Part 349: Player of the Month
`You must be so very proud, Marcus?'
He walked on through the sprawling ground floor of the house, smiling almost bashfully as he glanced back at the reporter from the magazine; he laughed slightly but didn't properly reply, leading her through the newly decorated rear lounge and into the warm conservatory extension beyond, its large window panes framing views of a bleakly beautiful Cheshire garden beyond.
`Such a great month,' the interviewer continued, and her photographer advanced past her, following him more fully into the well-lit rear end of the house, camera clicking away as near-candid shots were snapped up of the young football star strolling across the under-heated flooring.
It was a lifestyle magazine rather than the usual football media or even fashion, and the two of them almost seemed more interested in the house itself than an illustrious run of form for the 25-year-old Mancunian. He kept that awkwardly endearing smile on his face and led them towards what they'd really asked for here, even if both the cooing suburban thirty-something and he scruffy-edged photographer were really paying more attention to his furniture purchases and the views of his garden. He gestured quietly to the display cases along one stretch of wall between the huge windows, finding the pair of Player of the Month prizes that had recently become his.
`What a January,' she praised quite casually.
Marcus Rashford grinned and nodded and told her it was just another part of the journey, the inevitable highs and lows of a footballer's story; he aimed for quietly humble, but didn't want to sound to ridiculous or naive. He felt a lot more comfortable than he'd once done with such media intrusion in his home, but this side of his fame would never quite feel natural to the forward - it was one thing being grilled about his performance by a knowledgeable sports writer in the wake of win, loss, or draw, but another to be examined as a `celebrity' and to have his philanthropic efforts treated alongside his Premiership expertise. Though these two visitors were pretty pleasant, one of their colleagues on last week's Zoom call had asked him what it was like working with Pep Guardiola, and he still wasn't sure if it had been a bad joke or sheer ignorance.
`Any highlights?' she asked him in an almost distracted voice, trailing along one wall of windows and inspecting some of the ornamentation on the low sills, whilst the bearded photographer contorted himself into new crouching positions to get the perfect still of Marcus looking pensive at the steamed windows. Suddenly self-conscious, the footballer frowned uncomfortably under the intensity of the man's efforts, and followed the lady from the magazine towards the valuable art pieces.
He found himself trailing dimly between possible answers, realising that too much football specifics would turn off the interview and probably fail to get quoted. He fed her nuggets of enjoyment and professional satisfaction but didn't bother to elaborate, hands in the pockets of his loose-fitting dark chinos, nodding his head and joining her in looking out at the windy early February gloom of the garden. But he turned and looked back at the two prizes, now being treated to the same close-up photography that the bloke kept inflicting on Marcus himself: he smiled proudly at the club and league Player of the Month trophies that had matched up his success over the January fixtures, and generally since his run at the World Cup.
And the other players,' said the journalist thoughtfully, flashing him her winsome smile, how have they been with you about all these goals and accolades?' She paused with the voice-app on her mobile phone glowing gently from one palm, gesturing it in his direction and waiting for a less mumbled answer than he'd given so far.
But Rashford paused, the smile on his striking young features faltering, covered by a fractured little chuckle. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and patted them against the chest and tummy of his garish t-shirt, tilting his head and making a thoughtful face for her, unsure exactly how to answer this one.
Great,' the 25-year-old said slowly, really great.' He stopped to think. Lots of attention - they're all just really happy for me, y'know?' He hesitated, unsure if she wanted more, something more insightful, but her smile was hard to read, and she lowered the hand with the recorder app in; the photographer was bustling after him to get some shots of the garden, and Marcus hung on behind them, briefly forgotten as they fixated on lifestyle' details - he thought about his bland and generalised answer for them, holding in a stronger little laugh, as his thoughts cast out over the first month of 2023. Yeah, he thought, the other fellas have been happy and proud, really great - he just wasn't sure some of it was appropriate to go spilling in an interview...!
He thought about a late afternoon early in the month, only two days after his goal had rounded off a 3-0 home win over Bournemouth; they'd had the previous day off to recover from the big win, their first of the new year, but then hit the ground running with a pretty gruelling return to Erik ten Hag's regime. For some reason, Marcus wasn't so sure now, he'd been one of the last to finish up at Carrington, and certainly among the last to hit the showers - it was some meeting or other with one of the expert staff, and it had him stomping wearily through the corridors and into the locker-room on his own, his body clad in tight-fitting nylon in the grey-blue of the current training gear, sparks of neon orange streaking the sleeves and sponsor-blazoned chest.
He'd thought he was entirely alone, dragging down the clingy tracksuit bottoms and then the sweatshirt and under-vest, sliding the warm garments away from his smooth and decorated skin, baring each chiselled muscular tattoo canvas until he was just in scruffy white socks and the latest pair of promotional underpants that Nike were supplying him with to try and secure a contract extension as their model.
