I know we have Popular Girl! HSR women that is being bullied but what about the opposite? I know the ol cliche Mean Girl in the Girl Posse of Popular Girl! but how about like the opposite, the supposed 'School Prince/Prince Charming' (for the lack of term)?
For example, imagine Popular Girl! Kafka is 'bullying' and being 'mean' to Reader, Prince Charming! Himeko interferes and saves Reader, causing Reader to be more interested and her. Thus this leads Reader to spend a lot of time with Himeko.
Yeah, Popular Girl! Kafka can only look at Prince Charming! Himeko with Jealousy for supposedly taking her Girl away from her. A rivalry was born. Better fess up your feelings or you're gonna lose her Kafka!
CW: Kafka x Fem! Reader, Himeko x Fem! Reader, Modern AU, Mean Girl! Kafka, Prince Charming! Himeko, might be ooc for Kafka and Himeko, love rivalry, jealousy
YESSSSSS. There are some girls I just cannot see being mean girls and Himeko is one of them. She’d still be very popular though because the Prince Charming archetype would be very well liked by many people (especially by girls). So add Himeko to butt heads with Kafka, that will be a rivalry that’ll spark some drama 👀
I imagine that Kafka in particular is also your stereotypical bad girl. She drives a motorbike, skips class, does whatever she wants. She is the total opposite of Himeko so it makes sense that these two would be rivals. When Himeko catches Kafka picking on you, she swings on over to protect you with no hesitation, looking like a stereotypical Prince Charming that has you fawning over her faster than Kafka’s…methods.
This grown ass woman doesn’t seem to realize that bullying the girl she likes isn’t gonna magically make her like you. She can only watch in envy as Himeko seems to be your new “crush” now. How you tail along behind her and look at her with such starry eyes. I think seeing how easily Himeko has you wrapped around her finger would get Kafka to realize the error in her ways. She starts becoming a lot softer, trying not to tease you so much…
Kafka watches Himeko put her jacket over your shoulder for example, and then the next time you and Kafka meet, she does the exact same thing (although more uncaringly). She isn’t as sweet as Himeko when it comes to checking up on you, but you can tell under her mysterious and rough exterior, she is trying to show she cares. She’s trying to change.
Himeko does try to keep you away from Kafka and her crew though. So, expect Kafka to try and sneak you out without Himeko knowing. This is such a classic trope of the bad girl vs good girl fighting over you, omg I’m blushing…
CW: Popular Girl! Kafka x Fem! Reader, slight bullying, Kafka doesn’t want to admit she likes you
Fun fact: While Popular Girl! Kafka from the previous post dislikes your shirt, I like to imagine that later on, she shows up to your class the next day holding a bag with an even better shirt for you to wear. She just cannot stand her crush you wearing something so unfashionable in her eyes. She needed to fix it asap.
“Wear this,” Kafka carelessly tosses the bag into your arms. Inside is a shirt that is way out of your price range, a brand name that implies that Kafka went out of her way to buy you something expensive.
“B-But—”
“Just put it on.”
She doesn’t give you a moment to press further, simply turning away and walking off. Later though, when she sees you wearing the shirt she bought you, she secretly smiles to herself. It looks good on you, and she’ll make a note to buy you more nice clothes later on. Just so you don’t look ugly, of course!
we know kafka is veryy good at taking nudes like that pic she sent to start her story quest. like she is rlly good at taking them and loves sending them to tease you (speaking from personal experience. i am drooling all over her)
CW: Sending nudes, dick pics from Kafka
Oh yes. Kafka is one of the better girls at taking nudes imo. If we know anything to go by with that photo she sent us, we should know that Kafka is pretty good with a camera. I think sexting with Kafka has got to be pretty fun, because if the Trailblazer acted like they “forgot” who Kafka was when she texted them (which prompts her to send the selfie of her iirc), then imagine if Reader pretends to “forget” what Kafka’s privates looks like, in order to edge her to send a nude.
For example, imagine if Reader was like “Kafy, I forgot how long your dick was :(” over text, and Kafka chuckles and sends you a snippet of her dick, just sloppily pulled out of her pants. It’s just a quick, brief photo, but you can nonetheless see it and be “reminded” of how long your girlfriend really is.
