fic: High Quality Material
Basically delighter dared me to write this. Kind of like how she dared me to sign up for big bang. And then made some pointed observations about how I haven't actually written in this fandom yet. Like, what? Good thing she beta'd it for me. UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, WHY HAVE YOU NO HOLT RENFREW?
fandom: bandom, panic
pairing: jon/brendon
rating: PG-13 is for blowjobs
summary: This is a public library AU.
ETA:I wrote a second part to this over here.
Brendon is doing story time in ten minutes, so Jon makes sure that when he comes it’s nowhere near the zany animal smock.
Instead, he pulls out of Brendon’s mouth and shoots into the sink. He bites into his sleeve as he does it, trying not to groan like he just got blown by the children’s librarian in the binding repair nook at 10am on a Thursday, because he knows for a fact that people have desks outside the nook and they’re sitting at them right now.
Brendon wipes his lips with the heel of his hand and grins up at him, still balanced on the balls of his feet. He rocks back against the cabinets, which all sport labels courtesy of Ryan and his label-maker: binding thread, acid-free archival tape, electric-powered eraser.
“I think we have time for another one.” Brendon says, inspecting an imaginary wristwatch.
“Dude,” Jon says. He runs the tap and cleans his hands, splashes his dick. “You have to look those kids in the eye after this.”
Brendon shrugs. “I didn’t mean me.”
“Thanks but no thanks.” Jon wipes his hands on the front of his slacks, which he zips shut, and raises them to ward off the insatiable horde. “Maybe another time.”
Brendon takes his hand and hauls himself to his feet. There are approximately three square feet in the nook, not including the sliding wicker door back out into the processing area.
“Don’t hurt my feelings by putting it off,” Brendon warns. He straightens his skinny little tie over his pressed shirt, under the red and blue polyester smock with seventeen different zoo creatures silkscreened on it. “How do I look?”
No trace of a hard-on. Jon looks, and then he cops a feel just to make sure. Nothing. Jon tries not to consider whether he should be insulted or anxious about that.
“You’re fine,” he says, and he reaches to re-adjust Brendon’s glasses. The frames match the polyester red for red.
Brendon leans forward and kisses Jon’s mouth, soft and warm. “Obviously.” He peaks out the door and slips out first.
Jon counts to thirty and then picks up the tattered hardcover he carried in with him: plausible deniability.
When he steps out, Spencer looks up from his computer screen and the pile of YA adventure-comedies he’s cataloging approximately two yards away. So far within earshot that he probably could’ve reached a hand into the nook and gotten in on the action.
He looks at Jon and lifts an eyebrow.
Jon waves the book inanely: the seventh Harry Potter. “These long books sure do wear through their spines fast,” he comments, and makes a casual break for it by walking towards the exit to the circulation desk and the rest of the library. Fucking Brendon got out so fast he left a blazing trail of fire to light up Jon’s shame and misdeameanors all the better.
Spencer says, voice full of wisdom: “Sometimes it seems like it takes forever for stuff to wear out around here.”
Jon shrugs, “Pretty much just a matter of quality material, right?” Keeps moving towards the exit and the circ desk and the clerks and the users and people who probably don’t know how damp his junk is right now, or why. He just keeps moving.
Spencer says, “Or just like, general sluttiness.”
Jon turns with a taut face. He says something that’s meant to be I have no idea what you mean by that, Spencer Smith but it comes out “I - nnnnnnnnnnnnnn.”
Spencer’s laughing so hard that he literally cannot get out his digs about Brendon the new children’s librarian. The one who plays with train sets and playdough and eats microwave Oscar Meyer wieners for lunch EVERY DAY and only gets away with those really, really tight jeans because the zany smock covers his crotch, and has maybe been systematically hiding the Stephenie Meyer books in the harlequin section so that the tweens can’t get a hold of them because he’s worked so diligently to select much higher quality materials for them if only they’d read it.
Jon drags his feet back over to Spencer’s desk and leans a hip against the edge, arms folded. He waits for Spencer to run entirely out of breath and watches him kind of sit there making gasping wheezes into his palms.
“He sucks cock like a fucking pro,” Jon confesses, very very quietly because as much as he’d rather not lose his job for screwing around at work, he’d also prefer to not get a note on his file from Esther about professionalism and language.
Spencer says into his fingers, “Oh my god, of course he does.”
“He’s like. I can’t even tell you.” Jon gestures and refolds his arms.
