Archive of Our Own

“God, that was brutal,” Kafka muttered, thunking his glass onto the bar counter.

Mori groaned in agreement, slumping deeper into the cracked leather booth. “Yeah, man. Today sucked so bad it felt personal.”

Yoshimura rested his chin in his palm, looking half-asleep. “Shoulder’s been killing me. I know I should see a doctor.” He plucked up an edamame, giving it a half-hearted inspection. “But honestly, I’d rather just lie down and die than deal with the appointment.

Kafka straightened slightly, brows pinching together. Now that Yoshimura mentioned it, his own shoulders throbbed with a dull ache that crept down his spine. He rolled one shoulder, then the other. “Shit,” he grumbled. “Mine are killing me too.”

Kinugasa, halfway through a bite of liver yakitori, paused to chew and swallow before speaking through the last of the morsel. “Doctors are overpriced and useless unless something’s broken. You want relief? Go get a massage.”

“A massage?”

“Yeah,” Kinugasa grunted, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. “Back was wrecked last week. Found this hole-in-the-wall place downtown, deep tissue. Hurt like a bastard while they were working me, but after?” To everyone’s surprise, his grim face cracked into a grin. “Felt twenty years younger walking out.”

That pulled Kafka’s mind back to when he was twelve. Climbing trees, leaping off rooftops, landing like a cat, and brushing it off like it was nothing. Mina would cry every time, convinced he’d broken a bone, and he’d just laugh until she smacked him upside the head.

Back then, they played cops and robbers with the neighborhood kids. He and Mina were always the cops, and at one point, they’d even promised each other they’d grow up to be real ones.

Funny how things turned out. Twenty years later, Mina was the police captain of Tachikawa, and Kafka… was just a worn-out construction worker. Thirty-two, single, and convinced that one bad fart could trigger his sciatica.

Kafka took a sip of his beer, letting the fizz settle before his mind wandered to strong hands kneading the knots out of his back. Preferably attached to a ridiculously handsome face.

“Man, that sounds pretty damn good right now,” he said, practically drooling at the thought.

Mitsuike burst out laughing, slapping the table so hard the utensils rattled. “Just admit you got your dick tugged by some red district girl and stop pretending it was about your lumbar support!”

Kafka recoiled. “Red district?!”

All eyes swiveled to Kinugasa, who suddenly looked very interested in his empty skewer. “It was just a massage!” he insisted, “The place was legit.”

Toku pitched forward over the table, flashing his missing tooth with a booming laugh. “Ahhh, but it was in the red district!”

The group erupted into whooping jeers and pounding fists on the tabletop, jabbing fingers at Kinugasa like a tribunal of drunk old men. Amid the teasing, the clinks of glasses, Kafka couldn’t stop thinking about how Kinugasa had been walking better, standing straighter, not grumbling every time he got up.

Kafka rubbed his shoulder again. It did feel worse lately. And Kinugasa had a wife, no way he’d be stupid enough to risk all that on some happy-ending nonsense.

As they tugged on their coats and paid for the tab, Kafka nudged Kinugasa discreetly. “Hey. You got the name of that place?”

Kinugasa looked over, surprised, then thoughtful. “Nah, I only went once. Can’t remember the name, but you’ll know it. They had this red paper lantern outside with a fox painted on it. Real hard to miss.”

Kafka gave a slow nod. “Fox lanterns. Got it.”

They filtered out into the chilled night, parting ways one by one. Kafka stuck his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, the faint buzz of alcohol making everything a little more dreamlike. 

He didn’t have work tomorrow, so technically, he had time to see a doctor. But wasting a whole day off just to sit in a waiting room, only to be handed a bottle of painkillers? No thanks.

Really, how bad could a massage be?

The others had already gone their separate ways, but Kafka made a loop of the block and trudged along until he found himself lingering at the corner where the red-light district bled into the quieter edge of town. Neon signs buzzed overhead, their glow spilling across cracked pavement, while strings of colored bulbs swayed faintly in the night breeze.

He scanned the storefronts, feeling like he was about to step across some invisible threshold. He could practically hear Mina scolding him already, telling him not to go wandering here, convinced he was too gullible for his own good.

But he was an adult. Older than her, even. And besides, he wasn’t here to cause trouble. He just wanted to know where the place was.

Kafka wandered deeper into unfamiliar territory, bathed in the red and pink glow of neon. He was shocked by how many people crowded the streets. He passed salarymen in rumpled suits, laughing too loudly, girls in microskirts and painted smiles, handing out flyers to passing men. He gave the first group a wide berth, nodded politely to the second, and resisted the urge to buy food from the smoky stalls lining the sidewalks. His eyes stayed fixed on the search for the fox lanterns.

But after circling back for the third time, he found himself standing in front of the same strange kaiju-themed restaurant tucked into an alley. With a sigh, he ducked inside, half out of frustration, half out of hunger. The silver-haired kid serving him looked barely out of high school and gave him attitude the moment he asked for directions. Still, after Kafka sat down and had a quick meal that turned out too delicious to leave unfinished, things softened. The kid finally warmed up when Kafka joked about his pink-haired coworker being way too protective of him. To his surprise, the silver-haired boy actually looked shocked for a moment, then went red as he fumbled with the tray in his hands.

With some effort, Kafka finally got directions toward a taller building that he could barely see through all of the lights. But when he followed them, he ended up standing outside a host club instead. Two sharply dressed young men strolled out in suits too stylish for ordinary nightlife. One, shorter with his blue hair tied neatly in a bun and an expensive watch glittering on his wrist. The other, taller and broad-shouldered, mint-colored hair cropped close, hovered protectively at his side.

Kafka sheepishly asked them for directions. The taller one pointed to his right while the shorter one gestured to the left. Within seconds, the two were bickering. What started as disagreement slid quickly into obvious flirting, compliments disguised as snipes. Kafka stood there, wondering if it was really necessary to have this kind of thing rubbed in his face right now.

Eventually, they settled on a third option entirely and waved him down another street. Kafka thanked them politely, though a knot of suspicion coiled tighter in his chest. At this point, he was starting to wonder if the entire district was conspiring to spin him in circles.

He was about ready to call it quits and head home when he saw a group of girls in maid outfits outside a café being cornered by a pair of drunk men. His temper flared, and he stormed forward, ready to break it up.

Turns out, his help wasn’t needed.

The taller maid, a striking figure with bright blue hair, shoved one of the men so hard he staggered back, arms flailing. The smaller one with sharp pigtails didn’t hesitate to connect her boot squarely with the other man’s groin. 

Kafka winced in sympathy, only to accidentally lock eyes with the most delicate-looking of the trio, who immediately screamed. Within seconds, the other two closed on him like guard dogs. Hands raised, Kafka blurting out his innocence of being lost and needing directions!

Thankfully, they settled down and one pointed him off yet again. Kafka bowed and stammered his thanks, adding a warning for them to be careful before shuffling away.

By the time he found himself alone again, the night had grown late, the streets quieter. He stood in another unfamiliar stretch of the district, exhaustion weighing heavily in his bones. What was he even doing here? He should just go home. Forget Kinugasa’s advice. Buy some over-the-counter medicine, soak in a hot bath, call it a night.

Just as he turned to leave, he caught a flicker of red.

There it was.

A row of paper lanterns painted with the sharp, grinning faces of foxes glowed beneath the vermilion torii gate, their light spilling soft and gold across the stone path. Beyond stood a tall, narrow building that looked older than its neighbors yet carefully maintained. Its entrance was draped with a heavy curtain, bold black kanji across the fabric reading 'Shiatsu'.

The walls on either side carried signs advertising massage, acupuncture, and herbal medicine, while the path itself was framed by lush greenery that crept close to the stones. The whole place felt hidden, half-temple, half-apothecary, with the faint glow of lighted windows drawing one deeper inside.

Stepping beneath the glow of the lanterns, Kafka glanced up at the fox-painted light, their grin wider the longer he stared.“Yeah, this is definitely the spot.” He gave a small nod to himself, tucking his hands back into his jacket pockets. The motivation he’d lost while wandering came back just from seeing it existed in real life.

“Finally. I was getting tired of wandering around like an idiot.”

The building had a charm that drew his interest, something that made him want to step closer and peek inside. But it was already late, and with no sign posted about its hours, the sensible choice was to come back in the morning.

He turned away from the building, already preparing to retrace his steps and head home for the night. In his head, he was planning out what time he’d swing by the next day. He figured the price couldn’t be too bad and hoped that it would actually make him feel better in the end.

“Oi, ya just gonna stand there or are ya plannin’ on comin’ in?”

Kafka jumped at the sound, thinking that he had been alone just a few seconds ago when he turned, and there leaning casually against the torii gate, stood a man he was sure hadn’t been there before.

An unfairly handsome man.

“You’re not lost, right?” the ridiculously hot guy asked, a surprisingly flattering bowl cut framing his face with clean lines. That grin of his looked like it had gotten him out of more trouble than a hundred apologies. “Place ain’t exactly a maze.”

Shorter than him by a head, Kafka’s gaze involuntarily dropped to his chest, where his black yukata hung open, exposing defined muscle sculpted like someone who worked for a living and didn’t skip any days doing it. Two swords were tucked into his obi, one hand resting near their hilts, the other lifting lazily to come closer.

Kafka fumbled, heat creeping up his neck. “Oh! I didn’t know anyone was, uh, here…” 

“Ya were gawkin’ hard at the entrance,” the man said with a light chuckle. “C’mon, no need to be shy.”

He stepped aside, sweeping one arm toward the door with a slight bow, “Step inside. We’ve got the cure for sore muscles, heavy hearts, and whatever else’s draggin’ ya down. Promise you’ll walk out lighter.”

