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The office was far too quiet for that hour.
Rain droplets which hadn’t quite decided whether they meant to properly fall or simply threaten to dragged slowly down the tall glass windows, distorting the city below into luminescent streaks. The skyline shimmered in a delicate golden hue, reflected dimly in the polished glass of the conference table. The board had left nearly an hour ago now, yet their accusations still lingered like the taste of a cigarette.
The atmosphere still thick with their judgement.
Vincent stood with his back to the room.
Jacket lay abandoned over the arm of a leather chair, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up just enough to show intent, and - oh? Belt slipped down onto the final hole? That part was new.
The slow rounding of his hips had rendered several pairs of trousers - and apparently belts too - uncooperative. Cotton strained faintly across his stomach now - not dramatically, but enough that he noticed.
Enough that others had begun to notice.
It’s easy enough to blame such phenomena on stress.
It’s part of the job after all, being the presenter of your very own TV show is always guaranteed to be accompanied by hardships. Yet somewhere during his transition from a morning weatherman and to the star of ‘The Whittman Show’, those hardships had begun to manifest in mindless snacking between shoots, late-night deliveries, and litter from take-outs he swore ‘he’d never even ordered.’
Vincent often pretended not to notice the changes. But being in the spotlight doesn’t typically allow for such blissful ignorance. He’d seen all of the critiques. Newspaper columns dedicated to the dissection of his figure, claiming he was losing his edge, his charm, his appeal.
Vincent knew better than anyone how carefully an image has to be maintained, and as he studied his reflection in the amber of his whiskey, he wondered whether his habits were actually taking such a toll on his perception.
The double chin staring back at him, which now framed his once sharp jaw, certainly wasn’t putting the presenter’s mind at ease.
He welcomed the burn of the drink. It softened the edges of the humiliation - never quite enough to erase it, but to survive it.
Behind Vincent, the door to the office opened briefly before clicking shut almost immediately after.
“You’re late,” Vincent said, not turning. His jaw tightened faintly. He polished off the drink to soothe whatever nerves had awakened due to the visitor’s presence.
Shoes crossed marble.
The visitor didn’t reply immediately. Instead, they drifted towards a decanter, half empty in the centre of a long table. Fingers wrapped around a glass as they poured themselves a measure with lazy entitlement.
They took their time, gaze unmoving from Vincent’s reflection in the length of the window, instead of the liquid rising in the tumbler. They drank without breaking eye contact.
Footsteps clicked again. Precise. Deliberate. As if every step from the table to Vincent’s side had been rehearsed. A delicate hand rested upon the presenter’s shoulder.
“I find arrivals are more impactful when preceded by tension. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Vincent cocked his head to the side.
Alastor looked as immaculate as ever. He always looked this way: so composed, curated - untouched by scrutiny.
A crisp, crimson suit sharpened his slender figure, tightening all of his edges as if it was made for him and him alone to wear. Deep, plotting eyes framed protectively by thin-framed, silver glasses as if they were art exhibits. Things to be seen and enamoured by, never experience or touch.
Vincent swallowed as those dark eyes dragged over his figure, not just looking at - but assessing him.
There was a brief, nearly imperceptible pause at Vincent’s midsection. At the tight hug of fabric around the swell of his stomach. At the slight jut of love handles spilling over the sides of his pants, subtle rounding where there’d once been clean edges.
Even as Alastor’s gaze reached his face once more, he could feel him slowing to take in that softened line of his jaw under the city lights.
Vincent noticed. He always noticed.
“What?’” He asked cooly.
Alastor’s smile remained far too gentle.
“Nothing at all.”
Silence ensued for a few moments after.
Vincent turned to reach for the decanter, pouring whiskey into the empty tumbler; his movements were precise, economical, yet he couldn’t help but tense as he felt Alastor step closer. The shift in proximity caused his face to flush almost childishly.
“You’re working yourself thin, old pal,” Alastor began.
Vincent let out a short, breathless laugh, “That’s ironic.”
Alastor hummed, gaze flicking once more. Not quite mocking, more so observantly, “I meant in spirit.”
