gul4bjamoons

[gul4bjamoons]

i miss watching him play

[gul4bjamoons]

we need more marmoush fics omgggg

yess, i swear im working on a request someone asked for him😭

[gul4bjamoons]

OMGGGG THIS JAMAL FIC 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

It was so good thank you sm Queen, bless your amazing mind and your hands for writing such a good fic🙏🙏

— 🐻

omgg im glad you liked it <3

[gul4bjamoons]

heyyyy, I really like your works and I was thinking maybe you could do some more Jamal fics? Sooo let’s say reader is his childhood friend from England and we know that Jamal moved back to Germany at 16/17 and maybe they didn’t talk that much after his move bc of the distance. Then reader also moves to Munich for uni (maybe with an exchange student program? or idk) and then they accidentally meet in the city again. Yk maybe Jamal sees her from a distance and he’s completely stunned, enamored by her beauty and suddenly he feels that familiar warmth in his chest he used to feel whenever he was around reader and the world stops spinning, the only thing he sees is reader. And then they reconnect and after dancing around their feelings for a while they start dating. Maybe he gets jealous and confesses?

Soo basically that’s it, if you have the time, motivation and think you could do something with this idea my soul is yours🙏 tbh i’d take any Jamal fic from you they’re sooo damn good it’s insane

— 🐻

hii thank you! sorry this took a bit but i kept re-writing the plot over and over again till it flowed nicely.

i just posted it — hopefully this does your idea justice tho and fulfills ur expectations! <3

[gul4bjamoons]

✩ timeless whispers; 

              jamal musiala ────── 

    A friendship so tight, the lines between love and loyalty blur—but what happens when what's been unsaid for years is finally revealed?

⭑  wordcount : four thousand four hundred thirty-seven.

⭑  notes : sorry its a bit long but it took me a hot minute to edit this down to under 5k ;-;

˙⋆✮ masterlist.

Jamal Musiala had always been a thread woven into the fabric of your life, stitched so tightly that you couldn’t remember a time before him. He was in every memory that mattered, his laughter tangled up with yours, his presence as constant as the grey English skies overhead.

There's the summer when you were eight, when the humidity was unbearable, the kind that made the pavements soft and sticky beneath your trainers. You’d both tried to build a den at the bottom of your garden using old bedsheets and bits of wood from the shed. It had been going well—until Jamal decided it needed a second floor. The entire thing collapsed within minutes, sending you both sprawling into the grass, sheets tangled around your limbs. You’d groaned dramatically, but Jamal just lay there laughing, the sun catching in his dark curls.

Later his mum brought out ice lollies, you both sat cross-legged on the patio, the melted juice running down your wrists, arguing over who would win the Premier League that season. He was convinced it would be Chelsea. You, just to wind him up, would say Manchester United. It was the same argument every summer, neither of you ever backing down.

But football wasn’t just something you talked about—it was everything. You played until the street lights flickered on, your school shoes scuffed from kicking the ball. The small pitch by the park became your second home, the place where Jamal’s feet moved like magic, where his skill made even the older kids stop and stare. It never surprised you—watching him play had always felt like watching something special, something bigger than just kickabouts in the park.

“One day, I’m going to be out there!” He’d said, lying on his bedroom floor, his head resting on his folded arms. The TV was on, the blue glow of the screen flickering across his face.

You’d snorted, flicking a crisp at him. “Yeah? Don’t forget about me when you’re off being famous?”

Jamal caught the crisp mid-air, popping it into his mouth with a smirk. “Hey, you could always come along. Be my agent? Or my personal bodyguard. You’re proper scary when you’re mad.” Causing you to nudge him with your foot. 

So, when Chelsea’s academy did call, it felt inevitable. 

You still remember those afternoons at the academy. The smell of freshly cut grass mixed with the tang of sweat and the distant hum of whistles from other pitches. You’d sometimes tag along, a book in your lap you barely paid attention to, as your eyes followed Jamal’s every move. He was mesmerizing. The way he weaved through defenders, his deft touches on the ball, the way he’d glance your way after scoring.

And then there were the stolen moments after his training sessions. The two of you would walk to the corner shop, sharing a single bag of crisps as he recounted every highlight, every frustration, every dream.

“You’re going to be a superstar one day,” You’d say, half-teasing but mostly proud.

He’d laugh, shrugging it off. “Guess that would make you my number one fan.”

And just like that, your heart would betray you.

Skipping beats and filling your chest with a warmth you couldn’t explain. But you never told him. How could you? You couldn’t even admit it to yourself at first.

He was your best friend. The boy who let you do his hair when you were younger, who stayed up all night watching horror films with you despite hating them, who always made you laugh until your stomach hurt.

You lived in a world of denial until one match day. The crowd roared as Jamal dribbled past a defender and chipped the ball effortlessly into the net. He turned, grinning, his gaze scanning the stands until it landed on you. That smile—bright, unguarded, like it was meant just for you—unraveled something deep inside. You clapped along with everyone else, but your heart ached with the weight of what you now knew. You liked him. Not in the casual, childish way, but in a way that terrified you.

For months, you kept it to yourself. The fear of ruining everything paralyzed you. But as summer stretched on and your time together grew quieter, more comfortable, the words pressed against your lips, desperate to be spoken.

-

One sunny afternoon, you decided you couldn’t hold it in any longer. The two of you were in the park near your neighborhood, sitting on the old splintering bench that had been “yours” for as long as you could remember. Jamal was bouncing a football absentmindedly against his foot, the rhythmic thud blending with the chatter of children playing nearby. You’d rehearsed this moment a thousand times in your head, but now that it was here, your palms were clammy, and your chest felt too tight.

“Jamal,” you said, barely recognizing your own voice. He looked up, his dark eyes curious and a little concerned.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his tone gentle but laced with worry. He always knew when something was on your mind.

You hesitated, the words clawing at your throat. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

He straightened, the football rolling away as he gave you his full attention. “Okay,” he said slowly. “You’re starting to scare me.”

You forced a laugh, shaking your head. “I think… No, I know I’ve been feeling this way for a while,” you said, stumbling over your words. “I like you, Jamal. More than a friend.”

The words hung in the air, raw and unpolished, a fragile offering. You dared to glance at him, hoping for… something. A smile, a laugh, a spark of recognition. But his expression was unreadable. His brows furrowed slightly, his lips parting as if to speak, but no sound came out.

“Say something,” you whispered, your voice cracking under the weight of his silence.

He dropped his gaze, his jaw tightening. His hands fidgeted in his lap, his fingers tugging at the loose threads on his shorts. The silence stretched, unbearable and suffocating. When he finally looked up, his eyes were filled with something you couldn’t quite place—guilt, regret, maybe both. But still, he said nothing.

The realization hit you like a tidal wave. He wasn’t going to respond. The truth of your feelings lay bare between you, and he couldn’t even give you the courtesy of an answer. Your cheeks burned with humiliation, tears threatening to spill as your chest tightened with the weight of his rejection.

“I should go.” you said abruptly, standing before he could stop you. Your vision blurred, and you turned away, your legs carrying you far from the bench, from the park, from him. The tears came as soon as you were out of sight, hot and unrelenting, spilling down your cheeks as sobs wracked your body.

That night, you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as the scene replayed in your mind on an endless loop. You felt foolish—foolish for thinking he might feel the same, foolish for risking your friendship, foolish for believing you could ever be enough for someone like him. 

But even then, as your chest ached with regret and humiliation, you couldn’t bring yourself to wish for anything different. Because falling for Jamal, as painful as it was, still felt like the most natural thing in the world.

But the bleeding didn’t stop there. The following days were a haze of misery. You replayed every moment between you and Jamal, analyzing every laugh, every touch, every shared glance for something—anything—to suggest he might have felt the same. Each memory only deepened the sting. His silence had spoken louder than words ever could.

You ignored his texts, his calls, his attempts to reach out. Seeing his name light up your phone was a dagger to your chest, a cruel reminder of everything you’d lost. You couldn’t bear to face him, to hear whatever excuse he’d offer. It wouldn’t change the fact that he hadn’t chosen you.

And then, a week later, the universe delivered its final blow. 

You were scrolling through social media when a mutual friend posted a photo. Jamal, surrounded by suitcases, standing in what was unmistakably an airport terminal. The caption was simple: “Good luck in Germany, Jamal! We’ll miss you.”

Your world stopped. 

You stared at the image, your mind struggling to process what you were seeing. He was leaving? He hadn’t told you. He hadn’t said goodbye. He’d just… left. You ignored the tiny voice in your head saying he would have told you if you had picked up any of his calls.

You dropped your phone onto your bed, staring at the ceiling as tears streamed down your face. The ache in your chest felt unbearable, a weight pressing down on you, suffocating you. You wanted to scream, to cry, to forget. But no matter how hard you tried, the memories of him wouldn’t leave you. His laugh, his smile, the way he’d look at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention—they haunted you, a cruel reminder of everything you’d lost.

