impossible

kaiser lover since 2022

[kaiserlicherose]

navigation

welcome! :)

< don | 25+ | she/they | infj >

bllk writing sideblog. can't like, follow back or send u asks through this acc, sorry 🥀

i only reblog kaiser thingies, but i don't write exclusively abt him dw!

rules

m.list (yet to come. check out the tag "rosengarten — don writes" in the meantime! ^^)

requests are: closed! (but askbox's always open if you want to chat!)

[yayamrata]

THE INTIMACY OF RESPECT

michael kaiser’s highest form of respect is calling you by your name.

Kaiser loves you in a strange way.

Contrary to common opinions held about the flamboyant man, he is not excessive in his affections towards you.

Kaiser doesn't do cute pet names like any other man in love would, nor does he shower you in endearments like you've seen people do their lovers in movies and books.

Instead, he just calls you by your name.

That's it. And that's all.

Curt, blunt and straight to the goddamn point, Kaiser refers to you in arguably the most boring-est way possible whilst being absolutely adamant on his refusal to call you anything else!

Gosh! Would it kill him to at least call you the fond terms everybody else calls their lover?! Even for a small moment?!!

The thought has you simmer in a fit of envious rage as your narrowed gaze landed on him across your shared bed, visibly occupied with the psychology book he'd been perusing this evening.

You would think, that the guy who was quick to assign everybody else a role in his life would have done the same to you, that he would've given you some kind of label like he did the others, however, and much to your absolute dismay, he hasn't even done that— he doesn't even call you his lover.

The realisation has your brain spin with countless questions and your heart thump with unease for your shared future — just what the hell were you to him?

"Micha…" Your voice is thin, weaved with uncertainty and taut with misplaced fury.

"Hm?" He immediately looks up from his book at the beck of your call, eyes fixating on your hunched figure with mild concern. "What is it [Name]?"

There he go again… just calling me by my name…

You huff with effort, arms crossing as your nostrils flared with irritation. "You keep doing that…"

"…."

Kaiser eyed you for a short moment, forehead creasing with growing confusion at your sudden change in demeanour. Closing his book shut and placing it aside, he gave you his full attention with a pointed stare and an arched brow.

"And what exactly is it, that I keep doing [Name]?"

Your jaw clenched instantly at his tone, frustrations growing tenfold. Ugh, did he seriously need you to spell out everything for him?

"You love to read psychology books, don't you? Why not use them to figure out what you keep doing?"

"[Name], reading psychology books doesn't suddenly give me telepathic abilities—"

"That! You keep doing that! Goddamn it!" You pointed at him an accusatory tone, ignoring the way he flinched under your blame. "You keep calling me by my name!"

"Well maybe because, I don’t know— that's your fucking name!?" His eye twitched at your sudden admittance, just what the hell were you trying to fight over now?

"Yeah but— but what about the cute pet names that couples in movies give each other?!" You whined with a phlegmy sniff, throwing your hands up in the air in disbelief.

"…What."

Kaiser resisted the urge to drag his hands across his face at your complaints for a non-existent issue. Were you seriously complaining about this?

This?!

Of all things to complain about— not being called a pet name was your biggest concern?

"Oh my God."

"Why won't you call me 'babe' or 'my love' like every other guy does?!"

"Because that's not your name." He persisted, unwilling to relent like you'd hoped.

Your silence to his response urged him to cup your face and guide you closer to his proximity. "And I'll always call you by your name."

"Why…?" You jut your bottom lip out in defeat, revelling in the way his calloused thumb rubbed at the flesh of your cheek.

"Because that's who you are, [Name]."

The blue hue of his eyes glistened bright with quiet devotion, a reflection of the ardent affections he held for you.

And curse him, really, because how could you remain stubborn when you could only see reverence in his desperate expression? When you could practically hear the deep candour of emotions laced in his soft admittance?

When you knew instantly that he meant every word he said?

What a cruel man he was, targeting your gentle heart that was simply helpless against the force of who he was.

"You're… you’re making me really angry, y'know?" You grumbled, voice muffled under his shirt.

"Don’t care.” He held you close, nose pressed against the warmth of your temple. “And… won’t apologise for it.”

Kaiser just couldn't bring himself to do it, to call you by anything else besides your name.

Because for the boy who has never once been called Michael, not by his father nor his mother, there was nothing more profoundly intimate than the direct acknowledgement of one’s existence.

A name is the unique manner of recognising an individual, and Kaiser has come to learn, that there is no better show of respect than speaking your name.

Nothing will come close to the intimacy of being seen.

You are not just his lover, that is not the extent of your existence, rather, you are someone who he has come to love. And Kaiser will always remind you of that every chance he gets.

There isn't a particular role you play in his story, not when he wishes that you simply live as yourself.

For the boy with no name will value yours with upmost reverence.

a/n: lwk this means sm to me, the art of calling someone by their name is a deep intimacy i can go and on about, and to me, love should always be founded on respect.

you are always yourself before you are anything else <3

i think kaiser perfectly encapsulates the emotion i hope to convey, btw this is the opposite scenario of my oneshot called just a love interest !!

main! masterlist

bllk! masterlist

[kaiserlicherose]

look away so i'll forget

bodies are stories.

tw: allusions to Kaiser’s past (physical and emotional abuse). mention of s/h. strong language. a mix of angst and fluff, idk how to call this. the daily ups and downs of being in a relationship with this guy. Kaiser isn’t the healthiest bf but he’s trying ig. reader’s gender isn’t specified.

The love Michael Kaiser had for you lived little in his words. You probably already knew that when you started dating him. It lived in the lights that sometimes danced in his cyan eyes, in his lips that seemed to forbid themselves from uttering words too heavy to bear. 

Yet, Michael loved words. Or so it seemed. But not those that were spoken aloud. He read a lot. He thought a lot — perhaps too much, as you sometimes told him. He deciphered, he watched. He observed the world as a field to be analyzed, a painting to be contemplated.

Sometimes, Michael talked to you about things he has read, about football strategies he has seen or developed, about all those things whose subtleties and nuances you didn’t always grasp, yet seeing how proud and happy he seemed to be able to discuss them with you always dispelled all your worries.

Though, if there was one thing Michael refused to reveal and share with you as much as his latest readings or opinions, it was himself.

