[ ⓘ nurse's office ] welcome to medicineren's archives!
this writing blog will be used as an archive for my works and as a testing ground for my writing skills. (there will be self posting as well), mostly sfw but can be nsfw. im currently interested in honkai: star rail, so expect mainly hsr works. there will be infrequent posts as i have a busy life! hypersharing blade yume :) just here for fun
SYNOPSIS: Fem reader x Kafka where after your first date goes horribly wrong, you vent to your best friend, Kafka. Deciding you deserve better, she steps in to be your date, turning a night of disappointment into a night of something else. w.c: 12k
a/n : HEY EVERYONE thank you sticking around and enjoying my fics :) every love is appreciated!
You pulled your phone from your pocket, fingers moving with a familiar, almost nervous energy as you opened your chat with Kafka. You were practically brimming with nervousness. This was your first ever date, of course you'd be nervous! Who wouldn't be nervous on their first date? Kafka gave you some tips on your way to the cafe but you can only hope you looked decent enough.
"I'm outside the cafe!" You sent the text and stared at the screen, waiting for her reply. You knew she was busy with work, but with Kafka, there was always this strange, magnetic pull, as if she was perpetually tuned into your frequency. When the notification finally popped up, your heart did a small, traitorous skip. "I'll be waiting to pick you up once you're finished. If the date goes wrong, just let me know"
"I'd hate for you to be bored for too long." Kafka replied back quickly, ending the text with a cute emote of herself winking at you.
"Thanks Kafka! You're the best!" You quickly type back.
"Mm-hmm."
You felt that familiar, traitorous warmth creeping up your neck. That was just how she was. You bit your lip, staring at the text. You sighed, a small, huffing laugh escaping you. You liked her. No, that was a lie. You liked her a lot, like really really liked her alot. You liked her so much that the word 'like' doesn't do your feelings justice. But, Who wouldn't? it's Kafka for Aeons sake!
The fear was always there, a quiet, nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you that if you ever actually said the words, the delicate, beautiful friendship you shared with her might just shatter into pierces. And you were terrified of losing the person who understood you the best just because you wanted something more. To be more than just best of friends, to be more—
No. You'll just stay friends. This feeling was suffocating anyway.
"It’s okay," you told yourself, tucking the phone back into your pocket. "Just keep it as it is. It's safer this way." And so, you kept your mouth shut. You kept your feelings tucked away in the same quiet place you kept your most precious secrets, where they can hardly escape. Pushing the heavy door open, the cafe swallowed you whole. The air inside was thick and warm, smelling heavily of roasted beans and steamed milk. It was a cozy, inviting scent, but it felt a little heavy in your chest as you walked toward the counter. "Two drinks, please," you told the barista, your voice sounding a little more casual than you actually felt. The barista gave you a small nod before making your order. You ordered an iced tea for yourself and a warm latte for your date, making sure to pay upfront so you wouldn't have to deal with the awkwardness of a bill later on.
Once you had the drinks in hand, you scanned the cafe looking for an empty corner. Soon enough, you found a small table tucked away in a corner, far enough from the door to avoid the draft, but close enough to see who was arriving. As you sat down at the table you caught a glimpse of your own reflection in the glass. Even though it was muted and soft, you could still barely manage to see yourself through the window. You reached up, your fingers trembling just a fraction, and lightly smoothed out the fabric of your coat.
You adjusted your collar, then ran a hand through your hair, trying to settle the small, restless energy that had been building in your chest. You wanted to look composed. You wanted to look like someone who wasn't sitting alone, staring at an empty chair. You fidget with your hands briefly before checking your phone again. The time was creeping forward quickly. You arrived at the cafe at 6:00 PM. That was exactly the time you and your date agreed to meet.
6:10 PM.
You took another sip of your drink. it hasn't lost its cool yet, the liquid feeling amazing on your tongue. You tried to focus on the low hum of the jazz playing in the background, or the rhythmic clink of a spoon from the counter, but your eyes kept drifting back to the door. Every time the bell chimed, a tiny spark of hope flared up in your gut, only to be extinguished when the person walking in wasn't your date but a stranger. Surely he can't be any more late right?
6:15 PM.
The silence of the cafe began to feel louder. You felt a prickle of heat rising to your cheeks, a slow, creeping embarrassment that made you want to shrink into your seat. "Am I being too early?" you wondered. "Am I just sitting here looking like a fool?"
6:20 PM.
The clock on the wall seemed to tick with a deliberate, mocking slowness, like it was laughing at you as you sat alone. The embarrassment was no longer just a prickle but a dull ache of self consciousness. You stared down at your own hands, tracing the pattern of the wood grain on the table, trying to convince yourself that you were fine, that you weren't a person who was being stood up. Honestly it'd be pretty embarrassing if got stood up by your first date. He could've just told you through text if that was the case.
—
"Actually, I think I got stood up."
Your thumb hovered over the send button as you stared at the message sitting in Kafka's chat. The bright screen of your phone reflected faintly in the glass window beside your table. You stared at the words for several seconds. The message didn't magically become less pathetic the longer you looked at it. With a sigh, you pressed backspace until every last word disappeared. You hesitated. "No…," you muttered to yourself, dropping your head into your free hand. That's just dramatic. Twenty minutes wasn't being stood up. It was just …late, annoyingly late. It was frustrating through. You didn't like it when people were late but perhaps he's stuck in traffic. Maybe he's running down the streets to come here!
You set your phone face down on the table, the screen going dark. You can't tell Kafka yet what you think about this date right now, she'd tease you for your taste in awful people, and maybe she's right. But you're just testing the waters, you want to get rid of this feeling. You sit upright again, quietly waiting for him to arrive. Old fashioned Edison bulbs hang low from the ceiling, casting a soft, flickering glow that makes the polished wood tables look almost golden in color.
Through the massive floor to ceiling windows, the street outside is a blur of motion, a rush of people in and the constant flow of traffic, but in here, everything is muted. The sound of the city is just a background noise, dampened by the heavy glass. You can hear the soft clink of a spoon against a saucer, the muffled laughter of a group in the corner. You leaned back in your chair, letting out a long, slow sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the quiet afternoon with it. You turned your gaze away from the empty chair across from you and let your eyes wander around the cafe instead. It was a beautiful space, really.
A small, lopsided smile tugged at your lips as you observed the space. You liked the beauty in observing. The smile faded as a sense of weariness settled in your bones. "Wow," you thought, the realization hitting you with a soft thud. "Waiting is actually really tiring." You've never waited for someone this long. It wasn't a heavy, physical exhaustion, but rather a mental one, a slow, draining kind of fatigue that came from the constant, subtle tension of looking at the door every time the bell chimed. It was the energy spent on the tiny, repetitive cycle of hope and letdown.
You tried to rationalize it, to talk yourself out of the growing annoyance. Even so, a small part of you couldn't help but feel a flicker of irritation. At a small, secluded table near the window, you sat alone, your fingers tracing the rim of your finished iced tea cup. You had arrived early, which was a habit of yours.
—
An hour.
You’ve been sitting here patiently for an hour, and every time the door chimes, your head lifts automatically. You find yourself scanning the entrance, looking for a face you've never seen, hoping for a sign that someone is actually coming. But every time the bell rings, it’s just a customer arriving for a quick coffee, or a stranger ducking in from the cold
You let out a long, drawn out sigh, deflating your entire chest. You can't help it. The uncertainty is starting to grate on your nerves. Your thumb finds Kafka's contact again she's always been the one to provide a sense of grounding, even if her advice is often as unpredictable as her personality. But you never minded it at all.
"I don't think my date is coming," you type out, the simplicity of the sentence feeling heavy. You're just about to tap the send button, ready to resign yourself to a lonely afternoon, when the door chimes. You look up, your heart doing a small, nervous skip, expecting to see your date, and you do. They stride in. He's undeniably handsome, the type that makes people turn their heads in a room but there's an arrogance in the way they moves that's almost palpable. He doesn't look around the cafe with curiosity, he looks around like he's inspecting a service he's already paid for. He scans the room with a dismissive gaze, his eyes landing on you for only a split second before he looks away, as if deciding if you're even worth the effort of a greeting. He doesn't look like someone who's late because of an accident, he looks like someone who's late because he thinks everyone else's time is less important than his own.
Your phone disappeared back into your pocket so quickly that you nearly dropped it to the floor in the process. Thankfully nobody noticed. You straighted yourself in your seat, wanting to look composed instead of someone who got sleepy waiting for their date who was, an hour late. He makes his way over to your table with confidence, pulling out the chair with a loud scrape against the floor that makes a few nearby customers flinch. He doesn't offer a greeting or an apology. He just sinks into the seat, leaning back and stretching his arms out as if he owns the entire establishment.
You force yourself to be polite. You pull together the fragments of your social grace, offering him a small, tentative smile the kind you use to mask the sting of being ignored. "You're late," you say softly, trying to keep your tone light, almost playful, as if you're giving him an easy out. "But it's fine. I didn't mind the wait." Oh you absolutely minded the wait. A full one hour with no text from him sort of made you want to grumble into your hands. He mentioned living only 5 minutes away from the cafe you chose so you're not sure why he ended up being…so late.
He doesn't return the smile. Instead, he lets out a short, huffing sound and looks at you with an expression of pure boredom. "Well, of course you didn't mind," he says, his voice loud enough to carry to the next table. "Anybody would be happy to wait for me. It’s not like you had anything better to do all afternoon, right?" He finally glances at your drink, his lip curling in a slight sneer. "And is that what you ordered? Honestly, it looks a bit plain. You should've ordered something better. If we're going to be seen together, at least try to look like you have some taste."
The words hit you like a cold splash of water. The warmth of the cafe suddenly feels stifling, and the warmth of the latte in your hands feels almost insulting. He hasn't even asked your name, and he's already treating you like a background character in the story of his life. You have never wanted to leave this cafe ever more than now. "This is a cafe." You replied back while your hand gripped your other hand under the table tightly. The conversation doesn't so much flow as it does pour out of him, a relentless stream of self importance that leaves you with no room to breathe, let alone speak. He doesn't ask you a single question. He doesn't even pause to see if you're following. Instead, he uses you as a captive audience for a monologue that feels more like a lecture.
"And then she had the nerve to say I was being too 'intense,'" he says, waving a hand dismissinly as he leans back, his voice rising in volume. "But honestly, if you don't have passion, what's the point of anything? My ex, she just didn't get it. She was too… ordinary. You know what I mean?" He looks at you, not for an answer, but simply to ensure you're still there to witness his greatness. When you offer a polite, hollow nod, he just continues. The warm ambiance of the cafe, which once felt cozy, now feels like it's closing in on you. Every word he speaks is like a tiny, unnecessary weight being added to your shoulders. You try to find a way in, to say something about your own life, but every time you open your mouth, he interrupts with a new anecdote about himself.
"Actually," you interrupt him, your voice surprisingly steady despite the thudding of your heart. He stops mid sentence, looking at you with a startled, confused expression. "I think we should stop here."
He blinks, a slowly realizing you've just cut him off. "What? Why? We haven't even ordered any food yet."
"It's not about the food," you say, "It's just… I don't think we're a good match. I think it's best if we end this here now." You politely try to leave.
His face shifts from confusion to a look of pure offense. He actually scoffs, leaning forward as if he's been personally insulted by the very concept of your opinion. "We're not a good match?" he repeats, his voice dripping with mocking disbelief. "Are you serious? Most people would be lucky to even get a seat at this table with me." He pauses, "You're really going to walk away because of a little conversation? You're a bit dramatic, don't you think?"
You feel a brief flash of annoyance, but mostly, you just feel a profound sense of relief. The weight is lifting. "No."
"Geez, you wasted my precious ti—"
You don't wait for his rebuttal to finish. You don't wait for him to even finish his scoffing rant about how "unreasonable" you're being. "Have a nice afternoon," you say, your voice polite but final, as if you're closing a heavy book rather than ending an unpleasant conversation. As you walk away, you can hear him muttering something behind you something about how you're "too picky" or "not worth the effort" but you don't turn back. There was no point in staying around people like him. The bell above the door chimes again as you push your way out of the cafe, the cool air of the street hitting your face like a welcome remedy. You take a deep breath, feeling the tension slowly drain from your shoulders.
You leaned against a cold, metal lamp post, the vibration of the city humming through your spine. Your heart was still thudding with a mix of lingering annoyance and the sheer, awkward relief of having finally walked away. You reached into your pocket, your fingers finding your phone with a sense of desperate purpose. You didn't need a long, poetic explanation. You didn't need to recount the way he had sneered at your drink or how he had talked over you as if you were a piece of furniture.
You just needed her to know. "Bad date," you typed, the words feeling blunt and heavy on the screen. You hit send before you could overthink it. The response was almost instant, the vibration in your palm feeling like a tiny, electric jolt of comfort. "Oh? Tell me everything."
A second later, another bubble appeared, pulsing with that unmistakable, effortless confidence. "Don't be so gloomy, darling. I'll be there in ten minutes to pick you up."
