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At times like these, he wishes the divide between who he was as Masamune Kujou and who he is as Yashiki Kazuo was not so ambiguous.
It had started like a normal ‘date night’ for him and Mashita. On the rare nights when the detective could get away from his seemingly endless investigative work and Yashiki was not being actively haunted by his own troubles, they would fuck to relieve a little tension. It was an unspoken agreement that it would be preceded by a nice dinner and a bit of catching up over a few glasses of the Kujou family’s aged wine. Yashiki liked to keep things classy and romantic despite Mashita’s performative resistance to his attempts at courting. Despite his memory loss, the two decades of etiquette conditioning in his upbringing still held strong.
Among the other… less pretty things that come from several generations of hauntings and early familial death. Apparently Masamune Kujou had his fair share of generational trauma and psychological problems that Yashiki was lucky enough to inherit just by sharing a brain with him. Never was it so apparent as in these moments of normalcy.
He felt okay at the start of the night. Mashita finished his third glass of wine and opted for a fourth despite Yashiki’s disapproving look. His week had been stressful and it was nice to see the tension slowly seep out of the smaller man’s frame, but he didn’t enjoy bringing a sloshed partner to bed. He knew Mashita was a heavy drinker but in his house there would be limits. He capped the bottle and stretched his leg beneath the table to meet Mashita’s, the small bit of connection and warmth comforting and hopefully distracting.
“You’re no fun.” The younger man sneered, but there was no heat behind his words. He was surprisingly docile when it was just the two of them. That was something that surprised Yashiki when they first agreed to their arrangement. He’d expected to have to coax Mashita out of his cold and abrasive shell more, but to his surprise the younger man practically fell into his lap like a cat. His claws were out, but only to playfully knead.
Unlike Yashiki-–who even as Masamune had never experienced a long-term relationship before–-Mashita had already had a life partner before they met, albeit a short-lived one. He had already passed the hurdle of intimacy and self-discovery with someone else, had already figured out the nuances of his own love language. For him, love was a trust fall where he exposed the most vulnerable parts of himself and trusted that his partner would be there to catch him regardless. His idea of romance was a near-death experience that bonded two people together and removed from them the shackles of shame and expectation. He didn’t want grand gestures, just unconditional devotion and trust.
In short, Mashita knew himself. Yashiki did not, and that led him to make nasty little discoveries about his own subconscious.
Such as right now, staring down at his partner’s motionless sleeping form beside him. The younger man had promptly passed out after Yashiki fucked an orgasm out of him, understandable given his palpable exhaustion and the four glasses of wine in his gut. That is not surprising. What’s surprising is the stirring of Yashiki’s dick at the sight of his partner’s limp, unconscious body.
He’d had a rather weak orgasm tonight. Nothing personal, he supposed. Just old age and low sensitivity. He had pulled out of Mashita and finished on the younger man’s pale thigh, kissing his face all over as he waited for his breathing to go down so he could wipe them both down with the wet rag beside the bed.
Yet here he is, breath speeding up, wet rag in hand, and his dick for some reason filling out rapidly in response to his lover’s unconscious state. What is wrong with him?
Pointedly ignoring it, Yashiki got to work wiping Mashita down. He started with his face, gently wiping the sweat from his hairline and the traces of drool at the corner of Mashita’s mouth. The younger man grunted and twitched his face, and Yashiki felt himself start to relax. Grazing the rag over Mashita’s sweaty chest and stomach, he got to work cleaning around his crotch. His lower stomach was decorated with his own release, and there was a bit of lube and Yashiki’s precome seeping out of his stretched-out hole. He always got a bit pink in the face during this part, but any physical reaction he had in response was at least perfectly normal.
Yes, Yashiki Kazuo was totally normal and not weird. He had normal sexual inclinations. His dick was half-mast because he was looking at his partner’s naked and debauched body, not for any other reason. Nodding to himself even though no one was around to see it, he threw the rag vaguely in the direction of the laundry bin and willed himself to lie down and sleep.
