Headcanon:

Headcanon:

Hiori Yo came to Blue Lock in peak form from the start. You see the other boys pushing themselves to develop their bodies further and Hiori is just there studying tactics on the tablet. His parents be out there controlling his protein intake from babyhood so no way they would have allowed him to not be in peak form at any point.

I was wondering if you could make a part 2 to "the instrument"? I got invested reading it was so sad that it ended :(

I don't rlly know what I'm looking for but I loved the plot of that fic and I wanted to see it progress further (´；д；)

Like, it js ended with him giving her flowers, I wanted to see their love bloom more yknowww ಥ_ಥ

(Also is it weird that I see y/n as her own person?)

── THE COMPASS

Synopsis: You were right from the start — Michael Kaiser has always been a dog, albeit perhaps not in the way you first meant it. (part one here!)

BLLK Masterlist

Pairing: Kaiser x Reader

Chapter Word Count: 4.5k

Content Warnings: fake dating trope, mentioned/implied/referenced abuse (both child and animal), call me tabito karasu the way i assassinate kaiser’s character in this, relationship dynamics many would consider…interesting…

A/N: EEK i feel like kaiser is so hard for me to do romance with but i tried my best!! and LMAOO this y/n is definitely a very interesting one so i can see why you got that sense 😭 but i’m glad you liked the instrument and ty for requesting 🥹 i hope this is somewhat satisfactory??

Additional: check my pinned post to make sure i have requests open; after reading the rules, please feel free to make your own!

You are quite certain that your mother was involved in this exercise, considering she’s the only one you can think of with a spare key to your house. So, when your phone call to Michael is sent immediately to voicemail, you don’t hesitate in dialing her number, knowing she’ll pick up immediately, as she always does.

The phone rings only once, and then she’s answering. There are voices in the background that are faint and muffled, which means either she’s watching a new drama or your father is watching some sports game. Then you detect the faint sound of cheers, and you conclude it must be the latter. 

“Hello, Y/N,” your mother says. “Did you need something?”

She is very obviously trying to maintain an air of mysteriousness, as if she has no idea why you might be calling her, but the fact that she is putting on such an act makes it all the more obvious that it is just a facade. You’ve known for many years that your talent onstage is not a genetic one, though it does not stop your parents from pretending that it’s something you inherited from them.

“The flowers,” you say. “You put them there, didn’t you?”

She coughs. You don’t know if she’s disguising a laugh or if she’s just taken aback to that extent. Either way, you give her a moment to compose herself, for it’ll be a mess if you don’t. Your mother is like that, after all. If you inundate her with questions, she’ll respond to exactly none of them, so patience is the only method you have if you wish to obtain any measure of success.

“It wasn’t my own doing,” she says finally. You sigh.

“Of course, someone told you to, and I’m sure we both know who,” you say. “What did he say?”

“He meant well,” she says. “Are you angry with him? He seemed to think you might be. Anyways, he just told me to give them to you. It’s his way of saying sorry, I think. Or perhaps of saying something else. I’m afraid I can’t understand him the way you do. It’s magical, really, how you all but read his mind…”

“No one can read his mind,” you scoff. “He’s a convoluted man, and his thoughts are his own.”

“And you despise him because of that?” she prods, in a way that indicates she already knows the answer and is only asking for her personal satisfaction.

“I love him all the more for it,” you say shortly. Somehow, it’s worse saying it to your mother than it was with him. More real, maybe. Unable to be taken back. You don’t want to take it back, of course, but nevertheless, even if you did, you no longer can. It’s out in the world, now, and the world has a strange humor; it takes things one says even carelessly, without thought, and it turns them into undeniable, inescapable truth. 

“Well,” she says. “That is a predicament.”

“There’s no predicament,” you say.

“He believes there is,” she says. “Right before he left, he—”

“Left?” you repeat. The flowers on your counter are arcing towards the sun, their petals unfurling towards the light pouring from your window. It’s a behavior more typical of flowers other than roses, but these roses are blue and they are Michael’s, so it stands to reason that they behave peculiarly. “Where did he go?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” she says. “He didn’t mention where he was going, just that he had to leave for a bit. But he looked sad. I mean, it’s difficult to tell with him, given how stoic he is, so I don’t know. Don’t take me at my word and start a fight about it.”

