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Kafka found him by scent. Upon stepping out onto the rooftop, he caught a whiff of a familiar, skunky kind of smell and followed it around the corner to find Aoi on a bench, his pale hair desaturated in the darkness and the faint glow of a joint between his lips.
Kafka cleared his throat loudly from behind just to be a menace, but quickly grinned when Aoi startled around to look at him. When he saw it was just Kafka, he settled back down. Then he pulled the joint free, let out a slow plume of smoke, and held it up to Kafka in an invitation.
“Didn’t take you for the type,” Kafka admitted, flopping onto the bench beside him. Aoi was bigger than him—not taller by much, but broad in a muscle-man kind of way—but Kafka didn’t mind that he sat a bit in the other man’s shadow. He accepted the joint and the subsequently proferred lighter with an appreciative grin.
Aoi shrugged. He was a young man of few words, more mature than Kafka himself probably. Again, Kafka didn’t mind much. “The JGSDF could get stressful. Some seniors smoked to relax, and it worked.”
Well, Kafka thought, if the JGSDF could get away with it, surely the third division could too. He took a long hit, relishing the burn of it. It had been a long time since he’d done anything like this, but it was nice. It was a nice night too. The sky was big and clear and quiet, not a kaiju in sight. Well, himself aside, of course.
He chuckled on his exhale, passing back to Aoi and leaning back against the bench seat. “I bet it did,” he laughed lowly. “My cleaning crewmates and I would always ‘destress’ like this after a particularly messy cleanup. Now that we’re on the force, I’m sure you’ve seen what a mess we make. Hah! Much more fun to be on this side of it, I tell you.”
Aoi hummed in acknowledgement, his mouth full of smoke as he handed it back to Kafka. It was surprisingly generous of him to just invite Kafka to his sesh, but Kafka supposed it was probably his unfailing manners and a respect for seniors that had been deeply ingrained at the JGSDF more than anything. Not that Kafka would complain!
They stayed there, passing the joint back and forth leisurely, appreciating the night and talking. Well, Kafka talked; Aoi mostly just listened. He was good at it though! Or at least good enough to convince Kafka he had a captive audience for his cleaning crew day tales, though he was no longer exactly in the headspace to pay much attention.
And then there was the clearing of another throat. Kafka and Aoi both startled, too fuzzy in the head to have noticed the approach. Aoi lowered the joint down between his knees as if that would somehow hide the cloud of stench around them.
Slowly, they turned around.
The vice captain was behind them, arms crossed across his chest, his face a smiling mask. He reminded Kafka of a fox yokai from the legends, his narrow frame and placid face concealing the murderous intent—and capability— beneath. Kafka was not fooled. Aoi, for all his discipline and hulking strength and vigor, wasn’t either.
Hoshina looked between the two of them, his head tilting ever so slightly in one direction, then the other. It was impossible to see even the whites of his eyes like this, his smile and the darkness of the night all but obscuring his eyes completely.
“I’ll pretend I didn't see anything,” he said after a moment, and Aoi quickly stood and bowed, wobbling just a little. He made to leave, but Hoshina stopped him with a slim finger in the center of his chest. “Not so fast,” he chided. His hand slipped down to Aoi’s, unwound his fingers, and snatched the lighter and the last bit of the joint. “I’m confiscating this. Go on. And next time, don’t get caught.”
“Yes, Vice-captain,” Aoi said promptly, not protesting the loss of his precious weed as he took advantage of the fleeting exit offered to him.
Kafka, a few years too old and a few hits too high to be too worried about getting caught for something like this, watched him leave with a lopsided grin. Then he turned his face to Hoshina and that grin turned sheepish.
“My bad,” he offered. Hoshina stared down at him for a moment longer, face unreadable, and then he let out a little snort of laughter and made his way around the bench and into Aoi’s abandoned spot.
Unlike Aoi, Hoshina was significantly smaller than Kafka in every way. Kafka knew better than to underestimate him for it, having seen the battle-hardened muscles under his uniform and seen just how readily he could use them. Still, it was surprising sometimes that one of the strongest men in all of Japan was eye level with Kafka’s chin.
Hoshina examined the joint for a moment before shrugging, putting it to his lips, and lighting it. Kafka watched, enraptured, as Hoshina breathed in. Then Hoshina handed the joint back to Kafka. “Believe it or not,” he said, breathing out the smoke, “there are no rules against weed in the Defense Force. You’d think, hm? But it’s not dangerous. As long as we’re able to do our jobs and we aren’t damaging our bodies, it’s not a problem. According to the bylaws. And,” he grinned, teeth glinting, “me.”
Kafka laughed at that. ”As long as my vice-captain says it’s alright,” he obliged, taking his turn with a smile on his lips.
He didn’t feel as talkative with Aoi gone. He wouldn’t admit it for fear of sounding like an old geezer, but he liked talking to the younger members: telling them his stories and making them laugh. Even though Hoshina was a few years younger than him too, closer to Mina’s age, he carried himself with a maturity and air of experience that the other recruits lacked. Kafka didn’t need to showboat for him, not when Hoshina had lived as much as he had despite the years.
Hoshina didn’t talk much either, which kind of surprised Kafka. He half expected Hoshina to be one of those giggly-highs, unable to stop himself from finding the humor in any and everything. Hadn’t he accepted Kafka into the division because he found him funny? He was an odd guy, Kafka thought to himself, but a good one. A really good one.
That really good guy hogged the end of the joint for himself. Kafka didn’t really mind since he’d had his share and didn’t really feel like getting so high he forgot where his human half ended and his kaiju half began, but he still gave Hoshina an unimpressed look. On principle.
Hoshina chuckled, half-choking on smoke as he dismissed Kafka’s judgemental glare with a wave of a slender hand. “Vice-captain privileges,” he announced haughtily. “If you manage to take my place, you can finish the next one.”
Kafka swung his arms over the back of the bench and leaned back, tilting his face up towards the night sky. The stars were barely visible thanks to the lights of the city, but it was still nice knowing they were there. And the vast blackness was comforting in its own right, unadorned as it was. It was also nice knowing that Hoshina meant it.
Kafka knew no one—Hoshina included—actually expected him to work his way to Mina’s side, at least not anytime soon. But Hoshina didn’t doubt him either. It was this odd tightrope act of belief, kind of like wishing on a star. No one expected their wishes to come true, but there was always a little hope there anyway, like maybe the impossible would be possible just this once. Kafka didn’t mind the odds. Especially when Hoshina still took him seriously despite the gap between them.