Yet he could not get himself to move, stuck in his position crouched over his partner like a creep. What is he doing?
With a shaking hand, he gently lifted Mashita’s left wrist and let it fall. It was completely limp, its dead weight falling with a muted thump back onto the sheets. For some reason, that was incredibly arousing in a way he couldn’t explain, even if he wanted to. Panting, Yashiki lifted the other wrist and let it drop as well. His dick was painfully hard now, even though he shouldn’t have had enough of a refractory time to accommodate a second erection. What is happening to him? Why is he reacting this way?
He is not that type of person. The type to get off on another person’s helplessness. The type to be sexually aroused by an unresponsive partner. Is he?
Was that the type of person Masamune Kujou was?
Shuddering, Yashiki brought his shaking hand up to his mouth and bit into the flesh as hard as he could. The pain snapped him out of his paralysis and he felt the control of his legs return, overheated and sweaty and ready to run to the bathroom to sort his erection out with a clear head.
He got one long leg off the bed before Mashita grabbed his arm in a death grip. Squeezing his eyes shut tightly, Yashiki prayed to whatever gods were listening that Mashita had not only been pretending to sleep. He really did not want to talk about this right now.
“Where you goin’?” The younger man slurred, his eyes bleary and struggling to focus. Thank goodness for small mercies; he was clearly dead asleep.
Deliberately turning so his dick is out of sight, Yashiki puts his hand over the hand on his forearm, caressing the knuckles affectionately.
“Just going to pee, go back to sleep.”
Mashita’s expression takes on a slightly suspicious quality, apparently hearing something in Yashiki’s voice or seeing something in his profile that gave him pause. Or maybe he is just paranoid and used to being unable to hide anything from his perceptive partner.
A few stressful beats pass with Yashiki’s heart in his throat… and then Mashita relents, letting go of his arm.
“...‘kay. Come back quickly.”
Deliberately slowing his movements to appear less frantic, he gets out of bed and makes his way to their bedroom door, carefully shutting it behind him. He can feel Mashita’s eyes on him all the while and breathes a sigh of relief once he is out of sight.
What now? His lover will be expecting him back and will very likely come looking for him if he takes too long. He always takes forever to cum when he’s by himself, so he supposes trying to make his erection flag is his best option. Looking to both sides of the hallway, Yashiki deliberates on the least arousing room in the mansion. Immediately the first room to come to mind is the storehouse. His visceral fear of the paulownia box and its contents would clear up his ‘problem’ instantly.
But… he’s still naked. And his clothing is currently on the floor of his bedroom, where Mashita is waiting for him. He doesn’t want to be anywhere near Mary in such a vulnerable state.
That's a hard pass.
How about… his doll room? Ever since sort-of moving in a few months ago, Mashita forced him to move his doll workshop to a different room. He honestly doesn’t understand what his partner finds so creepy about them. They’re cute when they aren't possessed.
As he mindlessly makes his way to the room down the hall, he frowns. Well, they aren’t that kind of cute, they’re more… aesthetically pleasing and beautiful. From a strictly platonic and non-sexual standpoint. Suddenly nervous about what he is going to find out about himself, Yashiki hesitates in front of the door. Masamune clearly was drawn to dolls, but in what little memories he has of his past life he can’t recall any sexual feelings towards them.
Steeling himself, he swings open the door and is greeted by three sets of glass eyes embedded in perfectly smooth emotionless white faces. Immediately, the simmering heat in his loins is doused by cold ice and he feels himself softening. Thank the gods.
Somewhat self conscious even in front of their unseeing eyes, Yashiki enters the room. Ironically-–or perhaps subconscious and intentional choice on his part–-this room also used to belong to Masamune. From what he could tell, it was just a combination storage room and larger workshop. Most of the supplies Masamune needed for sculpting or doll making were stored here and it seemed that he would use this space for the more messy steps in the process. The lingering wood shavings on the floor told him that much at least.
