𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐌. ♡

⸻      ❥    𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬   𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐤   𝐢𝐬   𝐭𝐨𝐨   𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐥𝐞   𝐭𝐨   𝐛𝐞   𝐚   𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭…   𝐮𝐧𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬   𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞   𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞   𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐥𝐞   𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧   𝐭𝐡𝐞   𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐤. ▻      𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚑𝚎.

𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐲'𝐬   𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐞.   spirit   whisper   wielder.   collector   of   𝑒𝑥𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑒   𝑐𝑜𝑎𝑡𝑠.   𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬,   in   all   things.   private   &&   selective,   headcanon   based   kafka   of   hoyo's   honkai:   star   rail.   potentially   canon   divergent.      ❥      nsfw   will   be   present.   viewer   discretion   advised.   minors   /   personals   do   not   interact.   listened   by   saffron.   she/they.   30.

❥   ᴄᴀʀʀᴅ.         ❥   ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛs.         ❥   ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴs. ᴀꜰꜰɪʟɪᴀᴛᴇᴅ   ᴡɪᴛʜ   -

*twirls hair* hi (with more sapphic rizz)

*holds out her hand*

you may touch. once.

ㅤㅤㅤ𝐢𝐭'𝐬   𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐢   𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭   𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬   𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡   the   room,   the   gramophone   in   the   corner   spinning   rapidly   upon   the   tracks,   softly   carrying   forth   a   familiar   violin   concerto   in   e   minor.   it's   a   favorite   of   hers   -   all   vivaldi   is   -   but   the   huntress   is   a   predictable   creature   in   a   few   regards,   and   the   need   to   fill   her   mind   with   the   saw   of   a   violin   before   any   mission   is   a   habit   that   kafka   could   not   break.   there   were   tracks   she   preferred   -   and   others   she   did   not   -   but   when   he   shared   her   space   prior   to   going   into   the   field,   her   choices   were   more   deliberate.   instead   of   the   sonorous   cry   of   the   composer's   winter,   kafka   would   settle   for   the   softer   lilt   of   fall   or   summer...   anything   to   keep   blade   balanced,   to   keep   him   together,   music   included.   

ㅤㅤㅤshe   stands   before   the   mirror   of   the   en   suite   -   able   to   see   where   he   sits   upon   her   carefully   made   bed.   she's   been   applying   makeup   for   what   feels   like   hours   now,   each   eyelash   a   curl   of   perfection,   the   tone   of   her   blush   a   lush   color   of   pink   that   brings   out   the   lavender   of   her   contacts,   and   silken   gloss   bright   upon   the   countenance   of   her   lips.   resplendent,   as   always,   the   stellaron   hunter,   and   she   knows   it   too   -   but   has   no   mind   for   her   own   opulence   when   it   comes   time   to   fuss   over   blade,   to   struggle   him   into   a   tuxedo   (   tight,   across   the   chest,   as   always   ),   and   attempting   to   wrangle   his   mane   of   hair.   

ㅤㅤㅤand   there   she   stands   now   -   in   that   little   black   dress,   hands   on   shapely   hips   -   and   peering   down   at   the   tall   man   seated   upon   her   mattress   with   an   ever   shrewd   gaze.   ❝  ⸻  ready   to   get   started,   bladie   ?   ❞   it's   a   practical   crone,   svelte   fingertips   popping   the   button   of   the   frog   clasp   at   the   front   of   his   jacket   with   a   tug   so   that   the   front   falls   open   to   reveal   those   broad,   bandaged   pectorals.   ❝   no   husband   of   mine   would   go   to   a   dinner   party   like   this...   you   have   got   to   stop   shredding   holes   into   your   jackets.   ❞   but   her   tutting   is   saccharine,   almost   affectionate.   she   knows   this   sort   of   mission   isn't   his   cup   of   tea,   and   knows   deep   down   that   maybe   -   just   maybe,   it'll   be   hard   on   her   too,   to   play   pretend   for   something   that   she   thinks   she   might   want   to   be   utterly,   totally,   real.   

ㅤㅤㅤ❝   come   on.   ❞   hand   finds   his   own,   ungloved   fingers   lacing   through   his   to   pull   him   to   his   feet   and   towards   the   wardrobe   where   the   carefully   tailored   tuxedo   hung   from   an   ajar   door.   over   one   shapely   shoulder   does   she   look,   before   pausing   before   the   furniture   to   place   her   hands   upon   his   chest,   allowing   those   dual-tone   hues   to   meet   the   warmth   of   ageless   crimson.   ❝   are   you   nervous   ?   ❞   and   some   part   of   kafka   wonders   if   she's   not   asking   herself   that   question.

@lycorisa

cats love kaf.ka. i don't have an excuse for this beyond i firmly believe elio can turn into a cat judging by kafkaf's splash art, and obviously kaf.ka is a refined, elegant creature herself (not unlike a pretty, well kept cat) - therefore cats like her, and she likes them for the most part.

