Cupid by Fra
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Category: Jack/Daniel, Daniel/Other Male
Genres: Alternate Universe
Rated: Adult
Warnings: None
Series: None
Summary: Daniel meets a real god.

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Author's Chapter Notes:
Irreverence, language, sacrilege, I'm sure there's more but I honestly don't see them.
You could say I'm energy, the stuff between the cells, starstuff, but those are such paltry words for what I am. True, I draw much of what I know from those places, those things, those states of being and of just plain being. Americans really drive me up the wall with this, label label label shit. Hey, love is not like Libby's fruit! You can't label it. It's too confining.

And when I say 'love' I'm not talking about the stupid, greeting card, dumbed down romance novel, five-minute obsession thing you've got going here.

I'm talking 'love' in the untamed sense. Raw love. Love that rips and heals and burns and falls away and catches you all at the same time.

Love that feels like the hand of god in your guts.

Well, of course, if you thought that, you'd be right.

It is the hand of god.

It's my hand.

Enki, Enzulie, Nambi, Oba, Isis, Freya, Eros, Cupid, Eshu-Elegbara. All the faces of god. All the names of god. Eshu-Elegbara was one I liked a lot. God of the crossroads. The trickster. God of messages and deceit and sex. God of forward motion and breaking that which is frozen. Yeah, the Yoruba had me pretty well nailed with that one. Still, it's a label and I hate that. But that one gave me a lot of room to maneuver. Always liked the pragmatic approach. Which makes me a sort of 'loose canon' of god-hood.

When I close my eyes, well, not eyes, but when I focus intently, my awareness circles around pain. Pain is the big mover, the flame under the human warming tray. When pain emerges or I become aware of it, that's when I know love's involved.

You're probably thinking that pain and love are diametrically opposed. Not true. In America, love is all about 'happiness' but in the real universe, 'love' or as I like to put it 'dynamic cohesion' is all about gravity. And mass. Emotional gravity. Like when Chris got Keller's parole axed just so he could have him back. That's emotional gravity. And mass. Emotional mass, when ignored or suppressed increases its weight in inverse proportions to the attention not given it. Got that? Let me put it this way, 'what you resist, persists'.

Some who love can't see their way out of pain. The shitter about that is, they make their own pain. And, over time, that pain hardens into a plaque like structure that lives in the cells of your body. In the cells. Between the cells. In the slipstream of starstuff that flows through us all.

See, this is where my hand comes in. Unlike other gods, who shall remain nameless, I will dance to this music. I like to dance. So, it turns out, does the poor bastard I'm focused on. Not that he's danced anytime in the last, say, decade, but he does like to dance. And I want to help him. Dance, that is. And I will. With my hand.

"Go ahead..." The man kicked the chair out, one foot against the leg, and blew out a lungful of cigarette smoke. "...take it." His voice was a sibilant, husky tenor, rich and accented. It drifted over the cochlear follicles of Daniel's ears causing a ripple of pleasure.

He would actually have felt that pleasure if he'd been paying any sort of attention to his own inner dialog. This, however, was not the case. He took in the physical appearance of the man sitting next to the last empty seat in the café, in one, sweeping, generalized glance and decided he wasn't in danger by accepting the casual offer. As an after thought he nodded and mumbled, "thank you," then proceeded to screen him out by creating a 'book wall'.

For a time there was peace. Daniel managed to drink coffee and read, head down, a journal on archaeological techniques. His body slipping effortlessly into it's much rehearsed pose of 'keep out'. He would've been safe if the man next to him were another man. But he wasn't.

"What are you reading?" The voice was nearly a whisper and so close as to be intrusive. The sound made Daniel jump. Then it made him hot, a shiver of delight ran rampant through him, dousing him with pheromones. To cover his embarrassment, he cleared his throat, picking up the magazine and gesturing several times to the pictures therein. His mouth caught up with him on about the third gesture.

"Archaeology Today. Um, why... exactly?" Finally Daniel was looking full on into the face of his companion. He was Latin, Daniel decided, maybe from South America or the Caribbean. He had the velvety eyes and dark complexion of the southern hemisphere but his face, his hands were finely boned. His hair was rather fine, not wavy and he hadn't shaved in a few days, but it looked really good on him. More pheromones cascaded through Daniel and when the man smiled, he felt himself flush with pleasure.

"Because, you were ignoring me and I don't like that." He said 'don't' like dun but when he spoke, he tilted his chin down, looked up through his black lashes and closed the distance between them a little. It was intimate. Inviting. Hell, it was nearly pornographic. Daniel's pants got tight. The man smiled again and leaned back, sprawling really, knees wide, in the chair facing Daniel.

For a brief moment, Daniel thought he could breathe again. The heat momentary. But the man's posture, his ease, his 'invitation', kept the burn going. Turned it up. The man lifted his chin and held out his fine-boned hand, "Murilo," he said. Like it was a statement, not an introduction. He took another drag from his cigarette while Daniel ran through his list of words frantically. Murilo waited patiently, watching, smiling.

"Daniel. Jackson. Daniel Jackson. Nice to meet you...Murilo." Daniel smiled back. He couldn't help it. He was looking at a god.

Daniel's shoulders made a dull thud when he hit the wall. In his old place that would've gotten him a knock on the door and a mention from the super to keep things down. But he had a house now so being pushed up against the wall and fucked loudly wasn't an issue anymore. Murilo's lashes made a dark smudge against his cheeks, his lips a perfect burning 'o' around Daniel's dick. His fingers found Murilo's head, his hair a silky mass wound around Daniel's fingers.