-

When you applied for the study abroad program in Munich, part of you hoped this would be your escape—your chance to move forward, away from everything tied to him. Munich had always been a dream of yours. The cobblestone streets, the imposing architecture, the vibrant culture, the language—it was all part of a vision you’d long nurtured. This was supposed to be your new beginning, a fresh chapter far from the old hurts. You knew Jamal was here, but that was the last thing you cared to focus on. This time, you weren’t looking to be haunted by the past. You were determined to leave him behind.

This chapter is about what’s best for you. 

It’s hard to believe that nearly a month has passed since you arrived in Munich. In that short time, everything seems to be falling into place. Classes are going better than you anticipated—your professors are engaging, and though the workload is intense, it challenges you in all the right ways. There’s a rhythm to it now, a routine that feels both natural and reassuring. Late-night study sessions at the library, once dreaded, have become a habit—one you’ve come to find unexpectedly rewarding. It’s as if you’re finally settling into the life you’ve always envisioned, building something uniquely yours from the ground up.

Weekends are reserved for exploration, and Munich has proven to be everything you hoped for—and more. Every corner offers something new, from the irresistible food near Marienplatz to shopping the streets of Sendlinger Strasse. You find yourself captivated by the architecture at the Deutsches Museum, losing track of time as you wander through its wonders. It’s as if each day is its own small triumph, a quiet reminder that you’re actively creating the life you’ve always dreamed of.

Thankfully you're not doing it alone. You made some friends around Munich, one being Teni, your roommate. You spend nearly every day together, with study sessions inevitably turning into long, animated conversations about everything from the peculiarities of German grammar to the latest news. Teni, from the UK as well, is here for a study abroad program, pursuing her deep passion for sports reporting. 

In fact, she has Bayern games on all the time, and at first, you tune it out, not really invested in the familiar hum of a sport you once followed closely. But before long, you find yourself checking in more often—not because you’re particularly interested, but because you feel an unexpected pull to stay in the loop. And then, on nights when you’re distracted by the game, you can’t help but notice Jamal on the pitch. But you quickly submerge yourself with something else before you can ponder on him too long.

So, when Teni asked you to come to the game, it wasn’t exactly a surprise. She loved the sport and you two had spent so much time together on numerous escapades, that it would’ve been weird to say no. 

And that’s how you end up here, right in the heart of the Allianz Arena—way too close to the pitch. The roar of the crowd, the bright lights, the hum of anticipation hanging in the air. It’s all a little overwhelming, and for a second, you debate staging an exit. But it’s too late now. You’re here, surrounded by the chaos and excitement, and for some reason, it feels like the past is trying to crawl up from the depths of your mind.

Teni is already snapping pictures for an article she’s working on. You, on the other hand, are content to blend into the background, quietly absorbing it all. And then, as the players jog onto the pitch, your world stops.

Jamal.

You know he’d be here. After all, the lineups have been announced, but no amount of mental preparation can shield you from the rush of emotions that hit the moment the teams take the field. Your heart skips, your breath catches, and for a split second, everything blurs—the arena, the noise, the faces around you—until all you can focus on is him. His presence hits you like an electric current, jolting every nerve in your body.

He’s still the same, yet not—the boy you last saw through teary eyes now stands before you, older, sharper, more refined. Time stretches, and you feel as though the past has pulled you back in, wrapping its arms around you, refusing to let go. You try to shake it off, but it clings tighter.

Your eyes dart to how the Bayern players move with fluid precision, warming up with stretches and sprints, their bodies sharp and focused. The sound of their feet hitting the turf is rhythmic, almost hypnotic, as the intensity builds with each passing minute. The crowd's chants vibrate through the air, and you can feel it in your chest, yet you’re strangely disconnected, caught somewhere between the present and the past.

As the players finish their warm-up, they smile for the cameras, posing with exaggerated ease as they head back inside. You stand just off the pitch, the weight of the moment settling on your shoulders as Teni snaps away, capturing the energy of the scene for her article. The flashes from her camera light up the field, but your focus is elsewhere—on Jamal, standing in the midst of his teammates. They pull him into their group shots, laughing and teasing, their camaraderie effortlessly on display. The smiles are bright, wide, but there's a distance in Jamal, something quiet behind his grin. 

His gaze sweeps over the crowd, and then—almost imperceptibly—his eyes meet yours. Thanks to fate, all you can feel is the weight of his stare, heavy and familiar. For a split second, it’s like nothing has changed—like the years between you don’t exist. His expression falters, just a glimpse of something real. 

Then, just as quickly, he looks away, his attention snapping back to his teammates. The game’s starting soon, and there’s no room for sentimentality. He jogs toward the tunnel, his figure swallowed by the bustle of the stadium, the noise picking up again as the crowd shifts with anticipation. 

You try to focus on the match, the fast pace of the players darting across the pitch, but your mind keeps circling back to him. How? Out of everyone in this stadium, he makes eye contact with you? The thought almost makes you laugh, the absurdity of it. It feels like some strange twist of fate, like destiny had a sick sense of humor. You try to brush it off, but the knot in your chest refuses to loosen, and no matter how much you tell yourself to move on, his presence is still there, hovering in the background.

As the game goes on, you can’t escape the pull of your own thoughts. Teni, meanwhile, is blissfully unaware of your inner turmoil, too focused on her notes to notice the way you’re fidgeting, how your attention keeps slipping. It’s not until halftime that she finally raises an eyebrow, sensing something’s off.

“So,” she says, leaning in with a mischievous glint in her eye. “You’re really not paying attention to the game, huh?”

You try to ignore her, shifting in your seat and glancing at the scoreboard, hoping she’ll drop it. “I’m just… processing,” you mutter, hoping that’s enough to satisfy her.

But Teni is persistent. “Processing what? You’ve been out of it the whole time. You’re not really watching the game.” Her eyes narrow, a knowing look creeping into her expression. “What’s going on? You look like you’re somewhere else entirely.”

You wave her off, trying to brush off the tension. “I’m just hungry,” you say. “That’s all. Just need a snack or something.”

Teni gives you a skeptical look, clearly not buying it. “Uh-huh, sure,” she says, but then she shrugs, turning her attention back to the game. “Well, I have to stay here and take pictures, but while you’re at it—grab me a pretzel or something. A good one, okay? Not the stuff they sell at the stands.”

You can’t help but laugh, the tension between you easing slightly. “Alright, alright. I’ll get you the best pretzel in the stadium.” you tease, standing up to leave.

“Make it extra salty,” she calls after you, her focus already back on her work.

You smile to yourself, shaking your head. A simple request, but it’s enough to pull you back into the present. As you walk away, you can feel the buzz of the stadium around you, the weight of Jamal's gaze still lingering, but it’s easier to ignore now—at least for the moment.

You groan in your head as you realize how long the line is. Taking out your phone to scroll through, half-heartedly checking messages, when a new DM pops up on Instagram. You glance at the notification and your heart stops.

You blink, trying to process. It’s not a name you ever expected to reach out again and the message is so vague it almost feels like a prank. 

“Is it really you?” It asks—simple, almost too casual for someone you haven't spoken to in years.

You stare at the screen, unsure of what to make of it, and just as you're about to put the phone down, a second message follows. 

“Meet me after? Please.” You read the message about ten times as if it was incorrect. The directions of where to meet him popping up seconds later.

Your breath catches in your throat, and a strange mix of disbelief and excitement floods over you. It’s him. After all this time, after everything that’s happened, here he is, reaching out like it’s nothing. Your fingers hover over your phone, unsure of what to do. On one hand, you don’t want to see him. Why is he even texting you during halftime? It feels so odd. But on the other hand, you know you can’t just ignore it. There are too many loose ends between you two, too many questions left unanswered. You can't abandon the ship completely without addressing this, without facing whatever it is that still lingers between the two of you.

-

The stadium was still humming with the energy of the game, the final whistle's echo lingering in the cool night air. The crowd thinned, voices blending into a distant murmur, but you barely noticed. Adrenaline coursed through you—not just from the match, but from something else.

Teni hadn’t suspected a thing when you made up an excuse to slip away. She’d been too focused on getting post-match interviews, flipping through her notes, already mapping out her next move.

“I’ll meet you later,” she had said, barely glancing up, her mind occupied with work. “I have to talk to a few people after the game.”

And now, here you were.

When you finally spot him, your steps falter. 

He stands a few paces away, the stadium lights casting a soft glow on his damp curls. His jersey is gone, replaced by a simple hoodie, but he’s still him. The past and present collide in an instant, a heartbeat stretching into eternity.

He turns, as if sensing you, and your eyes meet.

“Hey…” He says, his voice quiet, uncertain.

“Hey.” You echo, gripping the ends of your sleeves, fingers curling into the fabric as you try to steady yourself. “Long time.”

A short laugh escapes him, but there’s no humor in it. His eyes rake over you, searching for something—recognition, maybe. An opening. “Yeah, it has been.”

A pause. A shift in the air between you—charged, heavy. The weight of unspoken words presses against your ribs.

“How long have you been in Munich?” he asks, voice careful, measured.

“A month.”

His brows lift. “A month?” A sharp exhale, a bitter laugh. “And I had no idea.”

You hesitate. You could explain, but would it even matter? Before you can decide, he steps closer. The space between you shrinks, the air between you electric, weighted.

