✰

★TW : mentions of mental abuse, depression.

★1k words

✾ You absolutely fell in love first and stayed even after seeing him fail and witnessing the worst sides of him with your own eyes.

✾ Kaiser would eventually notice something special in you, something he didn’t see at first. As time passed, he couldn’t help being drawn to you because you saw through his facade—the ego, the arrogance—and treated him with both blunt honesty and quiet compassion.

✾ He desired you, though not in a romantic way at first. To him, you were someone he needed around, someone he didn’t want anyone else to have, almost as if you were an object to be kept.

✾ One day, you found enough courage to confess your feelings to him. To Kaiser, it was an opportunity to keep you tethered to him, to have control over you. He accepted, assuming you were the type to be so stupidly in love that you’d let anything slide—and you did.

✾ Even then, he tried to “love” you, though selfishly. He didn’t want you to leave, even if he didn’t truly know how to put you first or care for you in a way that wasn’t about his own gratification.

✾ You stayed because you saw glimpses of the person he could be, because you believed he deserved to be loved, and because you were far too attached to walk away.

✾ Over the years, however, the emotional weight of loving someone so broken—someone who was unwilling to change no matter how many arguments or breaks you endured—began to take its toll. His jealousy, his possessiveness, and his inability to communicate left you exhausted.

✾ “Why do you always forgive me, even when I don’t deserve it?” he asked one night, his frustration laced with disbelief. He thought you might have finally given up on him. You just smiled sadly and replied, “Because someone has to.”

✾ Eventually, your love alone wasn’t enough to hold you together. You left—not out of anger, but out of self-preservation. You were on the brink of losing yourself entirely.

✾ At first, Kaiser wasn’t overly concerned and was mostly in denial. He convinced himself you’d come back, just as you always had. When hours turned into days, he believed you felt the same need for him as he did for you. But as the days turned into weeks, the silence began to gnaw at him.

✾ He spiraled, masking his pain with his usual bravado—if not more exaggerated than ever. Yet when he was alone, he was consumed by thoughts of you being with someone else. The idea drove him mad, and for the first time, he felt true, raw heartbreak. He realized your leaving wasn’t an act of abandonment but a final act of love—giving him what he thought he wanted most from you towards the end: freedom.

✾ Kaiser wasn’t used to losing or feeling such despair paired with a complete loss of control. Refusing to accept the end, he did everything in his power to win you back—grand gestures, heartfelt confessions, and promises he’d never made to anyone before.

✾ Of course, you were deeply hurt and hesitant. “Words don’t mean much, Kaiser. You need to show me,” you said firmly.

✾ He offered you everything—luxury, security, anything money could buy—but you demanded something far more valuable: his willingness to change.

✾ One of your conditions for reconciliation was therapy, something Kaiser initially scoffed at. “You think talking to some stranger is going to fix me?” he said, incredulous, thinking he knew everything about psychology already.

✾ But he agreed, not just out of desperation but also because when he saw your tearful, pleading eyes filled with hope that this time it could change, he couldn’t refuse. For the first time, he understood that this was something he had to do—not even for you, but for himself.

✾ The sessions were slow and grueling, forcing him to confront parts of himself he’d buried for years—his insecurities, his fears, and his warped view of love.

✾ Over time, after almost two years, he began to heal. He learned to express his feelings in healthier ways, to apologize without deflecting, and to listen instead of always trying to be right. Winning you back wasn’t a quick process. It took years of effort, of proving he had changed—not just for you, but for himself.

✾ During this time, you were together but not entirely as close as most couples might be. You still needed proof that he had truly changed, even though you frequently told him, “I’m proud of you.”

✾ When you finally accepted him again, it was under the condition that he continued to grow. This time, he was willing to meet you halfway and love you in a way that didn’t destroy you. “You stayed when I didn’t deserve it,” he said one night. “Now it’s my turn to stay, no matter how long it takes to make things right.”

✾ You were the first person—the only person—who cared for him so deeply, who showed him what selfless, innocent, and unconditional love looked like.

✾ And, in turn, Kaiser became someone capable of deep, selfless love himself. He cherished you not as a possession but as an equal partner.

✾ The scars of your past together never fully faded, but they served as reminders of how far you had come. “You taught me how to love,” he told you one day, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving I deserve it.”

✾ For the first time, he said the words he never thought he could mean, the words he never expected to truly feel: “I love you.”

★michael kaiser (ANGST) x GN reader x isagi yoichi (FLUFF)

★1,4k words

★TW: rejection, selfharm

He scoffed, his voice laced with disdain.

"You and me? Don’t make me laugh."

I froze, the words cutting deeper than I anticipated. His cold stare bore into me, and yet, I couldn’t meet his eyes. The confession that had taken all my courage to utter now felt like a foolish gamble—a losing bet. Above us, the stars seemed to mock me, their distant light an indifferent witness to my humiliation. Even the city, aglow with its sprawling brilliance, appeared to sneer at my naivety.

The wind bit at my cheeks, harsh and unrelenting, as if punishing me for daring to hope. I thought it might quell the fire burning in my chest—the aching vulnerability that only grew with every passing second. Instead, it fed the flames, the heat spreading through my veins, consuming me whole. I felt paralyzed, trapped in this moment of rejection.

The lump in my throat swelled, suffocating any words that might have formed. All I could do was stand there, mute and broken, as he delivered the final blow.

"Leave me alone."

And then he turned, his silhouette retreating into the night without a second glance.

I collapsed onto the sand as my legs gave out beneath me. Tears spilled freely down my cheeks, a futile attempt to extinguish the agony writhing in my chest. My trembling hands buried my face, shielding me from the indifferent world around me.

How could I have been so naive? So utterly stupid? What had possessed me to think that Michael Kaiser, of all people, would ever return my feelings?

The pain clawed at me relentlessly, leaving me adrift in a sea of self-loathing and regret. Minutes felt like hours as I sat there, my heart aching with every passing moment. Then, my phone buzzed, the sudden noise startling me out of my thoughts.

Incoming Call – Isagi Yoichi.

I hesitated. Part of me wanted to ignore it, to wallow in solitude and lick my wounds in silence. But another part—a smaller, more vulnerable part—craved comfort, even if I didn’t feel I deserved it. With shaking hands, I answered.

“Hi…” My voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, as I fumbled for a tissue to wipe my nose.

“(Y/N)! Where are you? Did you leave the party yet ?!” Isagi’s concerned tone instantly softened the edges of my pain, like a balm to my raw heart.

A weak smile tugged at my lips, though it didn’t reach my eyes. “I just needed some air, that’s all. I’ll be back soon.”

My voice cracked on the last word, betraying me. I cursed myself silently, hoping he hadn’t noticed. But Isagi wasn’t one to miss things like that.

“Where are you?” His voice was steady but firm, leaving no room for deflection.

“The beach,” I admitted, fresh tears slipping down my cheeks. My earlier resolve crumbled, and I felt the weight of it all pressing down on me again.

“Stay there. Don’t move,” he instructed, his voice gentle but commanding.

Before I could protest, the line went dead. I stared at my phone, my mind swirling with exhaustion and confusion. Then, almost as if summoned by sheer will, he was there. His chest heaved with exertion, sweat trickling down his brow as he reached me.

Isagi’s eyes softened as they took in my tear-streaked face, my ruined makeup a stark testament to my unraveling. He crouched in front of me, his expression a mixture of worry and quiet understanding. Slowly, he reached out, his hand resting gently on my head.

That simple gesture shattered what little composure I had left. Without thinking, I lunged forward, wrapping my arms around him as a fresh wave of sobs overtook me. He didn’t hesitate, his arms enveloping me in a warm, steady embrace.

For what felt like an eternity, I cried, every word of my story spilling out between broken breaths. I told him everything—every detail, every regret—until there was nothing left but the raw ache in my chest. And through it all, he listened, his quiet presence anchoring me.

When the storm finally passed, and my sobs turned to quiet sniffles, Isagi pulled back just enough to meet my gaze. His smile was small but unwavering, a beacon of light in the darkness that threatened to consume me.

“You don’t have to go through this alone,” he said softly. “I’m here for you. Always.”

For the first time that night, I felt a glimmer of hope pierce through the haze of despair. Maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t as alone as I thought.

But Yoichi was nothing like Kaiser. Where Michael was arrogant, calculating, and distant, Yoichi was warm, selfless, and constant. He had always loved you, even when you were too busy chasing stars that didn’t shine for you to notice the one standing beside you.

It wasn’t until you let go of Kaiser's shadow that you saw the light Yoichi carried. His arms, strong and steady, held you as though they’d always been meant for you. His face was so close, his deep eyes pulling you in, and you couldn’t help but notice how breathtaking he was. When his hands cupped your face, it felt like the world had paused, waiting for the moment your lips met.

