Disclaimer: I did not create, do not own, and realize no financial gain from the Archer universe or anyone or anything specific to it.
Note: Herein you will find guy-on-guy action. Not for kids. Mind the rating.
Note2: Inspired by Pseudo-L's story 'White Lie', which you can find on my favorites page. Because that is just the perfect explanation of what's stuck in Mallory's craw.
All About Confidence
12:30am on the 25th, and the ISIS Christmas party at Randall's Pub shows no signs of winding down.
At the bar, Ray Gillette sips his fourth cosmopolitan and watches his co-workers with a cynicism that had been the very first thing he'd gleaned from his half-year-long, not-quite-finished, not-entirely-legal training period. The only friend he's made so far is Lana, who is… there she is, dancing with Cyril. He watches for a minute, amused by Cyril's almost endearing clumsiness and Lana's booze-fueled joy. Someone's going to have the hangover from heck in the morning. Speaking of, he really should stop after this drink. Ray sighs quietly, knowing that tonight he won't stop until he's at least as wasted as Lana.
He's been in the City for almost a year now, and somehow he hasn't had even one good hook-up since moving here. Or any kind of hook-up.
True, he's been working his ass off for that entire time. Five dismal months during which he'd had three jobs simultaneously: waiting tables at two restaurants from ten in the morning until eleven at night and then sitting behind the counter in a hotel lobby from midnight to 8am, trying to stay awake and feeling like such a complete and utter loser.
That hotel job had probably saved his life, though. By the time Mallory Archer showed up he'd been seriously contemplating quitting all three jobs, becoming an exotic dancer at one of the gay bars, getting hooked on something fun like ecstasy or heroin, and embracing the spiral into prostitution and homelessness and an eventual overdose. There's a sort of dirty romance to the idea, and it'd have to be better than fading away in his studio apartment. Heaps better than giving up and crawling back to Ferlin, West Virginia. He has a degree in ministry, from an honest-to-goodness Bible college; so yeah, not a lot of options there. The extent of his job skills is carrying three loaded trays through the dinner crowds without dropping anything or bumping into any of the patrons. The Rod Club is just a couple of blocks from his apartment, and the sign out front says they're looking for dancers…
So he actually feels a little thrill when the wild-eyed man with the scraggly hair and the scabs on his face comes into the hotel at 4am. Junkie, he notes instantly. Who rents a room at 4am? And it's not like he hasn't seen enough of them walking between his various jobs to spot the signs. Everything in this guy's expression and gait and unconscious movements says he's jonesing and desperate.
"Give me all the money in the register," he demands, thrusting a large gun in Ray's face. "And whatever's in the safe. Now!"
"Welcome to the Raven Inn," Ray says with his plastic smile, leaning back a little so the muzzle isn't touching his nose anymore.
The man does a rather hilarious double-take, looking from Ray to his gun, as though making sure he didn't accidentally leave the essential equipment for tonight's outing at home. No, he definitely has his gun. He looks back at the smiling receptionist.
Ray can't help but snicker a little. His death is going to be just so Looney Tunes.
"I said, give me-"
Cutting smoothly over Junkie's Star Trekian 'It is clear that you simply did not understand' spiel, Ray says in his best Happy Receptionist Voice, "I'm sorry, sir, but we don't rent rooms by the hour."
"What's wrong with you, bitch? Give me the fucking money! I'll shoot you!"
"Sir, I will not tolerate you speaking to me in that manner." Now there's a phrase you never actually get to say, not if you work in a roach motel like the Raven Inn. On impulse, Ray looks up and grins at the blinking red eye of the security camera. He flips it the bird.
It's more than Junkie can take, or maybe he thought the bird was meant for him; either way, his finger jerks convulsively on the trigger of that big-ass gun. Instinctively, Ray drops down behind the counter. The gun had been literally three inches from his face. No way he's not hit. He'll feel it in just a few more seconds. When he does, if he can, he's going to walk around the counter and bleed out right on the carpet where any poor lost soul that ends up at Raven Inn will see the stain the second they step through the doors.
