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The worst part of Kujou Mansion was, according to Mashita, the inexplicable draft that always ran through the house. No matter how many windows and doors they closed, no matter the caulk Mashita once brought to try to fix the problem for good (assuming the old house must be letting the wind in through some small hole or leak), Kujou Mansion remained stubbornly cold and unfriendly. Most people would have wondered why Yashiki even bothered staying in such a place, when he had the money to buy a new house out of pocket. Mashita understood him, though. It’s not that easy to just leave your whole life behind, and Yashiki had a lot of attachments.
Mashita had mainly one, that being his green jacket. Well, jackets. He did own more than one, just in case, but his favourite one was currently trapped in the room which doubled as Yashiki's bedroom and doll workshop. Mashita had hoped to be able to kill two birds with one stone, as he'd stopped by to both retrieve his jacket and discuss the details of one of their ongoing cases. He’d just gotten a tip from an old colleague that linked a recent murder with the spirit they were hunting. They needed to sort this out, and quick, before other people started biting the dust.
He’d called ahead, of course, but no one had picked up the phone. That in itself wasn’t unusual. Yashiki often slept at odd hours, and even when he was awake, he would easily get engrossed in things to the point that he forgot the world around him for several hours at a time. So instead, Mashita had just driven over with the intention of letting himself in. He’d tried the doorbell, but since nobody had come to open the door, he’d tried the door handle as well. Like usual, the door wasn’t locked. How this man still had any possessions in his house was a mystery to Mashita, but then again, only someone who'd once been marked for death would be stupid enough to enter Kujou Mansion.
So here he was, making his way up the old and creaky staircase. The room was only dimly lit, and Mashita cast a long and shaky shadow, like a distorted version of himself, always one step ahead. He cursed himself for not having worn one of his back-up jackets. Sure, the drive over to the mansion wasn’t long, but it really was freezing inside. He quickened his pace, eager to reach the only room in the house that usually kept an even temperature.
He was about to knock on Yashiki’s bedroom door, when he noticed that it had been left just slightly ajar. Faint noises escaped the crack: the clinking of small objects as they collided with each other, the rustle of clothing, an elbow being placed on a table. Yashiki must be working on that doll again.
The doll was a reproduction of Mary, using all of the same techniques as the original, emitting of course the evil spirits festering inside of her. The idea had been that, at some point during the process, Yashiki would have found out what made Mary click. At least, that’s what the idea had been when he made the first doll. The doll currently being worked on was the fifth in a line of failed attempts, each one a near carbon copy of Mary, and each one a grave disappointment to their maker. Deep down, Mashita thought he knew that just copying Mary wasn’t going to solve their problems, but the perfectionist in Yashiki wouldn’t, couldn’t, let go of the idea. If he just worked a little harder, studied a little longer, stayed up a few more hours… As a result, he now solved spirit cases by night, made dolls by day, and slept pretty much never. Mashita had been on his case about it, and Daimon too; heck, even the kids were starting to worry about their favourite recluse. Whatever they said, it evidently made no difference to Yashiki.
Mashita pushed the door open a little further, to get a good look at Yashiki's object of obsession. There she was. She looked pretty much finished to Mashita, but Yashiki was bent over her face, so there must be something left for him to do. His attention to detail was immaculate, even counting the strands of hair before attaching them. Mashita had to be very quiet. Yashiki wasn’t the type of person to listen to music or the radio when he worked, so the room was dead silent save for the sounds of his movement. As he was sitting by his desk, he could have seen Mashita by simply turning his head a little to the side, but he was so completely engrossed in his work that he probably wouldn’t have noticed even if Mashita was standing right next to him.
The five previous dolls were all positioned throughout the room, staring their master down. They made Mashita uncomfortable, as their dead fish eyes silently appraised the same features of Yashiki’s as Mashita did. The hair that framed his face, growing longer each day, the ends starting to curl slightly. His fingernails, meticulously kept short to not interfere with his sculpting, painting, sewing… His trousers were oddly creased from having been sat down for too long, and he’d probably been in that same shirt for one too many days. To anyone else, he might have looked like a crazy shut-in, but not to those dolls, and not to Mashita.
