╭─► ❝The Great Pretender❞
Lelouch Lamperouge × Female! Reader || Written by Diana (d1ana-m0nd) || Inspired by Great Pretender
➢ Dark Themes && Not Proofread , Oneshot && 3,056
➢ The charismatic, good looking, and highly intelligent lad named Lelouch Lamperouge is a pretender who lives on two lives. He can even confidently say that he is a great pretender, though what he didn't know was that there was another pretender in his class.
The classroom hummed with the low, distracted noise of students packing up. Afternoon sun slanted through the blinds in neat bars, warming the dust motes that lazily orbited the desks. At the front, with the air of someone who belonged to two worlds, Lelouch Lamperouge folded his hands and watched the room with a calm, measuring gaze. He had cultivated the appearance of a king in exile, refined, composed, and entirely in control. A master pretender who could slip between masks without missing a breath.
Across from him, Y/N L/N moved through the rows, collecting papers with efficient, practiced motions. Her face was an impassive mask most of the time, but there was a sharpness to her eyes that cut through complacency. She didn’t need the spotlight; she preferred to hold it at arm’s length and watch how others performed under it.
“Hey Lelouch, I just found out that not all girls are crazy for you,” Rivalz announced, leaning on the back of a chair like he’d just discovered something scandalous.
“Oh? Do tell,” Lelouch replied, voice smooth as silk, only the faintest hint of curiosity tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Rivalz glanced around theatrically. “Apparently our beloved class president, Y/N L/N, hates your guts. Don’t ask me why, it’s all stupid speculation.”
“Some say it’s because she’s always second in academics while you’re first without breaking a sweat,” another student supplied, voice full of idle amusement.
“While others say you rejected her in a humiliating way,” Rivalz added, lowering his voice to an exaggerated whisper. “Say, did you really-”
Lelouch let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “I may be arrogant, but I would not go so far as to shame someone for their feelings.”
“Then… Why does she hate you?” Rivalz asked, nudging him with a grin.
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’m not invested in gossip,” Lelouch said, casual and dismissive. Yet when Y/N came closer with a stack of worksheets, his attention snagged; he noticed the small stiffness around her mouth and the way her smile never reached her eyes. Intrigue stirred quietly, the sort that pretenders find irresistible and then he let it go. Curiosity, for the moment, would be contained.
“Lighten up, will you? Who knows, you might find her interesting. Maybe you could clear whatever misunderstanding there is.” Rivalz clapped his hands, already back to joking.
Y/N set the papers down on Rivalz's desk. “Mr. Cardemonde, you seem to be enjoying yourself. Any ideas for the upcoming field trip?” Her tone was polite, flat, and an efficient shield.
“Nope,” Rivalz said, shrugging. He turned to Lelouch and patted his back like presenting a prize. “Lelouch here wants to invite you to lunch with the student council.”
Silence folded over the desks. Faces turned. A tiny ripple of anticipation moved through the room; even whispers are rumors’ wind.
“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Vice-President, but I don’t have time,” Y/N replied. Her smile was measured, polite, the kind people used at events when they could not be bothered to be genuine. “Though I appreciate it.”
Lelouch watched the smile settle and fade before it had a chance to be real. He could read people his part-time talent and the daily exercise of pretending and he recognized the careful construction of hers. Something like curiosity rose again, quieter this time. He kept his distance, he would not pry the seam of another’s mask, not yet.
Word spread fast, and the war between facades and truth moved onto another stage. When the Black Knights began recruiting, the atmosphere shifted from whispered rumor to open defiance. Y/N signed up not because she sought adventure, but because she chose where her loyalties lay. She arrived at the meeting place with the same composed air she wore at school, a steady cadence to her step, a face that betrayed almost nothing.
Zero’s lieutenants surrounded her when she entered, boots and weapons forming a small, tense circle. Cold steel glittered. For a heartbeat she was the only soft thing in that ring.
