[ DISCONTINUED / REWRITING ]Tattooed: A Tale of Fate | Kafka x F!Reader

11 | Kafkaesque (Part 1)

ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴜᴇᴛ ᴏғ ᴀ sᴀɪɴᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ sɪɴɴᴇʀ

.

..

...

System hour: before the event of Votrarvis

The phonograph record played, spinning non-stop. Yet even the melody produced by it cannot escape the hoarse shrieks that sound from the woman in ecstasy.

Her eyes, devoid of contact lenses, flutter open as thoughts of the past hour stir her mind. One of them, in particular, keeps being replayed like a broken record.

"She is an anomaly, a being that does not exist in destiny and fate calculation, a threat to the future. Destiny's enemy, as to put it. Her current state should not exist, yet it does, and to linger with her," A pause. Bright oceanic eyes stare down onto her emotionless ones, his voice deepening as a warning, "is to challenge the universe."

Kafka lifts the half-filled wine glass in her hand, slightly above eye level, before throwing it across the room.

"If I can't have her, then no one else can."

She ran a hand through her hair, feeling it glide through her fingers, while letting her back press against the bathtub and her head against the wall.

A scoff emits from her lips. The Stellaron hunter's expression remained devoid of emotion with that eerie smile on her face. Yet despite her emotionless facade, an anger that had been kept tame for so many years was beginning to surface, igniting and consuming her very soul.

"If I had found her sooner, she could have retained her memories. She would have remained solely mine."

Kafka snaps out of her trance as the phonograph record reaches its highest peak. With a sigh, she sank into the comforting warmth of the water.

"How I wish I could recreate our lustful dance once more," Kafka says, closing her eyes. "Yet this shall suffice. After all, this recording is one of the only few I have left of our magical interwinding. How selfish of me to want more."

It started with sincerity and anticipation.

followed by a passionate catharsis.

...with one climax after another...

⛧

Kafka steps foot out of the bathtub, merlot tresses falling and concealing her breast. Reaching out, she retrieves the silky black robe hanging around the hook and wraps it around her body. Taking hold of a towel, she gently dried her soft locks as she made her way out of the bathroom.

The shattered fragments of glass that had littered the floor near the bathroom front door have vanished, leaving no trace to be found in sight. It is as if the evidence of Kafka's frustration and irritation never even happened in the first place.