๐๐๐ข๐ฌ๐๐ ๐๐ฒ ๐๐ข๐๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง. ๐๐ฎ๐ข๐ง๐๐ ๐๐ฒ ๐๐ก๐๐ซ๐๐๐ญ๐๐ซ๐ฌ (๐๐ฅ๐จ๐ฌ๐๐) Request for football open !
โAn invitation to spend an entire season photographing FC Bayern was a dream offer, especially given Y/Nโs rule of only taking work on her own terms. The club loved her cinematic, real-life style, and the squad welcomed her in immediately. Everyone except Michael Olise, whose icy indifference made it clear he wanted nothing to do with her lens... or her.
โโโโ โโ โโ โ โโโ
โโ๐ขึดเป๐นอึ Michael Olise x Reader โ slow burn, forced proximity, photographer, subtle angst, quiet tension, FC Bayern, fluff, strangers to coworkers to lovers, professional relationship โ 1.8k words
Last Part | Next Part
The cold autumn rain in Munich had turned the pitch at Sรคbener Straรe into a dark, slick mirror.
Most of the squad had sprinted inside the second the whistle blew to end afternoon training, eager to get into the warm showers. Y/n stayed behind. She pulled the hood of her thick waterproof jacket over her head, ignoring the water dripping off the edge of her camera lens hood.
She wiped the glass dry with a microfiber cloth and adjusted her shutter speed, framing a shot of the heavy gray rain pouring off the roof of the dugout.
Near the far corner flag, a solitary figure was still moving.
Michael hadn't gone inside with the others. He was still wearing his drenched black training kit, his dark hood pulled low over his head as he set down three balls on the edge of the eighteen-yard box. One after another, he struck them into the top corner, the crisp sound of leather meeting the wet net echoing across the empty facility.
Y/n didn't shout over to him. She didn't ask if she could take a picture, and she didn't step onto the pitch to get closer.
She simply lowered her body into a kneel against the wet grass, holding her camera steady against the chill. Through her viewfinder, she saw him, soaked, isolated in the heavy rain, completely focused on the repetitive mechanics of his craft.
She focused on his profile. The quiet intensity in his eyes, the subtle drop of his shoulders right before he struck the ball, the water droplets flying off his cleats upon impact.
Click.
Michael hit the last ball, watching it hit the back of the net before he finally stopped to catch his breath. His shoulders rose and fell in the damp air. Slowly, he turned his head toward the sideline, his gaze locking directly onto Y/n.
He didn't glare, and he didn't pull a face. He just stood there in the downpour, staring at her through the rain.
Y/n didn't lower her camera instantly, nor did she look away awkwardly like she'd been caught doing something wrong. She held his gaze through her lens for a quiet, stretched second, then gave him a calm, respectful nod before powering down her camera and capping the lens.
Michael stood still for a long moment, watching her sling the strap over her shoulder. Then, without a word, he turned around, grabbed his water bottle, and walked toward the tunnel.
By Friday evening, the official FC Bayern social accounts uploaded a fresh photo set titled โUnder the Rain.โ
@ fcbayern @Y/n.photography
Liked by upamecano and 76.2K others
Rain or shine. ๐ง๏ธ Photos by @Y/n.photography
user1: THE PICTURE OF MICHAEL IN THE RAIN IS INSANE OMG
user2: wait how does he look like a main character from an anime in slide 5 ๐ญ
user3: y/nโs lighting choices are actually unreal, you can literally see every raindrop
user4: michael olise looks like heโs in a movie trailer wtf
user5: the quiet vibe of these photos is unmatched... best sports photographer right now period
user6: bro slide 5 goes so hard I just made it my wallpaper
user7: she really knows how to capture his whole aura without him even looking at the lens
user8: the contrast between the dark rain and the stadium lights is art
user9: I don't think I've ever seen a football photo feel so cinematic ๐ค
user10: Michael definitely approved this one because he actually looks cold as ice ๐
The morning after the post went live, the atmosphere in the media lounge was bustling as usual.
Y/n was sitting at a corner table with her laptop open, scrolling through RAW files from yesterday's press conference. A fresh mug of tea was steaming beside her keyboard.
She didn't hear the footsteps approaching until a shadow fell across her desk.
She looked up. Michael was standing there. He wasn't holding his phone, he didn't have his hood up for once, and he was staring down at her with his hands tucked into the pockets of his Bayern track pants.
It was the first time since sheโd arrived in Munich that he had approached her on his own initiative.
Y/n kept her hands on her keyboard, keeping her tone completely neutral. "Morning."
Michael lingered for a second, shifting his weight slightly. He looked down at her laptop screen, then back up at her face. His expression remained unreadable, but the usual icy edge was noticeably gone.
"The rain picture," Michael said softly, his deep voice barely carrying over the background chatter of the room.
Y/n paused. "What about it?"
"It was alright," he muttered, his eyes darting away for a split second before returning to hers. Then, in almost a whisper, he added, "...Thanks."
Y/n didn't laugh, and she didn't make a big deal out of it. She didn't press him to say more or tease him about finally speaking to her. She just offered a quiet, genuine smile.
