#Marmoush | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gul4bjamoons · 9 days ago

Text

✩ 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.

96 notes · View notes