Work Text:
The infirmary is where he spends most of his time these days, when he's not out chasing spirits, the only place that still feels safe, its bland nondescript walls becoming an all too familiar reprieve.
As the Departed grows stronger, his allies dwindle, the stakes growing exponentially higher. No matter how badly his friend's may want to help him, Yashiki can't stomach the thought of losing a single one. He won't allow their souls to be condemned, chain linked into a horrible fate because he failed to protect them from a vengeful spirit's appetite.
Better they remain absent. At least that meant they were alive.
It is no wonder he's alone then, sat at the steel desk in the corner, toiling over his notes, trying to make sense of the missing pieces.
The empath swivels at the sound of the sliding door being shoved open, not expecting company, greeted with the cat-like eyes of a green-coated authority figure.
A relief spreads throughout the spirit doctor, thin lips curling in a smile at his partner's sudden appearance. Even in hopeless, tight spots like this, Yashiki can always rely on him.
“Mashita,” he breathes, more than happy to see his handsome face.
In his own way, the foul-mouthed gumshoe returns the sentiment, sporting a devilish grin.
“Got time for a coffee break,” the suited detective offers, walking up to him, holding out a styrofoam cup.
Yashiki folds his hands in gratitude, accepting this glimmer of salvation, admiration reflected in his tired eyes.
Rather than use a chair, Mashita hooks a leg onto the edge of the desk his partner is occupying, leaning his weight atop it, watching on as the kujou family head takes a temperate sip.
“Hope you don't mind. It's black.”
His timing is expertly calculated, Yashiki holding the liquid inside his mouth, not wanting to spit it out, but also holding his breath so that he won't taste the bitterness.
The mischievous cop laughs, the other male acting as though he's been betrayed, glass spectacles making the kicked puppy dog look all the more convincing.
“Chill man, it was a joke. I remembered to sweeten it for you.”
Upon hearing this, Yashiki remembers how to breathe again, swallowing down the caffeine with a heavy gulp.
“You're lucky the convenience stores don't charge for that shit or else I'd be broke by now.”
Yashiki thinks unsweetened decaffeinated coffee is a desecration of its holy sanctity, but Mashita sees it the other way round, preferring his without all the added sucralose.
The taller man takes another long sip, the lines under his eyes seemingly less haunted after doing so, a fountain of youth and energy returning to his skin.
Mashita smirks at the change. Funny how a fellow middle aged man needed help taking care of himself, but the detective doesn't mind babysitting too much.
“Donut,” he asks, pulling out a wrapped one from his pocket, chocolate glaze drizzled overtop golden perfection.
He swears, Yashiki's voracious eyes snap towards him even more earnest than before, practically salivating at the mouth, though you'd never guess he was a chocoholic by the calm and neutral tone he uses.
“Sure. Thanks, Mashita.”
With that, he takes the proffered treat, bites into it almost as ravenously as the Departed.
It paid to be a cop sometimes. Forgive the stereotype, but if nothing else, he could provide Yashiki with an endless supply of coffee and confections.
“Where's yours,” the kujou head asks, words muffled, inhaling more pastry.
It takes the detective a moment to realize what Yashiki is really asking is if he's eaten properly himself.
“Don't worry, I already had mine.”
Yashiki accepts this as truth, returning to nibble away at what remains of his donut, the gray-eyed sleuth nursing at his own coffee in the meantime.
He waits until a famished Yashiki is sucking the flakes of sugar from his fingers before moving onto his next question.
“You still have my gun, right?”
The longer haired male clenches his teeth, as if suddenly swallowing something horribly unpalatable.
“Yeah,” Yashiki admits, turning gloomy, “But do you think I really need it? Guns don't usually work on spirits.”
“Maybe not, but I feel better knowing you have it. Plus, there are some pretty nasty humans out there. Just ask Kokkuri.”
Yashiki sighs, having no other choice, but to go along with his plans. “If you say so.”
