For all his showiness, a countenance as brazen and ominous as the eclipsed moon, it hides his frail uncertainty, as awkward as heels too high. One night I call him on it, having one too many glasses of sherry. "Grell, stop pretending you're enamoured with me. You're enamoured with the fantasy of me."

Madam Red is a fantasy. She is the centre of gossip at dinner parties and soirées, each new blood hue more scandalous than the last. How can I better wear the rouge on my face? How can I lift my bosoms higher? How can I exalt such intrigue surrounding this personality? So long as I can perform the extravagance of Madam Red, all the better to cover the grief of Angelina.

In those quiet moments, not on the streets of East End, he whispers my name in my ear, like a venerable summoning. It validates all my repulsive actions, that I am justified in my anger, to act with the righteousness of a crusading angel. When everyone sees Madam Red as beautiful in her opulence, he sees me beautiful in my cruelty, which defines me more than my red hair.

Encountering him makes me fall in love with red again because it can be such a curtain to mask all our vulnerabilities. He wears his hair that way not as an expression of his true self, but in spite of it. When I unbutton his collar, pull him by the hair to bite at his neck, his haughty tone thins to whimpering.

He is shy with me, says he's envious of the beauty that nature has provided me. He is envious of my ferociousness, that I remind him of some poetic truth of Tennyson, and he hoists me on some different pedestal that Madam Red could never occupy. Madam Red is made to enchant and confound, to be the brunt of scorn and scandal. Draped in black lace and red chiffon, I am his Angel of Massacre, "nature red in tooth and claw."

This places my mind at ease, for an agent of God, a reaper of souls, verifies that cruelty is indeed God's plan for His children. I no longer have to question why I had been unrequited, or the disaster of seeing all I loved and envied turned to cinder. The irony of seeing others make the choice to squander the blessing which had been wrenched from me was God's sick joke.

Grell delights in how I arrived at my bitter condition, a true specimen of humanity. He loves my mind as precise as my scalpels, he loves my laugh that cuts as sharp as the winter wind, he loves how I grit my teeth when I work on those whores, and he loves when I make a mess of it all.

Hot blood on my hands cools the rage inside of me, and my understanding snaps into focus. I am indeed just acting as my nature would dictate, for these patterns were shaped by the terrible circumstances life had set in place, a fate God wrote for me. Grell's presence proves it. He is an impossible creature, and it is not only his existence but his awe of me that force my gory hands to cradle his face and smear his ugly lipstick over my lips.

When he bites my lip and I feel the trickle of red down my chin, the hollow deep within seems to squeeze shut, stomach churns and knees shake. When he laps at the blood, licking my jaw and sucking where it had dripped onto my collar bone, such a feeling flares that I believed was lost to me, the tingling heat that jitters up my spine and forces a breathy yelp. My hands dirty his hair, tangled with the coagulated effluence, beauty by our own design. When I pull at his hair, his eyes widen with uncertainty and he backs away so I won't encounter the bulge in his pants, and see how the sweat on his brow sullies the rouge on his face.

I bend to trace my fingers through the puddle of whore blood on the floor, and work it over his cheeks, his temples, his lips. "Grell, you are breath taking." Each exposed part of him is anointed, and when his teeth pierce the crook of my arm I slather it over his shoulders as I embraced him. His frame might be lean, but his body is built strong and tight. His hands bruise as he cups me to nibble at my breast. His abdomen flutters as I rake nails down his sides.

I push him onto the floor soiled with entrails, hair stained a deeper crimson. I can mount him, conquer his swollen red prick and once again feel my sullied quim is useful for something. A loving God had taken its rightful use from me, so I would use it to debase this divine agent. We would toil in the muck and the bile, and as I rock my violent hips the blood fails to hide the fear in his features.

He lets me fuck him in a way I would have never dared with my late husband, who used to take me quiet and gentle, stroking my cheek with the same tenderness he stroked inside of me. No, this is ruddy and fervent, the passion I would have reserved for another man who was destined to be consumed by some other inferno. For that travesty Death would be forced to submit to me, gasping as I pull at his matted hair, his hips bucking, slapping against the sticky floor. The sweet odour of sex mingles with the cold stench of obliteration.

When it is over, when we are spent and filthy, he trembles in my soiled embrace. He defines scarlet and shamelessness for me in a new way. I can be a Madam Red for him, a whore who seeks payment of adoration.


Years ago, before I wanted to admit that Sebaciel was my OTP, there were these two. And I always wanted to imagine their relationship as violent and vulgar.

I think when I wrote this I may have been working through my own issues of unrequited affection. I'm mostly over it now.

I'm not sure if this is a one-shot drabble or if I will continue to add to this monologue. I think it mostly depends on whether I ever run into the man that inspired this piece, and whether he breaks my heart again. And being the masochist I am...

Leave a review, tell me your impressions. What do you think of my interpretation of Grell? Would you like to see more? Have you read anything else of mine? You have no idea how much of a whore a fanfic writer is for feedback. Or perhaps you do. Thoughtful reviews compel me to respond with thoughtful replies. Maybe one of you would like to do a collab piece with these two. Who knows? Reach out to me, you sweet little things.