Rating: M
Pairing: Moist von Lipwig/Havelock Vetinari (go ahead, stare)
Summary: Moist's imprisonment isn't quite what was expected. Set sometime during Going Postal.
Warnings: M/M sex
A/N: I think my writing has a tendency to move too fast. Oh well. Review, please.
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"To continue: the job, Mr. Lipwig, involves the refurbishment and running of the city's postal service, preparation of the international packets, maintenance of Post Office property, et cetera, et cetera –
"If you stick a broom up my arse I could probably sweep the floor, too," said a voice. Moist realized it was his. His brain was a mess. It had come as a shock to him that the afterlife was this one.
Lord Vetinari gave him a long, long look.
"Well, if you wish," he said, and turned to a hovering clerk. "Drumknott, does the housekeeper have a store cupboard on this floor, do you know?"
excerpt, Going Postal (Terry Pratchett)
----
(present)
Moist von Lipwig woke slowly.
It was the first time in a great many years that he had done so. But today, both his mind and his body knew that a slow, gentle push back into reality was necessary. Things would hit him gently, like waves upon a rock. One at a time, as he was ready for them.
And perhaps he could find a way out of this too-narrow bed, through twisting corridors, out onto the death-trap grounds, avoiding any clerks or scorpions, in broad daylight, naked as the day he was born.
As he woke, he became increasingly aware of the breathing of the man beside him—and he would have to feel it, with his arm thrown over the man's chest like that – the soft ache in his own arse, that pleasant feeling he couldn't remember ever experiencing during the morning, the delicate hand that suddenly gripped his wrist as he attempted to slide off the bed.
"Surely not now, Mr. Lipwig," said a calm voice. Moist let out a sigh. His bare arm still rested on a pale chest, and now two hands held his firmly over the rise and fall of a ribcage.
He cautiously turned his head, and stared into an angel's grey eyes.
----
(past)
The Patrician sat across from Moist in the Oblong Office, shuffling through a stack of papers, occasionally pausing to read one through, make a note, or sign his name at the bottom. Moist watched him patiently stroke his beard, his eyes rapidly moving across a particularly yellowed page. It looked as though he had forgotten Moist's presence completely, or as if Moist was invisible—and if he leaned in close enough, he could inspect that dark hair for any signs of gray, examine the arched eyebrow—Vetinari had a sort of hypnotic quality about his face... and Moist snapped out of his reverie as he realised the face had lifted and and was now looking him directly in the eye. The eyebrow raised, and Vetinari glanced at the cut across Moist's cheek. The ex-con averted his gaze, feeling slightly like a willful child who knows he will soon be sent to the corner.
"Drumknott?"
"Yes, my lord?"
"Leave us."
The clerk hastened to obey, shutting the door of the Oblong Office with a quick glance in Moist's direction. Moist stared at the desk.
Vetinari cleared his throat sharply, bringing Moist's attention from a rather interesting knot in the wood.
"I trust Mr. Pump caused you no harm," he said, a slight stress on the name of the clay man. It was not a question. Indeed, the golem had been much less violent than for what Moist had prepared. Moist realised Vetinari was now staring pointedly at the gash on his cheek.
"Ran into a house," he muttered. He'd been desperate. And the first room had happened to be a kitchen, and a young woman had happened to be wielding a paring knife... he thanked the gods for her furious miscalculation, and had escaped with his life.
"Yes. Residents were unharmed, I hear." Moist glared. He had been picked up by the armpits and carried, struggling—it was a terrible blow to one's reputation in Ankh-Morpork, he had found, if one hung loosely in the firm grip of a golem and was carried through the streets to the Patrician's palace.
Residents were unharmed. Who did the man think Moist bloody well was?
"The Postal Service cannot function without its Postmaster General, Mr. Lipwig. Unfortunately, the Postmaster General seems similarly unable to function." The Patrician spoke softly. "I am afraid that, for the time being, you shall have to serve your punishment here."