The room turns silent, Yashiki adopting more of his usual haggard state despite all the effort Mashita was putting in to cheer him up.
“You look tense,” the police detective observes, setting down his drink on the meeting table, slipping off his perch, “let me take care of that for you.”
Yashiki is so adorably naive as Mashita sneaks behind the stool, wedges himself between the spirit doctor and his studious profiling.
Firm hands rub along his neck, the slope of his shoulders, warmth and comfort in every twist of his fingers.
It takes some coaxing, but the bifoculed man let's him slide off the collar of his trenchcoat, Mashita able to massage at his partner's sore muscles more effectively with less layers in the way.
Yashiki hums in his throat, eyes slipping shut, relaxing into his touch, rolling his head back and moaning his approval.
“Been too long, huh,” the detective teases, cracking a smile at such a delicious reaction.
“Mashita,” the spirit doctor gasps, brows and teeth clenched in pain, the man kneading over a particularly tender spot.
“Got it,” his partner says, easing up his technique, working over the stubborn knot until it becomes smooth again.
Yashiki missed this, more than he thought he would. He'd forgotten what it was like, having someone he didn't feel guilty about indulging in soothing his worries away. He settles against the hard body positioned at his back, head feeling cumbersome, laying it to rest against one of Mashita’s long-sleeved arms.
He doesn't know how he survived all those weeks without him, the ex-police detective absorbed in his own grimy casework just as Yashiki had tied up the secrets of the Kujou mansion.
“The Departed is obsessed with you, right?”
Yashiki wonders why the malicious entity is suddenly being brought up, but nods subtly in acknowledgement.
“Do you think they're watching now?”
Just what was he getting at? Why this train of thought? Where was it headed?
Regardless of his motives, there would be no point in lying. Mashita would see right through it.
“Don't know,” Yashiki answers honestly, “I can usually sense when they're near, but the infirmary seems to be a safe haven. At least it did, up until this last case.”
Mashita's hands are on either side of his neck, resting gently beneath the cut of scruff at his chin, leaning down to whisper in his ear, “Won't they be mad when they find out?”
The implications are purposefully vague, but Yashiki deciphers it, one of the few that would be able to.
“We shouldn't provoke it,” the long haired man cautions, grasping for logic through the haze of yearning, “more people could get hurt.”
“Or maybe, the competition will do it some good.”
Yashiki recalls the Departed words, threats made to Ai, Shou and all the rest flashing through his mind in glaring red text.
“It usually targets those who are close to me. You would be the Departed's next prime rib.”
The cocky gumshoe laughs, “Tell ‘em to bring it on.”
He guides the spirit doctor's head back, stealing a kiss, soft and exploratory, relearning the curves of his lips, a new sensation for his memory to treasure.
For as much of a fight as he’s tried to put up (which coincidentally isn't much of one), the spirit doctor melts, pulling the other close, digging nails into short strands of choppy black hair.
“We should wait til after we close the case. It would be safer,” Yashiki reasons, parting them with a wet smack.
Mashita was just the type to jump right into another dangerous situation, even if he didn't have a full scope on the matter, having fallen prey to the supernatural before. But who knows if both of them would survive that long, if they would get another chance like this again, a rational mind making sense of reckless actions.
“Not sure this can wait,” Mashita says, dragging a hand along his lover's chest, eyeing the strain of his erection.
Yashiki chokes on a gasp, hips jerking up into his touch.
“Good to see you've missed me too,” he breathes, clutching at Yashiki’s pecs through the fabric of his shirt.
The look Yashiki is giving him, such wanton need and surrender, begging to forget reality in exchange for a few moments of bliss.
The detective plays with the obscured peak of his nipple, liking the effect it has, the man squirming in his seat, arousal twitching in his pants, looking for freedom of its restraints.
Feeling as though he’s tortured him enough, Mashita slides his hands down, molding it around the egocentric bulge, his friend stifling a moan. Yashiki is burning up, hiding his face inside his partner's jacket, huffing and shaking, a testament to how turned on he is.