And when they did, the stars above seemed to burn brighter, as if they celebrated your union. What you thought had been the end was merely the beginning—of something greater than you could have ever dreamed.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of affection. Yoichi covered you with kisses, showered you with flowers, and made sure you never felt the void you once carried. Every smile of his was a quiet promise; every goal he scored came with a sprint into your arms. His love mended your broken heart, filling it with a tenderness and devotion you hadn’t thought possible. Slowly but surely, the memory of Michael Kaiser faded into irrelevance.

But not for Michael.

Behind the beachside cabinets, he had watched it all unfold. The German prodigy, always so composed on the pitch, now stood frozen, fists clenched at his sides. The sight of Yoichi’s lips on yours, the warmth of your embrace—it ignited something in him he couldn’t name but felt burning in every nerve. Rage? Regret? Envy?

You had just confessed to him not long ago. You were supposed to love him.

Not Yoichi.

Every time he saw you with Yoichi—your hand in his, your laughter bubbling in the air, your lips pressing softly against his—Michael felt the same bitter cocktail of emotions. It twisted his stomach, churned his thoughts, and left him hollow yet seething.

He wasn’t supposed to feel this way. He didn’t believe in love, not really. And yet here he was, aching in a way he had never imagined possible. He wanted to turn back time, to undo his cold words, to hold your hand on that fateful night instead of pushing you away. He wanted your eyes to be on him, your hands to brush against his skin, your voice to call his name, your warmth to be his.

He wanted you.

One day, the chance came. You were alone, waiting for Yoichi, bathed in the soft glow of the evening sun. Michael’s heart pounded in his chest as he approached you, the lump in his throat making every step feel heavier. The closer he got, the more the bitterness swelled, mingling with something dangerously close to desperation.

"Hello there," he said, his voice steady despite the chaos inside him.

You turned, your face lighting up with a smile so bright it caught him off guard. “Hi, Michael!”

His breath hitched. How could you greet him with such warmth, as though he had never crushed your heart?

“How’s it going with that other idiot?” he asked, forcing a smirk, though his voice betrayed a faint tremor.

You laughed softly, a sound that twisted the knife in his chest. Then, you held up your hand, and his world stopped.

On your finger was a ring.

His gaze fixed on it, the implications crashing down like a tidal wave. Before he could process the pain slicing through him, Yoichi appeared, his smile radiant as he reached for your hand.

You gave Michael one last warm glance, waving goodbye as Yoichi led you away.

Michael didn’t move. His legs gave out, and he dropped onto the nearest bench, his head hanging low. His fingers tangled in his hair before trailing down to his neck, as if trying to squeeze out the knot of emotions choking him. He bit his lip, hard, in a futile attempt to suppress the tears welling in his eyes.

But as the memories of your smile with Yoichi replayed in his mind, the tears fell anyway.

★michael kaiser x she/her pronouns reader (can be interpreted as GN)

★2,6k words

★part1 & part2 & part3 & part4

★songs associated : sweater weather & a little death

It wasn’t necessarily a shame, but somehow, neither of you ever mentioned what had happened that day.

Michael sat alone in his room, surrounded by the books he’d been too distracted to finish. As he closed the last one, his fingers brushed the cover, lingering for a moment before he leaned back in his chair. The silence felt heavy, pressing against him as his mind drifted.

Love? The thought almost made him scoff.

It was absurd. Unrealistic. Yet, there it was—a persistent weight beneath his arrogance, nagging at the edges of his thoughts.

But even if it was love, what was he supposed to do with it? How could someone like him ever make it something real?

The questions haunted him into the night, leaving him restless. By morning, they hadn’t disappeared. If anything, they’d only become sharper, digging into him as he walked toward the stadium.

Passing your office, he saw you through the glass. Another patient was with you, laughing at something you said. Your back was to Michael, but he could see the way your hands moved with practiced ease, the effortless care in your gestures.

His jaw tightened.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen you work like this, your kindness extended to others in a way that had nothing to do with him. But today, it felt different. It clawed at him, sharp and unrelenting.

By the time he reached the field, frustration boiled over, spilling into every movement. His kicks were sharper, angrier, each strike of the ball echoing his unspoken irritation.

And then you appeared, as if on cue.

“Hello!”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Don’t you have patients to take care of?” His tone was biting, his gaze flicking to you with thinly veiled annoyance.

You raised an eyebrow. “I’m on a break.”

“Hm.”

He turned away, clearly intent on ignoring you, but you stepped closer, not one to be dismissed so easily.

“Something’s wrong,” you observed, your voice calm but firm.

When you grabbed his wrist to stop him, he tensed, glaring at you. “Let go.”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

“You’re insufferable,” he snapped. “and you’ve touched other idiots.”

A sharp laugh escaped you. “Jealous, Michael Kaiser?”

The way his name rolled off your tongue twisted something inside him. His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing.

“No,” he muttered, his tone clipped. “It’s just disgusting.”

“I washed my hands.”

“I don’t care.”

“So you are jealous.”

“I’m not,” he said, though his tone betrayed him.

“You aaaare,” you teased, your grin widening.

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

The challenge hung in the air, and before you could blink, he had closed the distance between you. His hands gripped your shoulders, and his lips crashed onto yours with a ferocity that left you breathless.

When he pulled away, his expression was unreadable, a mix of frustration and something raw.

“Don’t test me,” he muttered before turning back to the field.

You stared after him, dazed. “You’re just… leaving?”

“That’s your punishment,” he called over his shoulder, his smirk returning.

“Oh no, however will I survive?” you said, placing a hand dramatically on your forehead.

For a moment, his chuckle was the only response before he threw himself back into training, his movements sharper than before.

The next day, sitting in the stands, you couldn’t help but notice the glint of the necklace you’d given him, the charm catching the light. It was subtle but unmistakable—a silent statement, one he didn’t need to put into words.

And when he scored his first goal, his sharp gaze darted to you in the stands, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Noel leaned over. “He’s really showing off today.”

I raised an eyebrow at his statement, curiosity flickering in my eyes, but before I could muster a response, he pressed on.

"I've seen you two together before."

A nervous laugh escaped me as I scratched the back of my neck, unease settling in. My mind raced, wondering when exactly he might have seen us—and what he had seen.

"You’re in love with him."

Heat rushed to my cheeks, spreading like wildfire as I let out another awkward chuckle. “Is it that obvious?”

“Painfully,” Noel replied, his tone certain.

By the end of the match, Michael made his way off the field, heading straight for you. His confidence was unshakable, but there was something in his gaze—something softer, more uncertain.

Before you could say a word, he leaned in, his lips brushing softly against your cheek, the gesture lingering just long enough to make its meaning unmistakable. In full view of the team, the message was clear: You’re mine.

As Michael walked away, leaving a trail of tension in his wake, Noel turned to look at me. My face was a mess of heat and embarrassment, cheeks burning furiously as I sank deeper into the collar of my jacket, desperate to hide. Slumped in my seat, I avoided his gaze, praying the ground would swallow me whole.

After this long, exhausting day, I spent what felt like an eternity searching for him—an entire hour wandering aimlessly. Every step was weighed down by the gnawing suspicion that he was deliberately keeping out of sight, slipping into the shadows just beyond my reach. I found him sitting on the training stadium bleachers, alone, as the sky blushed into evening. His silhouette was sharp against the fading sunlight, his posture relaxed, but there was a stiffness in his shoulders I couldn’t ignore.

“Didn’t expect you here,” Michael said without turning, his voice low, tinged with fatigue.

I climbed the steps, sitting beside him, leaving just enough space for the silence to breathe between us. “Didn’t think you’d be hiding out here.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“Of course not,” I said, the faintest tease in my tone. “You’re just… brooding.”

He finally glanced at me, his sharp blue eyes narrowing slightly. “If you came here to psychoanalyze me, don’t bother.”

“Actually,” I said, leaning back “I came here to check on you.”

Michael scoffed softly, but there was no real bite in it. “I don’t need checking on.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it.”

The words hung in the air, and for once, he didn’t argue. Instead, his gaze drifted back to the field, his fingers idly fidgeting with the necklace around his neck—the one I’d given him.

“Do you... like it?” I said quietly, nodding toward the charm.

He didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, more hesitant. “It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever owned.”

I laughed lightly, shaking my head. “Wow. Such high praise.”

A small smirk tugged at his lips, but it faded just as quickly. His fingers stilled, gripping the charm tightly.

“I don’t know why you gave it to me,” he muttered. “I don’t even know why you’re here.”

I blinked, surprised. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” He sighed, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “You could’ve chosen anyone. Someone easier. Someone who doesn’t—”

“Stop,” I interrupted, my tone firm but gentle.

His head turned slightly, his expression unreadable.

“I didn’t choose you because you’re easy, Michael,” I said. “I chose you because… you’re you. Because beneath all the arrogance and sharp edges, there’s someone worth knowing. Someone worth caring about.”

He stared at me, his gaze intense, searching. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Maybe it is.”

Michael let out a soft, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe I am.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t smile. Instead, he leaned back, his eyes fixed on the darkening sky. “You know, I’m not good at this.”

