#kaiser x reader

🌑 Informations + How They Meet 🌕

Boyfriend Series — 🌹

Fiancé Series — 🎀

Married Series — 💍

Pregnancy Series — 🦋

Baby Series — 🍼

Toddler Series — 🧸

🌷Hors Series 🌷

Winter was a terrible time to live in Berlin. The once lively capital turned quieter, colder and more distant. The iced roads squelch under the soles of his shoes and he has to tighten his grip, allowing himself not to slip. 

Ever since they banned the usage of road salt, pebble stones were poured onto the icebound streets and somehow had to get the job done. Yet, they barely do anything—in fact they don’t do shit.

Michael feels the cold temperature rising to his head. Undoubtedly, his clothes are way too thin and flimsy for this weather, everyone would be able to tell at first glance. 

Not only is the scarf—if you could even call it that—not thick enough to keep him warm. It’s also that the jacket he wears isn’t suitable for this kind of weather and to make matters worse, his shoes are starting to fall apart—makes sense considering how long he’s had them. There were already holes that tore through the material of his shoes when he got them and now they’ve become too small for him to wear.

He has his old man to thank for that. 

There’s never enough food at home, every time he opens the fridge he’s met with the same disappointment. Even the fridge seems to mock him for the poor state he lives in. Not to mention they’re quite behind with this and last month’s rent. Heating costs, water costs the electricity bills — none of them could be paid. 

Other necessities like hygiene products, sufficient medical care or even school supplies weren’t covered by his father. While all his other classmates were attentively listening to what the teacher had to explain, he sat in the back of the class and scribbled onto a crumpled piece of paper he’d found on the floor. 

Ironically, there was never a shortage of alcohol at home. There’s not a single day where his drunkard of a father, sobers up to take over any form of responsibility. He’s willing to bet that his father doesn’t even know that it’s Michael’s birthday tomorrow. 

Everyone who indulges in alcohol is stupid. People drown in the essence of it until they’re no longer the same person. How do you even allow yourself to get to this point? Growing up with a father that would constantly be drunk made Michael develop a hatred for people who’d drink. To his dismay, Berlin wasn’t exactly the place where you could avoid it.

Matter of fact it was a paradise for the sorts of people he disliked. Ever since the legalisation of weed, the whole city reeks. People under the influence of something, doesn’t matter what, they’re all fucked in the mind. 

He brings up his hands to his face and exhales. The warm air—althought it’s not very helpful in matters of warming him up—makes him relax. That’s how his way to the U-Bahn proceeds, every now and then he’d rub his hands together before bringing them up to his face and breathe into them. 

If he’s lucky there wouldn’t be too many people around, it’s the night of Christmas Eve after all. Normal people with normal functioning families would spend their time together at home. You spend time with all your loved ones, sit around the dining table to enjoy a meal with them, and afterwards unwrap all the gifts that “Santa” brought.

He can’t even be mad. If he were to be honest, he’s envious. Christmas, the time of love and peace falls on the exact same day as his birthday. However, there was nothing loveable or peaceful about his life. All he’s ever known was rejection, disgust, violence. Whether it be from his peers or the adults around him. They all emitted a clear hatred against him.

Would anyone care if he disappeared? He doesn’t even need to think about it, because he knows the answer already. No one would even notice, who’s he kidding. He’s sure that his father would be happy. After all, there’s no point in living if it means having to continiue this shitty life. 

Sure, there was his football, but it’s just like Michael himself, another piece of trash that can be discared without a second thought. Living has no means or worth to it and he’s been proven one too many times that he has no worth either. 

That leaves the question: what is the point of living? 

Lost in his thoughts, he continues to walk down the concrete stairs that are stained with splotches of snow that are melting and turning into puddles of muddy water, until he reaches the platform. 

As he expected, there’s no one here. Maybe this was a sign. His thoughts have already consumed him, he found no reason to stay alive any longer. Simply, if his presence didn’t matter to anyone and he continues to live his life as a burden, then that must mean that only his absence would be seen as a sign of relief.

With that in mind he walks over to the train tracks, crossing over the white lines until he stands at the edge of the platform. There’s nothing to contemplate, nothing to reminisce before he decides to throw himself down the rails. His toes are already extending over the platform while his heels are still glued to the concrete. 

He’s already given up on everything, but somehow he can’t bring himself to end it. Why is he hesitating? The thought alone makes him furious, because there is no reason to live for him. So, why does he cling onto the hope that there is? How foolish.

The world passes him by like a train racing over the tracks. He puts his weight into the front and leans forward, expecting to be met with a heavy impact. But, instead of falling down and smelling rusted metal or track ballasts, the scent of tobacco embraces him. Someone’s hugging him from behind. He turns around and aggressively pushes them away, resulting in the person stumbling backwards. 

