I'm incredibly new to Repo, I watched it for the first time last night, and oh. My. God. I'm in love. Being so shiny new to Repo, I haven't read much fan fiction yet, but in what I have, when Graverobber is portrayed, ahem, getting busy, he always seems to be some kind of sexpert. Which is totally fine with me, because Terrance Zdunich is gorgeous, but I thought I'd do something a little different. Because you don't spend all night chilling with corpses without getting a bit fucked up. So I've heard. :)

Disclaimer: Oh, Repo. It's been a short love affair but I already know all the words to most of your songs and I've nearly broken my laptop's replay button when it comes to Zydrate Anatomy. But unfortunately I don't own you.

inferiority complex

it wasn't always like this.

once, people touched him. real people, alive people, not scalpel sluts with their plastic skin stretched tight over their borrowed bones or the addicts with their hollow eyes and wandering hands. real people. bus drivers and check out chicks and baristas and anybody, everybody, the brush of fingers together or the gentle bump from a stranger on the train. when the sun still bloomed overhead like a golden rose and the skies were blue and all that bullshit, back when it was warm.

but it's so cold, now. and no one touches the Graverobber, not accidentally, not on purpose, never. death hangs around him like an old friend, like an early grave, like someone's flesh stitched on him and he, who has never had a surgery, wonders whether the weight of it is enough to pull people right down through the floor, down to the Repo man, downdown.

he remembers being sought after, years before the epidemic, tan and fit and with only a hint of guyliner, dressed to kill and writhing to the beat in some downtown club with a hundred other strangers all seeking rhythm and movement, seeking that natural high. when women touched him with their clean hands, hands they'd had their whole lives, worker's hands and seamstress' hands and waitress's hands, all agonisingly real and so, so right. women who when he slid into them moaned or called out his name, pleasure screaming through them, because he was a gentleman and everyone knows that gentlemen always let the lady go come first.

he doesn't dare admit he misses it.

because now? now he's clammy and cold and dirty, nights spent up to his elbows in corpses giving him black nails and snowstark skin and frigid, icy eyes. now he spends the dark-lit hours shoving syringes up the noses of corpses and occasionally pretending he's still disgusted at the smell, now commonplace and familiar. now surgery and zydrate have changed everything, and Rotti sits in his tower like a great overstuffed spider watching the flies writhe in the web, and he's rotting down here, rotting alive, with the dead.

and mostly he just tries not to fucking think about it.

what's the matter, Graverobber? a voice coos, sickly sweet and artificial, the mockery the only true thing about it. can't get it up if the girl's still breathing?

can't get it up can't get it up can't get it up

he can't tell if the refrain is an echo from the alley walls or the two valets (ha) Amber has brought with her. she is dressed in black, black coat and black hair and black eyes, golden skin accentuating the outfit like a fine necklace. like she is born to wear gold. well, she is a Largo. maybe she was.

z me, she snaps, give me a hit now, hurry. I'm late I'm late so hurry, don't keep my surgeons waiting.

bitch, pay me, he replies, eyeing her bleak clothing, sensual and moulded to her stolen skin like it is welded on.

later, she retorts, her voice barbed, crawling on the alley floor towards him. no subservience in the gesture, her hips swinging and her eyes inviting. she could seduce a saint. and then turn round and kill him.

OK, I'll see you later, he quips, but her goons block his passage away from her, uninterested in her posturing.

where you going? stay here, there's ways for me to pay dear other than dough.

he freezes, half turning. she is running her hands down her corseted breasts, touching the two impassive men, stretching and shaking and thrusting and oh.

he's hard. though it's not really a fucking surprise. this is like porn, for fuck's sake. live porn.

and it's for him. it's an enticement, a temptation, the sour cherry on top of a poisoned, lead icing cake. and he wants it, wants her heat and her heartbeat throbbing next to his, one of the few things she has left of herself.

because the fucking thing is, psychotic little striptease or not, she doesn't want him. she can't want him, not battered slimy old Graverobber with his grave dirt crusted fingernails and his limp, tangled hair. he can't see it any other way. he's old and real and hideous, and she's young and fake and she looks like every man's fantasy. but she's screwing him instead, gliding her pilfered fingers over her body for him.

it would thrill him, the old him, a beautiful woman dancing and touching herself and all for him. but he's a whole lot wiser now (cynical, really), because it's not him she wants. she wants z, the sparkly-cyanide kiss inside her veins, to numb her and thrill her through her surgery, a thousand poison butterflies fluttering through her nervous system.

and he doesn't. fucking. care.

he just wants to feel warm again, feel something other than the slack touches of the scalpel sluts seeking a fix or the tired comfort of his own hand as he tries to fall asleep at dawn.

and yeah, he's not ashamed to admit he's desperate. it's so cold now.

but Amber... Amber's warm, and tanned from artificial solariums she can frequent without the fear of cancer - she changes her skin too often to develop a melanoma. Amber's burning from the inside out with all her self-hatred and yeah, OK, she's using him, but he can do this. He'll just use her back.

she's a whore, she makes his skin crawl with loathing but it's been so long since someone touched him, touched him and it felt real. of course it isn't; he's no fool. Amber's surGENs are just better than most; she might not be real, but she fucking well feels like she is.

it doesn't make him hate her any less.

so he fucks her against the wall, smashes her against the concrete, pins her down with her booted feet digging into his back through his tattered, stained shirt. he wants to pound her like a slut, hurt her, give her the beating she deserves, take out his fury and his frustration and his hurt on her willing, soft, lielielie body.

but. oh, but.

he's a gentleman. still. under the coat and the white and the colours and the filth, he can remember another life. and the lady always comes first.

so he rolls his hips, slides a hand down beneath their bodies to her clit, rubs hard and fast and watches her come. just like that. it's that simple.

he follows soon enough and it doesn't matter anyway, as he climbs off of her in the alley and zips up his pants (he hadn't even taken them off, for fuck's sake). he watches her slip into her coat, her zydrate clutched tight in her hand, leaving arm in arm with her valets without sparing him a second glance. although it wasn't like he was expecting one.

he feels dirty. more so than usual. he feels naked and ugly and undesirable and used. and he scoops up his coat, knees still unsteady from the aftershocks, and trudges off into the night.

he's still cold.

but like it fucking matters.