The summary line comes from the song "Necromancer" by Gnarls Barkley

Although I wanted to make this a 2-shot, it hasn't happened and most likely never will. Sorry. ;_;

Warning: Necrophilia, mild/implied slash and over-embellished wording.

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:::: Necro ::::

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It isn't something Lelouch necessarily goes out of his way to do.

He likes to think of himself as being the opportunistic type. That isn't to say that he enjoys it more or less because of this, it's just the way things are, and he is very comfortable in this trench – sepulcher – of propitiousness he has plowed underneath the hollow pathway of unsuspecting souls. He sits in the epicenter of his net like a spider on its web. The silky tendrils that are so ornate and beautiful to look at mean nothing but imminent death, an artifice that has to be placed (hidden) in the perfect location so it will snag the lulling naiveté of passersby. They are crafted well with the charm he's had since birth, with the eloquence he's mastered over years of extensive use, with that glint in his eyes that ties everything together – knots around his struggling pray that willingly tangled in his web. He wears this act of nobility like a second skin so his real layer of pall is invisible, and none are aware until it is far too late – and none have ever breathed a word of it once they have…

Lelouch had been told once by one of his abating catches that his act was like magic. The boy said it with an odd smile that might have been an impressed sort of happiness, if not for the tears streaming down his young pallor, but apple cheeked, face. Lelouch was told, that in spite of being truly masterful in weaving the lies of his fabrications, the boy could tell something wasn't right – but therein lays Lelouch's actual ability. Helping the eyes perceive what he wants them too, not letting all the smoke and mirrors look falsified; like a true magician, he made it all seem real even though his audience knew it wasn't. He masterfully hid the dove he'd slaughtered after smashing the cage flat under a white cloth into the table, while the crowd was preoccupied with the other (impostor) dove fluttering freely in the air. Lelouch made them truly believe that there wasn't a wall over their eyes.

That boy had not said all of this word for word, of course, but Lelouch had understood; and in a way, was gratified. He let the compliment go to his blooming ego while he watched the glassy eyes of his withering prey turn to stone.

However, the fact that he claimed to know the counterfeit construction of Lelouch's entrancing phrases made him… dissatisfied.

He was the only one, in all fairness, that ever expressed having a sixth sense of Lelouch's ulterior motives.

(Disregarding the woman – the only person – who seemingly knows him inside and out (just as he hopes to soon enough…).)

Most of his spectators couldn't tell a blink from a wink, and it was at times heavenly to watch the sheer horror erupt on their faces—

How many of them had shouted that this couldn't be real, that he couldn't be this dastardly demon who coaxed them with the hoax of a prince charming personality; after they had chuckled nervously, thinking this was probably just a joke, just some harmless folly on his part…? Lelouch savored seeing that realization click in their minds; it always flashed in their eyes like a heartbeat – a brilliant epiphany that charged Lelouch's ambitions.

And sometimes, he couldn't help the devilish smirk that would crawl – tear – across his lax lips…

When this hellish fascination mutated into this demonic thrill, Lelouch isn't entirely certain; but there is one indication of how this all began that emerges time and time again in a flicker of a fuzzy memory that scratches his insides – in what used to be a terrifying and desolate way, but now…

Now it all churns into an indescribable sensation that has managed to connect some loose – and mismatched – wires in Lelouch's head, resulting in the (unnatural) arousal that burns so hot in his body he almost wonders if hell could be brewing inside him.

The image isn't always exactly the same, but the motivation that sprays from it is clear and never faltering: The dense fog of fear drenching the air to toxic levels, impervious to the gallantry left breathing behind any of the aghast eyes entangled by the sight of slaughter—The fountain of syrupy sangria flowing, seeping, down the sharp steep steps of the flight of stairs flanked by the shattered panes of the once immaculate windows—The putrid twinge of bloody iron rusting in the humid air choking voices from throats that wish – want, to scream—The trailing stone cold silence splintering down spines like earthquakes shredding through cement cities with steel stability—

That absent expression forever frozen on his mother's face…

Lelouch remembers the first time that memory bolted through his mind like lightning, completely unbidden after years of repression.

(It was when he had met her…)

.: + :.

It was almost two years ago when he first saw her, first made her offhanded and informal acquaintance; back when this talent of his was lying dormant inside him (curdling deep down, just waiting to boil over his cool façade).

He hadn't liked her.

She was rude, crass, snide, brash, and petulant in a strange glaze of indifference.

(A part of him had mused that she was much like him without the elegance of charm – or the concern to even have any.)