Squinting, he tried to see what Yashiki was doing to the doll’s face. In one hand, he was holding a very small brush, and in the other, a container with some sort of pink powder or cream inside. With the tiniest flicks of his hand, he was working the contents of the container into the doll’s cold, hard lips, giving them the illusion of being soft and rosy. This was something he was very good at, Mashita concluded by looking at the other dolls. Yashiki’s own lips were tucked between his teeth, his mouth a thin line of concentration as he focused all of his attention to the tip of the brush.
Then, without warning, he stopped. Mashita held his breath, but Yashiki just bent down to his right, picking up one of the finished dolls. He placed her right next to his current project on the table, holding their faces side by side, comparing. Four empty eyes started up at him in turn, heads held taught, and Mashita felt the anger boil up again. They couldn’t see Yashiki, not really. He had just created a very convincing illusion. If Yashiki could only create a new doll to host the evil which plagued Mary… But the near-identical porcelain faces remained as silent and unblinking as ever.
Seemingly satisfied, Yashiki put both of the dolls back down on the desk. He washed his paintbrush in a small tub of water, and dried it using a stained piece of fabric. He opened one of the desk drawers, collecting all the items he needed for his next step. A light suddenly danced around the room, and for a moment Mashita was sure that Yashiki had brought out a flashlight, but he reassured himself that it was just one of the many metallic tools which crowded Yashiki’s desk and the wall next to it. After stretching his hands above his head for a second, Yashiki readied another brush, sealing the old container and opening a new one. This one was black. Mashita had an inkling of what he was going to do next.
Yashiki began to undress the finished doll, folding her clothes neatly in a pile. Mashita hadn't really been expecting it to be wearing so many layers. The growing pile of meticulously hand stitched garments was starting to remind him of the never-ending tissue in the pocket of a third-rate magician. When the doll was fully in the nude, Yashiki opened another desk drawer to procure a small measuring tape. He wrapped it around the doll’s arm, checking it against a piece of paper taped to the wall. He nodded to himself, seemingly satisfied with the results, and began to measure the other, unfinished doll’s arm using the same process. He was about to apply the marks, something which seemed like such an integral part of the process that he probably wouldn’t want them displaced by even a millimeter. Yashiki’s hands were steady, the kind of steady that Mashita - with his nicotine and drinking habits - could never even begin to hope for. The neat half moons of his nails, almost the same shade as the white of his hands, made a scraping noise against the table as he picked the brush back up, dipping it into the new container. If it hadn’t been so obvious that he hadn't washed himself in days, he would have looked like a doll himself.
After a few minutes of work, Yashiki seemed satisfied with the first mark. He carefully set the doll’s arm down to dry, and went back to measure the first doll. He wrapped it around her thigh, checking several numbers against the paper on the wall. Then he- Mashita frowned. Actually, what was he doing? He had set the tape measure down, but he seemed to be checking something with his hands. Had he found some sort of fault with the material? Was the quality of the previous doll not up to par? Yashiki was running the tips of his fingers up and down the doll’s thigh, and then her face. It looked as if he was comparing the surfaces, perhaps checking that the paint had been properly sealed. He then went on to do the same thing to the doll’s stomach, and her chest, and-
Mashita froze in place, realising he was watching his friend in an increasingly compromising situation. He should close the door and walk away, but if he did that, he would risk Yashiki noticing him. How would he explain that? Besides, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious as to how this would play out.
