Documented for Posterity, Part 2
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1:20 Method 1: Subject attempts to sleep off effects
In those first few halcyon moments before Yuzuri reaches for the lamp, Suzu has high hopes. It’s not the first time he’s slept off an inappropriately pitched tent; college dormitories and trips to the field don’t leave much in the way of privacy. He prefers other methods, of course, but as he settles down against a pillow of his jacket and a blanket of Yuzuri’s cloak, he’s got a good good about his chances.
But then her fingers flip the flame down to the faintest flicker, light dancing through the glass with a demure wave, and--
Well, now he’s just locked in a dark room with stiff cock and a girl dressed not only in a clinging chemise-- there’s a flirty ripple of lace sewn to the curve of her decolletage that he’s personally finding very hard not to dwell on-- but also smelling like apples and vanilla. His heart gallops triple time in his chest, not sure if he’s ravenous for pie, biscuits, or her cunt.
It’s a bit much, that’s what he’s trying to say.
“It’s hot in here,” he complains, because anything else will almost certainly end with him doing a walk of shame in his long johns and boots across the university’s main floor. “Don’t you think it’s hot in here?”
“Just try to sleep already,” Yuzuri sighs, impatient, somewhere behind his head. He can’t see her; she’s moved away from the lamp’s hazy glow, and from the sound of it, is back at the table, pen scratching at the rough parchment of the page.
Experiment one, she must be writing, in the looping, fat hand he’s seen in the log book and on placards in the hothouses. Subject trying to sleep away erection of middling size. In this researcher’s experience, it should only take fifteen minutes to reduce to its normal size, though the standard deviation for cocks--
“I can hear you thinking.” Her pen skips to a stop. “Stop it.”
“It’s hard.” He rolls over, half on his stomach before he’s reminded-- ah yes, not a good plan having that touch...anything. Even if it’s just cold storeroom floor. “I’m very smart, you know.”
“I can’t see how.” He can’t see her, but he knows how her mouth is pinched, elongating the elegant oval of her face, and her arched brows drawn down to look like the sternest librarian fantasy. “It’s not like you do it regularly anyway.”
He nearly corrects her-- once a day, whether he needs to or not, just to keep the pipes working and his sheets clean-- but she’s not talking about that.
“Hey.” Suzu’s in no position to put his hands anywhere near his hips, but spiritually, they’re there, arms indignantly akimbo. “I have plenty of ideas--”
“Then have more of them about sleeping,” she informs him, stocking feet scuffling on the floor. “It’s impossible to have results if a test subject refuses to participate in the experiment.”
“Fine.” His arms fold across his chest in a huff. “I will. But you should know--”
“Suzu.” The way her mouth wraps around his name, so soft and resigned, has every bit of him standing at attention in all the best worst ways. Or worst best. He can’t quite decide. “Shut up.”
Suzu would like the record to show-- if Yuzuri would be kind enough to oblige him, which he knows she won’t be-- he does give it an honest effort.
Five minutes of honest to goodness silence settles him-- at least, enough to realize he’s too scrawny to ever lay on a stone floor in comfort. His shoulder blades jut oddly into the mortared edges, and when he rolls into his side, his ribs grate. It’s cold too; even in his woolens, Suzu feels the frosts of winters past riming his spine. And quite honestly, warm as his coat is, it’s nothing next to a good down pillow. Most bedding doesn’t smell of lab chemicals and yesterday’s lost dumpling. And Yuzuri’s cloak--
Well, it’s soft, warm-- and it smells like her. And, fool that he is, Past-Suzu thinks that’s a plus. Oh, Past-Suzu just catches that hint of dessert on the air and sticks his nose right in, huffing down that sweet scent of apple crisp, letting the soft, flickering of the lamp lull him. He can’t see her, but line of sight has never been necessary, oh no, not when a semi-eidetic memory meets an imagination as overactive as his.
Yuzuri sits up on her chair, one stockinged leg tucked beneath her, the other dangling, foot arched as her toes strain to press against the floor. Her golden hair falls over one shoulder, leaving the other bare, chemise sliding down its pale cusp. It’s chilly in here; she raises a hand to guide it back up. Her fingers hesitate-- maybe it would be better if they shared heat. Suzu, after all, looked so cozy there on the floor. Angelic, even, with the way his hair curled over his jacket.