This is all you’re going to get out of her. You’re sure of it; there’s a wavering to her voice that signals she’s out of her depth. It’ll be unproductive and all but cruel if you continue to drill her, so you grit your teeth, squeezing your eyes shut and counting to three in your mind. Frustration is a wasted emotion, especially when the target of your frustration is somewhere far away, gone with nothing but a pot of flowers as a farewell.

That’s what it really is. Not an apology or a confession, but a goodbye. The fact that he thought to do it does mean something, but that meaning doesn’t outweigh the intention. So you make meaningless small talk with your mother and then your father, who she passes the phone to, and as soon as you can, you hang up and call another person, one who might be your only chance at finding the wandering stray that is Michael Kaiser.

Michael doesn’t really have friends, claims he doesn’t need them, but if there is one man who he might deign to bestow that title upon, it is his Bastard München teammate, Alexis Ness. They have been playing together since they were young, and so, if anything, there is an empathy between the two, although Michael will never admit it.

You’ve only met Alexis Ness a few times, at the various events which Michael used to drag you to when your relationship was still in the public eye. He’s never been anything but polite, albeit reserved, and on your third meeting, he gave you his phone number, telling you to call him if you ever ran into trouble. He had left the with Michael unsaid, but the implication had been there. You had thanked him and never called him since.

He’s quick to respond, like he was expecting the call — for all you know, he really was, though you would never ask either way. However, he does not speak first, so there is an awkward pause as you both wait for the other to say something.

“Good morning, Mr. Ness,” you say once a minute has gone by and he still has said nothing. “This is Y/N L/N. You gave me your number once.”

“Ah, Kaiser’s girlfriend,” he says. They have this habit, those soccer players, of referring to each other solely by last name. Your theory is that it’s to create distance, to avoid becoming close to a person who can be stolen by another team at any moment. You can’t fathom any other explanation. It’s a little sad to you, but you try not to judge, because there’s as many or more judgements that can be passed about your own lifestyle and habits.

“Yes,” you say. 

“Are you calling to ask me where he went?” he says. 

“I am,” you say. There’s no point in games. You don’t know Alexis Ness well enough to play them, and he seems to appreciate candidness, so the both of you are blunt in your conversations.

“I’m not supposed to tell you,” he says. “He swore me to secrecy.”

“I see,” you say. It’s disappointing, but it doesn’t come as a surprise. Michael is more than a little paranoid, so of course he took these ridiculous measures to cover his tracks.

“Nothing against you,” he says. “In fact, you should take it as a compliment. It sounded like there’s some messes he needed to clean up before he could bear to face you.”

“He’s horrible at cleaning,” you say.

“I don’t mean literal cleaning,” he says. It’s patient but also mocking. You roll your eyes, a silent form of retribution that he’ll never know of.

“Neither do I,” you say. Alexis Ness exhales heavily. Perhaps you’ve given him a migraine. It’s a particular skill of yours, or so you’ve been told.

“Berlin,” he says.

“Berlin?” you say.

“That’s where he is. If he asks, I’m not the one who told you,” he says, and then he’s ending the call before you can even thank him.

Berlin’s a big city, so Ness’s advice isn’t as helpful as he might’ve thought it would be, but at least it’s a start. Besides, for all his idiosyncrasies, Michael has a few patterns he follows with religiosity, so you tell your agent you’re going on a trip and silence your phone before he can call you and sputter protests about the impromptu nature of the semi-vacation.

The volunteers at the dog shelter tell you that Michael’s been there for the majority of the day. They’ve left him alone because they don’t know what to say; it’s not everyday that a celebrity wanders into such an establishment without so much as a word, and he’s remained relatively harmless, so they’ve continued about their daily business, ignoring him as best as they could when it became obvious he had no interest in speaking to them.

When you enter the kennel room, you find him sitting in front of one with a large hound in it. It has a pointed muzzle, and its tail does not wag at your approach, but it does lift its head and blink at you a couple of times before going back to sleep. 

The cement floor is cold, but still you sit beside Michael, hugging your knees to your chest in a mirror of his position, careful not to touch him, thinking that he is wild enough to flee if you do. The hound lets out a soft breath. You notice that there are pink lines cutting through the black of its fur, marring its wide torso, shiny as the skin does its best to heal.

“She was seized from her owner,” Michael says. “The neighbors called the police one night when things got too loud.”

