ੈ✩‧₊˚ rashy’s sleepy girl — jem / jemmy. nineteen, she/they probably somewhere in lotus position ♡ requests open ! writing for rashford and balde. don’t be afraid to submit a thought or two, i don’t bite ⋆˚࿔
tiny notes: requests open but not guaranteed. i write blurbs + expand on your thoughts, so feel free to send anything messy or casual ⋆˚࿔ i write at my own pace, please be patient. i’m open to most themes, including darker/taboo-adjacent ones — just ask if unsure <3
willing to write for others if up to it, mainly black players
summary: writing a scathing hit-piece on marcus rashford’s belfast bender seemed like a career-defining move - until you’re cornered by him at a black-tie gala, and he decides to show you exactly how a proper prick handles a big mouth.
pairing: marcus rashford x young!journalist
warnings: age gap dynamic, post belfast incident timeline, alcohol consumption, enemies to lovers, mean marcus kindaaa, swearing, degradation of you squint, unprotected sex, creampie, choking (?) subtle impact play, overstimulation, secret infidelity, lowkey dubcon vibes if u rlly squint again
a/n: holy shit this was a ride to write. mean marcus is kinda fun to write even if it’s a bit inaccurate. blame it on the alcohol! i miss my party boy sometimes.. might have a fic idea for that. enjoy x (wc: 3.6k)
THE VELVET ROPE at the entrance of the grand ballroom held back a small crowd of photographers, their camera flashes cutting through the dim lighting of the foyer.
inside, the room was packed, the smell of rich perfume, free champagne, and money lingering like a smoke cloud from a wildfire. it was the annual manchester sports & charity gala. the kind of night where wealthy sponsors came to mingle with footballers, and the players put on polite smiles for photo ops to help everyone forget whatever bad publicity they’d picked up that month.
and marcus rashford was definitely the main event on the pr clean-up list tonight.
you stood near the edge of the mezzanine balcony, a flute of prosecco resting loosely between your fingers, watching the room below. you were twenty-two, freshly appointed as a junior culture and sport columnist for a prominent sunday paper, and completely unbothered by the sea of tuxedo-clad millionaires surrounding you. three weeks ago, when news broke about marcus’ infamous twelve-hour bender in belfast - the missed training sessions, the ill-timed "illness" excuses, the utter chaos of it all, every major outlet had pulled their punches to protect their access to the club.
you hadn't.
your story had gone nuclear within four hours of publication. you’d put a bullet straight through the narrative around him, breaking the boundary between pressure and pure negligence, writing a piece so sharp and unapologetic that his management team had reportedly tried to lodge a formal complaint with your editor.
and now, there he was. the man of the hour.
down on the main floor, standing near a towering ice sculpture, marcus looked distinctly like a man who would rather be literally anywhere else on earth. he was dressed in a sharp, custom double-breasted black tuxedo, his tall, broad frame commanding attention even while standing motionless. but his shoulders were tight, his dark eyes shadowed with an edge of quiet exhaustion.
flanking him were his brothers, looking like hawks keeping watch, nudging him every time a camera flashed.
to survive the sheer tedium of the night, and the suffocating supervision of his family, marcus was making free use of the passing waiters. you watched, amused, as he nonchalantly swapped an empty champagne flute for a fresh one from a passing tray, downing half of it in one smooth, practiced gulp.
he was drinking far too fast for a black-tie event. he was bored, irritated, and slightly buzzing.
you took a slow sip of your drink, a faint, cynical smirk playing on your lips. unbelievable.
refilling your own glass, you made your way down the grand marble staircase, intending to grab a few quotes from the mayor’s team and call it a night. but as you rounded the corner toward the quiet alcove near the secondary bar, a shadow fell across your path.
you stopped short.
marcus was leaning casually against the polished mahogany of the bar, a half-empty glass in his hand. up close, his physical presence was undeniable. 6’0 of pure athletic power, smelling faintly of expensive cologne and fine vintage champagne. his tie was slightly loosened at the collar, a subtle giveaway of the champagne working its way through his system.
his dark eyes locked onto yours. there was a beat of heavy, silence before his lips twitched into a low, quiet smirk.
"you," he said. his voice was deep, raspy, soaked in that slow, heavy manchester drawl. "i know that face."
you didn't blink. you didn't straighten your posture or look flustered. you simply crossed your arms, looking up at him with a cool, unimpressed tilt of your head. "do you? i'm surprised you can see clearly tonight, rashford."
a quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest, though his eyes narrowed slightly. he took a slow step closer, his height looming over you, trying to use that steady, quiet authority that usually intimidated journalists half his size. "you’ve got a lot of nerve coming here after that little story you wrote. had a right laugh reading that, i did. very dramatic."
"it wasn't dramatic. it was accurate," you replied smoothly, your tone dripping with dry amusement. "though i suppose when you're used to people kissing the ground you walk on, basic accountability feels like an attack."
marcus blinked, caught slightly off guard by the sheer lack of deference in your voice. most people stuttered when he looked at them; you were looking at him like he was a minor inconvenience standing between you and the exit.
"accountability?" marcus echoed, his tone sharpening, slipping a little deeper into his northern inflection as the alcohol stripped away his polished pr filter. "look, you don't know the half of what goes on. you sit behind a laptop, write your little words, think you've got me figured out. it’s easy to talk trash when you don't have to carry the weight."
"oh, spare me the martyr act," you laughed quietly, shaking your head. "you get paid hundreds of thousands of pounds to play football, got on a private jet to belfast, downed shots until four in the morning, and then tried to call in sick for work like a university student hungover on a tuesday. it wasn't 'weight', marcus. It was just stupid."
he stared at you, his jaw tightening. the champagne was making his blood run hot, but it was your utter refusal to yield that was really getting under his skin.
"you're a proper prick when you've had a few, aren't you?" you added casually, taking a sip of your drink and meeting his dark gaze dead on. "or is this just how you are normally?"
marcus let out a short, breathy laugh, leaning down slightly so his face was inches from yours. the scent of his cologne swept over you, thick and intoxicating. "a proper prick?" he repeated softly, his eyes dropping to your lips for a split second before rising back to your eyes. "nobody talks to me like that."
"then somebody should have done it a long time ago," you retorted, stepping right into his space, completely unbothered by his size. "might have saved you a trip to the north."
something electric snapped in the air between you. the hostility hadn't vanished - it had morphed. his gaze grew impossibly heavy, his pupils dilated as he took in the fierce, unyielding spark in your eyes. he wasn't used to being challenged like this, especially not by a girl in her early twenties who looked at him with such wicked, unfiltered confidence.
"you think you're clever, don't ya?" marcus murmured, his hand moving with sudden, decisive intent. his large, warm fingers wrapped around your wrist - not painfully, but with an absolute, steady possessiveness that made your pulse instantly spike.
"i know i am," you whispered back, your voice dipping low.
without another word, marcus glanced over his shoulder. his brothers were out of sight, lost in conversation across the crowded ballroom. with a smooth, deliberate tug, he pulled you down the dimly lit corridor behind the bar, pushing open a black door marked private service lounge.
when the heavy door clicked shut behind you, cutting off the orchestra and loud chatter of the gala into a soft muffle, marcus didn’t hesitate.
he didn't offer a smooth line or give you a chance to retreat. the alcohol in his system had stripped away the quiet, media trained composure, leaving behind a raw, towering dominant energy that immediately filled the room.
before you could even draw a full breath, his hand caught your wrist. his grip was broad, heavy, and inescapable, pinning your arm back as he crowded you against the plush, high-backed leather sofa in the corner.
he leaned down, his massive frame completely cutting off the light, bringing his face inches from yours. "still got a big mouth, haven't ya?" he rasped. his voice was ridiculously deeper than usual, scraped raw by the champagne and the sheer heat rolling off him, dripping with that familiar gentle yet deep manchester accent.
you swallowed hard, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs, but you forced yourself to look him dead in the eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flinch.
