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A cheer breaks out below in the courtyard, and Kafka watches a group of women surround the ‘winner’ of the bride’s bouquet toss. The lady with the flowers in hand doesn’t look particularly happy; her smile doesn’t reach her eyes and it’s obvious that she’s only pretending to be excited. The expression unnerves Kafka, unused to finding relatability in strangers. She can almost feel the familiar strain in her cheeks now, a most unsavoury sensation, one that she’s been experiencing a little too often in the past week.
“Are we going to act yet?”
Kafka turns her head, frowning. She didn’t even hear the slide of the door behind her, and really, she should have. She consoles herself instead, with thought that Stelle is just that ready. She reassures herself that maybe it’s a good thing, that her job is done and Stelle would be just fine without her in three months time.
“Earth to Kafka?” Stelle asks, lowering her face to the older woman who is still hunched over the railing of the balcony. Kafka raises an eyebrow, lips quirking at the expression, and Stelle grins. “It’s a local figure of speech that I learned.”
“How lonely.” Kafka straightens herself, turning her body toward Stelle. Her eyes roam greedily, over the exposed skin at her neck, her collarbone, down to a narrowing V between her breasts. The mauve dress fits her perfectly, complementing the silver of her hair. An excellent choice, picked out from her own wardrobe by the younger girl herself. Kafka settles her gaze onto the small, gleaming pendant resting at her clavicle, reaches out to fiddle with it. Stelle had snatched it from her jewellery box while they were getting ready earlier.
“Lonely?”
Kafka presses the pendant lightly into Stelle’s skin with her forefinger, and then releases it. The imprint of a spider is outlined red on her sternum.
“You can tell how lonely a planet is by their view of things beyond their stratosphere,” Kafka explains, allowing Stelle to take hold of her hand and interlace their fingers. “They lack intergalactic communication technology, so they assume that this is all there is. If someone is being distant then they may as well be an alien.”
“Right,” Stelle says, pursing her lips. “It’s just that you have been distant, so.” Her voice drops at the end, trailing off into a whisper as she looks at their fingers. She brings the back of Kafka’s hand to her lips and gives it a quick peck before reading the woman’s eyes again. “You okay?”
Kafka sighs. It’s forlorn, and hesitant, and so unlike her that she feels the beginnings of a chill creep up the skin behind her neck. Her eyes flit between Stelle’s lips, pink and wet, and her concerned amber eyes.
“There’s something I haven’t told you.”
Stelle’s face drops like she already knows the weight of it from Kafka’s tone alone. To compensate for the sudden insecurity, she steps closer to the older woman.
“What is it?” Stelle tries to sound calm, but fails to. That much, Kafka knows. But Kafka has failed too, and it dawns on her as inevitably as she hoped it wouldn’t.
Kafka separates their hands and twists herself back to face the view beyond the balcony. In the courtyard, the guests have dispersed into their own cliques, drinks in hand and blood reddening their faces. The music of a live band travels upwards.
The loss of contact alarms Stelle like her body knows something she doesn’t, so she circles her arms around Kafka’s waist from behind. Kafka allows it, guiltily, indulging in the warmth of the younger girl’s body pressing into her back.
“Tell me,” Stelle asks, lips close to her ear. Her breath tickles the spot where her jaw connects to her neck, and Kafka fights the urge to ask for a kiss, because she can be cruel, has been cruel, but will spare her girl this time.
“About Herta Space Station…” Kafka starts, the blade of her tongue blunt in her mouth. She swallows, training her eyes on a reserved character by the refreshment table. He swirls a drink in his hand and pretends to take sips from his glass every time someone walks past. An excellent pretender, pliable and content under Kafka’s thumb. In a few minutes, the ceremony would become a blood bath because of ‘him’. Stelle’s squeeze at her waist brings her back to the balcony.