He’s not looking at you, but it’s obvious you’re the one he meant that statement for, so you shift closer to him, placing one hand on his arm. He flinches the tiniest bit, but when you try to pull away, he reaches up and stops you, holding your hand there, though he still refuses to turn away from the dog.

“Apparently, the guy got drunk and beat her,” he says. “She belonged to his wife, but once his wife died, he became an alcoholic, and that poor dog was the only one there to see it. I’m sure she tried to keep loving him at first, though. Even when she was frightened. Dogs do their best to love you, because they can’t understand that no matter how hard they try, it doesn’t matter. If someone wants to hate them, then all of the love in the world won’t be enough to stop that.”

He’s talking about the dog, but that’s not what he really means. That’s just how he is: he speaks in circuitous riddles to avoid ever saying anything plainly. Flowers and dogs — both are just methods of avoiding what he really wants to tell you.

“We can take her home,” you say. “Give her a different name and a place where she can be happy. Even if something has been hurt before, that doesn’t mean it has to hurt forever.”

His eyes lower, and then he stands, yanking you to your feet. Steadying you when you stumble, he lets go of you abruptly, frowning and turning away from the dog, who is awoken by the suddenness of the movement, flattening her ears against her head and shrinking back.

“She’s frightened of men now,” he says. “Has been ever since she was rescued. Bites every male that comes near her. I can’t blame her. If I were her, I’d do the same. Apparently, that means she’s not really adoptable. Not by us and not by anyone.”

The dog whines plaintively. You offer her the back of your hand through the bars of the kennel. She sniffs it before licking it carefully, and then she thumps her tail against her bed in approval — only one time, though, and then she’s standing, pacing in unhappy circles around the small kennel, which can hardly fit an animal of her size.

“I want her,” you say. “I don’t care if she isn’t adoptable. I want her.”

“Of course you do,” he says. He would sound aggravated, but there is a curious delight dancing in his eyes, a childish sort of joy that so rarely sparkles in those blue irises, so he completely doesn’t. “Of course you want her. You can’t stay away from hurt things, can you? Who told you I was here?”

“No one,” you say. “I figured it out by myself.”

He purses his lips, following after you as you make your way to the front desk. Disapproval rolls off of him in waves, but also something else. Something shriveled and cowering which is fighting desperately to crawl to the surface.

The volunteers are surprised to hear which dog you insist on taking, and they try to convince you to look at any of the more appealing ones — the puppies, or the well-trained retrievers that already have waitlists of potential adopters. You’re an actress, however, so they’ll put you at the top and give you whichever one you want. You tell them you know which one you want already, and eventually they give up on arguing, only frowning as you sign the litany of documents they produce, clicking their tongues and telling you that she’ll be difficult.

You respond that it’s fine. You’re used to difficult things; in fact, you think that you prefer them. They shake their heads and then you are told that your dog — yours, miraculously she is yours — will be ready for you to get her whenever you want.

Michael’s business in Berlin is not yet completed, you can sense it, so you tell them that you will return later and then you chase after his disappearing back, catching him by the sleeve of his coat in a narrow alleyway which leads to a theater.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says. He’s gazing at a poster with a woman on it; she’s beautiful, with elfin features and flowing hair the color of gold. She’s also someone you recognize. “Fuck Ness. I know he told you. I’m going to kill him when I get back.”

“Leave him alone,” you say. “He didn’t tell me anything.”

“Sure,” he says. “Whatever.”

“Do you know her?” you say, pointing at the woman.

“Do you?” he shoots back. He’s crabby now, snapping easily and readily, though you’ve not really done anything to provoke him.

“Yes,” you say. It’s not the answer he had predicted, which you can tell because he whirls to glare at you instead of the movie poster. “Why are you surprised? We’re in the same industry. I was almost in a movie with her a while back, though it fell through because of an issue with the writers. She’s nice enough, I guess. I went to her wedding a couple of years ago, but other than that, I wouldn’t say we’re particularly close.”

“You…went to her wedding?” he says, and then, inexplicably, his fingers are weaving in between yours. It feels like he is holding onto you for something more than affection, so you stand as still as you possibly can, only humming in agreement.

