Thanks to everyone who has so warmly welcomed me into the Repo! fandom, it's been a pleasure.

Disclaimer: I have work in an hour, I don't have time to make up something funny. Repo's not mine.

why don't you surprise me

you can't think straight and that's okay, somehow, your head is completely fucked and currently occupying a different planet and it's okay, it's okay, it's okay.

you have to believe it.

she is desperate and thin and so fucking young, the red raw flesh of her where her face has fallen away. you're a little relieved - you hated that face on her - and a whole lot disturbed; with her skin like that she looks burned and bloody and almost human.

and God forbid that.

she begs for it with her eyes, which thankfully have not fallen from her head. although that would be amusing. z, z, z. z to take away the humiliation and the embarrassment and the grief because

Daddy's dead, Graverobber. My daddy's dead.

and it nearly tears you apart because her daddy was a monsterhorrorfiend and she is a liarbitchwhore and it's not fair, it's not fair, that they should have emotions like ordinary people.

that they should cry like ordinary people.

she's dressed in just a robe and it falls open and you can't rip your eyes away. white thighs, black eyes, pretty lies. and you give her the hit with fumbling fingers and a scowl; she latches onto you with fervour born of despair and no, it's not what you want, but it's what she deserves.

the whore.

she's an intoxication and a drug of her very own devising; you can't understand it even as you scrabblefeelbreathe the ivory dreamscape of her skin, the threads of her hair. it is sorrow and vengeance and an awful kind of karma, a z dealer fucking Rotti's princess daughter in the muck and the monstrosity of the world he created.

ha.

and how did the world come to this, girls selling themselves in alleyways for the silken sting of z inside their veins and the scalpel building them a person they can bear to be? surely it wasn't all Rotti, surely -

oh, how can you think at a time like this?

you're insane, going mad for the feel of her under you, and then madder when you touch. a lunatic whole and entire, a madman clawing for the fix, and damn, she's supposed to be the addict here.

you feel everything and you feel nothing at all, and the dichotomy is enough to send your head spinning. or maybe it's just the feel of her, the stark ugly reality of pushpullfuck that is her exposed, bloody flesh and the body crafted from corpses. she's artificial and the wrap of her legs around your waist send alarm bells screaming in your mind, the sensation of her skin like flesh wrapped around steel. wrong.

but, oh, oh, she's here. she's here and crying and crying more as the salt stings her face and your hands span her waist and she's perfect like this, unmade and ruined with her panties around her ankles.

the streetlights gild her bright, and you can almost pretendliebelieve that she's shining for you.