“I told you that you’d be leaving us for a while, yes?” Kafka asks. She’s stalling again, she knows. Elio didn’t give her the specifics, but she knows that Stelle isn’t going to take the information well, no matter how much she will attempt to convince Kafka that there were things she could’ve done better.
“Yeah, I know that,” Stelle says, impatience tickling the back of her throat. She kisses her shoulder, mumbling into her skin, “I’m gonna miss you so much-”
“You won’t,” Kafka sighs, turning her head to the side in hopes that her nose would brush against Stelle’s, but is met with the air between them. She feels Stelle’s arms tense, feels the twitch in her muscles, a threat of them slipping away but Kafka beats her to it. She grabs her by the forearms, keeping her in place.
Perhaps this is where it starts, Kafka thinks. True terror would find her at the finish line, but something much smaller, more sickening, would first trip her up when the gun fires. Is this what cowardice is? She can’t even look the girl in the eye.
“You won’t, because you won’t remember me. You won’t remember any of this.”
The man with the ever-full glass pushes himself off the table and begins an inconspicuous stalk towards the groom, who is surrounded by an unruly group of loud-mouthed men. She watches him, eagle-eyed, despite the quiet hammering she feels pressing into her back. The beat of the girl’s heart assures her, in a sick way.
“What are you talking about?” Stelle’s voice is small, and Kafka is sorry, she really is, but she’s equal parts proud. She’s proud of the way Stelle wriggles out of Kafka’s grip like she respects herself more than she wishes to stay close to her. She ignores the chill of cool air on her skin. “Kafka.”
“I’ll be wiping your memory two days before dropping you off,” Kafka says, straightening herself. “We can talk more about it later.” With a flick of her wrist, a series of gun shots pelt through the courtyard and the air frays in a chorus of screams.
Stelle jumps in her skin, the ringing in her ears intensifying more than they already had been the moment Kafka dropped that bombshell. She glares at the woman, wide-eyed, as her feet shuffle backwards clumsily. Kafka continues to survey the scene, puppeteering the stranger with no more than her gaze and the occasional curl of her fingers. The buzz of the earpiece in her ear causes her to jump again, but she pulls herself back into focus at the voice that speaks through a rough interference.
“Stelle, we’ve got what we needed.” Silver Wolf sounds like she’s out of breath, but ecstatic in her success, “meet me behind the kitchen, Blade’s waiting with the truck,” she orders. Stelle pales, her skin still flushed and prickly from the adrenaline in her brain, completely unrelated to their mission. Before the comms frazzle out with a click, Silver Wolf adds, “Kafka will meet us once she cleans this mess up.”
Stelle takes one more glance at Kafka before slipping out of the balcony, the image of the older woman’s magenta threads glowing at the base of her knuckles burned into her eyes.
When Stelle pushes her way through frantic troughs of people downstairs, she doesn’t hear their screams. She doesn’t see their faces, only distorted blurs of terror and teeth, tearful blubbering that she feels no remorse for. They’re not innocent people, or so she’s been told. Human beings on planet Earth are capable of such sick depravity that other lifeforms avoid contact, she recalls Silver Wolf’s schooling. This group of people belonged to a cult of some sort, with grotesque interests and beliefs that Stelle didn’t wish to hear. Now, as she slithers past them and ignores their disfigured cries, she doesn’t know what to believe. Is cruelty relative? Do they know any better?
“Over here!”
Stelle whips her head around to the source of the voice, just by the thick metal doors of the kitchen. Silver Wolf waves her hand out, a menacing grin on her face as she calls her over. Stelle shuffles onward, and pushes the doors open for them both to disappear behind.
Once they enter the kitchen, it’s a lot quieter, with only a few dead bodies lined up neatly against industrial oven doors, arranged in such a way that the streams of their blood flow conveniently into the gutters.
“Kafka and her random acts of kindness,” Silver Wolf scoffs, then turns to Stelle, fully expecting the lopsided grin she usually wears at the mention of the woman. Stelle doesn’t pay the comment much mind, walking past the bodies and making a beeline for the backdoors across the room.
