Stockholm Syndrome fic: Poèmes d'amour
Title: Poèmes d'amour
Fandom: Stockholm Syndrome
Pairing: Pip/Lindsay
Summary: Pip pesters Lindsay in the library as he tries to prepare for a poetry lecture.
Word Count: 1,862
Rating: R
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: I have no ownership of these boys, just permission to play with them ;)
Author’s Notes: Betaed by the wonderful deepdarkwaters, whose knowledge of French helped me greatly! This is a surprise for siyamau, who mentioned wanting Pip/Lindsay library shenanigans in his Yuletide letter. I didn't know if this would get filled in your Yuletide match, so I figured I'd do it myself. Enjoy, you. x
The silence in the library was broken only by the occasional soft footfall on the rugs covering the wood floor, or the slight rush of air from pages turning and books being taken out and then replaced on shelves. The rich wooden bookshelves were tall enough to nearly reach the ceiling, needing a ladder to retrieve the uppermost books, and tables were placed in every section, affording the patrons some degree of privacy as they studied.
Lindsay had taken a seat at one such table in the theology section; though it wasn’t his subject, it was one of the lesser populated parts of the library on that Saturday afternoon, affording him a better chance of poring over his notes in solitude without annoying interruptions from students who recognised him and decided to ask questions then instead of making use of his office hours, or-more aggravating still-those who flouted library rules and had whispered conversations on their mobiles, leaving him as a captive audience to such scintillating stories such as who had unfollowed whom on facebook and why such a thing was the end of the world.
Lindsay opened his notebook, eyes skimming the notes he’d made previously on Albert Glatigny for his seminar on 19th century French satirists. He was so caught up in his reading that he didn’t notice another man joining him at the table until the thump of boots on hardwood made him jump.
Pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, he looked up in exasperation at the interloper, though the furrow in his brow smoothed slightly upon seeing Valentine’s smirking face looking back at him. He was leaning back in the hard-backed library chair, balancing it on the back two legs as his gold Chelsea-booted feet rested on the table, crossed at the ankles. Lindsay leaned over, giving his feet a hard shove off the table.
Valentine sat up with a laugh, letting the front legs of the chair drop to the floor along with his feet. “You were hard to find,” he commented, his voice just a tiny bit too loud for the quiet library. “What are you doing in this section? You turning religious?”
“I didn’t want to be found. I have work to do.” Lindsay glanced down pointedly at his open notebook and the books of poetry stacked next to him on the table.
Valentine crossed his arms, looking unimpressed. “It’s Saturday.”
“I have a lecture to give in-“ Lindsay’s glanced flickered to the watch on his wrist “-just under an hour.”
“On a Saturday!” Valentine repeated, as though he still couldn’t understand why someone would choose to spend the weekend squirreled away in a library, or worse yet, a classroom. “You want to get a life, that’s what you need.”
“I’m filling in for a colleague. I told you this days ago.” Lindsay glanced down at his notes again, picking up his pen to mark a passage he didn’t want to forget.
“Yeah, you know how it is when you mention school, I fall right to sleep.” Valentine mimed snoring and then laughed again, “So when is this thing going to be over? Want to get lunch after?”
Lindsay nodded absently, eyes still on the lines of notes written in his own neat hand. He didn’t really need to look over his notes again, he knew most of it off by heart, but he liked to be prepared. Besides, if the kid thought he could show up and get Lindsay to drop everything in favour of giving him attention, he had another thing coming.
Pip was silent for all of two seconds, before leaning across the table, trying to read Lindsay’s notebook upside down. His black curtain of hair fell down onto it, obstructing Lindsay’s own view, causing Lindsay to look up, his face suddenly inches from the kid’s. “What?” he asked, interjecting more annoyance into the word than he actually felt as he sat back to put some more distance between them.