"i say what i want, marcus," you breathed, your voice trembling slightly despite your best efforts, your eyes darting down to his lips before snapping back up. "you don't scare me just because you're bigger than me."
a slow, dark smirk touched his lips when he registered the sheer effect he was having on you. your body was betraying every sharp word you’d written in your column. your chest was heaving, your cheeks flushed, completely soaked in anticipation for him.
"is that right?" marcus whispered, his hand sliding down your side, his broad palm gripping your waist with an absolute, steady possessiveness. "talk all that shit in your column, but look at you right now. tremblin’."
"i'm not-" you tried to protest, a sharp gasp cutting you off as his knee forced its way between your thighs, parting them effortlessly. "marcus, wait—"
"wait for what?" he muttered, his dark eyes dropping to your mouth. "you wanted my attention so bad. you wrote a whole fuckin’ article just to get me to notice you."
"i wrote facts," you bit back, your fingers tangling into his lapels, pulling him down even closer until your lips brushed against his jaw. "you were being a prick and i called you out."
"proper prick, was i?" he growled softly, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your lace panties and pulling them aside. he slid two long fingers through your folds, finding you completely drenched, slick, and burning up for him. a low, dark chuckle rumbled in his chest. "look at you. dripping for a prick."
"shut up," you gasped out, your hips involuntarily arching into his touch, a embarrassingly needy sound escaping your throat. "just.. shut. up."
marcus didn't waste another second. he unbuckled his belt with one hand, guiding himself directly against your soaking entrance. his long fingers tangled tightly into your hair, anchoring your head back, forcing you to look right into his heavy, hooded eyes as he positioned himself.
"big mouth.." he muttered against your lips.
without a second of mercy, he shifted his weight and drove straight into you in one smooth, agonizingly heavy push, filling you so completely that the breath was ripped clean out of your lungs.
you threw your head back against the sofa armrest, a high, shattered cry tearing from your throat.
"marcus! ah—"
he paused for a fraction of a second, letting you absorb the full, brutal depth of him, his massive chest pressing down against yours until you could feel the violent thud of his heart. he leaned down until his lips were resting right against the shell of your ear, his voice dropping to an impossibly low, dark rumble.
"...little girl."
the sheer patronising weight of the words - delivered with the absolute authority of a man who knew precisely how much power he held over you, made your core clench tight around him.
"fuck," you sobbed out, your hands clawing at his broad clothed back, your thighs trembling violently as your walls gripped him like a vice. "you're so— god, marcus.."
marcus let out a ragged, guttural growl at the sensation, his hips immediately locking into a punishing, rhythmic drive. the sound in the room became unbearable. the heavy, wet friction of your bodies colliding, the deep, breathy grunts escaping his throat with every heavy thrust, and the slick, chaotic slide of leather against your dress.
he moved with an athletic, experienced efficiency that left you utterly ruined. every time you tried to gather your thoughts or gasp out a coherent response, he would shift his angle, driving deeper, hitting that exact, agonising spot that reduced your defiance to high, helpless whimpers.
"say it again," marcus rasped, his tempo picking up, the leather groaning under his weight as he hammered into you, his jaw tight, sweat glistening at his temples. "say i'm a prick."
"you are..." you gasped out, your head tossing from side to side, your nails digging into the fine wool of his tuxedo jacket as he drove you higher and higher toward the edge. "you're a.. ah!, asshole, marcus.."
"yeah?" he growled, snapping his hips forward even harder, driving so deep you saw spots behind your eyelids. "and what are you? hm? moanin’ on a sofa for me?"
"marcus, please- i'm gonna—" you cried out, your voice breaking as the tension tightened into a knot deep in your belly.
"take it," he ordered softly, his hand sliding up to rest gently over your throat, his thumb rubbing against your racing pulse as he rode you through the peak. "come on. take it for me."
when the wave finally crashed over you, your thighs shook uncontrollably, a long, shattered moan tore from your throat as your body convulsed tightly around him. "marcus! oh my go- fuck!"
marcus rode right through your release, his thrusts becoming short, sharp, and possessive until he let out a low, heavy groan, burying his face into the crook of your neck as he finished inside you, his heavy body weight sinking into yours as the tension broke.
marcus remained heavily grounded over you for a few quiet seconds, his face buried deep into the crook of your neck, his chest rising and falling in heavy, ragged beats. the absolute storm of noise and heat in the room slowly settled into the soft hum of the air conditioning.
when he finally pulled back, resting his broad forearms on either side of your head, he looked down at you. his dark eyes were heavy lidded, his jaw still tight, but the manic intensity in his expression was gone. replaced by a deep, quiet calm.
"you alright?" he asked softly. his voice was still scraped completely raw, dropping down into that gentle tone that felt far too warm for what had just happened.
the softness in his tone cut right through you, making the sheer reality of the situation hit all at once. you were completely undone - hair a tangled mess on the leather, dress bunched up around your waist, your chest heaving, and your skin burning everywhere he’d touched you. embarrassment flashed hot through your veins, mixing terribly with your bruised pride.
"i'm fine," you snapped, your tone sharp and laced with venom to cover how shaken you actually felt. you put both palms against his massive chest, trying to shove him back. "get off me, you prick."
marcus didn't budge an inch. your push barely shifted his weight, and instead of getting angry, a slow, amused smirk touched the corner of his lips. he ate the attitude right up, clearly finding your sudden attempt to regain control entertaining.
"watch the mouth," marcus murmured, his tone dropping into that familiar authority again.
“i said get off—"
before the word could fully leave your mouth, marcus moved. it wasn't aggressive or painful, but it was absolute firmness. his large hand came down, his broad palm wrapping firmly around the front of your throat. just enough pressure to anchor you back against the sofa cushions, shutting down your struggle instantly. his fingers were warm, steady, and large enough to span the entire width of your neck, his thumb resting lightly right against your fluttering pulse.
he leaned in closer, his broad frame towering back over you, pinning your body effortlessly beneath his.
"i just asked you a normal question," he said quietly, his dark eyes locked dead on with yours. there was a quiet, unshakeable authority in his gaze that made your breath catch in your throat.
"don't start acting up now."
you swallowed hard against his palm, your heart hammering wildly beneath his thumb, but you held his gaze, refusing to look away.
for a long beat, the tension hung thick between you. then, seeing that he had your full attention, marcus slowly loosened his grip. his hand didn't leave your neck immediately, instead, his thumb softened, tracing a gentle, slow stroke along your jawline.
the sudden shift to gentleness was almost worse than the firm grip.
despite the apparent arrogance you thought he carried on the pitch, marcus was naturally soft-spoken, and the genuine, quiet care in his eyes made your chest ache.
he slid his other arm under your shoulders, pulling you up slightly off the leather until you were sitting up against him. he reached down with a slow, deliberate touch, helping you pull the fabric of your dress back down over your hips, his broad hands surprisingly smooth as he smoothed out the wrinkles in your skirt.