“Come on,” Stelle urges, pushing the doors open. Silver Wolf only lets half a beat pass before she moves her feet again, slipping past the taller girl. When Stelle lets the doors shut behind them, they’re met with the crisp air of the evening. Blade is inside the— not a truck, but a large 6-seater vehicle, the side door of which slides open as they approach it.
Stelle pushes past Silver Wolf and gets in first, securing the comfortable inner-most seat at the back by the window. She ignores Blade’s eyes as they follow her through the rear-view mirror. Silver Wolf follows shortly after, grunting as she climbs into the passenger seat that’s a tad too tall for her. When the door slams shut, she twists her body to glare at Stelle like an annoyed younger sister.
“What, trouble in paradise?” She asks, and when Stelle shoots a steely glare back, the shorter girl recoils from the unfamiliar expression.
“Did you know?” Stelle bites. She looks at Silver Wolf first, and when she catches the set of Blade’s jaw she flits her eyes to the rearview mirror just in time for the man to avert his gaze downwards. “Did both of you know this whole time?”
None of them notice clack of high heels getting louder as each second of silence ticks by, not until its owner climbs into the vehicle with an exasperated huff, carrying with her the scent of fresh blood, sweat, and perfume— one of which does not belong to her.
“Step on it, Bladie,” Kafka breathes, the hints of a grin teasing the corners of her mouth as she tilts her head back, over the headrest. High on the bloodshed, on the success, on herself.
Blade hits the gas before the door slides fully close, and all four bodies collectively press into their respective seats from the sheer velocity.
Stelle’s hands itch in her lap, her arms are cold, and everything feels wrong. By this point on a regular mission, Silver Wolf and Blade would be turning the music up to a painful volume to drown out the sounds of Kafka kissing the air out of her lungs, taking her high to another level before they reach the ship.
Stelle keeps her eyes on the window, following the faded lines of the road as it meets the dirt, the silhouettes of shrubs and trees blackened against the setting sun. She wills the tears away, swallows profusely to rid of the ever-growing lump in her throat. She knows the concept of betrayal, has seen it countless times in movies and read about it in books, whether fictional or true to history. She could sympathise with its concept, but would never have guessed the degree of pain that comes with experiencing it first hand.
Kafka turns her head to the side to get a feel of the situation; it doesn’t take a genius to know that her revelation has already met the rest of the team— save for Firefly, who’s probably making sure dinner is ready for them by the time they get back.
Kafka feels it in her being, the clench in her heart when her eyes lay on Stelle’s tucked form. She wants to squeeze the girl further into her seat and kiss the pout off her lips, lick the tear that finally rolls down her cheek, but she allows the space between them to remain.
As their journey continues in silence, the ache spreads to every cell in Stelle’s body, the weight of Kafka’s words sinking deeper with every passing second. She feels crazed from the anger and the hurt, and the way her body craves the older woman’s warmth to comfort the distress she herself has caused. She hates that it makes more sense now, that there is a catch to this whole operation after all. Kafka’s distant smiles, her lingering touches, forlorn eyes where only contentment would usually be present.
It’s always been about Operation Herta Space Station, from the very beginning. Every history and social studies lesson, every combat training regiment, and every mission she’s ever had has been in preparation for it. Kafka made it known that she’d be leaving the hunters when it was time. Right from the start, even when their relationship blossomed into something neither of them expected, Stelle knew they didn’t have forever. It was upsetting as it is, but she could live with it, and as Kafka always said, they would just have to make do.
Knowing that Kafka has been withholding the most critical piece of information out of the entire operation makes Stelle’s blood run cold, and it changes everything.
In this moment, Stelle wants nothing more than to meld the flesh and blood of their bodies, to close the meagre distance she’s created between them in this car. That way they’d never have to part. She’s sobbing into her hands now, uncaring of her comrades’ presence.
