líla

the off the record masterlist

synopsis after a controversy threatens to overshadow the biggest moment of his career, Michael's team hires you to manage the fallout. there's only one problem though: your new client refuses to talk. somewhere between bad press, missed meetings and everything said off the record, keeping things professional becomes a crisis of its own.

warnings black!fem!reader, no use of y/n, publicist! reader, michael talks y’all, they’re cute of whatever

wordcount I still dk 5k ? Idkkkkk

a/n they’re getting close or whatever. I don’t know if I like this chapter or not :(

JULY 27TH, 2026 — 9 : 50 AM

michael 🙄

can’t make it today

early training in 2hs

MICHAEL DIDN’T USUALLY ASK PEOPLE TO COME TO HIM. If anything, it had always been the opposite. He went to people. Meetings happened at the agency. Press conferences happened in stadiums. Interviews happened in television studios.

His job was to show up.

Yours was to tell him where.

And today, for the first time the roles had quietly reversed. You were coming to him.

It felt strange.

Not necessarily bad.

Just different.

For the past week, every conversation between y’all had happened on your terms. In your office. In your conference room. It was your questions. Your rules. Your world.

This morning, however, you were stepping into his.

bossy lady

send me your pin

Somewhere between sending that pin and slipping his phone back into his pocket, he’d started noticing things he normally never paid attention to.

The hallway outside the changing rooms was louder than usual.

Someone laughed across the corridor.

A physio wheeled a cart full of medical supplies past him.

A pair of boots hit the tiled floor with a dull thud.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee drifted through the building from somewhere downstairs.

He checked the time.

9:53.

It was still early.

He leaned against the wall.

Checked the time again.

9:54.

Yeah, he was nervous.

This media training thing was the problem. Sure, he still wasn’t entirely sure what that actually involved.

Talking, presumably.

Far too much talking.

But that wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that, in less than ten minutes, you would be walking into his world. Not yours. His. The one place where he never had to think. Where everyone already knew him. Where he knew exactly where everything was. Where he didn’t have to explain himself because he just belonged there.

And somehow that made him more nervous than walking into your office ever had.

It wasn’t the media training.

It wasn’t even the idea of spending the next hour answering your questions.

It was everyone else.

Teammates.

Coaches.

Staff.

People who were about to meet the woman who somehow managed to order him around without ever raising her voice.

He sighed. The automatic doors slid open. His head lifted almost instinctively. And there you were.

Laptop bag hanging from one shoulder.

Coffee balanced carefully in one hand.

Phone in the other.

No blazer.

No heels.

Just trainers, loose trousers, an white oversized button-up with the sleeves rolled up to your elbows and a visitor’s badge hanging around your neck.

You looked professional. Comfortable even. Somehow less intimidating than usual.

Until you spotted him. Your expression immediately shifted into the same annoyingly confident smile he’d grown far too familiar with over the last week.

“There you are.”

“You found it.”

You looked around the training centre before looking back at him. “You sent me your pin.”

“…Right.”

A brief silence settled between you.

Not awkward.

Just new.

“You actually came,” he heard himself say.

One of your eyebrows lifted. “You thought I wouldn’t ?”

“No.”

“Then why do you sound surprised ?”

He looked away for half a second.

“I was hoping.”

You blinked.

Then laughed.

Not loudly.

Just enough to make the corners of your eyes crinkle.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t one.”

“No ?”

“No.”

“You smile exactly as much over text.”

He stayed silent when realizing.

“See ?”

That’s when he felt it : he was smiling. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He said, making his smile disappear.

“You smiled.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“Let’s go.” He turned before you could say anything else, already heading further into the training centre.

You couldn’t help but grin as you fell into step beside him. For a moment, neither of you said anything.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. It simply existed. People greeted Michael as you walked through the corridors.

“Morning, mike.”

“Morning.”

A coach gave him a nod on his way past. A physio waved from the opposite end of the hallway. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going.

You, on the other hand, were relying entirely on Michael not to lose you. Your visitor’s badge bounced lightly against your shirt with every step.

You lowered your voice.

“Do they all know who I am ?”

Michael thought about it for a second.

“Probably.”

You groaned. “Great.”

He glanced sideways.

“Why ?”

“They’re going to think I bully you.”

“I mean, you do.”

You let out a small offended gasp. “I do not bully you.”

“You threatened me last Saturday. Over text.”

“I motivated you. That’s not the same thing.”

“You threatened to make my attendance involuntary.”

“You’re looking too much into it.”

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.

It was small and quiet. But unmistakably there. You looked at him for a second longer than necessary. “There it is again. What is wrong with you today ?”

He looked away.

“You’re imagining things.”

You were not.

YOU PUSHED OPEN THE MEETING ROOM DOOR. It was almost painfully ordinary. Four walls. A television. A round table. Two chairs.

You barely glanced around before getting to work. Tour bag landed on the table. And so did your laptop and notebook.

Michael stayed by the door, watching. Without a word, you crossed the room and opened the blinds.

Sunlight flooded inside.

You frowned.

Walked back.

Moved one chair.

Then the other.

Michael watched for another few seconds.

“What are you doing ?”

“I’m optimizing the space.”

He looked at the two chairs. “you simply moved chairs.”

“They were facing the screen at the wrong angle.” You said, as if it was obvious. “They’re better now.”

Only then did you finally look up.

“Sit.”

He didn’t move.

“Michael.”

“Okay.”

He pulled out the chair.

You nodded once.

“Good.”

Less than two seconds later, the television came to life. A white slide filled the screen.

Michael looked at the screen.

Then at you.

Then at the screen again.

MEDIA TRAINING 101

Today’s lesson : convince people you’re capable of answering more than three words.

Michael only stared.

“You made slides.”

“I did.”

“I didn’t think people actually enjoyed making PowerPoints.”

“I don’t.”

“But you made one.”

“I enjoy being prepared.”

“That’s even worse.”

The next slide appeared.

Today’s objective

— Answer the question that was asked.

— Use complete sentences.

— Stop making your publicist’s life unnecessarily difficult.

Michael looked at you.

“That last one’s personal.”

“It absolutely is.”

You leaned back against the table. “ I got ground rules.”

Michael nodded.

“No journalists.”

“No cameras.”

“No headlines.”

“No one is going to see what happens in here.”

You paused. “So if you mess up,”

“You mess up.”

He waited.

“I don’t care.”

Another pause. His eyebrows lifted.

“This room is where you’re allowed to get things wrong.”

For the first time since arriving, some of the tension left his shoulders.

IT’S WHEN YOU CLICKED TO THE NEXT SLIDE THAT MICHAEL FROWNED. Across the table, the glow of your laptop reflected faintly in his eyes as the presentation changed.

The title sat in bold letters in the middle of the screen.

WARM UP SESSION.

He stared at it. Then at you. Then back at the screen. “A warm-up ?”

You didn’t even look up. Your fingers kept moving across the keyboard as you adjusted something on the slide.

“You don’t stretch before training ?”

“I do.”

“Same principle.”

His eyebrows pulled together. “We’re stretching my tongue ?”

The corner of your mouth twitched. “Essentially.”

“What the hell.”

“Exactly.” A quiet sigh escaped him as he leaned further back into his chair. “I already hate this.”

“I know.”

You reached for your notebook, flipping it open to a fresh page. The familiar sound of paper filled the room.

Click.

Your pen followed.

“Quick answers. Don’t overthink them.”

You uncapped it.

“I don’t usually do.” This time, you finally looked up.

Just looked at him.

“Michael.”

He stayed silent, looking back at you.

“Michael.”

He exhaled through his nose.

“Fine.”

You smiled to yourself before glancing back down at the page. “Ready ?”

After rolling one of his shoulders, he gave a small nod.

“Favourite colour.”

The answer came before you’d even finished writing the question. “Red.”

Good.

Your pen moved.

Quick.

“Favourite meal ?” This one took longer. Not because he didn’t know. His eyes drifted somewhere past you for barely a second, as though he’d left the conference room entirely.

“Anything my mum cooks.”

Your pen paused for half a second before continuing. “Sweet or savoury ?”

“Savoury.”

“Favourite season ?”

“Summer.”

