Story:               TO FIGHT THE FANTASY

Author:             FancyFigures (

Disclaimer:        I don’t own ‘em, wish I did, just enjoy writing about ‘em for free etc

Pairings:           None

Category:          Romance

Warnings:         Yaoi, lemon

Spoilers:           None

Notes:              Zechs is haunted by memory – the memory of desire.  He has only his own company to console him.

Feedback:         If you liked it, PLEASE let me know!




Zechs Merquise slammed the door of his apartment behind him, and shucked off the jacket of his uniform. His broad shoulders flexed under the thin fabric of his shirt; the tension across the tight muscles of his chest was more than obvious.


He swore, loudly; as if he’d held in the expletive too long for comfort.


The guards outside his room heard the muffled sound, and they turned to look at each other, puzzled.  Not the Prince!’ their eyes said.  Not the Ice Prince, with his legendary control!  He wouldn’t resort to such a human weakness as temper…’ They’d both felt the blast of his displeasure many times – they’d both suffered the humiliation of his biting, caustic words; the disgrace of his coldly despatched punishments.


Both of them would die for him.  But they didn’t want to hear him cursing like any normal mortal.


Inside, Zechs was preparing another stream of invective, rolling the words around his tongue, and wondering whether to throw some glassware for good measure.


He’d never been so angry in his life!  And it was all for himself – all at himself!


How could this be?  He had earned the many Ice Prince titles ironically, but most deservedly – he believed implicitly in self-control and rigid professionalism.  He had gone many long years repressing his aristocratic background, and committing himself to soldiering and battle – he had been frighteningly successful, and was universally feared.  That kind of reputation didn’t come to a man who admitted human weakness – or to one who walked the same path as his minions.


Today he had let that mask slip.  Not the mask of his helmet – but the mask of his cold, sterile character.


Seemed that he’d repressed a little more than his birthright.


Groaning, he ripped at the buttons of his crumpled shirt, and almost tore it from his body.  His nude torso stretched and tightened with the movement; the strong muscles of his upper arms glistened slightly with the sweat of the day’s work.  His nipples were small, dark brown nubs; they sprang erect, stimulated by the harsh drag of the material against them.  They showed up clearly against skin that was pale and smooth, but not effete.  It was like cool, intractable marble.


It had been a hell of a day’s work!  Interrogation; confrontation.


Near failure.


For weeks, the prisoner hadn’t talked; hadn’t given in.


The guards were tiring of the routine; dragging the young man out of the cells, and up the corridor to meet their commander, his heels dragging slightly from exhaustion and starvation.  Drenching him in the icy cold water; binding him with the abrasive ropes; wrenching his head back, by the roots of his hair, to face their commander’s quiet – but relentless – questions.


They’d been doing this for weeks, and still the man was silent.


But today they saw the unimaginable – they saw their commander stand abruptly, his hands clenched, his questions abandoned halfway through the interrogation session.  They saw his eyes dilate sharply, and his face pale even more than was natural; then they saw him lean forward, and strike the prisoner’s head so fiercely that they heard the dark-haired man’s teeth rattle, and saw the blood run out of his mouth from his bitten tongue.


They were stunned, temporarily.  In that time, Zechs threw his chair aside, and in another stride was up against the prisoner’s body, barely inches from his bruised face.  He took the man’s dark-skinned chin in his hand – he wrenched his face round to the front, so that droplets of water and sweat whipped across his cheeks from the thick, matted dark hair.


And he’d demanded the man’s attention; his pale, sharp gaze had impaled the dark indigo pools of the prisoner’s own eyes.  Zechs had stared him out - and found him wanting.  The prisoner’s eyes had filled with the water of weakness.


Zechs had dropped the man’s face with an expression of disgust, wheeled around, and left the interrogation cell.  The guards had fallen to the side, to avoid him – he was like a blistering flame that licks swiftly along a fuse, hurtling towards violence and destruction.  When they moved in on the prisoner again, he had been broken as effectively as if Zechs had reached into his body and torn out his soul.