At some point of the ride, she doesn’t know when, there is music— a soft and steady beat with mediocre vocals singing of something she doesn’t care to know about. Kafka doesn’t look at her. She doesn’t reach for her hand.
When they arrive back at the ship, parked in a secluded, unlit area at a clearing on top of a hill, Silver Wolf is the first to get out of the car. Blade opens the large sliding door, and Stelle loathes its legato pace, as well as the fact that Kafka gets to exit the suffocating vehicle before she can.
Stelle takes her heels off the moment she steps into the ship, kicking them off to one side. They clack and tumble messily onto the floor, knocking into a cabinet in the corner. They’re Kafka’s, an expensive pair— stolen, but hardly the point. She makes a beeline for her cabin, ignoring Firefly’s alarmed gaze. Stelle only manages to catch the first half of her question as she turns her head to Kafka, who’s helping her unpack dinner in the pantry.
“Did something hap-“
Stelle slides her cabin door shut, the slam of metal reverberating loudly through the walls and probably the entire ship. She takes Kafka’s necklace off, and then her earrings, and chucks them on the desk beside her bed. Her eyes are welling again with a fresh set of tears when she hears her room door slide open.
“Stelle.” Kafka’s voice is soft. She closes the door behind her and leans against it. The younger girl is sitting on the floor with her knees to her chest by the bed, her long body folded into something awkwardly small. “Darling.”
Stelle looks up from her elbows, dejection in her reddened eyes. Kafka offers her a smile, something she hopes will come across as an unspoken apology— a weak one.
“Why would you keep this from me?” Stelle asks, her voice feeble.
“It was part of the script to only reveal this once you were ready, but…” Kafka starts, taking a cautious set of steps toward Stelle. “I admit that I took my time to break it to you.”
“Why?” Stelle glowers up at the older woman. Kafka sighs.
“I kept thinking that there would be a perfect time and place,” Kafka admits truthfully, testing the waters of their proximity by crouching down to her level and sitting beside her. Stelle leans her body the slightest of an inch away from her. Kafka leaves an ample gap between their bodies, continuing solemnly, “but then I fell in love with you… and before I knew it, three years passed.” She turns to look at Stelle, who has settled on burning amber holes into the wooden planks of the floor.
“I can’t believe how selfish you are.”
Stelle’s words have a bite to them that Kafka doesn’t think she’s ever had the pleasure of hearing, even in her most aggressive moments on the field. It pricks at her chest in a most noxious way, clawing into some deeply seated sponge of emotion, until it fills her with endearment.
“Can’t you?” Kafka doesn’t mean to sound as pathetic as she does, the tail end of her words decorated in an uncharacteristic quiver. The little space between their bodies, heated by the exchange of such charged energy, grows more unbearable by the minute.
When Stelle turns her head to look her in the eye, Kafka feels the weight of her own words through their reflection. She knows she should feel guilty for wanting to savour it, to soak in the despair and recognition that Stelle conveys with just her gaze, but she feels seen like this. The thought of being met with the same amber eyes three months from now, devoid of such affection, has her skin growing hot with something she can’t name. It’s enough to make her eyes well— a delayed reaction— one that could only arise from the object of her fondness being deeply upset with her.
Stelle surges forward and kisses her then, like she knows. It’s desperate and messy, clammy hands on the older woman’s face and tresses of hair getting in between their mouths. Kafka does her best to clear the way, fingers raking through Stelle’s grey mane with enough force to make the younger girl whimper. The sound beckons a tear from Kafka’s eye, and it rolls hotly down her cheek. Stelle thumbs it away unknowingly, her feverish pursuit in melding their bodies taking up the forefront of her mind. She clutches at the woman’s jaw, the back of her neck, anywhere she can claw at while she pushes herself into the older woman.