Still, Kafka gave a dramatic sigh. “Even if I get stronger, I’ll never be able to take your place. Mina’s like a little sister to me! Or-” She was. Maybe if he got stronger, she could be again.
Hoshina choked on a last puff of smoke. “And why,” he coughed up, “would that matter?”
Kafka sent him what he hoped was a sly look, though it felt a little slow and sloppy. “Everyone knows you two are- You know. Not that it’s any of my business! But even the officers who have been around for a while talk.”
Hoshina looked like he’d been slapped in the face, his mouth parted in a shocked ‘o’. “Talk?” he repeated. “Talk?! Talk about what?”
“You know,” Kafka hissed, because even high he wasn’t about to go explicitly discussing his superiors’ sex lives! Not to their faces, anyway!
Hoshina stared at him, eyes wide enough to even look bright in the dark. Then he doubled over with laughter so strong that he accidentally flung the butt off the joint. It fell near the edge of the roof, and a well timed breeze came and swept it off into the night. Kafka winced.
“Me and- Oh my god,” Hoshina wheezed, tears forming in his eyes. “Oh god, who’s gonna tell her?!” He cackled so hard Kafka was afraid he might be the next one to roll off the roof. But Hoshina’s laughter was admittedly contagious, especially in their current states, and Kafka couldn’t stop the amusement bubbling up in his chest, even if he wasn’t fully aware of what they were laughing at. And then Hoshina said: “Fuck, we’re both so gay, oh my fucking-” and Kafka’s brain went blank.
Mina, gay? Sure. She’d never really cared much about boys as a kid, always showing more interest for the stray cats in the neighborhood than she did for any kids other than Kafka. And even with Kafka, they’d always kind of felt like… maybe siblings wasn’t the right word, but like… adventurers on a quest or something! Sword and shield! Sworn together, but not like that.
But Hoshina? Hoshina, gay? The vice-captain, homosexually persuaded?
Oh.
Kafka opened his mouth to maybe say something, but all that came out was also: “Oh.”
Hoshina wiped some lingering tears from his eyes, and when he looked over at Kafka, the amusement faded somewhat from his gaze. His smile remained, but it felt a little more like a porcelain mask than the unequivocally human look from seconds before.
“Problem?” Hoshina asked, sweet as lead. Kafka was a little slow on the uptake but quickly shook his head when he realized he’d been misinterpreted.
“No! No, just surprised. Uh, not in a bad way! I’m too! I mean, like. Gay. I am also that.”
Hoshina’s eyebrows were completely hidden by his hair, but Kafka could feel them raising. “You?” Hoshina asked. “Gay?”
Kafka frowned. “Why not?”
Hoshina’s eyes darted down and back up almost faster than Kafka could track. “I mean, no not, just… Really?”
Kafka felt a knot of indignation build in his gut. “Really?” he shot back, unimpressed. It was Hoshina’s turn to backtrack, and he waved his hands out in front of him as if clearing the air.
“Not like that,” he dismissed. “Just- Just surprised.” He echoed Kafka’s words back to him, but didn’t offer more of an explanation. Kafka narrowed his eyes. He got that a lot, but he didn’t like it any more. It didn’t piss him off the way it did when he was younger, but still.
Hoshina, though, wasn’t looking at him in that vaguely disappointed way he sometimes got—that ‘this is what I’m stuck with?” look that Kafka was too familiar with. He was just… observing. And then… blushing?
No. Kafka blinked and shook his head. He looked again.
There was definitely a bit of color on Hoshina’s cheeks that hadn’t been there before. Could it be… a late high? Some people got red when they drank, maybe Hoshina got red when he smoked!
Then Hoshina cleared his throat and turned away, looking back out into the night. “So. You and Aoi…?”
Kafka was confused for a moment before he snorted in amusement. “No! He was just here when I came out and offered to uh, share. Come on, he’s like, twenty!”
“So?” Hoshina asked. “He’s more mature than the others. Not bad looking.”
“You like him?” Kafka asked, a curious smile on his lips. He didn’t know what he thought about Aoi and Hoshina, but it wasn’t really his business either way! “You shouldn’t have scared him off earlier then. Don’t let me cockblock you- Er. Sir. Though I think he and Haruichi…”
Hoshina was blushing. He looked almost cute with his cheeks pink and his eyes unusually wide, but it was impossible to forget their… places, in regard to each other. That was to say, Kafka wasn’t about to get carried away and forget that this was his boss who could probably kill him without breaking a sweat!
“Aoi’s not my type,” Hoshina said after a moment. “Way too serious.”
Kafka nodded in understanding. Aoi was a good guy, but Kafka was sure he’d get bored of talking to himself if he were in a relationship with someone so stoic. Hoshina might not look it, but he seemed to be a bit too extroverted for a guy like Aoi too. Maybe they’d be a balance of opposites, Kafka though. Big, tan Aoi and small, pale Hoshina, one a quiet and sturdy soldier, the other an outgoing leader. They could be a good pair, maybe, if Hoshina did want it.
“Besides,” Hoshina continued, “I’m into… older guys.”
Oh. “Oh.” Kafka said again. “Older than you, or older than Aoi?”
“Older than Aoi for sure,” Hoshina said decidedly. “Older than me isn’t a requirement. Strong preference, though.”
A silly, high part of Kafka’s brain informed him that he was older than Hoshina, and also that he often made Hoshina laugh. He ignored that part of his brain as best he could.
Hoshina suddenly sighed and slumped back into the bench. “I can’t believe I threw the weed off the roof. A pigeon’s gonna eat it.”
Kafka burst into unexpected laughter.
“Don’t laugh,” Hoshina chided sullenly, “pigeons aren’t supposed to get high.”
It wasn’t that it became a regular occurrence, but apparently Hoshina was known as something of a hard-ass amongst officers when it came to… recreational fun. That was to say: over the years he’d acquired something of a stash of confiscated goods, and for some reason, he’d decided Kafka could help him through it.
