𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐓 ────
𓏲 ࣪ ˖ one - shot. michael olise x reader. 18+. smut. established relationship. michael is a freak. slight dry humping. oral (f!receiving). soft!dom michael. dirty talk. ◞ despite his nonchalant composure michael can’t hide his freakness in your presence.
from the very beginning of your relationship with michael, you both understood the unspoken agreement that defined you: you were never exactly "secret," but you were fiercely, intentionally private. in a world of flashing cameras and constant public scrutiny, you carved out a sanctuary where only the two of you existed.
michael, with his naturally guarded nature and his reputation for being remarkably reserved, holds his cards close to his chest when he is out in the world. he isn’t the type to offer much to strangers; he watches, he observes, and he keeps his thoughts locked behind that calm, impenetrable expression. but you—you are the exception to every rule he has ever set for himself.
when the heavy doors close and you are finally alone, the man the world thinks they know simply vanishes.
the moment you are beyond the reach of others, the mask he wears slips away entirely. the silent, introspective michael is replaced by someone so intense it takes your breath away. he isn’t reserved anymore; he is dominant, focused, and possessive in a way that makes your entire body hum with anticipation.
you feel the weight of his gaze shift—that familiar, quiet look he gives in public transforming into something darker, something raw and utterly unfiltered. he moves with a calculated confidence that is breathtaking, his hands finding you with a familiarity that speaks volumes. there is no hesitation in him now. every touch is an assertion, every breath against your skin a promise of what is to come.
when you are alone, he isn't just a partner; he is an obsession. he takes his time, exploring every inch of you with the same precision he uses on the pitch, but with a hunger that is entirely for you. the intensity in his eyes is unrelenting, locking onto yours as if he’s trying to see into your very soul. he doesn't need words to command you; the way he hovers over you, the way his hands tighten their grip, and the way he devours you—it is an utterly addictive contrast to the boy who barely speaks in public.
you are the only one who ever sees this side of him—the unrestrained, passionate, and volatile side that he saves exclusively for the darkness of the bedroom. and as he pulls you closer, leaving no space between you, you realize that this is the only place that matters. you are his entire world, and in this moment, he is determined to make you feel every ounce of that realization.
the moment the door clicks shut and the rest of the world fades into insignificance, the man you know as reserved and quiet undergoes a total, intoxicating metamorphosis. it is as if there are two versions of him, and the one that exists for the cameras is merely a shell, a carefully crafted shield to keep the public at bay. but behind closed doors? he is an absolute freak.
there is no trace of that stoic, unbothered athlete left. instead, you are met with an intensity that is both startling and addictive. he sheds his composed exterior like a heavy coat, revealing a side of himself that is raw, unfiltered, and deeply hungry. he becomes demanding in the best way possible, his touch turning from gentle to possessive with a suddenness that makes your heart race.
it is the contrast that consumes you. in public, he keeps his hands in his pockets, his gaze distant and cool. but in the intimacy of your shared space, his hands are everywhere, mapping your skin with a precision that borders on obsessive. he doesn’t just want your attention; he demands your complete surrender. he thrives on the way you react to him, the way his voice drops an octave to something gravelly and low when he whispers commands against your skin.
he explores every limit, testing just how far he can push you and just how much of his focus you can handle. there is a wildness to him that he keeps meticulously hidden, a relentless energy that he directs entirely at you. he is obsessed with your reactions—the way you gasp, the way you arch, the way you look at him when he finally lets his guard down. he is not just a partner in those moments; he is a force of nature, untamed and entirely dedicated to turning your world upside down.
you are the only one who knows the truth: that beneath the calm, professional, and quiet exterior lies a man who is unapologetically carnal, constantly craving the heat and the chaos that only you can provide.
the walk to the locker room was supposed to be quick—just a simple errand before he had to head back out to the pitch. you followed him, the ambient noise of his teammates laughing and shouting drifting through the corridors, creating a stark contrast to the sudden, heavy silence that enveloped you the moment you stepped into the private, dim space of the locker room.
as soon as the door clicked shut behind you, the air in the room shifted instantly. the professional, composed athlete you’d been watching on the field vanished, replaced by a man vibrating with an intensity that hit you like a physical force. he didn't even wait for you to settle; he turned, and the look in his eyes—dark, hungry, and completely devoid of his usual restraint—made your breath hitch.