“Good at what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely between the two of us. “Caring. Letting someone… matter. I'll never be as good at it as you are.”

I hesitated for a moment, then reached out, my fingers brushing against his hand. He didn’t pull away.

“You’re better at it than you think,” I said softly.

He turned to me then, his guard slipped entirely. Vulnerability flickered in his eyes, raw and unfiltered.

“You’re terrifying, you know that?” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Terrifying?”

“Yeah.” He exhaled slowly, as if the admission cost him something. “Because you make me feel things I don’t want to feel. Things I don’t know what to do with.” And I wish I could do anything else than stay silent, he thought.

I smiled faintly, my hand sliding into his, fingers lacing together. “That’s... love, Michael. Messy, complicated, terrifying but worth it.”

For a long moment, he just looked at me, his expression unreadable. Then, his grip on my hand tightened, almost imperceptibly.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he admitted.

“You don’t have to figure it out alone.”

He let out a short, almost disbelieving laugh. “You’re really not going to give up, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

Michael shook his head, but there was something in his eyes—something softer, quieter. Something real.

“Then I guess I’m stuck with you now,” he said, his smirk finally making a reluctant appearance.

“Lucky me,” I teased, leaning my head on his shoulder.

“Lucky me,” he muttered, so quietly I almost didn’t hear it.

But I did.

And in that moment, we both understood.

I will give you the love you have always craved, you, who have wandered through life untouched by its warmth. No shadow you carry will dim the glow of my heart, as long as it beats with gold and fire, steady and unyielding in its devotion to you.

Let it seep through the cracks of your broken, blackened core. Throw it against the walls you’ve built so high, let it shatter and spill until it floods the emptiness inside you. And when it knocks you down, I will be there to catch you in my arms.

Sweet and bitter child, I will pour into you all that you lack, until your empty cup overflows with tenderness. Until you begin to craft your own dreams from the ones I have given you.

★michael kaiser x she/her pronouns reader (can be interpreted as GN)

★3,8k words

★part1 & part2 & part3

★songs associated : sailor song & line without a hook

“Michael!” I called out, my voice cutting through the air behind him.

He turned, his sharp blue eyes locking onto me. A flicker of surprise crossed his face as he took in my outfit—a Bastard München jersey that clung a little awkwardly, clearly borrowed. He squinted, probably wondering what name was plastered on the back.

“Are you changing career plans?” he asked, his tone laced with mockery as his lips curled into a smirk.

“Noel told me it’s part of a doctor’s job to understand which muscles are used during training,” I replied, rolling my shoulders as if to emphasize my professionalism. “So I thought I’d try it for myself.”

“Funny, I thought nurses were supposed to know that already.”

“In life, you’ve got to seize an opportunity,” I shot back confidently.

He chuckled, the sound low and teasing, before tossing me the ball. “Let’s see what you’ve got, then.”

I trapped the ball awkwardly before lining up a shot. With all the finesse of a first-timer, I kicked it as hard as I could, watching in shock as it soared straight into the goal.

The silence that followed was deafening until Kaiser broke it with a snort. “You just might be the luckiest player I’ve ever met.”

“Talent,” I corrected with a grin, though my breath was already catching up with me.

He grabbed another ball and passed it to me. What started as a casual exchange of passes quickly turned into a game of distance and angles. Each kick stretched my limits, the growing ache in my legs a reminder of how out of my depth I was. Eventually, I couldn’t keep up and plopped down onto the grass, using the ball as a makeshift seat.

“Forgotten your water bottle? You looked readier than you were, doc,” he teased, his smirk as sharp as ever.

I struggled to catch my breath, wiping sweat from my brow. Just as I was about to respond, a water bottle rolled to a stop in front of me. I looked up to find him standing over me, his expression a mixture of amusement and something gentler.

“Don’t thirst to death here I don't want to be a witness” he said, tossing his hair back like the drama king he was.

I grabbed the bottle and took a long drink, the water dripping down the side of my mouth and trailing along my jawline. I barely noticed it until his gaze flickered to the movement before he quickly looked away.

“I was actually having fun for once,” he admitted. “Come on, round two.”

“No way,” I replied without hesitation.

I groaned, going against my words as I attempted to stand, but my legs gave out, and I collapsed back onto the soft grass, sprawled out like I’d just run a marathon.

“You look fucking stupid,” he commented, his voice dry but with an undertone that was almost fond.

“Go back to training. Maybe I’ll join you when I feel better,” I shot back, waving him off.

“Pass the bottle,” he ordered.

“What?”

“Just throw it,” he repeated, and despite my confusion, I lobbed it over.

Without hesitation, he drank from it, not even sparing a glance at me. My eyes widened slightly, and I felt a faint blush creep up my cheeks, but he was already turning back to the middle of the field. He tossed the bottle back my way with a lazy flick of his wrist.

We spent the next hour doing nothing of value—passing the ball back and forth, laughing at my terrible aim, and occasionally watching him show off with insane dribbles and tricks that I couldn’t hope to replicate.

I had fun, more fun than I ever thought I could have playing football. And for just a moment, when I passed him the ball, his eyes lit up in a way that made my chest tighten.

Maybe it was the game. Or maybe it was the name on the back of my jersey what made him look so proud—Kaiser.

Breathing heavily, I collapsed onto the grass again, defeated but grinning. I could still hear his footsteps retreating as he left the field, heading toward the showers.

A smile crept onto my face.

It’s so much fun—I wish we could stay like this forever. Carefree, like kids.

As my breathing steadied, I gathered my things and made my way to the showers. The facility was empty, and since it was the men's section, I took care to lock the door behind me. Once finished, I slipped into a much comfier outfit and headed to the cafeteria.

That’s where I saw him again.

Grabbing my food, I casually slid into the seat across from him.

"Where’s Alexis? He’s usually with you," I asked, breaking the silence.

"No idea. He probably already left to rest."

"What are you eating?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Can’t you tell?"

"Can I taste it?"

"No."

Undeterred, I tried to steal a bite with my fork, only for him to block me with his own, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Please?"

"No."

As his attention momentarily drifted, I took the chance to swipe some. He retaliated by stealing a bigger piece off my plate.

"Hey! That’s not fair!"

"Are you five?" His tone was sharp but playful. "Life’s not fair."

I rolled my eyes but dropped the matter. We finished the meal in silence, though the air between us wasn’t uncomfortable at all.

When we both got up to leave, I matched his pace.

"Why do you think life’s not fair?" I asked, genuinely curious.

He paused, his expression unreadable. "Some people are born with natural talent. I didn’t get that chance—I had to work harder than anyone to get here."

His words surprised me.

"And dealing with them is a pain," he added, his voice quieter.

We stopped walking.

"Is that why you train so hard? To match their level?"

He smirked, but there was something bitter behind it. "Oh, I’m way above most of them now."

"Then why?"

His gaze faltered, drifting somewhere distant. "Because I never want to go back to where I was before."

My breath hitched at the vulnerability in his words.

"…Forget it," he muttered, brushing it off and turning away.

I took a step closer, catching his gaze.

"You’re admirable, Michael."

His eyes narrowed, almost in disbelief. Admirable? Me?

He couldn’t even look himself in the mirror most days.

"Whatever you went through, you’re not letting it define you. You’re building someone better—someone stronger."

He didn’t reply, and we started walking again.

"And most people let the past consume them," I continued, "but not you. I see it. You’re fighting, and I’m…" I hesitated before softly finishing, "…proud of you for coming this far."

Her words hit harder than they should have. His eyes widened behind the blue fringe obscuring them.

She’s god-sent.

"Stop that."

"Stop what?" she asked, her brows furrowing slightly.

"How are you always so nice to everyone?"

She tilted her head with a small smile. "That’s my job."

He looked away, frustrated by the sting in her answer.

She doesn’t get it.

As they reached the door, she waved him goodbye, and almost instinctively, his hand mirrored hers.

Her eyes sparkled—bright, earnest, sincere. He wanted to stop time right there, to capture the way she looked at him. She meant it. She really was proud.

And it terrified him.

That same night, Michael sat on his bed, flipping through one of his so-called "cringe books". He was reluctant to admit it, even to himself, but the stories always managed to draw him in. They had a way of holding his attention until, inevitably, the two main characters—friends who swore they’d never fall for each other—did just that.

And that’s when he’d stop reading.

That’s not what we are, he thought, snapping the book shut. But this particular story had been too good. Against his better judgment, he’d read it to the end.

By the final chapter, a small blush crept onto his cheeks as his imagination betrayed him. He kept picturing the characters as himself and you. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, and with a frustrated groan, he tossed the book onto the floor.

What the hell is wrong with me?

The room felt unusually quiet, empty even. Compared to the energy of the day, his solitude was unbearable. When sleep finally came, his dreams were infused with the stories he’d read and the memories of your laugh, your touch, your warmth. He hated how often you appeared in them now.

