Red : Love

Disclaimer: I do not own the series or characters.

Red (rd)

n. 1. ) red color or pigment; the chromatic color resembling the hue of blood.

"Madam Red."

He allowed the words to roll gently from his lips—though as soon as he did so, a single word came to mind--


Passion, blood, hate, beauty . . . but for whatever reason, desire rang clearly.

Grell Sutcliff stood there, much like he had on so many other occasions, when that lingering thought—memory—no, lingering feeling in the back of his mind surfaced, beaconing him to come here: the final resting place of a mere human, who, like the thousands of others, had died by his hand. He would have never expected himself to come here.
He stood at her grave. His reflection glaring back at him in the cold, grey, stone. Words carved coldly into the smooth granite surface. So unlike her. Immobile, hard, cold, grey—Madam Red was anything but. Only desire burned hot within her. Only desire burned red within this woman.

"Madam," Grell spoke strongly, his long, crimson tresses falling back over his shoulders as he transformed from his dark-locked disguise. He smirked, golden green eyes looking at the woman from across the unlit room under thick lashes and heavy lids, his pointed teeth almost appearing to glow in the dim moonlight. "Do you agree that tonight was most spectacular," He spoke with enthusiasm. "Those whores never looked so dazzling,"

Madam Red did not answer but continued to lounge across her sofa. She still sported her "work" clothes, the blood dried across them in spatters, almost rivaling the color of her dark eyes. They flashed at Grell for almost a moment before looking away.

"They sicken me." She answered. A 'tsk' escaping her throat. "If I could kill them twice, I would," a slight smile crept across her face as she saw Grell's eyes light up.

"Oh, and how magnificent they would look," Grell added excitedly, seeming to dance across the room as he strode over to the other side to look out the window. He watched the moon with wide eyes of excitement.

Desire to kill.

Desire to seek her revenge on the humanity that betrayed her. Grell watched himself again in the tombstone. He looked into his own eyes. Searching. He was searching . . .but for what?

Grell then took notice of her silence. He crossed over to his Madam. "Something is bothering you, Madam," he spoke softly, slyly his seductive eyes unmoving from the woman on the couch.

Madam Red's eyes moved to the Shinigami. She took a moment to collect her thoughts before confiding in her butler. "It's on these nights, Grell, that I long to have what they have—the whores," She hissed, her bitterness showing in her expression, causing her hand to shake as she looked at the ground. "Is it so wrong . . . to envy them?"

Grell sighed, lowering his eyes for a moment. He answered without even realizing it. "I . . . understand."

Madam Red knew what she had said and bit her lip. Grell, too, could not have the children of anyone—though that had never stopped him. Madam tried her best to keep tabs on the men in Grell's life, though his antics often escaped even her.

"Grell, come here, darling," Madam said, her dark eyes moving to Grell, signaling to him with those crimson irises. "I'm cold,"

Desire to have someone who felt the same as she did.

The shinigami's thoughts raced. He bent down and touched the cold stone. She held the desire to love someone again. She was passionate in everything she did. Her heart was no exception.

He wasn't quite used to this, being a butler. But to Madam Red, he was much more than that—so without a thought, anything for her, he happily obliged. Grell crossed to the plush couch and sat beside Madam Red, pulling her close to him, as Madam rested her head against his chest. He wrapped his arms securely around her, and she snuggled ever closer to him. He was warm. Surprising, for someone that doesn't breathe or have a pulse.

Grell breathed in Madam Red. Her scent was as beautiful as she was. She smelled of the Red roses she loved so. In the moonlight, her hair was like spun Ruby, her pale features and rose-color lips could not have been more perfectly sculpted. Such beauty; Pure, perfect, crimson beauty. He felt her subconsciously grip his chest tighter.

And she had a carnal desire.

Grell bit down on his lip, drawing some blood with his sharp teeth. It tasted of her. She had a desire that burned within her, much like lust, to satisfy all of her needs—much like Grell.