Kafka allows herself to be toppled onto the floor, forced to abandon the grip on Stelle’s head and use her hands to brace against the carpet instead. The younger girl doesn’t let up for even a second, keeping their lips slotted, breathing into her mouth where tongues and teeth clash. Kafka takes it, indulges in it, even where Stelle bites— especially so. She lets out a whine when Stelle licks into her mouth, keens at the taste of her, the warmth— until a sob wrecks through the younger girl’s body.
Stelle all but collapses onto Kafka with an agonised scream ripping through her throat, forehead pressed to her sternum. Kafka is torn from her lustful indulgence, arms acting quicker than her mind can catch up. She secures Stelle by the waist with one arm, getting them back into a somewhat upright position. She wipes a trail of saliva from her chin with the back of her other hand, sucking in a shaky breath, before wrapping her arms tightly around the girl’s shoulders.
Kafka can only recall a handful of times where she’s seen Stelle cry. Most of them have actually been happy tears: tasting new foods for the first time, witnessing beautiful star clusters or nebulae, or accomplishing milestones in her training.
She cried out of frustration once, when she repeatedly failed to beat Kafka in a series of sparring matches. It was before they’d acted on their feelings for each other, but Kafka remembers it to have been a poignant moment in the events leading up to it either way. The sight of the girl letting her anger get the best of her, down-turned lips and deeply pinched brows, compelled Kafka to provoke her further, but then Stelle dropped her weapon and began wiping at her eyes with the backs of her hands, and it was like someone lit the end of a fuse inside her brain. Kafka remembers the itch in her hands, the twitch in her calves, seeing the girl break down over something so menial, seeing her take it to heart, and wanting nothing more than to kiss her cheeks and tell her she was doing just fine.
It’s different now. Now that Kafka is able to act on her desires. It comes naturally; the pressing of her lips to Stelle’s head, the squeeze in her arms as she holds her to her chest.
“I love you, I love you,” Kafka breathes into her hair, murmuring close to her ear. She feels Stelle shake her head slowly, her whines of retort muffled by Kafka’s chest as the sobs continue to overwhelm her. Kafka kisses the spot below her ear, firm and chaste, “I love you, my beautiful girl.” Kafka lets her eyes close, bringing one hand up to the back of Stelle’s head, cradling her. “And I’m sorry,” she adds in a whisper, and maybe the word means nothing from her mouth at this point, but Kafka tries anyway.
“When will you do it?” Comes the muffled reply. Stelle frees her face from Kafka’s ruined dress and looks up at the woman. Kafka brings her hands up to her tear-streaked cheeks and gives them a firm swipe with her thumbs.
“About two days before you leave,” Kafka says softly, still thumbing at her face. “You won’t be conscious after that… the next time you wake up would be on the station.”
Stelle’s face crumples at the woman’s words, another sob threatening to spill, but Kafka keeps her grip firm on her face. She leans down to seal their lips, no matter the mess, before pulling away to look into her puffy amber eyes again.
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t forgive you,” Stelle retorts without missing a beat, her voice hoarse from the exertion, and despite the sting of her words, Kafka is glad that her breathing has evened out. She still strokes at Stelle’s face, and the younger girl doesn’t reject it.
“That’s alright.” Kafka mutters under her breath, eyes flitting down to Stelle’s parted lips, wet and upset. “We have plenty of time still, to figure this out.”
“This?” Stelle asks, incredulous. She flinches from Kafka’s hands then, untangling herself from the older woman’s body like she’s only just realising herself. “Us?” Kafka sighs through her nose, suddenly cold at her front where the warmth of Stelle’s body has disappeared.
“Yes. Us. This,” Kafka says, gesturing calmly between them, while Stelle pushes herself to stand back up. Kafka’s eyes follow her, until her chin is tilted upwards. “You’ll forget me, and all of this, but I won’t.” It’s that forlorn look she’s had on her face lately, creeping into her composed expression, “I’ll still remember.”