Kafka’s heart kicked up another notch. He hadn’t expected this! Sure, he’d daydreamed about it, but he didn’t think it would actually come true! He’d expected a middle-aged woman in sensible shoes. But this guy?! This swordsman-looking heartthrob with a Kansai drawl and abs carved like fresh stone?

Nope.

No way.

He waved his hands, stumbling a step back. “I’m fine, really! I’ll come back tomorrow! It’s already late, I don’t want to impose!” 

The words tumbled out in a rush as he turned on his heel, already planning to bolt, never to set foot down here again. Better to remember that face in his dreams, better to choke down some painkillers and sleep it off. 

But before he could flee, a hand closed firmly around his wrist, jerking him back and halting his escape in one sharp, undeniable pull.

“What's the rush?” the man said, tugging him back with a grin that had danger written between the teeth. “You’re already here! Somethin’ must’ve brought ya all the way out to a place like this.”

Kafka’s mouth opened to object, but the man above him cut him off with a playful ease that lit up his whole face. “Look at ya, tension all the way up to your neck. Shoulders high as your ears, jaw clenched like you’re holdin’ your whole damn life between your molars. That ain’t healthy, y’know?”

“I-wait, no, I’m not-”

“Shhh,” the man hushed, tugging him gently toward the doorway. “Lemme help ya. S’what I’m here for.”

Kafka staggered forward, caught completely off guard, blinking fast as the herbal heat of the doorway rolled over him. “Wait! I didn’t even catch your name!”

The man glanced back over his shoulder, lantern light framing the sharp slope of his nose, the soft shape of his lips that looked far too inviting. 

"Soshiro Hoshina. I’ll be takin’ care of ya tonight.”

Kafka was drawn inside. A faint snap of energy licked across his skin, so soft he almost thought he imagined it when he passed the heavy curtain and into the dim interior. The door slid shut behind them with a soft click that felt less like an ending and more like the start of something Kafka wasn’t remotely prepared for.

He tried to tug his hand free, stumbling over his words that it was late, that he had work in the morning, but his protests tangled uselessly in the air. Hoshina didn’t slow in his stride, only guided him down the narrow hallway and pulled him into another room.

The air inside was warm and thick with the scent of camphor, eucalyptus, and something deeper, frankincense maybe. It hit the back of his throat like incense, making him blink slowly as he took in the room.

The lighting was soft, and wooden shelves were lined with neat rows of glass jars, each one labeled in flowing brush calligraphy. Creams in ivory swirls, oils of pale amber and deep green. Dried herbs bundled in twine or ground into coarse powder, their scents mingling into the room.

A single low massage table stood at the center of it all, with a small folded towel sitting precisely atop a pillow. The whole room was whisper-quiet except for the low hum of a bamboo water feature trickling somewhere behind a partition.

“Alright, strip down.”

He spun around so fast he nearly tripped on his own feet. “S-Strip?!”

Hoshina leaned in the doorframe, arms crossed, looking entirely unbothered. “Well, yeah, I gotta work on your back, shoulders, legs. Hard to do that through a jacket, innit?”

“I-I didn’t think!” He shook his head, trying to stop the stutter tripping over his tongue. “I mean, it’s just my shoulders! Nothing serious enough that I’d need to take my clothes off…”

Hoshina snickered, stepping into the room and placing a warm hand on Kafka’s hip. “C’mon, don’t be shy.”

Kafka jumped back like he’d been shocked, clutching at the massage table for support. “Maybe I should just come back tomorrow! It’s super late anyway, and you don’t even look like a masseur!”

Hoshina tilted his head, “Huh?”

Kafka jabbed a finger toward the pair of swords at his waist. “Those! You’ve got katanas! What kind of masseur carries katanas?!”

“Oh, these?” Hoshina gave a casual shrug, then slid the swords from his belt with ease, holding them horizontally in both hands like presenting a pair of prized heirlooms. “Just a hobby. Been doin’ laido since I was knee-high. Keeps me centered.”

He slid the swords back into his obi with a smooth grace that spoke of years of practice. “I’m the owner here,” One hand brushing lightly over his chest, Kafka’s eyes followed the motion helplessly, before Hoshina adjusted the folds of his kimono with practiced ease. “Been runnin’ this place a few years now. Nothin’ makes me feel better than makin’ other people feel better. That’s all.”

“…Really?” Kafka asked, uncertain.

One of Hoshina’s eyes cracked open, glinting like polished garnet, and he gave a small smirk. “Really. It’s my specialty. Hands’ve got good dexterity.”

Kafka looked anywhere but at the man, his face heating at the casual words. “That’s nice and all, but really, I hate to bother you, so I should get going.”

Hoshina only waved a hand, already turning toward the door, “Not a bother at all. Just strip down, toss that towel over your junk, and lie flat. I’ll be back in a sec.”

“Excuse me!?" Kafka started, his voice rising an octave. “Even my underwear?!”

But the door slid shut, leaving him frozen in the middle of the room. Seconds ticked by before his motor functions caught up, and he slowly turned in place, his thoughts spiraling like a tornado made of equal parts embarrassment and horniness.

There’s no way. No actual way.

He couldn’t just get naked-naked in here. With that guy! With those hands, rough with calluses, he’d felt when Hoshina dragged him inside. With that smile flashing fangs that somehow made him look even more handsome.

Kafka fumbled for his phone, thumb hovering over Mina's number. Maybe he could call her to bail him out, but did he really want to hear the scolding that would follow? She still brought up his last disaster of a relationship with that leech of a boyfriend.

Sure, Narumi had been ridiculously good-looking, but Kafka had put up with way too much, and the guy had bled him dry. Groaning, Kafka shoved the phone back into his pocket. No. Calling Mina would only make this worse.

He looked around the room desperately, getting excited by finding the small window in the far corner. Salvation! He bolted for it, only to realize up close it was way too tiny for anyone bigger than a stray cat. He shook his fist at the glass, cursing himself for being chubby instead of some damn tiny twink who could’ve squeezed through to freedom.

His neck gave a hard twinge, and he winced at the pain. Rubbing at the stubborn knot, he thought about Hoshina’s words and let his eyes drift over the room. It didn’t look sketchy, in fact, it seemed almost too neat.

 And, well… he was already here.

“…Alright,” Kafka took a deep breath, “Alright, I can do this. It's just a massage. That’s it. I’ll let him fix my back, then I’ll go home and jerk off and never come back. Easy.” He pumped a fist in weak determination. 

He reached for the zipper of his jacket and shrugged it off, hanging it over a chair in the corner. His boots came next, followed by his shirt, then his jeans. Down to his underwear now, Kafka stood awkwardly in the center of the room, clutching the pitifully small towel in both hands.

“What the hell? This thing’s a damn napkin!” He flapped it wildly, as if waving it might magically stretch it out. “How the hell is this supposed to cover me?”

It barely draped over his lap, covering just his junk and the barest sliver of his thighs. A hot pit of anxiety churned in his stomach. He wasn’t fat, but he sure as hell wasn’t carved from marble like Hoshina, either. Years of manual labor had left him with solid biceps and thick legs. But his belly had some give. His hips carried softness. And now, with this postage-stamp excuse for a towel, he was expected to lie face-up with every flaw laid bare under someone else’s gaze.

The sound of knuckles on wood made him jump so violently he let out a ridiculous little scream, spinning toward the door with his pulse hammering.

“Ya good?”

Kafka could hear the smile through the door, a brutal reminder that he was about to bare everything to the hottest guy he’d been near in a year.

Yeeeeeaaaaa, I'm not doing this.

“Yes!” he blurted, eyes darting back to the tiny window like maybe he could wriggle through half-naked and avoid the most humiliating night of his life. If he sucked in his stomach, he could shimmy his legs through… but what if he got stuck halfway until the neighbors called the cops? 

Mina would really have to bail him out, and she’d never let him live it down.

“Ya don’t sound good,” Hoshina drawled from the other side, and Kafka cursed himself for always falling for a pretty face.

“Do I really have to take off my underwear?!” he cried. 

 Just give me that much, please. Spare me that one last shred of dignity.

“Yea, it’s important,” Hoshina called back. "Creams gotta absorb through the skin. Otherwise it’s like rubbin’ lotion on jeans.”

Kafka groaned and flailed a hand toward the door like Hoshina could see it. “Then at least give me a bigger towel!”

A pause.

“Can't!” Hoshina said brightly. “That’s all I got, this late at night!”

Kafka clenched the towel in both fists, wringing it like he could tear the pathetic scrap in half. “Oh my god! This is a nightmare!” he hissed, muttering a string of curses under his breath.

With the grim resolve of a man marching to the gallows, he peeled off his underwear, folded it, and stacked it neatly atop the rest of his clothes. Shuffling backward, he perched stiffly on the table before finally flopping down on his back.

The towel barely covered him. The sides of his thighs were on full display, and he had to keep tugging the fabric down just to keep his dick from flashing the ceiling. His pelvis was completely exposed, his stomach sticking out just enough to make him feel vulnerable in ways he didn’t even know were possible.

“You settled?”

Panic did a better job covering him than the damn towel, and Kafka honestly didn’t know what he’d done to get on karma’s bad side. “You know what? Never mind. I’ll come back tomorrow!”

The door slid open before he could even sit up fully.

“Stop bein’ so dramatic,” Hoshina said as he stepped in, one brow cocked, looking amused. “You’re actin’ like I haven’t seen a dick before.”

Kafka shrieked, slapping his hands over his junk in a desperate attempt at cover. “I didn’t say you could come in!”

“Oh come on,” Hoshina groaned, closing the door behind him. “It’s not like we’ve got different equipment, right? I got the same setup you do.”

