By Xero Sky
Pairing: 1 x 6
Warnings: NC17 yaoi. Lemon. PWP-ness. Questionable non-con. Blood play. Bondage. Profanity. Angst. Complete lack of Duo Maxwell.
Summary: Post EW, an obsessive Heero finally claims his prize. Heero POV
Note: This is a challenge fic for Anore.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to their respective copyright holders. No profit is intended from this work of fan fiction.

Possession

I have him chained to the bed, of course.

I had to be quick and get him secured before the drugs wore off completely. I needed him to be certain of his captivity right from the start.

We can't do this thing halfway.

I take a moment just to look at him, to relish the moment. He's so beautiful, my Zechs. I'm going to enjoy every second of this.

It took me three years to hunt him down and capture him. The hunt was my mission, my goal, and it gave me everything that peacetime didn't: a purpose, a reason to get up in the morning, a reason to live. I didn't mind at all when it quickly grew into an obsession. I had to have something. We all have to have something to fill in the quiet hours.

There were other options, but I passed them by. I could have joined the Preventers. I could have made myself Relena's guardian. I could have been a mercenary or a criminal. I could have stolen enough cash to set myself up on a private island for the rest of my life. I had the skills to do anything I wanted.

I wanted him. He's magnificent in battle ­ an artist with heavy weapons. Even his madness was exceptional. Angst, dedication, mania, skill, power, defeat… how could I resist?

We fought and went our separate ways without ever truly meeting, but I knew him. After the last war, I was the one who found him on Mars and dragged him back to Earth. He wasn't really hiding back then, and he didn't expect me. There was no challenge in it.

I watched his trial from inside the courtroom. I was hardly more than ten feet from him the whole time. I would never have allowed his execution, but no one there knew it. I was a hero back then just for having found him.

He denied nothing, but the court, even the prosecutors, made excuses for him. Treize was gone and Romefeller was out of reach, but there were former OZ troops everywhere, and the 'enemy' hadn't disappeared overnight. The government didn't want Zechs dead. They wanted him penitent.

He was acquitted so that they could remake him.

Within a month, he'd been given a job as the head of a government foundation for rebuilding devastated areas. It was a very public position, and he got lots of attention. He did his job. He was gracious and polite. The elites of society couldn't get enough of him.

The tragic, flawed prince, now back on the path of righteousness, became a media darling. His exceptional good looks were just fuel to the fire. Cameras caught every faint smile, every cold stare, and every mechanically polite reply to questions that no one had a right to ask.

I watched it all happen.

It was unacceptable that my rival should live like that. It degraded him. It didn't take me very long to decide what had to be done.

The look on his face when I told him was almost one of relief. It was an odd _expression for a man who'd just been informed that he was prey.

The rules were simple enough. If I was caught, I would lose. If I caught him, I won. The winner would take all.

He'd walked away from me without saying a word. Within 15 minutes, a military police squadron surrounded my apartment building; by then, Zechs was already in the air, on his way out of the country. It was all the answer I needed.

He had been trained for leadership and warfare. He lacked many of my skills, but he could buy as many advisors and hire as many specialists as he needed. It didn't take much for him to arrange for warrants for my arrest. The government was happy to help him. I was an unrepentant terrorist, they said, stalking the poor prince.

It was clever of him to play the victim, but it only made things difficult, not impossible. I worked hard for him. It had been easier infiltrating OZ and White Fang during the war than it was getting to him. I remember wondering, once, if he would be worth it.

He is.

He's watching me now. The bed is large and custom-built, with a frame that should be able to stand up to his strength. There are all sorts of places to fasten his restraints, but it's neither crude nor obvious. It was expensive, but I somehow doubt he appreciates the trouble I went to. Or maybe he does.

His cock is currently as stiff and thick as it was in any of the fantasies I rationed out to myself over the years. I never let myself go too far with fantasy, not wanting to spoil the real thing, but I see now that I needn't have worried.

He's magnificent.

That white-blonde hair is spread out over my pillows like a splintered halo. His arms are stretched above his head and manacled to the frame, making the muscles of his shoulders and chest stand out. Unlike my own pale skin, his is golden; like mine, his body is marked and scarred. None of it detracts from his beauty. He is a soldier and has lived a hard life, and the scars are as much a part of his attraction as the hard muscles straining as he pulls against my chains.

