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x-amount-verbs · 2 years ago

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A Helping Hand - Part 30

[start here] || Part 29 || Part 30 || Part 31

[silco x f!reader] [3.4k words] [no y/n] [during timeskip] [touch-starved reader] [henchwoman!reader] [rated M] [discussion of ptsd] [🙃]

(posting early enough that y’all should have time to read before New Years ^^)

AO3 Link

“Where’s Jinx?” You’re babbling, just to fill the air, as Sevika escorts you to The Last Drop. By now your clothes have been dried, though you’d grimaced at the mess made of your kit. You’ll just have to buy some new gear, that’s all. An expense you’d rather not deal with, but that’s what you get for unintentionally making pastry soup in your waist pack.

“I assume somewhere at the Drop,” Sevika says wryly. “That’s the benefit of early morning asset retrieval: no babysitting duty.” Asset retrieval. Right.

A valid sentiment from her, you suppose, but there’s a hint of anxiety gnawing away in your stomach. You both want to see the kid and dread her finding out what you’ve done. You dread Silco’s response to your behavior. It’s frustrating, and embarrassing, when your mind just hijacked your body and acted completely out of line. Scary, too, if you look at it too closely. The idea that it could happen again, that you’ll lose time, lose control, lose yourself like that… not the most promising prospect.

It could be a blessing or a curse that you won’t have to dread Silco’s reaction much longer, entering the bar.

“Wait here. Gotta report.”

You settle into the same booth you had that drunken night, glancing up at the floor above, to the shadows that hide the door to Silco’s office, as Sevika trudges to go give him the rundown.

What will she say? The girl is crazy. No; she made a mistake. You cringe. She doesn’t owe you that courtesy, and it would be a lie. She lost control and shot a kid. That’s the accurate one. Accidentally. No; without realizing what she was doing. And that’s the worst part, isn’t it?

Teeth pinch at your lip, fingers fidgeting with the rumpled sleeve of your freshly-dried shirt. Before you know it, you’re back to the calming pattern of wedging your thumb nail between the plates of your prosthetic sleeve, tracing up and down your forearm, plucking at hard thin edges. Just enough to tug at your nail bed, just enough to hurt.

Waiting is its own special torture. You can’t stop remembering the last time you were here. The sting, the burn, the ecstasy…

Cheeks flame, throat feeling constricted as you fend off memories of his hands.

You had bruises after that. Nothing horrible, but a subtle ache that brought the memory to mind if you sat on the edge of a seat, or leaned against anything that pressed into a mark. Not a bad pain by any means, but a bittersweet one. More bitter than sweet, all things considered. The regular shimmer taken for your arm made the pain and marks fade quick, but you may have spent a night admiring them. Wanting more.

You’re such a goddamned sucker. Wanting him so much, when you know better.

The brief flutter of hope in your chest as Sevika reappears gets squashed by your own hand as soon as you notice it. If he doesn’t care, you can’t either.

…Fuck, you should know better.

Her walk down the stairs is silent, and you can’t tell if the slight furrow of her brow and thin press of her lips is irritation, confusion, or - knowing Sevika - irritation that she’s confused. There’s not quite enough on her face to read, or maybe she’s not feeling anything strongly enough to show.

Or maybe you’re paranoid and trying to see something that isn’t there.

“…Head on up. He’s waiting.”

He’s waiting. Your mouth goes dry, anxiety gnawing like a mouse on a wire at the base of your skull. Every worst-case-scenario flips through your mind before you shove that list out of your mind and opt to just stop thinking entirely as you walk upstairs to his office door.

A knock.

“Enter.”

How does one word now carry so much promise?

You try to hide your tells, but can’t help the hard swallow after struggling to breathe past the nervous lump in your throat. Hopefully you don’t start choking. That wouldn’t exactly prove your stability. Is proving your stability even possible?

The chair is back. Cheeks flame as everything that had happened in its absence plays on quintuple speed in your head. Palms— then elbows— then your whole burning face pressed to the desk, the desperate need that had snapped inside you. And how he’d satiated that need. The hand on your back as he thrust gloved fingers into you, the presence of him, rocking against you in tiny sinful movements.