“Didn’t think a Britannian would join my ranks,” someone said, voice laced with amusement and threat. Hands moved to holsters and rifles trained on her.
A smirk curved across Y/N’s mouth like a dim light. “Easy now. You wouldn’t want your location exposed, would you?” she asked, voice level and calm. She didn’t flinch under the points of their guns.
One of the guards barked a laugh. “We’ll see about that.”
“I left a message with my roommate,” Y/N continued. “If I don’t come back within three hours, she will call the police and report this exact location.” She checked a small watch on her wrist. “You’ve been interviewing recruits for two hours and thirty-five minutes. That leaves twenty-five minutes.”
They exchanged looks. The tension thinned into skepticism.
“If you ask me, that’s not enough time to escape,” someone murmured.
Y/N’s face hardened, seriousness folding into the planes of it. “Then hear me out before you reject me.”
“And if we do not recruit you?” Ogi demanded.
“Then she calls,” Zero said coldly, but Y/N shook her head.
“As long as I’m back on time, no one gets arrested.” She kept her tone steady. Practicality was the armor she presented.
Zero’s eyes narrowed. He had read reports, snippets of rumors, observations from those who noticed her manner and the impressions had been consistent. Y/N was a person of principle. She kept her promises. If she said she’d return in three hours, she probably would. The Black Knights could use her as leverage if she failed, but the gamble seemed small. Zero glanced at the Black Knights to lower their weapons before making his decision.
“Why should we take you?” Diethard asked. “You attend Ashford. You’re practically Britannian.”
Y/N smiled, a small, cutting thing. “I’m not even truly Britannian. I’m an honorary Britannian living with my Aunt and Uncle, one Japanese, one Britannian. My birth parents were Japanese. I have the papers.”
“Those are probably fake,” someone sneered.
“They’re not,” she answered, and the way she said it carried weight, signatures in ink, a red stamp that the Britannians used to seal legitimacy. Zero’s eyes flicked to her hand, then to her face. She wasn’t trying to impress, she was asserting identity.
“You expect me to believe that,” Diethard scoffed, “and that you’d be loyal?”
“You need people who can think,” Y/N shot back. Her voice carried a quiet disdain for theatrics and a clear preference for competence. “Not just pawns.”
“Why you-” someone began, but a sharp rebuke from Kallen cut him off.
Tamaki antsy, loud, fond of theatrics, fluttered forward, his gun pointed at Y/N but she interrupted him with an irritating quip. “You’ve known me for like ten minutes and want me dead. Seems a bit much, no?”
Zero folded his arms and fixed Y/N with a look that could be warm or cold depending on the weather. He thought of the reports, of the careful way she answered questions, of the no-nonsense edge beneath her composed exterior. He saw usefulness, and perhaps a spark of something dangerous: a mind that didn’t simply accept orders.
“You’re in,” Zero said finally. “You’ll assist Diethard in Media and Intelligence.”
She inclined her head, acceptance wrapped in guarded satisfaction. The interview ended with frayed nerves and a new recruit added to their cause.
Lelouch’s interest in Y/N had been a quiet, simmering thing, a flicker left to burn behind the deliberate reserve he displayed. He kept his distance, maintained his mask. But curiosity is a dishonest lover, it finds any excuse to look closer.
He came across Y/N and Kallen one afternoon in the student council room, both of them leaning over a game of chess that Kallen had insisted on. The pieces stuck like punctuation between them, little mountains on the board.
“Say, Y/N, I heard rumors about you and Lelouch…” Kallen teased, eyes bright with the giddy cruelty of a friend who loves gossip.
Y/N sighed, a sound that was more exasperation than surrender. “You just ruined my appetite.”
“Oh, not in the mood then? I’ll bring it up later,” Kallen said with a wink.
“You’re curious, right? There’s nothing wrong with that. I’ll satiate your curiosity.” Y/N set her jaw. “I don’t hate him.”
Kallen blinked. “You don’t?”
