by Iron Eater
When Clark got into the urban exploration hobby, he’d expected to be the only thing haunting the condemned manor house out past the edge of town. Worst case scenario, he figured, was that he’d have to evade squatters or some weirdos making meth, and his cautious daytime sweeps with a drone-mounted camera hadn’t revealed anything but which parts of the architecture looked the least stable. He’d geared up for his capstone excursion to be spooky but ultimately uneventful.
Then he’d met Fletcher, who’d proved him wrong on several accounts.
Once you got used to it there wasn’t that much to being possessed. Clark’s head felt a little crowded at times, but that was just because Fletcher’s consciousness was tucked so close to his own; he suffered through worse every year around allergy season. Fletcher tended to be a good passenger during his transient stays, never demanding to manipulate Clark’s body when they were out and about (assuming he even could); this meant Clark was happy to spend a little extra time looking at things he saw every day. A ghost from something-forty-whatever hardly got a chance to experience the most mundane of affairs, what with his being tethered to a neglected mansion on the edge of town when not riding along inside a willing vessel, so their first few outings had involved a lot of time at the library going through picture books about modern-ish life. Moving up to movies on Clark’s shitty little DVD player had resulted in a nigh unto religious experience.
Sometimes Clark would save his grocery shopping for Fridays simply so he could let Fletcher marvel at the amount, and the variety, of food people could get these days; Clark was grateful they could communicate silently when Fletcher was in his head because he had yet to have a single visit to the supermarket without Fletcher demanding, in that old-white-landownery way of his, for explanations of the colorful animals on the boxes of equally colorful food, and what in God’s name a marbit was. Fletcher’s reaction to his first taste of sugary junk cereal had been memorably disastrous. Clark had defiantly eaten the entire bowl just to remind him who was the guest in their situation.
Today, however, was not a day to stock the larder. Instead Clark headed back to his apartment with purpose, stopping only to grab some takeout from the Thai place with the flamingo-shaped neon sign in the windows before he returned home. He did up the lock, deadbolt, and chain definitively; it made for a nice little declaration that he didn’t plan to go back out for a while.
“How you doing in there?” he asked as he cracked open a container of tom kha. When it was just the two of them he preferred speaking out loud. “Excited to be staying over the whole weekend?”
It’s nice to have someone to talk to, Fletcher replied in that spooky-puppy-dog tone of his that Clark found endearing. The poor guy spent most of his unlife twiddling his thumbs in a rotting hulk of a technically-haunted house; it was no small surprise that Fletcher had been a very lonely person before Clark had stumbled into the picture. His tone brightened as Clark let his eyes roam over the takeout. This is some of that foreign food we had before, right?
“The recipes are from Thailand, the owners are from one county over.” He took a deep sniff of the feast of cartons spread out on the coffee table in front of his couch. “I was sure to get plenty of that chicken stuff you liked.”
The satay? They’d worked on how that word was pronounced last time. Fletcher was eager to expand his horizons beyond the dusty old chestnuts he’d been raised on, which was more than Clark could say about certain family members he could name.
“That’s the one. Here, I’ll have a bite.” Clark bit a chunk from its skewer and took his time chewing, giving the notes of peanut and coconut in the sauce a chance to really shine. He was rewarded with a rush of someone else’s good vibes for his trouble. That seemed like a good a cue as any to properly tuck in for dinner.
When they’d first started going out together Fletcher had explained how novel any sensation was, no matter how pedestrian, so even if it made him look high as a kite Clark had gotten in the habit of interacting with things at a thoughtful pace. He liked Fletcher, and save for the cereal thing they hadn’t really had any friction regarding their arrangement. He made sure to keep his calendar clear on possession days so it wasn’t like Clark’s other local friends cared. What did a little petting of clothes at the thrift store matter in the grand scheme of things?
They chatted as Clark ate. His job at the historical society meant he always had more to talk about than he’d first thought—the whole urbex thing had started as an attempt to try to expand their archives with original research, and he couldn’t say it hadn’t done so—and his bustling social life on non-haunted days provided enough to fill in the cracks. Fletcher’s weeks were rarely so interesting (there were only so many ways a man could say he floated, incorporeal, occasionally projecting menace at people or animals who strayed too close) but Clark didn’t mind. Sometimes he just needed to know someone else was happy to see him around and that was enough.
Fletcher, being dead, did not need to eat, which did nothing to quell his interest in dining by proxy. Each sip of soup or mouthful of rice that made its way into Clark’s stomach inspired an all-over tingle from his quiet passenger. Clark had once asked if him nourishing his body was somehow nourishing Fletcher’s soul, to which Fletcher had told him to stop putting such stock in fantastical notions. That this admonishment came from the shade of a man long since succumbed to typhoid was not lost on Clark.