Tired out, he yawned, and ran his hands over his bare chest, up his neck, and across his face, blinking and shaking himself, and then dipping through his locker for some toiletries to take with him into the shower. He was jolted from this short ritual of wind-down by the sound of a door and heavy footsteps joining him in the locker-room. `Oh, hey,' he said, catching sight of the team's increasingly defunct official captain, striding in and taking a place further down this wall of lockers.
A fairly upbeat smile on his rugged face, Harry Maguire gave him a cheery salute but said nothing, dressed in heavy layers of the same club training kit, and looking like he'd had a pretty positive meeting. Marcus had decided not to question what had kept the big Yorkshire fella so long and delayed him as much as Rashford himself; it had been no secret throughout January that the club's oft-benched centre-back was fielding vague offers from several European giants, keen to rescue him from the doldrums of second fiddle at Old Trafford. From Maguire's mood that afternoon, Rashford had been forced to speculate that either one of those offers had significantly improved, or big Harry had enjoyed some assurances about his value to their laser-focused manager.
Whatever it was, Slabhead was in a good mood. Behind Marcus, he whistled tunelessly to himself as he undressed, and Rashford smiled appreciatively to himself, glad to see and hear his captain in better spirits. Local Mancunian Marcus had struggled to choose sides during Harry's long war of attrition with Cristiano, but his loyalty to the club made it hard not to respect Maguire's dedication and resilience, and the two of them had shared enough England camps for Rashford to hold out hope that the big older lad might find a second wind at this great club.
Casually half-aware of Maguire's presence, Rashford pulled off sock after sock into tight bundles and tossed them accurately at the nearby laundry basket, then dumped his clingy red Nike underpants too, pushing them into the sweaty depths of his own kit bag to be taken home for washing, rather than left with standard kit. Far from an exhibitionist but never unnecessarily shy, the 25-year-old lingered in his birthday suit, back and arse exposed whilst he selected a little tube of shower gel and some exfoliating face-wash that he would take with him into the showers.
Joining me for a wash-down?' barked the 29-year-old defender's gruff voice, and Marcus felt the brief sharp sting of a flicked towel strike his lower back above the curving extension of his glutes, and he yelped slightly before ducking forward. His yelp turned to a laugh and he shook his head, shooting a look over one shoulder. What is this, Year 10?' he demanded, catching Harry's loose grin and warm eyes. The bigger bloke had paused on his way into the square entrance of the shower block, equally naked but somewhat more imposing in his 6ft4 frame, the offending towel draped between two large hands and covering his lower six-pack and the space between his huge hairy legs. Such banter was not quite captain Harry's style, but Marcus just smirked, confirming the skipper's good mood; it couldn't be some offer from abroad, Maguire had seemed so worried when people speculated about that in Doha, where league gossip leaked into the international campaign. Nah, he thought, Slabhead must be pretty sure he's staying put, and ready to fight for that captaincy.
`See you in there,' Rashford chuckled, still shaking his head. He turned away from the heavy steps of Maguire and plucked up his own folded towel, throwing it loosely about his slim waist and then trotting after his teammate into the pine-scented steaminess of the showers. He paused to hang his own towel up on the hook next to the big man's, then moved towards a showerhead a polite couple of places away from the Sheffield brute; there was some weird complex etiquette here, where showering right next to his centre-back would be a suspicious imposition, yet showering too far away would express insecurity or aloofness. Such unwritten rules were dominant in their world of testosterone and macho competition.
Here, the England forward pushed the lever and bathed his 5ft11 physique of deep brown muscle and faint black ink, lathering up some shower gel between his palms and starting at the back of his neck.
`Quality goal again the other day,' came Maguire's gruff call over the hiss of plumbing.
`Cheers, big man.'
`Dunno what we'd do without you, some weekends.'
`Hey - I was goal 3 and we'd already won it...!'
`Fuck that modesty, Marcus. You know what we all think of ya.'
`Well... it's nice to hear it.'
With the careful discreet politeness of the male athlete, he avoided looking to the right and clocking Harry's tall wet body, listening to each friendly comment and chatting back whilst washing his hair, his face, his pits, down his ripped six-pack and rubbing bubbly lather over his soft cock and low-hanging balls. But then Harry spoke again and he couldn't help but glance that way: `Not a lad on the squad who wouldn't do anything to thank you, haha - if you know what I mean.'