“C’mon, you need to help me with this,” Mashita teases, tugging at the zipper to the Kujou's pants, needing to be careful in peeling it off him, needy as he is.
“Your sleeve will get dirty,” Yashiki weakly protests, always looking out for his companions' well being.
They're not exactly in a private space. This was still a school after all. Anyone could walk in and realize what they're doing in an instant, but it was late, the curtains drawn, most of their clothes still on. It should be fine. They’ll be quick.
“S'alright, I'll just roll it up,” Mashita chuckles, pulling away to do just that.
Yashiki takes the opportunity to unbutton his fly, fumbling and impatient, catching his erection on one of the metal sprigs, but he hardly cares. It’s only a few seconds, but he can’t wait for Mashita to return, instead taking his weeping erection in hand, stroking himself in desperation.
“Hey, that’s my job,” the police officer chides, a pale hand molding over his, stopping his pursuits, insisting to take over for him. The spirit doctor relents, giving up control, letting the other man squeeze him, inexplicably tight.
Mashita marvels at how hard he is, how wet.
“God Yashiki, why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”
The bifoculed man simply groans, words too hard to articulate, bucking into his partner’s stern grip, pleading with him to move.
A part of Mashita wants to draw this out, level such juvenile, harebrained passion into something more long lasting and ripe, but how can he, when Yashiki wants him this much?
With this thought in mind, the detective mimics his friend's breakneck pace, indulges the spirit doctor’s desires with swift, repetitive pumps, the swollen head pink and round like ichigo daifuku.
Yashiki’s nails return to scratch at his skin, leaving marks, grasping for purchase, muscles going taunt, signaling the rapid approach of his peak.
“Nnn, Ma … Mashita,” Yaskihi’s cries, legs flinching, rippling with aftershocks.
Cum spurts from his gaping slit, gushing in heavy clumps over the policeman’s meticulous fingers, the dark-haired medium heaving to catch his breath, fingers flexing around whatever material is within his reach.
Mashita feels chills crawl up his spine, goosebumps spreading across his skin, heat in his cheeks. Shit, this has gotten him riled up too.
He attempts to slide his soiled hand down Yashiki’s shaft, the man spasming from how sore the abrasive treatment has left him until the detective finally lets go, guiding his hand up to his lips, disposing of the evidence with his tongue.
“Hey Yashiki,” he drawls, mulling over the flavor, “you taste like sour plum sake.”
The empath can’t help laughing at such absurd comments, already feeling much better despite how depraved he must look.
If only Sakimoto could see him now, legs parted open before a man’s caress, perhaps she would be relieved to see his true inclinations, though, this wasn’t a good look for a teacher, participating in lewd activities after hours, on school grounds.
Mashita finds a box of tissues nearby, cleans what remains of the sticky substance on his hand, before tossing it in the waste bin. Similarly, he offers the same courtesy to Yashiki, the older male taking a tissue of his own, tidying himself up as well.
Mission accomplished, the detective turns towards the exit, about to head out.
“Wait, what about you,” Yashiki says, reaching out to grasp at the younger man's belt buckle.
The cop dodges his hand, taking a step back, only his jacket tails grazing the pads of his slender fingers.
“I'll take care of it later,” he growls, practically feral, “I was just trying to help you relax. You’re always too stressed out.”
Yashiki seems unsatisfied with that, tucking himself back inside his trousers, zipping them closed before rising from his chair.
“No way. Come here,” the lecherous teacher asserts, yanking the shorter male to him, reeling him in by his striped necktie.
“H-hey–!”
Mashita is unbalanced, suddenly reminded of how much taller the bearded man is, Yashiki pulling him in for a kiss that is so sweet it makes his teeth ache.