So instead, he watched as Yashiki picked the doll up, placing it on his lap. He pulled some of the hair away from her face, leaving the path free to her lips, which he ran his fingers over before grazing them with a soft kiss, experimentally slipping his tongue over her unmoving cupid’s bow. As the kiss intensified, Yashiki gripped the doll’s hair with one hand and her waist with the other. The movement reminded Mashita of an adult film he'd watched some years ago - not that he’d wanted to, of course, but it’s hard to get out of reviewing evidence - and he found himself wincing with discomfort. It was as if Yashiki was kissing and caressing a statue, a statue that just happened to have human hair for him to grip. The poor person who donated that hair would be wincing as hard as Mashita, if they knew what was happening to it.
Still in his trousers, Yashiki had begun to grind up against the doll, each roll of his hips moving her up and down, as if a wave of passion had caught them both. Mashita couldn’t stop thinking about what Yashiki must look like from her unseeing eyes. His eyes were half closed, relaxed, and his lips were parted enough that even Mashita could see the glimmer of his front teeth. He was as quiet as ever; only his slightly more pronounced exhales revealed that he was feeling anything at all.
Mashita gave up trying to trick himself. His reason for staying was entirely selfish. He wanted to see.
No sooner had he made this decision for himself, than Yashiki placed the doll back on the table, sliding his chair back and standing up. Mashita held his breath, getting ready to make some sort of excuse, but Yashiki didn’t so much as glance in his direction. Instead he unceremoniously unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, pulling both them and his underwear down. His gaze was intently fixed in the doll in front of him, and his cock was flushed and hard. He remained like that for a few seconds, hovering over her pale limbs, letting his eyes wander over her porcelain face, her open eyes, her long hair. His captivation with his own creation had always been apparent to Mashita, but never this apparent, and never this crude. Yashiki’s eyes fluttered close again as he pushed his hips forward, the tip of his cock brushing against the artificial leg.
Was it about Mary? Was it about dolls? Or was Yashiki just desperate and pent up to the point of insanity? Mashita was starting to question his own, as he watched Yashiki draw abstract lines of precum on the doll’s porcelain skin. His breathing was getting heavier now, coming out in small huffs between slightly parted lips. If he was honest, Mashita didn’t get this at all. What about this slab of decorated plaster was getting Yashiki so worked up? Mashita himself had always preferred real people, alive people, with warm bodies that could move and whose mouths weren’t static when they spoke. Mashita had preferred someone like Yashiki. He still did, even as Yashiki pushed the doll’s legs together, pressing himself between its thighs, falling into a slow rhythm. With one hand, he was holding the legs together at the ankles, and with the other, he was pressing the doll down against the table, palm wrapped around her waist, ensuring she wouldn’t slip away from him. Mashita supposed that if he hadn’t, several months of hard work would’ve been just a thrust away from ending up in pieces on the floor.
How was this even enjoyable for him? Yashiki’s cock was being hugged from both sides by solid and inflexible ceramic, and Mashita winced anew as he remembered the lack of any lubrication, but Yashiki looked satisfied. His long lashes fluttered open and closed, open and closed, following the rhythm of his hips. Mashita imagined he could see the precum drip onto the doll’s stomach, pooling and gliding down the smooth surface, making it wet and slippery. Maybe if he narrowed his eyes, he could even see the veins of Yashiki’s cock bulging, less when it was out of the grasp of the doll’s legs, and more when he forced it through the narrow opening, slowly and carefully, the head reddening, almost pulsating. Mashita could grip it like that. He could do it better than any doll could, harder, more deliberate, more… organically. The fabric of his own trousers were starting to strain as that idea was overlaid with the image of Yashiki in front of him. But Yashiki, stupid fucking Yashiki, would rather fuck an object, the closest thing to their would-be killer, the thing that kept him up every night and day alike. Mashita couldn’t compete with that, no matter how human he was. Or perhaps, because of it.
