𝓥.

wc. 2k part 1 here

You told yourself it was just one game.

You'd watch from the stands. You wouldn't try to get close. You wouldn't make it weird—you are a reasonable person who did not fly to Japan to stalk her childhood crush slash almost-friend that doesn't even remember her.

You'd watch one game and go home.

That was the plan.

Germany versus South Korea. Knockout match.

You found the cheapest seat in the stadium and you sat in it with your scarf pulled up to your nose and you watched him.

He moved differently now. Still fast, the way he'd been fast at twelve—fast like someone who'd always needed to be—but now there was intention behind it. Purpose. He didn't just move. He decided to move and the pitch rearranged itself around him.

He scored four times and Germany won.

You told yourself to go back to the hotel after the game.

But you didn't go back to the hotel.

You'd always been like this. You knew that about yourself. Some part of you that never fully learned to leave Michael Kaiser alone—the same part that followed a boy home from school, that grabbed a boy's hoodie on a street and simply refused to let go.

The stadium tunnel wasn't impossible to slip into. Not if you acted like you belonged. Not if you walked with purpose and kept your lanyard visible and didn't make eye contact with anyone who might ask questions.

You kept your eyes forward and your heart was going insane.

You convinced yourself “just a glimpse of him up close”

You just want to see how tall he’s grown, how his voice has deepened now maybe? So, you walked towards where you know the locker room is. You feel like a creep but the desire to see him again was stronger.

Then you heard a loud slam that made you halt in your steps.

You took a cautious step closer wanting to hear more, then something was thrown and it hit a wall. More shouting—the kind that bounced off concrete and came back louder. The locker room door was ahead, slightly ajar, voices spilling out through the gap.

That's the German locker room, you realized.

“Are they fighting—”

You didn't get to finish the thought because the door suddenly swung open and you saw a figure walk out.

That tall height, that blonde hair and that intense angry aura that seeps through his very being.

Kaiser was still in his kit. Damp at the collar, chest still heaving slightly from the match. His expression was thunderous—jaw set, brow low, eyes scanning the corridor like he was looking for someone else to fight.

Then he saw you.

You thought he'd never recognize you but you watched it happen in real time. The way he scanned your face. The way he paused. The way his eyes moved over you like he was pulling something up from somewhere very deep and very far away.

Then the crease between his brows deepened.

“Oh no…” you thought.

He crossed the distance in four steps, grabbed your arm, and pulled you down the corridor without a word.

He found a side room. Storage, maybe. Spare equipment stacked against the walls. A single overhead light. He pushed the door shut behind him and turned and glared at you and you stood there holding the strap of your lanyard like it was the only stable thing in the room.

“What are you doing here.”

Not a question. You remembered that about him too.

“I—I didn't—I was just—”

“WHAT. Are you doing here.” Each word its own sentence. His voice was low and hushed. But the hush was doing a lot of work containing a much louder rage underneath.

“I came to watch you...” you said, small and honest.

Something flickered across his face.

Then he moved—fast—both palms hitting the wall behind you, caging either side of your head with a sound that made you flinch. He leaned in. His blue eyes were inches from yours and they were furious and exactly the same as you remembered.

“WHY.” His eyes narrowed, full of pent up anger. “Why did you come all the way here? You can't watch the game on your phone screen? You had to fly across the world—”

“I just wanted to see you—”

“WHY?!” Michael snapped. His voice cracked at the edges. Not breaking. Splitting. Like something behind it was pressing too hard.

“You're not supposed to be here yet. Do you understand that? You're not—” He exhaled sharply, his gaze flickering and his jaw worked.

“You’re not supposed to see me like this! I still have nothing to show you. Nothing!” He raised his voice, his anger spiking.

“That kid you knew back then? That dirty kid from sixth grade? You think I'm any different? You think I'm better now? I'm not. I'm still the same. I'm still a piece of shit, a nobody just like that kid and you're standing here looking at me like that!”

His voice dropped.

“Do you think I should feel happy right now? That you're here?”

“Michael—”

“Shut up!” He pushed off the wall. Turned away. His hand went through his damp hair and stayed there, gripping.

“Know your place. You should know your place! You need to—you need to leave. Go back to your life, to whatever the fuck you're doing—” He paced back and forth like a caged animal.

“Just fuck off!”

Silence.

Your hands were trembling and cold, fingers white around your lanyard. But fear had nothing to do with it. Because you weren't afraid of him. You've never been afraid of him—not when he shoved you to the ground at twelve, not now. Kaiser had always been like this. All bared teeth and raised hackles, snarling at anything that came too close. And you'd always been the idiot standing there anyway, hands open, thinking “I know. I know. I just want to get close enough to help.”

You never knew how to make him come to you. You only ever knew how to stay.

You thought about a big house with dead vines on the gate. You thought about standing on the pavement outside it, listening to the shouting, and doing nothing. Going home. Telling yourself what could you even do, you were just a little girl, it wasn't your fault.

You were twelve years old the last time you let yourself believe that.

You weren't twelve anymore.

Something locked into place in your chest—quiet and certain and completely immovable.

So you let your voice out even though it came out wrong and too scared—but you said it anyway.

“Let me watch you win.”

He went still.

“Let me stay here.”

Michael's fists clenched at his sides, his sharp blue eyes burning into yours with intensity but beneath it something fragile flickered.

“I want to watch you win.” Your voice shook but you didn't stop.

“I want to be here for you. I'm not—I'm not going to let you push me away again. I'll be here. I'll watch you take everything. I'll watch you conquer it all.” You breathed. “And if you lose—”

He shook his head, not wanting to hear it.

“—I'll still be here.”

The storage room was very quiet.

Kaiser looked at you for a long moment. Really looked—the same way he had in the park at twelve, like you'd said something his brain didn't have a category for. Like you kept arriving in his life saying things that tore down his walls.

“Why are you so stubborn.” he said finally. Quiet. Exhausted.

“Because I'm your friend.” you said.

And something ignited behind his eyes. His anger flared once again.

“Friend.” The word came out like something bitter.

“I don't want to be your friend.” Michael gritted out as he stepped closer. “Didn't I make that clear? We can't be friends. I cannot be your friend.”

“Michael—”

“I cannot!” He snapped. The anger was still there but underneath it now you could hear the edges of something else. Something raw and unsteady that he was working very hard to keep contained.

His jaw was tight—a muscle jumping under the skin—and he looked at you for a long time before he spoke.

“I don't want to be just friends.”

His expression twisted, conflicted. It was supposed to be easier than this.

“I told myself—” He bit out, voice sharp like broken glass.

“That if I was going to—if I was going to let myself keep you—” The word landed heavy and he dragged a hand through his hair, restless, agitated.

“—I had to at least be something first. Something that isn't easily trampled. Because I'm nothing. I was nothing then and I still am now.” His voice cracked. He turned away sharply, throat working.

“I want to be someone that could be there for you. Someone that can protect you. Someone that deserves to be there. Someone that—someone that you could be proud of.”

For the first time you saw something raw and vulnerable in his expression—frustration, fear, want.

“And right now…” he swallowed hard. His eyes flicked back to yours, burning. “I'm still a nobody.”

He stepped back.

“So fuck off.”

He turned toward the door.

And that's when you moved.

You didn't think about it—the same way you never thought about it back then when you approached him in that swing, not when you handed him the sandwich, not when you followed him home with your fists clenched so tight on the back of his hoodie, not when you screamed “I want to be your friend” into the open air. Your body just knew.

You crossed the room and wrapped your arms around him from behind.

He went rigid immediately.

Every muscle in his back locked up at once, his whole body going taut like he was bracing for something—a hit, a shove, something with an edge to it. Not this. Never this.

You pressed your face between his shoulder blades and held on.

He didn't move.

You didn't say anything. There was nothing to say that you hadn't already said, and you knew—you'd always known that words only made Kaiser want to run. So you just stayed. Arms around his torso, cheek against the damp fabric of his kit, breathing.

His hands stayed at his sides.

The seconds stretched.

And then so slowly you almost missed it—his head dropped.

Just slightly. Just forward, just an inch, like something in him was too heavy to hold up anymore. Like he'd been carrying it for a very long time and for just this moment he forgot to keep his shoulders straight.

You felt it. You didn't say anything about it.

You stayed until he straightened again. Until his breath evened out. Until the rigidness in his back softened, just barely, just enough.

Then he reached down and removed your hands. Carefully. Not roughly—just firmly, like he was returning something he didn't trust himself to keep.

He stepped forward without turning around.

“Go home.” he said quietly.

His voice was different now. The anger had burned itself out somewhere in the last few minutes and what was left underneath was just—tired.

He walked to the door.

His hand found the handle.

“Michael…” you said softly.

He stopped. Didn't turn.

“I'll wait.” you said.

A long beat of silence.

Then the door opened and he walked through it.

You stood in the storage room alone and you watched him walk down the corridor. His kit. His number. KAISER across his shoulders in bold white letters, 10 underneath.

The feeling of your face pressed against the back of his jersey burned itself into your memory and your eyes sting and you let yourself cry.

But this time you weren’t crying because he walked away and abandoned you.

This time you know its different.

This time you know he walked away with the purpose of coming back.

He wasn't a boy running away, he’s a man asking for time.

I'll wait. you thought. Take all the time you need.

I've been waiting since I was twelve, I can wait a few years more.

#notes: in light of the recent manga chapters i wrote part two based on how kaiser is currently behaving which is RADIOACTIVE btw (ó﹏ò｡) i swear hes giving chernobyl vibes (•᷄- •᷅ ;)

#notes: anyway i hope you guys enjoyed this as much i did (ᵕ ´ ∇ ˋ ˶)

wc. 4.6k tw: child abuse, domestic violence, bullying

You still remember the day Mr. Bauer clapped his hands twice before anyone could sit down.

That usually meant something was happening.

“We have a new student joining us today.” he said and gestured to the door.

You perked up in your seat, already anticipating and then the door opened and all of that anticipation turned into something else entirely.

