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When Soshiro knocked Kafka on his ass for the twentieth time that training session, Kafka sat up again with a laugh and said, “Give this old man a break, Vice-captain.”
Soshiro snorted and reached out a hand. “I’ve fought old men. You’re a baby compared to Director Shinomiya.” In both age and skill, which went without saying.
Kafka clasped his hand, of course, his palm still warm and human even though Soshiro could feel the roughness of Kaiju no. 8’s hide on the back of Kafka’s knuckles. “Give this baby a break?” he offered as he pulled himself up.
“Not a chance.” Soshiro used Kafka’s rising momentum to throw him again.
There was a brief, beautiful moment where Kafka was weightless at the end of his hand. Then, as Kafka slammed into the ground with notably increased grace, Soshiro found himself flying too.
He’d fallen prey to exactly the trap he’d been teaching Kafka to utilise. Nobody expected Kafka to be a particularly skillful combatant; he had the fundamentals, and he had the will, but he didn’t have the years of knowledge ground into his body by decades of daily training. He hadn’t grown up in a military family or in a lineage of martial tradition, after all; he’d only had the stubborn determination of a man who kept trying to join the JAKDF even after years of rejection.
Soshiro kept hold of Kafka and twisted mid-air so that Kafka himself broke his fall. Kafka let out a grunt, both of surprise and of pain, as Soshiro slammed the air out of him.
Instinct had Soshiro straddling Kafka, one forearm braced against his throat as he reached to his hip for where his swords would be. He didn’t carry them while training Kafka, because he wasn’t training Kafka in the sword, but his own lifelong practice couldn’t be so easily denied.
Kafka panted under him, wide-eyed, his body firmer now than it had been when he’d started training but still soft between Soshiro’s thighs. He clutched Soshiro’s hips, but didn’t do anything else. He didn’t even tap out, though Soshiro knew Kafka must be able to feel the pressure against his windpipe. He just laid there, cheeks flushed, chest heaving, lips parted.
Soshiro should let go. He should stand up. He should laugh this off and resume training. He should think of Kafka as just another trainee, or just another kaiju.
He couldn’t.
That had, unfortunately, always been one of Soshiro’s problems with Kafka: it was too easy to think of him as Kafka.
If Soshiro cared about respecting a man six years his elder, or about the formality of rank, he should think of the man as Hibino. If he focused on the JAKDF’s position on him, Soshiro should think of him as Kaiju no. 8.
Instead, Soshiro thought about Kafka.
Soft. Dedicated. Funny. Clever. If he weren’t a kaiju, or a host to a kaiju, or whatever the fuck was going on with him—
Soshiro licked his lips. Kafka’s eyes flickered to the motion and he shifted, ever so slightly, beneath Soshiro.
“Vice-captain,” Kafka began, voice husky.
“This isn’t about our ranks,” Soshiro said quietly. He eased up on Kafka’s throat, shifting his grip to the collar of Kafka’s shirt instead. “Tell me what you’re thinking. The truth,” he added as Kafka’s eyes flicked away.
They’d been dancing around whatever the fuck was between them for more than long enough, but Soshiro refused to give anyone a reason to say he’d coerced Kafka into anything. He’d seen this look in Kafka’s eyes after he’d fought Kaiju no. 8 and Kafka had seen him replaying the fight in the training room. He’d never had a chance to follow up on it; Kaiju no. 10’s assault had begun shortly thereafter, and the First Division had claimed Kafka as a result.
But now…
Kafka swallowed, but he met Soshiro’s gaze squarely now. It was one of the things Soshiro liked about him. He might flinch, but when it came down to it Kafka would always run towards danger. “I was thinking about how you’re teaching me your own family’s style,” Kafka said. “And I’m thinking about how easily you take me down. And I was imagining…” His hands dug into Soshiro’s hips. “I was thinking that you looked like you wanted to kiss me.”
Soshiro smiled, his eyes wide open, and felt Kafka’s heart race at the expression. He still associated it with their fight, huh? And he liked it, like a good little adrenaline junkie. Almost every member of the JAKDF was one; people tended to wash out otherwise. Soshiro twisted his wrist, tightening Kafka’s collar around his neck as he asked, “Would you like that?”
“Yes,” Kafka breathed.
It was the middle of the afternoon. They might be in an out-of-the-way shrine nobody visited, and they might be wearing civvies, but this was still a terrible idea. If anyone glanced through the entryway, they’d be visible. But Kafka was quivering eagerly beneath him, and Soshiro so rarely wanted anyone this way, and if this training regime didn’t succeed they were all going to be royally fucked anyway.
If he did this, he could drive Kafka even harder with sex as the carrot dangling at the end of training’s stick. It was a justification for something Soshiro wanted to do anyway, and he knew it, and he would never tell Kafka about the thought, but that didn’t stop it from running through Soshiro’s mind as he leaned down and kissed Kafka.
Kafka tasted like sweat and electrolyte drinks, and his lips were surprisingly clumsy as he arched into Soshiro’s mouth. Soshiro grabbed Kafka’s hair, holding him still, and pried himself off Kafka’s welcoming mouth to ask, “Ever been in a relationship, Kafka?”
“I— Mina—” Kafka flushed brilliantly as he cut himself off.
It told him everything he needed to know. Soshiro laughed, full-throated and joyous. Ah, Kafka never failed to deliver. “Cute,” Soshiro said, still chuckling as he kissed Kafka’s cheek. No wonder Kafka wanted to stand at his captain’s side. Hot pride bubbled up in Soshiro’s gut, warring with predatory desire, at the realisation that he was good enough, strong enough, to get this man’s attention.
He found himself wanting to keep it all for himself.
“Is that all?” Kafka asked, still breathless, looking up at Soshiro with a wounded and needy expression.
Soshiro rolled his hips and allowed his eyes to narrow in pleasure at the way Kafka’s abs tensed beneath him. Kafka whimpered and bit his lip, which was equally pleasing, and Soshiro wanted so badly to hear that noise again. So he grinned wickedly and said, “All you said was that you’d like a kiss.”
“Fuck,” Kafka groaned. He banged his head on the ground. “I’m an idiot. Soshiro…”
Soshiro hadn’t realised how pleasurable of a rush it would be to hear Kafka whine his name. He wasn’t going to be able to hide his growing erection much longer, even with all the self-control in the world. “Training first,” Soshiro said as he reached back to where he knew without a doubt he’d find Kafka’s cock hard in his sweatpants. He gently rested his hand upon it and watched Kafka’s eyes flutter closed. “I’ll take care of you after we’re done here. Understood?”
“Yes, vice-captain,” Kafka said, strangled, the response coming from military discipline and not his mind. Soshiro would need to train him out of saying that while they fucked, or else he’d be fucked any time they were on comms in combat.
But that was a problem for later.
“Good.” Soshiro stood. His cock protested the movement; he ignored it. His body would obey him. He offered Kafka a hand, still grinning.
This time, Kafka rolled away and pushed himself to his feet. Soshiro could see the bulge in his pants, but Kafka didn’t seem to be paying it any mind as he stepped into a ready position. “What next?”
“Form drills,” Soshiro said crisply. “Practice the modified First Technique.”
Kafka shouted acknowledgement and immediately began working. He really had come a long way since the first trials. Even since the first day Soshiro had brought him here. And if it was harder now to keep his thoughts and eyes from wandering across the muscles revealed as Kafka pushed himself…
Well, Soshiro could indulge himself a little, so long as Kafka’s training continued apace.