Kafka didn’t tell anyone, not even Reno. Hoshina hadn’t said he couldn’t but it’d feel weird to share something that might change the way the other officers looked at Hoshina, so Kafka kept it to himself. Besides, he kind of liked it that way. Even though he was just an officer like the others—less than, even, taking into account his pitiful results—he got to spend time one on one with the vice-captain. Like they were equals, even if he was still so far from being able to stand by his or Mina’s side.
The others had started avoiding the rooftop ever since Aoi had reticently recounted the story of Hoshina catching them. Kafka thought it was silly considering most of them only ever went up there to hang out or maybe smoke a cigarette, hardly things they’d get in trouble for if caught, but he wouldn’t begrudge them for it. It just meant he and Hoshina got a little peace and quiet when they went up.
Tonight Hoshina had come with a little plastic bag. Inside were two orange gummies. Kafka grinned and held up a box. Inside were twenty-four pieces of fried chicken. Hoshina smiled.
The gummies took a little while to kick in, but they were worth the wait. Kafka felt like he could almost see stars in the sky, though he knew there were none visible. He and Hoshina made quick work of the chicken and then settled down to take in the night.
It was a while later that Kafka started feeling a little- Hmm.
He eyed Hoshina as subtly as he could manage. Hoshina was smaller, sure, but he sat all sprawled out, legs out wide in front of him, arm draped along the back of the bench, head tilted back to face the sky. He looked sturdy and tempting.
Kafka restrained himself for as long as he could before his body started moving on its own: slouching down, scooting away. And then there was no subtle way to do it; he dropped to the side, head landing in Hoshina’s lap. Kafka kept his face turned away, refusing to see Hoshina’s reaction.
He felt it anyway. Hoshina stiffened under him, but then he slowly relaxed, humming in quiet amusement. After a few moments passed in relative stillness, Hoshina’s hand came to rest of Kafka’s shoulder. A minute later, it slipped up to the nape of his neck, fingers tugging lightly at the short hair there. And then, eventually, it ended up on top of Kafka’s head, tangled where the hair was longer, petting slow and heavy.
Kafka’s eyes closed. This was exactly what he’d wanted.
“Who knew you were so cuddly,” Hoshina said offhandedly, twirling short strands of hair between his fingers and making Kafka’s scalp tingle pleasantly. “Don’t your juniors give you enough attention? Ichikawa, at least, no?”
Reno could be clingy sometimes, yeah, but it was kind of like being followed around by a puppy. He was clingy in fits and bursts and with little regard to Kafka himself. Not that Kafka minded, of course. He wouldn’t mind a puppy nibbling at his fingers, and he didn’t mind Reno throwing himself over his back after a long day or anything like that. It was familiar and comfortable, but sometimes Kafka got like this and wanted to be comforted, not the other way around.
Hoshina petted his head and let Kafka lay in his lap and played with his hair. Kafka felt maybe the calmest he ever had.
“How cute,” Hoshina murmured, and Kafka smiled. nuzzling his face into Hoshina’s legs. Hoshina wasn’t particularly soft or squishy, not like Kafka himself, but he was all warm. That was enough.
They’d been talking about their vices. Hoshina said he loved Mont Blancs, which were apparently extremely decadent French desserts that he only let himself have every now and then. Kafka was surprised for some reason. He expected the vice-captain to like bitter flavors more, maybe.
Kafka admitted that he’d smoked a lot more before the Defense Force. Cigarettes, he’d clarified, and Hoshina had laughed a little, asked if that was why he’d done so piss-poor on the physical exam, or if it had to do with that belly of his.
Kafka wasn’t bothered by it, genuinely. He’d gotten a lot stronger after months of rigorous training but after a certain age, he was pretty sure the gut was there to stay, no matter how solid the muscles underneath were. Besides, Hoshina had glanced at him when he said it, his mouth curled into a teasing smile, but his eyes… lingering.
Kafka had made a show off being offended, spewing half-nonsense about keeping his eyes on Hoshina from now on. He was being dramatic, but he did mean it to some degree. He looked up to Hoshina, admired him. He wanted to get stronger, and Hoshina had helped him more than anyone, probably. And somehow he’d ended up following Hoshina back to his room, being loud and annoying about following his lead, doing everything he did, turning his life around. Hoshina had gone from amused to disgruntled to… flustered?
He was at his door, eying Kafka warily over his shoulder. Kafka stood to attention, holding back a smile. God, he might have outgrown a six pack years ago, but he would never be too old to be annoying, that was for sure.
“What, are you going to wash my back in the shower for me?” Hoshina muttered under his breath, stalling instead of going inside.
“Whatever it takes, sir!” Kafka declared, head high. The centimeters between them stretched like this, Hoshina slouched against his door and Kafka tall and proud in front of him. Hoshina ran a hand down his face and let out a defeated laugh.
“I don’t think you know what- One of these days, I’ll make you take responsibility for the shit you put me through.”
Kafka loosened his posture a bit and studied Hoshina’s smile. It wasn’t quite as big or shameless as usual. He looked almost resigned. “If you really need someone to wash your back-” Kafka started to offer, wondering if the joke had already run its course and he’d overstepped maybe.
Hoshina waved him off, pushing back up to standing and finally turning to unlock his door. With his back to Kafka, he spoke. “Maybe I let things get too far. Let’s not keep doing this so much, alright? People might get ideas.”
Kafka was dumbstruck. “This?” he asked. This was the first time Kafka had been so pushy as to follow Hoshina around, much less to his room, so it couldn’t be that. Then… just hanging out? Spending time together? Kafka found himself… incredibly disappointed at the thought. He thought they’d- He hoped-
Hoshina opened his door and started to step in, tossing Kafka a carefree smile over his shoulder. Fake. “It’s muddying lines,” he said, like it was obvious. “Let’s stick to what we know.”
Kafka frowned. “I know you,” he said. “I don’t get it. Who’s getting ideas?” And what ideas? He and Hoshina just spent time together, smoking sometimes or just talking others. Kafka felt comfortable enough with him to let himself be a little needier, and Hoshina was comfortable enough to relax and let down his guard. They teased and joked, ate and smoked, sat in silence and let the weight of the world split between both their shoulders for once. What was wrong with any of that?
“Don’t worry about it,” Hoshina said, waving his hand again. “Let’s just-”
“No.” Kafka pushed forward, herding Hoshina into his room and shutting the door behind them. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at his vice-captain. “If you’re going to-” End things sounded so final, like they were breaking up or something. Which they couldn’t be, of course, since they weren’t even dating. “I deserve to know what’s going on. Did I offend you? Is Mina- Is the captain upset with you?”
