Ridiculous. Yashiki is an idiot without a drop of self-preservation. There’s only so much postulating and self-sacrifice Mashita can tolerate, and he’s hit the limit. It’s not a new revelation, but particularly scathing tonight. After…
Well, no case is without incident. It’s not the first time they’ve been in danger for the sake of an investigation. Sometimes, Mashita wished the other man cared a little more about that. He’s not in the business of making martyrs.
It’s nearly midnight by the time Mashita turns down his narrow street. The neighborhood is old, near the outskirts of Tokyo, lined with small homes and two-story apartments. More popular with the aging crowd than a young detective. But rent was cheap being so far out from a connecting line to the center of the city, and it was quiet. Something he needed in his line of work.
Mashita kicked Yashiki out of the car once they’d reached the city. He couldn’t deal with driving out to the Kujo Mansion with him. Or worse, letting him stay over. Still veritably pissed, his temperature was running hotter. The mere thought of being cooped up with him for that long drive had given him a headache.
It still throbs, a dull pulsate against his temple. He has the sudden urge for a cigarette. Ugh. He needs distance. Time to cool off.
He should call- Mashita thinks with a groan- make sure Yashiki hadn’t missed the last train or managed to catch a cab since he all but ditched him earlier.
They never should have taken this case.
Evil manifests itself in many ways. Yashiki seems only aware of the supernatural variety, while Mashita recognizes it is but a reflection of the horrors of the living. That present danger is something Yashiki maintains a stubborn obliviousness to.
The property in question had been secluded, about an hour’s drive outside of Tokyo. Rented out until the previous tenants disappeared. Abandoned in a hurry, belongings left behind. Honestly, a surprise it hadn’t been picked over. For an abandoned house, it had been in far too good of shape. The only sign of time is the dust that still clings to his coat.
Mashita would think it a set-up, if Yasuoka had not vouched for the clients.
He pulls into his parking spot. The engine whirs down. Outside it’s silent, with only the sound of heavy wind stirring the trees. A storm’s coming. Clouds pool overhead, shifting to block out the moon, and Mashita hurries, following the bright light of vending machines until he reaches the stoop of his apartment.
He huffs. The rain starts in thick droplets, as he tugs at his sleeve and fishes for his keys buried deep in his pocket.
His arm burns.
Mashita knows what’s there. The deep-set marks that claw their way, red, up his forearm. He hadn’t told Yashiki. It wouldn’t change anything. They still had a job to do. It’d only make him worry, get sloppy in their investigation.
What’s one more curse when he’s already had two?
He shrugged it off at the time, but it’s getting hard to ignore- settling to a throb under his skin.
The lock clicks smooth. He’s hit with the thick air of his apartment, a byproduct of this summer heat. The aircon kicks on, as the lights flicker to life. It’s not pretty. The detective business is fledgling. Hardly, lucrative given the expenses it takes to run. His office and home are one in the same, and it shows.
Mashita drapes his trench across the dining room chair. The only piece of furniture not covered in casefiles, copies of old news articles he made at the library, and some very… eclectic books he’d picked up from Yashiki’s family collection.
Yashiki spends all the time he’s not working with him pouring over these. More often than not, in the times he’d invite himself unannounced to the mansion, Mashita would find the man passed out in one of the libraries, sleeping sound against his own notes (another one of those things Mashita has chewed him out on).
Mashita presses a cold can of Asahi to his forehead before popping the tab. It’s sweltering. Enough, that he’s a little dazed, dizzy in this heat. He must be exhausted- too accustomed to running on empty to notice- or maybe he’s caught some kind of summer cold.
He’s half-way through his beer when thunder cracks and the lights flicker. A sharp pain has him shoving up his sleeve. The scratches are raw, oozing new blood like a fresh wound. It’s worse than before.
“Ah, shit.” He bites.
Gooseflesh rolls across his skin like a tide. Something prickles in his periphery, and he snaps his head to look behind him. To nothing. If he’s carried something back… Shit. Maybe he should call Yashiki for back-up. Except he kicked him curbside by the Yamanote Line. Great, genius move there.
He doesn’t need help. This is fine. It’s fine.
He searches the room for the remnants of his old first aid kit. A housewarming gift from the old lady next door. Practical, a bit on the nose now. He throws it across his dining room table, knocking everything else to the ground.
Blood has started to soak through his button down. Ruined, he thinks irritably. How hard is it for a ghost not to blow a hole in his budget? Mashita changes clothes, quick to disinfect and wrap up his arm. For as much good as it’ll do. He’s never dressed wounds occult in origin.
At least, that is what Mashita assumes this is. The marks had manifested suddenly. He’d been alone in that forsaken house. It frankly sounds ridiculous. That it’s come to this point has him rolling his eyes.