The pain is just taking a ridiculously long time to put in an appearance. Maybe getting shot in the head doesn't hurt, in the second or so before it kills you. He can kind of credit that. Massive brain damage and all. Taking it a step further, that kind of drastic rearrangement of the mental furniture might distort a guy's time sense so a second would seem like…
"Dukes. This is just-" Ray bursts out in irritation. He stands up and Junkie's gone. "Yoo-hoo? Sir? Didn't you want money, or something?" Scanning the lobby, Ray steps around the counter. "Drugs? Want some-" And, well, there he is.
"Double dukes!" Ray says to himself, looking down at the remains of Junkie and his Amazing Giant Exploding Gun. "I am not cleaning this up."
The very next night Mallory Archer is standing on the other side of the counter, having carefully picked her way around the stain. How she got her claws on the security tapes of a fleabag hotel in the Bronx, and in less than twenty-four hours, is one of the more innocuous mysteries about his current employer.
She even shows up at 4am. Ray is impressed.
And for the next almost six months now, he'd been in the ISIS training program for field agents. Which, thanks to a certain blue-eyed cretin and his even more cretinish BFF, bears far too close a resemblance to a six-month long version of a fraternity Hell Week. Ray keeps using the communal showers on principle, but after Stucas the Two-Headed Neanderthal replaces his suit with a pink party dress (during the very first week) he has to resign himself to bringing his clothes into the shower with him in a triple-layer of plastic bags.
"So, you like guys, right?" a boozy and all-too-familiar voice asks loudly.
Ray sighs and slowly looks up to see- half of Stucas. The blue-eyed half. Well, that's something, he supposes. Archer on his own is just plain old obnoxious with a twist of high-school bully. Troy is full-on frat boy, verging-on-actual-goddamn-assault, with a chaser of 'I'm just joking with you! You on the rag or something?'
"Yes, Archer, I like guys," Ray says in the tone one usually employees with small children who have now asked the same question just exactly the number of times where the next time they ask you're going to have to just rare back and holler at them.
"Ray?" Archer belches. "Ray? Ray!"
"What, Archer?" Goddamn it! Ray rubs his temples. Hello, hangover. I see you're early.
"Ray, I'm a guy," Archer confides, leaning forward.
"And congratulations." Not that he doesn't see where this is leading. Just if there's any possible way to derail it…
Overt lack of interest apparently doesn't cross the Archer language barrier. What do women see in guys like this? Not that he isn't hot. But from a purely aesthetic sense the David is hot. And at least the David doesn't steal your phone and change all the ringtones to things like Taylor Swift's 'Tim McGraw' and 'Barbie Girl'.
"Come on. I'm like, seriously hot. This could only be a win for you," Archer declares.
"I would rather hump the David," Ray says flatly. "In the Louvre. With a bus-full of blue-haired old lady tourists looking on."
"Who's David? I'm going to find David and tell him you want to hump him." Archer swivels around on his stool and yells out across the bar, "David! Hey, David, come over here!"
Ray briefly puts his face in his hands. He could be dancing on a shiny bar right now with his G-string stuffed with cash and thinking about the heroin he's going to shoot up the second this set is over. "Go away, Archer," he says through gritted teeth.
"Come on," Archer says, returning to his original script. "I'm pretty drunk, and you're pretty drunk. Some experimentation in the men's room, just for the hell of it? You know you want to."
"You're straight. Go harass a woman," Ray snaps. And God is definitely going to smite him for that suggestion. Well, hopefully she'll throw her drink in his face. There's a thought. Ray looks at his empty glass. Dukes! Well, Stucas would have found a way to use it to torment him. And honestly, it would have been a very girly thing to do. Good thing his glass was empty.
"A mouth is a mouth," Archer says blithely.
"So, wait, you want me to…"
"Suck it," Archer says with a wink. "And by 'it', I mean the Tower of Awesomeness that is my John Thomas."