"hey," he murmured softly, leaning down so his forehead lightly rested against yours. his hot breath brushed over your lips. "i'm serious. you good?"
you let out a quiet, shaky breath, the fight draining out of you for a second as you leaned into the steady warmth of his chest.
"yeah," you whispered, your voice far less defiant than before. "i'm good."
marcus gave a small, genuine nod, his hand coming up to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. he held your face for a brief, quiet moment, looking at you like he was really seeing you, before he finally shifted his weight and stood up.
the atmosphere instantly shifted back to reality.
marcus reached down, buckling his belt and straightening his crisp white shirt in a few practiced motions. he grabbed his tuxedo jacket off the side table, pulling it over his broad shoulders, completely putting himself back together in seconds.
up close, watching him transform back into the pristine, high-profile athlete was surreal.
he picked up your clutch from the floor, holding it out to you as you adjusted your heels and checked your reflection in your phone screen, trying your best to erase any trace of what had just happened.
marcus stood by the door, his hands resting casually in his trouser pockets. the warmth in his eyes had settled back into that calm, guarded composure he kept for the public.
"give it five minutes before you go out," marcus said quietly, his voice back to that steady, protective tone. he reached out as you stepped toward him, his hand catching your arm just tight enough to pause you. he leaned down slightly, his gaze heavy and direct. "and don't go writin’ about any of this in your next article. got it?"
it wasn't a threat - it was a calm, mature instruction from a man who knew the exact rules of the game he was playing.
you looked up at him, swallowing down the lump in your throat, “wouldn’t even give you the satisfaction."
marcus stared at you for one last beat, his thumb giving your arm a gentle, final squeeze before he let go. "knew you’d be a good girl." he muttered softly, opening the heavy door just enough to slip out into the corridor, leaving you alone in the dark room to catch your breath.
you smoothed down your dress one last time, waited out the five agonising minutes in the quiet dark, and stepped out of the service lounge.
your heart was still doing backflips against your ribs. your skin felt hot, your lips were swollen, and despite every bit of professional cynicism you possessed, you felt an undeniable, intoxicating rush. you had just completely unraveled marcus rashford in a locked room, and he’d been surprisingly gentle with you at the end of it.
you grabbed a fresh glass of water from a passing waiter, taking a quiet position near the grand staircase so you could spot him in the crowd.
a minute later, marcus stepped into the warm, golden light of the main ballroom from the toilets. he looked absolutely gorgeous. his tuxedo was straight, his posture was confident, and the heavy, exhausted edge he’d carried all night was completely smoothed over.
you let out a tiny, breathless exhale, a faint, secret smile pulling at the corner of your lips.. until his brother, dwaine, waved him over toward the vip section.
stepping out from behind the velvet curtain right next to dwaine was a woman in a stunning emerald gown.
lucia loi. his infamous girlfriend whom he’s known to be on and off with.
the smile died on your face instantly. the glass in your hand felt suddenly, violently heavy.
you watched, frozen, as marcus walked straight up to her without a second of hesitation. he didn't look around, didn't look nervous, didn't hesitate for even a second of a beat. he slid his broad, tattooed hand naturally around her waist, pulling her flush against his side.
she smiled up at him, leaning into his space to whisper something in his ear, and marcus leaned down, resting his cheek against her hair with an easy, practiced affection.
little did you know he had been here with her all along. his family, his girlfriend, his whole pristine public life - right on the other side of the wall while he had you pinned against a leather couch.
as lucia adjusted the lapel of his tuxedo jacket, marcus shifted his weight, his arm still wrapped firmly around her waist. his eyes casually swept over the crowded room, and locked completely with yours.
he didn't flinch. he didn't look guilty or caught. his dark eyes held yours across the glittering ballroom for one long, silent beat, a ghost of that same quiet, heavy smirk touching his lips before he turned his attention right back to his girlfriend.
he knows exactly what he did to you, and he knows you can't say a single word about it.
summary: marcus certainly doesn’t mind leaning into your weird little world if it means being close to you.
pairing: marcus rashford x neurodivergent!gf
warnings: none, really, but if you wanna count specific biology as a squeamish warning then have at it. :)
a/n: hello beautiful people!! i will always love writing for rashy. he is such a joy to think and write about, and certainly boyfriend material. i hope you enjoy <3
IT WAS NEARLY 1:30am. marcus had come home from his away match not too long ago, his body aching with that familiar bone-deep exhaustion that only a gruelling ninety minutes on the pitch could bring.
normally, he’d go straight to bed. but he knew you’d still be up.
he walked down the hallway, his socked feet making no sound on the marble tile, and leaned against the kitchen doorframe.
there you were. sitting crisscrossed on the cold kitchen floor in one of his oversized t-shirts you decided to steal from his closet, completely lost in your own world.
spread out around you were three open books on deep sea marine biology, a laptop glowing with a research paper on bioluminescence, and a small plate containing a bizarre concoction.. sliced apples dipped in hot sauce and peanut butter.
marcus stayed quiet for a moment, just watching you. his dark eyes softened, a tiny, amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips. he shook his head slowly. fucking weird, he thought to himself - not for the first time, but with a warmth in his chest that completely caught him off guard.
“you know there’s a dining room table, yeah?”
his voice was low, deep, and thick with that all too well known smooth, quiet manchester cadence. it carried that gentle, relaxed drawl that always made the room feel a little warmer.
you flinched slightly. not because you were scared, but because you’d been so hyperfocused you’d practically forgotten the rest of the universe existed. you looked up, your eyes wide behind your messy curls.
"the floor has better grounding," you said flatly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "the table has too much wood density. it feels heavy."
marcus let out a soft huff of laughter, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked over to the fridge. "wood density. right. silly me, innit?"
he grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap off, and took a slow drink before turning back to look at you. he didn't tell you to get up. he didn't act like you were crazy. instead, marcus folded his long, athletic frame down onto the floor right across from you, resting his wrists on his knees.
he leaned forward, looking down at your little snack plate with a raised eyebrow.
"what's all this then?" he asked softly, gesturing with his thumb toward the plate. "you're gonna ruin your stomach with that, man. serious." he quipped.
"it's sensory calibration," you explained, your tone completely serious as you nudged the plate toward him. "the hot sauce triggers endomorphins, the peanut butter provides fat for protein absorption, and the apple is crunch. it balances the central nervous system." you explain as if it was common knowledge.
marcus stared at the apple slice, then looked at you. his eyes danced with amusement, a genuine, wide smile spreading across his face, showing off his teeth.
"endomorphins, yeah?" he teased softly, his voice dropping into that quiet, husky voice. "you just make these words up to sound clever, don't you? endorphins, mate. endorphins." he chuckled.
"endorphins," you corrected yourself without a hint of shame, waving a hand dismissively. "same thing. try it."
"i am not eating hot sauce and peanut butter at one in the morning," he chuckled, leaning back against the base of the lower cupboards. "i've got training at ten. boss'd kill me if i turned up with an upset gut because my girl's doing food experiments on the floor."
my girl. the casual way he said it always made a strange, pleasant buzz hum through your chest.
marcus settled in, resting his head back against the cupboard door. he looked exhausted - the faint dark circles under his eyes spoke to the high intensity week he'd had, the pressure of the media, the fans, the constant demand to perform at the highest level.. but sitting here on the kitchen floor with you, all of that armour melted away.
