kkanabel

[kkanabel]

this person understands me on a spiritual level

"Captain curly is bad!" "Captain curly is innocent!"

Captain curly is boutta receive backshots from me

[kkanabel]

drunken confessions ✫ chapter ii

curly x reader

summary: Curly is the designated driver, so he’s helping you as you vomit your guts out because you pushed yourself too hard with the liquor. He knows you don’t like him the same way he does—right? At least he thinks so before you confess to him that you think about cuddling with him after sex. In this chapter, you both start to blur the lines.

directory/m.list ⇦ previous chapter - next chapter (comin soon)⇨

words: ~4.2k

t/w: friends with benefits!!, mutual(?) pining, confused!reader, hookup culture, slim jim exists (but isn't present in this chapter), pretty light yucky under the cut(very tame smut), gn!pronouns for reader (mostly, i think. if i fucked up somewhere, pls let me know), mention of s**ual harassment

a/n: more self-indulgent shit <3

The next morning greeted you with a relentless pounding in your head and a parched throat that felt like sandpaper. You groaned, shifting against the tangle of blankets before the events of last night hit you like a freight train.

At first, it had seemed like just a harmless, tipsy dream—a montage of Curly’s face, as breathtakingly gorgeous as ever. But as the dream played on, the edges of reality began to creep in. The heat in his cheeks, the incredulous look in his eyes, the sound of your own drunken voice slurring out “tiddiesss”—it wasn’t a dream. It was a memory.

Your eyes flew open, wide with horror.

“Oh my God,” you whispered to yourself, voice hoarse. You sat up so fast your head spun, and you buried your face in your hands.

I sexually harassed one of my closest friends, you realized, mortified.

What the hell is wrong with you? Curly was nothing but kind to you—always the one to look out for you when you drank too much or got yourself into some sort of embarrassing predicament. 

And last night? He’d been an absolute saint, driving you home without a single complaint. And what had you done in return? Made him feel uncomfortable and made a complete fool of yourself.

He wasn’t even interested in you like that—you knew that!—and yet your drunk self had decided to be the absolute worst.

You groaned again, louder this time, and grabbed your phone off the bedside table. Of course, Curly, ever the gentleman, had not only driven you home but also plugged in your phone to charge and even left a water bottle next to your phone. The reminder of his kindness only deepened the pit of shame in your stomach.

As you tapped the screen and drank from the water bottle, your faint reflection on the dark screen caught your eye. Your heart sank further. You looked like a disaster—deep shadows under your eyes, your hair sticking out in every direction, and your skin dull and puffy from dehydration. You sighed, resolving to pull yourself together.

Tonight, you decided. The group was coming over for dinner, and Curly would be there. You’d apologize—really apologize—not just for last night but for all the other moments when you’d let your insecurities spill over into bad decisions. But for now, you needed to get to the bathroom and make yourself look halfway human.

By the time the evening rolled around, the smell of simmering sauces and roasted meats and vegetables filled your small apartment, doing its best to mask the lingering scent of cleaning products from your earlier frenzy. You glanced at the table, double-checking that everything was perfect. Plates, glasses, and cloth napkins were arranged neatly, and you’d even lit a few candles in an effort to create a warm, inviting atmosphere.

You stepped back, pressing your palms against your thighs to keep them from trembling. Everything was perfect—at least on the surface. Inside, your stomach twisted like a wrung-out towel, the weight of seeing Curly again sitting heavily in your chest.

The knock at the door jolted you out of your spiraling thoughts. You smoothed your shirt and opened it, a bright smile already plastered on your face.

Daisuke was the first to step in, his easy grin lighting up the room. “I come bearing gifts!” he announced grandly, holding up a bottle of wine like a wizard revealing a prized elixir. He sniffed the air and let out a low whistle. “Wow, smells amazing in here!”

Anya followed close behind, giving you a quick hug before dropping her bag by the couch. “Oh my, you’ve outdone yourself,” she gushed, eyeing the spread on the table while placing down a pie she’d made on the kitchen counter. Everything about the pumpkin pie was perfect—a perfectly smooth surface with dollops of whipped cream that were piped on with precision.

“Don’t get too excited,” you said with a laugh, your nerves making it come out a bit stilted. “I might’ve accidentally over-salted the potatoes.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Daisuke teased, and you rolled your eyes at him, grateful for the distraction.

“And as if you didn’t overcook the salmon last time,” you shot back, elbowing him lightly. His groan of mock defeat made you smile, the exchange doing wonders to ease your nerves—until Curly stepped through the doorway.

The sight of him hit you like a freight train. His broad shoulders seemed to fill the doorway, and his casual jeans and perfectly fitted T-shirt might as well have been tailor-made for all the effect they had on you. His golden hair caught the warm candlelight, giving him an almost ethereal glow, and when he smiled—a small, shy one—you felt the air in your lungs turn heavy.

Your heart clenched. 

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sor— 

You tore your gaze away, fixating on the food instead, pretending to fuss over the table settings.

“Hey,” he said simply, his voice warm and unassuming, as though last night hadn’t happened.

The way his eyes crinkled at the corners, the soft upward curve of his lips—it all felt like too much. Your chest tightened, the sting of regret bubbling to the surface.

“Hey,” you replied, the word slipping out softer than you intended.

As everyone settled in, you found yourself stealing glances at Curly from across the table. He seemed relaxed, chatting with Daisuke about some new project he was working on, his easy tone lulling you into a false sense of security. But every so often, his gaze flickered toward you—quick, fleeting glances that made your pulse race. You couldn’t tell if he was trying to catch your eye or trying to actively avoid it.

You poured yourself a glass of wine, swirling it absently as you stared down at the roasted zucchini on your plate. Your mind wandered, already concocting a way to escape your spiraling thoughts after the night was over. Maybe you’d call one of the people you regularly hooked up with, someone uncomplicated who wouldn’t make you feel like this. But first—you had to apologize. Properly.

Anya leaned closer, her voice a low murmur. “You okay? You seem… distracted.”

You forced a smile, shaking your head. “Just tired,” you said, your tone light but unconvincing.

She studied you for a moment but let it go, turning her attention back to the table. Meanwhile, you busied yourself pouring drinks for everyone, clinging to the repetitive motions to ground yourself. 

You needed to find the right moment to apologize. You just hoped Curly wouldn’t leave before you got the chance.

Unconsciously, you refilled his glass multiple times, oblivious to the way his cheeks grew pinker with each pour. 

He wasn’t drunk—not even close. Curly had always been a lightweight with his emotions, not alcohol. It was you being this close, leaning over him with your hesitant, apologetic air, that sent his thoughts spinning.

When the plates were empty, you clapped your hands, forcing cheer into your voice. “Who’s up for dessert?”

“Pumpkin pie courtesy of Anya!” you added, smiling at her.

Daisuke perked up immediately. “Any dessert Anya touches turns to gold,” he said dreamily. “I still think about that key lime pie sometimes…”

You rolled your eyes with a laugh, watching him pat and rub at his stomach. Moments ago, he’d claimed he was too full to move, yet now he seemed ready to demolish an entire pie by himself.

“I’ll help,” Curly blurted suddenly, standing so quickly his chair scraped against the floor. He began collecting empty plates, avoiding your gaze as his movements turned brisk and purposeful.

The two of you found yourselves alone in the kitchen.

You watched him from the doorway, your gaze trailing over his broad back as he rinsed the dishes and placed them carefully into the dishwasher. So thoughtful, so helpful, so kind. Your chest swelled with something bittersweet—gratitude tinged with guilt. How could someone so lovely have been dragged into this… mess you created?

Your breath caught when you noticed the tips of his ears were pink. Why in the world-

“Curly,” you said, your voice soft, hesitant.

He stiffened slightly, pausing mid-motion. “Yeah?”

God, you felt so guilty. He must feel so uncomfortable.

“Later, when everyone’s about to leave… could I have a word with you? Privately?”

His shoulders twitched, and he tilted his head slightly upward, his blonde hair catching the light. You winced, imagining the worst—he must be uncomfortable, must hate this, must hate you. But then he turned to face you, his expression something softer, something… nervous?

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, his cheeks a little red. “I’d like to talk to you too.”

Your heart plummeted to your stomach. What did he have to talk to you for?

You moved to the counter, your hands trembling slightly as you plated slices of pumpkin pie. “Curly, just to preface, I—” You stopped, your throat tightening. “I’m so sorry.”

His eyebrows flew up, confusion flickering across his face. His lips parted like he was about to ask you something, but Daisuke’s loud laughter from the dining room interrupted the moment.

You forced a weak smile, handing him two plates. “Let’s go.”

You carried the dessert back to the table together, but the knot in your chest only grew heavier. The words lingered on your tongue, waiting for a moment that might never come.

A couple of hours and a few glasses of wine later, Anya and Daisuke exchanged a glance you couldn’t quite decipher. Anya sighed—almost contentedly—while rising from her seat.

“Well, it’s about time for us to head out. Thanks for the amazing dinner!”

You walked them to the door, your mind already spinning from what was coming next. Hugging them both tightly, you forced a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Thanks for the wine, Daisuke. And Anya, the pie was heavenly as always.”

“No problem,” Daisuke said, grinning as he patted his stomach. “And remember: dessert stomachs are a thing.”

As their laughter faded down the hallway and the door clicked shut, the air in the room grew heavier. Turning back, you saw Curly sitting hunched over on the couch, his elbows propped on his knees and his fingers laced together. His cheeks were tinged pink, and his biceps flexed subtly as he leaned forward, lost in thought.

Your gaze lingered on him—on the quiet strength he carried, the way the light made his hair glow like gold. But then you tore your eyes away, guilt curling tighter in your chest.

“Curly, I—” You hesitated, deciding to sit across from him rather than beside him, worried you might make him uncomfortable. Your hands fidgeted in your lap as you avoided his gaze. “What I did last night… It was so inappropriate, and I’m so sorry. I probably made you so uncomfortable, and—”

He laughed softly, shaking his head. The sound disarmed you, warm and low, like a summer breeze cutting through the tension in your chest.

“Hey.” His voice was gentle as his eyes met yours. “I didn’t mind it.”

Your breath caught. You couldn’t look away, the way his gaze softened and lingered making your heart beat faster.

Before you could process his words, Curly stood up and walked over, taking the seat beside you. The couch dipped under his weight, and the warmth radiating off him was so tangible you felt your pulse stutter. You wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch him.

“Wait. What?” The words tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop them.

“I mean…” His face turned redder, and he coughed lightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t mind if… you wanted to cuddle after… sex.”

Your mind froze, his words reverberating in your ears as your brain raced to make sense of them.

Cuddle? After what?

And then it hit you.

“Oh my God,” you shrieked, burying your burning face in your hands. “What else did I say to you while I was drunk!?”

The mortification was instant and complete. Your skin prickled with heat as your thoughts spiraled to the worst possible scenarios. Whatever it was, it had to be bad. You didn’t trust your drunk self to have any sense of shame or decorum.

Curly chuckled, the sound light and amused, and your heart twisted in response. “I don’t mind,” he said softly, gently prying your hands from your face. His touch was impossibly warm, firm but careful, as if you were something delicate.

You reluctantly let him, meeting his gaze with what had to be the most mortified expression he’d ever seen.

“I was hoping for it, actually,” he added, his lips quirking into a shy smile that made your stomach flip.

For a moment, you could only stare at him, utterly appalled. Sitting this close to you, holding your wrists, was the most handsome man you’d ever met. And he wasn’t just okay with what you’d said—he liked it? Wanted it?

This had to be a dream. Or a nightmare.

As if to confirm this wasn’t some cruel trick of your imagination, his hands shifted. One slid from your wrist to cup your face, his thumb brushing the curve of your cheek. His hands were big and warm, his touch tender in a way that made your breath hitch.

“May I kiss you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The words sent a jolt through you. His gaze searched yours, his eyes patient yet tinged with vulnerability. He wasn’t teasing. He was serious.

You couldn’t think. You couldn’t breathe.

“Yes, Curly, please,” you blurted, the words tumbling out before you could process them.

The corner of his mouth twitched into a soft smile before he leaned in. His lips brushed against yours, tentative at first, as if testing the waters. The kiss was so gentle, so achingly tender, it made your chest ache. 

His hand stayed on your cheek, his other resting lightly on the couch beside you, keeping his presence steady but not overwhelming.

Your mind reeled. You couldn’t reconcile this—the softness of his kiss, the warmth of his touch—with your guilt and embarrassment. But as his lips moved against yours, slow and deliberate, the world seemed to fade away.

When he pulled back, just enough to look at you, his hand lingered against your cheek. His eyes searched yours, his expression a mixture of hope and uncertainty.

“You’re… okay?” he asked quietly, his voice tinged with hesitation.

“I…” You blinked, still dazed, your heart thundering in your chest. “I don’t understand. Why would you want this? After everything I said—everything I did—”

He kissed you again.

“I know you’re embarrassed,” he continued, his voice steady but kind. “And I know you think you messed up, but you didn’t. Not for me.”

The sincerity in his gaze was unbearable. You wanted to look away, but he held you there, his hand grounding you as your emotions churned.

The kiss lingered in the air long after you’d pulled away. Curly’s gaze locked onto yours, searching for something—anything—that would anchor him in the chaos you’d just unleashed. Your expression was a mix of confusion and something else he couldn’t name, and he was sure his face wasn’t much better.

You opened your mouth to say something, but he cut you off before you could speak. “We don’t have to talk about it,” he said quickly, his voice lower than usual, rougher. His hand still rested on your cheek, the warmth of your skin seeping into his palm.

Your brow furrowed, but you didn’t push. “Okay,” you murmured, almost hesitant.

He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Maybe we... take things slow?” His stomach twisted even as the words left his mouth. He wanted you—God, he wanted you—but not like this. Not with you still looking at him like you were bracing for a rejection that he’d never even consider giving.

But then you nodded, a small, nervous laugh escaping your lips. “Yeah, sure. Slow sounds good.” Your fingers toyed with the hem of your shirt, and he felt his confidence from the wine slipping.

The silence between you wasn’t awkward, exactly—it was heavy, charged. He could feel it in the way your shoulder brushed his when you leaned back, in the way your foot tapped anxiously against the floor.

“Curly,” you began, breaking the quiet. He turned to face you, his chest tightening at the seriousness in your tone. “About what happened. Where do we go from here?”

He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he waited for you to continue.

“We could...” He hesitated, biting his lip. “We could just keep it casual. No pressure, no expectations. We don’t have to make it... a thing.”

Although those words came out of his own mouth, it hit him like a gut punch, and he hated how quickly his brain latched onto it. He hated himself for even considering it, for wanting to be close to you in any way he could. “No expectations,” he said again, his voice flat. He was so afraid of you rejecting him that he ended it right there—putting you into a situation he knew you were comfortable with. 

After all, he knew you were completely comfortable with just hooking up with people. A part of him didn’t even consider that you’d ever want to be in a committed relationship. And honestly, you thought the same thing about him.

You nodded, expression unreadable. “Yeah, sure. I mean, we’re adults. We can handle it, right?”

He wanted to tell you “nevermind” and “no”. Wanted to tell you that he didn’t want “casual,” didn’t want to be another passing thing in your life. But the thought of losing you, the thought of not having what little you were okay with offering made his chest ache.

“Yeah,” he said finally, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. “If that’s what you want.”

Even then, his mind raced at the idea you’d even be okay with kissing him. Fuck, he thought you didn’t even find him attractive whatsoever.

The room felt smaller, the air thick with something. Curly’s hand started cupping your face again, his pretty eyes searching yours as if for answers to questions he didn’t dare ask out loud. His eyelashes brushed his cheeks as he blinked, watching the nerves show in your face.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly.

And with that, the dam broke.

With a groan that was half pain, half relief, he pulled you closer. Your mouths collided, the kiss deepening as he lost all semblance of control. His other hand found the back of your neck, pulling you closer still. Everything was so warm about him—his hands, his lips, his hold, everything. You found yourself trying not to melt in his hold.