“I’m sorry I never got to clarify everything,” he says, voice dipping lower. “Why I never told you I was leaving.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Your arms tighten around yourself, a shield against the memories clawing their way to the surface. “And that’s supposed to make it okay?” Your voice is sharp, bitter. “You disappeared”

His jaw tightens. “I know.”

“You don’t just get to say sorry and expect me to forget.” Your voice wavers, despite the anger simmering beneath it. “You left me with nothing. No explanation. No closure.”

His hands flex at his sides like he wants to reach for you, but he doesn’t. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know how.” he admits, eyes dark with something unreadable.

You let out a humorless laugh. “That’s not good enough.”

“I know,” he says, almost pleading now. “I realized. But I thought—” He stops, swallows. “I assumed you hated me. That you moved on. That forgetting me was the best thing you ever did.”

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “I do hate you.” But the words sound hollow, empty, the anger laced with something far more painful.

His lips curl in to an apologetic smile. “I also never told you how I felt.” He continues, his voice growing even more hesitant. 

You start rolling your eyes as you turn away. "Let’s not do this right now. Just let it be."

But before you can step back, his hand catches your wrist—not forceful, just enough to stop you. When you glance at him, his eyes are pleading, raw with emotion.

"Please," he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper. "I’ve waited years to tell you what I need to say right now. I don’t deserve for you to listen, but… please."

Your breath stutters.

He swallows hard. “I didn’t respond back then because I knew it wouldn’t be fair. Not when I was about to leave.”

The silence stretches between you. The world feels distant, the noise of the city fading as everything shifts around the weight of his words. 

“You don’t get to do that to me.” you snap, voice sharp, shaking.

“I know,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his eyes searching yours. “I know it’s been years. And maybe I don’t have the right to say this now. But seeing you tonight... it felt like the world stopped. Like it always did when you were around.”

Your chest tightens. It’s the same feeling you’ve carried for years—the ache, the unanswered questions, the part of you that never stopped caring. You try to keep your guard up, but the pull of him, of this moment, is undeniable.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “Even when I tried, you were always there. In every city, every match, every late night when I couldn’t sleep. I wondered if you were okay, if you ever thought about me, if you hated me.”

You blink, fighting back the sting in your eyes.

“I should’ve told you back then,” he continues, voice cracking slightly. “But I was scared. Scared that if I said it out loud, leaving would hurt even more. And I was right.”

You press your lips together, trying to hold back everything threatening to spill over.

He exhales, stepping even closer. “If you feel nothing for me, I’ll walk away. Right now.”

Stillness spreads across the night sky. He takes another step saying “If there’s no world where I can fix my mistakes, let me know.” He’s so close now, his warmth seeping into you, his eyes desperate for an answer. 

“Tell me to go.” His gaze flickers to your lips. 

 You inhale sharply, the sound barely audible, but he catches it. His name slips from your lips in a whisper. “Jamal.”

You lock eyes with him, and the universe halts. In the depth of his gaze, you see everything—the years, the silence, the regrets—and yet, all that matters is right here, right now. You feel the familiar weight of his presence, the way his gaze pulls you in, a magnetic force that makes everything else vanish. The tears fall before you even realize they’ve started, tracing paths down your cheeks.

Without thinking, you step into him, your hands trembling as you grip his hoodie, pulling him closer, as if you could erase all the distance between you with that one movement. His arms encircle you, holding you tight, steadying you as you bury your face against him. You’re not sure who’s shaking more, but it doesn’t matter. 

He pulls you close—so close it steals your breath. His arms wrap around you, strong and sure, as if he’s afraid to let you go again. Your arms tighten around him, your fingers gripping the fabric of his hoodie as the years collapse into this single, trembling moment.

He exhales into your hair, his body shaking slightly. You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the dampness of his curls against you, the warmth of his skin through the fabric.

It won’t be easy. You both know that. The wounds, the past, the things that need healing—they won’t disappear overnight. But somehow, in each other's arms, there is no doubt. Together, you can overcome the time lost, the mistakes made, and everything that’s stood in your way. Because this was never meant to be forgotten. Just waiting, tucked away, until it was the correct time to fight. And this time, no one’s wanting to let go.

Neither of you speak. There are no words for this. Just the quiet hum of the world around you, soft and steady, as if time itself is holding its breath.

Maybe it never was.

© gul4bjamoons 

[gul4bjamoons]

could you pls write more for marmoush even if it’s short we’re starving out here 🙏

yess its currently in the drafts, i'm just finishing up some other fics! :))

[gul4bjamoons]

loved your marmoush fanfic!! 🥰🥰🥰

thank you, im happy you enjoyed! x

[gul4bjamoons]

heyyy, could you please write another fic with jamal musiala? you’re the only writer who has quality and creative fics and I’m starved😔. Thank you for your service queen, keep blessing us with your amazing works ❤️🙏

omg u r so sweet ;-; i will be uploading one later today!

[gul4bjamoons]

are you going to write for omar marmoush anytime soon? 😚

yess i love him sm, i just posted one!

[gul4bjamoons]

✩ the sparks of sunrise; 

           omar marmoush ────── 

what happens when a certain receptionist finds herself drawn to the charm of the club’s newest signing?

⭑  wordcount : three thousand one hundred fifty-seven.

⭑  notes : i was supposed to put this up when he was announced but was sick out of my mind so whoops– enjoy it on his debut day instead ;)

˙⋆✮ masterlist.

Morning light filters softly through tall windows, illuminating the polished floors. Outside, the city stirs, slowly waking. Inside, the gentle hum of morning routines unfolds—the shuffle of feet, hushed voices. It’s a rhythm you know well, yet today feels different. 

A stillness hangs in the air, anticipation crackling as you prepare to meet Omar Marmoush, the club's newest signing. The buzz around him has been impossible to ignore—young, incredibly talented, a player with potential that could light up the field. But it’s not just his skill that’s caught everyone’s attention; it’s his reputation for being something of an enigma. Quiet, reserved, almost unreachable. The kind of guy who keeps to himself, preferring to let his play do the talking.

When the glass doors slide open, Omar steps through with a grace that seems almost calculated. The moment he enters, the air shifts. His presence is commanding despite his almost shy demeanor. There’s something about him—something that makes you pause for just a beat, like the sudden change of a breeze on a warm day. It’s not just his height or the way the light catches his sharp features; it’s the quiet confidence that emanates from him, like an unspoken promise of something more. 

His eyes, dark and observant, scan the room before landing on you, and when they do, there's a quiet intensity there, almost as if he's studying you in return.

"Good morning," you greet, offering him a warm, easy smile as you glance up from your desk. Your voice is light, the corners of your lips lifting automatically. "You’re early. Didn’t expect anyone for a while."

Omar’s gaze meets yours, his eyes steady, his expression unreadable at first, but then his lips quirk into a small, confident smile. “I prefer to be early,” he says, his voice calm and smooth, like the slow roll of waves lapping against the shore. “Can’t afford to waste time, right?”

The words are confident, but there’s a faint, almost undetectable edge of uncertainty in his eyes. You’ve seen it before, in other athletes, in other people who carry the weight of expectation on their shoulders. 

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued by the way he seems to carry himself. “Agreed.” you reply, leaning back slightly in your chair, your eyes narrowing playfully. “Not many players are here though. I think the only one you’ll find around is the coach.”

His eyes flicker toward the hallway, his gaze momentarily distant, as if imagining the journey ahead. “I’m fine with that,” he says, readjusting his gym bag while stepping away. “I just need to get out on the pitch again.” 

You smile, amused. "Okay, but just so you know, the hall can be a bit of a maze. You’ll want to go straight, past the gym, and then left. It’s easy to get lost your first time."

Omar waves you off with a casual flick of his wrist, his grin still intact, but you notice something in the way his shoulders tense, the slightest hesitation in his movements. “I’ll manage.” he replies, a little too confidently, as if he’s trying to convince both you and himself.

There’s something about the way he says it, though—the way his jaw tightens just a little, the way his hands curl at his sides—that tells you he’s not entirely sure of himself. It’s the instinct of someone who’s used to standing alone, used to figuring things out in his own way. It’s also the instinct of someone who’s afraid of being seen as anything less than perfect.

“Alright,” you say with a knowing smile, unable to resist teasing him just a little. “But if you do get lost, I’ll be right here to help. Can’t promise I won’t make fun of you for it, though.”

Omar chuckles, a quiet self-awareness that lingers beneath the surface. “I won’t need that.” he says, his voice light and teasing, but you see the way his cheeks flush a little, the color creeping up his neck like a telltale sign. He’s not fooling you. 

You watch him carefully, noticing the way his posture straightens, his steps purposeful, yet unsure. And then, instead of turning right, where you’d directed him, he veers left, heading confidently down the middle of the hall towards the trophy room. 

You can’t help but laugh softly to yourself. 

"Hold on!" you call out, your voice light and teasing. "Didn’t you hear me? You’re supposed to head right. The locker room is the other way.” You push away from the desk and stand up, the heels of your shoes clicking on the floor as you make your way toward him, a playful smile tugging at your lips. 

Omar freezes mid-step, his body jerking just slightly, and then he turns slowly, his dark eyes meeting yours, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. His cheeks flush, and the awkwardness is palpable, but in that instant, he’s more human than anything else. 

