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Hottest Month, or the Slashy Librarian's Afternoon

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The Hottest Month, or, The Slashy Librarian's Afternoon by Merri-Todd Webster

22 September 1998
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, and may I live to create characters this interesting.
Okay, thank Viridian. Or blame Viridian, as you please. After I praised one of her stories, and she praised my feedback, we talked about collaborating, but it didn't quite work for her, and this is what eventually grew. Like mold. It owes its existence to "Watch the Closing Doors" and "May I Take Your Order?" by Viridian (read 'em, if you haven't) and its details to my very own true life at the library. Yes, I suppose it's a Mary Sue (my first!) but I've Mary-Sued my crankiest, most sarcastic self, and everything I describe is quite accurate... unfortunately.
Thanks to Viridian for encouragement, Amirin for beta, Patricia for being such a *nice* paranoid-schizophrenic, and Nick Lea for eyelashes.


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The Hottest Month, or,
The Slashy Librarian's Afternoon
by Merri-Todd Webster
(9/12/98)
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April may be the cruellest month, but August is the dullest. And the hottest. At least, it is if you worked part-time for the Central Library that summer the forty-year-old air conditioning system gave up the ghost. I sat at my reference desk on the mezzanine in a cloud of bad air that belonged in Los Angeles and handed out copies of "Hot Rod" and "Ebony" magazines while thinking of the lovely venues to which the other librarians have gone on their vacations, places with no magazines and lots of cool air. My vacation was going to be housesitting for relatives who were off to England for a choir festival (again).

It was so damned dull I was beginning to hope the paranoid-schizophrenic lady would come up and start telling me how the Episcopal bishops abducted her child and laid an evil spirit upon her. It was so damned dull I had been reading Star Trek fan-written erotica on the Net for the last forty-five minutes, during which time not one single patron came up to interrupt me. Mistress Janeway, dominatrix of the spaceways.... I was seriously considering going on to some nude pictures. I mean, for this I got two master's degrees? Now, if I could just figure out how to empty the cache when I was done, I could check out that URL my best gay buddy gave me....

Wait a minute. Coming up my steps side by side were two perfectly good substitutes for x-rated pictures. Hoo, boy.... One tall, lean, wearing a sage green shirt that was sticking to his chest in all the right places. Big nose, pretty eyes, beautiful mouth, soft-looking brown hair. The other just a tad shorter, just a smidge heavier, wearing black denim jeans and a black leather jacket, of all things--in Baltimore! in August! in the library! Oh, this guy must be a fetishist. A dom and his sub. A kindly dom who lets his boytoy dress like a normal person on non-breathable days in Baltimore in August. They stopped about two steps below the landing of the stairway, right where the hot, stale air on the mezzanine hits you in the face like a brick, and I could see that the leather guy's darker hair was just plastered to his scalp with sweat. Both of them had trickles of sweat running down from their temples. It only made them look sexier. If you'll just take off those clothes, boys, I'm sure you'll feel a lot more comfortable....

"I've gotta look at the ads, Mulder," Leather God was saying. The other guy, Mulder, kind of squirmed, which was interesting. I usually think of squirming as more of a girl thing, at least once you get past puberty, but this was definitely a squirm. Very interesting.

"Couldn't we just buy one, Krycek?" Oh, great--he can whine as well as squirm.

Wicked smile from about five feet away. "We've got to save our money--do you all carry 'The Advocate'?"

Wicked smile now directed at *me*, with crackling green eyes. I start sticking to my chair even worse than before. Look at those eyelashes. And Jesus, Mary, and Fred, I can *smell* this guy. It's a hundred and five with the heat index, and he's been walking around in a leather jacket --in Mt. Vernon, no less. Well, nobody would think it strange. Once you cross Franklin Street to our north, you're in the gay capital of Baltimore. Anything goes. But he smells like, I don't know, like the God of Lust walking into a pick-up joint. Just how did he--how did they both get in here without getting eaten alive just walking up the street?