The blonde boy who walked in was tall for a twelve-year-old. That was the first thing you noticed. The second was that he was dirty. Not like forgot-to-wash-his-hands dirty. Actually dirty. Like the grime had settled in and decided to stay.

There were bruises on his neck—fading ones, yellow at the edges. Another on his cheek, older still. His black hoodie looked faded. His pants were wrinkled. And his shoes—you looked down because you couldn't help it—his shoes were so worn out the sole was peeling at the toe.

He didn't look at anyone.

“This is Michael Kaiser.” Mr. Bauer said. “Please make him feel welcome.”

Nobody clapped. A few of your classmates whispered. Someone behind you tried not to laugh.

You were still looking at him when he finally glanced up.

His eyes were blue.

Really blue.

Pretty, you thought, even with the bruise sitting underneath one of them. Pretty in a way that didn't make sense under all that dirt. Pretty even with the hint of sadness.

He made his way down the aisle and sat behind you. No bag. No pencil case. Nothing. Just himself dropped into a chair like something forgotten.

And that was the first time you became aware of Michael Kaiser's existence.

Ever since then you remember watching your classmates crowd around him during lunch and pick on him. They'd grab his small biscuit and crush it under their feet. They'd nitpick him like he's an unknown creature. They'd ask him questions; “Why are you so dirty?” “Don't you have other clothes?” “Why do you smell like trash?” “Are you homeless?”

And each time the kids would laugh. They'd laugh at his grimy hair, his worn-out shoes, the black hoodie he kept wearing. They'd point and laugh at every bruise and wound and scratch on his face like being hurt was a foreign thing to them.

And maybe in a way it was. Because not everyone in that classroom was being beaten up in their own home.

Unlike Kaiser.

One time you saw him sitting at the swings alone. Everyone else was playing but he was just there in his black hoodie—sitting, not swinging, not having fun. Just sitting quietly.

You approached him.

You fiddled with your fingers as you stood in front of him. His head was hung low and he looked so defeated and that ignited something in you.

“I will be Michael Kaiser's friend” you thought.

But the moment he glanced up at you, his blue eyes were mean and cold and dull, and for a moment you thought he'd lunge at you.

You instinctively took a step back—just a precaution—and then you muttered your words.

“Hey, Michael… do you—”

He kept glaring at you. Like he thought you were just like the others, there to trick him. You felt the need to defend yourself so you spoke with your small voice.

“I'm not gonna hurt you. Or tease you. I just—” and even before you could finish, he stood up and walked away.

Maybe he thought you wanted the swing to yourself.

Kaiser was always like that—avoiding conflict by turning away.

And you watched him go thinking, “it's never the swing that I want.”

Life went on for you and Kaiser and the whole class. And that meant you watched your classmates terrorize him over and over again.

The way they'd throw crumpled papers at his head whenever the teacher wasn't looking. The way the girls would cover their noses and giggle whenever they walked past him. One time they even sprayed perfume in his direction, saying they were doing everyone a favor by removing the foul smell.

You called them out, of course. And you ended up in a catfight—you were on top of one of the girls, pulling hair and swinging wildly, while the teacher hurried over to peel you off before things got any worse.

Your heart pounded in your ears as the adrenaline rushed in and you refused to look at Kaiser because you didn't want him to think you did it for him. You'd hate yourself even more if for a second you thought this would make Kaiser like you, so you convinced yourself—

“It was never for him.”

That same afternoon you ended up in detention.

But you didn’t regret anything.

During lunch the following day you found Kaiser sitting on his desk, sobbing quietly as tears fell down his cheeks. His supposed lunch meal—some biscuits were crushed on the floor again.

You walked slowly as you approached him, afraid he'd bolt if you so much as inhaled the wrong way and then you placed a slightly squashed sandwich on his desk that you took from your bag. Wrapped in cling film—some chicken, mustard, a little wilted lettuce.

“I made it this morning.” you said.

Kaiser looked at it and sniffled—and then his hand aggressively slapped the poor little sandwich and it flew across the room.

You went to pick it up immediately, thankful the cling wrap was so tight the sandwich wasn't destroyed.

You tried handing it to him again.

“Just eat it.” you said patiently. “Or you'll be hungry and your stomach will growl and everyone's gonna hear and they'll laugh at you again.”

A flash of worry crossed Kaiser's face this time and he finally relented, taking the sandwich from your hand. It was the first time you saw his fingers—all battered and torn from the fist fights he'd been in. His nails were dirty but that didn't make you flinch.

You watched as he slowly unwrapped it, and when he took a bite you almost exploded out of happiness. But you didn't, because that would be creepy, and you didn't want to creep him out.

So you stood still and watched him eat.

Everything outside the classroom felt far away for once. The bullies that teased him, the teachers that didn't care, the adults that caused pain, the whole miserable situation—none of it could get in here. It was just him eating a sandwich you made and you trying very hard not to make it weird.

You smiled to yourself, thinking you'd definitely remember this moment. Because it was the first time Michael Kaiser had let you into his space.

When class ended that day, you decided to follow Kaiser home.

Terrible idea.

You knew even at a young age that stalking is wrong.

But you did it anyway.

You crossed the street when he crossed. Slowed your steps when he slowed. Kept a full block between you like that made it less strange.

You stopped at a distance and watched discreetly as he turned and entered through a gate. The house was large. The gate was rusty and wrapped in dead vines, the front yard full of trash bags and overgrown weeds, the paint on the walls peeling in long strips. But the bones of it were big.

Once it was probably something.

He went through the door without looking back. And you stood on the pavement and stared up at the house and thought, “Kaiser lives here.”

Then you heard it. Shouting. Something heavy hitting something else. A loud thud. More shouting. You couldn't make out the words but the shape of them was clear enough. Someone was very angry. Someone was getting hurt.

You knew you should run away and leave but how could you do that when you knew Kaiser was in there? Another loud bang and you flinched and took a step back. You were trembling, your fingers cold as you clenched them on your sides and then the noise just kept amplifying and for a moment you felt like you were inside that house too.

You brought your hands up to your ears and covered them and closed your eyes. The same method you used whenever your own parents fought.

You were afraid. You want to do something. But what could a little girl like you do? If anything, barging in would only make things worse for Kaiser.

So you turned on your heels and ran. Faster than you ever had.

Soon enough you were home.

The following morning you expected Kaiser wouldn't come to school.

But he did.

Same black hoodie. Same pants. And the bruises on his face were more severe than before—one of his eyes was actually swollen shut.

He sat behind you like it was a normal day and you felt the guilt eat at your bones.

“If only you had barged in—”

But you stopped yourself, because the problem right now was much bigger.

The teasing was ten times worse.

The whole class started chanting. “Müllkind. Streuner. Ratte.”

Crowding around him again.

You didn't retaliate. You learned from the previous fight never to raise your fists again so you just stood up quietly and called the teacher in, and Mr. Bauer actually told everyone to be quiet.

But the moment he walked out again, you became the new target—they called you a snitch, also a Ratte.

You let them. At least it wasn't Kaiser taking it. You already knew he had enough on his plate. He was getting hurt at home and still being bullied at school, and the thought of peace seemingly not existing in his life made you want to scream.

Your little heart was broken for him.

Once class was over that afternoon, you hurriedly followed Kaiser towards the hallway. He walked fast and you finally caught up to him near the gates.

“Hey!” you said.

He didn't look at you.

You took an extra step to match his stride. “I just wanted to—”

“Go away.” His voice came out flat, obviously irritated.

“I just—”

He suddenly turned and shoved you. Both hands slammed into your shoulders in full force.

You went down on the ground and sat there for a second, palms stinging against the dirt as you try to process what just happened. Before you could react or even say anything Kaiser has already turned and walked away.

And then your feet were at it again. You followed him just like yesterday—but this time closer.

Kaiser turned to look at you over his shoulder.

You were still following.

Kaiser walked faster. You walked faster.

Kaiser jogged. You ran.

And even before he could get away, you grabbed onto his hoodie. Your tiny fingers clutched the fabric on his back.

He turned to face you, expression seething, jaw clenched.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT.”

And you opened your mouth and blurted it out—“Let's walk home together.”

Kaiser's expression shifted. Just slightly. Softened in a way you didn't expect.

Then he scoffed and walked again. Your fingers still clutched his hoodie and he miraculously didn't push you away.

The two of you walked together that afternoon like an odd pair—him leading, you trailing behind like a lost puppy with your hand still fisted in the back of his black hoodie, refusing to let go.

He already tried running, pulling and squirming himself away from your grip and you felt his strength but your determination was stronger and you'd held on so tight he finally just gave up.

You watched him kick a stone on the pavement as you walk. Then he kicked another. Then he slapped some flowers on a bush as he passed, not breaking stride, like he wanted to leave a little destruction on everything he considered beneath him.

You noticed it then—the way he moved through the world. All wrath and sadness, wearing them both like that faded black hoodie. Like they were just another thing he'd had on for so long he didn’t know how to get rid of it.

Then finally he stopped walking.

The two of you stood in front of that big house— and you were pretending so hard you'd never been here before, never seen it before.

You glanced up at him seeing his face drain of color. Fear flashed across his face, and you knew what that meant. He was going to get hurt the moment he step inside. And you had to pretend you didn't know.

He turned and shoved your hand off his hoodie.

“Now leave.” Kaiser said.

You didn't move.

He glared at you.

You opened your mouth to say something—“you should get inside first”—but the words died before they left. Somehow it sounded so wrong. You knew what waited for him behind that door. You couldn't say it and pretend like it was nothing.

So without having much choice, you turned to leave.

“See you tomorrow.” You told him and you caught the way his expression shifted—his blue eyes softened, then he was back to that mean glare again.

He never said anything back. Never waved his hand goodbye.

But you knew what you saw.

And you were storing it in your heart and taking it home with you.

The following day, Michael Kaiser walked into the classroom wearing the same worn-out shoes and same black pants.

But his top was different.

A cream sweater. Loose at the collar, a little stretched, obviously cheap.

But clean.

You noticed immediately, and something in your chest did something you didn't have a name for.