It was a kiss that spoke of unspoken desires, of quiet yearnings kept hidden beneath a veil of friendship. Even then, it wasn’t honest.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you kissed him back with a passion that surprised even you. You felt alive, your body responding in a way it never had with anyone else. His scent was intoxicating, the warmth of his skin like a blanket on a cold night. You fumbled at the hem of his shirt, eager to feel more of him, to explore the muscular planes of his body that you’d admired from afar.

He broke the kiss, his chest heaving. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice thick with need.

You nodded, your eyes never leaving his. “Yes,” you breathed.

With a gentle nod, he stood, lifting you in his arms with no effort and carrying you to your bed. For all you knew, you looked up at him like he hung the stars. The thought of it made your eyes wrench away from his face, still.

He laid you down with care, his hands roaming over your body as he removed your clothing. You felt a thrill of excitement as his fingertips brushed against your skin, sending sparks of pleasure through your body.

He took in a sharp breath as he felt the planes of your body, thoughts conflicted but so satisfied all at the same time.

The room was a blur of sensations as you lost yourself in the moment. The weight of his body pressing down on yours, the heat of his breath against your neck, the way his hands moved with a confidence that sent shivers down your spine. There was no room for doubt, no space for regrets. Only the here and now, the feel of his skin against yours, and the promise of pleasure that grew with every shared touch.

He unbuttoned his jeans with a smoothness that belied his own excitement and then slid off your pants and underwear off in one fluid movement.

Curly’s eyes roamed over your naked body, a mix of hunger and awe in his gaze. He leaned in, kissing a trail from your belly button to your chest, taking his time to savor every inch of you. His mouth closed around one nipple, eliciting a gasp from you, while his hand explored further down.

The world outside the room ceased to exist as he entered you, filling you in a way that was both familiar and new. 

There were no words, only the sound of your breaths mingling with his, the slap of skin against skin, and the heady rhythm that grew faster, more urgent with each passing moment.

You felt the tension build, your body tightening around him like a vice. He kissed you again, his tongue mimicking the movements of his hips, and you knew you were close. So close.

And then, with a cry that seemed to tear itself from the very depths of your soul, you climaxed, the waves of pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave. He followed, his own release a silent exclamation of ecstasy as he twitched and thrusted once more.

As the aftershocks of passion ebbed away, the room grew still, the silence broken only by the sound of your unsteady breaths. You lay there, staring up at the ceiling, your body warm against Curly’s, his steady heartbeat thumping beneath your ear as you leaned against his chest. The weight of what had just happened pressed down on you—not in regret, but in the terrifying awareness that this wasn’t just physical for you.

Your chest felt heavy, though you couldn’t bring yourself to move. His hand rested idly on your back, his thumb tracing soft circles that you weren’t sure he even realized he was doing. The quiet intimacy of it made your heart ache. You tried to focus on the present, on the afterglow, on the way his skin felt against yours, but your thoughts kept spiraling.

This wasn’t supposed to feel this way. It never has when you hooked up with others.

“Stay the night, Curly,” you said suddenly, your voice softer than you intended. You lifted your head from his chest to look at him, catching the flicker of surprise in his eyes.

His brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he smiled—soft, hesitant, but undeniably warm. “You sure?” he asked, his voice low and still tinged with the rasp of moments earlier.

You nodded, biting back the urge to explain yourself too much. “I don’t want to have to treat you like... the others,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. The confession hung in the air, vulnerable and raw. You swallowed hard, the truth settling uncomfortably between you. You already knew—you couldn’t even imagine sleeping with (or even holding—at this point) anyone else after him.

His chest rose and fell beneath your head in a steady rhythm, his gaze fixed on yours. For a moment, you thought he might push back, remind you of the rules you both agreed on. But instead, his hand slid up to your hair, his fingers weaving gently through it. “You don’t have to,” he murmured, the weight of his words carrying more meaning than you could unpack in that moment.

You melted a little at his words, your lips curving into a small smile despite yourself. The knot in your chest eased just enough for you to breathe again. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding on until now.

You were still staring at his face after it all, still trying to regain your bearings. Then, breaking the tension with a casualness that felt both maddening and endearing, he grinned at you, boyish and bright. “Wanna grab milkshakes?”

The abruptness of it startled a laugh out of you, your forehead dropping against his chest as the tension between you shifted into something lighter. “Milkshakes?” you repeated, lifting your head to meet his gaze again.

“Yeah, I know a place that’s open late. Best chocolate shake you’ve ever had. Trust me,” he said, his grin widening. “Though I prefer malt.”

You couldn’t help but laugh again, the sound soft and unguarded. “Fine,” you said, shaking your head. “But you’re paying.”

“That was the plan anyway.”

And just like that, the moment shifted. The raw, vulnerable edges dulled slightly, tucked away for another time. But as he kissed your forehead and started pulling on his clothes, you couldn’t help but feel it—your heart was already too tangled for this to stay as simple as you pretended it could be.

a/n: let me know what you all think pleeeease!

big thank you to all the commentors, reblogs, and general LOVE that i've been getting from these fics. it means everything to me & keeps me writing <3

true curly tiddie yucky coming in the next chapter lol

taglist is open! lmk if you want to be on the taglist for just curly/mouthwashing characters or if you want the news on alll my fics.

also might be accepting requests hehe! i can’t guarantee that i can do em, but i’ll accept ideas!

as always, not beta read, please let me know if there are any typos/inconsistencies lmfao;; stay safe & hydrated as always!

thanks for reading! <3

crossposted on ao3

taglist: @m-carriaga2021, @skyeconch, @wolfsune09, @luvsymai

directory/m.list ⇦ previous chapter - next chapter (comin soon)⇨

[kkanabel]

random little things that i never included: (my first ever published headcanons! omg!)

for my first mouthwashing fic:

co-pilot mischief pt i, ii, iii (but these can be mostly understood even w/o reading the whole fic)

curly switched over to one-armed push-ups after regular ones didn't work anymore.

he doesn't have any proper weights while on the tulpar, so he'd just have to do.

but even while he was trying to work out to clear his mind

he still thought about how it'd be so much more efficient if while he was doing push-ups, you were on top of him-

you once saw "caught" him while he was doing these push-ups and you were so confused about it

because why was he so embarrassed??

like yeah, curly, sure you were doing push-ups, so why are you blushing so hard??? what's the problem with that ??

you didnt get it bc u didnt even do anything yet

and youd be thinking later like "aight let's see what's on today's menu... hmm im feeling like 'accidentally' bumping my ass into curly's crotch today!" just to try and get him to be more flustered

blushing curly~

idea from one of my ao3 commentors: (big thank you to hanisia for the idea <3)

God this was so amazing I might need the aftermath 😭 the fact you mentioned the lead asking if they could walk later sounds funny, I would actually die to read about that situation happening and Curly just being there to help us out to make sure nobody gets the idea😭😭

both of you waking up the morning after and you can't really feel your legs & youre sore everywhere

sure, curly was sore ESPECIALLY in his legs & ass from all the thrusting, but you were... nearly bedridden

he felt so, so bad

he was so apologetic like "hon, i'm so, so sorry. i made such a mistake i- i can't believe i did this to you. please feel free to kick me." he says, panicked, eyes all shifty and guilty.

you rolled your eyes "really, curly? your way of making it up to me is domestic violence?" while trying not to laugh and he's like

"domestic? wait. you want to be official..? like,,, partners?"

like THAT'S WHAT YOU FOCUS ON?

you cant find it in yourself to correct him. he looked overjoyed-

a little spark in his eye you've never seen before. his pretty, plump lips curling into a grin with such joy

he's absolutely ecstatic at just the idea that you'll be official with him.

even when you let him finish insid-

multiple times-

HOW COULD YOU SAY NO ?

but anyway

youre still mf bedridden

so you both have to come up with some explanation for the crewmembers.

by "you both", i mean curly. it's just curly. it doesn't matter much to you. you dont need to talk to anybody--especially because he refused to let you move an inch after that whole... all night non-stop f***ing situation.

so you just get to lay back & relax as you hear the voices of your newly-crowned partner, curly

and your crewmates

and it's just "our well-adored co-pilot has mentioned that they will be unable to work for the next couple days due to the flu."

they all look at him in horror

...swansea, of course, is the first person to say anything. "damn it captain, we all heard you last night. we don't mind--we're actually damn glad that you both finally fixed the level of tension--but if i wake up one more time to those disgusting noises, i will lock you in the cockpit until you starve."

....curly didn't even refute him

anya, ever the sweetest person: "congrats, captain curly :)" and doesnt say much else and walks away as if she mf knew from the start that you two had something going on.

hell, she seemed like she knew that he had something for you before YOU even realized

daisuke is just like "what are they talking about? what happened, captain curly?" and poor daisuke is just thinking like "hmm, maybe there was some sorta commotion. my dreams were louder than usual."

and curly can't even bring himself to tell the truth before swansea steps in and whisks away the confused guy to the utility room for his internship activities.

curly, ever the guilty and remorseful gentleman, brings every meal to you while you're still in his bed, recovering.

he scrounged up an instant mac and cheese that he gave you from his own secret stash. WITH EXTRA CHEESE.

even figured out how to make a ponyexpress-given-ingredients-only noodle soup for you. using nutrient packs and random canned items.

it was pretty good, too.

helped you shower & it took everything in him to not just take you again in the bathroom

you wouldn't have been opposed, but recovering was proooobably the best course of action.

when you come back, anya gives you the eye at breakfast. you could see it written all over her face when she said:

"i hope to see you in the medbay soon so make sure that you're recovering properly."

translation: you need to tell me everything.

AND YOU MOST CERTAINLY DID

a/n : first ever headcanon shared bro what did i do okay or am i like going too in-depth bc im writing this the same way i normally do w my notes before i write a fic (except my real notes are way more chaotic & vulgar) lmk if yall wanna see that stuff for fics ive alr posted LMAO like a behind the scenes or sum

co-pilot mischief ✫ curly concerns ✫ chapter uno

captain curly x teasing!reader

curly panics when he realizes he's attracted to his co-pilot. a mixture of professionalism and fear of making you uncomfortable are keeping him from pursuing his feelings. so, when you find out that he has a thing for you, you tease him to see how long it'll take for him to give up.

directory/m.list next chapter ⇨

words: ~3.5k

t/w: sexual references but no actual yucky (yet), reader being lowkey sadistic, cute curly <3, gn!reader/pronouns but reader wears a bra

a/n: hi. been obsessed with this video game recently—well, especially with Curly (go figure. i like fictional men). i needed to make something self-indulgent bc i just like this man way too much. and because i just want to make a world where none of them have to suffer. enjoy~ 

~jambalaya does not exist in this world~

Planned Shipment Duration: 382 Days Elapsed Transit Time: 292 Days

It had been over nine months aboard this damned ship, and Curly was just short of going mad. Not the kind of madness that came with sleep deprivation—he’d conquered that particular beast long ago, his body numb to the restless nights. No, this madness was quieter, more insidious, burrowing into his mind and refusing to leave. It trailed him through the claustrophobic halls of the Tulpar, slipping into the smallest crevices of his day-to-day. The worst part was, he knew exactly what caused it.

Or rather, who.

His co-pilot. The bane of his existence. The source of his sanity slipping through his fingers like sand.

Curly groaned and scrubbed his face with his hands, his calloused palms dragging over stubble. The cockpit was bathed in the green glow of the ship’s display panels, casting long shadows over his hunched figure. For once, he was alone. His co-pilot was off—God knows where—and he was left to grapple with the gnawing frustration that never seemed to diminish. It wasn’t the kind of irritation that burned; it simmered, steady and unyielding, until it became part of the fabric of his thoughts, melting like wax into his very being.

He could see their handwriting on the little sticky notes scattered around the console, each one an infuriatingly sweet reminder to stretch, drink water, or take a break. He tried to ignore the way those notes made him feel a little lighter, even when he wanted to crumple them up out of spite. Then there were the meals—hot, fresh, and left beside him during the long hours he spent poring over ship diagnostics on days he’d forget to come to the main lobby for food. Like clockwork, they arrived, a silent reminder that someone out there cared. Too much, in fact.

It wasn’t the fact that they’d climbed the ranks with startling efficiency or that they were nipping at his heels for his own position. But the issue wasn’t their competence. Hell, he’d been the one to recommend them to the crew. No, the problem—the real problem—was that he didn’t mind the notes. Or the meals. Or the way their laugh lingered in his head long after the joke had ended.

That was the crux of it: he didn’t mind. He cared too much.

Curly growled under his breath and pushed himself out of his chair, dropping into a push-up position before the thought could take hold again. One. Two. Three. The strain burned through his biceps and shoulders, grounding him in something tangible. In the beginning, this ritual had worked. Twenty push-ups, and he’d feel clear-headed enough to get back to work. But now? He was well into quadrupling that number, and the haze in his mind hadn’t lifted.

“Damn it,” he muttered, shifting to one-armed push-ups. Sweat beaded on his brow, but his thoughts remained stubbornly fixed.

It was their fault. The way they lingered in his peripheral vision during late-night shifts, always a step ahead of him. The way their presence filled the cockpit, electric and steady, as if the entire ship ran on their quiet energy. He hated it. He needed it.

Curly collapsed onto the floor, the cool metal pressing against his flushed skin. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the dull ceiling, and exhaled sharply. But it wasn’t their fault. It was all his.

Because no matter how many push-ups he did or how hard he worked, he couldn’t seem to outrun the one truth he hated most: he was falling for his co-pilot, and there was no way to make it stop.

It all started so innocently.

A couple of months ago, when Curly’s sleep was deteriorating thanks to the unholy cocktail of chronic insomnia and the Pony Express directive of “only indulging in five hours of sleep a night,” the signs of wear were becoming impossible to hide. His dark circles deepened, hollowing out his features, and the number of minor piloting errors he made began creeping upward. He hated slipping up, especially in front of the crew. But you had been there, catching the mistakes before anyone else could notice, your tone warm and forgiving as you covered for him without a single reproach.

“How many hours of sleep did you get last night, Captain?” you asked, glancing at him with a knowing arch of your brow. The question was less accusatory and more concerned, which somehow made it worse.

The third time you caught him in the cockpit, chugging yet another cup of bitter instant coffee, you sighed with exasperation. He barely had time to process what you were doing before you nudged him toward the door with a bottle of melatonin clutched in your hand.

“Rest, Captain,” you said firmly, standing your ground in front of him with a tilt to your chin that tolerated no argument. “Don’t go abusing yourself—and caffeine—like that. Do me a favor and take one of these with some water. I’ve got the ship tied down.”

Before he could retort, you physically pushed him through the doorway and locked the cockpit door behind him. He stared at the bottle of melatonin in his hand, blinking in confusion, his mind too fogged with exhaustion to properly argue. He barely made it to his quarters without bumping into a wall. Still, he heeded your demand.

When he woke up hours later, groggy but undeniably more refreshed than he’d felt in weeks, he returned to the cockpit to find the door unlocked and you sitting in his chair, nursing a steaming cup of water between your hands.

The smile you gave him as he walked in—small, gentle—made something in his chest falter, like the ship had hit a pocket of turbulence. He ignored it, chalking the reaction up to gratitude. “Thanks,” he muttered before reclaiming his chair.

That should have been it. A one-off moment. But it wasn’t.

The next time was when you came bounding into the cockpit, an excited glint in your eyes, holding a bundle of old films scavenged from storage. “Look what I found!” you exclaimed, dropping them onto the console as if they were treasures unearthed from a sunken ship. The crew’s old stash of classic movies. You suggested a movie night, and by the weekend, everyone was gathered in the living area, dressed in mismatched pajamas as per your insistence.