"how was the match?" you asked, leaning your chin on your knee.
marcus let out a quiet sigh, looking at his hands. "tough, you know? they sat deep, made it right difficult for us to find space in behind. had to work for it. got the three points in the end, though. that's all that matters, really." he paused, looking over at you, his gaze gentle. "what were you up to all day? just.. reading about fish?"
"bioluminescent anglerfish," you corrected, immediately shifting into high gear. your posture straightened, your eyes lighting up with that intense, unblinking focus that marcus found equal parts terrifying and fascinating.
"did you know that when the male anglerfish finds a female, he doesn't just mate with her? he physically bites into her skin and releases an enzyme that dissolves his own mouth and body until his vascular system fuses with hers. he literally becomes a permanent parasite attached to her body so he never has to be alone in the pitch black of the deep ocean."
silence filled the kitchen.
marcus just stared at you. his mouth opened slightly, then closed. he blinked once. twice.
"..that's dark, you know," he said finally, a quiet, disbelieving laugh slipping out of his chest. "like... proper weird, man. why are you reading that before bed, love?"
"because it's poetic," you insisted, leaning closer. "it's complete devotion. total physical integration.”
"it's creepy," marcus countered softly, though the corner of his lip was twitching up again. he reached out, his big, warm hand reaching across the space between you to gently tap the tip of your nose. "you're a proper weirdo. absolutely mental."
"you love it."
"do i?" he murmured, his tone shifting into something impossibly tender. he reached out further, grabbing your wrist softly and pulling you closer across the floor. "come ‘ere."
you scrambled forward, crawling into his space. marcus opened his arms and pulled you up into his lap, wrapping his long arms around you securely. he buried his face into the crook of your neck, taking a deep, heavy breath of your familiar scent— vanilla and warm cotton. you felt the deep rumble of his chest as he relaxed completely against you, all the physical tension from ninety minutes of elite football finally draining out of his muscles.
"you're warm." he mumbled against your skin, his voice muffled.
"you're cold," you retorted, running your fingers through his short, dark curls. "you need to regulate your body temperature, rashy.”
marcus gave a quiet, breathy laugh against your neck. "always gotta have a reason for everything, don't you? can't just be 'cause i want to hold you?"
"that's a psychological reason," you pointed out softly. "oxytocin release."
marcus lifted his head slightly, looking down into your face. up close, his dark eyes were incredibly gentle, carrying that quiet, humble warmth that made him who he was. he looked at you like you were the most interesting, complex puzzle he'd ever been given to solve. someone completely untouched by the fame, the money, or the noise of his world. you were just you. unfiltered, blunt, chaotic, and entirely his.
"you talk too much." he whispered affectionately, though his eyes were full of devotion.
"you asked me about the fish."
"and you gave me a horror story." he teased, his thumb gently smoothing over your cheekbone.
"next time, just tell me they glow in the dark, yeah? keep it simple for me.
"i don't do simple."
"nah," marcus murmured, his soft lips brushing against yours in a slow, lingering kiss that tasted like mint and pure bliss. "i know you don't. wouldn't want you to, either."
he pulled back just an inch, resting his forehead against yours. his hands rested securely on your waist, anchoring you to him.
"come to bed now, yeah?" he murmured softly, his accent rich and soothing in the quiet of the night. "leave the glowing fish for tomorrow. i'm dead beat, and i need my girl with me."
you looked at the books spread across the floor, then back at marcus - his heavy eyelids, his gentle smile, the quiet, safe space he always built around you no matter how loud the rest of the world got.
"fine," you whispered. "but tomorrow i'm telling you about vampire squids."
marcus let out a low, rumbling laugh, shaking his head as he helped you stand up, keeping his arm wrapped tightly around your waist.
“can’t wait, love.” he smiled, pulling you close against his side as you both walked toward the stairs.
summary: it’s past 12am in 2016 on skype with marcus.. and he doesn’t hesitate to show you just what you do to him.
pairing: young!marcus x young!reader
warnings: masturbation, phone sex i guess, (?) mentions of cum, uhh can’t think of anything other than that. marcus is a bit subby :3
a/n: AAA so much fun writing this. told oomf about this idea and she said hop to it so i HOPPED. dedicated to my one and onlyy @lknowlove xx
THE BEDROOM was dimly lit with marcus’ blue-white glare of his laptop screen, casting sharp shadows across his posters and everything else in his room. outside, it was freezing, proper manchester winter weather rattling the windowpanes— but inside, marcus felt consumed with the overheated, trapped slow-burning kind of torture that he had walked right into willingly.
his laptop was sat upon his wooden desk, his legs spread in his desk chair as his head was a bit tilted back as he stared at you on the little video feed. you were sitting cross-legged on your bed, wrapped up in your jumper and shorts whilst wildly gesturing your hands as you talked. it was past midnight, and you had long since derailed from letting him help you review some school work into a passionate, animated rant about some acquaintances outrageous relationship choices. every time you leaned in closer to the camera to emphasise a point, the low hum of your mic picked up your soft sighs.
“…and then she genuinely thought it was a good fucking idea to text him back, like make it make sense, bro, because honestly? i’m exhausted trying to keep up with this bitches dram—marcus, are you even listening to me right now?” your voice cut sharply through the steady, low hum of his laptop fan.
on the other end of the call, marcus blinked hard, dragging his gaze away from the area on the screen where your lips were moving. he cleared his throat, shifting slightly in his padded chair as a jolt of sudden panic mixed with heavy, undeniable desire that shot straight through him.
“yeah. yeah, ‘course i am, love.” he murmured, his voice that low, distinct manchester drawl. soft-spoken yet a little tired around the edges but entirely focused on you.
“you completely zoned out,” you accuse, crossing your arms over the fleece of your sleeves and narrowing your eyes at the webcam. “what’d i just say?”
marcus let out a quiet, raspy chuckle, running a large hand up the back of his neck and dragging it through his short, tightly curled hair. he dropped his gaze momentarily, letting out a sharp breath through his nose.
“you were going on about.. what’s her name? chloe? and her fella,” marcus muttered, flashing a slow, sheepish half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes because he was too busy trying to regulate his breathing. “see? i caught it.”
“barely,” you muttered back, rolling your eyes, though a small smiled hinted at the corners of your mouth. “you’re useless tonight. are you tired? do you wanna go to sleep?”
sleep? marcus thought with a silent heavy groan. sleep was the absolute last thing his body was cooperating with right now.
he shifted his weight again, the moment entirely involuntary as he tries to adjust himself, keenly aware of just how agonisingly tight his grey cotton sweatpants felt against his skin. being a lanky, exceptionally tall eighteen year-old meant he was all long limbs and broad shoulders in the chair with nowhere to hide. he was built like a proper athlete. lean muscle and long legs that always felt cramped up in standard furniture, and an overwhelming physical presence that usually made him tower over everyone else in the room. right now, all that height and heavy frame felt completely trapped by his own clothes, pinned down by the sheer intensity of the visual you were broadcasting straight to his screen.
he hadn’t planned on it getting to this point. it just happened every single time you got comfortable on call. you’d pull your knees up, or the neckline of your shirt would slip up just a bit, or you’d bite your lower lip when you got annoyed, and his brain would completely short circuit.
you’re still talking, completely oblivious, when you notice him stop moving entirely. the playful, sheepish look is completely gone from his face.
instead, marcus is just staring at you through the pixelated screen with these heavy, hooded eyes, looking throughly wrecked. he looks exhausted— not the kind of tired from a late night training session, but that deep, sluggish ache that comes from being too hard for too long without release.