You almost feel lightheaded, remembering. Blinks come more rapidly than usual, trying to push the image out of your mind.

Silco isn’t looking at you. Instead, a long finger taps delicately at a paper set before him. It almost feels like mercy, for him to be focused elsewhere. As soon as his eyes start to rise, you panic and drop your gaze to his collar. That tie, a perfect symbol of professionalism and discipline.

Discipline. Oh gods, wrong word.

“…You stayed at the gym overnight.”

It’s an observation, not a question, but you still offer your affirmation. “Yes.” He makes no comment about dropping the honorific. This is more serious than that.

“Why.”

For a fraction of a second you meet his gaze, before looking down again. “I don’t know.” It’s almost a whisper, voice feeling so small. The silence isn’t oppressive, but you can’t help the shame welling up around you. It wasn’t what you meant to happen, you didn’t even realize what was going on before you felt the cold shower shock you to your senses.

“Why didn’t you come here?”

…What?

You don’t even think to hide the surprise on your face as you meet that uneven gaze, flicking between the pale sea and the hellfire glow.

It doesn’t feel quite like hellfire. Whatever it is you’re feeling from him, it’s not rage or heat. There’s something reserved about his demeanor. Subdued. Not gentle, but barely a hint of that authoritative grip; a statue unto himself.

“I…” Why hadn't you? Weakly, you shrug a shoulder. “I can’t answer that.” It’s a frank answer. No lie there; if the choice was conscious, it wasn’t one you remember now. In lieu of certainty, you can’t offer an adequate response.

He’s silent for a long moment. Hands in your lap fidget, but it isn’t the heavy expectant silence of some other meetings. You can almost see him carefully tasting his words, deciding how to approach the conversation.

“What happened?”

“Sevika said she was going to tell yo—”

“I’m asking you.”

Something twinges in your gut. You didn’t think his calm could hurt you so much, and you can’t tell why it does. Maybe you expected to be berated and ripped apart for your mistake; this even-footed respect is disorienting. Maybe it hurts because he can’t seem to meet you so evenly in… other matters.

Maybe you don’t think you deserve his patience.

Most likely, it’s some conflicted mess of all three.

“…I didn’t realize what I was doing.” Only barely loud enough to reach him across the desk. When he has no reaction, you swallow and continue. “The kid pointed a gun at me.” Eyes go blank as you try very hard not to remember it, but you can feel your chest tightening. “And I— shot him.” Breath coming faster.

You cross your arms, digging nails into your bicep, pinching hard, drawing awareness away from the rush of shame and fear and memory. Eyes drop to the desk, and you gnaw at the inside of your lip with one quick bite that’s too hard, immediately breaking skin and making you wince. Doesn’t matter, it’s serving its purpose. You blink away the empty, forcing yourself to continue.

“It wasn’t even a real gun,” the hint of disgust that turns your stomach is audible, brow furrowed. “He was a kid, with a paintball gun, and I shot him.”

He says your name quietly, but firm. Pulling your attention, even if the look you raise to him is pained. “The boy is fine. You didn’t kill him.”

Shaking your head, you focus on your lap once more, posture hunched, like you can somehow protect yourself from your own mess of frustration, revulsion, trepidation. “It’s not about killing him— or shooting him, even, it’s—” You choke on it, but soldier on. “I wasn’t there. I was…”

“You were here. Losing your hand.”

Drawing in a breath, you hold it, nodding stiffly. Again, he’s read your mind. You don’t think to wonder how he knows exactly what you were thinking in that moment.

There’s a silence again, and you just want him to take control. Give you something to do, someone to be, something to feel that isn’t this mess roiling inside you.

When it stretches on too long, you finally give in and look.

The mismatched gaze fixed on you is guarded: calculating, measuring you up. You’re wary of what it might mean, after… everything. But he doesn’t seem angry, or pitying, or stern, or any shade of malevolent, really. Not like he’s about to say you’re too unstable to be armed. He’s just… thoughtful.

Finally, he scoots his chair back and stands. Walking to you with measured steps, he offers his hand. Not for the prosthesis, either; skin for skin.

The burn of your ears seems to radiate heat as you look at his open palm. It feels— too close. After the disastrous way things ended the other day— and no glove. No barrier. No added protection of games and roles to fall into.