As for its current inhabitants… There are three lifesize dolls residing here. The doll making process came to Yashiki like it was second nature–and knowing his family’s history, it probably was–so it didn’t take him long to pick up the tools again once he got bored enough. After the first doll was completed, the second and third joined her in rapid succession. There was something dangerously addictive about it, this act of creation. He wonders if Masamune felt the same way.
Strangely, he could never locate any of Masamune’s dolls. Surely they must exist somewhere? He is curious to see how his craftsmanship differs from his former self. While Yashiki’s interest lies in creating something beautiful and ornate, Masamune may have been more business-oriented and practical. After all, these were valuable tools in replacing human sacrifice.
Did he take the time to carefully braid and style the long hair, or did he ship them out once they were complete enough to suffice? Did he feel the same pleasure in creation that Yashiki did?
Suddenly, there is a soft noise like the creaking of wooden joints. It is quiet and muffled, surely not coming from the dolls in front of him. His limbs go cold with fear and he whips his head around the room, searching for the source. Mary could not possibly be active again. Not this soon.
Another small noise, and this time he locates the source.
There is a discolored patch in the wall, partially obscured by the work desk identical to the one in his own bedroom. It’s a little over a foot in height and width, less faded than the rest of the wall. Looking closer, it seems to be a wooden pallet that the previous occupant had color matched to the wallpaper.
Yashiki presses his ear to the wall, but he can’t hear anything else. This house is very old, so maybe that noise was some vermin scuttling over whatever someone hid behind the pallet?
Whatever Masamune… hid behind the pallet.
He deliberates for a moment on whether to go back to the bedroom and grab Mashita just in case he found something dangerous. But if whatever is behind there had any spiritual power, why would it wait until it was discovered to attack? Surely a dangerous entity could not be sealed behind a barrier as flimsy as a piece of furniture propping a pallet up against the wall?
Mind made up, Yashiki gets up and shoves at the desk, slowly moving it along the floor with the scraping of hardwood against wood flooring. He hopes that this room is far enough from the bedroom that Mashita won’t hear the noise and come running. A fully nude middle-aged man moving furniture around in the middle of the night would be an odd sight, and he’d like to retain at least a little bit of his dignity around the younger man.
The desk out of the way, the pallet is now fully visible. He notices that the patterns of the wallpaper are perfectly imitated, the lines and contours lined up seamlessly. He feels sort of bad; Masamune clearly went to some length to camouflage this hiding spot. What was so shameful that he felt the need to hide it from his family?
Hand shaking slightly, Yashiki reaches out to remove the pallet. It glides easily out of the way, and the first thing he sees is two pale white feet sticking out from a bundle of white sheets. It startles him at first, but it is clear that the pristine motionless limbs do not belong to anything living or dead. It’s a doll, covered in a thin blanket and curled up with its concealed arms and head resting on its knees.
Feeling strangely somber, Yashiki gently grabs the legs and starts carefully maneuvering the doll out of the small space. It is surprisingly large, almost full-sized like the dolls Yashiki made himself just recently. At its full height it’d be a little over five feet, taller and broader than Mary.
The limbs creak and groan as gravity causes them to unfurl and extend to their full height. Yashiki holds the doll up and the legs dangle limply under the white sheet. Taking a steadying breath, he lets the sheet fall.
The doll has smooth pale skin and short dark hair, which the friction from the blanket caused to stick out in all directions crazily. Its face is thin but elegant, its expression serene and its lips slightly curved upwards in a subtle smile. The eyes are strangely intense, a captivating pale blue with large dilated pupils. The shoulders are broad and taper to a narrow waist, the build of the doll lithe with the sculpting of the musculature under the skin looking almost disturbingly real. Following the vee of the doll's hips, Yashiki realizes…
The doll is male… and it is anatomically complete. Between its legs rests a small but lovingly carved flaccid penis and testicles.