Kafka grumbled, curling tighter around himself as if he could shield himself from Hoshina’s presence and give him back some semblance of control.  “Y-Yeah, I guess…”

But you don’t know I run a little differently than you, he thought, grateful at least that his dick was soft. The last thing he needed was some full-blown panic hard-on adding to the humiliation.

“Then relax.”

Hoshina moved with the easy confidence of someone who clearly didn’t think barging in on a half-naked crisis was anything unusual. His hands came down gently, one palm resting on Kafka’s chest.

“I said relax,” Hoshina repeated, pressing him back down. Kafka followed the push without thinking, distracted by the lingering heat of his palm and almost shivering when it left. His wide eyes trailed after Hoshina as the man strolled over to the shelf, fingers gliding across jars, humming softly all the while.

“How’s your skin? Ya allergic to anything?”

“No.”

Hoshina nodded. “Good.” He selected a couple of jars and brought them over to the small table beside them. Kafka tried not to look at his hands and instead focused on the gentle clinks of glass against wood.

“So what do you do for work?” Hoshina asked conversationally as he opened a jar.

“Construction,” Kafka croaked.

“Ahh,” Hoshina nodded, purple bangs slipping forward to shade his eyes, though the curve of his soft lips was a far more tantalizing sight. “Yeah, no wonder your whole body’s actin’ up. That’s rough on the joints, buddy.”

Kafka exhaled slowly, some of the anxiety draining as the talk shifted to something familiar. “Yeah. Kills my shoulders. My back’s a wreck. Knees aren’t much better.”

Hoshina opened another jar and sniffed it, then gave a satisfied little nod. “Sounds like your body needs a tune-up, not just a rubdown.”

“Right?” Kafka sighed, letting his head sink into the pillow. “This is what happens when you hit your thirties. Everything just starts breaking.”

“Nah,” Hoshina said easily, setting aside the jars he wasn’t going to use and sliding them back onto the shelf. “That’s the job talkin’, not the age. You’re not old.”

Kafka gave a bitter little laugh. “Spoken like someone who isn’t thirty yet.”

“Twenty-seven isn't exactly young.”

Kafka finally looked at Hoshina, startled to realize he was in his late twenties. He looked so damn young with his smooth skin and confidence. The realization only made heat prickle across his face before he could look away again.

Hoshina raised a brow. “Seriously, what, you got a problem with me being younger than you or somethin’? Ya need older hands to feel comfortable?”

“No!” Kafka yelped, shifting his legs before realizing with dawning horror that he was naked under the world’s tiniest towel in front of someone just a little younger than him. He bet Hoshina wouldn’t find someone older attractive anyway, which was fine. Totally fine. So why the hell was he even thinking about that?!

“You’re fine! You’re not too young! You’re perfect! Not perfect! Ugh, just forget it!”

A burst of laughter spilled out of the man, and Kafka fought the urge to grab the pillow and bury his face in it until he suffocated.

“Perfect’s a charming compliment, and I haven’t even put my hands on ya yet.”

Kafka held his breath, praying that the heat burning through him was just the temperature of the room rising, and not the man’s words sinking under his skin.

“But you’re in good hands. I’ll make your body feel somethin’ you’ve never experienced.”

Please let me die, Kafka begged the universe, turning his face away and squeezing his eyes shut.

“Now,” Hoshina purred, working the cream into his palms, "turn over for me. On your stomach.”

Kafka’s eyes shot open, “W–What?!”

Hoshina cocked his head innocently at him. “Didn’t ya say your back was killin’ ya?”

Did he say that? Of course he did. But now he was going to have to flip over and move the towel, expose everything, and somehow lie face-down without flashing Hoshina his ass like he was presenting for some softcore porno shoot.

He coughed weakly. “Are you sure there isn’t a… a bigger towel?”

“Nope!” Hoshina shot back instantly, flashing a smile so bright Kafka swore it seared his retinas.

“You didn’t even look!” Kafka whined, head falling back against the pillow in utter defeat.

“I already said it’s late. You’re lucky we even had any towels.”

I didn’t even want to do this! You dragged me in here, you bastard! Kafka screamed inside his head. Fine, if Hoshina didn’t care, then neither would he!

Shuffling in slow motion, he reached down and gripped the towel at the corners. With painstaking care, he lifted his hips and tried to turn while keeping some semblance of dignity intact. Which didn't work because the towel shifted anyway, sliding halfway down his thighs, leaving the lower swell of his backside half-exposed to the cool air.

Every inch of his skin burned.

He shifted onto his stomach, lying flat on the table, every muscle vibrating with mortification. Tugging at the towel only proved pointless, sitting limply over the end of his ass. Sure, it hid his balls and his dick, but his upper cheeks were on full display. Kafka smothered himself in the pillow, begging for a fiery end. Hell, he’d take sprouting claws and tearing his way out if it meant never having to look Hoshina in the eye again. Either worked.

I’m never coming back here again, he thought bitterly. Hell, I’m gonna quit my job, change my name, and move to Hokkaido. No one must ever know about this.

The air shifted with Hoshina’s movements, and Kafka braced himself, waiting for those hands to finally touch him. Yet, when nothing came, curiosity overpowered dread, and he risked a peek over his shoulder.

Hoshina was standing right behind him, palms open, eyes locked squarely on Kafka’s ass.

Kafka’s entire spine went rigid. “Um…”

Hoshina’s eyes hooded, his easy grin snapping back into place as if nothing had slipped. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he chuckled, rubbing his palms together. “Guess I spaced out for a moment.”

“Spaced out by-” He sucked in a breath at the moment Hoshina stepped in and set his hands on Kafka’s back. 

“Let me know if anything feels too rough.”

Kafka couldn't say anything because Hoshina’s hands were everywhere he hurt.

Each pass of those palms, slick with warm cream, found the knots he didn’t even know he’d been carrying. His upper back, just below the shoulder blades where the tension always pooled from lifting too much. The tight ridge along his spine that had turned to stone after too many days hunched over rebar. When Hoshina's thumbs pressed into the meat of his lower back, Kafka let out a sharp inhale through clenched teeth.

But it felt good. 

Hoshina wasn’t just massaging him, but listening to his body, learning him by touch. Every movement felt like he was searching for pain just to soothe it away. He wasn’t being worked over but taken care of.

“Damn,” Hoshina breathed, hands somewhere over Kafka’s ribs. “You got a lot of worn-out muscle here. Tight all over.”

Kafka didn’t trust his mouth to form real words, so he hummed instead. His eyelids fluttered, fingers twitching with each deeper glide of Hoshina’s thumbs. The roughness in Hoshina’s fingertips was noticeable. They scraped just enough to make the glide of lotion feel textured.

Kafka liked it. 

A low groan slipped from his throat, unintentional and drawn-out, and Kafka immediately tried to stifle it with a cough, heat flooding his face. Hoshina didn’t even pause. “S’okay,” he said calmly. “That’s normal. Means I’m hittin’ the right spots.”

Kafka bit his lip, the pillow absorbing most of the muffled sound he made in reply. His thighs were tense, twitching subtly beneath the towel as Hoshina's hands dragged firmly along the base of his spine and out to the sides. 

Another groan threatened to rise up, but he swallowed it down.

Hoshina’s touch slid up over his arms next, fingers gliding from triceps to elbow and back again, kneading muscles that rarely got any attention. His arms were solid, carved from years of hoisting steel beams. A quiet sigh of relief that something he’d actually built with his body was paying off. For half a second, he even wanted to flex so Hoshina could really feel the muscle for himself. But before he could, those hands were already moving higher, closing in on his shoulders.

Kafka melted.

It was like those fingers had a map of his pain and were tracing it with almost unfair precision. His shoulder blades, tight and overworked, resisted at first, but Hoshina was patient. Strong fingers digging, circling, dragging through tension with pressure until Kafka let out a deep, ragged breath.

And then his neck.

Kafka twitched before the fingers even landed. It had always been sensitive. He tried to brace himself, but it didn’t help. The moment Hoshina’s thumbs worked between the slope of his shoulders and up toward the base of his skull, he jerked slightly, then shuddered, unable to control his reaction.

“S-sorry,” he mumbled into the pillow.

"It's okay. Don't apologize."

Each slow drag up his neck sent little zaps down Kafka’s back, his toes wriggling like they had a mind of their own. He twitched under the touch, half ready to squawk, but then Hoshina’s fingers hit a spot at the top of his spine and he let out an embarrassingly loud groan instead.

“Mmmhh…”

His face flushed so hot it felt like steam was coming off his scalp.

But the hands didn’t pause. They just kept moving, and soon Kafka found himself biting down another hum, a helpless little gasp catching in his chest before he surrendered and let another “Mmpphh…” slip past his lips.

When Hoshina’s hands lifted from his body, Kafka sagged with relief. The absence of touch was almost jarring after the last few minutes, but it let him exhale a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

Okay, he thought, this wasn’t that bad. Maybe I was just… freaking out over nothing.

He let his head rest sideways against the pillow, staring blankly at the jars and herbs that lined the wall.

 Seriously, the guy knows what he’s doing. He's a professional. Maybe I’ll even come back another day. In the morning where there will be normal sized towels.

He was starting to smile faintly when hands brushed against his thighs.

Kafka went absolutely still.

“Mm-mm, you’re tensing again,” 

“My legs?!” Kafka’s head snapped around, pupils blown wide at the sight before him. Hoshina’s yukata hangs open, pale chest and lean abs framed perfectly. 

“Yes, your legs. You use ’em every day, don’t ya?” Hoshina’s hands climbed higher, from calf to thigh, kneading deep, skirting dangerously close to the line Kafka really, really didn’t want crossed. Panic flared hot in his chest, and he flapped a hand weakly behind him, like he could somehow shoo the man away without turning over. “I-I think I’m good now! Really, I feel great! Amazing work! Five stars, ten out of ten, I should probably-”

But his words cut off with a gasp.