You let out a small, huffing laugh, a sound that was half relief and half exasperation. You could almost hear her voice through the digital text that smooth, melodic lilt, laced with a playful sort of mischief that always made it impossible to tell where the teasing ended and her genuine affection began. It was a dangerous game she played, a subtle dance of words that left you wondering if she was merely playing the role of the "composed friend" or if there was something much deeper beneath the surface.
You stared at the screen for a moment longer, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. You wanted to tell her more. You wanted to tell her that the thought of her arriving was the only thing keeping you from feeling completely drained. But you hesitated.
"I'm counting on it," you finally typed back, trying to keep your tone casual, as if your heart wasn't currently doing a frantic little dance in your chest.
"Good." Kafka replied back.
You tucked the phone back into your pocket, taking a slow, deep breath. A sense of calm began to settle over you, a quiet anticipation that replaced the irritation of the date. You knew exactly what was coming. You knew the sound of her car pulling up, the way the door would open to reveal that familiar, elegant silhouette, and the intoxicating scent of her perfume that always seemed to command the very air around her. Car rides with Kafka were your sanctuary. In the quiet, moving cocoon of her vehicle, the world felt smaller, more manageable, and infinitely more beautiful.
—
The minutes stretched, but they didn't feel heavy anymore. The anticipation had transformed the irritation of the failed date into a quiet, humming energy. You hadn't even reached the ten minute mark when the low, sophisticated purr of an engine began to vibrate through the pavement near your feet. A sleek, dark car glided through the evening traffic, moving with a grace, as if the vehicle itself possessed the same effortless poise as its driver, and it sure did. It slowed to a halt right in front of you, the headlights cutting a sharp path through the evening dark.
Before you could even straighten your coat and look proper, the passenger window slid down with a silent, mechanical smoothness. There she was. Kafka sat behind the wheel, bathed in the soft, ambient glow of the dashboard lights. Her silhouette was as elegant as ever, her burgundy hair perfectly framing a face that held an expression of calm, unreadable poise. But as your eyes met hers, you caught it a tiny, almost imperceptible glimmer in her gaze, a spark of something that wasn't just her usual composure. It was an eagerness, but you could hsve seen wrong. You could never exactly tell what she was thinking.
She didn't say a word at first. Instead, she simply raised her hand, her slender fingers curling in a subtle, rhythmic beckoning motion. "Get in," her eyes seemed to command, though her lips remained set in a knowing, tiny curve. You couldn't help the soft smile that broke across your face. The tension that had been coiled in your shoulders for the last two hours finally snapped, replaced by a warmth that started in your chest and radiated outward. You moved toward the car, your movements feeling lighter.
As you pulled the heavy door open, a wave of her scent hit you, a intoxicating blend of expensive florals and something dark It filled your lungs, grounding you, acting as a sensory reset that wiped away the lingering memory of the man from the cafe. You slid into the passenger seat, the high quality upholstery hugging you comfortably. As you pulled the door shut, the muffled roar of the city died away, leaving only the soft, rhythmic hum of the idling engine and the sound of your own breathing.
Kafka turned off the dashboard lights with a simple press of her finger on a button. And For a moment, there was silence between you, not an awkward one, no, but just comfortable stillness that the both of you didn't mind. Kafka didn't immediately pull away from the curb. She reached up, her gloved fingers tapping a slow, melodic rhythm against the leather of the steering wheel. She turned her head toward you, her eyes searching yours with that maddening, beautiful intensity. Then, she let out a soft, hummed note of amusement and gave you a smile an elegant, sweeping expression that didn't quite reach the playful mischief dancing in her eyes.
"You look like you've just survived a disaster," she said, her voice a smooth, velvet caress that seemed to vibrate in the small space of the car. "Did he at least have the decency to be interesting while he was boring you?"
You let out a long, shaky breath, leaning your head back against the headrest. "He was a vacuum, a black hole of ego." You grimaced, "I think he actually forgot my name halfway through the date."
Kafka chuckled, a low, melodic sound that made your heart skip. "How tragic. To be in the presence of someone as captivating as you and still fail to notice the stars."
"Oh, hush!" You chuckled at her compliment, waving your hand dismissively in the air at her. Kafka reached out, her hand hovering near yours for a fraction of a second, a movement so fleeting you wondered if you had imagined the heat radiating from her skin before she shifted to engage the gear. The car jolted slightly as she pulled away from the curb smoothly.
"Forget him," she commanded gently, her tone shifting into that effortless, commanding lilt she used when she wanted the world to fall in line, casual. "Well," she murmured, her fingers returning to the steering wheel, "I can't have you moping about in a state of such boredom. It simply won't do."
"Uh huh," you murmured, you were curious as to what she'd say.
"Let me make up for it," she said, her eyes fixed on the road ahead, though her profile remained etched in your mind. "How about a change of scenery? The city looks much better at night. I'll drive you through the entire city or wherever you want."
You leaned your head back against the leather headrest, watching the rhythmic passing of streetlamps. The idea was tempting. There was something incredibly soothing about the way she handled the car with a controlled grace that made you feel entirely safe, as if the rest of the world was merely a backdrop to the two of you. "A drive sounds perfect," you admitted, a genuine sense of calm finally settling over you. "But how long are we talking?" You turned your head slightly to look at her face. A small, enigmatic smile played on her lips. She didn't look at you, but you could feel the weight of her attention, a silent, magnetic pull that seemed to tighten the space between the driver and passenger seats.
"How long?" she repeated, her voice dropping a bit, becoming a soft, melodic hum that vibrated in the almost quiet car. "I'll drive until the gas runs out. A perfect idea, no?"
You let out a startled, breathless laugh, the sound bright and light in the dark interior. "That sounds dangerously impulsive, Kafka."
"Is it?" She turned the steering wheel with one hand, a graceful, sweeping motion, as she steered the car toward the bridge that spanned the heart of the city. You didn't answer, because you didn't have one. You just watched the city lights dance, feeling the steady, comforting rhythm of the car and the silent, unspoken presence of the woman beside you.
As the car climbed the gentle incline of the bridge, the urban landscape stretched out beneath you like a carpet of fallen stars. The skyscrapers were no longer imposing monoliths of glass and steel. They were glowing silhouettes, their lights bleeding into the dark velvet of the night. Above it all, the moon hung heavy and luminous, an almost full orb that cast a pale, silvery sheen over the world. It turned the river below into a ribbon of liquid mercury, shimmering with every ripple of the current. "It's nice," you murmured, the words feeling small against the vastness of the view. You leaned closer to the window, your breath leaving a faint, ghostly fog on the glass. "The city… it does feel different at night."
You shifted in your seat, crossing one leg over the other to find a more comfortable position, your eyes never leaving the horizon. The quietness of the car was profound, broken only by the low purr of the engine and the distant, muffled hum of the world below. Kafka hummed in response, a low, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate through the very frame of the car. It wasn't a verbal answer, but a confirmation of a shared recognition of the beauty you were witnessing.
"It is," she finally agreed, her voice soft, stripped of its usual performative edge. "The night has a way of stripping away the pretenses of the day."
You turned your head slightly to look at her fully this time. The moonlight caught the edge of her jawline and the subtle shimmer of her eyes. She looked incredibly composed, as always, but there was a softness in her expression that she rarely allowed the rest of the world to see. "Is that why you like it so much?" you asked, the question slipping out before you could filter it. Kafka turned the steering wheel slightly, guiding the car onto a long, sweeping curve. She didn't look at you immediately, but you saw the corner of her mouth twitch upward.
"Hmm, perhaps." she agreed, her gaze drifting back to the road. She paused, her gloved hand momentarily leaving the wheel to reach toward the center console, her hand rested near the gear shift.
"That's understandable." You hummed in response, a soft, melodic sound that mirrored the rhythm of the passing streetlights. The silence was comfortable, the kind of silence that only exists between people who don't feel the need to fill every gap with meaningless chatter. "Enjoying the ride?" Kafka asked casually, her voice cutting through the hum of the engine. She didn't look over, her focus remaining on the road, but there was a lightness to her tone that suggested she was enjoying the quiet as much as you were. "Yeah," you replied simply, a small, genuine smile tugging at your lips. "It’s much better."
"Hmm…" Kafka hummed, a thoughtful sound as she tapped her fingers against the steering wheel. You could almost see the gears turning in her head, her mind wandering through the myriad of paths the night could take. Suddenly, your eyes brightened, and a spark of recognition lit up your features. "Oh! Wait, I know this place," you exclaimed, leaning forward. You pressed one hand against the cool glass of the window, pointing toward a distant stretch of coastline visible beneath the bridge's massive pillars. "We collected a ton of seashells from here, didn't we? I think it was a few months ago."
A memory surfaced vivid and salt scented. You remembered the sound of the crashing waves, the feeling of sand between your toes, and the way the sunlight had looked on the water back then. Most of all, you remembered the effortless way you and Kafka had wandered the shoreline, two shadows moving in sync with the tide. She always walked beside you. Kafka steered the car onto a different lane, her movements decisive and smooth. "Yeah," she said, her voice warming with a hint of nostalgia. "It's the place. You have a good memory." She pressed the accelerator slightly, the engine's purr deepening as the car picked up pace, gliding toward the coastal route.
"Do you remember the one with the iridescent shell?" you asked, the conversation flowing easily now, fueled by the shared history. "The one that looked like it was made of starlight? You almost dropped it in the sand and lost it."
Kafka let out a short, melodic laugh. "Did I?"
"Yes!" You laughed, pulling your hands closer to yourself. "I was the one who caught it though." You flashed a cheeky smile at her.
"I'm pretty sure it was you who lost the seashells after that." Kafka teased you back lightly. The car sped along the coastal highway, the rhythmic thrum thrum of the tires against the pavement acting as a heartbeat for the night. The scent of the sea was stronger now.
"No I didn't!" You huffed, before smiling.
"You did." Kafka hummed.
You leaned your head against the cool glass, a sudden, playful thought striking you. "You do still have the accessories, right?" you asked, turning toward her with a bright, expectant look. "The ones I made from the seashells that day."
Kafka’s expression softened slightly. She didn't answer immediately. She let out a soft, melodic hum that seemed to vibrate in the very air between you. "Of course," she replied, her voice dropping into a fond, nostalgic register. "They’re tucked away in a velvet box. The girls loved them too."
"I bet Silver Wolf tried doing something with the seashells." You snickered.
"She did," Kafka confirmed, a smirk playing on her lips. "She spent twenty minutes trying to convince me that a seashell with a built in screen was the best thing ever." Kafka paused, "…Apparently it was for running a black and white video?"
"Ahh, That sounds exactly like her," you paused, "And Firefly?" you asked, your voice softening at the mention of the girl's name.
"She was so sweet about it," Kafka murmured, her gaze momentarily drifting to the moonlit waves outside. "She said it felt like a piece of a summer that never had to end, a lovely sentiment." The conversation flowed effortlessly from there, a seamless stream of resurfacing memories. You drifted through shared moments. The time you both got caught in a sudden torrential downpour and ended up drenched without an umbrella, the quiet rare afternoons spent watching the stars from the roof of abandoned buildings and more. The moments you spend together were special because sometimes you'd rarely be able to meet her and sometimes you barely have enough time to catch up with eachother.
The car surged forward, the engine's roar growing more pronounced as Kafka steered the vehicle away from the narrow, winding cliffside roads and back toward the wide, sweeping expanse of the main highway. The transition was seamless, the car feeling more stable and powerful as it reclaimed the smooth asphalt. The wind whipped past the windows with renewed vigor, and the neon lights of the distant city began to flicker past again, a rhythmic strobe of color against the dark.
The atmosphere had shifted from the heavy, contemplative stillness of the coastline to a more energized, driving momentum. It was as if the speed itself was helping to push away the lingering shadows of the deeper conversation, returning you both to the comfortable, easy going banter that defined your friendship. Kafka suddenly spoke up, calling your name. her voice cutting through the rush of the wind. She didn't turn her head, her eyes fixed on the long, straight stretch of road ahead, but there was a playful, almost challenging lilt to her tone. "Tell me what's the time."
You blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden question. You reached into your pocket, your fingers brushing against the cool metal of your phone before you pulled it out. The screen lit up, the bright glow momentarily blinding you in the dark interior of the car. You squinted at the digits, expecting it to be somewhere in the realm of the night hour, like 8 PM or 9 PM. But as the numbers registered in your mind, your eyes widened. "It's 11 PM," you said, your voice trailing off before it spiked into a sudden, breathless realization. You stared at the screen in genuine shock, the time feeling entirely disconnected from the reality of your conversation. "ITS 11 PM?!"
The sheer velocity of the night had tricked you. It felt as though you had only just arrived at the coast, as if the memories of the seashells, the beach and more happened mere minutes ago. The hours had simply dissolved into the rhythm of the drive, swallowed by the music of the engine and the steady flow of your words. Kafka let out a low, melodic chuckle, a sound of pure amusement that seemed to dance in the air. "Time is a fickle thing when you aren't looking at it, isn't it?" she teased, her eyes glinting with mischief in the rearview mirror. "It slips through your fingers like sand."