"Anytime, Michael," she said softly.
Michael gave her a single, firm nod, turned on his heel, and walked out of the lounge toward the training field.
Y/n watched him leave, a small smirk playing on her lips as she turned back to her editing screen. The wall of ice wasn't gone, but the first layer of frost had definitely melted.
Y/n turned back to her laptop screen, a faint smile lingering as her fingers moved across the trackpad.
She didn't change how she acted around him after that. She didn't suddenly start following him with her lens every time he stepped onto the pitch, nor did she try to force small talk in the corridors when they passed each other. She kept her space, kept her camera at her side, and let the work speak for itself.
That consistency seemed to settle something in Michael.
During the prematch tactical session two days later, the rest of the squad was gathered around the whiteboards in the main film room. The room was dim, illuminated mostly by the glow of the tactical projector screen throwing bright green and white light across the players' faces.
Y/n stood near the back wall, leaning shoulder-first against the doorframe. She kept her movements minimal so as not to distract anyone, raising her camera only when the ambient light shifted.
Through the viewfinder, she watched the room. Most players were leaning forward, nodding along as Kompany pointed out pressing structures. Michael was sitting near the middle row, relaxed back into his chair with his arms folded across his chest.
Instead of waiting for him to look toward her, Y/n focused on the way the projector light cut across the right side of his jaw, casting the rest of his profile in sharp shadow. He looked completely centered, untroubled by the pressure of the upcoming match.
Click.
Michael's eyes flicked over to her instantly at the faint sound of the shutter.
In the past, he would have shifted in his seat or turned his head away entirely to block the angle. This time, he just held her eye for a beat in the dim room, unbothered, before casually shifting his focus back to the screen.
It was a tiny shift, but to Y/n, it was as clear as a green light.
Later that afternoon, as the squad prepared to board the team bus for the airport ahead of their away match, the rain had finally stopped, leaving deep puddles scattered across the asphalt. Players were throwing their travel bags into the lower storage compartments, laughing and talking over the hum of the idling engine.
Y/n was crouching near the front tire, framing a low shot of the bus reflecting in a large puddle on the pavement.
A pair of dark sneakers walked directly into the corner of her frame, stopping right at the edge of the water.
She looked up from her screen. Michael was standing there, his heavy duffel bag slung over one shoulder, looking down at her with a neutral expression.
"You're going to get your jeans wet," he said, his tone dry and quiet over the noise of the bus engine.
Y/n didn't scramble to stand up. She just looked up at him with a slight tilt of her head. "They dry."
Michael let out a soft, barely audible breath, something that was dangerously close to a chuckle, and shook his head slightly. He didn't say anything else, stepping around the puddle and heading up the stairs of the bus.
By the time they landed back in Munich after a win that weekend, the media team dropped another behind-the-scenes gallery on Instagram.
@ fcbayern @Y/n.photography
Liked by harrykane and 63.7K others
Focus on the road ahead. โ๏ธ Photos by @Y/n.photography
user1: the film room shot of michael is literally crazy... the dramatic lighting???
user2: wait she actually captures his chill vibe so well like how does she do that
user3: slide 4 looks like a screenshot from a movie I swear y/n never misses
user4: notice how he's not even looking away from her camera anymore ๐๏ธ
โคท user4.5: Y/nโs effect donโt dig too deep
user5: the puddle reflection picture of the bus is so clean wtf
user6: okay but the media team needs to give her a raise because these matchday dumps are unmatched
user7: he looks so relaxed in these photos compared to usual press stuff
โคท user7.5: right ?? Bayern had a good contract with their photographer
user8: the way she uses shadows in the film room photo is actual art school level
user9: another banger post, bayern's aesthetic this season is elite ๐ค
user10: Michael in his natural habitat: quiet, focused, and completely unbothered ๐
Back in the media lounge on Monday morning, Y/n was packing her memory cards into her leather pouch.
A paper cup of hot coffee was slid onto the table right beside her laptop.
She paused, looking up in surprise. Michael was standing there, adjusting the strap of his gym bag over his shoulder. He didn't look at her directly, his gaze fixed somewhere toward the window, but his posture was relaxed.
"Black, no sugar," Michael said casually, as if buying her coffee was something he did every day. "That's what you drink, right?"
Y/n looked from the cup back to him, a genuine smile breaking across her face. "Yeah. Exactly that. Thanks, Michael."
He gave a short nod, his hands disappearing into his jacket pockets as he turned to head toward the training pitch.
"Don't get used to it," he added over his shoulder, his voice carrying just a hint of amusement before he disappeared down the hall.
๊ฉ Serie Masterlist
๊ฉ MO Masterlist
โง Tell me if you wanna be added in the taglist !
For instance my big bro (17 years older than me, bro is married and has two kids (demons...))
Like since I'm born we never really shared something (except when I was a toddler and he cried because he didnโt want to leave me for studies) so yesterday, when he came with his family he found my badminton rackets and HE ASKED ME TO PLAY WITH HIM and I was the happiest little sister in the world...
