Mercy, by Glacis. Spoilers for the Stargate SG-1 episode Fair Game.
Rated NC17, no copyright infringement intended.
"Jack of all trades, master of one," Daniel sighed as he used
the smallest brush in his kit to clear the detritus of centuries from yet
another broken basalt tablet. It wasn't often he was able to lend his talents
to other teams, but this expedition to P9H812 was one of the exceptions to team
sanctity. Sometimes it was nice to be the only linguist on Earth who knew how
to read archaic Goa'uld.
Sometimes it was a royal pain in the butt.
The rest of SG-1 weren't exempt from 'extra duties.' Sam and Jack were off
in DC playing nice with politicians. Teal'c was
spending a week in
They might be grocery lists.
After four days of eating grit and deciphering mind-numbingly dull
minutiae of lives long gone, Daniel was definitely leaning toward the second
possibility.
A discharge of energy less than a foot from his position sent him
flying, self-preservation instincts finely honed after so long on alien worlds
in hostile environments kicking in and saving his life. One hand scrabbled for
his pistol as the other searched for his glasses, knocked from his face in his
impromptu swan dive. He'd barely qualified with the nine mil
with his glasses. Without them, he might as well shoot himself. Heck, he
just might shoot himself.
Behind him, weapon discharges continued at a dishearteningly high
frequency, and a vaguely familiar voice shouted commands. '
Only to have his wrist imprisoned in a grip that would make iron
manacles look wimpy. He yelped, then looked up into his captor's face and
promptly stopped breathing.
Bright blue eyes smiled maniacally down at him. A flowing blond mane
outlined a classically handsome face, marred by the unattractive expression of
unmitigated glee on it. Just what he didn't need.
"Cronus," he croaked out with a
tongue that felt dryer than the
"Doctor Daniel Jackson," the Goa'uld
System Lord replied with little courtesy and great enjoyment. "I did warn
you."
"That you did," Daniel managed. Barely.
Going with that self-preservation instinct again, he blurted out the only thing
he could think to say, since he couldn't move. "We saved your life."
"You did not. Carter did." Cronus
didn't look impressed.
"Splitting hairs," Daniel insisted. If he was going to die, he
was going to negotiate down to his last breath. Cronus
gave him an odd look, peering intently at his head for an instant. Daniel
winced. "Semantics."
The puzzled look changed instantly into a more typical arrogant sneer.
"I warned you. If any Tau'ri were found by any
System Lord on his world, you would suffer greatly. You would be shown no
mercy." Without breaking eye contact, he bellowed a command to his guard.
Weapons discharged.
Every airman on the ground who wasn't already dead was slaughtered.
"No!" Daniel screamed, fighting as hard as he could against Cronus' hold. "You filthy son of a
bitch!"
The hand not pinning his arm to the dirt grabbed hold of his jaw and
nearly broke it. "You were of use during the negotiations. It was a member
of your guard who saved my life. It was your commander who unveiled Nirrti's treachery against me." He paused, leaning in
until all Daniel could see was a blur. He blinked furiously, fighting the
tearing in his eyes, calling it watering to himself, determined not to buckle
in front of this bastard. "You grovel beautifully."
Daniel froze.
"You will suffer greatly," Cronus
promised him softly. "But for you, there will be mercy."
The hand at his jaw loosened its grip, sliding along the side of his
face to trace his cheek gently before dipping back to follow the line of the
tendon down the side of his neck. Before he could work up enough saliva to
curse, inhumanly strong fingers tightened around his throat.
His scream had no chance against the pressure. Pain exploded in his
chest and in his head, and the world went black.
Daniel awoke to find himself naked, silk sheets beneath him, a headache
nearly blinding him, and a throat that felt like it had been mangled.
Instinctively, he tried to lift a hand to ease the ache.
His arm moved two inches and stopped.
Forcing his eyes open, he focused on a thin filigreed chain leading to a
cuff restraining his wrist. The cuff was wide, nearly four inches, and padded
with the same silk covering the bed beneath him. Jerking his other arm, he
looked over to see an identical cuff on it. The chain threaded through hasps on
each cuff, then through a u-joint soldered onto the metal frame of the bed. It
was slender, but impossible to break.
He tried anyway.
His fists were going numb and welts were rising on his skin in spite of the
padding, when he heard the hissing slide of a door. Feet stomped in. He glanced
over in their direction. Without his glasses, they were an indiscriminate mass
of gun-metal gray and off-white linen. He continued to pull at the cuffs as one
form detached itself from the mass and came to a halt beside the bed.