“What’re you reading?” Pip asked, his attention leaving the notebook as he plucked a book off the stack near Lindsay’s elbow, paging through it. However, his French wasn’t good enough to read the poems in their entirety, so he let the book drop back to the table again.
“Glatigny’s poetry. He was a contemporary of Rimbaud.”
“Was he a bender too?”
“Mm,” Lindsay nodded. “He wrote erotic poetry about men and women, under a pseudonym.”
“Reckon I’ll come to this lecture after all.”
“It’s not about that. The focus is on his satires.”
“Yeah, that ain’t as interesting. Tell me one of his dirty poems.”
“I don’t have any of them memorised!” He did, but he wasn’t about to admit to it. “I only came across them in my research.”
Valentine caught his eye for a moment and then burst out laughing, tucking his chin down against his chest in an effort to muffle the sound, at least slightly mindful that they were in a library. Lindsay just stared at him, having no idea what he’d said to spark such a reaction, before the kid’s snickering died down enough that he could speak. “I’ll bet you came across them. Is that why some of the pages are stuck together?”
Lindsay rolled his eyes. “You’re disgusting.”
“At least I don’t read old dirty poems by myself like a saddo.”
“No, you just want me to recite them to you in public.”
“Lindsay, it ain’t public if no one is listening.” Valentine slid his chair closer to Lindsay’s, tangling their legs together under the table. “Please?” He peeked out at Lindsay under his fringe, lower lip caught between his teeth, worrying the skin just enough to make it redden in a way that he thought made him look alluring.
Lindsay cleared his throat, ignoring the flame of lust that ignited low in his belly when Valentine gave him that look. When he spoke, it was barely a whisper, causing the kid to lean in further to hear the words, “Je veux, sur ta chair opulente/Masse de blancheur/M'étaler, ainsi qu'un nageur/Sur la mer tremblante.1”
As he listened, Valentine’s hand, first resting casually on Lindsay’s knee, slowly slid up his trouser leg, the wool bunching slightly under his palm. Lindsay let him get as far as mid-thigh before grabbing his wrist. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Giving you motivation.” Valentine grinned impishly at him. “Keep going, I know that ain’t the whole poem.”
Valentine’s hand felt hot like a brand against his skin even through his trousers and his grip on the kid’s wrist tightened until he could feel bones under skin, fragile like a bird’s, though he knew the kid wasn’t nearly so delicate. Valentine whimpered softly and Lindsay’s eyes squeezed shut, cock twitching and starting to fill out in his trousers even as he shoved the kid’s hand away. “You don’t even know what I was saying.”
“I got the gist of it!” Valentine pulled his hand back, and when Lindsay opened his eyes, he could see the kid rubbing his wrist. “You don’t have to break my fuckin’ arm over it.”
“Then don’t touch me like that when we’re in public. You realise there are cameras in this library?” He surreptitiously glanced around them at the high ceilings for the closest one. His eyes fell on the glass insert of it in the ceiling facing Valentine’s back. With any luck the angle didn’t catch what the kid was just doing.
“No cameras in the loo, though.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
Valentine shook his head. “I understood enough of that poem, I ain’t totally thick. You wanna…spread yourself on me.” He grinned. “There’s enough room in a handicapped stall, you can do whatever you want. You can grab my wrists again; I don’t really care if you hurt me. You know I ain’t bothered.”
Lindsay felt his mouth go dry at the picture the kid was painting, and he reached down to adjust himself in his trousers. They couldn’t of course; he had better sense than that. He could just imagine the gossip that would travel around campus if he were caught shagging Valentine in a toilet cubicle at King’s College as though it were a trashy nightclub. Not that such logic would dissuade Valentine. Again, he checked his watch. “My lecture starts in twenty minutes.”
“I can make you come in five, easy.”
The kid’s hand was on his knee again, as though it had a mind of his own. “Valentine…” he warned, though his voice lacked the conviction he’d like as he watched those slim fingers flex, the tips only just brushing the now visible tent in his trousers. He gripped the sides of his chair to keep from bucking up against the subtle pressure. “Phillip, I said no.”