"Madam," Grell's eyes fluttered closed as he spoke, twirling a piece of her hair. "something is still bothering you," He said in almost a song-like tone. He looked down at her with suggestive eyes as she looked up at him, mirroring his indicative leer. She sat up straight.

"You and I," She spoke smoothly, her smile as beautiful as always, bright teeth behind those crimson lips. "Are exceptional beings."

Grell grinned. His razor-sharp teeth gleaming once again in the moonlight as he leaned over Madam Red moving close to her neck, breathing in her scent and skimming his teeth along her collar bone. She leaned back, giving Grell better access—and an invitation. "Yes, we are," he replied moving further over his mistress, pressing his lips to hers with such a confidence, you would think he had kissed a woman before.

And the two of them both had the desire to see the world in red. Deep, dark, beautiful red. And so together, they would drench it in blood—deep, dark, beautiful blood.

Grell's eyes fell on the name carved into the marble and traced the inscription. He ran his finger across his lips, and kissed his fingertip. Coated in the blood from his lip earlier, he marked it smoothly across the name.

Angelina Durless Barnett

There. Her name was now traced in warm red. Warm, smooth, red. He felt complete. He felt that Madam, was complete.

Grell had not thought twice about killing her. Never in his life had he minded disposing of something or someone that no longer suited him. She had failed him. She did not kill the one thing that had been standing in her way when opportunity was clearly calling. It was compassion that killed Madam Red.

His eyes widened, conclusion and realization dawning over him. Was compassion . . . what he felt toward his Madam? He? A god? Even now? He had never known this feeling—but he had never known anyone quite like her.

He gingerly touched his heart.

Grell had never once been attracted to women. But Angelina was far different. She was pure beauty. She was pure desire. She was red. She was everything that Grell wished for. Like the blood that pumped through her veins—she was entirely red.

But she was truly gone. Maybe she was only human, after all. Never had she been more beautiful than she was drenched in blood, her porcelain skin like the moon she was lit by, draining and staining in beautiful red. For one who dealt in death so frequently, in a way like a child, Grell did not realize the permanence of it. And never again would Grell be attracted to a woman.

The reason "desire" came to Grell's mind, was not because of Angelina Barnett, but the one thing he longed for now, after her death:

He desired Madam Red.

He could not comprehend all the ways he loved Madam Red, so many of which he did not know himself or understand. But he knew what he felt was love—and he knew she had felt the same.

It needed to be done. He had to kill her to continue on. If not him, someone else would have—and Grell Sutclif would have none of that. He loved the fact that Madam Red was drenched in beauty by his hand—and he honestly felt that she would not have had it any other way. And someone else she loved dearly, she could be reunited with.

It was there that he decided that Madam Red was not just a mere human, but was immortal to him. And he would wear her red for Madam, be passionate, and spill blood—enough for the two of them.

And he knew then that this would be the final time he would visit Madam Red, and it would be the last time he would let those feelings surface—but instead, continue on in her memory.

His thoughts were interrupted by a hushed laugh. Grell looked around to see a silver-haired man with a ragged top hat, leaning on the fence-post with a large shovel in hand.

"Love is strange, coming in all sorts of ridiculous ways, whether it be from a woman or a man," the Undertaker laughed through his hushed tone. "Don't you think?"

Grell didn't let anyone see him like this. He stared at the undertaker for a moment, blinking as he gathered his feelings to recover. He blushed at his own thoughts.

"Indeed it is. You sound like you could use some . . ." Grell replied in a higher pitched shout. He grinned, showing off his teeth as he tossed back a crimson lock of hair. "I could help, if you would like. You know I'm a lady to die for," He flashed his signature pose, inducing a cackle from the Undertaker as he crossed over to the man.

Love /lʌv/ (luhv)

n. 1.) A strong positive emotion of regard and affection.

"Good night, Madam Red."


So . . . um. Lolwut? I have no clue how I wrote this or how this even came to be. I don't really like it, because usually I edit, over and over, but this all just kind of spilled out while I was trying to get in Grell's character. . So please enjoy and critique. I need all the help I can get. &hearts.