“Yes, I did. Actually, she married her childhood sweetheart, which took everyone by surprise. It was commonly thought that she’d marry one or another of her costars, you see. She’s always been good at creating chemistry…people always say that she can make even a rock seem desirable, that’s how she is,” you say wistfully, leaning your head on his shoulder. He doesn’t shove you away, enraptured by the story. “It’s amazing to watch. But isn’t it kind of sweet? That despite how excellent she is at feigning affection, how she could’ve had any man in the world, she chose the boy from her youth? I remember talking to him. He has nothing, no money or connections or investments. She really just married him because he loves her for who she is.”

“Is love really all she wanted?” he says.

“I suppose it’s all that a lot of people want,” you say. “Rumor has it that she's pregnant.”

He stiffens against you. “What?”

“Well, I think she’s a little old for it, but it’s common for women in my line of work to wait until the signs of age are beyond concealment before they have children, so it’s not a shock,” you say.

“Why?’ he says. 

“It’s the industry’s standards—” you begin before he cuts you off.

“No,” he says. “No, why is she — why does she want — why is she pregnant?”

“Isn’t it common for people to start a family eventually?” you say. “By the way, you never answered my question. Do you know her?”

“She’s my mother,” he says. The words are angry, but his tone is forlorn, his hand in mine cold and small. “But I’m — I’m not her son.”

He looks so wretched that you cannot help embracing him, and when he reciprocates in earnest and without pretense, you know that you have done the right thing. His breaths are fast and shaky, though he is not crying, and as much as you wish you had not said it, you believe deep down that it is important that you did.

Platitudes are meaningless. If you say it’s okay or something along those lines, you will be a liar, because the truth is that it’s not okay. You are not the one who can decide if it’s okay or not. You can only remain as you have been, motionless and gentle, stroking his back in the way one settles a restless infant, allowing his fingers to dig into your sides and his looming weight to collapse into you — for his sharpness is not borne of malice but helplessness, however loath to admit it he might be.

“Why?” he whispers. There’s a million questions he could be asking, and none of them are ones you can ever answer for him, but that will not stop him. “Why couldn’t it be me? Why couldn’t she be happy with me? I would have loved her. I would have been her family.”

“A lot of people don’t deserve children,” you muse. “Or love, or many other such happinesses. And still more people cannot understand the importance of these things when they are within their grasp. Your mother must’ve been very young when she had you. It’s easy to be blinded by stardom and glamor and fairytales at that age. It’s easier still to abandon everything for just a taste of the spotlight. There’s a school of thought that fame is impossible to attain without that necessary sacrifice.”

“What about you?” he says.

“I’m not an exception,” you say ruefully. “Any normal person would have hung up on you when you first called, Michael. I’m only lucky in that it was you and not anyone else on the other end of the line. It’s only because I know you that I realized there are more important things in this world than celebrity and popularity. Once I would’ve spurned the thought of obscurity, but now, if I can have you, then I wouldn’t even mind it so much. It’s the same conclusion your mother must have reached.”

“It’s too late,” he says. “She reached it too late.”

“Yes,” you say. “Yes, she did reach it too late, but it’s easier to give this kind of life up once you’ve known it than to never have it at all. That’s the only reason why. She was greedy, and you bore the consequences.”

“It’s not fair,” he says. You’ve never heard him like this. Normally, he’d laugh at the mere thought of such vulnerability, but the gray of the city has clearly twisted him into a wounded and fragile version of himself, prone to shattering, made of a glass that is already jagged at the edges and can hardly keep together because of it. “It’s not fair, it’s not — I hate her, and I hate him, and I hate her stupid new family, and I —I—”

He silences himself, obviously unsure of what to say, and then he holds your face in his hands, giving you a pleading stare. Help me, he seems to beg. Tell me what to do. He is lost, and somehow you have become a map of sorts, or a compass, one which points in a direction he has no choice but to follow.

“Why did you come here?” you say. “When you knew it would hurt you, why did you come?”

“I wanted to remind myself,” he says. “For a second, you even convinced me that I was worthy of being — you know. So I had to come back. I had to see with my own eyes the kind of person I really am. If my mother and my father and my entire damn city hate me, then why should you be any different?”

He’s scared that he will hurt you, and that you will hurt him, and that he will be alone again, as he has been for much of his life. For all his brashness, his bravado, his smugness and his smooth way of speaking in public, he’s never really been anything more than a little boy who’s frightened, who presses against the back wall of his enclosure like that beaten hound did.

