Yandere Kafka X Reader - Tumblr Posts

Star.

Yan Kafka x F Reader.

Synopsis: Kafka is waiting for a supernova to appear.

Warnings: Yandere themes, implied future kidnapping, not SFW implications, and stalking.

Word Count: 1k.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

Lust for a Vampyr by I Monster

Living Dead Girl by Rob Zombie

Merry-Go-Round of Life - from ‘Howl’s Moving Castle’ by Joe Hisaishi

Stalker’s Tango by Autoheart

The Four Seasons - Winter in F Minor, RV. 296: I. Allegro non molto by Antonio Vivaldi

BLOODMONEY by Poppy

Fight of the Crows by Jhariah

Bernadette by IAMX

Smells Blood by Kensuke Ushio

Enemies to Lovers by Joshua Kyan Aalampour

“She's a Killer Queen; gunpowder, gelatin; dynamite with a laser beam; guaranteed to blow your mind (anytime).” – Queen, Killer Queen

*~*~*~*

“Hey, I like them!” You huff, grasping the bouquet of spider lilies closer to your chest, making the paper wrinkle up. At your response, Aina crosses her arms and sighs, looking at the other flower arrangements sitting on the shelves behind you.

“Those are too expensive.” Aina rebuts. She points, and you turn around to follow it, and in turn frown. 

Because of the low supply, the price of spider lily bouquets has increased to 700 credits per arrangement.

Kafka, pretending to look at the roses in the corner not facing the two of you, does not try to hide her smile and slight chuckle as you gasp at the sign’s words. “Cute…” 

Once more, you exhale with a mix of frustration and disappointment, forcefully planting your foot on the ground. Gradually, your stance transforms into that of a despondent balloon losing its air.

Utterly adorable.

“Why seven hundred? Flowers grow from the ground and they take hardly any effort to bundle up!” Aina puts her thumb and pointer finger on her temples, rubbing them like your question and exclamation just gave her the biggest headache in all of existence. She sighs.

You sigh too, grasping onto the spider lilies even harder.

“Spider lilies also represent bad luck.” She says, almost groaning. 

Neither of you know if you can be reasonable enough to let Aina be your impulse control as she always has been. “The red shade is really pretty and the tendrils are pretty too!”

“Please put them back, it is a bad financial investment.” You shake your head. “Please. [First]. [First], please. We still have to go and buy ingredients for dinner tonight. If it makes you feel better I can also help you bake dessert.”

Kafka already knows what you are going to make tonight. Pasta with bechamel sauce along with apple cake. 

“[First], at least choose a less expensive bouquet. That way we can afford everything. Plus we maybe can get something else small that is not on our grocery list.” Aina tries her best to put on a more gentle smile. “Please.”

Kafka moves to near the entrance of the food section of the store, waiting for this little trifle to be over with. She pretends to be looking at the meat aisle as that is the area closest to the flowers, ironically enough. 

“Sigh…” She purrs, imagining your hair loose and gently wrapped around her fingertips. “I wonder if you would prefer blush or velvet… maybe burgundy?” 

She imagines the way you will place your lips on hers and slowly but surely… move down.

She will do the same to you with her own.

“Maybe white.” She muses, thinking of different types of fabric to put on you. “Or perhaps black.”

Kafka wonders what you would choose if she brought you to a boutique rather than going by herself.

“Hm…” She murmurs, her mind going through many, many possibilities of the future ahead.

Then, she hears your triumphant laugh and then turns around to see you hugging Aina with the bouquet in tow. “I love you!”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” Aina mutters, crossing her arms and looking away from your happy face with a blush. “Just put them in the basket. We’ve used enough time here as it is.” You kiss her cheek, and her face only gets redder. “L-Let’s just go already.”

You only hug her tighter.

“Sir, yes, sir!” You exclaim, saluting, and Aina rolls her eyes.

Kafka’s smile falters.

“Tsk. Young love, I suppose.”

Of all the future possibilities, none of them will result in full success if Aina is still in the picture.

“Juliets.”

At the sight of you kissing Aina’s cheek again, Kafka resists the urge to bite her lip.

“But with great risk… comes great reward.”

She imagines how you would look under her.