From the silhouette and the way you dress Michael guesses that person who just held him is a girl. Not to mention, quite a drunk girl. “Das ist was ich krieg’, obwohl ich dich gerade gerettet hab?” (That’s what I get for saving you now?) You hiccup before erupting into a fit of laughter.

Annoyed by your carefree attitude, he can’t help but feel mad. “Ich hab’ nicht danach gefragt, gerettet zu werden.” (I didn’t ask to be saved.) He snarls at you, and he fully expects you to leave, but to his surprise you don’t even seem to acknowledge it. 

All your mind is fixated on is sitting down and relaxing. The way you move and handle yourself—it’s sloppy and you look like you’re about to trip any second now, but Michael is wary of you, so all he does is simply watch your next move, instead of helping.

It’s actually quite impressive that you’re somehow able to sit yourself down, considering that you’re holding an open bottle without spilling it. Your head slumps against the metal seat, before spreading yourself out and taking up the majority of the room on the seat.

Suddenly your head pops up and for the first time this night, Michael can properly see your face. The word pretty flashes in his mind, but he’s quick to get rid of it. “Du hättest sowieso warten müssen.” (You would’ve needed to wait anyway.) You flash him a sleazy smile and nod your head towards the display panel. 

He follows your eyes towards the screen, it’s only then that he notices the bright orange moving text at the bottom. “Aufgrund von Eisbildung an den Stromschienen verspätet sich die Bahn. Wir bitten um Ihr Verständnis.” (Due to ice formation on the rails, the train is delayed. We ask for your understanding.)

He clicks his tongue before looking away. Could this situation be any worse? First he gets interrupted, secondly the person who saves him is a drunkard and lastly she’s trying to embarrass him after he had just considered taking his life.

“Aber jetzt mal im Ernst,” (But now in all seriousness,) you start off, taking a sip from the blue colored beverage that you hold in your hand. “Hugo” is boldly written on the sticker, underneath a percentage he can’t quite make out. “Geht’s dir denn gut?” (Are you doing well?) you ask him with curious eyes. “Offensichtlich nicht.” (Obviously not.) He retorts in anger and this time he expects you to get mad. 

Maybe you’d scream back or you’d be hurt and go away, but you stay. You remain seated and the corners of your lips tug upwards into an understanding smile. “Du musst nicht drüber reden, wenn du nicht willst, ‘tschuldigung. Ich check schon.” (You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to, sorry. I get it.)

There's radio silence after that, all he does is join you on the bench, still he makes sure that an empty seat remains in between the two of you. Sure, a tiny part of him feels bad, because there is someone who is willing to hear him out. He doubts that he’d open up to you, after all, he’s not entitled to do so, but your offer seems genuine that it makes him feel sorry for you. Albeit, you’re just drunk. You probably won’t even remember him the next day, so what's the use of it?

Seeing that he has nothing to say, your gaze drifts away from him, upwards to the analog clock that hangs next to the display panel. It’s 12 o’clock. A smile forms on your face and you let out a huff. “Frohe Weihnachten.” (Merry Christmas.) Not waiting for his response you chug down another sip of your drink, before wiping your mouth with the end of your sleeve.

He just nods in acknowledgement and stares down at the concrete floor to avoid looking at you. But, just because one of his senses is focused elsewhere, doesn’t mean that he completely drowns out his surroundings. 

No matter how much you try to cover them, Michael still hears your muffled cries. He’s the last person to run to when you need comfort, helping over sentimental and emotional people wasn’t one of his strengths. 

At first he tries to ignore it; he pretends not to hear you, but as soon as your breath starts to stagger, he allows himself to cast a glance in your direction. In the empty seat stands your now almost empty Hugo bottle completely abandoned. “Boah, nee.” (Hell, no.) He sighs in disbelief. Just now you were a cheery drunk and now you had to be a sad one?

But, leaving you here alone would be wrong. At least when there are tears streaking down your face, you look like you’re about to hyperventilate and when he’s partially “indebted” to you.

Remembering how you approached him, Michael attempts to do the same. “Äh, geht’s?” (Uh, you good?) But that seems to only make it worse, because you only start to heave more. He’s barely able to make out what you’re saying, there are incoherent bits, but because you keep interrupting yourself with sobs it’s hard to understand. 

“Es muss doch wohl auch alles schief gehen.” (Just everything has to go wrong.) Using the palms of your hands you try to dry your eyes and in the process of doing so, you accidentally smudge the bits of mascara around the corners of your eyes.