"You will only damage yourself," Cronus
told him. He sounded amused.
Daniel ignored him and continued to work at the chain.
Cronus rapped out a
command, and his guard split into three groups of two. One pair returned to the
corridor. The second took up positions just inside the door, staring off into
space. The third marched briskly to the end of the bed and stood still as
statues, their backs to him. Daniel watched in silence, still pulling on the cuffs.
Cronus leaned over him, placing one hand on his
shoulder, smiling down into his face. This close, Daniel had no difficulty
seeing details.
So the pained expression was crystal clear when he snap-kicked the Goa'uld in the nuts.
Blue eyes went saucer-wide, then closed tightly, then opened again,
glowing yellow. Daniel stuck his chin out and closed his eyes, trembling
slightly, waiting for the guards to put an end to it. He knew he wasn't getting
off the ship alive. He was determined to give Cronus
nothing.
He knew too much to allow himself to be tortured.
Seconds passed.
A minute.
It felt like a month.
Unable to bear the suspense, Daniel cracked open an eye. The guards
hadn't moved. Neither had Cronus,
who was staring down at him. The glow had faded and a calculating
expression had taken its place.
Shit.
It hadn't worked.
Wondering how else he could provoke a killing rage and ensure that SG secrets
weren't spilled into Goa'uld ears, he took a deep
breath. Cronus moved.
The breath came in handy for the scream he couldn't hold back.
He'd never seen the instrument Cronus held
against his chest. It wasn't a ribbon device, wasn't a zat,
wasn't anything he recognized. It looked like a hand mirror crossed with a Pez dispenser.
It hurt unlike anything he'd ever felt before.
Fire raced from his breastbone to his heart, outlining each of his ribs,
paralyzing his lungs before leaching through his spine and traveling along his
extremities. Fingers and toes curled and his body arched, muscles spasming as
the fire consumed him.
Then it was over, and he could breathe again. He could hear sobs in his
own harsh panting.
"This is your mercy?" he gasped out when he had some control
over his mouth. His voice was hesitant and rusty. He had no idea how long the
episode had lasted.
"This is your suffering," Cronus
contradicted him.
The smile was back in place. Daniel hated that smile. Cronus leaned forward and Daniel flinched, expecting a
blow. The gentle kiss on his brow shocked him into immobility. He looked up,
confused.
Cronus' hand moved, and
this time the fire began in his belly.
By the time it ended, his sobs drowned out the rasp of his breathing.
Time ceased to have meaning. His voice died to a whisper from unceasing
screams. His body was coated in sweat. Muscle spasms caused him to shake
uncontrollably. His mind retreated to a place of dark and quiet, where the pain
couldn't reach him.
Then the agony would stop, and the touches would begin. A caress to his cheek, a kiss to his shoulder, stroking along his
thigh. Against his will, his mind would be drawn back to the unendurable
present. With awareness, the agony would begin again.
It was a very long time before he finally lost consciousness.
When he awoke the second time, torches lit the room and there were fresh
silk sheets beneath him. He'd been bathed, but the cuffs were still in place
around his wrists. Two men entered the chamber, dark-haired and fair-skinned,
dressed in cream linen, the mark of Cronus emblazoned
on their chests.
"What happened?" he asked, not expecting an answer. He tried
again in Goa'uld, then in ancient Greek. "Where
is Cronus? What do you want?" They acted as if
they were deaf.
For all he knew, they could be. Eardrums pierced at the same time their
tongues were cut out. He watched with trepidation as they approached him,
holding basins and jars. Completely ignoring his continued questioning, they
proceeded to massage him thoroughly from his scalp to the soles of his feet. He
was unable to contain a few yelps as they ruthlessly worked the stiffness from
his tortured muscles, hands gliding over his skin, leaving behind a thin layer
of fragrant oil.
By the time they were done, he felt like a lump of clay. His body was
completely relaxed.
His mind was in over-drive.
A command rang out from the doorway and the two slaves gathered their
equipment and crept out. Cronus strode over to stand,
looming, over Daniel.
"What now?" Daniel asked. His voice cracked. He told himself
it was fatigue and glared with every ounce of venom he could muster up at his
captor.
"Mercy." Cronus smiled, showing too many teeth. Then
he lowered himself onto the bed next to Daniel and ran a hand gently down the
length of Daniel's body from neck to knee.