Zechs Merquise had done that, many times.  Broken men.  It was just that his guards had never seen him show such emotion whilst doing it.  It was as if this prisoner had triggered something in him that no-one had before.


They looked at the crumpled heap of enemy soldier at their feet, and couldn’t see anything special.


But then, neither had Zechs.


As he strode up the corridors towards his rooms, he felt the fury rushing through his body, mocking him.  The prisoner hadn’t been the one he wanted.  Of course he hadn’t!  He was just a young, handsome, stupidly brave young soldier, who had no idea of his captor’s strength.  A youth with a dark skin tone; with a familiar build.  A way of moving his head that had brought a flood of sensory memory.  It had shaken Zechs – it had brought about his most uncharacteristic outburst in the cell.


Zechs had no further interest in the prisoner.  But the disturbance in his body was like a physical hurt.






And now he leant heavily against the smooth leather couch of his living area, and the disturbance hadn’t abated.  What did he have to comfort him – to soothe him?


He knew that either of the men outside his door would have entered willingly, if he called them.  They would have allowed Zechs Merquise – their commander and their God – to strip them, and caress them, and generally play with them, in whatever manner he desired.  They’d kneel for him; open their mouths for him; turn and offer their ass in worship of him.  Probably both of them would!


He could fuck them until they sobbed and ached, and until he was entirely satisfied – he knew that this would take some time, considering his appetites.  And then they’d thank him for it.


But he’d never ask them in.


That wasn’t what he wanted, was it?  Not for him, the quick, aggressive physical relief of sex with a subordinate.  Not the easy submission – the eager victim.


He wanted a partner.  A man, not a minion.  Someone who would fight him for what they wanted; who would allow him access to their body, but only because they wished it, just as hotly, just as desperately.  And they would demand the same commitment, in return.


He’d give that commitment – if he found the man.


His fingers toyed with the fastenings of his pants – he flipped the buttons open, and tugged the zip down an inch or so.  Now there was an erotic ‘v’ of smooth, white, exposed flesh to be seen, just below his navel – there was a shimmer from the pale hairs on his belly, trailing down beneath the bunching fabric.  A couple of tight, dark blond curls peeped almost coyly between the mouth of the open zip; he wore nothing underneath the tight, regulation pants.  He toed off his boots, and peeled off his socks, until he could feel the threads of the rich carpet under his bare feet.


He stood there, dressed in nothing but his open pants, and he lifted his arms high above his head, locking the fingers together, and stretching as if to touch an imaginary target on the ceiling.  The muscles rippled on his body; his sweat rose quickly, for the room was too hot as always.  He limbered up for a few moments more, his arms reaching up and around; together and apart.  His shoulders were broad and steady, but his limbs were unusually flexible.  His waist was narrow; his upper body tapering down to similarly narrow hips, and long, lean thighs.   He was – always – in peak condition.  The Prince is built for both speed and strength, his men said, their voices in awe of the tall, perfectly proportioned body; many of them excited sexually by it.  He has perfect control – he is a God on earth!


Zechs despised this adoration of him.  He expected unquestioning obedience – he expected loyalty to the cause.  But he had little time for any personal adulation.


It kept him forever apart from other men.  No-one ever considered his feelings, or his needs.  No-one ever considered that he might be as sensual as any man – perhaps more so.  That he might be just as needful of the comfort that other men sought – and gained - so carelessly.


That he might be looking for a man, to tame him.  The man.






On that distant day, in that distant place, he’d seen that very man.


He never thought that he would.  He thought that he’d see out his days with his loyal followers, and his occasional gratification, and that he would forever be in isolation.


Though he never expected to live to old age.


But then he’d seen the man – the Gundam pilot.  More a boy than a man, in reality.  Though was it only physical age that measured maturity?  He was barely older than that, himself.  So maybe the pilot had only a boy’s body – but he had a grown man’s anger; a grown man’s single-mindedness and hunger for victory.  It was a match for Zechs’ own hunger.


