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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 days ago

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Not a Word 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You live a life in hiding, away from your father and the world, until a man decides to drag you into the light. (non-verbal reader)

Characters: Captain Syverson

Note: 😻.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You hear your father in the garage. It’s a comfort knowing he isn’t in the house. You’ve learned to navigate so that you rarely run into him. The fact of your existence only ever seems to irk him.

That day, there’s a low rumble between the clank and clunk of his tools. You’re not sure it’s the engine or something else. The last time you glimpsed inside the garage, the engine wasn’t even in that old Bronco he’s worked on for seven years.

You rub smooth the lines in your forehead and give a long blink. You’ve been squinting at the diamond art for much too long. You sit up and roll your shoulders. You need a break.

As you emerge from your room, you feel guilty. A break from what? Doing nothing. That’s what your dad always says. Then he laughs and finds something to throw at you.

You take his lunch box from the floor by the shoe mat and bring it to the kitchen. You open it up and clean out all the containers. Those things you do, as small as they are, like cleaning and making his meals, aren’t enough. He doesn’t fail to remind you of that.

You dump the uneaten crust from his ham and cheese sandwich as the door from the garage clatters open and lets in the smell of oil and dirt. You turn your attention to the sink as you put the container with the rest. It’s only as you flip the faucet on that you realise the steps aren’t your dad’s.

“Scuse me,” Sy says. “Don’t mean to bother, but, uh, had a bit of an accident.”

You face him as he holds out the front of his tee shirt. You gulp. There’s a smear of shiny oil across it, ready to drip onto the floor. Your eyes round.

“I can clean it in the bathroom, I see you’re busy.”

He goes to turn away and you put your hands up. The oil won’t come out if he just wipes it into the shirt. You would know since you deal with your dad’s stained jeans.

He nears as you sidle down to grab the baking soda from the cupboard. He looms, his shadow moving in your peripheral, and you shift the faucet to off. You grab a paper towel and turn to him. You hesitate to reach for him, that seems too much but before you can make a move, he peels his shirt off.

You flutter your lashes and point to the counter. He lays the shirt out and you open the box of baking soda. He stands back and watches. Heat trickles down your back as you focus on the task. You sprinkle the powder over his shirt.

You let it soak up as much as it can then blot daintily.

“You’re clever,” he muses. “Helpful.”

You shrug.

“How lucky’s that daddy of yours, huh? You out here cleaning all his mess. You make his lunch?” He peeks over at the sink and you follow his gaze. You nod. “Hm, think he’d be nicer then, wouldn’t ya? Well, I know him, he ain’t a nice fella.”

You return your attention to his shirt. If your daddy isn’t so nice, why does he come around? You wouldn’t ask even if you could. You can barely concentrate with him exposed like that.

Your eyes dart over in a fleeting peek. His chest is hair and his stomach thick, his arms too. You’re always aware of how big he is but at that moment, he seems even larger. You look at his shirt. It’ll need more time to soak and wash.

“Could wash it with the hose, don’t wanna ruin your machine,” he offers as if reading your mind.

You frown and shake your head. You hold up your finger and flit away with his shirt. You put stain remover on it and dump it in the machine. You set the cycle then hesitate. What will he wear now?

Your dad isn’t as big. He’s a pretty small guy. He might have something...

You hurry into the closet of old things and search around. There’s one of those tees he got from a case of Labatts. They always pack the XLs and nothing else. It has some sports team logo on it.

You go back to the kitchen and offer it to Sy. He crosses to you and accepts it with a smile, “thanks, sugar. That’s mighty nice.” His fingertips brush yours.

He unfolds the shirt and shakes it out. He pulls it over his head and your eyes crawl down his torso unintentionally. You back up a step as he tugs down the hem, though it hangs short of his belt. Even that is too small for him.

“You’re not scared of me, are ya?” He asks as he curls his shoulders as if to make himself smaller.

You shake your head. Shy is all. You’re not eager to mingle with anyone. Nor they, you.

“You know, I might have a word with your daddy. He shouldn’t be so nasty to ya. ‘Specially all the work you put in.”

You shake your head frantically and clasp your hands. You know better than that. Even if he’s trying to be nice, it’s the worst thing he can do.