Slowly, she stands, padding over, dropping to her knees. Her breasts strain against the soft linen of her chemise, nipples aroused by the contact, her hand reaching--
“Nope!” Suzu bolts upright, hunching over his knees. It’s a bit of a feat, now that his tent had expanded into a pavilion. “This is...definitely not working.”
The valve squeaks, the shadows deepening as the lamp brightens. The glare Yuzuri levels at him over the table describes all the way that his fantasies will stay firmly in the realm of imagination, aphrodisiac-induced arousal or not. “Really?”
“Yes,” he informs her a little more manic than he would like. “It’s giving me far too much time to think.”
Yuzuri hum, flatly. “I can see how that might be dangerous to your health.”
“It’s not funny,” he snips, head snapping over his shoulder. “I’ve had an erection for two whole hours. That’s-- that’s at least a whole hour longer than I’ve ever done before.”
The pen scratches across the page, but he could swear he hears a muttered, hour fifty-five.
He frowns. “What was that?”
Yuzuri doesn’t bother looking up. “What was what?”
“You said something.”
“No.” Her mouth forms the word carefully as she crosses her ankles, legs drawn tight together from knee to thigh. “I didn’t.”
His mouth purses, annoyed. “I don’t think you’re taking this very seriously.”
“I’m handling it with the seriousness it deserves,” she informs him primly, her tone implying another half to the sentence, which is none.
“I’ll have you know it hurts.” At least it does now, now that he’s said it. Stings, quite honestly, like skin pinched in a hinge, too full for too long.
For the first time since this whole debacle started, a real thrill of fear rushes through him. The whole situation is ridiculous and mortifying and carries the vague threat of ending his career if someone with more pearls to clutch than Yuzuri found out he was sporting an erection in an educational institution, but it hasn’t seemed dangerous. But now he nudges his cock, just the barest bit, and tears spring to his eyes. Something might actually be medically wrong. This could have lasting implications.
“Oh, honestly.” Yuzuri squiggles in her seat, thighs rubbing together in a way that brings new meaning to the words painfully hard. “Can’t you just jack yourself off?”
Suzu, age twenty-five, of sound body and mind, nearly has a cardiac event.
“What?” He stares at her hard enough to pop a vessel-- which he doesn’t, but it’s a close thing, considering. “Right here?”
“N-no, Suzu!” A blush blooms over the rosy rounds of her cheeks. “I’m not just telling you t-to whip it out in front of me!”
He nearly asks why not-- it’s not like it will be the first penis she’s seen outside of a clinical setting-- but his teeth snap shut around the impulse. That’s one of those things that could be career limiting, if one considered the bedroom a place of employment. Which he didn’t; it was his sanctum sanctorum, the place in which he rested his head at night, but--
Well, if he had a reason to be employed in there, he might. He’d at least like to be conducting interviews, instead of, ah, self-review.
“I meant that you could, I don’t know, go around the corner.” She waves her hand vaguely towards the back of the stockroom. “Use a shelf for cover or, um, something.”
“There’s a closet,” he says, because elaborate self-sabotage could be listed on his curriculum vitae under professional skills. “We use it for storing light sensitive materials.”
Against all reason, she actually lifts a finger to her chin and ponders the suggestion. “You’re able to do it in the dark?”
He could find his cock blind, deaf, mute, and one-handed, but that strikes him as a relatively unimpressive feat, considering how it’s attached to him.
“Yeah,” he says instead, “if you, ah, don’t mind.”
There is a distinct, heavy hesitation before she replies, “Well, it’s not like you’ll be in the same room.”
“No,” he agrees, technically.
“I think--” she worries at the edge of a page, thoughtful-- “that as long as we’re, ah, recording our findings, then it’s fine to be...scientifically rigorous.”
He swallows, hard. It makes a noticeable thunk.
“Right,” he says, weakly, rising to his feet. “Scientifically...rigorous.”