“he wants to be here too” you thought. “it's just really hard for him.”

You held onto that. Didn't know why it felt so important—that small cream sweater, that small attempt. Like if he was still trying, then maybe things could still be okay.

You didn't smile at him when he walked past and sat down behind you, but the whole duration of the morning class you kept turning your head to glance at him, your lips pressed trying not to smile—your eyes gleamed every time you took in the way he looked.

His blonde hair was in full display, highlighting his blue eyes, and even with the bruises and wounds you couldn't help but admire him a little more.

Kaiser seemed to notice your glances and he kicked your chair. As if to tell you to “quit gawking”

You didn't flinch. You knew Kaiser didn't mean it maliciously. You just smiled to yourself like a fool.

That afternoon the math teacher was absent, which meant chaos.

You were busy trying to read a book your seatmate has lent you when you heard it—a wet splashing sound, then laughter.

When you turned to look, you saw a boy standing there with an empty carton of grape juice tilted in his hand. The stain spread dark across Kaiser's shoulder and down the front of his cream sweater, soaking through fast.

The class lost it.

Kaiser's chair scraped back—and before you knew it you were moving too.

You and Kaiser were shoving and pushing the boy until his back hit the wall, and then someone pulled your hair so hard you saw the ceiling.

Your hands flailed trying to grab whoever had you, and before you knew it, it was you and Kaiser against the majority of the class.

You hit the floor eventually—someone had pushed you so hard you were convinced it was two people at once.

You sat there for a second and your eyes were burning and you hated it, hated that you were about to cry, this was stupid, you were fine—you had to get up, you couldn't leave Kaiser again when he was hurting—

But then you looked up and you saw him.

Kaiser was still fighting.

Three boys on him and he wasn't stopping, wasn't making a sound—just kept swinging, kept pushing back, his ruined sweater soaked through and his jaw set and his eyes furious and cold. He was taking the hits like they were nothing and hitting back just as hard. He was standing right in front of you, actually trying to push the boys back so they wouldn't step on you.

“He's tough...” you thought, through the blur of tears.

The teacher's voice cut through the room by then and everyone scattered. Kaiser was out the door before Mr. Bauer even finished his sentence.

You stood up too and ran, following Kaiser outside.

You chased him three blocks from the school and you ended up in the park. Kaiser was bent forward with his hands on his knees, breathing hard. His sweater was heavily stained. There was a fresh cut on his knuckle.

He heard your footsteps and straightened up. His brow was bleeding.

“Why did you follow me.” Not a question. Flat and tired and mean.

“Let's go back.” you said, still catching your breath. “To school. We can tell the teacher what happened—”

“No.”

“Michael—”

“They'll blame me.” He said it like it was obvious. Like it was something he'd learned a long time ago, in a way that had nothing to do with sixth grade. “They always blame me...”

“Not if I back you up. I was there, I saw everything—”

“You don't know anything!” He turned away. Started walking.

“Please.” Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “Please don't go.”

He stopped.

“Don't leave.” The words were coming too fast, too much, you could hear it but you couldn't stop. “Just—come back. Come back to class. I'll sit next to you this time, I'll share my books, I'll bring food—just please don't leave!”

“Why are you so desperate?”

His words hit like a hand to the chest.

Tears came before you could stop them. Your throat went tight. You wiped your eyes with your forearm, your lips trembled as you blurted out the words you wanted to say.

“I want to be your friend!”

Silence.

You took a breath and looked at him.

Kaiser was staring back at you. Really staring, like you'd said something in a language he'd never heard before and he was trying to figure out if it was real.

His jaw was tight, his eyes were wet.

Just barely. Just enough.

“We can't be friends.” he said quietly.

And then he ran.

You stood in the park and watched him disappear and you didn't go after him this time. You just stood there crying until you were sure he was never coming back.

Then you went home.

When the teacher confronted your parents that same day, you got a beating from your dad.

And you thought, as your dad was hitting you using his fists, that right now you were feeling what Kaiser felt every day.

You thought maybe sharing the same pain could be a way to connect to him.

But even as the thought crossed your mind, you knew it was pointless.

You felt it in the way he said those words “we can’t be friends”

It sounded less like a choice and more like a final verdict.

You hated it.

Hated how there was nothing you could do about it.

The following day Kaiser didn’t show up.

You still held hope that he’d come to school despite everything that had happened yesterday but he didn’t.

Kaiser never showed up again after that.

Not the week after.

Not a month later.

Not ever.

You started blaming yourself.

You told yourself maybe if you tried enough. Maybe if you fought harder. Maybe if you weren’t afraid to end up in detention—maybe Kaiser would still be here.

So you took whatever little hope you have left and you didn’t give up on him.

You told yourself you’d try again.

You kept going back to Kaiser's house—pacing back and forth as you thought of ways to take him away from there. One time you even considered sneaking in, maybe through the back door or one of the many windows.

But breaking and entering was a crime, and you didn't want your dad to beat you up again for doing something reckless.

In the end you just stood there, pulling at your hair in frustration, unable to knock and unable to break in.

Just thinking about facing whoever was hurting Kaiser—facing that same wrath, that same rage—was enough to make you stop and think it over again.

Eventually you’d just turn and walk home and you’d hate yourself for it even more.

Every time you left you felt the wound getting deeper. Like you were abandoning Kaiser over and over again. Like you’re letting him get hurt just because you’re too afraid to barge in.

So you decided you’d stopped going back to that big worn-out house, hoping to yourself Kaiser would come out by himself and find you.

But two years has passed and you never saw him again.

Now you were fourteen and your dad came home with his face swollen on one side, a cut above his eyebrow already starting to bruise. You'd seen him come home tired before. Annoyed before. But not like this.

He dropped into the kitchen chair like his whole body weighed more than usual.

“You wouldn't believe the day I had.” he said, pressing the back of his hand to his cheek and wincing. “That problematic kid—the one from your school, remember back in sixth grade? The punk organized a heist. His people named him. We arrested him.”

Your mom came over with an ice pack wrapped in a dish towel and pressed it gently against his face.

“He fought back the entire time.” your dad continued, irritation bleeding into every word. “His hands were cuffed. Cuffed behind his back, and he still managed to—” he gestured vaguely at his own face. “Kicked one of the guys clean in the jaw, planted his heel on another officer's face, kicked a soccer ball on all of our faces. It took five of us to get him in the police car.”

You sat very still.

“That kid. Kaiser.” He said the name like it tasted bad. “Michael Kaiser.”

The fork in your hand stopped moving.

NO—there’s no way—he wouldn't—

But you knew you were lying to yourself. Of course he would. You'd seen him fight off three boys at once without making a sound. You'd seen what he looked like when he was cornered.

“He's at the station now?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even, stabbing at a piece of broccoli on your plate without really seeing it.

Your mom said something about the ice pack slipping, and your dad snapped back at her about how she was holding it wrong, and just like that the conversation tipped sideways into something about the ice pack, then about dinner being late, then about something from last week that had nothing to do with any of this. Their voices rose as they screamed at each other.

You didn't hear most of it.

You were thinking about Kaiser in a cell somewhere. Kaiser with his hands cuffed and his jaw set and that same furious, cold look in his eyes.

You thought, “I have to see him.”

“Dad.” you said, cutting through whatever argument was happening infront of you. “Can I—can I go see him? Kaiser. Can I visit him?”

Your dad turned to look at you like you'd just said something ridiculous.

“What?”

“I just want to know if he's okay—”

“He's not your problem.” He said it flatly, the irritation from the argument with your mom still sitting right under his words, sharpening them. “Some old man already came and bailed him out. Took him to Munich, apparently. Paid whatever needed paying.” He shook his head like the whole thing disgusted him. “Kid like that, somebody's always cleaning up after him.”

Munich.

You sat with that for a second. Munich was hours away. Munich was a different world. You were fourteen and you didn't even know how you'd get to the train station on your own, let alone another city.

You felt something in your chest sink down and settle, heavy and quiet.

Your dad was still looking at you, and something in his expression shifted—sharper now, more focused, like he'd noticed something he didn't like.

“Don't even think about it.” he said. Just that, at first. Then, leaning forward slightly, voice low “Don't you go doing anything stupid for that boy again. You hear me?”

You looked down at your plate.

“I hear you.” you said quietly.

You stayed in that thought for a long time. Long after dinner was cleared. Long after your parents stopped arguing about whatever it was they'd been arguing about. Long after the house went quiet and dark and your mom told you to go to bed for the third time.

You lay there staring at the ceiling, thinking about a house with dead vines on the gate and trash in the yard. Thinking about the sound of something heavy hitting something else, and shouting you could never quite make out.

That house didn't have him in it anymore.

Whatever Munich was—whoever that old man was—it had to be better than that. It had to be.

You held onto that thought like it was something solid. Something you could keep.

“Wherever you are...” you thought, “I hope it's quiet there.”

Then you learned to let it go and years passed again.

You grew up. You moved on. You almost forgot what his eyes looked like, and you hated yourself for it.

Sometimes you still wondered how he was doing and you could only pray for his safety and nothing else.

Life happened for you too.

Now you were in university, studying medicine. Something about rescuing and healing had filled your heart with longing from your earlier days—so that's what you pursued.

One day while lounging in the common room of the student housing, your eyes fell on the huge TV screen.

They were airing the U20 World Cup happening in Japan.

Germany vs. Costa Rica

The stadium was full and loud. The athletes were running across the pitch when the camera zoomed in on a particular player—

Tall. Golden-haired. Mean-looking in the best way. Moving across the pitch like he owned every inch of it.

He scored in the thirty-second minute.

Then the fifty-eighth.

Then the seventy-first.

The commentator was losing his mind. The crowd was losing their mind. His teammates mobbed him—and he stood in the middle of all of it with his hand brushing through his hair, seemingly annoyed, as if scoring a hattrick was something only a lowly peasant would celebrate and he was better than that.

The crease in his brow. You'd recognize that anywhere.

Michael Kaiser.

