Den of Inequity (NC-17)
Title: Den of Inequity (NC-17)
Author: blackmamba_esq
Fandom: Archer
Characters/Pairing: Cyril Figgis/Lana Kane
Word Count: 1,339
Written for citrus_taste Prompt #38 Pornography
Table posted here.
Strong Sexual Content, Language, description of dubcon pornographic movie
A/N: Thanks to tokenblkgirl for the beta!
Summary: Lana’s movies don’t generally bother him. It’s this movie in particular; the one she only watches when she’s angry about something
Cyril doesn’t have a problem with pornography. Contrary to what his coworkers might think (and occasionally post on the ISIS Facebook page) he isn’t some fuddy-duddy prude who can’t appreciate a raunchy movie or two. In fact he used to steal his father’s Playboy tapes and make copies in the VCR. All those times they thought he was upstairs watching MacGyver, noooooo sir, he was enjoying himself quite immensely.
So no, Lana’s movies don’t generally bother him. It’s this movie in particular; the one she only watches when she’s angry about something. It’s usually work ( or Archer Sterling rather) but sometimes it’s him and his inability to say exactly what she needs to hear in a way that doesn’t imply that she’s being judged, ridiculed, interrogated or worshipped in any way. Tonight it was laundry and the fact that she…well, doesn’t do it. Lana asked if he thought a love of fabric softener would make her more of a woman. Cyril said no, but it might make her a neater one.
Den of Inequity is what’s referred to in some circles as “art house porn,” though the Starry Night print on the set’s wood-paneled wall is about the only artsy thing about it. Lana insists on watching the movie in bed, since for her, this is foreplay. Cyril, on the other hand, feels like he’s been cornered. He’s naked save a pair of boxers and there’s no way he can escape without explaining exactly why he’s leaving. And there are only so many believable excuses he can use.
He could try the bathroom, but too many trips might imply a bladder or kidney issue. He’d rather not have that conversation again. There’s the classic, “I left the stove on,” but that’s only good for a few minutes, tops. And then there’s the last option, the most honorable of the three and the path he’ll inevitably choose. He can man up, pull the sheet up to his navel and just watch the damn thing.
The first scene is deceptively straightforward. A large man with short hair walks into a living room with a newspaper in one hand. He kisses his wife, a short, voluptuous black woman with glossy lips that will soon be filled with various body parts of her costar. They both look up when there’s a knock on the door.
Lana tenses beside him and slips her hand beneath the sheet, into his lap. This used to bother him, the way she went right for his penis instead of starting out slowly like most women preferred. It made him feel like an instrument, the human equivalent of a vibrator. But a drunken cocktail hour with Archer put his mind at ease on that score. “For Lana there’s your penis and then there’s…your dick.”
The man onscreen is speaking to another man, this one dark haired with blue eyes. He’s about a foot taller, with wide, line backer shoulders. He claims to be a repairman, which the woman doesn’t believe. “We fixed the water pump yesterday.”
A gun is drawn, pressed against the unsuspecting husband’s throat. Lana’s hand works Cyril faster, jerking him with hard dry strokes that he’s supposed to enjoy.
“Oh my God, what do you want?”
Lana starts to finger herself. Now this, he does like. He’s always enjoyed a little voyeurism on occasion (in a healthy, non-perverted consensual way of course) and watching her masturbate makes him feel like he’s intruding. Cyril leans over to get a better view, deliberately averting his eyes from the movie playing in front of them.
“Yeah, that’s good,” he says. “Now touch yourself-”
“Would you be quiet?” Lana hisses, the hand on his cock tightening. Cyril groans as the woman on the television snatches the gun from the attacker’s hands. She puts a round in the chamber and presses the barrel against his temple.
“That’s it girl.” Lana reaches for Cyril’s hand. She shoves it between her legs and he rubs her, as if on autopilot. “Shoot the sonofabitch.”
This is where the movie takes what Cyril has come to think of as its downturn. There is a back and forth between the spouses, a disagreement as to the appropriate punishment for the man now kneeling on the floor. The woman then turns the gun on her husband and orders him to join the “limp dick honkey,” while she decides what to do with “yo ass.”
First of all, the dialogue is atrocious. Aside from the “honkey,” epithet, there’s the sudden “jive talk,” of a woman with perfect diction only ten minutes prior. And then there’s the fact that the husband obeys, goes down pleading in fact, his eyes glittering with frightened tears. She’s half his size, surely he could just grab the barrel and-”
“Cyril.”
Lana has stopped watching the movie long enough to glare. Cyril springs to action, shifts until he’s settled between her legs. Her glare slacks into an anticipatory grin. She leans back and lifts her legs to his shoulders.
Cyril enjoys oral sex, both giving and receiving, but this time he has an ulterior motive. The raised voices from the television tell him that the action is now ramping up, shifting into the climatic sexual encounter. Thankfully his back is turned, the sound slightly muffled by her thighs. Cyril presses his tongue against her and slowly traces his ABC’s.