The fake day-and-night screen in the living room had been converted into a movie screen (thanks to a favor from Swansea), and you’d somehow transformed the cramped space into a cozy theater. The crew was laughing, the air thick with the buttery aroma of popcorn—smuggled aboard in direct defiance of Pony Express regulations. Swansea lounged in a corner, throwing popcorn into his mouth with perfect aim, while Daisuke and Anya shared a bag of candy bars, their laughter ringing out during the film’s funniest moments.

And then there was you, looking at the rest of the crew, a relieved smile on your face from seeing them having fun and relaxing.

You’d curled up on the couch with bunny slippers, wearing an oversized t-shirt that reached down to your knees. Curly found himself staring at the way your legs curled up in front of you, the smooth skin catching the flickering light of the screen. He shook his head and willed himself to look back at the film, feeling an odd mix of discomfort and… something else.

It wasn’t just your legs that had caught his attention. He watched your shoulders relax as you looked at the others having a good time. From your shoulders, his eyes slowly trailed up to your neck,

There was the lace halter bralette peeking out from the neckline of your shirt, delicate and intricate, its strap circling your neck like a whisper of fabric. He’d overheard you mention it in passing to Anya once, saying how they were more comfortable than traditional bras. Cute, you’d said. Anya had agreed wholeheartedly, and the two of you had launched into an entire conversation about comfortable alternatives, leaving him both bewildered and hyper-aware of the intricacies of brassiers.

That night, you’d tied your hair up, sweeping it off your face and revealing the curve of your neck. He hated how his eyes kept trailing there, lingering too long on the strap of your bralette before snapping back to the screen.

What was wrong with him?

The laughter of the crew filled the room, but Curly’s focus was elsewhere. He watched the way your shoulders relaxed as you leaned back, your smile warm and unguarded as you looked at the others enjoying themselves. It had been a rough couple of weeks, but in that moment, you looked so at ease, like you were carrying everyone’s joy on your shoulders and doing it gladly.

His gaze drifted again, following the line of your neck up to your jaw and almost to your lips before he froze, his chest tightening with realization. He was staring. Stop it, you creep. His heart thudded in his chest, the weight of his guilt sinking in. The last thing he ever wanted was to make you uncomfortable, to let you see just how hopelessly he was starting to lose control of his own feelings.

And yet, even as he looked away, forcing his attention back to the film, the memory of your smile lingered in his mind, burning as brightly as a star in space.

Later that night, after the crew had dispersed to their quarters, Curly lingered in the living area. The faint smell of popcorn still hung in the air, and empty mugs cluttered the low table, remnants of the impromptu movie night.

He hadn’t planned to stay, but you were still there, stacking empty bowls with practiced efficiency. You hummed softly as you worked, the sound low and content.

“You don’t have to clean up,” he said, his voice startlingly loud in the quiet.

You glanced at him over your shoulder, an easy smile spreading across your face. “Neither do you, Captain. Yet here you are.”

Curly looked so charming, sweeping up the crumbs from the ground with a bashful smile. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Force of habit, I guess.”

He stepped forward and started gathering stray candy wrappers. You didn’t protest, and the two of you worked in companionable silence. The only sounds were the soft clink of mugs and the occasional hum from the ship’s systems.

“Thanks for tonight,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter. He kept his eyes on the mug in his hand, turning it absently. “I think… the crew needed it.”

You paused, a little surprised. “Needed what?”

“A break. A reminder that things aren’t always so…” He trailed off, searching for the word. “Mechanical.”

You laughed softly, and the sound was warm enough to make his chest ache. “Even machines need downtime, Captain. And so do you.”

He glanced at you, his resolve faltering as you met his gaze head-on. Your eyes were steady, soft, and full of something he couldn’t quite name. For a moment, the ship felt too small, the air too thin.

“I guess I’ll work on that,” he said, forcing a crooked smile and dropping his gaze.

As the months passed, his little problem only got worse.

It started as little things.

The way Curly’s voice would soften when he said your name, like he was tasting it before letting it leave his mouth. How he always seemed to position himself between you and anything remotely dangerous during routine checks, even if the “danger” was just a loose panel or a slightly sparking wire. You noticed those things before, but they hadn’t meant much to you at the time.

But lately, you’ve started picking up on more.

Like how he fidgets whenever you lean over his chair to point something out on the cockpit screen. Or how his ears turn red if your hand brushes his when passing tools or data tablets. At first, you think it’s funny—how someone so competent and in control can get so flustered over little things. But then, there’s the moment in the Main Lobby.

You’re digging through one of the upper cabinets, on the hunt for something sweet, when you hear his boots scuff against the floor behind you.

“You’re always after the chocolate in the vending machine,” he says, leaning casually against the counter like he isn’t watching you a little too closely.

“And you’re always after the coffee,” you quip, holding up a ration bar triumphantly.

“Touché.” His lips twitch into a smile, and you can’t help but notice how his eyes linger on you just a moment too long before he turns to grab his mug from the shelf.

It’s not unusual—this kind of back-and-forth—but as you open the bar and break off a piece, you catch him glancing at you again, almost like he’s about to say something. He doesn’t, though, and the moment stretches long enough to feel... significant.

That’s when it starts clicking.

The lingering looks. The slight hesitation in his voice when he talks to you. The way he goes out of his way to make sure you’re comfortable, even when he doesn’t have to. The realization settles in your chest, warm and a little thrilling.

Does Curly like me?

Your mind starts replaying recent moments with a new lens. The way he always pulls you aside first to explain changes to the schedule. How he always offers to carry extra supplies during inspections, even when you insist you’re fine. That time he casually gave you his jacket when the living quarters were colder than usual, like it was no big deal.

“Earth to you,” Curly says, snapping you out of your thoughts. He’s holding out a water pouch, his brow slightly furrowed. “You zoned out there for a second. You okay?”

You take the pouch and give him a smile. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

You tilt your head, studying him, and your smile widens when he shifts under your gaze. “Nothing important.”

It’s a lie, of course. You’re thinking about him—about how he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention, about how he tries so hard to act unaffected when you’re around.

And for the first time, you feel a little wicked. If Curly likes you, why not have a little fun with it?

Curly knew something was off the moment you walked into the cockpit.

It wasn’t just the way you greeted him, your voice light and playful as always. It was the way your smile lingered, like you were holding onto a secret you couldn’t wait to let out.

“You’re up early,” you said, dropping into your seat beside him.

“Could say the same for you,” Curly muttered, keeping his eyes on the console. He was grateful for the excuse to look busy, though the screen in front of him was just a diagnostic report he’d already read three times.

“You’re always so serious, Captain.” Your tone was teasing, but there was something else beneath it, something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

He didn’t respond, didn’t trust himself to.

The silence stretched, and just when he thought you’d moved on, you leaned closer—close enough for him to catch the faint scent of whatever soap you used.

“Hey, Curly?”

His stomach flipped. “Yeah?”

You paused, drawing it out, like you were savoring his anticipation. Then, with a sly grin, you said, “You’re staring.”

“I’m not—” He froze, his heart skipping a beat. “What?”

“You are,” you insisted, your grin widening. “You’ve been staring at that same report for the last ten minutes. What’s so interesting about it?”

Curly’s mouth went dry. He scrambled for an answer, but his mind betrayed him, replaying every fleeting glance he’d stolen of you earlier that morning. How long had you noticed?

When he didn’t respond, you leaned back in your chair, smug satisfaction written all over your face. “Relax, Captain. I’m just messing with you.”

But you weren’t. Not entirely.

Because as you watched the tips of his ears turn pink and saw how his jaw tightened, you realized something. Something that made your pulse quicken and your lips curl into a wicked smile.

He likes me.

And now that you knew, you couldn’t help yourself.

Curly swore the ship’s cockpit had never felt this small before.

You were now hovering just over his shoulder, leaning in to inspect a blinking diagnostic alert on the screen. The proximity was maddening—he could feel the warmth radiating off you, the sleeve of your Pony Express jumpsuit brushing against his arm every time you moved.

“Hmm,” you mused, tilting your head. “Looks like a minor power fluctuation. Nothing to worry about, but we should log it for the next maintenance check.”

He nodded stiffly, trying to focus on your words instead of the fact that your hair was so close it tickled his cheek. “Right. I’ll, uh, take care of it.”

But when he reached for the keyboard, so did you. Your fingers grazed his, and you both froze.

“Sorry,” you said, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. A playful smile tugged at your lips, and he didn’t trust it for a second. “Didn’t mean to get in your way, Captain.”

“It’s fine,” he muttered, turning back to the screen. But his fingers trembled slightly as he typed, and he cursed himself for it.

“You know,” you said, leaning against the edge of the console, your voice deceptively casual. “You look good when you’re focused like that.”

He nearly choked. “What?”

“I said you look good when you’re focused.” You shrugged, like it was the most normal, casual thing in the world. “It’s kind of intimidating, actually. In a good way.”

His face burned, and he fought the urge to bury it in his hands. “I—uh—thanks, I guess...”

The smile you gave him was nothing short of devilish. “You’re welcome.”

You stayed there, watching him a little too closely, and he could feel his pulse thudding in his ears. Finally, he risked a glance at you, only to find you tilting your head with mock innocence.

“Everything okay, Captain?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly, focusing hard on the screen. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Oh, no reason.” Your voice was light, teasing. “You just seem a little... tense.”

He stiffened, embarrassed and confused as to what you were doing but powerless to stop it.

“You know,” you continued, leaning a little closer again, “you really should loosen up. It’s not good for your health to be so serious all the time.”

“I’m not—” He cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”

“Hmm.” You studied him for a moment, and then, with a mischievous glint in your eyes, you added, “If you ever need help relaxing, Captain, just let me know.”

He froze, his brain short-circuiting at the double meaning behind your words.

Before he could stammer out a response, you straightened up, patting him lightly on the shoulder. “Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. Don’t work too hard, okay?”

And just like that, you were gone, leaving him alone in the cockpit, his heart racing and his mind a chaotic mess.

He groaned, burying his face in his hands. He was doomed. Absolutely doomed.

From the moment you saw Curly’s ears turn red, his fate was sealed. You’d never imagined the stoic, dependable captain could be reduced to such an adorable mess, and now that you’d seen it, there was no going back. It was just too cute—the way his bravado would falter, his words stumbling over themselves as he tried and failed to maintain composure.

Normally, Curly was all broad shoulders and easy charm, his commanding presence impossible to ignore. But you’d discovered a crack in that armor, a secret button that turned him from the ever-confident leader into a flustered, helpless schoolboy. And oh, what a delightful button it was to press.

You’d always found him attractive—how could you not? He was responsible, dependable, and unfairly handsome. But for the longest time, you assumed he’d only ever see you as his co-pilot, someone to rely on professionally but never personally. Yet now, the way his gaze lingered a moment too long, the subtle flush on his cheeks whenever you got a little too close, told you a very different story.

It gave you a strange, heady sense of power, and you had absolutely no intention of letting it go to waste.

A small, wicked thrill ran through you whenever you imagined the possibilities. What if you teased him just enough to make that carefully controlled exterior crumble? What if you pushed him to the edge, until he couldn’t hold it in any longer? Your mind wandered to a particularly wonderful thought: Curly, unable to take it anymore, bending you over the console with a heated, desperate confession.

You shivered, the fantasy almost too delicious to bear.

And so, your mission began—not to reject him, but to push him. To tease and torment, to watch his resolve unravel thread by thread. You weren’t cruel, not really. You knew he’d crack eventually, and you planned to reward him handsomely when he did. But until then?

Until then, you’d savor every stolen glance, every stammered reply, every moment he tries and fails to hold himself together.

After all, what was a little mischief between co-pilots?

a/n: let me know what y'all think! biggest thank yous to those who have written curly x reader fics thus far, y'all fueled me lmfao.

oh yeah.. smut.. eventually...

taglist is open! lmk if you want to be on the taglist for just curly/mouthwashing characters or if you want the news on alll my fics... also might be accepting requests hehe! i can't guarantee that i can do em, but i'll accept ideas!

thanks for reading! <3

btw. not beta read, please let me know if there are any typos or inconsistencies stay safe & hydrated as always!

(and go to sleep if you're reading this super late. don't be a curly. take care of yourself! (i say, writing this at midnight))

crossposted on ao3

directory/m.list next chapter ⇨

[kkanabel]

y'all. im sure y'all have seen this atp but like. ive read this damn thing at least 20 times and it is HAUNTING ME. maybe i should.. maybe i should include something in next chapter or in next curly fic? bc my LAWD- IM SWEATING-

i apologize for this.. BUT what about curly sobbing when he's overstimulated during sex because it feels too good.. and he can barely talk, most of the words leaving his mouth too quiet or unintelligible to decipher :3

ʷʰʸ ⁱˢ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᵗᵉˣᵗ ˢᵒ ˢᵐᵃˡˡ

Tw/cw; OVERSTIMULATING CURLY!!!, he cries, no specific genitalia mentioned so gn ig????

Not proofread

I feel as though Curly would only get overstimulated if he wasn't topping. Like, in missionary, he knows his own limits because he's so used to the position. That's not at all saying he's bored, he enjoys it a lot, but because it's your default position, he knows when to stop before he gets overstimulated.

The first time you ever overstimulated him was when you were riding him. It was your first time being on top, and yeah, Curly was practically doing all of the work, but that's besides the point.

Anyway, because it was a new position he hadn't tried before, he didn't know his limits just yet. So imagine his surprise when he started to get overstimulated after the first time he came, and you were STILL going, just adding to it.

It was a new experience, a new feeling, he didn't know how to handle it. So what does he do? Cries. He cries. Yeah, I said it, he'd cry when being overstimulated BOOM I JUST DROPPED A BOMB ON YOU GUYS!!!

No but in all seriousness, he would cry. Like I said, it's a new experience for him and he's just not used to it yet, the extreme pleasure he's feeling is catching up to him, badly.

His grip on your waist would loosen and his head would be thrown back, maybe even a little back arching action idk lololollollllol 🤭🤭

You have this man seeing legitimate STARS. He'd try to praise you, tell you how good you're making him feel, but everything coming out of his mouth is either incoherent or whispered.

You can make out some of the words though, but he's just repeating 'i love you' and other random praises and pet names, practically anything that comes to his mind in those moments. But most of the words he's trying to say get drowned out by his loud whimpers and moans.

I really hope you don't need aftercare, because he canNOT feel his legs.

A/N; chat should I start adding memes as dividers again I feel like I lost a lot of whimsy by doing away with them

[kkanabel]

⬛🟧 thing. high school memories like CRAZY from this one

Mouthwashing marching band AU cuz I miss marching season from hs 😞😞

This is entirely self indulgent. But I felt like posting something to hold y'all over while I work on my next one shot. I left links for the stand tunes under their head canons :) I highly recommend listening to them <3

Daisuke 🌺

Either tenor saxophone or alto saxophone.

Doubled on trombone.

Can't march for the life of him but he likes the stand tunes so he stays :)

He cries every year at band camp.

He probably bought flavored reeds for shits and giggles but he ran out of regular reeds one time so he was stuck playing with a Baja blast flavored reed.

His favorite stand tune is either pretty fly for a white guy or SOS

100% is one of the loudest screamers for stand tunes.

By the time break rolls around for band he inhales his food so he doesn't have to share it.

Always pre orders because he forgot once and wasn't able to eat at all until he got home from the game.

Laughed every time someone said dinkles.

Probably learned megalovania or careless whisper for shits and giggles.

SOS

Pretty fly for a white guy:

Curly 🎉

Drumline more specifically snare, I can't explain it but I just get percussion vibes from him.

Section leader but was probably one of the fun ones.

He broke his drums one time and had to sit out while the director tried to fix it.

His favorite stand tune is either do watcha wanna or cold hearted.

Probably learned the ⬛🟧 thing and managed to sneak it into a performance or two.

Did jazz band because he had an extra elective spot.

He absolutely HATED the marching uniforms.

One of the kids that screamed "get sweaty" and "get swole" during band camp exercising.

