Tags: Arcade/Vulpes, Slash, Oral, Handjob, Erectile Dysfunction, Crack? Summary: Arcade Gannon, peeved and drunk, seduces a very attractive man, and can't get it up. What a day.
He never would have been in this situation if it weren’t for the Courier- the damn Courier that prepaid the Garrets and left Arcade looking pathetic and alone at the bar while she scouted out the Tops- determinately alone. No, he didn’t mind, I’ll wait here, no need to walk those five minutes back to Fort where my chances of doing something productive (though slim) are exponentially better than here. Arcade decided to get back at her by running up her tab- though the problem with that was the unfortunate side effect of getting him piss-drunk. The things he’d do for revenge.
He was, oh, four shots of scotch down (give or take) when some gambler who was probably that guy that took the urinal next to you when there were several open slid onto the stool next to Arcade. Actually, considering Arcade was the only one at the bar, he had to be that guy.
“I hear you know the Courier.” he said, and some instinctual part of Arcade knew the fact he was asking was probably bad. He tried to play it cool.
“Pfft! I- I dunno a Courier... Who’s askin’?” Smooth, Gannon.
“My name is Mr. Fox.” the asshole-who-stands-in-the-urinal-next-to-you replied, tilting his head back to reveal his face under the hat in a James-Bond way, and Oh dear God he’s gorgeous. “I represent certain interests that would like to contact this woman.”
“Yeah?” he slurred. “Who doesn’t? Get in line, pal.” “Pal?” Oh, great, now he knows you’re old.
“My company has much more to offer.”
“...NCR?”
He chuckled, mirthless. “I am in no way associated with the NCR.”
“She doesn’t like th’ NCR,” he mentioned, and attached his empty shot glass to his mouth, tapping the bottom for the last drop, “‘nd neither do I.” He stabbed a finger at the man accusatorily, and one thin, black eyebrow quirked in something of amusement.
“Nor do I. I don’t represent the NCR, I assure you.”
“Y’okay.” Arcade said with a nod, then covered his mouth and pointed to the gambler while whispering to James rather loudly, “N C Rrrrr...”
James nodded understandingly and cleared his glass. “Okay, we’re cutting you off.”
“Hey, you can’t cut me off! I haven’t spent enough to piss ‘er off yet!” He nudged Mr. Fox. “H-hey, buy this man a drink, and put it on my tab!”
“That’s hardly necessary. I don’t drink.”
“W’ll, you’re drinkin’ the most expens’ve thing on the menu. Get this man an acomic tocktail! A-... acotomic... atocomic...?” It occurred to him he must have sounded like an absolute imbecile. He turned to Mr. Fox. “I’m usu’lly more eloquent than this. I speak Latin!”
He seemed impressed, that same brow, same amusement. “Do you?”
Oh, dammit, now he had to prove it. All that was coming to him was something he vaguely remembered from Catullus, was it? Catullus did write mostly love poetry. Oh, fuck it, nobody speaks Latin. “Pedicabo ego uos et irrumabo.”
He spoke slowly enough that it should have come out sounding at least sort of like it was supposed to be pronounced, but Mr. Fox looked positively horrified. “Do you know what that means?”
“Of course I know what it means! That’s from Catullus, poem... poem ssssssixteen? Oh fuck...”
Poem 16 was so vulgar, it wasn’t fully translated until the twentieth century. The gambler’s face was stern, chiding. “It means, I will fuck you anally and orally.”
Arcade smiled and bumped his shoulder with the other man’s. “Don’t mind if y’do.” The leaning set him off balance, and he groped at Fox’s suit to keep him from falling over. The gambler hoisted him back onto the seat, and retrieved the lab coat the drunken disorderly knocked from the back of his chair to the floor. “Oh, you’re strong.”
“Yes, I make sure of it. Now,” he said, holding Arcade’s face between his hands, “where is Courier Six?”
Arcade kissed him: full on the lips, a little sloppy. Why else do you hold someone’s face in your hands like that? The doctor wrapped his arms around this Mr. Fox, and maybe he was a little quick with the tongue, he’d admit. Mr. Fox was apprehensive, but he was holding Arcade’s shoulders tightly, so at least a little into it.