The color drained from Moist's face. Scorpion pits? Elaborate torture chambers? He'd heard things whispered in the streets of Ankh-Morpork, where some of the citizens were constantly on the lookout — terrified of Vetinari's omnipresence in the sprawling twin-city.
"Nothing so dreadful, Mr. Lipwig." Moist caught the faintest hint of amusement in Vetinari's calm composure. "I shall find you a suitable broom."
Insanity, thought Moist, as he was led downward to what seemed like an endless hallway of small cells. Vetinari's heels and cane clicked an awkward rhythm on the stone floor, black robes swished. The Patrician stopped abruptly in front of one door that resembled every other that they had passed...
"Choices, Mr. Lipwig," said the Patrician. "The Trousers of Time, if you inclined to think in such a manner—now, you may spend your time in the cells of your government until you are once again prepared to serve the same institution—" You, thought Moist, you're the entire bloody institution, you bastard—
"—Or you will carry out any task you are able to do while still in this building. You will not leave, Mr. Lipwig."
Right, then. Serve my punishment in the cells, or spend my days licking Vetinari's boots.
Hah.
Moist stared at the ceiling, lying on his back in a reasonably comfortable bed. The man was cruel, he knew, but Moist could not swindle, con, or even be perfectly honest to escape from him. Mr. Pump had most likely told him of the Two Point Three Three Eight People that had died indirectly as a cause of his actions. Crime? Certainly. Punishment?
Hmm.
He heard a door click open and raised his head slightly. A tall figure appeared, more like a shadow than a solid being. Moist scrambled to cover his bare upper body and smooth down his hair.
"You have an appointment with me at eight o'clock tonight, Mr. Lipwig. Do try to dress appropriately." his Lordship said smoothly.
It was a simple clerk that had shown Moist to his quarters, he remembered, after Vetinari had left.
The Patrician had come to deliver the message himself.
----
(present)
Moist's heart thudded in his chest. Vetinari was going to kill him. The man had observed the death of Alfred Spangler, now he was going to kill Moist von Lipwig... oh, gods...
But the hand that had released Moist's own held no cold metal of a knife as it trailed over Moist's torso. And that deadly calm voice sent unexpected shocks down Moist's spine.
"I had thought, Mr. Lipwig, that there was only the slimmest chance that I would find myself in this position at this point in time," he said conversationally, ignoring Moist's sharp gasp as his fingers encountered hard nipples. He stared fixedly at Moist's collarbone. "But I have come to realise that, although you attended your appointment for dinner last night of your own volition, I was mistaken if I thought you initially did wish to be brought to my bed. Tell me, Mr. Lipwig, did you think I meant to kill you if you acted otherwise?" His voice was steady.
Moist stared.
"The thought never crossed my mind, my lord." He watched as Vetinari winced at the use of his title. Well, he had used "Mr. Lipwig," had he not?
"Then, undoubtedly, this morning?"
"Briefly, lord." Moist looked down at the hand now massaging his hip. " I had thought my reactions would provide any answer you required."
"The body often betrays the mind, Mr. Lipwig, and vice versa. Words, I find, last longer than actions."
Moist looked up again, saw the play of skin over muscle as Vetinari's arm worked back and forth. It was a cold, detached conversation, in such contrast to the intimacy of a calloused hand over Moist's thigh. He shifted closer, causing it to slide to his buttocks.
"I am terribly aroused," he said, slowly and deliberately. "Words enough for you?"
And with that, Vetinari lowered his lips to the hollow at the bottom of Moist's throat, making his way up the adam's apple, jawbone, and finally rested at his mouth, sharing a slow, early-morning kiss, and Moist began to thrust gently toward the other man, a silent demand for more. Vetinari obliged, bringing his roaming hand from Moist's arse to stroke his thumb over the pulsing head of Moist's swollen cock. Another shock of pleasure caused Moist to shudder, and then he was holding Vetinari up against him, trapping his hand between their bodies, kissing him with a fierceness he'd never thought possible. His hands ran through the man's dark hair, tugging accidentally at the strands as Vetinari squeezed his cock and caused him to buck with pleasure.