“Oh, I misunderstood.” he admits, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “My bad.”

"Don’t worry," you say softly, the teasing lilt in your voice making it clear you’re not holding it against him. “It happens to the best of us. The walls here can be tricky.”

He chuckles, a quieter, more genuine sound now, and you notice how the tension seems to melt away from his shoulders. “Guess I was too caught up in my mind” he says with a half-shrug, the easy arrogance of earlier replaced with something more sincere.

“Yeah, that happens,” you reply, matching his pace. "But you’re going to want to pay attention to the signs, especially if you’re trying to avoid making a fool of yourself in front of the team. Good luck!”

Omar laughs and for the first time, you sense a little vulnerability behind that seemingly impenetrable exterior. "I’m sure they’ll forgive me. First day and all."

“First impressions are everything,” you tease, nudging him lightly with your shoulder as you walk. Your eyes meet, and for a heartbeat, there’s a spark there—a connection that neither of you acknowledges out loud, but it lingers between you, quiet and unspoken. “But lucky for you, I’ll make sure it’s a good one.”

As you approach the locker room, Omar’s steps slow, and he looks over at you with a smile. "Thanks. I guess I wasn’t as prepared as I thought.” he admits, his voice quieter now, the weight of his earlier bravado replaced by a touch of humility.

You give him slight shrug. "It’s no problem. The first day’s always the hardest. Besides, it's good to have someone show you around—no matter how much you think you’ve got it under control."

He looks at you one last time, and the expression on his face is a mixture of gratitude and something else, something more fleeting and harder to pinpoint. "I owe you one, I guess."

“No worries,” you reply, stepping aside to let him pass. “But you better keep that ego in check—next time, I won’t be here to bail you out.”

As the door swings closed behind him, you smile to yourself, the quiet satisfaction settling in your chest. He’ll fit right in here—he just doesn’t know it yet.

Guess first impressions do matter.

-       

Outside, the world was still drowsy, waiting for the sun to summon it into action. But inside the building, it had already begun. The soft rustle of movement—slightly muffled footsteps down the hall or the faint hum of the HVAC system sputtering to life.

You sat behind the reception desk, bathed in the amber glow of the early morning sunlight. The air was cool, with just enough crispness to make you feel awake but not rushed. The soft buzz of your computer, the shuffle of papers between your fingers—everything felt familiar, grounding. As if this quiet moment could stretch on forever, and you could lose yourself in it without fear. 

The door opened, a soft sigh of movement that cut through the stillness taking you from your thoughts. And there he was. Omar Marmoush. Just as he had been for the last few mornings—before anyone else, sometimes even before the coach. The space bent to his presence, the stillness rippling around him as if acknowledging that this was his moment, his time.

He donned his City kit, the fabric clinging to his broad shoulders, and the way it fit him—neat and purposeful—wasn’t just athletic, it was almost sculptural. His dark eyes caught yours instantly, as if your presence had always been part of the plan. 

"Good morning, Mr. Marmoush," you said, the words slipping out almost automatically. Your voice chirped the greeting that had become familiar over the last few days. 

"Good morning," He replied, his voice carrying the same smooth confidence as always. He lingered at the counter, his eyes studying you for a beat longer than usual, as if he were contemplating something.

You tilted your head, a small smile playing at your lips, the sparkle in your eyes sharp and knowing. "You’re up early like usual," you remarked, the words slightly mocking him. "Not many players are awake at this hour."

"I like the quiet," Omar said, his voice lowering, a touch of something more honest there. "Helps me focus. No distractions before the chaos begins."

You allowed yourself a soft smile, the corner of your mouth lifting in quiet acknowledgment. "I thought you liked the spotlight," you teased, your voice light, playful. "Doesn’t the chaos suit you?"

His smile returned, but it was more guarded now, a shield back in place. "I do," he said with a shrug, a flicker of mischief dancing in his eyes. "But sometimes, it’s good to step away from all that. Makes the work feel... more real, you know?"

You leaned back in your chair, the soft creak of the leather adding a sound to the stillness around you. "I get it," you said, your voice a touch softer now. "Still, not sure many people would show up before their boss just for a little peace and quiet."

His gaze held yours a moment longer, that familiar intensity flickering again, and you couldn’t help but feel the subtle challenge in it. "Some of us like to be ahead of the game," he said, his voice carrying the weight of something unspoken, something that suggested this wasn’t just about arriving early—it was about owning the moment.

You laughed. "Ahead of the game, huh? You sure you’re not just trying to make your teammates look bad?"

The challenge in his eyes deepened, and he leaned a little closer to the counter, the air between you suddenly feeling charged. "Someone’s got to set the standard," he said mischievously, yet the presence of sinceirty lingered in his words.

You shook your head, amusement dancing in your eyes. "Careful, Mr. Marmoush," you teased, your voice light but the words carrying more weight now. "If you keep showing up this early, soon you’ll be the one unlocking the building instead of me."

His lips quirked upward into a half-smirk, and he paused for a moment, letting the playful tension build between you. Then, his voice dropped just slightly, almost a whisper. "You know," he began, his gaze steady, locking with yours, "if you keep calling me that I’m going to start thinking I’m older than I am."

The warmth in your eyes sparked with a glint of mischief. "Well, I wasn’t sure how formal we should be," you said honestly. "You keep showing up so early, I wasn’t sure if you were going for the 'boss' vibe."

A rich chuckle escaped his lips, deep and amused, as if the idea of it pleased him more than it should. "A boss vibe, huh?" he repeated, his fingers tapping lightly against the counter as if the idea were something to be considered. "I don’t need a title to make an impression.” 

You chuckled as you shook your head in response.

"But, fine. If you want to keep calling me ‘Mr. Marmoush,’ I guess I can’t stop you." Then, his gaze held yours, intense and unyielding. "But I’m not going to stop asking you to drop the formalities," he added, a subtle challenge hidden beneath the smoothness of his words. "Plus, you can’t keep calling me that forever, eventually you will have to refer to me as 'Omar'."

Your heart skipped a beat, the air between you both charged with something more than just playful banter. "We’ll see, Mr. Marmoush," your tone playful.

-

The morning air outside had a crisp bite, carrying the first whispers of autumn through the open window. Soft beams filtered through the tall windows, stretching lazily across the floor and illuminating the dust particles that seemed to float like tiny stars suspended in time. It was a moment frozen in peace, a stillness that only the early mornings seemed to hold.

You were wrapped in the hum of the building, the rhythmic ticking of the clock like a heartbeat in the silence. The steady click of the pen in your hand created a symphony of concentration until the door opened. A gust of cool air slipped in, catching the edges of the papers on your desk. The familiar scent of his cologne—earthy with a hint of citrus, like rain on stone—suddenly filled the room, grounding you in the moment.

Omar stood in the doorway, his silhouette sharp against the glow of dawn. He wore a hoodie, the dark fabric a stark contrast against the warmth of the room. His eyes found yours almost instantly, and in that gaze, there was a quiet intensity, something that made the room feel smaller, more intimate.

"Early as usual, Mr. Marmoush," you said, your voice light but warm, a playful edge to your words. You couldn’t help but notice the way the corners of his mouth tugged upward in that half-smile that always made your heart race just a little faster.

"Of course, Good morning." Omar replied, his voice raspy due to the timing of the hour. 

You couldn’t help but watch as he moved, the way his fingers slid into the pockets of his hoodie, his thumb tapping absently against the fabric. His eyes never left yours, and it made your pulse quicken, a little unexpected warmth formed in your stomach. For a split second, everything around you faded—the ticking clock, the soft creak of the building settling, the hums of your laptop—and all that remained was him.

Omar leaned casually against the counter in front of you, his arms folded across his chest. His gaze lingered, sharp and steady, and yet there was a playful glint in his eyes that you couldn’t quite decipher. 

You tore your eyes away from him, focusing instead on the day’s schedule. Your fingers moved across the papers, steady and deliberate, though you were aware of every movement in the room. His presence filled the space like a slow-burning fire.

"Alright," you began, your speech was monotone despite the fluttering in your chest. "Mr. Guardiola wants the players to check their recovery schedules before heading to the locker room. He has something special planned for later in training, but health comes first."

Omar nodded, his gaze flicking briefly to the clipboard on the counter, the edges of the paper catching the light in a way that made the whole moment feel sharper, more defined. He seemed to be listening intently, but there was a glimmer in his eyes—something knowing, something that made you feel like he saw right through you.

"Got it," he said finally, his voice low. But then, as if he couldn’t resist, his lips curved into that maddening smirk. "Thanks, Qamari."

You froze, the word hanging in the air between you like a spark. Your fingers stilled mid-motion, and suddenly, it felt as though the room had grown smaller, quieter, like time itself was holding its breath.

"Qamari?" you echoed, your voice soft, hesitant. The way it sounded on your tongue felt foreign but… intimate, like something you shouldn’t want but did anyway.

He leaned a little closer, his grin never wavering. "It’s the nickname I decided to give you," he said, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "It fits, doesn’t it?"

You felt the heat creeping up your neck, blooming across your cheeks. "Oh really?" you asked, raising a skeptical brow. 