Vincent straightened instinctively - immediately regretting it as the movement pulled fabric taut across his middle.
“Pressure does tend to manifest physically,” Alastor continued, conversationally, “Sleep disruption, appetite irregularities-”
Vincent cut Alastor off with a scoff, narrowing his eyes.
“You came here just to criticise my physique then?”
Alastor titled his head. And although it remained identical, Vincent could tell that somewhere among the playfulness and teasing, Alastor’s smile softened ever so slightly.
“I’m just noting that you’ve changed, my dear.”
Defensiveness flickered across Vincent’s posture, his hand subconsciously drifting to adjust his shirt.
“You’re imagining it,” he stated.
“Am I?”
Alastor’s fingers brushed lightly across Vincent’s waistline - not quite grabbing nor invasive, but enough to feel the difference through the fabric. Although the contact was brief, it was fuelled with electric, and Vincent stilled - swearing his heart had for a moment too.
“I wasn’t aware it was possible to imagine this much…” Alastor’s hands returned once more to Vincent’s midsection, a little more eagerly this time. Fingers prodding their way into soft flesh, as if mapping territory he intended to remember. Never mocking or teasing, instead observantly - even obsessively. Like the older male had never witnessed anything of the sort. “...softness.”
Vincent set the glass of whiskey down harder than necessary, clearing his throat, “Careful Al.”
Alastor’s smile warmed.
“I don’t dislike it Vincent.”
Vincent’s brow furrowed slightly, as if he’d misheard. He scoffed a little, clearly skeptical. “You don’t?”
“Not at all.”
Alastor’s hands stilled their examination, no more squeezing, no more prodding - just resting around Vincent’s waist. Palms warm against the younger man’s shirt.
“It suits you.”
Now Vincent really laughed, “Being fat?”
“Substantial,” Alastor corrected, gently, “there’s something rather decadent about it.”
His words lingered for a moment.
He hadn’t called Vincent lazy, or careless, or indulgent, or any of the humiliating words being thrown around in interviews and headlined in the papers. Without realising, his shoulders lowered a fraction, and Alastors’ thumb began to trace a slow, absent-minded path along the curve of Vincent’s waist.
“The papers would beg to differ,” Vincent replied, reaching out to grip Alastor’s wrist - not out of protest, but to steady himself from the heat developing in his lower stomach, and somewhat between his thighs.
Just the whiskey, he was certain.
“My dear,” Alastor murmured, voice lowering, “the men writing those columns would faint if asked to carry half the weight you do.”
The way that silky voice dropped just the right amount sent chills dancing along Vincent’s spine. That - and the way the word ‘weight’ seemed to linger on Alastor’s tongue - made Vincent’s breath catch faintly.
Alastor must’ve noticed, had to have noticed, because he stepped closer again. His chest almost brushed against Vincent’s back as his voice drifted closer to the man’s ear.
“I imagine they say you’ve grown indulgent.”
Vincent exhaled slowly, finding the developing warmth between his legs much harder to ignore now.
“Among other things, yes.”
Alastor’s tone shifted.
“And have you?”
His hand slid just slightly down, lingering around Vincent’s hips and lower belly - prodding and tracing along the subtle overhang of his gut. Unknowingly dancing along the stretchmarks which had begun to paint his stomach in thin, pink stripes.
The throb of Vincent's cock was becoming nothing short of agonizing. A pulsing ache contradicting the way he wanted so badly to resist Alastor’s touch. To writhe under the teasing traces of those practised hands as they flattened over the swell of his gut, a thumb brushing idly over the tension there.
Yet he only leaned into it.
“That isn’t your concern Al.”
Vincent tried to sound earnest, but the way he inhaled sharply, flinching a little at one particular prod before speaking, told Alastor all he needed to know.
“Oh but it is, Vincent,” he replied smoothly.
His teasing was no longer subtle.
Alastor’s fingers pressed into the flab around Vincent’s middle more deliberately now too, testing what little give there was beneath the tailored fabric.
“Tell me,” Alastor continued, “do you hate it?”