So much for relaxation. He instantly tensed in anticipation of pain.
The questing hand trailed back up along his thigh, stopping at his
flaccid penis. Daniel's breath caught in his throat.
"No," he whispered, trying to scream.
Ignoring the protest, Cronus began to stroke
him. Fear being an excellent dampener of erotic impulse, very little happened.
Then Cronus reached lower.
"God," Daniel blurted. Cronus' smile
widened and his fingers pressed harder, just behind Daniel's testicles,
spreading his thighs and massaging in ever-widening circles.
"Yes," Cronus informed him. Daniel
shook his head.
"No. I mean, you're not God. Not a god. Oh,
my god!"
The last escaped him as Cronus slid fingers
slick with oil further back and into him. He bucked at the sensation, arching
as he'd done earlier, from unwilling enjoyment rather than pain this time.
Nerve endings reacted to the new stimulus and he found himself hardening.
Gritting his teeth, he tried to call to mind every injustice the Goa'uld, collectively and individually, had ever inflicted
on him and the people he loved.
Unfortunately, Cronus had thousands of years
of experience in manipulating the human body. Even Daniel's memories weren't
enough to overcome the effects of what was being done to him. His thoughts
scattered like light through a prism, carrying his resolve away with them.
Once again, Cronus took Daniel's mind from
him, this time with skill instead of brute force. Daniel forgot where he was,
who he was, what was touching him, why it was so important to resist, how to do
anything but react. Hands probed him inside and out. Lips touched, teeth
worried and a tongue wove a different kind of fire over his skin, turning his
bones to water.
The first climax caught him unprepared. He writhed helplessly against Cronus' weight holding him down, his heels digging into the
bedcovers, his head thrashing against Cronus' hold,
his mouth smothered by Cronus' kiss. Lethargy
enveloped him, but he wasn't allowed to enjoy the aftermath of orgasm. Cronus promised mercy but showed none, hands and mouth
unceasing in their efforts to drive Daniel completely insane. His second climax
was shorter but more powerful, nearly causing him to black out.
When it dawned on him that Cronus was entering
him, and that he was begging for it, Daniel wished he had blacked out.
The tiny part of his mind that was still rational was completely humiliated.
Not that he had the energy to fight.
He was too busy being drained dry and forced higher every time he
thought he'd reached the top.
Reality compressed until his only awareness was of arms holding him down,
hips forcing his thighs apart, a dull throb in his flanks, and a knot of
pleasure so attenuated it had become a point of agony at his groin. Dimly he
was aware that his voice had given out, and he couldn't feel his arms any
longer, but nothing else was important in the face of the responses Cronus was pulling from his body.
By the time his tormentor finally finished, Daniel couldn't tell the
difference between pain and pleasure. His arms dangled uselessly from the
chains above his head. His legs fell, numb, to the sides of Cronus'
hips. His eyes were blind from sweat and tears; his throat was raw, unable to
produce a sound. His body was Cronus' and his mind
was splintered.
If this was mercy, he wasn't sure he would survive it.
The third time Daniel awoke, he found himself alone, fully dressed,
weaponless, lying on the cold stone pedestal of the Stargate. Pulling himself
painfully upright, he gave an unconscious moan at the ache in his muscles,
deepest at his wrists, throat, and rear end. His boots were laced too tightly.
His shirt was untucked. His glasses were missing.
Cronus' minions were much
better at stripping a man than dressing him.
Single-mindedly latching onto the slightly hysterical thread of
amusement in the thought, he distracted himself from what had been done to him
and concentrated on hoisting himself to his feet. Swaying a little, he
staggered down the steps and leaned against the DHD, looking around wearily.
The bodies of the airmen who'd been with him on what should have been a milk
run were scattered in the dust. Once he got home he'd have them send in a
clean-up crew.
With grenade launchers and surface-to-air missiles.
Turning his back on the carnage, carrying the wreckage within, he
pressed the glyphs on the DHD, stepped into the portal, closed his eyes and
tumbled back to Earth. He bluffed his way through the ensuing physical and
glossed over what he could in the debriefing, explaining the rest as minimally
as possible. He said what he had to say and did what he had to do to make it
through with what was left of his dignity intact.
When they finally allowed him to go home, he let himself into his
apartment and settled gingerly down to a sleepless night. Staring at the ceiling,
he added one more word to the long list of reasons he hated the Goa'uld. Cruelty, oppression,
destruction, kidnapping, enslavement, murder.
And mercy.
end