"Zuerst kam die Bahn zu spät und dann als ich endlich beim Casting war, wollten die schon aufhören,” (First the train was late and then when I finally got to the casting they already wanted to wrap up.) You sniffle and Michael notices how swollen your eyes have become. “Aber ich hab’s doch irgendwie hingekriegt, sie zu überzeugen. Die wollten dann halt meine Portfolios sehen und dann hab’ ich erst gemerkt, dass ich sie vergessen hab’.” (But I somehow managed to convince them. They wanted to see my portfolios and only then did I realise that I forgot them.) 

You stop mid-sentence again and from what he’s gathered, you seem to be a model—an aspiring one, it appears. “Doch die meinten dann, dass ich sie auch später schicken kann und erstmal zeigen soll, wie ich laufe, und oh mein Gott, digga, wie der größte Hurensohn bin ich hingefallen, und dann, dann war’s, ja,” (But they told me that I could also send them those later and show them how I walk first, and oh my god, i tripped like the biggest son of a bitch, and then, then it was, yeah.) You try to catch your breath afterward, before taking a small sip of the blue Hugo.

You’re clearly drunk and not in the right state of mind. He can’t stand being around the likes of you, people who try to make their problems disappear by drinking them away. If you just end up crying, throwing a fit or becoming aggressive, then you should just avoid it. He never saw the appeal of it and never will.

Unsure of what to do, he remains quiet and lets his eyes wander. Honestly, listening to your sob story just made him feel irritated and a tad bit annoyed, because wasn’t all of that preventable? Some preparation would’ve fixed all of that. However he bites back the urge to say that. Maybe if it had been someone else he would’ve expressed it, but he’s expecting you to start crying again if he were to tell you and he doesn’t want to deal with that.

His eyes roam around until they land on the hand you’re holding the glass bottle in. And that’s when he catches a glimpse of the back of your hand—there are tiny dark spots adorning your skin. They aren’t very obvious, in fact they’re so subtle that he’s intrigued to ask what they are.

Although what he wasn’t expecting was for you to speak up. “Willst du?” (Do you want?) You tilt your head to the side, offering him a small smile along with the bottle of Hugo. Michael can’t help but think to himself that you look completely different to the version of you a minute ago. You’re like a completely different person.

Also, it seems like you misread his curiosity, because it wasn’t the alcohol he was eyeing. He refuses your offer on the spot with a disgusted remark. “Ich bin nicht mal alt genug für den Scheiß.” (I’m not even old enough for this shit.) And for some reason that is what makes your eyes widen in surprise.

“Hä, wie alt bist du denn?” (Huh, how old are you then?) You ask dumbfounded and he can see how your grip on the bottle tightens. “15,” he pauses for a moment. “16 seit paar Minuten.” (16 since a few minutes.) Your eyebrows furrow together in confusion, before you start to laugh. “Niemals. Du laberst doch.” (No way. You’re lying.) 

Unlike you who’s laughing, Michael didn’t really see what was so funny about it and shook his head. For some reason that makes you giggle even more and he’d be lying if the sound of it didn’t do something to him. 

“Hab zumindest gedacht, dass wir gleich alt sind. Dachte, du bist safe 17.” (I thought at least we’d be the same age. Was so sure that you’re 17.) You continue your laughing spree for a good minute until you stop. It looks like you realized something. “Alles Gute zum Geburtstag dann!” (Happy Birthday then!) You say in a sing-song voice and for some reason a small smile slips. “Danke.” (Thanks.)

However, he should’ve known that nothing good comes out of your mouth, because next thing he knows you’re offering alcohol again. “Schau mal, jetzt bist du alt genug, um zu trinken!” (Look now you’re old enough to drink!) you tease him and extend the bottle towards him, but he’s still adamant on refusing you. “Alter, pack das weg.” (Dude, put that away.) He grumbles and you can’t help but laugh.

Still, there’s something bothering him, he doesn’t realize how long he’s staring, until you cough, seemingly having caught on. “Brandflecken von Kippen.” (Burnmarks from cigarettes.) You set down the glass bottle and hold up your hand into the light to look at the marks. A smile forms on your face, but it’s different from the one you wore before. It’s a sad smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Ist immer noch eine schlechte Gewohnheit.” (It’s still a bad habit.) You chuckle before tucking the hand into the pocket of your jacket, as if you try to gloss over it. However, it seems like, because his curiosity got the better of him, yours is too, because this time it’s not your hand which is in the spotlight, but to his dismay, his; your gaze has settled on his hand.

He doesn’t even have to look down to know what you’re referring to. There are fresh marks grazing his damaged knuckles. It’s disgusting how well he remembers the taste of the mixed spit with stomach acid and how they were frothing at his mouth. The way his knuckles hit the back of his throats before purging, it’s a habit he's not sure he can live without. 

It’s almost masochistic—inflicting pain towards yourself because you feel like you deserve it. It serves as a reminder for him that he’s being punished for something and needs to do better. Although, not because he enjoys it, but because he feels like that’s the only thing he’s deserving of. 