“Hate what?”
“This,” Alastor’s fingers dug into Vincent’s gut almost painfully, “The fullness. The softness they’re so terribly scrutinised by.”
Vincent’s grip tightened a degree around Alastor’s wrist. His words carried heat, and Vincent knew deep down he couldn’t keep blaming the drink for his enjoyment of this predicament.
Alastor’s smile deepened, “You’re enjoying this Vincent.”
Before the younger man could get out any protest, Alastor rested his head over Vincent’s shoulder, practically whispering down his ear.
“You’ve always been so disciplined, so controlled,” he teased, barely audible, “and watching that control disappear…”
Vincent’s breathing had somehow grown even shallower.
“...it’s fascinating.”
“You’re insufferable Al.”
Alastor chuckled mildly against Vincent’s ear.
“And yet you haven’t asked me to stop.”
His hands shifted again - not harsh, but firmer. One palm flattened against Vincent’s stomach, the other settling at his hip, thumb hooking lazily beneath the edge of his waistband.
Alastor drew back just enough to study the younger man, taking in his flustered state in the reflection of the window before them, glasses catching in the city’s glow.
“Look at you.”
Vincent only needed to take himself in briefly before his chest dropped ever so slightly, body stiffening once more.
“You tense as if I’ve accused you,” Alastor continued, somewhat clinically, “And yet your body betrays you almost entirely.”
His thumb slipped downwards, playing between the sag of Vincent’s belly and the hardness which suffocated between the plush of his thighs.
“Don’t.”
Fingers tightened reflexively around Alastor’s wrist.
“You’re not ashamed of this, Vincent, you’re ashamed that you like it.”
“That isn’t for you to decide, Alastor.”
“Oh?”
Alastor’s thumb stilled. Vincent’s grasp around his wrist shifted from something defensive to deliberate. No pushing away, instead anchoring.
“I’ve spent years making sure everything I do is perfect.”
The two men met eyes in the reflection of the glass before them.
“And you think this fascinates you? Imagine living in it, Al.”
There was a little bite behind his words, however the sting of whiskey on his breath made them all the harsher.
The rain dragged harder down the glass behind them now, distorting the pairs’ reflection into something almost abstract - two figures pressed too close. The city blurred until nothing remained but the warmth between them.
Yet, Alastor’s gaze didn’t waver.
“I’ve always found perfection terribly exhausting,” he murmured.
“It is,” Vincent grumbled, “and you standing here fucking analysing me doesn’t exactly help. I’m not something for you to dissect.”
Alastor removed his thumb from Vincent’s waistband, shifting around to face the younger man head on.
“Correct, you’re something to be appreciated.”
Vincent held his gaze, dubious, yet he finally released his wrist. His pulse fluttered traitorously.
“Let me appreciate you, Vincent.”
Alastor didn’t dare break eye contact as he dropped to his knees - clearly savouring the way Vincent’s composure fractured, eyes widening for just a second too long.
He settled against the thickness of Vincent’s thighs, fingertips gripping them reassuringly. He leaned in, catching the zipper of Vincent’s strained pants between his teeth - dragging it down with slow precision.
A low, involuntary groan escaped Vincent’s lips - reward enough for Alastor - as he was freed from the tight confinement of fabric.
He began to palm Vincent’s length through his boxers first, testing the younger man’s reaction. Alastor tilted his head back to watch as Vincent unravelled before him.
He was growing impatient.
“If you’re going to appreciate me, do it properly,” Vincent mumbled huskily, fingers tangling into dark curls. His other hand fumbled impatiently with his boxers before swiftly pushing them down. Alastor only chuckled.
His tongue traced paths along the veins which lined Vincent’s cock - each movement and bit of pressure applied was calculated to draw another fractured sound from Vincent’s throat. And each time Alastor’s tongue returned to his tip, he took his time savouring the sweetness of precum, making a spectacle of tasting what he’d reduced Vincent too.
Alastor pulled back momentarily.
“You can hardly control yourself, Vincent,” he leant forward, teeth grazing the softened curve of Vincent’s lower belly, “yet you wish to control me?”