“What’s wrong? Huh? Just wanna tell him what a good girl ya are,” he crosses his arms and seems to double in size.

You pout and press your hands together. You cower and takes another step back. His expression turns dire.

“Sorry, sugar, hope I didn’t upset ya there. I was only... only bein’ nice, ya know? Seems you’re not used to all that.” He drops his hands to his hips. “Fine then, I’ll just have to save them sweet words for you, huh?”

You look down and chew your lip. You’re not used to the attention. Your dad’s other friends, if you can call them that, just ignore you or laugh at his jokes about you. You nod and turn, gesturing to the sink. You walk up to it, clinging to the excuse to get away.

“Yeah, I know, you workin’ hard,” he praises. “I’ll be outta ya way now.”

You bob your head and turn the tap on again. You work at scrubbing the containers, waiting and listening for him to go. When he does, you can breathe again. You’re not so sure why he’s being nice. Not like you can do much but stare.

💘

When your dad’s at work, you’re as close to peace as you’ve ever been. There’s still that constant restlessness that follows you. The gnawing reality that time is passing you by. That you have no purpose. No direction.

You envy others. That they have a reason. That they have everything you don’t. They have other people, ones that care, not those burdened with them; they have important work to do; they have fun things to celebrate; graduations, new jobs, marriages. They have voices and you remain unheard.

You busy yourself with the tidying when he isn’t there. If you try to clean with him around, he only antagonizes you. There’s a roast out for dinner. It will last a few days. Most times, you lose your appetite. You spend all day craving and making the food then lose all desire the moment it’s before you.

The small pleasures you once treasured fade with each day that starts and ends the same. You can’t feel too bad for yourself. Your dad doesn’t have to keep you. You’re an adult now. Maybe he’ll never say so, or even show it, but he must care, right?

You finish mopping and start on chopping up the potatoes. You arrange them in the roasting pan around the slab of beef. Then carrots and celery. You save the onions for last because they make you cry. You’re saved from tears by the rumble of thunder on the horizon.

Curiously, you set the knife down and go to the window. Would your dad be home early? Some days, they shut down the shop when business is slow.

It’s not him but you recognise the grating on the truck’s nose. The large truck sends up dirt and gravel as it cuts across the worn roadway. Your confusion floods to panic and you rush out the front door.

Is your father hurt? Why else would Sy be here?

You hover on the top step as he grinds to a stop and shuts the behemoth truck off. The driver’s door creaks as it opens and Sy jumps down. Instead of his usual camo cargo shorts and sweat-dampened tee, he wears a button-up with short sleeves and a pair of brown slacks. It even looks like he combed his beard.

Your face twists in a grimace. What’s going on? Why is he here?

He reaches back into the truck and brings out something behind his back. You can’t see it as he keeps his arm bent behind him and shuts the door. He grins and walks up to the house as you watch.

“How’s it goin’?” He asks brightly.

You blink. You look at his collar, the top button straining against his thick neck. You lower your gaze to your loose blue tee and barrel jeans. You’re dressed like a laundry line. Your clothes offer no shape, nothing. They just do the job.

“I, uh, I wanted to surprise ya, and uh, I was thinkin’ ya know, this place deserves a bit of colour,” he chuckles then clears his throat, “and you deserve good things, so, uh, here.”

He reveals the flowers from behind his back and you blanch. You stare at the dainty petals, white with violet edges. They are pretty. Too pretty for this place or for you. Besides, why would he do that?

“You don’t like em? Should I have got roses?” He asks.

You flinch. You don’t want to hurt his feelings. You come down the steps and cautiously reach for the paper cone. He hands it over and you stare at him. Then you smell them. You think that’s what you’re supposed to do.

“Smell good?” He asks.

You peer over the petals at him and nod. You’re not sure how to react. What do you do now? You can’t just leave him out in the yard. You raise your thumb and point it over your shoulder and tilt your head.

“Sure, I’ll come in,” he accepts.

He steps forward, a bit too close, and you hop backward up the step. You barely keep from tripping. You get onto the porch and spin around, scurrying to the door. You open the door and step to the side to hold it for him.

He laughs again, “now, I’m a gentleman, sugar.”

He grabs the door and gestures you through. You take his directive without pause. You hurry inside and he follows. As he stops to take off his shoes, you continue on into the kitchen.