Do watcha wanna:

Cold hearted:

Anya 🌟

Flute and clarinet.

She chose them because she thought they were pretty.

She also wanted a bigger locker.

She prefers concert season to marching just because the songs are slower and more calm.

Second loudest screamer in the stands.

Her favorite stand tune is Mortal Kombat or land of 1000 dances.

One of the better marchers in the band.

Likes the design of the marching uniforms.

Mortal Kombat:

Land of 1000 dances:

Swansea 🪓

He was probably the director.

Overworked and underpaid.

He would probably yell a lot but in a loving way.

"its doo DAH not doo DIT"

Absolutely HATED when people were out of tune and did nothing about it.

Favorite stand tune was either hey baby or sweet Caroline.

Hey baby :

Sweet Caroline:

Jimthew 😒

Played trumpet or baritone.

One of the assholes that took it up the octave but cracked every time.

He stole everyone's fruit during fruit break.

Actually one of the best backwards marchers, only beat out by Anya.

Absolutely DESPISES the metronome during practice. He thinks he's above it.

Did jazz along with Curly.

His gloves kept getting holes in them because he'd use his mouth to take them off.

Favorite stand tune is either talking out the side of your neck or all of the lights.

Talking out the side of your neck:

All of the lights:

[kkanabel]

drunken confessions ✫ chapter i

curly x reader

summary: Curly is the designated driver for tonight, so he’s helping you as you vomit your guts out because you pushed yourself too hard with the liquor. He knows you don’t like him the same way he does—right? At least he thinks so before you confess to him that you think about cuddling with him after sex.

directory/m.list next chapter ⇨

words: ~4k

t/w: alcohol overuse/abuse, vomiting, friends with benefits (not yet, but next chapter?), mutual(?) pining, confused!curly, hookup culture, slim jim exists, mentions of sex, gn!pronouns for reader (mostly, i think. if i fucked up somewhere, pls let me know), curly tiddies, no yucky yet :>

a/n: more self-indulgent shi

All you could feel was the burn of alcohol tearing through your stomach and throat, the sickening churn rising up in seemingly never ending waves. Every retch was like an eruption clawing its way out of you. Your knees dug into the grimy bathroom tile, cold and unforgiving beneath your trembling legs, while your head hovered just inches from the stained toilet. The acrid stench of stale piss mingled with the sour tang of alcohol-induced vomit in the air, but you were too far gone to care.

You gasped, desperate for a shred of relief, but all it brought was another violent heave, your body convulsing as the acidic mix of stomach bile and alcohol forced its way up. The taste coated your tongue, sharp and bitter, burning with every ragged cough. Tears streamed freely down your cheeks, blurring your vision until the world was nothing but smudges of color, swirling and shifting in a drunken haze.

The bathroom spun, walls tilting at angles that didn’t make sense. You closed your eyes, but the movement didn’t stop—it only grew worse, as if your head was spinning further and further from your body. Somewhere, distantly, you registered the heavy thud of footsteps approaching.

A shadow loomed in your periphery, tall and broad. You blinked, your vision swimming as the figure crouched beside you. A low chuckle and sigh cut through the haze, followed by a sigh. A warm, solid hand brushed your damp hair out of your face, careful and deliberate, though some strands clung stubbornly to your sweat-slicked skin. The hand was persistent in grabbing all of the strands of hair, still, and you felt those strands slowly dragging away from your face, tickling your cheek.

“Mmm, he smells good,” you slurred, the words bubbling out before your mind could catch up.

The figure let out a short laugh, his voice low and rich with an edge of exasperation. “Thanks, I guess,” he muttered, his hands working deftly to gather your hair. A scrunchie appeared—when had he grabbed that?—and his fingers moved with surprising precision, tying your hair back with a tenderness that made your head swim for entirely different reasons. The feeling of it mixing with the dizziness in your mind made you want to retch more.

You focused on the feeling of his hands, big and rough-looking but impossibly gentle and warm as they worked. It was easier to concentrate on that than the relentless nausea still clawing at your insides. For a moment, your head lolled forward, and your gaze landed on the thighs crouched inches from you.

Thick, solid, and muscled, the fabric of his pants stretched taut across them as he balanced on his heels. Nice legs, your drunken mind noted appreciatively. Such good legs. You nearly drooled at the thought, the alcohol-fueled haze exaggerating everything—the sheer size of him, the warmth radiating from his body, the confidence in the way he held himself, the relaxing scent emitting from him. No, it wasn’t the alcohol. He’s always like this.

You wiped away the saliva dripping down the corner of your mouth when you realized you were actually drooling.

“Drink,” he said firmly, pressing something cool and smooth into your hand. You blinked sluggishly, your gaze trailing up his body as if it took every ounce of effort to move your eyes. Slowly, his face came into focus—familiar blonde waves framing a sharp jawline, his blue eyes laced with concern and faint amusement. 

“Come on,” he urged, uncapping the water bottle for you and tilting it toward your lips. “Small sips. You’ll feel better.”

The room still swayed, but his voice was steady, grounding you as you forced yourself to take a cautious sip. The water hit your throat, soothing and alien after the harsh burn of alcohol and bile. For the first time in what felt like hours, your chest didn’t feel like it was on fire.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice softening as he settled beside you, his muscled arm brushing against yours. “Just breathe.”

You tried, but the alcohol still coursed through your system, muddling your senses and making everything feel heavy and slow. But despite the fog, his presence felt solid and safe.

You’d come to this party with Curly, Daisuke, and Anya, the agreement being that he’d take the role of designated driver. While the rest of you had steadily climbed the ladder of intoxication, he hadn’t had a single drink. Someone needed to be sober enough to herd the chaos, after all. But now, Anya—with her kind words and nurturing personality—had decided to crash here, swept up in the hospitality of her friends who were hosting the party. And Daisuke? He was half a step away from disappearing into a shadowy corner with someone you doubted he even knew the name of. That left you, a person switching between vomiting into a piss-stained toilet and clutching a water bottle as though it were a lifeline, and Curly, who had assumed the unfortunate role of babysitter.

You sat upright now, leaning heavily against the toilet as though the cold ceramic could anchor you. The spinning world tilted on an axis only you could feel. Your stomach still churned, threatening to revolt, but you’d managed to hold it down—for now. The bathroom lights seemed far too bright, stabbing through your blurred vision like tiny daggers, and everything smelled like disinfectant, vomit, sweat, and regret.

Curly was crouched in front of the cabinet beneath the sink, rummaging through its contents with quiet determination. His broad back and shoulders flexed under his blue zip-up jacket as he reached toward the very back, his movements deliberate. When he straightened, you caught the glint of victory in his blue eyes as he pulled out a half-full bottle.

He twisted the cap open with a practiced motion, pouring a measure of liquid into the cap. “Mouthwash,” he explained, handing it to you with the calm patience of someone trying to appease a feral animal.

You took it, your sluggish brain processing his words only after the cap was already halfway to your mouth. The sharp, minty taste hit your tongue like a wall, and your throat reflexively tightened mid-swallow. Oh, right—not a shot. You blinked, cheeks puffing out as you swished it around. The world seemed to swish along with it, the slow, nauseating spin threatening to pull you under again.

When you finally managed to spit it out into the sink, the lingering taste of bile was blessedly gone, replaced by the cool, almost medicinal mint. Relief washed over you in waves as you leaned heavily against the grimy counter. Curly stood only a foot away, leaning against the door while watching you with that infuriating mixture of concern and amusement.

You turned your bleary gaze up to him, chest warming with something that wasn’t entirely alcohol-induced. “You’re suuuch a good man,” you slurred, a lopsided grin spreading across your heated face. His expression shifted—a flicker of something you couldn’t quite catch mostly because you were trying not to fall—but he smiled back, soft and faintly melancholic.

And heavens, what a smile. The sight of it seemed to still the swirling chaos in your head. You frowned, your drunken mind scrambling for the words. “S-So,” you stammered, leaning closer, “Soooo prettyyy.” 

Curly froze, his brows knitting together as he tilted his head. “What?” he asked, his voice edged with confusion and something else, like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right.

You nodded sagely, or at least as close to it as your impaired motor skills allowed. “Pretty,” you mumbled again, gesturing vaguely toward his face. You huffed when you realized that the word your mind had come up with first wasn’t nearly enough to describe him.

He blinked at you, lips parting in disbelief before pressing into a thin line. “You’re drunk,” he stated flatly, though the tips of his ears gave him away. “C’mon, let’s get you out of here.”

Before you could respond Curly bent down, slipping your arm around his shoulder, his strong hands steadying you as he lifted you to your feet. The room seemed to tilt violently, and you stumbled, only to find yourself braced against his solid frame.

The walk to the exit was a blur of sensations. The muffled bass of the music reverberated through the walls, shaking your chest with every beat. Multicolored lights danced erratically across the room, spilling over the crowd like liquid fire. Laughter, shouting, and the occasional drunken stumble filled the air, the party now a surreal kaleidoscope of noise and motion.

Curly called out to Daisuke in the corner, who was mid-face eating. “Daisuke! Stay safe! Protection!” He said, simply, as he helped you walk. 

You heard a faint and slurred “Okayy, dad!”

But none of that held your attention. Your gaze dropped—your head still woozy—and landed squarely on his chest. The thick cotton of his shirt clung to him in places, the outline of his pecs impossibly defined. Broad and firm, the kind of chest that told you he spent serious time lifting heavy things and didn’t cut corners about it. Your lips parted slightly as you stared, your hazed brain hyper-focused on the rise and fall of his breathing.

“I wanna biiiiite,” you declared suddenly, the words drawn out in a sing-song slur.

Curly stopped mid-step, glancing down at you with wide, incredulous eyes. “You wanna… what?”

“Bite,” you repeated, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, still staring at his chest.

He frowned, clearly trying to piece together your drunken logic. “Bite what?” he asked, his voice teetering between confusion and sheer disbelief.

You simply smiled, too intoxicated to elaborate further, and rested your head against his shoulder, murmuring something incoherent as you took in a deep breath of his scent. He didn’t seem to mind that you were blatantly sniffing him—especially because he was more focused on making sure that you didn’t collapse altogether and then melt into the floor. He grimaces at the memory of you collapsing onto the ground and refusing to move from your spot until he joined you.

His grip on your arm was firm but careful, guiding you through the dimly lit house. The party noise faded behind you, leaving just the steady rhythm of your uneven steps. 

He frowned at your heels as he thought about earlier that evening, when he’d picked you up from your apartment. 

When the door swung open, he froze in place. You were quite the view—your outfit hugged every curve, the fabric shimmering faintly under the light. Glittery flecks adorned your cheekbones and eyelids, catching the dim hallway glow and refracting it like a halo around your face.

An angel. That’s what you looked like. Like some celestial being who had descended to earth, radiant and untouchable.

“Hey!” you chirped, grabbing your bag and stepping past him to lock the door. “Ready to go?”

He nodded stiffly, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets to stop himself from fidgeting. “Yeah,” he replied, his voice coming out far too casual for the way his heart thundered in his chest.

Sliding into the passenger seat of his car, you adjusted your dress, the hem riding up just enough to draw Curly’s gaze to the expanse of your thighs before he snapped his eyes forward, jaw tightening. He gripped the steering wheel as though it were the only thing keeping him grounded, hyper-aware of your presence beside him.

“Thanks for driving, Curly,” you said as you buckled your seatbelt, flashing him a soft smile that nearly undid him.

“Yeah,” he replied, his voice coming out too casual, too even, for the way his pulse pounded in his ears. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to stare straight ahead. He needed to focus on the road, not on the faint shimmer of glitter on your skin, catching the light of passing streetlamps like you were made of stardust.

And definitely not on the fact that you were driving him insane just by existing. He needed to hurry and pick up Daisuke and Anya before he’d go crazy from being alone with you for too long.

You were always like this—effortlessly stunning, warm, and kind. The kind of person who could brighten even his worst days. Sure, you complimented him sometimes, but he couldn’t help but think you didn’t mean it the way he wanted you to. Every compliment you gave him only deepened the ache in his chest. 

Like that one time you’d glanced at his lap while he was driving and said, “Those pants look really good on you, Curls!” before flicking your eyes away so quickly it felt almost dismissive. Did you mean it? Or were you just being polite?

That doubt gnawed at him constantly, and that night and this night was no different.

At that party, he stuck close to the wall, cradling a water bottle instead of a beer. He’d made the conscious decision not to drink a single drop of alcohol tonight—someone had to drive, and he knew better than to let himself get sloppy around you. He couldn’t afford to let anything slip, not when he was already walking a fine line between admiration and outright longing.

From his spot near the edge of the crowd, he watched you, as he always did. You floated between groups, laughing, dancing, shining like the brightest light in the room. It was a privilege and a curse, being the one who got to witness you in these moments.

And then he saw him.

Some guy in a leather jacket, with a clean-shaven jaw and a cocky grin that made Curly’s stomach twist. He watched as you slid into the guy’s lap, your arm draped over his shoulder, your lips curling into that mischievous smile that he knew all too well.

“Mmm, your lap’s such a good seat,” you purred, your voice dripping with flirtation. “I wonder what else on you is...”

The words hit Curly like a punch to the gut. His grip on the water bottle tightened until the plastic crinkled audibly. He tore his gaze away, his jaw clenching so hard it ached.

Why him? What’s wrong with me?

The bitterness crept in, sharp and relentless. 

Why aren’t you doing that with m—

“Whoa there, tiger,” a familiar voice interrupted his spiraling thoughts.

Curly turned to see Jimmy leaning against the wall beside him, a lopsided grin on his face. His old friend looked the same as ever—rough around the edges, with a reckless air about him that hadn’t changed since they were children.

“You need to stop showing the jealousy on your face in broad daylight,” Jimmy said, taking a swig from his beer. “It’s embarrassing.”

Curly scowled, turning his gaze back to the crowd. “I’m not jealous.” His voice was low, clipped, as if saying it with enough conviction might make it true.

“Sure you’re not,” Jimmy said, clearly unconvinced. “But just so you know, pining in the shadows isn’t a great look for you. You should just tell them how you feel.”

Curly let out a humorless laugh, his gaze fixed on the far wall. “Yeah, right. They don’t see me like that.”

Jimmy raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “You sure about that?”

Curly didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The truth was, he wasn’t sure about anything when it came to you—except that you drove him crazy in every possible way and that he needed to get rid of these feelings somehow. From the way you filled every room with your energy to the way you always seemed to find him in a crowd with that warm, teasing smile of yours. That smile was like a lifeline and a torment all at once. Did you even know what you did to him?

Probably not.

He hated that he couldn’t read you, hated the way your actions seemed to contradict each other. Sure, you complimented him now and then. For a moment, he’d let himself think you might be interested. But then there were nights like this, where you’d sit in some other guy’s lap, laugh at their jokes, and tell them things that left his chest aching.

Why them? What do they have that I don’t? 

The question looped endlessly in his mind, a bitter echo that wouldn’t fade.

But what he didn’t know—what he couldn’t know—was that your behavior wasn’t just random. It wasn’t some cruel game or thoughtless act. You weren’t trying to hurt him, and you had no clue that you even were.

To you, it was simple: he couldn’t possibly feel any sort of attraction towards you.

After all, he never flirted with anyone, never went home with anyone after a party, and certainly never looked at you the way you imagined he might look at someone he actually wanted. Curly was kind, attentive, and always there for you, but it was easy to mistake that steadiness for a type of distant affection. The kind a best friend might give, not the kind that left your stomach fluttering and your chest tight.

So, in your own way, you tried to move on.

The guys you flirted with, kissed, let your hands roam over—they were placeholders, distractions from the ache of wanting someone you believed you couldn’t have. But there was one thing you never let yourself do.

You never hooked up with a guy who had blonde hair or blue eyes.

