression. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you’d met someone who truly understood what it meant to be free.

And as the city lights blurred past the car window, you couldn’t help but wonder if this was the start of something special.

#marcus rashford #imagines #manchester united #soccer #football #football imagines #premier league #rashford x reader #marcus rashford x reader #manchester united imagines

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