“Coffee or tea ?”

“Tea.”

The rhythm settled almost naturally. Question. Answer. Question. Answer.

Fast enough that he couldn’t prepare. Fast enough that instinct answered before caution could.

“Early flights or late flights ?”

“Late.”

“Window seat or aisle ?”

“Window.”

“Beach or mountains ?”

“Beach.”

“Books or films ?”

He frowned again. “…Neither.”

“You don’t watch films ?”

“I do.”

“You don’t read ?”

“I do.”

“So…”

“I just wouldn’t choose either.”

“That’s a very Michael answer.”

He blinked. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means I asked you to choose.”

“I did.”

“You created a third option.”

“I solved the problem.” He sounded genuinely pleased with himself.

A smile tugged at your lips. You didn’t argue. You simply kept writing. “Sunrise or sunset ?”

“Sunset.”

“Music before a match ?”

“Sometimes.”

“‘Sometimes’ isn’t one of the options.”

He looked at you.

“Yes.”

You made another note. “Favorite day of the week ?”

For the first time since the exercise had begun, he actually thought. Not for long. But enough.

“Friday.”

You looked up.

“Why Friday ?”

“You said quick answers.”

“Fair.”

Before the silence could settle, you fired the next one. “Cooking or ordering food ?”

“Ordering.”

“Pancakes or waffles ?”

“Waffles.”

“Penalty or free kick ?”

“Free kick.”

You finally lowered your pen.

“Done.”

Michael blinked. “That’s it ?”

“For now.”

He frowned as you continued writing. You tapped your pen against the notebook once. He frowned as you continued writing anyway.

No more questions.

Just notes.

Lines.

Underlines.

Circles.

He leaned forward a fraction, trying to read the page upside down. “You’re actually taking notes.”

“I’m supposed to take notes on everything.”

“You wrote ‘beach.’”

“I did.”

“You underlined ‘Friday.’”

“Mhm.”

“And,”

He squinted.

“‘Anything his mum cooks.’”

“I wrote that too.”

“Why ?”

Without answering, you tapped the end of your pen thoughtfully against the notebook.

Once.

Twice.

“I’ll explain later.”

“I don’t think there is a later explanation.”

“There is.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I know.”

You closed the notebook halfway. “Okay.”

Michael’s shoulders loosened almost immediately. He genuinely thought the exercise was over. You watched him relax.

Then smiled to yourself.

“Who’s the funniest person in the France squad?”

Silence.

Michael stared at you. “I’m not answering that kind of question.”

“It was a simple question.”

He looked at the ceiling as if the answer might be written somewhere above him

“Next.”

Your pen moved across the page. He immediately noticed. “What ?”

“You hesitated.”

His eyes immediately dropped to the notebook. “I was thinking.”

“Exactly.”

“I was choosing.”

“You were avoiding.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You absolutely were.”

He sighed. He rubbed a hand down his face before letting it fall back onto the table.

“I don’t like this exercise.”

Your smile softened.

“I know.”

YOU LET THE SILENCE SETTLE FOR A SECOND BEFORE CAPPING YOUR PEN. You were thinking of the next exercise you’d do with him.

“Alright.”

Michael eyed you suspiciously. “We’re done with the questions.”

His shoulders relaxed.

“For now.”

He sighed quietly. “I knew there was a catch.”

“There usually is.”

You pushed your notebook aside and stood, walking around the table. The movement immediately caught his attention. His eyes followed you without moving the rest of his body.

“Stand up for me.”

He blinked.

“Why ?”

“Because journalists don’t only listen to what you say.” You stopped in front of him. “They look at everything else.”

He got to his feet, hands automatically disappearing into the pockets of his training shorts.

You pointed at him.

“Out.”

“What ?”

“Your hands.”

He looked down. “What about them ?”

“Journalists notice what you’re hiding before they hear what you’re saying.”

“I don’t hide.”

“You do.”

“I’m just standing.”

“Exactly.” You circled him once, more like a coach than a publicist. “Look at me.”

He did.

“Not like that.”

“What ?”

“You’re looking at my forehead.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

His eyes flickered down.

Then back up.

“There.”

“Better ?”

“Much.” He held it for another couple of seconds before looking away again.

“See ? You’re avoiding eye contact again.”

“I literally blinked.”

“You escaped.”

“I blinked.”

“Mhm.” You scribbled something in your notebook. He looked around the room.

“That’s media training ?”

“No.”

A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “Now comes the fun part.”

His expression flattened. “I don’t think there’s anything fun about this.”

“That’s not the point.”

You picked up your pen again, holding it out like a microphone.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

You straightened in front of him, your smile turning effortlessly professional. “Good evening, Michael. Congratulations on tonight’s result. How are you feeling ?”

“I’m happy with the win.”

A small nod.

“Good.”

You made a quick note.

He noticed.

“Already ?”

“You answered before I had to pull the words out of you.”

“Lucky guess.”

You smiled. “Again.”

Without missing a beat, you continued.

“What changed in the second half ?”

“We moved the ball quicker.”

A brief pause.

“We were more patient. We stopped forcing things.”

Your pen hovered above the page. No prompting. No waiting.

You wrote anyway.

Michael frowned.

“What ?”

“You didn’t need me.”

“What do you mean ?”

“You answered.”

“I’ve been answering all morning.”

“No.”

You looked up from your notebook. “You’ve been responding.”

A beat.

“That was an answer.”

Silence settled between you. He looked at you, waiting. You closed the notebook.

“Football.”

“What about it ?”

“You don’t struggle when it’s about football.”

His brows drew together. “You don’t stop to think about how you sound.”

You tapped the cover of the notebook lightly.

“You just talk.”

He didn’t say anything.

“You know your subject.”

“So ?”

“So,” You shrugged. “Maybe interviews aren’t actually your problem.”

He folded his arms.

“What is, then ?”

You held his gaze for a second longer. “I don’t know yet.”

Another pause. “But I’m starting to think it’s not the questions.”

His expression shifted, only slightly. Enough for you to notice. You uncapped your pen again.

“Let’s find out.”

This time, there was no exaggerated smile. No playful tone. No pretending to be a reporter. You simply looked at him.

“One last exercise.”

His shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. He looked at you warily.

“You don’t sound convincing sometimes.”

“I don’t need to.”

You rested your elbows on the table.

“About the rumours—”

His expression hardened. “We’re not doing that.”

“We are.”

He didn’t move.

“You’ll be asked about them.”

“I know.”

“And if you sit there answering every question with one word,” You held his gaze. “people will think you’re hiding something.”

His jaw tightened.

“I’m not though.”

“I know that.”

“Then why does it matter ?”

“Because perception matters.”

He stayed silent.

“You don’t get to control what people think.” You leaned forward. “But you do get to control what you give them.”

He looked away.

“I’ll tell them it’s not true.”

“That’s not enough, Michael.”

His eyes snapped back to yours. “It is.”

“It isn’t.”

Another silence. “You think one ‘no’ ends the story ?”

“It should.”

“It doesn’t.”

He exhaled through his nose. “I’m not explaining my private life to strangers.”

“There it is.”

He frowned. “What ?”

“The real problem.”

“I’ve just told you the problem.”

“No.” You shook your head. “The problem isn’t the question.”

His gaze went from your hands to your eyes. “It’s the fact that you resent having to answer it at all.”

He didn’t answer.

You continued anyway. “You walk into every interview expecting a fight.”

“And ?”

“And people can see that.”

His expression remained unreadable.

“So what ?”

“So they stop listening to your words.”

You tapped the table once. “and start reading your attitude.”

He stared at you.

“I don’t owe them anything.”

“Yeah.” Your voice stayed calm. “You don’t.”

A beat.

“But if you want them to believe you,” You held his gaze. “you have to actually give them something to believe.”

Michael held your gaze for another second before looking away.

“That’s easy for you to say.”

You frowned.

“Why ?”

“When an interview ends, you go home. I don’t.”

He paused, searching for the words. The room felt quieter than it had all morning.

“You write your notes.”

His voice remained calm.

“I wake up to headlines.”

Your hand loosened around the pen.

“They’ll replay every answer.” He shrugged. “They’ll slow down every clip.”

