Going Soft
Title: Going Soft
Pairing: Howard/Vince
Word Count: 540
Rating: PG
Warnings: None!
Disclaimer: I don't own Howard or Vince or The Mighty Boosh, and I'm making no profit from this story.
Summary: Vince's latest look really flatters him, no matter what Camden thinks. And Howard buys Jaffa Cakes.
Notes: Written for pat_o_cake's wonderful, inspiring prompt for plump!Vince, as seen here: http://booshslashhaven.livejournal.com/1238594.html?thread=23220290#t23220290. I couldn't resist, even though this is maybe more in the spirit of the prompt than the letter. But there are cakes, of a sort. ;-)
The word on the street-at least, the word on the trendier, cattier corners-is that Vince Noir's let himself go.
He's gone wrong, the Camden kids sneer to each other. He's gone soft. Badly hidden under layers of eyeliner and a cultivated air of cold detachment, you can see their joy at having a rival out of the way, and their horror at Vince's present state, as though they can't imagine a more terrible fate. They'll never end up that way.
Howard's always suspected they were all idiots, but now he knows it's true. Because as far as he can see, Vince has never been more beautiful.
What they say is true, of course, in a way: Vince has gone soft over the past year-a year that has, not coincidentally, seen a number of positive changes in their relationship, certain aspects of which could be called anything but soft. Two narrow beds have been replaced by one larger one, and when they're near each other now, the tension sizzles, rather than strangles. And they've come up with a much, much more satisfactory way of resolving all their endless arguments-though Naboo and Bollo might dispute that, if their grumbling about needing earplugs is any indication.
The result of all these changes on Vince is indisputable, and nobody knows it more than Howard. He's observed nearly every inch of Vince's body, mapped it with his eyes and fingertips, memorising every scar, every bulge, every freckle and wayward tuft of hair-every vulnerable imperfection that Vince has always painstakingly hidden under his armour of clothes and makeup and glitter and charm. He's told Vince that his supposed flaws are as lovable as the rest of him-has said so many times-and he thinks that Vince might finally be starting to believe him. Vince lets more of himself hang out these days, literally and figuratively. He no longer needs to sculpt himself into an angular, impossible god of glamour, to suit the demands of the Camden elite. He's free to be Vince-just Vince, only Vince-and Vince is allowed to be human. Vince is allowed to please himself, instead of everybody else.
Despite all his outward tutting about proper nutrition, Howard inwardly cheered the day when Vince hesitantly asked for Jaffa Cakes instead of malt loaf with his tea. Neither of them has mentioned the GI Diet since, and Howard always picks up an extra packet on the weekly shop. Just in case.
There's a warmth that blooms in Howard's chest now, something beyond just desire, each time he notices the way Vince's drainpipes hug the once-again-voluptuous curve of his arse, or he appreciates the slight press of Vince's gently rounded little belly against the t-shirts that make no apologies for its existence. Vince no longer feels fragile in Howard's arms; he's solid, and warm, and real, and comfortable in his own skin, no matter how he adorns it-or doesn't.
There's a lot to be said for going soft, Howard thinks, as Vince snuggles closer to him on the sofa, all heat and affection and soft, squishable skin, and tips his face up to capture Howard's mouth in a lingering kiss.
He pities all the trendies who will never discover that for themselves.
Pairing: Howard/Vince
Word Count: 540
Rating: PG
Warnings: None!
Disclaimer: I don't own Howard or Vince or The Mighty Boosh, and I'm making no profit from this story.
Summary: Vince's latest look really flatters him, no matter what Camden thinks. And Howard buys Jaffa Cakes.
Notes: Written for pat_o_cake's wonderful, inspiring prompt for plump!Vince, as seen here: http://booshslashhaven.livejournal.com/1238594.html?thread=23220290#t23220290. I couldn't resist, even though this is maybe more in the spirit of the prompt than the letter. But there are cakes, of a sort. ;-)
The word on the street-at least, the word on the trendier, cattier corners-is that Vince Noir's let himself go.
He's gone wrong, the Camden kids sneer to each other. He's gone soft. Badly hidden under layers of eyeliner and a cultivated air of cold detachment, you can see their joy at having a rival out of the way, and their horror at Vince's present state, as though they can't imagine a more terrible fate. They'll never end up that way.
Howard's always suspected they were all idiots, but now he knows it's true. Because as far as he can see, Vince has never been more beautiful.
What they say is true, of course, in a way: Vince has gone soft over the past year-a year that has, not coincidentally, seen a number of positive changes in their relationship, certain aspects of which could be called anything but soft. Two narrow beds have been replaced by one larger one, and when they're near each other now, the tension sizzles, rather than strangles. And they've come up with a much, much more satisfactory way of resolving all their endless arguments-though Naboo and Bollo might dispute that, if their grumbling about needing earplugs is any indication.
The result of all these changes on Vince is indisputable, and nobody knows it more than Howard. He's observed nearly every inch of Vince's body, mapped it with his eyes and fingertips, memorising every scar, every bulge, every freckle and wayward tuft of hair-every vulnerable imperfection that Vince has always painstakingly hidden under his armour of clothes and makeup and glitter and charm. He's told Vince that his supposed flaws are as lovable as the rest of him-has said so many times-and he thinks that Vince might finally be starting to believe him. Vince lets more of himself hang out these days, literally and figuratively. He no longer needs to sculpt himself into an angular, impossible god of glamour, to suit the demands of the Camden elite. He's free to be Vince-just Vince, only Vince-and Vince is allowed to be human. Vince is allowed to please himself, instead of everybody else.
Despite all his outward tutting about proper nutrition, Howard inwardly cheered the day when Vince hesitantly asked for Jaffa Cakes instead of malt loaf with his tea. Neither of them has mentioned the GI Diet since, and Howard always picks up an extra packet on the weekly shop. Just in case.
There's a warmth that blooms in Howard's chest now, something beyond just desire, each time he notices the way Vince's drainpipes hug the once-again-voluptuous curve of his arse, or he appreciates the slight press of Vince's gently rounded little belly against the t-shirts that make no apologies for its existence. Vince no longer feels fragile in Howard's arms; he's solid, and warm, and real, and comfortable in his own skin, no matter how he adorns it-or doesn't.
There's a lot to be said for going soft, Howard thinks, as Vince snuggles closer to him on the sofa, all heat and affection and soft, squishable skin, and tips his face up to capture Howard's mouth in a lingering kiss.
He pities all the trendies who will never discover that for themselves.