[silco x f!reader] [2.8k words] [no y/n] [during timeskip] [touch-starved reader] [henchwoman!reader] [rated M] [dom Silco] [unhealthy relationship to pain]
I should also thank @chickenparm and @sweatandwoe for letting me bounce ideas off of them constantly or straight up giving me ideas in conversation to morph into my own so: thank you! 😅 -verbs
Sevika is the one who ends up finding you. At least by the time she does you’ve gotten your shit together— haven’t even shed a single tear, so that’s good. Progress, in a way, compared to your last attack.
Your whole arm is reddened from the cold, though, after maybe ten minutes of running water sliding down your arm, chilling the whole thing and cooling your blood.
Her face is unusually unreadable. Generally, she’s pretty expressive with her surface-level annoyance or smugness or even boredom. The fact that she seems to be none of those things might be a bad sign.
“Wasting water,” she mutters, turning off the tap and grabbing a towel.
When you don’t take it from her, she lets out a long breath as she towels your arm dry. You are painfully aware of a complete lack of contact, the towel always staying a trusty barrier between skin.
You really fucking need a hug.
But at least your breath is even and calm, and you’re functioning. And you can continue functioning without any contact whatsoever. You certainly aren’t about to ask her.
“You ran out?” she asks.
Your eyes feel too dry, a sort of stinging, like they’ve been open too long. Probably have, as you stared at the water and counted your breaths. You make the tiniest shrug with one arm. Not exactly. Kind of. Basically.
“You ran out. On Silco.” The emphasis, along with her purposeful eye contact, chips at your numb exterior.
…Oh.
Oh shit.
“He was talking with Jinx, I didn’t— I felt— out of place,” you manage, hoarsely. Your throat still has that stab of pain that usually precedes tears.
Sevika’s brows furrow, but it doesn’t look like anger. It’s hard to read her expression. Not as sharp as her standard look of irritation, but not soft, either, and not the reluctant amusement of earlier in the afternoon. You’re not sure what it is.
“How long’s it been since you ate?”
“Uh…” You try to calculate. “I dunno. Fifteen? Sixteen hours?”
“Okay so that’s one. What about a shower?”
You’d purposefully avoided it last night, to avoid succumbing to some very bad ideas, thinking you might get one this morning once your blood had cooled— but then the painkillers had happened. Avoiding Sevika’s eyes guiltily, you mumble, “Night before last.”
“Two, then. What about sleep. How much sleep have you gotten?”
You can’t even calculate. “I dunno, left by 2:30, went to sleep by 3:30-4 probably. Woke up in pain, took drugs, passed out. No clue on the timeframe.”
“So maybe you also need a nap.”
You shake your head, confused. “Sorry, what is this about?”
“Feeling human.”
It’s a sad sad thing that the only concept crawling through your mind is your lack of human connection. Human touch.
“Fuck, you’re pathetic,” Sevika observes, pulling a face. You’re not about to argue that, even if it’s insulting. “Yeah, you need like… a day off.”
“I don’t get days off. I have to test.” 5:00 every evening.
The older woman shakes her head. “Your job is literally paper pushing,” she points out flatly. “You don’t have to be here. Silco wants you out of trouble, being productive, but that doesn’t mean you have to be here.”
What? “What does that mean?”
“It means my first month and half without an arm I barely left my bed.”
It’s unexpected honesty, delivered plainly, without preamble or guilt. You aren’t sure how to respond. It sounds about even with where you were in the weeks after the amputation: only leaving for the required meetings with the Doctor, barely eating, mostly sleeping, not bathing nearly enough because you didn’t like rubbing yourself down with a wet cloth and one hand.
“You shouldn’t be locked in your place all day. It’s fucking depressing.”
Why is she telling you this? It feels so personal, even if she isn’t acting like it. She doesn’t have the same stilted gruffness or begrudging attitude she had during your first panic attack. Maybe it simply doesn’t hold the same personal weight.
“That’s a move he got right, at least.”
He— Silco. Right. He’s the one who had you assigned to work at the Drop right away. Was it a choice based on Sevika’s experience? Or his own?
