Part 1
Bleeding Hearts
The Graverobber x Fem! Reader
Summary: Encroaching on the Graverobber's turf doesn't go as expected. Will you survive long enough to get what you came for or will you die trying to live?
Word Count: 2.1k
Warnings: Graverobbing (obvs), drug dealing, zydrate stealing, drug addiction, chronic illness, chronic disease, swearing, dystopian, strangers to misunderstood rivals to lovers
A/N: Separating art from shitty artist, I really love the Graverobber's character and Repo as a whole it slaps even if one of the co-creators is a POS
Repo! Masterlist Part 2
The city’s hum never really stopped—even out here, past the last stretch of flickering streetlights.
You could still hear it, a mechanical lullaby pulsing through the streets: engines, surgery drones, the faint hum of GeneCo’s neon billboards resetting their ads.
New hearts, new life—yours for a lifetime.
You didn’t bother to look. You already knew the price tag.
The fence loomed ahead of you, tall and rusted, crowned with spirals of barbed wire that glistened under the city’s eerie glow. The iron gates had been chained shut for years now since the graveyard overflowed with bodies. Keeping graverobbers out and the dead in. The ground became fresher every week with new nutrients from a corpse.
Your breath came shallow, each inhale a knife dragging behind your ribs. The pain had started again hours ago—the tightness, the pulsing in your chest that made your fingers tingle and your vision blur around the edges. You pressed your hand against your sternum, feeling the uneven rhythm beneath your palm.
Not tonight, you told yourself. Not yet. You needed the blue fire first.
You glanced up and down the street; no patrols.
Good.
You slung one leg over the fence, boots slipping against the cold iron. The barbs snagged the hem of your coat as you hauled yourself up, metal groaning under your weight. The city wind caught your hair and blew it into your eyes. When you dropped to the other side, your knees hit the ground hard, sending a jolt through your already aching body.
The graveyard swallowed sound like it was hungry for it. No traffic, no chatter—just the hiss of your breath in the dark.
You stood slowly, brushing dirt from your hands. The moonlight here was different—dimmer, fogged by the industrial haze that hung over everything. The headstones gleamed like teeth jutting up from the mud. You could smell rot beneath the wet earth, old blood and formaldehyde. Somewhere nearby, a mechanical digger whirled and fell silent again.
You adjusted your satchel strap, fingers brushing over the small, empty vial hidden inside. Your only syringe sat beside it—sterilized, clean, ready. You’d been careful this time. You always were.
The pain came again, sharper, this time radiating through your spine. You doubled over, stifling a sound between a cough and a sob. For a second, your knees threatened to give way.
Just one hit. Just one body.
The thought steadied you like a promise.
You straightened, blinking the blur from your eyes and looked around. You knew where to go—the newer section, where the bodies were still warm enough for Zydrate to hum beneath the skin. The Graverobber’s territory, technically, though you doubted he’d notice one missing vial from a hundred new graves every day.
The ground squelched under your boots as you walked deeper between the rows, the fog thickening around you. The city lights disappeared behind the wall of stone and shadow. You could almost pretend this place was quiet—almost holy—if you ignored the faint electrical buzz that lived somewhere beneath the soil.
You crouched at the first fresh grave. The dirt was loose, wet, and easy to move. Your heart kicked painfully in your chest as you dug.
You didn’t hear him at first. Not over the sound of your breathing. Not over the wind. Not until a low voice drifted through the fog behind you—smooth, rough-edged, and entirely too close.
“Well, well, what’s this I see?” You looked up in shock, your shaking hands fumbling as you tried to steady the needle. “A little ghoul digging where she shouldn’t be. Do you know whose turf you’re wading in? These graves, sweetheart, are mine to sin.”
You struggled to get a breath in, locking eyes with him. “You think I care whose ground I tread?” You questioned, matching his tone. “The dead can’t talk—but pain isn’t dead. I’m not here for profit,” you told him. “I’m not here to sell. I’m trying to crawl out of my private hell.”