You search for an adequate holder for the flowers. You find an old canister and set them in it with some water. His presence lurks behind you. You put the bouquet on the table as he looks around.

“You cookin’ a fine dinner, huh?” He says. “Like I tell your daddy, he’s a lucky man. Any man’d be lucky to have that waitin’.”

You shrug. He shifts.

“I don’t mean to take advantage of your kindness but I was gonna ask ya a favour.”

You look at him blankly. He reaches in his pocket. He pulls a length of silk. A tie.

“Couldn’t figure this out,” he explains. “Thought maybe you might...”

You stare at the tie. You remember tying your daddy’s for your grandma’s funeral. That was a long time ago but you think you could remember.

You swallow down your nerves and approach him. You take the tie and he glances around. He pushes a chair out and sits. He leans his head back.

“Just wanna make sure I look good for ya,” he says.

You flip up his collar and bring the silk around his neck. As you do, your thumb brushes his coarse beard. He hums.

“Don’t worry bout pullin’ my hair,” he scoffs. “Won’t bother me none.”

You line up his tie, knuckles brushing his shirt as you go through the steps in your hand. You pull the tie snug and fix hit collar. You step back and he sets his head straight. You hug yourself and give him a questioning look.

“Ya like your surprise?” He asks.

You look at the flower then nod.

“And what about the other?”

You face him again and your brows draw together.

“Me,” he snorts.

You purse your lips and shrug. What does he mean?

“We’ll wait for your daddy, huh? Then I’ll ask his blessing.” He rests his elbow on the table, “and you’ll have dinner all ready, won’t ya?”

#captain syverson #dark captain syverson #dark!captain syverson #captain syverson x reader #series #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #not a word #sand castle

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trombonechurchill · 3 days ago

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WIP Wednesday!

I'm still pecking away at my Movie star!Tommy AU and this scene has been living rent free in my head since like day one, so hopefully you guys enjoy it :r

"Trying to get your attention has been exhausting," Evan intones flatly from where he's sprawled on the couch, eyes not leaving the script. "My attention?" Tommy starts before quickly shaking his head, "No wait, no, run that again, I wanna try a different inflection," he says, flapping a frustrated hand. They've been running this scene half the night and Tommy's ready to throw the whole damn thing in the trash with the amount of progress he's been making. Evan's been a good sport considering Tommy had originally lured him over with the promise of a few beers and some Mariokart but Tommy just can't seem to get into the right headspace these days. "Wait, lemme try something," Tommy cuts Evan off before he can start the scene again, grabbing his arm and shamelessly manhandling him into a vague imitation of their blocking. "Tommy, Tommy you know I can't act," Evan starts, laughing as Tommy continues to bully him into position. "Just- Trust me. Keep reading the script, I can't get my head around this scene yet," Tommy says, stepping back and given Evan a quick once over, satisfied, before closing his eyes and breathing. It used to be easy, slipping on that mask, stepping out and away from Tommy and into whoever everyone wanted or needed him to be but it's been harder now. It's like something fractured last year, and now, around Evan, he feels like maybe he doesn't even want to. Like hiding himself the way he always has is getting harder and harder. It scares the shit out of him. "Okay, go." "Trying to get your attention has been kind of exhausting," Buck starts again, glancing up from the script Tommy's sure he's half memorized by now, eyes large, and unsure. "My attention," Tommy starts, taking a step closer. "Yeah, I guess so-" Evan's breathing is slow, his eyes track down to the script and Tommy already knows what the stage directions say, why he's been struggling so hard to nail this scene. But Tommy's not in character when his hand reaches out, fingers brushing Evan's jaw before catching under his chin. He's still Tommy as he tilts Evan's face towards him, still Tommy as he leans in, inhaling the shuddering breath Evan exhales before their lips meet, hot and fervent as Tommy's hand slides to the back of Evan's neck.

No pressure tagging @3min17sec @schweetheart @leashybebes and @fake-mouthstatic if you guys have anything cooking you wanna share 👀 (I know it's not Wednesday for like half of you anymore lol)

#kris writes #bucktommy #tommy's gonna nail something after this #who said that #911 #Tommy you skipped a few lines there bud oh he doesn't care

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