Rashford paused, soapy hands at his waist, and he looked sideways at the equally glistening form of the taller, broader fella, big masculine Harry and his scruff of chest hair, the dark trail of it that... nah, nah, I ain't looking down there. He smiled oddly, thinking about that comment, and trying to shrug it off. Did he know what he meant...? `No I in team,' he said generically, getting back to washing his bollocks and then slapping wet hands at the tops of his thighs.
On the England team as well,' came Maguire's Yorkshire chuckle. Heck, I bet most fans would let you nut in their mouth if-'
`Mate,' he exclaimed, trying to sound more amused than offended, but unable to keep the prudishness out of his voice or off his face - more to the point, his mind was flashing with panic. What secrets had the departed Jesse Lingard or clumsy Jadon Sancho been spilling...? Or, he thought in a fresh rush of worry, someone a bit closer to the huge centre-back, the Bournemouth game's second goal-scoring champ. Nah, surely Luke Shaw was a discreet lad, given what he'd once done for Rashford some time ago...?
Frowning into the tiled wall, Rashford turned off the blast of hot water and paused, unsure what to say now, and thinking that he might hurry to dry off and dress, if Maguire was going to start throwing around accusations or insinuations. After all, he thought bitterly, everyone knew how the big man had learnt to keep that diva Ronaldo under control, and it had nothing to do with leadership theory.
When he turned away from the wall, he found that his 6ft4 friend had moved closer to him, crossing the gap between their spaces, and still had that uncharacteristically jolly look on his face, that crooked smile of pleasure, looming over Marcus.
What?' he breathed, trying to cover his moment of slight intimidation; but the bigger bloke's laugh was friendly, oddly so, and he nudged closer, the two of them standing very close with fresh steam rising from muscular chests and shoulders. Harry brought a big hand up to wipe against his face, pawing at his stubbled jawline then sweeping it through damp hair, and bringing it down to rest for a moment on Rashford's left shoulder. What?' he asked again through an uncertain laugh.
Like I said,' muttered Harry, voice lower and more private now, we all want to say thanks for all the goals, y'know...?'
`Right,' Marcus said, a little tense, unsure what the skipper's joke or point was, but finding some strange excitement in their private closeness, perhaps stoked by the suggestive comment - he tried not to make use of Jadon's hungry mouth too often, but the blow-job from the young Londoner had been far from a one-off for the senior forward, the club's most valued attacker.
Harry's hand gripped his shoulder a little more firmly for a moment, but... his other hand had dropped lower, trailing down the long stretch of his own torso, and now crossed. Knuckles grazed Marcus' tummy about his navel, then without warning sank low. One of the skipper's big mitts was down low and cupping his balls abruptly, taking hold of his crown jewels and just smirking down into his face, a bit steamy giant in front of him. Marcus took a slow deep breath, surprised and alarmed, but trying very hard not to show it. He stared levelly at the older bloke and didn't move from the spot. Well,' he said in a slow, measured voice, do you like what you feel?' Nah, he told himself, this big fucker ain't gonna...
`Feels good, aye,' grumbled the Yorkshireman. Harry's hand was big and powerful but also oddly tender. Marcus felt his thick dormant cock pulled and stroked, and he did tremble and jerk on the spot, his nervousness betrayed by physicality. But he stared up at the taller athlete and refused to budge, wondering if this was a game of chicken, or... Well, there was all that fuss between Slab and CR7, and so maybe...
`How's that?' Maguire growled, his hand doing the work.
`I've had better,' Rashford said with surly challenge in his grin.
Fuck off,' the Man Utd captain chuckled. You're getting hard as owt.'
`Slowly,' Marcus lied, feeling the stiffness and the throb.
`Bet you love the feel of my hand,' his skipper huffed.
`Bet you love the feel of my cock,' the younger player returned.
Big lad,' he was told. Although don't go comparing with me, mate, you'll be sad.'
`This favour isn't being returned,' Marcus warned him quietly.
A huge shrug of those mighty shoulders. `Doesn't need to be - this is a thank you, goal machine. Like I said. It's what any of the fans would do for ya, the way you keep us in front, matey. Feel good...?'
You really need the compliments, huh?' he told him, suppressing the low rising moan of enjoyment as his thick black cock was stroked and teased into full life, stretching ahead of him in the spacious hold of a Maguire hand. Fuck, it did feel good, and the big fucker knew it, but Marcus refused to give him the satisfaction of- Ohhhh,' he purred, feeling the tighter grip about the base of it, then the slow wet pull down the length, and the rub of a thumb on the head, and he stared into the tight smug grin on Harry's crooked face. Yeah,' grunted the big Sheffield bloke, you better moan for me, Marcus.'