Valentine sat back in his chair with a sigh, crossing his arms like a petulant child who had been refused sweets before dinner. “You’re such a prude.”
“You’re an exhibitionist. How would you like if it I came to your shop and…and…” He let the sentence fall; knowing even as he spoke that Valentine would like that very much.
As expected, Valentine grinned. “I’d love it! What’s the point of running your own shop if you can’t take a long lunch break to get a bumming from your boyfriend? I’d just shoo all the customers out and put up the closed sign.”
“Just go home.”
“I thought I was coming to your lecture and then we were getting lunch?”
“No.” Lindsay shook his head, suddenly appalled at the thought. “I changed my mind. I won’t be able to concentrate if I see your pointy little face in the audience.”
He could’ve bit his tongue at the words, seeing how smug the kid looked after he’d spoken him. As if that ego of his needed any more inflating.
“What, am I a distraction?” Pip asked with faux innocence.
“Of the worst kind. I’ll see you after my lecture.” He dropped his voice and added, “And when I get home, I want you on the bed, waiting for me.”
A surprised, pleased laugh burst out of Valentine. “Yes, Dr Brown!”
Lindsay just shook his head to himself as he closed his notebook and collected his books, placing them back into his satchel again. When he stood, he was careful to keep the brown leather case in front of himself, mentally willing his erection down.
He hoped a short walk in the brisk December air would settle things down, though thankfully he at least had a podium to stand behind if it need come to that. He should punish the kid for getting him all worked up like this. He briefly imagined hitting him that afternoon, though the image faded and floated away in his mind like smoke, instead leaving in its place a verse from a Mallarmé poem he'd read earlier that day, “Sais-tu qu’on me blame/De t’aimer comme je le fais.2”
End
1. I want, on your opulent flesh/Mass of whiteness/To spread myself, like a swimmer /On the trembling sea
2. Do you know that people blame me for loving you as I do?
Fandom: Stockholm Syndrome
Pairing: Pip/Lindsay
Summary: Pip pesters Lindsay in the library as he tries to prepare for a poetry lecture.
Word Count: 1,862
Rating: R
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: I have no ownership of these boys, just permission to play with them ;)
Author’s Notes: Betaed by the wonderful deepdarkwaters, whose knowledge of French helped me greatly! This is a surprise for siyamau, who mentioned wanting Pip/Lindsay library shenanigans in his Yuletide letter. I didn't know if this would get filled in your Yuletide match, so I figured I'd do it myself. Enjoy, you. x
The silence in the library was broken only by the occasional soft footfall on the rugs covering the wood floor, or the slight rush of air from pages turning and books being taken out and then replaced on shelves. The rich wooden bookshelves were tall enough to nearly reach the ceiling, needing a ladder to retrieve the uppermost books, and tables were placed in every section, affording the patrons some degree of privacy as they studied.
Lindsay had taken a seat at one such table in the theology section; though it wasn’t his subject, it was one of the lesser populated parts of the library on that Saturday afternoon, affording him a better chance of poring over his notes in solitude without annoying interruptions from students who recognised him and decided to ask questions then instead of making use of his office hours, or-more aggravating still-those who flouted library rules and had whispered conversations on their mobiles, leaving him as a captive audience to such scintillating stories such as who had unfollowed whom on facebook and why such a thing was the end of the world.
Lindsay opened his notebook, eyes skimming the notes he’d made previously on Albert Glatigny for his seminar on 19th century French satirists. He was so caught up in his reading that he didn’t notice another man joining him at the table until the thump of boots on hardwood made him jump.
Pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, he looked up in exasperation at the interloper, though the furrow in his brow smoothed slightly upon seeing Valentine’s smirking face looking back at him. He was leaning back in the hard-backed library chair, balancing it on the back two legs as his gold Chelsea-booted feet rested on the table, crossed at the ankles. Lindsay leaned over, giving his feet a hard shove off the table.