Another pause.

“If I look away for a second,” He glanced toward the conference room window. “people think I’m lying.”

You didn’t interrupt.

“If I smile,”

“They’ll say I don’t take it seriously.”

He let out a quiet breath.

“If I don’t smile, they’ll say I’m cold.”

Silence settled between you. For the first time that morning, you had nothing to correct. Nothing to teach. You slowly lowered your pen.

“Is that why you hate interviews ?”

Michael was quiet for so long you wondered if he’d answer at all.

“I don’t hate interviews.”

He looked back at you. “I hate what they become.”

You stayed silent.

“They’re never conversations.”

“They’re performances.”

His fingers traced the edge of the table absentmindedly. “They already know what they want.”

“And if I don’t give it to them,”

A humourless smile crossed his face. “they’ll just write it anyway.”

You felt your shoulders sink slightly. Because he wasn’t entirely wrong. You’d seen it happen. You’d worked with journalists who wanted the truth. You’d also worked with journalists who only wanted a headline. You closed your notebook.

The sound echoed softly in the room.

“I owe you an apology.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“For what ?”

“I spent the last two hours trying to teach you how to answer questions.”

You shook your head. “That was the wrong lesson.”

Michael watched you carefully. “You don’t have a communication problem.”

A beat.

“You have a trust problem.”

He didn’t respond. But he didn’t look away either. You continued, quieter now. “And to be honest,”

“I’m not sure I’d trust them either.”

Something shifted in his expression. It wasn’t relief. It wasn’t surprise. It was smaller than that. Recognition. As though, for the first time since you’d met him, smeone had understood what he’d been trying to say without him having to explain it.

You leaned back in your chair.

“So,”

A faint smile returned. “I’ve got some homework to do.”

He frowned. “You ?”

“I need to rethink this.”

He looked genuinely puzzled.

“I thought you were the expert.”

“I am.”

You smiled.

“But good strategies change when the person in front of you does.”

A silence settled between you. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just comfortable. You looked at him for a long moment.

Then, quietly, you closed your notebook.

The soft clap echoed through the room.

Michael glanced down at it.

“We’re done ?”

You shook your head.

“No.”

A beat.

“We’re done with media training.”

He stayed silent. You leaned back in your chair again.

“Can I ask you something ?”

He looked at you.

“Not as your publicist.”

Another pause.

“As me.”

He studied you for a second.

“Okay.”

You smiled faintly.

“What do you love about football ?”

He frowned.

It clearly wasn’t the question he’d been expecting.

“Football ?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not asking about tactics, or trophies” You rested your forearms on the table. “I’m asking, what keeps you coming back ?”

“I like that it’s quiet.”

You blinked. “Quiet ?”

He nodded.

“The ball doesn’t talk.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“It does exactly what you tell it to.”

He looked down at his hands.

“You know what you’re supposed to do.”

“No guessing.”

“No headlines.”

“No opinions.”

“Just,” He searched for the word. “football.”

You didn’t interrupt.

“It’s simple.”

“The pitch makes sense.”

Another pause.

“I’ve always liked that.”

You smiled to yourself. “I think I’ve got enough for today.”

He glanced at the black screen of the projector.

“That’s it ?”

You nodded.

“That’s it.”

He stood, pushing his chair back. You did the same, slipping your notebook into your bag. As you zipped it shut, Michael spoke again.

“So,”

You looked over.

“What happens now ?”

You smiled.

“Now ? I go back and rewrite the plan.”

His eyebrows lifted. A corner of his mouth moved.

Barely.

“But I learned something useful today.”

“What ?”

You slung your bag over your shoulder.

“About you.”

He looked at you for a moment, as if trying to work out whether you were joking. You weren’t.

You reached the door first. Your hand rested on the handle.

“Same time next week ?”

He let out a long breath.

“Do I have a choice ?”

You smiled over your shoulder.

“No.”

He nodded once. “I’ll be here.”

You opened the door. The sounds of the training ground filtered back into the corridor.

Voices.

Whistles.

Football.

You stepped out first. Michael followed a second later.

Neither of you said goodbye.

Somehow it didn’t feel necessary.

Media training still wasn’t his favourite part of the week. It just wasn’t the part he dreaded anymore.

“And don’t be late.”

YOUR NOTES!

GO BACK TO FILE 002 - FILE 004 PENDING

Taglist: @iamryanl @chaestwbryz @belezaya @modernwelfare @swiftleclerc @mayaoffthewall @deadpool15 @tsnmtmblr @random34674 @dreamybiitch @lipaluuu @pippapops @chaestwbryz @supernuts @prettyyoungth1ng @luvsxroses @grittysbiggestfan

© written by melosgoated | inspo is free, copying is lazy. keep it cute y'all.

the off the record masterlist

By the time a story reaches you,

someone else may already be telling it.

synopsis after a controversy threatens to overshadow the biggest moment of his career, Michael’s team hires you to manage the fallout. there’s only one problem though : your new client refuses to talk. somewhere between bad press, missed meetings and everything said off the record, keeping things professional becomes a crisis of its own.

warnings black!fem!reader, no use of y/n, publicist!reader, reader is NOSY, Michael is mad annoying, enemies-ish to lovers, mentions of paternity allegations, online harassment & media scrutiny.

wordcount honestly idk

a/n they both will get on your nerves tbh. But they’re funny i swear. Anyway, hope you’ll like it 🤍

JULY 22ND, 2026 — 9 : 17 AM

8 : 55

9 : 00

9 : 10

9 : 17

SEVENTEEN MINUTES. Seventeen minutes was all it took for Michael to make the worst first impression possible. He was late. Of course he was, who wouldn’t be late for an important meeting that could potentially change their life ?

Not that you were counting, anyway.

You were.

Which was particularly irritating considering you had made a point of arriving five minutes early, determined to avoid any delay and remain professional.

Clearly, that was one-sided.

You had known your client for exactly zero minutes, and somehow, he was already getting on your nerves. Still, his absence wasn’t entirely a bad thing. It gave you time to review the case. Again.

As if you hadn’t already done so a hundred times.

The case seemed simple enough : a woman was accusing a footballer of being the father of her child.

It could’ve been it.

Apparently, it wasn’t.

Because said footballer was now being accused of abandoning a child he claimed wasn’t his.

And that was a problem.

From what you had gathered during your late-night deep dive into the case, this wasn’t the first time this woman had tried to claim Michael was the father of her child. The timeline, however, was messy and desperately needed clearing up.

As you were playing with your pen, your eyes eventually wandered from the documents spread across the table to Michael’s manager. Calling her stressed would have been the biggest understatement of all times.

She hadn’t said a word to you yet but had check her phone four times in the last ten minutes.

You knew because, well, unfortunately, you were counting that too.

AT 9:19, the conference room door finally opened. Naturally, every head in the room turned toward the door. There he was.

A pink and brown cap pulled low over his head, like he had every intention of disappearing underneath it. His expression gave nothing away. There wasn’t no panic on his face, no visible frustration. Nothing that suggested his name had been dragged across the internet for the past twenty-four hours.

He looked entirely too calm for someone currently sitting at the centre of a public relations disaster.

And he wasn’t alone.

A man you assumed to be his lawyer followed closely behind him, already apologizing to the room before the door was even closed.

Michael, however, said nothing.

You eyes dropped to your watch.

Then back to him.

Nineteen minutes.

Great start.

His eyes eventually found yours from across the room.

You held his gaze. He held yours.

Neither of you smiled. Because, what was there to smile about ? First meeting and you’re late ?

“Nice of you to join us.”

The room went quiet.

His manager shifted uncomfortably in her seat. His lawyer glanced in your direction, and for half a second, you could practically hear your boss telling you to behave.

Fortunately for you, your boss wasn’t here.

Michael looked at you for another second before pulling out the chair opposite yours.

“Hello.”

You blinked. Was he crazy ? You watched him sit down.

“You’re late.”

His eyes lifted back to yours.

“By nineteen minutes.”

A beat of silence.

“The meeting was at nine o’clock.”

“I know.”

Oh. Great great great.

You leaned back slightly in your chair, smiling only a bit.

“Do you ?”