“Do you remember now, pretty girl?” Kafka texts back, unable to hold back a smile because you are just ridiculous when you want a nude. “Or do you need a better look?”
“I think I need another one. 🥺”
Kafka knows you’re acting dumb, but she is more than happy to play along since it’s flattering for her girlfriend to want to see her body that badly. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, sending you a selfie this time with her posing with that smug smile of hers and her “long” dick in her hand. She loves indulging in you.
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.
lesbian headcanons with aglaea, stelle, kafka, ruan mei
notes: x female/lesbian reader strictly, men go away this isn't for you, suggestive in all but nothing explicit, drugging in kafka's not to reader, in ruan mei's to reader, implied pillow princess reader in all
happy really late pride month LOL i was working on this all month but had neck surgery and court and yeaaaa it took me a bit. but i hope you all enjoy to my fellow lesbians/bi ladies<3
༄ aglaea:
✣ there is no lack of whispers amongst okhema's citizens about how cold the goldweaver is, immovable and unwavering in her believes, but those who are attentive enough will notice the way she becomes substantially more amicable if you show interest in the well-being of her wife. her threads loosen ever so slightly, enough to comfortably breathe as she speaks of her beloved's current enjoyment of golden honeycakes.
✣ anyone with eyes can see she's extremely lenient with what you get away with as opposed others, giving you a light wrist tapping at most. that being said, it's also well established that blatant disobedience will never end in your favor. the line between being pampered versus being a impudent child is thin in her eyes, and she's very obvious in how easy life can be for you if you mind your manners.
✣ once a peaceful sanctuary, the hero's bath has turned into amphoreus' most taxing test of courage. ever since aglaea's wife expressed a deep enjoyment of the area, the chances of running into said wife have increased dramatically. under normal circumstances this would be no issue, but considering the expected attire one would have in a bath — that is, nearly none at all — the idea of informing aglaea even on something she asked for can turn the stomach of the most hardened soldier. truthfully, seeing her in a state of undress would be more uncomfortable than anything else. no, it was the primal dread of what would be made of them if they were to ever witness her precious wife in such a way.
⁀➷
"so when i had asked mydei about it, he just grumbled something about phainon being too trusting, but he was totally jeal- ack!"
aglaea sighs as you get too excited telling your story, and as usual, flail so much you stop floating atop the water and nearly drown yourself. her fingers barely flutter as a few threads grab and turn you right-side up. your hair flops over your forehead and eyes, making you resemble a sheepish puppy when you part the strands and smile at her.
"i should consider having you participate in the children's sunday swimming lessons," she teases while watching you with a quick beating heart as you whine about unnecessary bullying.
she's been finding herself more fascinated with you recently.
romance and love have been long intertwined throughout history, so it should be no surprise she has found the incarnation cradling her heart. with all the time that passes, your grip only grows tighter, but she would be no more than the common perjurer if she said she disliked it. the sheer will of your own fondness for the world around you has her enraptured in ways even cerces would find no answer for.
still, you live with such carelessness that she cannot find herself to fathom when it seems like nothing is ever going your way. how you manage to brush it off, much like the water dripping from your curved chest, is a skill she'd rather not hone.
she coughs to herself as her thoughts wander. the water seems warmer than usual — it must be effecting her intuition.
her eyes drift down once more. you're too distracted to notice, surely. the habit of getting engrossed in your own stories is something she'll make sure to thank mnestia for tonight.
༄ stelle:
✣ despite appearances and what others might say, the trailblazer is no fool. stelle is well aware of her privilege to be able to travel among the stars in an endless adventure. where she considers this privilege to turn into a blessing stems from the fact her girlfriend is trailblazing by her side. you're never thrown into the fray in a way similar to her (and she prefers it that way), but knowing you're by her side only makes her feel stronger in battle. no matter what, she'll win every fight in your name.