Your voices overlapped each other as you argued, becoming more frustrated and pained by the minute. “You don’t know what kind of blood you’re wading in,” he told you.
“You don’t know what kind of pain I’m drowning in.”
“What kind of ghosts sleep under your skin?”
“What kind of fire’s burning me thin.”
“You’re trespassing on the city’s veins.”
“You sing your threats like I should kneel.”
“And baby, this business doesn’t forgive stains.”
“But you don’t know how it feels to feel!” You finished, stabbing the needle into the corpse’s skull.
He grinned as you turned back to your task, circling you like a predator. “Oh, I know that tune—it’s played in every alley. Junkies hum it while they rot in the valley. You think you’re different? You think you’re pure? The high doesn’t heal, it just obscures.”
“You don’t listen! You don’t see!” You hissed in frustration. “This isn’t a choice, it’s agony! Every breath’s a war, every beat’s a lie, and I’m not ready yet to die!” You said desperately, pulling on the syringe so that blue glow flooded the glass tube.
“And you think one vial’s gonna fix that?” he questioned.
“One vial’s gonna buy me time.” He looked at you, the blue glow washing across your face as you pulled it from the extractor.
He stepped closer. “Then you’re buyin’ from me, sweetheart, ‘cause this graveyard’s mine.”
“You don’t own the dead!” You cried.
“I own what bleeds blue,” he argued.
“You trade in pain–”
“--and pain’s what built you!”
“You call this business–”
“I call it sin–”
“Then you and your city both rot within,” you spat. “So call me thief or call me fool, but when my heart stops, who will bury you?” You tucked the vial into your pocket, folding up your satchel just as a siren blared.
The Graverobber laughed, “Guess the show’s not over yet, little corpse queen.”
The sirens wailed like the city’s lungs tearing open. Red and white light bled through the fog, flashing across headstones as the GeneCo patrol drones descended—their whirring rotors slicing the silence into ribbons.
“Shit,” you breathed.
“Yeah,” the Graverobber said with a grin that showed too many teeth. “That’s your cue to run.”
Before you could react, he grabbed your arm and pulled you from the grave. Your boots slipped in the mud as you stumbled after him, the Zydrate vial clinking faintly in your pocket. Drones shouted from somewhere beyond the mist.
“Unauthorized extraction detected! Halt or be neutralized!”
“Neutralized?” You spat as you ran. “What the hell happened to ‘detained’?”
“GeneCo doesn’t waste resources!” he shouted back, vaulting over a cracked angel statue. “Bodies are cheaper than court time!”
A flash of blue light split the fog—a pulse shot from a drone’s taser beam. It grazed the marble inches from your head, searing the air with ozone. You ducked low, following his silhouette through the maze of tombs.
He was faster, practiced, knowing every shortcut between the rows of the dead. You barely kept up. The pain in your chest burned hotter with every step, every breath dragging like wire through your lungs.
“Keep moving!” he barked.
“Easy for you to say!”
He glanced back—just long enough to see the grimace on your face, the hand pressed to your ribs. The sneer softened for half a heartbeat.
Then he turned and kicked open a wrought-iron gate, motioning you through it. “This way!”
You both burst through, spilling into the old section of the cemetery—where the ground sloped down toward the sewer tunnels. The air was thicker here, clotted with steam and rot. The city loomed beyond the cracked wall, its lights flickering like sick stars.
“You’re not made for this,” he muttered, panting as he vaulted the wall.
You didn’t have breath to answer. You hit the wall after him, hauling yourself up with trembling arms. He reached down instinctively, catching your wrist and yanking you over just as another beam sliced through the air below.
You both hit the pavement on the other side in a tangle of limbs, rolling hard before coming to rest in the shadow of an abandoned mausoleum.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Just rain. Just trying to breathe. The sirens faded into the distance, the drones retreating back toward the heart of the city.
Finally, he sat up, brushing mud from his coat. “You got guts, sweetheart. Not a lot of sense, but guts.”
You pushed yourself upright, clutching your chest as you fought the urge to cough. “I didn’t need your help.”