Hoshina’s palms curving right up to where the thighs met the under-curve of his ass, thumbs dragging with just enough pressure to make Kafka’s toes curl. 

“I take this work seriously.” Hoshina’s voice came deeper now, a rasp that threaded through Kafka’s nerves and made his body sing where those hands pressed. “You’re in construction, right? Legs take a hell of a beating. Ya can’t just ignore that kind of wear.”

Hoshina cupped his ass, giving a light squeeze, his voice dropping into a rasp. “Let me do my job… let me make you feel good.”

Kafka shoved his face deep into the pillow, muffling the groan that tore out of him anyway. His body caught in a futile battle between wanting to vanish and wanting to stay right where he was.

He wasn’t gonna make it.

Heat radiated up from his back, sinking deep into him until it pooled low in his groin. Every pass of Hoshina’s hands over his thighs sent a jolt through him, funneling straight into his cock until it felt painfully swollen, pinned tight against the table.

Don’t move. Don’t buck. Don’t breathe wrong.

“Relax,” Hoshina chided. “You’re clenching up again.”

“You relax when you’ve got some hot guy massaging you!”

The words came flying out of his mouth before he could even taste them. The silence that followed was immediate.

He hadn’t said that in his head.

Behind him, Hoshina let out a loud, full-throated laugh that echoed off the walls and danced around in his head.

"Oho? So, ya think I’m hot?"

Kafka wanted to scream into the pillow. His whole body was shaking in shame, and still his cock twitched at the laugh.

“Ya know,” Hoshina said, casually grinding his thumbs into the base of Kafka’s ass, “it’s really nice hearin’ a compliment from a handsome guy like yourself.”

Kafka whimpered and groaned, equal parts overwhelmed and aroused, fists clenching around the pillow as he struggled to understand what was going on. “Ahhh H-Hoshina…” Kafka tried to get his attention, but the man seemed entirely in his own world, hands shamelessly groping his ass. Kafka nearly cried when those fingers spread his cheeks.

“Damn, you got some real tension in here,” Hoshina remarked casually, spreading Kafka’s ass, making his head blank by the sheer absurdity of it. “A lotta people don’t realize how this kind of tightness can pull on the sciatic nerve.”

Kafka felt him press way too close to his hole, a shaky cry breaking loose. “Hoshina? H-Hoshina? Hoooshinaah…” 

“So it’s always good,” Hoshina’s hands never faltered. They kept kneading, circling, working him over while Kafka swore he could feel those eyes fixed squarely on his exposed hole. “to have someone really work these muscles. Get deep into it. Release all that tension.”

"Ooohhh… ahhh….hhhfff"

"The pillow grew hot beneath him with his panting, his body tingling with pleasure that coiled low in his gut like a rising tide. Shame buzzed at the edges, a dull warning, but the touch washed it all away."

He tried to think. He really did.

Should I stop this?

Push back? Get up? Say something?

Hoshina’s thumbs brushed right over his hole. Placing pressure there, but not enough to push.

“Aahhhmmfff!”

His hole was tingling, the rough squeeze and grinding touch making the sensation so intense that Kafka thought he was losing his damn mind.

Maybe the others were right. Maybe this was the red district experience. He should’ve known the second he saw that sly fox lantern outside. And yet, no matter how much he told himself that, Kafka couldn’t push past the fog of pleasure, the dizzying pull of having someone like Hoshina’s hands, Hoshina’s attention, on him.

If it’s his hands, it doesn’t feel so wrong…

“Y’know,” Warm breath slid across the curve of his ear. “I never got your name.”

Kafka’s brain was too slow to keep up with what his body was doing. His hips twitched helplessly against the table, every squeeze from Hoshina’s hands more of a blatant grope than any massage. He tried to swallow back the flood of saliva gathering in his mouth, but the pillow beneath his cheek was already damp with drool.

“…Kafka,” he breathed. “My name is Kafka Hibinio.”

“Mmm… Kafka.” Hoshina drew out his name like he was savoring something sweet on his tongue. No last names, no formality, just straight to his first name, stripping away any pretense of distance. It left Kafka fumbling at the boldness of the choice, his thoughts tripping over themselves. And then the next words came, and thinking wasn’t even an option anymore.

“Alrighty! Turn on yer back.”

Kafka’s eyes popped open. “Hhhhuuuhh?” He lay there stunned, body still buzzing, while Hoshina casually walked away. A moment later, the sound of running water filled the room as the man washed his hands in the nearby basin, whistling cheerfully.

Kafka blinked dazedly. "...What?”

“I’m doin’ a proper deep tissue session,” Hoshina called back casually, drying his hands on a soft cloth. “That means everything gets worked over. Gotta make sure all the parts connect right, can't just leave ya half undone.”

Without Hoshina’s hands on him, Kafka finally calmed just enough to register the problem between his legs. His cock was painfully hard, and there was the tingling heat that was buzzing through his ass and coiled tight at his hole. And then came the horrifying clarity that if he didn’t get out now, Hoshina would see just how pathetic he got from nothing more than a little groping.

“I-I’m good n-now!” Kafka stammered, darting a look toward his clothes, already plotting how to get off the table without collapsing. “I feel so much better, really! But I think I should go now! How much do I owe you? Just tell me, or, better yet, I can come by tomorrow to pay you!”

“Kafka.”

The way Hoshina said his name made Kafka glance up and freeze. Shadows cut across half his face, but the heat burning in that garnet eye and the sharp curve of his smile pinned Kafka in place like a blade point.

“I need to massage everywhere, sweetheart. So be good. Turn around for me.”

Sweetheart.

The sound of his name, the hunger blazing in Hoshina’s eyes, and the honeyed weight of that word on his tongue were enough to break Kafka’s resistance. Slowly, shakily, he rolled onto his back. His trembling fingers fumbled with the towel, tugging it over his lap to shield himself, though it barely concealed the aching bulge beneath. The rough fabric dragged against his sensitive head, but he bore it, biting down on the inside of his cheek.

“My, my, aren’t ya a lovely shade of pink.”

Kafka flinched, squeezing his eyes shut so tightly it ached behind the lids. He could feel the shadow falling over him, the weight of that gaze pinning him down. His cock throbbed beneath the towel, while heat flushed his face scarlet. He was under the hands of a man he barely knew, a swordsman with a wicked smile and fingers that seemed intent on claiming every inch of his skin, leaving him nowhere to hide.

Kafka bit down on his lip when hands rested on his stomach. desperate to hold back any sound now that there was no pillow to bury his face in. Those fingers trailed lower, following the line of his hair, gliding over the softer plane of his lower belly, until they reached the sharp edge of his pelvis.

Don’t… don’t go lower. Don’t you dare… no… please just a little lower. His thoughts spun out in a desperate mess. Why does it feel so good? 

But instead of dipping down, those hands slid higher, teasing over his ribs and chest, leaving him gasping in frustration. "Hhhnn!' Another weak sound broke free of his throat, almost pleading. 

He’s doing this on purpose! Kafka screamed at himself, panic blazing through his head. How the hell did I get into this mess!? Why didn’t I just go home!? Why do I want more!? I want more, I want more, I want mo-

“OOH!” Kafka shrieked, half-yelp, half-moan, as Hoshina’s hand groped his chest, squeezing hard. His nipples were pinched between skilled fingers, a bolt of sharp pleasure shooting through him so fast it made his back arch.

Oh god oh god oh god! That feels good?! That’s not supposed to feel good! I’m not supposed to sound like that!

“This is for lymphatic drainage,” Hoshina announced cheerfully, fingers digging deep into Kafka’s chest as he gave his pecs a thorough squeeze. “You’re so tense here too, gotta make sure you’re all nice and relaxed.” His tone was pure professionalism, but the way his thumbs dragged over Kafka’s nipples made the words sound like a promise.

“My n-nip-” tears prickled at the corners of his eyes as Hoshina’s thumbs drew lazy circles, and his nipples felt like they were sparking, each jolt shooting straight down to his dick.

“Ya sound so damn cute when I touch you like this,” Hoshina teased, his hands never slowing as his fingers toyed mercilessly with Kafka’s nipples. It felt like he was measuring every twitch, every gasp, every shudder that escaped him. “So tell me, sweetheart... ya just sensitive here, or is it my hands makin’ ya fall apart like that?"

“Hoshina!” The name slipped wet and desperate from his mouth before he could catch it. 

“Kaaaffkaaa,” Hoshina sang, drawing his name out high and sweet, “Call me by name.”

His legs jerked and hands flew up, whether to push him away or pull him closer, Kafka didn’t even know. His head tossed side to side, face twisting as more cries spilled out.

“Ahh! W-Wait! MMmphhh! Ho-Hoshina!”

“That’s not my name,” Hoshina chided, giving Kafka’s nipple a cruel twist that had him arching up, writhing to escape the sting. Kafka cried out his name again, his nipples blazing like exposed nerves. But when Hoshina twisted harder, a harsh “Wrong." Kafka’s fogged mind finally cut through the haze, dragging back the memory of their first meeting outside.

“Soshiro!” he gasped.

The sound earned him a vicious squeeze that made him hiss through his teeth. Then, just as suddenly, Hoshina let go. Kafka collapsed back against the table with a ragged gasp, his whole body slumping as if those hands had been the only thing keeping him together. His skin still tingled, phantom handprints scorched into him, and yet all his scattered thoughts funneled into one shameful need of those hands on his cock… maybe even deeper.