His manager closed her eyes for half a second. What a great start. Michael’s expression barely changed, but something shifted in his eyes. He was looking at you properly now.

“I was caught in traffic. Sorry.”

“Right.”

“There was traffic.”

“In this city ?” You nodded slowly. “At nine in the morning ? Sure.”

He stared at you. You stared back. Again. “Who could have possibly predicted that ?”

His lawyer cleared his throat. Loudly. If he wanted to be funny, you’d be hilarious.

“Perhaps we should start.”

You kept your eyes on Michael for another second before looking down at the file in front of you.

“Yeah.”

You opened it. And that’s when you were glad your boss wasn’t here.

“We only lost nineteen minutes, after all.”

You could tell this was going to be difficult.

THE NEXT TWENTY MINUTES did very little to change your mind.

“The priority is getting ahead of this before it develops any further,” his manager explained. “We’ve already had several calls this morning.”

“How many ?” You asked, letting your pen repeatedly tap onto the table.

She hesitated.

You looked up from your notes. “How many ? You can tell me.”

“Seven.”

“From who ?” You asked again.

“Two indirect sponsors. The club. His agent. A journalist. And—”

“Three journalists actually,” the lawyer corrected.

You stopped writing.

Three ?

That was worse than you had expected.

“Have any of them been given a comment ?”

“No.”

“Good. That’s good.” There wasn’t any worse felling than to begin to work with badly written comments.

Michael sat across from you, one arm resting against the table, his expression unreadable. You had been in the room with him for nearly half an hour now.

So far, you had heard him say approximately twelve words.

His manager continued.

“The club wants this handled quickly. They don’t want the story gaining any more traction, especially with everything coming up.”

Of course they didn’t. Who would want their club to be tied to any of this nonsense ?

You glanced at the documents in front of you. The timing of the allegations was almost impressively inconvenient.

“What about the indirect sponsors ? Don’t you have direct sponsors ?” You turned to Michael, waiting for him to answer.

“I’m not directly tied to a brand.”

“They want reassurance.” His lawyer added, sensing you’d need a bit more.

“Which we can’t give them yet.”

Another silence.

You looked around the table. His manager looked worried. His lawyer looked cautious.

The other members of his team looked like they would rather be anywhere else.

And Michael ?

You looked at him once again.

Michael looked bored.

Or tired.

You couldn’t quite tell which.

“We were thinking of releasing a statement today,” his manager said.

“No.” The answer left your mouth immediately.

Everyone looked at you.

Everyone except Michael. His gaze was already on you.

“Well, we’ll need to respond eventually,”

“I know.”

“The longer we wait—”

“The longer we wait, the more people speculate. I understand that.” You closed the file. “But see, releasing a statement before I know exactly what we’re responding to would be stupid.”

His lawyer shifted in his chair.

“We know what we’re responding to.” He says, repositioning his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

“No, you know what she’s accusing him of. Big difference.”

You nodded toward Michael.

“I don’t know what actually happened.”

That finally earned you something. A slight movement of his head. It was barely noticeable. But you noticed.

You always did.

“Until I have a complete timeline, I’m not putting his name under anything. One inconsistency between what we say today and what comes out tomorrow, and suddenly we’re not managing one story anymore. We’re explaining why we lied.”

Nobody answered.

Good.

“So.”

You placed your pen down. “Has anyone in this room actually spoken to Michael about what happened?”

His manager looked at his lawyer.

His lawyer looked at Michael.

Michael looked at you.

You waited.

Nobody said anything.

Unbelievable.

You had spent almost thirty minutes listening to people discuss Michael’s reputation, his career, his sponsors and his alleged child. And somehow, nobody seemed particularly interested in hearing from Michael.

Except you.

Everyone in the room seemed perfectly capable of speaking for Michael. The problem was that eventually, Michael would have to speak for Michael.

“Right.”

You leaned back in your chair. You gestured the door to both his lawyer and his manager.

“I need the room. Please.”

His manager frowned. “What ?”

“I need to speak to him alone.”

The lawyer immediately straightened. “I don’t think—”

“You can stay outside.”

His eyebrows rose.

You smiled politely.

“I won’t be long. I promise.”

Michael’s eyes remained on you. For the first time since he had arrived, there was something almost amused in them.

Great.

At least one of you was enjoying this.

The door clicked shut behind the last person.

SILENCE SETTLED over the conference room. It was not necessary a heavy one. It was the type of silence that only occurred when people were searching where to begin.

You looked at Michael.

Michael looked at you.

For the hundredth time today.

Neither of you spoke.

Ten seconds passed. Then fifteen.

Most people would have looked away by now. Reached for their phone. Shifted in their seat. Done something to fill the silence.

Michael did none of those things.

He simply sat there, one arm resting against the chair, his eyes fixed on you with the same unreadable calm he had worn since walking into the room.

You reached for your pen. “Do you know the woman who made the allegations ?”

“Yes.”

“How ?”

“We met before I got transferred.”

You waited.

He didn’t continue.

“Michael.” His eyes lifted fully to yours.

“That generally means I’m waiting for the rest of the sentence.”

“There isn’t one.”

You stared at him.

He stared back. Not defensively. Not uncomfortably. If anything, he looked entirely too comfortable with silence.

Again, you had dealt with difficult clients before.

Actors who thought every question was a trap. CEOs who suddenly developed selective amnesia the second lawyers entered the room. Influencers who believed deleting a post also deleted the screenshots.

You could handle quiet. But this ? This was new.

“Fine. When did you meet her ?”

“A few years ago.”

“When ?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember the year ?”

A pause.

“2023.”

You wrote it down. “Where ?”

“At a party.”

“What kind of party ?”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“Does that matter ?”

“It does.”

“Why ?”

You stopped writing. “Because if twenty people saw you leave together, that’s different from nobody knowing you were ever in the same room.”

For the first time, something shifted in his expression. It was small. A slight easing around his eyes. The faintest tilt of his head as he looked at you.

Not surprise.

More like reassessment.

As though, until now, he hadn’t quite understood what you were doing.

You held his gaze. “What kind of party ?”

“A private one.”

“Where ?”

“In London.”

“Whose ?”

His expression changed again.

You waited. Nothing.

Of course.

Instead of insisting, you made a small question mark beside de question. “I’ll come back to that later.”

Something almost amused flickered across his face.

Almost.

You continued. “Were you in a relationship ? I’m talking about dating.”

“No.”

“Did you sleep together ?”

His jaw tightened.

There.

Your first real reaction. You waited.

“That necessary ?”

“Very.”

He looked away from you for the first time. His gaze moved somewhere past your shoulder before coming back to you, his expression already composed again.

But you had seen it.

“Michael.”

“Yes.”

Your pen touched the paper.

“How many times ?”

His eyes came back to yours. You could almost see the calculation happening behind them.

“What ?”

“You heard me.”

“Once.”

You wrote it down.

Then stopped.

“Are you sure ?”

“Yes.”

That was fast.

Too fast ? You slowly looked up to him.

You had learned a long time ago that people were rarely most revealing when they lied. They were most revealing when they wanted you to stop asking.

Michael didn’t seem to be lying. That didn’t mean he was telling you everything.

You underlined the word once.

“Why does she have messages from you ?”

“We spoke.” His tone supplied the rest.

Obviously.

“Before or after ?”

“Both.”

“For how long ?” He shrugged.

You stared at him for two seconds.

He stared back at you for two more.

Your pen landed on the table.

“Here’s what’s going to happen.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

“I’m going to ask you questions. You’re going to answer them. Preferably using more than three words at a time. I hope I was clear.”

The corner of his mouth moved.

Barely.

Was he smiling ? No.

Absolutely not.

“Something funny ?”

“No.”

“Good. How long did you stay in contact ?”

“A few months.”

“Romantically ?”

“No.”

“Sexually ?”

“No.”

“Did you meet again ?”

“Yes.”

Your fingers tightened around your pen.

“How many times ?”

“I don’t know.”

“You just told me you slept together once.”

“I did.”

“But you met multiple times.”

“Yes.”

You studied him. There was a distinction there. And he wanted you to notice it.

“What was the nature of those meetings ?”