he crossed the small space between you in two long strides, his presence feeling overwhelming in the confined area. he didn’t just kiss you; he claimed you. his mouth was everywhere—trailing burning kisses along the line of your jaw, the pulse point of your neck, and your shoulders, his stubble grazing your skin and sending shivers down your spine. his hands were just as relentless, moving over you with a boldness that was shocking given how quiet and guarded he had been just minutes earlier in front of his coaches and teammates.
he was an absolute freak, completely unbothered by the fact that he was still in his training gear or that his teammates were only a wall away. he pushed you back until your back hit the cool metal of the lockers, his body pressing firmly against yours, his hands roaming over your hips and thighs, gripping you with a possessive strength that left no doubt about what he wanted. every touch was deliberate, meant to remind you that even when he was surrounded by the noise of his career, you were the only thing he was actually focused on.
he leaned in close, his voice a low, raspy growl against your ear that made your legs feel like jelly. it was a thrilling, dangerous game, and as his hands continued their exploration, you realized that being the only one to witness this side of him—this raw, carnal, and entirely unfiltered version of michael—was the most addictive secret you had ever kept.
he lifted you effortlessly, settling you onto the sturdy wooden bench of the locker room. the atmosphere was thick, charged with the scent of adrenaline and the sharp, musky heat of the room. the moment he started grinding against you, the friction was electric—a raw, rhythmic pressure that made your head spin. you couldn’t hold back; the sensation was too intense, and you found yourself vocalizing every bit of it, your voice shaky and soft as you whispered exactly how good he made you feel, how much your body was craving this specific, forbidden release.
hearing you, he didn't slow down—he leaned in further. he began tracing a path of searing, wet kisses down your neck, lingering over your collarbone, and mapping every curve of your torso with his lips as he moved lower. he was entirely consumed by you, his focus narrowing until the rest of the world, and even the threat of the team outside, ceased to exist. when he finally dipped his head down, hovering right between your thighs, the sheer boldness of the move sent a jolt of pure shock and desire through you.
you looked down at him from your perch on the bench, your fingers tangled deeply in his hair as you watched him move with such hungry, uninhibited intent. the danger of the moment—the reality that anyone could walk in at any second—was hanging heavy in the air, a thrill that only made your pulse race faster.
"what if someone surprises us?" you gasped, your breath catching as he looked up at you, his eyes dark, dilated, and filled with a reckless, untamed defiance.
he didn't even flinch, his expression hardening into something intense and completely unapologetic. he let out a low, rough laugh, his voice vibrating through the small space. "let them," he muttered, his gaze never leaving yours as he pulled you closer, making it clear that he didn't care who saw or what they thought. as far as he was concerned, this room belonged entirely to the two of you, and he was ready to show everyone exactly who you belonged to.
the resistance in your body melted away completely, replaced by a wave of surrender as he began his work with a relentless, skilled intensity. he didn’t do anything by halves; every movement was calculated, every sensation sharp and overwhelming. you tried to bite your lip, to swallow the sounds building in your throat, but his touch was so all-consuming that a soft, broken whimper escaped you, echoing against the quiet, industrial walls of the locker room.
your hands were tangled tightly in his hair, your knuckles white as you gripped, pulling him closer to you, unable to stop yourself from encouraging him. every time you gasped, every time your voice climbed a pitch higher, his movements only became more urgent, more aggressive. he thrived on the noise you were making, feeding off the sound of his own name being whispered in a desperate plea.
he knew exactly how loud you were, and he knew exactly who was just on the other side of that thin metal door, but he didn't care. in fact, the possibility that he might be heard only seemed to fuel him further. he looked up at you mid-motion, his eyes burning with a dark, possessive triumph, catching you in the act of pulling his head closer. he was enjoying the thrill of the risk, savoring the fact that he had you this undone in a place where he was supposed to be nothing but professional.
he wasn't just claiming you; he was marking his territory, making sure that every sensation, every sound, and every shiver you couldn't suppress was entirely his. he pushed harder, his hands steadying your hips on the bench, leaving no room for you to escape the intensity of the moment. you were both spiraling now, trapped in this fever-dream of a secret, with him completely unbothered by the potential for chaos just inches away.
as his pace quickened and the sensation threatened to overwhelm you, you realized that his defiance was the most intoxicating part of it all—he wanted the whole world to know exactly what you felt like under his touch, even if they couldn't see it.
he pauses for a heartbeat, his head remaining right where he wants it, and looks up at you with those dark, dilated eyes. he’s completely unbothered, his breathing heavy and ragged, and he smirks—that rare, cocky, and absolutely wicked expression he never, ever shows on the pitch.