“You know that I am different,” you say. “I am not your mother, nor your father. I will leave everything behind but you. In fact, I’ll leave it for you. Tell me to and I will.”

“What if I tell you to quit acting?” he says.

“Then I will retire at once,” you say. “I already have more money than I know what to do with.”

“And if I tell you to move across the world?” he tries, resting his forehead against yours. “Would you do that, despite your entire life being here?”

“Yes,” you say. “I am quick at making friends and learning new things, so I will adapt to it.”

“What about if I tell you to marry me?” he says. His lips are so close to yours that he is speaking against your mouth, but he doesn’t try to kiss you yet. 

“You wouldn’t ask?” you say.

“I don’t ask for things,” he says.

“Naturally, I’d marry you,” you say. “There isn’t anyone else I’d ever want, anyways. We’d have the most beautiful wedding in the world, and we’d only invite the people we like.”

“That’s a short list,” he says. His heartbeat is calming down; it’s a temporary solution, but if it manages to distract him, then you’ll indulge the flight of fancy.

“My parents,” you say.

“Ness,” he says.

“I always knew you liked him,” you say.

“Only because I have to,” he says.

“Anyone else?” you say.

“No,” he says. “That’s it. We can even forget about all of those people, actually. I just want it to be the two of us. Nobody else matters but — but you.”

He’s stuttering as he comes to his senses. These declarations aren’t typical of him, as foreign as French on his tongue, but he’s making them anyways. He’s been fighting the compulsion for a while, you can tell, but it’s hard for him to keep fighting on all fronts of his life. Eventually, one side will give. You are glad that it is your side, that you are the one he has given to, no matter how reluctantly he has done it.

“Is there anything else you’d like?” you say. “All of these are easy for me to do. Ask for something difficult, so that I may prove to you that I am telling the truth, that I mean what I say.”

“It’s not a request, but a condition,” he says.

“You only need to name it,” you say.

“If I hurt you, then you have to run,” he says. “Run so far away that I can never reach you. Even though it’ll hurt me, I want you to run. Even though I’ll beg for you to stay, please leave.”

That’s it, then. The most difficult thing he can imagine a person doing: leaving someone they love. Certainly he is unable to do it. It doesn’t matter if he’s suffering. He’ll suffer longer just to stay by your side, just as he suffered for all of those many years as a child. 

It’s how you know he loves you more than he’ll ever let on. He holds you in such esteem that he’ll let you leave him if you have to, though it’ll indubitably destroy him, destroy him more than staying could ever destroy you. Yet still he is giving you that permission, commanding it, even, because he’d rather destroy himself than let even the slightest harm befall your being.

You can only draw that conclusion because you know that he will never, can never, hurt you. He isn’t saying this as a warning, because it isn’t an inclination that he has. No, it’s a dark and ugly voice in the back of his mind — does it sound like his father’s? You feel that it must — insisting that he will do it, he will. He’ll hurt you. He’s the reason that his mother left and his father became something sick, and he’ll be the reason that you are broken and ruined and torn apart. He’ll do it. He’ll be the one to do it, it’s inevitable, he’ll scratch you with his thorns and gnaw at your remains with his fangs and maybe he’ll even cry during the act but he’ll still do it.

“Alright,” you say, though you want to protest that he is incapable, because it’s clear that he is testing you. Every argument which might fall from your lips, he has heard before, and if you dare utter them one more time, it’ll be the proof that you are lying. The way his thoughts work, the paths that they follow, they are winding and narrow, but perhaps your mother is right — perhaps you are coming to understand them.

“Do you think that I can?” he says.

“No,” you say. “The fact that you worry about it tells me that you won’t. You are better than that, Michael.”

“You really believe that?” he says. “With everything you are, you believe it?”

“I do,” you say.

You almost can’t believe it, but he laughs. Well, calling it a laugh is generous, it’s really more of an exhale, yet one which is unquestionably seeping with amusement, and you’re about to ask him what he finds so funny when he was so close to breaking down mere moments earlier, but he stops you before you can.

“I do,” he says. It’s an odd thing to repeat, but a second later your mind registers why he’s done it, and then the corners of your lips are curving up.