"Uh huh. Your John Thomas," Ray says dolefully. Pepper spray is also a decidedly girly thing. But, since he is secure in his masculinity, perhaps he could consider getting one of those keychain canisters.
"I'd make it worth your while," Archer offers, waggling his eyebrows.
"How?" How is this conversation still going on? How has Archer not yet grasped that he's being, OMG, just so rejected? How loud is he going to have to end up yelling 'No Means No!' in a bar that still contains most of his co-workers?
"Hmm." Archer tilts his head, half-closing his eyes, and Ray decides the only question here is whether Archer is going to offer him $20 just to continue his streak of assholishness, or a few hundred because he seriously believes that everyone is a whore if you pay them enough.
"Your choice. I'll jack you off." And here Archer makes a very explicit gesture with his hand, sublimely unconcerned with whoever else might be watching him. Ray stares and tries to think of something, anything, to say. Then Archer saves him the trouble by continuing. "Or, and I only offer this because I am very drunk, so you should probably seize the moment, I'll bend you over the sink and ride you like a pony."
"Good lord," Ray groans. "Oh, my god. Okay, first…" He stops there, because Archer is still looking at him expectantly and still grinning. "Jesus Christ, Archer, hasn't anyone ever told you 'no' before?"
"Uh, no. Obviously. I mean, look at me."
"You know-" Ray takes a steadying breath. He looks around to make sure no one is looming behind him filming this on their phone or something. "Hand job. And you go first."
"But then you'll suck me, right?"
"Yes, okay! Goddamn it, Archer!" Ray hisses, looking around again. Subtle is another word that doesn't exist in the Archer lexicon.
"Deal! Come on," Archer says, getting up.
"I will be along in five minutes," Ray says, studiously not looking at the blue-eyed cretin and wondering just when he lost all sense of good judgement.
"Lame," Archer declares, but he turns and heads for the men's room. Ray notes that despite the prodigious amount of liquor Archer spent the evening imbibing there's not a trace of a stumble in his walk. And the blue-eyed cretin is a hard-core alcoholic. It just keeps getting better and better.
He glances at his watch and tries not to think about his cock, which has stupidly decided that this is just a super idea. His cock is so pleased with this plan that it's already halfway to standing at attention and saluting the Master's Great Wisdom. Bloody stupid thing. He shifts on his stool and then wonders how obvious that looked. Dukes.
At four minutes he drapes his jacket over his arm and holds it in front of him for his walk to the bathroom, thinking that he's found a whole new meaning for the phrase 'walk of shame'. He could not feel more conspicuous if he were dancing across a Broadway stage while spot-lit hearts flitted across the wall behind him. Double triple quadruple dukes. His cock, meanwhile, cheers exuberantly at every step.
For a wonder, Archer is still there and alone. Ray locks the bathroom door quickly and almost slumps against it.
"Finally. What was that, the longest five minutes in the history of the universe?" Archer says.
"Four minutes, actually." Ray hesitates, looking at Archer. "So…?" And here's the part where Archer yells 'Queer!' and Troy drops from the ceiling (or crawls out of the toilet) and they pants him like a couple of out-of-control twelve-year-olds.
"So, take it out. Come on, Ray. I don't have all night. Plus, I'm pretty excited about round two." He glances meaningfully downwards. And, good lord, the crotch of his pants is pushed out like a kid's pup tent. Ray catches himself staring and tears his eyes away. With more haste than can really be called dignified he undoes his belt and then his fly and pushes down the front of his briefs. Automatically he strokes himself, his eyes homing in on Archer's cock again.
"My job," Archer says, closing the distance between them and slapping Ray's wrist.
"Hey! Oh-" Ray's words break off abruptly as Archer wraps his hand around his cock. With supreme confidence, Archer begins stroking up and down its length, squeezing lightly. Every other stroke he rubs the pad of his thumb over the slit. Ray slumps back against the door, tilting back his head.
"Wait, hold on," Archer says, stepping away.