There is gun fire, more crying, the metallic sound of a zipper falling. Cyril tries to ignore it, shuts his eyes tighter and sucks hard on her clit so she’ll drown it out with a moan. She does moan, but the tortured groan from the television is louder and more insistent. The woman is cooing “it’ll fit baby,” and that her darling husband should just, “relax his ass for Mama.” Cyril feels his own anus clench involuntarily.
Lana thrusts against him, so hard he bites his lip. She’s mumbling, “fuck your…dryer sheets….asshole…” under her breath. If he didn’t know this was his fault before, he’s sure of it now. He’s being punished for making her feel inadequate, wrong in some way, which…no, he shouldn’t have done, but his heart was truly in the right place.
She’s yelling now, covering the gun with lube while her husband trembles on the floor, the poor, defenseless bastard.
Cyril’s erection is semi-soft and fading. He tries to stroke it back to life, but Lana picks that moment to grab his hair and pull. His screams mingle with the man being sodomized on screen. The woman is laughing-no wait, that’s Lana, Lana’s laughing and coming, while those men beg her to fuck them harder.
No not Lana, Mama. FUCK, not his mother, he DOES NOT want to fuck his mother-
“Are you okay?”
Lana presses pause and lifts an eyebrow. Cyril is curled into the fetal position, his cock limp and defeated against his leg. His hand has drifted towards his face, thumb precariously close to his mouth.
“I’m…” Cyril swallows against the frog that’s lodged inside his throat. “I’m fine.”
“Okay.” Lana pauses, taking in his shaky, clammy state. “I don’t guess you want to fuck now?”
She asks in a way that implies the answer for him. “No, no, I’m really tired.” He shifts, sits upright and reaches for the remote. “Why don’t we get some sleep?”
Lana agrees and pats the bed beside her. Her expression is calm for the first time that night. Apparently his penance has been paid. Cyril slides beneath the covers and his eyes are drawn to the television. She’s stopped the movie on a close up of the husband’s face, his expression a mix of horror and euphoric bliss.
In that moment, Cyril feels such a deep kinship that he’s nearly moved to tears. He blinks them back, glances at Lana, and feels ashamed for thinking the husband weak.
“We’re stronger than all of them, aren’t we?” Cyril stares at the man’s vacant, blue eyes as Lana flips off the lamp, plunging them into darkness.
“Yes, we are.”
Author: blackmamba_esq
Fandom: Archer
Characters/Pairing: Cyril Figgis/Lana Kane
Word Count: 1,339
Written for citrus_taste Prompt #38 Pornography
Table posted here.
Strong Sexual Content, Language, description of dubcon pornographic movie
A/N: Thanks to tokenblkgirl for the beta!
Summary: Lana’s movies don’t generally bother him. It’s this movie in particular; the one she only watches when she’s angry about something
Cyril doesn’t have a problem with pornography. Contrary to what his coworkers might think (and occasionally post on the ISIS Facebook page) he isn’t some fuddy-duddy prude who can’t appreciate a raunchy movie or two. In fact he used to steal his father’s Playboy tapes and make copies in the VCR. All those times they thought he was upstairs watching MacGyver, noooooo sir, he was enjoying himself quite immensely.
So no, Lana’s movies don’t generally bother him. It’s this movie in particular; the one she only watches when she’s angry about something. It’s usually work ( or Archer Sterling rather) but sometimes it’s him and his inability to say exactly what she needs to hear in a way that doesn’t imply that she’s being judged, ridiculed, interrogated or worshipped in any way. Tonight it was laundry and the fact that she…well, doesn’t do it. Lana asked if he thought a love of fabric softener would make her more of a woman. Cyril said no, but it might make her a neater one.
Den of Inequity is what’s referred to in some circles as “art house porn,” though the Starry Night print on the set’s wood-paneled wall is about the only artsy thing about it. Lana insists on watching the movie in bed, since for her, this is foreplay. Cyril, on the other hand, feels like he’s been cornered. He’s naked save a pair of boxers and there’s no way he can escape without explaining exactly why he’s leaving. And there are only so many believable excuses he can use.
He could try the bathroom, but too many trips might imply a bladder or kidney issue. He’d rather not have that conversation again. There’s the classic, “I left the stove on,” but that’s only good for a few minutes, tops. And then there’s the last option, the most honorable of the three and the path he’ll inevitably choose. He can man up, pull the sheet up to his navel and just watch the damn thing.
The first scene is deceptively straightforward. A large man with short hair walks into a living room with a newspaper in one hand. He kisses his wife, a short, voluptuous black woman with glossy lips that will soon be filled with various body parts of her costar. They both look up when there’s a knock on the door.