"does that feel good?" he murmurs, his voice a low, rough vibration that seems to rattle right through the bench and into your core. "tell me. is it good?"
your head falls back, your grip on his hair tightening until your knuckles ache, and you can’t help but moan his name. "yes, michael...yes… it’s so good, so good…" you gasp, the words spilling out before you can even think to censor them.
the confession only makes him hungrier. he goes back to work, but he doesn't stop talking, his words becoming increasingly dirty, increasingly possessive. he starts whispering things that make your skin burn—telling you exactly what he’s doing to you, describing how much he loves the fact that you’re helpless under his control, and boasting about how much he loves hearing you lose all sense of composure.
"that’s it, baby." he growls against your skin, his voice dripping with a mix of satisfaction and raw lust. "i want them to hear you. i want them to know who you’re screaming for. you’re so loud for me, aren't you? keep going... tell me exactly how much you need me."
he’s being a complete freak, turning every sensation into a mental game. he’s not just pleasuring you; he’s dominating your thoughts, forcing you to focus entirely on his voice and his touch. every freaky thing he whispers is designed to push you closer to the edge, making the fact that you’re in a shared space even more electric. he’s completely stripped away your defenses, and he loves the way you’re completely at his mercy, hanging on every word he says while he refuses to let you catch your breath.
you feel him speed up, his tongue and lips moving with such expert, relentless precision that your vision starts to blur, and he just keeps talking, his voice a dark, hypnotic lure that keeps you trapped in the center of his world.
the moment he slips a finger inside, the sensation is so sharp, so sudden, that you let out a gasp that echoes off the metallic lockers like a gunshot. he doesn’t pull away at the sound; instead, he seems to thrive on it, his eyes darkening even further as he watches the way your body jerks in response to his touch.
he shifts his rhythm, his tongue swirling and flicking with agonizing precision while his finger moves in a deep, steady slide, pressing against you and mapping the sensitive spots he’s learned by heart. he’s perfectly in sync with himself, his hand and mouth working together to pull every ounce of pleasure out of you.
"you're so wet for me darling," he murmurs, his voice vibrating against you, sounding like a dark, forbidden promise in the quiet of the room. "look at you, you’re completely undone just because i told you to be. you like that, don't you? being mine to ruin right here, while they're just on the other side of the door?"
he increases the pressure, pushing deeper, and your hips involuntarily leave the bench to meet him, your body betraying every last shred of the composure you tried to maintain. he isn't just listening to your pleasure; he's orchestrating it, pushing you toward an edge so steep you feel like you might fall off the face of the earth. he doesn't care about the risk, he doesn't care about the noise, he doesn't care about anything except the way you are crumbling apart specifically for him.
"tell me again," he growls, his finger curling firmly inside you, his gaze locked onto yours with a terrifyingly possessive intensity. "tell me you’re not going to make a sound when you finally come for me. try to be quiet, if you think you can."
the challenge is a taunt, and as his touch sends a white-hot jolt of electricity through your nervous system, you realize there is absolutely no way you’re going to remain silent. you are completely at his mercy, and he knows it—he’s savoring the sight of you losing your mind under his control, determined to see you break right there in the heart of his sanctuary.
he’s relentless, his voice acting as a bridge between the physical pleasure and the mental hold he has on you. he keeps his face close to your center, looking up between your legs every few seconds just to catch the way your eyes roll back or the way your teeth sink into your lip. he wants to see every bit of the damage he’s causing.
"answer me," he demands, his voice a low, raspy command that vibrates against your skin. "who does this belong to? who’s the only one allowed to make you sound like this?"
you try to find your voice, your throat tight and dry, your breath coming in jagged, shallow hitches. "you... it's all yours, michael," you stammer, your words stumbling over each other as the sensation of his finger and his tongue together becomes almost too much to process. your fingers are still buried in his hair, gripping tight, your knuckles burning with the effort of staying anchored.
he lets out a dark, satisfied hum, his rhythm not faltering for even a second. he loves the way you struggle to speak, the way your voice hitches and cracks under the weight of his attention. "that’s right," he whispers, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. "say it louder. let me hear you struggle to keep your voice down. i want to know you’re thinking about nothing else but this... nothing else but me."
you’re trying so hard to keep your composure, to keep your responses coherent, but every time he presses that finger deeper or drags his tongue in a slow, agonizing circle, your resolve shatters. "it's too much," you manage to choke out, your head tossing back against the locker door with a hollow thud.
he doesn't stop. he just laughs, a sound that is entirely too confident and too possessive for the middle of a high-stakes training facility. "it's not enough," he corrects you, his voice cold and commanding. "i'm going to make you forget where we even are. i’m going to make you forget everything until you’re just mine, right here, right now. keep talking to me. tell me exactly what you want me to do to you."