Before he can say anything you’re already speaking. “Jedenfalls, komm mal mit.” (Anyway, come with me.) And just like that you switched the topic of the conversation. Whether you knew that he wasn’t gonna open up to you like prior and took it into consideration this time or you just didn’t care for his answer—it didn’t really matter to him, because he was thankful that you didn’t snoop around more for whatever reason it may be.

And he does — he comes along with you. He’s known you for less than an hour, you caught him in a crucial moment and talked to him—there’s nothing more to your fleeting relationship. Sticking around with a drunk 17 year old girl wasn’t the smartest decision he’s ever made, but it was better than staying with his shitty father who’d only order him around or physically abuse him as soon as he got home.

Any place is better than going back home. Whether that be staying in an underground U-Bahn station, walking around on the snow clad streets of Berlin or sitting in front of a Späti as he’s waiting for the stranger he just met.

As if on cue, you appear. In your hand you hold a glass battle, however it doesn’t appear to be alcohol this time. You sit opposite of him and set the bottle down the table, motioning for him to take it. “Alles Gute.” (Congrats.) He recognizes the label—it’s a Fritz-Kola, yet, he’s confused by your gesture.

Seeing that he’s not taking the bottle, your eyes widen as if realition hit you. You rummage with the pockets of your jacket and take out a bedazzled lighter, before placing it below the lid of the bottle and popping it open. “Hier.” (Here.) You hand him the now open bottle and he takes it from you. 

After that the two of you just sit in silence. The neon lights that are illuminating the shop cast a nice glow on you and he can’t help but watch as you precisely slide your tongue over the tobacco filled rolling paper to seal it. 

Eventually, he does speak up, for a reason he’s unsure of himself. “Warum willst du eigentlich modeln?” (Why do you even want to model?) You think about it for a while and take a drag from your poorly rolled cigarette. “Hmm, gute Frage." (Hmm, good question.) And you have the audacity to just laugh about it. “Du hast nicht mal ‘nen Grund?” (You don’t even have a reason?) He deadpans, because he’d at least expect you to have some sort of serious motivation, after crying over it not too long ago.

“Muss man denn für alles einen Grund haben?” (Does one need to have a reason for everything?) You ash your cigarette, the remaints landing in the ash tray on the table. The carefree smile you wear on your lips confuses him, because if there was no reason for doing it, then why would you still bother? “

Your gaze lingers on him for a while until you speak up. “Ist zwar mega banal, aber berühmt zu sein und von Leuten beneidet zu werden, ist schon echt cool. Checkst du?” (It’s kinda silly, but being famous and having people envy you is pretty cool. Do you get me?) You chuckle in amusement, but he just lets out an exasperated sigh at your reasoning.

“Ich check schon, aber es ist jetzt nicht so als ob’s einfach wär’.” (I do get it, but it’s not like it’s easy.) He argues, but your smile doesn’t falter, in fact it only seems to widen at his remark. “Hab ich auch nicht behauptet,” (I never said it was.) you retort and put out your cigarette by drilling the burning end onto the table. “aber wo ist sonst der Spaß?” (but where’s the fun then?)

He didn’t expect that to be your answer and he’d lie if he said that it didn’t affect his way of seeing things. For the first time in his life, Michael sees a new side of this gruesome world. 

Unlike you Michael was not someone who had any goals—someone like him didn’t dare to dream.

“Außerdem ist es nicht unmöglich.” (Also, it’s not like it’s impossible.) Your words catch him off guard and he cocks his head to the side, questioning your statement. “Meinst du?” (You think so?) Humans had limits to them, whether it wasn’t ones they set for themselves there’d always be something else that blocks the path ahead. “Nichts ist unmöglich.” (Nothing’s impossible.) You shrug in simplicity and Michael wonders how you can say that so easily.

Do you realize the weight your words carry; are you aware that you just tipped over his world and created a new maxim for him?

But, before he can ask you any further you start to cough. It gets increasingly worse and you press your hand over your mouth as if suppressing something. “Ist alles gut?” (Are you okay?) He asks, hoping you don’t catch onto the worry that clings at his words. You just hum and nod your head up and down, although it was quite obvious that you weren’t doing good.

“Gib mir ‘nen Momen--” (Give me a momen–”) You take off the hand over your mouth to assure, not realizing the following consequences. The way you were coughing was scarily familiar, it’s something he’d often see his father do.

He leaned back just enough to give you space, in case you’d make a mess on the table. Luckily for him (and probably the owners of the shop) you turned your head to the side and vomited onto the pavement before letting your head fall down the table.