Both.
You can only speculate.
“Look.” Sevika clasps her hand on your shoulder, and the contact steals your breath.
That yearning is back, the craving to throw yourself at someone and cling. Your muscles freeze, keeping you still, avoiding that mortifying prospect.
“Head home. Take a night. Wash yourself off, do your laundry, clean your apartment. Get your life together a bit. Just tell Silco— you realized you forgot to feed your cat or something.”
“I don’t have a cat.”
“Yeah: you didn’t feed it and it died; it’s just a reason to leave, kid.”
“I’m—”
“Same difference.” She doesn’t even let you argue the age point again. A heavy sigh wooshes out of her. “Look, not to put too fine a point on it, but you’re a mess. It’s pretty damn obvious. So go home and get your shit together. Take your meds on a schedule, reorganize, start caring again.”
Your expression is dull. You just aren’t sure you can right now.
Sevika grumbles. “Fuck— okay, then just do three tonight. Eat, shower, sleep. And meds. You can come grovel tomorrow morning.”
Three things. That’s doable.
—
You only got two of the three done. Two and a half, kinda. Showered, and slept. Also, sent your laundry out. And took your meds before sleep.
It was a start, at least.
In the morning your stomach feels hollow, head aching, and the morning painkillers don’t help as much as they should. It’s on the way to work that you realize how every meal you’ve had in the last few days has been at The Last Drop. Frequently, directly ordered by your boss.
The same one who told you to take your medication before work.
The same one who has given you a schedule to keep that forces you to leave your house for a minimum of six hours a day, and be in a building that’s almost always bustling with activity, rarely solitary.
The one who’s personally overseeing your recovery, pushing you through your discomfort and forcing you to use the tool you’re so scared of— the tool that is meant to make your life easier— the tool that he gave you.
Your cheeks burn, gut a roiling mess of feelings you can’t untangle, but a primary one is definitely shame. The simplest thing to blame it on is your own bad behavior. Rushing out of his office, for what? Because he was having a conversation with his surrogate daughter? Because you had to witness the horror of two people hugging? What’s wrong with you?
You woke up early, as Sevika suggested. Actually, you woke up before your alarm, which was a relief, and gave you time to at least attempt to pull yourself together for the day. Wearing one of your new bras with a front clasp that you could watch as you did it up - thank the goddess, no more thin undershirts - and real clothes with actual buttons you had to fasten yourself, is a step up from the simple clothes of the last few days.
Showing a little effort, as a form of apology.
You get in earlier than usual, steel yourself, and head straight for Silco’s office for the suggested groveling.
Not only does your knock garner no response; the door is locked and no security is in the hall. He’s not in, apparently. And here you thought he basically lived here.
After a time pacing in the hall, worrying your thumb in your fist, chewing at your lip, you feel your stomach rumble. Grimacing, you try to ignore it. You’ve had plenty of hunger pains in your life, especially while your parents were sick and money was sparse; this is nothing new. You can handle it. You just need to stick around until—
The click of a door opening down the hall makes your head snap up.
His steps hardly falter when he spots you, even while a subtle scowl weighs on his features as he approaches. His gaze darts past you, to the stairs, to the bar below, as if expecting a guard that isn’t there.
“I wanted to apologize,” you blurt, hand grabbing your prosthetic’s wrist in a vise grip, trying to stay composed. “I shouldn’t have-”
The hellfire eye flashes at you, and that will has you in a metaphorical chokehold, voice snuffed out. He doesn’t seem to mind not hearing your whole apology right away; instead, his focus is on unlocking his office door.
Fucking hells, you feel pathetic. Practically crumpling in on yourself, utterly cowed by just a harsh look. You worry your lip between your teeth until you taste blood, eyes fixed on the ground. A hollow trembling hums under your skin.
Once the door is open, Silco steps back and gestures you through.
Fuck fuck fuck he’s gonna do it. He’s gonna rip it off. You weren’t grateful enough, you’re too erratic, he’ll take the hand back and leave you coming to terms all over again. Your teeth bruise flesh with how hard you’re biting, trying to keep your breath even.