Aina eventually manages to pry you off of her. “Alright, that’s enough, you’re praising me like I just saved your life or something.”

“You did!” You pout, almost cooing and still laughing joyfully. “This bouquet is the only medicine that can ever heal me of what ails me!”

Both Kafka and Aina sigh at the same time but for entirely different reasons.

But Kafka is the one who also licks her lips afterward. “I think perhaps a chemise would suit you best.”

“Let’s go to the fruits first!” You exclaim, pulling Aina along by the hand while she holds the basket.

“Which type of apple?” Aina asks, but Kafka already knows the answer. “Be sure to not get the very expensive ones this time.”

You two go past Kafka.

She takes out her phone for a split second and clicks the button.

It has been the closest you have ever been to her while you were conscious. But she hopes that soon, you will be even closer.

Wait, no. She knows that you will.

“Cute.” She whispers, booping the picture of you’s nose.

This has already become a favorite amongst the many, many photos she has of you.

Where you go, she follows. “Cute.” Surely, eventually, when you know of her, you will know that all too well. “So cute.”

She sees you pointing to the apples with a pinkish tint. Rose apples. Quite rare, if Kafka remembers correctly.

As Aina reads the sign next to them, she immediately shakes her head. “Way too expensive.”

Due to the cost of importation/exportation as well as the rarity of this species, the value of this type of product is quite high. One apple is worth 1600 credits.

You surprisingly show agreement this time, promptly diverting your attention to the assortment of apple varieties, accompanied by a hint of nervous laughter.

You end up choosing the Honeycrisps. They are good for baking cakes, you tell Aina as Kafka eavesdrops as she always does.

She imagines you baking for her and sitting on her lap.

It was only a matter of time because regardless of who is with you, one thing about you never changes; your naivety.

“All that is left is to be patient.”

Demon Fire.

Yan Kafka x F Reader x Yan Blade.

Synopsis: Where is this train going?

Warnings: Yandere themes, kidnapping, and manipulation.

Word Count: 1k.

*~*~*~*

“Which seat do you want, darling?” Kafka asks, her thumb still making circles over your own.

Her hair is half put up in a ponytail as usual, the rest flowing down the sides of her face. She only held her purse, which held only her wallet, her phone, snacks, water, and pictures of you with her and Blade. Blade pulls her suitcase, as well as yours and his, through the narrow gap between the seat rows, with his bag noticeably smaller compared to Kafka's and yours.

You point to the one closest to the window, and Kafka smiles. “That one.”

She nods, and Blade begins to put the luggage in the cabinet above, being silent all the while you and Kafka sit down.

“Neither of you have told me where we are going.” You say as Kafka puts her head on your shoulder.

“Be patient, my dear girl. You will find out soon. You’ll love it, I promise. Bladie and I spent a lot of time searching for a place to celebrate.”

You ask what you are all celebrating, and she continues.

“Do not fret, it will only be a few hours before we reach our destination. We’ll just cuddle for now, and chat. There are also movies to watch and sights to see out the window. Both the ride there and where we are going is going to be so relaxing for all of us. You have my word. Or my honor. Whichever you prefer, dear.” You stop paying attention to her words halfway through, and when she realizes this she pecks your cheek. “Though I suspect you think that neither of them exist.”

“Maybe.” As the train begins its journey, you gaze out the window, murmuring to yourself. Like a well-rehearsed performance or clockwork, an array of colorful flowers and plants glide past, each one swiftly replaced by another. Before you know it, the vibrant beauty of spring and the whispers of Kafka lull you to sleep.

…

The landscape was a surprise, yet not entirely, as it lay in a remote location devoid of human presence except for the occupants of the cabin nestled at the foot of the verdant hill. The vast expanse was a haven of blossoms, grass, and foliage, enough to supply a lifetime's worth of adornments for a spring festival. Every imaginable flower and plant seemed to find a home here. In the nearby lake, crystal clear waters mirrored the mountain's grandeur, while tranquil sea bass and carp glided serenely beneath the surface.