Yashiki picked up the pace, straining harder as his cock slipped back and forth. Mashita wanted to wrestle him out of that sweaty shirt he was wearing and fuck his brains out in the shower, but instead he just touched himself over his trousers, watching the closest thing transpire before his very eyes. Yashiki’s exhales were louder now, more obscene, sometimes increasing in volume until they were just shy of a grunt or moan. The doll itself was quiet and unmoving, save for some creaking of the joints and the ever so slight give as Yashiki ravaged her immobile parts. There was something wanting in Yashiki’s eyes, something yearning. Was he trying to fuck the soul into her?
Mashita closed his eyes for a moment. Mentally, he filtered out the creaking of the doll, and instead focused only on the sounds Yashiki was making. He could have been running, trying to catch his breath. Or he could have just encountered a spirit, breathing heavily out of fear - yes, that could have been it. Perhaps if Mashita opened his eyes back up, he'd be looking at a Yashiki doing situps on the floor, while he himself was stupidly grinding against his own hand in the doorway. The thought was frightening, but the sound - the sound he knew wasn't just some dirty fantasy - was exhilarating.
Rustling. Mashita cracked one eye open to see Yashiki changing his position once again. While Mashita stood on high alert, ready to dart behind the protective shield of the door, Yashiki grabbed the poor doll and flipped it, stomach down, legs dangling off the table. He resumed his previous position in front of the table, sticking his cock in between the doll’s thighs once again. This time though, he only needed one hand to hold the doll in position, while with the other…
Mashita stopped touching himself. This- he couldn’t, he wouldn’t leave a stain on his own trousers. The scene going on in front of him was bad enough, embarrassing enough for them both. Yashiki was combing through the doll’s hair, lightly stroking her neck and back with his fingertips, and even caressing himself: his stomach, his thighs, his chest… His breathing kept increasing in intensity, as did the movement of his hips, obscenely rutting between the legs of the glorified mantlepiece decoration. How she could inspire so much passion in him was a mystery to Mashita.
And so it would remain. Mashita was just starting to consider backing away - giving him some safe distance before Yashiki, uh, finished up his business, so to speak - when a word finally breached Yashiki's lips.
“Shit-”
Did he break the doll? But no, it wasn’t spoken with that type of cadence. Rather, it was strained, breathy, almost rumbling out of his chest. And then-
“I’m sorry.”
As Mashita was trying to figure out just what he was sorry for, Yashiki pulled out from between the doll’s legs and - with his cock in his hand hovering above the doll’s back, her hair mercifully swept aside - he came, splattering the porcelain with specks of glistening liquid, the colour of which blended almost seamlessly into the doll’s skin.
He stood for a moment, panting, eyes closed, hand still grasping his cock, the other clasping the side of the table, supporting him. And then he turned his head…
And looked straight at Mashita.
Shit. Ah shit-
“Well, this is embarrassing.” Yashiki’s voice was so matter-of-fact, that at first Mashita had a hard time comprehending what he was saying. “There really is nothing I could say that would explain this.”
Desperately, Mashita groped around his head for something, anything, to say.
“I guess so.”
Yashiki stepped away from the doll, opening one of the desk drawer to retrieve a tissue. Did he… just keep them there for these types of situations? No, tissues are a normal thing to keep in your bedroom, right?
“Mashita…”
“Huh?”
“Do you mind turning around? I’m not exactly decent right now.”
He probably wanted to dry himself off. His pants were still below his knees, his cock softening as they were speaking, still wet from his orgasm. Mashita obliged, spinning around sharply before leaning against the doorway, back now facing Yashiki.
“How long were you watching?”
It was hard to tell how Yashiki was feeling from his voice alone, but Mashita thought he picked up a slight tremble. Poor guy. He was better off not knowing, so Mashita lied through his teeth.
“Pretty much just got here. I thought I heard a weird noise, but it was just you doing it with the doll.”
“Sorry you had to see that.” Mashita heard him fastening his belt. “You can turn around now if you want.”