Steam poured off their bodies, and the drips of water from showerheads echoed around them, the only other sound being the wet fap of Harry's pumping fist on Marcus' excited cock, mingled with both of their low grunting breathing. Rashford did his best to hold in the excesses of moaned excitement, and he pressed his left hand into the damp tiles to support his toned body, trying to remain still and almost ambivalent, as if this sudden seedy handjob was exactly the kind of nonchalant thing that should happen to a talented striker like himself, from the captain no less - he still didn't know what had put the big man in such a good mood, but he was now the beneficiary of it, and god did it feel good. Without CR7 to tame, perhaps the skipper had leftover sexual energy to spill - he resisted the curious urge to glance down and confirm how well-endowed the bigger man was, not wishing to compare, and he just stared confrontationally back at the generous brute.
`Cum for me,' Maguire hissed, maybe picking up on how close he was.
`You gonna make me?' he panted back.
Fucking yes,' growled the centre-back. Spunk in my hand, Rashers.'
`Fuckkkk-'
`That's it, buddy.'
`Oh, cap'n...'
`Come on lad - cum for me, Rashers.'
`Fuckkkkk, mate, ohh-'
`Yehhh, that's it, that's it...'
`Oh god...'
`Fuck, so much of it, haha, you dirty bastard... fuck...' Marcus had closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he was looking at Harry's lifted open hand between them, the silvery trails of his own jizz decorating the hot-pink palm and the hairy knuckles. Harry laughed and shook his hand, flicking a few spots of cum on the dark canvas of Rashford's chest, then knocking the shower water on for both of them. The skipper just smirked at him whilst rinsing down his triumphant hand, then backing off.
Luke was right,' the big defender murmured. Great cock, mate.'
Rashford made an awkward sigh, spent and a little dazed. He scrubbed the specks of cum from his pecs and stared suspiciously at the older man. `Well, maybe he's the one you should be, er, thanking for his goal against the southerners,' he muttered, failing to find the assertiveness with which he'd confronted this bugger all the way through the handjob. He frowned in spite of the wave of satisfaction that relaxed his whole body.
Maguire, who had now found his towel and thrown it about his waist, was laughing to himself. Oh mate,' he sighed on his way out of the steam, you should see the thank-you that my Lukey boy got, let me tell ya. He'll be happy I thanked you though, that's for sure.' And he was gone to dry, leaving Marcus alone and satisfied, but a little confused, in the lingering heat of the showers, water still gushing over his neck and shoulders and then drizzling down his pecs and abs towards his drooping cock.
And he thought about more recently, when he'd gone to get a gap filled on a leg tattoo - sat there with his long muscular legs on show, reclining in the comfort of the tattooist's chair. His left thigh stung where the needlework had etched more art against the dark muscle, but he smiled quite complacently to his teammate buddy who had joined him on the visit, now loitering close by rather than admiring flash designs on the far wall. For a minute, it was just the two of them in here, because the artist himself had disappeared to do some clean-up in another room of the edgy studio. Alone but for the gentle thrum of lo-fi hip-hop on a nearby speaker, the two Man Utd players met gazes and half-smiled in different ways.
Though no stranger to the needle himself, the 22-year-old seemed deeply uncomfortable in the room, and he shifted from foot to foot as he moved closer to the recliner. `Does it still sting?' Jadon Sancho demanded, in a state of high nervousness in the build-up to his return to the pitch a couple of fixtures later.
It did, but Rashford shrugged his shoulders, staying still and comfortable where he was; comfortable in spite of his bare legs and the satiny tautness of his underpants where they were exposed beneath his dark top and the extra-heavy chain at his neck. He smirked at his companion from beneath the tight fit of his du-rag, enjoying the way Sancho's eyes just kept straying inexorably to the black-clad view between his thighs.
`He's taking his time,' the young Londoner muttered, sounding both critical and suggestive, and the older of the two United players just smirked more fully.
He knows his shit,' Marcus said loyally and vaguely, shrugging his jacketed shoulders and patting his hands on the arms of the relaxed chair. He kept his lazily hooded eyes on the other young star, floating aimlessly next to him, pulling and adjusting at his snapback cap and the baggy designer tracksuit that hung from his stock 5ft11 physique. Show me that picture you got,' Marcus suggested after a pause. `I bet it looks pretty dope.'
Jadon nodded enthusiastically and showed him it on his device. `I'll send you it, you look so cool. Really hench. Those thighs, man.'
Yeah,' murmured the 25-year-old, I bet that's what you were looking at, huh?'
He turned his head slightly to grin meaningfully at the other player who'd joined him on his trip into the Northern Quarter, and Jadon's cheeks coloured a little as he hung his head and fluttered his almost feminine lashes. It had been a little while, Marcus supposed, since he'd let Jadon near him in that way, and he was really starting to feel in the mood today; he chuckled and gestured at the phone. `At least you'll be able to zoom in on that when you need some material for inspiration,' the England forward said quietly but assertively, unable to resist a cheeky laugh at his own joke, whilst Sancho giggled but squirmed.