He had spoken to her as little as possible, handling every encounter with her like a "speak when spoken to" situation – even though she hardly seemed to understand that rule, or be inclined to learn it and apply it. This was especially hard when all he had were questions and all she had were halfhearted answers that weren't really answers – like a bunch of damn riddles that he didn't want to solve. He did (does) pride himself in being able to decode any ciphers that run out of a person's mouth, but it was neither the time nor place to be doing such tedious work (and it wasn't because he couldn't decipher her half-remarks, he just felt he shouldn't have to). She got under his skin too easily – she knew what buttons to push and in what manner and in what order. She had the pattern sequence to his annoyance down to such a science (almost like her own magic) that he began to dread any interaction with her.

Her arrogance began to stink; stinging in his nostrils whenever they flared in anger at whatever brainteasers she tamely twisted off her tongue. Her obstinate vows of silence deafened his ears after every question he threw at her – why was it that she could ask away the day in his presence – expecting, demanding answers from him – but as soon as a ghost of a question left his lips, she became that nun again; hiding behind her black veil* from his sinister sentences?

She was a real piece of work – art or not – and at times he didn't know if he should take a step back to admire the craftsmanship of her design or defile it with his bare hands…

If he could have avoided her, he would have, at all costs; unfortunately, that wasn't something he could have the pleasure of – and she knew it, the witch.

.: + :.

Magic or not, Lelouch uses this so called power he seems to posses, casting spells upon any eye that is dim enough to believe that everything it sees is real – that it couldn't possibly be an illusion. He doesn't take any displeasure – guilt – from these acts that he commits. As far as he's concerned, they're all better off dead anyway. If not for the sake of the world, then for his own twisted pleasure.

There is something so much better about having a corpse than having a live partner – they have wants, they have needs, they can complain, the can resist. But the dead? – They have no choice but to accept it, but to take it, but to silently submit. There is no hassle of foreplay, there is no laboring for a mutual gain, there is no strained conversation afterwards – no need for an encore of a relationship. It is open-shut.

(Lelouch has never liked leaving loose ends – they would only fray at the ends of his fairytales.)

He can't say that is always easy, or necessarily clean, but, more often than not the ends do justify the means…

(There are a few faces he regrets seeing lifeless, regrets hearing their strangled voices, regrets seeing their endless tears… That he regrets taking advantage of – but life goes on with or without them (and his clotting guilt).)

Being an opportunist doesn't mean he rides a smooth path but he has learned of the dos and don'ts regarding his influential power. However, there will always be mistakes that he can never take back or make right; and those, are cases that he derived little enjoyment from.

Even so, those are few and far between; Lelouch has learned to take the good with the bad and in a business like this, they always come in equal doses.

.: + :.

She started to grow on him.

It was a slow process – or maybe it was too quick for him to realize with his trained eyes (had he been deluded by the art of delusion?) that there was forgery afoot. The strange taste of trusting fidelity started to linger in the air around them as they got past their first impressions and finally took on the challenge of digging deeper.

And so, time crept by, sewing their relational rift into a seamless line; so much so, Lelouch began to wonder if they were ever truly strangers…

He found himself growing fond of all the quirks she had – that used to drive him up the wall – to be the many things that made him more drawn to her. She wasn't like all the others; she didn't throw herself at him, she didn't endlessly seek his attention, she didn't stare at him as if he were a God… she didn't really want to have anything to do with him. He liked that independence, her strong will – which could work against him at times –, her stubborn beauty, and the way she could easily spin his own phrases back at him.

She was different, and that was all it took for him to notice her as something other than the witch he likened her as…

.: + :.

His preys are easy targets – most of them practically waltzing up to him with "Please Kill Me" stamped on their foreheads. All of them were so willing, so easily swooned, so utterly pathetic that Lelouch began to cherish the few that played hard-to-get or at least gave some attempt at playing coy with him. Lelouch knows that having these empty-headed buffoons only makes his work easier; it's just so unfulfilling at times – like he's wasting his grand performances on a dead audience. He sometimes felt offended, as if there was some person – or being – out there that was mocking him, like they were looking upon his work as nothing but child's play.

These thoughts often only fueled his resolve, and often made for a bloodier and more heartless kill. He never felt he needed to impress anyone, only satisfy his unquenchable desire and then repair (or rebuild) his web for the next meal.

It's always only a matter of time before another comes along and falls into his trap.

.: + :.

He knew that she was aware of his hobby – as it was delicately coded.

(Of course, she always has known more about him than he was comfortable with.)

She had even aided him on occasion. She simply planted the breadcrumbs on the trail through the dark dense forest as he waited at the end of it, in a tempting gingerbread house.

He had found it a bit strange at first when she had (she claimed that doing such a thing solo was too risky – which was a bad thing when she relied on him for reasons that were never really clear). He didn't think she cared enough about anything other than herself to help him in his endeavors – although it is debatable whether or not helping him was a selfless act; considering not only was she assuring his safety – for her own self-interest – but also throwing so many others into harm's way…

.: + :.