Stelle’s face falls at that, and she’s suddenly more aware of the silence in her room. The words seem to cut right through her, cogs turning in her head as she realises she isn’t the only one that would be suffering from this event. The word ‘selfish’ is acrid beneath her tongue now, and she wishes that she could swallow it, or that Kafka would shoot it back to her.
Kafka thinks she looks like a wounded animal standing in the way of oncoming traffic. She holds her hand out.
“Help me up?”
Stelle takes her hand wordlessly, holds her weight as Kafka pulls herself up to her feet. Eye to eye, almost, Stelle searches the older woman’s gaze for something to hold onto. Kafka sighs again, looking down to the floor. It feels wrong to know she appears almost pathetic in this moment, but she comes to find that she doesn’t mind it all that much. Not when Stelle is the only person watching.
“You can be mad at me for as long as you wish,” she says, gaze still cast downwards. “I know I was wrong to keep this from you for this-“
Stelle doesn’t let her finish, cupping her face and leaning down to connect their lips.
It’s like Kafka can’t control her body, nor the whimper that leaves her mouth the moment she is kissed by the younger girl. When Stelle circles her arms around her waist, she has to fight against the smile threatening to pull at her lips. It’s relief, she thinks, the better half of an emotion she still can’t feel or place.
“I won’t forget you,” Stelle says between kisses, “how could I forget this,” she breathes, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. Kafka only groans, hands reaching up to find the zipper of Stelle’s— well, her dress. When her fingers catch it, she tugs it down in one motion, and Stelle only allows a breadth of space between their bodies to let it slip to the floor. Stelle steps out of the bunched up fabric, concurrently pushing Kafka forward until the woman’s legs hit the foot of her bed.
Kafka runs her hands over Stelle’s bare skin, the softness of it, the span of it over curves and mounds, the ridge of her spine from the back of her neck to the small of her back. Her fingers press lightly over her tail bone, eliciting a shiver from the younger girl that translates beautifully into her mouth.
Stelle breaks from Kafka’s lips, lining chaste kisses in a trail starting from the underside of her jaw, down her neck, over collarbone, mouthing at her until she lets out an impatient whine and falls to her knees. She doesn’t wait, hastily grabbing at the hem of Kafka’s calf-length dress and pushing it upwards. For the slit of it that stops just short of her upper thigh, she’s gratuitous.
“Hold this,” Stelle barks, hiking the material higher until she’s turned Kafka into a model for indecency, her black lace panties the only hope for modesty against her cunt, cold to the air. “Hold.”
“Alright, alright,” Kafka breathes, enchanted by Stelle’s naked form kneeling below her, arms outstretched over her stomach with fistfuls of her dress in her hands. Kafka takes the material from her, pulling her own dress up to her chest with both her arms. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she considers asking Stelle to just take it off, but she decides against it when the younger girl pauses the exploration of her hands to stare unabashedly at the exposed state of the older woman. Stelle’s eyes roam, brows pinched into focus, and Kafka knows she’s trying to sear the image into her mind.
Stelle allows her fingers to patter at the skin of Kafka’s abdomen, stroking up and down the center of its plane, circling her navel with her forefinger, until the fullness of her palm flushes against the pouch of her stomach. Stelle swallows once, licks her lips like she’s been starved, and replaces her hand with her mouth, hot and wet against the smoothness of the older woman’s skin.
Stelle tugs at the hem of Kafka’s panties, somehow gentle in her desperation, and wastes no time to cover the exposed area with the lower half of her face. She noses at the mauve curls, eyes fluttering close.
“I won’t forget this,” Stelle mumbles into the softness, trailing her lips lower to the source of heat she can already feel at her chin. She meets Kafka with an open mouth, the taste coating her tongue instantly with how slick the woman already is.
“Stelle,” Kafka gasps, her only support being the foot of Stelle’s bed behind her knees. She tightens her grip on her dress, bunched up in her fists at her chest.