Hoshina pinched the bridge of his narrow nose between his fingers and sighed. “You’re really- It’s nothing like that so calm down, okay?” He looked Kafka up and down, eyebrows pulled low enough to peek out from under his bangs. Then he turned and started to pace. Kafka tracked the motion, confused.
Hoshina seemed to be considering something, weighing the pros and cons of saying whatever it was he was debating. Finally, the pros seemed to win and he stopped, whirling to face Kafka once more. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again. Then he resumed his pacing.
Just when Kafka thought he’d have to grab Hoshina and wring the words out himself, Hoshina finally spoke. “It’s me, alright? I’m the one who’ll get ideas if you keep- keep being that way. Look, you’re gay, right? And I’m gay. And I- You’re funny! And good, and strong, and I know you don’t think it, but you’re hot! And I shouldn’t have to deal with all that while we- while we do what we’ve been doing and you just-!”
He ended his tirade with an accusatory gesture at, well. Kafka, all of him. Kafka blinked, processing this new information very, very slowly.
“You,” he said carefully, “want to stop spending time with me because… you have a crush? On me?”
“Yes! No!” Hoshina pinched his nose again and deflated. “Look, it’s not a you issue. I mean, it is, but. You just offered to shower with me! You just followed me to my room and offered to wash my back! Even if you’re joking, imagine if some guy who was just your type came up to you and did that, only for him it was all just a joke!” Hoshina massaged his temples. This was clearly weighing on him. “It’s confusing for me, alright? And it’d be bad enough if that was it, but I’m your superior. I can’t be- be lusting after an officer under my care, taking advantage of our relationship—that’s already well past appropriate bounds, probably—because I can’t-”
Hoshina liked him. That was finally settling into Kafka’s brain. Hoshina thought he was funny and good and strong and hot. Hoshina thought he was just his type.
“I like confident guys,” Kafka blurted out, interrupting Hoshina. “I- I never told you my type. I like guys who know what they’re doing and do it well. I like guys who are mature, but not boring and mean. I like guys who I can look up to and learn from.” He felt his face heat. “I like guys who are smaller than me. I like- I like when guys are smaller than me, but strong enough to- to-” Man. He couldn’t say it. Hoshina had started it, but Kafka couldn’t take it there without an opening.
He blinked and suddenly Hoshina was right in front of him, in his space, crowding him back against the door. His eyes were sharp on Kafka’s.
“Strong enough to what?” he asked, his voice calm again, but only barely.
Kafka blinked at him in shock, then looked away, feeling far too big and obvious and on display under Hoshina’s searching gaze. Cheeks burning, he forced himself to speak. “Strong enough… to push me around. Take me how they want me.”
Hoshina kissed him. He rose up on his toes, his forearm braced across Kafka’s chest, and slammed their lips together with enough force to make Kafka gasp.
Hoshina took full advantage, tongue forcing its way into Kafka’s mouth with determined force. He didn’t hold back, and in the time it took Kafka to actually register what was happening, he didn’t even pretend to resist. Once it sunk in, he melted.
He stumbled back, weight falling fully against the door as Hoshina pushed in closer. His eyes shut as Hoshina kissed him with a hunger that Kafka didn’t know how he’d possibly missed. He wasn’t inexperienced, per se, but he’d always struggled with things like this: yearning, closeness, the tightrope between intimacy and desire. He’d misread before, and he’d misread again. But it didn’t matter at this moment. Not now.
When his senses came back to him, he managed to bring his hands up to Hoshina’s waist. It felt tiny and firm in his hands, the opposite in every way of his own. His fingertips could touch behind Hoshina’s back but when he squeezed, there was no give to the muscles underneath. Hoshina let out a trembling breath at the touch and his arm shifted from Kafka’s chest up to his neck, fingers taking a now familiar position on the nape of his neck, buried in the short, dense hair there. His other hand came up and grabbed Kafka’s face, nearly cupping his cheek if it weren’t for the thumb under his jaw, holding him where Hoshina wanted.
This was- This felt like a fantasy. Kafka had been with guys who were small and strong, who could give him what he wanted when he was in the mood. But nothing like this. No one had ever wanted him as ravenously as Hoshina did right now. No one had ever been quite so qualified to unravel him in every way.
“More,” Hoshina groaned, demanding. Kafka nodded hastily, a messy move that made Hoshina’s spit slicked lips lose their place. Hoshina didn’t seem to mind, he just picked right back up on Kafka’s cheek, sloppily working his way to his jaw and then the sensitive flesh of his ear. Kafka shivered.
“Vi- Hoshina-”
“Soushirou,” Hoshi- Soushirou breathed in his ear. “Say it, Kafka.”
“Soushirou,” Kafka echoed, hardly recognizing his own voice. “More.”
Soushirou dropped away suddenly, his teeth grazing Kafka’s earlobe as he left. “Come.”
Kafka followed.
Soushirou led him to his bed. It wasn’t any bigger than the bunks the officers got, but it wasn’t attached to anyone else’s bed and sometimes a little privacy was all you could ask for. Soushirou pushed Kafka onto the mattress and Kafka wondered if maybe this was the universe’s way of making up for forcing a kaiju into him.
“Help,” Soushirou murmured, reaching for Kafka’s pants already. Kafka beat him to it, opening them and pushing them down as far as he could from his place on the bed. Soushirou pulled them off the rest of the way, dragging them over Kafka’s feet and tossing them- somewhere. Didn’t matter. Kafka was distracted by Soushirou reaching for the hem of his own shirt, peeling the tight black fabric away to reveal the pale, smooth skin underneath.
There were plenty of scars—ranging from the thin, neat lines of a blade to the messy, gnarled knots of kaiju attacks—but the overall effect was that Soushirou was carved from marble and the chisel had simply slipped in a few places or the perfect stone had eroded away. He was striking.
Kafka felt exposed with his pants and boxers discarded and his shirt still on. Oddly enough, he’d probably feel better fully naked, but he was a bit distracted watching Soushirou undress on top of him. Pulling his own shirt off would mean a moment’s blindness, and he didn’t want to miss a thing.