You felt your heart thumped. The rush of blood pounding in your ears as you looked at the man on the screen and how he resembles the image of that kid in your memory.

You recalled his face, how mean he looked, his blonde hair matted with grime and dirt, the boy with dirty clothes and a bruised face—bloodied lips and torn knuckles—that boy with his sad eyes and sharp words.

“We can't be friends.”

Your eyes stung.

You let yourself cry.

“There you are.” you said softly, to no one in particular. To him, across that screen.

And then you felt it—the relief, quiet and enormous, settling into your chest like something finally coming to rest.

“No one can hurt you now.”

#notes: this has been such a looooong read (っ,-) but if you made it this far THANK YOU (つ╥ ᵕ ╥)つ♡

#notes: i have spent a considerable amount of time trying to think of a title that would suit this story and i was torn between "all I wanted" (a paramore song, yes) and "capernaum" and I obviously settled with the latter because i want to convey the ironic meaning of the word capernaum which means "village of healing" and to parallel that to the reader and kaiser living in a town where they were being rejected and neglected. AND YET they found each other and i want you all to think, no matter how the story progressed that they are each other's capernaum.

Training runs late again. By the time Kaiser steps out of the facility, the night has turned a deep, bruised blue that glows under the city’s rain‑slick light. The storm has passed but the air still hums with it— wet asphalt, iron, faint sweetness from rain pooling in flowerbeds along the walk.

His body hums from repetition— drills, precision, performance. He should feel satisfied. He scored well in scrimmages, impressed the coach, stayed flawless enough to feed his ego.

Now it’s just the walk home. Ten minutes through silent streets. He thinks about what to eat— maybe takeout, maybe nothing. He’s too tired to care.

He doesn’t make it half a block before another scent cuts through the damp air.

Cigarette smoke.

Thin, sharp, curling low from the hand of an old man waiting at the crosswalk. The wind nudges it across Kaiser’s path. He flinches, automatically scrunching his nose.

“Scheiße.” he mutters. The words fog the air. Secondhand smoke— he hates it. Always has. He can almost feel it sinking into his lungs, threatening his stamina, scraping at the clean lines of his body.

And then, before he can stop it, the irritation curls into memory.

It’s dusk again, but a different one. You’re leaning on the balcony railing, hair shifting in the wind, smoke curling from between your fingers. He can still hear his own voice— sharp, dramatic as always.

“Do you have any idea how bad that is for me?”

You didn’t even look at him. “You’re so sensitive.”

“I’m a professional athlete.” he shot back. “I need clean lungs if I want to win. If you want me to play in the World Cup someday, stop trying to poison me with your bad habits.”

That earned him a laugh, low and teasing. “Okay, Herr Superstar. If you do win the World Cup, I’ll quit smoking. Deal?”

He remembers the smug grin that rose on his face when he told you, “You’d better start preparing to quit then.” like he was giving a press statement. Like the trophy’s already won.

You just shook your head and flicked ash into the wind. “Sure, Micha. Let’s see if you ever stop being so full of yourself before that.”

He can still see it— the faint orange glow of the cigarette. Rain had been falling that night, too, thin and slow. The air between you carried the scent of smoke and wet metal.

And then he'd kissed you.

At first, it was just to shut you up. That’s what he told himself. But the moment his mouth found yours, the world tilted. The taste hit like static— strawberries from your chapstick, smoke still clinging between your lips, the burned taste of the damn cigarette lingering on your tongue. Your hands slid up to his neck, fingers tracing the blue rose tattoo pulsing at his skin and he would breathe you in. Inhaling that damnable, unhealthy smoke he claimed to hate.

Now, remembering it, his heart skips. The scents overlap in his head— sweet, burnt sugar, electric and human. He feels intoxicated and for a moment he almost wanted to taste you again.

But everything’s in the past now.

He scoffs under his breath, cursing as he keeps walking.

He can still hear your voice teasing him. “If you win the World Cup, I’ll quit smoking.”

He did win. Eventually. Everything he said he would. The glory, the crowds, the numbers, the gold.

But you weren’t there.

The deal meant nothing in the end because you quit on him first.

“It’s unfair.” he thought, the way you have quit on your relationship first before you ever quit on your damn vices.

But somewhere deep in his heart he already knew… maybe you were right to quit him first.

It’s taken him years to admit it— that you got tired of loving him. That he didn’t know how to love you back without trying to control the terms. That he thought he was teaching you how to stay.

He never realized he was showing you all the reasons to leave.

The smoke from the stranger bleeds away into the night. But he’s still there, trapped between then and now. His steps slow until he’s standing under a streetlight, staring at nothing, the city noise crawling back.

He breathes in again, accidentally chasing what’s already gone.

He thinks about all the ways he’s tried to drown it out; new routines, new faces, new trophies. None of it works. Not really.

Because even if he gave his heart a holiday, even if he chose to ran away, he could still taste you.

Strawberries and cigarettes— his least favorite combination in the world, and still the one that feels most like home, how it clings warm on his tongue, even though it’s been years since he last kissed you.

#notes: i love nostalgic songs (ง ͠ಥ_ಥ)ง

#notes: in a way id love to imagine kaiser smoking too and how addicting he must taste with that hint of strawberries on his tongue BUT HE'S AN ATHLETE lets not stray away from that fact ಥ‿ಥ

#notes: maybe i can make an au ( ╹ -╹)?

You always knew Michael Kaiser drew attention like gravity.

He was too bright, too untouchable. All confidence and laughter and gold. But with you he dialed it down. You got the quiet versions of him. The ones who kicked his cleats under the bench, leaned against your shoulder half asleep, and said stupid things just to make you look at him.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Maybe it didn’t, for him.

But it started to mean something for you.

You told yourself it was fine, that it was just chemistry, friendship, something fleeting bound to fade. But he’d grin and say your name like it was the first time he’d heard something beautiful, and you’d lose your balance every time.

So when you confessed, it wasn’t planned. You just… said it. Outside the stadium, after you waited for him, in that golden hour light that made everything a little too honest you told him those words.

“I like you, Michael.”

The silence that followed wasn’t cruel. Just careful. His eyes softened first then his mouth pressed into that ironic half‑smile, the one he used when laughter didn’t fit.

He didn’t make you feel dumb or small. He just said it quietly, almost apologetic.

“I’m with Ness.”

It takes your brain a second to process it. You blink once. Twice. “Oh…” you manage. “That makes sense.”

And it does. It really does. All those looks, the easy touches, the way his world seemed to orbit around whenever Ness entered the room. You’d seen it then you just chose not to name it.

Kaiser rubs the back of his neck, doesn’t meet your gaze. “I didn’t— I should’ve said something. I just—”

You cut him off with a small smile. “It’s okay. You don’t owe me anything.”

But people always forget that saying “it’s okay” is just a prettier way of breaking.

The friendship survives somehow. The rhythm changes but doesn’t vanish. You still sit together sometimes, still trade jokes that don’t sting as much as they used to. But sometimes, when the world goes quiet, you catch the way he looks at you — thoughtful, regretful, something nameless flickering in his eyes.

One night, after a match, and the stars are too bright, he finds you sitting alone outside the stadium. Waiting for him again.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just sits beside you, elbows on his knees. The air feels heavy with the unsaid.

Then in a voice so low it almost doesn’t reach you, he says it.

“Y’know… I wanted it to be you.”

You don’t look at him. You can’t. Because that’s the worst part— not the rejection, not even the loss. It’s knowing that for all his honesty, for all his almosts… he means it. He really did want to love you.

Just not the way you wanted him to.

So you nod, swallow, and whisper “Yeah. Me too.”

And that’s the end of it. Two people who could’ve been something if life had been a little different. He stares at the field like he’s memorizing the lights and you let yourself glance at him one last time.

He’ll go back to Ness. You’ll go back to pretending it doesn’t hurt. But forever, somewhere small and stubborn inside you, that sentence will stay…

I wanted it to be you.

#notes: here goes another knife in your chest, be a brave mf and suck it up (..◜ᴗ◝..)

#notes: to all the people reading my stuff and wishes for Kaiser to die AND OR wishes for me to chop off his beautiful dihh IM SORRY but id rather break your hearts than hurt my baby ✧｡٩(ˊᗜˋ )و✧*｡

#notes: ill try and write something soft soon I PROMISE. just to make it up with you..

It had been three weeks since the breakup.

Three quiet, unbearable weeks where the apartment felt bigger than it ever had before. The couch was still pushed against the same wall. The same mugs sat in the cabinet. His jacket was still hanging behind the door like he might walk in at any moment and complain about the weather.

But he hadn’t come back.

Not until today.

Michael Kaiser stood in the middle of the bedroom like he had never belonged there.

The suitcase lay open on the bed, half full of the things he’d forgotten to take when he left.

A watch, two shirts, the expensive cologne he used too much of.

He packed carefully, methodically. Like this was just another task to finish.

Like three years of living together had never happened inside these walls.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him.

Three months.

That’s how long he’d known her.

Three months.

And yet he had walked out of your three-year relationship like it was something he could neatly fold away into a suitcase.

There had been no cheating. No betrayal.

He had ended things properly.  Calm and cold.

He had simply told you the truth.

“I met someone.”

And that had been enough.

Back then, you had told yourself something noble. If loving Kaiser meant letting him be happy, then you would do it. You had even told him that.

If she makes you happier, then go.

But watching him now— standing in the room that had once been yours together— something inside your chest felt like it was cracking open.

Because reality looked so much different than sacrifice when it was happening right in front of you.

The zipper of his suitcase slid closed halfway.

He didn’t look at you.

“Is that everything?” you asked quietly.

“Almost.” his voice was the same as always; controlled, indifferent.

It made something in your chest tighten.

You pushed yourself off the doorframe and walked into the room. He noticed and his movements slowed slightly but he didn’t stop packing, didn’t even bothered to look your way.

Your voice came out before you could stop it.

“How could she possibly love you better than I do?”

That made him pause just for a second. Then he set the shirt in his hands inside the suitcase.

“She doesn’t love me any better.”