“Boah, ich bin so knock.” (Fuck, I’m so through.) You groan and he’s surprised you can even lift your head again before throwing up on the sidewalk once more. Your head slumps back onto the table and Michael just sits there for a moment in disbelief.

This has to be some sort of joke.

—

He comes to learn your name when he arrives at the ER with you clinging onto his now vomit stained jacket. You weren’t unconscious, but claiming that you were all sane would be a lie. At least you were responsive, even if that was only in the form of whines.

It’s surprisingly crowded, honestly he didn’t expect that so many people would be rushing to the ER during Christmas. Fortunately, you received treatment quite early. 

In the meantime Michael sat outside in the bleak hallways, pondering. He’s got to have some, if not several screws loose to drag a complete stranger to the ER — could you even be considered strangers at this point anymore? Aside from that there’s this weird feeling in his chest.

He’s on edge because he doesn’t know what’s happening to you and that might be the worst thing. How come he’s grown to care for you? The realization bothers him and he balls his fists together to stay calm. His nails press into the rough skin of his palm and the sting is the only thing that keeps Michael distracted from his thoughts.

There are rapid steps echoing through the hallway and all of a sudden there are two adults standing in front of him, a man and a woman. The woman’s eyes flicker around the surroundings and land on the room number. 

“Ist Frau [Nachname] hier?” (Is Ms. [Surname] here?) She asks in a worried tone, still trying to catch her breath. Michael just nods his head in agreement and both the man and the woman sigh in relief. “Dann musst du wohl die Person sein, die unsere Tochter hier hingebracht hat. Vielen Dank.” (Then you must be the person who brought our daughter here. Thank you very much.) 

The pair introduces themselves as your parents as they profusely continue to apologize to him for the problems you caused. Yet, that’s the least thing he’s stuck up on. It’s the fact that Michael is not used to being treated like this; all he’s ever known was distaste. But, now standing in front of him were two adults who thanked him full heartedly and didn't mark him off as a piece of trash.

He simply swallows and nods. “Es war nix.” (It was nothing.) The tips of his ears are reddening and he can feel his face getting warmer. He blames it on the cold. Standing there awkwardly and unsure of what to do now, he merely coughs. “Ich würd’ dann jetzt gehen.” (I’d leave now then.) 

But before he can go, your mother intervenes.

“Darf ich fragen, wie du heißt?” (May I ask what your name is?) His eyes slightly widened for a moment, because he was under the assumption that your parents were only being this nice for the sake of being polite. “Michael.” He responds after a while and just nods, attitude aloof and relaxed, but internally he’s just cringing at his own awkwardness. 

Your mother gives him a soft smile and he immediately spots the resemblance between the two of you. “Dann vielen Dank Michael.” (Then thank you very much Michael.) He can’t wrap his head around having parents who are this sincere. 

Naturally, because Michael never experienced anything like this ever on his own. In response he musters up the courage to give her an awkward smile, before turning his head.

“Mach’s gut und hab noch ein schönes Weihnachtsfest!” (Goodbye and have a nice Christmas celebration!) Your parents wave him off as he walks along the gloomy corridors of the ER. 

Michael was opposed to celebrating his birthday, let alone acknwleding it. It meant having to come to the terms that he was indeed born into this shithole of a world and has lived his life doing nothing. Every year is just another painful reminder.

Ironically it's on the same day as Christmas, a festival that's supposed to be celebrated by many. But that was never the case. His father wasn’t interested in Michael as a person in the slightest, all he was, was a tool. 

A day that was supposed to celebrate his birth? For him it’s never been anything else than a slap in the face that reminds him that no one cares for him.

However, this year might have been the sole exception. You were the first person who wished him a happy birthday tonight and maybe actually the first person to ever do so. 

His heart beats in his chest as he thinks about you. It’s a feeling he hasn’t familiarized with yet, but he doesn’t dislike it per se. The way you laugh about his stupid remarks, how fast you talk when youre excited and how you get too close to him without realizing it, it makes his heart flutter.

He wonders if you remember grabbing onto his hand on the way to the ER and refusing to let go. How you nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck in the waiting room. You practically wailed when they wouldn’t let him go into the room with you. Maybe you’re already doing better now and finally resting.

At the thought of that content fills him, but it’s easily washed away by a wave of insecurity. Would you even remember him after you woke up? Even the mere thought of it makes him feel uneasy, because no matter how much he tries to deny it, he’s grown to care about you. 

No one makes him feel the same way you do. He supposes, that this is what love is — the one and only thing he's always secretly wished for. 

If this — if you, were this year’s gift to him, to make up for all the other years he spent drowning in the endless pool called loneliness, then he’d make sure to keep you all to himself and get you to remember him.

After all, "Nichts ist unmöglich.” (Nothing’s impossible.) He’ll beat the odds for you and make the impossible possible if that means being with you.