"Slip through my fingers? It practically vanished!" you exclaimed, leaning back against the seat, a mix of disbelief and a strange, lingering sense of wonder washing over you. "How did we lose so much time?"
"Are you saying you didnt have fun?," she replied simply, her tone turning slightly more profound for a fleeting second.
"N-no, no, not at all. I'm having fun." You stammered, "I guess you do lose track of time when you're having fun." You laughed.
She adjusted her grip on the steering wheel, her movements confident and effortless as she maintained their high speed. The highway stretched out before you like an infinite ribbon of light, a path leading into the heart of the night. "Don't look so panicked," she added, her voice soothing and calm, the quintessential anchor in your sudden whirlwind of realization. "I'll drop you off in front of your apartment, don't worry."
You let out a long, shaky breath, the initial shock fading into a comfortable sort of exhaustion. You looked out the window again, watching the lights of the city blur into long, glowing lines. The hum of the tires against the asphalt had become a sort of white noise, a rhythmic lullaby that settled deep into your bones. The initial shock of seeing the clock hit 11 PM had worn off, replaced by a heavy, pleasant sort of drowsiness.
"You're right," you murmured, the words feeling thick and soft in your mouth. You leaned your head back against the headrest, a small, sleepy smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "We still have a little bit of the night left."
Kafka didn't look away from the road, but you saw her grip on the steering wheel loosen just a fraction, her posture relaxing. "Exactly," she said, her voice a low, melodic vibration in the quiet car. As the car surged forward, the highway transformed. The streetlights became long, blurred streaks of amber and white, turning the world outside into a flickering tunnel of light and shadow. It was hypnotic. You found yourself drifting, lulled by the steady, comforting presence of the woman beside you. There was something incredibly grounding about her even when she was being cryptic or teasing, she was a constant. A fixed point in a universe that usually felt like it was spinning way too fast. You were perfectly content to let the hours continue to slip through your fingers like sand, as long as you were traveling through the void together.
The heavy, stagnant feeling that had been sitting in your chest for months that quiet, gnawing loneliness that usually came when you were alone with your thoughts had finally lifted. "Hey," you said suddenly, the word breaking the trance. You shifted in your seat, looking over at her profile, illuminated by the passing glow of the dashboard. "Thanks for the distraction. I think my brain actually stopped buzzing for a second."
Kafka glanced at you, a tiny, knowing smirk playing on her lips. "Was it that loud?"
"A little," you admitted with a sheepish laugh. "It’s been a noisy few weeks."
"Then consider this a silent zone," she replied, her eyes returning to the road. You nodded, closing your eyes again. The sensation of the car moving, the warmth of the heater, and the steady presence of Kafka created a bubble of safety that felt almost impenetrable.
You always felt better around her.
—
It was currently 1 AM and you were very sleepy. All you craved now was the cold feeling of your bed, surrounded by many pillows and a thin blanket.
And maybe Kafka sleeping beside you as well.
The engine died with a final, lingering hum. The streetlights of your neighborhood cast long, skeletal shadows across the pavement, and the air had grown crisp, a sharp contrast to the warm, perfumed sanctuary of the car. Kafka pulled her car key out of the keyhole, holding it in her hand. You stepped out of the car with Kafka, your legs feeling a little heavy from the long drive, your mind a hazy mixture of exhaustion. The cold air nipped at the back of neck, making you shiver. Kafka walked beside you, her footsteps echoing in a steady, rhythmic beat that matched your own. Neither of you spoke for a moment. When you reached the gate of your apartment building, you stopped and turned to face her. The moonlight caught the edges of her coat, making her look almost ethereal, a figure plucked from a dream and dropped into the sterile, concrete reality of your daily life. You smiled at her before turning your head back. You reached for the gate to the building, key in hand.
"…" Kafka paused, her expression unreadable. She seemed to be weighing her words, the silence stretching between you until it became a palpable force. Finally, she spoke, her voice low and casual, yet carrying an intensity that made your heart stutter. "Since you didn't enjoy today's date," she began, her eyes searching yours with a hint of a smile, "how about I be your date for tomorrow?"
"Huh?" The sound escaped you, breathless and disoriented. Your heart, which had been slowing down for sleep, suddenly kicked into a frantic, uneven rhythm. You blinked, your brain struggling to keep up. "Wait… you're joking, right? You're kidding." You searched her face for the tell tale sign of a smirk, for the glint of mischief that would signal the punchline. But her expression remained maddeningly composed, though there was a softness in her eyes that made it impossible to be entirely sure. Kafka let out a small, amused huff. "Why would I joke about something like that?" She tilted her head slightly, her gaze unwavering. "Think of it as one of our normal hangouts. I'll pick you up at six. Don't be late."
"A-alright," you stammered, a nervous, bewildered chuckle escaping your throat. You weren't sure what to feel excitement, panic, or a heady mix of both. The idea of Kafka acting as your "date" was absurd and wonderful and terrifying all at once. "I'll be ready."
"Good," she said, her voice humming with satisfaction. As you turned to head toward the entrance, you felt a sudden, heavy warmth settle over your shoulders. You paused, turning your head around. Kafka had reached up, unfastening the elegant, dark coat that had been draped loosely off her shoulders. With a graceful motion, she had draped it over you. The fabric was still warm from her body, and it smelled intensely of her. "Keep it, you can return it tomorrow."
You stood there, enveloped in her warmth. You watched her walk away, her figure retreating into the shadows of the street, leaving you standing there with a racing heart and a borrowed coat, wondering if the "date" she promised was a dream, a joke, or the most beautiful reality you had ever encountered. As you stood at the entrance of your apartment building, you felt an unnatural, radiating heat rising from your neck up to your cheeks.You walked toward the gate, your movements stiff, as if your brain had short circuited. The moment you stepped through the threshold and shut the iron gate behind you, the silence of the night rushed in to fill the white void.
A date.
The word circled in your head, looping over and over. You’d heard it, of course, you were used to the word. But the context was different now. She had used that specific word, and you in your flustered state, had actually said "alright" to it. You pressed the button for the elevator, staring blankly at the numbers as they slowly ticked upward. She’s probably joking, you told yourself, the thought clashing with the flutter of excitement in your chest. That’s how she is. When the elevator doors slid open, you stepped inside, and counted how many hours it'd take before you meet Kafka again. You pulled Kafka's coat draped over your shoulder more closer to yourself.
—
You walked toward your door, the heavy fabric of her coat still wrapped around you, providing a shield against the drafty corridor. You didn't want to take it off. You didn't want to break the connection, however fragile and uncertain it was. As you reached your door, you halted, your hand hovering over the handle. Tomorrow was Saturday. At 6 PM, she would be here. You began to run through the possibilities in your mind. Where would she take you? What would you wear? Would you be able to hold a conversation without stuttering or staring at your feet? The idea of it made your stomach do a slow, lazy roll. It was a mixture of apprehension and a kind of hopeful yearning you hadn't felt in years. You had become so used to the solitude of your life, the quiet drudgery of your routine, that the prospect of something anything different felt like a revelation.
"She's just being kind," you whispered to yourself, finally opening the door and stepping into the dim light of your living room. "We've known each other a long time. It's just… a different kind of hangout." But your heart refused to believe that. Your heart knew that this was different. You tossed your keys on the counter and walked over to the window, looking down at the street below. The car was gone, leaving you alone in the silence of your apartment. You hugged the coat tighter around your shoulders, burying your face in the fabric. The warmth was still there, and with it, the lingering essence of her.
You realized then that you didn't care if she was joking. You didn't care if this was just another one of her intricate plays or a momentary whim born of nostalgia. If this was a game, you were willing to play along. If this was a mistake, you were willing to make it. Because the alternative returning to the grey, solitary stillness of your apartment without the promise of her company tomorrow was far worse.
If only she knew how she made you feel.
—
The sunlight was way too bright. It kept poking at you through the gaps in your curtains, making it impossible to actually sleep after briefly waking up. You couldn't get away from the memory of the night before. Every time you closed your eyes, you could still smell her perfume and hear that low, smooth voice of hers. You had spent the entire morning in a daze, floating through your chores like a ghost, your mind stuck on one single moment. The way she had looked at you when she said she’d pick you up at six, and how she draped her coat over your shoulders.
By the time the afternoon started to fade into that heavy, gold colored evening light, you were a total mess. You were pacing around your room, your heart drumming against your ribs. You had never been this nervous in your entire life. And for what? You told yourself. It was just a hangout like date. That’s just what she called it. "It’s not a date," you whispered to the empty room. You were trying to convince yourself, but you didn't really believe it. "She’s probably just bored…aeons we’re just friends…"
But you knew Kafka, she didn't do things just because she was bored. Everything she did had a point. Everything she did was a move in a game that only she knew the rules to. That was the scary part. You didn't know if you were a player in this game or just a piece on the board. You went to your mirror and sat down, staring at your reflection. Your eyes looked wide and a little wild, like you had been caught doing something wrong. You started doing your makeup, trying to keep your hands steady. You wanted to look nice, but not too nice. You didn't want her to think you had spent hours getting ready, even though you had. But would Kafka like you in whatever you wore, right?
Right?
You reached for your favorite lipstick in your purse. It was a color that always made you feel more confident whenever you wore it. You dug through the bottom of the bag, moving things around, but your fingers hit nothing but the lining of the purse. "Where is it?" You frowned, digging deeper. You turned the bag upside down and shook it, but nothing fell out. You checked the bathroom counter, the side table by your bed, and even the pockets of the coat she had lent you the night before.
It was gone.
"Great," you sighed, leaning your forehead against the cool surface of the mirror. "Just great." You weren't even sure where it could have gone. Maybe it had rolled under the car seat? Or maybe you had dropped it somewhere on the walk to your apartment. Either way, it was gone. You stared at your lips in the mirror, feeling a sudden wave of panic. You felt like if you didn't look perfect, the whole night would be ruined. "Get it together," you scolded yourself. "I have a dozen other ones." You found a different shade, something more neutral, and applied it carefully. It wasn't the one you wanted, but it looked okay. You took a deep breath and stood up, looking around your room. There were clothes everywhere, piles of fabric and hangers that looked like a disaster zone. You started throwing them into the closet, trying to hide the evidence of your panic.
As you cleaned up, you kept checking the clock. 5:30 PM and then 5:35 PM. The time was moving way too fast. You felt like you were running out of air. You checked your hair in the mirror again, brushing it back and then letting it fall forward. You tried to imagine what Kafka would say. Would she tease you? Would she notice that you were shaking?
You hoped she wouldn't notice. ( She would. ) You wanted to seem cool and composed, like you always were. But inside, you felt like a little kid waiting for their parents to come home from work. You were excited, but you were also terrified. What if you said something stupid? What if the conversation died out and you just sat there in awkward silence? You walked over to the window and looked down at the street. The sun was almost gone, and the streetlights were starting to flicker on. People were heading home from work, walking their dogs or carrying groceries. It was a normal Tuesday evening. But for you, it was the most important night of the year.
"Please be fun," you whispered, resting your hand against the glass. "Please don't let this be weird." You could imagine her car pulling up. You could imagine her opening the door and giving you that little, knowing smile. The thought made your stomach flip. You wondered where she would take you. Probably somewhere fancy. Somewhere with white tablecloths and wine that cost more than your monthly rent. You had never been to places like that, but you were willing to try. You went back to the mirror to check your makeup one last time. You looked good. You felt… okay. But the nerves were still there, humming under your skin like a live wire. You just wanted to be with her. You wanted to know what she was thinking, what she saw when she looked at you. You wondered if she felt the same way. Did she get nervous? ( Maybe not? ) Did she worry about her hair or her clothes? Or was she always this sure of herself? You envied her. You wished you could be as calm as she was.
The clock hit 5:50 PM.
You sat down on the edge of your bed, your hands clasped tightly in your lap. You tried to breathe slowly, in and out. You waited, listening to the sounds of the building, the distant noise of the city. And then—
You heard the sound of an engine. As the sound grew louder, you practically scrambled toward the window. You pressed your hands against the cool glass, leaning forward so you could see better. Down below, parked perfectly at the curb, was her car. Seeing it there, solid and real, made your heart do a frantic little jump in your chest. It wasn't a dream. She was actually here.
"Okay, okay, stay calm," you whispered to yourself, though your hands were anything but calm. You turned away from the window and grabbed your mini bag from the counter. You moved through your apartment like a whirlwind, your eyes searching for one specific thing. You found it draped over the back of your chair the heavy, elegant coat she had lent you the night before. You grabbed it, holding it close to your chest as if it were a shield, and rushed out the door.
You made it to the elevator, your heart thudding in time with the mechanical hum of the lift as it descended. You felt like you were vibrating. You kept checking your reflection in the shiny metal of the elevator doors, smoothing down your hair and trying to wipe the sheer panic off your face. You wanted to look normal. The doors slid open, and you practically bolted toward the entrance. When you stepped out into the cool evening air, the breath caught in your throat. You saw her sitting in the driver's seat, the streetlights catching the sharp, beautiful lines of her silhouette. You had seen Kafka in many things. Casual clothes, elegant dresses, mission attire but this was different. This was on a whole new level.