It was going to be the first time Fletcher had stayed at Clark’s place for more than a single day. The initial concern was that if Clark somehow stopped focusing then Fletcher would be sent back home by whatever rules the universe set in place for ghosts; careful trial-and-error in the form of a midday nap with Fletcher aboard revealed that something as trivial as unconsciousness wasn’t enough to get rid of him, provided Clark didn’t actually try to force him out. They’d started making longer-term plans almost immediately.
There was no reason for a place that served Thai food to include fortune cookies with takeout, save that the owner liked the idea of them, which was good enough reason for Clark. Upon reaching the end of his shared meal he took his time cracking open the sweetened shell. He crunched half of the cookie, pulled out the paper slip, then finished the other half of the cookie before seeing what was on said paper. A friend asks only for your time, not your money, said the paper. Clark had eaten a lot of fortune cookies over his lifetime and had gotten this exact fortune plenty of times before, complete with the same lucky numbers; that afternoon he couldn’t help feeling it was a little on the nose.
He and Fletcher chatted about their plans for the weekend as he let things settle. They talked about movies Clark owned, and how Fletcher was looking forward to resting somewhere new, and a little bit about Clark’s plans to go clothes-shopping so Fletcher could enjoy more fabrics. No matter where their conversations started, though, they always ended up coming back to another part of their newly-established routine. Theirs was not a chaste relationship between man and ghost.
When’s the next part? Fletcher asked, all enthusiasm and old-timey accent.
“Bossy, bossy,” said Clark, though he smiled as he cleaned away the takeout detritus. Fletcher’s rising excitement had him already half-hard by the time he sprawled on the living room sofa and rucked up his shirt. “You want to start with the usual before we get up to anything else?”
Yes! A beat passed and a shiver ran through Clark’s body as Fletcher wound himself more intimately around his consciousness. That was all it took to push his dick from slightly floppy all the way to a full-scale boner. Fletcher wasn’t the only one who got something out of their arrangement. Is that good for you?
“Sure is. You’re the best, Fletch,” said Clark as he took his cock—their cock, now—in hand.
The first time they’d done this had been an accident. Fletcher could disengage from Clark for a little while even if they weren’t in the mansion, provided Clark didn’t go too far away, and as Clark wasn’t interested in sharing every experience the living body had to offer Fletcher had agreed to loiter elsewhere in the event nature called. One evening had seen Clark turned on by some damn thing (who knew what, since he hadn’t gotten laid in a few weeks, and in hindsight maybe he’d already been into having a ghostly rider by then), so he’d opted to excuse himself to the bathroom take care of that. It’d taken longer than he expected. When Fletcher’s autonomous manifestation period reached its limit he’d ripcorded back into Clark’s still-masturbating mortal flesh, and while it had been astonishingly awkward at the time they managed to have a conversation about it. The next week they conducted an experiment. Things had evolved naturally after that.
He felt a sigh roll through him as his fingers brushed against the underside of their shared shaft. This sort of thing really was better with a co-pilot, as Fletcher’s presence made every touch and tug that much more nuanced. It was all the convenience of masturbation paired with all the satisfaction of getting someone else off in the process. Every soft vowel sound that echoed in his mind’s ear made it that much better.
Could you play with our sack a little? Clark wasn’t sure if Fletcher would have used words like sack back in historical times, but modern vocabulary sure made things easier. He cupped himself with his free hand and gently rolled his balls against each other. Fletcher hummed happily. Up until getting a second opinion Clark had viewed his testes as a thing that were there to be washed, ideally not sat on, and otherwise ignored, and had never realized how sensitive they were. He was glad their relationship was full of surprises for them both.
The pads of Clark’s fingers tingled as he felt Fletcher focus there; it was never more than an idea, a very literal ghost of a suggestion, but Clark was always happy to go along with Fletcher’s guidance when provided. Had that spectral blowjob scene in Ghostbusters made him more receptive to this sort of thing all those years ago? So long as Fletcher was present and enjoying himself, Clark couldn’t muster the need to care. He focused, instead, on how nice it was to feel as though two different hands were helping him jack off, but without the logistical troubles of figuring out who was meant to fit where.
More, urged Fletcher. It was the sort of more he requested when what he wanted was for Clark to go faster—coming to this understanding had been quite useful—and so faster Clark went, his balls clutched firmly in his other hand. He wet his lips. The building tension in his thighs was there sooner than it usually was, but that was fine. They had all weekend together.
Fletcher came with an otherworldly yelp. The poor man had yet to build up much in the way of endurance, which was fine; Clark couldn’t say he’d have much more longevity if he were the one who’d been staring at peeling wallpaper for decades with no erogenous zones to speak of with which to take the edge off a boring year or three. Clark felt Fletcher’s orgasm as something akin to a head rush paired with giving his knuckles a really good crack, and it had him in a pleasant state of mind all the way up until he came himself.