You often wondered, watching him parade around on TV, if people would think you’re crazy if you said this. But by dating him, you had also made the decision to see him, in his entirety and completeness, from all the angles he made available to you; which were far from the young leading man adored by the entire football sphere.

Michael was a secretive man, not very talkative, austere even. He seemed to be dragging behind him a whole baggage that you’d have liked to help him lighten. But it was locked away. Certainly, there had been a few flashes, rare but precious moments when intimacy had been such that it had managed to untie, if only for an instant, the knot that constricted his tongue.

In the end, you had some pieces of the puzzle, but nothing that would ever have really allowed you to map the entire territory. Though it was progressing, sometimes. It was slow. It took time. But nothing was ever truly set in stone.

This required you to be just as observant as Michael. 

Michael, whose still-sleeping face was illuminated by the dawn. Slightly leaning against the headboard, you watched him slumber beside you, with his clear, tangled hair cascading over his face like a river, with his neck and collarbones marked by the passions that the night had allowed; and with a hand that somehow always found a way to cling to you.

You placed your own hand on his, used to the rough sensation against the pad of your fingers. Despite his slightly furrowed brows, it was still rare to see Michael so peaceful. He who always seemed so tense, always called away by something you couldn’t hear. Not yet, maybe. All of this made you want to see him sleep like that for as long as possible.

You allowed your gaze to wander over his exposed torso. Michael had a body that sheered the strength and determination he put into his work. The devotion he showed to it. A body that inspired respect, and perfectly illustrated the confidence, the power he exuded in front of the cameras. A body far removed from the fragility you might have imagined; a body that, despite its robustness, was not immune to suffering, as you unfortunately discovered one foggy night when you entered the bathroom, and found Michael in a state of distress you would never have suspected when you started dating him.

Your eyes stopped on a long, sharp scar that crossed some of his ribs. You frowned, squeezing his hand a bit tighter. The mark was fierce, a sharp line that undoubtedly reflected the violence of the action that had caused it. You didn’t remember him having a scar there. You knew Michael had one, yes, but you were convinced it was on his forearm. Perhaps your memory was failing you… 

Confused, your gaze searched for his forearm, as if to check that you hadn’t hallucinated. The left one, the right one.

There was indeed a scar on his forearm. There was a scar on his forearm too. Your hand slid gently towards it, caressing with a flick of your thumb the wound you so wished you could have healed. A strange mix of sadness, compassion and guilt began to wash over you; you could feel it as your eyes continued their journey over your boyfriend’s exposed body.

Michael’s sleeping face looked so fragile compared to what you were discovering, little by little, taking your time, yet everything seemed to happen so fast. A series of sharp lines and bursts, all heartbreaking. They told of past gestures, perhaps falls, moments on which you dared not dwell.

Your eyes lingered, lost their way, returned, and continued.

Some were pale, like fading memories, others more vivid, but you couldn’t date them precisely. Some of them came back to you in a strange, jarring way. As if you already knew them. And fact is — you had probably already seen them. But in isolated, momentary ways, on one occasion or another, without really thinking about it. And yet, today, in that brief, suspended moment of Michael’s sleep, you finally grasped the big picture. The overall composition. What was perhaps hidden in Michael’s silences and distant gazes. In those questions he dodged with the same skill as in front of an opponent’s tackle, or perhaps in those lips that opened and closed without ever uttering a sound.

Your breath hitched, and you couldn’t help but shake in astonishment, shock even.

Yes, Michael rarely talked about himself. You knew a few things though. You knew he was from Berlin. You knew his tastes, his worldview. Kind of. You knew that he particularly loved bread, breadcrust rusks to be precise, and that this unexpected dish was just about the only thing he could cook properly. One day, during one of those many debates he liked to have with you, he had said that “if he had had brothers or sisters…” and you didn’t quite remember what you two were talking about, but you had then deduced that he was an only child. He never spoke about his parents, nor any member of his family in particular. He did mention once a street fight with some guy, a supposedly “funny” story, according to him, but which hadn’t really amused you. Etc, etc. Isolated opinions, moments and incidents, again and again.

It seemed unlikely to you that the street fight he had once told you about could have caused all of those injuries. 

You squeezed Michael’s hand tighter than you intended. Dark thoughts began to overwhelm you as the image of that damaged body became clearer. You had recovered new pieces of the puzzle, and some were beginning to fit together in a sadly distinct way. A dull anger gripped your heart. Against yourself, against the world, against something.

You gently placed your hand on his hair, petting it slowly, before your fingers got caught in a knot, making Michael wince in a sound that indicated he was gradually leaving sleep.

“What the fuck are you doing…”, he mumbled, eyes still closed, voice muffled by the pillow and by his cheek which he was pressing against you.

His whinings drew a soft chuckle from you, warming your heart.

“Sorry”, you simply smiled. “Guess it’s time to wake up”

Michael rolled onto his back, groaning and running his hands over his face, as if to erase any trace of fatigue. His hair was sticking out in all directions, and your smile widened. He sat up and turned towards you, staring intently at you with eyes that still seemed to be searching for yours, before offering you a smile, so small, and always too rare for your liking.

The day then, inevitably, unfolded as usual.

Morning routines, getting ready before work. Planting a kiss on Michael’s cheek because you know he always waits for it, pretends not to care, but will worry if you don’t. Each going your separate ways, and doing, throughout the day, what society expects of you, all while trying never to lose sight of the talent that brought you two to where you are today. Going home. Preparing dinner while Michael stays too long at practice. Waiting for him to return. Michael coming back. Exchanging a welcome-back kiss that smells of sweat and wet grass, but also home. Him taking a shower. You waiting for him again.

Overthinking about all his scars as you’re waiting for him at the table wasn’t on the list. Yet, it invaded your mind. Again. So much so that you didn’t even see him sit down opposite you. How could all of this have escaped you? The question spiraled in your mind, giving you no rest.

Perhaps you had never noticed it until then because you never really cared about it. But not in the most commonly understood sense — in the sense that, for you, it didn’t define him, didn’t confine him to an identity, to a role, whatever it might be. He remained Michael, and you loved him, regardless of the clothes he might wear, the mud smeared on his face after practice, or the vulgarities he might hiss sometimes. Why would injuries have been an exception?

But you probably should have found a middle ground. This would probably have allowed you to understand certain things earlier, to know what to do with these pieces of the puzzle that you could finally, today, put together. But maybe dating him, being part of his life, was this. Maybe it was this need to investigate, gently and carefully, if only by paying attention to the smallest details. And maybe, then, he would let you in.