Lana tenses beside him and slips her hand beneath the sheet, into his lap. This used to bother him, the way she went right for his penis instead of starting out slowly like most women preferred. It made him feel like an instrument, the human equivalent of a vibrator. But a drunken cocktail hour with Archer put his mind at ease on that score. “For Lana there’s your penis and then there’s…your dick.”
The man onscreen is speaking to another man, this one dark haired with blue eyes. He’s about a foot taller, with wide, line backer shoulders. He claims to be a repairman, which the woman doesn’t believe. “We fixed the water pump yesterday.”
A gun is drawn, pressed against the unsuspecting husband’s throat. Lana’s hand works Cyril faster, jerking him with hard dry strokes that he’s supposed to enjoy.
“Oh my God, what do you want?”
Lana starts to finger herself. Now this, he does like. He’s always enjoyed a little voyeurism on occasion (in a healthy, non-perverted consensual way of course) and watching her masturbate makes him feel like he’s intruding. Cyril leans over to get a better view, deliberately averting his eyes from the movie playing in front of them.
“Yeah, that’s good,” he says. “Now touch yourself-”
“Would you be quiet?” Lana hisses, the hand on his cock tightening. Cyril groans as the woman on the television snatches the gun from the attacker’s hands. She puts a round in the chamber and presses the barrel against his temple.
“That’s it girl.” Lana reaches for Cyril’s hand. She shoves it between her legs and he rubs her, as if on autopilot. “Shoot the sonofabitch.”
This is where the movie takes what Cyril has come to think of as its downturn. There is a back and forth between the spouses, a disagreement as to the appropriate punishment for the man now kneeling on the floor. The woman then turns the gun on her husband and orders him to join the “limp dick honkey,” while she decides what to do with “yo ass.”
First of all, the dialogue is atrocious. Aside from the “honkey,” epithet, there’s the sudden “jive talk,” of a woman with perfect diction only ten minutes prior. And then there’s the fact that the husband obeys, goes down pleading in fact, his eyes glittering with frightened tears. She’s half his size, surely he could just grab the barrel and-”
“Cyril.”
Lana has stopped watching the movie long enough to glare. Cyril springs to action, shifts until he’s settled between her legs. Her glare slacks into an anticipatory grin. She leans back and lifts her legs to his shoulders.
Cyril enjoys oral sex, both giving and receiving, but this time he has an ulterior motive. The raised voices from the television tell him that the action is now ramping up, shifting into the climatic sexual encounter. Thankfully his back is turned, the sound slightly muffled by her thighs. Cyril presses his tongue against her and slowly traces his ABC’s.
There is gun fire, more crying, the metallic sound of a zipper falling. Cyril tries to ignore it, shuts his eyes tighter and sucks hard on her clit so she’ll drown it out with a moan. She does moan, but the tortured groan from the television is louder and more insistent. The woman is cooing “it’ll fit baby,” and that her darling husband should just, “relax his ass for Mama.” Cyril feels his own anus clench involuntarily.
Lana thrusts against him, so hard he bites his lip. She’s mumbling, “fuck your…dryer sheets….asshole…” under her breath. If he didn’t know this was his fault before, he’s sure of it now. He’s being punished for making her feel inadequate, wrong in some way, which…no, he shouldn’t have done, but his heart was truly in the right place.
She’s yelling now, covering the gun with lube while her husband trembles on the floor, the poor, defenseless bastard.
Cyril’s erection is semi-soft and fading. He tries to stroke it back to life, but Lana picks that moment to grab his hair and pull. His screams mingle with the man being sodomized on screen. The woman is laughing-no wait, that’s Lana, Lana’s laughing and coming, while those men beg her to fuck them harder.
No not Lana, Mama. FUCK, not his mother, he DOES NOT want to fuck his mother-
“Are you okay?”
Lana presses pause and lifts an eyebrow. Cyril is curled into the fetal position, his cock limp and defeated against his leg. His hand has drifted towards his face, thumb precariously close to his mouth.
“I’m…” Cyril swallows against the frog that’s lodged inside his throat. “I’m fine.”
“Okay.” Lana pauses, taking in his shaky, clammy state. “I don’t guess you want to fuck now?”
She asks in a way that implies the answer for him. “No, no, I’m really tired.” He shifts, sits upright and reaches for the remote. “Why don’t we get some sleep?”
Lana agrees and pats the bed beside her. Her expression is calm for the first time that night. Apparently his penance has been paid. Cyril slides beneath the covers and his eyes are drawn to the television. She’s stopped the movie on a close up of the husband’s face, his expression a mix of horror and euphoric bliss.
In that moment, Cyril feels such a deep kinship that he’s nearly moved to tears. He blinks them back, glances at Lana, and feels ashamed for thinking the husband weak.
“We’re stronger than all of them, aren’t we?” Cyril stares at the man’s vacant, blue eyes as Lana flips off the lamp, plunging them into darkness.
“Yes, we are.”