Soushirou was already moving on to his own belt. He didn’t bother sliding it loose of the belt loops, he just unbuckled it and undid his fly, pulling his pants, belt, and briefs down at once. Kafka stared, his breaths growing quicker at the sight.
His own cock was half hard—shocking considering it hadn’t been touched at all—and Soushirou seemed to be almost there too. It was an ego boost, really, that such a- a glorious man would react like that at the sight of Kafka, at the thought of him.
Soushirou’s cock was… sleek seemed like the wrong word to use for a penis, but Kafka was tempted to use it anyway. It wasn’t fully hard yet but it seemed to be growing by the second, bobbing slightly as it came to life. The pale foreskin was starting to pull back, revealing the rosy glans beneath, and the inky purple-black hair at the base made for a striking contrast, neatly trimmed and perfectly framing what, in Kafka’s opinion, had to be the most perfect cock and balls he’d ever seen.
It didn’t help that Soushirou was just. Right there. Fully naked. Gorgeous and strong and visibly affected. He had a pink-knuckled hand around his cock now, stroking it slowly to attention as he stared down at Kafka through lidded eyes, and Kafka suddenly felt incredibly lewd.
He still had his shirt on, twisted a little around his torso from his journey onto the bed, but he could feel his cock growing harder against his thigh, twitching and growing warmer, heavier, under Soushirou’s attention. Tossed back against the mattress, half dressed and pinned under Soushirou’s gaze, he felt… sinful, really. In the best way.
He could have been a bit embarrassed about the softness of his stomach, or the hair on his thighs, or the darker skin of his balls, or whatever else it was people got embarrassed about during sex, but the way Soushirou looked at him didn’t leave much room for doubt. Kafka knew they were poorly matched: he was old and weak and mediocre, at best, in the looks department while Soushirou was… Soushirou. But he was also old enough to not worry about that. If Soushirou was willing—and he looked to be more than just willing —then Kafka would gladly take whatever he could get.
“This too,” Soushirou said, releasing his cock with a hissed out breath and reaching for the bottom hem of Kafka’s shirt. “Don’t get shy on me now. You’ve been working hard, haven’t you?”
Kafka reluctantly reached down to pull him off, already lamenting the momentary loss of the vision that was Soushirou. If he could magically erase the need to blink for a little while, he gladly would. “Sure. Doesn’t show, though. I’m not young like the others, you know?”
“I see it,” Soushirou purred, and Kafka jolted slightly when Soushirou’s hand landed flat against his bare chest and dragged down to his stomach. “You’re stronger. It shows.”
Kafka raised a disbelieving eyebrow and tossed his shirt off the bed. “You don’t need to flatter me, I’m already in your bed.”
Soushirou cracked a toothy grin at that, eyes curving into crescents, and dug his fingertips in a little. Kafka tensed instinctively and Soushirou hummed in satisfaction. “I’m not lying. You don’t need to look like me or Aoi or Narumi Gen to be strong. Not that you’re as strong as any of us,” he teased with a cheeky smile, “but you’ve come a long way. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice?”
Kafka shrugged. He’d noticed, vaguely, but it hadn’t really been a pressing concern of his. Besides, next to… well, anyone else on the force, really, even if he worked three times harder than he had been, he had a feeling he’d always look a little… soft and floppy next to them. In his human form, at least. “As long as you like it,” he offered.
Soushirou rolled his eyes a little. The next thing Kafka knew, that strong, callused hand was splayed over his cock, pressing it firmly against the meat of his own thigh and forcing it rapidly harder at the unexpected pressure. “I like you,” Soushirou retorted easily, the ball of hand pointedly pressing a little harder right where Kafka’s cock met his sack. “And I like how hard you try. I like that you don’t give up. Your blind faith in yourself… It’s stupid, honestly. It’s really fucking hot, though. Especially when you’re right.” He laughed and it sounded a little helpless. Kafka felt a little helpless watching him, listening to him, being touched by him.
He felt like he might be trembling a little under Soushirou’s touch but as long as it didn’t stop him, he couldn’t be bothered to care. He just did his best to breathe and keep his eyes on Soushirou as he shifted over him.
“I think,” Soushirou mused, forcing Kafka’s thighs open to settle between them and leaning forward, a hand on Kafka’s chest for support, “that you don’t know how attractive you are.”
Kafka would be inclined to agree, actually. He had no idea what it was that Soushirou could possibly see in him that would have him behaving like this, but there must be something there. Soushirou wasn’t known for his low standards, after all, and Kafka trusted his instincts. He also didn’t really care to hear the reasons.
“C’mere.” He reached up and managed to hook a hand around Soushirou’s shoulder. Soushirou let himself be pulled closer, readjusting so his arms were holding his weight on either side of Kafka’s head. Kafka dragged him straight into a kiss.
Unlike before, there was the undeniable fact of their nakedness now. Kafka was very aware of Soushirou’s bare skin under his hands, he could feel the wiry brush of Soushirou’s hair against his stomach, and, of course, the hot, hard press of his cock, so close to Kafka’s own. Their difference in height meant they couldn’t line up perfectly, not while kissing, but Soushirou’s thigh offered its own friction the same way Kafka’s stomach firmed up eagerly under the pressure of Soushirou’s hips.
Just like before, Soushirou kissed Kafka like he wanted to eat him. This time there was the added bonus of Kafka being able to melt fully into it, sinking back into the mattress and letting Soushirou have his way with him without having to worry about his knees going weak.
Soushirou had a better angle like this than he had on his tiptoes, pinning Kafka up against the door. Hovering over him, he could slip his tongue into Kafka’s mouth with ease, tilt his head exactly how he wanted it, let his weight fall heavy across Kafka’s wanting body.
It was overwhelming, honestly, for a great number of reasons.
Firstly: it was Soushirou. That alone was enough to have Kafka questioning whether this was reality, a fever dream, or some sort of lifelike hallucination borne of a little too much of the good stuff. But he couldn’t have imagined the way Soushirou would suit him so well; not even his most ridiculous, delusional fantasies would have Soushirou pressing him into a twin bed, their naked bodies hard and hot against each other as his vice-captain forced his mouth wide to accommodate the hunger of his kiss.
Beyond the Hoshina Soushirou of it all, there was the fact that Kafka hadn’t been touched like this in ages. At the very least since he made it into the Defense Force, though probably much longer. Warm skin, the slip of sweat, the needy grab of hands. Even with someone else, the feeling alone would have been enough to make Kafka desperately eager. With Soushirou, it was enough to have him aching for more, aching to get somewhere, like he’d be ready to finish without having ever been touched.