You were ready to make up for that lost time starting tonight, gradually.

Through your eyelashes, you watched him eat, and your gaze lingered again on the details you regretted never having noticed sooner.

Preciousness and panache clung to Michael’s skin. They were the pillars of his persona, of the mask he put on before going out, every day. And which he sometimes — often — forgot to take off when he got home.

An undeniable talent in his field and a smooth tongue, who knew how to say what others expected while turning it to his advantage.

Yet, things progressed, your eyes examined him, and you gradually realized that Michael had never actually hidden anything. It was simply that people, including you, had never sought to notice. Never seen the point in noticing. You wondered if that was what he was looking for. If, when he unleashed those grandiose “impacts” in front of the public, he was waiting for someone to notice the simmering distress in his eyes. If, when he offered you flowers, he was waiting for you to notice the trembling in his shoulders. If, when he pointed at the Moon, he was waiting for people to look away from the magnificent orb and instead focus on his injured hand.

To notice him.

Michael was there, eating in front of you, awkwardly and slowly as usual, as if he could never get used to this action. A trivial moment, perhaps, yet in the flow of your thoughts, you felt as if you’d had some kind of revelation. Your silence didn’t bother Michael. But he seemed more intrigued by the fact that you hadn’t touched your plate yet.

He looked up at you, his gaze filled with that mixture of defiance and innocence that was so… him. The dim light revealed the curve of another scar, a cut on his jaw; a slender, tiny bulging line that clashed ever so slightly with the fair color of his skin.

Michael was to household chores what a reckless driver was to road safety. This injury, therefore, must have a longer, rougher, less obvious history. Perhaps one day he would tell you about it — you supposed.

Stopping his fork halfway through, he silently questioned you, raising an eyebrow. You looked away, absentmindedly grabbing your own cutlery, and he frowned.

“What’s your problem?” he asked, as blunt and straightforward as he was when the cameras were off. He didn’t elaborate. But the alarm bells of his mind and self-punishment were starting to ring louder and louder.

“I was just thinking”, you replied quickly.

He tilted his head, putting down his cutlery.

“Thinking about what?”

The sentence sounded like a demand, a constraint even, yet you could clearly see the storm in the cyan sea of his eyes. Even though you hadn’t yet solved all the mysteries of your boyfriend’s mind, you knew him better than anyone else in many ways. His tone was certainly sharp, but it wasn’t an ultimatum. It was more of a plea.

His words hung in the air for a moment, a few seconds, no more, otherwise you knew he’d spiral out of control. Your eyes found their way back to the familiar path of his face, and you noticed a bit of food at the corner of his mouth, not so far from the scar after all. Part of you wanted to gently wipe it away, and perhaps even kiss the scarred skin, but you knew that touch wasn’t always Michael’s strong suit.

“You have something here”, you indicated softly, pointing to the spot on your own face.

Michael wiped his mouth with a quick, abrupt gesture using the back of his hand, never taking his eyes off you, his brows still nervously furrowed. He was still waiting for your answer.

“I never noticed this scar on your jaw”, you finally admitted, going frankly.

It was often like that with Michael. When he questioned you, it was better to tell him truths he might not want to know than to lie to him, thus delaying the inevitable tempest. He hated hearing certain things. But in the end, he always appreciated, silently, and a few days later, that you hadn’t kept them secret. Nevertheless, it always kept you both on edge. It was difficult to know where you stood.

You saw him stiffen discreetly, glancing away with a brief nod of his head as he let out a sigh whose underlying emotion was difficult to discern.

“’kay”, he mumbled too nonchalantly to be true, picking up his fork, twirling it between his fingers before resuming his meal. He was shutting down.

– “I’m not asking you to talk about it”, you clarified immediately, without sounding alarmist. Your voice remained calm, devoid of tension. Michael looked up at you, his face clouded by the fear he was always disguising as irritation. “It was just some thought I had.”

He simply let out a quiet grunt, closing his eyes for a moment as he continued eating. Despite the familiarity of the situation, you couldn’t suppress the pang in the heart that gripped you, and you bit your lip.

Michael must be feeling self-conscious now, you lamented. He’d probably stay silent for a while and shut himself away to read or watch some football match. There wasn’t much you could say or do. You just hoped you hadn’t hurt him to the point that he felt compelled to punish himself. Stifling a rueful sigh, you too resumed eating, but the food had lost all its flavor.

Though, before you had time to get depressed, he raised his head toward you, drawing your attention. Your eyes met — his gaze had changed. It was like the one he gave to the cameras, always accompanied by that smirk, brimming with an aggressive energy of contempt and arrogance; a kind of smile that barely existed once the doors of your home were closed. Michael tried to offer you that same smug expression, right here, right now. But something was distorting it. His feelings and fears, no doubt. You saw them. You said nothing. He didn’t falter.

“And what’s so fucking interesting about it, huh?”, he smirked, slightly revealing his teeth. “Don’t tell me I’m scoring another point in the charm department thanks to this shitty scar.”

Yes, he must have felt self-conscious. Scared, undoubtedly. Curious even. You tilted your head to the side and decided to play along. If he needed the mask to speak, then you accepted it. And hoped that one day, maybe, he wouldn’t need it anymore to open his heart — even if only to you.

“Perhaps so”, you replied, shrugging your shoulders. “I like people with a unique beauty”, you murmured, before pointing your fork at him. “Scars aren’t flaws. They’re stories.” Your gaze was sincere and determined. “And one has to know how to listen to them.”

Michael let out a disillusioned chuckle, rolling his eyes.

“Is that so”, he taunted, slouching somewhat against the back of his chair as he carelessly threw his own fork onto the table, “Then enjoy your fucking library of a boyfriend. I’m a real collection of stories.”

– “I know.”, you asserted, conviction evident in your voice, on your face; making him blink. “And I’m ready to listen to them all.”

You gripped your cutlery firmly. The mask cracked slightly. Michael sat up in his seat, tilting his head back slightly without taking his eyes off you, his lips caught between his teeth. He seemed to be trying to put on an intimidating expression, and you would have bought it, if you hadn’t seen him as he was every day. And if you hadn’t finally paid attention to that body of his, which told a story entirely different from the golden one he and the PIFA were creating for him.