Nestled beside the solitary cottage stood a windmill, its weathered blades casting a gentle shadow. Atop the one aimed towards the heavens, doves perched, unharmed, indicating the absence of predator birds in this vicinity. The setting appeared idyllic, yet a lingering unease persisted within. Despite the hours that have passed, questions lingered in your mind; what is the purpose behind Blade and Kafka bringing you to this place, and what are they commemorating?

Kafka is the one who guides you, as always, holding your hand gently and pulling you along as she chatters away. Blade, as always, simply watches from behind you two like a shadow.

…

It is Blade that opens the door to the cottage, his face still stoic, as Kafka wraps one of her arms around your waist. You have adorned yourself in the attire she adores, a lacy, ebony dress accompanied by sheer black stockings and elegant flats. Much to your misfortune, according to her, Blade doesn’t hate this outfit either.

Even though Blade was the one to open the door, it is you who is forced to step in first, and it is you who is forced to sit down first at the little wooden circular table surrounded by three chairs.

“You still haven’t told me what this is about, Kafka.” Despite your curiosity, you don’t dare to raise one of your eyebrows.

“Yes, yes. Let us just rest for a moment. I’m tired.”

“...Okay. It’s just… you’ve kept me in the dark for the past few days about this trip, so…”

Kafka lets out an exaggerated sigh before sitting down as well with a thump, pressing her thumb and forefinger against her temple, gently massaging in circular motions. She is acting like she was the one who carried all of the luggage, and not Blade, who is still putting your suitcases down in the corner. “Come on, love… I’m tired, take pity on poor little old me.”

“...”

Finally, Blade sits down in the last chair. You’re not surprised by his silence anymore.

“...” In his customary manner, he rests his hands on his lap, maintaining a polite sitting posture. Unchanging, his countenance remains impassive; it is difficult to recall a single instance where a smile has graced his face, except for those dreadful moments when he is mara-struck.

“Sigh. Bladie, which suitcase did you put the peaches in? Was it [First]’s? I’m craving one.” If you were Blade, you would have rolled your eyes. “Really badly. Almost as much as I crave our dearest. I’ll get it myself.”

“...[First]’s.”

In a split second, Kafka's wearied expression transforms into a radiant grin as she stands up and walks toward your suitcase leaning against the wall.

Kafka's gaze freezes time as he rummages through your luggage, searching for the bag of peaches. As Blade utters his words, his voice retains its roughness, yet it carries a touch of tenderness.

“...Do you like this place, [First]?” He asks, looking at you. You think he is trying to put on a small smile, from the way his lips are slightly curved upward, but it does not comfort you as intended. “We picked this place for you.”

“But why?”

As ironic as it may seem, it is always Blade you ask questions to because at least he gives straightforward answers.

“Didn’t Kafka tell you?” For once, Blade seems confused. Was he not paying attention every time you asked? “It’s your birthday, isn’t it? ...Did you not know that?”

“...Well, I’m not exactly always given access to calendars…”

“...Fair.”

You hear Kafka's mischievous laughter from the corner.

“...But happy birthday regardless, [First].”

Once more, his smile achieves the opposite of its intended effect.

The End.

Yan Kafka x F Reader.

Synopsis: Kafka always sits in the front row, despite being part of the show herself.

Warnings: Yandere themes, stalking, thoughts of violence, manipulation, and unhealthy relationships.

Word Count: 1k.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

Breezeblocks by alt-J

Waltz No. 2 by Dmitri Shostakovich (feat. The Dixie String Quartet)

Swan Lake by HAUSER

Claus by Los Tres

Doin’ Time by Lana Del Ray

Lie by BTS

She’s My Collar by Gorillaz (feat. Kali Uchis)

Cha Cha by Freddie Dredd

Michelle by Sir Chloe

MONTERO (Call Me By Your Name) - SATAN’S EXTENDED VERSION by Lil Nas X

*~*~*~*

The roses are wilting.

It was destiny, fate. Such pretty things never last forever, after all, even if the entire universe wished otherwise. One way or another, they are meant to fall, like how the sun drops below where anyone can see it, being replaced with the moon, and vice versa. They fall deep, deeper than hell itself, and no one can pick them back up, unless one would be inclined to make a pact with the devil himself, doing horrendous things in his name. But Kafka has already committed such sins, so why deny doing so any longer? It is who she is. It is who you are, to be entangled in her lies and be forced to dance and to sing and to act.