What did I get myself into?

The next day, it was harder to meet your eyes.

She’s so damn sweet.

"Michael? You there?" Your voice jolted him out of his daydream.

"Yeah, sorry," he muttered.

You laughed, light and genuine.

"Since when do you apologize?"

He smirked faintly. "I’m not always an asshole."

Your laughter softened as you leaned a little closer, your attention shifting to his neck.

Michael stiffened. He’d read a scene like this before—the girl leaning in, her proximity doing things to the guy’s sanity—but he pushed the thought aside, labeling it cliché. That’s not real life.

"Hello?" you prompted, breaking his reverie.

He blinked, forcing himself back to reality. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, I just didn’t sleep much last night," he lied, avoiding your gaze.

You smiled gently. "Your marks are... fading. I’m glad you’re feeling a little better."

Better? That wasn’t the word he’d use. His mind was restless, consumed by someone he had no idea how to handle.

"Do you want me to apply some cream, or are you—"

"Yes," he interrupted, a bit too quickly.

Your smile widened as you reached for the cream. Your fingers brushed against his skin, and he couldn’t stop himself from leaning into your touch. It was maddening how much he craved it, how even the smallest gesture from you had his chest tightening in ways he didn’t understand.

When you finished, he felt an ache—an emptiness where your touch had been. He wanted more.

But why? Why was he so damn obsessed with the way your hips swayed, the way your hands moved, the way your hair framed your face just perfectly?

"Michael?"

His head snapped up again, caught in yet another daydream.

"You’re going to be late," you said, your tone amused.

He shrugged, a cocky smirk creeping back onto his face as he stood. "They’ll wait. They always do."

You chuckled softly, watching as he reluctantly left the room, the smirk doing little to hide the reluctance in his step.

And as he walked away, he realized something.

He didn’t want to leave. And he would come back any chance he has.

The rumors were inevitable. People noticed how much time we spent together—playing football, eating, talking. They whispered, speculated, but Michael didn’t seem to care. As long as he could get his daily dose of me, the world could say what it wanted.

One day, after a rough training together he finally told me about his childhood. We first started talking about the geniuses he had faced, but now we were sitting next to each other on the field, his voice calm and even as he spoke.

There was a smile on his face when he finished—a smile that fought to hide the pain he was feeling.

I watched him silently, his story and sharp words echoing in my head. My chest tightened, and instinctively, I leaned into him, wrapping him in a tight hug.

I couldn’t help it. I thought, maybe, just maybe, this small gesture could piece his broken heart back together.

"You hug all your patients like this?" he teased, his voice lighter than his expression.

It wasn’t the right time for a joke, but could I blame him for deflecting?

I pulled back slightly, pouting. "No."

He sighed softly. "I was joking."

"Does that mean you want another hug?" I teased, trying to coax a real smile out of him.

"No."

"Too bad."

The distance between us wasn’t much to begin with, but somehow, it seemed to shrink even more. His gaze locked onto mine, and before I could react, he leaned in.

His lips crashed onto mine.

My heart stopped for a moment before it started racing.

The kiss was intense—tentative at first, as though testing boundaries, then deepening as his hands slid to the small of my back and rested on my waist. My fingers found their way into his hair, pulling him closer despite the warning voice in my head.

God, if someone catches us…

The adrenaline coursing through me, the thrill of the risk—it made the kiss feel endless. When he finally pulled back, my cheeks burned red, my breaths coming in short gasps.

"Sorry," he muttered, his voice low.

I stared at him, my lips still tingling from the kiss, my body already craving his touch again. My eyes betrayed every thought I couldn’t say aloud. He read them, understood, and his resolve crumbled.

Our lips met again, this time hungrier, more desperate. He gently pushed me onto the soft, sun-warmed grass, his body framing mine, shielding me from the rest of the world.

His lips left mine, trailing down my jaw to my neck. His teeth grazed my skin, drawing a shiver and a quiet moan from my lips. His touch wasn’t just intoxicating—it was consuming, overwhelming, yet oddly comforting.

"I don’t know why I feel this way," he murmured, his gaze locking onto mine.

And for yet another time I saw uncertainty in his eyes. Vulnerability. At its purest form.

My hands reached up to cradle his face, my thumbs brushing over his cheeks. "I’ll take care of you, no matter what," I promised, my voice steady despite the chaotic fluttering in my chest.

His smirk reappeared, softer this time. "My little nurse."

I rolled my eyes, but his teasing only made me bolder. Wrapping my arms around him, I flipped us over so I could rest my head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

"We can’t stay here," I said after a moment, sitting up reluctantly.

"If anyone catches us…"

"That’s the fun part," he replied, grinning, though his tone hinted at mischief rather than seriousness.

"Noel will scold me," I countered, earning a soft laugh from him.

"Fair," he said, clearly disappointed but accepting, as he stood and brushed himself off. His hand brushed against mine, the simple touch sending sparks through me.

Our gazes met, and we both chuckled softly, like teenagers with a secret.

"Shush," I whispered, though the smile on my face gave me away.

"Aight, aight," he said, raising his hands in mock surrender.

But as we walked away, our fingers brushed one last time, and I couldn’t help but wonder what this meant—what we meant. Whatever it was, it felt like something I wasn’t ready to lose.

What did I get myself into...my little nurse?

★michael kaiser x she/her pronouns reader (can be interpreted as GN)

★2,7k words

★part1 & part2

★songs associated : ma meilleure amie & nervous

The next day was a special one—Bastard München was playing, and I had the opportunity to stand next to Noel Noa to watch the match. Excitement bubbled inside me, impossible to contain. Every time Michael scored, every time he pulled off one of those breathtaking, seemingly effortless moves, I was on my feet, cheering as loudly as the crowd around me. My heart soared with every goal, with every flick of his hair as he moved across the pitch like a king ruling his domain.

When the game ended 3-2 in our favor, my chest felt tight, my heart pounding like a drum. I had never been so utterly captivated by a football match before.

But Michael… he hadn’t so much as glanced in my direction.

At first, I thought he might have been too focused on the game, lost in the adrenaline of victory. But as we gathered to head back to the facility, I caught sight of him, earbuds in, leaning casually against the bus. Summoning my courage, I approached him, eager to congratulate him on his stellar performance.

“Michael,” I began, a smile tugging at my lips.

He did not glance at me. The soft hum of music filling the space as he slipped past me, boarding the bus without a word.

Was he… ignoring me?

The ride back was quiet. I took a seat near the front, just behind Noel. My thoughts swirled like the rain now streaking the bus windows. I watched droplets race each other down the glass, feeling a strange hollowness settle in my chest.

Days turned into a week, each one dragging longer than the last. Michael avoided me entirely, his silence more deafening than any argument could have been. Every attempt I made to reach him—to talk, to understand—was met with indifference, or him telling me he was busy, leaving me standing there, helpless.

That Friday evening, I sat alone in my office, staring at the papers scattered across my desk. Exhaustion weighed heavily on my shoulders. My heart, once so full of hope, felt cracked and fragile. Maybe I had misjudged everything. Maybe Michael just needed space, time to process whatever was bothering him. Or maybe… I wasn’t as important to him as he was to me.

I sighed, my head falling onto my crossed arms. Sleep crept in before I could stop it, pulling me into restless dreams. I just hope you’re okay, I thought before the darkness swallowed me.

The following days were colder, emptier, and eerily quiet as I tried to act like I didn’t know him at all anymore. Winter was settling in, and with it came a new wave of sickness among the players and staff. My work became my escape, a distraction from the void Michael’s absence left in my life. I had not knew him for so long but oh, whatever was so endearing with my time spent with him, I couldn’t help but feel empty to the thought I’ll never feel that way again. But every patient warmed my heart a little, their small victories distracting me from my aching loss. Still, whenever I passed Michael in the hallways, his silence cut deeper than I liked to admit and trying to match it was furthering the torture.

Just another windy day, as I was in the medical wing, setting up for yet another examination, my back turned to the door. The familiar shuffle of someone entering barely registered—I’d grown used to it. But when I turned to greet them, I froze.

There he was.

Michael stood by the door, his piercing ocean eyes locked onto mine. His gaze was different, not cocky, not vulnerable, not cold, just.. Michael, and I felt my breath catch in my throat. For a moment, I thought I might be too tired and not seeing properly. I blinked several times, trying to make sense of what I was seeing, but he was still there.

It was Michael.

And I couldn’t bring myself to hold a grudge. Whatever had happened, whatever pain or hesitation had kept him away, it didn’t matter now. Not when he was standing in front of me, his presence as overwhelming as ever.

"Hi. Rare to see you here." I smiled, even as the muscles in my cheeks warned they’d hurt soon.

Michael pinched his lips together, hesitant. “I’ve been…”

“Sick?” I finished for him.

He nodded silently, moving to sit on the examination table. His usual confident aura was replaced by a visible weight in his movements.

I slipped on my gloves, taking deliberate steps toward him. His tired eyes lifted to meet mine, a flicker of vulnerability in them.