The answer wasn’t what you expected.

“Then what?” you asked, stepping closer. “What is it?”

He finally looked at you.

Those sharp blue eyes that had once made you feel chosen.

“She sees me…” he said quietly. “All of me.”

Your stomach twisted.

“And I don’t?”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“I don’t let you.”

The words felt like they knocked the air out of the room.

You stared at him, trying to process it.

It felt unfair. The thought of loving someone deeply and later realizing “you were loving through a locked door the entire time.”

The pain made your mind spiral.

Was I not safe enough?

Was I not worthy of the real him?

Your vision blurred as tears slipped down your cheeks, warm and stinging. You dragged a hand through your hair, frustration settling deep in your bones.

“You loved me enough…” he said quietly. “I just didn’t let you.”

His voice came out softer this time— almost hesitant but there was an honesty in it he couldn’t hide anymore.

And somehow that made it worse.

Because it meant the truth was simple and cruel at the same time.

You could love someone with everything you had and still never reach the parts of them they chose to keep locked away. Not because you failed, but because Kaiser was the one standing in front of the door. Guarding it.

And the cruelest part of all was realizing that it didn’t necessarily mean the other girl loved him better. It just meant that this time— Kaiser was finally ready to open the door.

--

Inspired by the movie; Daisy Jones & The Six.

It was cold enough that breath showed.

The pitch was nearly empty after training, the sky dim and heavy with winter, snow falling in thin, lazy strands that melted the moment they touched the ground. Kaiser stood a few meters away, hands tucked into the pockets of his long coat. Ness was beside him, arms crossed while talking—always talking.

Steam curled from their mouths when they spoke.

You stood there with your fingers clutched on your bag, watching him the way you always did, quietly, carefully, like looking too directly might give you away.

Kaiser smiled at something Ness said. Not wide, just a subtle curve of his lips. Enough to make your chest ache.

The cold crept into your fingers, but you barely noticed.

You stepped forward anyway.

Your name was called from behind you—urgent, impatient—but you ignored it, swallowing the nervous lump in your throat as you stopped in front of him. Ness fell silent. Kaiser turned, blue eyes sharp for a moment before softening in recognition.

You asked, quietly, if you could talk to him alone.

He nodded, easy, unbothered, and stepped forward, positioning himself in front of you without a word. Ness lingered behind, watching, but saying nothing.

You hesitated.

The words tangled in your mouth. Your hands tightened around your bag strap. You felt ridiculous, you always did, standing in front of him like this.

Someone called your name again from behind you. Louder this time.

You glanced back, then up at Kaiser.

He followed your gaze briefly, recognizing the person instantly. When his eyes returned to you, there was something amused in them. Fond. Familiar.

“What is it?” he asked lightly. “You here to confess again?” His tone wasn’t cruel. If anything, it was soft—teasing.

“Tell me how much you love me. How you want to spend your life with me.” A faint smile. “Seriously. When are you going to stop?”

Your breath fogged between you.

“I’m getting married.”

His smile vanished.

For the first time, Kaiser looked genuinely stunned. Not angry. Not amused. Just… caught off guard.

You spoke before he could recover.

“My parents arranged it.” you said. “I’m flying with him back to his country. Soon.” You swallowed. “I guess this is goodbye.”

Behind him, Ness watched in silence.

Snow settled briefly on Kaiser’s hair before melting away. His eyes searched your face, like he was looking for a joke that wasn’t there.

You took a shaky breath.

“But I won’t go through with it.” you said quietly. Your voice barely trembled. “Not if you say you love me.”

Time stretched thin.

Kaiser stared at you. Then, slowly—he smiled.

Not the sharp, arrogant one. Not the cruel one. Just something small and unreadable.

Ness called his name from behind him, breaking the moment like ice cracking underfoot.

Kaiser lifted a hand and rested it briefly on your head. A gentle pat. Almost affectionate.

“Have a safe trip.” he said.

And then he turned away.

You watched him walk back toward Ness, their figures blurring together in the falling snow, steam rising with every breath they took.

The cold finally reached your lungs.

And for the first time, you realized—you had reached the end of waiting.

HIS POV;

Kaiser doesn’t look back.

He knows if he does, he won’t walk away.

He keeps his pace steady, shoulders squared, breath fogging in the cold like nothing has changed. Like the words you said didn’t crack something open in his chest that he’s spent years sealing shut.

He’s always known what you feel. That was never the problem.

The problem is that he’s built himself exactly like the winter season. Empty mornings, frozen air, and the discipline of surviving without warmth.

You don’t belong to this weather.

You were always warmth — something like spring, or the promise of summer. Too bright. Too alive. You looked at him like you expected him to step out of the cold and meet you where the world was gentler.

He isn’t ready for that.

If he says he loves you, the season changes. The ice breaks. And he has no idea who he becomes when everything he’s learned to endure begins to melt.

So he does what he has always done best — he refuses before he can be refused. He lets you go before you can see the parts of him that are still afraid, still raw, still shaped by loss he pretends doesn’t exist.

The pat on your head is apology without confession. The smile is restraint sharpened into something that almost looks kind. The silence is him swallowing the truth before it can hurt you.

Snow settles into his hair as he walks away, and for once, the cold feels heavier than usual.

Because you were never winter.

You were HIS spring.

And Kaiser — for all his strength — is not ready to leave the season that made him.

#notes: I saw this kainess fanart on X and its the inspiration for this story.

credits to @Reason_toyou

It’s the fourth of January.

The night is quiet, the night sky stretched wide with stars.

You sit with your knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. Your eyes stay fixed on the horizon, tracing constellations you don’t bother naming.

Beside you, Kaiser leans back on his hands. His head is tilted up, gaze fixed on the stars, just like you.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks.

Then, softly—

“Happy birthday.” His words land gently. No performance, no teasing. No forced cheer.

There’s a pause before you answer.

“…Thank you.” you murmur.

Silence settles between you. Heavy, but not uncomfortable.

Kaiser doesn’t look at you when he speaks again.

“Would you mind telling me why you hate your birthday?”

Your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of your sleeve as you as you think about how your birthdays always felt strange.

It was never loud. Not joyful. Just… heavy. Like your body remembered something your mouth didn’t always want to say.

A beat passes.

“I already told you about mine…” Kaiser speaks, his voice even. “So it’s only fair you tell me yours too.”

You don’t turn to face him, keeping your eyes on the night sky.

You let out a soft exhale before you speak.

“My father used to beat me on this day.” you say, blunt and steady. “I don’t remember what he hit me with. I just remember him saying happy birthday while he did it — like that was the gift.”

The air shifts.

Kaiser exhales slowly, his jaw tightening imperceptibly. “…I see.”

That’s all he says at first.

Then, quieter: “We’re not so different, you and I.” Kaiser admits. “We’ve both known the same kind of hurt.”

For the first time your eyes finally meet and there’s no pity in his gaze. No shock. Just pure recognition.

“Maybe that’s why you feel… normal to me.” he says after a pause. “You don’t dress pain up like it’s something rare…”

His hand twitches, itching to reach out to you.

“…or something to be ashamed of.”

Something flickers in his expression — not softness. Understanding.

“You didn’t deserve that.” he says plainly. “And neither did I.”

The stars keep burning overhead.

And for the first time, your birthday doesn’t feel like something you have to endure alone.

Kaiser has already made it clear.

“No gifts.”

He says it every year like a threat. Like if someone dares to hand him a box, he might bite.

Naturally, no one listens.

His fans, his teammates and Ness, their managers, coaches, staff and mentors even Noa hands him a gift. Expensive and symbolic. Completely unnecessary.

All Kaiser wants is a normal day. Do his job. Go home. End the night with his precious cans of cola. No fancy dinners. No loud parties. No nonsense.

Instead, Bastard München turns it into a spectacle.

A full blown circus of fuckery with him being shoved into the center—confetti in the air, cake in his hands, cameras everywhere, a smile forced onto his face while he thanks his fans, sponsors, and anyone who remembered his birthday. It’s publicity his manager says so it’s non-negotiable.

By the time it’s over, Kaiser feels wrung out. He sits on the edge of his bed, unimpressed, staring at a room that looks like a luxury shrine. Designer brands everywhere. Gift boxes stacked like offerings.

And just when he thought he’s finally about to experience peace, the door to his room opens and your eyes meet his immediately.

Kaiser knows you're sentimental. You always are. So he assumes, of course you’ll bring something. Something flashy. Something dramatic. Something over the top. Something he’ll have to react to correctly so you won’t feel stupid for caring.

He absolutely hates that part. Hates gifts because they demand responses and he just doesn’t know how to react.

So he braces himself.

His gaze drops to your hands but there was no box, no bag. Not even an envelope you're trying to hide behind your back. Just you, coat still on, eyes soft in that unreadable way.

Kaiser sighs. “Did you forget or are you just trying to get under my skin?”

And there it is, his furrowed brow, the tight line of his mouth, that glare you secretly live for and the look of pure annoyance in his face—it’s irresistible.

You smile, dangerous and teasing, shrugging just enough to give off that smug vibe. Your voice drips with mischief:

“I brought you a gift, don't worry.”

He eyes you from head to toe, then back at your face.

“I don’t see it.” He deadpans.

You hook your thumbs at your chest, smiling proudly.

“Me.”

Silence. Pure. Deafening. Suffocating.

“…Are you stupid?” Kaiser says flatly.

You gasp. “Wow. Birthday boy is mean.”

He drags a hand down his face, completely exasperated. “Are you saying that your gift to me—” he gestures vaguely at you, one of his eye twitches “—is a fucking headache?”

“I might be a headache...” you say, plopping down beside him. “But I’m the deluxe version. Top tier. Limited edition. Premium quality.”

He scoffs, totally irritated. “Just say you’re broke. You can’t even afford to buy me a fucking bread.”

You don’t rush to explain or banter. You don’t apologize. You just lean closer to him, your gaze calm and the teasing gone.

“Everyone else already gave you things today.” you say softly. “And they all expected you to respond a certain way, so I thought I’d give you something different—my time, my attention, my presence. Something that doesn’t require an awkward thank you.”

