Free Stockholm Syndrome 3 - No Beginning, No End by Richard Rider

praise.
"You're disgusting," Lindsay says. He touches Valentine's hair, and Valentine presses against his hand like a kitten eager for fuss.
    "If you want."
"I didn't say you could stop. No more talking."
    "Sorry." He talks again after a minute anyway; he can't keep his mouth shut for long, even when there's supposed to be something corking it like a bottle. "I meant it just now," he says softly, glancing up at Lindsay for a moment before turning his attention back to where his hand is, nuzzling his face gently against Lindsay's cock and leaving a shiny smeared little patch of wet on his cheek. "Talk nerdy to me. Read me your lecture. I'll get you off and learn something, everybody wins."
    "It's not written yet. I've been... distracted."
"What by?"
    "Your tongue right now." That makes Valentine smile. He starts licking again in long, wet stripes, and Lindsay curls his fingers around a cushion until they hurt, his body prickling all over with a flare of goosebumps.
"Oh right, and whose tongue you been distracted by when I was out, then?"
     
"Nobody's. Just thinking." Mouth suddenly too full for words, Valentine just hums a question. "Mmm?"
    "I want something," Lindsay gasps, bringing the clutched cushion up onto his chest and hugging it to himself, needing something to hold on to while Valentine works his lips, tongue, throat.
    "Anything you want, I said I'll do anything," he says when he pulls away for breath, then swallows deep again. Lindsay makes a choking sound into his cushion, straining without meaning to against Valentine's tight hold on his hips.
    "Not from you, I want... I want... I can't stop thinking about it ," he bursts out. His hair's falling into his eyes, and he manages to uncramp one hand from the cushion to push it impatiently out of the way. Valentine's looking up at him again and that question is in his eyes now, not his voice. His eyes are streaming with trying not to gag, but he's doing it. "There's... things in this collection I've been working on, rooms full of things and I want them, and that's easy enough because his wife doesn't know what's there, I could keep what I want and nobody's ever going to know, but... in the library, there's... Christ, don't stop, what are you doing?"
    "You wanna steal a book." It's not a question, just a flat, vaguely disdainful statement. "All the fucking beautiful things in the world and you wanna steal a book ."
    "Don't stop. You did say talk nerdy to you."
"Yeah, for a game , but you're an actual nerd."
    "Sweetheart," he tries; even though terms of endearment always feel clumsy and sour in his mouth, Valentine seems to like to hear them and maybe this'll work. "Darling. Love... oh I swear to god, Philip, don't you dare stop now or-"
    "Yeah, I fucking knew it, you're rubbish at being nice to me," Valentine says, pushing his bottom lip out and looking mournful, though his eyes are glinting wickedly.
Trump card time. "There's some William Blake drawings I could forget to mention if you behave yourself."
    In just seconds he's smothering himself in the cushion, shouting desperate incoherences out into the feathers and dimly aware of Valentine purring encouragement as the last splash hits his cheek. It's still there when Valentine steals the cushion again and climbs into Lindsay's lap to kiss him, damp heat smearing into his beard. "If you just said that so I'd make you come I'm gonna shit on you in your sleep."
    "There's an unfinished one, looks like it might be an early version of his Midsummer Night's Dream thing but the composition's not the same. Some Divine Comedy watercolours. A whole sketchbook. A pencil drawing of some old woman called Kate."
    "You're kidding, you wanker." Valentine's gone very pale. "No."
"Is there a date on it? The... Kate, Catherine, that might be his wife, is there a date?"
     
"I can't remember. Eighteen-twenty-something, six, I think, or seven."
     
"Where is it, is it here, can I see?" "It's still in Joan's house, don't piss yourself. It's