Just his hand, open for yours.

“What is this about?” You’re trying to ask more questions now, to keep things clear. This can’t be another moment he’ll just walk back later, leaving you once more alone.

Again, your name.

You want to take his hand. Badly.

“Indulge me. Please.”

It’s the please that does it. A wary glance up at him before you take his hand, heat zinging through you at the way he squeezes your palm as he helps you to your feet. Like a silly little girl with a crush, blush seeping across your chest and up your neck. Fixated on the ghost of calluses on his hand against yours, even if your eyes watch his face.

The hint of self-satisfaction in that hidden smirk makes your eyes narrow. Exactly what kind of plan is this?

For a second, you’re about to ask, before you realize he isn’t leading you away, but rather escorting you around to his side of the desk. Dropping your hand to lift the paper he’d been reading and set it in the corner of this desk. Clearing the center.

Your eyes linger on the empty space, recalling the last time his desk had been cleared.

Silco pulls the chair back, creating a gap plenty big enough for you. He gestures to the surface. “Sit.”

Warily, you hesitate. You said no more games, and this feels like it might be one— but part of you still wants to play. Or at least see what it is.

…You can call it off, if you need to. That’s your decision: see what he wants, and call it off if necessary. With that decided, you take the offered seat.

It’s a strange place, perched on his desk. Too many bad ideas flicker through your head as you settle, even as you beat them back into their hidden places again. (The things you’ve thought about doing on this desk— particularly after last week…)

“Comfortable?” Silco asks, standing with one hand on the back of his chair as he waits for an answer.

You shrug a shoulder, noncommittally.

A raised brow prompts a more satisfactory answer.

“Seems so.” …Okay, maybe you haven’t completely given up making things difficult.

There’s a twitch to his lips, that hidden smirk that flicks a thrum in your chest. In one smooth move, he’s seated, and you shift back as he grasps the edge of the desk to roll himself closer, pressing your knees open as he tucks his legs into the space beneath.

Involuntarily, your back arches for him, hips shifting nervously at how open and vulnerable your position feels. Thank fuck you wear pants nearly every day. At least there’s that consolation.

An appreciative glance rakes over your body regardless, sending heat straight to your core, though the position you’re in prevents you from properly relieving any of that newfound tension. Instead, the instinct to close your legs just presses them against his hands, earning you a knowing look that makes your face flush and eyelids feel heavy.

His eyes drop to your knees, and one hand flattens, his pinky brushing your inner thigh before he seems to think better of it and pulls away.

Once again you struggle to fend off thoughts of his hands roaming your body.

The clear eye closes, a slow intake of breath one of the most transparent tells you’ve ever seen from Silco. Trying to refocus, but on what?

He wheels back just enough to reach for his desk drawer. Suspicion pricks behind your ear, trying to recall anything you've ever seen him pull from the desk, and what drawer they were located in. You’re ticking through options that all feel too much too quickly when he pulls out the odd syringe you’d seen him use with Jinx. There’s a click as he locks one piece into place, then a soft tk tk of his finger flicking the barrel.

As neutral as you try to keep your face, there’s a certain confused notch between your brows. You can’t help but stare at the device, trying to determine how it works, before glancing to Silco’s face again.

There’s a very slight smile on his lips, but it’s more like a grimace. This isn’t something he looks forward to using, obviously. Fair: it looks painful.

The chair rolls between your legs again, and Silco leans back, gesturing with the device. “Like this.” He holds it well above the intended target, making sure to emphasize where the hand holds and where the fulcrum is on the lever, how low you can choke your grip while still being able to activate it. Squeezing the grip makes a click that reminds you of the injector you use for painkillers, and similarly a needle (even if this is much longer) stings out from the canister, a dose of cool-toned shimmer delivered into the air above his cheek rather than his eye.

Silco wipes the liquid from his skin with his other hand, not bothering to find a handkerchief. “Is that clear?”

“You… you want me to-”

He nods, already offering the syringe. When you don’t immediately take it, he pulls your wrist to him to place it there.

You jump at the contact. Anxiety makes your prosthesis tingle, hyper aware of what you should be feeling where his fingers touch you.