He did. Yashiki was looking presentable again, or at least as presentable as you could look while wiping your own semen off a doll. He threw the tissues in the little trashcan underneath the desk. Mashita tried not to think about it. He had to act natural, but it was hard to remember what he would usually have said or done in a situation like this. Apologize? Change the topic, or-
Teasing. Quickly, he needed to come up with some way to mock Yashiki for what had just happened. Fortunately, this was second nature to Mashita.
“Getting too old to meet someone in the regular way?”
Yashiki sat the doll back up, her limbs creaking, and began to put her clothes back on. “What?”
“It’s really quite disturbing. What if it had been someone other than me, catching you like this? What if it had been one of the kids?”
“I wasn’t expecting any of them today.” His face was stubbornly turned down, his uncut hair covering his expression.
“You weren’t expecting me either, as far as I know. You should consider locking your doors.”
That’s right. If he kept deflecting like this, Yashiki would be too embarrassed to ever bring up the subject again.
“You know I can’t hear the doorbell well from my room.” With nimble fingers, Yashiki buttoned the doll's little shirt. “Besides, you usually call ahead.”
“I did this time as well, but you didn’t answer. Can’t blame me for this.”
Yashiki, having finished dressing the doll, stood it up straight and started to brush out its hair with his fingers. “I’m not.”
The atmosphere felt suffocating. “Well, that’s generous of you. I hope I don’t have to worry about finding a doll of myself stashed away somewhere.”
Yashiki chuckled, in what to Mashita felt like a very uncharacteristic sort of way.
“After what you just saw, wouldn’t it make more sense to assume I’m into more… refined things?”
Was he fucking with him? No, surely not. Maybe he'd just finally figured out the art of deflecting, too.
“I’ll just have to take your word for it, then. I’m not about to start going through your things.” Mashita nodded towards the doll. “Even my bravery has its limits.”
He was surprised at how easily they were starting to slip into their regular tone of conversation, him chiding Yashiki and Yashiki, well… doing his best to keep up. Perhaps this was just what happened when you’d known someone for long enough, and spent way too much time together. Even catching them fucking a doll couldn’t get in the way of having a fulfilling conversation afterwards. And since Yashiki seemed to have let the incident go, Mashita decided that he would also put it out of his head, for the time being at least. After all, he’d wanted to talk to Yashiki about a snag in their case, and that wouldn’t exactly solve itself. Better they got to work on it right away, and worried about dollfucking later. Or never.
Mashita hadn’t planned on entering the bedroom. He'd been standing in the doorway all this time, and now that their embarrassing situation had been seemingly resolved, he felt eager to change the scenery, go back downstairs, maybe even getting some coffee. Putting some space between himself and the scene of the crime felt... necessary. Before he took his first step in that direction, however, Mashita suddenly remembered why he’d come up to this room in the first place.
“My coat-”
Yashiki, one step ahead of him for once, picked it up from the chair it had been draped over, holding it out for Mashita to take.
So Mashita, though had not been planning to originally, entered the room to take his coat, walking past the desk in the process. Yashiki passed the coat to Mashita, before turning around and exiting the room. When he had found the jacket to be securely draped over his arm, Mashita had fully intended to do the same.
Only, something caught his eye. It was the same mysterious light that had bothered him earlier, the one he had assumed had come from one of Yashiki’s metal instruments. On closer inspection, however, Mashita concluded that it was no such thing; it was a mirror.
A mirror that, when assuming Yashiki’s position of facing the desk from earlier, granted Mashita a perfect view of the doorway.
That bastard. If he'd known all along, why hadn’t he said anything? Was he getting some kick out of this? Mashita’s eyes fell again to the doll, and he decided that yes, Yashiki was definitely weird enough to enjoy putting Mashita in this situation. He really didn’t like the feeling that Yashiki had been one step ahead of him, all this time, watching him back… It made him feel as if he had been toyed with, and that was something he couldn’t stand. At the same time, though, this had opened up a world of possibilities, and Mashita wasn’t going to let them just slip by.
He was going to get even.