And then, of course, the fact that this was something right out of Kafka’s most honest wet dreams. There he was, all splayed out and on display, his body making the bed beneath him look small as it competed with his height and the thickness of his limbs. And there was Soushirou: a head shorter than him, lean and compact, stronger than (human) Kafka could probably ever hope to be. And Soushirou was on top of him, his cock hard against Kafka’s stomach, his mouth slick and demanding against Kafka’s own. He was already between Kafka’s thighs and Kafka knew already that when they managed to stop kissing, Soushirou would fuck him. Not because he was reluctantly playing to Kafka’s whims, but because he wanted to.
Yeah, Kafka was. He was going through it, possibly, but in the very best of ways. He felt like he was drowning in Soushirou, and he welcomed it.
It was after Soushirou bit down on Kafka’s bottom lip, his sharp canines making Kafka choke on a moan, that he finally pulled back a little. His eyes were dark as he studied Kafka’s face, his lips slick and red, his cheeks pink. His hair, sleek and perfect, fell to the tops of his eyes and Kafka was hit with the sudden urge to run his fingers through it. So he did.
Soushirou stilled slightly when Kafka reached up and brushed his fingertips across his face, right where that inky hair ended. Then Kafka pushed both hands back, sucking in a breath at the silky feel of the strands slipping through his fingers. Soushirou didn’t move, he just let Kafka push his bangs back from his face and stare, blinking slowly down at him all the while.
Kafka marveled at him a little. Soushirou was always stunning but Kafka didn’t often get the chance to just admire him, to turn his face this way and that and see him from every angle. He wasn’t safe from Soushirou’s attention either; Soushirou kept his eyes on Kafka’s but his hands had begun to roam, stroking and groping across Kafka’s shoulders, arms, chest. It made Kafka’s skin pebble in the wake of his touch.
“Kafka,” Soushirou called quietly, as if he somehow needed to draw Kafka’s attention from anything else. “Are you going to make me wait?”
Kafka didn’t let go of him. He shook his head. “Ready when you are, Vice-captain.”
Soushirou smiled at him and slid his hands up the length of Kafka’s arms to take his hands in his own. He squeezed them lightly before pulling them away from his hair, tangling their fingers together for a moment before setting Kafka’s hands on either side of his own head on the mattress. “Stay,” Soushirou murmured, and then he was gone, his weight vanishing from over Kafka, his heat lingering for just the briefest moment in his wake.
Kafka, now staring up at the plain, empty ceiling, did as Soushirou said and stayed.
Soushirou returned after just a moment, tossing a towel on the bed and taking his place between Kafka’s legs once again. Kafka stayed still, wanting and watching as Soushirou dropped a bottle of lube between his legs and then shifted up, reaching over Kafka’s head for a pillow.
When Soushirou nudged, Kafka lifted his hips up, biting his lip at the sight of his own cock dripping onto his stomach, the dark curls of his bush glistening with dew-like drops of arousal. Soushirou licked his own lips, a hungry little motion, as he slipped the pillow under Kafka’s hips, topped it with the towel, and nudged his thighs open.
Tilted with his hips up, Kafka felt like he could taste his own heart beating in his throat. Soushirou was staring at him like he was something to be admired, fumbling deftly with the bottle of lube despite not sparing it a second glance.
He only looked away when he had a warm hand, slick and ready, reaching for Kafka. His eyes landed on Kafka’s cock a half second before his hand did.
Kafka, until then untouched beyond the warm pressure of Soushirou’s thigh earlier, tossed his head back with a heavy exhale at the sudden slick heat of Soushirou’s fist. Soushirou’s grip was a little tight, a little punishing, but it was wet enough that Kafka just wanted more. His hips twitched up a little but, elevated by the pillow, there wasn’t much they could do. He was at Soushirou’s mercy, not for the first time, and what a nice place it was to be.
“You’re big,” Soushirou hummed, sounding pleasantly surprised. “Too bad you won’t get to use it.”
Kafka managed to snort out a laugh. “Don’t wanna,” he groaned. “That’s what you’re here for, aren’t you?”
“Hmm?” Soushirou twisted his hand around the head of Kafka’s cock. “Is that all I am to you? A nice cock?”
“Sir, yes sir!” Kafka choked on another laugh when Soushirou released his cock entirely, clicking his tongue at him in feigned disapproval.
“In that case,” Soushirou drawled, taking his slick hand down between Kafka’s spread legs and brushing teasingly over his perineum, “that makes you a nice hole.” He pressed a fingertip against Kafka’s hole as if to punctuate his statement. Kafka felt heat rise in his stomach, a hungry kind of giddiness that he hadn’t experienced in a long time.
He couldn’t help it. He smiled up at Soushirou, baring all his teeth in the process. Soushirou grinned back, his canines noticeably sharp and his eyes wicked. Kafka thrilled to know that no amount of convoluted logic or backwards overthinking would be stopping them now.
“I guess that’s for you to find out,” Kafka offered, bending one knee up to expose himself more and hooking his other leg loosely around Soushirou.
Soushirou did not hesitate any longer before pushing in, a single, slim finger quickly becoming two as Kafka relaxed around him with a satisfied groan. Soushirou’s other hand gripped the meat of Kafka’s thigh, holding it still as he began to stretch Kafka out.
Kafka didn’t really know why he was a little surprised to find that Soushirou was really quite good at this. He knew the officers had plenty of chances to gain experience with each other while living in the dorms, but Soushirou was on his own most of the time, other than Mina, and he also had this kind of untouchable, out-of-reach vibe to him. But it was clear, as his fingers curled and scissored around, coming close but never touching where he wanted them, that he knew exactly what he was doing.
Kafka didn’t know if they were rushing the pace a little due to built up tension and freshly released impatience or if maybe he still had a lingering high and was losing time to it. All he knew was that he writhed a little, as much as he could with the pillow under him and Soushirou over, as he was worked torturously open, a third finger easing its way in at some point but not bringing with it any real relief.
