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𝕺𝖋 𝕴𝖛𝖔𝖗𝖞 𝕽𝖔𝖘𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝕮𝖗𝖎𝖒𝖘𝖔𝖓 𝕲𝖑𝖆𝖘𝖘

*pardon for the low quality

"Of Ivory Rose and Crimson Glass", an ongoing fanfiction I write about Lelouch and CC.

To download a high-quality version of this image, support me on Ko-Fi!

𝐊𝐨-𝐅𝐢

Read the fanfiction!

𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐩𝐚𝐝

#art #watercolor #watercolor illustration #watercolor painting #illustration #artists on tumblr #fan art #code geass #cc code geass #code geass cc #lelouch vi britannia #lelouch lamperouge #lelouch x cc #lelouchxcc #cc x lelouch

To the world, he is Zero

To many, he is Lelouch Lamperouge. To few, he is Lelouch vi Britannia. But to CC, he is all that and more.

Tragedy is the cost of battle; peace is its gain. You can not have one without the other. Lelouch did not start this war, neither will he end it. Rather, the part he plays is one of precision and patience, it is calculated vengeance, and the human condition. What he lives for and what he dies for are one in the same. Nary a cloud before his goals, only those emotions that keep him from losing his mind - a great casuality closer to plausible than anyone knows. He would be a fool to ignore that which kept him healthy and sane; things that make him human. No matter how many voices, names, or ideas that he took upon himself, he would only ever be a man. Unless, of course, his goal could be reached. Then he would be granted that which is forbidden from all other life; immortality. A gift bestowed unto him from a witch who knew him inside and out. An alien who had seen who he truely was, who saw who he could be, and decided that she could aide his efforts in ways he never could as just a man. He was now a man with a gift, a man who paid a price, but a man who had her at his side, there to protect and guide him so that he might make his transition. His metamorphasis from someone who merely lived to die, into someone who would live forever.

There are nights when he trudges into the darkness of his quarters without switching on the lights. He doesn't look at her - the girl who lays on his couch - but knows that she's there, watching him. His thin fingers on his steady hands grasp the face of his mask and slowly remove it. He's downcast, the weight of his gift on his shoulders; a burden. His mind will never regret his decision but will always question his ways. He tosses the helmet to the end of the bed. He unsnaps his cape and places it on a hook. He removes his coat and loosens the buttons of his shirt. He sits at the edge of his bed and puts his head in his hands. Silence on the outside, roar of emotion on the inside. His coping mechanisms wear thin, and sometimes the strings begin to tense and the stretch can almost be heard, like the whine of an untuned violin.

It's on nights like this, when sorrow is heavy on him, as musk is on an ox, that she will approach him. She lays a hand on his shoulder. He looks up into her unwavering face, in all its stoic beauty. She bends down and places a kiss to his lips. It draws him to the here and now, instead of the constant drowning he faces inside himself. She places both hands on his face and his eyes form tears. There are more words spoken in this one moment, a greater exchange from her soulful globes into his, than there ever will be. It makes him feel alive, trembling beneath her, her body beginning to fall into his. He remembers what its like to feel, to hear, to breath. She will press her lips into his again, her tongue will ask his to join her. They will lay together, him grasping her hips, her fingers in his hair. This man of tact, genius, and patience. He will meet her strength, loyalty, and compassion. She will undress him. She will move her lips across him. He will close his eyes, feeling the heat of her breath and silk of her touch. He will feel the heat in his groin and the knot in his stomach. She reaches him where he is, she can pull him up. She will not place him on a pedestal. She will not underestimate him. She will believe in him and know what he is capable of and she will reward him for it and comfort him when it hurts. She will slip out of her clothes - or rather his, he'll notice - with slow ease and finally, the rest of the world is forgotten, unbalanced against the sight of her skin in the static of night. His mind empties, and he knows it, but he doesn't fight. She will sink down to him and press herself against his chest. He will feel her plush bosom on his firm torso. He will groan. She will stroke him in the place he needs it most. He reaches for her with slender fingers and pulls her mouth to his once again, now lost in the feeling - in what can be the only pleasure hidden in his humanity. He feels her tight heat and wonders how he got by without it. Its never been anyone but her; he would be naive to say that will never change; and it would be insulting to believe it could ever be better with anyone else. Sweat beads. She whines. He moans. She purrs. He's close. She cries - like she can feel it the same way he does. He releases within her. It blinds them. It always does. He kisses her once again. She runs a hand through his hair, brushes it aside, kisses his forehead.

They sleep good on nights like these; they have created a sense of peace. He sleeps good for several nights. He will make practical decisions. He will make better plans. She will have made him more man than either of them knew he could be; all so that he could someday be more.

He won't know that she does it for her almost as much as she does it for him. Afterall, she was once a woman, as he will have once been a man.