#fermatafour

Acquire several dozen dice.

Go up to them and then drop all the dice.

Start picking them up, but keep dropping them. The clumsier you look, the better.

Keep doing this until you have their attention (this could take up to thirty system minutes).

Finally, gather up the dice. Try looking a bit sheepish, but fail because you're Kafka.

Look them deeply in the eyes and say, "Sorry. I'm bad at repurposing copypastas."

Submit the ask.

🎲

kiss roulette | closed (8/8) #33: A kiss to a scar, birthmark, injury, or other marking

Fugue stares at the woman before her, the mysterious Stellaron Hunter they called Kafka. A beautiful, mysterious, and dangerous woman. And yet...

Fugue cannot seem to keep herself away from her. She is dangerous, but Fugue cannot help but to let that danger draw her in. The foxian takes comfort in the other woman's arms, letting herself be overtaken and controlled by her sweet words.

The Hunter's sugary lips drag across Fugue's skin, whispered words breathed against her collarbone as Fugue lets those words drag her down into a world where she is happy for even but a moment. The sorrow is an ocean without even a drop of sunlight being able to seep in.

These moments are the sun finally breaking through, for a mere second, one that Fugue wishes that she could live in forever. A feeling that she wishes that she could allow to linger in her chest for as long as possible.

Kafka pauses, her lips lingering upon the mark that sprawled across Fugue's left shoulder. Upon the mark of Destruction that would not allow her to ever feel a sort of true happiness ever again, afraid that the moment would come when it would all be suddenly ripped away from her again without any prior warning.

If Fugue hadn't known better, she would have called it tender. Loving.

But she did know better.

This was nothing more than a fleetling moment. It wasn't love. And it wasn't tender. It was just Fugue forgetting for a few seconds, letting herself be swept away by words that would never be true.

🌹 𝖐𝖎𝖘𝖘 𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖊 (𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔞𝔠𝔠𝔢𝔭𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤): 8 - 𝖆 𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖙𝖔𝖓𝖎𝖈 𝖐𝖎𝖘𝖘

"Truly, I thank you for your assistance again, Lady Kafka," Argenti says as he leads the way out of the clothing store, "your sense of aesthetics is formidable and your knowledge of fashion incomparable. Perhaps you'd like to do this again sometime should our paths cross in the future? I, for one, have learned much from you today in the realm of style—ah, I know! Would you be opposed to an introduction to my native land's manner of dress? I have no doubt you could pull it off quite well—oh!"

No signature accompanies either item.

Engraved on the back of the compass: No path but yours. On the card: You have always had the strength to choose your path. I couldn't be more proud. Happy birthday.

Caelus knows he's a bit of a hoarder and not very neat or organized, but he knows when something was his, and when it wasn't. A random dark box, specifically left on his desk, was definitely not his. Ever the curious raccoon man, Caelus picks up the box and turns it over in his hand, inspecting every corner and detail he can see- hoping something would at least give him a reminder of what it was, were it to in fact be something he collected and simply forgot about.

Instead of the box itself, the card stock left under it was the answer to his question. It was not something he found for himself, but it was his- a gift. It takes Caelus several minutes staring at the firm paper to read what it says ( seems like those lessons with Ratio are paying off! ), the fancy handwriting a tad much for this lil guy.

There's no name, and there doesn't need to be. There is only one person who has hidden their name whenever they contacted him. There was only one person who talked about making a choice he wouldn't regret. Only one person who wanted him to make his own choices for his story.

Their relationship isn't perfect- likely because they are both leading their own lives and don't have much time, or the ability, to chat much about what is written in their fates. Yet, that doesn't stop the warmth from filling his chest, or the gentle smile tugging at his lips as he opens the box to pull out the trinket inside.