For once, he didn’t answer immediately. His gaze dropped on your hand. More specifically to the pen between your fingers. Then back to your face.

“We met a few times after that night. Sometimes alone, sometimes with other people. We talked. Nothing happened again.”

An actual answer, a complete one. You almost wanted to congratulate him.

Instead, you wrote it down.

“Why did you keep seeing her ?”

And just like that, whatever small opening had appeared disappeared.

“I don’t know.”

There he was. You resisted the urge to sigh.

“So you weren’t dating.”

“No.”

“You weren’t sleeping together.”

“Not after that night.”

“You weren’t friends.”

“No.”

“But you continued seeing each other.”

“Yes.”

You slowly lowered your pen. Michael watched you do it. “Do you enjoy making simple things unnecessarily complicated?”

This time, you saw it.

Definitely.

The smallest hint of a smile touched the corner of his mouth.

“Sometimes.”

Oh. So he could speak.

Good to know.

You ignored it. “Have you ever met the child ?”

The trace of amusement disappeared.

“No.”

“Has she contacted you privately about the child ?”

“Yes.”

“When ?”

“Last year.”

“And ?”

“I told her it wasn’t mine.”

“You told her.”

“Yes.”

“Was a paternity test done ?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not the father.”

Your pen stopped. The certainty in his voice was different this time.

No hesitation.

No careful selection of words.

Nothing.

You watched him. He watched you back.

But there was no challenge in his expression now.

Only certainty.

“How do you know ?”

His expression closed again.

“I just know.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It is. It’s mine.”

“Not one I can use.”

“You’re not supposed to use any of this.”

You went still. There it was. The test.

So that was what this had been.

You slowly leaned back in your chair.

“No. I’m supposed to use it to make sure that when someone shoves a microphone in your face and asks you a question you weren’t expecting, I already know the answer.”

His eyes stayed on yours.

You continued.

“And if you lie to me now, I can’t protect you from the truth later.”

Silence.

Neither of you moved. For the first time, Michael wasn’t looking at you like someone he had been forced into a room with. He was actually looking at you.

Assessing.

Reconsidering.

And you let him.

Something shifted in his expression. It was barely there.

But enough.

That landed.

You picked your pen back up.

“So I’ll ask you once.”

His posture changed almost imperceptibly.

You noticed.

Of course you did.

You held his gaze.

“Is there any possibility that child is yours ?”

For the second time since the meeting started, he didn’t answer immediately.

One second.

His eyes remained on yours.

Two.

Nothing in his expression changed.

Three.

But there was something about the way he was looking at you now.

Not uncertainty.

Not quite.

You had spent the entire conversation trying to read him. And suddenly, you had the distinct impression that he was doing the exact same thing to you.

“No.”

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

The silence stretched between you again, except this time it felt different. At the beginning of the meeting, Michael’s silence had been a wall. Now it felt deliberate. A conversation neither of you was willing to have out loud.

You watched him.

He watched you right back.

And there it was.

Your first problem.

Because you believed that he believed what he was saying.

You just weren’t convinced you had the whole story.

GO BACK TO FILE 000 — OPEN FILE 002

Taglist : @iamryanl @chaestwbryz @belezaya @modernwelfare @swiftleclerc @mayaoffthewall @deadpool15 @supernuts

© written by melosgoated | inspo is free, copying is lazy. keep it cute y’all.

a michael olise series ✦

some things were never meant for public

consumption.

summary after a controversy threatens to overshadow the biggest moment of his career, michael’s team hires you to manage the fallout. there’s only one problem though : your new client refuses to talk. somewhere between bad press, missed meetings and everything said off the record, keeping things professional becomes a crisis of its own.

warnings black!fem!reader, she/her pronouns used, no use of y/n, client/publicist relationship, enemies-ish to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut (18+), sexual content, angst, strong language, mentions of paternity allegations, online harassment & media scrutiny.

a/n got inspired by recent events (obviously), but please take everything written here lightly. i don’t know the truth about any of this, i’m not taking sides, and this is ultimately just fiction.

⌗ MASTERLIST ;

FILE 000 ⎯ BREAKING NEWS

001 ⎯ no comment　　　 006 ⎯ conflict of interest

002 ⎯ damage control　　007 ⎯ for your eyes only

003 ⎯ media training　　 008 ⎯ bad press

004 ⎯ the narrative　　　 009 ⎯ no longer your client

005 ⎯ off camera　　　 　010 ⎯ on the record

FILE 011 ⎯ HARD LAUNCH [EPILOGUE]

CONFIDENTIAL ■ DO NOT DISTRIBUTE

© written by melosgoated | inspo is free, copying is lazy. keep it cute y’all.

⤷ ゛masterlist ˎˊ˗

michael olise x f!reader.

dating.

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: he's not very clingy but when he is, it's exhausting because he keeps kissing you too much until you have swollen lips.

pairing: michael olise x f!reader . . . masterlist genre: fluff synopsis: michael shares an intimate moment at the pool with you a/n: first football fic! i'm back!! hope u enjoy :) feel free to request for football!!

it started when one of the bayern boys said, "come over, everyone's bringing someone!" before long, nearly the entire squad had shown up alongside their partners.

now all you could see and hear was the water beneath you, the music blaring, and the multiple conversations going on. some guys were playing fifa outside on the tv, some playing some sort of water volleyball.

you'd spent most of the afternoon talking with some of the other girlfriends, but it was never for long. the observing was more fun; sitting back, minding your own business, enjoying the sight of people having fun.

ㅤ˚༘࿐ㅤ. ✿ㅤ ‿︵ A FOREVER THING 𖤓 michael olise 𝑥　𝒻!reader 𝄞 synopsis: your boyfriend gets one of your drawings tattooed. ⋆˚꩜｡ warnings: fluffy + two losers in love ngl

you’ve always loved putting pen on paper. whether it’s on a rainy morning as you sit on your windowsill, staring at the snow falling down the slanted roofs with your fluffy socks on and your bed-ridden hair, or in the park during your weekly habit of people-watching: staring at the elderly man in his toasty peacoat walking his dog, his thin-rimmed glasses almost sliding off his nose from the cold. or the two giggly schoolgirls tapping away on their phones, smiling about their latest exam results.

your sketchbook is an accumulation of everything you’ve seen in life. everything that has wandered through the corridors of your mind, the intricacy of your imagination compared to the stark contrast of the simplicity of your pencil strokes.

─── ୨ৎ . 𝗠𝗔𝒮𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝒮𝗧 ¡! ❜

⊹ author’s note: i’ll be inactive for a little while as i’m away on holiday. i’ll be back with new stories as soon as i can. thank you for your patience and support. see you soon! ♡

𝗝𝘂𝗱𝗲 𝗕𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗵𝗮𝗺 𑣲.

hide and seek — (fluff, comedy)

more than a moment — (hurt/comfort, angst)

the hands that know — (fluff/comfort)

the perfect disaster — (fluff, comedy)

𝗠𝗶𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗲𝗹 𝗢𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗲 𑣲.

invisible thread — (fluff, angst)

where my eyes go — (hurt/comfort, angst)

how to be romantic — (fluff, comedy)

𝗗é𝘀𝗶𝗿é 𝗗𝗼𝘂é 𑣲.

after midnight — (fluff/comfort)

⋆ 𐙚 ❛ 𝗛𝗢𝗪 𝗧𝗢 𝗕𝗘 𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗖.ᐟ ❜ ꕀ 𝑀𝗶𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗲𝗹 𝗢𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗲 x 𝒻!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲r ✴︎

⊹ 𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀. there’s no guide to being romantic. michael olise learns that the hard way when every attempt to impress her somehow turns into another disaster. but maybe he’s been looking at love the wrong way all along.

⊹ 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀. boyfriend!michael olise, established relationship, fluff, comedy, michael olise being hopelessly in love, failed romantic gestures, lots of laughter, domestic moments, soft kisses, affectionate touches, reassurance, comfort, sweet ending.

michael olise had always considered himself a pretty reasonable person. not perfect, obviously, but sensible enough to know when something deserved his attention and when it was better left alone.

summary: Everyone in the France dressing room knows Michael Olise as the quiet one. Until one post-match phone call reveals there's exactly one person who can get him talking, and smiling, without even trying. warnings: established relationship, pure fluff, post-match celebrations. wc: 1.2k

main masterlist | football masterlist

The final whistle had barely finished echoing around the stadium before the atmosphere inside France's dressing room dissolved into organised chaos.