In the streets of Berlin, the two of you are alone; his mother’s poster is your only witness, but if she takes some offense, she remains smiling and silent, her gaze far away as her son — who isn’t her son, he isn’t hers at all, he’s yours and only yours — finally closes the minuscule gap between you both and kisses you fully.

imagine having friends like these

── .✦ little things.

Sypnosis: little affection that you or your boyfriend between silent moments.

multicharacter drabble; rin, sae, nagi, reo, kaiser, ness

ITOSHI RIN

This goes both ways, you kiss him in the forehead. He expects you to kiss his forehead. Why? Usually or always, this man is always steamed up angry at some point. So when you two rest, you just kiss his forehead, as a sign of safety or protection of him being in your arms. Why does he like it? It is just lips touching his forehead, even he doesn't know why. He just finds it very comforting and reassuring. Sure it looks weak but hes asleep anyway, hes unconscious. Not really, he's just pretending. He won't sleep till you give him the kiss on the forehead. This happens anywhere anyway, just private. But to him the ones you give when you two are about to sleep are the most special ones.

ITOSHI SAE

When you two sleep together (very rare btw! Jk.) You can't help but wrap your arms around his arm. At least one of them, your arms has to be around his. And it can go anywhere! Let it be cuddling, watching a movie, walking. And Sae notices! You don't. You got so used to doing it, you don't notice it leaves an effect on Sae. To him, It shows, one; you like being close to him, two; you feel protection near him, three; you find him comforting which is all correct!.. if you knew. But, oh well. Its a win-win for the both of you anyways.

NAGI SEISHIRO

Okay, let's get one thing straight. Nagi is your personal heater. He's just so warm. So sometimes after going home from a crazy day, late at night and Nagi is still playing video games to wait for you. You drop your bags, take of your shoes, and as you walk up to him, he already knew what your gonna do, he opens up, letting you sit on his lap as you wrap your arms around his neck. You snuggle at the crook of his neck as he finishes his last round in his match for the game. So soonly enough, Nagi Seishiro can go to bed with your arms wrapped around him. May it be his neck, waist, or arms. Nagi doesn't mind you doing it and you know that.

REO MIKAGE

Now Reo is the other way around. He loves wrapping his arms around you, just practically being close to your warmth. As if your body suits his really well like a puzzle piece. So sometimes after a very long... talk.. with his father, he goes to you, seeing you prepare food and wrap his arms around your waist. Snuggling in the nape of your neck and slowly putting kisses at the back of your neck. He knows you like it anyways. Just from the tip of your ears turning pink is understandable. Don't worry! Reo knows his boundaries anyway. Just not leaving you though.

MICHAEL KAISER

Between you and this big-ego'd man, he likes touching you but he likely expects you to do it more than he does. So from you, you like kissing his tattoo on his arms. May it be from his hand or all the way over to his arm to his neck. To him, it shows that you appreciate of his achievement. And just as i mentioned about Kaiser also likes to touch you, he actually likes to tuck your hair behind your ear. Its a small act compared to the other but its just.. breathtaking to him. Being able to remove those hair covering your eyes to seee your beauty because once he does he analyzes your face. Then after, if you get lucky, maybe you'll notice the pink in his cheeks.

ALEXIS NESS

Let's be real here, this man likes to do anything with or to you. But if he has to pick a favorite from the silent moments with you then maybe brushing your hair. Sometimes when you two have dates and you two are still preparing, you ask him to brush your hair. And his reaction is just the cutest! Going all giddy and excited to brush your hair. You like it anyways. He was gentle. And if there were tangles he makes sure to brush your hair slowly to find the tangles and untangle it with his own hands. After that he kisses your head and say its done. Bonus points if you kiss him on the cheek as a thanks. He might actually give you a whole salon.

Hi!!

I was absolutely amazed by your analysis of Kaiser a few weeks ago. And I wanted to ask if you think that with a therapy he could like honestly love someone??

I've been thinking about it pretty much and I was reading a whole bunch of sites about c-ptsd and narcissistic features but I feel like I'm too dumb to make a statement 😔 i just almost hysterically don't want to mischaracterize him 😭😭

Sorry for all this yapping, have a great day!! <33

Wiiii anon I imagine you're referring to this! Thank you so much ksgdhg I am flattered you liked it this much <3

I want to preface this by saying that Love is a complex feeling and I won't use the term in a strictly romantic way. That + Kaiser is a complex character and I think his actions can't be interpreted through Black and white lens. There's a lot of nuance in his actions and in his emotions and everything I will say is up to my personal interpretation of the character.