What’s wrong with my head? He thought, dazed, eyes following the swordsman as he circled the table. He picked up a jar, scooping the contents messily over his fingers, and Kafka’s dick twitched at the sight, straining with sudden attention. Without realizing it, his thighs edged apart, just a little, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven pants as he watched those slickened hands creep closer again.

The anticipation was maddening.

Please, Kafka thought, barely even conscious of it anymore. Touch me. Please.

But those hands bypassed the desperate tent of the towel and landed firmly on his thighs instead, fingers sinking deep into the muscles.

“Nnghhh?” Kafka whimpered, a pathetic, strangled sound full of confusion and ache. He tried not to move, not to lift his hips like some desperate loser, but he was too far gone. Hoshina had touched him too much for him to keep his cool.

“Don’t worry, I’m a professional,” Hoshina added idly, like this was nothing more than casual amusement.

There was nothing professional about how close those hands were to his dick.

Hoshina’s hands worked the tender groove where thigh met groin, and Kafka couldn’t even form words. Just grunts, ragged breaths forced through clenched teeth, harsh gasps, and the name he’d just been allowed to use, “Soshiro!"

“So needy,” Hoshina breathes hot against Kafka’s stomach. The tingling heat of it sent Kafka rutting up for more. Precum soaked through the towel until it clung wetly to the head of his cock, every nerve alight under the sticky fabric.

Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please…

Then the hands were gone. The sudden absence of contact was violent. 

“Please!” he finally cried out, "Please touch me!" his hand shot up, covering his mouth and eyes like that could erase the begging, whorish plea that had slipped past his lips.

“Hmm? What do you mean, Kafka? I am touching you.” The rasp in Hoshina’s voice betrayed that he wasn’t immune to what was happening between them. To drive the point home, he dragged a single finger slowly down the inside of Kafka’s thigh, smirking when the muscle twitched under his touch.

“You know what I mean,” Kafka hissed through his fingers.

“Is there a particular spot that just aches, then?” he didn’t budge, just pressed his palms back against Kafka’s thighs, fingers spread wide. He sank his grip, squeezing into the slight softness until Kafka could feel the strength in those hands. “Something screamin’ for attention, huh?” He mocked.

The sting of tears blurred his vision, and he knew he must look like a wreck, but he couldn’t stop. “Please… touch my dick,” he begged, both hands cupping his chest, kneading at his nipples the way Hoshina had done, chasing the same sparks. 

“Please, Soshiro, touch me more!”

Hoshina inhaled sharply, and for the first time since this started, his cool facade cracked. 

“Ohhh fuck,” The smirk twitched, and his eyes widened

Kafka couldn’t stop. He didn’t care how he sounded anymore, didn’t care how pathetic he must look. “Everything’s so hot. My nipples feel so tingly and I’m so fucking hard, I can’t take it!” he babbled, shameless, chasing every jolt with needy rolls of his fingers, desperate for more."Soshiro!"

Hoshina molded him easily, bending his knees and spreading them wide until his hips gave out like a butterfly pinned for display. A sob caught in Kafka’s throat as his cock and balls lay bared so shamelessly. He covered it with both hands, "Why this position?!”

Hoshina chuckled softly, but there was tension in it now. The kind of restraint that sounded like it was being tested. “Aww, gettin’ all shy now, are ya?” he cooed. “After beggin’ me to touch your cock like your life depended on it?”

"That’s not it! I didn’t mean like this!”

“Ohhh, but this way’s perfect.” Pressure settled on his knees, stretching them wider, but Kafka barely felt the pull. He was too consumed by how close Hoshina was to his cock. “Can’t fix the body unless I’ve got full access." 

"What do you mean?" Kafka’s head snapped up from the pillow at the sudden pressure on his hole.

“I told ya, I specialize in makin’ people feel better.” Slick fingers pressed against Kafka’s puckered rim, lotion spreading over the sensitive skin, feeding the maddening itch that built there. “This is a deep tissue massage, Kafka.”

Kafka’s breath hitched embarrassingly loud when he caught the wicked gleam burning in Soshiro’s eyes, “And that includes the prostate.”

He pushed in.

“Dont just suddennngh!" Kafka chided, even as his walls clenched tight around the digits. Sparks fired in his skull as Hoshina's fingers coated his walls with cream until they pressed against a spot that ripped a sound from his throat. 

He reached out, grabbing desperately at Hoshina’s yukata to have something to hold onto.

"Mmmphhh! There! Oh, right there!" Kafka’s body bucked, his fist twisting into the fabric, yanking Hoshina closer, accidentally pulling his hand deeper. He heard Hoshina curse under his breath and push with more vigor.

It had been so long since he had been touched like this. A year, maybe longer. After Narumi, for sure, because he’d stopped looking for anyone else to make him feel good. The gap had been filled with toys instead, quick orgasms in the dark that left him emptier than before.

But this was nothing like that.

The fingers slid out, only to return with reinforcements. Three long digits pressed in, stretching him open, curling deep against his walls until he was shaking. Seconds, minutes, hours, time bled away, lost to the relentless massaging of his prostate. Kafka chasing the maddening itch inside, knees splayed wide, offering himself up so Hoshina could do whatever he wanted to him.

Feels good, feels good, feels good, feels good, feels good, feels good, feels good, feels good, feels good!

“Seems like you’ve had massages here before.”

The fingers didn’t stop moving, but something shifted.

“What?” he gasped, struggling to understand Hoshina’s words through the haze of pleasure crashing over him.“No, not like tha-”

“Ya let somebody else do this to ya?” The muscle in Hoshina’s jaw ticked, a vein standing out so sharply Kafka wanted to lick it. “Some other guy get his hands in here? Touch ya like this?”

His fingers shifted away from that maddening spot, dragging slowly along Kafka’s walls but never pressing where it counted. Kafka writhed on the table, chasing contact he couldn’t reach. The frustration was building, his body screaming for relief, but all he could do was whimper and search blindly for Hoshina’s touch.

“Go back, please… please, please, please!” 

“Betcha they didn’t make ya moan like this, huh?" Hoshina let his breath skate over the towel, every word burning into Kafka’s cock beneath. The tease alone ripped a desperate sound from Kafka’s throat. “Didn’t know how to get ya beggin’ like this…”

I'm gonna lose my mind.

“Always this easy? Wigglin’ your hips like a desperate pup for any man watchin’?” The sudden steel in Hoshina’s tone left no room for argument, especially as his fingers pressed in hard, grinding against Kafka’s prostate.

“Hwaaahh! Hahh! Donnnngh! Doon't! I don't!

“Really?” he rasped, tongue dragging over a sharp fang that had Kafka entranced. “The way yer tight lil’ walls’re suckin’ me in… feels like ya real used to gettin’ fucked by men ya don’t even know.”

“Never! Hya! I never!” Kafka protested, but the cruel edge in the words pierced through him.

“Ya always beg the first guy who lays a hand on ya to fuck ya?” Hoshina growled, the sound vibrating right through the towel as if he were speaking straight to Kafka’s cock. 

He sniffled, wiping at his eyes, because Hoshina was right. He’d just met him tonight, and look at him now. Legs spread wide for a man he barely knew, begging for his touch. This wasn’t the plan! None of this was supposed to happen. It was all this damn pervert masseur’s fault!

“You said…” Kafka tried to cling to the memory of how this had started, reaching for some sense of control. “You said you’d give me a massaaarrghh!” His protest shattered into a cry as Hoshina’s other hand closed around his cock, the shock of that touch blasting through every thought in his head.

An angry tsk slipped from Hoshina’s throat. “Ya been hard long ‘fore I even started really touchin’ ya.” His hand slid up, cupping Kafka’s tip, finally bare without the flimsy towel between them. His thumb pressed against the slit, dragging precome across the flushed head in cruel circles.

“Truth is, ya were wettin’ yerself the moment I gave the word to turn ‘round.”

The fingers buried inside him began to thrust in time with the hand stroking him outside, a merciless double assault that left Kafka flailing. He tried to slam his thighs shut, to buck away,  but Hoshina’s body forced him open.

“G-give me a seconghh! Hoshinaaaah! W-wait, waitwaitwait!” Kafka cried, thrashing against the table.

“Tell me straight, ya’d let any bastard take ya like this?” The easy grin and the playful tease were gone. The scowl cut deep into his face, his yukata sliding loose off one shoulder, showing scars and corded muscle of his arm. He looked carved from stone, furious and gorgeous.

He didn’t want Hoshina angry. He wanted his warmth, his teasing, that sweet smile that made his chest twist. He clutched at the wrist between his thighs, fingertips tracing the flex of tendons. “No, no, no… I haven’t, ahhh! With anyone, not for a long time!”

It felt pathetic saying it out loud, even worse when it came out with tears running down his face. Sobbing in front of this gorgeous man, like all he was confessing was how unwanted he really was. How he was nothing but some pitiful loser, too old, too lonely, too easy.

“Awwww,” Hoshina said brightly, halting his hand, and Kafka flinched at the sudden change. He blinked through his tears, confused, only to find the swordsman smiling wider than ever. “Why didn’t ya just say so?”

Kafka sniffled, stunned. “Wha…?”

Hoshina leaned closer, grin sharp as a blade but glinting with something twistedly affectionate. “So ya only spread your legs like a lil’ whore for me?" he purred. “Well, ain’t you just the sweetest fuckin' thing.”

The whiplash made Kafka’s head spin. But Hoshina looked so happy. His lips pressed to Kafka’s chest, trailing hot, wet kisses down to his stomach, tongue dragging in a heated line while his hands moved again.

“You’ve got such a gorgeous body,” he murmured, words scalding against Kafka’s skin. The faint scrape of fangs had Kafka clutching Hoshina’s hair with one hand, the table edge with the other. “Soft where it counts, solid everywhere else. Betcha don’t even know just how good ya feel to me.”