“You don’t have to. That’s the fourth time you’ve gone in there.”
“This week,” Jon corrects, tapping through the times with his fingers: the first time Brendon tricked him by asking for help taping up a copy of Thomas the Tank Engine; and then the second time was last Sunday’s evening shift when Janet was on dinner break; and then the third time Brendon made a joke about lube and glue and Jon totally freaked out and resolved to never go back in there; which lasted until today when Brendon caught him browsing in the 778s, tapped the picture on the opposite page, and said, I'm really good at that.
“You are so getting fired. Ryan is so going to fire your ass.” Spencer crows in a very tiny voice. And at Jon’s look he says, “I mean, he would if he found out.”
Jon says, “Are you going to tell him?”
Spencer pauses. He looks inward in that way he does. Contemplative in three seconds flat. “I guess not. I mean, eventually you guys are gonna go on a date or something outside of work and then the repair nook won’t smell like jizz anymore and it won’t be a problem.”
“No way can you smell that over the glue fumes, man.” Jon’s eyebrows go up and Spencer wheezes a little in renewed mirth as he nods slowly, the bearer of bad news.
“Esther’s been talking about it being some kind of a chemical reaction, but there is definitely an odor. No one else has figured out that it’s ballsweat, hormones and pure protein.”
“Can you keep it to yourself for a little bit?” Jon focuses his eyes on Spencer’s inner honorableness and chivalry. It’s hard not to sound a little beggy.
Spencer shrugs and then nods. He adjust the top button of his cardigan, casual-like. “Fo shizzle. Just like, cut it out, okay? I can’t exactly lie to Ryan if he asks.”
“He won’t.”
Jon raps a knuckle on Spencer’s desk and mouths thank you when he turns back at the door to make sure Spencer isn’t picking up the phone and dialing Ryan right now.
Spencer gives him the guns and flips open another trashy teen novel.
There aren’t any users standing around at the desk, desperate for his help with their taxes or genealogical research or legal advice or some other shit that he isn’t remotely qualified for, so Jon grabs a truck of reference books to reshelve. It’s not his job, the page will be in after lunch, but maybe the reference books are displayed directly across from the children’s section. What. So maybe they are.
He has to steer around Ryan, who’s standing in the middle of the shelving unit with a clipboard and an intent expression on his face, as Brendon reads Dr. Seuss aloud to the two-to-threes and their accompanying adults across the way.
Ryan says, without glancing over, “Did you in-house-use those in the system?”
And Jon says, “Yep,” even though he didn’t. Usage statistics are boring and misleading ways of measuring quality, and if the board of trustees really wanted to evaluate impact, they’d come and listen to Brendon do Tales for Twos.
Toddlers shriek when the Fox comes back at Mr. Knox with a tongue-twister that doesn’t even sound like a human language. Brendon cruises through it in a half sing-song. Fat arms shoot up into the air, voices scream with a frightening, desperate glee. Parents smile nervously at each other. The kids are really loud. Brendon is even louder.
Ryan marks something down on his clipboard.
“Hey, are you evaluating him?” Jon says. “How’s he doing?”
“I’m not sure.” Ryan’s mouth twists. “Parents don’t like man-librarians hanging around their kids.”
“Sexist paranoids.” Jon says. He drops to shelve an atlas.
“Yeah, I know, right? At least the kids like him.” Ryan is still scribbling. He’s been taking this acting branch manager stuff pretty seriously, and Jon doesn’t doubt that he'd probably fire both of them if he found out about the true origins of the jizz odor.
Probably the parents would like Brendon even less then.
There is another roiling wave of child laughter, and also a small fracas of concern as one little girl laughs so hard she throws up on the ground and the kid in front her.
Ryan says “Geez louise” in a tone that actually says fucking shitballs, drops his clipboard on Jon’s truck and goes to get the mop from the custodian's closet. Brendon’s waving off some parental horror, and helping the girl calm down. He actually makes her giggle again. The kid who got puked on is less amenable, but eases up on his wailing as Brendon gets them all going by doing a group rendition of the last few rhymes.
…the tweetle beetles battle with their paddles in a puddle on a noodle-eating poodle…
Jon has to avert his eyes. Brendon’s face right now is actually killing him. It’s incandescent.
He shelves a French-English dictionary, and then shelves it again because he put it in with the Portuguese the first time. He’s going to have a seriously hard time staying away from the repair nook. Spencer’s watchful nose be damned.