I clear my throat and try for a professional smile. "Yes, it's on the shelf in the first aisle, underneath the big A." I point to my left, where a large white A on a blue background stands atop the shelves. "Titles are in alphabetical order."

"Thanks." Leather God, Krycek, strides off, Mulder trailing behind. They know the alphabet, hooray. Wondering where their piercings are, I get up and grab some magazines to reshelve so I can follow them. My boss would be so proud of me, but I'm really just dying for a look at these guys' asses. It's a monumental effort even to get up, walk around, lift a couple of magazines above shoulder height, but the view I get by following them, casually, is worth it: Tight jeans, tight buns, and long, long legs. On both of them. Nice.

I wander into the aisle where "The Blood Horse" is located so that I'm behind them and they can't see me, probably (I hope) don't know I'm there. The two guys are carrying on a mumbled conversation, flip flip of pages, mutter mutter. If I put away this issue of "Apollo", I might be able to hear what they're saying--"Here it is, Mulder," Krycek is saying. He has kind of a husky voice, soft, almost like a purr. I expect him to say something like, "Why don't you kneel down and unzip my jeans?"

"Are you sure?" Mulder steps in close, head bent over Krycek's shoulder, and starts to put his arm around the other guy, I'm sure of it. When Krycek looks up from the magazine, his face is almost touching Mulder's. I can see one quarter of that teasing grin.

"Yeah, I'm sure. Now we have to find out if they own--" he looks at the page and back up to Mulder-- "International Journal of Parapsychology."

I disappear fast around the corner, put away a couple more things, and rendesvous with them back at the desk. This time it's Mulder who asks the question.

"Do you own the International Journal of Parapsychology?"

"I don't think so," I say, with genuine regret, "but let me check." Point and click, point and click, point and click. For repetitive stress syndrome, just point and click 5000 times. I get into the periodicals section of our catalogue, enter the title, and wait. Then my eyebrows go up. "Oh!" I say intelligently. I click on the entry for more detail. Mulder is leaning on my desk now, palms down, Krycek just about pressed up against his ass. I wouldn't mind being where Mulder is. "We had it from 1962 to 1968," I tell them. I'm disappointed; they probably need current issues, not the old stuff. And here I thought I might actually *help* someone today.

"That's not up here, is it?" Krycek asks immediately. What a smart boy! He's noticed what's on the shelves!

"No, we keep current five years up here, that would be in the stacks, possibly on microfilm."

I look up at them expectantly--I'm sitting down again and trying not to gasp for breath--and there's that smile again. That I-know-how-to-tie-the-knots-just-right smile on Krycek, the green-eyed Leather God. It's directed at Mulder the Boytoy for just a moment before it swivels round onto me.

"Is it possible we could go down to the stacks and look at the whole collection? Rather than having you bring it up?"

I think about this for a long two or three seconds. Yes, I can give a patron a stack pass so they can do just that, and yes, it's up to the discretion of the librarian on duty, and yes, that's me, and yes, I know perfectly well they're not gonna look at the International Journal of Parapsychology down there. Well, maybe they are for a few minutes."Sure," I say cheerfully, giving Leather God my very best professional smile in return. "Just let me make sure it's not on film, and then I'll write you up a stack pass."

The three of us crowd into this teeny little staff-only elevator that goes down into the bowels of the building. The smell of hot leather and hot male is almost overwhelming, on top of which I can smell myself, sweaty and horny with salty-sweet perfume gone stale, and I wonder if they can smell me, too. I glance at Krycek, and the flash of his eyes tells me *he* knows what I'm thinking. Mulder lounges against the wall of the elevator looking remarkably, nay, unbelievably innocent, especially for someone with lips like that.

We come out of the elevator, hang a right, pause while I punch the four-digit security code, and then I lead them into the stacks. One of the funny things in this building--one of many, I'm sure--is that the shelves in the stack areas are part of the architectural support: They're holding up the floors above, and they can't be moved. Those shelves are about seven feet tall, each one wedged with books or bound periodicals, close together, so close I can barely read titles even with my glasses, and damned dimly lit; in fact, each aisle has a light which can be switched on or off independently.