`Ah, shut up,' mumbled the former Bundesliga youth.
`Just teasing you, mate.'
`Give it a rest, the bloke is just in there.'
`He'll be a minute.'
`Yeah, but-'
`Give it a kiss, mate.'
`Huh, what?'
Give it a kiss. Kiss it. Go on.' He grinned mischievously at his friend. He could tell that Jadon knew exactly what he was saying, but just in case, he reached between his displayed thighs, one of them still somewhat sore, and gave the thick prominent black bulge a good squeeze and tug, then broadened his inviting smile at the Camberwell lad. Go on. Sniff it and kiss it, you little slut.' He'd never been quite so mean or abrupt with Sancho before, although he could hardly be accused of much tenderness of reciprocation when he sporadically took advantage of the 22-year-old's appetite for cock.
He could see that Jadon liked to be called that. He was flustered but excited and he kept glancing anxiously away to the door that led away through the private studio rooms of the high-end tattoo parlour. Then he looked frantically back, laughed briefly, and rested a hand on Marcus' forearm before ducking in. He bent over and leant in, and Marcus grinned down his sprawled body to see the other rising player worship at his crotch, lean in and take a good nostril-flaring sniff of his crotch, then plant a needy kiss against the outline of his fat cock - not stopping there, Jadon mouthed damply against its shape, and gripped at his forearm a bit too tightly. A clank and a shuffle sounded from beyond the door and Sancho was snapping back away from him at speed, breathing heavily.
`We thought you were never coming back!' Rashford called confidently away to his regular artist, not looking back at him, but keeping his eyes fixed meaningfully on Sancho's blushing face and trembling bottom lip, the same one that had brushed the shape of his heavy prick only seconds ago...
And only fifteen minutes later, was on it again, more properly this time, in the car park of the converted warehouse that housed this studio and other arty businesses. His motor was parked in a relatively obscured corner, but there was still a delicious risk to it that was new and out of character for the normally cautious Rashford. In the dubious privacy of his car, the 25-year-old moaned and gasped, more openly and encouragingly than he usually did when biting back his doubts and letting Jadon go to town on his hard-on. Today, still maybe a little high on the physical adrenaline of being tattooed, he moaned freely and spat out demands at his slut': Take it deeper, Sanch - fuck, not like that - lick it, go slow now - don't forget the balls, for fuck's sake.'
The 22-year-old was crouched uncomfortably between the front seats of the Beamer, stooped down low again so that he could take as much of the thick rod into his wet mouth as he could, and he got more greedy and sloppy with every vaguely insulting remark that Rashford gasped and barked, whilst keeping his eyes more cautiously on the car park around them in case any vehicle or pedestrian got too close. To keep it safer, he slid a hand over Jadon's head to keep it pressed into his crotch, making it hard for his drooling slut to rise up and be visible to anyone who happened to look this way in the tight square car park between warehouses.
Keep at it,' he growled, hearing something of Maguire's tough talk in his own mumble, feeling powerful and authoritative here with sloppy Sancho. Suck it properly, lad - get your jaws round it, go deep. Fuck, that's more like it.'
In the risk of the car park, Manchester's Player of the Month reclined his seat a little and settled into his enjoyment, no longer even that worried about discovery. He pushed down in repeated bobs on Jadon's head, bouncing his mouth up and down the shaft and fucking into his hungry gob, getting closer and closer to spilling his cream. In a moment of relaxation, he let go of Jadon's head, and the crouching lean jiggled for comfort, Jadon's face coming up closer to his, his lips and chin shiny with spittle.
`Fuck me?' whimpered Jadon, and not for the first time; he often went and spoiled it with this, trying to push things too more, greedily demanding more than Marcus was up for giving. Sometimes it turned him off so much that he had to stop, and he'd sneer unhappily at the bisexual lad, blaming him for killing his buzz and his horn. Today, he was no less repulsed by the notion, but he ignored it, and pushed the lad's face back down, forcing his cock between his damp lips and pushing upwards in a last few spurts before he was feeding him and groaning very loudly into the car's interior, ignoring the sting as one of Jadon's grasping hands landed on the covered scarring of his new tattoo.
And he thought about what happened just the other day: the latest and somehow most stirring incident of his increased confidence and status at Old Trafford, from wonder boy to senior attacking star. Just the other day, it was, on the last day of January when the whole Premier League quivered with uncertain anticipation of the closing transfer deadline, though Rashford himself had spent a quiet hour in his afternoon schedule being filmed for the club website and YouTube channel, crowned fans' Player of the Month before the League itself had thrust the same accolade on him.