He slipped his hand down and fumbled, head muddled by lust, for the Patrician's cock. He smeared a drop of milky fluid over the head and then firmly gripped the shaft, working firmly before he realised Vetinari was softly whispering his name.
Moist.
He trapped the echoes between two sets of lips, and pressed open kisses wherever he found a surface. He flew, rising to the clouds... Vetinari left Moist to pump both of their cocks and lifted Moist's leg to wrap around his own. He slid fingers, glistening with pre-come, along the cleft of Moist's arse, stopping at the picker he had come to know intimately just hours before. Moist groaned and panted as a digit was pushed inside, then bit Vetinari's neck as another joined it.
"Shh..." Vetinari soothed him, gently pushing his fingers in and out, in and out... soon, Moist was pushing back. His cock was almost painfully hard.
"H—Ha—"
"Say it, please..."
"Havelock—"
They began to thrust together, Vetinari finger-fucking Moist while the younger man fisted his cock—slowly, slowly, they rose above the clouds, and perspiration beaded on their foreheads, and this felt so good, so good, and Moist held on to that sweet, sweet moment just before he released. Orgasm roared through him, waves of blinding pleasure, and he barely heard the cry of the man beside him as he tumbled blissfully through the air.
----
(past)
Moist stepped cautiously into a dimly-lit, small dining hall—and noticed the Patrician, seated silently at one end, hands folded on the table before him, eyes closed.
He opened them. "Good to see you clothed, Mr. Lipwig. Do sit down."
Moist took his seat across from Vetinari and warily selected a bun from the basket in front of him.
His hand remained attached to the end of his arm.
A good sign.
Lord Vetinari smiled.
"How long will my punishment last?" Moist asked. Will I be dining with you ever night?
"As long as I feel is necessary." An obvious end to the conversation. Moist's silent question remained unusually unanswered.
They sat the rest of the evening in silence over their meal. Moist knew the hall was not normally occupied by the Patrician. The man took small suppers in his office. The concept of the hearty meal was likely unknown to Vetinari.
Moist smirked inwardly.
And then he felt those eyes upon him. The eyes that knew everything that wasn't meant to be seen.
Moist knew that every name, every disguise, every façade was absolutely no challenge to Vetinari. And his Lordship leaned over the table, and crushed his delicate thin lips to Moist's.
----
(present)
Moist von Lipwig blinked.
He stared, sullen and quiet, at the bustle of Ankh-Morpork. The gates of the Palace closed with a mocking clang behind him.
Without his many disguises, without a fancy business suit or a moustache or a suitcase full of money, a pocket full of brass and glass… he was no one.
And the world did not stop for him.
(epilogue)
"Someone to see you in the parlor," said Miss Dearheart, with an edge to her voice that suggested this someone was not only someone, but a Someone. She gave an urgent nod in the direction of the doorway. Moist shook the rain out of his golden suit. "All right, all right."
The form of the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork was minutely out of place against the décor of the parlor. Moist stared.
"Mr. Lipwig," said Vetinari. "I must apologize."
"After five months?" growled Moist.
"I must apologize for the five months. I had imagined I could read you like a book, Postmaster General—or, perhaps, like a letter—but it seems everything has been so distorted by passion, and I could do nothing but end your punishment and free you. The first three days, if you must know, held all the pain of five months."
"Really."
"Can you understand that? No, I am not lying. Is my apology accepted?"
"If I say yes, will you leave?"
The tall man swiftly rose to his feet, pulled Moist out of the doorway, cupped a hand around the back of his head, and met his lips.
It was over before it had begun. "You really are most infuriating, Moist." The younger man fancied he heard something like tenderness in the Patrician's voice. "An appointment with me at seven o'clock tomorrow night, Postmaster."
He left.
Moist laughed inanely for a while, then stopped. He would have to attend, or a golem would arrive, pounding at his door. He would have to attend—he did want to, oh no, but he would have to… yes…
Damn the man, Moist thought happily.
(fin)