Omar’s expression softened, his teasing smile giving way to something quieter, something almost tender. "Yeah," he said simply. "It means ‘moon’ in Arabic. It’s common in Egypt, you know. A compliment for women with beauty so striking."

His words settled in the air between you like a gentle breeze, and you could feel them taking root in your chest, in your thoughts. The phrase lingered, and you found yourself feeling an odd sense of peace in it, as though the nickname fit in a way you couldn’t explain.

"Why don’t we just stick to the name on my badge?" you managed, trying to inject some playfulness into your tone to cover up the fact that your heart was practically racing out of your chest.

"Hmm." He rubbed his chin theatrically, his expression exaggerated as though he were deep in thought. "Nope. I’ll call you what I want since you refuse to call me Omar."

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. "But—"

"Nah," he interrupted smoothly, shaking his head with a teasing lilt in his voice. "Fair’s fair, right? You stick with 'Mr. Marmoush,' so I get to choose a name for you."

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossing in mock defiance, though the smile tugging at your lips was impossible to suppress. "That’s not how this works," you said, a faint chuckle betraying your stern expression.

He shrugged, the movement easy and unbothered. "I think it is," he said, his grin softening just enough to make it even more maddening, like he knew exactly how to press all the right buttons without ever trying.

Then, with a casualness that was almost infuriating, he reached for the schedule you’d so neatly laid out, his fingers brushing the paper followed by his shoes scuffing against the floor. 

"See you later, Qamari," he said, his voice orotund, the nickname sliding off his tongue with maddening ease. He started toward the lockers, his brows furrowed as he glanced down at his schedule.

"You can’t keep calling me that forever!" You called after him, your voice rising above the hum of the building, echoing down the corridor as if it were chasing him.

He paused for a brief moment, just enough to glance back over his shoulder. The grin he wore widened into something brighter, effortlessly charming and completely infuriating all at once. Then came the laugh—rich and full of mischief, the kind that made your stomach twist in ways you couldn’t quite explain.

Damn him.

You stared after him, your cheeks still flushed and your pulse betraying you. You already knew you’d lost this round. And worse—you weren’t entirely sure if you minded.

© gul4bjamoons 

[gul4bjamoons]

✩ a stubborn heart; 

                 marcus rashford ────── 

even as his body succumbs to illness, marcus’ pride refuses to let him rest, and it’s driving you to the brink of insanity.

⭑  wordcount : three thousand four hundred twenty-two.

⭑  notes : this felt fitting to post given the alleged reasonings behind his absence in the squad

˙⋆✮ masterlist.

Marcus Rashford wasn’t one to admit defeat easily—especially not to something as mundane as the flu. The moment he stepped through the door that evening, the winter’s icy fingers still clinging to him, you noticed the change. His usual confident stride was reduced to a slow shuffle, his shoulders hunched as though bearing an unseen weight. His vibrant, glowing complexion had faded to a ghostly pallor, and the light in his eyes was dimmed.

"Marcus?" you had asked softly, your voice filled with concern.

"I'm just tired." he replied, waving off your worry with a wan smile that failed to reach his eyes.

You had coaxed him into eating something—a simple meal that he picked at without enthusiasm. Every second that passed deepened your concern, each morsel he left untouched amplifying the unease in your chest. Something wasn’t right. You watched head upstairs, his steps heavy and reluctant, his usual energy drained.

Determined, you stayed back, rummaging through the cabinets for medicine, knowing full well that he would be resistant to taking it.

However, as you ascended the stairs with the pills in hand, you found him already asleep, his body curled under the blankets like a child seeking shelter from the world. His lashes rested softly against his cheeks, his lips slightly parted as he breathed evenly. He looked so peaceful, so incredibly endearing in his vulnerability, that your heart clenched with affection.

You approached quietly, not wanting to disturb the serenity of his sleep. The sight of him like this, his guard completely down, made you want to protect him from everything, even the fever that had sapped his strength. You set the medicine on the nightstand, slid under the covers beside him, and gently pulled him into your embrace. His body, warm and pliant, fit perfectly against yours, and you held him close, as if you could give him your strength through every the close contact.

Through the night, the wind howled outside, a mournful, relentless sound that rattled the windows, but you barely noticed. Your thoughts were consumed by the memory of Marcus’s weak smile, the uncharacteristic frailty that had taken over him. Sleep had barely begun to take hold when the sound of a soft whimper yanked you back into wakefulness. You turned on the bedside lamp, the soft glow revealing Marcus, his face etched with discomfort, beads of sweat dotting his forehead like morning dew on grass.

“Marcus?” you whispered, your voice a mixture of worry and tenderness. You reached out, placing a gentle hand on his arm. He flinched at your touch, his skin sizzling hot beneath your fingers.

His eyes fluttered open, heavy with exhaustion. “I’m fine, love,” he croaked, his voice rough, each word a struggle.

You shook your head, concern knitting your brow. “You are not fine.” you said firmly, brushing a damp curl from his forehead. “Look at you. You’re burning up.”

You reached for the medicine you had set aside earlier. “Here, take this,” you whispered, helping him sit up slightly to swallow the pills. He grimaced but complied, leaning back against the pillows as you eased him down again.

“No arguments,” you said softly, tucking the blankets around him once more. “You need to rest.”

He sighed, the sound heavy and resigned. “I didn’t want to worry you,” he murmured.

“Well, you’ve managed to do just that.” you replied with a pout, your voice softening with a mixture of exasperation and affection. “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

As you made your way down, the house was still, the only sound was the soft hum of the heater working to keep the cold at bay. In the kitchen, you moved with efficiency, pulling out a small saucepan to prepare a simple tomato soup. The rhythmic bubbling of the broth was a soothing counterpoint to your racing thoughts. You stirred slowly as the rich aroma filled the air.

Back in the bedroom, Marcus lay where you had left him, his breathing shallow but steady. The sight of him so vulnerable tugged at your heart. Setting the bowl down gently on the nightstand, you sat beside him, brushing a hand over his forehead again.

“Hey,” you whispered. “I made you some soup. Think you can manage a few sips?” You couldn’t help the note of worry that crept into your voice. “I know you barely ate anything earlier.”

His eyes opened, clouded with fatigue but laced with gratitude. “You didn’t have to,” he whispered, his voice still hoarse, each word a strain.

“You’re right, I didn’t have to, but look at you.” you replied with a teasing lilt, lifting a spoonful to his lips. “You’re as stubborn as a mule.”

He groaned softly, the sound both endearing and pitiful. “You’re mean.” he mumbled the childlike insult, but there was no bite to his words. His eyes fluttered closed as you brushed your thumb gently across his cheek.

“Just eat.” you urged, smiling despite yourself.

He opened his mouth, accepting the offering with a small nod. You fed him slowly, each spoonful a small victory, a reminder of the strength that still lingered beneath the surface.

As the night stretched on, you stayed by his side, your touch a constant reassurance. You replaced the cool cloth on his forehead regularly, whispering soft words of comfort into the quiet room. The fever seemed to tighten its grip on him, but you remained his anchor, your presence a soothing balm against the waves of discomfort that washed over him.

Marcus murmured softly, incoherent words that you recognized as little complaints about how awful he felt. He clung to you, seeking solace in your embrace, his body curling against yours in search of comfort.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, drawing soothing circles in to his skin as he eased into your touch. “I’ve got you.”

Eventually, his murmurs faded, his body finally relaxing as sleep claimed him once more. He usually always wanted to look after you, your rock in moments of vulnerability. But tonight, the roles showed you both how important balance was, and it felt so right to care for him, to be his strength when he needed it.

As you watched his peaceful face in the dim light, your own eyes grew heavy. Wrapped around each other, you both drifted off, the soft rhythm of his breathing lulling you into a deep, contented sleep.

-

The next morning, Marcus looked marginally better, but his attempt to act normal was painfully transparent. The first thing you noticed was the faint rustling of the sheets as he tried to move quietly, the sound subtle but enough to stir you from a light sleep. His movements were sluggish, deliberate, as if each motion required immense effort. He shuffled around the room, pausing intermittently to cough into his elbow, the rasping sound echoing faintly in the otherwise silent morning.

You kept your eyes closed, feigning sleep, but your mind was alert, tracking every labored breath, every pause that punctuated his weak attempts to go about his day as though nothing was wrong. His stubbornness was endearing, infuriating, and deeply worrying all at once.

“Morning, love,” Marcus said softly, his voice rough around the edges, straining to sound chipper. He leaned down, pressing a feather-light kiss to your forehead. “Go back to sleep. You were up all night taking care of me.”

The corners of your lips twitched in a half-smile as you groaned softly, your arms reaching up to loop around his neck. The warmth of his skin against your fingertips was feverish. “Morning,” you murmured, nuzzling into him, half-asleep. “Stay in bed,” you commanded gently, your voice still thick with sleep. “No training, no meetings—just rest. You need to stay inside all day, or you’ll get worse.”

Marcus’s lips curved into a small, rueful smile, one that you missed as you drifted back to sleep. He knew he should listen, that his body craved the rest you were insisting on, but his mind rebelled against the thought of missing practice. The team needed him, or at least that’s what he convinced himself.

