Author: Guede Mazaka
Strange, strange things happened in the back stacks, where the dust grew thick with long-forgotten words and the pressure of old stories squeezed out new shapes from yellowed pages. It was hard to breathe due to-not the lack of air, but the excess of breath saturated with the sweat and tears and blood of centuries past.
Dean wiped a hand over his brow, then took off his glasses and cleared the lenses of the streaks. He put them back on and reached for the book. A curious request this time: contemporary novel, still in wide circulation. Yet his client insisted that there was something special about this particular copy of The Club Dumas.
"It's not a bad read, I'd say," a voice suddenly said, so close to Dean's ear that the words wriggled against it.
He startled backwards and hit a body, then was unceremoniously shoved forward as heat blistered up and down the whole length of his back. Humans couldn't possibly throw off that much-that much-
"Oh, God!" The book fell from nerveless fingers as a tongue slipped around the bumps of his neck-bones, insinuating deep dark secrets into his skin where they festered to feverish shivers. Fingers clamped his wrists to the shelves before him, knees pressed into the backs of his own so his suddenly hardening cock was firmly pinned against the top of a row of books; the volumes' worn and bent edges produced a maddeningly inadequate friction. His nose was shoved into one old tome that reeked of iron and salt and kept there so he inhaled metallic poison with every breath.
And that tongue never held still, flickering where it pleased around the edge of his collar, occasionally dipping down to tease at his pulse. In a matter of seconds, Dean found himself too far gone to do anything but moan. Whoever it was knew damnably knew where and how to touch.
"Not really God. I'm not positive as to the metaphysics at work here-" soft slice of warm wet into the tender spot between ear and hairline "-but it's not heavenly."
"Who the hell are you?" Dean hissed. And then he gasped and started to fall, knees giving way before the induced melt of a well-placed bite to his nape. His hips were frantically bucking, as if he were some seventeen-year-old with no stamina to speak of. It didn't assuage his pride much to know that probably no adolescent had ever had to put up with such…extraordinary circumstances.
Shrug. It ground Dean deeper into the shelves-he dimly heard books toppling from the other side-and effortlessly demolished another fragment of his remaining consciousness. "Well, my birth certificate names me as Lucas Corso. Though I'm told my father wanted Dean."
"I don't believe-" Sharp scratch of pain along Dean's nerves as his wrists were yanked together above his head. And then helpless writhing as a palm stroked its way to his cock and squeezed and played and generally just twisted his strings around its fingers.
"Oh, you will. In a few months." And a last hard press, heel of hand digging up and white exploding behind Dean's eyes, muscles running together with bone and all falling down, down, down.
He woke up on his back, lying on the floor between the shelves. Pants ruined, hair ruffled to hell and back, and a familiar-looking set of handprints bruised into his wrists.
Very, very carefully, Dean stood up. He waited until he'd caught his breath, then buttoned his thankfully long jacket. As for the book…
After a few minutes' thought, Dean dug out a large handkerchief and fashioned a sling out of it. It took several moments of frustrating maneuvers, but eventually he got the book into it without actually having to touch the novel. No point in throwing away a commission, even if he'd somehow managed to do that to his sanity.