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જ⁀♡⊹｡° i'll show you every version of yourself

( michael kaiser x fem! reader )

♡ a/n — the first fic in my new series Seven Petals, All Poison! It's a short series where I assigned one of the seven deadly sins to one bllk boy :) ( masterlist )

♡ word count — 1.8k

♡ content — michael kaiser x fem! reader, childhood friend! reader, mention of abuse, mention of blood, kaiser's past mentioned, unrequited love, toxic relationship, nickname 'micha' used like once, not proofread

♡ synopsis — You were the only one who saw Michael Kaiser before the crown. And that made you dangerous.

── .✦ but i'm still on my tallest tiptoes, spinnin' in my highest heels, love

You’re kneeling on the bathroom tile, sleeves pushed up, fingers trembling as you press a damp towel to Michael’s cheek. It’s warm with blood.

He doesn’t flinch. He just watches you, mouth set in a straight line, eyes blown wide in something between shame and fury.

The cut is from a glass beer bottle. His father threw it—again.

“You’re lucky it didn’t hit your eye,” you whisper, dabbing carefully. “Jesus, Micha…”

“I told you, it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

You glance over your shoulder.

Your mother is in the kitchen, pretending not to hear anything.

Your father had muttered something about “not getting involved in other people’s business” when Michael showed up, fists clenched, shirt soaked in beer.

He’s been staying with you for weeks now. At first, it was supposed to be for a night or two. But by now, he might as well live here. Your bed has room for two, and he sleeps like a cat curled toward your warmth.

No one reported it. Not his bruises. Not the bottle. Not the nights he didn’t eat because he was too afraid to ask.

You asked him once why he didn’t tell someone.

He said, “Because they’d take me away from you.”

You press a Band-Aid to the deepest cut on his chin.

Your hands linger.

And that’s when he looks up and says it. Quiet. Matter-of-fact.

“I think you’re the only reason I haven’t burned this whole place down.”

You don’t know how to answer that.

So you just whisper, “I’m not going anywhere.”

And you mean it.

But two years later, when he signs to Bastard München at fifteen and leaves without saying goodbye, that promise burns like a lie in your mouth.

You didn’t know he’d be there. Not until the name KAISER flashes on the stadium’s jumbotron, bright as a warning.

He’s changed.

Gone is the boy with blood on his shirt and fury in his chest. What’s left is all shine and arrogance: gelled hair, perfect skin, gold-stitched jersey.

And then he scores.

The crowd erupts. He lifts two fingers to his temple in a cocky salute, and when he turns toward the sidelines—

He sees you.

Just a flicker. One moment. His smirk falters, just slightly. Like he’s seen a ghost.

You don’t cheer. You don’t look away, either.

You just meet his eyes.

And he looks like he’s been punched in the ribs.

The tunnel smells like sweat and turf and adrenaline. Players filter out in packs, already laughing about goals and post-game plans. Kaiser’s still flushed, his hair damp with effort, jersey clinging to his chest.

But he’s not smiling.

He’s scanning the crowd.

And then he sees you, lingering near the exit—arms folded, bag slung over your shoulder, like you’ve already convinced yourself it was a mistake coming here.

He moves fast.

“Knew it,” he says, sidling up behind you before you can slip away. “You did come to see me.”

You turn slowly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Too late.

Kaiser grins. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

You sigh. “I came for the game.”

“Liar. You came for me.”

He’s close now. Close enough to smell that mix of cologne and stadium musk, close enough to remember being thirteen and wiping blood from his cheek while you scolded him with watery eyes.

You look away. “Congrats on the win.”

“Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without the very mysterious, very pretty person who made direct eye contact with me mid-celebration.”

“Wasn’t me.”

He tilts his head. “So we’re doing that? Okay.”

You step back. “It was nice seeing you, Kaiser.”

He grabs your wrist gently—just enough to make you pause.

“Don’t go yet. Come on, just give me your number.”

Your expression hardens. “Why?”

“To catch up.”

“Catch up?”

“To make sure you’re still real. Because I swear, when I saw you in the stands, I thought I was hallucinating. Or dying.”

You raise a brow.

“Fine,” he concedes, grinning. “Mostly dying. From how hard I wanted to chase you down and demand why the hell you’re here.”

You stare at him.

And then—

“See you’re still the same narcissist.”

“You love it.”

“Not anymore.”

He presses a hand to his chest, mock wounded. “Ouch.”

You sigh. Reach into your bag. Pull out a pen and scribble a number on the corner of a torn receipt.

“Lose it, and I’m not giving it again.”

He snatches it like gold. “I’ll frame it.”

You turn to leave.

“Hey,” he calls after you, already typing it into his phone. “One date.”

“Don’t push it.”

“Too late.”

And your stomach flips.

Just a little.

Your phone buzzes even before you get back to the hotel.

Kaiser 🃏

Glad you came

You looked at me like you wanted to kill me. Hot.

You ignore it.

So he sends more.

Come on. One date.

You still owe me a Band-Aid, remember?

Just dinner. One night. One very curious, very rich, very sorry ex-friend.

You don’t reply until the fourth day.