He’d been aware of this man, before they ever met.  He’d been aware of his presence in battle – of his strengths; of his skills.  He’d been fascinated by him, even then, without really understanding what he might find in reality.


But wasn’t he always scrupulously honest with himself?  He’d suspected that he might meet his match – in more ways than one.


They had spoken at last – they had touched.  A handshake, only – a very meagre manifestation of their meeting; a rather inauspicious mark to leave on each other.  And the anger still burned in the boy’s eyes; the hate still blazed.  The battle would continue, they both knew that.


That was how Zechs wanted it to be, though.


He shook out his hair, the fine strands plastered to the sides of his head with sweat – it was times like this that he regretted keeping it long, but it was one of his very few vanities.  He liked the feel of its caress against his neck at night; he liked the gentle murmur of its movement in the winds outside.  He looked down at his hands, and lifted one of the sweaty palms to his head.  His long, slender fingers still vibrated from the blow he’d given the prisoner – a reminder of his appalling loss of control.   He rested them on his hair, as if to soothe them.  They slithered through the pale downy locks spilling about his face, and he sighed, in an attempt to release the torrent of stress crashing through him.

He allowed the pure sensuality to suffuse him; he felt the soft, light caress of the tresses, as if they were someone else’s.  As if they were actively responding to his need for comfort.

What the hell had happened in that room, earlier?  Had he gone mad?  He had men to carry out the more physical side of interrogation – to soil their hands, rather than his own.  He was mad!  As if in response, his hand clenched gently at the pale blond hair – he twisted a lock around his middle finger, fiercely.


Why was it that he couldn't get his mind back on track lately? It was untenable that one man - one man! - could throw him so far from rationality and reason.

It had taken the mere glimpse of a figure that resembled him – a prisoner, nothing more, but one who had the same ethnic look – to have shattered his self control; to have threatened him with humiliation in front of his men.


And the threat of that humiliation was with him always, now – ever since he’d come into contact with the Gundam pilot.  His enemy.  His nemesis. 


His desire.






He went for a drink from his fridge, filling a frosted glass, pouring mineral water over ice.  He held it against his forehead for a moment, trying to cool himself down.  He heard the soft chink of the ice cubes against the side of the glass; watched the misty breath of their melting.

His work was suffering, his temper flared too easily, when he should have been – no, he normally would be! - keeping it in check.  His icy, inner calm was no longer as secure as it used to be – like the melting cubes, the feelings inside him swirled and steamed; there was inner turmoil in its place.


He was unwilling to admit that he was no block of ice, as a man.  But it was the truth.  He was a creature of passions – he knew himself far more deeply than any other person ever would.  But no-one else would be allowed near his core; the fever of an angry, tumultuous ocean.  A hidden ocean – a hidden maelstrom.


No-one saw that except himself – alone, in the dark of the night.

His hand led the cool glass down the side of his face – a sculpted, sharp, beautiful face.  He followed the path of his cheekbone – then his chin – and down to the hollow of his throat.  It left a damp trail of condensation in its wake.  His skin shivered slightly under the touch – his tongue slipped out quickly, to moisten his dry lips.  He took a long draught of the drink, letting one of the final ice cubes linger between his full lips.


He stood beside the fridge, a drop of liquid glimmering on his lower lip.


He was suddenly aware of his other hand – it rested gently at his bare chest, fingertips flat against the skin.  The roughness of his fingers contrasted with the smooth muscles of his ribcage.  He traced one of the ribs from his side to his breast bone… he lifted a lone finger, and brushed mischievously against his nipple.


A gasp escaped him.


His nipples were very sensitive – he knew this well, but even so, the sharpness of the reaction startled him tonight.  He looked briefly down at his hand, as if it were someone else’s.  As if he had no control over it…


He reached the fingers into the almost empty glass, and picked out a sliver of ice, still chinking gently at the bottom.  Then he lifted his hand back to his half-erect nipple – he brushed the cold, wet chip against it.  And groaned.  Both nipples were erect now – both straining in the cool air of the kitchen, asking to be touched.  To be pinched, and nibbled, and suckled.