He lets out a short laugh, almost a scoff.

Then you lean back on your hands, casual. “You could reject it, you know.”

He blinks. “What?”

“My gift. You could say no.”

He opens his mouth, ready to fire off a sarcastic remark, words already sharpening in his mind. But then he falters, a single thought cutting through the reflexive arrogance;

Rejecting objects is easy but rejecting you… isn’t.

“If you’re the gift…” he says slowly, eyes narrowing, “does that mean I’m stuck with you all day?”

You hum. “Maybe all night.”

He clicks his tongue. “Disgusting.” but his shoulder shifts— pressing just slightly into yours.

“…Fine.” he sighs. “I’ll accept it.”

You beamed. “Awww…” your voice higher than usual and Kaiser clicks his tongue, already regretting his life choices.

“…You’re a terrible gift.” he grumbles, yet his head slowly leans against your shoulder, the weight gentle.

“But I’m all yours.” you murmur, pressing your cheek to his blonde hair.

“…completely useless.” he adds, still snarky but his fingers brushed gently against yours.

“Yet indispensable.” you counter with a grin, your fingers curling slowly around his and your hands start to interlace.

A small exhale leaves him then, almost like a sigh of surrender.

In that quiet moment you knew, Michael Kaiser, who never wants anything for himself, has chosen you as his birthday gift… because no present could ever compare to you.

And because you're annoyingly persistent.

Moments later;

“You didn’t even put a ribbon on you.”

“Want me to show you my panties—”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP.”

“Come on unwrap me.”

“I swear to God I’ll pull all your hair out.”

You know something is wrong the moment you open the hotel room door.

The smell hits first—sweet, sharp, unmistakable. Cola. Too much of it.

Your eyes trail downward.

Michael Kaiser is sitting on the floor in nothing but his boxers, his back crouched and eyes fixed on the TV as he glared at it. Around him are empty cans. One. Two. Five. Too many to count. Some are crushed and twisted obviously opened in anger rather than thirst.

The TV is on.

Isagi’s voice fills the room, calm and infuriatingly confident as he answers an interview question. Kaiser scoffs under his breath.

“That fucking smile.” he mutters, cracking open another can. “I swear I’m going to wipe it off his face.”

You close the door behind you quietly. For a second, you just stand there. Arms crossed. Tired. Fed up. Watching him spiral in real time over a rival who lives rent-free in his head.

“Michael.” you say, flatly.

He shoots you a sharp look, blue eyes flashing. “What.”

You sigh.

It’s not worth fighting him like this. Not when his pride is already bruised, not when you know how quickly frustration curdles into something uglier for him. So instead of snapping, instead of lecturing him about caffeine and obsession and how drinking twelve cans of cola is not normal, you bend down.

And start picking them up. One can at a time. The sound of aluminum clinking echoes too loudly in the room.

Kaiser freezes. “…What in tarnation are you doing?” he asked. irritation laced with something uncertain.

“Cleaning.” you reply simply. turning your back to him. You gather another can. And another. “Someone has to.”

Silence fell the two of you and you can feel his eyes on you now, heavy and unreadable. The TV keeps talking—Isagi laughing lightly at something the interviewer says. Kaiser’s jaw tightens. He looks away and for once, he doesn’t say anything.

You keep cleaning. Your movements are slow, deliberate. Not angry. Just tired and somehow that makes it worse.

The room is quiet except for the TV and the soft sounds of you picking up his mess. Guilt crawls up his spine, unfamiliar and unwelcome. He wants to tell you to stop. Wants to snap. Wants to say something clever to cover it up. But nothing comes out.

Then you speak. “I know you can beat him.”

Kaiser’s head snaps up.

Your back is still turned to him as you crouched down and eyed a can twisted so violently you feel sorry for it.

Your voice isn’t loud when you spoke again. It isn’t dramatic. It’s steady and certain.

“I believe in you.”

The words hit harder and for a moment Kaiser just stares at you. Something tight in his chest loosens, then immediately panics at the relief. He hates how easily you get to him. Hates how much that sentence matters.

You stand up, aiming to throw the trash away but when you turn— you’re yanked backward.

You yelp as Kaiser pulls you down onto his lap, arms wrapping around your waist with no warning. His laugh is sharp, bright, back in full force.

“Careful, love..” he says smugly. “You shouldn’t say things like that to me.”

Before you can protest, he presses a kiss to your cheek. Then another. And another. Rapid, messy, almost aggressive in their enthusiasm.

“Hey—!” you laugh, trying to push him away.

He doesn’t let you.

“Oh, I’m absolutely going to destroy Yoichi now.” Kaiser says between kisses, voice brimming with renewed arrogance. “For you? I’ll humiliate him.”

He kisses your jaw. Your temple. The corner of your mouth.

“I’ll make him regret ever smiling on that field.”

And as he holds you there, cocky grin firmly back in place, the TV droning on in the background, you realize something quietly important;

Michael Kaiser doesn’t just need someone to challenge him.

He needs someone who believes in him even when he’s sitting on the floor, surrounded by empty cans, fighting ghosts only he can see.

Michael Kaiser was used to being watched.

It came with his reputation— being the golden boy of the school, the ace striker everyone whispered about in the hallways, the reason girls straightened their skirts and boys tried to copy his walk. He knew the attention knew the rhythm of admiration like the back of his hand. It was as natural as breathing.

People laughed when he teased the teachers, swooned when he smirked, followed him with their eyes even when he wasn’t doing anything at all. He was used to that. He thrived in it.

But what he wasn’t used to? What had begun to itch beneath his skin like a splinter he couldn’t pull out? Was you.

You, who sat behind him every day in class. Quiet. Expression unreadable. While everyone else listened to his words like they’re gospel you were always scribbling something down. Notes, thoughts, doodles, God knows what. You didn’t flinch when he made the class laugh, didn’t even bother to glance up when he made the teacher stumble on their words.

Always writing. Always reading. Always there, but never looking.

It pissed him off to no end.

He’d turn, pretending to stretch, pretending to adjust his collar just to sneak a glance at you and there you’d be. Calm. Focused. As if his entire existence was just background noise. As if the orbit he made everyone spin around in somehow didn’t reach you.

And that bothered him way more than he wanted to admit.

Even in the hallways when girls dropped their notebooks on purpose or tugged at his sleeve with giggles too sweet to be genuine, he’d force a grin, pick up their things, play the part of a heartthrob because that’s what he did. That’s who he was. But out of the corner of his eye, he’d catch a fleeting silhouette of you walking past.

Not even glancing his way.

He told himself he didn’t care. That you’re just an awkward, shy nobody and that he shouldn’t let you get to him. But somehow his chest burned every time he realized you truly doesn’t see him the way he wanted you to.

One afternoon when the math teacher didn’t show up, the class dissolved into chaos. Everyone grouped up, chattering filled the room, some of them scrolls through their phones in full volume, some were planning where to go or what to do after school. Kaiser’s friends called for him, waving him over—but he didn’t move. He stayed in his seat. Headphones in, volume low, staring at the blue sky through the window.

You were still behind him flipping through a book, pen tapping softly against the desk.

He told himself he only stayed because he wanted some quiet. That he didn’t give a damn about your presence. That he just didn’t feel like dealing with Ness’s loud mouth right now.

But his fingers brushed the edge of his earphones, and a thought—one he hated immediately—slipped through.

Would she like this song?

He grimaced, shoving the thought down so fast. What the hell was wrong with him?

When class ended, he stood up first as always. He liked walking out ahead of everyone else. It meant people watched his back as he left. It meant he was the one leading not following. Still a small twisted part of him hoped you’d look up and notice him leaving.

Later, when the sky turned orange and the field emptied Kaiser was still there.

The air was cooling fast, the sun melting into streaks of amber and rose. His teammates had gone; the locker room lights flickered from a distance their voices fading. Only the sound of his kicks echoed against the field rhythmic and sharp.

He told himself he was perfecting his shots, chasing precision. But his mind was elsewhere.

On you.

On your quiet face. On how you’d stood there in the crowd during one of his matches. So far back you were almost hidden. While everyone else pushed to the front reaching out for him shouting his name. You just… watched. No phone in hand, no cheering. Just standing there.

It infuriated him all over again.

“Why won’t you look at me?” he muttered under his breath, frustration spilling into his next kick.

The ball slammed against the metal fence with a loud clang, rattling the air. He clicked his tongue, jogging to retrieve it. But as he bent down his mind betrayed him again “what would it feel like” he wondered, to have you actually look at him? To have your eyes soften even for a second. He sighed, glancing up at the fading sky.

“I wish you would look at me…” he whispered, barely audible.

And then something made him pause.

Across the field on the other side of the fence a figure stood.

You.

You were just there. Still, silent, your eyes on him at last. The wind lifted your hair and for a moment the orange light caught the shine of something on your cheek. Were you crying?

Kaiser froze. He’d never seen you like that. Never seen you look at him.

For a second, the world narrowed. Just you, the sky, and the thundering of his own pulse in his ears. He almost took a step forward. He didn’t know what he would say but he wanted to say something. Anything.

Then a voice cut through the air.

“Kaiser!”

He turned. One of the senior girls whom he’d rejected earlier that day was walking toward him, voice trembling but insistent. He laughed not at her words but at the obvious desperation. He doesn’t even remember her name, never planned to.

When he looked back toward the fence…

You were gone.

The following day Kaiser had enough. If he needed to drag out words from you he would. But he’s considerate enough to think that someone like you who’d probably flinch at just the sound of his voice would surely run the moment he spoke to you. So he waited until class was over.

Once the bell rang in the afternoon, the usual storm of noise and scraping chairs filled the room. Golden light streamed through the windows painting long stripes across the floor and catching the dust that drifted lazily in the air.

Michael Kaiser didn’t move.

Normally he’d be the first one out. The door would swing shut behind him while everyone else was still packing up but today he stayed seated, thumb idly scrolling on his phone pretending to be absorbed.