It’s quick, it might be the quickest ever— Kafka knows that Stelle wants to savour this moment and take her time, but she’s so unbelievably aroused that all it takes is a few more laps of her tongue and an accidental brush of her nose against her clit to send her into a spasm. Kafka comes without much of a warning, even to herself, thighs trembling as a series of broken whines tear through her in choked pleasure.
“Ngh- Stelle- fuck-” she cries, shooting a hand to the top of Stelle’s head for support while she struggles to scoop the spilling of her dress with her other arm. Stelle doesn’t relent though, continuing to lick into her, suck at her, slurp her up until— Kafka loses her balance.
Stelle watches as Kafka lands on the edge of the bed, thighs squeezed together while she holds her weight with one arm bracing against the mattress. Her shoulders rise and fall with the depth of her pants, and Stelle stares hard.
Her gaze softens at the sight of Kafka’s other hand still holding her bunched up dress, like some distant honouring of her request, no matter how small and foolish.
Stelle kisses her knee.
“Kafka?”
Kafka opens her eyes, hooded from her exertion, and glances at Stelle. The girl is still kneeling before her, lips and chin glistening with delight, satisfaction in her sated disposition.
“Come here,” Kafka beckons softly, her voice ragged from the intensity of her earlier cries. Stelle clamours up and onto the bed, onto Kafka, knees splayed beside the older woman’s hips. Kafka kisses her sternum, then her breasts, swirling her tongue over the hardened pebbles of her nipples, feeling herself clench around emptiness at the sound of her whines.
“I’ll make sure your body remembers me, even if your mind doesn’t,” Kafka mutters against the column of her neck, pressing a trail of kisses up to her jaw. Stelle squeezes her legs around the woman’s waist, bare skin sliding against Kafka’s mostly clothed body.
“Please,” Stelle breathes, arms circling Kafka’s neck as she buries her face into the crook of her shoulder, “Kafka,” another whine, “I don’t wanna forget- ngh-”
Kafka cuts the younger girl’s sentiments short, having slid her hand between their bodies and down to the apex of Stelle’s thighs. Kafka kisses her shoulder, nipping at the skin as she slides two fingers into her. Stelle lowers herself onto Kafka’s lap, making sure the woman is inside up to her knuckles.
“Fuck,” Stelle whimpers into her neck, hips already bucking at their own accord. Kafka curls her fingers, and then starts a piston-like motion, circling her other arm around the small of Stelle’s back.
“I love you,” Kafka whispers, breath fanning against her hair, fingers never slowing their pace. The hand around her waist comes up to the back of her head, fingers threading into grey tresses and tugging until her lips tickle the shell of the girl’s ear, “I love you,” she growls the reiteration, and Stelle mewls.
“I lo- ngh I love you,” Stelle keens, fighting to keep her climax at bay so she could stay longer like this, in Kafka’s lap at the complete mercy of her fingers. But Kafka tugs at her hair again, until she can no longer hide in the crook of her neck. Kafka guides her lips to hers, and Stelle can barely kiss her back, mouth agape from the magnitude of pleasure that builds at the base of her stomach. Kafka kisses her anyway, licking into her mouth and swallowing every sound she makes, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth.
“I love you,” Kafka says into her mouth, the only thing she wants to convey, the emotion like an entity of its own, separate from every other feeling she’s ever had. Stelle struggles to keep her eyes open, wanting so badly to be able to remain locked with the lilac ones in front of her while she comes.
It’s hardly any use, because Kafka presses into a spot so deep inside her and curls her fingers in the next moment, and Stelle’s body crumples into itself from the tremors of her orgasm.
“My darling star,” Kafka says against her chin, mouthing at her jaw as Stelle twitches around the woman’s fingers, knees caging her hips tightly. “You’re gonna be just fine,” she whispers. She gives the girl a few more pumps before moving to withdraw her fingers.