After a few seconds of silence and a battle of glances, Michael lowered his eyes, shaking his head in a laugh that you assumed was more nervous than actually malicious.

“You’re crazy”, he jabbed.

– “Right, crazy enough to try to talk you out when I could just force you to speak with this knife I have in my hand. Or poison your food I guess”, you retaliated mischievously, before offering him a smile. “You’re lucky that I love you.”

The silence that followed was loaded. Heavy. With a lot of things. But his smug smirk had vanished. His gaze had become once again the one you were most familiar with: hazy but intense, fleeting but raw. Real. Never anything but his own.

“True”, he simply muttered after a while, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he was uttering this simple word, which nevertheless seemed to cost him so much.

He never said it back. At least, not in the way one would have expected. Michael liked words, yes. But always preferred to use them sparingly. And some were too expensive, no doubt, for reasons you only partially understood. Reasons that, maybe, were also illustrated by those scars. But you held onto hope that one day he would open up, that he would trust you more. Trust himself more. That he would be less afraid.

Michael resumed eating. You gazed at him for a while, without any pity or anger. You just relished in his now more relaxed features. He looked back at you.

“What now?”, he spat, cocking an eyebrow.

– “You’re cute.”

Michael’s surprise was palpable, and you couldn’t help but smile even more when you noticed his discreetly flustered expression, which he was trying so hard to hide, frowning. He rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue in an annoyed sound.

“Can’t even have a quiet meal in my own fucking house”, he mumbled, but you knew him too well not to see the corner of his lips lift up, a tiny bit. “Just eat, (y/n).”

His tone was lighter.

Yes, as he himself had said, Michael was a collection of stories. Troubled and complex stories, no doubt. Told in many forms, visible or not. He hadn’t told you anything more today. And for now, he probably won’t tell you anything, you suppose. But at least you had been able to tell him that you would listen. Always. It would never be quite enough, but never too much either. Michael loved words. You hoped he would remember the ones from tonight.

You nodded in a hum, and resumed eating as well.

A/N: i remember discovering this dude back in 2022 like it was yesterday, and he’s getting animated this fall… seems both so long ago and so soon. he finally came back with the milk (even though he hates it). my heart races when i think about it. *sigh* ts is my 1st Kaiser fic btw (yes) and i’m not a native speaker, so hopefully it’s not too trash. i tried to make it short. Kaiser’s my favorite char, but surprisingly, he’s the one i write about THE LEAST lmao. should i write about him more? feel free to let me know!

[azuharriet]

Welp PXN vs Bastard in a nutshell

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

kaiser knows that you care about him !

it was dark out.

maybe one or two am; each night star glittered above the urban sky, skyscrapers and tall buildings surrounding the small hotel room kaiser stayed in.

the door to the balcony was open, and you stood outside, coat draped over your shoulders, simply leaning on the railing and watching the city underneath your feet.

you had made love earlier, if kaiser could even call it that. it was simply physical intimacy; there was no love. he knew your name, your number, and how you looked like.

he didn’t even know how old you were, only that you were old enough to not give him any legal trouble but not so old that he was fucking somebody’s grandma.

kaiser hated affection. hated it when others tried to follow him around or give him soft, honey-covered words. hated it when people tried to wrap their grimy arms around him. hated getting close to people without any sort of taunting involved.

but you didn’t offer him any affection. only intimacy.

and perhaps that unfamiliarity is precisely why you remain the only person kaiser has ever spent the night with.

he was shirtless, a fresh pair of boxers over his thighs, hidden under the thick white comforter. kaiser hung his head back, hitting the pillow with a soft thud. he gazed at you from the corner of his eye, the night breeze tangling into your hair.

you weren’t friends. barely acquaintances who simply shared a few meals and multiple nights with each other. someone he met after losing a match, and released all his frustrations onto.

kaiser was no different than his father. he was fully aware; one wrong move, and you might accidentally end up pregnant. not out of love—out of emptiness.

he stood up, slipping on his bastard münchen sweater, and stepped onto the balcony, next to you. your hotel room was the only one with the lights still on. you stayed silent, merely observing each passing car on the street.

kaiser’s gaze remained fixated on you. “you feeling okay?” he was being uncharacteristically soft. but then again, objectively speaking, you are truly the closest kaiser has ever been with anyone. the question was less out of concern and more out of necessity.

“i’m alright.” you didn’t even look at him. “you should sleep. don’t you have practice tomorrow?” your voice was quiet, yet it rang louder than a bell in kaiser’s ears.

“i don’t sleep much anyway.” another quiet settled between you two, and kaiser looked at you. really looked at you—your features, the color of your hair, the length of your lashes.

you were beautiful.

of course, kaiser always knew you were attractive. he wouldn’t have bothered with you in the first place if you weren’t. to call you merely “attractive” felt insulting; the wind in your hair, stray strands brushing your forehead. your nose turning red from the autumn air. the flutter of your lashes when you blinked.

kaiser never noticed them. not until now.

“you’re staring.” you pointed out.

“yes, i am. we just had sex; is staring suddenly too much?” he retorted, blue eyes narrowing. you shook your head.

for the first time that night, you finally looked at him. “apologies. it’s weird; you usually sleep with me, ghost me for the rest of the night, and the next morning you’re gone. then you’re back at the hotel room in the evening.” you give him a small, nearly unnoticeable smile. “it’s strange to see you truly looking at me.”

the way you looked at him—it unnerved kaiser. his stomach twisted and turned; there was something about it that he just didn’t like. it was deeply uncomfortable.

the corners of your eyes softened just slightly, and a small gleam was now noticeable. kaiser, for the first time in his life, couldn’t hold eye contact for too long. “i guess so.”

it was as if you cared about him. as if you cared about a piece of shit like him. someone who could impregnate and leave you at any time, like his shitty mother had done. someone who couldn’t even bother to know your favorite color.

“why are you looking at me like that?” kaiser demanded, voice suddenly rougher than it was just moments ago.

“like what?” you asked, genuinely puzzled. he furrowed his eyebrows, a strained noise erupting from his chest.

