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Title: Cupids
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: Men of Myth (Troy, Xena, Cupid, LOTR, BHD)
Note: The Men of Myth convention is an invention of Perseph2hades and Stewardess, not me. It is a gathering of men from various mythological, literary and motion picture sources, and takes place at the Marriott Hotel in Orlando, Florida. It is a wonderful chance to have all your favourite hot men in one place. I, being me, tend to take this concept to extremes, and like to consider what happens when two characters played by the same man, or two men playing the same character, run into each other.
The Actual Fandoms: Actual fandoms for this fic include the movies Troy, Black Hawk Down and Lord of the Rings, with some reference to The Boondock Saints (that would be the "slinky sexy little Irishman" that keeps pestering Hector), and the TV shows Xena: Warrior Princess and Cupid.
The Characters: Eric Bana's Hector of Troy (Troy) and Hoot Gibson (Black Hawk Down), Karl Urban's Cupid (Xena), Jeremy Pivens' Cupid (Cupid) and Elvis (Black Hawk Down), David Wenham's Faramir (Lord of the Rings), Elladan and Elrohir of Rivendell (Lord of the Rings, played by no one because they're too freakin' sexy to be played by mere humans), Bill Fichnter's Jeff Sanderson, Johnny Strong's Randy Shugart, and Nikolaj Coster-Waldau's Gary Gordon, (Black Hawk Down).
Apology: I'm sorry that knowledge of so many fandoms is required for a full understanding of this fic, but I figure most of you reading this are just as geeky as me, so you'll manage.
Rating: It’s not explicit at all. I’d give it a PG-13 with a warning for a bit of language and one serious eyefuck.
Disclaimer: Ridiculous, absurd and utterly not infringing on anyone’s copyright since I make no money.
Summary: Hector is forever being interrupted by fights.
Cupids
Hector slammed his been mug down on the counter and growled. Not another barfight! If it turned out either the Gondorians or the Rohirrim were involved, he was going to get seriously Trojan on their arses. Honest to gods, those men were tormenting him with these petty squabbles.
The thing was this; Hector was developing a genuine liking for modern beers. Not the big business, weak, piss-tasting ones, but the imported lagers and ales from microbreweries in the Netherlands and Canada. Full-bodied, clean taste. And they lacked the bits of straw and unidentifiable floating solids that sometimes marred the brews from his own time. But he had yet, in the four days since he and Paris had arrived at the Men of Myth Convention, been able to finish a single glass without being interrupted by a fight, or an out-and-out brawl, or a slinky, sexy little Irishman.
He pushed his way through the crowd brusquely. “What is it now?” he roared, in a bid to halt the skirmish through the sheer manliness of his bellowing.
In the centre of a rather excited crowd he saw two men who were not at all what he expected, or at least one of them wasn’t.
The larger man was expectable enough – tall, blond, broad-shouldered, half-naked, and the part that was clothed was done so in sinfully tight black leather. Hector couldn’t tell if the two huge, white wings on his back were natural, but they looked real. And the bow at his side was certainly real. He wasn’t shooting any arrows, though; he had his fists up and was snarling at the other man, the one who did not look like he belonged.
That man was short and a little - well, Hector didn’t like to be mean but he looked a bit pudgy. Especially for this convention. He was dressed normally, like one of the bartenders or a cab driver. He had slightly receding darkish hair and a round face and he was so utterly unexceptional, so completely normal yet at the same time oddly familiar, as if he looked like just about anyone, Hector had to wonder what he was doing here.
“I’m Cupid!” the little man was saying.
The larger, more cupid-looking Cupid laughed and held his hand against the smaller cupid’s chest, arm extended at full length. “You insult me by your very existence. ‘Cupid’ indeed! I should squash you like the vermin you are.”
Cupid the Smaller was wildly throwing punches, all of which fell short of the mark, such was Cupid the Larger’s reach.
“You’re an impostor!” he shrieked. “ I’m the real Cupid! I was sent to earth to bring love to one hundred couples. It’s a punishment from the gods. Honest!”
Hector felt a dull ache begin to throb behind his temples. If anyone was being punished by the gods, it was Hector. He watched one of the Gondorian brothers, Faramir he thought, pull a wallet from the small Cupid’s back pocket.
“It says his name is ‘Trevor Hale’, and he’s from a place called ‘Chicago’.”
“That’s just my cover. Really I’m Cupid, and I’m from Mount Olympus.” Trevor looked around in a panic until his eyes fell on Hector. “Hey, you know how fickle the gods are. Tell them!”