END NOTE: you know how we see michael chokes himself in one of the chapters, i wanted to incorporate that here to make it look like a habit he's been actively engaging in since early on, but switched it up. basically its become a coping mechanism.

Michael Kaiser

You don't know when you got here, you don't know how you got here but that doesn't matter right now the only thing on your brain is the fact you have THE Micheal Kaiser dick in your sweet pussy.

The euphoric feeling of that man dick genuine love need to be studied, the amount of position this man has given you in under 30 minutes makes you want to look at his search history,and I'm a FIRM believer he dirty talks you so here is some of the stuff I believe would happen while he fucks you

"Stay still for me Schatz, that's it. Oh fuck, your pretty little pussy takes my dick so well"

"Hold it, don't you dare cum yet"

Whenever u cum he's just like "oh fuck, stay still, I need a taste of that knotty little cunt of yours before I keep going"

"Oh darling, that's it. Such a good girl for me"

"I want to see you beg for it Schatz"

He LOVES choking you

Will leave hickeys, bite marks, choking marks etc on you

No labels. No mornings after that last longer than a cigarette. No soft questions about what any of this means. The second you try—when you’re still shaking and full of him and the sheets are a wreck and you whisper something stupid like what are we even doing—he shuts it down so fast it leaves a bruise. A sharp, almost fond laugh. A kiss that tastes like dismissal. “Don’t ruin it,” he murmurs against your mouth, and then he’s already reaching for his clothes.

You tell yourself you’ll stop answering.

Weeks go by. Silence so complete it starts to feel permanent. You see him in grainy paparazzi shots outside clubs, arm slung around some other girl’s shoulders, that same arrogant half-smile he wears when he knows cameras are watching.

You delete his number once. Twice. Then you put it back because the alternative is worse—because your body still remembers the exact way he fucks into you like he’s trying to leave a permanent mark, because some pathetic part of you still waits for the knock that might never come.

And then, without warning, he’s there again.

Tonight it’s the knock on your door instead of a text. You’re still in the same oversized shirt you slept in, hair a mess, when you open it and find him leaning against the frame like he owns the threshold. Jacket still on, ice blue eyes already dark with intent. That tattoo on the side of his neck half-hidden by the collar of his shirt, the ink dark and sharp against pale skin.

He steps inside without waiting for an invitation. The door clicks shut behind him. The coat comes off in one smooth motion—expensive wool sliding from those broad shoulders—and he drops it over the back of your chair like he’s done it a hundred times.

You don’t move.

“I’ve heard you’ve been out with some other girl,” you say. The words come out quieter than you meant them to.

Kaiser’s mouth curves, slow and completely unapologetic. He steps closer until the space between you disappears, until you can smell his cologne and the faint trace of cigarette smoke that isn’t yours. His hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he’s already decided how this ends.

“What you heard is true,” he says, voice low, almost conversational. “But I can’t stop thinking about you.”

The admission sits heavy between you. It shouldn’t mean anything, it never does, and yet your chest still aches.

His mouth finds yours like he’s been starving for it. There’s nothing soft in the way he kisses you—only heat, desire, and the kind of desperation he would never admit to out loud.

His hands are already under the hem of your shirt, palms sliding over bare skin, mapping every place he’s touched before. You arch into him without thinking, and the soft sound you make against his mouth makes him laugh, low and rough.

“Missed this,” he murmurs against your throat, teeth grazing the spot that always makes your knees weaken. “I Missed how wet you get the second I touch you.”

Clothes disappear in pieces. Your shirt hits the floor. His follows, and the full canvas of him is revealed under the low light—broad shoulders, the cut of his abs, the heavy length of his cock already hard and straining.

The blue rose on his neck sits high and proud, petals sharp and inked deep. His tattoo sprawl across his shoulder and arm: intricate black chain-like thorny stems and vines that wind over his arm, curl around his biceps, and trail down toward his hand. You’ve traced them with your tongue more times than you can count. They look even darker against the flush rising on his skin now.

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, carries you the short distance to the bed, and lays you down with a care that feels almost cruel next to everything else.

But he doesn’t settle between your thighs right away.

Instead he kisses down your body—slow, open-mouthed, lingering on the soft underside of your breasts, the dip of your stomach, the sensitive skin just above your hip bones. His hands push your thighs apart with practiced ease, and the second he looks down at you, already glistening for him, something dark and hungry flashes across his face.

“Fuck,” he breathes, almost to himself. “This. This is my favorite thing in the entire fucking world.”

Then his mouth is on you.

Kaiser eats you out like he’s been craving it for weeks—because he has. There’s no hesitation, no teasing first. He flattens his tongue and drags it from your entrance all the way up to your clit in one long, filthy stroke, then does it again, and again, until your hips are already twitching.