In Vino Veritas [1a/2]
Summary: Arcade Gannon, peeved and drunk, seduces a very attractive man, and can't get it up. What a day.
He never would have been in this situation if it weren’t for the Courier- the damn Courier that prepaid the Garrets and left Arcade looking pathetic and alone at the bar while she scouted out the Tops- determinately alone. No, he didn’t mind, I’ll wait here, no need to walk those five minutes back to Fort where my chances of doing something productive (though slim) are exponentially better than here. Arcade decided to get back at her by running up her tab- though the problem with that was the unfortunate side effect of getting him piss-drunk. The things he’d do for revenge.
He was, oh, four shots of scotch down (give or take) when some gambler who was probably that guy that took the urinal next to you when there were several open slid onto the stool next to Arcade. Actually, considering Arcade was the only one at the bar, he had to be that guy.
“I hear you know the Courier.” he said, and some instinctual part of Arcade knew the fact he was asking was probably bad. He tried to play it cool.
“Pfft! I- I dunno a Courier... Who’s askin’?” Smooth, Gannon.
“My name is Mr. Fox.” the asshole-who-stands-in-the-urinal-next-to-you replied, tilting his head back to reveal his face under the hat in a James-Bond way, and Oh dear God he’s gorgeous. “I represent certain interests that would like to contact this woman.”
“Yeah?” he slurred. “Who doesn’t? Get in line, pal.” “Pal?” Oh, great, now he knows you’re old.
“My company has much more to offer.”
“...NCR?”
He chuckled, mirthless. “I am in no way associated with the NCR.”
“She doesn’t like th’ NCR,” he mentioned, and attached his empty shot glass to his mouth, tapping the bottom for the last drop, “‘nd neither do I.” He stabbed a finger at the man accusatorily, and one thin, black eyebrow quirked in something of amusement.
“Nor do I. I don’t represent the NCR, I assure you.”
“Y’okay.” Arcade said with a nod, then covered his mouth and pointed to the gambler while whispering to James rather loudly, “N C Rrrrr...”
James nodded understandingly and cleared his glass. “Okay, we’re cutting you off.”
“Hey, you can’t cut me off! I haven’t spent enough to piss ‘er off yet!” He nudged Mr. Fox. “H-hey, buy this man a drink, and put it on my tab!”
“That’s hardly necessary. I don’t drink.”
“W’ll, you’re drinkin’ the most expens’ve thing on the menu. Get this man an acomic tocktail! A-... acotomic... atocomic...?” It occurred to him he must have sounded like an absolute imbecile. He turned to Mr. Fox. “I’m usu’lly more eloquent than this. I speak Latin!”
He seemed impressed, that same brow, same amusement. “Do you?”
Oh, dammit, now he had to prove it. All that was coming to him was something he vaguely remembered from Catullus, was it? Catullus did write mostly love poetry. Oh, fuck it, nobody speaks Latin. “Pedicabo ego uos et irrumabo.”
He spoke slowly enough that it should have come out sounding at least sort of like it was supposed to be pronounced, but Mr. Fox looked positively horrified. “Do you know what that means?”
“Of course I know what it means! That’s from Catullus, poem... poem ssssssixteen? Oh fuck...”
Poem 16 was so vulgar, it wasn’t fully translated until the twentieth century. The gambler’s face was stern, chiding. “It means, I will fuck you anally and orally.”
Arcade smiled and bumped his shoulder with the other man’s. “Don’t mind if y’do.” The leaning set him off balance, and he groped at Fox’s suit to keep him from falling over. The gambler hoisted him back onto the seat, and retrieved the lab coat the drunken disorderly knocked from the back of his chair to the floor. “Oh, you’re strong.”
“Yes, I make sure of it. Now,” he said, holding Arcade’s face between his hands, “where is Courier Six?”
Arcade kissed him: full on the lips, a little sloppy. Why else do you hold someone’s face in your hands like that? The doctor wrapped his arms around this Mr. Fox, and maybe he was a little quick with the tongue, he’d admit. Mr. Fox was apprehensive, but he was holding Arcade’s shoulders tightly, so at least a little into it.