I lead the two men through the maze of shelves until we're standing in front of the journal in question. I glance over my shoulder to make the sure the Director's not passing by and say quietly, "I wanna watch."

Mulder's mouth falls open--Catching flies? says my mother's voice in my head--and Krycek's grin turns positively feral. "You know a better place?" he asks casually.

I nod once. "Next level down."

Krycek grabs Mulder's hand--Boytoy is still staring like, huh?--and follows me down the narrow steps to the first stack. It's not the lowest level of the library, but it's the lowest I've set foot on, and I think there's a sign over the gate that goes further down that says, "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here." The first stack smells of age, dust, mold, books that rarely get used, and a large collection of books that have never even been catalogued--lost in the shuffle when the library switched buildings and cataloguing systems in the 1930s and ran out of money before they finished re-tagging the whole collection. The ceilings are lower than on the first two stacks, the lights are dimmer, and very few people wander around down here. I'm one of the few who aren't downright spooked by the place, but hey, if I see the ghost of Poe I'll just direct him to the new stadium so he can watch the Ravens play.

Krycek takes a deep, deep breath of all this age and mold and neglect and says blissfully, "Perfect." Instinctively, he heads for the deepest, darkest corner of the building, still dragging Mulder by one hand. I'm right on their heels. My heart is pounding, my head is ringing, and this is going to be so, so good. If we don't get caught.

Well, Leather God shoves Boytoy up against the stacks, and the show is on. He gets Mulder out of his jeans in about nothing flat, although he's only using one hand to do it. I look at Mulder's face, where comprehension is gradually replacing shock--a pretty funny expression--and then down at his crotch. Oh, my-- Two seconds ago, nothing, now, an erection a horse could boast of. I get one quick look through Leather God's incredible black lashes--how come it's always the guys who have lashes like that?--before Krycek deep-throats the Wonderdick.

Mulder groans, I groan, Krycek groans. Let's conjugate, baby. I suck, you suck--no, I suck, you come. This man gives a serious blowjob. Wonder if he's that good with women? Hell, probably never practices. My nipples are poking holes in my shirt and I'm the one squirming now. Mulder is arching his back, head thrown back and God what an exquisite throat-- Krycek's lips are doing things way beyond obscene, stretching and shifting and sucking and every once in a while he pulls off all the way and just licks the tip. I think about touching myself, squirm some more, wonder if I'll come even if I don't touch myself.

Mulder bucks hard, once. Krycek yanks down the other man's jeans and works his hand between those lean, muscular thighs, thighs like a runner's. Mulder bucks again, and if Krycek is not finger-fucking him, I will eat my hat. Or anything Leather God asks me to. My hair is sticking to my forehead and neck like wet spider legs, torture, I don't give a shit, please God, let him come in his mouth so I can watch--

"Aaagh--!"

Hey, that wasn't me. It was Mulder, and God (some god) has answered my prayer. Mulder looks tortured, beautifully tortured, eyes shut, mouth open, cords standing out in his neck. Krycek looks hungry, swallows mercilessly, his fingers wrapped tight around what's not in his mouth. Even so, a little bit of thinly creamy white stuff dribbles out of the corner of his mouth. Mulder sags, gasping, and I sort of tilt over and lean against the stack myself, panting lightly.

"Eep!"

That *was* me. Krycek is right in my face, hot and musky and breath heavy with Mulder's come--

"Thanks, sweetie," he whispers. His lips, still moist, just brush over mine before fastening on my throat, on that spot under my jaw that does it every time, oh god that feels good, he grinds against me hard until his teeth grab me, oh, I'm coming, Jesus, it's shuddering all up and down my spine, and he comes, too, in his jeans, hissing against my skin. Guess he does know something about women.

"Thanks," he whispers again, and presses something into my hand. Then he drags Mulder off into the depths of the dark, and I don't give a fuck. I look down at my hand: the stack pass. Somehow I think they'll be able to get out of the building without my help.

I straighten my skirt and run my fingers through my hair. Well. I think reading erotic fan fiction is going to pale by comparison with *this* experience.

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