#reduced to nothing but a silly voice and tiny sidekick

[inkbun]

If you arenct busy, could you maybe do a (romantic)Roadhog x Fem!Reader angst? Maybe Roadie finds poor reader in a severe depression/anxiety episode(you decide how far it goes, I don't want to make you uncomfortable), and he tries to calm her down? Hurt/Comfort, Romance

Back at it again @ Krispy Kreme. Took a career change and a major move, but I’m back babeyyy. Anyways, this was more serious than I intended, but I like how it turned out. Enjoy! 🐷

(FYI- I’m in a completely different timezone than before so uploads may be random for a while until I figure out what works.)

Words: 1886

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Your back slammed the rusted wall, pocked surface snagging your well-worn henley. Clawing your chest, you tried to regulate your breaths: In for seven, out for eight... only to hyperventilate on the second exhale. Though the panic was an old foe, its trigger this time was wholly unfamiliar.

Living in Junkertown brought its fair share of terrors: thieves and the cowards who stab them in the — two-faced swindlers, and the head of it all, the ruthless Junker Queen. You were by no means a native, having spent most of your adult life in cities like Brisbane. Which while wild in their own right, were far from the barren wasteland that daily threatened your mortality.

Even so, you’d rather a cage match in the Junkertown arena than deal with the situation at hand.

“It’ll be f-fine,” you stammered, pulling the flimsy stick from your pocket. It was decidedly unremarkable—tapered white plastic with a tiny LCD screen in the middle. Funny how something so simple could remain unchanged for over a century since its invention.

Wish it was as simple to get one. Depsite its proclivity for debauchery, Junkertown dealers didn’t often traffic in women’s wellness. Diesel, angel dust, mech parts? Name your price. But a pregnancy test? Everyone loses their minds.

“Rightly so,” you muttered, hands tremoring as you clutched the device.

Your own carelessness had landed you here. Junkertown had a finite supply of...protection dealers and you’d exhausted their existing supply—not that it stopped you.

To be fair, Mako had egged you on—dragging you to the edge of pleasure, dangling you over while his solid arms clutched you close. Granted, you tried to warn him of the line he was toeing, the very real danger the two of you were toying with. The words came in sputtery, pleasure-choked breaths: “Mako p-please, not inside...it can’t...you can’t—”

Mako answered, voice so deep it murmured in your chest. “Don’t care, you’re mine. I want them to know...” At the time the words thrilled you, a sharp departure from his usual level head.

Your tryst with the infamous Roadhog began rather simply. You were an apprentice for Bruce, Junkertown’s master engineer; Mako occasionally brought his motorcycle in after hours for hush-hush repairs. For months you’d tried to figure him out, drawn to the man who always kept his mask on and relegated all responses to appropriately-timed grunts.

Though frightening at first, you grew to enjoy—no, crave—his presence, especially delighted when he brought shop presents from his exploits. They usually consisted of food, like Bruce’s favorite cinnamon vines and your own, powdered sugar donuts. Occasionially he brought trinkets, though you didn’t dare ask where from. The most expensive of these, a solid gold set of brass knuckles, served as a welcome supplement to your growing treasure stash.

Bruce ribbed you about the blossoming...something between you two, smile poorly hidden in his scraggly white beard. “I haven’t seen ‘Hog get excited over anyone in a long while. Hardly looks my way if you’re in the room.”

You waved him off, calling him a silly old man caught up in daydreams. But he was right, even if you only admitted it in your quiet moments. So, when Mako came by late one evening for repairs on a blown gasket and Bruce wasn’t around, you stepped in to help.

Tension-laden, you worked on the bike, doing your best to keep your mind from straying to his large hands, or your eyes from the plethora of tattoos and scars across his skin. Somehow you could feel his gaze, even beneath the mask, felt the curious intensity even though he said little.

“Thanks,” he said, once you were done, drawing just close enough for you to examine him up close.

Strange, you thought, taking in the hulking man before you. Mako’s wiry demolitionist sidekick had tried flirting with you, but on nights when your hand snaked beneath the band of your cargos, you dreamt of thick arms and a shock of white hair accompanying deep, pleasured growls. And that’s when you knew you were in trouble.

You flashed a sultry smile, not bothering to adjust the fallen strap of your denim overalls. “No bother at all. I know I’m not Bruce, but my touch ain’t half bad.”

“That so?” he chuckled, timbre-rich sound warming your bones. You nodded vigorously, dislodging the other strap in the process. Reason told you to pull it back up, act like nothing happened — for god’s sakes don’t fuck the outlaw.

You promptly did the opposite, drawing nearer until you hit his stomach, fingers boldly exploring the skin there. Mako went very still, strangled groan escaping him as you kept on. At last he stopped you, taking your arm gently in his large hand.

“I’m a bad man, ____.”

You snorted, spirit too consumed to let a little self-deprecation stop you. Gently you reached up, bracing on his stomach for balance as you tugged the bottom of his mask up. Mako flinched, grip on your hand tightening before at last giving a single nod: a silent “Continue.”