With practiced ease, Marcus waited for your breathing to even out, signaling that sleep had reclaimed you. Carefully, he pried your arms away from his neck, each movement slow and gentle to avoid waking you. His body protested with every step, sluggish and heavy, but he ignored the mounting fatigue and the dull throb of his headache.

The footballer moved toward the wardrobe with a deliberate sluggishness, his hands trembling slightly as he reached for his gear. Dressing was a herculean effort; each piece of clothing felt heavier than it should, as if his body was reminding him with every motion that it needed to rest. His limbs felt encased in lead, the fever making his usually agile movements cumbersome and slow.

As he fastened his jacket, Marcus took a moment to steady himself, leaning against the edge of the dresser. The room swayed slightly, a dizzy spell washing over him, but he shook it off with a determined breath. He couldn’t afford to give in. Not yet.

With a sigh, Marcus grabbed a pen and a small piece of paper, his hand unsteady as he wrote a quick note: ‘At practice, will be home soon. I love you.’ The letters wavered slightly, but the message was clear and heartfelt. He carried the note to the kitchen and placed it on the fridge, securing it with a magnet in a spot he knew you'd see first.

Before heading out, Marcus paused at the bottom of the stairs, glancing up toward the bedroom. The thought of you resting so peacefully tugged at his heart, filling him with both tenderness and a tinge of guilt for leaving knowing it would upset you.

He lingered for a moment, taking in the stillness of the house, before turning away quietly. As he slipped out the door, he knew the inevitable lecture awaited him when he returned—one filled with worry, love, and your unwavering need to protect him, even from himself.

-

Hours slipped by unnoticed, the quiet of the room thickening around you. It wasn’t until the faint chill of the sheets brushed your fingers that something felt off.

You sat up, the sheets tangled around you, your mind still heavy with the haze of sleep. Something was wrong. It took a moment to register, but then it hit you like a slap—his side of the bed was empty. Completely empty. You reached out instinctively, your hand hovered for a moment, as if the touch could pull him back, but the bed lay still, untouched by his weight.

What the hell?

Your heart started pounding, the panic rising in your chest. No way he went off to the pitch. He was dreadfully ill a couple hours ago—trembling, barely able to breathe, his body a wreck of shivers. There was no way he’d just gotten up and left.

You shot out of bed, your pulse quickening with each passing second. 

Please no, please no.

You called his name, a desperate plea hanging in the air, hoping you were wrong—hoping he hadn’t dragged himself to training. Maybe, just maybe, he was downstairs, sipping on some water, looking for more medicine. Anything but leaving. The thought of him pushing his body further when he could barely stand the night before, made your stomach twist.

You stormed out of the room, frustration boiling over. This man is going to be the death of me ran through your head. You wanted to scream, grab him, shake him, force him to stay still, to let himself heal.

But above all, all you wanted was for him to be okay.

Your gaze shifted toward the kitchen, and there it was—the note, stark against the fridge door. You moved toward it, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, but the words only made you groan in frustration. A mix of exasperation and worry curled in your stomach, the sharp contrast pulling you fully awake.

But Marcus was going to be home much sooner than you expected.

-

The minutes dragged on, each one heavier than the last, when suddenly the sharp ring of your phone sliced through the silence. Your heart skipped a beat as the screen flashed with the name of someone from Manchester United’s medical staff. A wave of dread crept up your spine as you swiped to answer, already bracing for what you feared might be coming.

"Hello?" you answered, forcing your voice to sound steady, though it trembled at the edges.

"Hello, it’s Dr. Harris." the doctor’s calm voice came through, but it did nothing to ease the growing tightness in your chest. "Unfortunately, Marcus showed up to practice looking worse for wear. He could barely manage any of the drills before we decided to pull him. His fever's so high, he’s having trouble staying upright."

Your heart dropped, the worry you’d been suppressing all morning suddenly rushing to the surface. "Can you come pick him up since you’re his emergency contact?" Dr. Harris asked, his tone now laced with urgency.

Before you could respond, you heard the faint shuffle of someone else on the line, and then a new voice—someone from the medical staff—spoke up. "We’ve got him in the recovery room. He’s stable, but he’s worse for wear. Just get here as soon as you can."

You felt the blood drain from your face, a cruel panic gripping you as the pieces fell together. "I’ll be there soon." you said, already moving, your hands shaking as you grabbed your keys. You were furious with Marcus for ignoring everything you’d told him, but that fury felt distant now, overshadowed by the immediate need to reach him, to make sure he was okay.

You rushed to slip on your shoes, the cold air stinging your cheeks as you hurried out the door. The car seemed to drive itself as you tore through the streets, your mind a whirlwind of dread. 

Arriving at the training ground, you rushed toward the medical wing, your heart pounding with a mixture of fear and urgency. The sterile scent of antiseptic hit you as you entered, a stark contrast to the usual lively atmosphere of the place. The sight of Marcus slumped in a chair, his normally vibrant skin pale and waxy, sent a fresh wave of anxiety crashing over you.

He looked up as you approached, his eyes glassy but softening with relief when they met yours. “I’m sorry,” he murmured weakly, his voice barely more than a whisper, the edges frayed with fatigue.

You shook your head, crouching down beside him, your hands instinctively finding his face. He was warm, too warm, the fever still clinging to him. “Marcus…” you said, your voice gentle but firm. “Let’s get you home.”

The ride back started off quiet—mostly because he looked too embarrassed to talk. The footballer sat slumped in the passenger seat, his head resting against the window, the chill of the glass doing little to alleviate the heat radiating from his skin. The silence, however, didn’t last long. You couldn’t help but give him an earful, your concern translating into frustration.

"Do you have any idea how reckless that was?" You gripped the steering wheel tighter, your knuckles going white. "You could've spread whatever you’ve got to the whole team—and made someone else sick in the process."

"I didn't want to let the team down," he muttered, his voice thick with congestion, barely audible over the hum of the engine.

"Marcus!" you shot back, the frustration clear in your tone, "Your teammates will be just fine without you in a training session. What they need is for you to get healthy, not to push yourself and risk being out even longer."

He sighed heavily, the sound thick with exhaustion. He didn't argue, though. You glanced at him, irritation starting to fade as you took in how miserable he looked. His eyes struggled to stay open, fluttering weakly.

"You’re going straight to bed when we get home," you said firmly, not giving him room for debate.

He nodded, a small, exhausted tilt of his head, but it was clear even that simple gesture took all his energy.

-

Back home, Marcus was worse than ever. His legs wobbled beneath him as you guided him inside, each step a monumental effort. By the time you helped him settle onto the cushions of your shared room, he was leaning heavily against you, his body surrendering to the fever’s relentless grip.

“You’re stubborn, you know that?” you said softly, brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead. The touch was tender, meant to soothe, but your words carried the weight of your concern.

He gave you a sheepish smile, one that barely lifted the corners of his lips. “Guess I am,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, each word labored.

You spent the rest of the day doting on him, a steady rhythm of care and devotion. The house was quiet, the only sounds were those of you moving around, fluffing pillows, and coaxing him to drink tea. Every time you pressed a cool cloth to his forehead, he sighed in relief, his eyes fluttering shut, momentarily free from the fever’s relentless assault.

“Don’t know what I’d do without you,” he mumbled at one point, his voice thick with gratitude, his words slurred with exhaustion.

“You’d probably be in worse shape.” you teased lightly, earning a quiet chuckle that rumbled from deep within his chest.

As evening rolled around, Marcus was still exhausted but slightly more alert. He shifted on the couch, his tired eyes following you as you moved around the living room, unable to tear his gaze away. Despite his weariness, you adored him, his love for you shining through the haze of his sickness.

“Come here,” he mumbled, holding out his hand toward you, a small, inviting smile gracing his lips. You sat beside him, and he immediately rested his head on your shoulder, his body relaxing against yours.

“Feeling better?” you asked toying with one of his curls.

“A little bit,” he admitted, though his pout told a different story, the downturn of his lips almost childlike in its sincerity. “But you haven’t kissed me all day.”

You laughed softly, the sound gentle and filled with affection. “Marcus, you’re sick.”

“So?” he grumbled, his pout deepening, his eyes glimmering with a mix of frustration and longing.

You sighed, leaning in to press a kiss to his temple, the warmth of his skin brushing against your lips. “There. Happy?”

He groaned dramatically, a sound that was both adorable and pitiful. “That’s not a real kiss,” he complained, leaning in, his eyes locking onto yours with a soft plea. “Why can’t you kiss me on the lips?”

“Because, I’m not trying to catch whatever you’ve got,” you said, pulling away with a teasing smile, your laughter bubbling up despite the situation. “You’ll get all the kisses you want when you’re better.”

He huffed dramatically, the sound exasperated, his pout becoming more pronounced. “You’ve been close to me all day, so it shouldn’t matter,” he argued, though the energy behind his words was more of a soft plea than a genuine complaint.

You responded with a light smile, brushing your thumb across his cheek, your touch gentle and reassuring. “Nice try, but I’m still not risking it.”

Marcus pouted more, his expression a blend of charm and exasperation, the sight tugging at your heart even as you tried to remain firm. “Fine, kisses when I’m better,” he muttered, snuggling closer to you, his body fitting against yours as though he belonged there. “But I’m holding you to that.”