“marcus?” you trail off, a sudden nervous drop in your stomach. “what’s wrong with you?” you ask, looking at the screen.
he doesn’t answer right away but he just lets out this slow, ragged breath, running his hand down his face before letting it drop heavy and flat against his stomach, right over the obvious, rigid outline straining against his grey sweatpants that you haven’t grown accustomed to yet.
“you’re killing me,” he mutters, his manchester drawl dropping so low it’s almost a gravelly whisper. it sounds less like a tease and more like a genuine complaint. “swear down you’re a nightmare.”
“what did i do?!” you breathe out, your cheeks instantly heating up as you realise exactly where his hand is resting and why his chest is heaving like he just sprinted the length of the pitch.
marcus groans softly, his head tipping back against his desk chair he’s in. his lean, athletic frame looks completely strung out, his long legs shifting restlessly as he tries, and fails, to find a comfortable position.
“you just sit there.. talking about nothing, looking like that.” he says lowly, his dark eyes snapping back up to lock onto you through the camera, blazing with a sudden, restless heat. he gives a slow, frustrated shake of his head. “i’ve been sat here for twenty minutes trying to look at your face, love, but i can’t even think straight. look at me.. look what you’ve gone and done.”
he shifts his weight slightly, pushing chair a bit back and letting you see the full, heavy length of him pressing against the cotton, making it abundantly clear that he hasn't just been "distracted".. he’s been suffering.
"come closer to the camera," he murmurs, his voice thick and demanding just a little softer this time, laced with that shy, quiet desperation that makes it impossible to say no to him. "just.. stay right there for me. let me look at you properly." he sighs.
your heart did a violent, stuttering flip against your ribs. you slowly shuffled forward on your bed, inching closer to your own camera, completely transfixed by the sight of him.
marcus let out a rough, unstable breath. as he had dragged his chair back from the desk slightly, his long, heavy frame slouched down low with his knees parted wide was the show for you tonight. because of the angle of the webcam sitting on the corner of the desk, every single shift he made, every twitch of his long legs, and every heavy, desperate inch of him straining against the grey cotton of his sweatpants was broadcasted in high-def, pixelated agony right to your screen.
he tried to square his shoulders, attempting to salvage at least some of his dignity, trying to sound like he was still the one running the show.
"just. stay right there," he started, his voice dropping into that deep, husky tone, trying to sound firm. but the attempt completely crumbled at the edges as a sharp, involuntary shiver ran through his lean frame. his head snapped back against the top of the padded chair, a choked, breathless sound catching in his throat. "fuck... stay right there, love. don't move an inch."
“marcus..” your voice came out breathless, your own hands gripping at the edge of your oversized sleeves as you stared helplessly at the screen. “you’re a mess.” you practically whimper.
“i know,” he groaned, sounding entirely defeated. the tough guy act evaporating into thin air as his hand dropped lower, curling heavily over himself, his thumb pressing right against the thick, aching shape of him. he let out a wet, ragged sigh, his chest heaving under his black t-shirt. “i’m a fucking mess, look at me. it’s all your fault. swear down, it’s all you.”
he now allows his head to loll back against the chair again, his dark eyes squeezed shut for a second as he fought a losing battle against the friction and the sheer, overwhelming ache of wanting to touch himself properly on camera for you. when he opened his eyes again, they were dark, glazed and practically pleading.
“talk to me,” he’d whisper, his voice crackling just a bit, dipping into that soft, whimpering desperation that made your stomach twist in pure heat. “talk to me..” he’d sigh. “tell me whatever you want to. i’m listening. promise, fuck.. i promise i’ll listen to every word, just.. keep talking to me, baby.” he’d finally rasp.
for a second, you just sit there. frozen. your brain completely stalling out as the reality of what’s happening, and what he’s begging you to do, catches up to you. you’re fully caught off guard, cheeks burning hot, but the absolute raw need in his voice makes it impossible to look away.
your throat felt completely dry. you swallowed hard, your own breathing turning shallow and fast as you watched him shudder under the harsh glare of the webcam.
"marcus.." you choked out, your voice barely louder than a whisper, fingers twisting frantically into the soft fabric of your jumper. "i- i don't even know what to say to you." you stumble over your words.
marcus let out a low, pathetic whine, his head dropping forward from the back of the chair as he locked his dark, heavy lidded gaze straight onto the camera lens. he was trembling now, his broad shoulders tense, his large hand moving in slow, agonizingly deliberate strokes over the thick, aching length of himself through the grey cotton.
"just say anything," he begged, his same familiar drawl thick, rough, and completely stripped of any remaining pride. he sounded so gone, so utterly wrecked by you, that it made your head spin. "tell me what you're doing. tell me what you'd do to me if you were here. fuck... talk to me, love, i'm right on the edge." he shook his head.
the desperation in his voice broke whatever hesitation you had left. your heart hammered against your ribs, a wild, reckless heat flooding through your veins. you shifted closer to your own camera, your voice dropping to a low, trembling hum.
"you're pathetic," you breathed out, though there was no real bite to it. only a breathless, trembling awe. "sitting there falling apart over a skype call.."
"yeah, i am," marcus groaned, his hips jerking up reluctantly against his hand at the sound of your voice, a sharp hiss escaping between his teeth. "i'm losing my mind, love, come on, talk to me. what are you wearing underneath there? are you touching yourself yet?" he rambles.
you reached to turn down your volume on your laptop as he was getting a bit rowdy and your hesitation was creeping back in. “you’re so loud..” you say quietly, hoping that your dad cannot hear any of the filthy words you just dared to utter under his roof.
“how are you able to do this right now? aren’t you home? what if someone walks in?—“
“y/n.”
“marcus.”
“please.” he’d practically whimper.
you swallowed thickly, attempting to swallow down any sort of hesitation or shame you had regained in the past thirty seconds.
"if i was right there," you whispered, looking around the room before your eyelids fluttered, imagined walking across that room and pushing him back against the chair, "i wouldn't let you use your hand and close your eyes, rash. i'd make you drop it right between your legs and watch you do it yourself while i listened to you beg." you swallowed, attempting to be quiet.
marcus let out a loud, ragged gasp, his head snapping back against the padded chair again as a violent shiver racked his long frame. the crude, filthy picture of it - standing over him, watching every single second. completely obliterated whatever fragile control he had left.
"fuck," he choked out, his eyes squeezed shut as his hand moved faster, desperate and heavy, sliding up and down against the straining fabric before just reaching beneath his sweats and grabbing his length. "fuck, yeah. keep going, tell me that again, love—" he hissed, stroking himself full now.
"if i was right there," you whispered, looking around the room before your eyelids fluttered, imagining walking across that room and pushing him back against the chair, "i wouldn't let you hide behind closed eyes, rash. i'd make you drop your hand right between your legs and watch you do it yourself while i listened to you beg." you swallowed, attempting to keep your voice low.
marcus let out a long, broken sound that was half-whine, half-groan. his chest heaved violently, his long legs locking rigid against the floor as his breathing turned into ragged gasps. "i'm gonna—fuck, i'm right there." he panted, his hand moving in frantic, punishing strokes. "look at me—baby, look at me, f-fuck i’m gonna cum.” he full on whimpered.
with one final, desperate thrust of his hips against his hand, marcus let out a hoarse, breathless cry, as white hot spurts of cum shot out of his cock, spilling all over his now ruined grey sweats.
he slumped back hard into the chair, his chest rising and falling massive, shuddering breaths, eyes squeezed shut as he rode out the heavy, trembling aftershocks, completely undone by you in the night on a laptop screen.