“like you care.” his voice cracked. “like you care about me.”

your eyes widened slightly before you laughed. “wow, you really are dense.” kaiser stared at you with wide eyes, standing stiffly. “of course i care about you. i’d go as far as to say that i like you.”

kaiser unwillingly stayed silent. he didn’t even know how to respond. “it’s just…when you lose your v-card to someone, it’s important.” you muttered. “y’know? and you’re interesting. you might not realize it, but you’re theatrical in daily life. all of the expressions you make are incredibly amusing. the way you speak is dramatic, but in a funny way.”

you glanced at him with impossibly gentle eyes. “i like you a lot. i know we don’t talk a lot, and you don’t have to like me back.”

kaiser felt like throwing up.

how could you—with the eyes of an angel and the appearance of a deity—like someone like him? he’s a piece of shit. he doesn’t even talk to you that much. he doesn’t even know your last name.

yet he wants to hold onto you. he wants to hold onto someone who can love him so unconditionally.

you’re no more than strangers, yet no less than lovers all the same.

kaiser’s fingers itch to reach out, to graze your skin. yet he suddenly feels all too horrified at the thought of touching you—as if he had never been the closest anyone had ever been with you. as if he hadn’t reached parts of you that no one else had.

and suddenly, all he can manage is a quiet “okay” as he watches you leave the balcony and slip into your bed.

© 𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐧, 𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐫, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔. 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐨𝐫 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐢.

▶︎•၊၊||၊|။|||||။၊|။• k. by cigarettes after sex

𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐨 @/𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐝-𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬!

[jjstrv]

Blue lock vol 38 bonus

Kaiser : So this is where Yoichi grew up… Shitty Japan huh.

‘Kaiser’s Shitty Japan Visit Diary’

Kaiser : There's still some time until the U-20 kickoff... I guess I'll do some reconnaissance to crush Yoichi.

Kaiser: I see... This 'Age-Manju' is shitty delicious.

[civilighteternal]

I think people should write kaiser more as a chill guy, I know more of his depiction is of him as a gaudy and theatric guy but honestly he might just be the type of person to munch donuts while your speaking. Without realizing it he might eat the whole box before you.

[kaiserlicherose]

columbina but it's ness

[saya2104]

[fushigurro]

FRONT LINES.

MICHAEL KAISER X F!READER ･ sfw, primarily fluff with just a hint of angst, established relationship. i love him in ways that cannot properly be described. but i tried. 1.1k words.

my first ever finished and published piece for him despite his residence in my bones for the past year and a half. i guess it's a little love letter to him because i was feeling some type of way today. decided to take my most prized barbie doll off the shelf for a while. i'm very normal!!! (lying) ･ (dividers by @/cursed-carmine)

Michael's teeth graze across the flesh of your neck in between kisses of determined reverence, languid yet possessive in their nips of endless hunger. You feel the turmoil stirring in his being, rarely subdued even when he has you directly in his grasp, because nothing ever guarantees that you won't suddenly slip from right out of it. So he is voracious in his consumption, a touch over-indulgent as if it might quell the fear that lurks within—the fear that only you are ever privy to.

You know the essence of him through his lips and his palms, and can read his soul like the stars in the sky. The master navigator of the map of everything that he is. And you know that when his fingers anchor into your hips and his teeth nibble restlessly at your throat, he is clinging to a pointless "what if," and an image of himself that is still tainted with shame. Even if he doesn't realize it, you do.

"Be my sweet boy," you say, carding a hand through his hair with your gentle request. Perched in his lap, you want him to revel in the joy of your closeness to one another, not wage war with himself in the proclivity to conquer.

"There's nothing sweet about me," he says so matter-of-fact, fingers only tightening their grip as he continues to mouth at you, to breathe in your scent. "Unless you count my victories."

You tug just barely at his scalp to pull yourself away an inch in protest. "That's not true," you reply.

He takes offense to this, your words ringing like individual criticisms—a coordinated assault on someone as guarded as he, because that is what he is used to. It's reflexive to perceive your contradiction as an attack, even if what you're saying is supposed to be nice. He still doesn't comprehend the complexities of 'nice.'

So Michael's eyes narrow, too riddled with intensity on the precipice of vulnerability to wave you off like he might anyone else. False pride can't fully man the defenses when your gaze is the one that penetrates. Because, subconsciously, he knows that you will only see right through it.

He doesn't say anything, but your resolute expression doesn't waver either as he studies it, tests it. You are his most infuriating opponent. His most beloved.

"And pray tell, what is it you think is so sweet about me, mein Fräulein?" he asks with a peeved, challenging grin, already anticipating an answer that will crack underneath his pressure. "Do feel free to share."

You know his games and his goals, both within soccer and outside it. "I've never seen someone look sweeter in their sleep," you reply while smiling and smoothing back more of his hair with your loving hands, though still with just the right amount of roughness to remind him you are not so easily shaken.

He scoffs into a chuckle and shakes his head, looking up at you with a hint of pity. "And you think that counts? Good god, I think your brain has finally fallen out of your pretty little head." It's derogatory, a final attempt at maintaining his pride, at pretending like he is the one who knows better than you. It's accompanied by the wandering of his greedy hands along your sides and back, gripping your body with that same subtle restlessness.

"No," you double down, tender all the while. "You're sweet even when you don't know it—even when you don't mean to be." Your fingers are soothing in his hair, yet your voice makes his chest tighten a fraction when it mumbles against his forehead in a kiss. "Like when you tread carefully because you think I'm asleep, or when you say I've lost my pretty mind instead of telling me to fuck off like I know you really want to."

You smile down at him knowingly, with an air of absoluteness, but not malevolent in the slightest. It enrages him. It comforts him. Why are you such an impossible thing to conquer?

Michael's jaw flexes and the tension creeps into his brow, dragging his gaze away from yours and back down into your neck. He noses at the skin there, bubbling with frustration as his hands slow and the gears turning in his mind quicken.

He breathes against you, feeling himself losing the battle. But there's a small part of him that's eager to surrender as always.

"You aren't supposed to know so many things," he murmurs through gritted teeth.

Your grin widens and your thumb strokes the clench out of his jaw. "Oh, but I do, meine Liebe," you reassure him, pulling him back to look him in the eye. "I know you are so sweet." You place a kiss to his brow, his cheek—slowly, with care, to ensure he recognizes the sincerity while his face rests like a precious jewel in your palms. "And I know you are so full of love."

Your voice has lowered to nearly a whisper as you gently pull his head to your chest for the warmest of embraces, closing your eyes and hoping with everything in you that the love you have for him can be felt. You hope it radiates outward from your heart and into his skull enough to convince him that you are right, because even if there is nothing else you are certain of in this world, you are certain of this.