She was wearing a stunning black dress that seemed to swallow the light around her, and a delicate white pearl necklace rested against her skin, making her look incredibly regal. A black coat was draped loosely over her shoulders, giving her that effortless, dangerous charm she always carried. You felt the heat rush to your cheeks instantly. You felt like you were melting right there on the sidewalk.
"Kafka," you managed to say. Your voice was a little breathier than you wanted it to be, but you forced a smile as you approached the car. You couldn't help it; you were staring. You couldn't pull your eyes away from her. She was so breathtakingly beautiful that it almost hurt to look at her. "You look… gorgeous."
Kafka didn't answer right away. Instead, she paused, her dark eyes slowly traveling up from your shoes to your face. She was looking at your outfit, her gaze lingering on the way the clothes fit you, the way you had put yourself together just for this. For a second, the air between you felt thick and heavy, charged with a tension you couldn't quite name. A small, knowing smirk played on her lips. She didn't look away, and her eyes seemed to dance with a hint of mischief. "…You look beautiful as well," she replied, her voice smooth and low, like velvet. She let out a soft, thoughtful hum that made your stomach flip. "But you know… it's a bit lopsided, don't you think?" She tilted her head toward the coat clutched in your hands. "How about you wear the coat so we can match? It would look much better on you than just being held."
She was teasing you. You could see it in the way her eyes crinkled just a tiny bit at the corners. She knew exactly what she was doing to you. "Oh! S-sure " you stammered, feeling your face get even hotter. You quickly draped the heavy fabric over your shoulders, trying to mimic her effortless style, though you felt much more clumsy in comparison. "There, better?"
Kafka nodded and you took a breath, trying to regain some of your dignity as you climbed into the passenger seat. The interior of the car smelled like her, and it was almost overwhelming. To break the silence and hide how flustered you were, you decided to bring up something that had been bothering you.
"By the way, Kafka," you said, trying to sound casual, "I think I left my lipstick in your car. I looked for it earlier but couldn't find it anywhere."
Kafka shifted the car into gear, her movements graceful and slow. She didn't even blink. "Really? That's strange," she said, her voice perfectly calm and smooth. "I checked my car yesterday when we arrived, and I found nothing. Perhaps you should check your room again. You might have just misplaced it." She sounded so convincing and certain that you had no reason to doubt her. You didn't know that as she turned the steering wheel, a small, secret smile was tugging at the corner of her mouth. You didn't know that your missing lipstick was tucked safely away in her own purse, a little souvenir she had decided to keep for herself and only for herself.
"Huh… guess I'll have to check again," you said, offering her a small, sheepish smile. "I must be getting forgetful." You turned to look out the window as the car began to move, unaware that the woman sitting next to you was enjoying your confusion far more than she let on. The car glided silently through the city, the neon signs of downtown reflecting off the polished hood. You were half lost in your own head, still trying to process the fact that Kafka had actually shown up, and that she looked like she had stepped straight out of a high fashion magazine. Every time you stole a glance at her, you felt that familiar flutter in your chest, a mixture of nerves and something much deeper. Kafka kept her eyes on the road, her gloved hands steering the car with a lazy, practiced ease. "You're very quiet," she said, her voice cutting through the silence. "Usually, you have so much to say. Are you thinking about something?"
"Just… thinking about the night," you admitted, turning slightly toward her. "I didn't expect you to dress up so much. I mean, I did, but I didn't expect you to go this far."
Kafka laughed, a soft, melodic sound that made you feel even more self conscious. "It’s a special occasion, isn't it? Or at least, I want it to feel like one." She glanced at you, her eyes searching your face for a moment. "You look comfortable in that coat. It suits you."
"Thanks," you said, pulling the fabric a little tighter around you. "It's really warm."
"Is it?" Her voice dropped a little, becoming more intimate. "I always wondered if you ran cold."
You looked away, feeling the heat rise in your neck again. "I do. Just a little."
There was a long silence after that. You could feel her gaze on you, even when you weren't looking. It was a strange, magnetic pull, as if she wanted to reach out but was choosing to wait. Kafka’s fingers drummed a slow, rhythmic beat on the steering wheel. She seemed lost in her own thoughts, her expression becoming uncharacteristically pensive. For a split second, you caught a flash of something in her eyes not the usual confidence and playfulness, but a deep, quiet longing. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by her usual smirk, but it left you reeling.
"You know," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "there are a lot of people in this city who would give anything to be where you are right now."
"What do you mean?" you asked, blinking. "Nothing," she replied, her gaze returning to the road. "Just an observation."
You wanted to ask her what she meant. You wanted to ask her why she was looking at you like that, like you were some kind of treasure she had stumbled upon. But you didn't want to push it. Instead, you leaned back into the seat, watching the city blur by. "Where are we going?" you asked eventually.
"Somewhere that matches your outfit," she answered. Before you could ask what that meant, the car slowed down and turned into a private driveway. You looked up and saw a grand, ornate building with a massive golden sign that sparkled under the spotlights. The architecture was old world and imposing, with heavy stone pillars and a red carpet leading up to the entrance.
"A restaurant?" you realized, your eyes wide. "Kafka, this place is… woah."
"It’s called The Gilded Lily," she said, parking the car with a smooth motion. "The food is exceptional, and the wine list is even better."
She stepped out of the car, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement. As you got out beside her, she didn't immediately lead the way. Instead, she stopped and turned to face you, gesturing for you to lead the way, her smile mysterious and warm.
"After you," she said. As you walked toward the entrance, you felt her presence right behind you, so close that you could smell her perfume wafting in the evening breeze. It was a feeling of being seen, of being wanted, and it made everything else in the world fade into the background.
The heavy glass doors of The Gilded Lily swung open, and a wave of warmth and the faint scent of expensive lilies washed over you. The restaurant was exactly as you had imagined dimly lit, with soft jazz playing in the background and tables spaced far enough apart to ensure total privacy. It felt like a place where secrets were whispered and where time moved a little slower.
A host in a crisp suit greeted you with a polite bow, his eyes widening slightly as he took in Kafka’s presence. He led you through the dining room, past velvet curtains and sparkling crystal chandeliers, toward a secluded booth in the corner that overlooked a small, indoor fountain. As you sat down, the plush velvet of the booth felt incredibly soft against your skin. The candlelight flickered between you, casting dancing shadows across Kafka’s face. In this light, she looked even more ethereal. The sharp edges of her beauty seemed to soften, making her look less like a dangerous stellaron hunter and more like a woman who was simply enjoying the moment.
"Everything looks so… perfect," you whispered, glancing around at the gold rimmed plates and the tall, slender candles.
"It is," Kafka agreed, though her eyes weren't on the decor. They were on you. She leaned her chin on her hand, her gaze steady and unblinking. "But the atmosphere is only half the charm."
You felt that familiar heat creeping up your neck again. You tried to focus on the menu to hide your blushing, but the words were a blur. "So, what do you recommend? I don't want to pick something too heavy."
Kafka laughed softly, a sound that seemed to vibrate in the small space between you. "Don't overthink it, Just pick something you love, dear."
She signaled to a waiter, and for a while, you both sat in a comfortable, humming silence. You watched the way the candlelight caught the pearls at her neck, and you found yourself wondering what she was thinking. She was so hard to read most of the time, a puzzle with pieces that didn't quite seem to fit, but in moments like this, she felt… reachable.
"You're doing it again," she said suddenly, a playful glint in her eyes. "Doing what?" you asked, nearly dropping your menu. "Staring," she teased. "Am I just that captivating?"
"I— yes." you joked, finally finding your courage. "You're just… a lot to take in, Kafka."
She leaned forward, the distance between you shrinking until you could see the tiny flecks of color in her eyes. "Is that a bad thing?"
"No," you said, your voice dropping to a whisper. "Not at all."
Her expression softened, and for a heartbeat, the teasing mask slipped. Her eyes drifted down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, and the air in the booth felt like it had been sucked out. There was a yearning in her gaze so subtle, so quiet, that you almost missed it a hunger that wasn't for the food being served, but for something much more personal. It was a look of someone who wanted to reach out and bridge the gap, to see if the warmth you felt was shared.
Then, just as quickly, she pulled back, the playful smirk returning to her lips. "Good. Because I'd hate to have to feed you myself just to get your attention."
You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, laughing nervously. "I think the food will be enough."
The appetizers arrived delicate bites of seafood and crisp greens but you found it hard to focus on the taste. Every time your hand moved near hers on the table, or every time she chuckled at something you said, a tiny jolt of electricity seemed to zap through you.
"You look very different when you're not busy with work." Kafka started. "Is that a good thing?" you asked.
"It's a beautiful thing," she replied, and the sincerity in her voice caught you off guard. She wasn't teasing now. She was looking at you with a quiet intensity that made your heart ache in the best possible way. "I like seeing you like this."
You swallowed hard, feeling a sudden, overwhelming urge to reach across the table and take her hand. "I feel like I can be myself with you. Even if 'myself' is a bit of a mess."
"A mess is much more interesting than perfection," she said, her voice dropping to a low, intimate hum. She reached out, her gloved finger tracing the rim of her wine glass, her eyes never leaving yours. "Perfection is boring, it's the cracks that make things worth looking at."
The main course arrived, a beautifully plated dish that looked almost too pretty to eat, but the food quickly became secondary to the conversation. You found yourself talking about things you rarely shared with anyone else small observations about the world, the quiet moments of your work, the things that made you feel alive.
Kafka listened with an intensity that was almost unnerving. She didn't interrupt, didn't offer empty platitudes. She simply watched you, her eyes tracing the movement of your hands as you spoke, her expression unreadable but deeply attentive.
"You have a very particular way of looking at things," she remarked softly, swirling the dark red liquid in her glass. "Most people see the surface. You seem to be looking for the pulse underneath."
"Is that a bad thing?" you asked, tilting your head. You weren't sure if you were being profound or just strange, but you felt a strange sense of comfort in her scrutiny. "Not at all," she said, a small, private smile touching her lips.
She reached across the table, not to grab your hand, but to gently brush a stray crumb away from the corner of your mouth. It was a gesture so casual, so platonic in its execution, that it shouldn't have sent your heart into a tailspin. But the warmth of her gloved finger against your skin lingered long after she had pulled back, leaving a trail of heat that made it hard to breathe.
"You're very observant, Kafka," you said, trying to steer the conversation back to something safer. "Even when you're pretending not to be."
"Am I pretending?" she countered, her eyes twinkling with mischief. The ambiguity of her words hung in the air between you. You weren't sure if she was talking about the food, the people in the restaurant, or the person sitting right in front of her. You chose to leave it there, a comfortable uncertainty that felt more exciting than a direct answer.
As the meal wound down, the atmosphere shifted from the excitement of the arrival to a mellow, contented hum. The jazz in the background seemed to slow down, matching the relaxed rhythm of your breathing.
"I think," you said, leaning back into the velvet cushions, "that this was much better than a 'normal' hangout."
"Much better," Kafka agreed. She leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table, her gaze softening. The dessert arrived something light and sweet that tasted like heaven but you found yourself barely touching it. Your mind was too busy navigating the strange, beautiful tension that had been building between you all night. Every time your eyes met hers, there was a moment of hesitation, a split second where the air seemed to thin, before one of you would look away.
You found yourself wondering: Does she actually feel this? Or is she just being her usual, charming self? To you, Kafka was a force of nature. She was bold, she was certain, and she moved through the world without a single shred of doubt. She didn't feel fear, didn't feel hesitation, and certainly didn't seem like the type of person to get flustered over a simple dinner. You felt like a small, quiet moon orbiting a massive, brilliant sun. How could someone as intense as her ever truly need someone as steady and unassuming as you?
Across the table, Kafka was fighting a much quieter battle. She watched you sip your drink, her heart doing something strange and uncharacteristic. She didn't feel fear she hadn't felt it in years but she felt a different kind of ache. It was a hollow, pulling sensation in her chest whenever you smiled at her. She wanted to reach out and pull you closer, to bridge the gap between the table and your soul, but she held herself back. She was a woman who lived by her instincts, yet with you, she was uncharacteristically cautious.
They're too kind, she thought, her gaze lingering on the way the candlelight played in your eyes. A part of her wanted to keep you to herself forever and never let go. She knew she was dangerous for you and yet, yet, yet— she couldn't help but be around you.
As the waiter cleared the last of the plates, the restaurant began to quiet down. The jazz was a low, sleepy murmur now. The lights seemed to dim even further, making the booth feel like a tiny, private island in the middle of a dark sea. "The night is winding down," Kafka said, her voice a little lower than usual. She didn't move to get up. Instead, she leaned back, her eyes searching yours with a sudden, piercing intensity. "Are you tired?"
"A little," you admitted, though you didn't want to leave. Kafka let out a breath, a soft sound that was almost a sigh. She reached out, her hand resting on the table near yours. She didn't touch you, but the heat radiating from her was unmistakable.
"It's a strange thing, isn't it?" she said, her voice drifting. "To find something that makes you want to stop time, most things in this world are so predictable. You know exactly how they'll end. But you…" She paused, her gaze dropping to your hand before snapping back to your eyes. Your heart skipped a beat. The way she said it it wasn't just a compliment. It felt like a confession wrapped in a riddle. "Is that a good thing or…?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.