That same handwriting has engraved a message on the metallic plating, and it makes his smile grow a tad bigger. Caelus has the initial thought to replace the pocket watch he keeps attached to his coat- but some unknown feeling makes him reject the idea fairly quickly. He might not know much about what he had on him when he first woke up those few years ago on Herta's, but apparently his heart knew that what he did have was important.

// One platonic kiss please

kiss roulette (6/8 collected) 38. A kiss while one party is carried

Who are they? What are they? Are they human? No, certainly not.. but even they know that they are a soul of some kind. Though it may be hard to tell with how little they express themselves, how little emotion they show. It's been a work-in-progress to be more.. emotive, sensitive to others and themself. Trying to recognize these things called "feelings" has been.. quite a process.

Maybe that's why they don't understand what they're doing- but more why they're doing it. Kafka had fallen sleep in her chair near all the large windows, the gentle star light coming in proving a soft glow to the room as they stepped in closer. They can't recall seeing this occurrence happening before- and it overwhelms them with how badly they wish to fix the situation.

Uncharacteristically quiet steps bring the individual around closer to the sleeping mother-figure, them bending at the knee slightly so they can slip their arms under her. They would have simply thrown her over their shoulder, but they have been informed that doing so is not considered "nice" and to not do that, or at least not to people they like. With their usual mechanical efficiency, they keep an arm around mother's back and under her legs, gently holding her against their chest as they thread slow, precise in their movements to maximize the result to not stir mother out of her rest.

It's then in this moment, of them walking the magenta haired woman towards her assigned sleeping quarters, that something.. new is detected. They are, unsurprisingly, unaware of what this new binary was, or how it functions in their framework. They for some reason don't terminate it, instead allowing the algorithm to run. This leaves them leaning their face closer to mother's, letting their mouth press softly against her temple.

They proceed forward each calculated step letting them travel to the correct destination of Kafka's residency- their original task.

A bloody kiss

Chiori had a lot of influence, despite only having one shop. Such sway was arguably not her own however. A list, growing longer with each new client, of people performing less than legal activities that she kept in her pocket. While easy enough to eliminate any competition, be it through sheer sales or other less-than-savory dealings, that was never necessary. Quality ruled the market, and there was no quality higher than that of the Chioriya Boutique.

In exchange, favors were given. So long as nothing illegal passed through the boutique (at least as long as it did so without her knowledge), she would assist in making outfits, mending outfits, mending wounds, providing intel, gaining intel... It appeared shady, but really, it was just friends exchanging gossip at its core...

Then came Kafka.

A rogue outside of any agency she knew of, domestic or foreign. Her words were smooth, like a decadent hot chocolate, coasting through ones throat without any irritation or unpleasant sensation. A mixture of respectful, resigned, and freakish, cocky enough to piss Chiori off yet suave enough to keep patronage.

Tonight came about by chance. Whatever business Kafka was here one found her in the company of some vile thugs. Though her guns were far beyond that of Fontaine's, she only had herself. They had several, with the puttings of rounds ringing out just outside the Court of Fontaine proper.

Had Chiori not been out on a material run...

The boutique's door is pushed open with her foot, leading the limping lady in. Despite how much she repeated that she didn't run a hospital, she treated it like one. Blood trails through, against tiled floors, seeping into grout. Through the showroom to the back, Kafka is left to lay on a couch.

The seamstress is thinking about more than just her. The blood leading into the boutique, the blood in the boutique, her outfit so soaked in red that she looks just as much a victim, the wounds oozing with life. Once the weight of Kafka is dropped, an exasperated, "Ah! Alright. Alright." A scream to vent stress, then pieces collected. "One at a time." Teeth grit, ready to get to work.

Hours pass as wounds are sewn shut, then bandaged. This was what she got, for finding another woman's name on her list. Eyes finally shut, a clean rag rubbing against her own forehead. She hardly notices the weary hand that finds her collar. Tugged down, eyes widen at the sudden display of intimacy. A taste of copper and raspberry, inherently more exposed due to her surprise. There is no tact on her end of the kiss.