"Dick," Ray snaps. Should have known, should have damn well- "Fuck!" While he'd been trying to switch modes from Blissed Out to Stucas Attack, Archer had apparently gotten a handful of liquid soap. Now he's stroking and squeezing and rubbing exactly like before, only it's all wet and slippery.
"Fuck," Ray mutters, biting his lip. He will not cum yet, please, not yet, but damn that feels good, who'd of thought Archer could-
Then Archer's other hand cups his balls. He starts playing with them, rolling each one between his fingers. All the while, the stroking continues uninterrupted. If anything, it speeds up.
"Is it good? You like that?" Archer asks in a velvety voice that somehow shoots straight to Ray's groin.
"Archer…" Rays moans, holding onto his control with tooth and nail. This is a whole new level. Like his mind is floating above him while tiny electric currents sweep through his groin and up his cock and pool in his balls.
Then Archer moves the hand away from his balls and slides a finger into him. It's too much, and Ray cums with a wordless cry. His hips jerk again and again as the semen shoots out of his cock. His knees buckle and he sinks to the floor, stroking the last of his orgasm out with a shaking hand.
"You are so gay!" Archer says, laughing. He turns away and walks over to the sink to wash his hands.
"Yeah, well," Ray says, still a little breathless. And there's just no point expending the effort to complete that sentence. And- there's semen on his trousers. Dukes.
"Here." Ray looks up and Archer drops a handful of damp paper towels right onto his face.
"Dick," Ray proclaims as though the move was somehow surprising.
"Clean up already. And, you know, hurry. It's my turn."
Ray cleans off and tucks himself back in and redoes his fly before blotching at the very noticeable spot of cum right on the crotch of his pants.
"Ray, seriously, I'll pay to have them dry-cleaned," Archer says from above him.
"Alright already! God!" Ray looks up and Archer's cocks bops him right on the forehead.
"Okay. Wow. Caution, low hanging beams," Archer says, laughing.
"Oh, you are just such a dick," Ray emphasizes, rolling his eyes.
"Yeah, dick, in your-" And then Archer finally shuts up as Ray takes the head of his cock into his mouth and begins sucking on it, his cheeks going in and out. He swirls his tongue around it and licks at the slit, sucking firmly.
"Yeah," Archer says faintly. "Just like that…"
Ray slides his lips a little way down the shaft and then back up, sucking all the while. Then he goes to work on the head again. Archer actually groans. His hand cups the back of Ray's head, holding him in place. Still licking all around the head of Archer's cock, Ray reaches back and twists Archer's wrist away from his head.
"Ow! Okay, geez! So, I'm guessing you're a power bottom…"
Rolling his eyes, Ray slides his lips up the shaft again and swallows around it. He keeps swallowing, breathing evenly through his nose, until Archer's entire eight inches is in his mouth and throat, his nose nuzzled into Archer's surprisingly clean-smelling thatch.
"Oh. Oh god," Archer groans. "Oh god. I- I think I love you."
A totally involuntary laugh seizes Ray, vibrating his throat, and immediately Archer groans so loudly it's almost a damn yell and ejaculates. Ray pulls back enough to get Archer's cock out of his throat and sucks gently on the last third of it, running his tongue along it as Archer finishes coming.
And then the bathroom dissolves into the Seventh Circle of Hell.
"Sterling Mallory Archer!" shrieks the chief demon, decked out in an emerald green chenille suit with a jeweled holly pin glinting icily from the lapel.
"And hello, Cold Water on the Groin!" Archer exclaims, spinning towards the sink and hurriedly jamming his wet cock back into his briefs. "Jesus, mother, it's the men's room!"
"For pissing in! Not for- for- and you." Her evil flaming eyes home in on Ray and he could just about swear she begins to swell. Any second now she'll unfurl her wings and come screeching across the bathroom at him. He'll be snatched up like a rabbit in the talons of an owl and carried straight through the bar and out over the city, screaming all the way. Ray squeaks in a voice that calls to mind small, doomed, furry animals and spits out what's still in his mouth.
"Grrr," the demon utters, narrowing her eyes.
"I always knew I'd end up here," Ray sighs.