With two gloved hands, she picks up the vase, spilling out the moldy water and the dying roses, the roses she got for you after you sang so well at the opera house, looking so beautiful, into the trash can underneath your makeup vanity, where little clumps of hair and emptied products always meet their end.

She’ll get you a new bouquet later. A new vase too. Perhaps instead of white roses you would like red ones instead? Kafka knows that this vase is cheap too, from one of your fellow divas, whose high notes are not as high as yours and her costumes not as elaborate or as elegant as yours.

“I honestly don’t see why you even try to befriend any of them, darling. They are all envious harpies. They can’t hold a candle to anything you do.”

You are not here, but Kafka’s mouth always has a mind of its own, so it spins lies even when your delicate, lovely ears are not in the general vicinity. Not that she minds it. But yours is what she is quite more so than trifles with, because yours is carefully controlled by her and her alone, and you, as always, don’t get a say. It’s a sort of hypocrisy, Kafka thinks, but she doesn't mind that either.

If she has to, she’ll even sew your mouth shut, your ears shut, your eyes shut, if that is what it takes for you to stay with her. She doubts it would ever come to that, though, because you are always too fragile and too trusting to tell the difference between an Iago and a Desdemona. But the latter role would much better suit you, her little flower, her princess.

You are so precious, but also a treasure prying eyes will always want to touch and see and hear. Kafka would, in all honesty, love to cut their hands and tongues off, if it did not ruin the carefully crafted image she made just for you. Maybe later, though, when all the stage lights are off.

“Lady Macbeth, hmm?” She murmurs.

She disagrees with the role you were given entirely. But, you were not one to stand up for yourself, so Kafka let it go. 

“You really ought to leave this business soon, dearest.” Kafka looks around, her arms crossed, not impressed with the room you were given in the slightest. “You can always just come with me.” She meant it. “Imagine all the sights you would see. All the food you would eat. All the gifts I would be so happy to give you. All the hugs and kisses you would receive from me. Everything… just think about it.”

She could imagine it herself. It is not hard, really, for the mind to reject all sense of logic and bow down to the whim of what is known as human emotions, mortal joys, woes, desires, wants, and needs. She could imagine sitting you on her lap as the ship jumps to the next world she will have to visit, telling you stories of the past, present, and future, as you look on with amazement. You don’t do that anymore, now. She would do anything to see it come back. She would steal a crown and place it on your head, though you having the genuine article does not make you any stronger. If anything, perhaps it would make you weaker to her whims.

“Imagine that…” She sighs, closing her eyes as she smiles. “We can go to Penacony. Your dreams would come true there if I cannot make them true myself. You can sleep on beds worth more than this entire opera house. If only you would let me. I know it would make you happy. I know it would make me happy. So why wouldn’t it make you?”

She would listen to your ultimate pains, and your ultimate wishes, and act accordingly. She loved you. You will too, again. It is only a matter of time, isn’t it? Yes, Kafka thinks, it is fate. 

…

Kafka always sits in the front row of the theater.

It does not matter whether or not she purchased the tickets for it, the seat, or the show soon to come to fruition. No one dares talk back to her, even security. She finds comfort in that. No one gets in the way of her having the chance to see you. Better yet, no one else sits in the front row when she is present.

So, she watches, one of her legs crossed over the other, her eyes never blinking. During interludes she likes to adjust her makeup accordingly, painting on another shade of crimson to her lips. Art comes in many forms, after all.

Kafka told you that once. As always, you listened dutifully as she taught you to be.

She taught you many things, not just that. She taught you how to read constellations. She helped you learn her vocabulary in the books she gave you, often long fairytales or poems. She preferred it that way when you used to be so eager to have someone be friendly to you and not want to simply use you for their own amusement, not wanting to throw you out of the opera house altogether.

The opera house may rot after it goes up in flames, in the future, if things go her way as it always does, but she’ll stay to watch it all, to take you in as you cry and as she shushes you. She’ll be happy. Maybe you will be too, for her. It matters how good your performance is, if you even want to act anymore, after all.

The lights dim, and she shows her pearl-white teeth as she grins.