Freed from the short media duty, he'd made his way through the upper floor of the central building, away from the grunting action in the gyms below where the majority of the squad were building up muscle and getting ready for tomorrow's second leg Semi against Nottingham Forest. Marcus felt cocksure about the aggregate battle with the other club, already picturing his own team in the Wembley final against the Magpies.
As he approached this latest encounter, he actually noticed the other lad first: he was walking along a balcony-edged corridor that overlooked the main reception area, dragging one palm along the smooth railing, and leaning to the right slightly to squint curiously down into the small entourage who were signing out of the building. Hoods were up and there was that special kind of discretion going on that can only attract extra attention, making the 25-year-old slow his step and almost pause, keen to confirm his suspicion of who he was looking at right now. He'd heard plenty of whispers about him in the past couple of weeks, since the verdict, and he was pretty sure... yep, there he was, half-turning this way, his face partly obscure by hood and hat, but distinctively boyish enough, and surrounded by lawyers in suits and an obvious beast of paid muscle. An awkward frisson simmered in the reception below as the hooded youth made for the doors, clearly leaving his long-awaited meeting with the bosses, and his legal and protective entourage went with him, none of their faces or miners giving anything definite away on the suspended player's fate.
By now, he'd noticed that someone else was up here, and Rashford's attention shifted from the awkward scene below to the exit's other onlooker. A few yards further down the same rail, a lad in the same tracksuit as him was hunched forward and staring quite mournfully down there, seeming to be oblivious to Marcus. He cleared his throat loudly before continuing on, and the young defensive spare shot him a gloomy look that quickly shifted into a broken false smile.
`Was that...?' Marcus asked unnecessarily.
`Think so,' returned Brandon Williams with the same false ambiguity, his facial distress making it obvious that he'd been watching quite closely as their once-teammate was escorted from his appointment at Carrington.
Drawing closer, Rashford found himself thinking aloud. You two were close,' he said vaguely, memories of the two young upstarts and their incessant laughter rising out of his 2020 memory bank. He placed a hand instinctively against Williams' shoulder as the young full-back tried a shrug, cringing against the balcony rail in a way that was very telling; worry and kindness brought Rashford in closer, gripping him by the shoulder. Hey, you ok?' he asked quietly but warmly.
Brandon's answer was almost brattish in its strained force. Course I am,' the 22-year-old grumbled, pulling away from him a little roughly. What's it to me?' He scowled and frowned and turned his back on the quiet reception below, his voice an irritable hiss. `I just wondered what was going on,' he said, aiming for flippant and missing. He marched further down the corridor, away from this openness, and Marcus trailed curiously after him, an element of intrigue mixing with his own natural concern for a young teammate. The lad seemed pretty emotional, and Marcus wondered if it was deadline day - it was a good while now since his fellow Mancunian had seemed like United's big new defensive prospect, and a first-team start was becoming an alien concept to the youth. Surely the kid was getting another loan deal out somewhere where he could get the minutes in the tank...? It didn't make sense for him to skulk bitterly here at Old Trafford!
Hey, relax,' Marcus invited, keeping his voice low. You don't have to do none of that tough-lad scally shit with me, kid, we're both Manc lads here - what's up?' He reached affectionately for his shoulder again and saw Brandon's brash frown wobble at even this physical intimacy - the lips trembled and the eyes almost instantly shone with the threat of tears, and the sudden swing of emotion awoke very caring tendencies in the big-hearted Mancunian. He pulled Williams instantly into a hug, wrapping his arms about the smaller player, and murmuring his support, `Let it out, pal, no shame in a few tears.'
Fuck,' whimpered Brandon in embarrassment, his face now buried in against one of Marcus' broader shoulders. Fuck, sorry, I'm being - s-s-sorry, it's just...'
He's your friend,' he said soothingly. It's okay. It's all intense. Are you and him still close...?'
Hardly,' the full-back sniffed. We've barely spoke since, y'know, it all came out and-'
And do you think he's innocent?' Rashford couldn't help but ask, still holding onto his friend, feeling him twitch and shudder anxiously in his muscular grip. Williams didn't hurry to answer, so he just held him tight and stroked one caring hand on the back of his soft blond hair. It's way out of our hands, matey, nothing for us to say or do about any of it.'
What if he is?' the 22-year-old sniffed very quietly, pulling his face back and revealing the extent of his shiny tears and pouting lips. I turned my back on him, Rash, I literally blocked him as soon as... It all seemed so... I mean, everyone was saying...' He looked utterly miserable and Marcus found himself a little lost for words, squeezing onto the lad and grimacing awkwardly back at his moral dilemma - it wasn't really something he'd confronted himself, the possibility of that young guy's innocence rather than guilt, and it was hard to process now that the case had fallen through. `No smoke without fire?' was all he could say, weakly, but he knew how dangerous this cliche was, and the two lads fell silent, except for the light blubbering of Brandon's unleashed tears.