“I don't-”

“Shh.” Hoshina pressed kisses into the rough hair above his cock. “You’re perfect… every sound you make, the way your thighs tremble when I touch that spot, all of it. Perfect.”

Kafka shivered in confusion and arousal. Every word sank into him, filling the cracks of self-doubt until all that was left was want.

“You’re way too cute to ever let go,” Hoshina whispered, lips brushing the base of his cock.

“I’m…” Kafka tried, swallowing, fingers tangled in the silk of Hoshina’s hair. “I’m not…”

“You are,” Hoshina insisted, pumping in him again, “You’re mine now. Sweetest big guy I’ve ever had under me. You’ve never looked more perfect than you do right now.”

Kafka sobbed at the praise, every inch of him aching for more.

“Such a good boy,” Hoshina cooed against his shaft as he licked a stripe up, nosing the damp towel aside until it slipped away. His lips pressed against the swollen head, “Cum for me, Kafka.”

“Oh fuck!”

It took seconds. Just a few deep bobs of Hoshina’s head, his fingers jabbing that spot inside, and Kafka broke, hole clenching around his fingers so hard it bordered on painful. His orgasm tore through him, cum spilling into Hoshina’s hot, wet mouth. Kafka yanked his hair, sobbing at the oversensitivity, but Hoshina sucked him through every pulse, refusing to let go until he gave up the last drop.

Finally, Hoshina gave one last greedy suck that made Kafka whimper, the sensation so intense it felt like his soul was being drawn out with it. Hoshina let him slip free, swallowing with a thoughtful hum as his thumb wiped casually over the corner of his mouth.

“Hmm. We need to change your diet.”

“Diet?” Kafka slurred, barely conscious.

“I can taste the junk food,” Hoshina said casually, as if he weren’t dissecting Kafka’s cum. “Too much convenience store crap. We’ll fix that.”

Kafka couldn’t even reply, only moaned as Hoshina’s fingers slid free. His hole spasmed weakly around them, clinging before finally letting go. He collapsed against the table, a limp, wrecked mess.

Hoshina plucked the discarded towel from Kafka’s stomach and began gently patting him dry. Afterward, he started kneading sore calves, hamstrings, and thighs with a practiced professionalism that felt worlds away from the earlier frenzy. It lulled Kafka’s body, the aches melting under skilled fingers, and his eyelids grew heavy. 

“You’re finally relaxed,” he murmured, thumb circling the side of Kafka’s knee.

“…Hoshina,” Kafka whispered, reaching out, clumsy fingers grasping at the swordsman’s obi. “...What about you? You didn’t…”

Hoshina only smiled, taking his hand and pressing a kiss to the inside of his wrist. “My pleasure is pleasuring you.”

Kafka sighed at the tenderness in Hoshina’s touch, the affection cutting deeper than he wanted to admit. His eyelids grew heavier with every breath, sleep dragging him under, but he fought against it, desperate to cling to the moment. He didn’t want Hoshina to go, not after everything.

“…No… you’ll leave…” 

“I’ll be here when you wake up, Kafka. Don’t worry.” Hoshina’s hand slid gently through his hair.

“…you… promise?” Kafka murmured, the darkness slipping in at the edges of his vision.

“I promise.” Hoshina bent close, sealing the vow with a kiss to his forehead.

He surrendered to sleep at last, cradled on a tide of safety and tenderness, a comfort he had long ago stopped daring to hope for.

Kafka felt like he was sinking into the fluffiest cloud in existence. Every inch of him was weightless as if he’d melted right into it. The cloud cradled him gently, and when he pressed into it, a delicate fragrance of jasmine and lavender rose. He buried his face deeper, rubbing against the softness like he could breathe the scent straight into his skin.

Somewhere far away, laughter echoed, tugging faintly at his ears. The sound stirred him, nudging him toward wakefulness, but he resisted, clinging stubbornly to the comforting haze that held him.

He stretched instead, arms sliding overhead, toes spreading as his legs extended long like a cat rolling in the sun. His spine arched languidly, and for the first time in years, he felt no stiffness in his body.

 He felt amazing.

He hadn’t felt this good in forever.

Still groggy, he rolled onto his side, nuzzling his face into the mattress. A soft hum of contentment slipped out at the silken give of the sheets and the sheer comfort of the bed, warm and welcoming in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

“Heh, guess you’re more kitten than puppy.”

Kafka’s eyes snapped open.

He shakily turned his head, blinking slowly until his gaze snapped into focus on the figure standing in the doorway.

A man.

A shirtless man, leaning lazily against the frame, towel draped around his neck as he scrubbed at the damp mess of his wild hair. A single droplet trailed down from his collarbone, sliding over his sternum, past the scars carved across his abs, and disappearing into the loose gray sweats hanging low on his hips.

Kafka stared.

And remembered everything.

“Y-Y-You!!!” Kafka shot upright, pointing at Hoshina with trembling fury.

Hoshina smiled and pointed innocently at himself. “Me?”

Kafka’s eyes dropped to those hands, veins standing out, and the memory slammed into him. The way those long, slim fingers had been everywhere on him, inside him, had his face burning hot. “You bastard! You took advantage of me!!”

Hoshina had the nerve to look offended, one hand pressed flat against his bare chest. “What? I would never.” His smirk curled deeper.

He took one step towards the bed, and Kafka scrambled away, sheets tangling around his legs in his rush. “D-Don’t you dare come closer!”

But Hoshina didn’t stop.

“You’re the one who was beggin' for me to touch ya,” Hoshina drawled, stalking forward, that mischievous smile stretching wider with every step.

Kafka tried to retreat, but the shift dragged the blanket down from his chest, and his heart stopped when he glanced down and realized he was completely naked under the sheet.

“AAAAH!” he yelped, grabbing for the sheets in a panic. But before he could fix it, Hoshina was already climbing onto the bed, pressing forward until Kafka was caged beneath him.

Cold droplets of water dripped from his damp hair, one sliding down onto Kafka’s burning cheek. The morning sunlight poured through the window, highlighting every scar, every line of muscle, making Hoshina look even more devastatingly handsome than he had last night.

Kafka felt trapped all over again.

“Last night, you were so sweet,” Hoshina murmured.

“Shut up!” Kafka sputtered, snapping back to reality and shoving at his chest. It didn’t matter how hot this guy was! Kafka needed to get away before he embarrassed himself even more.

But Hoshina caught his wrist with ease, pinning it to the bed as a reminder of that surprising strength. “Ya cried for it. Moaned like it hurt not havin’ me touch ya. Told me no one else ever made ya feel that way.”

"I did not!"

Another droplet fell, this one tracing Kafka’s collarbone. Hoshina’s gaze followed it down, tongue flicking over his lips, and Kafka thrashed harder under him.

“Wiggled those hips just like that,” Hoshina teased, pressing down with just enough weight to make Kafka feel the heat of his body. “You really gonna say I took advantage?”

Kafka’s mouth opened and closed like a fish, his brain sparking with fragments of last night’s mess, this morning’s heat stacking one atop the other until it was unbearable. And underneath it all, buried deep but clawing its way up through reason, was the most terrifying part of himself.

The part that wanted this.

Hoshina suddenly laughed, face shifting from dangerously sexy to disarmingly charming. “Ya look just like a pufferfish,” he teased, grinning widely. “All puffed up and prickly, tryin' so hard to look scary, but really? Just makes you cuter.”

Kafka seized the distraction, yanking the pillow over his face to smother his scream. Why is he so cute?! What the hell am I supposed to doooo?!

But even that comfort was stolen. Hoshina plucked the pillow away with ease, that easygoing smile curling his lips in a way that didn’t match the words.

“You're way too damn cute to hide that face, Kafka. I wanna see ya embarrassed, too. ‘Specially after I’ve already seen that beggin’ face… and how ya looked when ya came all over my fingers.”

“Stop!” Kafka yelped, shoving a hand against Hoshina’s face, trying to push him away. “M-My best friend is a cop! I’ll call her and she’ll come here and arrest you!”

Hoshina caught his wrist and pinned it down to the bed. Kafka swallowed hard, his eyes tracing the vein pulsing in Hoshina’s neck, up to the sharp line of his cheek. The smile stayed small, but there was no mistaking the edge under it.

It should’ve scared him. Instead, Kafka’s stomach flipped.

“Oh?” Hoshina said, almost sweetly, lips parting to bare his canines. Kafka couldn’t stop the wild thought of how much would it hurt if he bit me?

“If I get arrested,” Hoshina went on, leaning in closer, “then for sure you’re comin' with me. Can’t just overlook the guy who begged for my services, can they?”

Droplets of water continued to fall, splashing on Kafka’s cheek, another on his forehead. Hoshina’s breath fanned over his lips, close enough to taste.

An inch, maybe less. If Kafka tilted his head up, their mouths would meet.

No! You can’t kiss a stranger!

But at this point… were they really strangers?

“What would your best friend think,” Hoshina's hands slid into Kafka’s palms, caging their hands together, “of you coming here, all alone, in the red-light district… and endin' up like that under me?”

Kafka’s heart thudded wildly. Mina would kill me. No, she’d arrest me first, then kill me! She’d be furious that I came here alone, that I let myself get dragged into this scam just ‘cause I’m weak for good-looking men!

“Fine!” he yelped, kicking his feet. The blanket slipped down, barely clinging over his pelvis, but what was there left to hide from the man whose hands had already dug into every nook and cranny of his body?

“Fine, just… just let me pay you!”

Hoshina perked up instantly. “Okay! That’ll be ¥200,000.”