With some difficulty you unfastened it, fascinated with every inch of the face it revealed. He was younger than the white ponytail suggested, honey brown eyes alight with quiet mischief; his snub nose was adorned by a septum ring, with sharp cheekbones punctuated by stubble and facial scars. He was oddly handsome, despite the apprehension and want warring on his face.

Breathless, you stilled your thundering heart and braced both palms against him, fingers spanning in search of more. “Show me.”

That was nearly a year ago, the months since filled with snuck rendezvous in Bruce’s shop, your apartment, and a host of “we’ll be killed if we’re caught” locations. Neither of you publicly claimed the other, both of you citing op sec as the reason. Mako was wanted in far too many towns, and you didn’t need any of Junkertown’s nastier characters—including the Queen herself—knocking on Bruce’s door with questions.

Still, the past few months had seen a palpable...something growing between you. Mako had started staying the night instead of returning to his hideout with Jamison, clutching you in slumber like one of his beloved pachimaris. You began keeping apricot jam, his favorite, in the fridge and doubled your grocery order just in case he stopped by.

You were serious. Maybe not in love—Was that even possible in the Wasteland?—but definitely serious.

“And I’m about to fuck it all up,” you whispered, tears welling your eyes as you pondered taking off the cap. It’d been at least an hour since it chirped, announcing the results were in. Three times you gathered up the courage to look—three times you failed, panic robbing you of breath and vision blurring whenever you even considered the possibility of a positive result.

Your brain whirred, spitting questions with no good answers: Would he still want me? Would he blame me? Would he leave?

Would he, would he...on and on it went until you were queasy.

The swirling dread robbed you of awareness, so much so that you failed to hear your the click of your a door as someone unlocked it, or the thumpy footsteps on the stairs accompanied by inquisitive “hmms” as Mako searched the workshop for you.

You’d gone totally numb, shivering against the wall; just then, a familiar hand tapped your shoulder.

“Roadie!” you jumped, test stick clattering to the floor. You tried to rein your voice in, aware it likely teetered on hysterics. “What are you doing here?”

He had forgone the mask as you liked, tattered t-shirt straining against his tummy and large arms. His was hair out of its usual ponytail, gathered around his neck in a shaggy white crop. Every bit of it screamed relaxed, as did the takeaway boxes tucked under his arm. Mako had come for a date, and you were about to ruin it all.

“I was around,” he offered, watching you for a moment. Then, nodding at the ground. “What’s that for?”

Realizing the test was out in the open, you scrambled to snatch it up. “N-nothing! Silly business really, don’t worry about it, I just—”

“Don’t lie to me, ____,” he said, snatching up the test with deceptive speed.

The words were gentle, softer than anything you’d ever heard from him. Of course I can’t hide from him. He might be an internationally-wanted criminal, but Mako was one of the most perceptive people you’d ever met. Not that it’d take a savant to derive the source of your current meltdown.

He held the damning evidence in front of you. “This yours?”

You nodded, biting your lip to quell your tears. Mako nodded, face drained of emotion. He watched you a moment, eyes resting on your middle.

“Would it be mine?”

You nodded again, momentary incredulity granting you courage to speak. “Whose else’s?”

That got a slight chuckle, quickly replaced by the first instance of worry you’d ever seen on his face.

“You look yet?”

You shook your head no.

“Scared?” he asked, face full of comprehension.

You nodded, trembling progressed to sobbing tremors. Without another word Mako pulled you toward him, willing you still with his solid warmth. By degrees you stopped, reduced to sniffles and quiet babbling.

“I’m so sorry, I ruined everything. You came to have a good time and you face so much out there and I-I—“

Mako kissed your head, lips lingering against your clammy skin. “Stop. We’ll look at it together.”

It wasn’t a question and you had no will left to fight. Still, the unspeakable question prowled your thoughts, compelling you to ask.

“And if it’s...” you said, trailing off as you stared at him with welling eyes.

“Then it is,” Mako said, training his quiet, determined gaze on your frightened one. “But I’m yours, ____. No matter what.”

You cried out in relief, so flooded with happiness you could only hug him tighter. Mako laughed, sound soothing like summer rain on desert sand. Standing on your tippy toes, you kissed him, leaching every ounce of gratitude and affection you could into your lips. He answered ferverently, flicking his tongue across yours before pulling away.

“Ready?” he asked, holding the test up. Taking a deep breath, you nodded. With him by your side, you could do anything. Using his thumb, Mako slid the shutter covering the screen, both of you holding your breath as you uncovered the result: Negative.

The sound you made barely qualified as human, but Mako just laughed, ruffling your hair with his free hand. Crisis averted, turned your attention to the fragrant takeaway boxes, sure you detected the tang of greasy noodles.

“Hungry?” Mako asked, scarred cheek quirking as he smiled.

You stood, temporarily stunned by the pure affection on his face. He wouldn’t say it yet, and neither would you until you got good and ready, but right then you knew that Mako Rutledge, criminal extraordinaire, loved you.

Stomach grumbling, you answered with a smile. “For you? Always.”