Six leaves and Arcade's eyes are blurry from drink but he's watching the King carefully, one fingertip tracing the rim of his empty shotglass. Francine dutifully pours a fresh shot, but Arcade pushes the glass towards the King. "I don't claim to be the most observant man but I think you could use this more than me, if that look on your face is anything to go by."
The King's laugh is shakier than usual but his voice is casual as the shot burns nicely in his chest. "Don't mean that be that obvious," he says. "Just dealin' with a little stress."
"Stressed in Freeside? I couldn't possibly imagine."
He laughs again and it's genuine this time. "Hey, we can't all be chock fulla surprises tonight, doc." By now Francine's set out a second shot glass and filled both before disappearing into the back, but Arcade's is still full when the King has emptied his own. "Had no idea you were such a proficient, ah... storyteller."
Arcade laughs now. "Yes, that's what I'm good for. Determining the medicinal properties of local plantlife, criticizing the consumption of centuries-old food, and storytelling. My skillset may be limited to the utterly useless but at least it's unique."
"Well," the King says, "you won't find me complainin' about it."
"Really now?" Arcade says with a raised eyebrow.
It's a simple lift of a brow but it sends the King scrambling inside, composure airtight as he shrugs and says, "Like I said, dealin' with stress. A good storyteller makes for a good distraction."
"Distraction, huh?" Arcade says and the King can't tell if that's a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Alright," he says, and finally tosses back his shot. "One from the top shelf. You've earned it. Here's the story of how I fucked and sucked my way out of a slaver camp."
The King is struggling not to squirm in his seat as he listens to Arcade's voice detailing his half-panicked plan of escaping his slaver captor by exhausting him. And the King's mental theatre kept up, illustrating Arcade on his knees, letting his face be fucked with a dirty fist tangled in his hair, Arcade's long-fingered hands groping for keys only to be hindered by seed pumping down his throat, of him wiping come off his chin with irritated tears at the corners of his eyes and asking is that all you got?, getting flipped onto his belly and fucked hard, thick meaty hands on his pale hips pulling him back with every thrust forward and it isn't until Arcade stops mid-detail and just stares at him with parted lips that he realizes his breathing has audibly picked up.
"Correct me if I'm wrong," Arcade says, looking at him with a sort of pleased, muted incredulity, "but why finish this story when I can make a new one?"
Arcade/The King - Sweating Out Confessions [1b/2]
The King's laugh is shakier than usual but his voice is casual as the shot burns nicely in his chest. "Don't mean that be that obvious," he says. "Just dealin' with a little stress."
"Stressed in Freeside? I couldn't possibly imagine."
He laughs again and it's genuine this time. "Hey, we can't all be chock fulla surprises tonight, doc." By now Francine's set out a second shot glass and filled both before disappearing into the back, but Arcade's is still full when the King has emptied his own. "Had no idea you were such a proficient, ah... storyteller."
Arcade laughs now. "Yes, that's what I'm good for. Determining the medicinal properties of local plantlife, criticizing the consumption of centuries-old food, and storytelling. My skillset may be limited to the utterly useless but at least it's unique."
"Well," the King says, "you won't find me complainin' about it."
"Really now?" Arcade says with a raised eyebrow.
It's a simple lift of a brow but it sends the King scrambling inside, composure airtight as he shrugs and says, "Like I said, dealin' with stress. A good storyteller makes for a good distraction."
"Distraction, huh?" Arcade says and the King can't tell if that's a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Alright," he says, and finally tosses back his shot. "One from the top shelf. You've earned it. Here's the story of how I fucked and sucked my way out of a slaver camp."
The King is struggling not to squirm in his seat as he listens to Arcade's voice detailing his half-panicked plan of escaping his slaver captor by exhausting him. And the King's mental theatre kept up, illustrating Arcade on his knees, letting his face be fucked with a dirty fist tangled in his hair, Arcade's long-fingered hands groping for keys only to be hindered by seed pumping down his throat, of him wiping come off his chin with irritated tears at the corners of his eyes and asking is that all you got?, getting flipped onto his belly and fucked hard, thick meaty hands on his pale hips pulling him back with every thrust forward and it isn't until Arcade stops mid-detail and just stares at him with parted lips that he realizes his breathing has audibly picked up.
"Correct me if I'm wrong," Arcade says, looking at him with a sort of pleased, muted incredulity, "but why finish this story when I can make a new one?"