“…You’re sure you want-”

The firm way he says your name brokers no argument. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t believe you were capable.”

It shouldn’t steal your breath the way it does. He’d said it to Jinx, when she held his medicine in her hands. I trust you. That’s what this means. More than any I’m sorry, or I was wrong: this is an apology, and so much more.

He pulls the chair even closer, fully invading your space well before he leans back at an angle, watching you with an even stare, hands on the armrests. Ready. Prepared. Trusting.

Your ribs feel crushed, but you try to keep your hands as steady as possible.

“Take a breath,” he advises, voice low. You love that voice, when he speaks for an audience of one. “When you’re ready.”

A breath. Another.

You lean into his space, fully willing to complete the task, but unsure where to place your good hand to brace yourself.

Slim fingers take a gentle hold of your wrist, directing your fingers into his hairline, palm gently pressed against his forehead. The grip on your wrist is enough, but that brief combing hair between your fingers… Heat rushes through you at the contact, and right behind it a thin sparking wire of hurt, remembering the last time you got so close, and how he’d so quickly rejected you, striking right at your weakest points.

And now here he is. Baring his weakness to you, offering you a tool that can strike just as hard.

You look away from your task, examining his face, your own troubled.

“It’s okay.” His reassurance warms the air.

That thing fluttering in your chest won’t shut up. To silence it, you resolutely focus on the assignment, determined to do it right and not hurt him.

Lined up, eye socket in the cradle of the device. Hold your breath.

Click.

Instinctively the hand on his forehead drops to his shoulder, steadying him as he lurches forward, a grimace warping his features. You drop the device back on the desk and quickly steady his head again with the prosthesis. No sorry comes from your lips, because you already knew this would happen— you knew this is supposed to happen, even if seeing him in pain wrenches at your gut.

A trickle of shimmer leaks from the bad eye, and you swipe it away with a ceramic thumb—

A tiny noise of surprise catches in your throat.

Again, you swipe your thumb over the scarred skin. Then your other fingers. The tingling is brief, and settles, but you still feel warmth. You still—

Breath hitches, throat constricting, and you do it again.

You cup his cheek and run the thumb up the valleys of scars, barely brushing against skin. Softer than you’ve been able to achieve until now. Because now…

Tears spring to your eyes, fingers fanning across the scarred half of his face, breath uneven.

“I—” You can’t even find words.

For the first time in over a month, you have a hand again.

Every little divot, every puckered edge of old wounds, the heat of his cheek, the minuscule hairs on those areas left untouched— you feel it all.

There’s no attempt to hide the overwhelming flood that seizes you in its grip. Wonder and relief and bittersweet pain that you’d missed it for so long, all playing out across your face, inches from his. You still stare at his scars, at the ceramic fingers tracing along them— your fingers, finally feeling a part of you.

Flesh hand digs into his shoulder, excitement making you shift on your perch, push closer, reveling in the sensation.

It’s clear this is connected to the shimmer, because not every inch has gained feeling, just the textured finger pads that brushed the medication from his cheek. Realization clicks that that’s why your wrist tingled as well, once he took it with shimmer-touched fingers. Whatever mix he has, whatever specialized formula is in that syringe, that’s the key. Part of you wants to drench the hand in that mix, but you don’t want to let go.

A delicate touch follows the ashen curve beneath his eye, the half-missing eyebrow, then up along one deep scar to finger the start of the distinct light streak in his hair. A short breath breaks from lips parted with amazement at the fine texture freshly available to those fingers. Drawing down the scars again. Back up, in a slow lazy pattern.

Down, up, mapping his fault lines. Worshipping his injuries with your own.

It’s only his sigh of breath that makes you zoom out, to see more than just your fingers caressing skin. His good eye is closed, though there’s a small touch of concern pulling his brows together, just slightly. Lips are tight but not distressed exactly...

Again, it’s an expression you know.

Want.

Need for more, and a refusal to act on that need.

—At least, assuming you’re reading him correctly.

The thing in your chest beats against your rib cage frantically, heart speeding as you consider the choice you’re halfway done making.

Fingers cup his cheek. Ceramic thumb follows those lines again, down to the point where they meet his lip. It brushes across the skin there, running back and forth over lips far softer than you expected, marveling at every little ridge you can feel, how you can suddenly feel his breath hitting skin that no longer exists.