2:15 Method 2: Subject attempts manual stimulation
“What?” Suzu squawks, peeping out of the closet. “You can’t write that!”
Yuzuri flattens the journal against her chest-- that’s not helping what going on down in his whole...Pavilion Street reconstruction down south. “Why not?”
“People are going to read that!” He makes a terrible, uncoordinated swipe for it. She easily sidesteps him, giving him a withering glare. There was a reason Kirito always asks Obi to be on his team for the little snow battles him and his rascally friends enacted on the quad and not Suzu.
“That’s the point,” Yuzuri deadpans, “it’s being documented for posterity, like all you scholars love.”
“Right, yes, I get that.” He shuffles, cock bobbling painfully in his pants. Really, something has to be done about this. “But Shidan will read it.”
Her mouth pulls thin; or at least it would, if her lips weren’t full and quantifiably kissable no matter their configuration. “Shidan is a person, yeah.”
“Which means I’ll have to talk about it.” He licks his lips, nervous, and Yuzuri watches him with ever-increasing incredulity. “In, you know, a meeting.”
She stares for a long moment, then opens the journal with a sigh.
2:15 Method 2: Subject attempts manual stimulation to self-administer proposed course of treatment
Yuzuri glares up at him. “Just get in the closet already.”
This should be easy. After all, Suzu always joked-- with Obi, alone, door locked after surreptitiously checking the halls to make sure no one was lingering too close to hear through the solid oak-- that if they’d handed out doctorates for masturbation, he’d have three. He is, in as much as one could be at a private practice with no grading rubric, a professional.
But as soon as he unbuttons the fall of his trousers, letting his cock sit heavy in his hands, he’s just...lost.
It should be a relief. When he’s left to his own devices, there’s no bigger rush than making it to his room before midnight, work finished-- or at least, avoided-- and stripping down to nothing. Just him, his bed, and a bottle of vanilla-scented oil, with the whole night before them.
But now he stands here in the dark, cramped closet, the scent of herbs so heavy he can feel it pressing against his skin, and even with his aching cock, he just can’t quite, well--
Get it up. No, wait, it’s definitely up, but--
But there’s nothing sensual about this. No romance. No chemistry. Like the dates Yuzuri always complains about-- no dinner first.
“How’s it going?” The wood muffles Yuzuri’s voice, but he can hear each word as crisp as an accusation. “Getting close?”
Suzu’s tongue falls in an exasperated cluck, swiveling his neck toward the door. “Just how long do you think this takes?”
“In my vast experience,” she drawls, her tone vibrating at the frequency glass shatters, “you should already be done.”
He’s tempted to balk, maybe even disparage her previous paramours, but, well-- if she was here, her soft, slender hands wrapped around his cock, whispering encouragement into his ear, Suzu doubts he’d fare much better. His cock gives a good twitch of agreement, and promptly continues to get absolutely nowhere.
“Well,” he manages, mouth utterly dry-- another factor making this whole venture both uncomfortable and unlikely-- “I can’t do it when you’re right out there, listening.”
Even through the door her sigh is heavy, frustrated. “I’m taking notes!”
“I don’t see why,” he snaps, giving his shaft a vengeful stroke. It, like all the others, feels good while also being irrevocably, disappointingly wrong. “It’s not like you’ll be describing this in Methods.”
“Because if I take notes, this is experimentation,” she explains haltingly, “and if I don’t, then...”
Then he’s just a young man fruitlessly jerking off in a closet while she listens, no matter the details. She could sit back at the table, of course, folding those shapely legs beneath her, biting her lip with a longing glance over her shoulder but--
But it wouldn’t change anything. He’s still in a closet, hand around his cock, hoping for some relief, and she’s enabling him. The science is the only thing between her and a scandal.
“It’s just...” His palm squeezes the base of his shaft, a spark of arousal zipping up his spine. “It’s like trying to pee when there’s someone in the next stall.”
There’s a long moment of silence, enough that he wonders if she’s wandered away after all, ready to wash her hands of the whole thing. It’s his problem, after all, not hers, and she--
“Suzu.” Her voice is low, the kind of deep-throated whisper that sends static swirling over his skin. “Are you a shy pisser?”