He groans against you like the taste of you is better than anything else he’s had lately, the vibration making you gasp. The tattoos on his arm and hand flex as he holds your thighs open wide, the ink shifting with every movement of muscle.

“Shit—” It slips out of you on a shaky breath the second his tongue presses flat against your clit. “Oh my god…”

His hands hold your thighs open wide, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he settles in properly. He sucks your clit between his lips, tongue flicking in tight, relentless circles while he watches your face from between your legs.

Every time you try to close your thighs he just tightens his grip and goes harder—lapping at you, tongue pushing inside you, then dragging back up to suck on your clit like he’s trying to pull another sound out of you. That blue rose on his neck fully visible now, moving with every flex of his throat as he works.

“Missed how you taste,” he murmurs against your soaked cunt, voice rough and almost reverent. “Missed how fucking wet you get for me. Look at this—shit—already dripping down my chin.”

“Mmmm—Don’t stop,” you whisper, fingers already tightening in his hair. “Fuck—please, that feels so good”

He dives back in, messier now, more desperate. Two fingers slide into you without warning, curling deep while his mouth stays locked on your clit, sucking and licking in time with the thrust of his hand.

Every time he pulls his fingers almost all the way out, your slick follows—thick and glossy, sliding down the length of them in a slow, shameless trail. Kaiser’s eyes drop to watch it happen. He watches as it runs over his knuckles and down his hand, the clear wetness catching the light as it coats the sharp inked points.

His tongue slows for just a second, something almost possessive flickering across his face at the sight of you marking him like that. Then he pushes the fingers back in deeper, twisting them, and goes back to sucking on your clit like the interruption never happened.

The wet sounds are obscene. You’re already shaking, thighs trembling around his head, fingers tangled in his blue-and-blonde hair as he works you open like he has all the time in the world and nowhere else he’d rather be. Your nails scrape over the ink on his shoulder, tracing the lines you’ve memorized by now.

“Feels so good,” you breathe, voice breaking. “You’re gonna make me come—please—”

He doesn’t stop when you start to get close. If anything he doubles down—his tongue starting faster, fingers deeper, the occasional soft scrape of teeth that makes your back arch off the bed.

When you come it’s with a broken cry, hips jerking against his mouth as he keeps licking you through it, drinking every pulse of your orgasm like he’s starved for it. Only when you’re twitching and oversensitive does he finally pull back, lips shiny, chin wet, eyes dark with pure satisfaction. A strand your wetness glistening on the edge of his tattoo on his throat.

“Best fucking thing,” he says, voice low and wrecked as he crawls up your body. “Could stay down there for hours and still not get enough.”

Then he’s kissing you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue while he lines himself up. Instead of pushing in right away, he takes the swollen head of his cock and drags it slowly over your clit, smearing the thick bead of precum that has gathered there in lazy, deliberate circles. The wet heat of it makes your hips twitch. He does it again, and again, coating you in himself until your clit is shiny and slick with both of you, watching your face the entire time.

“Just put it in please—” The words leave you on a shaky breath.

Only then does he finally sink into you, slow and deep and deliberate, the stretch burning in the best way after how thoroughly he just worked you open. You dig your nails into the sheets as he bottoms out, filling you completely, and the low, satisfied sound he makes against your neck goes straight to your core.

He starts to move.

Deep, rolling thrusts that drag against every sensitive place inside you. His hands grip your hips hard enough to leave marks, holding you still so he can fuck into you exactly how he wants—controlled, relentless, possessive. The muscles of his torso flex and shift with every snap of his hips, the ink on his arm stand out in sharp relief as he braces himself above you.

“Oh—“ you whimper on a shaky breath, “—Oh my god, you’re so deep.”

The pace builds until the only sounds in the room are the wet slap of skin and the broken noises neither of you bother to swallow. Every time he bottoms out you feel him in your stomach. Every time he pulls almost all the way out you clench around him, trying to keep him inside.

“Don’t stop, you whisper, voice already fraying. “Please—don’t—ngh—stop.”

Your fingers stay clenched tight in the sheets, knuckles white, because if you touch him too gently he might remember this is supposed to mean nothing.

Kaiser notices.

Without slowing the deep, rolling drive of his hips, he reaches down, pries your hand free from the tangled sheets, and places it flat over the center of his chest. Right over his heart. His skin beneath your palm is warm, the muscle solid, and for a few long seconds you feel the hard, rapid beat of it under your hand.

His eyes stay locked on yours the entire time—blue, sharp, and almost too honest. Neither of you look away, the room feels smaller. The weeks of silence, the other girl, every time he’s walked out without looking back—all of it sits between you in the space of those few heartbeats. The palm of his hand rests over your knuckles, a quiet, constant pressure.