Maybe you didn’t consider this decision at all, because not a single consequence has cemented itself in your mind. Your body acts on its own, bending to close the distance between you. Hardly a fraction of a second of hesitation.

You press your lips to the corner of his mouth, to the spot where the scars end, still cupping his face with your ceramic hand. A kiss without kissing.

—

[Happy new year! Feels about time we get some real intimacy y’know? 😏

Anyway, I originally intended to post this Christmas Eve, but then I got in a car crash on the 16th (I’m fine, my car isn’t) and had to deal with all that while my parents were out of town, an underwhelming holiday, followed by a 12-to-24 hour stomach bug the day after getting back to my apartment. Overall, a bit of a mess for the holidays 🥲 Thanks go out to anyone who helped me shoulder the cost of all of that, it really did add up when it comes to the ridiculous price of a cross-state-lines car rental. And also, though they’ll never read this, thanks to my fellow Jewish families that I can rely on to feed me when I’m left alone on Christmas Eve/day 😅 Honestly, I was super lucky to have the friends and family I have, it made all of this mess bearable.

ANYWAY.

I only have like 85-90% of the next chapter written, and I want to find some way to bring it to at least somewhat of a conclusion, since I haven’t been able to write for shit lately, but want to give some degree of closure for loyal readers. We’ll see what I can manage, I guess! But the original intention of posting 29-31 before the end of the year… welp. That apparently isn’t going to happen >< Holiday complications were unexpected. Regardless, I have to do the regular plugs and requests, so; if you liked this chapter, let me know! Comments, reblogs, responses on the ao3 post, etc— and if you want to find more content (reverse POVs you may have missed, art you may not have seen (new art coming soon!), fics from friends, etc) you can find all of that on the story’s masterpost here on tumblr. If you want to be tagged in the next (and potentially last?) chapter of this fic, just comment on this linked post to join the tag list.

I love you all so much, it always thrills me to see people’s reactions, and this has been a bright spot in the mess of the last couple weeks. ❤️ -verbs]

Tag list: @hawk4president @mello-jello29 @jennrosefx @dad-dumpster @ellhd-imagination @zuckerwattencupcake @meep-moop-mystic @sherwood-forests @ariaud @witxhy-lexx @mazikomo @leave-me-alone-doctor @antoine-tte @wisteria-songs @imalovernotahater @eriseffigy @leorioaki @artificialwords @hehicular-hanslaughter-lecter @ironandglass @ughhhh177 @faraige @ilikemymendarkandfictional @jennithejester @insult-2-injury @iz-zy5 @rinadragomir @queenofspades6 @cuddlejeongin @differentladynerd @leo-the-undead @silcoitus @stepsonsilco @commotionpotion @averagecrastinator @eurydicethesage @mialobo @wierdestmoppet @bumble-bee-17 @sonicbananawithbowtie @venommie @sheisacryptid @cuckconnosieur @yew-over-there @zaunite-leo @im-forgetful @rando-compilation @valkyrie05x

#silco x f!reader #silco x reader #silcoxreader #silco #silco arcane #silco/reader #wip:a helping hand #a helping hand #x-amount-writes #arcane fanfic

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howtodrawyourdragon · 6 months ago

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A Helping Hand

Summary: Written for July Break Flash Bingo 2024. Set in a Modern AU. Hiccup struggles as the pain in his leg is especially bad today. Good thing there's a helping hand nearby.

Warnings: /

Rating: Teen and Up

Prompt: Location: Parking Lot

Words: 910

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Characters: Hiccup, Astrid, Eret

Pairing: Hiccstrid, Eretcup

Author's Notes: The first JBB prompt I wrote for in general, no idea why it took me this long to post it.

Anyway, I've been posting some heavy whump as of late, so why not post a much lighter fic for today? :)

Enjoy!

The card and fic are under the Keep Reading.

-XOXOX-

Today is a bad day to go grocery shopping and Hiccup knew that before they left, but he assured Astrid that he would be fine.

He’s certainly regretting it now.

