You’d been practicing for years. On fake skin at first—cheap, rubbery sheets covered in practice designs that never quite bled the way real skin did. Then on yourself, your thighs covered in tiny symbols and half-finished sketches, reminders of long nights spent hunched over a mirror with your machine buzzing low and steady.

Tattooing wasn’t just work to you. It was art. It was control, precision, connection. You loved the way ink melted into skin, how each line became permanent. There was something raw and beautiful about it—something powerful.

So when your mentor called you in for a private appointment with Marcus Rashford, you nearly dropped your machine.

It was supposed to be simple—something small on the left side of his stomach, just under the ribs, with a slight extension lower, near his hipbone. He already had a canvas of ink on his body—a lion on his chest, angels and crowns wrapped around muscle and meaning. This was just another piece. Another story.

But it was you doing it.

And when he walked into the studio—hood up, sweats low on his hips, a quiet nod in place of hello—you had to remind yourself to breathe.

You’d seen pictures. Everyone had. But in person, Marcus was something else. Calm. Collected. Strong in that quiet way that made the air shift when he moved.

He sat down slowly, pulling his hoodie over his head, and then peeled off his shirt.

Your breath caught—just for a second.

He had a body built like marble, carved in motion. But it wasn’t just the muscle. It was the stories. Every tattoo was a chapter, a memory etched in ink. You didn’t stare. You were professional. Focused. You sanitized your gloves, prepped your machine, and traced your stencil onto his warm skin with practiced hands.

But God, when your fingertips brushed just beneath his ribs, you felt the heat of him.

“You good?” he asked, voice low and smooth.

You looked up at him—at the curve of his mouth, the soft gleam in his eyes. “Yeah,” you said quickly. “I’m good.”

He leaned back on the padded table, arm resting above his head, abs tightening slightly as you adjusted your angle.

You began the lines—slow, confident, steady.

The buzzing filled the room. Just that, and his breathing. And the occasional hitch of his chest when your hand moved lower.

He didn’t flinch. Not once. But his gaze never left you. Watching you work. Watching the way you bit your lip in concentration, the furrow in your brow when you hovered near the edge of bone and muscle.

“You’ve got good hands,” he murmured, after a while.