It felt too close, too much, like you were chasing after the ghost of what you really wanted but could never have. And in your mind, it was safer this way. A line you could draw in the sand to keep yourself from breaking completely.

But he didn’t know that.

All Curly knew was the bitter jealousy gnawing at his insides as he watched you, the taste of it sharp and acidic, almost choking. All he saw was you shining in someone else’s arms while he sat on the sidelines, telling himself, 

I’m just not their type. They just don’t see me like that.

Jimmy’s voice pulled him back.

“Look, man,” Jimmy said, his tone slightly softer now, less teasing. “I’m not saying it’s easy. But you’re not gonna get anywhere like this. If they really doesn’t see you that way, at least you’ll know for sure. Isn’t that better than torturing yourself like this?”

Curly stared down at his water bottle, the plastic warped from his grip. Is it better? He wasn’t sure. But the idea of confessing, of laying himself bare and being met with rejection—it felt unbearable. There’s no way he’d ever want to risk his friendship with you—making you feel uncomfortable around him since you very clearly don’t return his affections.

And so, he stayed quiet.

Jimmy’s voice cut through his thoughts again. “Look, man, I haven’t seen you in years, and this is how I find you? Sulking in the corner because a girl you’re clearly in love with is sitting in some loser’s lap? You’ve got to get it together.”

Curly shot him a glare. “Why are you even here?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Got dragged out by some coworkers. Didn’t expect to run into you, but hey, maybe it’s fate. Someone needs to talk some sense into you.”

Curly shook his head, draining the last of his water. “Yeah, well, thanks for the unsolicited advice.”

Jimmy smirked. “Anytime.”

The sound of your drunken mumblings pulled Curly back to the present. You were slumped against the passenger door, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. The dim glow of the streetlights passing through the windows played across your features, softening the chaos the party had left behind on your smeared makeup. The quiet hum of the car engine was a soothing contrast to the noise still pounding in his memory.

“You doing okay?” he asked, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, his voice gentle but tinged with concern.

You turned your head toward him, your gaze unfocused but somehow managing to land on his chest. For a moment, you just stared, lips parted slightly as if you were caught in some profound thought—or maybe just too far gone to find words.

Curly’s brows knitted together. “What?”

“I wanna biiiiite,” you slurred finally, voice thick with sleepiness, tequila, vodka, and who knew what else.

He blinked, his hands tightening on the steering wheel as his mind attempted to process. “You wanna... what?”

You didn’t respond immediately, your glassy-eyed focus shifting from his chest to his face.

“Bite what?” he repeated, his voice now tinged with exasperation and a growing sense of dread.

“Tiddies,” you mumbled, your fingers twitching in your lap as if you were reaching for a pair of two.

Curly groaned, dragging a hand down his face in disbelief. “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath as he slowed to a stop at a red light.

His exasperation earned a giggle from you, the sound light and airy, as though his frustration were a personal victory. But as the laughter subsided, your eyes lingered on him under the glow of the red traffic light. The crimson hue painted his sharp features, catching on the curve of his jaw and the faint shadow of stubble along his cheek. You stared at him for a long moment, something shifting in your expression as tears began to pool in your eyes.

Your lip wobbled. “How can one man have so much sex appeal!?” The words came out as a wail, slurring together with all the melodrama you could muster. A fat tear slipped down your cheek, and you sniffled, your face crumpling like a child who’d just dropped their ice cream.

Curly’s head snapped toward you, his eyes widening in alarm. Wait. Wait, what?

“Wh—What are you talking about?” he stammered, his tone a mix of disbelief and rising panic.

“You’re just—” you hiccupped, sniffling again, “the w-worst!”

His confusion deepened, his brows knitting as he stared at you like you’d just grown a second head. You were sobbing—full-on crying—and he had no idea what was going on. What did you mean by “so much sex appeal”? And why, exactly, were you crying about it?

Do people cry about things like this? he wondered, his mind racing. They find me attractive? Are they joking? Oh my God, they’re serious.

Panic prickled at the edges of his composure. “Yes, I’m the worst,” he said quickly, trying to calm you down. “I’m sorry, okay? Whatever I did, I’m sorry.” His voice was gentle, though his face betrayed his complete and utter bewilderment.

You sniffled again, staring at him as if he’d just confessed to being attracted to cartoon horses. “Nooo! Curls!” you wailed as he pulled into the driveway. “You’re not actually the worst! I’m sorrrrry!”

He put the car in park, still reeling as your hand suddenly shot out to grip his shoulder. You looked at him with wide, watery eyes, your other hand flying to your mouth like you couldn’t believe what you’d just made him say.

But barely five seconds passed before your expression glazed over again. Your fingers tightened on his shoulder, your drunken brain moving at a completely different speed.

“Mmm,” you hummed, leaning toward him slightly. “You look so comfy...”

Curly tilted his head, his confusion mounting. What now?

“You’d be sooo nice to cuddle with after sex,” you mumbled dreamily, the words slurring together into a drunken confession. “Curly? Sex? Woah… Mmmph…”

His brain short-circuited.

Did they just—no, they didn’t. No way. Except they did. WHAT IS HAPPENING?!

He gaped at you, his face caught in a perfect storm of shock, disbelief, and something dangerously close to flustered. His thoughts scrambled for some semblance of logic. They’re drunk. They don't mean it. This is just... random drunk nonsense, right? RIGHT?

“You—what—” he stammered, his voice breaking slightly as he struggled to piece together a response.

But you were already leaning back against the seat, your lashes fluttering shut as sleep began to claim you. And Curly? Curly sat frozen, staring ahead at the dashboard as if it held the answers to the mysteries of the universe.

His pulse raced as your words echoed in his mind, and he could do nothing but sit there, trying—and failing—to make sense of the chaos you’d just unleashed.

a/n: let me know what y'all think pls! i feel like this one isnt as good as the previous one i did buuuut i wanted to write about this so bad

taglist is open! lmk if you want to be on the taglist for just curly/mouthwashing characters or if you want the news on alll my fics.

also might be accepting requests hehe! i can’t guarantee that i can do em, but i’ll accept ideas!

as always, not beta read, please let me know if there are any typos/inconsistencies lmfao stay safe & hydrated as always!

thanks for reading! <3

crossposted on ao3

taglist: @m-carriaga2021, @skyeconch

directory/m.list next chapter ⇨

[kkanabel]

any of yall got ideas for next curly fic?

[kkanabel]

Thank you for feeding us delicious Curly 5 star meal. So much in such a short time, don't burn urself out cause damn ur goood <3

AGH YOU'RE SO SWEET! thanks for looking out for me :> i've been posting a ton of curly recently bc of how obsessed i am. this man has me KNEELING & the inspiration FLOWING.

thank you for the compliment, anon <3

[kkanabel]

co-pilot mischief ✫ both broken ✫ chapter tres ✫ finale

captain curly x teasing!reader

it’s been a month since your epiphany that Captain Curly has a sweet little crush on you, and you’ve been teasing him the entire time. what happens when you push him even closer to the edge? you asked that question, and here we are: Curly has officially broken.

directory/m.list ⇦ previous chapter

words: ~6.1k

t/w: sex, minors dni, overstimulation, fingering, REALLY OVERSTIMULATION, multiple orgasms, curly being a lil shit, so much yucky, gn!reader who wears a bra, no specific genitalia mentioned for reader (if i fucked up & did somewhere, pls lmk), any other things i should mention?

a/n: hi. been obsessed with this video game recently—well, especially with Curly (go figure. i like fictional men). i needed to make something self-indulgent bc i just like this man way too much. and because i just want to make a world where none of them have to suffer. enjoy~ 

~jeremy does not exist in this world~

Planned Shipment Duration: 382 Days Elapsed Transit Time: 342 Days

Since the incident, you’ve noticed Curly’s behavior shift from his usual awkward-but-adorable responses to something else entirely—avoidance. Every conversation with him feels clipped, every interaction rushed. This avoidance comes to a head when you have to discuss the ship's fuel readings.

“Captain, can you double-check the fuel calibration?” you ask, stepping into the cockpit with a tablet in hand.

Curly is already seated at the console, his back stiffening at the sound of your voice. “It’s fine,” he mutters without looking up, his fingers flying over the controls.

You narrow your eyes. “Fine? It’s been showing inconsistencies for two days now. Can we be sure it won’t cause an issue later?”

He exhales sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening. “I’ll… take care of it.” Still, he doesn’t glance at you, his gaze fixed on the screen as if the fuel levels are the most riveting thing he’s ever seen.

You step closer, placing the tablet on the console in front of him. “It’d be quicker if we checked it together,” you say, deliberately leaning over just slightly to try and catch his eyes.

But he shifts, pulling back as if your proximity physically burns. “I’ve got it,” he says tersely, still avoiding you.

The clipped tone stings more than you expect. You hesitate, studying him. His hands grip the edge of the console, the veins in his forearms standing out as though he’s using every ounce of willpower to keep his composure. He looks tired—no, exhausted—but there’s something else in his expression, something tight and defensive.

You pull back, watching him with a frown. There’s an ache in your chest you weren’t prepared for—a pang of guilt mixed with frustration. You liked teasing him, pushing his buttons just enough to see the cracks in his armor, but this? This feels different. It’s like he’s shut a door between the two of you, and you can’t help but wonder if you pushed too far.

You bite your lip, torn. Was it the water incident? The shirt? Or maybe it’s been everything—the touches, the flirtation, the unspoken tension you’ve been toying with for weeks. Whatever it is, the wall he’s built feels higher than before, and it leaves you restless, your stomach knotting with something that feels a lot like regret.

That night, sleep refuses to come. You lie in your bunk, staring at the dim ceiling of your cabin, your mind replaying every moment from the cockpit earlier. His stiffness, his avoidance, the way he couldn’t even look at you—it all swirls together, making your chest feel heavy.

Was he angry with you? Embarrassed? Or worse—had you made him so uncomfortable that he didn’t want to be around you anymore? The thought makes your throat tighten, and you sit up, running a hand through your hair in frustration.

The hum of the ship’s engines fills the silence of your cabin, steady and soothing, but it does little to calm the turmoil in your chest. You’ve been lying there for hours, staring at the ceiling, your blanket pushed to the side as your mind cycles endlessly.

You can’t stop thinking about him.

The look on Curly’s face earlier had been… different. It wasn’t just the usual exasperation you’d grown fond of teasing out of him. It was heavier, like he was carrying something you couldn’t quite name, something you weren’t sure you should have pulled at.

You close your eyes and groan quietly into the darkness, guilt and frustration twisting in equal measure. Sure, it’s fun to watch him squirm, to push his buttons just enough to see the cracks in that carefully constructed exterior. But you may have gone too far—even if the water spilling on your shirt was a complete accident. His jaw had set so tightly, his words clipped in a way that left no room for your usual playful retorts.

The memory sits heavy in your chest now, pressing down like a weight.

You roll over for the hundredth time, but the ache of regret and the nagging spark of curiosity keep you pinned wide awake. It’s not just the teasing, is it? Not really. It’s the way his silence speaks louder than his words, the way he looks at you like he’s bracing himself to lose something he doesn’t even have yet

You sigh, sitting up and running a hand through your hair. You know you should leave it alone, let him come to you when he’s ready, but patience has never been your strong suit.

Sliding out of the bunk, you glance at the reflection of your sleepwear in the metal panel across the room. The skimpy fabric makes you hesitate, but only for a moment. If you’re honest with yourself, part of you still wants to provoke him. But another part—the part twisting in your gut—just wants to be able to speak to him normally again.

The ship feels colder at night, the air biting against your bare skin as you make your way down the narrow corridor. The faint glow spilling from the cockpit confirms your suspicion: he’s there, just as you expected.

You pause in the doorway, your heart beating harder than you’d like. He hasn’t noticed you yet. His head is bowed, his fingers raking through his messy blond hair as he leans over the console. He looks… defeated. The sight sends a pang through you, sharp and unwelcome.

Taking a breath, you step inside, keeping your voice soft as you speak. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He straightens abruptly, his shoulders stiffening as his chair creaks under the sudden movement. His eyes meet yours for a moment before flicking downward and darting back up, his jaw clenching. You catch the faintest flush across his cheeks, but his expression is unreadable.

“What are you doing here?” His tone is flat, but there’s a strain beneath it, like he’s barely holding himself together.

“I could ask you the same thing.” You try to smile, but it falters. Stepping closer, you cross your arms, suddenly feeling more self-conscious than you expected. “I—” You stop, unsure of how to begin. “I just… I wanted to check on you.”

His brows furrow, suspicion flickering across his face. “Check on me?”

“Yeah.” You force a small laugh, but it sounds hollow even to your own ears. “You seemed… off earlier.” You hesitate, glancing at the console to avoid his gaze. 

The silence that follows feels heavier than when the ship’s gravity went haywire and pushed down on you all. You risk a glance at him, only to find him watching you with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. His hands grip the armrests of his chair like they’re the only thing anchoring him, his knuckles pale.

“It’s fine,” he says finally, his voice tight, controlled. Too controlled. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

The way he says it makes something inside you crack. You know that tone, the one he uses to push people away, to keep himself locked behind walls you’ve only just started to glimpse behind. And it hurts.

“Curly…” You step closer. “That’s not what I—”

“Don’t,” he cuts you off, his voice sharper now, his eyes flashing with something you can’t quite name.

But you don’t back down. Not this time.

“Don’t what?” you challenge, leaning closer to him. You keep your voice soft, almost hesitant, but there’s no mistaking the edge behind it. “Don’t worry about you? Don’t care?”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he might not answer. He just stares at you, his stormy blue eyes locked on yours, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he finally says, but there’s no conviction in the words. They’re a shield, flimsy and cracking.

You tilt your head, your voice dropping lower. “Why not?”

“Because…” He looks away, running a hand down his face, and you see the way his fingers tremble. When his gaze snaps back to yours, there’s fire in it, raw and unfiltered. “Because I can’t keep doing this, alright? I can’t—”

He stops himself, his voice breaking on the last word, and your heart stumbles in your chest.

“Can’t what?” you press, taking another step closer, your bare feet brushing against the cool floor. Your voice softens, and this time there’s no teasing, no game. “Curly, just tell me.”

He lets out a frustrated sound, somewhere between a growl and a groan, and rises abruptly from his chair. The suddenness of it makes you flinch, but you hold your ground.

“You don’t get it, do you?” His voice is louder now, but it’s not anger—it’s desperation, raw and bleeding. “You waltz in here in your—” His eyes flick down to your barely-there pajamas before snapping back up, his expression torn. “—your… whatever that is, and you look at me like that, and you think it’s funny, don’t you? Messing with me, pushing me, like it’s all some game!”

You blink, stunned by the outpouring of words. “I—”

“No,” he cuts you off, his voice cracking. “You don’t get to talk right now. Do you know how hard I’ve been trying? Trying to keep this… whatever it is… locked down? To keep things professional, to not…” He trails off, shaking his head like he’s trying to dislodge the thought.

“To not what?” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“To not ruin everything!” he bursts out, and the words hang in the air between you, heavy and unrelenting. “Do you have any idea what it’s like, waking up every damn day and seeing you, knowing I can’t—shouldn’t—feel this way?”

His chest heaves, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He’s closer now, the space between you shrinking with every ragged breath.

He leans in closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours, and you can see the tension in his jaw, the flicker of hesitation before he barrels on. “Do you know what it’s like to sit next to you every day, to have you so close and know I can’t touch you? Can’t tell you?” His laugh is bitter, almost self-deprecating. “God, I can’t even think straight when you’re around. You’ve got me walking into walls, screwing up flight routes, forgetting my own bloody name half the time.”

“Curly…” You reach out, but he grabs your wrist before you can touch him, his grip firm but not painful.

“Don’t,” he says again, but this time it’s a plea, his voice breaking. His gaze locks on yours, his eyes glassy with an emotion you’ve never seen from him before.

And then, before you can say anything, he moves.