Now, to answer your question: yes.

Even present Kaiser is capable of love. Of course, he experiences it in a vastly different way compared to most people and wouldn't manifest affection in a "canonical" way.

Unfortunately, Kaiser has never experienced love, and he's well aware of that, so he has a hard time both to recognise, to express and to react to the emotion.

And he knows that. He knows that when someone tries to give him love, he reacts with violence, because he's only known violence since he was a child. See how he reacted to people being kind towards him for the first time. See how he called Ness "loser" the first time they interacted (and he was supposed to. charm and manipulate him lmfao-- I mean he still managed to do that but it's because he was lucky Ness as well doesnt know anything about love).

Now. Ness. Do I think Kaiser loves him? In his own twisted way, yes. He loves him like you love a pet. He loves him like he used to love his ball. He loves him like his dad loved Kaiser, with violence and control.

Violence is his safe place. So every emotion and feeling he experiences is perceived through violent lens, love included.

And I love LOVE that he is self-conscious enough to know it, yet doesn't have the neccessary means to not fall back into the same loop. At the same time, given the shit he went through, he's already doing amazing lmfao.

Also, I know I've already seen someone else state this but I unfortunately don't remember who it was, Kaiser probably projects onto Ness, the same way he projected onto that ball when he was a kid.

("You beat it up but he still comes back" -> does this imply that Kaiser had loved his father in some ways? Could be. There's lots of grief when it comes to suffering abuse from what was supposed to be your safe person. Kaiser is still in survival mode, which is very understandable, so I don't think he's gone through that part of the process Yet. Anyway.)

In therapy he could learn how to accept love and express it in a way that doesn't cause damage to other people.

Kaiser craves love but at the same time has a hard time receiving it. The fact he barely feels human doesn't help. He's so disconnected from his body and probably has an unstable image of self (look at the tattoos, his hair, etc. He wants to Represent something, he's trying to craft his own image and probably sees himself as a doll to dress up). He also. Doesn't really like himself in general lmao. So he would find it so hard to actually feel loved by someone.

He would also need to manually learn to be empathetic. He's already emotionally intelligent enough to know what to say to make someone feel a certain way, but for now he's just using it to manipulate/unsettle people in general. If he wants to reach his ultimate goal (which is to be actually loved) he needs to make the effort of not letting the mental illness take over.

It will be hard lmfao since he loves LOVES having power/control over people - it's safer this way, so I don't really blame him. You can't get hurt by someone if you control them, right? Right (Rip Ness). But he may eventually come around it in the name of the greater good.

Also!!! A thing he would do when it comes to a romantic partner is to follow the societal expectation but make it bigger. Kaiser would absolutely take inspo from romantic movies, and lowkey highkey use them as an inspiration to properly court someone.

He would do it more as a way to show off and mark his territory/scare away potential rivals. To him, courtship is a power-based game. He puts on a show and makes the effort to appear as the Best potential partner, but thats it. He wouldnt be too interested into actual dating. The chase and conquership of the final price is more thrilling than what comes afterwards. In my mind, he would be the type to flirt around, conquer his "prey", but never take them to bed. The ego boost that comes after knowing someone wants to fuck him has more value than actually fucking them lmao, and the power that comes off telling the person that he is not interested in taking them home? Yeah, that's another thing he would love.

Now, of course, in terms of both partnership and friendship, he may need to have strong-minded people by his side. People he can't manipulate and don't trigger his prey drive narcissistic tendencies.

Someone who doesn't people please and, most importantly, who can partially understand him. Kaiser would hate to feel vulnerable, and his defensive walls are all up high. He needs someone who acknowledges said walls but isn't necessarily interested in breaking in and waits for Kaiser to come closer at his own pace.

The person needs to be sonewhat caring, but not in a way that makes Kaiser want to take advantage of it. He wants to be taken care of, but babying him would be a mistake.

I think the only way to date Kaiser is to skip the dating part. No courtship, no games. At some point, he finds himself lounging in someone's livingroom and decides that the couch is too comfortable to leave. That's it.

At the end of the day, he is nothing but a cat.

fight between brothers