“No.” She looked at the board as if thinking about the move she should make, but her fingers hovered over no piece. “There’s… something about him I can’t accept. It’s private. It’s something he needs to choose to share.”
Kallen leaned in, insistent. “Like what?”
Y/N’s eyes fixed on the pawn nearest her. “Whenever I see him I have this stupid urge to chuck a rock at his face.” She let a short, incredulous laugh escape. “He gets everything so easily, academics, popularity, and everything else. Imagine working your arse off, clawing your way up, and then someone else just… rockets past you on looks and talent.”
Kallen laughed, a surprised little sound. “So you’re jealous.”
“You’d be jealous too,” Y/N said, and for the first time she sounded less like a practiced mask and more like the person beneath, raw, human, irritated at life’s injustices.
Lelouch had always understood masks. He had worn them so long that sometimes he could forget the face beneath, yet watching Y/N peel back a sliver of herself aroused something unfamiliar, the desire to be known, not as Zero or as the aloof student, but simply as someone who could be seen. He invited her to lunch, to play chess. He offered small excuses to be nearer, to watch the way her jaw set when she focused, the small creases that gathered at the corners of her eyes when she allowed a rare smile.
And as walls began to soften, as their conversation shifted from barbed remarks to lingering, honest moments, the pretense that had defined both of them threatened to unravel. The great pretender found another mask he wanted to remove, and the girl who kept promises felt the dangerous pull of letting someone in.
They were both pretending, each in their own way but the distance between masks had narrowed, and in that narrowing something dangerous and tender was beginning to grow.
Lelouch had perfected the art of appearing uninterested. It was an armor as precise as any uniform, cool posture, a gaze that measured and catalogued, and a voice that hinted at amusement but kept its hand firmly hidden. He used that armor like breathing. It served him well in classrooms, in council meetings, and among those who watched for cracks in facades.
When he asked Y/N to lunch, an invitation framed as casual politeness, practical and perfectly rehearsed, he told himself it was for information, another data point collected in the quiet ledger of his observations. If she accepted, he might see how her mind worked beyond the terse answers she gave in front of others. If she refused, he would note her reasons and move on. It was all tidy, contained. He told himself that as he waited under the awning of the student council room, a chessboard folded in his bag like an excuse.
Y/N arrived on time, as she always did. Her uniform was immaculate, the hem of her skirt fell straight, her blouse pressed. Yet there was a looseness to her shoulders that suggested she’d chosen this appointment, that it was not an imposition but a small experiment of her own. She carried her tray with one hand and sat opposite him without preamble, eyes flicking to the chessboard as if considering how to dismantle a problem on sight.
“Thank you for inviting me,” she said. Her tone was neutral, but there was a cue of something softer beneath it, like the edge of a blade polished only enough to hint at the sheen beneath.
“You’re punctual,” Lelouch remarked, setting his own tray down. The student council room felt smaller here, private by default. With the hum of distant classrooms, a muffled soundtrack, afternoon light soft behind frosted glass.
“And you expect nothing less from a person who schedules appointments and school events,” she replied. She pushed a piece of toast across her tray with a fork and watched him eat as if cataloguing his mannerisms for study.
Lelouch accepted the observation with a faint smile. “People who organize know the value of time,” he said. “And I wanted a game.”
“A game?” Y/N’s brow lifted, half challenge, half curiosity. “Is that what you call it now?”
“Chess,” he corrected. He opened his bag and set the board between them. The pieces clicked into place in neat rows; the sound was domestic, trivial, but between them it felt ceremonial. He handed her the white pieces without a preface. “You may start.”
She hesitated, only a fraction, then picked up a pawn and moved it forward two squares. It was a practical opening: not flashy, not defensive, just efficient. She played the same way as she spoke, measured, precise, with the vertical honesty of someone uninterested in posturing.