Valentine sat up with a laugh, letting the front legs of the chair drop to the floor along with his feet. “You were hard to find,” he commented, his voice just a tiny bit too loud for the quiet library. “What are you doing in this section? You turning religious?”
“I didn’t want to be found. I have work to do.” Lindsay glanced down pointedly at his open notebook and the books of poetry stacked next to him on the table.
Valentine crossed his arms, looking unimpressed. “It’s Saturday.”
“I have a lecture to give in-“ Lindsay’s glanced flickered to the watch on his wrist “-just under an hour.”
“On a Saturday!” Valentine repeated, as though he still couldn’t understand why someone would choose to spend the weekend squirreled away in a library, or worse yet, a classroom. “You want to get a life, that’s what you need.”
“I’m filling in for a colleague. I told you this days ago.” Lindsay glanced down at his notes again, picking up his pen to mark a passage he didn’t want to forget.
“Yeah, you know how it is when you mention school, I fall right to sleep.” Valentine mimed snoring and then laughed again, “So when is this thing going to be over? Want to get lunch after?”
Lindsay nodded absently, eyes still on the lines of notes written in his own neat hand. He didn’t really need to look over his notes again, he knew most of it off by heart, but he liked to be prepared. Besides, if the kid thought he could show up and get Lindsay to drop everything in favour of giving him attention, he had another thing coming.
Pip was silent for all of two seconds, before leaning across the table, trying to read Lindsay’s notebook upside down. His black curtain of hair fell down onto it, obstructing Lindsay’s own view, causing Lindsay to look up, his face suddenly inches from the kid’s. “What?” he asked, interjecting more annoyance into the word than he actually felt as he sat back to put some more distance between them.
“What’re you reading?” Pip asked, his attention leaving the notebook as he plucked a book off the stack near Lindsay’s elbow, paging through it. However, his French wasn’t good enough to read the poems in their entirety, so he let the book drop back to the table again.
“Glatigny’s poetry. He was a contemporary of Rimbaud.”
“Was he a bender too?”
“Mm,” Lindsay nodded. “He wrote erotic poetry about men and women, under a pseudonym.”
“Reckon I’ll come to this lecture after all.”
“It’s not about that. The focus is on his satires.”
“Yeah, that ain’t as interesting. Tell me one of his dirty poems.”
“I don’t have any of them memorised!” He did, but he wasn’t about to admit to it. “I only came across them in my research.”
Valentine caught his eye for a moment and then burst out laughing, tucking his chin down against his chest in an effort to muffle the sound, at least slightly mindful that they were in a library. Lindsay just stared at him, having no idea what he’d said to spark such a reaction, before the kid’s snickering died down enough that he could speak. “I’ll bet you came across them. Is that why some of the pages are stuck together?”
Lindsay rolled his eyes. “You’re disgusting.”
“At least I don’t read old dirty poems by myself like a saddo.”
“No, you just want me to recite them to you in public.”
“Lindsay, it ain’t public if no one is listening.” Valentine slid his chair closer to Lindsay’s, tangling their legs together under the table. “Please?” He peeked out at Lindsay under his fringe, lower lip caught between his teeth, worrying the skin just enough to make it redden in a way that he thought made him look alluring.
Lindsay cleared his throat, ignoring the flame of lust that ignited low in his belly when Valentine gave him that look. When he spoke, it was barely a whisper, causing the kid to lean in further to hear the words, “Je veux, sur ta chair opulente/Masse de blancheur/M'étaler, ainsi qu'un nageur/Sur la mer tremblante.1”
As he listened, Valentine’s hand, first resting casually on Lindsay’s knee, slowly slid up his trouser leg, the wool bunching slightly under his palm. Lindsay let him get as far as mid-thigh before grabbing his wrist. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Giving you motivation.” Valentine grinned impishly at him. “Keep going, I know that ain’t the whole poem.”