"It's the only thing that matters," she replied. She leaned in closer, her eyes dark and swirling with a depth of emotion she rarely let anyone see. She looked away for a moment, her expression unreadable, before she looked back at you with a sudden, bold clarity.
"I don't think you realize," she said, her voice steady but laced with a quiet, desperate yearning, "how much space you take up in my head. It's becoming quite a distraction."
You felt the breath leave your lungs. The lines were there. She wasn't saying 'I love you' in a traditional way, but she was saying it in her own language. She was saying that you were the center of her world, the one thing that broke her composure. And in that moment, the doubt that had been haunting you vanished. You realized she wasn't just being friendly. She was pining, just as much as you were.
"And what if the distraction is mutual?" you asked, your courage finally catching up to your heart. A slow, beautiful smile spread across Kafka's face not her usual teasing smirk, but something much more genuine, much more vulnerable. It was the smile of someone who had finally found what they were looking for.
Kafka didn't hesitate. She reached across the table, her gloved hand sliding over yours. Her touch was firm, certain, and incredibly warm. As her fingers laced through yours, the connection felt electric, a sudden grounding force that anchored you both to the present moment. "Then why not spend the night at my place?" she asked.
Her voice was a low, melodic command, yet there was a softness to it a rare, tender invitation that she only ever offered to the things she truly cherished. She wasn't asking as a hunter or a Stellaron Hunter; she was asking as a woman who wanted to see if the morning could be as beautiful as the night.
Your cheeks grew warm, a deep, fluttering heat that radiated from your chest to the tips of your ears. The sheer boldness of her suggestion should have been intimidating, but instead, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. "I'd love to," you replied, your voice steady despite the frantic drumming of your heart.
Kafka’s eyes searched yours one last time, confirming the sincerity in your gaze, and then she let out a soft hum. A slow, breathtaking smile spread across her lips not her usual, teasing smirk, but a smile of pure, unadulterated satisfaction. It was the look of someone who had finally caught the one thing in the universe that was truly worth keeping. "Good," she whispered, her thumb grazing the back of your hand in a slow, lingering caress.
can’t stop staring! (*ﾟ∀ﾟ*) mortenax blade x gn!reader
not proofread / might be ooc / sfw / fluff / silver wolf is here / wc 837
just a quick little oneshot I wrote for fun,, gah I luv u bladie
Blade was never one to overlook the small things. Changes in behaviors from people he knew well enough never slipped past his notice. He was a very consistent person, and being so, he almost instantly picked up on any differences with the people around him.
So it was no surprise that the man picked up on your new habits after his return.
Both you and Silver Wolf had been immensely worried about his safety during his latest feat in Planarcadia. Though Silver Wolf masked her concern better than you did, nothing went unnoticed by the swordsman. He quickly picked up on the changes the two of you harbored - Silver Wolf kept a closer eye on his whereabouts during missions. You now constantly checked on his wounds, though he insisted they’d heal up on their own. It was a silent agreement between the both of you to keep Blade safe. Last time had been too close of a call.
However, there was one new habit only you exhibited.
On Planarcadia, Blade went through his ‘rebirth’…but that didn’t just affect his mind. His body and attire changed as well, which he didn’t expect would harbor such a reaction from you. What was this new habit of yours?
Your eyes wandering. It was like you couldn’t keep them to yourself; they were constantly at his chest. At first, he thought you were spacing out or monitoring his health, but then came your shy glances and flushed expressions whenever you were caught staring. The swordsman’s new outfit certainly left less to the imagination, to say the least. Through the ivory bandages on his chest, you could occasionally catch glimpses of pale skin, and that was enough to derail your thoughts for the remainder of the mission.
Like right now, for instance. You stood across from Blade and beside Silver Wolf, listening as the latter explained her plans for the day. Gaming, shopping, going out to eat…you quickly lost interest and allowed your eyes to go where they wished. Silver Wolf asked a question directed to you, and after seeing your glazed-over expression, nudged you in the side.
“Hey, answer me instead of staring at Bladie for once. His eyes are up there, you know.” Her tone was dry with a lingering hint of amusement.
Blade huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, watching the way your cheeks quickly heated up as you desperately tried to explain yourself.
He cleared his throat, putting a stop to your nervous rambling. “I will be honest. I am…curious as to why you stare at me.”
A languid smirk spread across Silver Wolf’s lips. “Yeah, let us hear your reasoning, hmm? I wanna know too.”
You would’ve rather died on the spot. Maybe you did, spiritually. You stammer out some measly excuse of ‘liking his new outfit’ and lower your eyes to the ground.
Blade takes a step closer to you as Silver Wolf chuckles at your reasoning. His hand lands on your shoulder, causing you to snap your head up and meet his gaze.
“I did not say…I minded it.”
Okay, now you definitely just died of embarrassment.
You try your best to compose yourself once he steps away, following Silver Wolf down the street. She says she wants to check out some new spot - Inkford Hermitage?
“It’s snowy and cold, but they’ve got saunas and hot pools there. Sounds pretty good, right?” Her words are met with a nod from you and a hum from Blade.
The tram ride there is somewhat awkward. You sit between the two of them on a crowded seat, while Silver Wolf plays some colorful rhythm game on her phone. Every few moments, you glance to your right and watch Blade’s chest rise and fall. It’s simply reassuring to you to know that he’s still breathing, right beside you. To know that he won’t be leaving again.
His eyes flick down to yours. Dark, crimson, but not cruel. Just…watching. It does admittedly make you a bit shy to be watched so intently…but then again, you might’ve been doing the same to him earlier.
“It will be a long ride until we arrive,” Blade mumbles, “are you comfortable?”
He must’ve noticed how squished you were between them. “To be honest, not very…but it’s okay.”
He shakes his head and adjusts himself, turning to the side and resting his back against the corner of the chair.
“If…you wish to rest on me, I would not mind.” He looks somewhat bashful admitting that, a rare look for the stoic Blade you know.
Your heart leaps at those words. Before he can change his mind, you’re sat happily in his lap with your head resting against his chest. Right where you want to be. His breath pauses for a moment, then resumes as his arms find their place around you. Maybe this isn’t so bad for him, getting this close to others.
Silver Wolf snickers, glancing sideways at the two of you. “Geez, get a room, you two.”
thinking about florist reader getting poisonous flowers from lohen
a/n: SORRYYY this took me so long to write !! I kept rewriting and I’m still not sure if I like it now but oh well it’s cute ,, TYSM ANON for the idea !!!
wc: 1.3k
warnings: none, mainly fluff, only ones I can think of are mentions of poison obviously
You certainly didn’t sign up for this.
It was an ordinary day in Mondstadt City, as typical as any other. Knights patrolled the outskirts, citizens milled about the streets, and the smell of Good Hunter’s fresh food wafted through the air. You rolled out of bed and made your way to your little flower shop, tucked away in a humble corner of town that was your own.
Everything was to be expected. The minute traces of dust on the windows, the flowers seemingly greeting you as you entered the room - everything as it should be.
Then there was one thing that was not expected.
The vase sitting on the front counter, full of bright pink hyacinths, along with a note tucked underneath. That definitely wasn’t yours - you were smart enough to know how poisonous hyacinths were, being a florist, and you’d never leave them out in the open for anyone to have access to…nor did you ever buy any.
Creeping closer, you carefully moved the vase of flowers and picked up the note underneath.
“Enjoy the flowers! Though, try not to touch them - I’m sure you’re aware what they are ♡
-L”
Signed ‘L’? Who could that be? You wracked your brain to think of anyone you knew with the initial…and only came up with Lisa, the Knights of Favonius’ librarian. There’s no way she would plant these here, nor would she have any motive to do so.
But you do remember that the Grand Master and his troops had recently returned from their Nod-Krai expedition…perhaps there was another knight who had returned that had wanted to leave you this ‘gift’.
Did you have any enemies among their ranks? Not any you could think of…but surely Grand Master Varka would know if there were any knights with the first initial ‘L’. Why not ask him? Or, instead, someone who wasn’t so busy?
You found Amber quickly, stationed at the Mondstadt City gates. She was the first person you recognized among the daily patrol. Amber seemed to be lost in thought, most likely going over the rules of the Gliding Handbook in her mind.
“Hello, Miss! Need something?” She turns to you, a bright smile on her face. You ask her if there are any knights with the first initial of ‘L’, perhaps any that are fond of flowers. Her face darkens at your words, looking a tad nervous.
“L? I know the Vice Captain of the 5th Company, Lohen. But I haven’t of him liking flowers…he’s a bit of an oddball. Why do you ask?”
Amber’s face falls instantly once you explain your dilemma to her. “Poison flowers?! Are you alright-?”
“Yes, Amber, I know how to handle them,” you reply with a sheepish smile.
“Right, you’re a florist. Though…that does sound exactly like something he would do.”
You tilt your head. “Really? A Knight of Favonius causing trouble? Does he have something against me?”
“Of course he doesn’t!” Calls a new voice from above you. You and Amber glance up and dodge out of the way at the right moment, just as Lohen effortlessly leaps down from the city’s walls and lands in front of you. “They were a gift!”
Before you is Lohen, standing proud with his hands on his hips and a content grin across his face. Amber had taken the opportunity to scramble off to her next watch post by now, not wanting to be caught up in whatever Lohen was plotting.
“Did you not like them?” He asks, an over-the-top pout settling on his lips. “I went to great lengths for them, you know. Hyacinths are super rare in Teyvat!”
You pause, momentarily stunned. “But…they’re poisonous.”
Lohen’s smirk deepens. “I know.”
“Are you upset with me, then?”
He giggles. “Nope! See, you’re a florist, I trusted that you knew they were bad for you. But on the off chance that you didn’t, then…” he pauses, leaning in close. “…I would’ve taken good care of you, and gotten to watch you squirm!”
…how was this guy allowed to be a Knight, exactly?
Lohen slips his arm through yours, his eyes lit with joy. “Well, now you know my little secret.”
Your confusion only builds. Before you can get a word out, he continues. “Those flowers? An offering. To court you, of course. Wanna give it a try?”
You’d be lying if you said you’d never noticed him before - the way he looked exhausted after training, beads of sweat on his forehead. The gleam in his eyes that only showed through when he was fighting rogue hilichurls. The sway of his steps, more upbeat than usual, after a well-earned victory. To tell the truth, he was quite eye-catching, especially to you. And quite cute. But, the flowers? As a romantic offering? What went through this guy’s mind, exactly?
Yet the way he thought about how you would react to his gift? He trusted that you knew enough about flowers to keep yourself safe from them - wasn’t that at least the tiniest bit thoughtful?
“Sure, Lohen,” you offer a tiny smile, “but for future reference, my favorite flowers are forget-me-nots.”
Lohen beams instantly, his eyes lighting up. “Great! Then I’ll happily take you wherever you’d like to go.”
*･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･'(*ﾟ▽ﾟ*)'･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･*
How did you end up in this situation, exactly?
Hours ago, you’d agreed to let Lohen take you on a date. To the Angel’s Share you went - which, there you learned Lohen was not fond of alcohol. Thankfully, the place was mostly empty, as Varka had taken a large troop of knights on an urgent mission, and they were the ones to frequent that place the most. Lohen had brought you up to a table tucked away in a corner on the second floor, all for the two of you. He was a bit flirty, of course, and not without the occasional sadist comment, but what you hadn’t expected was how genuinely sweet and romantic he could be. The guy tended to your every need or whim, listening to you ramble about whatever your heart desired.
And now, somehow…he laid beside you in bed. Fast asleep, cuddled up to your chest, head tucked under your arm. A languid smile rests across his lips as his turquoise hair brushes your wrist. How cute…he seems to snore a bit in his sleep.
On the dresser across the room rests the hyacinths he gave you. However, in the dark, your eyes pick up something you hadn’t noticed before. The tips of the leaves are glowing ever so slightly…?
You sneak out of Lohen’s grasp (earning a sleepy whine from him before he returns to his rest) and tiptoe over to the flowers.
Your heart skips a beat.
These aren’t just hyacinths. They’re an extremely rare variant only found in the deepest caves of Dragonspine, known as Frostbud Hyacinths. And they aren’t poisonous.
You glance back at Lohen. Knowing he put in all this effort to get these for you, and to ensure they weren’t really poisonous? He surely teased you about it earlier, but now that his intentions were clear? You knew he was right for you.
Though, he probably got off on the thought that you still believed they were poisonous…oh well.
Once you join him back in bed, it becomes even clearer by the way he curls around you for comfort and warmth just how happy he is here.
“Lohen,” you whisper, earning another quiet groan from him, “thank you for the gift.”
He smiles lightly in his sleep. What a sweetheart.
i've always wondered how people write words above 5k...I'm currently only at 5k wordcount of my upcoming Kafka x reader fic (will be released after my exams which ends on July) like 20k wordcounts?? 50k word counts?? i need to lock in
a/n: the last fic for this month before i get busy with exams!