In one swift motion, he pushes you back against the console, his hands braced on either side of you, caging you in. His face is inches from yours, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, the unsteady rhythm of his breath.

“I can’t…” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Your heart pounds so loudly you’re sure he can hear it, but you don’t move, don’t dare to break the fragile moment hanging between you.

“Then don’t,” you murmur, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

His eyes search yours, and for a heartbeat, everything stands still. Then, with a groan that sounds like defeat, he closes the gap, capturing your lips with his in a kiss so fierce it steals the breath from your lungs.

The kiss is not soft or measured, but raw, desperate, and full of everything he’s been holding back for months. His lips crash against yours with an intensity that makes your knees go weak, and you gasp into him, feeling the weight of all his pent-up frustration pouring out into this moment.

His hands, rough and calloused, grip the edges of the console beside your hips like he’s barely holding himself together. You feel the tension in his arms, the way his muscles cord and flex, the sheer power of him caging you in.

And then, suddenly, his hands shift. One moves to your jaw, tilting your face to deepen the kiss, while the other slides down to your hip, pinning you firmly to the console beneath you. The cool surface bites against your skin, grounding you as his fingers wrap around you with just enough force to keep you there without hurting you.

He pulls away for a moment, searching your eyes for any hint of rejection, finding none.

You open your mouth to speak, but he doesn’t give you the chance. His lips crash back down onto yours, more insistent this time, as if he’s trying to erase every teasing word and playful glance you’ve ever thrown his way.

His body presses closer, and you’re keenly aware of every inch of him—the strength in his broad shoulders, the solid weight of his chest against yours, the way his body is being held between your thighs (which you’ve just realized that you wrapped around him), keeping you and him firmly in place. His free hand trails down your side, his touch firm and possessive.

“Curly,” you keen, eyes fogged from the kisses he just gave you.

“Don’t,” he warns, his voice low and rough. “Not unless you’re ready to take responsibility for what you’ve started.”

The words send a shiver through you, and you meet his gaze, your breath catching at the unrestrained emotion in his expression—anger, yes, but also longing, vulnerability, and an aching kind of need that makes your chest tighten.

“I’m not sorry,” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling but steady enough to hold his gaze.

His lips curl into a gentle smile, and he shakes his head, leaning in until his forehead rests against yours. “I expected such,” he murmurs, his voice softer now but no less intense.

And then he kisses you again, slower this time, but just as overwhelming. It’s less about frustration now and more about everything else—the want, the need, the relief of finally letting it out. His hand slides from your hip to thread his fingers through yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as if to soften the moment, to remind you that despite the force of it all, he’s still Curly.

Even then, as he pulls his lips away to trail his kisses down that delicious neck of yours that he’s been fantasizing about for the past couple months, he bucks his hips into yours subconsciously. 

His eyes widen at the realization of what he just did, and he’s just about to apologize when he hears your soft groan, your hips grinding back into his. 

You’re going to be the end of him. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, his mind goes entirely blank while reaching his hands to grab onto the mounds of your chest as he places wet kisses all over your neck. 

The sensation makes you gasp—his warm lips suckling all over the crook of your neck, trailing slightly further down as his large, warm hands grasp at you, fingers gliding against the thin fabric over to the tips of your nipples. He teases it over the fabric, each graze sending a jolt down your core as his pants get tighter.

You watch as Curly’s eyes glaze over while looking at the thin fabric of your shirt, watching your nipples peak and harden under his ministrations. One of his hands pulls away from a breast, brushing down your body until he pulls the skimpy fabric of your shorts and your underwear to the side and places his fingers right onto your heat at just the right spot, rubbing at it.

Your gasping, arms tightening around his neck, and your hands gripping at the hair on the base of his neck only serves to spur him on. His eyes are still hazy with a sheen of lust as he brings his fingers to his lips and licks them lasciviously before easing a finger inside your hole, slowly massaging at your walls until he finds your most delicious spot. 

When you tense up and you let out another gasp, his tongue darts out to lick at his lips, knowing that he’s found it. As you reach up to capture his lips with yours, he slips another finger in. 

As you’re kissing, you let out a choked moan as he only rubs against that little spot more, fingers starting to curl up rougher and faster. His fingers filled you up so well—so thick and long, pressing your insides in all the right places. 

When you clench and spasm around his fingers, you expect him to slow down, but his fingers only get faster through your orgasm. You squeak in response, and his eyes are hooded as he finger fucks you into oblivion.

“Is this what you wanted?” he growls against your lips, his voice thick with frustration and something darker. His breath fans hot against your cheek as he pulls back just enough to speak, his eyes blazing as they meet yours. “To push me until I couldn’t take it anymore?” 

His face is a storm of emotions, each one fighting for dominance. His jaw is tight, clenched as though he was holding back. His lips are red and slightly swollen from the kiss, a stark contrast against the stubble shadowing his sharp jawline. 

But it’s his eyes that leave you breathless—dark and blazing with an intensity that borders on feral. Those blue eyes, turbulent and unyielding, locking onto yours like they’re searching for every answer you’ve ever hidden. It combines with the feeling of his fingers pressing you in the right spot, making you see stars.

“You’ve been playing with fire, haven’t you?” he breathes, his voice rough and biting. His lips curl into something that’s not quite a smile—a shadow of one, edged with frustration and disbelief. “All those looks, those little comments. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

His hand at the console shifts, and he presses a little closer, his body heat seeping into you. “God, do you have any idea what it’s been like? Watching you parade around like that? Laughing, teasing, pretending you don’t notice what you’re doing to me?” His words are a low snarl now, sharp with exasperation and tinged with lust as he drives his fingers deep into you, earning a squeal from your lips.

“Every time I thought I had it under control, you’d pull something new. A touch here. Showing off some skin there.” His free hand slides along your jaw, his thumb brushing deliberately across your cheekbone. His touch is gentle, almost a mockery of the fire behind his words and the intensity behind his fingers. “You really thought I would break eventually, didn’t you?”

His eyes flicker to your lips, and his fingers keep curling and thrusting inside you in a way that makes you squeak. The sound makes his gaze snap back to your eyes, his expression darkening further. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, trying to ground yourself from this onslaught of pleasure.

“Was this the plan all along?” he taunts, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “To push me so far I’d lose control? Or were you just so sure I’d never cross that line?” He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “Well, congratulations. You’ve got me right where you want me.”

He pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes again, his lips curling into a wicked smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “So tell me,” he murmurs, his tone both a challenge and a warning, “what are you going to do now?” Your gummy walls clench on his fingers as he works you undone again—with both his fingers and his words.

“Please,” you keen, voice breathless. “Just fuck me, Captain.” 

The use of his title in that pleasure-drenched voice of yours makes him sharply inhale. He leaned back, a smug smile playing on his lips. "Not yet," he says, his voice low and commanding. "You're going to need to be ready for me. Really ready. So, I’m going to take my time." He knew the company regulations like the back of his hand—no personal items, especially not the kind that could be used for pleasure. And he knew you hadn't had anyone else in almost a year.

Your eyes go wide with shock as he speaks, and you realize what he meant. "But I... I've been... stretching," you protested, face heating up at the implication. 

Curly's smile grows, and he leans down, his mouth hovering just above yours. "With your fingers?" he asked, his voice filled with amusement. "That's not enough. Not for what I've got in store for you." You look up at him in shock.

"Trust me," he murmurs against your lips. "You'll thank me for it later. Especially when I break you like you tried to break me. I’ll have you begging, you little tease." His words send shivers of excitement up your spine.

With that, he slides his hand back down your body, his fingers slipping into you again. Your muscles are still contracting from the aftershocks of your two climaxes. He pumps his fingers in and out, watching your face contort with pleasure and overstimulation. But he knew he had to prepare you, had to make sure you could take him.

He leans in, whispering in your ear. "You're going to come again," he tells you, his voice a promise. "And then again. And each time, I'm going to make you feel so good that you'll forget your name."

Your eyes close, breath coming in short pants as you moan into his mouth. Curly revels in the feeling and the view of your hips moving in time with his touch. 

Curly slides in a third finger, curling them gently, feeling the slickness of your arousal. Your eyes fly open, and you look at him with a mix of shock and need. "Curly," you gasp, your hips bucking against his hand, hole stretching around his fingers. "Please..." He strokes you in a steady rhythm, watching your face contort with pleasure. You bite your lip, trying to be quiet, but the occasional whimper escapes. 

He pushes your tiny tank top up, taking one of your nipples into his mouth, suckling it as he continues to play with you. Your hands pull him closer, urging him on. He can feel your body tightening, your legs starting to tremble. He knew you were close.

And then it happened. With a cry, you cum again, your muscles clenching around his fingers. He still doesn’t stop, though, instead curling his fingers deeper inside you, keeping the pressure on your sweet spot. Your orgasm went on and on, your body shaking with pleasure, legs giving out.

As the last of your tremors subside, he pulls his hand away, bringing his fingers to his mouth. He tastes you, watching as your face heats up. "So good," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. “I’m going to push you until you can’t take it anymore.” 

Without warning, he slams his mouth onto your core, his tongue flicking you rapidly. You scream, hips jerking up. Your nails claw at the console, searching for any kind of purchase before gripping his blonde locks.

Curly feels the warmth of your orgasm wash over his hand and lips, juices coating his fingers and face as he watches you come apart in front of him. He'd never seen anyone so beautiful. Your eyes squeeze shut, and you let out a guttural cry, body arching. 

He waits for you to open your eyes, to look at him with the same hunger he feels burning in his gut. When you do, there are tears in the corners of your eyes, and you’re panting. "Please," you beg, voice a whimper. "Please, Curly. I need you inside me." Your vision was already starting to go blurry, and you felt a slight twinge of dizziness from all the mind-numbing orgasms.

His only response is a shit-eating grin and his fingers continuing to work you open. The sound of your wetness fills the cockpit, and he couldn't help but groan. You’re so tight, so perfect. And all his. He watches your face as he works into you, his tongue circling you in time with his fingers curling up and down, thrusting in and out. You’re close, so close to breaking altogether, and he can feel the tension building in your body.

“Curly, please, I-�� And then, with a scream, you cum again, gushing wetness all over his hand and face. He pulls away, wiping it from his cheek with a grin. 

"See?" he says, his voice filled with pride and eyes filled with darkness. "I told you I'd make you beg for it."

Your chest heaves, breath coming in ragged gasps. You stare up at him, eyes glazed. "Curly," you whisper with a needy voice. "Please... I need you."

He stood up, his cock straining against his pants. "Not yet," he said again, his voice firm. "We have all night."

He reaches down, helping you to your feet. You sway slightly, legs weak from the intense orgasms. He swiftly picks you up and carries you to the Captain’s Quarters. The crew is asleep. The only sounds are the steady hum of the Tulpar's engines and your two footsteps.

Once inside, he places you down onto his bed gently, your legs still shaking. He hovers over you, his eyes dark with hunger. He kissed you again, his tongue delving into your mouth, tasting you and your desire. You moan, hands reaching up to tug at his shirt.

He breaks the kiss, pulling his shirt off. Your eyes scrape up and down the sight of his bare chest, his muscles rippling in the dim light. He leans back in, his mouth moving down your neck, leaving a trail of kisses and gentle nibbles. You shiver, skin sensitive from the previous orgasms.

Curly slides his hand down to your hole again, his thumb pressing against you as he kisses his way down your body. You gasp, hips rising to meet his touch. He spread open your legs revealing you, all bare and wet. He took a moment to appreciate the view, your swollen hole and the glisten of your arousal—the glisten of your multiple orgasms.

With a groan, he buries his face between your legs, his tongue flicking over you at the perfect spot. You almost scream, the sensation too much. He slides two fingers inside, desperate to continue stretching out your inner muscles.

He licks and sucks, his mouth a symphony of pleasure. You cum again, body bowing off the bed, hands tangling in his hair. He doesn’t let up, his tongue relentless, his fingers curling inside you, pushing you to the edge once more. Your cries grow louder, more frantic, until you’re almost screaming. And then, just as suddenly, you go quiet.

Your eyes roll back in your head, and you go limp beneath him as your body refuses to stop twitching. Curly pulls back, panting, his mouth wet with your essence. He watches your chest heave, your breath coming in ragged gasps. He knows you’re on the edge, just about to shatter into pieces.

He slides his fingers out of you, watching the way you quiver.

He stands, his own desire clear in the bulge in his pants. "You’re doing so good," he murmured, his voice filled with satisfaction. "Now you're ready." Curly chuckles as he watches your muscles twitch. “So cute,” he mumbles as he zips his jumpsuit down all the way and pulls his boxers down. It's massive, thick and long, standing erect and flushed with arousal.

You’re still unable to form words, eyes blank as you come down from the onslaught of pleasure. Your eyes flutter open when you feel him getting back onto the bed, chest heaving as you stare up at him. "Curly," you breathe, voice shaky. "I don’t… I don’t know if I can take it anymore."

He leans over you, eyes dark with need. "You can," he says, his voice firm. "You will. And you're the one who begged for it."

Curly lines up his cock with your slick entrance, the tip kissing you lightly. It's hot, and you can feel the pulse of his excitement. His reddened tip is so much larger than what you've felt before, veins standing out. Your eyes widen, looking at the size of him, and you feel your stomach flip.

Slowly, with a look of absolute focus, he starts to push in, watching your face as you bite your lip to keep from screaming. The head of his cock, that angry red tip, breaches your entrance, and you can feel your body stretching around its thickness. He goes so slowly, so carefully, that you can't help but trust him. The veins on his shaft stand out like roads on a map, and they feel like they're carving into you as he slides in inch by inch.

The pressure is intense, but you’re so wet, so ready for him. He slides in deeper, feeling you stretch around him. Your walls cling to him, and he knows he'd never felt anything so amazing. He pauses for a moment, savoring the sensation.

And to his surprise, you cum again, walls tightening around his cock. A keening sound tears from your throat, and you buck your hips against him, trying to push him deeper. He holds you still, watching your face, feeling your walls pulse around him. 

It was like nothing he'd ever felt before, a wave of pleasure so intense it almost brought him to his knees. “Fuck,” his eyes squeeze shut, voice hoarse. 

But he doesn’t stop. He couldn't. He pushes in further, feeling you tighten even more. You were whining now, a high-pitched sound that seemed to echo through the room. He knows he’s hitting all the right spots, that you were on the edge again. And he was going to make sure you fell over it.

You're so wet, so ready for him, that he's able to ease into you with surprising ease, despite his size. Each time he pushes in, you feel your muscles resisting before giving way, your body adapting to his thickness. Your walls clench around him, trying to get used to the feeling of being so full, so claimed. It's as if every part of you is being rewritten, every nerve ending remapped to accommodate his size.

His thumbs press gently against your pulse points, feeling the rapid thrum of your heartbeat. “You’ve been in my head for months. Twisting me up so bad I can’t tell what’s real anymore. Hell, I can’t even close my eyes without seeing you.” His voice has dropped lower, huskier, the edges roughened by emotion and strain.

The feeling of fullness is intense, almost overwhelming, but it's mixed with an aching need for more. You can feel your body stretching, adjusting to his size, and it's both slightly painful and incredibly arousing. He's so much larger than any toy you've ever used, and the thought of taking all of him sends a fresh wave of desire through you.

You glance up at his form, the dim artificial lights overhead casting a faint, bluish hue across his bare chest. His skin glistens faintly, a sheen of sweat highlighting the sculpted lines of his muscles—the curve of his shoulders, the sharp planes of his chest, and the ripple of his abdomen. Shadows deepen in the grooves between his ribs and along the flex of his arms as he shifts, his every movement purposeful, almost mesmerizing. There’s faint golden hair dusting his chest and trailing down his stomach.

The sight of him makes you coo, “Curly, you’re so perfect.”