He’s trying not to lean too much on the cart as he limps around, following his fiancée. Astrid is pretty much running around, trying to get as many of the items on their list to cut this shopping trip short. The pain in his stump was less pleasant than usual earlier today, but after driving here and walking around Berk’s one and only supermarket for the past ten minutes, it has become so much more unbearable.

And Astrid is annoyed. Not with his pain, never with his pain, but with the fact that she trusts him to tell her when he can’t do certain things because of his leg and he didn’t do that today.

It’s so bad, the pain in his leg is giving him a migraine. And what doesn’t help are all the people trying not to stare at him.

He had a couple of plans, a few things to do, but it turns out he’ll be canceling all of it. He’ll be glad when they finally get home and he can crawl back into bed.

Eventually, Astrid manages to find the very last item on their list and then they head over to the register with a very full cart to pay for it all. Once all of their items have been scanned, Astrid tells him to go ahead and head for the car while she pays. He shouldn’t even bother to load any of the stuff up, she’ll take care of it.

Not feeling up to argue with her on that, he does as she suggests and heads out ahead of her. He limps out of the store and finds their car in the handicap spot. It is mercifully close.

Still, his limp draws enough attention. Particularly from a man who only moved here a couple of months ago.

“You need any help?” Eret asks. He was just about to walk into the supermarket himself when he spotted Hiccup struggling with the cart. The uneven terrain doesn’t exactly make it easy to use, not with an obviously painful leg.

Hiccup considers how stubborn he’s feeling in the moment before relinquishing the cart to him and nodding. Eret comes over and takes it from him. Crossing those last few meters together, Hiccup opens up the trunk of the car.

He and Astrid don’t use it often, just on days like these, when the alternative is walking across the city with a very achy stump.

“I got this, you go sit down,” Eret tells Hiccup when he attempts to help. The younger man shoots him a grateful smile and heads on over to the passenger seat in front. He’s not driving when his leg is like this, he’s not driving with a migraine, so he’s certainly not driving with both.

He drops into his seat, lies his head back and closes his eyes. They’re heavy, if he wasn’t in so much pain, he would be falling asleep right here as he waited for Astrid.

After barely any time at all, Eret has loaded up all their stuff and returned the cart. Hiccup knows he’s done when he appears at his still open door and gets his coin from the cart back.

“Sir,” he gives him a friendly, though playful smile. Hiccup returns it briefly, which takes more energy than he can spent.

“Thank you for helping out, Eret. I really appreciate it,” he thanks him, but all Eret does is flash him a smile and tell him to take care of himself before heading into the store himself.

In the side-view mirror, Hiccup watches him go.

Eret moved to Berk a good few months ago in the hopes of starting a new life. He hasn’t shared much about his old one, just that he’d made some bad decisions in the past, go involved in a job he hated and then came here when he quit it on a whim.

Currently, he’s working down at the docks as a fisherman.

Hiccup and Astrid are friends with him. Hiccup certainly since he’d gotten his number after that night of bowling with their entire friend group. And although Ruffnut tried very hard to get it all evening, Eret gave it to him just like that after a single conversation.

A moment later, Astrid plops down next to him in the driver’s side.

“I saw you had some help,” she mentions to him.

“Hm-hm.”

A moment of silence.

“Eret is such a hot piece of ass!” She states quietly, as if he’ll be able to hear them inside the car. Hiccup smiles before immediately regretting it and moaning miserably. His entire face is starting to hurt from the migraine.

“Don’t you think so?” Astrid asks as she starts the engine. She knows Hiccup has his number and Eret has his, she’s onboard with the idea of them.

“He’s nice to look at,” Hiccup admits. “But most importantly, he is nice.”

“I wouldn’t mind if he was nice to me, too,” Astrid admits to her fiancé and they share a smile before she drives out of their parking spot and leaves for home.

Inside the store, Eret can’t help but look back as well and watch as the two drive off. His day definitely made afte r an unexpected encounter with them.

-XOXOX-

#july break bingo #july break bingo 2024 #jbbingo2024 #july break flash #httyd fics #httyd movies #httyd 2 #how to train your dragon 2 #au #alternate universe #modern au #hiccup haddock #astrid hofferson #hiccstrid #eret son of eret #eretcup #my fanfics #a helping hand

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rmd-writes · 2 years ago

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wip wednesday

thanks for the tags @three-drink-amy @jesuisici33 @carlos-in-glasses @alrightbuckaroo @heartstringsduet @obsessedwithdavrick

here’s something from a fic I’ll be posting this weekend:

“Shit.”

