052. Machine



Contemptible, beautiful red.

She hates it — loves how it glistens beneath the moonlight, leaking onto the cobblestones.

The prostitute gurgles weakly, her widened, blue-violet colored eyes losing their luster. Madam Red checks her pulse, her blood-flecked expression as smooth as glass. She's gone finally.

A part of her still clinging onto the slivers of humanity shrieks in righteous terror and indignity of her murderous, impulsive decision.

Madam Red took the educational courses to become a doctor to treat her sister's asthma.

That's all — her selfish, relentless whims.

(Now they're all red, too.)

A round of applause sounds from deep down the alley. Madam Red jerks to her feet, whirling around and stiffening in place, instinctively holding her surgical knife defensively as what appears to be a statuesque, red figure strolls over.

"Veeeery good, Madam," they praise her with drolling, lively syllables. "It is my utmost pleasure to meet you. You may call me Grell Sutcliff."

The grip on her red, dripping weapon loosens.

"What do you want of me?" Madam Red whispers.

"Only that which you are proficient in," Grill answers honestly, plucking the item from Madam Red's gloved fingers and examining it with a thrilled, low noise. They step around the cooling, massacred body. Grell aims a repulsed look at it.

"These… whores visiting your hospital do not deserve their living wombs, don't you agree?"

Madam Red shivers, feeling dark, silk-satin caress over her jaw, as Grell's forefinger traces her chin. "You and I both share in this misery," they acknowledge to her, bright green irises meeting spiderlily red. "I, too, wish to feel truly as the woman I am, but lack what your proper English society deems me worthy of it."

"I can't help you…" she begins, shushed by Grell pushing their fingertip against her red, red mouth.

By the ethereal, bleak grace of the moonlight, Madam watches Grell's inhumanely razor-sharp teeth expose themselves into a long, wicked grin.

"You can." They step in closer to her, holding up her bloody surgical knife, running its dull edge against Madam Red's bottom lip in a faint, sweeping motion. "By providing the souls of those slain by your hand," Grell instructs her, crooning. "I am a Reaper, my red sweetling. Help me, and… I will protect you… help you further your revenge."

As if hypnotized by their nectar-sweet, dark words, she nods calmly, sliding her ruined, woolen-gloved fingers over Grell's clasped to her knife.

From then on, Madam Red grew to love red again — wetly glistening on the cobblestone streets, dyed into her fine, luxurious ballroom dresses, thriving in strands of Grell's lovely and flowing hair.



Kuroshitsuji isn't mine. I don't ship very many things in this fandom, but I do love them. Grell uses them/they pronouns in this and is transgendered. Hope any Grell/Madam Red shippers get a chance to see this, and any thoughts/comments are deeply appreciated! :)