He put the glass down, carefully, on the kitchen table.  A ghost of a smile whispered across his lips as he lifted his other arm, and brushed his fingers across his cheek, closing his eyes.

He could imagine what it would be like… how this would feel, with another man’s touch directing the moves.  Another man’s fingers – caressing his face.  Teasing him; tormenting him.  The skin would be warm; but not familiar.  The fingers would be dark, and maybe rough, and they would demand to touch him, however they chose.  They would demand to enter him, wherever they chose –


Zechs’ lips opened slightly, and his fingers slipped into the moist, warm depths of his mouth.  He moaned softly – he sucked greedily on the digits.  His lips still twisted in the hint of a sensual smile.


There would be a similar smile on that man’s face, as well – at his expense, maybe. 


He could see that smile!  He could see that face; knew whose expression he saw, gazing at him with fierce mischief, and a wary, antagonistic challenge.


And a hungry desire.


Zechs' eyes sprang opened, and his gaze darted back to the hand at his nipple.  The cube had now melted completely, and the icy water was dribbling carelessly down the centre of his belly, following the channel of his chest, down to his very groin.  His fingers traced it gently, hesitantly, enjoying the moist lubrication of his skin, and feeling the muscles of his stomach clench against the touch.  He didn’t stop at the waist of his pants; he didn’t stop at the erotic white ‘v’ of usually protected flesh.


He watched his hand, as it slid deliciously into his pants, teasing the zip down even further.  A wicked glint shimmered in his eyes.  He felt the damp fingertips on his warm curls; felt his cock swelling against the fabric, straining to be touched; to be freed.  Felt the sudden tightness of his balls; the tension rising in them.  Too bad it was his own hand, instead of...


The other man’s.

His fingers brushed against a cock that was suddenly very sensitive; very hot.

He groaned, again.  His other hand was still at his mouth; it slid out, now, to grasp at his neck, tightening suddenly, tangling its fingers into the long, fine locks.  He tugged at his hair, fiercely; as if it were someone else holding him; someone else directing him.  Someone who wanted him to remember who was in control here. Even as he winced at the pain in his scalp, he felt the throb in his pants, and the jerk of his arousal against his flesh – the instinctive, wanton response to the harsh touch.


His feet were starting to move, of their own accord.  He was stumbling out of the kitchen, back towards the lounge.  His pants were starting to sag gently beneath his crotch – they were sinking down from his hips, his legs were seeking their release.  His hand wanted to fold itself around his cock – it wanted to caress him; to pump him.


Not yet, he gasped to himself, a grimace on his face.


His feet knocked against the side of the couch; he put his free hand down to anchor himself against it, and he pulled the pants down impatiently, kicking them off from his ankles.


He sank, naked, into the soft, smooth leather of the couch.






Yes, this touch, his touch...


Zechs groaned aloud – he heard himself, and wondered again at his abandonment.  He had both hands at his groin now, one folded firmly around his blood-red erection, the other cupping his aching balls.  What he wouldn't do to have that man's hands holding him, instead; taking him between firm digits, caressing him, torturing him in a way that no prisoner should have to suffer –


Learning every curve and detail of his body; this body, stretched out, naked on his couch, limbs spread wide, hips straining towards a friction still withheld, and skin glistening with the sweat of sexual anticipation.  Zechs was offering up his own body to nothing more than a vision – to his imagination; to his obsession.  To his fantasy!


He stroked himself; his fingers were cruel, yet teasing.  His cock was wet and slick with pre-cum, and the remains of the iced water.  The skin slipped easily up and down the shaft – the dark-purple crown swelled impatiently from the tip, the viscous liquid leaking eagerly from its slit.


Watch me! thought Zechs, with a strange, consuming anger.  Watch me do this for you!