`Here,' he said, and he guided the defender off the broad corridor, in through the nearest open door, into the interview room beyond it, a smaller one than the little studio area where his own accolades had been celebrated only minutes ago.
The Manc scally looked miserable but grateful, pulling his sleeves over his fists and rubbing them aggressively against his eyes, trying to stammer out more apologies and embarrassment, but Rashford felt magnanimous and giving, and he just pulled the wiry lad into another tight hug, squeezing comfortingly onto him as if the sheer press of his own arm and chest muscles would squeeze the emotion out of his teammate. He didn't know what to say, but he could try and be here for the puffy-eyed youth - he was thinking now about how he should always have tried harder to mentor and steer this surly younger player, given their similar backgrounds in different deprived areas of this great northern city.
As he was thinking this, he unconsciously hugged a bit more tightly into Bran, their feet stepping awkwardly over the room as he did, and the younger Utd player still wheezing out a few quiet sobs into the shoulder of his zipped-up tracksuit top. That's it,' Marcus sighed to him, just let it out...' Maybe it was his breathy sigh, he thought later, or maybe just the tight physicality of the hug - or maybe it was some stupid pheromone he was giving out as he strutted about thinking about that hand-job from Slabhead or how Sancho would drop everything to service his full balls. Maybe it was the Player of the Month prize, part of him almost thought, feeling like a fucking king at the football club that had made him.
He wasn't sure what it was, but even as he sniffed and shivered, Williams began to nuzzle in against his neck, the cool tip of his nose and then a fluffy upper lip brushing in at his sensitive throat; and hands roamed down his sides a bit, one journeying in and down, and... and then he was holding and hugging the 5ft7 defender whilst one exploratory hand went inside the front of his trackies and squeezed the bulge of his green Nike boxer briefs, holding him there and surprising him, but not alarming him at all.
He sighed again, lips close to the lad's ear. `Really?' he asked gently.
`Just let me,' gasped Bran, perhaps unaware that he wasn't the first lad to curl his hand around that package, not even the first that week. And Marcus just groaned appreciatively, rubbing caring hands over Brandon's neck and back, and nodding wordlessly. He brought one tender hand and, a little surprised at himself, thumbed a tear from the lad's cheek, then started a little at his own gentle intimacy - whilst below, his cock was far less worried, quickly rock-hard and stretching at his underpants.
Down Williams went, quickly and eagerly, letting Rashford push back until his bare arse cheeks rested on the edge of the table, trackies and Nike pants rolled down the thighs, a clingfilm covering still wrapped about the fresher ink on one. Brandon's mouth closed about his cock and Marcus knew instantly that this other 22-year-old teammate was either more skilled or just more experienced - wow. He was a lot more controlled and slow with it than the sloppy enthusiasm of Jadon, even now in his fragile mood. And all Marcus could do was throw his head back and groan, not reaching for words like `slut' because he sensed that his emotional lad did not need the dirty encouragement that drove Sancho wild.
That's it,' he groaned at last, just enjoy it, mate...' He stroked fingers quite softly through the short mop of blond hair, pawing at but not guiding or forcing Brandon's bobbing head. He let him work his tongue and lips and just appreciated every tremor of pleasure that raced up his chiselled body, glutes tense against the edge of the table.
At least, for a few minutes he did, dazed and easily satisfied, but then acting recklessly way beyond his own boundaries. It was more of a gagging choke than a fresh sob of emotion, but that same caring streak made him reach down and drag Bran upright by his armpits, hugging him again and then pushing their faces close together, nose to nose. Not kissing, as such, but their mouths so dangerously close that he was puffing hot breath in between shiny cock-sucking lips, and those shiny eyes were staring at him in wonder. Then Williams was in for the kiss, mouth open, and he was letting him, feeling a lad's tongue on his, but pushing back, resisting and overpowering it, and snogging the 22-year-old wholeheartedly. His arms gripped tightly about him and he pushed forward with his body, kissing him quite roughly, whilst his wet cock slapped and rubbed at the tummy of Bran's jersey.
The kiss broke and resumed, Marcus breathless with this intense urge, but not wholly conscious of the lines he was crossing, having pushed Jadon away from him repeatedly when the other lad gave him the puppy-dog eyes and leaned in for it. But right now he just wanted Williams to feel better, and ravishing him with kisses seemed to be doing it, though those mean eyes still sparkled with fresh tears and the 5ft7 defender quivered in his hold, reaching down to stroke and pull Rashers' cock.