Any protests from Vincent dissolved as Alastor lowered his head down, taking in the younger man’s entire length with confidence - reducing any argument into pathetic groans and stutters.
The rhythm that followed lost its’ neat precision quickly.
Vincent’s hand tightened in Alastor’s hair - hips rocking forward despite himself. He began to thrust deeper into his throat. Movements rapidly became erratic as the warm wetness of Alastor’s throat drove him senseless.
When Alastor finally pulled back to catch his breath, lips slick, chin damp, glasses slightly askew - it wasn’t Vincent’s desperation which caught his attention.
It was the way his stomach rose and fell with each unsteady breath. The way his wet overhang poked out now ever so slightly. How it must’ve jiggled as Vincent plunged deeper into Alastor’s throat.
Alastor’s gaze darkened.
He wanted it uncovered. Unrestrained. Not hidden behind tailored fabric nor professional composure - but laid bare beneath his hands. Not for spectacle.
For him and him alone.
So he did just that.
But Alastor did not rise immediately. Instead, his hands smoothed upwards along Vincent’s thighs unhurriedly, until his fingers caught at the hem of his shirt.
“Al-”
Alastor began to lazily work the buttons which strained across Vincent’s middle and chest open. He could see the way the younger man’s face tinted a beautiful crimson as the extra weight he’d been so desperately sensitive of was being put on display.
The city beyond the window flickered in streaks of gold and red, rain streaking the window far more assertively now in thin, trembling lines.
The reflection staring back at the men was indecent in its closeness: Vincent flushed, shirt half open, Alastor still kneeling at his feet.
Vincent swallowed. His gaze darted to the skyline. To the towering lights. To the possibility - irrational yet irritatingly persistent - that someone could see.
“We’re in front of the window Alastor,” Vincent muttered, breath uneven now for an entirely different reason.
“And? You were perfectly content just then, what’s changed?”
Alastor rose smoothly to his feet, bringing the pair nearly chest to chest again. The rest of the buttons came undone with maddening patience.
“It’s-.” He faltered. “Anyone could-”
“No one is looking at you,” Alastor replied, voice low and steady, “not like I am, Vincent.”
The shirt parted.
Vincent’s stomach, so soft, warm, marked faintly by stretch and strain - caught the city’s glow. The rain-light made his skin look almost gilded.
As the lighting outside flickered faintly, for a heartbeat, Vincent could see himself reflected fully. Painfully exposed. A product of his own self-destruction.
And Alastor looking at him like he was art.
“You’re far too ashamed of this, my dear. I think it’s delicious.”
A hand rested on Vincent’s waist.
Vincent swallowed, “It isn’t exactly flattering in this lighting. I look fucking huge.”
Alastor chuckled.
“With me, taking up space is not a flaw Vincent.”
Despite himself, and his insecurities, Vincent smiled.
Rain tapped noisily against the window. Faster streaks distorted their reflections until the scene felt almost private despite the exposure.
“You’re impossible.”
Alastor smiled before taking his place behind Vincent instead. Working his palms around him to cup the curve of his belly - giving it a gentle squeeze - before guiding him towards the conference table.
“You were made to be held like this,” Alastor mumbled, barely above a whisper, still cupping the softness of his belly.
Then he pushed down on Vincent’s back, urging him to bend over. Vincent, of course, did what Alastor wanted of him with minimal hesitation. Submission was a luxury he reserved for Alastor and Alastor alone.
“There’s a good boy.”
Alastor took Vincent's hips into his hands, slowly grinding himself against the plush of his ass. He let barely audible moans escape his lips as he watched Vincent’s back arch in his own pleasure. Vincent's pants were slowly tugged down as his own followed suit.
Saliva gathered in his palm with several spits, before being spread across his own length. Not typical of someone who prided himself on class, but necessary in this moment.
“Look at you,” Alastor’s voice was dripping with lust as he teased his length against Vincent’s hole, his spare hand groping the thick flesh of his behind, "tell me that you want this.”