His legs are spread wide for me, held that way by the straps just above his knees. He can't hide his excitement from me. His heavy cock springs from a pale thatch between his legs, swaying gently as he moves, testing his bonds. Those long legs move restlessly, and I can already feel them wrapped around me. The globes of his ass are just visible, and I smile, thinking about how they will feel in my hands when I spread him even further.

I've prepared my way inside him with a thick rubber shaft. He wears a harness of thin straps around his groin to keep him from pushing it out. The straps are attached to the ring around his privates; the more he pushes, the more it pulls on him. I wonder if he's realized what I've done to him there yet, or why.

Zechs growls and thrashes, arching up off the bed. I suck in my breath as that perfect body flexes and strains, answering his needs and mine. I think he's noticed.

He's astonishing, amazing, sex and desire in the flesh. I want to fuck him so hard he won't ever think of anyone else again. I want to be his God.

He taught me this language. Years of trying to find words for him taught me. He's perfect for me. I knew it the first time we fought. He's my reward. He's the reason I am what I am. No one else could have matched him, fought him, tracked him down, and captured him. No one else is worthy.

"Heero."

It's the first time he's said my name in years.

His eyes are bluer than blue.

I pull my shirt off slowly, never breaking his gaze. I let my fingertips trail down my chest, thinking of the time when he'll touch me like that. It won't be soon. Right now he needs his captivity.

I understand him.

I understand everything.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks me. He's breathing hard from his exertion, and his tongue wets his lips, flickering over the flesh. I want to feel his mouth around my own tongue. I want to taste him.

I unsnap my pants and let them drop. I stroke my cock gently. My control is good. I've had years of practice.

"Are you fucking deaf?!?" he shouts at me as I undo my watch and set it down on the dresser. I can see frustration and anger in his eyes, but no fear. I expected none. Not from him, not when his body is so eager for me.

Fully naked now, I sit down on the edge of the bed. Our eyes are locked, as I reach over and lightly caress the head of his cock, just dragging my fingers over it. The fact of touching him there, of fondling Zechs finally and for real, is almost enough to bring me off. I take a slow, quiet breath and smile at him.

He bares his teeth at me, at my possessive touch. I see the way he shudders, though.

The effects of the drug I took him down with should be gone by now. I'd heard good things in the mercenary market about it, tested it on a couple of unfortunates, and tried it out on myself before using it on him. He'd been unconscious for almost 36 hours after I ambushed him in Cairo. I've taken good care of him since then. I've seen to every intimate detail.

This house is mine. The bed is mine. He is mine. I take care of my own.

I lean over and kiss his forehead. He snaps his head up, trying to smash it into mine, but I already have a hand in his hair. With a painful jerk, his head stops a fraction away from mine.

Grinning, I shift over him and run my tongue up the side of his throat. I've been waiting to taste him for a long, long time.

"Got you..." I whisper in his ear.

"Go to hell," he says hoarsely.

He knew what this would lead to. I made my intentions clear. The penalty for losing our game, or winning it, was always going to start out with sex. That's the way the tensions ran. That's what I wanted. And what he wants, though he lies to himself still.

The chains will take away the need for that.

Still holding his head back by the hair, I shift again until I'm lying against him, one leg crooked over his own. I kiss and nibble at his throat. I bite. I press my aching stiffness against his thigh.

He's so warm and so real.

I think he needs to bleed a little. Just a little, for me.

The knife was in a sheath attached to the back of the headboard, out of his sight and reach. I listen to the hiss of his breath and watch his eyes darken as they focus on the shining blade.

"You know I won't harm you," I say. I lick the edge of the blade lightly, feeling the bitter sting and tasting the blood. I lean over and lick at his mouth, knowing that he'll open for me. When he does, I let him taste me.

"I know everything you like," I say, drawing away from him so I can see his face. "I know how they've never satisfied you. They want to be swept up in your arms as if you were the hero in some romance novel. They want you to spread them wide and own them."

