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Havelock has always been good at reading people. It was a skill taught to him at the School of Assassins, of course, but for him, it has always been somewhat of a talent; something too deep and ingrained into his personality to be the result of teaching. He has always been able to look at people and know what they need, what they want, and how to use those two things against them. Sam Vimes is no exception.
Vetinari can always tell when it is Vimes approaching the Oblong Office. For one thing, Vimes is the only man alive who manages to walk quietly and loudly at the same time, treading improbably lightly in heavy and (recently) expensive boots. The pattern of his footsteps changes depending on his mood, giving a helpful warning as to what to expect when Sir Samuel eventually knocks on the door.
Today, Vimes’s footsteps are slow, but heavy – something Havelock has come to recognise as signifying a mixture of Vimes-typical frustration and the bone-deep exhaustion of command. Vetinari straightens the papers on his desk, then sits up, adjusting his collar. When the door opens, with any luck, it will appear to Vimes that he has been serenely and perfectly awaiting his arrival for quite some time. A quiet but purposeful knock rings out from the wood.
“Come in, Vimes,” Vetinari says.
“How did you know it was me, sir?” Vimes closes the door after entering.
“Oh, call it intuition,” Vetinari smiles, in what would be a smirk on any other face.
Upon seeing Vimes, his earlier assessment is proven correct: the man is exhausted alright, face pale and unshaven, with eye-bags which suggest at least one entirely sleepless night in recent memory. The Commander’s shoulders are clearly trying to sag, but Samuel seems to be making a valiant effort to keep them squared, though he isn’t being entirely successful. The overall impression is of somebody who has been thrown into the river and then fished out, and who is trying very hard to hide that the incident ever happened.
“Do you have any updates on the situation, Commander?”
“No, sir.” Vimes stares straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact in the way that he does when he is trying to hide something, or get away with some ‘crime’.
“Oh, good. I was rather hoping you would say that.”
Vimes isn’t quick enough to completely mask the surprise on his face. “Oh, sir?”
“Indeed, Commander,” Havelock leans back in his chair, knitting his fingers together over his chest. “You see, if there was progress being made, I fear I would have to let you go fairly quickly after this meeting so that you could get on with your job. However, if there is nothing important happening, then I see no reason why I can’t keep you here for a little while longer?”
Havelock watches in concealed glee as realisation dawns on Samuel’s face. Vimes clears his throat, shifting uneasily on the balls of his feet.
“Right, sir.” He still refuses to meet Vetinari’s eye.
“If that is amenable to you, of course?” Vetinari gives him a pointed look. Sam swallows, finally forcing his gaze to Havelock’s face.
“Yes, sir, I think I could spare you a few minutes.”
Warmth stirs deep in Havelock’s gut.
“Good.” He says jovially. Vetinari stands up, tucking the chair neatly under the desk and before moving around so that the expensive wood no longer separates the Commander from himself. “On your knees, then.”
Vimes breathes in sharply, then obeys.
This is an arrangement they have had for a while. Vimes gave up drinking years ago upon his marriage to Lady Sybil, but the painful, self-destructive tendencies which drove him to seek sanctuary at the bottom of a bottle in the first place had been much harder to exorcise than the habit itself. Havelock, Sybil, and Sir Samuel himself all knew that Vimes needed an outlet for such feelings, and out of himself and Sam’s wife, it had been clear who was more able to provide one. As such, Vetinari had agreed to help indulge some of Vimes’s… baser needs, to help keep that particular beast caged.
Vimes’s breath is suddenly warm against Vetinari’s crotch, hot and panting in nervous anticipation. Samuel looks up at him pleadingly, looking for all the world like the pathetic begging terrier with which the city loves to compare him. ‘The Patrician’s attack dog’. The armoured uniform looks far less imposing when its wearer is knelt submissively on the plush carpet. Havelock chuckles deep in his throat, and feels a shiver down his spine.
Slowly, Vetinari shrugs off his immaculately tailored jacket, and expertly unbuttons his well-fitting slacks. In front of him, Vimes’s shoulders heave up and down, and he swallows a mouthful of anticipatory saliva.