The man might almost have been there – watching him, indeed.  Standing beside the couch; so close that Zechs could feel the heat from his own body; yet too far away to be clutched in the moment of climax.


Zechs’ fingers tightened at the top of their pumping action, and stilled; his balls were released gently from his palm.  He tormented himself, withdrawing relief even as he felt the crest rising in him.


He was panting loudly; he could hear his hot, shallow breath in the still air of his apartment.  His thighs ached; his skin was slippery with sweat; the veins in his arms stood out, screaming out his tension.  For a wild second, he imagined the guards outside his room, stepping in, and finding him like this.  Slumped on his couch, back pressed almost painfully against the cushions, feet forced against the carpet as he took the weight of his arching body.  Moaning; gripping his own cock; humping his pale, perfect body in the search for an invisible lover’s touch.  He almost laughed aloud, but didn’t think he had enough breath to waste on it.


He thought of the prisoner he had struck earlier today – the boy’s fear and misery finally consuming him.  He had been an attractive boy – or he would have been, before his men finished with him.


He thought of the man that the prisoner had been but a pale imitation of.  The man whose presence was all around him; stimulating him; exciting him; humiliating him like this!  A man who knew of Zechs’ existence – who knew they fought on opposite sides of a fierce conflict.


But who would probably never know of the internal conflict that wracked Zechs now; alone; in his own room  The irony was too poignant to bear for long.


Zechs’ right hand grasped the throbbing shaft between his legs; he groaned as he felt the agony of completion, demanding it be heeded.  His left hand slipped under his buttocks, his middle finger sinking itself into the hot, sweaty crevice there, and ghosting hungrily over his hidden entrance.  He pressed in firmly; familiar with the landscape of his own, needy body.


His head dropped down on to his chest; he grunted, as he twisted his invading finger.


He climaxed, the shock of the ecstasy ripping through his body and bringing his hips off the couch, the hot, sticky threads of cum bursting out over his hand.  He shuddered – his ass clenched around his finger, as if it tried to suck it inside, never to release it.  Everything he touched, hurt him – everything was sensitive; everything screamed inside his head, with hot, sweaty, delicious anguish!


A few last spurts dribbled from him; a few last shivers shook his body.


He sank back down on his abused couch, heart racing.






For a moment, he concentrated on his breaths, trying to slow their pattern; to regain his control.  His climax had never been so violent; so sweet.


But he wasn’t satisfied with the hand-job – he might have known he wouldn’t be.  How could he be?  No-one knew how he liked it, as well as he did himself – no-one knew the right speed, the right pressure.  He could control himself; hold himself away from orgasm for as long as he could bear, or bring himself off quickly, fiercely, angrily


But tonight, that wasn’t enough.


The man’s eyes were still in his mind, watching him; the vision still laughed at him; mocked him.


Are you done so easily, Zechs Merquise? Just the touch of fingers – just the thought of a lusty young body like mine?  You have the stamina of a pubescent boy…


Zechs smiled bitterly to himself.  He was hallucinating.  The madness had arrived, at last!  That was the penalty of his deep, sorry obsession.  His eyes drifted half-shut, his hand still playing lazy circles around his half-limp cock.  The warm, congealing cum on his belly matched the sticky glue between his fingers.


He scooped some up in his palm, and touched it to his mouth.  His tongue slid out and lapped at it.


He wondered if the Gundam pilot would like that; whether they would have similar, sensual tastes.  He would offer his cum to the man – he would watch his lips drink it; his tongue suck on it.


He was aroused again – he could feel the stirring in his groin, and the speeding up of a heartbeat that was already too fast for comfort.  It was too long since he’d felt this disturbance; it was consuming him beyond his sense, beyond his objectivity.  If he gave way to it, would he ever return? Would Zechs Merquise, the Ice Prince, the Commander of no Compassion – would he be irreparably compromised?


Zechs did laugh aloud, then.  He had no defence against this, not tonight!  He must ride it out, and tomorrow would be another day, which his self-control might consider, and conquer, as always.