Fine. One date.

We start over. No flirting. Just… like before.

Friends.

And I’m picking the restaurant.

You meet him at a tucked-away Italian spot, dressed in a black dress that makes you feel more confident than you are. He shows up late, of course, in a jacket that costs more than your month’s salary and a smug smile that’s barely contained.

“You wore lipstick,” he says, sliding into the booth across from you.

“You wore your most obnoxious cologne.”

He grins. “I missed you, too.”

It’s easy, surprisingly. The rhythm falls back into place—sarcasm, teasing, eye rolls that come with hidden smiles. He talks about soccer like it’s his whole world, but you catch him glancing at you like you might be more interesting than the trophies.

At one point, you laugh at something ridiculous he says, and he goes quiet.

“What?” you ask.

“You’re happy.”

“So?”

“I don’t think I’ve seen you laugh like that in years.”

You look down at your glass. “That’s because we haven’t been friends in years.”

Kaiser leans forward.

“Then let’s fix that.”

You hesitate.

He offers his hand.

You take it.

The Bastard München gala is all glitter and money. Reporters swarm. Athletes pose. Champagne flows like water.

Kaiser looks like he owns the place. (He might.)

You’re on his arm, and for a moment, it’s like nothing ever broke between you. He whispers ridiculous things in your ear just to make you laugh. He kisses your hand dramatically when someone takes a photo.

But then you run into Ness.

He smiles. Gentle. A little too warm.

You smile back, polite.

And when he walks away, you feel Kaiser’s grip tighten on your waist.

“You like him?”

“Relax. We talked for ten seconds.”

“I saw the way he looked at you.”

“And I saw the way you looked at the mirror all night.”

He doesn’t laugh. “He’s always liked you.”

“So what? That’s not a crime.”

“It is when you belong to me.”

That’s when you pull away.

“Kaiser,” you say, your voice sharp. “I’m not a thing.”

“You’re mine,” he says again, like it’s a spell.

“You left when we were kids,” you snap. “You disappeared. No calls. No messages. And now you think you can waltz back in and own me?”

His voice softens. Dangerous. “Because I’ve never stopped wanting you.”

You blink. The words are heavy. Real.

But instead of answering, he kisses you.

You pushed at his chest. “Stop it.”

“Make me.”

“You’re such a child—”

He kissed you again, the only way to make you shut up - he thought.

Hard. Harsh. Like a threat and a confession all at once.

There was nothing gentle about it. Not the way his hands found your waist.

Not the way you shoved him against the wall.

Not the way his breath broke between your lips.

And when you pulled away—he was breathing like he’d just lost something.

“What are we doing?” you whispered.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But don’t leave.”

“I don’t want to keep doing this.”

He stepped forward again. “Then don’t talk. Just—just be with me.”

He kisses you for the third time tonight.

Hard. Desperate. Like he’s afraid of what happens if either of you keep talking.

And you kiss him back.

Because you’re afraid, too.

You’re his. Officially.

It’s everything you dreamed of when you were younger. The fancy clothes. The trips. The headlines. “Kaiser’s Mystery Girlfriend” becomes your unofficial title.

He loves having you by his side. Loves the jealous stares. Loves the thrill of owning the one person from his past who knew him before he became a god.

But it’s never quiet.

You fight often. You make up faster.

He gives you luxury. You give him your heart.

You say I love you first.

He never says it back.

Not once.

You’re in his apartment. The lights are low. He just got back from an away game, too tired to do more than kick his shoes off and throw his keys on the counter.

“I love you,” you say, because you always do. Hoping tonight will be different.

He kisses your cheek. Silent.

You pull back.

“Kaiser.”

He looks up. “Hmm?”

“Why can’t you say it?”

He blinks. “Say what?”

“You know what.”

He sighs. “Why does it matter? I show you, don’t I? I let you into my life. I let you close.”

“You don’t let me in, Michael. You put me on display.”

His expression hardens. “You think this is easy for me?”

“I think it’s easier for you to protect your pride than tell someone you love them.”

The silence stretches.

You step back. “Just say it. One time.”

He stares at you. Nothing.

You try again. Softer.

“I love you.”

Still nothing.

Your chest caves. “That’s what I thought.”

You go to leave.

This time, he follows.

Grabs your wrist. “Wait. Don’t—”

You turn. “No. You don’t get to chase me now.”

“Then what do you want from me?!”

“I want you to love me more than your image. More than your ego.”

He steps forward, wraps you in a hug, like that could erase everything.

Like physical closeness can replace the words he refuses to say.

You shove him away.

“You can’t fuck your way into love, Michael.”

And you walk out the door.

He doesn’t chase you again.

Not with calls. Not with flowers. Not with anything real.

But some nights—when it’s quiet, and the bed is cold—he opens his phone.

Types:

I love you.

Deletes it.

Types it again.

Deletes it again.

Because gods don’t beg.

And what kind of emperor bows to his people?

But Michael Kaiser has never wanted anything as much as he wants to go back in time and tell the only person who ever saw him—

That he loved them too.

i hope yall liked it! i've never exactly wrote something like this before, so i hoped it worked :)

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

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