Personal Apocalypse

Title: Merciful In Victory
Author: Wallwalker
Fandom: Star Ocean: The Second Story
Rating: Explicit
Characters: Dias
Word Count: 927
Warnings: Dubious consent.
Notes: Written for kink_bingo as part of a double line. The prompts were "Humiliation (verbal)" and "Teasing." Also contains a healthy dose of D/s dynamic and consent play.
...also I just realized I titled this exactly wrong. D'oh.

---

Dias lay at his opponent's feet, utterly defeated.

There was physical pain, but it was nothing compared to the shame and disgust he felt. His opponent had been careful to make sure that Dias lived. He had fought warriors before who had pushed themselves, fighting with all of their strength in an attempt to defeat him - they had failed, of course, although some of their strength had been impressive enough. But this one... Dias was sure he had been beaten by a warrior who had held back. A humiliating fate, to say the least.

"Get up, Dias," his enemy had said. "On your knees."

Dias obeyed - what else could he do? He had been beaten. All of his pride, his strength... it was for nothing, now. He pushed himself up, kneeling in front of his enemy, bowing his head.

"I want to hear you say it," his enemy said, voice eerie in its calmness. This enemy had no need to shout, to tell the world that the great Dias Flac was beaten and on his knees. "I want you to tell me what I've done to you today, Flac."

Dias took a deep breath. "I've... lost," he said, still staring down at the ground. "You've defeated me."

"Look at me when you say such things," his enemy said, and Dias looked up quickly, into those fierce eyes. "Say it again."

"You've defeated me. I was no match for you."

"Which of us is the stronger warrior?"

Dias swallowed whatever pride he had left. "You are."

"Am I?" His enemy sounded pleased, and smiled. "And what are you, then?"

"I am... nothing." He took a deep, ragged breath. "I'm not worthy to touch the hem of your cloak. I'm unworthy to be wounded at your hands."

"Hmph. You're overdoing it, aren't you? Trying to flatter me." But it was clear from that twisted smile that his opponent was pleased. "Stand up."

Dias stood slowly, wincing slightly at the aches and pains, feeling the edges of superficial wounds pull under his torn garmets. He needed a medic, he thought. He needed to have these things taken care of. But his enemy would not let him leave so easily. He knew that.

A hand reached out, brushed against his thigh. Dias did not flinch, even when he felt that calloused hand move up, cupping his manhood. "You're enjoying this," his enemy said. "You like telling me what a failure you are, don't you?"

He didn't want to answer. He didn't have to. The whimper he made - an involuntary one, quite despite himself - when his enemy ran a probing fingertip against the head of his manhood told him enough. Even through his trousers and loincloth he felt himself twitch, hardening even further.

"Oh, you needn't answer," the voice said, thoughtful now. "Why don't I do something for you, to show you how merciful I am? Lower your trousers, Flac."

"I don't-" Dias started, but the twitching of his cock and the sudden tremor in his legs betrayed him. Oh, yes. He wanted this. He wanted it as much as he'd wanted anything. But how could he say that to the one who had just beaten him so utterly?

"It wasn't a request," his enemy said, interrupting him with another caress that left Dias's voice faltering. "Remove them. Now." Dias, relieved in a strange way, did as he had been told, rushing to undo them and pull them down. He was about to do the same to his loincloth, but his enemy pulled his hands away, replacing them swiftly. "No," came that smooth, calm voice again. "I'm hardly that merciful."

It was almost unbearable, the excitement of it - his enemy's hands on his cock, rubbing at him through his loincloth, teasing him with sensation that wasn't quite enough for what Dias wanted. And yet... he couldn't even think of pulling away, not with those words in his ears. The ones he said himself, at his enemy's whispered urgings - he was a weakling, he had no right to call himself the strongest, he was fortunate that he had not been utterly crushed, he was -

Dias awoke with sweat beaded on his forehead. He was in a disgraceful state, he thought as he took a deep breath and tried to regain control of himself - his body was tense and eager, his cock hard and practically begging for attention.

Thank goodness that he was alone in that room, he thought. He'd had to share sleeping quarters with his companions before, and explaining this - especially if by some horrible coincidence he had spoken as he slept - would have been terrible. How could a man explain that he had been dreaming of some hypothetical warrior who did not yet exist? Or that he, being among the best warriors in the world, had these incomprehensible fantasies about being treated as a weakling, beaten and kneeling at the victor's feet?

No one had defeated him yet. Claude had been the closest, but even with all of his considerable power, he had not yet defeated him in a duel. Dias still hoped that someday he'd find a worthy foe, but even if he did... well. How would he explain this? How would the man who had won every battle explain the pleasure that he secretly took in the thought of losing, of finding the one who could defeat him? That it hardly mattered who it was, or what circumstance, only that they were able to fight him one-on-one and win in a fair fight, and then that they would be willing to force him to acknowledge their victory? It seemed somehow right to him, but no less strange for that.

Sighing, annoyed and unsatisfied, he undid his trousers and reached down to untie his loincloth. It was, he told himself, only practical. Rena would be pushing them to make another long march the next day, no doubt. He needed to be able to sleep.