“Practice?” Ness leaned over his desk already slinging his bag across one shoulder.

“I’ll catch up.” Kaiser muttered without looking up.

The answer earned him a raised eyebrow but Ness shrugged and left with the others. Soon the room thinned out to the usual end-of-day quiet punctuated only by the hum of the ceiling fan and the rustle of notebooks being zipped away.

Behind him you were moving fast gathering your pens like they might explode if you stayed too long. Kaiser turned around just enough to catch the edge of your panic. Your quick breaths, the way your fingers trembled over the zipper of your bag.

“Stay.”

The word came out low but certain. Not angry, not pleading just a command that left no space to question.

You froze.

Kaiser didn’t turn around but he heard the tiny sound of your chair legs scraping back into place.

And then the last of the footsteps faded down the hall and silence swallowed the room. For a while neither of you spoke. Kaiser kept his gaze ahead fixed on the light bleeding across the blackboard. When he realized your breathing finally evened out he speaks from his seat without turning around.

“You’d probably trip over your words if I looked at you…” he said voice low. “So let’s spare you that and talk like this.”

A pause then soft but steady, “Tell me why you were crying yesterday. Don’t even try to deny it. I saw you.”

He didn’t sound accusing just certain and curious in a way that carried weight.

You didn’t answer. He could almost feel your hesitation in the air between you thick and trembling. Part of him wanted to snap to push to shake the words out of you but he stayed still, his jaw tight, knuckles whitening around his phone.

He waited.

One minute. Two. The clock ticked heavy and slow.

Kaiser’s patience frayed at the edges but he didn’t sigh, didn’t move. He just listened to the faint rustle of your skirt and the faint sound of your fingers tapping against the desk.

Then finally you spoke, your voice quiet and uncertain but real.

“I like you, Michael.”

Kaiser’s head turned just a bit, the golden light cutting across his cheek.

“I tried ignoring it. I tried convincing myself you’re just a bright presence, always there and impossible to miss but somehow you still found your way into my heart..”

You kept your gaze on his back, tracing the crease of his uniform, the familiar slope of his shoulder you’d always admired.

“And I cried not because I pity myself for falling for someone unreachable like you. I cried because Im tired of being just a mere spectator. Im tired of just watching you from afar. Tired of always dreaming and wishing and hoping and praying you’d finally notice me.”

You paused, voice trembling into a whisper

“Because you know..? I’ve always, always wanted you’d look my way too.”

The silence that followed was filled with emotions and feelings that are barely contained. Kaiser didn’t answer right away though. Because your words have hit him harder than he expected— straight, honest, genuine. Not some bullshit flattery he’s used to hearing. Kaiser thought about how he had spent months trying to provoke a reaction from you and now that he had one he felt stripped bare in return. This is not what he’s expecting.

Realizing this, Kaiser let out a sound that was half a laugh, half a sigh as he shook his head once. And then finally… FINALLY he turned his head enough that you could see the light caught in his eyes blue and soft and unreadable. His lips curl slow and deliberate into that signature infuriating beautiful smile.

“You wanted me to look at you, huh?”

His tone carries that familiar arrogance but the edges aren’t sharp this time like he’s not sure if he wants to tease you or thank you.

“Well… congratulations.”

He turned fully then, leaning his elbow on the back of his chair gaze finally meeting yours.

“You have my attention now.”

You sit behind Michael Kaiser.

That’s close enough for you to memorize the slope of his shoulders, the way sunlight always clings to his hair until it looks spun from gold. The slight mess to his uniform, careless in a way that somehow suits him or maybe he just couldn’t be bothered to fix it. You also notice the curve of his neck and the clean line of his nape. Your fingers twitch for a second with the urge to trace it, to trail your fingers across his skin… but the thought startles you and you shake your head quickly, your little heart fluttering with guilt. You feel like a creep for staring too long at him, ridiculous and disgusting for dissecting his form like this so you just lowered your gaze and pretend you’re reading.

You can’t remember exactly when your feelings began to bloom or what it was about him that made you fall. You just noticed one day that you were enjoying him. His presence, his voice, the way his words always carried a kind of careless charm. It’s like watching a stage play where he’s the lead, every scene lit in gold, every line he says pulling you in without trying. You’re just a spectator, quietly anticipating what he’ll do next. How he’ll laugh, what teasing remark he’ll throw, how easily he makes everyone orbit around him.

And your chest aches. Because watching him was never enough.

That morning you saw him sitting on top of a desk, eyes bright, hands moving as he talked about his team’s latest football match. His voice fills the dull classroom, loud, warm, effortless as he laughs at something one of his friends said. It’s ridiculous how even that could make your chest feel warm. You watch him without meaning to and suddenly you realize how beautiful his presence is. You catch yourself staring a little bit too long and you just pretended to dig through your bag, careful not to be caught by him or any of your classmates.

When the teacher starts writing on the board during the first period, you see him turn halfway in his seat, leaning to the side to whisper to his friends, his voice was low but clear enough for you to catch bits of his teasing. You can’t help but notice how his smile always tilts a little to the left, or the way his shoulders shake when he laughs.

When he throws out a playful comment toward the teacher in the middle of a lecture the class would always erupt in laughter and he’d glance back briefly— just a second, but it’s enough to send your heart into chaos. Your gaze drops immediately, pretending to write something.

During lunch break, you saw him in the hallway surrounded by girls as usual. When one of them drops their notebook on purpose, he bends down to pick it up without hesitation. The girl laughs, flustered, as Kaiser hands it back and he just waves it off, smiling in that easy, golden way of his. You’re happy for her, genuinely. But as you walk away, you wonder what it would be like to have his smile aimed at you, to be basked in that warmth, even just for a second.

When the math teacher didn’t show up for the afternoon class, the room quickly turned into chaos. Chairs scraping, laughter bouncing off the walls as everyone drifts toward their friend groups. But Kaiser just leans back in his chair, headphones plugged in his ears. You wonder what kind of songs he listens to. If his playlist matches his energy, or if he secretly likes slower ones. You’ll probably never know, but the thought lingers anyway, humming quietly somewhere in your chest.

Every time the class ends, he would always leave first. Swinging his bag over one shoulder, surrounded by laughter and motion. You stay seated, watching his back retreat toward the door. The seat in front of you suddenly feels too empty, too quiet.

Later that afternoon as you pass by the field after doing your homework in the library, you see Kaiser there alone. He’s kicking the ball, practicing his move, “Kaiser impact.” You heard it once before, even watched him score a winning goal and you remember how you stood at the very back of the crowd, clapping like everyone else, pretending it’s just school spirit and not something deeper.

His movements were sharp as you watch him now, sweat glinting on his skin in the fading light. His expression is focused, almost harsh as his brows creased in that familiar intensity. You stay behind the fence, quiet, watching the way he moves with such purpose and suddenly you understand why everyone loves him. You realize why you feel it too.

For a moment, it’s just you and him beneath the sunset sky painted in soft orange hues and fading pink. Your presence is hidden, as always but your heart beats too loud in the quiet. You flinch when he kicks the ball a little too hard it crashes against the goalpost with a sharp clang. Then he jogs to retrieve the ball, calm and steady, then he starts again.

You stand there for what feels like forever, watching him repeat the same motion, again and again until your chest starts to ache with something too heavy to name. Your vision blurs and the tears come quickly before you can even stop them, it flows warm against your cheeks. There’s a hollow ache beneath your ribs now, a quiet wish, a desperate plea that he’d look your way, just once.

You swore to yourself if he did and spared you just a tiny glance you’d go in there and spill it all. You’d confess to him, no matter how foolish you think your feelings might sound. So you clench your jaw, daring the universe, fate, destiny and whatever’s listening to give you that one thing. You even catch yourself whispering a prayer, daring to call out God’s name like He got time for something this foolish.

But before you could even repeat the thought, before you could even whisper another wish, he moves. His head turns, the light catching in his hair and suddenly, impossibly, his eyes find you.

The world stops.

Your breath catches in your throat and you flinch under the weight of his gaze, raw and real. The moment was handed to you so suddenly you felt like a deer in the headlights. For a heartbeat, it feels like everything you’ve ever wanted is right there— just one step away. Your grip tightens around the books pressed to your chest as you think about how the heavens finally heard your pathetic prayers. And then you felt the urge to move, to go around that fence, run across the grass and reach him. To tell him everything that burns so fiercely in your chest. But before you can even take a single step, she appears.

Another girl runs toward him, calling his name, laughter spilling into the wind. Kaiser turns, the corners of his mouth curving into that bright, easy smile you’ve memorized too well. They talk. He laughs. And just like that, the moment slips away. You stand there, silent and stunned, the weight in your chest sinking deeper with every passing second as you realize it was never going to be your chance.

So, you turn around and walk away, like a spectator leaving the theater after the final act, after watching her favorite lead take his bow beneath the fading lights.

The banquet is over, but Michael Kaiser’s fury is not.

He slumps in the dim chamber, armor undone, candlelight pooling over cold steel. The sword lies across his lap as the whetstone screams down its edge— sharp, sharp, sharper still. Each pass fueled by the anger seething beneath his skin.

Your laughter lingers in his ears. Not for him but for some foreign prince with a too-perfect smile. For some noble fool who dared touch your hand, lead you across the polished marble floor. You had smiled, soft and radiant— at them.

The scrape of stone against metal grows faster.

“Pathetic.” Kaiser’s voice is a low murmur, almost drowned out by the grating shriek of steel on stone, each drag harder than the last. The blade bites against the whetstone with brutal force, sparks spitting like the violence he keeps locked in his chest. Each pull is in rhythm with his pulse, sharp and angry.

“You think they’d bleed for you? You think they’d die happy just to guard your door?” He freezes mid-stroke, steel catching the glow of the flame. Kaiser’s reflection stares back, fractured and furious.

“They’d never protect you like I do.”

The edge gleams now, but it isn’t enough. He presses harder, shoulders tight, like he could carve his jealousy into the steel itself. Every flash of your gown as you twirled in another man’s arms replays in his mind. Every tilt of your head, every smile, every glance that wasn’t sent his way.