You’re just overreacting. This will be fine.
This will not be fine.
There’s no chair in front of Silco’s desk at the moment. At the back of your mind you wonder if the seat you take every evening is set there by him, or by some underling. Since it isn’t there, you hesitate awkwardly where it normally would be. Everything seems a little unsteady, so you bite harder and hold tighter.
Silco’s steps behind you are slow. Even. Purposeful. Letting you hear each and every one.
“You were apologizing,” he reminds you, voice a low rumble. “Begging my forgiveness, if I’m not mistaken.” There’s a touch of chilly sarcasm to it as he slides to sit on the edge of his desk, nimble fingers drumming against the corner, somehow still lording over you even if you’re not in your usual seated position.
“I’m so sorry.” The words tumble out of you, gaze boring into the ground, but catching motion at the edge of your vision. “I didn’t mean to-”
Everything stops as his thumb brushes your lip.
Legs wobble and you lock your knees to keep still as your eyes zip straight up to his, a magnetic pull you can’t ignore. You can barely breathe. A feather-light touch of contact connects a single digit to your chin, keeping your face steady, but he’s watching his own finger as he thumbs at your lip. The calloused pad of his thumb is eerily soft, tugging your lip down to observe the subtle self-inflicted wound.
He says your name— as if you were somehow supposed to keep talking through this. It takes a great deal of self-control to not whimper. Your face is rapidly turning red. “Why the sudden exit?” he prompts, brushing your lip again.
You can’t think with his hand on you. So you say the first thing that comes to mind, voice ragged. “Had to feed my cat.”
You only realize your gaze has drifted to his mouth when you see his lip twitch in a badly-hidden smirk. “You don’t have a cat,” he murmurs, smugly.
Very hard not to whimper. “I don’t have a cat,” you agree, barely breathing the confession, hyper aware of the way his thumb is smoothing across your lip. Your expression is pleading, but you’re not sure if you’re praying he’ll stop or continue. Whatever it is you want, you want it desperately.
His words are smooth and smoky, in that voice that slithers around your throat. “The truth, if you please.” He hasn’t let go of you. He hasn’t touched you more, either, just the barest hint of contact at your chin and your lip, and it’s driving you absolutely mad.
Closing your eyes to think helps the slightest bit. Maybe. (If you’re kind of lying to yourself.) You feel shame saying it, but it has to be said. “I felt— It felt private. I didn’t want to int-”
His hand cups your cheek, deft fingertips sliding almost into your hair.
Your legs give out.
Mortified, you’re left on your knees in front of his desk, head spinning and face burning. Wide-eyed, you stare at the floor for a hot second, feeling like an absolute idiot. No fucking fair, when your body betrays you like that. You’re breathing heavily, pulse racing from the sudden fall.
There’s a beat of anxiety-drenched silence.
When you finally look up - some part of you maybe, possibly, dreading Silco’s response - you find him staring down that long nose at you, and the look in his eye makes every inch of you shiver. The pale eye is darker than usual, lid low, and you can’t tell if he’s angry or—
The idea flits through your head, too loud, ringing in your ears: he almost looks hungry.
Inevitably your nerve runs out and you drop your gaze to his collar, only to realize his breath is almost as labored as yours, despite how still his body perches. His throat bobs and your gaze flicks up at the minuscule motion as his jaw flexes.
Your own lips part slightly, a tiny breath pressed out of your chest, and you look down again, shaking your head like you can clear the fog that seems to have invaded. A cramp in your side belies the meals you’ve skipped, and you wince. When you look up again, his chin has lifted, gaze cooled, lips thinned. Whatever you thought you saw is gone.
“Something the matter?” The purr has evaporated from his voice, but his tone is still low, still spoken for an audience of one.
You shake your head, looking away, rolling your shoulders and trying to relieve the massive weight of tension stored there. “It’s nothing. I’m sorry.”
“Apologies generally are given when one has done something wrong,” he points out, dryly. After a pause, he adds; “Have you done something wrong?”
That’s a confusing question. Because— no? But also yes. You’re not quite sure what constitutes wrong in this situation. You’re not quite sure what he’s asking about.