And also I LOOOOVE cooking with my mom, today we made a pear pie with chocolate in it, dough is homemade, pears from the garden and even the nuts are from the garden !
And we often cook together...
And with my big sister too (she's 19 years older than me) when she comes from Martinique (lives there with her boyfriend for... 11 years ?) we often do stuff together and all
Okay basically itโs with Michael Olise and Y/nโs daughter, reader and Michael helps her create paper-made little stories like the ones you made !! ๐ฅนโค๏ธโ๐ฉน
โฆ THE DRAGON WHO SCORED A GOAL
โโA quiet afternoon at home turns into a makeshift publishing company as Michael, you, and your daughter spend hours on the rug creating hand-bound paper books.โ
โโโโ โโ โโ โ โโโ
โโ๐ขึดเป๐นอึ Michael Olise x Reader โ Fluff โ 0.7k words
The living room carpet was covered in colorful markers, safety scissors, and scraps of construction paper.
Michael sat folded on the rug, his tall frame looking slightly out of place next to the tiny wooden coffee table. Your five-year-old daughter, D/n, was sat right between his legs, intensely focused as she lined up four sheets of blank printer paper.
"Daddy, hold it straight," she commanded softly, tapping his wrist. "It has to be even."
"I got it, boss," Michael murmured, his voice low and patient. He carefully aligned the edges of the paper, pressing them flat with his long fingers. He reached for the yellow plastic stapler, positioning three neat staples right along the left spine to bind her homemade book.
"Perfect," Maya beamed, snatching the newly bound booklet. "Now I need the red marker. The main character is a dragon who plays football."
You walked in from the kitchen with two juice boxes, leaning against the doorway to watch them.
The contrast was incredible. The same man who barely gave three-word answers to sports reporters was currently sitting on the floor, deeply invested in the lore of a tiny, hand-drawn dragon.
"What's the title?" Michael asked, leaning over her shoulder to watch her draw a lopsided green circle with wings.
"The Dragon Who Scored A Goal," she announced proudly. "And you have to write the words because my letters are too big."
"Alright. Tell me what to write," he said, taking the black pen she handed him.
"Page one," Maya dictated, pointing a tiny finger at the blank paper. "Once upon a time, there was a dragon named Greeny. He was very fast, just like Daddy."
A rare, soft smile tugged at the corner of Michael's lips. He carefully printed the words at the bottom of the page in neat, clear handwriting, taking his time so she could color above it.
"Like this?" he asked, turning the paper toward her.
"Yep. Now write that he kicked the ball super high into the clouds," she instructed, scribbling wildly with a blue crayon to make the sky.
During this time, the world outside didn't exist. There were no upcoming matches to stress about, no media schedules, and no noise.
Just the quiet sound of paper turning, markers squeaking, and Michael patiently writing down every single sentence his daughter dictated, helping her build a whole little library of homemade paper books to stack on her bedroom shelf.
"Can I get a guest feature in this author's room?" you asked, setting the juice boxes down on the coffee table and sitting down on the rug right next to Michael.
D/n looked up from her dragon illustration, her eyes lighting up. "Mommy! Look, Daddy made me a real book!"
She proudly held up the three-stapled pages, showing off the slightly crooked spine Michael had carefully lined up for her.
You leaned in to inspect the front cover, complete with a dark green crayon dragon wearing a tiny pair of football boots.
"Woah, this is impressive," you said, glancing over at Michael. He was leaning back on one hand, watching you with that quiet, warm look he only ever wore at home. "Did the co-author help with the illustrations too, or just the writing?"
"Just the dictation," Michael murmured, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he stretched his legs out. "She's the lead artist. I'm just the assistant."
"He's very good at writing small," D/n added seriously, handing you a purple marker. "Mommy, you have to draw the crowd in the stadium on page three. Daddy said he doesn't know how to draw people."
"Hey," Michael defended softly, nudging D/n's shoulder with his knee. "I draw fine."
"You drew a stick figure with three fingers, Mike," you laughed, turning to page three where a tiny dragon was flying over what looked like a bunch of lopsided ovals.
"It was abstract," he replied without missing a beat, though the quiet chuckle that escaped him proved he knew he was caught.
For the next hour, the three of you crowded around the tiny stack of paper. You drew the stadium seats and colorful crowds, D/n dictated the grand finale where the dragon won the championship trophy, and Michael patiently wrote out every single word in his neat printing, making sure the staples held the pages tight every time D/n wanted to add 'just one more chapter.'
Note : To my french folk... pardon de ces textes remplis de fautes... je nโavais que 7ans
And bro 7yo and already wrote ultimatum romance tfโ
La Bouteille ร la Mer
Message in a Bottle
This is the story of a sailor that wrote on a piece of paper.
"Dear Isabelle, I am at the lighthouse, if you throw a bottle in the sea with a piece of paper in it I will come back, but if you donโt I will disappear in the sea."
"Oh no !" Says Isabella. So she quickly throw a bottle with a piece of paper out the window and into the sea, with a note on it : "Come back home, come back home."
She waited. And the next day he came back home. They got married and had a bunch of kids.
And every one lived happily and in perfect harmony.