He turns back to the truck to grab another armload, and Ryan’s notes catch his eye.
In that slippery scrawl, under the typed capslock name: recommend retaining, excellent performance, extremely high quality material.
fandom: bandom, panic
pairing: jon/brendon
rating: PG-13 is for blowjobs
summary: This is a public library AU.
ETA:I wrote a second part to this over here.
Brendon is doing story time in ten minutes, so Jon makes sure that when he comes it’s nowhere near the zany animal smock.
Instead, he pulls out of Brendon’s mouth and shoots into the sink. He bites into his sleeve as he does it, trying not to groan like he just got blown by the children’s librarian in the binding repair nook at 10am on a Thursday, because he knows for a fact that people have desks outside the nook and they’re sitting at them right now.
Brendon wipes his lips with the heel of his hand and grins up at him, still balanced on the balls of his feet. He rocks back against the cabinets, which all sport labels courtesy of Ryan and his label-maker: binding thread, acid-free archival tape, electric-powered eraser.
“I think we have time for another one.” Brendon says, inspecting an imaginary wristwatch.
“Dude,” Jon says. He runs the tap and cleans his hands, splashes his dick. “You have to look those kids in the eye after this.”
Brendon shrugs. “I didn’t mean me.”
“Thanks but no thanks.” Jon wipes his hands on the front of his slacks, which he zips shut, and raises them to ward off the insatiable horde. “Maybe another time.”
Brendon takes his hand and hauls himself to his feet. There are approximately three square feet in the nook, not including the sliding wicker door back out into the processing area.
“Don’t hurt my feelings by putting it off,” Brendon warns. He straightens his skinny little tie over his pressed shirt, under the red and blue polyester smock with seventeen different zoo creatures silkscreened on it. “How do I look?”
No trace of a hard-on. Jon looks, and then he cops a feel just to make sure. Nothing. Jon tries not to consider whether he should be insulted or anxious about that.
“You’re fine,” he says, and he reaches to re-adjust Brendon’s glasses. The frames match the polyester red for red.
Brendon leans forward and kisses Jon’s mouth, soft and warm. “Obviously.” He peaks out the door and slips out first.
Jon counts to thirty and then picks up the tattered hardcover he carried in with him: plausible deniability.
When he steps out, Spencer looks up from his computer screen and the pile of YA adventure-comedies he’s cataloging approximately two yards away. So far within earshot that he probably could’ve reached a hand into the nook and gotten in on the action.
He looks at Jon and lifts an eyebrow.
Jon waves the book inanely: the seventh Harry Potter. “These long books sure do wear through their spines fast,” he comments, and makes a casual break for it by walking towards the exit to the circulation desk and the rest of the library. Fucking Brendon got out so fast he left a blazing trail of fire to light up Jon’s shame and misdeameanors all the better.
Spencer says, voice full of wisdom: “Sometimes it seems like it takes forever for stuff to wear out around here.”
Jon shrugs, “Pretty much just a matter of quality material, right?” Keeps moving towards the exit and the circ desk and the clerks and the users and people who probably don’t know how damp his junk is right now, or why. He just keeps moving.
Spencer says, “Or just like, general sluttiness.”
Jon turns with a taut face. He says something that’s meant to be I have no idea what you mean by that, Spencer Smith but it comes out “I - nnnnnnnnnnnnnn.”
Spencer’s laughing so hard that he literally cannot get out his digs about Brendon the new children’s librarian. The one who plays with train sets and playdough and eats microwave Oscar Meyer wieners for lunch EVERY DAY and only gets away with those really, really tight jeans because the zany smock covers his crotch, and has maybe been systematically hiding the Stephenie Meyer books in the harlequin section so that the tweens can’t get a hold of them because he’s worked so diligently to select much higher quality materials for them if only they’d read it.
Jon drags his feet back over to Spencer’s desk and leans a hip against the edge, arms folded. He waits for Spencer to run entirely out of breath and watches him kind of sit there making gasping wheezes into his palms.
“He sucks cock like a fucking pro,” Jon confesses, very very quietly because as much as he’d rather not lose his job for screwing around at work, he’d also prefer to not get a note on his file from Esther about professionalism and language.
Spencer says into his fingers, “Oh my god, of course he does.”
“He’s like. I can’t even tell you.” Jon gestures and refolds his arms.
“You don’t have to. That’s the fourth time you’ve gone in there.”