How odd. None of the dolls he's encountered before have had any private parts sculpted under their clothes. Did Masamune include such details in all his dolls, or is this one special?
Shamefully, the sight of the doll alone reignites the fire in Yashiki’s body and he feels his dick fill out the longer he looks at it. Is this a lingering Pavlovian response from Masamune? The doll seems to be intentionally seductive, and Yashiki’s eyes feel hypnotically drawn to its dilated pupils and the light dusting of pink on the doll’s cheeks.
“What the hell am I looking at, Yashiki?”
Sputtering, Yashiki almost drops the doll. He whips around to face the door, the doll not-so-subtly covering his front as he holds it out towards Mashita. Unlike him, Mashita had the sense to throw some clothes on before leaving their bedroom. He is wearing a white button-up and small black boxers. Yashiki is briefly distracted by his pale thighs before remembering the precarious situation he's found himself in.
“I-I found… In the wall…” He managed to stutter out.
Quick as ever, Mashita’s eyes dart to the moved furniture, the camouflaged pallet, and the hole in the wall with an intrigued expression. He only had to glance at the doll once more before bursting out into uncontrollable laughter.
Yashiki fights the urge to hug the doll closer to himself, both due to his own self-consciousness and an irrational need to comfort the doll that was being laughed at. That brought his dick into unfortunate contact with its silky thighs and buttocks, and he promptly flinched away and nearly dropped it again.
“Masamune had,” Mashita wheezed, “a fucking creepy secret sex doll! Who’d have thought?”
“I-I…”
“No, no. Never mind, actually.” He snorts, “He seems exactly like the type to do that. All repressed and lonely and gay and shit.”
“H-hey…” Yashiki says, vaguely offended. He doesn’t know why he’s so embarrassed, technically, the ‘repressed and lonely and gay’ man who made this secret sex doll wasn’t him. Not exactly, anyway. Maybe his embarrassment stems from his raging hard on that he still isn’t sure if Mashita has noticed yet.
“I can see your ‘Little Masamune’ has responded too, by the way.”
Of course, he can’t hide anything from this man.
“You’re just dying to fuck that thing, aren’t you?” Mashita sneered, “I’d be jealous, but to be honest, that thing looks a lot like me. I’m almost flattered.”
“O-oh.” Yashiki turns the doll around to compare its face side by side with Mashita’s. Aside from the eye color and the mocking sneer that is Mashita’s smile, they look like they could be brothers. “Y-you’re right… I guess Masamune and I… had the same type…”
Somehow, that thought is more mortifying when confronted with the physical embodiment of his former self's lust. Will the ghost of his past haunt him forever, even in moments of intimacy? The strange response he had to Mashita’s limp sleeping form makes more sense now. Masamune was probably so accustomed to fucking an inanimate object that he conditioned his body–and by extension, Yashiki’s body–to react to the sight of it.
Reading the discomfort on his lover’s face, Mashita mellows out. He steps closer and pries the doll from Yashiki’s hands, setting it unceremoniously on the white sheet on the floor. Mashita squeezes his lover’s upper arms as the older man determinedly refuses to make eye contact.
“Hey. You know I… like you, right?”
“No you don’t.”
“Oh shut up. I’m crazy about you, Yashiki. You hear me?”
Yashiki sighs and reluctantly meets Mashita’s eyes. “Even if I’m apparently a sick doll-obsessed pervert?”
“Do you honestly think that would be a deal breaker for me at this point?” Mashita asks incredulously, “You were eating honey that was gestated inside of a corpse for a whole week before I caught you. You’re fucking gross.”
Yashiki cringed, “I-It felt like the correct thing to do at the time.”
Mashita chuckled before leaning up and kissing him on the lips, “You’re creepy and gross and mine forever. Good luck ever getting free of me.”