As the sun deepened, you remained by his side, your presence a constant source of comfort for him. His breathing evened out, the fever beginning to loosen its grip, and as the minutes ticked by, you felt him relax further, his body melting into yours as sleep claimed him once more.

The house was quiet, the soft hum of the heater filling the silence. You sat with Marcus in your arms, his head resting against your shoulder, his body warm and heavy with sleep. The weight of his trust and the depth of his love wrapped around you, anchoring you in the moment.

You watched over him, your heart swelling with a profound sense of peace. He was safe, and you were together—that was all that mattered.

© gul4bjamoons 

[gul4bjamoons]

hey, i saw you said you’d be open to writing for new people so if possible could you write a fic for alejandro garnacho pls? maybe one about comforting him because he’s been getting lots of hate recently and he shuts everyone up with an amazing goal and it’s just very loving and lots of fluff? thank you so much!❤️

ahh sorry i don’t write for people younger than me😭😭 ty for the request tho!

[gul4bjamoons]

https://www.tumblr.com/gul4bjamoons/772267230508498944/threads-of-patience?source=share

omgggggg pls tell me this is gna get a sequel bc this was AMAZINGGG urghh i reread it like 5 times alreadyyyy im obsessed

aww i'm glad you liked it!!

maybe ill write a sequel in the future but its not in the plans atm since im trying to finish up some other stories to post x

[gul4bjamoons]

Can you pleaseee do more Jamal Musiala blurbs or a story? Something like reader is a young accomplished fashion designer and is called to make a suit for Jamal or do help make different kits and colour ways for Bayern or for the national German team?

I also can’t help but notice your @…if you’re desi, could you incorporate elements of that? Fashion and design and textiles are so embedded in desi culture, no worries if not! 😄

omg yes i am + i love writing desi characters, i just posted the story!

[gul4bjamoons]

✩ threads of patience; 

                    jamal musiala ────── 

when a footballer is sidelined due to an injury, the last thing he expects is to find solace in a fashion designer’s studio.

⭑  wordcount : three thousand one hundred seventy-eight.

⭑  notes : just a heads up the main character is of south asian descent !!

˙⋆✮ masterlist.

“Musiala, you need to sit this one out.” The words pierced his ears, yet his mind unable to grasp the meaning.

Jamal pouted, his arms folded tightly across his chest, a storm brewing behind his dark eyes. He leaned against the cold steel of the bench, the texture digging into his back as if mocking his inactivity. The training pitch buzzed with the rhythmic thud of cleats on grass, but Jamal’s gaze stayed fixed on the ground, unwilling to meet anyone’s eyes. His coach, Vincent Kompany, stood before him, unshaken by the young midfielder’s silent rebellion.

“We’ve talked about this Jamal…” Kompany’s voice was steady, a calm tide against Jamal’s turbulent sea. “Your ankle’s not ready, and if you keep trying to push yourself, you will make things worse.”

“I’m not.” Jamal shot back, his voice edged with defiance, though it trembled ever so slightly. “I just want to be part of the team.”

“You are part of the team,” Kompany replied, his tone softening but losing none of its firmness. “But right now, the best thing you can do is recover. We can’t afford to lose you long-term.”

Jamal muttered under his breath, his voice a low growl, barely audible but carrying the weight of his frustration. The coach’s eyes narrowed, the silence stretching between them like a taut wire.

“And for that to happen,” Kompany continued, his gaze sharpening, “you need to stay off the pitch during practice. You’re distracting the others.”

Jamal’s jaw tightened, his scowl deepening. He clenched his fists at his sides, feeling the strain of every muscle as if the tension could somehow mask the sting of his manager’s words. 

He didn’t argue, though. 

Deep down, he knew the coach was right. His irritation had spilled over onto his teammates all morning, sniping and snapping at every mistake. Even Manuel Neuer had joked about how Jamal seemed more intense on the sidelines than on the pitch. The laughs that followed the comment had only fueled the young boy’s anger.

Being benched wasn’t just a frustration—it was a simmering rage bubbling just beneath the surface. The UCL semi-finals loomed, and the Bundesliga points were precious, each one like a lifeline. Every second on the sidelines felt like an eternity, a punishment that gnawed at his resolve, whispering that he was letting everyone down.

“Why don’t you take the day to clear your head?” Kompany’s voice cut through Jamal’s thoughts. The head coach approached with a measured pace, a faint smile curling his lips. “Actually, scratch that—I have a job for you.”

Jamal’s eyes flicked up, suspicion shading his expression. “A job?”

“Yes.” Kompany’s smirk widened, as if savoring the surprise he was about to unveil. “You’re going to help review the kit designs for next season. The design team needs player feedback, and you’re not doing much else right now.”

Jamal blinked, his face a canvas of disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

Jamal opened his mouth, ready to protest, but the glint in his manager’s eye silenced him. The words died on his lips, replaced by a muttered, half-hearted complaint about it being a waste of time. He turned away, limping toward the club offices, each step echoing with the dull thud of reluctance. His mind swirled with frustration, the sting of the coach’s directive gnawing at his pride.

-

The design studio was nothing like Jamal expected.

He had been here once before, years ago, when Bayern was unveiling a retro-inspired kit. Back then, the studio had an austere atmosphere, commanded by an older man whose stoic demeanor matched the cold, minimalist decor. Every surface had gleamed with an almost clinical precision, and Jamal had felt as though even a misplaced breath might disturb the fragile order. Now, as he stepped inside, he braced for a similar encounter, but the scene that unfolded before him was a stark contrast.

Colors danced across the room, a vivid array that immediately drew his eyes. Deep maroons and rich yellows blended seamlessly with earthy greens and serene blues, each hue carefully chosen to evoke a sense of warmth and creativity. The textures added another layer of depth—soft, flowing fabrics with intricate patterns that hinted at something more, their delicate weaves resembling motifs from distant, storied traditions.

Meanwhile your focus was intense as you studied sketches and swatches spread before you. The air around you was infused with an energy that felt both welcoming and vibrant. A faint scent of jasmine lingered across the room.

You were younger than Jamal had expected, and your presence exuded a natural warmth that softened the sharp edges of the room. The soft lighting caressed your rich, radiant brown skin, creating a subtle glow that harmonized with the gleaming gold jhumkas—traditional earrings—framing your face, their gentle swing punctuating each of your movements.

“Jamal Musiala, right?” you greeted him with a smile that was as genuine as it was disarming. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m the lead designer for Bayern’s kits this season.”

The boy offered a curt nod, his expression guarded. “Nice to meet you.”

You could sense the tension simmering beneath his cool exterior, but it didn’t deter you. You’d navigated the emotional landscapes of many high-profile clients before—athletes, actors, politicians—and you understood the art of balancing egos with empathy.

“I’ve laid out the initial concepts for next season’s kits,” you said, motioning toward the table. Your voice was steady, a quiet assurance in your tone as you gestured toward the designs. “Home, away, and third. We’ll go through each, and I’d love your input on the colors, patterns, and overall feel.” As you extended your hand, the gold bangles on your wrist caught the light, their soft jingle adding a touch of elegance to the moment.

Jamal nodded stiffly, the weight of his discontent evident in his posture.

You picked up the first sketch—a sleek red jersey with various shades subtly layered to create depth without overwhelming the classic color. “For the home kit, we wanted something timeless yet modern. It’s bold but not overpowering.”

Jamal barely spared it a glance. “Looks fine.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge dancing in your eyes. “‘Fine’ is not exactly helpful feedback.”

He sighed, running a hand over his face. “I don’t know. It looks… red.”

You refused to let his mood dampen your enthusiasm. “It’s supposed to be red. It’s Bayern’s home color.”

“I know that,” he retorted, his tone defensive.

“Then what do you think about the gradient? The collar style? The texture of the cloth?”

He shrugged, a reluctant surrender. “It’s good.”

Taking a deep breath, you reminded yourself to stay patient. You sensed that his irritation wasn’t truly with the designs but stemmed from elsewhere—a storm cloud hanging over his day.

“Okay,” you said, your voice calm and steady as you set the sketch aside. “Let’s move on to the away kit.”

You presented the next design—a sleek black jersey accented with light green and dusty orange, a tribute to the statue of Bavaria. You handed him a fabric swatch, your fingers brushing lightly against the sample.

“This material is lightweight and moisture-wicking,” you explained, your voice taking on a soothing cadence. “It’s designed for optimal performance in hot weather.”

He took the swatch with the air of someone carrying a burden, barely glancing at it before setting it down. “Yeah, it’s alright.”

“Alright?” you repeated, your voice laced with a measured calm that barely concealed your waning patience. 

Your eyes locked on Jamal’s, searching for a flicker of engagement beyond the wall of frustration he had built. “Jamal, I need actual feedback. These kits represent the team. They’re not just about how they look; they’re about how they feel on the pitch, how they move with you, how they make you feel when you’re wearing them, leading the charge.”

For a brief moment, his hardened expression softened. His gaze met yours, and you could see the flicker of understanding—an acknowledgment of the care and passion you poured into every stitch, every thread of the kits. But it was fleeting. The weight of his frustration shadowed his features. He shook his head, the tension returning to his posture.