“N-no don’t-” Stelle chokes, fumbling to reach between their bodies until she catches hold of Kafka’s wrist. She pants against the woman’s ear, “stay.”
Kafka lets out a breath of a laugh, and then nods. She strokes at Stelle’s hair, peppering the lightest of kisses to the base of her ear.
“Are you still mad at me?”
She feels Stelle nod her head, but the action is immediately followed by a grind of her hips, eliciting a low moan from her chest. Kafka bites her lip to stifle a chuckle, and then very quickly withdraws her fingers from the girl.
“Kafka,” Stelle protests, lifting her head from the woman’s shoulder. She reveals her tearful gaze to Kafka, and when Kafka’s lilac eyes soften with sympathy, said tears roll down her cheeks.
“You have all night to be angry,” Kafka says, brushing a sweaty lock of hair from Stelle’s face, “three months, actually, if you think you can sulk that long.”
Stelle brings her hands to her eyes, wipes at them in the exact way she did when she broke down all those years ago. Despite the resemblance, Kafka’s faith in the girl is unbreakable. She watches, fondness shining in her eyes as Stelle sniffles, and then lets out a long sigh.
Kafka leans forward and gives her a brief peck on the lips— a light one, and then another, a little more firm.
“Kafka,” Stelle groans, and Kafka only gives her another a series of pecks in return, varying in softness and wetness, until Stelle is squirming in her lap and the mellifluous beginnings of a giggle bubble up her throat, “Kafka.” She laughs into her mouth, making Kafka grin.
And then the pecks slow into something chaste, and Stelle stops laughing, and suddenly Kafka can’t bear to separate their lips even for another second. She tilts her head, parting her lips to let Stelle in. The girl slips her tongue over her bottom lip, and Kafka lets out a soft groan into the kiss, her hands sliding over the expanse of Stelle’s back. They set a perfect rhythm, rocking back and forth with the tides of their tongues, and Stelle squeezes her thighs against Kafka’s hips, and-
There’s a series of knocks on the cabin door, followed by a muffled voice.
“Um- Kafka? Stelle? Would you like me to put your dinner in the fridge?” It’s Firefly, and her timid tone of voice tells both women on the other side of the door that she’s terrified of having interrupted something.
Kafka clears her throat, forehead against Stelle’s before she leans away.
“No, no, we’ll be out in a minute!” Kafka calls back, already securing her hands around Stelle’s waist despite the girl’s protesting squeeze.
“Kafka-”
“Sorry baby,” Kafka says, lifting them both off of the bed. She lets Stelle slide off her and land on her feet with a thud, “you’re dehydrated and hungry.”
“I’m fine.”
As the words leave Stelle’s mouth, a gurgle from the depths of her stomach betrays her and calls her bluff. Kafka purses her lips, averting her gaze to save her from any further embarrassment.
“Can I leave you to get changed?” Kafka asks, smoothening out her dress. She considers tossing it, but immediately decides against it for… sentimental reasons.
“Okay,” Stelle obliges softly, already making her way to her drawers. Before Kafka can leave the cabin, Stelle stalls her. “Kafka?”
“Yes, darling,” Kafka replies, turning over her shoulder. She watches Stelle fiddle with a t-shirt in her hands, eyes still puffy, but finally dry.
“What about you?”
Kafka furrows her brow.
“What about me?”
“Will you be okay? When I’ve… forgotten everything?” Stelle’s words die out like embers under the rain, and Kafka feels the side of her face twitch. She contemplates with a pensive sigh, something like a bravado for the younger girl to hang onto.
Her eyes roam to the ceiling of the cabin, and she catches sight of a glow-in-the-dark star patch stuck to the metal. A souvenir from Earth that Kafka obtained on a mission, long before Stelle was ready to accompany them. When she returns her gaze to Stelle, she notices that she had been following her line of sight.
“Of course,” Kafka says, an easy smile on her lips. “I’ll remember everything for the both of us.”