Yashiki would be beside himself. Mashita can handle it better on his own. Hanahiko and Shimi-O both came with the threat of death. This time is no different.
He realizes later after taking some cold medicine to knock himself out, that it is, in fact, very different.
A woman’s voice hums low in the back of his head. Soft. His body feels warm. Heavy. Rain pelts against the window. The aircon whirs in a comfortable white noise. Mashita tosses. His body like lead, sunken deep into the mattress. Heat licks up his side, his chest, curling around his neck. Like fingers pressing to his pulse, dragged down his bared throat. He swallows, and flips to his side. Nails drag down his back. A shiver shoots up his spine.
“Satoru.” It’s a hiss against his ear, blown out against skin. So real, so tactile. This time distinctly male. And far too familiar.
Mashita shoots up in bed. His breath ragged, he takes in the corners of his small room. The door is open, the closet closed. His eyes screw shut; the bottom of his hand pressed to his forehead.
It throbs. His mind is hazy, cloudy like he’s downed half a bottle of whiskey. The remnants of the medicine still cling to his limbs.
“Dammit.” He rubs his eyes. Blood pounds in his ears. The mark, swathed in bandages now, stings. He checks the whole house, a product of police training or deep-set paranoia. It doesn’t make him feel any better to see every inch of the place empty.
Mashita groans. He sits at the edge of his bed. When has he let this spirit shit get to him? Yashiki is usually the one bearing the brunt of it, but it’s not like it’s his first time around the block.
His back tenses when something brushes against his hair. Gooseflesh rises across his arms in pinpricks. Dammit, he thinks. His head whips again to empty air. It’s all in his head. All in his fucking head. He tries to remind himself so he can get some precious sleep.
Mashita dozes off. Or he tries to. Mashita really tosses and turns for about half an hour. At some point thinking he’s going through heatstroke. At another when he’s in that precarious state of half-consciousness, thinking it’s a dream when he feels hands running up his thighs. Hears that whisper again, lips ghosting over his neck.
Until teeth sink in, and he jumps, wide awake. His hand clasps over the scalding flesh. He’s left panting, alone in the dark of his room. And annoyingly, disgustingly hard.
The voice must have figured out he’s not much into women and changed tactics to get a rise out of him. It won’t work. Not on him. He’s not a damn pervert. Not getting off on this creepy ghost shit. He’s had enough of it. The whispers, the touches, the lucid dreams. This mark that won’t stop burning-!
Twenty minutes in, Mashita caves.
He’s never jerked off so damned pissed before. It sucks. Mashita’s teeth grit, trying to wrench out an orgasm, going through the motions. His body is on the fritz, aroused over absolutely nothing. Its insatiable. His dick wet with enough pre-cum that, under normal circumstances, he’d see a doctor about.
He is never, ever, speaking a word about this. What a joke. Save the day. Exorcise the ghost. And this is the reward he gets? Supernaturally boner pilled? God.
He knows Yashiki’s going to ask him about it when shows up at the Kujo Mansion looking even more like trash than usual.
“Oh, shit.” Mashita curses aloud.
He never called.
Maybe he won’t care then. Angry with Mashita for being an asshole to him. He’d deserve it, but he knows Yashiki is a much nicer man than he.
Mashita heaves. His orgasm wringed dry.
Awful. This is awful.
He flops back on his bed. The ceiling fan whirs. His shirt bunches around his waist sticky with sweat. His teeth clench, forehead pressed to the sheets. Still very, obviously hard. Mashita groans. What’s wrong with him?
He’s a mess- in a way he never saw coming. This is straight out of a porno. Not the kind of stuff he expected to get into as a private investigator, even if his cases leaned towards the weird.
Should he be surprised? He’s sure someone’s imagined a scenario like this before.
Mashita thinks he’s dying. No, that’s dramatic, but this could be hell. He’d believe it. Wound up beyond comprehension with no avenue to satiate it. He’s disgusting, drenched in sweat and other fluids. His lips gnawed through sore and bloody.
Mashita’s eyes screw shut to quench whatever this is. Horny ghost bullshit. He hopes its happy. He hasn’t jerked off this much in years.
Mashita has managed a few actual orgasms in the past hour. Spilled over his sheets, his hands and stomach left sticky with drying cum. The rest were excruciatingly dry. The relief non-existent, his cock just as flushed and swollen as before. The only difference is Mashita’s exponential annoyance and misery.
He throws his pillow clear across the room. It knocks into his bookcase. A few files fall loose.
God, what if it had been Yashiki?
Oh, no. No, no, no. His dick is far too interested in that train of thought. He’s not going there. Yashiki is his partner. They’d been through life and death together. They’re co-workers. Friends. Something he has far and few between of. He’s not-
Okay. He’s desperate. Mashita supposes he is going there.
A hand cards through his damp hair. Mashita pinches the bridge of his nose, working himself over, letting his mind wander.