“expected longer from you, rashford.” you tease then, a triumphant little smirk pulling at the corner of your lips.
marcus tilts his head back down toward the screen, his dark eyes narrowing slightly in a slow, disbelieving challenge. “yeah?” he asks, a crooked half-smile breaking through as he tilts his head to the side a bit.
“mhm.” you hum, leaning in a little closer to your own webcam just to watch him squirm.
marcus lets out a low, rough breath, shaking his head as the dazed look in his eyes vanishes, replaced by a sudden, dangerous hunger. he gets his chair closer to the desk before leaning back.
“just wait till i get my hands on you proper, y/n.” he murmurs, his voice a thick, gravelly drawl that sends a shiver straight down your spine. he holds your gaze, his chest still rising and falling heavily as he watches you process the threat. “take your shirt off. your turn.”
fuckkk he knows what he’s doing 😵💫 imagining coming home to him lying on the sofa all tired n heavy lidded from training n he’s barely awake but all he wants is you. “how was trainin’, love?” you’d ask, walking over to the sofa, putting your stuff down, and he’s just so tired he can’t help but mutter out a simple “fine,” followed by more barely coherent words of “stop messin’ about ‘n get over ‘ere.” as he hooks a lazy arm around your waist, zero shift of his posture as he brings you down into his lap. his skin is warm, freshly showered and his hands definitely have a grip on you. he buries his face into your neck, inhaling your scent.. leaving a couple pecks before letting out his all too familiar deep, chesty sigh that lets you know he’s purely content. fuck i need him bad.
summary: in which marcus shows his forbidden feelings for you by defending you against a hostile reporter .✦ ݁˖
warnings: none
a/n: was up jotting down random thoughts and decided to have a go at writing a fic. might make a part two if wanted ᢉ𐭩
the press room would be suffocating. usually the manager would be present but due to his sudden illness, the media department panicked and put their two most talked-about players on the panel together.
you and marcus would be sat side by side, stationary under the blinding, hot studio lights for thirty minutes. no movement, no tactical drills to distract you two.. just pure, concentrated, unsaid tension broadcasted to the world.
marcus would be sat there with tired, low eyes and heavy bones. his eyes shadowed with everything he’s gone through mentally and physically ever since losing the europa league final and the euro 20 final back to back as well as his injuries, specifically his shoulder. the chronic sadness seeped into his limbs, his presence heavy and not as ambitious like it once was.
his forearms would be rested on the table, his gaze jumping from journalist to journalist in the room. it’s a dark, piercing look that shows he demands respect and silences some of the whispering reporters. he is completely composed, professional and unapproachable.
then there’s you. young and bubbly, known for your vibrant and lighthearted energy—the girl who plays pranks and cracks all sorts of jokes at training but transforms into a ruthless machine on matchdays. but sitting next to marcus? you are a bundle of raw, attempted hidden nerves. the proximity is dizzying, as usual, and you can smell his faint cologne on his neck. you keep your hands clasped tightly under the table in your lap to hide just how much they’re trembling, something that marcus catches but doesn’t comment on.
throughout the first ten minutes, you and marcus play out the part of professionals almost perfectly. when a question is directed towards one of you, the answer is always carried with precision and professionalism. marcus handles the tactical answers with ease whereas you follow up with your usual lightheartedness, attempting to inject some positivity and enthusiasm into such a miserable season.
at one point, you make a witty joke about a failed passing drill in training, making the room chuckle. marcus smirks, fitting in with the crowd but also admiring your ability to charm everyone in a heartbeat. you look at him subtly, seeing his reaction as his jaw slowly relaxes, head tilting down as he gives you a private, low nod of approval - which makes your stomach flutter.
you look away, before looking back as your eyes lock for a fraction of a second. his dark eyes so intense and heavy with unspoken thoughts and feelings that it only sends another wave of pure heat down your spine, making you look away and itch your neck awkwardly with a shaky hand and flushed cheeks.
afterwards, with everything going well, a notorious, cynical tabloid journalist clears his throat after being picked and decides to turn the conference into an awkward stance.
he looks directly at you, a subtle condescending smirk on his face. “a question for y/n,” to which your sweet response would be “hi.” with your signature smile.
“y/n, united are having a historically poor season, and a lot of pundits are suggesting that experimenting with a female player in the men's top flight is proving to be a massive distraction for the squad. do you ever feel like your presence here is a detriment to the team’s results? like maybe you're simply out of your depth physically?"
the energy of the room shifts, pure silence after such a question is asked to you. the blatant disrespect hanging in the air.
your breath catches, and your heart starts beating like never before. the sheer cruelty of the question hitting you like a freight train, your usual witty confidence evaporates, and you can feel the hot sting of public humiliation starting to prickle behind your eyes.
you start to open your mouth to respond, offering a standard, professional defence the best you can, but your voice hitches in your throat. you are entirely exposed under the flashbulbs.
before you can speak a single word, marcus simply doesn’t let you. he shifts his weight, leaning directly into his microphone. the movement is deliberate, heavy and terrifying calm. he doesn’t yell, but the power of his voice cuts through the room like a blade.
“right, we’re stopping that right there.” he’d mutter into the mic. his voice vibrating with a quiet, dangerous tone that screams he isn’t playing around right now.
he turns his head slowly, his familiar piercing gaze locking on to the rude journalist. his tired, mopey look is entirely gone and is replaced by a man who is ready to tear apart anyone to protect who he loves. even if it’s in secret.
“you don't talk to her like that. you respect her. y/n is out on that pitch every single week putting her body on the line for this club, just like the rest of us. she's earned her shirt. she's earned her right to be here. if you want to talk about results, you look at me. you look at the senior players. you don't lay that baggage at the feet of a nineteen-year-old talent who has been our best player on the pitch for the last month."
the journalist visibly shrinks back with a shocked expression before it eases into a smirk in his seat under the weight of marcus’ stare. his eyes dart to marcus’ fist which is on top of the table, knuckles white and his chest almost heaving with suppressed anger. he doesn’t comment. he just stays silent as his eyes go to you then before looking back down at his notepad.
the press officer quickly calls on a different reporter, frantically trying to move things along. the room buzzes with shock, nobody has ever seen marcus rashford clap back at a reporter like that in his entire career.
under the table, where no one can see, marcus’ hand finds your thigh to calm your shocked and shaky form down. his hand is firm, warm and grounding. the heat of his palm sears through your skin, instantly stopping your trembling. he’d keep his hand resting there for a few more moments, his thumb making slow, heavy strokes against your skin to soothe you.
you don’t look at each other, not wanting to make things obvious but wanting to stay composed and professional for the room and cameras, answering the remaining questions in quiet tones. his hand is a burning, possessive weight on your leg, telling you everything his lips can’t ever say. and you’d sit there, heart hammering so hard you’re sure the microphones can pick it up. completely ruined by the raw, protective masculinity of the man sitting next to you.
hii could i request a trent x reader who is an f1 driver? it can be headcanons or a oneshot
aaaa this thought is actually pretty cool to me!! thanks for the request <3
trent is definitely used to being the centre of attention most of his days, but when he shows up for a race? he’s perfectly okay with fading into the background. he tunes out the world in the team garage with those noise cancelling headphones they gave him and he puts his attention entirely on you in the race on the tv screen.
