Atonement

Title: Atonement
Author: Spare
Word count: 824
Status: One-shot, complete
Rating: Hard R
Notes: My first Code Geass fanfic, and it’s a PWP. My (ir)rationale for writing this would be “I wanted them to screw, so I did.” End of story. And for legal purposes, Suzaku and Lelouch are both 18 in this fic.
Warnings: Absolutely plot-free man-sex ahoy! Drunken, semi-noncon, kinda angsty lemonade. SuzaLulu.
Disclaimer: Code Geass and corresponding characters are not mine.

Atonement
by spare

He’ll regret this in the morning. For sure he would.

But not right now, when all he could think about was

so good, so good

And all he could ever seem to say was “Ah… ah!” and a name both familiar and alien on his tongue.

“Suzaku.”

He hissed it, he moaned it, he breathed it in pleading, needful tones he would never, ever use—if he were sober, saner, if the man whose name he called so desperately wasn’t doing such a good job of

fucking him senseless

making him forget himself.

Lelouch Lamperouge does not beg. He cajoles, he gives requests, he commands. He also does not willingly spread his legs like a wanton whore, nor does he allow himself to be mounted from behind like a mare in heat, his dark hair spilling out over the wooden floorboards and his left cheek rubbing against the front edges of a shirt strung half-way off of his shoulders.

Suzaku knows it full well, and makes him submit. Forces his hips open and apart. Claims his ass with one brutal thrust. Digs warm, callused fingers deep enough to bruise just above the backs his knees.

There is no warmth in their kisses, just a sweet, salty tang that might have been blood mixed with saliva or lust. There is a bitter edge to it all the same, a heady odor in their breaths that bespoke the fate of all the empty beer cans littered round the front porch of the old abandoned house they were currently sprawled in.

Lelouch is bleeding; he feels a warm trickle down along the inside of his naked right thigh. It seems to trace a different path with every quiver of his hips, with ever curl of his toes. It should hurt—and yes, there is a pronounced sting where he is sure he will have trouble sitting down come morning—but not so much. Not so much that he’d want this to stop, at any rate, before its inevitable conclusion.

Even if he was forced to do this against his will—as he most certainly had, as he would convince himself later, he is not one to leave a job undone. He has bled for it already, begged for it with his trembling body and ragged sighs, wept for it with his eyes and with his cock, painfully erect and swollen against his stomach.

And besides,

so good, so good

if one could get past the excruciating sensation of having bits and pieces of himself wrenched out with each solid thrust, it was… bearable. Divine, even, especially when Suzaku shifts his hips ever-so-slightly upward so that the tip of his penis brushes against that spot. The one that makes the former Britannian prince whimper in an altogether different state of agony.

Near the end they do not rock so much as strain against each other, Lelouch pushing back and pushing out and taking as much of him in as he could. Suzaku fucks him hard and fucks him deep, breathing harshly against his ear, and when they come

so good, so good

they come together, white imploding behind Lelouch’s eyes even as it spattered his belly, his hips, the floor beneath.

It is sweet oblivion. It is Suzaku grabbing his thighs and plunging one last time to spill his seed inside him, sticky and warm and coursing down the path earlier chartered by the blood drying on his right thigh. It is fragile moonlight riddling the darkness of the room, marking the slope of his back, his trembling hands. It is his sins washed away for one blessed, exquisite moment. It is his innocence reclaimed.

It is a night of drunken sex with Kururugi Suzaku, except in Lelouch’s case he is just past tipsy, and definitely sober enough to keep this detail to himself later on. It is the consummation of lust, long-repressed, for his childhood friend.

It makes him want to throw up, but his throat is parched. He dry-heaves instead. He swallows a mouthful of stale air and bows his head even lower against the floor.

When he raises himself up on his haunches an infinite moment later, he pretends he is no longer Lelouch, Suzaku’s friend, but Zero, unmasked. The one who’d sold his soul to the devil, whose sins were beyond redemption.

He almost believes this, until he feels the familiar weight of Suzaku collapsing against him, rough hands roaming across his waist, the rapidly cooling stickiness of his cock, and Lelouch becomes aware of the softened length still inside him.

The name the taller youth whispers is not Euphie’s, and Lelouch is glad; later, he would tell himself he would have been glad if the name hadn’t been his. He closes his eyes in defeat, in relief.

He’ll regret this in the morning. For sure he would.

But not right now. Not when they could stay like this for a little while longer.

-END-