How would he react? He’d be far too embarrassed to ask anyone for help. He can picture, that old man, all flushed and sweaty like he is. His glasses fogged over keened over that desk Mashita always manages to find him asleep at.
Would he be like himself? Angry, annoyed. No, he’s too empathetic. Sympathetic to the entities they encounter, even if he’s the one bearing the negative effects. It probably has a reason. Some incident in life, a wish left unfulfilled. Mashita could care less about it. But Yashiki seeks to understand.
Perhaps, he admires that in him.
Mashita draws out a pant. From the tension that builds and builds to… absolutely nothing. Like a pressure cooker about to pop, a balloon blown too full. It’s driving him insane.
The phone rings. A shrill sound echoes through his home. Mashita almost thinks it’s fake. Not entirely footed in this reality.
He should ignore it, not really fit to handle a conversation right now. But he stumbles across his apartment to fumble with the receiver. He falls back against the couch. It clicks on with a little bit of static from the storm.
He’s dreaming, yeah? This can’t be real. It’s him. Damn, Yashiki has immaculately terrible timing.
“I know its late. I- I’m sorry about today. I shouldn’t- I know you’re trying to protect me.”
Mashita almost doubles over.
Yashiki is so sheepish over the line. He’s being nice. So painfully, painstakingly kind. And Mashita is disgusted with himself. Acting like a fucking degenerate, jacking off to the thought of Yashiki in his position.
He’s also a goddamn hypocrite.
“Is this not a conversation we could, uh, have tomorrow?”
“Are you okay? You sound different.”
Yashiki would notice. He needs that willful ignorance about now before he has to address that he’s having a conversation with his partner with his hand on his dick. Worse because it actually feels like he’s getting somewhere, not stuck in this boner purgatory anymore.
Mashita bends over the arm rest. The phone carefully balanced against his shoulder. Fluid oozes thick down his shaft and fingers.
Mashita’s harder than fucking ever. This ghost has pushed every one of his damned buttons. It wouldn’t surprise him if this was a trick too. If so, its strikingly convincing with the tremble in his breath over the line. The storm cracks more static. He’s listening, and Mashita’s cock jolts. His teeth dig into his lip to stifle down a groan.
Poorly. It’s too obvious. He hears a catch in Yashiki’s breath. “You’re-“
Yashiki is a grown ass man. He knows.
“Something happened to me back at the house.”
All Mashita has are excuses. He’ll blame it on the supernatural. The heat, the whispers that incite what he’s left repressed. What’s left is his lack of restraint, his slipping standards as he lets Yashiki know too much.
God, though, its fucking hot.
“You were acting weird, even on the way back. I thought you were just mad, but-“ Yashiki pauses. He takes a deep breath. Mashita leans into the receiver, Yashiki’s voice holding him rapt. “I should have realized sooner. I’ll come over as soon as I-“
“No.” He grits out. “It’s better that you don’t.”
Mashita isn’t sure of the control he has. His will has already become more flexible than he previously thought possible. Shit, he’s fucking his hand on the phone with Yashiki having a very, unsexy conversation.
If Yashiki was here, would they-?
“I have to do something for you. It’s my fault you’re in this state. I need to-“
“Take responsibility.” Mashita would laugh if he was capable. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not hanging up. If something happens to you, I-”
“Fuck, Yashiki.” He hisses. What does he think he’s doing? Offering to listen to Mashita cum. How noble. Idiot. “Are you for real? Tell me you’re joking. You understand what’s going on, don’t you?”
Yashiki swallows. “I do.” His voice is steadier, but it’s not unaffected. There’s a waver, a hoarseness to it. “And I am. It’s for your safety.”
“Lech.” Mashita has no bite. He shivers. It’s hard to be pissed when he’s this desperate. It’s a new low. He’ll hate himself in the morning for it.
The silence hangs for over a minute. Then, Mashita sighs.
“Fine. But we are never bringing this up again. Understand?”
Mashita sinks back into the couch. His heart runs rapid. The pulsation pounds in his ears, heavy and dizzyingly. He turns the phone to speaker. Yashiki comes in over the line in a silence that only serves to keep his blood pumping.
Yashiki is never going to be able to look him in the eye after this. How is he even letting this happen?
It almost feels inevitable. Something they danced around for some time. The others that have been involved in their ghost hunts haven’t been sly about their comments. Mashita’s been quick to shut them down.
Yes, he spends too much time at the Kujo Mansion. More than in his own home honestly. Yes, he’s an asshole. Slightly less asshole-ish to Yashiki. It’s not lost on him that this is the most meaningful relationship he has.
He groans, hears Yashiki suck down a particularly strained breath. Mashita imagines him biting down on his lip. A hot flush turned across his skin. Embarrassed like he so easily gets, stuttering through his words. His eyes darting all over to avoid his gaze.