“What’s wrong?”

“My stomach hurts, and I feel like throwing up,” he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s odd. No coughing? Fever?”

He shook his head, avoiding my gaze. As I performed the basic checks, my eyes drifted to the faint marks on his neck—barely visible, but I noticed them.

“I don’t see anything physically wrong,” I admitted, stepping back to give him space.

His eyes, wide and almost pleading, looked up at me. Something in his expression made my heart clench painfully.

“But,” I added, softening, “I can give you some natural remedies for now. I won’t prescribe anything stronger until I’m sure of what’s going on—I don’t want to risk making it worse. Come back in a day or two if it doesn’t improve, okay?”

I turned, preparing a small bag of remedies—infusions, natural lozenges, and a list of foods to avoid.

"Could you... prescribe me that cream from last time?"

My hand paused. The courage it must’ve taken him to bring that up wasn’t lost on me. I turned, offering a soft smile.

“Of course.”

I scribbled down the prescription, the silence settling between us until he broke it.

“Why did you cheer for me last match?”

The question caught me off guard, but I didn’t stop writing. “Why wouldn’t I, Michael?”

From behind me, I heard the creak of him leaning back on the examination table, followed by a faint chuckle.

“You saw me like this.”

“And?” I glanced over my shoulder. “Does that take away the fact that you’re the most amazing player in this club?”

His silence filled the air, heavy with unspoken thoughts.

I turned fully, meeting his gaze directly. “Michael, just because I’ve seen you in a weakened state doesn’t mean I think you’re weak. If anything, it’s the opposite.”

His eyes flicked away from mine, as if my words were too much for him to handle.

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?” I asked, taking a step closer.

He didn’t answer, but his hands fidgeted slightly on his lap. Gently, I placed my hand on his shoulder.

“To me, you’re Michael Kaiser. The incredible football player. Strong, passionate, smart, and yes, even funny...sometimes. You’re someone worth cheering for. Don’t doubt that.”

I paused, my voice dropping. “But most importantly... you’re my friend too.”

His posture shifted—tense shoulders relaxing, fingers stilling, and his gaze slowly lifting to mine. The vulnerability in his eyes nearly undid me.

“You’re important,” I said, taking a step back. “And... it doesn’t feel the same when you act like I don’t exist in your world.”

Turning slightly, I grabbed the soothing cream, pouring some into my palm. His body stilled, but when I approached, he tilted his head, exposing the marks on his neck as if silently inviting my care.

My fingers worked gently over his skin, the cool cream contrasting with his warmth. He closed his eyes, leaning into my touch for just a fleeting moment before catching himself.

“All done.” I smiled, washing my hands and handing him the bag. “You’re always welcome here.”

He held the bag tightly, almost like a child clutching something precious, and stood. “Thank you,” he said, voice soft and unusually vulnerable.

Kaiser lingered outside the door after it shut behind him. His chest felt tight—was it the remedies? No. It was you.

Were you an angel? He shook his head, almost laughing at the thought. Yet, no other explanation felt right. Why was he so drawn to your kindness, your attention, your warmth? Why did your smile feel like it soothed even the pain he hadn’t told you about?

And why was he so damn incapable of giving anything back?

He had never experienced love like this before. He never knew what it felt like to be cared for—not like this, not without strings attached. And it overwhelmed him.

He froze mid-step, the thought weighing heavy. You thought he was strong—even after seeing this side of him. Even knowing what he was doing behind the scenes.

“A friend?” he muttered under his breath. The word sounded foreign. What did that even mean? How was a friend supposed to be treated?

His mind spiraled, recalling everything he’d studied about psychology, but none of it seemed relevant now. He didn’t want to manipulate you like he had with Ness. You deserved something real.

[AN : NESS DESERVES IT TOO!!!!]

He imagined giving you a gift, or even taking care of you in return, and the idea made him cringe—partly because he couldn’t picture himself doing it, and partly because he wasn’t sure he’d ever be enough.

But he couldn’t let you slip away. No, that wasn’t it. He wouldn’t.

Because he was addicted to this feeling. He would come back with an excuse just like today.

For the first time in his life, he felt loved. He felt seen.

And he didn’t want to run from it anymore.

That night, Kaiser did what he knew best—he turned to books. He ordered them online, scrolling through a collection that made him cringe just reading the synopses. Sappy stories about best friends, loyalty, and the so-called "power of friendship." It was laughable, really. He almost closed the browser a dozen times, but his fingers kept clicking, driven by a restless, gnawing feeling he couldn’t name.

When the books arrived, they sat unopened on his desk for days, their once glossy covers now covered in a small layer of dust a silent reminder of his impulsive decision. One night, as the hours dragged on and the silence of his apartment grew heavier, his eyes drifted to them again.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair. What am I even doing? The absurdity of it all hit him like a punch to the gut. From an outsider’s perspective, he must have looked ridiculous—a man of his caliber wasting time on clichés he didn’t even believe in some time ago.

His gaze shifted to the smaller package sitting beside the books, its edges slightly worn from how often he’d looked at it, touched it, thought about it. He picked it up, his fingers almost hesitant. The familiar weight of it brought a strange warmth to his chest.

Carefully, he opened it, revealing a pendant that caught the dim light of his room. His thumb brushed over its surface, tracing the grooves of a rose as if committing every single detail to memory. A faint smile pulled at his lips, soft and unguarded, the kind of smile he never let anyone see.

“Dumbass,” he muttered under his breath, the word slipping out more fondly than he intended.

He glanced at the collection of medals hanging on the wall—tangible proof of his victories, his ego, everything he’d worked for. But this pendant wasn’t a trophy, and it wasn’t a victory. Not yet. Still, if it belonged anywhere, it was there, among the symbols of what he valued most.

Standing, he carefully hung it with the medals, letting it rest among them as if it had always been meant to be there. It felt… right. Even if the battle it represented was far from won, this was where it belonged—for now.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d figure out the rest later.

★michael kaiser x she/her pronouns reader (can be interpreted as GN)

★4,8k words

★TW: selfharm, blood, choking, mentions of Kaiser's past

★songs associated : the beach & creep

The late afternoon sun bathed the room in a warm glow as I tidied my desk, the faint scent of disinfectant lingering in the air. It was quiet, save for the rustle of papers and the occasional creak of the chair. Just as I tucked a clipboard away, a gentle knock sounded on the door.

Before I could answer, the door eased open, and Alexis Ness stepped inside, his signature wide smile lighting up the room.

“Oh, hello Alexis!” I greeted, straightening up. “Do you need anything?”

“Hi, (Y/N),” he replied cheerfully, though there was a slight hesitation in his voice. “Could you take a look at my ankle? I woke up this morning, and it cracked. Now I’m worried.”

I tilted my head, giving him a once-over before nodding. “Sure, have a seat.” I gestured for him to lie down on the examination table nearby.

As he settled, I carefully examined his ankle, pressing gently along the joint. “Do you feel any pain?”

“Not really, no,” he admitted, his tone almost sheepish.

“You’re sure it’s not just from a morning stretch?” I asked, glancing up at him. “Everything looks fine to me.”

He hummed thoughtfully, then smiled mischievously. “Mh… I probably just wanted an excuse to see you today. It’s been a while.”

I chuckled, shaking my head as I removed my hands. “You could’ve just said so, you know. How have you been?”

“I’ve been okay,” he said, sitting up. Then, his gaze turned curious. “I noticed you tending to Michael’s injury yesterday. That’s unusual. What happened?”

“Nothing serious,” I assured him. “Noel asked me to check on him. You know how he is about Michael—always hovering.”

Alexis scoffed lightly, a teasing edge to his voice. “And here I thought Michael had finally made a new friend.”

The corner of my lips quirked up at the thought. “Right. Michael doesn’t exactly have a crowd of friends, does he? I wish he’d open up more.”

Alexis’s smile faltered for a moment, and his tone softened. “It’s not that simple with him. It took years for him to trust me.”

“I’m glad he has you, though,” I said earnestly. “Still… it wouldn’t hurt to see him smile more often.”

He gave me a quiet nod before standing, his fingers idly adjusting the hem of his sweater. He was halfway to the door when I called out, “Wait, Alexis.”

He turned back, his gaze questioning.

“Could you ask Michael to come back here? I need to check his wound again. It needs particular attention, and…” My voice trailed off as a flicker of memory surfaced—the first day I met Michael, his dismissive attitude toward his own well-being. “…I want to make sure he’s alright. Don’t tell him I asked, though.”

Alexis’s expression softened as he nodded, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. Without another word, he slipped out the door.

Left alone, I returned to my desk, though my focus was far from the papers in front of me. I found myself wondering if Michael would step through that door. Somehow, the thought of him ignoring the request seemed just as likely as him showing up, albeit reluctantly.

For now, all I could do was wait.