Blade isn't the type to hold hands in public or make grand gestures, but he is always there. If you’re walking through a crowded area, he’ll subtly position himself between you and the crowd, or he’ll stand just a step behind you.
Blade loves sitting on a balcony or a high ledge with you, watching the stars or the sunset. He knows he has seen centuries of them, but seeing them through your eyes makes them feel new again. There's always a tug at the corner of lips when he sees you point at the stars, counting them or trying to name them all.
Blade learns everything about you without you saying a word. He’ll notice the exact moment your eyes grow tired or when you’re feeling cold. He won't ask "Are you okay?" instead, he’ll simply drape his heavy, dark coat over your shoulders or hand you a drink before you even realize you're thirsty.
Does Blade sleep with you? Yes, but it’s not always "cuddly" in a traditional way. He is a restless sleeper. If you are with him, he finds he can actually rest. He might not sleep deeply, but he will drift in a state of semi consciousness, lulled by the sound of your breathing or the warmth of your body near his.
Blade often sleeps with his arm draped heavily over your waist or pulls you close to his chest. He needs to feel the steady rhythm of your heartbeat to drown out any noise in his own mind. Sometimes, he won't sleep at all. He’ll lie there in the dark, watching the rise and fall of your chest.
Blade has large, calloused hands meant for gripping a sword. When he holds your hand, he is incredibly careful, as if he’s afraid he might accidentally break something as precious as you.
Blade hates almost everyone calling him nicknames, but if you call him something sweet, he won't correct you. He might huff or give a tiny, almost invisible smirk, but he secretly loves the way it sounds coming from your lips.
Blade finds a strange peace in your hair. Whether he’s brushing it for you or just letting his fingers wander through it while you talk, it’s a grounding sensation. If you’re leaning against him, he might rest his chin on the top of your head, just breathing in the scent of your hair.
If you want to talk about your day, Blade will listen attentively. He might not have much to say in response, but he remembers every tiny detail. If you mentioned a specific flower or a type of tea a week ago, he might quietly leave it near you without a word of explanation.
There is a very specific, rare expression Blade gets when he knows he’s won an argument or successfully teased you. It’s not a full grin, it’s just a slight, lopsided lift of one side of his mouth. It’s his way of saying, 'You're easy to read,' and it’s incredibly smug.
Blade knows exactly how much his presence affects you. If he notices you getting flustered, he might lean in just a little too close to your ear, or let his hand linger on your waist just a second longer than necessary. He’ll watch your reaction with a quiet, amused intensity, enjoying the fact that he can make you lose your cool.
Blade's "tsk" or his huff of breath is often a mask. If he "tsks" when you do something cute, it’s rarely because he’s annoyed, it’s because he’s trying to hide the fact that his heart just skipped a beat.
If Blade is feeling particularly soft ( which is rare and very special ), he won't just pat you. He’ll let his hand linger. He might run his fingers through your hair or use his thumb to trace the line of your jaw after he’s patted your head. It’s a slow, deliberate movement that turns a simple "good job" into a silent confession of affection.
If you fall asleep on Blade's shoulder, he will stay frozen in that exact position for as long as it takes for you to wake up. He won't move a muscle because he doesn't want to disturb your rest.
Blade likes to interlock his fingers with yours. His hands are a bit larger than yours, so your hand feels slightly swallowed by it, which makes you feel incredibly safe.
Blade can be petty, but he can't stay petty if you are physically touching him. If you lean into his space, wrap your arms around his waist, or nuzzle into his neck, his "cold" exterior will melt almost instantly. He'll try to keep the grumpy face for a few seconds, but he'll eventually sigh, wrap his arms around you, and mutter, "…You're infuriating."
a/n: the last fic for this month before i get busy with exams!
Blade isn't the type to hold hands in public or make grand gestures, but he is always there. If you’re walking through a crowded area, he’ll subtly position himself between you and the crowd, or he’ll stand just a step behind you.
Blade loves sitting on a balcony or a high ledge with you, watching the stars or the sunset. He knows he has seen centuries of them, but seeing them through your eyes makes them feel new again. There's always a tug at the corner of lips when he sees you point at the stars, counting them or trying to name them all.
Blade learns everything about you without you saying a word. He’ll notice the exact moment your eyes grow tired or when you’re feeling cold. He won't ask "Are you okay?" instead, he’ll simply drape his heavy, dark coat over your shoulders or hand you a drink before you even realize you're thirsty.
Does Blade sleep with you? Yes, but it’s not always "cuddly" in a traditional way. He is a restless sleeper. If you are with him, he finds he can actually rest. He might not sleep deeply, but he will drift in a state of semi consciousness, lulled by the sound of your breathing or the warmth of your body near his.
Blade often sleeps with his arm draped heavily over your waist or pulls you close to his chest. He needs to feel the steady rhythm of your heartbeat to drown out any noise in his own mind. Sometimes, he won't sleep at all. He’ll lie there in the dark, watching the rise and fall of your chest.
Blade has large, calloused hands meant for gripping a sword. When he holds your hand, he is incredibly careful, as if he’s afraid he might accidentally break something as precious as you.
Blade hates almost everyone calling him nicknames, but if you call him something sweet, he won't correct you. He might huff or give a tiny, almost invisible smirk, but he secretly loves the way it sounds coming from your lips.
Blade finds a strange peace in your hair. Whether he’s brushing it for you or just letting his fingers wander through it while you talk, it’s a grounding sensation. If you’re leaning against him, he might rest his chin on the top of your head, just breathing in the scent of your hair.
If you want to talk about your day, Blade will listen attentively. He might not have much to say in response, but he remembers every tiny detail. If you mentioned a specific flower or a type of tea a week ago, he might quietly leave it near you without a word of explanation.
There is a very specific, rare expression Blade gets when he knows he’s won an argument or successfully teased you. It’s not a full grin, it’s just a slight, lopsided lift of one side of his mouth. It’s his way of saying, 'You're easy to read,' and it’s incredibly smug.
Blade knows exactly how much his presence affects you. If he notices you getting flustered, he might lean in just a little too close to your ear, or let his hand linger on your waist just a second longer than necessary. He’ll watch your reaction with a quiet, amused intensity, enjoying the fact that he can make you lose your cool.
Blade's "tsk" or his huff of breath is often a mask. If he "tsks" when you do something cute, it’s rarely because he’s annoyed, it’s because he’s trying to hide the fact that his heart just skipped a beat.
If Blade is feeling particularly soft ( which is rare and very special ), he won't just pat you. He’ll let his hand linger. He might run his fingers through your hair or use his thumb to trace the line of your jaw after he’s patted your head. It’s a slow, deliberate movement that turns a simple "good job" into a silent confession of affection.
If you fall asleep on Blade's shoulder, he will stay frozen in that exact position for as long as it takes for you to wake up. He won't move a muscle because he doesn't want to disturb your rest.
Blade likes to interlock his fingers with yours. His hands are a bit larger than yours, so your hand feels slightly swallowed by it, which makes you feel incredibly safe.
Blade can be petty, but he can't stay petty if you are physically touching him. If you lean into his space, wrap your arms around his waist, or nuzzle into his neck, his "cold" exterior will melt almost instantly. He'll try to keep the grumpy face for a few seconds, but he'll eventually sigh, wrap his arms around you, and mutter, "…You're infuriating."
summary: as a nurse at the church of favonius, there isn’t often much to keep you busy. that is, until the knights from nod-krai return. you expect to get fewer patients since the city now has more fortification…but suddenly, you begin to notice a strange pattern among your ‘patients’.
warnings: mentioned death/wounds, suggestive, briefly described panic attacks
a/n: I had to look up different parts of church for this one lolol,, anyways please enjoy !! I’m honestly really proud of this one :) tysm for the support on my last lohen fic !! this one is partly inspired by lovelynss’s murderer lohen fic (absolutely peak go read that next !!) also I wrote this in 2 hours I was locked IN dude
wc: 1.5k
As a nurse at the Church of Favonius, your days aren’t typically too busy. Most times, you wander around the grounds of the city, cleaning off the graves behind the church when the dust lingering on them piles too high for your liking. Sometimes you’d catch that creep Albert lurking outside the narthex, searching for Barbara as usual, and each time you’d scare him off with the threat of telling your fellow sisters. But that was the height of the excitement throughout each of your days.
Until the Grand Master returned. With him, not only did he bring back a wave of exhausted knights, but also a sense of renewed security that was felt all over Mondstadt. Now more than ever, the citizens of Mondstadt City felt safe within its high stone walls, protected by the knowledge of having their knights back.
With the Knights’ return, you anticipated having fewer patients than usual. If there was more security around the city, then surely there would be fewer injuries and casualties, no?
You had no idea how wrong you were.
A handful of days had passed since the Knight’s return, and the city’s excitement had died down for the most part.
That was when you found the first one.
You arrived at the Church earlier than any of your sisters that morning, simply out of curiosity for what the day would bring. Stepping inside your healer’s room tucked away in the basement, you were instantly greeted by the sight of a man, slumped over the table, bleeding out.
Two red dots left on his neck. A bite mark.
Your heart stopped as you stumbled backwards, screaming for help from anyone who’d hear you. Someone came soon enough - a sister or a knight; you had no idea. Your vision was too blurry to tell.
They’d closed off the Church grounds for the day. You spent it curled up in your bed at home, terrified of anything that moved. That was undoubtedly a vampire’s bite - you had no idea they were even real. You tried to calm your nerves by telling yourself there was no way they existed, that the man could’ve simply been bitten by a snake or a spider.
But those thoughts didn’t last long, since the next week, it happened again.
With shaky hands, you stepped inside your healing room, closing your eyes as if bracing for impact. For some odd reason, the door had been propped open with a stone, leaving it open to prying eyes. To your relief, however, there was nobody inside, no traces of blood or vampires or anything else that made your gut twist.
With a relieved sigh, you closed the door behind you, ready to heal whatever amateur knights got scratched up during their training.
THUD.
Something landed behind you. You wanted nothing more than to disappear in this moment. Turning as slowly as you could, you saw it - not a man this time, but an old lady’s body collapsed on the ground, those same bite marks on her neck that you’d seen present on the first man’s. Whoever (or whatever) did this to her must’ve shoved her body between the door and the wall…that explained the propped-open door.
You didn’t even hear yourself scream for help this time. Your ears were ringing too loudly to pick up any other sound.
It took another two weeks before you were willing to set foot in that cursed Church again. You simply couldn’t leave the people of Mondstadt City waiting - the knights-in-training needed your healing, no matter how badly you wanted to avoid those oh-so-familiar pews.
After stubbornly avoiding the Church all day, you finally relented and arrived late at night. This was, undoubtedly, one of the worst decisions you could’ve made. The Church was immensely creepier in the dark, at night, without anyone around. Why did you decide to come here again? With a deep breath, you began to complete the paperwork assigned to you by Jean while sitting on the Church benches. There was no way you were doing paperwork in your healer’s room alone after what happened last time.
Any slight noise that reached your ears made you jump like a frightened cat. You tried your best to focus and tune everything else out, paying close attention to the pen scratching across the endless pages you’ve been assigned.
Until you hear footsteps. You don’t dare to turn and look behind you, convinced the noise is simply a trick of your mind.
Someone snickers behind you. And to your terror, that laugh is a familiar one.
Vice Captain of the Fifth Company. The one who had returned alongside the Grand Master’s men. Lohen.
No, no way. It can’t be him. He’s a human, you know he is. He’s battle-hungry and a little deranged, but he would never…
A gloved hand lands on your shoulder. This time you can’t help the yelp that escapes from you. Sure enough, you whip around and meet the half-lidded eyes of Lohen, standing behind you with a smirk on his lips.
And there, in the glint of the moonlight shining through the Church’s sacred stained glass windows, you see them. Two bright fangs peeking from underneath his lips.
With your heart pounding, you hurriedly back up against the pillar behind you, watching with wide eyes as Lohen leaps over the bench you were just sitting on, the grin never leaving his face. You glance around, looking for anything you can defend yourself with, to no avail.
“V-Vice Captain-? What are you…” Your voice wobbles as every part of you wills it not to. A wide, crazed grin spreads across Lohen’s lips, showing off his pearly fangs.
“Oops, looks like you’ve found me out,” Lohen giggles, striding towards you with a burning flame in his eyes.
“Oh, I just adore this part! The part when my prey tries to scurry away like a terrified little bunny…the part before I strike!” He emphasizes that last word with a flash of his fangs, and damn it all, your heart won’t stop racing. This time, you don’t know if it’s from fear or something else.
To be honest, you’d always admired Lohen. Not only was he virtually fearless, but come on, you had to admit the man had caught your eye before. He was attractive, but you’d never admit it to anyone. But now that he was standing this close, it was getting harder to ignore those pesky feelings of yours.
Lohen crouches down, one hand resting on the pillar behind you. You can smell the metallic scent of blood on his lips - there’s no doubt what he is now. Maybe it’s the way he lingers much too close to you, or maybe it’s the fact that his scent is messing with your head, but you honestly aren’t that afraid anymore. Perhaps you’ve been waiting for a chance to be this close to him all along. Plus, he wouldn’t kill you, would he? You two have had amicable exchanges before; there’s no reason for him to harbor foul wishes towards you.