The knife is very sharp. I let gravity pull the edge through his skin as I begin. I mean to mark him, not disfigure him, and the cuts are only deep enough to scar. I'm not sure of my ethnic background, but the first Heero Yuy was Japanese. I've learned my name in the alphabet of my borrowed heritage. I cut it into the skin above his heart, the knife flashing with each short stroke. The strange, branching letters appear, limned in scarlet, and he doesn't breathe while I do it. He stares upward are the mirrored ceiling, watching me. His mouth is closed against the pain and humiliation.

I finish and move back, kneeling between his spread legs so that I can see all of him. My name lies forever above his heart. The scarlet is gorgeous against the golden flesh and pale hair, and the blue of his eyes sears me as I drink in what I've done.

He takes in a shuddering breath and lets it go slowly. His nerves are singing. I conduct, I control this music.

Slowly, I bend down to kiss the head of his cock, my tongue tasting the teasing salt of his continued excitement. I never take my eyes from his as I press my lips to the soft firmness, feeling the blood humming beneath the surface. I give him a moment of attention, a brief flicker of sensation, and then I tell him more things he doesn't want to hear.

"I know you better than anyone else ever could," I murmur, letting the flat of the blade ghost over the fine flesh of his thighs. He must hold still now, or the bunching of his muscles will bring the edge into his skin. He knows it, and though his eyes are sharp, he lies motionless for me, taking in the strokes of the knife and the soft fall of words.

I watch as fine hairs part before the edge, and smile.

"They offer you everything. They'll forgive you anything. All you have to do is deny yourself. Deny the passion and the bloodlust. Deny your hatred, your betrayal, and your need for revenge. Blame it on the Zero system. Blame it on Treize. Say that everything you were and everything you believed in, every thing you felt was wrong."

I suckle gently at the inside of one thigh, leaving another kind of mark and sealing it with light kisses.

His jaw is clenched and his eyes are fixed on mine. Within the manacles, his hands are fisted, the knuckles gone white.

"But you don't even have to say anything, do you?" I say. I press the flat of the knife against his cock, letting cold metal and hot flesh meet. "All you have to do is hold your tongue and let them believe whatever they like. Let them believe that you want what they want."

I draw a finger through the blood on his chest and lick it clean. He watches in fascination, but says nothing. I don't expect him to, yet.

"You owe your life now to the silence, don't you? They want you to burn with regret and sorrow. If you'll be the noble failure they can pity and lust after, they'll give you everything."

I put the knife aside for now and smooth my hands over his thighs and hips. It's so good to touch him intimately, to take possession of him. I had to wait so long.

"Fuck you," he says hoarsely.

"It's true," I say simply, stretching my body across his to taste warm blood and hot skin. I lap at it, drinking in his scent and his taste and the simple fact that I have him now.

"Then how are you, how is this, any different?" he says, and I look up, hearing raw bitterness in his voice. It's good. I want him unleashed. I want him to let go.

"Because you hate them. Because you're not ashamed of who you were and what you did. You don't want anything they can offer. You don't need to be forgiven. You still have your pride," I say, in between cleansing strokes of my tongue. "And they'll never guess what you truly need."

I lower my body on his and he hisses at the sudden heat. God, it feels better than I ever imagined. I press my aching cock again the soft firmness of his belly and groan. I have waited so damned long for this that I have to close my eyes and just be there for a moment, soaking up his heat and the hard silk of his skin, listening to his heart beating, and feeling the twitch and surge of his manhood against me.

It's impossible to resist kissing him again, even though his blood stains my lips. He is warm and open now, tentative rather than implacable. I confuse him and arouse him both, and sometimes I forget that the years have been long for him too.

He breaks our kiss, shaking his head, but already some of his anger is gone, leeched out through my words and careful attentions to him. "Tell me," he says hoarsely. "Tell me what you think I need, Yuy."

My smile is slow and genuine. "You need me. You needed me to hunt you down, to prove your skills to you. You needed me to remind you that the universe is a harsh place, and that you aren't helpless in it. But now the hunter has taken you down, Zechs. You need to pay the price. You need to feel it."

I kiss his forehead, his eyes, and his mouth: slow, soft kisses that seal the pact we have already made.

