Repo! - Shilo +/ Graverobber - It's quick
Title: It's quick
Fandom: Repo! The Genetic Opera
Pair: Shilo/+Graverobber
Wordcount: 284
Rating: PG
Challenge: comment_fic: Any, Any, And if you've got no other choice // You know you can follow my voice // through the dark turns and noise // of this wicked little town.
At first she was interesting, people wanted to talk to her, thought it was chic to be seen in her company, to invite her to their houses and parties and such, and life was good.
There was no need to listen to the shadows, there was no need of a cure anymore.
Then the gifts didn’t come as easy anymore, neither did the invitations, and the doors stayed closed when she rang their bells.
The days turn colder and the voices become clearer. She remembers. “A month later, I was -”
No.
She shakes her head. That is not her, that will never be her.
It’s not chic anymore to talk to the enemy of the Largos, the new head of the company still being peeved about all the happenings at the opera (and that she should’ve been the one). The days turn longer, her ways unsure, and she can clearly hear them speak.
“It’s quick … it’s clean … it’s pure …”
She purses her lips and stops walking, starts to listen.
“It’s your 21st century cure.”
She looks around and sees a white face, one that she hasn’t seen (didn’t want to see?) in ages. His dark lips are curled into a grin, and he seems to see right through her, sees her loss, her insecurity.
“This way, kid,” he lures and motions with a nod of his head into the shadows. “It’s time to change who you are …”
And suddenly she feels her own mouth turn into a smug smile, the darkness pulling her in, and she can’t help but wonder why she didn’t give in sooner? It’s quick.
It’s clean.
It’s pure.
Fandom: Repo! The Genetic Opera
Pair: Shilo/+Graverobber
Wordcount: 284
Rating: PG
Challenge: comment_fic: Any, Any, And if you've got no other choice // You know you can follow my voice // through the dark turns and noise // of this wicked little town.
At first she was interesting, people wanted to talk to her, thought it was chic to be seen in her company, to invite her to their houses and parties and such, and life was good.
There was no need to listen to the shadows, there was no need of a cure anymore.
Then the gifts didn’t come as easy anymore, neither did the invitations, and the doors stayed closed when she rang their bells.
The days turn colder and the voices become clearer. She remembers. “A month later, I was -”
No.
She shakes her head. That is not her, that will never be her.
It’s not chic anymore to talk to the enemy of the Largos, the new head of the company still being peeved about all the happenings at the opera (and that she should’ve been the one). The days turn longer, her ways unsure, and she can clearly hear them speak.
“It’s quick … it’s clean … it’s pure …”
She purses her lips and stops walking, starts to listen.
“It’s your 21st century cure.”
She looks around and sees a white face, one that she hasn’t seen (didn’t want to see?) in ages. His dark lips are curled into a grin, and he seems to see right through her, sees her loss, her insecurity.
“This way, kid,” he lures and motions with a nod of his head into the shadows. “It’s time to change who you are …”
And suddenly she feels her own mouth turn into a smug smile, the darkness pulling her in, and she can’t help but wonder why she didn’t give in sooner? It’s quick.
It’s clean.
It’s pure.