His eyes never leave yours, and in them you now see a fierce concentration, a hunger that's been building for a long time. The head of his cock reaches deep into you, and you arch your back, the sensation overwhelming. You're so full you feel like you might burst. But then he pulls out slightly, only to push back in even deeper, and it's as if you've been hit by a bolt of lightning.

With one final, powerful thrust, he's all the way in, and you let out a cry that echoes through the cabin. Your nails dig into his back, your body shaking with the intensity of it all. His cock is so big, so hard, that you feel it in every part of you, filling you up in a way you never knew was possible.

Your hips are moving, rutting against him, urging him deeper. 

He starts to move, his hips rocking into yours, his cock sliding in and out of your tight hole. You moan, the feeling so intense that you don’t know if you can handle it. Orgasms roll through you, one after another, each one more powerful than the last. You couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began, they just blended together into a never-ending crescendo of pleasure.

Curly's movements then become more forceful, his thrusts deeper and faster. Each time he fills you, you can feel your inner muscles clench around him, trying to hold onto that delicious feeling of fullness. He groans, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he starts to pick up the pace.

Tears slide down your cheeks as he fucks you, each stroke hitting deeper than the last. Your eyes are now squeezed shut, and all you can see was the bright white light of pure ecstasy. You don’t know if you can take it, don’t know if you could handle his size, his strength. But you don’t want him to stop.

The room fills with the sound of skin slapping against skin, the wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out of you. It's primal, animalistic, and you can't help but get lost in it—in the feeling of his body pressing into yours, in the heat of his breath against your neck, in the way your orgasms build and crash over you like waves.

Your body starts to shake, your muscles tensing as you feel another climax building. You look up at him, eyes pleading, and he leans down, capturing your mouth in a fierce kiss. It's as if he knows exactly what you need, and he's more than willing to give it to you.

Curly starts to hit that spot inside you with every thrust, the one that makes your toes curl and your vision blur. You moan into his mouth, your hips rising to meet his, desperate for more. Fuck, but you don’t know if you can take it anymore. He's relentless, his cock driving into you, stretching you further and further until you think you'll shatter into a million pieces. 

And then, with one final, powerful thrust, you do.

You push him away, just enough for his cock to pop out of you, and you squeal. “‘Curly,” you keen, twitching all over as you release all over yourself, him, and his sheets. His dick twitches as he watches you spasm all over his bed, coating both of you in your cum and slick. 

The corners of your eyes sting with tears of pleasure, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Curly’s gaze doesn’t waver, his lips slightly parted as he watches you, his chest rising and falling with his own labored breaths. 

“Bloody hell,” he mutters, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, his voice hoarse and rough. Then, without hesitation, he flips you over with a strength that sends your pulse racing all over again. His hands are firm yet careful, a mix of desperation and reverence in the way he touches you.

“You drive me insane,” he growls, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. The weight of his words settles over you, and you know this is far from over. His frustration, his need, his months of pent-up tension—all of it is unraveling here and now, and you’re the one holding the thread.

And with those words, you know it’s going to be a long, unforgettable night. The thought crosses your mind in a brief, hazy moment of clarity: How are you supposed to walk tomorrow? But the question is quickly swept away, drowned in the whirlwind of Curly’s relentless thrusting and the electric heat between you.

Hours later, when the two of you finally collapse into each other, exhausted and sated, there’s a rare, blissful quiet in the air. His arm drapes over you after he cleans you up, heavy and warm, pulling you against his chest. The steady rhythm of his breathing lulls you into a peace you haven’t felt in ages.

For the first time in years, Curly sleeps soundly. No tossing, no turning, no restless hours spent staring at the ceiling. In his dreams, as in reality, you’re there with him. And ever since then, he hasn’t had any insomnia.

And you? You have no regrets.

a/n: the finale~~ let me know what y'all think!

oh yeah.. smut.. neverending smut..

taglist is open! lmk if you want to be on the taglist for just curly/mouthwashing characters or if you want the news on alll my fics.

also might be accepting requests hehe! i can’t guarantee that i can do em, but i’ll accept ideas!

btw. not beta read, please let me know if there are any typos/inconsistencies stay safe & hydrated as always!

(and go to sleep if you’re reading this super late. don’t be a curly. take care of yourself!)

thanks for reading! <3

crossposted on ao3

taglist: @m-carriaga2021, @skyeconch

directory/m.list ⇦ previous chapter

[kkanabel]

co-pilot mischief ✫ soaked & see-thru ✫ chapter dos

captain curly x teasing!reader

it’s been a month since your epiphany that Captain Curly has a sweet little crush on you, and you’ve been teasing him the entire time. what happens when you push him even closer to the edge?

directory/m.list ⇦ previous chapter - next chapter ⇨

words: ~3.1k

t/w: STRONG sexual references but no actual yucky (yet), so imma say this is rated mature, reader being lowkey sadistic, cute curly <3, gn!reader/pronouns but reader wears a bra, mentions of curly's mayo slinger , depiction/description of nipples, (service?)dom!curly

a/n: hi. been obsessed with this video game recently—well, especially with Curly (go figure. i like fictional men). i needed to make something self-indulgent bc i just like this man way too much. and because i just want to make a world where none of them have to suffer. enjoy~ 

~janana does not exist in this world~

Planned Shipment Duration: 382 Days Elapsed Transit Time: 322 Days

It’s been a month since your epiphany that Captain Curly has a sweet little crush on you.

Once you realized it, there was no going back. Since then, you’ve made it your personal mission to tease him, dangling his attraction above his head like a packet of sweetener just out of reach. At first, you thought he’d crack quickly—his stammering, red ears, and darting eyes gave you plenty of hope—but it turns out he’s much harder to break than you expected.

Curly’s resolve, it seems, is made of iron—or at least something close to it. He holds tightly to his professionalism, though you can tell it’s a battle for him. He does his best to pretend nothing’s happening, no matter how blatantly you flirt or how often your hand "accidentally" brushes against his when passing tools or rations.

The moments he falters, though? Those are pure gold.

Like when you "forgot" to zip up your jumpsuit all the way, the collar slipping low enough to reveal the delicate lace of your bralette and the beginnings of cleavage. You’d leaned over the cockpit console, close enough to invade his personal space, pointing at a diagnostic screen that didn’t really need his attention.

“Captain,” you’d said sweetly, tilting your head just enough to let your hair brush against his arm. “Do you think this reading looks a little off? Or is it just me?”

Curly froze, his broad shoulders stiffening as if you’d just launched a torpedo into the ship. His eyes darted to the screen, then to you, then back to the screen again, avoiding your neckline like it might blind him.

“I... uh, it looks fine to me,” he muttered, clearing his throat. His voice was strained, low, like he was barely keeping himself together.

You watched, delighted, as his ears turned bright red.

And that wasn’t the only time. Every brush of your hand against his, every teasing glance, every accidental bump into him in the narrow halls of the ship sent little tremors through his carefully maintained composure. Once, when you deliberately lingered at his side during a crew meeting, your shoulder grazing his arm as you leaned against him, he shifted uncomfortably, his jaw tightening. You didn’t miss the way his hand flexed at his side, like he wanted to move but couldn’t.

It was adorable, really, how he tried so hard to maintain control. His lips would press into a thin line, his eyes locking onto anything but you, but the faint blush crawling up his neck always gave him away.

You couldn’t stop yourself from indulging in the little thrill of it. His reactions, subtle as they sometimes were, made your heart flutter in ways you didn’t entirely expect. It wasn’t just the fun of teasing him—it was the way he looked at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice. That mix of yearning and restraint, like he wanted so badly to reach out but knew he couldn’t. It was intoxicating.

One evening, you decided to push him a little further.

The ship’s artificial lights cast a soft glow over the cockpit as the two of you worked on a recalibration for the nav system. You’d been at it for hours, but you didn’t feel tired—not when you had Curly as your company.

As he bent over the console, his strong hands deftly adjusting the inputs, you let your eyes wander over him. The curve of his shoulders, the faint stubble on his jaw, the way a lock of his blonde hair fell across his forehead... it was all so unfairly attractive.

“Hey, Captain,” you said, your voice light and teasing.

He glanced at you briefly, a suspicious flicker in his blue eyes. “What is it?”

“You’ve been working so hard lately,” you cooed, stepping closer. “Don’t you think you deserve a little break?”

He straightened, standing to his full height, which only made you want to tease him more. “We’re on duty,” he said, his tone firm, though his nervous countenance betrayed him. “No time for breaks.”

You tilted your head, letting your lips curve into a mischievous smile. “Not even for me?”

His jaw tightened, and he exhaled through his nose. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

You held in a laugh in favor of feigning innocence, widening your eyes. “Enjoying what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely between the two of you, his hand hovering in the air before dropping to his side. His blue eyes were filled with an unreadable emotion. “Whatever game you’re playing.”

You pressed a hand to your chest, mock-offended. “Game? I’m just trying to help my captain relax. Is that so wrong?”

His gaze flickered to your hand, then back to your face. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Instead, he closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath like he was trying to steady himself. There was trouble written all over his handsome face.

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you added sweetly, grazing past him to grab a tablet from the console. Your chest brushed against his arm, and you swore you heard him mutter something under his breath—something that sounded suspiciously like your name.

You walked away, hiding your smile behind the tablet. This was too much fun.

But as you glanced back at him, catching the way he ran a hand through his blonde hair in frustration, your heart gave a little flutter. Maybe you were having fun teasing him into madness, but you couldn’t deny that part of you that wanted him to finally snap—wanted to see what would happen when that carefully constructed professionalism finally broke.

A couple of days later, you woke up an hour too early. The mistake had been drinking coffee with Curly too late into the evening. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, a casual moment of camaraderie with the captain, but now you were left wide-eyed in the dark, staring at the ceiling of your cabin.

Giving up on the idea of returning to sleep, you decided to make the most of the situation. Slipping out of bed, you grabbed a water sachet and padded down the quiet halls toward the cockpit, still dressed in your pajamas—just a white T-shirt and the shortest of pajama shorts.

Usually, for the sake of decency, you’d slip on a bralette under the shirt during film nights or crew gatherings. The last thing you wanted was to flash someone like Daisuke or Swansea and scar them for life. But now, in the stillness of the ship’s early hours, you felt a little more emboldened. Besides, you couldn’t help but think about how Curly might react.

You’d caught him looking before, though he tried so hard to hide it. When you wore an extra tank top you found in the cockpit locker (It was Curly’s, and it was at least a size too big), exposing just a hint more skin—shoulders and the teasing curve of the side of your chest through the arm holes that were too big, his face turned a violent shade of red, and he’d buried himself in a book—upside down. The memory still made you grin. His excuse about following “Pony Express directives” to “practice” reading things from unconventional angles was laughable, yet endearing in how desperately he tried to cling to professionalism.

Though ever since then, he’s found it difficult to meet your eyes or even glance at you.

Tonight, the shirt’s white fabric was a little more thin than you usually dared, and you knew it fell off the peaks and curves off your body in just the right way. The thought made your pulse quicken, imagining how Curly would react—if he was going to refuse to look at you, you were going to find a way to force him to.

As you approached the cockpit, the faint hum of the ship’s systems buzzed softly, and the doorway glowed faintly with the green and white lights of the control panels. Curly was there, of course, hunched over one of the consoles. His wavy blonde hair caught the artificial light, strands tousled as though he’d run his fingers through them in frustration.

From the doorway, you took a moment to admire him. He was all rugged edges and quiet strength, his broad shoulders casting a silhouette that almost filled the chair he sat in. His stubbled jaw was set in concentration, the faint shadows of fatigue underlining his blue eyes as they flicked between readouts. Even in moments like this, when he wasn’t putting on his usual air of command, he radiated a certain kind of allure.

Curly’s mind was a storm. He hated this—how easily you unraveled him, how effortlessly you bypassed every wall of professionalism he’d built over the years. It wasn’t just the shirt or the skin it revealed—it was you. The way you moved, the way you smiled at him like you knew exactly what you were doing.

And even then, he felt guilty. Deeply, horribly guilty.

This wasn’t how a captain should think about his crew—especially not about you. He couldn’t stop his mind from straying. He admired your sharp wit, respected your skills, and relied on you more than he cared to admit. You weren’t just capable; you were remarkable.

And that was the problem. Because the more he admired you, the harder it was to ignore the way his thoughts veered into forbidden territory. And tonight, when you stepped into the room, bleary-eyed and relaxed in your white t-shirt, his heart had nearly stuttered to a stop. 

“Captain,” you called softly, leaning against the doorway.

His head snapped up, eyes widening slightly before he schooled his expression into something more neutral. “You’re up early,” he said, his voice low and gravelly from disuse, quickly flicking his eyes away from you and towards the ship’s monitors, a habit he’s developed recently.

“Curly?” You said again, waiting until his eyes finally met yours. You stepped inside, deliberately slow, letting him take in your appearance. His gaze darted to you briefly—just a flicker—but his lips pressed into a thin line, and he immediately focused back on the console.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you said, shrugging as you approached him. “Thought I’d keep you company.”

He cleared his throat. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Oh,” You frowned, “but I wanted to.” You leaned over the console, pretending to inspect one of the readings. The motion caused the shirt to shift ever so slightly, revealing the crux of your neck and the faint outline of your collarbone.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him freeze. His strong hands, usually so sure as they worked the controls, stilled. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, and a faint pink began to creep up his neck to his ears. “I—uh…” He faltered, his words caught in his throat. “It’s not much to look at,” he managed, gesturing vaguely to the display.

You glanced at him, catching the way his blue eyes flicked nervously to yours before darting away again. His jaw clenched, the stubble along his chin shifting with the movement, and you noticed the way his broad shoulders seemed to tense as though he were bracing himself.

His hands betrayed him, gripping the edge of the console as though it were the only thing anchoring him.

The curves of your chest moved freely with each step you took. The material was thin, revealing your shadowy valleys. The shirt cupped them like a gentle hand, and the peaks of your nipples pushed against the fabric. 

He scolded himself silently, jaw tightening. How could he let his thoughts wander like this? It was unprofessional, inappropriate, and downright wrong. You were younger than him, his crewmate, his second-in-command—he was your boss! And still, despite all the reasons he gave himself to stop, he couldn’t help but notice the way the fabric of your shirt caught the light as he cursed himself for having these thoughts while being your superior.

He noticed too much—the curve of your lips when you smiled, the sway of your hair when you moved, the way your presence filled the cockpit and left him fighting for composure. 

You’d casually stepped into the cockpit, rubbing your eyes and clutching a water sachet, (trying to look) completely unaware of the chaos you were stirring. The ship’s dim lighting hummed softly around you as you took in the familiar sight of Curly, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he focused on the console in front of him.

Your gaze drifted for a moment, taking in the quiet stillness of the cockpit. You liked moments like this—when the ship felt like it was holding its breath, everything running smoothly. Your eyes quickly darted back at the ship’s monitors, looking for anomalies. But your attention quickly shifted back to Curly, and concern tugged at the edges of your thoughts.

The dark shadows under his eyes and the faint redness around them told you he hadn’t gotten much sleep. His posture was rigid, shoulders tense even in stillness, and you found yourself frowning slightly.

“Curly,” you said softly, your voice breaking the silence. He turned his head just enough to acknowledge you, his blue eyes weary but alert. “When was the last time you stood up to take a stretch?” you asked, tilting your head in gentle inquiry.

His brow furrowed, and he let out a quiet sigh. “I’m fine,” he replied, though his tone lacked conviction.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “Captain,” you said with mock sternness, “don’t make me log a report about your poor self-care habits.”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face before reluctantly pushing himself to his feet. “Fine,” he muttered, his voice gruff.

You stepped back, giving him space while pretending to busy yourself with your water sachet. In truth, you were staring as he stretched. His arms reached overhead, his broad shoulders and defined muscles shifting beneath his Pony Express t-shirt that was too tight in many places. You let your gaze linger for a moment, appreciating the sharp line of his jaw and the way his stubble caught the faint light and the upper half of the coveralls that were hanging casually at his hips.

