Author's Note: I would like to say that this is my first-ever Black Butler/Kuroshitsuji fanfiction. Applaud me.
Grell has an odd way of making me laugh and scaring me speechless at the same time. He's the most amusing psychopathic creeper in history.
This is based off a prompt my sister (Storm-Horse101) gave me. All she gave me to go off was "William T. Spears" and "sewing." So far as I know, Will's never had to sew in his life, and I'd like to imagine that if he tried, he'd suck at it. Thus, this fic was born. And it took me a ridiculously long time to write, mostly due to the fact that I'm a terrible procrastinator. But now it's finished, and I hope you're happy, sis!
I would also like to note that this is not—I repeat, IT IS NOT—in any way, shape, or form, a Grelliam (WillxGrell) fic. Grell feels a misplaced, obsessive affection for every man he meets. So far as I can tell, Will genuinely loathes him. This is how it should be, and this is how I've attempted to write them. If you interpret this as a Grelliam fic, Will shall personally come to your house and beat you about the face with his hedge trimmer—er, death scythe. Whatever it is.
Reviews will help Will to obtain a new jacket, thus saving him considerable time, money, and humiliation. And overtime.
Read and enjoy, my friends.
William T. Spears was sewing.
Not because he found it relaxing, or to keep his hands busy, and certainly not because he enjoyed it. No, his reasons remained and would always remain strictly on the practical level. A particularly difficult reaping had resulted in multiple rips and tears in his usually immaculate clothing. Asking somebody else to repair his suit jacket would mean admitting that he had damaged it to begin with, and was thus out of the question. So here he sat, needle in hand, stitching away.
It took approximately seventeen minutes for the reaper to realize that, whatever talents he might have possessed, sewing was not among them. Any areas that he had attempted to repair glared up at him like small, bloodless war wounds, contrasting sharply with the rest of the neat and undamaged seams. His stitches ranged from miniscule dots of thread that hardly punctured the fabric to thick lines that could have served to border a country. The stitches crisscrossed and overlapped one another at random intervals, and occasionally one or two seemed to have been forgotten altogether, leaving wide, yawning gaps. No matter how he looked at it, it was terrible.
And I haven't even started the shirt yet.
With no other option but to rip out his shoddy handiwork and begin anew, he reached for a pair of scissors.
"Yooo-hooooo, Will-i-aaam!"
A fluttery, shrieking, and horrifyingly familiar voice stopped brought William T. Spears to a dead halt. He froze, his hand just inches away from the scissors as the door of his office burst open and a certain red-haired, flamboyant reaper bounced in.
"Oh, Will, darling, are you working late too? Of course, I wasn't really working; there's someone new down in the Special Affairs department, and I simply had to talk with him. Such a cutie! Ooooh, what are you doing? Can I see?"
Grell's face had a sudden and rather harsh meeting with the back of his superior's hand. "Don't call me 'darling', Sutcliff."
"Why, you—!" Grell skipped backwards, clapping both hands over the rapidly developing bruise on his cheek. "How could you go after a lady's face? Y-you're a fiend! Brute! Meanie! Devil!"
Will kept his eyes on his work, snipping away thread after thread. "Don't you have paperwork that needs filing?"
"Oh, Will, why must you be so cold to me?" Grell sighed dramatically. "And when I love you so deeply!"
"As deeply as you love any man who comes your way, doubtless."
"But you're special!" Pursing his lips in what he obviously considered an adorable pout, Grell leaned over the desk. "Ooh, is that what you're doing? Will, darling, you know I love a man who can work with his hands—and—oh. Er."
Both reapers stared down at the mess of tangled thread and fabric that had once been a fairly respectable suit jacket.
"You know, most people don't attempt to sew up holes in their clothing with embroidery floss." Pinching a strand of the aforementioned material between thumb and forefinger, Grell held it up and examined it lazily. "Don't you have any regular thread about the place, my dear?"
"I'm perfectly capable of sewing up my own clothing, Sutcliff," Will ground out through clenched teeth. "Now, if you will kindly return to your own office—"
"You know…" Ignoring the fact that the object of his affections obviously wished him anywhere but in that room, Grell seated himself on the desk and leaned in. "I do a bit of sewing myself. I'd be more than willing to help you out if you're in need of assistance."
"Get. Out."
"But just think of it, Will," the red reaper practically purred, continuing to invade Will's personal space. "You and me…alone…the seductive night, the time of lovers, slowly drifting past us as—I say, now!"
Will had abandoned the suit jacket, dropping it in his chair and stalking out of the room with stiff, frigid dignity. Oblivious, Grell sprang after him and attempted what, at best, would have been a most uncomfortable hug, and at worst, rape.
"I love you, Will, truly, and if you'd only just take a moment to gawk at how stunningly gorgeous I am, you'd doubtless realize you feel the same!"
"There's a limited number of exclamation points on hand, but I suppose the supply of italics is inexhaustible?" Will remarked dryly.
"Ehhh?" Grell blinked in a pathetic pretense of innocence, still clinging to the back of his victim's shirt.
Leaning against the doorframe, Will pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Overtime, Sutcliff."
"Waaaaah! You're so cruel to me, darling! How could you do this? You know how much I hate paperwork!"
"Precisely." A rare smile crossed the reaper's lips. "Get to work."
Grell reluctantly departed with many complaints and mutinous muttering, supplemented by his continued declarations of undying love. Will took the time the shut the door behind him.
The ruined suit jacket was dumped unceremoniously into the trash. It wasn't worth it. He'd never liked it much, anyhow.