It’s then that TK recalls dropping his earring into the sink a few days ago and his frantic efforts to access the U-bend to retrieve it. When he mentioned the incident to his dad, he’d quipped that TK had better be sure that he’d reattached the pipes correctly or he’d have issues later. If he’s forced to tell his father about this, he’s going to be unbearable, declaring himself to be Nostradamus. He can’t let that happen.

TK wracks his brain trying to think about who might be close by and able to help him right now but draws a blank as he stares at his phone. His gaze focuses on a yellow and black logo. Bingo. It’s worth a shot.

wanna share what you’re working on @welcometololaland @liminalmemories21 @rosedavid @cha-melodius @orchidscript @hippolotamus @maxbegone @sunshinestrand @wordthieve @never-blooms @freneticfloetry? And here’s an open tag for anyone else who wants to share, no matter what day it is 💖

#wip wednesday #rmd writes: ls wip #a helping hand #tarlos #911 lone star

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kiwiplaetzchen · 1 year ago

Note

who's Bobby?

Ooh, my my, how long have I waited for someone to ask that glorious question again!

Bobby is everything. Everything you want Bobby to be.

In a way, you could say Bobby is inside you. Bobby is inside all of us. At the same time. Bobby is flexy.

Bobby will show you the way.

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darkimaginativeplace · 9 months ago

Link

Chapters: 1/2 Fandom: 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen (Anime), 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen (Manga) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Itadori Yuuji/Everyone, Fushiguro Megumi/Itadori Yuuji, Itadori Yuuji/Kugisaki Nobara, (IMPLIED), Kugisaki Nobara/Zenin Maki, Itadori Yuuji/Toudou Aoi, Itadori Yuuji/Miwa Kasumi, Itadori Yuuji/Zenin Mai, Itadori Yuuji/Kamo Noritoshi, Itadori Yuuji/Nishimiya Momo, (many of these are a 'not really' kind of deal)

Characters: Itadori Yuuji, Sukuna | Ryoumen Sukuna, Gojo Satoru, Nanami Kento, Fushiguro Megumi, Kugisaki Nobara, Toudou Aoi (Jujutsu Kaisen), Kamo Noritoshi, Zenin Maki, Zenin Mai, Miwa Kasumi, Ijichi Kiyotaka, Nishimiya Momo, Panda (Jujutsu Kaisen), Muta Kokichi | Mechamaru, Inumaki Toge Additional Tags: (almost) everyone has a little crush on Yuuji, yuuji is stupid, this whole thing is stupid, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Sukuna | Ryoumen Sukuna is a Little Shit, Sukuna | Ryoumen Sukuna is So Done, not ace not sex-repulsed but a secret third thing (an a-hole), sex comedy, Comedy, Hand Jobs, Praise Kink, Fushiguro Megumi Loves Itadori Yuuji, (if you squint), Itadori Yuuji is a dumbass, Cockblocking, Masturbation Interruptus, Blue Balls, many blue balls, Aged-Up Character(s), everyone is of legal age, threats of genital mutilation, itadori yuuji is bi, Itadori Yuuji can't catch a break, Sexual Frustration, unbetaed we die like... someone

Summary:

“Uhmm…” Yuuji stares pointedly at the mouth sneering at him from the back of his hand - the hand that has stopped in its tracks halfway to its intended destination currently jutting out from the front of his boxers. “Can I help you?”

“As a matter of fact, you can,” Sukuna’s disgruntled baritone enunciates, drily. “By keeping your hands to yourself, brat.”

OR.: Sukuna decides to torture Yuuji in the pettiest way he can think of: by not letting him jerk off in peace.