“Oh? You don’t smell of fear now. Getting comfortable, hmm?” He hums, his free hand going to your shoulder. “You look cute like this. Cuter than when you were afraid.”
“Lohen…” Your eyes follow his as you languidly mumble his name. It seems that’s all it takes for him to lose control, as he surges forward, his fangs brushing your neck. He pauses there, breathing you in with shaky breaths.
“Archons, I’ve been waiting for this…don’t worry, bunny, I won’t kill you off. I’ve got the antidote you need riiiiight here in my vial…so just relax.”
Those are Lohen’s final words before his fangs sink into the side of your neck.
The feeling of having him this close, with his hot breath against your skin…it’s almost too much to handle. Lohen makes low, quiet noises against you as you begin to feel weaker and weaker. But he’d already reassured you, so there’s no need to worry about any pain, right? You can sit back and enjoy the ecstasy he’s blessed you with.
“Nighty-night,” Lohen hums, satisfied after he pulls away from you, licking your blood from his lips.
Then everything goes dark.
*･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･'･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･*
Sleepily blinking your eyes open, you glance around the room and notice you’re in your very own healing bay, with Barbara standing over you worriedly.
“Oh! You’re awake!” she exclaims, her Hydro powers dissipating as her focus turns to you. “Goodness, you had us all so worried!”
“…what happened, Barbara-?” Your voice is quiet and a tad raspy. Barbara’s eyebrows knit with a mix of lingering worry and sudden relief.
She glances around for a moment before answering. “Vice Captain Lohen brought us to you this morning! He told us you were attacked by that awful creature - you know, the one that’s been sneaking around Mondstadt City and biting people?”
So Lohen really did save you…huh. He wasn’t lying about the antidote.
“…tell him I say thank you.” You manage a weak smile at Barbara.
“Of course! You wouldn’t be with us if it weren’t for him…oh! And he left you something.” She turns to your nightstand and hands you a small plushie…of Lohen. A bit crude, but adorable nonetheless. There’s a note attached, which reads, “Get well soon, from Lohen ♡”
a/n: reupload because I accidentally deleted it and my internet went out...I'm still getting used to tumblr
A = Aftercare (What they're like after sex)
He isn't the type to jump up and get dressed. After the intensity fades, he becomes incredibly still. He craves skin to skin contact not necessarily for cuddling, but for the grounding sensation of your heartbeat against his.
He might lay there in a heavy, contemplative silence, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as he processes the fact that, for a few moments, he’d pull you into his chest, holding you with a grip that is firm and protective.
He’d silently clean you up with a damp cloth, his movements efficient but unexpectedly tender, as if he is handling something precious and fragile.
B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
Blade's favourite body part of him is his hands. They are the tools of his existence calloused, scarred, and strong. In intimacy, he is hyper aware of them, using them to feel the texture of his partner. He likes his fingers as well. He won’t admit the fact that you always looked cute when you sucked on fingers. He likes using his fingers on you.
Blade’s favourite body part of you is everything but he does prefer your neck and thighs more, specifically, the pulse point on your neck. He is fascinated by the fragility of life. Seeing a pulse thrumming under the skin reminds him that you are alive, a stark contrast to his own stagnant immortality. He likes watching your throat move as you breathe heavily or gasp.
He likes leaving bite marks all over your body, especially on your thighs. The soft feeling of your skin on his hands gets him off.
C = Cum (Anything to do with cum)
He finds a grim, intense pleasure in the sight of it. There is something about the visual of the white, messiness of it whether it’s smeared across your skin or pooling out of you, he finds it incredibly satisfying to look at. He finds a dark pleasure in simply watching the mess it leaves behind.
D = Dirty Secret (A dirty secret of theirs)
His most guarded desire is the craving to be undone by you. He secretly yearns to surrender his agency to your hands. He doesn't care if you are rough and demanding, pinning him down and taking what you want with force, or if you are gentle and slow, treating him with a tenderness that makes him ache.
The secret isn't the intensity itself, it's the fact that he wants you to be the one deciding how he feels. He wants to be your plaything, pushed to his limits and left completely at your command.
E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)
Blade is surprisingly experienced. He has a natural, seasoned instinct for how to move and how to handle a partner due to muscle memory as Yingxing.
F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying)
He is incredibly selfless in this regard. He finds peace in your pleasure, so he is happy to take whatever position you prefer, as long as he can feel the weight of you. However, his personal preference is being pinned down by you. He loves the feeling of your hands pinning his wrists or your body pressing him into the bed, forcing him to yield to your will.
G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)
Almost non-existent. Blade is not a funny lover. He is serious, brooding, and intensely focused. There might be a rare, low, raspy chuckle if you do something particularly unexpected or if you manage to actually make him lose his composure.
H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)
He keeps it trimmed and tidy for you. It isn't completely gone, but he keeps the hair there short and well maintained, so it’s a neat, small bush that doesn't get in the way.
I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)
Surprisingly, he is a secret romantic who expresses it through physical closeness rather than words. He uses intimacy to find a rare sense of peace, seeking your warmth to quiet the noise in his head. His cold exterior softens, pressing his body against yours to feel as close as possible. He approaches you with a quiet, hungry desperation, as if he's trying to soak up every bit of your presence before it disappears.
J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)
He does it infrequently and purely for release. It is rarely about pleasure and more about the venting of tension or the management of physical urges. He often does it in solitude, staring at nothing, using the sensation to briefly drown out the voices of his past. Sometimes he does it whenever he feels restless, thinking of you and you're not near him.
K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)
He is drawn to sensations that force him to focus on the present moment. This includes power dynamics where he can surrender control, such as being pinned down or commanded.
He has a high tolerance for intensity, enjoying breathplay, choking. He also has a taste for semi public settings while he hates the performative nature of PDA, he finds the thrill of a dark alleyway or a secluded corner incredible. The risk of being caught ( which will never happen ) adds a layer of adrenaline that makes the experience feel more visceral.
L = Location (Favourite places to do the deed)
He dislikes loud, bright, or social places. His favorite locations are anywhere private, dim, and quiet. A dark corner of a room, a quiet, shadowed chamber, a dark alleyway or anywhere where the noise of the world is muffled. He needs the environment to match his internal state: hushed, heavy, and isolated from the rest of the world.
M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)
He doesn't have a list of things that get him going. However, his primary motivation is teasing. He is incredibly susceptible to a partner who knows how to play with his composure. Whether it is a lingering gaze, a slow, deliberate touch in a place that shouldn't be touched, or whispered words that challenge his stoicism, he is easily driven to arousal when you make him wait for it.
He thrives on the tension of being teased, the more you push his boundaries and play with his patience, the more intense his eventual surrender becomes. He finds himself becoming increasingly aroused not just by the physical sensation, but by the sheer frustration of trying to remain stoic while you intentionally unravel him. He wants to be pushed, he wants you to provoke that hunger in him until his composure finally snaps.
N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
He has a strict boundary when it comes to you. He will never be the source of your pain. He is willing to explore almost any sensation or dynamic, but he will never intentionally hurt you. This also extends to his preference for privacy.
He has no interest in the performative nature of PDA or the vulnerability of being seen by others. While he might find the thrill of a dark, secluded alleyway intoxicating, he wants his intimacy to remain a private, sacred thing shared only between the two of you. He needs to know that when he lets his guard down and shows you his true, unraveled self, no one else is watching.
O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)
He is surprisingly skilled. He likes both giving and receiving but he prefers giving. There is something about the act of worshiping a partner focusing entirely on their pleasure and the way their body reacts that allows him to quiet the Mara. It is a selfless, meditative act for him. He is patient, thorough, and uses his hands as much as his mouth, treating it with the same intensity he treats a duel.
When he is receiving, the dynamic shifts from service to total surrender. He becomes quiet and still, his eyes fixed on you as he allows you to take control. He finds a deep, grounding satisfaction in the sensation of your warmth and the rhythmic, intense pressure of your mouth. He tries to maintain his composure, but the pleasure is often too much to keep silent, he will let out small, accidental whimpers low, broken sounds that betray just how much you are affecting him and how much he is enjoying the feeling of being undone.
P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual?)
He starts with a slow, agonizingly measured tempo. He takes his time with every thrust, pausing frequently to prolong the tension and let the sensation of fullness sink in. It is a form of sweet torture, meant to drive you to the brink of madness through sheer slowness.
Once he feels you yield and your body relaxes around him, the pace shifts entirely. It’s a seamless escalation the gentle, lingering touches gradually sharpen into a faster, more intense drive that stays careful and precise, increasing the heat without ever crossing into being truly painful.
Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)
He doesn't crave them, but he will never turn one down. If there is a moment of intense tension or a brief window of privacy, he will take it. For him, a quickie isn't about being rushed, it's about the sudden, sharp necessity of needing you immediately. But he does prefer proper sex over quickies.
R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)
He isn't one for silly risks or experimental gimmicks, but he is game for psychological risks. He will experiment with power dynamics letting you take control, letting you bind him, letting you test his limits, or letting you dictate the terms because the risk of losing himself in you is the only thing that makes him feel truly alive. He's content to experiment with anything as long as it doesn't hurt you physically and mentally.
S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)
His endurance is practically limitless due to his immortal body; he can keep going long after a normal man would have collapsed. He is relentless, capable of driving you through multiple rounds until you are completely overstimulated, breathless, and whining for him to stop or slow down.
However, he isn't a machine. After several rounds, he can get a bit sloppy, become more uninhibited and messy as fatigue finally begins to catch up with his mind, even if his body refuses to quit.
T = Toys (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)
He doesn't own any, however, he is not a hater. If you bring a toy into the bedroom, he will accept it with a quiet, curious gaze. He views them as tools and as a man who has spent his life mastering the blade, he understands the utility of a well made tool. If a toy helps you reach a higher peak, or if it helps him achieve that sense of sensory overload he craves, he will use it with the same intense, focused precision he applies to everything else. He is a willing participant in whatever helps the moment feel more real.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
He can be incredibly unfair with his teasing, using his control and patience to drive you to the brink of madness. He knows exactly how to linger, how to pull away just when you need him most, and how to use his hands or mouth to keep you in a state of constant, aching anticipation. He finds a dark sort of satisfaction in watching you unravel under his deliberate, slow movements.
However, he is just as susceptible to it. He secretly loves it when you tease him back. He is highly responsive to being teased whether it's through light touches or verbal provocations and he finds it incredibly grounding when you take the lead and push his boundaries, forcing him to struggle to keep his composure.
V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)
He is primarily quiet and controlled. His most common sounds are heavy, rhythmic breathing and grunts that vibrate in his chest during moments of thrusting or pleasure. His composure cracks only when the sensation becomes overwhelming. In those moments, he will let out small, accidental whimpers soft, broken, and involuntary sounds that betray how much he has lost control.
W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)
He has a strange, quiet fascination with scent. He might bury his face in the crook of your neck or your hair just to inhale the scent of your skin. If you use a signature perfume or scent, he will try to figure out what perfume or scent you used by smelling the subtle ingredients used in the perfume or scent.
Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)
He has a relatively low sex drive, as his mind is often consumed by his own internal battles. Sex is not a constant, restless need for him.
Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
He is rarely a deep sleeper. His mind is often too restless to allow for true slumber. He spends most of his time in a state of watchful, quiet wakefulness.
But after the heat of intimacy, he allows himself a rare moment of surrender. He won't necessarily fall into a heavy sleep, but he will settle into a soft, peaceful rest beside you.
summary: when sparring with Lohen gets a little more personal than you expected…. (￣∀￣)
wc 1k
warnings: none, fluff, kissing, lohen being a psycho as usual. written pre-lohen release so possible ooc? gn!reader
a/n: my first time writing this kind of thing,, gulps please enjoy !! i couldn’t stop thinking of lohen so i wrote this :)
The harsh sound of weapons clanging echoed through the forest, mixed with heavy breaths and occasional laughs from the knight across from you. The forest’s wildlife had already scampered off long ago, as if they feared the very atmosphere spawned from your sparring match. The air hummed with energy, electric with anticipation - though maybe that was just Lohen’s doing.
It was more than evident that Lohen enjoyed this immensely.
Since the day you’d joined the Knights of Favonius, he’d desperately wanted nothing more than to spar with you. And now he got his chance - during training, when you finally agreed to take him up on it. Perhaps you were fed up with his constant asking, or perhaps you were genuinely a tad curious. On the outside, Lohen received the acceptance with a mild grin. On the inside, he was positively ecstatic.
“I’ll admit,” Lohen begins before he swings his polearm, “you’re quite impressive!” His voice is rife with emotion, more so than usual. Small beads of sweat trailed down his forehead as he kept up with you. The look on his face was pure manic, excitement mixed with passion. Maybe he was a little too into this…
You block his attack and manage to send his weapon flying out of his hands. It was unusual for Lohen to be so distracted; a part of you wondered if it was intentional. After all, he had seemed to be planning this for quite some time. The grin on his face widened as he stepped back, but not quickly enough. You plant your weapon in the dirt and instantly nudge him down by the shoulders, resulting in you leaned over him while he’s pinned down underneath you.
