Word Count: 1,772
Okay, so here's the deal on this fic: If you don't like the genre, get out. If you don't like the pairing, get out. Hell, if you don't like the characters, get out. Get it? Got it? Good.
Mainly, this crap spawned out of an image of a totally obsessed Jasdevi. I kid you not. And an extremely messed up Lenalee. So I went, hey! Let's make a really horrible horror story where Lenalee and Jasdevi meet out of almost coincidence and form a hate!love and a obsessive one-sided!love. So yeah, that's how it got started.
P.S. If you don't like character death or extremely gory/perverted scenes or slight OOC-ness, then leave the building. Otherwise, enjoy!
He wonders if he should leave here. It's been at least two to three hours already, and he's been in here for even more.
His instincts claw at the edge of his mind and he pushes it back. He won't have it. He won't take it, the temptation to do what it bids. He'll be just like his brethren if he did.
His genes are telling him to kill the person in front of him—a tiny little girl with her black hair rolled up in pigtails and gray eyes bleeding tears of sorrow and pent up anger. He can only look down on her as she crawls towards him on bloody knees, hate blinding her eyes and burning into his heart. She crawls over the bodies turned to ash. It stains her face. It makes her look pretty.
"Why?" is what she whispers, a silly question only meant for the dramatics in a movie scene. "Why did you kill them? You're only about my age, and yet you did this." She stares at him, the hate growing more profound and the tears threatening to spill over again. "Why?"
He only looks down at her, gold and black hair swirling around his face in a bloodstained spiral. He can't bring himself to smile at her pain like the others. He can't. He doesn't even know why he can't.
So he turns and leaves the still crawling girl behind him, out of the bloody house and onto the back of an Akuma and leaves for home.
---
He still doesn't know what to do when he meets her again a few years later. She's filled out slightly, in the black dress given to the women exorcists, looking prettier than she did before. All he's done is grown a bit taller and grow his hair out more, the black and gold even more apparent, like a sign.
They meet in the back of a hallway. All they can do is stare at each other before the girl says in a tight, strangled voice, "Hello."
He wants to walk away again. More than before, he wants to walk away.
But he can't. So he nods back.
"You're the boy from before," she says in a voice so wretched it manages to twist his heart a bit before he recovers. He can only nod again at her tortured expression.
She stares at him for a while, and he feels discomfort tightening in his chest as her expression begins to blotch over with old hate and anger and disbelief at the fact that he is so young, and yet so bloodstained. Her eyes glint a hazy violet in the light, more mature than she was when they were younger. Her hair falls around her in waves of ponytail, glinting a pretty green.
She looks beautiful.
"You still haven't answered my question."
He gazes back at her, his voice steady and strong as he replies, "I don't know if I ever will."
They gaze at each other again, the room serene and lovely in the lighting. Then, they both turn in opposite directions and walk away.
---
The battlefield is his home. It is a home that is painted red, black, pink and brown, warm colors that splatter onto his face when he arrives, when he becomes who he is. It is a home filled with music, music that screams and rages and laughs with victory and pain. It is a home in which he feels safe in, safe within the screams of pain and roars of anger.
The battlefield is his home. It will be his home for the rest of eternity, and he knows this already. He has for a long time.
But today, he does not feel as safe as he should feel within his home, as he pulls out another dying heart from the chest of a human with his red gloved hands. He keeps thinking about her, her back turning away from him and her pretty eyes glinting with anger and loss.
It infuriates him so much, both sides of him and he hurls the heart down the alleyway. It lands with a squishing sound, rolling around like a swollen paintbrush covered in red on the cold ground. He breathes in, out, in, out, before swiveling away and storming off into the street lit by lamps, his hair flowing behind him like a golden cloud, away from his home and into the awaiting world.
---
He wants to see her again. It's a craving in his chest that refuses to release him, tightening his heart, clenching his stomach—all those things that make a day as uncomfortable as possible.
He wants to see her.
So he reforms into his own body and whisks his way down to headquarters. He sneaks past the guard and hops onto multiple windowsills to find her. He does at window five-o-five, and he stops and stares. There she is.