Then something flickers across his face. Realization. Panic, almost.

He doesn’t say a word.

Instead he drags your hand slowly down his torso, over the ridges of his abs, through the dark trail of his hair leading lower, until he guides your fingers between your own legs and presses them firmly against your swollen clit. He keeps his hand over yours, making you touch yourself while he continues to fuck into you, eyes never leaving yours. The contact is too intimate, too deliberate. Your breath stutters.

“Feel that, baby?” he murmurs, voice rough, still watching you like he’s daring you to look away first. “That’s what you do to me. Don’t forget it.”

“I can’t,” you admit, soft and broken, still looking at him. “I never can.”

The moment breaks, but the ache of it lingers.

He shifts the angle, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and keeps driving into it until you’re shaking underneath him. Your legs wrap around his waist, your free hand raking down his back, leaving a trail of marks. The pressure builds fast and brutal, coiling tight in your lower stomach until it snaps—your second orgasm crashing through you so hard you cry out, walls fluttering and clamping down around him as you come.

“Micha—haah—mmm—fuck, I’m—“ your voice breaks on his name as the wave hits.

The nickname hits him like a physical blow. His rhythm stutters hard, a low, almost wounded sound tearing out of his throat. His grip on your hip tightens until it borders on painful, and for a split second the arrogance in his eyes cracks completely, leaving something raw and desperate in its place.

He buries his face against your neck like he can’t stand to let you see it, but he doesn’t stop moving. If anything he fucks into you harder, like he’s trying to fuck the sound of his own name out of your mouth.

And then, voice rough and low and barely more than a breath against your skin, he says it in German — something soft and broken he would never risk in English.

“Ich bin dein... nur dein.”

You don’t understand, but the way his voice cracks around them lets you guess enough. He keeps thrusting through it, forehead pressed to your temple, like the admission cost him something.

Kaiser doesn’t stop.

He fucks you through it, chasing his own release with harder, deeper thrusts that keep you oversensitive and gasping. You can feel him getting closer—the way his rhythm stutters, the way his grip on your hips tightens, the low, almost pained sound that leaves his throat. The tattoos on his shoulder and arm are slick with sweat now, the black designs gleaming under the dim light.

“Gonna come inside you,” he rasps against your ear, voice wrecked. “Fill this pretty pussy up until it’s dripping down your thighs. That what you want? Want me to leave you full of me again?”

“Yes,” you breathe, too far gone to pretend otherwise. “Yes—please, come inside me. I want it.”

His hips snap forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he comes hard—hot, pulsing spurts flooding deep inside you. You feel every thick pulse, every twitch of his cock as he empties himself into you, painting your walls and staying pressed deep like he’s trying to make sure none of it escapes, his breath ragged against your neck.

His body is tense and shaking above yours, his tattoo rising and falling with every heavy breath. For a long moment he just stays there, buried to the root, letting you feel the wet heat of him still spilling into you. His eyes stay on yours even now, something raw and unfinished sitting behind the usual arrogance.

Only when the last aftershock fades does he finally ease out.

You feel the immediate rush of his cum leaking out of you, warm and messy between your thighs. Kaiser watches it with dark, satisfied eyes, then reaches down and pushes two fingers back inside you, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to keep as much of himself in you as possible. The wet sound of it is obscene. You whimper, oversensitive, and he just smirks. The ink on his forearm flexes as he works his fingers deeper.

“Look at that,” he murmurs. “All fucked out and still full of me. Perfect.”

Afterward he doesn’t leave right away.

He stays long enough for the sweat to cool, long enough for his fingers to trace idle patterns on your stomach, long enough for the almost-confession of his heartbeat under your palm to sit between you like a third presence. Long enough for you to almost—almost—ask the question again.

But you don’t. You’ve learned. The second the words start to form, his hand stills, and the quiet that settles over the bed is answer enough. Your gaze drifts over his tattoos one more time—the rose at his throat, the design that wraps shoulder and arm—before he finally moves.

Eventually he gets up. Pulls his clothes back on with the same unhurried grace he arrived with. The coat goes back over his shoulders, covering most of his tattoos again. At the door he pauses, looks back at you still tangled in the sheets, thighs sticky with what he left inside you, and the smile he gives you is soft in a way that hurts more than the silence ever did.

“I’ll see you,” he says.

You both know what that means.

Midnight will come again. Or it won’t. Weeks will stretch. Someone else will be on his arm in the next photograph. And still, when the knock comes—or the text, or the idle engine outside your building—you will open the door.

Because you can’t leave each other alone.

And neither of you has or will ever pretended otherwise.

art - v3raxyy

dividers - @/cafekitsune

an - reader’s meaf cause I wouldn’t leave ether if he was an eater and the dih was fire :/