Daniel had read somewhere, in a florid gay novel the description, 'he had his brains sucked out through his dick." At the time he'd laughed. Well, it was laughable, really. Until this moment, it had seemed an impossible exaggeration. Murilo's tongue pressed on the thick vein under Daniel's dick as he swallowed and sucked and drew wild sounds from his dry throat. His wicked fingers made hot trails up Daniel's thighs, under his balls, around his hole. He was gonna come. Now. And he'd been thinking that for a while. That he was gonna come. And yet, here he was, oxygen depleted, gasping, shaken but still firmly on this side of what promised to be the mother of all orgasms.

He wanted more. Much, much more. His hands tightened on Murilo's head and he pushed him gently away. Murilo drew off Daniel's penis, blowing softly causing a shiver to run through Daniel from balls to brain. Murilo looked up at him, smiling, rumpled, simply adorable. "Quiredo?" 'love.' The sound, the word, felt like a warm hand on Daniel's heart.

Murilo seemed a step ahead of him, had seemed that way from the beginning and the awareness of it flashed through Daniel, made thought no longer necessary. The walls of his home slid by and in what seemed like moments he was prone, the soft coolness of sheets nested around them a counterpoint to Murilo's heat.

He'd never known a sweet, hot complicity like Murilo's. He lost himself in the soft lips, the warm knowing eyes. Murilo knew without arrogance. He was there, fully, focused. And he yielded to Daniel so softly, with such grace that Daniel felt his heart turn over. It slowed him, made him draw out their lovemaking, made him savour. A word given new meaning by the bronze skin beneath his fingers and the responsive gasps in his ear.

When he was balls deep inside Murilo, when he'd left the world, ceased to be on this plane, Murilo touched him. Daniel's eyes were closed or slitted, his entire awareness invested in this moment. He didn't see Murilo's fingers brush his chest, but he felt them.

Around the room, from the corners and shadows and reflections, something stirred. Murilo licked across Daniel's adam's apple, up under his chin, closed his lips there for a soft wet kiss.

His fingers blurred and merged with Daniel's skin.

Just above his heart.

Where the pain was.

Sometimes, when I do this, I allow myself to feel what they feel. Sliding my hand into Daniel's chest was like sticking it in liquid nitrogen. I could feel the brittle iciness of his pain, my senses threading into the slipstream of his soul, felt the shock of each painful moment that had created his heart's prison. They dribbled as they melted, dripped down my 'arm' and out to where they always went, into the between. Cracks formed and jagged across his chest, I opened my hand, my fingers spread and felt the hardness shatter apart.

He gasped, just a small hiccough of sound, and his eyes opened but did not see. His cock swelled inside me, I could feel the small tremors as his orgasm unspooled in him. For him, this would be just an orgasm. A really, really good one, but that would be all. His dick pulsing, his head came up and I kept him there, just at the top while I drained what was left of his prison away. And when it was gone he spoke. Only one word.


There was a smell. Not a smell smell, more like an aroma. He was lying on a linen mattress, the bolster beneath his head filled with down. Sunlight filtered down through rough woven burlap and he could hear the sea. He fancied he could even smell it. It was beautiful. It smelled like Egypt. Like Alexandria. Like home. Someone touched his arm; just a soft caress and he opened his eyes. Murilo sat beside him as the last vestiges of the dream drifted away like mist in sunlight. The room was night time dim, only the light from the bathroom fell across the bed, across Daniel and Murilo. In the soft light, Murilo looked unreal. He began speaking softly, in Portuguese.

"All is well with you, Quiredo. You still have pain. But you will live now." Murilo touched Daniel's face, his chest and shoulders as he talked. "Go now, you know where. It's time to stop running away. Time for you to run towards, Quiredo." He lifted Daniel's hand and kissed a fingertip. Daniel felt like he was about to loose something. He never realized he'd already lost it.

"I want to remember..." He struggled to find words but no more came.

"Shshhhhhhh....go now." Murilo tugged Daniel's hand, stood from the bed and drew Daniel up with him, surrounded Daniel in his arms, turned his face up to be kissed. Daniel kissed him sweetly and Murilo released him. And it wasn't strange at all that Daniel turned from Murilo and began dressing. He didn't see when something stirred in the room nor did he hear the soft exhalation when Murilo drifted into the shadows and dissipated. Daniel could only go forward. His momentum reset, refreshed, alive.

Dawn. Daniel shut the car door and stood in Jack's front yard just looking at the pearlescent sky jeweled with morning stars. He forgot time. It seemed only an eye blink later that he looked at Jack's house before him and yet the sky had pinked then blued above him. The morning paper had appeared at his feet. The dew had begun to dry and the front door stood open. Its dark timber frame looked a little like the mouth of the house, like something from Bosch and it held Jack.

Nothing before or ever after that would be as clear in Daniel's mind as that moment in Jack's front yard. The universe had shifted around him, through him, in him, and before him time spooled out in a different direction.

"Jack," the sound and breath made a small cloud before him. He stooped to pick up the bagged paper and walked up the steps to Jack's house. To Jack. Into Jack. Lips. Hands. Chest. Jack was bed- warm and smelled deliciously of musk. And for once there were no words between them. Daniel's jacket and shirt and pants made a trail through the neat house right up to the bedroom, to the bed still warm from the night.

It takes a lot of guts to love. It takes a lot more to love again. To give when we've been hurt. To be willing to be hurt again. It's not life that makes us who we are but what we make of us that makes us who we are. We decide. But remember, I'm still here.
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