Somewhere near the showers, Ousmane was already arguing, far louder than necessary, that the referee had ignored at least three fouls on him. Theo had disappeared with a towel thrown over his shoulders, still shaking his head at whatever story Jules was dramatically reenacting to anyone willing to listen. Empty water bottles rolled lazily across the tiled floor every time someone accidentally kicked one, boots were abandoned wherever players had decided to take them off, and the sharp smell of fresh grass mixed with deep heat, muscle spray and shampoo drifted through the room.

Music blasted from a speaker someone had connected to without asking, loud enough that nobody could quite agree on what song was actually playing.

France had qualified top of the group.

Nobody was in any rush to leave.

Laughter bounced off every wall, cameras from the team's media crew occasionally slipping inside to capture little moments for social media before being politely ushered back out again.

Michael sat quietly at his locker.

Exactly where he always did.

His jersey clung to his skin, still damp from ninety minutes of football as he slowly unlaced one boot after the other. The noise around him barely registered anymore. After years in football, dressing rooms had become white noise, loud enough that they somehow felt peaceful.

He reached for his phone almost automatically.

His thumb hovered over your name for barely a second before pressing call.

The phone rang once.

Twice.

By the third ring, his shoulders had begun to sink ever so slightly, the smallest hint of disappointment creeping in.

Then—

Your face appeared.

The picture shook slightly as you adjusted your phone, clearly walking somewhere before finally settling down.

"There he is."

You smiled the second you saw him.

Not the polite smile you gave players during interviews.

Not the one cameras usually caught.

This one was different.

Your eyes softened almost immediately, the corners crinkling just enough to make that tiny dimple appear in your left cheek, the one he always insisted was his favourite thing about your smile, even though you rolled your eyes every single time he mentioned it.

"There he is," you repeated, tilting your head. "Look at you."

Michael couldn't help it.

The corner of his mouth lifted.

Then the other.

"Hi."

"Hi?" You laughed. "That's all I get after you disappear for two hours?"

"We were playing."

"I know."

"I was busy."

"Oh really? I had no idea."

A quiet chuckle escaped him.

"I watched the match, by the way."

"I assumed."

"You looked good."

"I looked tired."

"You looked good and tired."

He shook his head.

"You always have something to say."

"I literally get paid to."

That earned another laugh.

A real one.

One that made him lean back against the locker with a hand covering his mouth for a second.

Across the room, Kylian happened to glance over.

His conversation stopped mid-sentence.

"...Did he just laugh?"

Bradley frowned.

"What?"

"Kylian," Ousmane sighed dramatically, "people laugh."

"No." Kylian pointed across the room without taking his eyes off Michael. "Not him."

Almost on cue, another laugh escaped Michael as you said something else.

Then another.

His shoulders relaxed completely, his posture losing the stiffness it carried during every interview. One elbow rested lazily against his knee as he listened to you ramble about a questionable refereeing decision, nodding every few seconds despite the fact you couldn't even see half of it through the screen.

"So..." you continued, narrowing your eyes playfully. "Explain something to me."

He smiled.

"What?"

"What exactly was that shot in the sixty-third minute?"

"My shot?"

"Was that your attempt at football?"

"It was blocked."

"It was going wide."

"It wasn't."

"It absolutely was."

"It wasn't."

"It absolutely—"

"You're impossible."

"I prefer observant."

"You prefer annoying."

"I can be both."

His laugh came quicker this time.

Louder.

Enough that almost the entire dressing room turned.

Silence spread in waves.

One by one.

Theo looked over.

Then Jules.

Then Warren.

Then Désiré.

Even Didier Deschamps, halfway through congratulating one of the staff members, paused for the briefest moment, his eyes drifting toward the corner of the room.

Michael Olise...

...was talking.

Not answering questions.

Talking.

Properly.

Sentence after sentence.

His hands even moved while he spoke.

Kylian slowly folded his arms.

"I genuinely didn't know he could form paragraphs."

Ousmane blinked.

"Forget paragraphs..."

He pointed dramatically across the room.

"...He's smiling."

Every head turned again.

Sure enough...

Michael hadn't noticed a single pair of eyes on him.

His entire attention remained fixed on the tiny rectangle in his hand.

"So..." he said, a grin still tugging at his lips. "You weren't even there and somehow you've still got opinions about everything."

"I always have opinions."

"I noticed."

"You should've squared the ball to Kylian."

"He told me the same thing."

"See?"

"I think you're conspiring."

"Obviously."

He shook his head, smiling to himself.

"I miss you."

The words slipped out so naturally he didn't even realise he'd said them.

Your expression softened instantly.

The teasing disappeared.

"I know."

Your voice was quieter now.

"I missed being there today too."

"I kept looking for you."

"You did?"

He nodded without thinking.

"Every time we scored."

The smile on your face grew impossibly softer.

"I'll be there next match."

"I know."

"You'll probably tell me everything I did wrong again."

"Every single thing."

"I thought so."

Another laugh.

Kylian looked genuinely offended.

He glanced around the room before dramatically throwing both hands into the air.

"Who is this man?"

The entire dressing room burst into laughter.

Michael finally looked up.

Only then did he realise every single one of his teammates had completely abandoned whatever they were doing to stare at him.

"What?"

Ousmane stepped forward first.

"No, no, no."

He pointed at the phone.

"Put her on speaker."

Michael frowned.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because."

Kylian was already laughing.

"We've just witnessed you speak more in the last five minutes than you've spoken all training camp."

"That's not true."

"It absolutely is."

Michael sighed.

"You lot are unbelievable."

Before anyone could reply, your voice drifted clearly through the phone.

"Leave my boyfriend alone."

The room froze for exactly one second.

Then Désiré clutched his chest dramatically.

"Oh, she's defending him!"

Theo started laughing so hard he nearly dropped the bottle in his hand.

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose, already feeling the warmth creeping up his neck.

"They're never going to let this go."

"No," you laughed, the sound filling his ear through the speaker. "They're absolutely going to bully you for the rest of the tournament."

He looked around at twenty-something grown men grinning at him like children who'd just discovered the world's biggest secret.

Then he looked back at your face on the screen.

For maybe the first time all evening, the noise of the dressing room faded into the background again.

He smiled.

"I can live with that."

Eternal Flame

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

One month could change everything.

Only a few weeks earlier their lives had revolved around court dates, evidence folders and the relentless noise of public scrutiny. Every conversation had carried weight, every decision had been made under pressure and every moment of peace had felt temporary. Yet now standing inside a packed Allianz Arena on a warm spring evening it was almost difficult to believe that any of it had ever happened at all.

Bayern were champions of the Bundesliga!

The final whistle had blown nearly twenty minutes earlier but the celebrations showed no signs of slowing down. Red and white confetti covered the pitch like fallen leaves music echoed throughout the stadium and thousands upon thousands of supporters remained in their seats singing long after the trophy had been lifted into the Munich sky.

Players wandered across the grass with their families and close friends whilst children chased one another between camera crews and for once football felt exactly as it was supposed to feel: joyful and beautifully human.

Y/N stood near the tunnel entrance taking everything in. She had never experienced anything like this before. The energy was infectious and the happiness was genuine and somewhere amongst the sea of red shirts and celebrating teammates she spotted him.

Michael turned around at almost the exact same moment. The second his eyes found her his entire expression changed. A grin spread across his face so naturally that it made her laugh. Without hesitation he made his way through the crowd towards her.

“Look at you,” she teased as he approached. “Champion of Germany.”

He laughed. “Sounds nice when you say it.”

The moment he reached her they embraced warmly months of stress and uncertainty melting away. There were no reporters surrounding them, and no legal discussions waiting to happen and no impossible circumstances forcing their lives together. Just two people celebrating the end of a very long chapter.

When they finally pulled apart Y/N looked up at him with genuine admiration. “I’m proud of you y’know.”

Michael tilted his head. “For winning the league?”