✣ she would never judge march 7th for her fascination with photography and is always happy to help her friend, but she personally felt as if living in the moment and keeping the experience to a beautiful memory made it feel more special. this was the case until you started dating, because now she's in the middle of filling her third camera solely with pictures of you. naps in her room, exploring new planets, date nights, petting random dogs you see — she wants to cherish every moment of joy that you give her.
✣ freedom is something held in high regard by akivili's followers, stelle included, but… can you act less free around other women? she isn't really used to feeling jealously this intense and navigating it is a challenge to say the least. controlling your free will would never sit right with her, yet that aching weight in her heart when you blush over kafka's boldness or are enraptured with herta's genius speaks some pretty treacherous thoughts into her subconscious. luckily, it slips her mind the second she's cuddled in your arms with a wagging raccoon tail.
⁀➷
the bright lights of planarcadia's main street feel's like it's burning stelle's eyes more and more by the second, but she's too preoccupied with dragging you in joining her unpredictable escapades. the night life was incomparable to anything else she'd experienced, and she wanted you to enjoy every last second with her.
your laughs echo against the brick buildings, turning her heart into a gooey mess. she almost feels sick with how much she adores you, wanting more of your praise and adornment. some would find the way she craved to satisfy you lamentable, but nothing brought her more happiness than seeing you happy.
"– and this is where march ate noodles so spicy she ended up puking after," she giggles while pointing out some fast casual gimmick restaurant before stopping the two of you at an ice cream stand.
when you express concern for march despite the event being over a week ago, stelle tugs you closer and nuzzles against your neck with big, wet eyes and whines, "you're not even gonna ask if i was okay?"
you poke her forehead and remind her, "i've seen you eat bugs, drywall, and literal trash. i think the noodles should've been scared of you instead."
she sighs in response, complaining loudly about being unloved and spousal abuse even as she's paying for your ice cream cone. the employee gives you a quick glance up and down with too much longing for stelle's comfort and she's quick to tug you closer to her side with puffed cheeks and a narrowed gaze.
the cold cream touching her lips takes her out of the one sided internal battle she was fighting, yelping as she looks down and sees you chuckling and pressing your cone to her mouth. her heart feels like it's going to burst out of her chest with how adorable you look offering her the first bite.
whoever is watching no longer matters as she overwhelms you with kisses — cheeks, forehead, lips, neck?
"we're in public!" you shriek at her while visibly trying to contain your amusement, only making her want to kiss you even more.
"don't care, too in love to do anything else," she cackles while the vendor tries to avert their gaze, regretful of even admiring the necklace you had been wearing.
༄ kafka:
✣ the sun that her universe orbits around, along with the stars that surround its atmosphere. if there was one purpose truly given to her, more important than elio's script, she has zero doubts that it would be to love you until the cosmos light dies out. she often ponders aloud to you how she got gifted with the sweetest little angel, while the memories of all the events she manipulated in her favor to land you in her arms bounce around her head.
✣ if someone told kafka she was creating a spoiled brat out of you, she would simply sigh lovingly and agree. her darling should never yearn for anything in her mind. besides, what's the point of acting frugal when you're well aware of the bounty on her head? you could tell her flat out you're planning to drain her wallet dry ; all you're getting in response is a kiss on the forehead and her telling you to make sure you send pictures of everything you try on.
✣ while kafka does like a woman who can fight (and she especially likes if you fight her for fun), she does also take pride in protecting you. the life she lives is one far removing from any fairytale knight or charming prince, but there's something that makes your heart flutter even more when she drapes a priceless necklace around your neck, kissing up the tender skin of your nape, or how dull her eyes seem when blood blooms from the bullet hole she put in the skull of a man who was audacious enough to lay a hand on what's hers.
⁀➷
a woman of kafka's caliber normally wouldn't be found in a tawdry nightclub such as this, watching the young patrons flit around with no sense of commitment or self preservation. it would be a simple matter to slip something in any of their drinks to try and pry information out of them.
of course, that wasn't her reason for being here tonight. instead, she was indulging the playful nature of someone much more precious to her.
"you come here often, beautiful?"
speaking of, the slurred words of her darling reach her ears as she glances to the side and sees you barely holding yourself up against the bar counter, staring at her with flushed cheeks, glazed eyes and the most indiscreet grin she's ever seen in her life. she's thrilled you're just dating and not working for her. you'd be her worst asset (and favorite) by far.