"I'll make you feel every inch… "

"No," he says immediately, but his voice is unsteady.

"Yes."

"You're a sick bastard."

"Maybe so, Zechs," I murmur, kissing his neck. "But I don't think it matters now."

His reply is a guttural sigh. I can't quite interpret it, but it makes no difference now. It's time.

I have to roll off him, and my body misses him. He watches, his breathing harsh, as I retrieve a few items from under the bed. I almost expect him to struggle as I lift him to place the small cushion under his hips, but he doesn't. He knows what I'm doing. The position and the bondage are unfamiliar, but he knows the mechanics of male lust. I know Zechs' sexual past almost as well as he does.

More than that, I know my prey. He's not afraid of me, or repulsed. He's angry and tense and, yes, excited. He wants me on his own terms.

He hasn't quite accepted that he's not in control here.

I kneel between his legs and quickly undo the straps, pulling the dildo out of him slowly. He catches his breath and the restraints rattle as he tries to snap his legs shut. His eyes close as I explore him with my fingers, making sure that he's ready for me. There's no need to hurt him now, and no pleasure in it. I spread lubricant generously over his flesh and mine.

Time. Past time. I can't wait another second. I push his legs up and farther apart and reach out to run a shaky, slippery hand over his hard cock. I barely hear him say my name as I grab my own cock and then shove into him hard.

I've got him, I'm in him, and nothing has ever felt so good before. Zechs Merquise is finally real, finally here, spread out on my bed, and his ass is the tightest, sweetest thing I've ever touched. I don't give either one of us any time, because we've waited too long for this already.

He arches up as I enter him, and the tendons stand out in his neck. "You," he pants, "you son of a bitch…"

But his hips tilt up to meet mine. And his body speaks of lust. He tosses his head and that hair goes flying. He's outstanding. Fucking him is an honor.

I ride him hard, making his body surrender to my cock. Leaning forward, I grab him by the hips and pull him viciously into each thrust. I can't get deep enough into that heat. It scalds me, and makes me think that nothing will ever be the same again. How can it be, after this?

His body grasps me and welcomes me. He loses fractions of his self- control with each thrust, until he's moaning and gasping. A string of profanity without any heat rolls from his lips in a dozen languages. He curses me and my cock, and curses himself for getting fucked and liking it, needing it.

I move fast and feel his body clench me spasmodically as he is pushed towards the edge.

God, Zechs, come! I need to see it. It won't solve everything. It won't miraculously make everything all better, but it will do this: every time you remember my cock in you and my hands on you and my mouth licking the blood away, you'll know who you own now.

His cries are masculine and deep, and they arrow straight down to my groin. He moans my name, but he isn't begging me to stop. He wants it harder. He wants more. I give him everything I've got, until I see his orgasm overtake him, until his body arches in a perfect, trembling bow and his warm seed splashes his skin.

I drive into him fast and hard, wanting what he's already found. One stroke, three… I'm there suddenly, my own back arching as I cry out his name and pulse out into his clutching heat.

It is the closest to god I'll ever be.

+

The second time I had him, I freed his legs, and he wrapped them around me, pulling me deep into him.

He was passionate that time, as if he'd given up all hope of escape and was out to seduce his captor.

I know better. It's not a bitter knowledge, though. I'm not out to tame him.

He's a poor loser: he won't admit he lost.

So I'll be careful with him, and I'll take my time, and I won't let him out of my sight until the day he realizes he can't stand to be away from me. History might tell you differently, but we're two of a kind. We could have anyone else we wanted, but there will never be anyone else who can match me.

I don't love him. I need him, and he will understand that he needs me. And that will be enough.

His hands are shackled again to the bed frame, but he turns in his sleep towards me. I lie still, knowing that any movement of mine will wake him. He reaches out with one foot and finds my leg, and when he has made that contact, he is content.

I don't know what the future holds. I think war is coming again, but I can't be certain yet. If it does, this man, my Zechs, will fight at my side. It can't be any other way. I know well enough that if I ever see his eyes clouded over in hate again, it will be the last time I see anything at all.

Until that day comes, if it comes, Zechs Merquise is mine, and the passion I wake in him is mine, and his need is mine.

And nothing else matters.

The End

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