Strangely enough, Michael showed up. The door swung open without so much as a knock, his ever-present cocky smirk plastered across his face. Despite myself, I felt a wave of relief.

“I knew you missed me,” he drawled, stepping inside with an air of exaggerated confidence. “So I thought I’d grace you with a visit.”

I scoffed, spinning my chair around to face him. “You really should learn to knock before barging in.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he quipped, leaning casually against the doorframe.

“What if I was with someone else?” I teased, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugged, his smirk widening. “Then what? It’s not like you’d be making out with your patients.”

“You never know,” I shot back, amused.

“With that bunch of imbeciles?” He scoffed, crossing his arms. “I doubt it.”

Shaking my head, I stood up and held out my hand. “Come on,” I said, gesturing for his.

Michael eyed me suspiciously. “What’s this?”

“It’s not like I’m proposing or anything,” I teased. “Just give me your hand.”

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, he complied, extending his hand toward me. I gently unwrapped the clumsy bandage that he’d haphazardly tied around his injury. The sight of his attempt made me smile.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” I replied, though I couldn’t quite hide my amusement.

“Spit it out,” he insisted, his tone sharp yet curious.

I chuckled lightly. “Your bandaging skills. Don’t take it the wrong way, though. I think it’s cute that you tried.”

“Good thing I’m not a nurse, then,” he shot back, smirking. “But I can’t say you’re a good teacher.”

The playful jab caught me off guard, and I laughed. It was rare to see Michael mimic someone’s words so directly—it felt oddly endearing, even if I knew he was doing it to mock me.

“Do you want a tutorial, perhaps?” I teased.

He didn’t answer, but as I glanced up, I noticed him squinting at my hands, watching my movements with a level of focus I hadn’t expected.

“Mmm… but it’s much funnier when you let me handle it,” I added, leaning back slightly. “I almost don’t want to teach you. Though…” I smiled in amusement. “It’s not a very difficult task.”

“Or maybe you ARE just bad at teaching,” He shot back, playfully narrowing his eyes.

“It’s a bother coming here just for a little check up,” he grumbled, though his tone lacked any real annoyance.

“Alright, alright,” I relented with a smile. “I’ll show you properly. Just this once.”

I cleaned his wound with practiced care, then demonstrated how to bandage it properly. As I finished, I glanced up, catching him inspecting his hand. My gaze lingered for a moment longer than I intended, taking in his entire demeanor.

But something caught my eye—faint marks on his neck, half-hidden by his collar. My breath hitched.

Before he could turn to leave, I instinctively reached out, grabbing the hem of his shirt. “Wait, Kaiser.”

He turned back, brow furrowed. “What now?”

“S-sorry,” I stammered, my voice unsteady. “Can you come back here for a second?”

Michael sighed heavily but complied, stepping closer. My hand hesitated before gently capturing his jaw, tilting his face to the side to get a better look. The light revealed it clearly—faint but undeniable strangulation marks trailing along his neck.

His eyes widened, and in an instant, he shoved me away with startling aggression.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he snapped, his voice colder than I’d ever heard it.

“Michael…” I whispered, my heart pounding. “Who did this to you?”

“That’s none of your business.” His tone was sharp, his usual bravado replaced by something raw and defensive.

“Michael, please,” I tried again, desperate. “I just—”

But he didn’t let me finish. With a scowl and a tense jaw, he turned on his heel and stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him.

I stood frozen for a moment before sinking into my chair, my head buried in my hands. My mind replayed the image of those marks over and over again. I tried to convince myself it could be from something harmless—some lewd activity, maybe—but deep down, I doubted it.

Fear mixed with determination as I sat there, heart heavy. I couldn’t let it go. I needed to find out the truth, no matter how much Michael wanted to keep me out.

Eventually, I became so consumed by my thoughts and work that I completely forgot about my week off. It wasn’t until the night before that I realized, thanks to my best friend’s text: “Are you ready?” It hit me like a ton of bricks—she was picking me up in an hour. In a panic, I dashed around my apartment, grabbing everything I thought I’d need and stuffing it haphazardly into my luggage.

We embarked on a six-day road trip, stopping in every quaint town that caught our eye. We lived out of a van, showered in campgrounds or public gyms, and embraced an experience that was raw and unpolished—far from the luxuries I could afford but so much more real. I had the most incredible time, leaving behind all my work and worries. Well, almost all.

In one of those charming towns, we stopped at a shop selling handmade, unique jewelry. While my best friend hunted for a good place to eat, I browsed the store to find something special—souvenirs to remember our trip. That’s when I saw it: a blue rose necklace. It was beautiful, handcrafted, and utterly unique. It reminded me of Michael. Without hesitation, I bought it, completely forgetting why I’d entered the shop in the first place.

I asked the seller to wrap it as a gift and stepped out to meet my best friend. On the way, I passed a newsstand. Fate, it seemed, wasn’t quite done with me. A familiar figure stared back at me from the cover of a football magazine. Michael Kaiser.

Impulsively, I bought the magazine. My best friend, curious, asked about it. I shrugged, casually replying, “I know him from work. I just thought he looked nice.” She didn’t press further, and we carried on with our day.

As much as I loved the road trip, it eventually came to an end. After hugging my best friend goodbye, I returned to my apartment, threw my luggage in the corner, and collapsed onto my bed. I drifted off, only to be woken by my alarm the next morning.

The routine of work crept back in. My office was exactly as I’d left it—monotonous and unchanging. By 2 p.m., I hadn’t even had lunch, so I headed to the cafeteria. It was empty, the quiet echoing my mood. I ate alone, and as I finished, a thought crossed my mind: What if fate brought me to Michael again? It didn’t.

Not that day, at least.

The next day, a loud crash from the bathroom near my office jolted me from my work. I rushed to the door, knocking urgently. No response, but I could hear the sounds of labored breathing and muffled cries.

“Please open the door,” I called softly, trying to sound calm. “I’m here to help.”

Still no answer.

Fearing the worst, I used the universal key I’d been given. I hesitated at first, reluctant to invade someone’s privacy, but the distressing sounds forced my hand. What I saw broke me.

Michael was on the floor, his face flushed red and blue, his hands tightening around his own neck. Shards of a shattered mirror littered the floor, and his blood dripping from his fist all the way down his arm. His tear-filled eyes met mine, a mix of anger, fear, and vulnerability.

“Michael...” I whispered, my voice trembling.

“L-leave me alone,” he growled, his tone raw and desperate.

Ignoring his protests, I close the door behind me, knelt in the broken glass, unbothered by the sting against my skin. “Look at me,” I said softly, placing a hand on his arm.

He didn’t stop.

“Does it feel good?” I asked gently, out of panic trying to break through the haze of his pain.

No answer.

“Michael, you don’t have to do this. I’m here. You’re not alone.”

Tears blurred my vision as I slowly guided his trembling hands away from his neck. He didn’t resist, though he could have. As his arms fell limp, I pulled him into an embrace, ignoring the blood, the mess, everything.

“It’s okay,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “You’re okay. I’ll make sure of it.”

He didn’t speak. After a moment, I felt his arms weakly wrap around me, his face pressing into my shoulder.

“Forget this ever happened,” he murmured, his voice cracked and hollow.

I reached into my pocket, pulling out a tissue to gently wipe his tears and the blood from his face. My gaze never left his, soft and understanding, free of judgment. And he felt like he was now holding something he was afraid to corrupt.

“Let’s go somewhere safer,” I suggested, standing and offering him my hand.

For a fleeting moment, he hesitated, his gaze fixed on his bloodied fingers, trembling as if they belonged to someone else. In his mind, he was no longer the man standing before me but a fragile child again—haunted by the cruelty of his father and the absence of his mother. The shadows of his past loomed over him, suffocating and unrelenting. Yet, today, amidst the weight of his despair, someone stood before him, offering their hand—not with pity, but with unwavering resolve. They didn’t flinch at the sight of his brokenness, nor did they care about the blood or the mess. Slowly, tentatively, he lifted his battered, shattered hand and placed it in mine, as though grasping for salvation he never thought he deserved.

I led him to my office, locking the door behind us. He sat silently, staring at his hands while I gathered supplies to clean his wounds. Carefully, I removed the glass shards, disinfected the cuts, and bandaged them. When I asked to examine his neck, he turned his head wordlessly, avoiding my gaze.

“What a beautiful tattoo,” I murmured as I applied a soothing cream. “I’ve never seen it this close.”

He stayed silent, his vulnerability raw and unguarded.

When I finished, I sat beside him, offering a soft smile. “Michael, you did amazing,” I said sincerely. “Do you want to rest here for a while? I’ll watch over you.”

No response.

“The door’s open if you want to leave,” I added gently. “I’ll clean up the bathroom and blame the mirror on my clumsiness.”

I stood, giving him space to decide. In that moment, I realized how deeply this broken man trusted me—his raw vulnerability was both a plea for help and an act of silent courage. And he, realized how he was now forced trust someone for the first time in his life. But maybe, if it was you, it didn’t sound so bad anymore he thought, your angel face and bright smile in his mind as he laid down and fell asleep.