“HUH?!” Kafka shot upright, mouth hanging open in utter disbelief. Hoshina smoothly leaned back to avoid getting headbutted. “Careful,” he chuckled. “You almost got me.”

“¥200,000?! That’s insane! Why so much!?”

Hoshina began listing things off with the casual air of a waiter reciting a dinner bill, not the criminal acts of prostitution.

“It was after-hours service. You showed up way past closin'.”

“You dragged me here!!”

“I used a rare blend of herbal cream, imported from Kyoto, by the way. Expensive stuff.”

“I didn’t ask for anything rare!”

“There was deep tissue work,” Hoshina continued smoothly, “and a prostate massage. That’s a specialty.”

“You! But you! That wasn’t!” Kafka flailed, fingers wiggling uselessly in Hoshina’s grip as he tried to knock him off. Hoshina, of course, didn't sway at all.

“Oh, and,” Hoshina added with a cheerful grin, “ya came in my mouth. And I swallowed it.”

Kafka made a high-pitched, unnameable noise, the kind that belonged in a cage with Mina’s disappointment glowering at him from the other side. Honestly, maybe jail wouldn’t be that bad. At least Mina would bail him out eventually.

“Ya slept in my bed until the evenin', so I think ¥2,000 is pretty reasonable.”

“Reasonable, my ass!” Kafka barked, only to be met with Hoshina’s cheeky grin. Seeing no way to escape, he went limp, perilously close to crying just from sheer frustration.

“Cash only,” Hoshina added, looking like he was barely holding back from cackling like some cartoon villain.

“I don’t have that kind of money! That’s why I came for a massage instead of seeing a doctor!” Kafka wailed, shaking his head. His savings were pitifully small. He could barely afford ramen as it was. At this rate, he’d be down to plain rice until he dragged his way back!

Hoshina released one of his hands, the man rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“Hmm. Well… I guess I could put you on a payment plan.”

Kafka’s free hand folded in a half-prayer as he begged. “Please! Yes, anything! I’ll do that!”

The smirk that spread across Hoshina’s face should have warned him. Hoshina slowly tilted to his side, and with one smooth twist, Kafka found himself flipped, chest pressed flush to chest, sprawled awkwardly on top of the swordsman.

Hoshina leaned back against the pillows, hair tousled, eyes glinting with mischief as his arms looped snugly around Kafka’s waist. His palms settled on his waist, with one giving a playful squeeze right into Kafka’s love handle.

“I’ll keep it simple,” Hoshina murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of Kafka’s ear. Kafka shuddered at the contact, goosebumps racing down his arms as his nipples hardened against Hoshina’s chest. They were so close Kafka could see his own flushed, humiliating reflection in those gleaming red eyes. 

“You’ll pay me in installments,” Hoshina purred, “I’ll take ya out to dinner… you come over on your free days, or I’ll visit ya…”

His hands slid lower, greedy palms groping Kafka’s bare ass with a firm squeeze that ripped a gasp out of him. The touch was electric, fighting to calm himself before he got hard again. But it was impossible with Hoshina’s lips skimming his jaw, whispering against his skin.

“You spend the night here… or I can stay at yours. What do ya say?”

It took Kafka a long, fumbling moment to piece together what he was really hearing. When Hoshina didn’t add anything else, the confusion curdled into a conclusion that made no sense.

“Are you… asking me to go out with you?”

The cocky curve of Hoshina’s mouth faltered, replaced by a faint pink in his cheeks. His smile wavered into a smaller, more uncertain line, his gaze ducking just enough to make him look almost bashful.

“Yeah,” he said, quieter. “I like you. I want to get to know you better.”

Kafka’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull, his whole face screaming, YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS!!!

The man who had pinned him down wrung cries out of him, and tied him up in pleasure like a ribbon… This guy was blushing like a nervous schoolboy?

Unfair! It was seriously unfair how attractive that made him!

Hoshina’s hand found his shoulder, the easy smirk slipping back into place like a mask. “Though… if ya really don’t wanna, we can just drop it here. Call it a freebie, since I sorta pushed ya into it.”

But it was too late for that. That bashfulness had already kick-started something in Kafka, because as much as he was fumbling, tripping over every trick this masseuse threw at him, one thing was obvious.

Hoshina wanted him.

The realization exploded like fireworks in his chest, giddy and dizzying, and for the first time, Kafka felt the tables had turned. A coyness bubbled up in him, something reckless, and he tried his best to play it cute. 

“I’m an honest guy. So I'll pay you back,” Kafka began, lips pressed together to keep the stupid grin off his face as he caught the stunned look on Hoshina’s face, clearly not expecting him to actually agree. "But first…

“Yea?” Hoshina blurted too quickly, then coughed, correcting himself with forced calm. “…Yeah.”

I want to kiss him, Kafka thought with a shocking intensity, “I think the least you can do is admit you started this.”

Hoshina tilted his head slightly, the pink on his cheeks darkening. “Okay, fine. I might’ve, y’know… started it.”

Kafka shifted until he was straddling him more comfortably, watching the way Hoshina’s eyes flickered hungrily to his chest, to the stiff peaks of his nipples, before sliding shut like he couldn’t quite trust himself to look. And still, Kafka knew he was the one in control.

He pressed a palm flat to Hoshina’s bare chest, felt the thundering heartbeat beneath. Relief softened him; at least he wasn’t the only one nervous about whatever this was between them.

“But let me tell you,” Kafka said, trying to sound firm even as his voice wobbled, “if I do take this payment plan…”

“Kafka, I-” Hoshina started, but Kafka slid his hand from Hoshina’s chest up to lightly press his fingers against his lips. The touch silenced him, though Kafka’s confidence was already flickering like a candle in the wind. Hoshina waited patiently, his hands braced at Kafka’s waist. His thumbs rubbed idle circles into the skin there, maybe calming Kafka, maybe himself. Kafka swallowed hard, gathered what little steel he had left, and glared with all the seriousness he could muster.

“You better not give anyone else a massage like that. Got it?”

Surprise flashed across Hoshina’s face, then melted into a smile. Not the sly smirk he’d been wearing all along, but something cheesier, more awkward.

“I know I ain’t given ya many reasons to trust me," Hoshina said against Kafka’s fingertips. “But you’re the only one I ever let it get that far with. I… just couldn’t stop myself.”

Kafka raised a skeptical brow. “Really?”

Dropping his hand back to Hoshina’s chest, he felt the solid wall of muscle there, firm under his palm. Typical. Of course, this guy was all muscles.

“I kept watchin’ you go by, askin’ folks where to go,” Hoshina admitted with a chuckle. “They’d point ya right here, and somehow you’d still miss it. Every damn time.”

Kafka frowned, confused at first by just how much Hoshina had apparently noticed him. But that confusion fizzled the moment Hoshina’s smile softened.

“It was really cute,” he confessed sweetly.

Kafka tried to be upset. But it was hard to really stay mad when he was sitting in the lap of a hot guy who maybe had taken advantage of him… but had also given him the best orgasm of his life, left his legs and back feeling loose, and was now shyly asking him, out. So… maybe being manipulated wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

Hoshina sat up, pulling Kafka closer until the bulge in his pants brushed right against Kafka’s steadily hardening cock.“I swear, I’ll never do that with anyone but you,” he said seriously, then added with a sheepish smile, “Sorry I lost control and damn near pounced on ya.”

“It’s fine!” Kafka blurted too fast. Seeing Hoshina’s surprised look, he scrambled to sound less desperate. “I mean, it’s okay. I forgive you.”

“You’re easily manipulated, I see,” Hoshina teased.

Kafka flushed scarlet, snapping, “Shut it!” But Hoshina’s laugh only grew louder until Kafka could only pout. “So… it’s like… do we have a deal?”

Hoshina’s grin turned wolfish. “We should kiss to make it official.”

Kafka muttered, “You conman…” but Hoshina just laughed and kissed him anyway.

Their lips pressed together softly, and Kafka tilted his head, licking gently at Hoshina’s mouth, savoring the surprised sound that slipped from him. When Hoshina’s lips parted, Kafka pushed his tongue inside, deepening the kiss without hesitation. They made out in the sunlit room, bathed in golden warmth, the air thick with the scent of lavender and jasmine. And beneath it all, Hoshina's hands roamed his body, tracing every line and curve like they couldn’t get enough of him, like touching him wasn’t indulgence but need.

How the hell did a massage turn into this?

They kissed until Kafka had to break away for air, but Hoshina followed, mouth dragging down to his neck, tongue flicking along his skin. Kafka tensed, knowing exactly where this was heading.

“H-Hey, we should talk this deal out more!” he tried to argue, but Hoshina’s hands were already groping his thighs, his hips, one squeeze on his stomach making Kafka squeak out,  “What are you doing?!”

“Never got off last night,” Hoshina murmured into his throat, nuzzling. “Figured my first installment oughta be us gettin’ just a little… closer.”

Kafka went red all over again. “You pervert,” he hissed, but his hands reached out to cup the firm bulge that had been pressing against him all this time. 

“…Holy shit.”

Hoshina moaned at the touch, his hips twitching forward.

Kafka’s hand squeezed, feeling the impossible girth straining under the fabric. He gawked. “There’s no way. You’re way too big!”

A throaty chuckle rumbled from Hoshina. The devilish smirk he’d worn last night was back in full force.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered against Kafka’s cheek. “With a little more stretchin'… it’ll fit.”

“Fit?! Fit where?!" Kafka tried to wriggle away, but Hoshina pinned him easily, spreading his thighs.

“C’mon,” Hoshina coaxed, voice sweet but his eyes sharp and hungry. “It’s time for your first payment, remember?”

“It won’t fit!!”

“You’re so cute when you panic.”

Kafka could only scream into the pillow.