“For everything.” Her voice softened. “You balanced football at the highest level whilst dealing with everything else that was happening. Most people would have crumbled under that kind of pressure but you didn’t, you managed to keep going.” She smiled. “And you absolutely crushed it.”

This time Michael didn’t have a clever response. He simply looked down at the pitch beneath his feet before shaking his head with a quiet laugh. “There were moments where I definitely didn’t feel like I was crushing anything.”

“Maybe not,” she replied. “But you kept moving forward anyway.” The sincerity in her words settled over him. Throughout his career he had received praise from managers, teammates and supporters. Yet hearing those words from somebody who had witnessed perhaps the most difficult period of his life carried a different kind of meaning altogether.

After a few moments he glanced back towards the celebrations unfolding around them. Harry Kane was taking photographs with his family, Jamal was running around with several of the younger players and somewhere in the distance music blasted loudly enough to make everyone laugh.

It was chaos, just wonderful harmless chaos.

“You know,” Michael said quietly, “a month ago I genuinely didn’t think I’d ever get to enjoy football like this again.”

Y/N followed his gaze. “But you did.”

“Yeah.” A small smile appeared on his face. “I did.”

The evening sun cast a golden glow across the stadium as the celebrations continued, and for the first time in what felt like forever neither of them had somewhere else to be.

Michael looked back at her. “Thank you,” he said.

She rolled her eyes playfully. “Not this again.”

“No, seriously.” He laughed his xpression remained warm. “I know I’ve said it before but thank you. For everything. For believing me when other people didn’t. For standing by me through all of it.”

A laugh escaped her. “Michael, I was literally doing my job.”

He grinned. “Maybe.” Then after a brief pause he added, “Still… I’m glad my girl’s here to see this.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow immediately. “Your girl?” The amusement in her voice was impossible to miss.

Michael froze a look of embarrassment flashed across his face. “I mean-”

She folded her arms. “Oh really? Since when am I your girl?”

He laughed rubbing the back of his neck.“Okay that came out wrong.”

“Did it?” The teasing continued light and effortless in a way neither of them had experienced for months.

He chuckled as he once shoes away but now is looking back at you. “What I mean is uh, I…” he paused before he continued. “Will you… be my girlfriend?”

She looked up smiling like she was thinking about and looked back at him, taking his hand into her. “Of course I will Michael.” She giggled.

The grin on his face spreaded wider as his arms embraced around her burying his face into her shoulder. He pulled back to meet her gaze once more and held her face in his hands to place a gentle sweet kiss on her lips.

As he pulled away, his thumb caressed her cheek ever so softly, just two people who’ve been through the ups and lows together, looking at each other with admiration and love.

Around them Bayern celebrated another league title and somewhere beyond the confetti the music and the laughter, two people who had once known each other only through courtrooms and consultations finally learned what it meant to exist in each other’s lives without the weight of the world resting on their shoulders.

Some stories ended with dramatic declarations. Theirs ended with peace and the comforting realisation that sometimes the best chapters are the ones that begin after everything else is finally over.

summary: what starts as an ordinary morning at home turns into an unexpected discovery when, the two of you accidentally stumble across the soundtrack to your relationship.

wc: 2.3k

The windows were open, late morning light spilling warm across the floorboards. Michael was in the kitchen, half watching the water boil for his tea while you flipped through a small stack of records on the shelf: a few of your own, one or two of his, and the one your friend had given you months ago that neither of you had ever actually played.

You slid it onto the player, mostly out of curiosity, and let it run in the background while you pottered around the flat. The first few tracks passed without much notice; you were only half listening, more focused on the state of the kitchen counter than on the music.

It was a few songs in when a line caught you off guard.

You went completely still, halfway through wiping down the counter.

Your head turned slowly toward the kitchen doorway.

Michael was already looking back at you, mug halfway to his mouth.

"Did they just..."

"They said your name."

"That's... a coincidence."

"It's not a coincidence, Michael. There's a whole song."

He set the mug down and came to stand beside you, arms crossed, waiting for you to be wrong.

You weren't.

The chorus came around again.

The second you heard "Me and Michael," you jabbed a finger dramatically in his direction, barely containing your grin.

"There!"

"Stop that. Put on Playboi Carti."

"I can't."

"You absolutely can."

"I physically can't."

"You are impossible."

"I'm literally being presented with this opportunity."

"It's one line."

"It's your line."

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I knew I shouldn't have walked over here."

You laughed so hard you almost missed it the next time.

Again, the chorus arrived.

Again, you pointed.

"Me and Michael."

"I know my name."

"I just thought you might've forgotten."

"I've somehow managed to remember it."

He shook his head, but you caught the small, helpless smile before he managed to smother it, and that was enough to know you'd already won.

The rest of the afternoon turned into a joke neither of you dropped.

Every time the chorus looped back around, you sang those three words a little louder than before, turning dramatically towards him as though the song had been written exclusively for the two of you.

By the third chorus, you weren't even singing anymore.

You simply stopped whatever you were doing, pointed at him with exaggerated seriousness and mouthed, "Me and Michael, solid as they come."

He always saw it coming.

He smiled every time anyway.

Later, cleaning up in the kitchen, you started humming without really meaning to. You got as far as,

"Me and..."

Then let the silence hang.

Michael, drying a plate at the counter, didn't even look up.

"...Michael," he muttered quietly.

You spun around so quickly he immediately regretted it.

"There he is!"

"I knew that was a trap."

"It absolutely was."

"You only wanted me to say my own name."

"And yet you still fell for it."

"I've made a terrible mistake."

"You've made several."

By early evening the record had looped back to that same track twice more, and you'd stopped asking him to dance; you knew better by now.

Instead you danced by yourself, barefoot on the living room floor, spinning loosely around the coffee table while he sat on the couch pretending to be very interested in his phone.

He wasn't, really.

You could feel him watching the whole time.

The chorus started again.

You pointed at him without missing a beat.

"Me and Michael."

He sighed.

"Again?"

"Always."

"I should've hidden this record."

"You would've deprived us of our song."

"It is not our song."

"It literally says your name."

"It says a Michael."

You stopped dancing altogether.

"There are other Michaels?"

"I'm sure there are."

"I don't believe you."

"You don't?"

"I think you're the original."

He laughed quietly through his nose.

"You are ridiculous."

"And yet you still like me."

"I tolerate you."

"You've been saying that for years."

"It keeps proving true."

You held a hand out anyway, just to see.

"No."

"Come on."

"I don't dance."

"You've never tried."

"I've tried. It went badly. I stopped."

The chorus drifted through the flat again.

You sang the three familiar words with a smile before walking over and taking both his hands.

"You don't have to dance."

"I don't?"

"You just have to stand there while I dance around you."

"That sounds worse."

"It's much more fun."

You pulled until he gave in with the longest, most put-upon sigh you'd ever heard out of him.

He was stiff at first. Awkward, barely moving, clearly counting the seconds until this could reasonably end.

"I'm terrible at this."

"I know."

"Thanks."

"It's charming."

"That's not what I'm going for."

"That's exactly why it's charming."

Little by little, though, some of the stiffness eased out of his shoulders, not because he'd suddenly figured out what to do with his feet, but because he'd stopped thinking about his feet at all.

He was just looking at you instead, and that seemed to be enough.

By the time the track looped back around once more, you were both swaying slowly in the middle of the room, no real rhythm to speak of, his hands settled loosely at your waist, your head tucked under his chin.

Softly, almost absent-mindedly, you murmured against his shoulder,

"Me and Michael."

He let out the smallest laugh.

"I had a feeling that was coming."

"I've been waiting all day."

"I noticed."

The song ended.

Neither of you noticed right away.

"So," he said eventually, voice low.

"So."

"Your friend gave you this months ago and neither of us ever played it."

"I know."

"You waited this long to find a song with my name in it."

You smiled against his chest.

"Felt like I'd been waiting a while, honestly."

He let out that quiet laugh he only ever seemed to have around you, resting his chin on top of your head.

"You're unbearably cheesy."

"I know."

A pause.

"...It's a good song, though."

You tipped your head back to look at him.

"Our song?"

He considered it, entirely too seriously for how simple the question was.