There is always a struggle, but Lelouch doesn't mind getting his hands dirty – what's just a little more blood on his already stained hands?

Contrarily, he is no butcher.

There have been a few cases where the hunted became the hunter, and at those times Lelouch can't help but wonder where he slipped up, where he lost all the control he was using to suffocate his victims. And it is at those times, that Lelouch has become desperate – not grasping-at-straws desperate, just anything-to-win desperate.

He has never lost.

Lelouch has come across many methods that have suited him, but his most preferred would have to be by asphyxiation. There is no blood to clean and there is no weapon to carry—

However, there is also room for his meager strength to fail him, for the screams of terror to spill out of whatever hidden sanctuary he's brought them to (he never visits the same place twice, and rarely does he ever visit them personally a first time).

Shooting a person can be too noisy and messy, as can stabbing or slitting the throat. Lelouch doesn't lust for blood (although there is something enticing about writhing and thrusting in a crimson lake). He rather likes to use his bare hands anyway. It is more personal, it feels more real, it feels more empowering—

And this way, he can watch first hand – face to face – as the life drains from their eyes. The cold dead stare that fades over their faces is what really spurs his humanity to life. Every time, just as they take their last breath, Lelouch feels the sight and sound of it virtually barrel right down to his crotch – making him harder than stone, harder than he could ever hope to achieve when copulating with the living. That is when most of his self-control deteriorates faster than an ice-cube would melt on the surface of the sun.

The thrill of the hunt isn't what gets him off, if it was, he would drag out the chase and most likely climax in his pants before he could extinguish his prey.

This isn't to say that his arousal sparks the moment the body turns limp in his arms. Sometimes just the thought of committing this act, or when the real show is about to begin is when he starts to feel stiff – and the thought of their stiff corpses only makes him stiffer – more rigid than rigor mortis. And during the execution he has also felt a voracious fire combust in his body—

He has held a blade to a person's neck, swiftly swiped it across and nearly drooled as he watched that thick red substance poor down their bodies – he has felt an undeniable jolt at that. But nothing is more appetizing than witnessing the body flop to the floor (in some cases, a bed) in a heavy heap of flesh, and (sometimes) blood, hearing that blissful silence after all that sobbing and pleading… Lelouch cannot contain himself when his eyes feast upon that sight—

(His mind clicking into overdrive as the images and senses from his fated memory spit out scorching flames of excitement throughout his body, licking his nerves raw with their concentrated heat.)

—And on some occasions, he has frantically stripped whatever clothing was in the way as if that fire sweltering inside him was about to burst out if he didn't, freeing himself and his lovely cadaver, then slicked himself in that bodily – bloody – oil, and just went to town… The salty stench of sweat, tears, and blood will permeate around him, leaking in through his nose as he huffs for air and infuses into his brain, making him dizzier and disoriented – tripping on a high that only comes from this splendid vice.

(Safe to say he does have quite the reputation (well, not him exactly, but it is a well-known fact that there is some person out there who is committing these devious crimes), but they'll never catch him… not alive, at least.

(He is a true magician; never getting caught in his own tricks).)

The fight for his release isn't a walk through the park, even if it does help him grow wood; it just isn't always easy to avoid.

Conversely, on a good day, they serve themselves up to him on a silver platter with the pure intent to find the dead-end they had been searching for…

.: + :.

"I have a fantasy…" she had said coolly disconnected, as if uninterested in her own desire. She didn't even spare him a glance as she said it, her back to him as she looked out of his sun-light bedroom window luminous in front of her, leaving the lively green tresses hanging about her back to be the only sight playing at his eyes.

Lelouch had waited patiently – not entirely sure if he was even interested himself – until it seemed she wouldn't continue. She was provoking him, he could tell; playing cat-and-mouse with words despite the lackluster cloak over her voice. However, this wasn't a game with a winner, or perhaps, there was no loser. So, he decided to take the bait she torpidly dangled before him.

"What's that?" he asked blandly, resting his chin in the cradle of his palm.

He may have taken the bait, but he wasn't about to bite – not yet.

She looked at him then, slowly over her shoulder with a faint simper tickling at a corner of her lips. There was a glimmer in her effervescent golden eyes that struck Lelouch unexpectedly. It wasn't a faux varnish, nor was it one that was completely sincere. It was just there, proving that despite the words that drifted off her lips were too grave to understand, she was alight with a beating heart and electrical pulses.

She was alive, that's all those eyes (have ever) bothered to show him…

.: + :.

He would have never guessed, though, that C.C. would be a volunteer…

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