Disclaimer: I don't own... obvs

Pairings: 2x3 and mentioned past 2x1

Warnings: m/m sex of the rougher kind, angst, language

A/N: Inspired by the song Love Like War by All Time Low and Vic Fuentes

Beta'd by ELLE

Love Like War

You only want me for sex. Not the gentle loving kind. The raw, animalistic sex that we have – where you run your teeth down my throat and I dig my fingernails in your back.

I don't see you for months – your visits brief, fleeting, you appearing out of shadows, in between missions spread across the earth and colonies.

You appear when you want, a text message, an email my only warning as I prepare for another war of wills, our bodies our battlefield.

I get the Metro, know you are probably already at my place and I hold my messenger bag tight, weighed down with books, as the train rattles underground, thinking of us.

You smiled and I capitulated. Drunk on you wanting me. Drunk on the feel of you, sinew and muscle and all that hair wrapped around my hand.

I was young. You were confident, no, arrogant, high on the adrenalin of being a hero and you pushed me against a wall, promised me sin, sucking me off, your lips, the heat of your mouth my undoing

You only did it then as you were making your point. To him – you'd destroyed him already, left him behind – and he walked in on us as you'd planned that. You turned your head and looked up at him from your position on your knees, meeting his blue eyes before he stormed out, the door closing loud behind him.

I was your new target and you finished me, making me come into your mouth, me touching your hair in reverence. You stood then, thrusting your tongue between my lips, making sure I tasted myself, and you walked away leaving me slumped against a wall.

You always walk away. With that slight sway, with that movement of your hips, with your tight jeans, with your braid trailing behind. You walk away leaving devastation, the aftermath of a firefight, I think Heero was half the man he was after you'd finished with him.

I don't give in to you. You feel like you have the control but you've kept coming back to me – you could've left me behind long ago but you want me still. I have you like no other man has, maybe because I fight back.

You like that I bite back. You like that my nails run red lines down your chest – you like that I can push you down and fuck you, make you shout and buck your hips and whimper. It's war between us.

I wonder, as the train stops at my station, whether you will be expecting me to surrender tonight. Whether you will use your hips and your hands and your legs and pin me to the floor, tie my hands, rake your teeth down my chest and fuck me against the floor.

You might plan that, lie in wait in my apartment, stealthy and silent, but I am not surrendering tonight. This is one battle I refuse to lose. I want to push you, I want to slam your pretty face into a wall to stop that cocky grin, I want to slide into you and pull your braid and bite down on your neck until you bleed.

I walk to my place, a grey building in a grey nondescript place – all blank and annoymous like me and I wonder at times why you picked me. You could've had anyone – gorgeous and fucking knowing it. You could've toyed with Heero for years.

You don't tell me and I don't know if I want to know. Maybe I am your mirror, you distorted through a filtered lens and you destroy me as you can't destroy yourself.

I take out my keys at the door, walk in, see no lights or indication that you are here but you are – I feel you, your lingering presence echoing in the room. I laugh sometimes about your public persona – all smiles and jokes. No one knows you like I do – dark, lust filled eyes, dirty talk and rough sex.

You don't move from where you lie in wait as I remove my bag, leave my keys on the table covered with my papers and books. You laugh that I decided to go to University rather than join the Preventers like you did. I decided long ago the only fight I wanted anymore was ours.

I walk to my bedroom, anticipation rising – I may not be a Preventer but I am not unused to a fight. I haven't lost any of my skills, I need them all to fight you.

You pounce once I'm through the door – you are heat and aggression and lust, pushing me to the wall without any hesitation. I let you, feel your breath wet against my face.

I say your name like a curse – lick my dry lips and then lick at yours, the moment of surprise gives me an advantage. I tumble you to the floor, pin you underneath me. I'm taller, more muscled but you have all the tricks. You never lose unless you want to.

You smile – that smile that I remember as you slid to your knees in front of me all those years ago – and I find it difficult to resist you. I kiss you, angry, and it is all tongues and teeth and barely suppressed violence.

I want you. I want you underneath me, I want you in any way I can, but I know I will lose to you tonight, your hand is at my groin, my cock hardens under your touch, and you use that against me, flip our positions, grind your body against mine.

You straddle me, look down at me, my wrists pinned and your eyes almost black in the darkness – streetlights creating slashes of yellow across the room and you through opened blinds.

"Trowa," you say, deep, husky, "want me to fuck you, baby?"

I moan as your teeth are at my throat and your tongue is making lazy patterns over each bite. I don't know if you draw blood – there doesn't need to be blood for us to be wounded by this encounter. When you walk away, I am always left battle scarred and bruised. As are you.