"i can't say that i do," she answers with ease, sipping her drink and beckoning you closer with a curl of her fingers, "though my little dove likes to find her way here."
you stumble like a fatigued fawn, toppling into her lap while she wraps her arms around your waist and adjusts you to be comfortable. how charming you could be when you weren't even trying.
she tucks some of your hair behind your ear, watching intently at the changing expressions on your face. she could tell your addled brain was struggling to put her words together, no matter how simple they had come off.
your eyes go wide for a moment before you grab her and wail, "do you like girls?!" with such desperation the bartender raises an eyebrow in concern. kafka waves them off while trying to hide her own smile at your foolishness.
(really, she's foolish for allowing herself to be so enthralled with you.)
she leans closer to your ear, brushing her fingers under your chin to lift your head up and tell you, "i like one very special girl in particular."
the way you wriggle on her lap in response only fuels her desire even more, and when your woeful eyes make contact with hers, she's just about at her wit's end.
you can't even get your next question out before her lips are on yours, making you jump in surprise but latch onto her sleeve with barely any fight. you relax under her touch, trusting, docile, and she has half a mind to clear out the building just to have you in every way she can.
your grip goes slack, and she pulls away for a brief moment to tease how meek you are before blinking in confusion at the way your head hangs. parting your hair, a defeated smile graces her face as she realizes you've somehow managed to fall asleep in your drunken state.
aeons, you're lucky you're cute.
༄ ruan mei:
✣ you are, without question, the most prized pet in the entirety of ruan mei's lab. whether or not she's devoted to you is never something you're unsure of, because the truth of the matter is you're in her eyesight for most of the day, night, and too often in your dreams for it to be natural. you'd asked her once if she found a way to infiltrate them, and all she had done was brush you off and ask if you thought she'd became an aeon early. neither of you brought up the fact it wasn't a no.
✣ plum blossoms are now her second favorite scent, with the first being you coated in their fragrance. ruan mei can be quite touchy to begin with (though in a fairly clinical sense, since she's usually testing on you), and that doubles in moments of fervent desire. when an experiment goes just awry enough to throw off her plans, she'll take a moment to decompress in a navy leather chair, tugging you by your custom collar into her lap. while she would normally be against breaks, even she is a slave to the feeling of your pliant body against her own as she inhales the sweet aroma.
✣ there is one obvious yet unspoken rule that she had implied many times before you entered a relationship with her: your bodily autonomy becomes very, very minuscule. the downside to getting her attention is that most of it is on the scientific side, viewing you as an extremely adorable and submissive test subject. you've woken up to iv drips that change the reality you perceive, had drinks mixed with powders that leave your skin tingling for days, and she never seems apologetic for it. she always takes care of you after all, what is there to complain about? and if she happens to like the way you look, teary eyed and begging for her to help you, then that's a secret she'll keep to herself.
⁀➷ "open."
you comply with no resistance, bringing a pleased curve of the lips to ruan mei's face. a glowing aqua substance, slightly viscous in texture, is dropped onto your tongue. the hum of various machinery and ongoing scans echoes on the sterile walls of ruan mei's lab while you sit in her lap, back to her chest. she watches as a grimace quickly spreads across your features at the simultaneous bitter and sour taste and it causes a quiet chuckle to fall from her lips.
"remind me not to extend any poker invitations to you. your ability to hold a straight expression is rather abysmal, my love," she teases while questioning you about the more fine details regarding your reaction. an uncontrollable burst of sneezes, hiccups, and dizzy spells follows, and she gives you an antidote while documenting that the reaction on you is far different than the one on her creations. your wet eyes do little to deter her as a vial with sparkling pink liquid is held up next, with her soft promises of, "you'll enjoy this one."
you hesitate for a moment before obeying once more, much to her satisfaction. her eyes soften as she brushes her lips against your ears, murmuring, "good girl," and making sure you swallow every drop. the vial is discarded, less important than feeling your soft skin on her, for once, bare hands. her gaze is more attentive this time, eager for the moment your skin grows flushed and your eyes glaze over. you're panting like a dog, writhing in her lap, whining about being too hot before your ability to speak is lost to the hunger thrashing inside of you.
she'll make sure to document later: results as expected.