Havelock’s erection twitches as it hits the coldish air of the Oblong Office. He nods assertively at Vimes, who takes it dutifully in his mouth, triggering another light shiver from the Patrician. Vimes does not break eye contact, clearly watching for any loss of composure from which he can take some hint of satisfaction or triumph. Vetinari resists, and hums his approval.
As Havelock has come to understand, the watchman is not exactly… skillful in bed, but much like his fighting, he has some degree of street education; he is far less refined than some of Havelock’s youthful trysts, tongue roughly exploring the underside of the Patrician’s cock as he gets used to the familiar weight in his mouth. Not unlike the man himself, his technique has a certain degree of rugged charm. Vetinari’s hand finds its way into Vimes’s hair (to say he was messing it up would imply a degree of put-togetherness that simply was not there to begin with) to steady himself, squeezing the back of Samuel’s head in a show of silent dominance.
“Good boy,” Vetinari says quietly, and Vimes sighs through his nose.
Havelock is not small by any means, but as always, Vimes makes an impressively solid effort to swallow him in his entirety. Vetinari shudders as he feels Sam’s throat constrict around him, feeling directly as Vimes suppresses his gag reflex through sheer stubborn force of will. At Sam’s age, the position on his knees the floor cannot be particularly comfortable, but he doesn’t seem to care, choosing to prioritise the task at hand over his own comfort or safety – as he is wont to do.
This whole situation is a game of push and pull: Vetinari is the one having his way with Vimes, of course, but that doesn’t mean the Commander won’t take any given opportunity to fight back, and reclaim some of his dignity for his own. They both know that this is part of why this arrangement is so satisfying for the both of them. As such, Vimes smiles around the cock in his mouth, and begins to bob backwards and forwards, hollowing in his cheeks and applying pressure from all angles as he does so.
Havelock‘s jaw clenches, and he grips Vimes’s hair to the point of pain, but he does not allow the man the satisfaction of making a noise. His breathing is becoming increasingly ragged, but to be fair to him, so is Vimes’s, even grunting softly every time Vetinari’s glans hits the back of his throat.
In moments like this Vimes is a sight to behold, Havelock muses. Sam’s brows are knitted together in concentration, still looking up at Vetinari through his eyelashes. His breastplate glints dully in the candlelight, flickering as his whole body rocks rhythmically backwards and forwards, relatively pristine in contrast with Vimes’s streaming eyes and the complete mess which may have passed for hair in a more brightly lit room.
Eventually, inevitably, this would all become far too much for even the most composed and self-controlled of men. Havelock whimpers deep in his throat as he feels his orgasm catch up to him, fists tightening as he pulls Vimes unceremoniously closer to his crotch by his hair. Vimes gags around him, spluttering as best as anyone can with their mouth completely full.
When Vetinari relaxes and loosens his grip, Vimes sits back. Havelock watches bonelessly as a string of white-tinged saliva stretches out between his rapidly-deflating cock and Vimes’s lips, before snapping and joining the damp sheen on the Commander’s chin.
Vimes grins, and spits the Patrician’s load onto the carpet.
In his post-orgasmic haze, Havelock finds himself momentarily surprised at the sudden break in submission. However, if he allows it to show on his face, it is not for long.
Ah. So this is one of those days.
Sam watches him closely, sitting back on his haunches like a dog that knows it has done something wrong, but which is curious to see how its handler will react. Like a man who needs something new and exciting to surprise him.
Well, if it’s going to be like that…
If the School of Assassins taught Vetinari anything, it was how to throw a punch without the opponent realising what’s coming for them before it is far too late. Vimes usually reacts quickly in a fight, but in this foggy haze Vetinari watches with satisfaction as understanding and surprise dawns just a split second before the flat back of his hand, studded with cold metal rings, is in contact with Vimes’s face. Before Vimes can re-straighten his neck, Vetinari’s shoe is following his hand, pushing Sam face-first into the floor.
“Was that satisfying for you, Sir Samuel?” Vetinari asks curtly, applying just enough pressure to make Vimes’s jaw pop against the carpet without causing any lasting damage.
