Jul 28
Wer´s glaubt, muß bei CSU-Beitritt die ersten beiden Monatsbeiträge nicht bezahlen und bekommt 10 % Rabatt auf die Kirchensteuer.
Geht leider nur für mit 1. Wohnsitz in Bayern wohnhafte Personen.
seen from China
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seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Iraq
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Italy
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
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seen from Tunisia
seen from Zimbabwe
seen from Germany
seen from Italy
seen from China
seen from United States
Wer´s glaubt, muß bei CSU-Beitritt die ersten beiden Monatsbeiträge nicht bezahlen und bekommt 10 % Rabatt auf die Kirchensteuer.
Geht leider nur für mit 1. Wohnsitz in Bayern wohnhafte Personen.
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hii babes you should do michael olise headcanons!!
HABITS
a michael olise headcanon ✦ masterlist
synopsis michael has little habits with you. he’s right where he wants to be.
warnings no nonchalant bullshit over here, black!fem!reader, micheal is sweetttt and nasty, smutttttttt
wordcount don’t ask me i still don’t know
a/n je voulais garder le headcanon fluff mais je suis partie en couilles vers la fin 😭 pardonnez. hope you’ll like it.
bf!michael likes to have something from you on him at all times. whether it be your scrunchie, a photo of you in the back of his phone case. something that reminds him of you.
speaking of phone, bf!michael has you as a wallpaper on both of his phones.
obviously they’re mostly pics of your back or ones where your face is hidden but that’s his way of letting people know he has someone in his life.
bf!michael has a habit of buying everything in twos. especially jewellery.
if he likes a necklace, you’ll end up with the matching one. if he buys a new bracelet, somehow, there’s another little box waiting for you at home.
bf!michael gives deep hugs. the kind of hugs that make you stop thinking. one arm around the small of your back. the other around your shoulders. your face tucked into his neck.
about that, bf!michael loveeeeeeeees to kiss the little space between your neck and your clavicle. It’s just sooo intimate to him.
bf!michael is the type of boyfriend who isn’t the loudest in showing his love for you to people. like posting lots of pics of you. he might do it sometimes. but he would be soooo proud of being yours.
his goofy ass liking tweets like :
you bitches can’t fuck with what i got at home. fck is u talkin ab.
best believe bf!michael sends you the same text 10 minutes before a match. He doesn’t care if you’re actually in the stadium or not.
akpo 💞
ik u didn’t forget my lucky charm
you
michael you start in 10 min
u can’t be this greedy
u saw me 5 minutes ago
akpo 💞
idc honestly
send me that pretty face of yours
ik u don’t want me to play badly tonight
so do ur magic
you
[attachment : sent]
[attachment : sent]
akpo 💞
ur soo pretty
thanks baby ily ❤️
bf!michael loves his alone time in the shower. but numerous are the times where he asks you to come in with him, whether it be to just sit on the bathroom counter and yap or actually take the shower with him.
he considers it intimate in a way others can’t understand.
he kinda hates when you shy away when changing. like turning around or asking him to go away. bf!michael does not fuck with this behavior at all.
“i saw you naked an hour ago. stop that.”
“michael just go..do something else, i don’t know.”
“why you’re shying away ? you’re so pretty. come here.”
now. let’s talk about something else.
I think bf!michael would be ass oriented. let me explain. he wouldn’t be loud about it but this part of your body would just get him flustered very easily.
jeans.
skirts.
shorts.
dresses.
even naked. it doesn’t matter. he’ll find a reason to stare.
he just loves the way clothes sit pretty on it. And he’s not too shy about it. he would make you do pretty poses for pics just for him.
that being said, after anything that shows your face bf!michael’s fav position would be backshots. but not the regular one. he hates regular. It’s boring.
he likes circling your waist with his arms and putting your back on his chest, pressing kisses on your shoulders and over your back. hands everywhere.
and you know he’s nasty. nasty nasty type of nasty.
bf!michael loveeeeees to fuck you while you’re wearing bayern’s colors. that shade of red just does it for him. the way it accentuates your skin color, just chef’s kiss.
“you look soo pretty like that. gorgeous girl.”
“why– fuck, michael.” of course you’re moaning. “because i’m wearing red ? you like it ?”
“you know what you’re doing to me.” he pants, his hands going to your hips, taking a second to look at the most precious sight in front of him. “come on. throw it back on me, baby.”
of course you and bf!michael talk each other through it. since y’all freaks or whatever.
let me stop before it gets out of hands loooool.
© written by melosgoated | inspo is free, copying is lazy. keep it cute y’all.
⌗ FILE 003 — MEDIA TRAINING
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.”
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So sehen SIEGER aus ...
Der Fabian (FW) ist "Bayerischer Staatsminister für Digitales".
Deutschland.de (45T Follower) ist ein Twitter-Account des Auswärtigen Amtes. Hier beschäftigt dieser sich mit WAHRER DEUTSCHER KULTUR (Bayern, Antisemitismus, Heldensagen, Faschismusunterstützung, "gutbürgerliches" Publikum, (Preise 350-400 € in den "Logen"), Sehen und gesehen werden, schöne Bilder, Söder, Charlotte Merz im Abendkleid). Staatliche Förderung von Bund und Land.
Screenshot nach 2 Stunden. Es interessiert einfach NIEMANDEN.
Duomo di Ulm