We Are Number One But Every One Is Replaced By Claude Faustus’s Entire Tapdancing Routine

we are number one but every one is replaced by claude faustus’s entire tapdancing routine

And There Will Be No Tenderness

Red. With Grelle, everything was red, crimson red, scarlet red. Red was the blood spilled between them, and red was the colour of her painted lips, smeared across his mouth. She liked him better like this; she had said that before, on a night much like this one. Liked him better with her kisses pressed into his skin, like red branding. He had told her what a chore those kiss-marks were to wash off in response, and she only grinned knowingly. Sebastian didn’t tell her to stop. Grelle’s hand curled around his tie, tugging, her teeth sinking into the swell of his lower lip. Sebastian wasn’t quite sure when he began to notice the little minutiae of her appearance, the little trivial things like her fresh manicure, or the floral perfume she wore. Somewhere along the line he had become so painfully aware. - Or: Sebastian being painfully smitten and completely oblivious to it, and Grelle going What The Fuck. (Plus getting her guts rearranged. She deserves it. As a special treat.)

Read on Ao3

It began as most things did, when it came to the grim reaper known as Grelle Sutcliff.

An open window, a flash of crimson, and a sinister cackle.

This was becoming far too common an occurrence, and each time Sebastian had to interrogate himself on why he allowed this to keep happening. And each time, he came up short, grasping for a logical explanation that simply wasn’t there. Each night, against his better judgment, he left that window open, unbothered by the bite of the cold evening air, anticipating a certain scarlet reaper’s appearance in his quarters.

It was irrational. Senseless. Grelle Sutcliff was a vexatious creature. Irksome, grating. Sebastian could think of a great myriad of words to describe her, none of them were likeable.

And even if she was likeable , what did that matter to him? A demon had no need for idle attachments; such things, things such as affection , they were fleeting, meaningless emotions. An impossibility for such beings, at least as anything more than a passing fancy.

The only mortal creatures Sebastian has ever felt affection for were those of a feline nature.

And yet.

She was in his bed once more. Their meetings were never pretty. No, their intimacy was just as severe, just as ruthless as Grelle herself was. As Sebastian was, beneath the tailcoat, beneath the etiquette, beneath the facade of the butler he was playing.

Their kiss was a clash of teeth and tongue. It was bruising, it was messy, scandalous, by the standards of Victorian propriety, but Grelle only smiled against his lips. She had already sliced his lip with her teeth—that was something Sebastian quickly learnt, the first time they had wound up like this, that those teeth of her’s were every bit as razor sharp as they looked—but she lapped up his blood like it was sweet nectar, a divine ichor.

Grelle’s hand curled around his tie, tugging, her teeth sinking into the swell of his lower lip. Sebastian wasn’t quite sure when he began to notice the little minutiae of her appearance, the little trivial things like her fresh manicure, or the floral perfume she wore. Somewhere along the line he had become so painfully aware.

They parted, if only for Grelle to drop her gaze to the knot of Sebastian’s tie, pulling it undone with practiced fingers. Sebastian wondered if it was odd to meditate on the elegance of one’s hands. Grelle’s hands were just that, elegant. Long, slender, delicate, even. Sebastian was a demon, he was used to singling out a person’s insecurities. It was not hard to deduce that Grelle feared being perceived as masculine. Her hands, however, were no such thing. Well maintained, though worn with evidence of use, even with her favoured leather gloves, her nails long, painted with lacquer, each cuticle pushed back.

It was indeed probably bizarre to think so deeply on one’s hands.

Well, Sebastian was a demon, and when did they ever give thought to mortal standards of normalcy?

Grelle’s scarlet lips tugged at the corner, pulling down into a frown, her brow twitching in irritation. She tossed his tie to the side, barely restraining herself from popping the buttons of his collar. Sebastian opened his mouth, to question her on her bad attitude on such a fine evening, but she addressed it before the first syllable could exit his lips.

“William is running me ragged.” She says, voice coloured with distaste. “To berate me, berate my character and then turn around and work me like a dog. I am good at my job, he knows that, but sometimes I think he wishes to see me fail, to undermine every little thing — ” Grelle's sentence cut short, her breath catching as she remembered herself.

These little rendezvous, they were no strings attached. No feelings. No affection. Her emotions had gotten the better of her, a weakness, a flaw. Grelle knew better than to show her underbelly to a demon, as fond as she was of Sebastian. It was uncharacteristic. His eyes narrowed on her.

“The point is:” She drawled, regaining her posture once more, “I need to let off a little steam, and I want you to fuck me properly. You can do that, can’t you, Bassy?”

Continued on Ao3

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