His cheeks sting, heat prickling like a rash. Unfair-- by any natural law, or at least the ones in his repertoire-- he shouldn’t have the blood to spare for a blush, let alone one that fully threatens to expand its horizons in either northern or southerly direction. Any moment now he’ll start to get dizzy, maybe even pass out in this tiny bolthole of a closet, and Yuzuri will have to drag him out with his pants around the ankles before she goes and writes something like, subject’s delicate constitution precludes finishing trial, and--
“NO ONE LIKES PEEING IN FRONT OF PEOPLE.” His breath huffs out of him in ragged pants, and for once it has nothing to do with the state of his erection. Well, tangentially it does, but-- “honestly, Yuzuri.”
“Strange stance to take when you can pee on any tree you want,” she mutters, just audible through the oak. “Now are you going to finish this up or what?”
Suzu looks down at his cock-- still painfully hard, ridiculous jutting out from the ruin of his trousers-- and glares.
“Why are you even still here,” he grumbles, shoving it back behind his fall, buttons fumbling out of the grip of his trembling fingers. “Nothing about this is arousing.”
“I just don’t see what the big deal is,” Yuzuri says, incredulous, for what had to be the twelfth time since he’s stumbled out of the closet, desperately aroused and with no relief in sight. The repetition has not made the observation any less embarrassing. “You must do it all the time.”
Suzu hunches over his knees, willing himself to disappear. Like everything he wants, invisibility remains frustratingly elusive. “I’m not talking to you about-- about--”
“Jerking off?” Her brows make a rousing bid for her hairline. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”
He shrivels sullenly. “It’s not fair.”
Yuzuri sighs, but she tips her head to look at him, hair falling like a solid sheet of gold over her shoulder, neck curved in an elegant line, ready for a mouth to--
Ugh. Suzu buries his face between his knees. His suffering is unending.
“How is this unfair?” She asks, annoyance adding spikes to every oblivious word that falls from her lips. “Just because your genitalia is external and obvious?”
It should be impossible to be so angry and so aroused at the same time, not without blissfully passing out to avoid both states, but here he is, still conscious. Still conscious, and the tatters of his brain-to-mouth filter frittered away by the ache in his crotch.
“It’s not fair,” he seethes raggedly, “because nothing is happening to you!”
The silence his shout leaves behind is deafening. What was he thinking? He never raises his voice, not like this, and especially not at Yuzuri. Yuzuri who could be doing anything else instead of sitting here, nursing him through the worst night of his life.
He can barely bring himself to look up, to look at the confusion furrowing her perfect alabaster brow.
“I know it’s not your fault, but--” he should really stop himself, but an object in motion stays in motion, and there’s no friction he can provide that can stop the truth from barrelling out of his mouth-- “here I am, experiencing death by erection, and you--” he waves his hand vaguely in her direction-- “are immune or something.”
“Immune?” The word hisses between her teeth, sharp as a page’s edge. “Suzu, I’m dying. I-- I can barely sit upright, but someone has to write this down.”
Suzu stares. Properly this time, gaze fixed to her face, and-- she’s flushed, pink blooming around the gathering at her collar, and twinging up her neck, flooding her cheeks. “W-what?”
“What do you mean ‘what?’“ she snaps. “It’s not like I’ve been hiding it! Just because I don’t have external genitalia doesn’t mean I’m not--”
She throws up her hands, the noise she makes halfway between a grunt and a scream,all frustration. Her one arm drops, wiping at her forehead--
Her forehead, which is coated in sweat. Wiped by her hands, which are trembling. Right above her eyes too, too dark even for the dimness of the room. And her thighs, they rub together, pressed tight at their apex--
His mouth dries. Her chemise is wet, right where it settles over her crotch. The scent in the room now is not just herbs and alcohol, but something earthy and tantalizing, something he’d like to taste on his tongue.
“Yuzuri,” he says slowly, heart pounding in his ears. “Are you...horny?”
She turns to him with those too dark eyes, breath huffing out her small nose.
“You,” she sighs, trembling fingers pressing to her temples, “are an utter moron.”
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