Her hair is out across her pillow, framing her face, her shoulder, her waist. It wraps around her like a blanket made of black silk, and he can't help but stare as wanting begins to rise in his chest. He wants her. He wants her more than ever, covered in blood and ash like the day they first met and in that black exorcist uniform she wore the night before. He wants to shove his hand through her chest, hear her scream as he rips out her heart. He wants her eyes to widen in horror, her lips to part in a silent scream because—
She would look beautiful.
But when morning comes, he is gone with the darkness and back at his blood covered home, waiting for the next visitor to come along into his domain.
---
The craving turns into a needing as time flies by. He dreams about the little girl from long ago, her face stained a pretty red and gray, the girl from a few days ago that held her head up high, warning and angry. Her eyes that were shielded from everyone else, that held the look of a bloodstained warrior.
He wants to crack that look open, peel past the layers and reach towards the frightened little girl underneath the skin. He wants to rip her out and hold onto her and never let go because she was his. He needs her.
They need her.
He plans multiple plans to kill time, how to get closer to her and rip out her heart and paint her red. All the while, his chest grows heavy from breathing harshly and heart pounding heavy and fast as the images of that girl, torn and down and defeated race through his mind.
They need her. They don't even know her name and they have already labeled her as theirs.
Tyki once took them aside from one of the Earl's meetings and spoke to them, voice harsh and with an edge of worry inside. "You've both been acting differently," he says, eyes searching their faces. "Your skin is paler, your eyes are wider and more frantic. Is there something we should know?"
They look at each other and back at him, intent on not telling what had been inside their minds for a long time, for many, many years.
"Nope. Not a single thing."
---
The page of their obsession comes to its last line as the two of them cross paths again a few years later. She's grown taller, leaner, frailer, with her hair chopped off and burnt at the edges. He's grown even taller than her, hair now down to his waist and remaining eye glinting with malice and need.
He manages to take her down with almost no fight. She's weaker than before, her legs covered in spirals from the Innocence rejection. They are similar, he decides, because the Innocence has destroyed them both from the outside in.
He has brought her down. The years were not in vain and he smiles triumphantly, insanely, because his goal has been achieved.
"You know," he says in a bare whisper, bringing his finger to a stop in the middle of her chest. "I was thinking about your question."
She bites her lip, already bruised and bloody. He can hear her companions' cries as they race to save her. It will be too late by then, he thinks, laughing and laughing on the inside. "And?" she says, her voice toneless and controlled, as if she knows he hates that. "What is your answer?"
He laughs briefly, finger pressing deeper into her chest. "And I've decided that I don't have an answer."
She can only gaze at him, unperturbed by his insanity. "I think I've always known that."
He smirks, and his finger probes deep into her chest. She cries out in shock and pain, somehow still alive even as his finger rests inside, feeling her veins, her blood—
Her heart.
"Monster," she hisses, blood starting to come up in the back of her throat. She retches, the expression unseemly on her pretty face.
He almost stops for a second at his probing and touching. The word felt odd, even though he had known that she would say that. It was strange to know that it hurt more than it did for his mother and father to say it to him (to them), and it angers him more than ever.
He pushes two more of his fingers inside her gaping chest and she looks like she's about to scream.
"I've been waiting for this," he laughs, eyes wide and breathless. "I've been waiting for this for a long time."
She glares at him, blood trickling out of the sides of her mouth. She looks as beautiful as he imagined for so many years, and it gives him a thrill, a burst of exhilaration that makes him do what he has wanted to do since their meeting.
He catches a glimpse of her wide-eyed expression, her lips parted in an almost-scream as he plunges the rest of his hand into her chest and grabs her heart. He pulls at it, tugs until he makes sure that she gives in and screams a liquid filled scream before wrenching it out of her chest, snapping veins and spurting blood over her chest with the silver cross. He watches her die in an instant, eyes glazing over and blood stopping. He feels her heart slowly cool in his hand, a dead lump from a once living being.
He smiles, bends down, and kisses her cold, corpse lips.
"Thank you."