AS ALWAYS- Rated for a reason, smut lies ahead. For those who do read- feel free to tell me what you think- I would appreciate the feedback!
Title: 21st Century Cure- Act. 04
Genre: Fanfiction- Repo! The Genetic Opera. Selected bits from the lyrics of Parabelle, cookies to whoever identifies them.
Rating: I rate everything NC-17 OR HIGHER just to be safe. I'm not your normal little cookie, and it comes out in ink like poison on the page.
Pairing: Graverobber/Shilo
Disclaimer: I own nothing except the words rattling around my twisted little brain. All recognizable characters/plot points belong to Terrance and Darren and the Repo! crew. All lyrics are Kevin Matisyn/Parabelle's.
WARNINGS: I am hardwired for tragic, erotic, sometimes frighteningly dark story-telling. I seldom write anything that is less than an NC-17, never anything less than an R. MOST of my work is even heavier on any/all of the following material- sex consensual, coerced and completely nonconsensual, blood/gore, bizarre magical concepts, a stockpile of torture and horror developed from childhood, a strong background in BDSM and other kinky things, profanity, non-canon plotlines, complete disregard for social norms and niceties, and a strongly purple tint to my prose. I write any and all imaginable sexual pairings- and a few that I'm pretty sure are illegal, or would be if they were possible on this planet. Occasionally I'm in a humorous mood and Cthulu kin make an appearance. I'm also addicted to feedback, the more I get, the more I write.
A/N: I know, I know, gone forever. This will kick things back into gear for 21st Century Cure, but it was far too sexy an idea for me to pass by. Shilo and Graverobber, separately and together, tweak my tragedy hot button. I highly recommend you read ALL of the original chapters before you read this story, or you will be utterly lost.
Shilo stood on the crumbling, cracked pavement, looking out over the water. The waves were grey and midnight blue, dirty white where foam formed on the breakers. The wind ruffled through her hair, grown long and thick and wavy. It tangled in front of her face, whipping against her cheeks and throat. She shoved it back and sighed.
She'd been alone for over a year. No father in the hallways, guarding her every movement. No shadow in her alley, seducing her out into the night. No more bugs, no more dead mother under glass to haunt her. Amber had shown up one day, not long after the last time she had seen Graverobber, and made it clear that Shilo was going to be taken care of. The lights stayed on, groceries were delivered every week. An allowance went into an account every month. The only thing Shilo had to do was stay out of the way, and she tried.
She painted, sometimes. Sometimes, she sang as she taught herself to cook, filling the house with echoes of her godmother's music. She cleaned out the house, threw open the windows and filled the house with the occasional dirty sunlight, the cold wind from the graveyard. She liked being alone, for the most part. Alone, and free.
She hugged her coat closer around her, cuddling the fluffed faux fur fringe around her face. It was sheer vanity, the black denim that brushed her calves, clung tight to her slender frame. She had bought it because it reminded her of him. She came here for the same reason- to lean out over the edge of the world and feel a shadow of the thrill he had been.
She blinked against the thought, tried to pretend that it was just the wind that made her eyes sting and blur. He was gone, and she refused to allow herself to miss him. She refused to allow herself to think about him- except on nights like this, when the moon curved through the sky like a razor's edge and the wind sighed like a lost thing through her blood.
She closed her eyes and leaned into the wind, spreading her arms and wishing for wings.
The coffee in front of him was cold. He turned the mug around and around in his hands, looking into the oily black depths and trying to decide what was wrong. His skin felt uncomfortable- hot and achy, tight around his eyes. He'd blown off his usual rounds, opting out of the endless parade of junkies and graves in favor of the meager warmth of a diner. He watched people pass by the dirty windows and occasionally signaled the bored waitress for a refill.
He'd been thinking of the kid again. Something about the bite of the wind and the sullen clouds had shoved her into his thoughts, and nothing he did could put her back into the closet with all the other skeletons. He took another swallow of his cold coffee, savoring the bitterness. Smoke curled from the crumpled butt in the ashtray. He normally didn't indulge in the vice- too expensive, and this city would blacken your lungs soon enough without the help. But tonight he wanted the burn of the smoke, the acrid taste of ashes on his tongue.
It didn't help. The coffee was still the color of her eyes, deep enough to drown in, and not bitter enough to drive the memory of her taste out of his mouth. The flourescent light couldn't erase the shadows of her skin from his mind. He shoved at his hair, pushing the tangled waves back from his temples. He was haunted by a ghost- a living, breathing ghost, somewhere out there in the streets of the city.
"Damn." He was surprised at the sound of his own voice, hoarse and ragged in the relative silence. The waitress glanced up from her magazine as he shoved to his feet. He waved her off, tossing crumpled bills onto the counter and slamming out into the cold. His boots were old and well-worn, whispering rather than ringing on the pavement. He didn't think about the path his feet took- he had walked it often enough in his thoughts. He ended up across the street, staring at the high wrought iron fence that surrounded the tiny excuse for a yard.