#jjk #jjk fics #jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen #itadori yuuji #yuuji itadori #megumi fushiguro #fushiguro megumi #toudou aoi #itafushi #fushiita #aoita #todoita #toudou aoi x itadori yuuji #itadori yuuji x toudou aoi #a helping hand #my fics

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believingispowerfulmagic · 7 months ago

Text

A Helping Hand

Summary: After an accident leaves Regina Mills with several broken bones, her friend Mary Margaret argues that Regina needs some help at home while she recovers. Regina, naturally, doesn’t like the idea. She believes her injuries make her look weak - and she hates looking weak. When Regina chases off aide after aide, the agency turns to Robin Locksley. Though he has left the field for personal reasons, he has a special knack for difficult patients and Tuck hopes he will be the one aide Regina can’t chase off. Robin reluctantly agrees to work the assignment. Will Regina chase Robin off too? Or will he prove to be just as stubborn as her? And if so, will Robin finally teach Regina that it’s okay to accept help when needed? And will Regina provide the healing Robin himself needs?

Chapter 1: FFN | AO3 | Wattpad

Chapter 8: Getting Closer

FFN | AO3 | Wattpad

Excerpt:

"Feeling better, Mr. Locksley?" Henry asked as Robin entered the kitchen the next day.

"I am," he said, feeling more refreshed and rested than he had the day before. "All I needed was a good night's sleep and I got it. Thank you."

Henry looked relieved as he nodded. "Good. I think we've had enough sickness around here for, like, the rest of the year."

Robin chuckled, gently squeezing the boy's shoulder. "I agree."

"Time to get ready," Mary Margaret told Henry. "I know you'll feel better knowing that Robin is fine."

Henry nodded before surprising Robin by hugging him. "I'm glad you're not sick."

"Me too," Robin said, returning the hug before gently pushing him away. "Don't forget to give your mum a hug too."

"Right," Henry said, bounding over to Regina. She smiled as he hugged her, telling him to have a good day at school. He then left the kitchen as Mary Margaret reminded Regina to be nice to Robin.

Regina rolled her eyes. "Haven't I been nice to you, Robin?" she asked him.

"She has," he replied, turning to Mary Margaret. "She's been on her best behavior since being released from the hospital."

"Good," Mary Margaret said. "But a friendly reminder never hurts."

She shot Regina another look before leaving the kitchen. Robin crossed to the table and sat down as Regina looked him over. "Roland have a better night?" she asked.

He nodded. "We both had a good session with my friend who is a therapist and we both slept like babies."

"Good," she said. "I'm glad to hear that."

"And how about you?" he asked. "How are you sleeping?"

She seemed surprised by his question. "Why?"

"With your injuries and recovering from pneumonia, I'm worried you might not be getting enough sleep or the restorative sleep you need," he explained, feeling guilty that he never thought to ask her how she was sleeping before.

"I'm sleeping all the time," she replied. "I don't know if I'm just not getting enough restorative sleep or whatever I am getting is used up by my body as it heals."

He nodded. "It's probably more the latter right now. Do you think you need more naps during the day?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Sometimes I really have no choice about them."

"Understandable," he replied. "You'll probably start to notice them decrease as your body continues to heal and your strength really starts to build back up."

"And how long will that take?" she asked.

He shrugged. "That's up to you and ultimately your body."

She sighed. "I was afraid you were going to say that."

"Why?" he asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.

Unsurprisingly, she said: "Because I hate not having a clear timeline and knowing a firm end date for this."

"I know," he replied. "But if we keep up with your schedule, I think we can have a clearer timeline in a couple weeks. And then maybe even a firm end date not long after that."

She nodded, motioning to her wheelchair. "So are we going to keep chatting or get to work?"

He chuckled, standing. "Okay, okay. Let's get to work."

Robin rolled over the wheelchair and Regina moved into it. He then brought her to the living room, glad she was now committed to her own recovery at last. Clapping his hands together, he grinned. "Where do you want to start?"

"Your choice," she told him. "You're the expert."

"I guess so," he replied. "Alright, then let's start with stretches and go from there."

She nodded. "Sounds good."

As he led her through the stretches, Robin felt as if the tension of the past twenty-four hours was now behind them. They could just focus on her recovery and celebrate with a picnic on the 4th of July.

Then they would likely part ways. He just hoped that whenever he thought of her or she thought of him, it would be fondly and with a smile.

He couldn't ask for anything more.

#once upon a time #outlaw queen #oq ff #oq au #a helping hand

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