Hector sighed. Why, oh why, did everyone assume he knew the gods?
“I have not beheld the gods, nor do I know how they behave,” he said wearily.
Paris would know; Hector did not. Whenever Hector asked for details, Paris tended to get flighty and wave his hands around a lot. He’d say things more worthy of Cassandra, things that made little sense, such as ‘the gods cannot be looked at directly but they are beautiful to behold’ or ‘it is too intimate to speak of, but I can let you feel something of their warmth if you allow me to disrobe you’.
Hector grimaced, but not in pain. Paris showed him warmth, all right. He doubted even a god could make him feel that warm.
“You behold me, Hector of Troy.”
And the Cupid before Hector did indeed appear god-like. Magnificent, in fact. Muscles rippled across his chest under shimmering skin. Hector had seen skin oiled before, but this was too smooth, too perfect to belong to a mere human. Nipples pebbled on either side of the straps holding his quiver in place. White wings spread out behind Cupid’s broad shoulders. Hector wanted to run his fingers over them, feel the wings wrap around him. His hands itched to feel the black leather stretched over strong thighs, he yearned to hear the creak of is as he crushed their hips together.
“I do behold you, and I should like to behold you more closely, Cupid.” Forget the beer, Hector thought. He could order one from room service.
“I’m Cupid!” the little man yelled, but Hector ignored him.
He crossed the floor and hooked his fingers around the straps that crossed Cupid’s chest. “You say you are the true Eros? I can think of a few ways to test the claim.”
Cupid’s eyes flared with lust. “And you, it is rumoured, are the mightiest of humans, loved by the gods. We shall see about that!”
Trevor, and everyone else in the bar, watched mesmerized as Hector and his new conquest left the bar. Hector’s hands were twisting in Cupid’s chest straps, and Cupid had one hand wedged between Trojan armour and Hector’s pecs.
“Well. I suppose the only question left is ‘who’s going to top?’” Faramir said.
“I put my money on Hector,” Elladan of Rivendell wagered.
“Cupid,” his brother challenged.
“I’m Cupid!” Trevor squealed.
A tall, lanky man wearing desert camo and knee pads emerged from the crowd. He ran a hand through his short, light brown hair and looked at Little Cupid with tired yet intense eyes. “Jesus Christ, Cliff, what the hell are you doing here?” He turned toward the doorway, where a group of men in similar garb loitered. “Hey, Hoot! Shugart! Gordon! You’re not going to believe this. Elvis is here!”
“You are mistaken,” Faramir said solemnly. “Elvis has yet to attend this convention. He is not in the building.”
The three other Delta operators approached.
“Well,” a tall, preternaturally handsome blond said, “would you look at that?”
“Hoot?” the first man nudged the shoulder of the tallest one, who had lifted Elvis up to eye-level and was staring into his face curiously. “What are you thinking, Hoot?”
“Sanderson, I don’t know that this is Elvis. He looks a bit squirrelly to me.”
“I’m not ‘Elvis’,” Trevor protested bravely. “I’m Cupid.”
“Aw, hell, Hoot, you know how wired I was when I first got here,” the shortest operator said. “I was a basketcase until I hooked up with Gary.”
“True,” Gary the blond said. “I was a mess too, but Randy straightened me out. So to speak.” He smirked, and watched Randy's eyes darken.
“So, let’s take Elvis here out to the pool where Griz is lying in wait. I’m sure he’ll calm him right down,” Sanderson suggested.
“Griz?” Trevor squeaked. “What the hell is a 'Griz'?! Wait a minute! Okay, I’m not Cupid, I’m Trevor Hale!” His voice has sped up in his panic. It was tough to make out the words.
Hoot put Trevor back on the floor. “You guys take Elvis to the pool. Sanderson and I are headed to the sauna.”
Sanderson beamed as the other two Delta operators each grabbed an arm and dragged the flailing Trevor out to the pool area.
Hoot squinted after them. “Jefferson, I really don’t think that’s Elvis.”
“Who gives a shit, Hoot. Whoever he is, he’ll keep Griz company so we can finally have some time alone.”
Hoot looked back at Sanderson and gave him the eyefuck to end all eyefucks.
“Whoohoohoohoohooo!” Sanderson cackled, “Sauna’s on the second floor! Shall we take the elevator, the stairs or climb up the drainpipe?"
“Elevator,” Hoot drawled. “Why waste energy we're gonna need for the sauna?”
End
Endnote: Okay, that was needlessly in-jokey and enuendo-laden, but heck, it was fun.
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