Alastor slid his slick tip into Vincent’s hole, drawing a set of pained and needy groans from the younger man.
“Come now Vincent, use your words.”
Alastor’s cock slipped in a degree further, the intrusion made Vincent’s thighs tremble despite himself. The glass table - cool against his bare chest, fogged up beneath him as he panted out warm breaths.
“I want this Al-” Vincent barely managed to breathe out amongst his pleasure and need.
“You can do better than that my dear.”
Vincent squeezed his eyes shut as Alastor tightened his grip around his thick hips - undeniably hard enough to leave bruises for Vincent to reflect on later.
The whiskey had long softened the edges of his restraint - just enough to make such vulnerability feel survivable.
“Please just fuck me Alastor. Please.”
That simple beg was all it took for Alastor to thrust his remaining length deep inside the warmth of Vincent’s hole. The tight thing struggling to contain the girth that was fucking into it.
There was nothing hurried in Alastor. Every movement was deliberate. Every moan anticipated. Every thrust felt calculated in its impact, never rushed or erratic - but managing to produce results without fail all the same. Drawing reactions from Vincent like a musician drawing confession from strings.
The pleasure ran straight to Vincent’s own cock, and it wasn’t long before Alastor began to take care of that as well.
He leant forwards, pressing his chest against Vincent’s back. One hand dipped down to Vincent’s cock. Slender fingers wrapped around the throbbing length as Alastor fondled the glistening tip and ran his hand up and down the shaft. The other plunged its way into the thick flesh which hung from Vincent’s middle - the weight of his stomach succumbing to gravity as it wobbled beneath him.
“Oh Vincent, how could you ever hate this…”
Alastor took a handful of fat and shook it gently between his fingers, highly pleased when Vincent whined in response.
“You fill my hands beautifully.”
He released his grasp around the gut, and continued to pump Vincent’s cock.
Alastor resumed his pounding with steady intent , finding his cock hadn’t softened one bit during his pause. If anything, he was harder than before - the thick length painfully erect from being squeezed by the suffocating warmth of Vincent’s insides.
He could swear the extra weight had made him tighter.
With each slap against Vincent’s ass, Alastor noticed how the younger man’s breath was becoming frantic, ragged, and how his tip was becoming slicker with his sweet precum by the second.
He was getting awfully close as well.
“Vincent,” Alastor breathed out, delving his fingers into Vincent's ass.
The space thickened with heat, filled with the lewd sounds of flesh meeting flesh.
“You’re so big, my dear.”
Alastor’s hand sped up its pumping.
“In fact…”
Alastor’s panting grew just as desperate as Vincent’s as a warm pit grew in his lower stomach.
“...I wouldn’t mind if there were even more of you.”
With those final words, that final thrust, Alastor released deep inside of Vincent, his hand being coated in thick, white substance as the other male reached his own high. The pair panted in unison. Existing together for a few moments in nothing but silence and heat.
Alastor pulled himself out of Vincent with a soft squelch, before assisting the younger man back to his feet. The pair did up their pants, still sharing the same comfortable quiet.
Vincent watched as Alastor adjusted his cuffs as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just dismantled him and put him back together. He envied that composure - the way Alastor always looked so untouched.
“You meant what you said?” Vincent asked quietly, breaking the silence finally as his fingers grazed the rim of his abandoned glass.
Alastor’s gaze shifted from the window towards him.
“I do not say things I don’t mean.”
The daylight outside had begun to grow old, being replaced gradually by the youth of a spring’s evening. The rain had spent itself. What remained on the glass were only faint traces - evidence that something had passed through. The city beyond the office was far clearer now. Less distorted, more sure of itself.
Hopeful.
Vincent stared at Alastor, and Alastor stared right on back.
Vincent didn’t flinch or stutter as Alastor closed the distance between them. Nor did he when he felt that sharp gaze on his thickened figure once more. Even when it lingered particularly on the blush of his lips.
Vincent only leant in.
There was nothing careful about the kiss they shared. It was wanted, earned - shamelessly desperate.
Alastor had been right.
Vincent did like this.
It never was just the whiskey.