But for now, there was only the sensation – the desire raging through his veins.  The fantasy man, mocking him, gasping with him, reaching for him –


He shifted on the couch so that he was laying along its seat cushions; he lifted the leg nearest the back, so that he had a better reach between his legs.  His cock throbbed hungrily; it jutted out from his groin again, rearing out from the damp, sticky curls.  It glistened with the trails of his coming; it shone red with its own demands.


Are you done so easily, Zechs…?


He dragged over his discarded shirt, and wiped the remainder of his seed from his belly.  Then his arm reached under the couch and drew out a small, plastic pouch.  He hadn’t used this for a while – but he knew where he was most comfortable; where he needed to have accessories nearby.  He tugged out a long, slim tube of lube; and something thicker, and more substantial, that nestled in his palm.


He stroked softly and encouragingly at his erection.  The skin was tender, but it shivered with his confident touch.  He squeezed out the cool, unscented lube, and covered the fingers of his other hand.  Another shift of his hips, and that hand was questing at his ass again, slipping the slick digit inside, and then out again; wrenching a gasp from him.


And now the object in his palm was also being slicked with lube; a long, slim dildo, pale in colour like Zechs’ own flesh, and curved towards the top, to stimulate him from the inside, even better than his own finger could do.  His wrist twisted to a comfortable angle – his fingers pressed it steadily into his channel.  His teeth gritted briefly – the breach was always a slight shock – but he settled back to the feel of it inside him.


He rolled the end gently between his fingers.  He gripped the slightly slippery base, and began to pump it gently in and out.  It stroked at him, teased at him; his ass enfolded it, and welcomed it like the intimate friend that it was.  His other hand squeezed at his cock – calling for its surrender to another pleasure.


I can see you laughing, boy.  I can see you watching, and panting slightly, and maybe you are as excited as I am…


Watch me come!


The climax was deeper and longer this time – the nerves around his cock were slightly deadened from his last coming, but the effect spread out so much more widely!  It rippled across his whole groin, tearing the sensations from every point of his body, and dragging them along his veins to the one point of release, like a waterfall; like an avalanche.  He was unresisting; he was accepting of the sweeping rush of feeling.  He held himself open to it, and allowed his mind to unravel, and his limbs to shake beyond his control.


He cried out, though as softly as he could bear.


And at the last moment, as the dildo throbbed inside him, and the cum hiccupped greedily out on to his bare skin, he bit hard at his tongue.  He felt the drop of blood in his mouth – tasted the bitter metallic tang, a resentful symbol of his loss of control.


But he stopped himself, just in time, from crying out a name.


That was a humiliation too far!







The night was dark, and outside Zechs Merquise’s apartment, the guards were changing shift.  There was nothing to report between the men involved.


Inside the apartment, there was nothing but a single lamp lit, and the air smelled of strong alcohol and the sweat of a man’s body.  It was to be expected of the personal quarters of a soldier.  Though Zechs Merquise, of course, was so much more than just that! 


The man himself sat at his table, seemingly undisturbed by the close, humid air of the room.  There was an empty whisky glass, just by his hand – an equally empty bottle at the edge of the table.


He didn’t look as if he’d moved for a while; his casual sweats and tee shirt clung possessively to the lean, sinuous lines of his body.  His long, pale blond hair hung free, still slightly damp from a long, indulgent shower.  It tangled gently around his neck; teased across his forehead like the soothing stroke of a long-time lover.


Then he lifted a hand, slowly and almost aimlessly, and ran the fingers through his hair.  The strands whispered gently, and glimmered like silver in the dim lighting.  He sighed, deeply.  He sank his head forward slightly, supporting himself in both hands.


It was as if he spoke to someone – to no-one.


Tomorrow was another day, wasn’t it?  He was the one who’d said it.


Another day to fight his fantasy.  To control his desires, and to live the life of a professional soldier – the feared and adored Commander.


To live the lie he had chosen.


To live – alone.