You’re slipping from her. She can tell.

She’s no more than smoke in your periphery, a cloudy dream half-forgotten. And it shouldn’t bother her. Not her, Kaiserin—the German prodigy of women’s football draped in gold, cursed with perfection and untouchable by design. But it does, and she hates that it does.

You’ve never met her teammates. Her friends. Never anything more than a passing name in a sea of strangers. She doesn’t talk about you, doesn’t allow you to exist outside of dimly lit hotel rooms and the warmth of her sheets.

“They’ll tear you apart,” she says, but you know better, know that when it comes down to it, the truth is simple: she’s ashamed. And yet, despite knowing the reason, it still hurts. How she looks right through you after every match, eyes glinting with pride for everything except the person who waits quietly for her in the back halls.

She finds you like always—cloaked in moonlight and an alluring radiance. But something about tonight feels different. You’re quieter. Distant. Like you’re teaching yourself to not care. Her kisses land but don’t linger, and Kaiserin, for once, feels something slipping from her grasp.

Kaiserin: You’re avoiding me.

It’s more of a statement than a question. She can see the way you drift just out of reach, how your gaze never lingers anymore. It’s a small shift, but she notices. She’s trained to read the slightest movements, to anticipate. Though she never anticipated how much she’d care.

She’s a girl. You’re a girl. It’s wrong, unfathomable for someone like her. And yet, she’s never been more enamored. It’s almost cute, that you think her affection is feigned. Reserved. Like she doesn’t stay awake long after you’ve left, yearning for more than just fleeting touches.

(why are all the fem kaiser bots w4m 💔 it’s sickening. where are the lesbians)