Valentine’s hand felt hot like a brand against his skin even through his trousers and his grip on the kid’s wrist tightened until he could feel bones under skin, fragile like a bird’s, though he knew the kid wasn’t nearly so delicate. Valentine whimpered softly and Lindsay’s eyes squeezed shut, cock twitching and starting to fill out in his trousers even as he shoved the kid’s hand away. “You don’t even know what I was saying.”
“I got the gist of it!” Valentine pulled his hand back, and when Lindsay opened his eyes, he could see the kid rubbing his wrist. “You don’t have to break my fuckin’ arm over it.”
“Then don’t touch me like that when we’re in public. You realise there are cameras in this library?” He surreptitiously glanced around them at the high ceilings for the closest one. His eyes fell on the glass insert of it in the ceiling facing Valentine’s back. With any luck the angle didn’t catch what the kid was just doing.
“No cameras in the loo, though.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
Valentine shook his head. “I understood enough of that poem, I ain’t totally thick. You wanna…spread yourself on me.” He grinned. “There’s enough room in a handicapped stall, you can do whatever you want. You can grab my wrists again; I don’t really care if you hurt me. You know I ain’t bothered.”
Lindsay felt his mouth go dry at the picture the kid was painting, and he reached down to adjust himself in his trousers. They couldn’t of course; he had better sense than that. He could just imagine the gossip that would travel around campus if he were caught shagging Valentine in a toilet cubicle at King’s College as though it were a trashy nightclub. Not that such logic would dissuade Valentine. Again, he checked his watch. “My lecture starts in twenty minutes.”
“I can make you come in five, easy.”
The kid’s hand was on his knee again, as though it had a mind of his own. “Valentine…” he warned, though his voice lacked the conviction he’d like as he watched those slim fingers flex, the tips only just brushing the now visible tent in his trousers. He gripped the sides of his chair to keep from bucking up against the subtle pressure. “Phillip, I said no.”
Valentine sat back in his chair with a sigh, crossing his arms like a petulant child who had been refused sweets before dinner. “You’re such a prude.”
“You’re an exhibitionist. How would you like if it I came to your shop and…and…” He let the sentence fall; knowing even as he spoke that Valentine would like that very much.
As expected, Valentine grinned. “I’d love it! What’s the point of running your own shop if you can’t take a long lunch break to get a bumming from your boyfriend? I’d just shoo all the customers out and put up the closed sign.”
“Just go home.”
“I thought I was coming to your lecture and then we were getting lunch?”
“No.” Lindsay shook his head, suddenly appalled at the thought. “I changed my mind. I won’t be able to concentrate if I see your pointy little face in the audience.”
He could’ve bit his tongue at the words, seeing how smug the kid looked after he’d spoken him. As if that ego of his needed any more inflating.
“What, am I a distraction?” Pip asked with faux innocence.
“Of the worst kind. I’ll see you after my lecture.” He dropped his voice and added, “And when I get home, I want you on the bed, waiting for me.”
A surprised, pleased laugh burst out of Valentine. “Yes, Dr Brown!”
Lindsay just shook his head to himself as he closed his notebook and collected his books, placing them back into his satchel again. When he stood, he was careful to keep the brown leather case in front of himself, mentally willing his erection down.
He hoped a short walk in the brisk December air would settle things down, though thankfully he at least had a podium to stand behind if it need come to that. He should punish the kid for getting him all worked up like this. He briefly imagined hitting him that afternoon, though the image faded and floated away in his mind like smoke, instead leaving in its place a verse from a Mallarmé poem he'd read earlier that day, “Sais-tu qu’on me blame/De t’aimer comme je le fais.2”
End
1. I want, on your opulent flesh/Mass of whiteness/To spread myself, like a swimmer /On the trembling sea
2. Do you know that people blame me for loving you as I do?