He wasn't expecting anything in return, really he wasn’t, but it's just like Yashiki to give back, to put more effort in than what he receives. Mashita can’t deny he wants this too, but after all the laborious trouble he put in to give the spirit medium a break, he’s going to go and exhaust himself again if he allows their debauchery to continue.
“Kazuo…” the detective stutters, losing his cool, “... hey, this is bad. Don't push yourself so much.”
Yashiki doesn't hear him, he's too absorbed in assaulting his mouth, giving it his all. Mashita’s completely weak to his lover’s tongue, adding his own, letting an amorous Yashiki assume control while he struggles to keep up.
The detective can't keep his footing, the older male steering him around by the lapels, backing him into the medical supply cabinet, pinning him flat against it.
“Fuck,” Mashita snarls, listening to the contents of the cabinet clatter around inside, “why you gotta be so … so damn persistent.”
For a creepy bastard, he looks too sexy and too confident, a dark gaze boring holes into his, so deep and fathomless like licorice candy.
“It's your spirit power,” Yashiki pants, raking hungry eyes over him, “I felt it pulse just now.”
“Really,” Mashita taunts, raising a fine brow, “My spirit is telling you to do all this?”
It was common knowledge that Mashita was more of the dexterous type, offering both insight and strength, his spiritual prowess wimpy by comparison, practically non-existent. The dabbling of the occult and sensitivity to spiritual attunement was more of Yashiki’s expertise, though he doubts his own measly affinity could cast such a lustful charm over one with his partner’s ancestry.
“Hmm,” Yashiki affirms, leaving off his grip, hands slipping down his lover’s coat, knees hitting the floor and it’s pretty obvious what he intends to do from there.
“Not just yours. Mine too,” Yashiki hums, embarrassment made evident only by the blush on his cheeks, nosing around the ex-cop’s concealed erection.
Mashita looks away, closing his eyes as his fingers slip across the sleek glass behind his back, feeling weak and powerless to the Kujou's seduction.
With a smug little, “hm,” the spirit doctor smiles against his crotch, glad his partner has finally decided to cooperate, fingers gliding down his trousers to undo his zipper.
When the spirit hunter pulls him out of his pants, the detective gasps, bowing forward, biting his lip to keep quiet. One hand grips him around the base, the other around his trembling thigh, a hot tongue coming to lave against his aching tip.
Yashiki is too eager, and Mashita can’t hold back his stifled sobs, tears welling in his eyes because it feels too good. The ex-cop tugs at his partner's ebony locks of hair, shaking with want while his partner seems completely at ease, immune.
“Ah, damn, that mouth of yours, hate how good it is,” Mashita huffs, cynical, as he bangs his head against the cabinet for some clarity, “No wonder all these spirits want a piece of you.”
Yashiki responds by continuing his salacious torment, taking his sweet time, completely ironic with how much of a hurry he was in for Mashita to jerk him off earlier. The spirit doctor removes his hand, relocating it to Mashita’s other thigh, clinging to his pant legs, taking more of him into his mouth, licking him down, into his throat.
“You’re mine though, don't forget that,” the younger of the two grumbles, watching as his length disappears inside a thin pair of lithe lips, his partner sucking his cock like it’s the most demure act ever known to man.
He hasn’t necessarily been neglecting his own needs, he pleasures himself every now and then, but this scandalous teacher has him cumming in minutes regardless of his personal maintenance.
“Ahh, dammit,” he moans, head knocking against the cabinet doors again, “Yashiki.”
The occultist is drinking him down, hot tongue guiding his release along the underside of his length with a string of long, languid licks. Mashita swears he blacks out for a few seconds, Yashiki already standing while the detective is still recovering, never seeming to catch his breath or his balance.
Somehow, they’ve managed a 180, a complete reversal of their physical and mental conditions of when he first arrived, Mashita feeling ragged and sapped, while the other seems a spry buddah of calm.
As he watches Yashiki rearrange his clothes, dress them both back up to decency, Mashita can’t shake the nagging thought that his partner might be a lethal incubus in disguise.