ㅤ˚༘࿐ㅤ. ✿ㅤ ‿︵ CHECKMATE! 𖤓 michael olise 𝑥　𝒻!reader 𝄞 synopsis: you think you can beat your boyfriend at a game of chess with your roguish tactics. ⋆˚꩜｡ warnings: flirty reader and a flustered michael?

the shiny pawn between your fingers stares back at you like a taunt. your eyes are zoomed in on your boyfriend opposite you, an amused look in his eyes as he waits for you to decide where to put the piece.

with MICHAEL OLISE⭐︎

synopsis: In the soft glow of a slow morning, Michael shows his love the way he always does—quiet glances, gentle hands, no words wasted.

You always knew he wasn’t the loud type.

Michael didn’t make grand speeches or throw out sweet nothings over FaceTime. He wasn’t one to shout his feelings across a room or drown you in compliments. He was reserved. Soft-spoken. Almost unreadable if you didn’t know where to look.

But you knew. You always knew.

It was in the way he tied your shoelace when it came undone—wordlessly crouching down, double-knotting it without a second glance, like it was muscle memory. It was in the way he always walked on the outside of the sidewalk, swapping sides with his hand gently grazing the small of your back. In the playlists that mysteriously updated each week with your comfort songs—tracks you had only mentioned once in passing, lyrics he must’ve held onto without saying a thing.

Michael loved you in the quietest ways.

And you never asked for more.

But some days… some days, your heart wanted to hear it out loud. Just once.

It was a slow Sunday when the ache crept in again.

Your best friend had sent a voice note. “So he still hasn’t said it yet? I mean, babe, I know he loves you, but what is he waiting for?”

You laughed it off, answering something breezy. “It’s Michael. He says things differently.”

And it was true.

But that night, as the rain tapped against the windows and you lay curled up on the sofa beside him—your head on his chest, his fingers stroking idle shapes on your arm—you whispered, “You ever think it’s weird how some people say ‘I love you’ like… all the time?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Just hummed.

Pressed a kiss into your hair.

And you let it go. Because that’s how it always was.

Still, the ache stayed. Just a little.

The moment it changed didn’t come like a movie. No swelling music, no teary arguments, no dramatic declarations.

It was Tuesday. You had just washed your hair and were towel-drying it when he came up behind you. Quietly, he took the towel from your hands and gently ran it over the strands, careful not to pull. Neither of you spoke. The moment was still. Easy.

Then he looked at you—eyes soft, expression unreadable—and tucked a curl behind your ear. You looked at him, heart skipping, and asked without thinking:

“Why do you do that?”

He blinked. “Do what?”

“These things.”

He was quiet for a moment. So quiet you almost filled in the silence yourself. Then:

“Because I love you.”

You froze. The world did too.

He said it like he’d been holding it in for a while. Like it had lived in his chest forever, slowly blooming with each unspoken gesture. And now, finally, it had found its voice.

You stared at him, lips parted. “You—what?”

He shrugged a little. Eyes on yours. “I love you. Always have. I just… needed you to know before I ever said it.”

And somehow, that meant more than any romantic speech ever could.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t squeal. You just reached out, placed your hand on his cheek, and kissed him slow.

And that was all he needed.

The next morning was just like any other.

You were brushing your teeth. He wandered in with sleep still in his eyes and your bonnet on crooked from the night before.

He tugged on your shirt as he passed, pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder, and whispered, “Morning, baby.”

You smiled into the mirror.

Because now, even in his silences, you could hear it echoing.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

In the way he handed you your mug without being asked. In the way his fingers found yours during quiet walks. In the way his playlists still updated every week.

He still wasn’t loud.

But now, his love was.

And it was everywhere.

The kettle whistled, steam curling toward the kitchen ceiling in lazy spirals. Your socks slid across the tiles as you moved from cupboard to counter, pulling down two mugs—his usual dark grey one, and yours with the little cartoon peaches.

You were humming something low, soft. It wasn’t really a song, more like a half-thought melody stuck in your head.

He watched you from the doorway.

Still shirtless, his hair a little wild from sleep, chain glinting faintly in the morning light. He leaned against the frame like he had nowhere to be—not today, not ever—hands in his sweats, gaze quiet but unwavering.

“What?” you asked, not turning fully, but feeling his eyes like sunlight on your back.

He didn’t say anything. Just smiled. A slow, sleepy kind of smile that started at the corner of his lips and tugged all the way to his eyes.

You walked over, slid the mug into his hands.

“Extra honey. Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

He took it wordlessly. Still smiling. Still looking.

“Michael,” you said through a laugh. “Stop staring.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Okay,” he murmured, gaze never leaving your face. “So what if I am?”

You tried to play it cool, like your heart wasn’t doing cartwheels.

“Then I’ll start charging you.”

He stepped closer, arms looping around your waist like instinct. His mug, still warm, pressed gently into the small of your back as he leaned down to kiss your shoulder.

Then your cheek.

Then finally, just below your jaw, where your pulse thudded loudest.

“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he said quietly. Almost like he was telling you a secret.

Your breath caught. Not because you didn’t know, but because even now—especially now—it still hit you like the first time.

“I’m not doing this with you,” you mumbled, hiding your face in his neck, the laughter creeping into your voice. “It’s too early.”

“Too bad.”

You felt his smile against your skin.

And then, without another word, he picked up your playlist on his phone—the one labeled her hands smell like peaches—and let it play through the kitchen speaker as you danced around the kitchen like you hadn’t heard the words I love you just days ago.

Because now, you didn’t just know he loved you.

You felt it, every day.

In the silence. In the glances.

In the way he looked at you now.

The music floated around you both—gentle, soulful, laced with bass. Something from the playlist he never let anyone else hear.

He kissed your neck again. A little lower this time.

You stilled. Not because you were nervous—but because you knew that shift. The way his hands settled heavier on your hips, fingertips sliding under your oversized tee. His breath slowed. His grip firmed. The calm before the fire.

Your voice was a whisper, teasing. “Thought you wanted tea.”

He kissed beneath your jaw, lips dragging warm across your skin.

“I did.”

You rolled your eyes, but your body betrayed you—leaning in, tilting your head just enough to let him keep going.

His hands moved up under your shirt, skimming the bare skin of your waist. He didn’t rush. Michael was never rushed when it came to you.

Instead, he lifted the hem, pausing only to meet your eyes with that unreadable look—the one he always gave you before pulling you under.

“Take it off,” he said lowly.

You did. Slowly. Letting the fabric fall to the floor with no drama, no theatrics—just trust. Familiarity. Heat curling under your skin.

His gaze traveled over you, slow and deliberate, his tongue running across his bottom lip like he was trying to remember how to breathe.

“I swear,” he muttered, voice hoarse, “you ruin me.”

Before you could make a snarky remark, he had you up on the kitchen counter—hands firm around your thighs, parting them with a quiet authority that made your breath hitch.

Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, and his mouth was on yours before the thought even registered.

It wasn’t soft now. Not like before.

This kiss was heat and hunger and everything unsaid between the hours of sunrise and now. You tasted your name in the way he groaned into your mouth, felt the way he needed you in the press of his body, hard and hot against yours.

The ceramic mugs clinked as he slid them aside, clearing space like it didn’t matter. All that mattered was you.

“I’m not gentle today,” he warned, voice all gravel and want.

You just smirked, fingers tangling in his locs.

“Then don’t be.”

Hours later, your empty mugs were cold, your kitchen was a mess, and your voice was wrecked from the way he kept making you say his name like a prayer.

But when he brought you tea in bed, wearing nothing but his chain and your peach-print bonnet, you realized—

Love didn’t always have to be loud.

Sometimes, it just had to be felt.

— all the ways boyfriend!olise devours you.

warnings — 18+ mdni. explicit sexual content.

listen. olise is nasty nasty.

and the thing is? he doesn’t even act like it. you wouldn’t look at him and immediately think it. he carries himself too well for that. all put together, kinda quiet, kinda cocky but not in an annoying way. he looks like the type of guy who’s good in bed, sure. but he doesn’t look like the type of guy who spits in your mouth just to see your lips part for more.

but he is. and you learned that fast.