Title: The Quality of Mercy

Author: MB

Archive: Yes

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Jett/Strife/other male

Category: Drama

Warnings: BDSM, violence, consent issues, blood

Summary: Jett helps Strife deal with a follower's betrayal.

The Quality Of Mercy
By M.B

Strife stood silently, gazing down at the fitfully sleeping mortal. Diocles tossed and turned restlessly in the moonlit room and the god lightly touched his churning thoughts; he was
dreaming of Apollo. Strife lay down on the bed and sighed, regretfully twirling one of the man's long, dark curls around a finger. He only trusted a few of his followers to actually help him achieve his godly aims, and fewer still were allowed to know the reasons *why* he asked them to do what they did. With an unintelligible mumble the mortal rolled onto his back and Strife lowered his head to look at the strong profile. He had known as Diocles matured that the man longed more and more for glory and recognition, chafing at the secretive nature of Strife's work. Strife had expected to eventually lose him to one of the more glamorous gods. What he hadn't expected was that Diocles would betray him.

To be fair, Apollo had played dirty, choosing one of Strife's most trusted servants and capitalizing on the mortal's love of music to win his confidence. Strife hadn't realized Apollo was that interested in what he was doing. The god smirked at the image of Diocles, dark and slender, being fucked by the shining golden god, and the pillow talk that followed. His smile widened; too bad the secrets Apollo's efforts had bought were practically worthless. Fully aware of the mortal's restlessness, Strife had long since cut Diocles off from any real information.

Strife leaned over and blew lightly in the man's ear and watched as he jerked awake, panicking as he caught sight of the god lying beside him.

"Hello, Diocles," Strife purred.

"Strife!" he choked, sitting up and drawing the blanket protectively around himself. "What -- what are you doing here?" He tried without success to make his voice seem normal, to hide the fear racing through his veins.

"Oh, Diocles. Surely you didn't think I would let such blatant disloyalty go unpunished?" Strife's icy eyes sparkled in the dim light, and the young man twitched nervously.

"What do you mean, disloyalty?" The mortal's voice shook.

Strife rolled onto his back, folding his arms beneath his head and crossing his ankles comfortably. "I *mean* your interlude with Apollo."

"Oh that, well, I just thought that, you know, you said I played well and all, and I..." Diocles paused, running a shaky hand through his hair. "I mean, Apollo is the god of musicians..."

Strife gave him a scornful look. "Is that what you were talking about in his bed? Your musical career?"

Diocles flushed and nervously glanced at Strife from beneath long, dark eyelashes. "Well, uhm -- that was just sex, I -- it didn't mean anything, not really."

Strife looked bored. "I don't care who you fuck, Diocles. I'm talking about what you *said*. The things you learned in my service should not have been used to buy favor with Apollo."

"But, I didn't..." Diocles began to argue and Strife lifted a hand to cut him off.

"Please don't waste my time denying it." Strife's voice was very calm.

Diocles shivered and his stomach lurched sickeningly with fear. "Okay, yes, I did talk about you a little, but I didn't betray you!" The mortal's voice rose in intensity.

Strife's eyebrows rose. "You knew that information about me was never to be shared with anyone. For any reason. Did you not?"

Diocles trembled. "I know," he breathed. "I'm sorry, Strife. I -- Apollo didn't want anything bad, he was just asking questions -- I didn't think..." He trailed off and looked miserably down at his hands.

"Well then," Strife murmured softly, "Your punishment should be a good reminder to you to think in the future."

Diocles' eyes grew huge. "Punishment? What -- what are you going to do to me?"

Strife's face was inscrutable. "I think you know."

"But you promised, you said you'd never whip me!" Diocles cried, remembering with horror a man Strife had beaten, almost to death, remembering how he had begged his god never to do that to him. "You said you wouldn't, and you always keep your promises!"

"Good of you to remember that, Diocles. Too bad you can't say the same about yourself." Strife slowly sat up and his lips curved into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He gestured and the mortal slowly, fearfully turned, filled with dread at the sight of the tall, menacing figure lounging against the far wall. "And I do keep my promises," Strife whispered. "I'm not going to whip you. He is."

Diocles' eyes grew even larger and his breath began to come in short ragged gasps. He turned back to Strife, clutching desperately at his arm. "Please, no -- I can't bear it," he whispered.

"I can kill you, if you prefer," Strife said calmly.

"No!" Diocles shook his head frantically. "I don't want to die -- please, Strife. Please forgive me, you know me, you know I would never betray you." He paused and his dark eyes begged eloquently. "Please don't have me whipped," he whimpered.

Strife merely shook his head and Diocles shuddered with fear as he found himself naked, face-down, gagged and bound spread-eagle. He heard slow, heavy footsteps as the man crossed the room and, panic-stricken, he pulled in vain against the tight bonds. Strife moved to sit cross-legged at the head of the bed, arranging the pillows behind him. When he was settled he looked
up. "Whenever you're ready..."

Jett smiled and raised the whip.

*****

Although he knew it was futile, Diocles continued to struggle frantically, screaming his pleas against the gag as the whip bit into his flesh again and again. It seemed to fan out, covering a
wide swath, and nothing between his neck and ankles had been spared. Constant pain pulsed redly in his consciousness, and intense white spikes of agony blossomed and faded, only to bloom anew with each strike. Darkness began to spread around the edges of his thoughts, pushing away his awareness, and he realized with blessed relief that he was going to pass out.

