#Roblox forsake x reader

[sapphireonly]

YEEEEEES YEEEEEEEEEEEEEES

INJURED RABBIT | mafioso x reader

WARNINGS - DESCRIPTION OF BLOOD AND WOUNDS , hurt/comfort , survivor x killer , this is strictly the forsaken version of mafioso , no established relationship but you can see where it's headed

a/n - where did all of you people come from on that first post. i'm terrified. hello to you too forsaken fandom.

You don't know how it happened.

You hardly even remember it happening. Everything played out so fast.

The deep gash in your midsection burns in overwhelming pain, your hand having gone numb from trying to press the open wound shut. Everything around you is a blur, vague silhouettes of gnarly trees and broken buildings melting into an unrecognizable haze. Drowned by your shaky sobs and the tightness of your throat, your voice only comes out as an anguished croak.

You can't scream for help, no matter how much you're trying.

Just a moment ago, you were huddled with a group of your teammates, following in your paranoid frenzy as they worked to repair a generator. When the snap of a nearby twig startled the small crowd, you had attempted to flee with them, scrambling onto your feet and breaking into a sprint.

Until you felt something sharp snagging your shirt, pulling you backwards and tearing your side open.

Shot with adrenaline, you ran until you were panting in exhaustion. Chest heaving with each breath, your legs eventually gave out, collapsing in a patch of dried grass. As the dull ache in your side intensified to a constant piercing sting, the realization finally sank in:

You're professionally lost. And losing blood. Fast.

By now, your teammates must've been dead or far away from wherever you had landed yourself in. Howling wind and indistinct rustling replace their hushed whispers and careful footsteps, although it's hardly audible through your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

At least, aside from the ones you're hearing right now —

Wait.

Footsteps?

Despite your consciousness hanging by a thread, you try to squint your eyes to gauge the incoming person. Black spots dance around your vision as a testament to your injury, a strained cough racking your weak body while you try to contort it.

Your heart drops to your stomach the moment you manage to view the well-dressed figure.

Of all the killers it could've been, why did it have to be Mafioso?

His reputation preceded him; a ruthless mobster who wouldn't hesitate to knock out teeth if he didn't get what he wanted. Accompanied by his loyal henchmen, every story you heard about him never ended well, brandishing a killcount rumored to be in the hundreds.

It'd be no shock if he was the one who incapacitated you, now returning to snuff out the pitiful bloodied heap he'd reduced you to.

You struggled to wriggle away as he paced closer, not caring if your fate had already been sealed at this point. Somehow, managing a final defiant wail, your eyes screwed shut, praying that you magically bled out on the spot before he drew his sword.

But, strangely enough, it never happened.

Instead, you're suddenly enveloped in warmth, the smell of lingering cigar smoke filling your nostrils.

“C'mere, sweetie. Ain't anyone seen how ya look right now?”

Lifted into his large arms, Mafioso grunts in disapproval at your sorry state.

… This wasn't how the stories went. You should've been a headless corpse by now.

Confused, you try to peel an eye open, only to get nuzzled into the crook of his neck.

“Don't keep lookin’ at that nasty wound,” he murmurs, “jus’ stay awake for me.”

A part of you wanted to argue. To kick and scream with your nonexistent energy to let you go, to yell that you'd rather die alone than in the hands of the cruel mafia. Yet there was none of that in his demeanor. He was acting so soft, gently carrying your hurting form as if you were a piece of fragile porcelain. Nothing gave you the impression that he wanted to hurt you.

A point further proven by how gracefully you're being placed down on the nearest elevated flat surface.

You felt like you weighed a thousand pounds. Faintly catching the clip of a box being cracked open, two gloved fingers work on carefully lifting your torn shirt to expose your gash. You wince upon the bandage wrappings touching the tender flesh.

“I know it hurts, I know. But you're doin’ a real good job for me, bunny.”

Hand twitching involuntarily, Mafioso's free one intertwines with yours. The closer he gets to look at the injury he's patching up, the more his brows furrow.

“This ain't look like a cut one of my men woulda done. Didja get caught on a branch or somethin’?”

You hum. Truthfully, you didn't know, but it wouldn't have surprised you. Getting stupidly hurt sounded common, judging by how others tended to describe you.

“Well, ya gotta be more careful,” Mafioso chides, “next time you get hurt, ya go directly to me. Understand?”

At this point, you were too delirious to question why the man who was meant to be hunting you down was saying all of this. Maybe it was better if you didn't. Regardless, you confirm with another broken hum.

“Good bunny.”

To this day, no one believes your story.

You're shortly found in the same spot Mafioso had bandaged you by the last few survivors of his carnage. He was right about how you got injured, according to everyone who saw, having apparently ran off before anyone could catch you.

The general consensus was drawn to you hallucinating in your hysteria, but you know what you saw. And you know what he said.

This probably wasn't going to be your last encounter with the mobster.