CW: NSFW, porn without plot, fingering, tits play, mommy kink, overstimulation, nicknames (sweetheart, baby, my girl).
Length: <1K
Gender: Fem!reader
Character(s): Kafka x reader, mentions of other Stellaron Hunters
-> I need Kafka like yesterday 😩
“M-Mommy…”
Kafka smirked at the slip of your tongue, raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at you. “Oh? What did perfect little girl just say?” She cooed at you.
You felt your face burn, cheeks turning so red you could have blended into a tomato vine. “Nothing!” You spewed out. Too quickly, too nervously.
Kafka chuckled, running her fingers along your slit a little more insistently. “Non sense, sweetheart. Call me like that again, Mommy enjoys it,” she teased.
You felt a shameful moan rip out of your throat as Kafka rubbed the pad of her thumb against your clit, her lips closing back around one of your nipples.
“Please, Kafka…” you mumbled, not even sure what you were asking or begging for from her. You felt your hips shift against her fingers, trying to find any sort of friction and to regain some sense of control over yourself.
“Please who and what, baby. Tell me everything, I can’t read in your mind.”
And oh, how you knew she was lying, and so smoothly too. Her husky voice being the only thing left in your mind along with the teasing press of one of her fingertips against your entrance.
She kept teasing you, never giving you quite enough to really get off. “Go on sweetheart, let me heard what you want,” she insisted.
“Please finger me mommy, I wanna feel good,” you finally uttered, shame making your face burn just as much as the heat from being so horny and turned on by your words.
“Good girl, my best girl,” Kafka praised you. She slipped a long finger into your hole, gently rubbing it against your front wall.
She let her lips fall back onto your tits, alternating between the two to ensure she gave both nipples the same amount of teasing and loving.
Kafka kept suckling on your chest while gently fingering you, occasionally giving a slight bite on your sensitive nipples to earn a gasp and mewl from you.
She slowly made her way down your torso, spreading kisses and nips all the way down your ribs, stomach and your hips. As she came down to face your pussy, she used her free hand to spread your lips open, looking as she pushed her finger deeper inside only to slowly pull it back out and again.
Kafka was fascinated by how tightly your cunt was clenching onto her finger, making her mouth water before she raised her wine red eyes to meet yours. “Do you want mommy to use her tongue on your clit, baby?” She asked huskily.
You nodded vividly, spreading your thighs open wider and arching your back off the bed’s surface. And you just knew you were in for another good night.
angey....... u know that one cutscene where bayonetta is very worried and looking for cereza all over the place... imagine the kid is separated from Kafka and Reader at one point, and the second they dispatch the enemy, they immediately start looking for the kid all over the place.
once the kid feels it's safe to come out, they're just crying and scared, screaming "Mummy! Mummy!" and Kafka doesn't even hesitate to kneel beside them and go "Shh, little one. Mummy's here."
i would cry and weep........
SOBBING SOBBINNGGGGGG.
I just know Reader is standing there with her ovaries on fire, because the sight of Kafka acting so motherly is sending her in heat. Ouhhhhh what a good partner Kafka is, taking care of a child like its second nature. Reader is feeling the irresistible urge to have a baby with her right this instant, an additional one to the adopted baby they found in the ruins.
Kafka can feel Reader staring holes into her head while she carries the little one in her arms. She turns around to shoot her a playful look, but there’s the tiniest bit of red on her face cuz she knows what she’s thinking. “Not yet,” she mouths, as the little one sleeps on her chest, “When we get home.”
And after the little one is tucked into bed because she’s pretty much yours and Kafka’s at this point. You know, this scenario kinda gives off Spy x Family vibes with Kafka and Reader being Stellaron Hunters on a mission, and they pick up an adopted kid on the way. I just know that if an enemy managed to get their hands on the little one, Kafka and Reader would become quite the dangerous couple.