He smirked. “Right. You just needed a front-row seat to the next Repo demonstration.”
You glared, but the pain in your ribs turned it into more of a grimace.
“Go home,” he said, softer this time. “Before the next patrol comes through.”
“I will,” you murmured, already turning away. “Don’t feel the need to follow me.”
He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Just try not to die in my alley, yeah? It’s bad for business.”
You didn’t respond. The world was tilting again, edges hazy. You walked away from him, deeper into the maze of streets, until his silhouette melted into the fog.
The alleys of the industrial district were quiet at this hour—the kind of quiet that only existed between shifts, when even the junkies were too tired to scream. The walls dripped condensation and grime. Above, GeneCo’s holographic billboard flickered through its cycle again:
New hearts. New life. Yours… for a lifetime.
The irony made you want to laugh, but it came out as a cough instead as you spat blood onto the pavement. You pressed your palm against your chest. Every step hurt now. Your lungs burned, your heartbeat a slow, broken drum.
Not far now, you told yourself. Just make it home. Just a few more blocks.
But your knees buckled halfway down the alley. You caught yourself on the wall, sliding down until you were sitting on the wet ground. The world swam in and out of focus, the neon lights bleeding together like watercolor.
You fumbled for your satchel. The vial clinked softly when you pulled it free—your prize, your poison, your only relief.
You loaded the syringe with shaking hands. The blue glow illuminated across your face, casting long shadows across your cheeks, the Zydrate hit instantly—cold and electric, flooding through your veins like liquid lightning.
The pain broke open and melted away all at once. You gasped, head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut as the world sharpened into color. The air tasted sweet again. You could breathe.
Your heartbeat slowed. The high surged. And then…movement.
Bootsteps at the mouth of the alley. The soft click of glass against metal. A voice cuts through the haze, dark silk over gravel.
“You really don’t listen, do you?”
Your eyes fluttered open. He was there—the Graverobber, leaning in the shadows with his vials faintly glowing like a constellation on his coat. He studied you from a long moment, unreadable.
“You went through all that… just for one hit?” He leaned against the wall across from you, arms folded, the blue light painting cold lines across his sharp features.
You didn’t bother lying. “I did, I did.” Your head lolled, voice barely there—more breath than sound.
“You don’t know what kind of blood you’re wading in,” he repeated. “This city chews through bodies quicker than sin. You play with the dead and they’ll drag you under. You keep this up, you’ll rot six feet under.” His voice was scolding, but his eyes flick to the trembling in your hands—the way your knees buckle as you try to stand.
Your breath hitched, words slurring. “I know the rules… I know the cost… It was just… too late to stop.” You pushed off the wall, feet slipping in the damp. The world tilted sideways; the glow pulsing in your veins like thunder.
You tried to stand, but your legs didn’t want to listen. The rush was too high, the balance gone. The world spun as you stumbled forward—and he caught you by the arm before you hit the ground. His grip was firm but careful.
“Look at you. Can’t even stand. Zydrate’s got you tighter than GeneCo’s brand.”
“Don’t–” you tried to pull away. “I can walk.”
“Sure you can, dollface,” he said. “Right into a bodybag.” He shifted your arm over his shoulder, half-dragging, half-guiding you down the alley. Your head lolled against him, the glow in your veins painting streaks on his coat as it slowly faded.
“Why do you care?” You whispered.
“I don’t,” he snapped. “Just don’t need another corpse on my route tonight.”
He kept his pace, the city swallowing the sound of his boots against the pavement. The neon lights bounced across the wet streets, a reflection of the hum you feel in your veins.
“I don’t know what kind of pain you’re drowning in…” He glanced at you—barely conscious, breathing uneven—and his jaw tightened. He adjusted his grip and kept moving, disappearing with you into the maze of the junkies’ quarter as the lights flicker out.
A/N: I wrote two songs for this specifically and it was the most fun I've had with a fic in a while. Expect more to come ;3
Let me know if you want me to make a tag list for the Graverobber
Have a good day/night!