“Yes, sir,” Vimes coughs and spits again, although his crushed mouth has very little space to do so. “Very much so.”
“My my, such insolence.” Vetinari gives another shove with his foot before releasing Vimes, then drops his body weight onto the Commander’s pelvis. He grabs Vimes by the jaw and yanks him upwards, forcing him to sit up so that they are close to eye level.
Vimes’s eyes are watering hard now, tears mixing with the thin film of sweat and spit over much of his disheveled face. One of his cheeks is red with carpet-burn, whilst the other displays the print of the sole of Vetinari’s shoe as proudly as the badge on his uniform. From where he is now sitting, Havelock can feel Vimes’s erection against his glutes, straining against multiple layers of fabric.
“Sir…” Vimes gasps, his voice strained.
“Yes?” Vetinari raises an eyebrow.
“Sorry, sir.” Vimes’s shoulders sag, leaving Vetinari solely holding up the full weight of Samuel’s head by his damp and stubbled chin.
Havelock’s face softens. “Very good.”
He lowers Vimes’s chin to a comfortable height, and manoeuvres them into a sitting position which will hopefully put less pressure on Sam’s lower spine, whilst still sitting straddling Vimes’s hips.
Vimes allows this to happen, head hanging limply, panting roughly in defeat.
Havelock plays idly with the hem of Vimes’s shirt as the Commander regains some of his composure. After a while, Vimes seems to rediscover the ability to breathe normally, and he looks up at Vetinari from his sagging position with bloodshot eyes.
“Sir, if I may make a request?” Vimes’s voice is uncharacteristically tentative – a sure way of telling that Havelock has done his job correctly, he thinks with a hint of pride.
“Yes, Commander?”
Vimes swallows, shifting uncomfortably. “Do you think you could…” he gestures lamely to the obvious bulge in his trousers.
“Ah, but of course!” Vetinari smiles, amused by the sudden shyness from the usually-brazen watchman. He shifts himself onto the floor beside Vimes, deftly unfastening Vimes’s swordbelt and unbuttoning his uniform trousers. Vimes lies back, propping himself up slightly on his elbows.
Vimes’s cock emerges, red and weepy, and he winces as it hits the cold air. Havelock licks his lips, then holds a hand out towards Vimes’s face.
“Spit,” he commands. Vimes obeys.
Havelock starts off slowly and lightly, delighting in the way that Vimes shivers and gasps in overstimulation at even the slightest touch. When he brings his hand down to fully grip Sam’s cock, the Commander curses loudly, throwing his head back.
Suffice it to say, it does not take long for Vimes to completely come apart under Vetinari’s touch.
Vimes collapses bonelessly into the plush carpet, all dignity and composure seemingly melting away in exhausted post-bliss. Havelock leans forward and plants a soft kiss to the Commander’s forehead, before standing and beginning to pull his clothes back on.
“I expect Lady Sybil will be wondering where you’ve got to.” Vetinari says conversationally.
“I’ll just tell her I was with you.” Vimes mumbles breathlessly, eyes closed.
“I am sure she will understand,” Havelock says tenderly. “That said, I have work to do, and I’m sure you would be better off sleeping in your own bed rather than on my office floor.”
Vimes groans, then curses, then sits up. He rubs his face with his hand, then winces.
“You’re probably right,” he admits, then follows suit, attempting to reconstruct his uniform in a sleepy half-stupor. After a cringe-worthy minute of blundering, Vetinari takes pity on him and hands him his underwear.
“Right,” Vimes says, once he’s mostly decent (this being relative, considering the state of his hair and face even before today’s escapades, let alone afterwards). “I’d best be off.”
“Indeed,” says Vetinari, settling into position at his desk and folding his hands in front of him. “Do send Lady Sybil my warmest regards, and remind her to come around for tea sometime soon.”
“Right,” Vimes repeats. “Well, then.”
He turns to leave, but stops just before reaching the door.
“By the way, sir,” he says softly. “Thank you.”
“You are very welcome, Vimes.” Havelock replies as the door shuts. He listens as Sam’s soft footsteps make their way down the hall and out of earshot.
Vetinari chuckles to himself, and returns to his paperwork.