When I finished cleaning, I returned to find him asleep, his body finally at ease, though his fist remained tightly clenched. My chest ached at the sight. What I had witnessed earlier—the way he froze at even the smallest act of kindness—gnawed at me. What kind of life could leave someone so unaccustomed to tenderness? The answer had begun to form, unspoken, in the back of my mind.

Quietly, I opened the closet and pulled out a warm blanket, draping it over him with care. His breathing remained steady, entirely undisturbed. For a moment, I hesitated, leaning closer until I could feel his warmth. Then, unable to resist, I pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. It was impulsive, but it felt so natural—so right—that I didn’t let myself question it. Friends do things like that, don’t they? Convinced of my reasoning, I straightened and returned to my work.

An hour passed, the room bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. He was still asleep, his expression peaceful for once. As dinner approached, I decided to leave the office and grab some food. I made sure to get enough for him too. When I returned, he was awake, now sitting upright, his gaze distant as if still caught in a dream.

“I got you some food,” I said, placing the plates on my desk. “You should eat.”

His eyes flickered away, deliberately avoiding mine.

I stayed there for a moment, watching him, my voice softening. “Are you... feeling better?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he sighed, pushing himself to his feet. Without a word, he walked to the door, his intention to leave clear.

“Michael… wait.”

Before I could think, my fingers grasped the hem of his sweatshirt. He froze. Slowly, he turned to face me, his expression unreadable.

“I have something for you,” I murmured, pulling a small gift from my bag and offering it to him.

For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at the gift, then at me, as though trying to decipher my intentions. Finally, he took it silently. He didn’t say anything as he slipped through the door, leaving me behind.

I sat back in my chair, staring after him. What I didn’t see—what I couldn’t see—were the tears threatening to fall from his eyes as he walked down the empty corridor. The unopened gift rested against his chest, right over his pounding heart.

Whenever he was with you, he felt things he didn’t know how to name—new, foreign emotions that terrified and overwhelmed him. Warmth, comfort, a fragile sense of belonging. They wrapped around him like a gentle embrace, whispering promises he was too scared to believe. He wanted to think he had found a friend, but every time he looked in the mirror, he couldn’t silence the fear.

Fear that you’d leave. Fear of the feelings that consumed him whenever you were near. Fear that all of this was just his imagination, or that he would end up pushing you away, just like he does with everyone, fear that what you had seen disgusted you, or that you’d judge him for it, drowning him with questions as soon as he would come back.

He had spent years crafting his image—confident, untouchable, brilliant on the field. And yet, to the one person he, for the first time started to attach himself to, he was afraid he’d already shattered that illusion. Vulnerability, to him, was a weapon—a blade that could be turned against him at any moment.

As he left, his thoughts spiraled. He wished he could go back, wished he’d pushed you away before it was too late. But now, it was far, far too late. And even he realized.

Did you mean your words ? Were you really proud of him ? Did you change your mind ? Would you change ? Soften ? He didn’t want this. He wanted, you, to never change the way you looked at him with such admiration, to never change the way your cockiness only seemed to fade away to be replaced by an indescribable tenderness that just made no sense to him whenever he was injured, that was so full of love, so distant from judgment, and he thought about it so much this night, he had even forgotten to open the gift you gave him.

Does he hate that ray of sunshine in his dark and cold world or does he want to bathe in it ? Even if it was the second answer he never thought he, out of everyone, deserved it, all the work he had put in just to feel a glimpse of proudness when he looked into the mirror was never enough, so he gave up, he gave up on you. He gave up on following what made him feel good. He always said he strove best in discomfort. But had he really meant it ? Or was it just another excuse ?

i don't want smut i want DEEP EMOTIONAL INTIMACY !!!!!!

i swear people don't get his character like i do, my baby needs LOVE"

from @krys4h

here we go for a part 1 :3

★michael kaiser x she/her pronouns reader (can be interpreted as GN)

★3,6k words

★songs associated : one & two

I had known Michael Kaiser since the day I was assigned as the team’s nurse. In my line of work, I’d learned to connect with every player on a professional yet friendly level—it was part of treating them with care. Most of them warmed up to me quickly, eager to share stories or jokes during their treatment sessions. But Kaiser? He was something else entirely.

Rarely injured, he was almost like a ghost in my office. When I did see him, it was brief, and he would insist he didn’t need anything. His arrogance would radiate even in those fleeting moments, accompanied by a dismissive smirk that said, I’m untouchable.

During my breaks, I often watched the team train from the sidelines or walked through the gym and facilities. It was fascinating to observe them push their limits, but truthfully, I was never particularly drawn to football. It felt more like a job perk than a passion.

The first real conversation I had with Kaiser wasn’t in my office or the gym but on the field during an unplanned encounter. After sitting at my desk for hours, buried in work, I needed a breather. Wandering aimlessly, I found myself by the field. It was supposed to be empty, yet there he was, surrounded by several soccer balls lying on the damp grass.

I stopped, my curiosity piqued as I watched him shoot a goal with such precision and power that it left me speechless. The ball sliced through the air like it was destined for the net, hitting its mark flawlessly.

“Impressive,” I murmured aloud, my voice breaking the silence.

Kaiser turned, his signature cocky smile already plastered on his face as his gaze landed on me. “Of course it is,” he replied smoothly, his ego inflating visibly. But before he could bask in my compliment, I raised an eyebrow and added, “But can you actually pull that off in a real match?”

He chuckled, the sound rich and almost condescending. “I wouldn’t train something useless,” he retorted, brushing off the challenge. But then, to my surprise, he launched into an explanation of the technique. “The Kaiser Impact Magnus,” he called it, and as he spoke, his words were laced with passion and precision.

I was captivated. His knowledge and ability to articulate something so complex left me staring, wide-eyed.

“That’s... wow,” I said, genuinely impressed. “You’re really smart. I’ve never seen or heard anything like it. Would you mind if I watched you play? I promise I won’t be a bother.”

He smirked, tilting his head arrogantly. “Of course, you’d want to watch. Sit still, pretty.”

For the next hour, I sat on the barrier of the field, watching him train. His movements were mesmerizing—the way his blue-tipped hair framed his sharp features, the rise and fall of his chest as he pushed himself relentlessly, the calculation in his eyes as he analyzed every play. It wasn’t just skill; it was artistry.

I couldn’t help but stare, completely unaware of the stray ball ricocheting off the goalpost and hurtling toward me until it struck me square in the face.

Pain exploded across my nose as I fell back onto the wet grass. My vision blurred, and as I tried to gather my bearings, I heard footsteps approaching.

Kaiser loomed over me, his expression torn between amusement and mild concern. “Could’ve dodged that, y’know,” he said, a faint chuckle escaping. “Really, I can’t tell if you’re lucky or unlucky. The ball usually doesn’t even come this way.”

Blinking up at him with an innocent, dazed expression, I felt a sharp sting of both pain and embarrassment. My nose throbbed relentlessly, blood trickling down onto my shirt, while specks of wet dirt clung stubbornly to my cheek. He crouched slightly, pulling a tissue from his bag nearby, and for a fleeting moment, I noticed something unusual in his eyes—an almost imperceptible softness that seemed out of place.

What was he seeing? Whatever it was, it must have stirred something unfamiliar in his chest. I remembered an interview where he mentioned his fascination with faces of despair, but I doubted that was what I wore now. No, this wasn’t despair—it was vulnerability, raw and unguarded,I looked just like a defenseless kid and it lingered between us like a secret neither of us knew how to acknowledge.

“Don’t look at me like it was intentional,” he added, rolling his eyes. “Here. Wipe that off. You look horrible.”

Taking the tissue, I stood unsteadily, trying to laugh off my humiliation. “At least I’m fully awake now,” I joked, though my cheeks burned with embarrassment.

My optimism seemed to amuse him. He smirked, returning to his training, but as droplets of rain began to fall from the sky, I lingered.

“It’s raining,” I called out, expecting him to follow me inside. When he didn’t respond, I hesitated. “Michael? Are you not coming inside? You’ll get sick. Training can wait.”

He shrugged without looking at me, the raindrops glistening in his hair. “Worry about yourself. I’m fine.”

Something about his nonchalance struck a nerve. If I were as talented, as admired, as incredible as him, wouldn’t I take better care of myself? Yet, there he was, drenched in rain, pushing himself as though he had something to prove.

I watched him for a moment longer before turning away, a strange ache settling in my chest. Back in my office, I tried to focus on work, but the sight of him—so brilliant, yet so reckless—stayed with me. It wasn’t the first time I noticed how different he was from the others, but now, for some reason, I couldn’t shake the thought.

And for the first time, I wondered what it was that drove Michael Kaiser to treat himself like he was anything less than extraordinary.