His cheek melts into the heat of your sternum as he listens to the steady thrum of your heart against his eardrum like a lullaby. He knows that rhythm and cherishes it more than any other song in the universe, because it slips into his bones and makes it seem as though it were destined to be there from the start. When your blood sings against his flesh, it feels as though there might really be a place for him in this world after all—one he doesn't have to fight for.

Michael deflates and exhales beneath your touch.

'No, you are full of love,' he thinks. 'You are.'

Though...

Perhaps he could be too. Since you will allow it.

He stays in place until his heartbeat syncs with yours, then finally looks back up at you with his devout resignation. "Only for you," he states.

You grin again, relishing in the blue sparkle of his eyes. "No, I think you have more than that," you say, pressing the tip of your nose to his. "But I won't complain about being first in line."

He accepts your lips with a temperance he didn't possess before, breathing you in through a slow, earnest kiss when you give it. He doesn't know how right you are about anything else, but he does know that you are, in fact, the very first in line—you will be until he draws his final breath.

And that is a battle he can't be entirely disappointed in himself for losing.

[kaiserlicherose]

how does the rain taste

tw: hurt/comfort. dysmorphophobia. this drabble was a request, i hope i did it justice. reader's gender isn't really specified.

Having an artist mother, Meguru Bachira grew up appreciating beauty in all its forms. He was introduced to the many possibilities in which “beauty” can reside, to questioning its meaning, and to the free and personal creation of very beauty and meaning.

Thus, the notion of “standard” means very little to Meguru. Its meaning is uncertain, even absurd. Who decides on these “standards”? Who approves them? Are there really people on Earth who think they can claim this authority and impose it on others with impunity, hoping that everyone will remain silent and comply?

How sad. How… brutal.

Meguru isn’t quite sure what value to place on standards, but he’s well aware of their harmful effects. Their devastating impact. After all, he’s suffered from them too.

When he painted his Sun red, while everyone else called it yellow. When he gave alternative names to things, to concepts. When he addressed the question of his “monster”. Or, just, sometimes, when he talked about football.

People have preconceived, fixed ideas. People talk a lot. Talk too fast. People tell Meguru he’s a weirdo. They consider this or that thing to be good or bad, pretty or ugly, interesting or boring.

People judge.

People have judged again, even, that’s what Meguru thinks to himself as he sees you silently close the door behind you and take off your shoes without any real conviction. Humans are so sensitive. There are so many negative emotions that can be categorized. And seeing one of them painted on your face always made Meguru feel like one of his limbs had been torn off.

He often told himself that people could say whatever they wanted about him. But your smile was worth more than anything in the world. He made it a point of honor to cherish and nurture it, or to bring it back when the world and its harsh rules tried to erase it.

As you were dragging yourself to the kitchen to get a glass of water, Meguru walked towards you with that light and dancing gait that was so characteristic of him, both in football and in everyday life. His tied-up fringe swirled as he approached you.

“(y/n)-cchi! Welcome back!~”, he cheered, rubbing his nose against yours as his hands fell onto your hips.

He saw, felt you wince, and suppressed the urge to wince in return, saddened to see you like this. Meguru was like a sponge; he absorbed the surrounding emotions, churned them, and tried to make sense of them in a way that wasn’t always perceived or understood by others. By the “standards”.

“Hey”, you only murmured.

Your gaze was shifty, your smile small and unsteady. He guessed you needed space. He released you from his grasp and let you into the kitchen. While he was helping himself to some canned pineapple, Meguru watched you take a glass from the cupboard, fill it with water, place it on the counter, and gaze at it ruefully. Throughout the process, Meguru was smiling — you could see it when you glanced nervously in his direction. He was smiling, but it wasn’t his usual smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes; it was gentler. Softer. More cautious, less… tornado-like.

You knew that Meguru knew something was going on. Meguru knew that you knew that he knew. But he didn’t ask you anything. As always. That was one of the things you loved most about him — there was never any pressure for structured speech, for pure rationality. He accepted feelings, raw and unpolished, like newly discovered diamonds. He takes them as they are. He takes you as you are… doesn’t he?

Tonight, you weren’t quite sure. It was one of those moments when nothing was certain anymore. Thousands of words threatened to roll off your tongue, but you didn’t know if you wanted to utter them or not. As if to swallow them back, you took the glass of water and brought it to your lips, unable to stop your gaze from falling on the glass door, observing your reflection. Thoughts and words spiraled in your mind, bumping into each other, sometimes complementing one another, sometimes clashing.

In a matter of seconds, and without you even realizing it, your body began to tremble, your eyes subtly becoming glassy. You couldn’t tear your gaze away from the window.

“Meguru… do you love me?”

He considered you for a second, his eyebrows furrowing while his cheeks were full of pineapple.

“Of course I do”, he simply replied, mouth still full, holding the can in one hand, wiping the syrup that was dripping down his chin with the other.

He wanted to conclude with a little joke, to assure that you didn’t have to worry and that, even if that canned pineapple was like, yeah, super tasty, he obviously still preferred you to it. But your tremulous, anxious gaze called for something else.

“Are you sure?”, you questioned again.

He swallowed.

“(y/n)—”

– “I mean, it’s not like I’m that good. You could… you could have someone else. Someone prettier. Without all those… like…” You struggled to finish your sentence verbally, but your gestures followed your faltering voice, tracing the supposed contours you attributed to your body. “I… I just need you to be honest with me.”, you asserted, placing the glass back on the counter with a movement whose abruptness you hadn’t anticipated. “Tell me the truth.”

Meguru stepped towards you, gently putting the empty can next to your glass before looking up to meet your gaze. You couldn’t hold his eyes for very long, but your boyfriend filled the void.

“Is this about your monster?”

Your breath hitched as you looked away, your eyes falling once again on your reflection in the window. Yes, a “monster”. That’s how you two called it.

For Meguru, his own monster was simultaneously a companion, a helper, and a curse. Something that followed him through life, accompanied him, and brought about conflicting, mixed feelings. He didn’t always have the words to talk about it properly. But when he met you, he could tell — you too had a monster.

But yours was different. Certainly, it too filled voids and anxieties, but not in the same way. Not for the same reasons. You had needed time to talk to him about it, in half-hearted terms. But he had quickly grasped the extent of it. The fact that it was a wound that was always open, ready to bleed at any contact that was too abrupt. Too careless.