The house was dark. He didn't expect it to be otherwise- it never was. He didn't even know if she was still living there- it had remained empty for weeks after the Opera. He'd stopped haunting it after a few months. She was probably dead in a gutter somewhere, but though he searched every graveyard, every mass dump of broken bodies, he never saw her face. Part of him hoped he never would. The rest of him wished for even that much closure.
He leaned against a streetlight, tugging his battered coat closer around his shoulders and fumbling in the pockets for a cigarette and lighter. It gave him something to do with his hands, an excuse to be standing here. He was hunched over the flame, blinded by the orange glow, when he heard the creak of rusted iron from the gate.
Shilo watched him from the shadow of the porch, still huddled in her concealing black coat. He bent over his cupped hands, and she studied his face in the flare of the lighter. He looked more ragged than she remembered, his cheekbones more pronounced, his eyes sunk deeper into the elegant sockets. He was still beautiful, in his own tragic way. He inhaled, drawing flame into the cigarette, and she came down the steps, pushing open the gate.
It was almost comical the way his head snapped up, his eyes flashing white. She crossed the street without looking, her mind blank. She had no idea what she was going to say to him. She couldn't find words, couldn't find her voice. He straightened, drawing himself up imperiously, and she smiled suddenly.
"Graverobber. What a surprise." She was thankful her voice didn't tremble. She felt disconnected, detached from the hand that reached out to take his cigarette from him. She held it for a moment, familiarizing herself once more with the angles of his tall body, the twist of his lips as he managed to come up with some semblance of a smile.
"Looking good, kid." He raised a hand, as though he'd touch her face, then let it drop. "Nice hair."
"You too." She flicked the wasted cigarette away and shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her coat. "You've lost weight." He shrugged, shaking back his crazily-colored hair.
"A little. Hard work, ya know?"
"Christ, this is banal." Angry at herself, at him, Shilo stepped forward, backing him against the metal of the lamp post. He looked down at her, his lips twitching in that infuriatingly cynical, jaded way he had. "Why don't you just tell me what you want?"
"Who says I want anything at all? Maybe I just wanted to see your pretty face, kid." He lifted his hand again and traced her lower lip with his thumb. "Catch up on old times."
"Wish I could say the same." Shilo's eyes sparked dark fire and she stepped back, turning on her heel. "See you around, Graverobber."
He followed without thinking, grabbing her arm, pulling her back. She moved with him easily, like this dance had been choreographed, as though she'd turned back into his arms a thousand times before. She made an exasperated noise and twisted her wrist out of his grasp, sliding past him like a shadow.
"Good night, Graves." She continued on towards the gate. He watched her move away from him, helplessly clenching and unclenching his fists. The fitful moon picked out blue highlights in her hair, traced the curve of her cheek in pewter. The gate swung closed and locked with a snap, and the brooding darkness of the house gathered her in with the tinest sigh of wood on wood.
Breaking into her house was easier the second time. Considering he didn't have to worry about being caught by a scalpel-slinging maniac this time around, it was pretty much a Sunday stroll. He hoisted himself over the railing to Shilo's balcony and jimmied the French windows, swinging them open carefully.
He had half-expected to find her curled up in her bed, waiting for him. Once upon a time, he could have counted on it. Times change, he thought, looking around the room.
Gone were the trappings of a sick little girl. The room was empty except for swathes of black material draped from the ceiling to the floor, and Graverobber whistled softly as he moved further into the room. His own face peered out at him from the shadows, cunning and cruel, etched onto the heavy fabric with skillful strokes of silvery shadow and vibrant blue eyes.
"Good likeness," he mused, pacing around the painting. Mag was there, a caged bird with her head thrown back in song, eyes shimmering with metallic gold, her lips open and ruby blood spilling down her chin. Amber, Rotti, Nathan in and out of his RepoMan guise. Intricately detailed insects crawled along the margins of the paintings, half-seen in the dim light.
The girl obviously had talent. The drug dealer was confronted with his own image again, and felt a blush steal along his cheekbones. Apparently, she had a photographic memory as well. He admired her skill even as he shifted uncomfortably, letting his mind absorb the picture in front of him.
"Like what you see?" Shilo's voice was quiet. He turned to face her, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat.
"Now I do," he returned. She leaned against the doorway, watching him with neutral eyes, her slender arms folded across her chest. She was dressed simply in faded, paint-smeared jeans and a clingy black sweater. His fingers itched to touch her hair, her luminous skin. "I wanted..."
"It's good to want things," Shilo interuppted. Turning on her heel, she walked out of the room. "I'm making tea."
