Work Text:
Vincent Whittman wakes up at 6:00 AM
Vincent Whittman take a shower at 6:30 AM
Vincent Whittman does not eat breakfast
Vincent Whittman drinks his coffee black at 7:00
Vincent Whittman gets on the train at 7:30
And work starts at 8:00 sharp
…
The office is loud, it always is. It is a nineteen year old boy’s tenth day at work
“Vincent Whittman— god where are you when we need you—?” Clark Peterson storms around the room, almost done with his eighth cigarette of the day
“Weather in ten—“ a cameraman speaks
“Where is our weather—“ Andrew Beaufort walks into the room, cigar in hand.
Clark lights another cigarette, taking it to his lips. Letting out a deep sigh after his first drag
“Weather in five—“
Vincent walks through the door, he’s immediately surrounded by the two producers
Clark sighs, Andrew scoffs
Vincent is scrawny, shaking hands covered in cigarette burns. His eyes are wide, pupils small
“Sorry…,”
Andrew pulls him close by the tie. Licking a finger before rubbing the dry powder off Vincent’s nose. Clark still looks stressed, he parts his lips
“If you feel the need to do such things, do not let it interfere with work” Andrew lets his hand sit on Vincent’s chest “you know that don’t you Vincent?” His voice is mocking
“Yes Mr. Beaufort…”
Andrew smirks, eyes softening “Now sweetheart, are you almost out?”
Vincent nods
“I’ll get you more.,”
“Thank you Mr. Beaufort”
“Of course sweetheart,”
Clark sighs and steps forward “Met us in my office after your segment Whittman” Vincent nods and walks away. Slipping backstage. His weather segment is fast. After he goes to get a coffee from the lounge, lighting a cigarette as he walks to the office of his producers
The second Vincent steps into the office an arm wraps around his waist, a sweaty palm on his shoulder, and hes lifted on a desk. Clark and Andrew stand in front of him
“You stuttered Vincent,”
“Im sorry— I’ve been shaky today—“
“Unacceptable, you know your expectations around here”
“Oh fuck off—“
He’s silenced with a slap to the face, a scowl grows on his face but he finally relaxes into his seat
“now vincent”, clark speaks slowly
“I’m not a child”
“Yet you act as if you are,”
“I’m not—“
“My point proven”
Vincent takes a deep breath before trying to stand.
“Tsk- no- no- Vincent”
Andrew’s voice rings out as Vincent starts to stand. He’s moved to the teal chaise in the corner of the room. A hand finds his chest, another rests on his cheek.
“Oh Vincent..”
“You’re gorgeous..”
“Sirs…”
A pair of lips are pressed to his, his lips parting with a soft gasp allows time to slip a tongue within.
“Now that’s a good boy…” Andrew speaks, smirking as Clark devours Vincent’s mouth. Vincent lets out a soft whimper before he opens his chest, letting the berage of touch break him down
He hears a belt unbuckle, and pants slid down. his big brown eyes meet Andrew’s. Clark pulls away,
“Ready to be useful love?”
“Yes Mr. Beaufort.”
“Good.”
Andrew slips his cock out of his boxers, giving himself a slow pump before letting the slick at his tip drip down to the hardwood floor, Andrew looks at the younger boy expectantly.
“you couldnt possibly”
Andrew smiles
“Clean”
Vincent sighs before going down to his knees on the floor, letting his pretty pink tongue meet the cold floor. licking up the salty spot. looking up, meeting Andrew’s eyes. he straightens his back, parting his lips to allow room for something larger than solely his tongue.
Andrew presses his reddish-pink tip to Vincent’s tongue. Humming at the warmth
“You know what youre doing sweet boy,”
Vincent takes him into his mouth, closing his eyes and letting the sensation guide him, running the point of his tongue trace the chasm between tip and shaft. Andrew plays with the young boy’s rapidly greying hair
Vincent moves lower, letting the tip breech past the tight muscle of his throat. spit dripping circular down his chin. the once cleaned mess of the floor dripping wet once again. vincent speeds his minstrations. after another few beats pass in silence Vincent’s hair is grabbed into a fist. his mouth no longer the moving object. his throat is fucked roughly.
until it bruises
but then Andrew releases himself, and vincents hair is released. hes confused as the speed but not upset.
hes pulled back to the chaise. handed a cloudy glass of water, he knows its full of something non-aqua. but he doesnt question, he drinks
his belt is undone, his boxers pulled down, his cock is soft. it usually is. Andrew and Clark share a few words and laughs. Vincent doesnt listen. he lets his mind drift. he whimpers as one of the men’s spit hits his puckered hole, a finger is shoved in, the nail too sharp for comfort. he leans his head back, letting the blown air from the fan to his side trace over his sharp features, from the hair blowing over his oil-slick forehead, his thick lashes, to the miniscule hairs covering the rest of his face. the base of the comfort is simple. the air is cold and he is warm. he feels a third finger added to his hole, he mustve not noticed the second. in times like these he wishes he was a woman, the added slick would add comfort to this all-to-common situation. though if he were a woman he fears this sitiuation would be much more common. a slick hole is easier to fuck.
but hes easy to fuck too.
a submissive bitch of a man, he’ll do anything for his dreams sadly. anything to be a star. he truly must find a better way to go about these things. the fingers are removed, dick soon to come. he tries not to pay attention
a man of this era being dicked down is not a proud feat. in fact its quite embaressing, degrading. But Vincent Whittman does not thing of himself as some sissy, no. hes a man being fucked for a purpose.
his hole is filled. he doesnt know if hell ever get used to the feeling.
his high is wearing off and he wants to shoot himself in the head. he much prefers uppers, downers make him feel underqualified for his ambition. as so he is not pleased as whatever cocktail of drugs he was given sinks into his system. he goes from walking through his thoughts to a soft float, falling through levels upon levels of chamber thought.
as hands dig into his hips hes a child again. the young boy who when prompted had dreams. who had morals. who presumably wouldnt be getting fucked on a lounge chair in his producer’s office. the “pleasure to have in class” vincent, the “He’ll go somewhere” Vincent, The strong vincent. the real man. his thoughts clear themselves for a moment. the frustrating moment where he disembarks his train and cant find his conection, he finds it. its his first girlfriend.
she was a pretty girl, such a shame he had to be a fag. long hair, dark eyes, flat chest, perhaps thats why he liked her. because if he gripped her boxy frame hard enough she was a man. as a youth he was so embaressed of his condition. he had’nt much need for the secrecy though. not with all the ruckous down in stonewall. its not like its the days when his father would pull him aside when the police would shoot a man for a queer step. dark times, truly. Clark’s cock is inside him now, Andrew mustve came
Nontheless. he looses his thoughts again. the drugs free streaming inside him. he grows tired. a shame, his thoughts are finally interesting enough for entertainment. his thoughts drift to the queer man he saw in the subway a few days back. a pretty face, small waist. caramel skin. he mustve been older than Vincent. but god he was beautiful, stunning even—
“Vincent”
“Yes?”
“Were done,”
“Oh”
“Yes”
“Okay”
Vincent stands, fighting the faint feeling that arises in his gut, he walks towards the door, preferably leaving as soon as possible
“Have nice weekend Vincent, see you Monday.” Andrew smiles, Clark pats his ass as he walks out the door,
“Thank you Mr Peterson, Mr Beaufort”
As he leaves a small plastic bag is pressed into his hands, his eyes brighten. A kiss is pressed to his lips, and the door closes behind him.