Your silence answered his question. Meguru gently tugged at your sleeve, pulling you towards him.

“Come”, he prompted, and the softness of his voice made it impossible for you, despite the pain, to refuse.

He gently led you towards the living room, where the coffee table and the floor were covered with pencils of all kinds and papers of various colours. Meguru moved them aside with a precise movement of his foot, before sitting on the floor, leaning back against the sofa and drawing you close to him, into his arms.

He smelled of soap, mixed with the sugar from the syrupy pineapple he had eaten earlier. You could feel Meguru’s warmth affecting you. It was… pleasant. And you might even have given in to it if you hadn’t been in the grip of so much torment.

“Tell me the truth”, you commanded again, but your voice came out broken, wavering with sobs that threatened to burst forth.

– “I will”, he hummed. “Don’t worry.” Lowering his head, he rested his cheek against yours. “What brought your monster out today?”

You were torn between telling him everything and swallowing your words, neglecting your own feelings and condition. But you knew you could never truly hide anything from Meguru.

He waited. Waited until you were ready to utter the words that had shaken your soul and woken your monster up. He waited, pulling you back to him.

“It… It was during the lunch break”, you began in a weak voice.

Meguru didn’t interrupt you, nor did he make any sound to make you continue. He listened.

“My colleagues were discussing one of the last matches of the competition, I could hear them talking… it was… not really about football.” You paused. “They were showing each other pics of the players, imagining their lives…”

– “Did they say anything about you?”

You felt your boyfriend’s grip tighten around you, as if he had just been hit. Fear, hurt even, was audible in his voice as the words tumbled out of his mouth.

“No, no, of course not”, you quickly corrected. “I mean… They don’t even know that we…” You failed to finish your sentence, but he got it. And gave you time to pick up the thread of your story again. “One of them showed me some pictures of players, I don’t even remember which team it was. But she kept praising their talent, their physique. She said…” You swallowed hard, your voice wavering. “... she said that you probably had to be like a real model to be able to date them.”

Meguru let out a sigh through his nose, and you could feel him frown against your neck. He didn’t need any more clues to understand. Yet, you kept going.

“She said that… ‘normal people like us don’t even stand a chance’, and…”, you continued, your voice faltering due to the various tremors that seized you, your eyes becoming wet again. “So… I… I thought you too would… I thought…”

– “What did you think, (y/n)-cchi?”, he asked, gently raising a hand towards your face to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. Truth be told though, he already had an idea.

You could no longer hold back your tears, bursting into sobs as you brought your hands to your face.

“I’m not a model”, you sobbed. “I’m not…”

You couldn’t elaborate further. Because that was all you were thinking. All that had obsessed you for the rest of the day, and which had slapped you all the more when you found Meguru’s radiant, smiling face again when you got home.

Just words, some might have said. But for you, they had the effect of an earthquake. They were connected to your monster. To that shadow you were carrying within you, against which you were fighting, which made you so sensitive sometimes — but Meguru never held it against you. Just like now.

He let you cry for a while, let you release all that anxiety and pressure accumulated throughout the day. He let your monster speak, before lightly kissing the top of your head.

“Why would I want a model?”, he pouted. Another peck on your head. “I don’t need a model. I feel good with you!”

You frowned, turning towards him, your eyes red and swollen from tears.

“So I’m ugly?!”, you hissed.

Meguru shook his head, his tied-up fringe wiggling slightly.

“Since when do you have to be a model to be pretty?”, he asked, voice somewhat playful. You didn’t quite know what to answer. Meguru pulled you even closer to him, offering you a mischievous smile. “Models are one type of beauty among many. And it’s not mine.”

You gripped his sleeve fervently, your gestures and voice guided by your own hurt. Your emotions were raw, visible, and Meguru placed his hand on yours.

“What’s your type?”, you asked.

– “People who don’t conform. Who embody a form of beauty all on their own. Who know how to surprise me.”, he replied without pretense, shrugging his shoulders. He came closer to your face, placing a kiss on the corner of your lips, without openly claiming them. “People like you.”

You felt your cheeks getting hot, and you turned around, without breaking free from his embrace. You leaned back against his chest.

“That’s just some smooth-talking”, you jabbed.

– “Ouch! Thought you’d think higher of me, (y/n)-cchi.”, he chuckled, pinching your cheek. “I’m not as stupid as you think.”

That struck you. Even though he often said it as a joke, you hated it when Meguru put himself down in any way.

“You’re not stupid at all! I just—”

– “So you can imagine that I don’t have a fixed and rigid concept of beauty, can’t you?”, he winked. Your breath hitched. “How I see you isn’t limited to your appearance. I love your laugh, your vision of life, your fighting spirit. And I accept your own monster too. Because I love you, (y/n).” He smiled. “My (y/n)-cchi. I love the person you are.”

His tone was warm, peaceful even. Soothing. Much calmer than anyone could have imagined coming from him. But that was because Meguru knew the weight of standards. The weight of expectations. The way they can break minds and hearts.

Your view became blurry, more tears spilling out.

“You’re lying”, you accused. Trembling, your voice didn’t come out as threatening as you would have liked though.

– “You don’t have to believe me right now. But I think I’ve shown you many times that I’m sincere”, he whispered, his characteristic playfulness in his voice, but devoid of any mockery. “I can remind you someday if you want.”

You could feel his breath brushing against your neck, and it made heat creep up your skin. Meguru jolted, bringing you closer.

“No, wait— that sounded, uh… very explicit. That’s not what I meant! I mean, yeah, that’s part of it, but not entirely, like, we—”

– “You’re so silly”, you sighed, wiping out your tears as a smile gradually stretched across your lips.

Your reaction seemed to relax him. He placed a chaste kiss on your neck, and you felt his smile against your skin — sweet, loving.

“I guess I am. But I love you.”

You allowed a comfortable, simple silence to settle in, still cuddled against each other. Your eyes eventually fell on Meguru’s fingers, intertwined against your lower abdomen, and you noticed the faint, colored traces of markers that adorned them.

“What were you doing?”, you asked quietly.

– “Some mind maps to remember my Spanish lessons”, he smiled. “I’m improving quite a lot! Soon, I might even be able to compose a serenade for you, (y/n)-cchi ~”

This elicited a soft chuckle from you, and Meguru felt your shoulders relax somewhat in his embrace. His smile widened.