He followed her without comment, admiring the easy way she navigated down the dark stairs in her bare feet, the tiny glints of gold and copper when the light from below caught in her hair. It was hard to reconcile the frightened girl with this calm, contained woman in front of him. His throat worked- maybe he'd made a mistake in coming here.
She turned at the bottom of the stairs and he felt his breath leave in a rush. Her eyes were the same- dark as the bottom of a well and just as liquid, full of shadows and silences and secrets. He touched her face, finally, feeling the warmth of her skin under his chilled fingertips. She shivered and started to pull away.
"Don't. Shy..." His hand slid under her hair and cupped her head, holding her in place as his mouth lowered to her cheek, breathing the words against her flesh, feeling her pulse speed beneath his touch. "Damn, how long has it been? Since we..."
"A very long time." Shilo's whisper was raw, broken. "If it was up to me, I'd never see you again." He trembled at her words, but didn't stop, burying his face in the clean, sweet scent of her hair and neck. It was a crime, a choice made. He couldn't regret it.
"Time waits for no one," he murmured, pressing his lips to her temple, the delicate arch of her eyebrows, the tip of her nose. "And we can't get it back."
"Then make it stand still." She surged against him, her arms twined around his neck. He growled at the sudden sting of her nails against his scalp. "If you're going to keep showing up like a bad penny, you'd damn well better make it worth my while."
He opened his mouth to speak and she stole the words, her lips soft and teeth sharp as she ripped through his sense like a knife. He was drowning in the bittersweet taste of her and the urgency of her hands on his skin. He wanted to tell her to slow down, but she just pushed him back, until he stumbled and fell backwards on the steps. He swore as his head connected with the wood, ringing bells in his ears and making him blink against the pain.
"Kid, wait, just..."
"Shut up, Graverobber." She straddled him, her mouth taking his again, her hips grinding against his. He almost smiled when she flicked his belt open with one hand, cursed instead when she ripped his fly open and grasped his cock. His spine arched as she stroked him, his head falling back with another muffled thump on the uncomfortable staircase. Her palm was warm and smooth, the fingers cooler and slightly rough. It felt like heaven.
His fingers dug into the curve of her waist, and he struggled for composure, holding her still for a moment. He looked up at her, haloed by the dim amber light, and his throat when dry.
"You're beautiful," he muttered, lifting himself enough to bury his face in the darkness of her sweater, the intoxicating scent of her skin. She made a small sound and he turned his head, nuzzling the curve of her breast through the soft fabric. His palms skimmed up her sides, pushing the sweater up until he had to lift his face to tug it over her head. He tossed it to the side and pulled her back.
"Graverobber." Shilo tugged at him, her voice almost angry. He hushed her with his mouth on her skin, stole her anger in little nibbling bites. She subsided with a shudder, and he chuckled against her skin. Times change, but some things stay the same.
He shoved and twisted, dragging her out of her clothes between touches. She fought back with her own impatience, shoving his pants down over his hips, making him moan when she flicked her nails across his skin and sank her teeth lightly into his shoulder. He wanted her underneath him. She had other ideas, pushing him back and grinding against him, trapping his cock between their bodies and sliding along his length until he was slick with her juices.
She was going to kill him. He gritted his teeth against the overload of sensation, fighting her for the control she had once given him automatically. His hands tightened on her hips and he lifted her, growling when she tried to pull away.
"You started it... finish it, damn you." He felt more than heard her laughter, and her nimble fingers slid along his length on final time, adjusting their positions. He tensed himself for the inevitable slow slide of her around him, the memory of her tight, wet sheath already burned into his mind. He wasn't prepared for her to drive the breath out of him with one swift thrust, impaling him as deep as possible inside her cunt.
The reaction was immediate, her body convulsing around his almost painfully as her head fell back. Her hair brushed his thighs in flickering, fiery lashes as she rocked and twisted silently over him, dragging his voice in a hoarse cry of agonized ecstacy. One good hard touch, that was all it had taken, and they were both done, his release scalding her on the inside, her nails drawing blood from his hips on the outside. His vision blurred, spangled with light around the edges, and he caught her automatically as she went limp, collapsing onto his chest.
He held her as his heartbeat stuttered, then steadied into the same shythm as hers. For the first time in a year he felt at peace, despite the biting ache of the steps beneath his back, the uncomfortable throb in his balls from the intense orgasm. Her hand found his, and she held them to her breast, threading her fingers through his. He felt the first hot spill of her tears against his shoulder and tightened his grip.
"Easy, kid," he murmured into her hair, his voice tender and gravelled. "It's going to be okay." He hesitated, then pressed his lips to her temple. "It's okay, Shilo. You belong to me."
Awww... wasn't that sweet? *snorts* Well, yes. But this is me writing, so don't count on it staying sweet. It's never what it seems...