They traded moves, pieces, and comments in a rhythm that was at once competitive and conversational. The chessboard became a field for testing, for observation. Y/N favored narrow, constricting plays; Lelouch favored setups that forced choices. Underneath each exchange, they probed one another for something neither would name.
“So you really don’t care about the rumors?” she asked after a quiet moment, voice soft enough that it could be easily mistaken for ordinary curiosity.
“I care about things that matter,” he said. “Rumors about me rarely do. People like to ascribe motives they can understand to someone they can’t.”
“You make people uncomfortable,” she said bluntly, not looking at him. She pushed a knight forward, teeth bared slightly at the concentration.
“That’s often a useful byproduct.” He allowed himself a flicker of amusement at her frankness. “And you? You don’t seem to care what people think either.”
She paused, searching for the move that would let her keep both shape and truth. “I care about competence,” she said finally. “And about not being steamrolled by someone else’s fortune.”
“Jealousy, then.” His bishop slid across to threaten her queen with a clean, clinical gesture.
“You’d call it that,” she said, tone dry. “But it’s not as petty as it sounds. It’s more an irritation at systems that reward people for being born into advantage.”
He studied her profile. The rightness of her words, sharp, earnest, reminded him of why he often found himself drawn to anomalous minds. A person who resisted simple narratives became a puzzle with moving parts. “And if you could change the system?”
She made a small, humorless laugh. “Wouldn’t we all? I try in small ways. I don’t imagine I’ll tear the world down alone.”
He moved his queen with delicate precision, threading a threat through the center. “Small ways add up,” he said.
She met his eyes for the first time across the board. There was a flicker, surprise, perhaps, or a recognition that they both understood more than the other would admit. “You’re full of platitudes, Lelouch,” she teased.
He felt something like warmth at her use of his given name, it was minor and oddly intimate. “I prefer the word truths,” he replied. “They’re less careless.”
The meal dwindled. A few pieces were taken, rooks, a bishop. The game’s stakes were not about checkmate but about the clean exchange of observations, a pawn sacrificed, a rook traded, a tempo gained. Conversation moved from the chessboard to school, to the Black Knights in quieter tones. Y/N’s answers were careful but not evasive, she measured what she revealed.
“You joined them,” Lelouch said finally, softer than he intended. He watched the way her hand stilled on the table.
“Yes,” she replied. “Because I chose it. Because sometimes you have to put yourself in places where you can do more than grumble.”
“And the interview?” he asked.
She bit her lip almost imperceptibly. “Difficult. Tense. I told them the truth about my papers and my family, and they… tested me. It’s the sort of thing that forces you to find out what you’re willing to take responsibility for.”
He listened, cataloguing not only content but cadence and breath. The way she described responsibility had a stubborn curve to it—not noble for show, but steady like a foundation.
“You’re not like other people I know,” Lelouch said, because a direct confession was a different kind of gambit. “You keep promises.”
Her eyes narrowed, then softened. “We both keep whatever promises we decide are worth keeping,” she countered.
“And what promises have you kept?” he asked.
She named a few mundane things that suddenly felt intimate because they were all small acts of fidelity to a life lived quietly hard. The more she spoke, the more he saw a pattern, the discipline, the care, the refusal to perform.
A chorus of laughter from the hallway snapped the moment. For a second, the ordinary world intruded and their quiet bubble threatened to pop. He felt the old instinct to retreat, to clamp down again on emotion and return to mask but the move made him hesitate. Something about the way she had relaxed, if only a fraction, piqued him. The pretender in him wanted to know more, and the man beneath wanted to keep her near.
They finished the game in a draw, an outcome they both accepted, unsatisfied enough to promise another match. As they packed the pieces away, their hands brushed briefly. It was fleeting, a static shock of contact that neither pursued but that lingered in the edges of both their thoughts.
“You’re invited to student council events,” he said as they stood. “Not just lunches. Chess, discussions if you ever find the time.”
She gave him a small, half-smile that had the honest weight of someone who rarely did small, easy social lies. “I’ll think about it.”
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