with the headphones blocking out the roars of the pit lane, his world shrinks down to the small paddock tv monitor, hopelessly devoted to supporting you with every turn, corner and overtake!
i imagine him locking in every frame they show of your car, cheering you on in his head.. and the moment you win the race? he watches with a soft smile, captivated by the own joy on your face. the chaos around him is tuned out and he’s in his own personal little bubble of admiration seeing you so happy.
no doubt when he finally sees you he’s not hesitating to give you a big kiss of congratulations before kissing your forehead, mumbling words of “so proud of you.” against your skin. <3
warnings: well, it’s nsfw. mentions of everything under the sun 😭
a/n: thought this would be perfect for me to do since i find myself better at drabbles / my opinions of marcus! hope yous enjoy i love u <3
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A = aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
marcus is extremely attentive to you after sex. whether you’re truly dating or friends with benefits, i feel he’d be respectful and understanding that aftercare is important. he’d clean you up and make sure you were okay, caressing you and making sure you were well and taken care of. <3
B = body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
marcus’ favourite body part of yours is probably your ass or your legs. i see marcus as a major ass guy, and of course he loves your tits too and he gives equal attention, he just cannot get enough of everything you’ve got to give back there! he also likes your thighs too. he likes to come home after a long day of training and just stuff his face in between them, sexual or not. it’s like a safe haven for him. :( marcus’ favourite body part of his is probably his biceps or his hands. he likes how strong he’s gotten compared to how skinny he’s always been, hence why he’s always training so hard.
C = cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
our marcus is an absolute fiend when it comes to cum! he loves it, he loves seeing your body covered in him. whether it’s your face, tits, ass or thighs. even your tummy. he loves seeing you painted in his glory. since he takes care of his body, it’s not always just a little that you get, it’s more than that, hence the words being painted within him. another thing to add is the rare moments marcus cums in you, something sacred between the two of you that you sometimes like to experiment with! he loves forcing your legs wide afterwards, a slight whine leaving your lips as he spreads you apart down there with his thumbs on either side just to watch himself vigorously leak out of you.
D = dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
i think marcus would like to record you. i think he’d be really into it as controversial as it sounds.. marcus spends hours reviewing match playbacks and analysing footage in his home theatre and at the training centre, so how couldn’t he be into making footage he could analyse of you? i can only imagine how many personal video cameras he’d have stored away, all labeled of you and what’s exactly on them. maybe he’d even have a secret journal of all the stuff he’s done / wants to do to you written down. i can only imagine him stroking himself slowly to the insane thoughts of what he wants to do to you.
E = experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
marcus is 100% experienced and knows what he’s doing. marcus’ career basically depends on spatial awareness, reading people’s movements, and reacting in milliseconds. i expect he translates that directly to the bedroom. marcus isn’t just experienced, he is refined. he knows everything about you and your body, how your breath hitches, toes curl, your noises, even your grip. marcus has an effortless confidence as a person, but even more in the bedroom, and he does it with elegance.
F = favorite position (this goes without saying)
marcus is a dirty dog to me. he is down to try anything just for you, although i feel his personal preferences would be the basics. missionary, doggy, cowgirl or reverse cowgirl. with missionary, marcus loves to make you look at him while he pounds into you, forcing you to be pinned down with his weight. there’s nothing better than him watching you struggle to keep it all together in the moment until you break. with doggy, as said before, marcus is a total ass man! he loves to watch the recoil of your ass as he slams into you, losing all that polite composure to a totally primal, relentless pace. this goes for reverse cowgirl too. riding is another guilty pleasure, you’re like his goddess. the prettiest sight to him is for you to be on top while he watches your tits bounce and bruising your hips with his grip as he guides your rhythm. <3
G = goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
well, no. marcus is definitely not goofy in the heat of the moment. he is 100% focused on making you lose your mind, of course! he needs to make sure you are entirely satisfied and taken care of.. but after it all? of course he’s goofy. he gets all lazy and smiley after he’s finished, spoiling you in kisses and cuddles while he’s all warm and tangled up in the sheets with you. he’d pull you into a tight hold, teasing you about all the little noises you make for him, how naturally your body responds to him. “what was my name again? oh, daddy? yeah you loveee daddy, don’t you, love?”
H = hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
marcus is definitely well groomed! he doesn’t like when he gets too bushy down there, so he tries his best to maintain what he can. overall, he doesn’t mind having some hair, and you certainly don’t mind it either. there’s something incredibly masculine about when you’re on top of him and he’s shirtless, his tattoos on his torso and how they mesh with his light happy trail he proudly has. your hands on his hips, tracing that familiar tattoo he has that says love yourself right above his hipbone while you admire the dark hair that leads to greatness down his tummy. <33
I = intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
marcus is a big physical and attempting verbal guy. marcus has total caregiver vibes, and it shows even outside his relationship. he’s a big skin to skin guy, he likes to come home from being out just so he can lay his cheek against your skin, feel your heartbeat and have your fingers tangled in his hair. he needs it if anything, and he’s slowly been able to not be shy about it. he’s worked on trying to be romantic within his words while being a person who shows it more so through actions and not always verbally, and he’s made fantastic progress. soft mumbled whispers against your skin, saying how much he missed you (or missed being inside of you) while he was away, late night talks when both of you can’t sleep, he likes that he’s able to communicate intimately within his words and not be shy about it with you or teased for it.
J = jack off (masturbation headcanon)
marcus definitely has a proper wank every now and then but only when he’s desperate for it, he doesn’t do it out of boredom or carelessly. he is a man of discipline and an athlete who thrives on routine and control, so he likes to save his energy for you. i can see after a long game, he’s all tired and lonely in his hotel room, desperate for touch— touch he can’t have cause you’re not there. he’d have some videos saved of you, maybe a voice note or two of you moaning his name, or maybe he’d even touch himself to just a picture he has of you in a tank top and underwear. it doesn’t take much for marcus when it comes to you.. and when he’s done and staring at the ceiling all spent and quiet in thought? you definitely are getting a late text of “i need to come home to you asap.”
K = kink (one or more of their kinks)
this is something i think about all the time and maybe the hardest thing to try and write out fully. i imagine marcus to be entirely experimental and creative with what he’s into! overstimulation, praise, orgasm denial or even marking you / being marked? i think all roads lead back to the word daddy with this man. marcus is a caregiver like said before, and i think this 100% comes out in his relationships. now it isn’t the kind of daddy within age, it’s purely about protection, authority and taking total responsibility for your pleasure. taking total responsibility for your needs and satisfaction. marcus wants to provide for you, shield you from harm and be your knight in shining armour! when you call him daddy it’s like you’re actively telling him how much you trust and love him with you as a whole, and for a guy with such protective instincts like him? it is the ultimate turn on.
L = location (favorite places to do the do)
marcus is a classic kinda guy, and he likes to mainly have you in his bedroom where it’s safe and sound for the two of you. it’s a paradise for you two to entirely embrace the love you two have for each other! i think other than the comfort of his bedroom, he definitely tears you apart all over his house for not only your enjoyment but his. there’s something so liberating to him about fucking you all over the place he owns. the kitchen island, sofa, pool table, bathroom, shower, the wall?! he loves it all.
M = motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
you. you are everything that marcus is into. just as much as your breathing gets this man going! the clothes you wear, your touch, your mannerisms? all of it gets his blood pumping down south. you could walk downstairs in just his t-shirt and some panties and that’d be enough for him to take you right then and there <3
N = no (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
honestly, anything that hurts you. marcus wants you to feel nothing but pleasure and love in that moment. the last thing he wants to do is cause you any harm or pain. as much as marcus loves to leave little marks or hold you down? marcus loves your tears of pleasure, never pain.
O = oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
marcus is a man who is well balanced, so i see him being well balanced in the topic of oral! as much as he loves to receive, the man is an eater at the end of the day. he loves to look up from in between your thighs and see your head tilted back against the pillow while your hands are in his hair and your hips are desperately bucking against his mouth! that mixed with the dirty talk sends him into a spiral that only wants you to get pushed over the edge even more.
P = pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
marcus has incredible control over his body, and he understands the pace that should be set by the mood it is. coming home from date night or just going to bed after a nice dinner? slow and passionate, soft touches, gentle kisses with slow thrusts and words of praise! now after a match he lost, drunk or just pent up? it’s fucking go time for this man!! his mind is set on one thing and one thing only, your pleasure. pinning you down with his weight and getting those panties off immediately yet still sneaking in little teases while he can even if he’s desperate! he knows you know you’re gonna be satisfied and sore by the end of this.
Q = quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
marcus doesn’t always like quickies. he is truly one to wanna take his time with you, so it’s extremely rare that he’s willing to rush something so important to him with you :( he wants to make sure you are pleasured and buzzing with ecstasy after he’s done with you.. however, if you truly want it and he’s feeling extra naughtier than usual, he will give you what you need if it’s 15 minutes before he has to leave for training, even if it causes him to mess up a little during drills <3
R = risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
marcus is a big experimentalist and definitely loves to explore what he can with you! i think he is also a risk taker, but he keeps it under control, especially when it comes to in public situations since he does carry a big profile. but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t try and slip his hands into your panties at a dinner under the table or under the blanket at a movie night with friends. he’s a little cheeky like that ;)
S = stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
marcus is a well oriented athlete. he takes care of himself and his body and he is extremely attentive to himself and his health. due to his excellent shape i do see him as the type to go for a long time! he definitely loves a bit of overstimulation with you too .. :> “marcus, please, i can’t. too much..” “awe, ‘s okay, love, you’re doing so well. know you’ve got one more in you, sweetheart.”
T = toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
aaaa i love this one. marcus is of course extremely skilled in the area of sex, so he’s never seen toys as a competition but more of a extension of his own hands almost.. surprisingly, he loves watching you play with the toys he’s bought you. it gets him off watching you get to the brink of tears of pleasure cause he’s forcing you to use the highest mode on the newest toy he bought you! he definitely buys the high luxury ones, always making sure your pleasure is fulfilled. his favourite might be the panties with a built in vibrator, he loves controlling it on the app it came with. (which took him awhile to learn how to use, the old man..) whether you’re in the car, at dinner, in public. that’s his risk he likes.
U = unfair (how much they like to tease)
this man’s fucking middle name is menace. it’s the worst when he’s a little angry and pent up from losing a match. he comes home, finally knowing how to work that app and turns your vibrating panties on the highest setting and watches you squirm and cry until he turns it off, just to turn it back on again and watch tears brim. he likes the begging of it all, how you get so needy almost. he makes you touch yourself in front of him, begging him to just touch you. usually once the tears start flowing he gives you what you want, which ends up with him having marks all over him because you just couldn’t help yourself after all that teasing! he’s the worst.
V = volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
marcus is a groaner, for sure. with all the work that he puts in, he definitely isn’t afraid to make just a little noise. he’s pretty vocal in his own intimate, masculine way, and it’s definitely an addictive sound. he isn’t the loudest but he definitely makes it known he’s enjoying your body. something that happens when he gets tired and it’s a slow fuck, or maybe even a sweet blowjob from you after a long day at training, sometimes a little whimper or two does slip out in those moments! it’s a cherishing moment every time it happens, and of course he’s always so sweet with you too! hand in your hair, holding it back as you do your thing on him. his hips bucking a little but never too aggressively, those little tired breathy whimpers you get out of marcus are to die for! <3
W = wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
when marcus falls asleep after sex, he knocks tf OUT. all tangled in the sheets, hair a little disheveled with a rhythmic breathing followed. he’ll throw an entire arm around you and leg over your waist, needing that skin to skin after such intimate moments, and he will keep you close and locked down. you are literally not able to move at all, he’s like your personal weighted blanket. and oh if you try to move? “marcus, i need to pee, let me up.” *silence* “marcus!” “no.”
X = x-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
marcus certainly does not disappoint down there, and that’s a promise. since he is such a lean athlete, and has never been too big and bulky i definitely see him having a nice length. probably almost eight inches but not entirely, with a curve upward that bends just a little to the left. it’s veiny, and not entirely girthy but just perfect for him to know how to use it. it’s definitely intimidating at first sight, and no doubt he’d have to train your pussy to get used to him and his size! even when he’s on soft he hangs low and heavy enough to make you get a little dizzy at the sight of him in a pair of sweatpants.
Y = yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
marcus’ sex life with you is balanced and disciplined. with his busy schedule, he doesn’t always have time to get down with you as much as he’d like to.. but when he does? he makes it count, no doubt. overall, it is pretty high and you two’s sex life is healthy <33
Z = zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
marcus falls asleep pretty quick once he’s finished. after taking care of you, and a little bit of quiet time mixed with small talk between you while soaking up the afterglow he’s out like a light after a few minutes. all bundled up and talking lazy after all the physical effort he puts into your time together, it’s not long until he falls asleep, playing with your hair and whispering to you how much he loves you!
i wanna crawl all over him and clasp my hands on that sharp v-line. i often think about what his boundaries are within sex. how far is marcus rashford willing to go?
i have so many thoughts i have no idea what to post 😕
i’ll write almost anything, i think i’m shooting more for drabbles / blurbs. more of my thoughts of marcus. it can be anything, just submit a thought or request and i can add on to it!
hmfngh ya i’m always thinking about long hair marcus. all i wna do is tug on those pretty curls!! just imagining sitting on his lap and wrapping a soft curl around your finger, how if you tug just a little it gets him going.. and of course it earns you a little pat on the hip and a small murmur of “behave.” from him just cause you know how much it turns him on! ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
one of my favourite things about marcus is how calm he is. he is entirely content and just.. relaxed. everything about him is smooth and almost stoic. he moves in silence yet with precision and ease.
something i like to imagine is watching him get ready for training in the morning. how quiet and peaceful he probably is.
you’d lie there, hair a little messy from sleeping, watching him come out the bathroom from brushing his teeth, sweatpants and no shirt on. his tattoos prominent, as always.
there’s something oddly satisfying about watching him get dressed. watching those tattoos disappear underneath the familiar fabric of a t-shirt of his you’ve worn multiple times. the same tattoos you had traced just 8 hours beforehand, falling asleep in his arms.
he’d look in the mirror, putting his chain on. the diamond cross one— not too flashy, but not too subtle.
he’d mess with his hair a bit, the kinky coils he’d grown out over time still slightly flattened from sleep. he had been thinking about cutting it again, but since you loved his curls so much, he’d been putting it off. just for you.
just as he was about to leave, he’d kiss you on the forehead, and you’d fake as if you were still asleep despite having watched him get ready for the past 12 minutes in secret.
“i know you’re awake.” he’d murmur quietly to you then, making you open your eyes in mock disappointment. “i’m off to trainin’, love you. don’t stay in bed all day.”