“Look, I get that this is important,” he said, his voice tinged with resignation. “But all I want is to get back to the pitch as soon as possible.”

You sighed deeply, the weight of his words pressing against your resolve as you gently set the fabric swatch down on the table. “I understand,” you said, your tone softening but holding firm. “But right now, this is part of your role. You’re still part of the team, even if you’re not playing. And this does matter—to the club, to the fans, to your teammates. What you wear represents who you are and what you stand for.”

He stared at you, his jaw tight, eyes reflecting the internal battle waging within him. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken frustrations. Finally, he sighed, a long exhale that seemed to deflate the tension in his shoulders. He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture of weariness, perhaps even apology.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just… not in the best headspace.”

You softened, offering him a small smile, the kind that spoke of patience tempered with understanding. “Let’s go over the third kit,” you said, lifting a sleek sketch from the table. It was a collared beige jersey with dashes of red uniformed across the shirt, like an artist’s deliberate brushstrokes. The design was a departure from the traditional, and though it exuded a quiet elegance, you couldn’t shake the nagging worry that the players might resist something so unconventional.

“This one’s inspired by the club’s heritage, but with a modern twist,” you explained, holding the fabric swatch closer for Jamal to feel. “The beige is subtle, but the red is fierce.”

Jamal’s brow furrowed, not in frustration this time, but in concentration. He ran his fingers over the fabric, his touch lingering as though weighing its texture against his experiences on the pitch.

“I see what you mean,” he said, his tone softer, more reflective. “It’s different, but... it might grow on people.” He paused, glancing at you. “Maybe the collar could be a bit more structured?”

You nodded, appreciating the thoughtful critique. He was more engaged now, though you could tell he wasn’t entirely present—his mind likely still half on the field, half on his current situation. You sighed inwardly but maintained your composed demeanor. "Thank you, Jamal. I’ll take that into consideration."

This wasn’t the best day for either of you, but you held onto the hope that his next visit—or even his feedback later—would be more fruitful. Perhaps this was just an off day, a temporary fog clouding his usually sharp instincts.

As you worked, you couldn’t help but notice the little things about him—the way his brow knitted when he delved into thought, the almost imperceptible way his fingers tested the fabric’s resilience, as if searching for its strength. Despite his earlier reluctance, there was a latent attention to detail in Jamal, an unspoken connection to the subtleties of design, even if he didn’t yet see it himself.

-

Jamal entered the design studio again, but this time, there was no scowl on his face, no frustrated dragging of feet. Instead, a calm acceptance settled into his posture, though a trace of disappointment remained in his eyes—a reminder of the three-week recovery dictated by the gaffer.

He knew better now, knew that defiance wouldn’t hasten his return. The idleness still gnawed at him, but he was determined to channel his energy differently this time.

When he stepped into the studio, he found you at the same spot as last time, perched gracefully on a stool by one of the long drafting tables. Your head was bent over your tablet, fingers gliding over the screen with practiced ease. The sunlight streaming through the window caught your hair, thick the luscious intricate braid that fell over your shoulder, a few wisps escaping to frame your face.

You looked up briefly, your smile polite but genuine. “Jamal. Back again?”

“Yeah,” he replied, scratching the back of his neck. “Coach’s orders.”

Your smile tightened slightly, and you went back to your sketching, the awkwardness between you two still lingering from your first meeting. Jamal couldn’t blame you. He hadn’t exactly been easy to work with.

He wandered over to the table where you’d laid out an array of patches and test prints. They were vibrant and varied—bold reds, deep blues, intricate geometric patterns, and minimalist monochromes. For a moment, he forgot his frustration and found himself running his fingers over the fabrics, appreciating their textures.

You glanced up, watching him out of the corner of your eye. He seemed… calmer this time. Less tense. Maybe even a little curious.

“What are you working on?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

You blinked, surprised by the question. “Oh, just some drafts.” you said vaguely.

He nodded, his gaze wandering to the device in your hand. “Can I see?”

You hesitated for a moment before turning the screen toward him. Instead of a jersey design, the sketch on the screen was of a stunning red lehenga—a traditional South Asian wedding outfit. The skirt was adorned with intricate gold embroidery, and the blouse featured delicate, hand-drawn floral motifs. It was breathtakingly detailed, a testament to your passion and skill.

Jamal tilted his head, intrigued by the vibrant sketch before him. “That’s not for Bayern, is it?”

You giggled softly, the sound light and melodic. “No, definitely not. It’s for my cousin’s wedding coming up. She asked me to design something special for her. Weddings are a huge deal in my culture. The outfits, the colors, the jewelry… everything has to be perfect. And red is the traditional color for brides.”

Jamal leaned in slightly, his curiosity piqued by the richness of your explanation. “How long does it take to make something like this?”

“It depends,” you said, your enthusiasm evident as you spoke. “A custom piece like this can take weeks, even months, especially with all the fitting sessions. Every stitch has to be just right.”

He watched you closely, captivated by the way your eyes sparkled with passion. You weren’t just describing a task; you were sharing a part of yourself, bringing the design to life with each word. The vibrant reds and intricate gold details in the sketch seemed to glow under the soft lighting, mirroring the energy in your voice.

“And the details,” you continued, your fingers hovering over the screen to highlight different elements. “See this gold embroidery at the bottom? I’ve been experimenting with different floral patterns. And the red fabric is silk, which has this beautiful sheen under the light. It’s not just about how it looks—it’s about how it feels when you wear it.”

Jamal nodded slowly, though his attention was no longer entirely on the sketch. He was mesmerized by you—the way your brows furrowed slightly in concentration, the gentle curve of your lips forming a small smile as you spoke with such fervor. There was something endearing about your devotion, a magnetic pull he couldn’t resist.

“You’re really into this,” he said softly, his voice carrying a newfound respect.

You looked up, slightly startled by the sincerity in his tone. “Well… yeah. It’s what I love to do.”

A faint smile played on his lips, the tension between you two easing like the first warmth after a long winter. The weight of the morning’s frustrations seemed to lift, replaced by a quiet understanding.

And as the morning progressed, you shifted your focus back to the Bayern kit designs, presenting Jamal with updated concepts. This time, he was more engaged, offering thoughtful input as you refined the details together. His earlier hesitation had given way to a genuine interest.

At one point, you reached for a tape measure to take his measurements for a prototype jersey. “I’ll need you to try this on,” you said, holding up a tester design.

Jamal complied, slipping the jersey over his training top. You stepped closer, your hands moving with practiced precision as you adjusted the fit around his shoulders and arms. “Hold still,” you murmured, the gentle command softened by the proximity between you.

He froze, his breath catching slightly as your fingers brushed against his arm, smoothing out the fabric. He could feel the focus radiating from you, the way your kajal had framed your eyes as they darted over each adjustment with meticulous care.

“Does it feel too tight around the chest?” you asked, glancing up at him.

“No, it’s fine,” he replied quickly, though his voice was quieter than he intended, tinged with a subtle vulnerability.

Your eyes met, and for a brief moment, the space between you seemed to shrink, the air charged with an unspoken connection. 

The silence stretched, delicate and electric.

You cleared your throat, stepping back slightly to regain composure. “Okay, let me just check the length.”

Jamal nodded, his ears turning red as he looked away.

As the session went on, the awkwardness from earlier seemed to dissolve entirely. You found yourselves chatting about everything from football to fashion, discovering that you had more in common than you expected.

“Do you ever get nervous before a big game?” you asked as you adjusted the hem of the jersey he was wearing.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But it’s more like… excitement, you know? Once you’re on the pitch, it all kind of fades away.”

You nodded, understanding the feeling. “That’s how I feel before a big presentation. The nerves are there, but once I start talking, I forget about everything else.”

He smiled, his admiration for you growing with every passing minute.

As you finished up the adjustments, you stepped back to view your work. “Looks good,” you said, nodding in approval.

Jamal glanced down at the jersey, then back at you. “You’re really good at this,” he said sincerely.

“Thanks,” you said, fidgeting with your necklace.

Before he could hesitate, the words rolled out of his tongue. “So… uh… do you want to maybe, I don’t know… grab coffee sometime?”

You blinked, surprised by the question.

“I mean, you don’t have to,” he added quickly, scratching the back of his neck. “I just thought—”

“I’d like that.” you said as your chocolate colored eyes looked up at him.

His face lit up, a boyish grin spreading across his features. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” you said, feeling your own smile widen.

Later, as you packed up your materials for the day, a soft smile played on your lips. You couldn’t help but replay the moments shared, the quiet exchanges and the unspoken understanding that seemed to bloom between you and Jamal. The awkwardness had melted away, replaced by a comforting ease that felt special. Your thoughts wandered, anticipation bubbling up as you glanced at the time, looking forward to the future. It wasn’t just the designs that had you excited anymore.

© gul4bjamoons 

[gul4bjamoons]

✩ 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.

© gul4bjamoons 2025

[gul4bjamoons]

✩ 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 : fluff isn’t my usual vibe but i tried

˙⋆✮ 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.

© gul4bjamoons