Diocles slowly came back to awareness of cool fingers caressing his face and a wretched fire consuming his body. He was overwhelmed with sorrow and regret. 'Please, Strife, please forgive me,' he begged silently, whimpering against the gag. 'I'm sorry, so sorry.'

The fingers carded through his hair and Strife looked up. "He's returned to us, Jett. You can start again." Diocles shook his head desperately, weakly straining against the bonds. "Yes," Strife whispered in his ear. As the whip struck again he realized something was different, there was something else, an echo of pleasure that tempered the pain. Strife continued to cradle his head, and the pain receded to a warm burn while the pleasure increased. Diocles realized that his cock was hardening, rubbing deliciously against the blanket beneath him, and he arched against the lash, now eager for it as his god changed his punishment into something he desperately hoped was
forgiveness.

*****

Strife watched with glittering eyes as Jett tried to concentrate on his task, undermined by his connection to his god, and via that connection, the intense surges of pleasure that consumed him
each time the whip landed. Strife deliberately allowed his touch to transmit pleasure to the writhing mortal as well; Diocles had been punished enough. He disengaged his awareness from the frantic man, focusing on Jett. Strife loved that he could share his intensity with one so cool, so unemotional. Jett never seemed to feel fear, jealously, any of the excessive emotions normal people were consumed with, and his impassive detachment was a balm to Strife's soul.

'Jett,' Strife whispered directly into his thoughts. Jett looked at him questioningly, staying the whip at his side. 'Enough of that. I want to watch you fuck him.' Strife made both Jett's and his own clothes disappear and Jett smiled slightly, dropping the bloodied whip. Strife released the bonds holding Diocles and the mortal moaned as Jett's strong hands lifted him to his knees. He positioned himself, then hesitated for a moment, looking at Strife with a raised eyebrow. Strife rolled his eyes at Jett's insistence on oil, but he complied with the silent request and Jett hissed with satisfaction as he pushed into the slick channel. Strife's breathing quickened as he watched his lover rhythmically thrusting, mesmerized by the intent look on Jett's face. He licked his lips, silently urging him on. Although Jett was using Diocles' body, his burning eyes were on Strife, the pleasure he felt shared with his god, not the mortal beneath him.

Strife tore his eyes away from Jett and leaned down to Diocles, grasping a handful of dark hair and pulling his head up. As he made eye contact Strife removed the gag, revealing marks on his
tear-stained face where the tight leather had chafed. "Suck me, Diocles," he hissed. Strife released his hair and knelt up. The mortal painfully raised up on his arms, crying out as Strife braced himself on his raw shoulders. Diocles was still for a moment, letting the flow of pleasure from Strife's hands again push the pain to the background and he moaned softly, longing for completion, yet wanting the feeling to go on forever.

Strife was momentarily distracted, delightedly sliding his hands along the bloody welts Jett had created on the mortal's back. He raised a hand, inhaling Diocles' essence, and touched a wet
finger to his tongue, his pupils dilating at the metallic tang. His erection, welling with pre-come, slid insistently against the mortal's lips, demanding entry. Strife closed his eyes and buried his hands in Diocles' dark, curly hair, dropping his head backward as the hot, wet, suction surrounded him. He rolled his head forward again, and opened his eyes to find Jett watching him, his eyes shining and dark in his flushed face. Strife stared back, his senses reeling from the combination of lust and love Jett was projecting at him. Jett was panting, the slight quiver of his shoulders and arms signaling his impending orgasm and he leaned over Diocles' back. "Kiss me, Strife," he whispered.

Strife leaned forward, reaching to meet his lover, their mouths slanting together in an intoxicating kiss. He felt the delicious tingle of his own approaching climax and he clutched Jett's hair
with one bloody hand, welding their mouths together as the waves overtook them. The kiss had closed a circuit, connecting them all in the god consciousness and Diocles was there, sharing in a
glorious moment of ecstasy before velvety darkness closed around him.

*****

"He's out cold," Jett observed.

Strife nodded. The god had cleaned the blood away and the wicked lash marks were now almost halfway healed; the man would be damn sore, but not much more. "What do you think? Should I make him forget? Or torment him with the memory of what he'll never have again?" The god wiggled his fingers indecisively.

Jett shrugged. "Whatever."

Strife turned to him with pursed lips, squinting in irritation.

Jett laughed at his expression. "I meant whatever you think best," he clarified. "Although, you never know what he might say. He's already proven he has a big mouth."

Strife nodded thoughtfully, leaning forward to touch Diocles with his long fingers, bathing him in a flash of light. Then he lifted the blanket, settling it lightly over the still body.

Jett knew Diocles had been a favorite, following Strife since he was a small child, and he could feel the shadow of hurt beneath his god's impassive exterior.

"I can still kill him," Jett offered.

Strife smiled over his shoulder at his lover, then his eyes unfocused and he slowly turned back to the sleeping mortal. "Nah, let it go. He's been punished and that's all he'll remember, that's enough."

Jett shook his head and grinned. "You have such a soft heart." He pressed his body against Strife's back and wrapped his arms around the god's waist. Strife snorted, but leaned back, comforted and slightly amazed that after all these years Jett's devotion to him had never once wavered.

Jett's breath was hot in his ear. "C'mon, Strife, let's go home."


End