He may have asked for more; not begging, not when it came on breathy, panted laughs, but close enough maybe. If it moved Soushirou, he didn’t let it show. Kafka liked that, though. He liked that Soushirou was clearly eager, clearly wanted him, but he didn’t really want an easy, generous fuck. He wanted to take whatever Soushirou gave him—or whatever he chose not to give—and not really have much of a choice in the matter.
But begging or not, even Soushirou wasn’t made of patience. He relented on his own terms but Kafka was grateful for it anyway, even as the initial absence of Soushirou’s fingers made his whole stomach clench up.
“Yes,” he groaned as Soushirou lined himself up. “Yes, yes, c’mon.”
“Be quiet,” Soushirou hissed, slowly, slowly pushing forward. “It’s not even in yet, you’re not a porn star.”
Kafka giggled, warmth bubbling up in his chest. “I could be,” he laughed, “if you wanted me to.”
Soushirou groaned and thrust in the rest of the way with little fanfare. Kafka choked on a moan, feeling every well-earned centimeter of Soushirou’s cock carving into him like one of his infamous blades. Soushirou stilled for just a moment once he was buried to the hilt but he was moving before Kafka had the chance to fully adjust, pushing Kafka’s right thigh up and away to make more room for himself. It didn’t make room inside, but it let Soushirou get infinitesimally closer, deeper, and Kafka couldn’t complain.
“Let’s not get hasty,” Soushirou said, eyes roving over Kafka’s bare chest, the happy trail on the rolls of his stomach, the pearls of precum at the tip of his in-the-way cock. “I think I want you all to myself. For now, at least.”
Kafka nodded uselessly, his hair mussing against Soushirou’s sheets. If he wanted to speak, it was made impossible by Soushirou drawing himself slowly out and slamming back in again with enough force to punch the air from his lungs. Good, Kafka though hazily. This was exactly what he’d wanted.
There was a moment when neither of them could speak. Soushirou was testing his own movements, every muscle in his body fine tuned with a precision that seemed specially made for this moment. Sure he could fight or whatever, but Kafka was pretty convinced right now that Hoshina Soushirou was actually born and trained to fuck.
As Soushirou proved just that, his face settling into a blank, focused frown, Kafka let himself get swept up in the sensations. His mouth fell open but no noise escaped it, nothing louder than soft exhales that matched the rhythm of Soushirou’s hips, only skipping when slender fingers dug into the meat of his thigh or pressed into his chest to feel the give.
For a while, Soushirou kept his pace steady. Unrelenting, rough and merciless; but steady. One thrust after another, not particularly fast, just almost all the way out and then quickly right back in. His cock curved a little to the right; Kafka could feel it inside him, feel the ridge of the glans pushing at his walls and forcing room for itself. And when Soushirou finally aimed, Kafka felt what it was like for that sleek, slick cock to hit him right where it needed to to make him moan.
As if Soushirou had simply been waiting for someone to break the silence, his eyes snapped up to Kafka’s with a shit-eating grin. “You’re easier than I thought you’d be, Hibino Kafka.”
Kafka’s smile wavered with the force of his pleasure but he didn’t look away. “Thought about me often, sir?”
Soushirou rolled his eyes, but this time Kafka could feel the way his cock kicked inside him and he stifled a laugh. Still, he couldn’t hide his glee when Soushirou replied, “More than you know. More than I should have, that’s for sure.”
Kafka wanted to kiss him. He didn’t know if he could, not unless Soushirou folded him up a little more so he could reach, but he wanted to. Maybe if he gave Soushirou his best puppy-dog eyes as he got fucked, he would cave and make it happen.
For now, Soushirou didn’t pay him much mind. He smiled winningly and cooed at Kafka’s pathetic expression and fucked him a little harder just to see his eyes roll back a little at the force of the thrusts and the pleasure they brought.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t think of me too,” Soushirou crooned. “You’ll hurt my feelings.”
Had Kafka ever thought about this? With Soushirou? Soushirou inside him, his cock rubbing against Kafka’s insides like he was designed to bring him to the brink, the deadly weapons he called hands dragging Kafka to meet every thrust. Surely- Surely Kafka had never imagined something like this.
But he had thought about Soushirou before. Thought about how nice it felt when he let Kafka drop his head into his lap, when he combed his fingers through Kafka’s hair and guided a lit joint to his lips, letting him breathe it in from the comfort of his position. Thought about Soushirou’s laugh, wild and carefree when he gave himself fully to whatever amused him; sometimes that was Kafka himself, and it brought with it a special kind of possessive pride, knowing he’d been the one to draw out that wide, toothy grin, that crinkled curve to his eyes.
Kafka had thought about Soushirou’s attention, about his dedication, about his generosity and tenacity and tenderness. His strength, but also his gentleness. His ferocity, and his desperation. Kafka sometimes wondered if maybe he’d seen all of it; Soushirou had so many sides, but maybe Kafka had seen them all by now? But then Soushirou would surprise him again. He’d give him a wicked grin and take a slow hit, and through the smoke of an exhale, he’d let Kafka witness some new facet, something exciting and enticing enough that Kafka was always left wanting more.
So maybe he hadn’t exactly thought about this, but he’d probably let Soushirou consume more of his thoughts than was strictly advisable. And maybe he’d thought about things a little more than just two bodies in a bed, however well matched they might be.
Was it too much to admit to all that? Kafka did his best to look up and study Soushirou’s face through hooded eyes, though the heat and pleasure were starting to get to him. He searched for a hint of- of-
Something. Something more than the throes of lust.
And he found it.
There, in Soushirou’s deep amethyst eyes, darkened with a carnal kind of want, was something a little too soft, a little too greedy. He watched Kafka like a fox, as if any slip in his guard would give him the perfect chance to strike. He looked like he wanted to drag Kafka down, take him by the throat and keep him for himself. Devour him, or maybe wrap him in his warmth and hoard him away.
“I did,” Kafka murmured. “I do. Kiss me?”
“Greedy,” Soushirou said—the hypocrite—and he leaned down, pushing Kafka’s hips higher with his own, and kissed him.
Kafka didn’t have any grand fantasies of lasting super long and impressing Soushirou with his stamina in bed—the vice-captain knew his lackluster physical limits better than anyone, probably—but he mustered up at least a little disappointment when he realized that the end, for him, was imminent. Some combination of wanting Soushirou too much and having gone so long without a touch like this. Still, he chided himself for being so juvenile as to come from a kiss.