“This week,” Jon corrects, tapping through the times with his fingers: the first time Brendon tricked him by asking for help taping up a copy of Thomas the Tank Engine; and then the second time was last Sunday’s evening shift when Janet was on dinner break; and then the third time Brendon made a joke about lube and glue and Jon totally freaked out and resolved to never go back in there; which lasted until today when Brendon caught him browsing in the 778s, tapped the picture on the opposite page, and said, I'm really good at that.
“You are so getting fired. Ryan is so going to fire your ass.” Spencer crows in a very tiny voice. And at Jon’s look he says, “I mean, he would if he found out.”
Jon says, “Are you going to tell him?”
Spencer pauses. He looks inward in that way he does. Contemplative in three seconds flat. “I guess not. I mean, eventually you guys are gonna go on a date or something outside of work and then the repair nook won’t smell like jizz anymore and it won’t be a problem.”
“No way can you smell that over the glue fumes, man.” Jon’s eyebrows go up and Spencer wheezes a little in renewed mirth as he nods slowly, the bearer of bad news.
“Esther’s been talking about it being some kind of a chemical reaction, but there is definitely an odor. No one else has figured out that it’s ballsweat, hormones and pure protein.”
“Can you keep it to yourself for a little bit?” Jon focuses his eyes on Spencer’s inner honorableness and chivalry. It’s hard not to sound a little beggy.
Spencer shrugs and then nods. He adjust the top button of his cardigan, casual-like. “Fo shizzle. Just like, cut it out, okay? I can’t exactly lie to Ryan if he asks.”
“He won’t.”
Jon raps a knuckle on Spencer’s desk and mouths thank you when he turns back at the door to make sure Spencer isn’t picking up the phone and dialing Ryan right now.
Spencer gives him the guns and flips open another trashy teen novel.
There aren’t any users standing around at the desk, desperate for his help with their taxes or genealogical research or legal advice or some other shit that he isn’t remotely qualified for, so Jon grabs a truck of reference books to reshelve. It’s not his job, the page will be in after lunch, but maybe the reference books are displayed directly across from the children’s section. What. So maybe they are.
He has to steer around Ryan, who’s standing in the middle of the shelving unit with a clipboard and an intent expression on his face, as Brendon reads Dr. Seuss aloud to the two-to-threes and their accompanying adults across the way.
Ryan says, without glancing over, “Did you in-house-use those in the system?”
And Jon says, “Yep,” even though he didn’t. Usage statistics are boring and misleading ways of measuring quality, and if the board of trustees really wanted to evaluate impact, they’d come and listen to Brendon do Tales for Twos.
Toddlers shriek when the Fox comes back at Mr. Knox with a tongue-twister that doesn’t even sound like a human language. Brendon cruises through it in a half sing-song. Fat arms shoot up into the air, voices scream with a frightening, desperate glee. Parents smile nervously at each other. The kids are really loud. Brendon is even louder.
Ryan marks something down on his clipboard.
“Hey, are you evaluating him?” Jon says. “How’s he doing?”
“I’m not sure.” Ryan’s mouth twists. “Parents don’t like man-librarians hanging around their kids.”
“Sexist paranoids.” Jon says. He drops to shelve an atlas.
“Yeah, I know, right? At least the kids like him.” Ryan is still scribbling. He’s been taking this acting branch manager stuff pretty seriously, and Jon doesn’t doubt that he'd probably fire both of them if he found out about the true origins of the jizz odor.
Probably the parents would like Brendon even less then.
There is another roiling wave of child laughter, and also a small fracas of concern as one little girl laughs so hard she throws up on the ground and the kid in front her.
Ryan says “Geez louise” in a tone that actually says fucking shitballs, drops his clipboard on Jon’s truck and goes to get the mop from the custodian's closet. Brendon’s waving off some parental horror, and helping the girl calm down. He actually makes her giggle again. The kid who got puked on is less amenable, but eases up on his wailing as Brendon gets them all going by doing a group rendition of the last few rhymes.
…the tweetle beetles battle with their paddles in a puddle on a noodle-eating poodle…
Jon has to avert his eyes. Brendon’s face right now is actually killing him. It’s incandescent.
He shelves a French-English dictionary, and then shelves it again because he put it in with the Portuguese the first time. He’s going to have a seriously hard time staying away from the repair nook. Spencer’s watchful nose be damned.
He turns back to the truck to grab another armload, and Ryan’s notes catch his eye.
In that slippery scrawl, under the typed capslock name: recommend retaining, excellent performance, extremely high quality material.