Second Kuroshitsuji fanfic here. I absolutely adore Grell and wanted to play with his character here, since it's almost never investigated in the anime (and I am a lazy butt so I don't read the manga (shot)). Hope you all enjoy it!
Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji/Black Butler or any of its characters; however, this story is mine.
I've never been particularly happy the way I am. It's so drab and boring, but when I try to liven up my life, I'm judged. I'm marked as a weirdo, an outsider, a lesser creature. It's so pathetically bland and gray being what I am, so plain, so simply ordinary that I just cannot stand it.
I am Grell Sutcliffe, a shinigami. And I despise being a man.
It's no secret that I find myself oft attracted to men, although I suppose women aren't all that bad…To tell the complete truth, I would much rather be a woman than marry one. Men are intriguing to look at, but being one…it's so boring. Men are expected to dress in simple, dark clothes, and are always expected to be serious. That's a proper man. As for myself, well, I'm not a proper man at all. I am absolutely in love with the color red and all that it stands for, and I cannot sit still, nor can I take things seriously. I simply do not have it in me.
Women, however, are expected to dress in bright, happy colors. They are expected to have luminous smiles on their faces and to be carefree and flighty. For a woman to be a flirtatious creature is acceptable; perhaps not "proper," but acceptable. Women do what they please and are hardly punished for it. You can see now, I hope, why I despise being a man and would rather be a woman?
I call myself a lady. I feel no shame when I say this, none at all. It's those around me that make me feel ashamed. William and all of his seriousness (a proper man, that William) mocking my "foolishness," Sebas-chan taking advantage of my feminine qualities to beat me in battle (that red-eyed devil), the young earl glaring at me as if I am the scourge of the earth (petulant child, though he's quite the grown-up for his age, if that made any sense). They're the ones who make it difficult for one such as myself to be accepted.
What's so wrong about my desires? I can never accomplish them, but I could certainly indulge them to the best of my ability. Who does it harm if I don a ball gown for a special occasion? Is it really so terrible to address myself as a lady rather than a gentleman? I do far more harm with my custom death scythe (that fabulous chainsaw, that marvelous steel creature!) then with a simple dress.
But I suppose that I'll have to resign myself to living in a gray, drab world. It's all I can do to color it, and so I shall color it. I'll paint my world with red. The color of desire, the color of passion. The color of blood, that thick liquid which inside man gives him life, but outside is a signal of death. A curious liquid, blood is, but its color is simply irresistible. It is life itself. What better way to repaint my life than to coat it with new life?