@vspra: ❝ they'll listen to your command, ❞   vesper's reminder rumbled in his chest, and he let experienced hands slip over kafka's shoulders as he made to unclasp the harness keeping her coat draped so elegantly over her back.   ❝ they just need time to think on it. they'll come to their conclusions soon enough, mm? ❞   slipping the fabric away from her body, vess stepped back to hang it carefully near the door, rubbing the sleeve between thumb and forefinger for but a moment.   ❝ let me take your mind off it. ❞ it wasn't long before vesper scooped the hunter up by her hips, wrapping her legs around his waist without a second thought. he didn't carry her far, only to the chaise against the far wall, but the position made it smoother for him to move to his knees, leaving her perched on the edge of the lounge. after leaving a darkening hickey just under her jawline, argyros sat back on his heels and let viridescent eyes scan the shapes and curves of her body. he was hungry for her, he was sure she could tell, but that was not his first priority. ❝ i can't imagine these are the most sensible shoes... ❞   nimble fingers felt along the thigh of her boot, roaming over the leather curiously.   ❝ but you wear them like they're nothing. ❞ kissing down the inside of her knee, vess unbuckled, unzipped, and carefully removed each boot, stretching each calf out and setting the shoes aside. he pressed his palm to the ball of her foot, finally shifting up again to drag split tongue over her stockings, up her inner thigh, spreading them further apart despite the fact that she was still almost entirely clothed. both hands found her calves, massaging the muscles there for a few long moments before they crept further up her legs. he sighed against her skin, covered mostly by nylon, but no less kafka by feel, by scent. ❝ how valuable are these stockings? ❞

ㅤㅤㅤ𝐨𝐟   𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞   𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲'𝐝   𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧   𝐭𝐨   𝐡𝐞𝐫,   𝐢𝐭   was   practically   what   they   were   made   for   -   and   worst   come   to   worst,   she   could   always   make   them.   yet,   their   fearless   leader   had   been   in   a   somewhat   mercurial   mood,   leaving   kafka   less   than   privy   to   every   aspect   of   the   script   as   he   was   wont   to   do.   she   blamed   it   on   the   occasional   failed   mission...   regardless,   it   meant   extra   work   for   her,   extra   hours   cleaning   up   messes   or   expending   bullets   and   despite   it   all,   kafka   was   just   a   woman.   sometimes   she   simply   wanted   to   be   home   by   dinner,   and   not   have   to   wash   a   blood   stain   out   of   her   coat   the   next   day.   was   it   too   much   to   ask?   for   elio,   perhaps   so.   it   left   the   huntress   in   a   somewhat   cantankerous   mood...   though   it   was   hard   to   tell,   for   anyone   that   did   not   know   her   inside   and   out.   still,   it   was   why   she'd   summoned   vesper   here   -   a   call   to   her   private   chambers,   as   absurdly   opulent   as   they   were,   because   sometimes   she   didn't   want   to   think   too   much   -   or   if   she   did,   it   was   much   easier   to   do   so   with   the   feeling   of   his   body   against   hers.   

ㅤㅤㅤ❝ ⸻  i   could   just   force   them   to   listen.   i   am   being   benevolent.   ❞   silken   tones   are   wrought   at   the   edge   with   her   frustration,   but   it's   hard   to   focus   on   her   thoughts   with   the   movement   of   large   hands   about   her   body,   discarding   the   velvet   of   her   coat   and   regarding   her   flesh   as   if   it   wasn't   but   a   simple   wrapping   for   murder   and   mayhem.   she   regards   him   with   contact-less   eyes,   vivid   red   pupils   trained   on   the   handsome   being   as   he   scoops   her   up   as   easy   as   breathing,   and   she   falls   into   his   embrace   without   a   second   thought.   she   does   not   mind   the   queenly   treatment,   especially   from   him,   and   is   even   reluctant   to   remove   the   wrappings   of   her   svelte   legs   from   about   his   body...   but   does   so,   if   only   because   vesper   on   his   knees   is   possibly   more   exquisite   than   any   professional   painting.   

ㅤㅤㅤa   soft,   husky   breath   of   pleasure   murmurs   past   her   wine-colored   lips,   and   the   huntress   tilts   her   head   back   then,   silken   tresses   fanning   lightly   over   the   back   of   the   chaise   not   unlike   spilled   liqueur.   his   fussing   -   the   steady   slide   of   fingertips,   it   earns   him   the   vaguest   of   smirks,   and   perhaps   she   does   not   realize   it   -   does   not   know   it   -   but   that   is   definitely   her   legs   spreading   wider   the   second   the   he   speaks   again.   call   it   reflex   and   anticipation.   

ㅤㅤㅤ❝   fashion   over   comfort,   vess.   beauty   in   all   things   is   the   most   important   factor.   including   my   shoes.   ❞   and   yes   there   was   something   satisfying   about   running   someone   through   with   her   heel,   but   she   didn't   intend   to   ruin   the   moment,   especially   not   as   boots   fell   away   from   dark   nylon,   and   fingertips   caressed   sore   feet   and   tense   calves.   she   was   just   a   human   after   all   -   peak   physical   condition   or   not,   the   relief   of   pressure   felt   amazing,   and   earns   the   man   before   her   a   soft,   low   groan.   arms   raise   to   sprawl   across   the   back   of   that   chaise,   her   gaze   drifting   shut   momentarily   -   before   pinning   the   hunter   before   her   once   again.   she   was   practically   purring,   unable   to   resist   the   vague   quiver   of   anticipation   at   her   core...   but   she   doesn't   touch   him,   not   yet.   perhaps   later,   when   he'd   unworked   the   tension   from   her   system   like   a   stuck   gear.   

ㅤㅤㅤit's   the   tongue   that   gets   her,   the   promise   of   where   it   could   go   and   what   it   could   do...   oh,   yes.   she   is   just   a   woman   after   all.   ❝   a   few   hundred   credits   at   least.   would   i   wear   anything   cheap   ?   ❞   it's   supposed   to   sound   nonplused,   but   it   comes   out   a   little   breathless,   especially   as   her   gaze   flashes,   pink   tongue   darting   wantonly   over   petal   soft   lips.   ❝   shred   them.   ❞