“I’m gonna go wash my hands,” said Clark once he’d exhausted the better part of the afterglow.
You don’t have to, said Fletcher. It’s just the two of us, isn’t it? No one else will be around to complain.
Clark groaned in mock disgust. “Just because I am a bachelor doesn’t mean I have to live like one. Some of us don’t have a fleet of footmen to clean up after ourselves, Fletcher, and I’m not going to go gunking up my property with jizz fingers.”
You are a committed spoilsport.
“My house, my rules,” said Clark with a smile as he strode on half-wobbly legs to the bathroom.
He could feel Fletcher pacing back and forth for the entire time he stood at the sink. If Clark’s body was a temple, part of it would surely have a groove worn into it at this rate. He rinsed off the last of the soap and dried his hands on his shirt tail. “You’re not usually so twitchy right after I give us a handjob. Something on your mind, Fletch?”
The reply was instantaneous. How soon can you get us hard again?
“Wow, someone’s in a bit of a mood today, huh? Hold on.” His spot on the sofa was still warm from where he’d reclined. After a swig from his water glass and a moment to limber up his fingers, Clark coaxed himself back to full attention. “There you go, bud. You just want us to have a boner for a while?”
I’ve been practicing something.
There wasn’t much back at the manor that Clark could imagine Fletcher doing, erection-related or otherwise. “Yeah? Practicing what?”
His answer came in the feeling of a gentle nudge against his anus, one which just so happened to match the feeling of pressure against the head of his own cock. A slow and questioning roll of his hips confirmed that yes, the movement of one affected the sensations of the other. The now-familiar tingle verified that his temporary occupant was feeling every bit of this, too.
Clark raised his eyebrows. He’d expected to fool around with toys or something during Fletcher’s visit, but this surged ahead in a way he hadn’t realized was a valid direction. As a man of flexible tastes but not much flexibility elsewhere, he welcomed a weird new sex thing that didn’t risk him spraining something. “That’s interesting,” he said. “Should I go get the bottle of Sassy from my nightstand?”
No need, said Fletcher. Everything’s already taken care of.
“You’re really excited for us to go fuck ourselves, huh? Let me put down a towel.” He could feel Fletcher rankling at yet another short delay. Clark figured he was owed an explanation, and offered the most honest one he could as he rummaged for some spare linens: “No pouting. Guests use this couch, too. I don’t want anyone to land in an ectoplasm stain next time they come over to watch some hockey.”
The cushions now protected from the events of the day by a layer of hibiscus-patterned terrycloth, Clark settled himself back down. He rolled his hips again and verified that their little experiment was still in place. True to Fletcher’s word, his anatomy was untroubled by friction in both locations. He couldn’t say he minded getting to skip the lube-up step of the process.
“I’m not about to ask how you practiced this.”
Guesswork, said Fletcher.
“I just said I wasn’t asking,” said Clark with a roll of his eyes. He crossed his arms under his head. “So what do you want? Something tells me you aren’t in the mood for nice and slow.”
Fletcher harrumphed. A leisurely pace is not entirely out of the question, he said, but I’d rather these early attempts be as vigorous as you can manage.
There were worse things in life than horny haints, Clark supposed, so after an awkward moment to ensure he could comfortably hilt himself in himself (a proper ouroboros of a concept) he rolled over to prop himself up on his knees, his arms braced ramrod-straight against the arm of the couch. Fletcher’s presence pressed against him desperately.
Yes, God damn you!
He would never be entirely sure of it, but Clark could have sworn he felt thighs pressed against his own as he began to hump the air. Was this purely a case of rewired sensation, or was Fletcher somehow in two places at once, his movements perfectly mapped to Clark’s? It didn’t matter; Clark felt something plunge into him each time he thrust forward into an unseen orifice, and both of those actions felt pretty good. The way Fletcher whined with desire was all the encouragement he needed to find a rhythm and keep to it until he couldn’t stand it anymore.
Despite having already come fifteen minutes beforehand, Clark surprised himself with the volume and trajectory he mustered at the moment of climax. The towel had been a good idea after all.
I take it you enjoyed that, said Fletcher.
Clark nodded dreamily. He felt like he could sleep for an entire day, but in the best way possible.
Not that he’d get the chance to. When do you think you’ll be ready to go again? asked Fletcher. The dead clearly had no need for refractory periods.
“I’ve created a monster,” moaned Clark.
Fletcher chuckled. They do say there is no beast worse than man.
“And there’s no man worse than a houseguest,” said Clark, his smile weary and genuine. A friend would ask only for his time, so the fortune cookie’d said, and he had the entire weekend to learn just how much of a friend he had in Fletcher, after all.