—And you’re suddenly very aware that you’re still kneeling before him.
When you look up, his brow is raised expectantly.
“I—” I don’t think so. Your gaping mouth snaps shut. “No.” That feels like an answer. Not sure how accurate it is, though.
Especially based on the way Silco’s head tilts slightly, silently admonishing you.
“Maybe?” you amend, uncertain.
His hand reaches out and you suck in a breath as he makes firmer contact, pressing his thumb to your broken lip pointedly, no longer gentle. “You remember what I told you?”
Something about you being his investment. Something about keeping things in good condition. Something about— “Consequences,” you breathe quietly, lips moving against his thumb. You are painfully aware of your body’s response to him. The way your skin feels taut and tingly, and achingly remembers your pale imitation of his touch.
There’s a moment. Looking up at him, letting him touch you, feeling a growing heat pooling in your belly.
Then, like he’s just been woken up, he breaks eye contact and releases his grip, taking in one long breath as he stands, heading back around to his side of the desk.
Your stomach growls. “Sh-” The air hisses out of you in one quiet moment, like you can tell your body to shut up, pressing a palm to your abdomen as your ears burn. You rush to stand now that he’s given you space to do so, and the sudden change in altitude makes you unsteady, grabbing the edge of his desk for support.
You expect him to admonish you. List your consequences, your fines. Instead, his eye narrows at your pale-knuckled grip on the wood.
“Did you sleep last night?”
“Yes.”
There’s a brief spark in his gaze before it’s extinguished, facade still cool and even-keeled. “Enough?”
That’s an awkward question. You wonder if Sevika informed him of her advice to you. “Yes.” Early to bed and early to rise.
“And eat?”
You hesitate, threatening your stomach to stay quiet, dammit. You can’t answer without lying.
There’s a beleaguered sigh, more melodramatic than entirely necessary. “I do hope you aren’t going to tell me your last meal was our dinner together.”
‘Our dinner together.’ For some reason, your gut does a backflip. “No.” It’s a stubborn answer, defensive.
Silco looks up at you, clearly waiting for you to give a satisfactory response.
The back of your neck itches, and your gaze skirts sideways, adding, in a mumble, “Like seven hours later.”
The short breath is back. The laugh that isn’t a laugh. “A fitting punishment, then,” he muses ruefully.
Okay, you’re a little confused. “To not eat?”
His amusement is clear. “You’ll be eating.” Sounds like a threat. “I think I have just the thing, in fact.”
—
[So expect thirsty Thursday to include a reverse POV for a moment in this chapter :3 Right now it’s a short moment, but I may extend the scene, we’ll see lmao. Either way, if you want to be tagged for that post (and any other official A Helping Hand posts) you can join the tag list by commenting on this linked post. 8/9 and 11/12 are some of my fave moments I’ve written so far, so hopefully next chapter is good for you guys, too 😏
As always, please boost by reblogging if you like it! I also devour tags and comments, so 👀 please 🙏 I beg 🥺 gimme reactions. 🤲 You can also drop comments over on ao3. Every single ao3 comment gets a reply, but I’ll admit I love emoji-to-emoji comments a lot, so don’t feel like you need to be super eloquent. Most comments I make when reading fics are just scrolling down to add, like, one-sentence or emoji reactions as I’m reading 😅 I love it all! ❤️ -verbs]
The mentions below are a combination of beautiful visuals animation movies that had captured an immediate attention due to its fresh and appealing color choices and drawing-styles; yet, still intrigued the audience with a unique plot. Before you check out the list, keep in mind that I did not forget any of Studio Ghibli productions. I think every project in Ghibli is so special that I feel I need to make a separate post, don’t you agree? Plus, I want to give a shout-out to other animes. Some are extremely underrated and need much more love and appreciation! ❤️ this and enjoy~
Hirune Hime: Shiranai Watashi no Monogatari / Ancien and the Magic Tablet (2017)
origamiaround
theartofmadeline
annaxmalina
gummygunk
germansingergirl
yousharknotpass
andulkaphoto