`I need this,' Williams whispered, and Rashford was willing to give it to him. He took his head in both hands and pushed it down, encouraging him to lick the tip and then take the big black cock in his lips again; he was rougher now, less tender, but still caring, just wanting to feed and satisfy this surprising playmate. He'd never have had Bran down as into this cock fun, but then... he'd never have put himself down, either.
A little overexcited, he reached a hand down Williams' back and spanked him through his tracksuit bottoms, encouraging the eager sucking of his own prick by delivering a series of playful smacks to the pleasingly chubby rump - then, sure this was okay, he pushed the waistbands over a bit so that he could slap part of the cheek bare, leaving pink prints against the pale smooth flesh. It was an almost feminine backside, he told himself, all smooth and curvaceous from the slim hips, and- he smacked it again, harder, and Brandon moaned for him, kissing his shaft. `Yes sir,' the full-back whimpered, and Rashford smacked him again, but this time held his hand there, and let his middle finger play into the crease between the jiggly white cheeks, shocked at himself, but also... curious.
In a matter of moments he had him against the wall, kissing the soft hair on the back of his neck, and pulling up the back of the jersey to explore more of the lean toned back that curved down into those plump buttocks. His own cock was shiny with spit and gripped in his other hand. I'll just rub it, he thought, pushing his head up and down the crack, giving one cheek another fresh spank. He kissed some more at Brandon's neck, loving the desperate moans that his teammate made. You want it?' he found himself asking in a rasp. You want my cock, do ya?'
How many times had he refused just this to horny Sancho...? It didn't matter. Now was the moment, the need. In he pushed it, feeling that insane tightness against the thick head of his tool. He hugged onto Brandon's body from behind, just as tightly as his sincere comforts before things got hot and heavy. He moaned into his ear, unsure that he could really get his girth into that tiny hole, but... I can take it,' Williams assured him in a wobbly voice, just be patient...' Impatience almost made him pull back and rethink the taboo, but the tightness felt so good, and Brandon's slim smooth body felt so good in his arms, and he just wanted to really make him forget his woes! That's what a captain would do, he told himself boldly and ambitiously. Maguire was fading and Fernandes was temporary - why shouldn't he aspire to lead...? He was a real man now.
The aspiring captain's cock slid into Bran and made him gasp, but Marcus could no longer kid himself this was generosity or kindness, this was dirty pleasure and his own swelling ego. In and out he fucked him, almost oblivious to the sounds of pleasure that each thrust summoned, just slamming him into the wall and using his own dense muscles to power every movement. He twisted Bran's head to one side and craned to kiss him, locking tongues all over again, shutting up his gasps whilst jutting back and forth with his hips, getting a good workout.
`God yes,' whined Brandon, but he shut him up with another kiss, choking him with his own questing tongue, and gripping him bruisingly hard at the neck and the hip, ploughing him at speed, absolutely no thought for the unlocked door back out into the corridor beyond.
Rashford himself couldn't find the words, just long guttural moans and tight little puffs of breath, and the knock knock of Williams' body sounding against the wall, hammered away. He came inside him without questioning it, no doubts about filling up the arse-hole and claiming the 22-year-old as his new bitch, reaching up tender fingers to wipe tears away and cradle that shaky face whilst he kissed the back of his neck, heaving and panting into him, dripping with sweat beneath his club tracksuit.
She smiled and repeated her question. What kind of things have they been saying?' the reporter in the conservatory said, looking at him now as if he was a bit dim or mad; he blinked and slurred, unsure how long he'd zoned out. What kind of reception did the lads have for you after you got both of those prizes over there, Marcus?' Her smile hardened with a little impatience behind the gloss, and close at his side, the whirring clicks of a camera became a bit too irritating.
Rashford laughed it off and shrugged, avoiding the question, and avoiding his daydream of sordid fantasy, thinking that he might need to wank off as soon as he'd ushered these fashionable intruders out of the house. But he murmured out some excuse for an answer, commenting on Maguire being very complimentary, and younger players all looking up to him as a role model; and then he hinted as best as he could that he had places to be and people to see. Fortunately, the magazine crew had got what they came for, and there were few more questions or photographs before they were exiting the mansion and he was watching them from a bay window, his hand straying below the obstacle of the windowsill to stroke the front of his baggy pants.
He thought about Harry Maguire, about Jadon Sancho, and about Brandon Williams, and he knew he would need to jerk off before he could attend tonight's dinner with his girlfriend, there was no option but to release this tension. He grinned to himself and set out through the house, growing hard-on swinging in the loose fit of his pants, and the thought of Brandon's smooth round arse filling his mind's eye.
Double Player of the Month, he thought, and future United captain - of course every lad on the team was ready to service him...!
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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