You don't need my answer, you remove my shirt, slide your lips down my flesh as you undo each button and I didn't intend to but my white flag is raised. I will do all those things I want to do next time, fuck you until you scream my name, but your mouth is on my dick, skilled fingers already having bypassed material and I am bucking up into wet heat, forgetting everything but you.

I hate what your mouth does to me, that smirk, those words, how you go down on me but I don't do anything to fight back as you slide slick fingers into me – the gentleness of preparation contrasting all too harshly with what will happen next and what has gone before.

You remove your clothes and I watch you, my shirt discarded and my jeans around my ankles. You know how you look – pale skin, perfectly muscled body, tattoos and scars, that damn hair – you know you're a walking wet dream and you watch my face closely as you strip. Fuck, I want you as you pull down boxers, shimmy out of them – finally naked.

I'm lost when you look at me like that – with need and desire. You pull down my jeans, then slide your lips up my legs, brushing inner thigh, teasing at the head of my cock with little licks, your lusty stare watching my reactions.

You smirk when I whine – fuck I hate you for that as you're teasing me. You lick down my dick, the flat of your tongue sending me spiralling into pleasure and I contemplate forcing you onto my cock, holding your head, you taking me down your throat but though there is violence, though this is war, we both want this and we both yield in our own way.

I gasp when you murmur against my flesh, tongue at slit, "how'd you want me?" I grunt out, grab for you, your cock hard in my hand and you gasp as I stroke you, squeeze a little, your tease ceasing as you find the lube, the condom, the sound of foil a sign of our relationship status.

You let me slide slippery fingers over your dick, your eyes shut as I give you firm strokes and you grab at my hand, wrap a hand tight around my wrist to stop me.

"Too much for you?" I tease.

I let you push that wrist above my head and I give you a smirk that matches your own as you kiss me, hard, demanding, our cocks rubbing together as we create friction against each other. "Never too much with you," you say as our lips part.

You look far away then, as though you have said too much, but then you move back on your heels and whisper, "on your hands and knees." It's an order and as a soldier I obey, pulling you roughly for one last kiss before I turn.

I gasp when you thrust in, all my senses alive with the feel of you – we should've made the bed, but instead I feel the harsh roughness of carpet against my knees and you all over my back, lips locked on a shoulder, grunts stuttering over my skin.

You fuck me hard. I feel your braid against my arm where it trails and I grab for it, demand a kiss, open mouthed and I bite at your bottom lip and I push back into you. You tell me I'm good – you curse and I let myself repeat the words "fuck" and your name like a manta – quiet and not heard above the sounds of flesh meeting flesh.

I shiver when your hands skim my chest. You avoid my cock and I feel your hands at my thighs, fingernails digging in and I push back harder, meeting you every time. I'm not passive, I'm not someone you can fuck up and leave. I'm your rival, your opponent, your enemy and I throw everything I can back at you.

You start to lose it, I know, as you grab for my cock, stroking me with the same rhythm as your body's movement. You bite at my neck, your chest against my back, and you'll come soon, and we'll both shatter together, covered in bruises and carpet burns and bite marks, our skin showing our battle.

I hear your words against my ear. You lick at my lobe and bite and say, "come for me, baby, wanna feel it." Your hand brings me to climax, your words and your mouth on my neck and I feel your push in hard – rough, deep aggressive thrusts that have you moaning my name – and you come.

You kiss my neck, then, laving where you bite down, and you pull out. I find myself missing the feel of you already – I never said what we have is healthy, or that it is more than this – but a part of me hates peace, hates not having any fight.

I don't need the cool steel of a gun, I need the heat of your body and the intensity of our fucks. You dress, and you look less dangerous in the aftermath – and I slide my shirt on, leaving it open, putting my boxers on and it all seems desolate between us. The dust and debris settling.

You stay for a while. You surprise me as we share drinks, cigarettes, a temporary truce. You look at the textbooks, flick through the pages, making comments. We fall asleep to the sound of another language, a film where a man plays chess with death, and it feels oddly domesticated.

I wake up, you close and warm, and I reach my fingers to your throat, to where in your sleep you are defenceless, your skin pale, and my hands could so easily do such damage. You wake at my touch, a moment of confused innocence, replaced a second later by the realisation of where you are, and who you are with.

You smirk, that look that makes my blood boil, and I give you a brief reprieve before your back hits the coffee table and your body is underneath mine. You try to distract, to tease, to trick but I have you, my teeth scraping over your skin and our war begins again.