every time you try to answer, he shifts his hand or his mouth, sending a new wave of fire through you that cuts your words short. you're caught in a loop of trying to obey his demands to talk and failing because the pleasure is literally pulling the words out of your chest. he’s got you completely trapped in his rhythm, and the sheer audacity of him having this conversation with you while your pulse is racing and the team is just outside makes the tension unbearable.
you can feel the tension coiling tight in your stomach, a frantic, electric pressure that tells you you’re standing right on the edge of the cliff. your breath is coming in short, ragged gasps, and the air in the locker room feels thick, heavy with the scent of his cologne and the undeniable reality of what you're doing.
"michael...oh…. i think... i'm almost there," you choke out, your voice trembling as you try to force the words past your lips. your hands are shaking, clenching his hair with a desperate, white-knuckled grip, your knuckles pressing hard against his scalp as you arch your back off the wooden bench.
he doesn't even hesitate. he doesn't slow down to let you breathe; instead, he seems to grow hungrier, his movements turning from precise to feverish. he looks up at you, his eyes dark with a raw, predatory focus that makes your heart stop, and he grins—a sharp, wicked smirk that looks so out of place on the man the world thinks is quiet and reserved.
"don't stop baby," he growls, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register that always makes you melt. "let go. i want to feel every single second of it. keep going for me—show me exactly how much you can take."
he accelerates, his thumb and finger working in a rhythmic, merciless cadence that forces your body to react. he’s pushing you further, his tongue teasing and swirling with such expertise that your brain starts to fog, the world narrowing down to just the friction between his skin and yours. he’s relentless, taking everything you give and demanding more, his eyes never leaving yours, watching you come undone with a sense of ownership that is both terrifying and addictive.
"that's it, good girl." he commands, his voice a low vibration against your center. "look at me. i want you to scream, i want you to lose it. let it all out for me right now."
the way he’s driving you, ignoring the thin metal door and the voices of his teammates just inches away, pushes you right over the edge. you’re breathless, your body convulsing as the climax hits you like a tidal wave, and he’s there, meeting every shudder, refusing to let you escape the intensity of the moment even for a second.
the aftermath is a strange, jarring transition. the air in the locker room, once thick with heat and your own uncontrolled gasps, now feels chillingly still. you are both breathless, your heart still hammering against your ribs like a caged bird, but the reality of the situation settles over you like a cold shroud.
michael is the first to pull away, and the speed of his shift is almost dizzying. he stands up, his movements fluid and efficient as he adjusts his training gear. he doesn't linger. he doesn't offer a sweet after-moment or a lingering kiss; he simply looks at you for a split second, a dark, knowing glint in his eyes that confirms he’s still feeling the electricity of what just happened, before he turns his back to you to check his reflection in the mirror.
you have to scramble to pull yourself together, your skin still feeling sensitive and flushed, your clothes feeling heavy and wrong against your overheated body. the silence between you is heavy, weighted with the knowledge of what you’ve just done in a place where you absolutely shouldn't have.
"fix yourself, baby." he says, his voice flat and perfectly composed—the same monotone, reserved voice he uses for journalists and fans. "and look at me."
you force your hands to stop shaking as you smooth your clothes, doing your best to mask the visible evidence of your pleasure. he watches you with that familiar, impenetrable expression—the one that tells the world absolutely nothing. it is a jarring contrast to the man who was just moments ago whispering those freaky things to you, and it takes every ounce of your willpower to mimic his shell of indifference.
as he reaches for the handle of the door, he pauses, looking back at you one last time. he doesn't say a word, but the slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his chin and the way his hand brushes yours as he opens the door tells you everything: it’s time to play the part.
the door swings open, and the sudden rush of noise—the sound of balls hitting the turf, the shouts of his teammates, the clatter of equipment—rushes in to meet you. he steps out first, his face a perfect, blank mask of calm professionalism. he walks back toward the pitch with a steady, casual gait, looking as if he’s never done anything in his life other than follow his training schedule.
you follow a few steps behind, your legs still weak, your mind reeling from the whiplash of it all. every person you pass feels like a potential threat, and every glance from a teammate makes you want to hide. but you keep your head up, forcing a neutral expression onto your face, just as he taught you. the secret is locked away, tucked behind the masks you both wear, but as you watch him ahead of you, you can still feel the ghost of his touch, and you know that in just a few hours, the doors will close again—and he will be yours to ruin all over again.