There was nothing he could do about it, though. Soushirou had manhandled him into a tight little curve, forcing his heavy thighs up nearly to his chest as he fucked into him, his thrusts contained and measured as he kissed Kafka so deep it felt like he was drowning. Really, how was Kafka meant to last at all in these conditions?
His orgasm didn’t feel like something sudden and separate; it just felt like his pleasure continued, magnified. Kafka lost himself to the waves of it as they washed over him, the same ebb and flow he’d felt with each thrust, only growing as if the tide was coming in. He didn’t make noise, content to breathe through it and be kissed by Soushirou instead. He hadn’t felt this good in a long time.
Soushirou must have noticed anyway, despite his view being obscured by the force of their kiss, because he let out a low moan as it happened. Kafka had probably clenched up around him like a virgin, squeezing him as though he might be able to secure Soushirou inside him for good. From the way Soushirou’s hips stuttered, he was not immune to that same primal urge.
“Didn’t think you’d be so easy, Vice-Captain,” Kafka managed as Soushirou tore away from his mouth to curse under his breath. It earned him a hazy, purple glare, but that only served to spark some lingering heat in Kafka’s gut.
“Whatever,” Soushirou groaned, his hands tight and bruising on Kafka as his pace grew a bit frantic. “Next time- Next time we can go shot for shot and see who wins. I think we both know my stamina’s a bit better than yours.”
Next time. Kafka smiled, head lolling back into the mattress. “Maybe as a human,” he said offhandedly, drumming his fingers absently down Soushirou’s spine. “If we want a fair game, maybe it’s the kaiju you should be up against.”
Was he just talking shit? Yeah, absolutely. Did he take a very genuine mental note of the way Soushirou’s cock twitched, pulsed, and then spilled inside him at the mere mention? Oh yes.
Soushirou stayed inside him for a long minute after he’d come, going soft inside in a show of intimacy that Kafka, oddly enough, treasured. He did not, however, treasure the tacky cum drying on his stomach, or the feeling of Soushirou’s cum oozing slowly around his rim as Soushirou eventually pulled out.
Bent nearly in half at his vice-captain’s whims, Kafka could only sigh and wait for Soushirou to move back and gently unfold him, removing the towel and pillow from under his hips and tossing it carelessly to the ground before easing Kafka’s legs back under him, massaging the muscles lazily as he did. Kafka felt more cum leak out as his hips rolled flat again and he crinkled his nose in mild annoyance.
“Bath,” Soushirou announced and Kafka had to nod in agreement and let Soushirou pull him up to his feet. His body was reluctant to leave the comfortable horizontality of the mattress (that smelled like Soushirou) but his mind knew better. Cum itches, his mind told him, reminding him of the coarse hair on his stomach and the gluey white mess he’d spilled onto it, and Kafka was convinced.
Luckily the baths were empty at this hour, but they sat a respectable distance apart anyway, just in case. Just in case someone walked in, or just in case one of them got a little too greedy despite having just gotten off, Kafka wasn’t really sure. He knew he could certainly admire Soushirou’s bare body just as well from a meter away, down to the droplets of water that traced their way down his chest, sometimes detouring along a raised or indented scar that caught their path.
He didn’t meet his gaze for long but he knew Soushirou was watching him back. The views didn’t feel comparable, exactly, but if he wanted to look, Kafka had no issue with it. Soushirou had already more than shown that he had some affinity for Kafka’s body if the bruises that now littered his thighs and hips and chest were any indication.
When they left the baths, neither of them mentioned anything regarding the dorms or plans for next time or anything. Kafka just followed Soushirou back to his room again and they collapsed beside each other on his narrow twin mattress once more.
Soushirou twisted around awkwardly for a moment, reaching into his bedside table for something and stretching his arm up to crack the window above them open. Then he held up his prize: a pre-rolled joint and a Hello Kitty lighter.
“Oh,” Kafka exclaimed sleepily, the darkness of the room and the satisfied tiredness of their activities already catching up with him. “Yay!”
“Just a little,” Soushirou declared, putting the joint to his own lips and clicking the lighter once, twice, three times before it sparked. “Don’t want the room to stink.”
Kafka nodded knowingly and let his eyes fall shut as he waited his turn. He listened to the now-familiar sounds of Soushirou sucking in a breath, inhaling deeper, and slowly letting it out. A second time: sucking in- And then warm, soft lips met his own.
Kafka’s eyes didn’t open. Instead, he smiled softly, unwittingly, and opened his mouth.
Hot smoke spilled from Soushirou’s lips to his own as they traded it between them and Kafka let it fill his lungs. Soushirou shifted a little, crossing his arms over Kafka’s chest and resting his chin on his hands, the pressure heavy and welcome as Kafka blew the smoke out. Soushirou took another lazy hit for himself, and then another that he fed to Kafka like fine wine.
The third was the last. Kafka heard the lighter hit the nightstand as they devolved into a long and lazy makeout, the smoke slipping away between the corners of their mouths where their lips met. At some point, Soushirou dropped the joint in the clean ashtray there too. Both his hands cupped Kafka’s face, holding him as they kissed and the high slowly settled into their bones.
When they eventually fell away from each other, they were both hazy and tired and seemingly caught in the habitual comfort of the moment. The sounds of the night came in through the cracked window, along with a cool breeze, and the bed left them no space to escape each other’s warmth. Neither of them minded. They ignored the blankets shoved to the foot of the bed and stole the heat of each other’s bodies instead.
“Not bad,” Soushirou said after long enough that Kafka had distantly assumed he must’ve fallen asleep. “Next time, we should smoke before we fuck.”
Kafka giggled a little, then coughed as the laugh caught in his throat. “No dice,” he lamented. “I can’t get it up when I’m high. Not that high. You can, if you want to.”
Soushirou groaned in mild disappointment. “A tango’s meant for two,” he sighed regretfully. And then, after a moment: “What you said, about the kaiju-”
He didn’t finish the sentence but Kafka could guess where he was going with it. It made him laugh even more. “Questionable dice on that one. I… haven’t looked into it much. First time I changed, though, I peed myself and it came out of my nipples. I really don’t know where… or if…”
Soushirou was silent. Then he snorted out a harsh sounding laugh, and then they both dissolved into tear-filled laughter. “Alright,” Soushirou conceded. “Maybe that’s something we figure out. Together.”