The next morning, I made my way to the cafeteria at around 9 a.m., craving a much-needed coffee. While chatting casually with the bartender, I heard familiar footsteps behind me. Turning around with my coffee in hand, I spotted Kaiser lounging on one of the couches, his attention fixed on the TV replaying football matches.

A small smile tugged at my lips as I approached him. His usual cocky posture remained intact, but something about his red-tinted nose caught my attention. Without hesitation, I plopped down beside him.

“Red nose... Is someone sick?” I teased lightly, trying to catch his attention.

His infamous grin spread across his face, almost as if it were second nature. “Mind your business,” he quipped, barely sparing me a glance.

I chuckled, shaking my head. “Well actually, I’m the nurse. This is my business.”

That seemed to catch him off guard. He turned to me, his grin softening into something that resembled amusement. “Fair,” he conceded, “but I’m not sick. Some idiot just threw a ball at me.”

“Oh, that’s funny,” I replied, raising an eyebrow. “Because that happened to me recently too.”

His gaze narrowed, a playful glint lighting up his striking blue eyes. “Are you calling me an idiot?” he asked, leaning slightly toward me, his tone light but teasing.

The sheer audacity of the situation made me burst into laughter, while I was taking a sip—resulting in the coffee exploding spectacularly all over my white shirt and on my face.

For a moment, silence hung between us before Kaiser’s eyes widened in disbelief. Then came his reaction: “You look insanely stupid right now,” he deadpanned, his lips twitching.

“I know,” I mumbled, my cheeks burning as I avoided his stare, mortified by my rather unusual clumsiness.

His laugh was instant and unrestrained, echoing in the nearly empty cafeteria. But it wasn’t his usual mocking chuckle; no, this laugh seemed genuine. His shoulders shaking as his eyes grew watery. It was... different. And somehow, the sound pulled me in.

Caught up in the absurdity of the situation and the rare warmth of his laughter, I found myself laughing too—though not at the coffee-stained mess I’d become, but as an answer to his laugh. Seeing Michael Kaiser, of all people, like this was oddly disarming.

“I should probably clean this up,” I said awkwardly after a moment, standing up to leave.

His gaze lingered on me as I walked away. I could feel it like a weight on my back, even as I disappeared into the hallway.

Left alone, Kaiser’s attention shifted to his reflection in the darkened TV screen. For a fleeting second, he caught sight of himself wearing an unguarded, genuine smile. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

“She’s an idiot,” he though.

He shook his head, refocusing on the replay, but the corners of his mouth twitched again, the thought of witnessing another one of my shenanigans lingering in his mind far longer than he cared to admit.

As the day unfolded, I buried myself in paperwork for two and a half hours before rushing to the field. He was still there.

This would become a habit—an unspoken agreement. Neither of us addressed it, but it was clear.

When I approached, his trademark smirk appeared. "Are you stalking me, or are you missing me already?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

I chuckled in response, leaning casually against the barrier. Before I could come up with a clever retort, he shot a ball directly at me. I barely dodged it this time.

"Good reflexes," he said with a slow clap, clearly entertained.

"Are you trying to kill me?" I shot back, sarcasm masking the adrenaline still pumping through my veins. My heart raced, but I kept my composure.

The ball rolled to a stop behind me. I picked it up and shot it back at him with, let’s say… slightly less precision. The ball missed him completely and soared into the goal instead.

His expression was a mix of disbelief and annoyance. "Lucky shot," he muttered.

I grinned triumphantly. "Skill only."

He scoffed. "Tch." And with that, he turned his back to me, resuming his drills, pretending I no longer existed.

I stood closer than usual now, watching him. "Don’t you have a water bottle?" I asked.

"Some idiot stole mine today," he grumbled. "When I find out who it is—"

I couldn’t help but laugh softly. If I were the culprit, I’d want to stay far, far away from Michael Kaiser.

Time passed, and at some point, he noticed me on the other side of the field, awkwardly mimicking his movements.

"That’s not how it’s done," he called out, exasperation lacing his tone.

He placed a ball on the ground, letting it roll for a moment before striking it with flawless precision. "Like that."

"You make it look easy," I said, walking closer to the goal. "Maybe I should try from here."

I attempted his move, but as the ball ricocheted off the goalpost and left the field I looked up at him.

"You’re terrible at this," he said, barely hiding his amusement.

"Good thing I’m not a footballer," I shot back. "But I can’t say you’re a good teacher."

His eyebrow arched. "It’s not difficult, you idiot."

"Not for the great Michael Kaiser," I teased with a chuckle.

He rolled his eyes but, to my surprise, set up another ball. This time, he explained each step while executing the move.

"That wasn’t so bad was it?" I asked proudly, succeeding after his clearer explanation.

He ignored me, returning to his training with a quiet huff.

I leaned against the goalpost, watching him intently. "I wish someone had taught me how to play football too. It looks so fun when you do it."

"Too?" he asked, his tone sharp. "I learned how to play alone."

I blinked, surprised. "No way. Your parents must’ve been amazing athletes then."

That’s when everything froze. He stopped mid-step, and for a moment, even the soft drizzle seemed to halt.

A lump formed in my throat. Had I said something wrong?

Without turning to me, he replied bitterly, "No, they're not."

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, driving an invisible wedge between us. I felt like I’d crossed a line I didn’t even know existed.

Instinct told me to leave, so I did—quietly, without another word.

I spent the night overthinking it all, replaying the scene in my mind. For days, I didn’t see even a shadow of him. He hadn’t left his usual spots; our timings just seemed to miss each other.

And it left me wondering: What the hell just happened?

That was until I was called onto the field during a training match. Noel Noa scolded me lightly for not being there as I usually was, but the weight of my guilt over the situation with Kaiser left me too drained to respond.

A player had injured himself, and “as usual”, he refused to seek my help. I had a small idea of who it might be.

Fate had an odd sense of humor, I thought, bringing us together in the most inconvenient ways.

As I approached him, he sat on the grass, glaring down at it as though it had personally offended him. His posture screamed irritation, his jaw clenched tightly.

“Hello, Michael,” I greeted, keeping my voice even.

No answer. Just a sharp glare in my direction, like a dagger aimed straight at my chest. I swallowed hard.

“Let me take care of you,” I offered.

“I told him I didn’t need your medical attention. What part of that does he not understand?” His tone was biting, his disdain palpable.

I sighed softly and crouched in front of him. “Michael.”

His eyes widened slightly at the sound of his name before flicking away from mine.

“Please,” I continued, my voice gentler. “At least let me take a look.”

He let out an exasperated sigh, as if granting me a favor, and muttered, “I don’t need your help.”

“But I need your well-being,” I countered, my voice cracking faintly.

“No, you don’t,” he shot back, his tone quieter this time. “I’ll be fine.”

I tilted my head, offering him a patient smile. “I doubt Noel will let you play unless you let me take a look.”

That argument seemed to hit its mark. Reluctantly, he pulled his hand from his pocket. It was smeared with sticky, drying blood. Someone must have stepped on it with their cleats. My stomach churned imagining the pain it must have been.

I sat down beside him and took his injured hand gently in mine, studying the wound. “This might sting a little,” I warned as I began cleaning the blood away with alcohol and tissues.

“Does it hurt?” I asked, focused on my task.

When I glanced up, I noticed his expression had softened. It wasn’t the usual arrogance or anger I’d come to associate with him—it was something different, quieter, almost vulnerable.

I continued cleaning the wound, careful and deliberate, as though I were handling something fragile. When I finished, I held his hand for a moment longer than necessary, expecting him to snatch it back. But he didn’t.

There was something profoundly strange about his demeanor. He sat there, a paradox of composure and vulnerability, his posture steady yet his eyes betraying a depth of confusion I’d never seen before. His gaze held an unnameable expression, something I couldn’t quite decipher, as if the moment we’d just shared was far more intimate than either of us had anticipated. The silence between us was heavy, not with tension, but with the weight of something unspoken, something fragile.

“Hey, Michael?” I asked softly. His head turned toward me, but he said nothing.

“Are you okay?” I added with a bright smile.

Still silence.

I stood up and rummaged through my bag. “Here,” I said, holding out a water bottle. “When Noel told me what happened, I knew it was you. I remembered you said someone stole yours last week.”

His gaze flicked between the bottle and me, and for a moment, I thought he might refuse.

So much gentleness and care all of a sudden was probably more than he could comprehend but he gently took it and looked up at me all in silence.

“I’ll tell Noel you’re good to go. If you need your bandages changed or anything else, my office is always open,” I said, standing.

As I walked away, I felt a quiet sense of accomplishment, as though I’d just witnessed something rare and fleeting—a glimpse of the real Michael Kaiser, the one hidden beneath the sharp edges and icy walls.

When I returned to Noel and reported that Kaiser was ready, he called him back to the field with a simple gesture. I sat on the sidelines, watching Michael play with an attentiveness I hadn’t felt before.

To me, he wasn’t just Michael Kaiser, the arrogant genius striker. He was someone I could call a friend. A friend I was proud to have, even if he could never know.