“Soshiro!”

The door slammed open with a force that rattled the walls, and Hoshina nearly dumped a whole pinch of crushed willow bark into the bowl. “Damn it, Konomi! Ya almost made me ruin the whole batch!”

Konomi strode in with her usual air of exhausted irritation, her thick hair pulled back into a long braid to keep it out of her face while she worked. She shoved her sleeves up again, each rough push only making it clearer how annoyed she was. 

She’d be less angry if she just admitted defeat and ordered the smaller uniform. But no, she refused, even after he’d told her flat out she wasn’t gonna grow any taller.

“Soshiro.” His name carried a warning. Soshiro instinctively shrank back, grateful that the relative glare on her glasses masked the full weight of her eyes. “I’ve been going over inventory. And we're short on a few things.  ”

Hoshina turned away a little too quickly, busying himself with sorting small labeled jars and pretending not to hear the sound of doom advancing behind him. “Inventory?” he repeated airily. “Really? Are you sure? Maybe I used some for… medicinal salves? Some clients have been needing extra, ah… body care.”

Konomi’s scoff made it clear she didn’t believe a single word out of his mouth. “I accounted for your client blends, genius. I'm talking about specialty ingredients.” She stopped beside his work table, resting her hands on her hips. “You know, the ones reserved for our exclusive clientele? Like, oh, I don’t know… The Chrysanthemum House?”

Hoshina gave a nonchalant hum, idly counting the neat row of labeled containers as if he hadn’t just been accused of raiding his own stash. “Oh, really? That’s strange.”

“Yes, really, practically all the aphrodisiac components are low. Waaaay lower than they should be.”

She tried to tower over him, but she was far too short for that. Not that Konomi needed height to be intimidating. He’d known her long enough to respect the danger of getting on her bad side, but this was worth the risk. 

He just wasn’t about to admit it out loud.

“This wouldn't have anything to do with you and that guy you’ve been forcing to be with you, would it?”

“He’s my boyfriend!”

Konomi raised an unimpressed brow. “Riiiggghhhht. ‘Your boyfriend.’ You mean the guy you keep hauling upstairs and locking in your bedroom all weekend? The same guy who always strolls out smelling like our special blend? The same blend that just so happens to use the very ingredients we’re suddenly running low on?”

He turned his back on her and busied himself with measuring out the ingredients, refusing to give her the satisfaction of rattling him. He was her boss!

“We can just order more…” his voice trailed off, shrinking smaller with every word.

“We can’t! We don’t have any money! You insist on working for favors when clients can't pay, and that’s why I do the inventory!” 

He swiveled to look back at her, because she was absolutely right. He’d only gotten this far with the business because of her. Her incredible administrative skills had taken over all the things he didn’t want to deal with. But he brought in the money, and that meant he could do whatever he wanted with the supplies he bought!

Still, when he opened his mouth, all that bravado crumbled into a whining, “Then tell me what ya want from me, Konomi?!” He knew his battles. And this wasn’t one he could win.

She jabbed her finger right into his nose, squashing it flat. “You rotten doctor! What I want is for you to stop pouring the rarest, most expensive ingredients into your boyfriend’s asshole!”

There was no denial there, and since Konomi knew him far too well, the safest move was to keep his mouth shut. They held their stare down until she sighed, rubbing her temple. “Look. I can make this work. But keep in mind, if you’re gonna keep using that stuff on your boyfriend, we have other clients too. Don’t get greedy.”

“I’m not greedy,” he muttered, just to say something. He couldn’t let her correct reasoning win every time. Where would be the fun in that?

She scowled.

“I know, I know,” he sighed, throwing up a hand. “I won’t do it again.”

“You absolutely will, you manipulative jerk.”

“I’m not manipulative!” 

The scowl slid off her lovely face, replaced with the deadpan exhaustion he knew too well. “Soshiro. You’re using an aphrodisiac to make your boyfriend addicted to you.”

“He’s naturally addicted to me.” He stuck his chin up.

"That's it, I'm telling him!"

“Look,” Hoshina said, grasping at straws. “Didn’t you want the weekends off? I’m sure we can work something out. Got yourself a date, huh? With the girl from the cat café, right? I saw ya taking notes on cute date spots. Which, by the way, you should totally lend me, but I digress.”

Her face went red, clearly flustered that he’d noticed. “Yes! No! Stop! I don’t even know what to wear!”

Soshiro stood, pulling out his wallet. He slapped some bills into her hand and started steering her toward the door. “Here. A nice little bonus. Let your hair down, wear a cute dress, and have fun. I’ll figure out the inventory. I’m not stupid enough to lose clients just ‘cause I’m distracted.”

She paused at the door, her hand resting on the frame. “It’s nice to see you happy, though.”

He looked surprised by the gentleness in her voice.

“Just… don’t be a creep. Well, no more than you already are.”

“Hey! That’s mean, Konomi! I thought we were friends!”

“This is a professional relationship, doctor.” She stepped out, then peeked back in, back to lecturing. “And as a professional, I strongly suggest you tell your boyfriend that you’re not even a licensed masseur. That you’re some back-alley medical dropout who ran away from his rich family.”

Hoshina winced, that truth landing harder than he liked. He’d spent so much time with Kafka already, and not once had he mentioned any of that. Was it really important?

Konomi stuck her tongue out at him in that rare, impish way. “You’re pretty cute when you’re in love, though.”

The door clicked shut.

Soshiro sat back at his desk, scowling at the rows of ingredients. He wasn’t proud of himself for using the aphrodisiacs. It was the blend that made him the most money, and he hardly sold it in the first place. So using it on some tall, green-eyed stranger had surprised him, too.

But Kafka had been captivating from the start.

He’d only been on his way home after his house calls when Kafka caught his eye. Nothing about the man should have stood out… except maybe his height, the way his arms filled out his jacket, and that rugged, unintentionally attractive air he carried as he looked so hopelessly lost. Soshiro had cracked up at the shifting expressions on his face, each one more exasperated than the last.

He didn’t even know why he followed, only that his feet carried him a few paces behind, finding himself sliding into a seat two places away in a restaurant. Once, he overheard Kafka ask about the place with the fox lanterns. Soshiro wondered if the man was dangerous. He’d been in the business long enough to know that anyone actively looking for you rarely meant good news. 

But then he saw Kafka making friends with the waiter, looking put out at a host club’s lovers’ quarrel, nearly getting mauled by a pair of angry maids, and it was enough to tell him there was nothing dangerous about the guy at all.

With Kafka standing outside his shop, Soshiro felt a rush of excitement he couldn’t quite explain. The man looked like he wanted to run, every shift of his body taut with hesitation, and it only made Soshiro’s fingers itch to reach out, to catch that frantic heartbeat beneath his palm and feel it race against his skin.

And once he had him naked on the table… how was he supposed to stop? He couldn’t. Not when Kafka responded to every touch, obedient and pliant, trying so hard to keep quiet even as his hips rutted up like a mutt. Not when he still had that sharp tongue, snapping back in little bursts of defiance that only made Soshiro laugh, made him want more.

Oh, it was delicious. Too delicious.

The thought of anyone else seeing Kafka like that, touching him like that, had fire burning in Soshiro’s hands hotter than any aphrodisiac. But having Kafka gasped out, so pretty, that he hadn’t let anyone else touch him in so long, was the sweetest balm he’d ever been given.

The promise to stay had slipped out of him so naturally, as easily as carrying Kafka all the way to his bed. Stuck in bed with the man who wouldn't let go of his yukata,  Soshiro found himself wondering why he’d gone so far, why he hadn’t just left things where they were. But then he looked down at him, fast asleep, drool clinging to the corner of his mouth, a foolish little smile softening his face.  Soshiro realized he didn’t care about the why anymore. This man was ridiculous, careless… and yet, all Soshiro could think about was how much he wanted to know more of him. 

I’ve always been possessive, he thought, resting his cheek against his palm. But is that… love?

He enjoyed being with Kafka. Whether it was an entire weekend shut away in his apartment, grabbing a meal together, or simply taking a walk around the nightlife. Soshiro found himself seeking him out even in the little moments, constant phone calls, sending texts, snapping pictures. And when Kafka was tied up with work, he couldn’t resist checking his location. The man was older, sure, but sometimes Soshiro honestly wondered how he had managed to survive this long on his own.

“Honestly, he makes me worry way too much.” he turned back to his work, setting out the herbs and preparing to grind them into fine powder for the capsules. “He should just live with me.”

Maybe Kafka was dangerous.

His phone buzzed against the desk.

❤️Sweetheart❤️: I’m on my way over! Want to get curry?

Soshiro stared for a long moment before a smile tugged at his lips

Damn you, Konomi, and your damn “professional” reasoning.

He cleaned up, returned everything to its proper place, and made his way outside. Where he quietly waited for Kafka to come back to him.

They say love wears two hundred faces. Soshiro supposed… he could recognize at least one among them. A smile so unguarded it unraveled every knot of tension in his chest, warming him deeper than any remedy, sweeter than any dream.

As for the aphrodisiacs, well, what harm was there in nudging things along? In making sure Kafka needed him just as much as he needed Kafka? Soshiro smiled faintly to himself. It wasn’t wrong to want balance. He couldn’t be the only clingy and restless one in this relationship.

If love truly wore so many faces, then Soshiro decided he’d carve out the one he wanted most.

Kafka’s. Looking nowhere else, turning to no one else, reaching only for him.

Beneath the vermilion torii gate where it all began, Hoshina looked towards the fox-lanterns swaying in the evening wind, mouths curled in painted mischief.

That was the thing about foxes. They never take what isn’t offered.

They just wait for you to wander far enough off the path…And smile when you beg to stay lost.