He hits his head, clammy with sweat with the butt of his palm.
Yashiki shuffles around on the other side of the line.
“You’re going to kill my boner.” Mashita wheezes.
In reality, it’s the exact opposite. He wants to get Yashiki talking.
“Oh, I uh-“
“What, Yashiki? Spit it out.”
“Don’t be so half-assed. Why did you even agree to this?”
“I-“ He starts, uneasy. What Mashita would find annoying in anyone else, he finds endearing on Yashiki. “I’ve always been fond of you. We’re friends and all. I can’t help but blame myself for- you’re important to me, Mashita.”
“Oh my god.”
Mashita groans in frustration, and Yashiki is quick to attention.
“What is it? Are you okay?” It drips with cloying concern.
“Stop talking about your feelings, and start talking dirty to me. I’ve cum six times in the last hour. I was really hoping this would be the last one.”
Yashiki coughs in surprise, and makes some bumbling attempt at speech.
“Ask your ghost friend. I’ve had enough of her whispers.”
Even now he sees her. Lurking just outside his field of vision. The shadow at his window, a figure looming next to the fridge. He’s not dead yet, so that’s something.
“You’re possessed, Mashita.”
“Are you hard?” Mashita pivots quickly.
“I don’t see how that’s-“ Yashiki sputters.
Oh- Mashita grins- he totally is.
His laughter at Yashiki’s expense drips with delirium. “This can be mutually beneficial, then.” And he won’t feel like such a creep come morning.
“Yashiki. Consider this an excuse. You’re helping me. Touch yourself. Knowing you, you probably need it.”
There’s a crash on Yashiki’s side, and he mutters a few low curses.
“Shit, Mashita. I already am.”
He snorts, and Yashiki groans. Embarrassment palpable through the line. He thinks his head hits the table.
It’s a sigh that fills the room. The sound so wonderful his body trembles. Is it really Yashiki jerking himself off in tandem on the other side of the phone, or the ghost acting yet again like a mimic to get him going?
He thinks she’s done a damn good job of it already. Anything else would be overkill.
Clothes rustle on the speaker. There’s a scratching against a table top. God, he’s in that stupid library. Yashiki practically lives there now, digging through the musty books day in and out.
Mashita leans over the speaker, keeping himself propped up on the arm of the couch. His other hand tugs furiously at his dick. He’s leaking all over the place. This thing is going straight to the incinerator after tonight.
Sweat pours over his forehead. His lips press together with a salty aftertaste. The heady sound of his partner’s gasps- knowing that even he’s jerking off, with no interference- drives him mad. He wants to reach through this damn phone, grab Yashiki by the collar and crush their lips together.
There’s the reason he couldn’t let Yashiki over.
Yashiki keens loud on the line, a moan barely strangled down. It makes his eyes shoot up.
“Almost-“ Yashiki breaks.
Mashita feels it too, the tension pooling and twisting in each of his muscles. The steady sound of slick skin and heavy breaths, pushing him forward with each thrust.
“Do you-“ Mashita wrenches. “Do you want to fuck me?” He asks, never expecting Yashiki to be so forward. Even like this. He does, however, manage to subvert his expectations.
“Yes.” He answers without hesitation.
Shit. Fuck. He’s so done.
Screwed. Perhaps, in more than a metaphorical sense.
Mashita’s teeth grind down. He thinks he’ll break through them.
It hits him first like a fucking train. His cock jumps with a spurt of tacky cum, shot out against his chest. Mashita curls over. His forehead presses to the cushion. Oh god, is he crying? He’s definitely crying. This sucks, but it’s the hardest he’s ever fucking cum in his life, spilled out between his fingers onto his couch.
He hears Yashiki too. That soft groan. The mutter of his name, he thinks he isn’t supposed to hear.
He pants, slumped down. His eyes still squeezed shut.
When he regains the slightest bit of composure, Mashita slings his hand, covered in ropes of cum. How did his body even make this much?
“Agh, this is disgusting.” He grunts over the line. But for once, his body feels… sated. Starting to come down from the high and calm down. Has she finally had enough?
What, that’s all it took? Totally fucking up the status quo of his relationship with Yashiki? Great. He can take twenty showers and never feel clean of this.
The Next Day
Yashiki shows up on his doorstep at noon the next day. A convenience store bag of food tucked under his arm.
“About what happened last night-“
“Cram it. Remember our deal?”
Non-disclosure. For all intents and purposes, it didn’t happen. It did. Fresh and burned into both of their memories. But Mashita won’t tolerate any actual acknowledgement of it. At least, that’s what’s getting him through the day.
“Yes? Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it? How are you feeling?”
“Like shit.” He snatches the bag, rummages through it and opens a canned coffee. Yashiki stares at him, dumbfounded. “So, are we going to stand around all day or actually exorcise this spirit?”