And yet… he can’t be angry with you. Never you. It’s everyone else, the princes, the suitors, the ones who don’t deserve even a second of your attention.

The whetstone scrapes again, long, slow, reverent.

“Prince’s, dukes, kings... what a joke.” His laugh is sharp, bitter.

“They’ll dance, they’ll flatter, they’ll beg. But when steel is drawn and the world turns bloody, I will be the one standing at your side, Princess. Always me. Only me.”

You find him on the couch, head bowed, the glow of the lamp dragging long shadows across his face. At first you think he’s scrolling on his phone, but then you notice the fabric in his lap— a black hoodie, washed out and threadbare at the seams.

“...What are you doing?” you ask, half laughing, half bewildered.

He doesn’t look up. “Fixing it.”

Kaiser’s threading a needle. His movements are clumsy and impatient, but careful enough that you know he’s done this before.

“Michael..” you whisper, “You know you could just buy a new one, right?”

That’s when he does glance at you, and it’s sharp, almost defensive like you’ve said something absurd. “Why would I? It still works.”

There’s a long pause, the sound of thread pulling through fabric. The hoodie isn’t even nice. The logo is faded, the sleeves a little stretched. But the way he’s holding it, it’s like something worth saving.

That’s when the weight of it hits you— Kaiser doesn’t patch up clothes because he likes the hoodie. He does it because he can’t stand waste. Because part of him still lives like he might need every euro tucked away in a box. Because even now, surrounded by wealth and fame, he still acts like the boy who only had enough to survive.

You sit down beside him quietly, your shoulder brushing his. “Love…” you murmur.

He huffs, like you’re being ridiculous. “Don’t start.”

You trace a finger over the faded fabric near the pocket. “People think you live in luxury, that you’re probably drowning in Gucci and Saint Laurent, and yet here you are wearing the same Bastard München uniform every day. Or your track suit or that red tank and… this old thing.”

He pauses mid-stitch, eyes flicking to you briefly. There’s a shadow of something, maybe a vulnerability he doesn’t want you to see. “..Clothes don’t matter. They’re just things.”

“Maybe. But you matter. And I like the idea of you having things that make you feel comfortable. Not just things you’ve had to keep patching up.”

His hand stills, the needle resting against the fabric. For a long moment he doesn’t say anything. Then, almost under his breath, like he’s talking more to the hoodie than to you, he says, “…This one’s been with me a long time.”

There’s tenderness in the way he says it that nearly breaks you. You don’t push further. Instead, you lean against his shoulder, letting the silence stretch. He goes back to stitching, slow and careful, and you sit there with him watching him try to hold something together, even when he doesn’t realize he’s doing the same for himself.

You haven’t seen him since the interview.

You didn’t answer his messages, didn’t even open them. This time, you thought you’d really done it— new apartment, new neighborhood, new number. Blocked him everywhere.

But then at some rooftop party you didn’t even want to go to, he’s just… there. Leaning against the balcony railing, drink in hand, looking like he has every right to be in your orbit again.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” he says, like it’s a joke between you. “Changed your number. Moved. You actually thought I wouldn’t find you?”

You scoff. “Didn’t want to get in the way of your perfect life.”

Something flashes in his eyes—quick, sharp. The corner of his mouth twitching into something dangerously close to a grin. “You’re jealous.”

Your laugh is short and bitter. “I’m done, Kaiser.”

He steps away from the railing, the crowd behind him dissolving into nothing. “No, you’re not.” he says quietly. “You’re pissed. You’re hurt. But you’re not done.”

He slowly reached a hand up then brushes a lock of hair behind your ear, gentle enough to make you curse yourself for wanting more. Then, the familiar scent of his perfume hits you and it floods your senses, your body betrays you with the same old weakness.

“You know I hate it when my things run off without asking.” His words are soft, but they land like a threat.

“Im not your thing..”

The railing then bites into your back as he closes the last inch between you, his body pinning yours in place. “You’ve always been mine.”

Your breath catches, but before you can answer his hand quickly slides to your jaw, forcing your head up. “Leave me again..” his tone is soft, deadly, “and I’ll burn every road you try to take.”

“You’re the devil.” you spat, every word shaking with anger and something else you don’t wanna name.

Kaiser smiles like you’ve just handed him the crown, his presence swallows the air between you.

“Then get on your damn knees and pray.” he murmurs, the words dripping with mockery and temptation.

He will never choose you.

You know exactly what you are.

A back burner.

The comfort Michael Kaiser reaches for in the dark. The person he keeps in the background when the pressure gets too loud and the people in his life become too much.

He never says your name when the cameras are rolling. He doesn’t bring you up to his friends, not to anyone. It’s like you don’t exist in the world he actually lives in.

But late at night, when he’s tired and everything starts to get too loud, when the spotlight’s too bright, the matches feel empty, or his perfect girlfriend starts to wear him down that’s when he shows up.

Sometimes it’s a message: “You up?” Sometimes it’s just a knock on your door.

And every damn time, you let him in.

No questions, no expectations. Just you, standing aside so he can walk into your apartment like this isn’t the hundredth time he’s come to you only when it’s convenient.

He never says much but he holds you like he means it. His face buried against the curve of your neck, arms wrapped around you as he trembles just slightly. And when he finally speaks, his breath is warm against your skin, voice low and uneven;

“I needed this… I needed you.”“You mean more to me than you think.”“I don’t wanna lose you.”

And for a few hours, you let yourself believe it means something.

But when morning comes, he’s already getting dressed.

He checks his phone and you already know who he’s texting. The beautiful, famous girlfriend. The one that matches his image. The one who exists in the same universe you’re not a part of.

He never say goodbye and you don’t ask him to stay because you already know he won’t.

Days passed and a week and then a month, sometimes longer then he comes back.

And no matter how much it hurts, you open the door again.

Because you’ve made yourself believe, being his safe place feels better than being nothing at all.

Until tonight.

You’re alone in your apartment, scrolling through your phone, trying to ignore the heaviness in your chest at the fact he left your messages on read again. You tell yourself that’s nothing new and you’re used to pretending it doesn’t bother you.

Then, without meaning to, a random video on your phone starts playing.

It's an interview of Michael and he's sitting next to her. The perfect girlfriend.

They look good together.

She laughs at something the host says, and Michael gives her that easy smile, the one he always puts on when he knows people are watching.

And then the question comes.

“So, Kaiser, tell us. Is she the one?”

And he doesn’t even hesitate.

“She’s the only one I’ve ever wanted.”

He’s looking right at her and he says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

You felt your chest tightens so suddenly it feels like the air’s been knocked out of you but you don’t cry. You don’t even blink. You just sit there, frozen, fingers turned cold as you stare at the screen.

When the clip finally ends, you felt that dull, sinking realization settling over you like a heavy coat.

He’s not confused. He’s not torn. He knows exactly who he wants.

And it’s not you.

[ Average Girl, Savage Hands ] Karasu pins you down across his lap, fingers buried deep as he turns you into a filthy mess beneath his mocking grip.

cw. non-consensual undertones(dubcon/powerplay). overstimulation & degradation. humiliation kink.

Your cheek pressed into the cold leather couch, tears falling down your temple as your chest heaved in ragged breathes. You were bent down helplessly across Karasu’s lap, his thigh burning hot beneath your hips, his knee lifted just enough to keep your ass perched up and vulnerable. His forearm pressed down firmly against your lower back, so strong you couldn’t move.

“Tch… look at ya. Just an average little thing, aren’t ya?” he scoffed, his chuckle low and condescending. His warm palm skimmed over the curve of your ass before sliding two of his fingers back inside you from behind, his knuckles slamming against your wet cunt repeatedly sending sharp jolts of pleasure straight up into your gut.

Your moans came out uncontrollably as you tried wriggling away from his relentless fingers, but his grip on your back just tightened further, keeping you exactly pinned down against his lap.

“Oi, stop squirmin’ idiot. Makes ya look even more pathetic than ya already are.” Karasu taunted, fingers curling up against that sensitive spongey spot inside you. Your body then jerked uncontrollably as hot squirt came bursting out your cunt, the warm liquid seeping against the fabric of his pants. It felt humiliating how easily he could make you come like that again and again.

“Ah—! Karasu—please—” you sobbed, voice breaking as tears blurred your vision even more.

“Please what? Tappin’ out already? Boring.” he sneered, his tone cruel as he paused for just a second, feeling your walls flutter desperately around his fingers. For a moment he allowed you to suck in a desperate gasp but before you could even steady your breathing, he pulled out his fingers and slapped down hard on your ass, the sharp smack echoed inside the room and your thighs twitched as a strangled scream ripped from your throat.

Karasu’s hard cock throbbed against your trembling thigh, twitching each time your hips jerked violently under him, only spurring him on to ruin you further. Without warning, three of his fingers slammed back inside, stretching you wide around his thick knuckles as he fucked you mercilessly, wet sounds echoing between your gasping sobs.

The sound of the sharp slap of his palm against your wet cunt filled the room, your hips twitched, but his thigh under you remained strong, supporting your limp trembling body with ease.

His fingers plunged deep inside you and curled up hard against your spongey spot again. Each movement was ruthless, his thick knuckles grinding in and out. Your eyes rolled back, brain blanking out as pleasure ripped through you, your body shaking like a ragdoll under his touch, thighs trembling all weak and useless around his wrist. You squirted again, the warm liquid drenching his thighs.

“Look at this pathetic state..” Karasu purred, his eyes gleaming with savage delight as he watched you come undone. “..couldn’t even last half a minute.”

“Karasu—please—I can’t—” you hiccupped, hands scrambling to grab the couch cushion as you tried to steady yourself while your hips rocked helplessly.

“Shut up.” He cut off your pathetic pleas as his fingers pushed back inside you without hesitation, curling expertly against your swollen g-spot in a way that had your vision blurring into pure white.

“Cry louder, yeah?” he whispered with a cocky laugh. “Might make this mediocre show a bit more entertainin’.”