“What? Don’t tell me you don’t believe me!”, he whined, pretending to be offended through a tiny pout. “I already have the lyrics, you know!”

You turned slightly towards him, still warm in his arms.

“Oh yeah?”, you smirked. “And what are they?”

Meguru tilted his head, taking on a pensive expression in that singular, expressive way he had of displaying his emotions. You could almost see his thoughts forming above his head in a bubble.

“Mmmhh, but I don’t want to reveal everything to you, otherwise it wouldn’t be as spectacular… But I can leak the title to you!”, he grinned. “It’s ‘el arbitraje fue correcto’!”

You rolled your eyes. “What kind of love song is this? That means ‘the arbitration was correct’. This is the sentence I’ve made you work thousands of times!”

– “And now, I remember it so well I’m making it our song. Isn’t that romantic?”

– “Oh my God, Meguru”, you smacked his forearm, now unable to stifle your chuckles.

Your laughter was music to your boyfriend’s ears.

“You didn’t even praise me for my wonderful accent”, Meguru playfully sighed, shaking his head before nuzzling in the crook of your neck, planting a soft kiss. “I’m afraid my mixtape will have to wait then…”

You relished in Meguru’s sweet, mischievous yet gentle touch. You two never completely erased your mutual pain. Was that even possible? But it remained certain that you both supported each other.

You heard and listened to each other’s monsters.

And perhaps that was enough, if only for the moment.

A/N: found myself restarting Sonic Mania, and although Bachi's is more attached to the Mario universe (he loves Toad ; NEB), the music in this game reminds me so much of him! anyways... i keep stalling from my main fic but i promise i'm making some progresses. sometimes.

[kaiserlicherose]

rewatching soul eater (it had easily been more than 10 years since i had watched this anime) and what strikes me is that

1) it has aged pretty well

2) its totally the kind of anime that kurona could watch

[kaiserlicherose]

kaiser's guilty pleasure is watching titanic. his standards are there.

he's like wdym ur not ready to die in the ocean while holding my hand. im not dating u then

[kaiserlicherose]

very random but specific Kaiser headcanons bc i'm having a writing block for my other fic

tw: these are just my opinions, i don't consider it to be the absolute truth at all and would be very happy to have you guys' own opinions!

as a result of various forms of violence he had endured, his body is covered in scars: some smaller, others way more visible. 

absolutely unfit for any household chores. this guy burns his pasta water and lets crushed cola cans or balled-up tissues rot under his bed.

kinda messy at first glance, but his mess is lowkey ordered somehow?? like he knows perfectly well where any of his shits are if that makes sense lol. however, he sometimes has like idk. flashes of insight where he gets annoyed with his own mess and decides to tidy it up.

smells like your grandpa. he likes very strong, old-fashioned even, men’s colognes. it gives him the impression of asserting some kind of strength ig.

despite his classes at the BM Academy, he still has an illegible handwriting — except for the autograph ✌️

has a deeper scar from stitches on his skull, caused by the glass bottle his father broke over his head. it’s covered by his hair now.

always oversleeps but blames you everytime YOU do

is a good speaker if prepared, however he has poor reading aloud skills. stutters a lot if he hasn’t been able to practice several times beforehand.

might have a phobia of administrative tasks of some sort.

always feels invested with the mission of correcting what you say that might be wrong, or when you pronounce something incorrectly.

has very bad teeth, or had them replaced when he turned pro.

types messages with those “....” shits like a deadass 70 years old person. he also uses the period in his messages as a genuine morphosyntactic marker. he doesn’t really get why some people might interpret it as a sign of hostility.

his hands are extremely calloused and rough.

sneezes loudly af

doesn’t use his cell phone much because he grew up accustomed to not having one.

wears contact lenses during matches. actually has poor eyesight due to genetics ig, evenings spent reading in poor lighting + screens, but also to the injury from the glass bottle incident which may have affected one of his eyes.

regularly bumps into the doorframe when he enters a room and insults it everytime

he learned to tie his shoelaces very late and still doesn’t know how to proceed with a tie. his go-to excuse is that “it’s up to the makeup artists and stylists” of whatever photoshoot he participates in to take care of that

beyond psychology and philosophy, he's a “secret” sucker for romance. paintings, movies, songs, books, give him all. he’ll always be the biggest hater of it and will say it’s stupid, but he actually appreciates a lot how art can make him connect with the feelings he seeks somehow.

doesn’t fold his clothes properly, except perhaps when it comes to his football gear.

he zones out a lot.

A/N: yeah i'm alive 😵‍💫🤙 sorry i just have too much work for this economy lmao. i have SO MANY headcanons about this man (i mean he's my fav. is the fic i'm currently writing about Kaiser tho? no lol) so i had to do some sorting. hope you still enjoyed it! 🙇 i don't have a taglist btw. would you guys be interested in that? feel free to let me know. love 💙

[kaiserlicherose]

the dynamic between gagamaru and kaiser is just so underrated.

kaiser catching wind of parts of gagamaru's wild life or wtv, and lowkey feeling some respect for him somehow bc the roughest aspects of life resonate with him

kaiser having to maintain his "imperial" persona & not knowing how to socialize, so he's not talking much, not trying to know more. but whenever he crosses paths with gagamaru he always gives him some kind of look like he's acknowledging him

kaiser being like "this gagamaru dude can duel a bear. he's someone."

and gagamaru just wondering "why this bij so mad" when catching kaiser looking at him

[kaiserlicherose]

my biggest flex is that ppl in cons always recognize me not for my cosplays (bruh); but for my damn kaiser itabag that i bring everywhere

[kaiserlicherose]

have u read anything by death13 on ao3 if not u should their kaiser stuff is sooo good

hi Anon! hope you're doing well ^^

funny you mention this because i actually have been reading a few fics by them recently!! 🤭

i stumbled across their work completely by chance while scrolling through AO3 (it's been YEARS since i last visited this website), and their characterization is so good indeed!! it corresponds kinda closely to the image i have of Kaiser myself tbh.

i've only read 2 or 3 fics of theirs so far, but your message motivates me to keep reading 🙏❤️ thanks a lot for this recommendation, which i wholeheartedly agree with.

attention to all the Kaiser nation : this author Anon is talking about is really, really cool! 💥

have a nice day/evening, Anon :)