His teeth sink into his lower lip overzealously as his eyes narrow. A deep crimson hue spreads over his cheeks.
He loves this. And he isn’t the least bit inclined to hide it.
“Ohoho, seems like you’ve won…wanna go another round?” Lohen stares up at you with those familiar battle-crazed eyes, the ends of his ears flushing a pretty scarlet shade. His voice is hushed, lowered only for the two of you to hear.
“I knew it,” you begin, leaning minutely closer to him, “you didn’t just want to train. You’ve been plotting, haven’t you, Lohen?”
Lohen snickers, reaching for his knife. You catch his wrist, pinning it above his head. He isn’t opposed to that, either. “Hehe. You caught me. I’ve been found out!”
“What do you think the others would say if they saw you like this? The Vice Captain of the 5th Company, surrendering this easily?” You tease, grabbing the dagger that Lohen had just dropped to his side. His eyes follow your fingers as they wrap around the knife’s handle, that familiar flame of thirst sparking within his eyes.
“The Grand Master wouldn’t care! He knows I break the rules alllll the time, and he still keeps me around!” Lohen giggles, gesturing wildly with his free hand. That hand isn’t free for long, though, as it soon joins the other above his head. He nudges at your calf with his boot - the only real way he can get to you without his hands free - as a way to keep your attention on him for as long as possible.
“But what would the Knights think? They already think you’re crazy, maybe a little deluded - you want to add lustful to that list?”
Lohen grins. “They already think that, too. They’ve seen us training together…and I’ve heard them talking a lot,” he pauses, eyes flicking to yours, yet he doesn’t finish his thought.
One of your hands has the Vice Captain’s wrists pinned while the other traces his blade across his jaw. He lets out a small deranged laugh, running his tongue over his lips desirously. There’s a silent agreement between you two that you won’t actually cause any significant harm to him, even without voicing it verbally. He trusts you, and you trust him, even without saying it to each other.
So, you nick his cheek with the knife. Just a tiiiiny bit, enough to draw a drop or two of blood. Lohen makes a low sound, savoring the feeling you’ve given him.
You set aside the knife, and with two gloved fingers, wipe the blood across his cheek. He mumbles something under his breath, something about a ‘reward’.
“You’re so cute like this, Lohen,” you tease, leaning a shred closer, “we should do this more often. This…’training’.”
He smiles at your words - not his usual crazed one, but a genuine gentle tilt of his lips. You’ve never seen that look on his face before, and it’s absolutely adorable.
Things still between the two of you for just a moment, and it seems that both of you you want the same thing deep down.
You softly place a hand on the side of his face, lean in slowly, and place a kiss on his lips. Lohen gasps, then readjusts to return the affection. He snickers under his breath when you let his wrists free and he wraps his arms around the back of your neck.
Every part of him is warm and soft, especially his lips. Not to mention you can practically hear his heart pounding out of his chest. It’s endearing, honestly; you’ve never seen him let his guard down like this.
Lohen’s hand fists in your hair as he makes another soft noise, his other hand placed on your back, between your shoulders. One of your own arms holds you up while the other hand rests on his cheek, stroking his skin back and forth with your thumb.
When the two of you finally break apart and sit up, Lohen’s cheeks are flushed (as are yours) and his chest is heaving. Nobody’s ever kissed him like that, and to call him overwhelmed would be an understatement. But he attempts to brush it off with his typical confidence.
“W…wow! That was, uh, something else…” he trails off, his voice slightly wobbly. Before he has the chance to say anything else, you slip your arms around him and pull him into a gentle hug. His chin rests on his shoulder as his arms slowly wind around you, returning the hug.
“…yeah, you were right. We really should do this more often.”
do not repost / use for ai !! likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated !! :)
Summary: Blade x GN!reader where he feels restless so he pulls you into an alleyway to lose himself in you.
a/n : hello! first ever fic on here and i start with this… here's a small contribution to the blade x reader nation. this was very self indulgent if you couldn't tell. possible ooc? im trying to get the hang of writing blade :)
The air in the city was thick, humid, and far too loud for Blade’s liking at all. The constant chatter of the crowds and the glow of the neon lights felt like needles pressing against his temples. It's annoying. He's been trying to focus but his restlessness was a physical ache, a craving for something he didn't know. He needed a distraction, something to tether his drifting soul back to the present. As his mind searched through the haze of his irritation, there was only one presence that could offer the solace he craved.
You.
As if drawn by some invisible thread of fate, he realized you were nearby. Without a single word, Blade reached out, his hand encased in the dark, sleek fabric of his black glove. His fingers curled around your wrist with a suddenness that made your heart leap, his grip firm but lacking its usual lethality.
"Hm?" A soft sound escaped your lips as you felt the sudden pressure around your wrist. Startled by the unexpected contact, you turned around to face the stranger who had abruptly interrupted your thoughts, your eyes slightly widening in mild surprise as they landed on the unmistakable, brooding silhouette of Blade. Before you could even draw enough breath to form a single word or ask what he wanted, he moved. There was no hesitation in his actions, only a quiet, driving intent that seemed to bypass the need for conversation entirely.
You found yourself swept along in the silent wake of his presence, the vibrant world around you dissolving into a dizzying blur of neon streaks and muffled noise as he pulled you toward the edges of the light. His long, dark blue hair swayed as he moved, the crimson tips catching the dying glimmers of the city's glow like fading embers before he ducked your head down as he led you into the deep, swallowing shadows of a narrow, secluded alleyway.
Blade didn't speak. He moved closer, his tall frame looming over you. With a movement that was surprisingly fluid, he guided you backward. His touch was uncharacteristically gentle. He stepped forward and you stepped back. The momentum of his advance continued until the sudden, biting chill of the damp brick wall pressed firmly against your spine, the rough texture grounding you in the moment. He pinned you within the small sanctuary he had carved out of the darkness.
The alleyway was a suffocatingly tight space, a narrow vein of shadow carved between the towering buildings of the city. Caught completely off guard by the suddenness of his movement and the overwhelming presence of him, you found yourself looking up. "Blade?" You whispered, your voice sounding soft in the heavy quiet of the gloom. You tilted your head to the side, searching his face for a sign. "Is…something wrong?"
The question was tentative, laced with a gentle concern that seemed to pierce through his brooding exterior. He didn't reply immediately, instead he loomed over you and for a moment, he stared down at you with those piercing red eyes, looking restless. The usual cold indifference in his gaze was replaced by a quiet hunger, a craving for something that wasn't blood. When he finally leaned in, his movements were devoid of his usual nature. His lips met yours with softness. It was a slow, dragging kiss, tasting of desperation and a silent plea for grounding.
As his hands wandered, you expected his calloused, heavy touch, but he was unnervingly careful. His gloved hand slid up to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing your cheekbone with a delicacy that seemed at odds with the scars hidden beneath his sleeves. He touched you as if you were made of spun glass, as if he were terrified that his very existence, his curse, his immortality, the Mara swirling within him might somehow bruise or break you.
His gloved hand, which had been tracing your jawline with such reverence, slid down the column of your throat. His thumb pressed against the pulse point at the base of your neck, feeling the frantic, rhythmic thrum of your heart. He seemed to linger there, his gaze dropping to follow the movement of his own hand. He was watching the way you reacted to him, a silent observer of the vitality he so desperately lacked.
Then, his hand drifted lower. He pulled back just a fraction, his forehead resting against yours. His breath was shallow, and for a fleeting second, the brooding swordsman looked vulnerable. "Stay quiet," he murmured, his voice a low rasp that vibrated against your skin. His hand drifted down to your waist, pulling you a fraction closer, his touch still so light it was almost a question. The sensation of his lips returning to yours was enough to make your knees buckle.
One moment, his grip on your waist was firm, his fingers digging slightly into the fabric of your coat, grounding you so you wouldn't slide down the wall. The next, his touch became a searing caress, his palm sliding beneath the hem of your shirt, finding the warmth of your skin. His touch was hot feverish, almost as if he were trying to leech the warmth from your body to soothe the eternal chill of his own. He had to admit you looked ethereal even in the dark gloom of this alleyway.
As you leaned into him, your senses reeling from the sheer gentleness of it, you felt his hand shift. His bandaged fingers slid into the hair at the back of your head, tangling between your hair. He didn't grab or pull, instead, he cradled your skull, his palm cold and steady against your scalp. The way he held you as if you were a precious relic he had stumbled upon in a wasteland sent a shiver through your entire frame. It was a terrifying kind of intimacy. Blade let out a low, almost imperceptible hum against your mouth, a sound of relief.
The restlessness that had driven him to pull you into this alley seemed to settle, replaced by a heavy, melancholic heat. He tilted your head back slightly, deepening the kiss even more, his fingers remained tangled in your hair, keeping you close, keeping you there. In the cramped darkness, the only thing that existed was the scent of him something metallic and old, like rain on steel and the overwhelming, tender weight of his presence. He seemed to be searching for something in the taste of your lips. "Blade—"
The sound of your voice, a mere breath of a whisper, seemed to ripple through him like a stone dropped into a still pool. At the mention of his name, the rhythm of the kiss faltered for a heartbeat. Blade pulled back just enough to look at you, his face still inches from yours. In the dim, filtered light of the alley, his crimson eyes seemed to glow with a haunted intensity. There was a flicker of something pain, perhaps, or a deep seated longing that crossed his features before he could mask it with his usual stoicism. To hear his name spoken so softly, with such intimacy.
"…Hm," he grunted softly, a low vibration in his chest. It was his way of acknowledging you, a way of saying he heard you without having to find the words he often lacked. He didn't pull away, though. Instead, he leaned back in, his nose brushing against yours, his breath warm against your lips. The hand at the back of your head tightened ever so slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to ensure you couldn't drift away from him.
"Don't…" he started, his voice cracking slightly before he steadied it. He trailed off, unable to finish the thought at all. "Don't call me that so sweetly," he wanted to say. "Don't look at me that way."
Instead, he simply closed the distance again. This time, the kiss was deeper, more desperate. It was no longer just a gentle exploration; it was a silent, bruising confession. He pressed his body more firmly against yours, the hard lines of his muscular frame a stark contrast to your touch, as if he were trying to merge his fractured existence with your steady, living warmth.
Blade’s hands slid down to your waist, his grip was firm, the leather of his gloves cool against your skin. With a sudden, swift motion, he lifted you, pulling you upward until your thighs instinctively wrapped around his waist to maintain your balance. The sudden change in height brought you face to face, your breath mingling in the small gap between you. Blade didn't kiss you immediately. Instead, he held you there, his strong arms supporting your weight with ease, his gaze locked onto yours. His cheeks were stained with a visible flush, the heat radiating from his skin as he stared into your eyes with an intensity that was almost overwhelming.
He looked cute.
He looked as if he were seeing something he couldn't quite comprehend or perhaps something he feared to want or desire. The usual coldness of his crimson eyes had thawed into something raw and vulnerable. He seemed mesmerized, his chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm that told you exactly how much this moment was affecting him. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. The way he held you tense yet tender, as if you were the most fragile thing in existence spoke volumes.
"You…" he began, his voice a low, rough rumble that vibrated through your own chest. He stalled, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his expression. It was a rare sight, the immortal swordsman rendered momentarily speechless by the simple act of looking at you. His grip on your waist tightened slightly, a silent, desperate plea for you not to pull away. You gulped, unable to look away from those red eyes that were usually so sharp and piercing, so focused, were now so gentle.
Looking into his eyes felt like staring directly into the heart of a dying star. There was a gravitational pull to that crimson gaze. "Stay still," Blade murmured against your lips. As he leaned in again, the very nature of his touch shifted. It was still soft, still careful, but there was an underlying desperation to it now a silent, frantic demand. His lips moved against yours with a slow, dragging heat that made your head spin and your pulse hammer in your ears. Every time he pulled back just a millimeter, it was only to catch a frantic breath before diving back in, his kisses becoming more feverish.
The way he held you, your legs locked around his waist, your bodies crushed together in the dark made it clear that the gentleness was a thin, fraying veil, a delicate layer of restraint draped over a much more violent, carnal desire that simmered just beneath his skin. You could feel it in the way his chest heaved against yours, the heat radiating from his body like a furnace, and the way his fingers occasionally twitched against your skin, as if he were fighting the urge to grip you with a desperate intensity. He wanted to drown in the sensation of your body pressed against his.
His hips tilted upward, a slow, heavy movement that was a silent, devastating promise of what was to come. He began to grind against you, a rhythmic, agonizingly slow pressure that sought to erase every millimeter of air between your skin and his.
“Please…" The word was barely a breath, a broken, pathetic sound that escaped his throat, unbidden and raw. He didn't even seem to realize that he had said it. His forehead slumped against your shoulder, his breath coming in jagged, uneven hitches that felt like he was drowning.
"In here?" You whispered, the question leaving your lips in a trembling breath, but as you gazed into his crimson eyes, you had your answers from them. There was a subtle tug at the corner of his lips.