But you weren’t entirely selfless. As he finished, you casually lifted your arms to stretch as well, arching your back just enough to emphasize the thin fabric of your shirt. You didn’t dare glance at him directly, but you were sure he noticed. You could almost feel the tension in the air shift, his silence betraying his discomfort—or was it something else?

Then, as you reached for your water sachet, the corner of your hand snagged it, tipping it forward and sending a stream of cool liquid splashing onto both of you.

“Oh no!” you gasped, stepping back in shock as the water soaked into your shirt and splattered onto Curly’s lower torso.

“I—I’m so sorry!” you stammered, grabbing for the stack of napkins you always kept nearby for emergencies. “I didn’t mean to—hold on, let me—”

Holding the napkins, you stepped closer and began dabbing at his shirt, focusing on the damp fabric clinging to his lower torso. His breath hitched when your fingers brushed against him, and his hands twitched at his sides as if he didn’t know what to do with them. His breathing had grown shallow, his eyes darting anywhere but at you.

“It’s fine,” he muttered, though his voice was strained. 

But you were too focused on drying him off to notice the growing tension in his body. His shirt clung to his lower torso, outlining the solid planes of muscle beneath, and you worked methodically, your brows furrowed in genuine apology as you dabbed the napkins all over his lower stomach and upper thighs.

“I’m such an idiot,” you muttered under your breath, shaking your head. “I don’t even know how I…” you murmured, your voice frantic as you continued your drying. The napkins glided over his shirt, and though your touch was light and innocent, the intimacy of it was anything but. His stomach muscles tensed under your hand, and you felt a pang of guilt for causing the situation.

“Y-you don’t have to—”

“But I do!” you cut him off, leaning in just a bit closer. “I made the mess, so it’s only fair I fix it.”

His breathing grew heavier, though he was trying his best to keep it steady. His gaze flicked toward the damp, clinging fabric of your shirt again, and his cheeks burned even brighter. Your napkin drying eventually ended on his upper thigh—you’d dabbed that place a couple of times already, but this time, you noticed that it was… bulging. And hard. 

And massive.

Then you noticed something else.

The air around you suddenly felt charged, and when you glanced down, your face lit up in horror. Your wet shirt was clinging to your chest like a second skin, the thin white fabric leaving very little to the imagination and turning almost entirely transparent. Splotches of color from your areolas were clearly visible under the fabric.

“Oh my-,” you whispered, your cheeks burning as you instinctively crossed your arms over yourself.

Curly’s gaze darted to you for a fraction of a second before he whipped his head away, his face flushing a deep crimson. He instantly peels off his t-shirt and places it over your head to cover you. If he gets just one more look at you exposed, he’ll-

“Thanks, Curly.” You say, relieved. 

He looks down and sees your nipples still poking through the two layers of fabric, and he lets in a sharp breath before he tears his eyes away from you. You hold back an amused chuckle from what just went down, and you sigh wistfully as you take in his shirtless form.

“Darn,” you said finally, straightening and tossing the used napkins into the trash. “I guess this means you need to go take a shower and change into dry pajamas. Maybe even get some sleep while you’re at it. I’ll take care of things here in the meantime.”

He blinked at you, looking dazed and overwhelmed, his lips parting as if to protest, but no words came out. How could you have bounced back so quickly?

You smiled sweetly, your tone light and teasing as you gestured toward the exit. “Go on, Captain. That’s an order.”

For a moment, he just stood there, his jaw working as though he wanted to say something. But then he gave a sharp nod, his eyes avoiding yours as he muttered a gruff, “Fine,” before turning and leaving the cockpit.

As the door slid shut behind him, you let out a soft chuckle, enjoying the scent of his t-shirt (albeit wet) wrapped around you. You try to ignore the heat that builds up in your stomach when you think about him, in the shower, taking care of his “little” problem, wrapping his hand around himself with a groan.

a/n: let me know what y'all think!

oh yeah.. smut.. tomorrow…?

taglist is open! lmk if you want to be on the taglist for just curly/mouthwashing characters or if you want the news on alll my fics… also might be accepting requests hehe! i can’t guarantee that i can do em, but i’ll accept ideas!

btw. not beta read, please let me know if there are any typos or inconsistencies stay safe & hydrated as always!

(and go to sleep if you’re reading this super late. don’t be a curly. take care of yourself!)

thanks for reading! <3

crossposted on ao3

directory/m.list ⇦ previous chapter - next chapter ⇨

[kkanabel]

</3 important reminders

It's fanfiction it doesn't have to be perfect it doesn't have to be accurate this is a hobby you're doing this for fun it's okay if it isn't perfect and polished you're doing it for fun [talking to myself in the mirror]

[kkanabel]

co-pilot mischief ✫ curly concerns ✫ chapter uno

captain curly x teasing!reader

curly panics when he realizes he's attracted to his co-pilot. a mixture of professionalism and fear of making you uncomfortable are keeping him from pursuing his feelings. so, when you find out that he has a thing for you, you tease him to see how long it'll take for him to give up.

directory/m.list next chapter ⇨

words: ~3.5k

t/w: sexual references but no actual yucky (yet), reader being lowkey sadistic, cute curly <3, gn!reader/pronouns but reader wears a bra

a/n: hi. been obsessed with this video game recently—well, especially with Curly (go figure. i like fictional men). i needed to make something self-indulgent bc i just like this man way too much. and because i just want to make a world where none of them have to suffer. enjoy~ 

~jambalaya does not exist in this world~

Planned Shipment Duration: 382 Days Elapsed Transit Time: 292 Days

It had been over nine months aboard this damned ship, and Curly was just short of going mad. Not the kind of madness that came with sleep deprivation—he’d conquered that particular beast long ago, his body numb to the restless nights. No, this madness was quieter, more insidious, burrowing into his mind and refusing to leave. It trailed him through the claustrophobic halls of the Tulpar, slipping into the smallest crevices of his day-to-day. The worst part was, he knew exactly what caused it.

Or rather, who.

His co-pilot. The bane of his existence. The source of his sanity slipping through his fingers like sand.

Curly groaned and scrubbed his face with his hands, his calloused palms dragging over stubble. The cockpit was bathed in the green glow of the ship’s display panels, casting long shadows over his hunched figure. For once, he was alone. His co-pilot was off—God knows where—and he was left to grapple with the gnawing frustration that never seemed to diminish. It wasn’t the kind of irritation that burned; it simmered, steady and unyielding, until it became part of the fabric of his thoughts, melting like wax into his very being.

He could see their handwriting on the little sticky notes scattered around the console, each one an infuriatingly sweet reminder to stretch, drink water, or take a break. He tried to ignore the way those notes made him feel a little lighter, even when he wanted to crumple them up out of spite. Then there were the meals—hot, fresh, and left beside him during the long hours he spent poring over ship diagnostics on days he’d forget to come to the main lobby for food. Like clockwork, they arrived, a silent reminder that someone out there cared. Too much, in fact.

It wasn’t the fact that they’d climbed the ranks with startling efficiency or that they were nipping at his heels for his own position. But the issue wasn’t their competence. Hell, he’d been the one to recommend them to the crew. No, the problem—the real problem—was that he didn’t mind the notes. Or the meals. Or the way their laugh lingered in his head long after the joke had ended.

That was the crux of it: he didn’t mind. He cared too much.

Curly growled under his breath and pushed himself out of his chair, dropping into a push-up position before the thought could take hold again. One. Two. Three. The strain burned through his biceps and shoulders, grounding him in something tangible. In the beginning, this ritual had worked. Twenty push-ups, and he’d feel clear-headed enough to get back to work. But now? He was well into quadrupling that number, and the haze in his mind hadn’t lifted.

“Damn it,” he muttered, shifting to one-armed push-ups. Sweat beaded on his brow, but his thoughts remained stubbornly fixed.

It was their fault. The way they lingered in his peripheral vision during late-night shifts, always a step ahead of him. The way their presence filled the cockpit, electric and steady, as if the entire ship ran on their quiet energy. He hated it. He needed it.

Curly collapsed onto the floor, the cool metal pressing against his flushed skin. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the dull ceiling, and exhaled sharply. But it wasn’t their fault. It was all his.

Because no matter how many push-ups he did or how hard he worked, he couldn’t seem to outrun the one truth he hated most: he was falling for his co-pilot, and there was no way to make it stop.

It all started so innocently.

A couple of months ago, when Curly’s sleep was deteriorating thanks to the unholy cocktail of chronic insomnia and the Pony Express directive of “only indulging in five hours of sleep a night,” the signs of wear were becoming impossible to hide. His dark circles deepened, hollowing out his features, and the number of minor piloting errors he made began creeping upward. He hated slipping up, especially in front of the crew. But you had been there, catching the mistakes before anyone else could notice, your tone warm and forgiving as you covered for him without a single reproach.

“How many hours of sleep did you get last night, Captain?” you asked, glancing at him with a knowing arch of your brow. The question was less accusatory and more concerned, which somehow made it worse.

The third time you caught him in the cockpit, chugging yet another cup of bitter instant coffee, you sighed with exasperation. He barely had time to process what you were doing before you nudged him toward the door with a bottle of melatonin clutched in your hand.

“Rest, Captain,” you said firmly, standing your ground in front of him with a tilt to your chin that tolerated no argument. “Don’t go abusing yourself—and caffeine—like that. Do me a favor and take one of these with some water. I’ve got the ship tied down.”

Before he could retort, you physically pushed him through the doorway and locked the cockpit door behind him. He stared at the bottle of melatonin in his hand, blinking in confusion, his mind too fogged with exhaustion to properly argue. He barely made it to his quarters without bumping into a wall. Still, he heeded your demand.

When he woke up hours later, groggy but undeniably more refreshed than he’d felt in weeks, he returned to the cockpit to find the door unlocked and you sitting in his chair, nursing a steaming cup of water between your hands.

The smile you gave him as he walked in—small, gentle—made something in his chest falter, like the ship had hit a pocket of turbulence. He ignored it, chalking the reaction up to gratitude. “Thanks,” he muttered before reclaiming his chair.

That should have been it. A one-off moment. But it wasn’t.

The next time was when you came bounding into the cockpit, an excited glint in your eyes, holding a bundle of old films scavenged from storage. “Look what I found!” you exclaimed, dropping them onto the console as if they were treasures unearthed from a sunken ship. The crew’s old stash of classic movies. You suggested a movie night, and by the weekend, everyone was gathered in the living area, dressed in mismatched pajamas as per your insistence.

The fake day-and-night screen in the living room had been converted into a movie screen (thanks to a favor from Swansea), and you’d somehow transformed the cramped space into a cozy theater. The crew was laughing, the air thick with the buttery aroma of popcorn—smuggled aboard in direct defiance of Pony Express regulations. Swansea lounged in a corner, throwing popcorn into his mouth with perfect aim, while Daisuke and Anya shared a bag of candy bars, their laughter ringing out during the film’s funniest moments.

And then there was you, looking at the rest of the crew, a relieved smile on your face from seeing them having fun and relaxing.

You’d curled up on the couch with bunny slippers, wearing an oversized t-shirt that reached down to your knees. Curly found himself staring at the way your legs curled up in front of you, the smooth skin catching the flickering light of the screen. He shook his head and willed himself to look back at the film, feeling an odd mix of discomfort and… something else.

It wasn’t just your legs that had caught his attention. He watched your shoulders relax as you looked at the others having a good time. From your shoulders, his eyes slowly trailed up to your neck,

There was the lace halter bralette peeking out from the neckline of your shirt, delicate and intricate, its strap circling your neck like a whisper of fabric. He’d overheard you mention it in passing to Anya once, saying how they were more comfortable than traditional bras. Cute, you’d said. Anya had agreed wholeheartedly, and the two of you had launched into an entire conversation about comfortable alternatives, leaving him both bewildered and hyper-aware of the intricacies of brassiers.

That night, you’d tied your hair up, sweeping it off your face and revealing the curve of your neck. He hated how his eyes kept trailing there, lingering too long on the strap of your bralette before snapping back to the screen.

What was wrong with him?

The laughter of the crew filled the room, but Curly’s focus was elsewhere. He watched the way your shoulders relaxed as you leaned back, your smile warm and unguarded as you looked at the others enjoying themselves. It had been a rough couple of weeks, but in that moment, you looked so at ease, like you were carrying everyone’s joy on your shoulders and doing it gladly.

His gaze drifted again, following the line of your neck up to your jaw and almost to your lips before he froze, his chest tightening with realization. He was staring. Stop it, you creep. His heart thudded in his chest, the weight of his guilt sinking in. The last thing he ever wanted was to make you uncomfortable, to let you see just how hopelessly he was starting to lose control of his own feelings.

And yet, even as he looked away, forcing his attention back to the film, the memory of your smile lingered in his mind, burning as brightly as a star in space.

Later that night, after the crew had dispersed to their quarters, Curly lingered in the living area. The faint smell of popcorn still hung in the air, and empty mugs cluttered the low table, remnants of the impromptu movie night.

He hadn’t planned to stay, but you were still there, stacking empty bowls with practiced efficiency. You hummed softly as you worked, the sound low and content.

“You don’t have to clean up,” he said, his voice startlingly loud in the quiet.

You glanced at him over your shoulder, an easy smile spreading across your face. “Neither do you, Captain. Yet here you are.”

Curly looked so charming, sweeping up the crumbs from the ground with a bashful smile. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Force of habit, I guess.”

He stepped forward and started gathering stray candy wrappers. You didn’t protest, and the two of you worked in companionable silence. The only sounds were the soft clink of mugs and the occasional hum from the ship’s systems.

“Thanks for tonight,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter. He kept his eyes on the mug in his hand, turning it absently. “I think… the crew needed it.”

You paused, a little surprised. “Needed what?”

“A break. A reminder that things aren’t always so…” He trailed off, searching for the word. “Mechanical.”

You laughed softly, and the sound was warm enough to make his chest ache. “Even machines need downtime, Captain. And so do you.”

He glanced at you, his resolve faltering as you met his gaze head-on. Your eyes were steady, soft, and full of something he couldn’t quite name. For a moment, the ship felt too small, the air too thin.

“I guess I’ll work on that,” he said, forcing a crooked smile and dropping his gaze.

As the months passed, his little problem only got worse.

It started as little things.

The way Curly’s voice would soften when he said your name, like he was tasting it before letting it leave his mouth. How he always seemed to position himself between you and anything remotely dangerous during routine checks, even if the “danger” was just a loose panel or a slightly sparking wire. You noticed those things before, but they hadn’t meant much to you at the time.

But lately, you’ve started picking up on more.

Like how he fidgets whenever you lean over his chair to point something out on the cockpit screen. Or how his ears turn red if your hand brushes his when passing tools or data tablets. At first, you think it’s funny—how someone so competent and in control can get so flustered over little things. But then, there’s the moment in the Main Lobby.

You’re digging through one of the upper cabinets, on the hunt for something sweet, when you hear his boots scuff against the floor behind you.

“You’re always after the chocolate in the vending machine,” he says, leaning casually against the counter like he isn’t watching you a little too closely.

“And you’re always after the coffee,” you quip, holding up a ration bar triumphantly.

“Touché.” His lips twitch into a smile, and you can’t help but notice how his eyes linger on you just a moment too long before he turns to grab his mug from the shelf.

It’s not unusual—this kind of back-and-forth—but as you open the bar and break off a piece, you catch him glancing at you again, almost like he’s about to say something. He doesn’t, though, and the moment stretches long enough to feel... significant.

That’s when it starts clicking.

The lingering looks. The slight hesitation in his voice when he talks to you. The way he goes out of his way to make sure you’re comfortable, even when he doesn’t have to. The realization settles in your chest, warm and a little thrilling.

Does Curly like me?

Your mind starts replaying recent moments with a new lens. The way he always pulls you aside first to explain changes to the schedule. How he always offers to carry extra supplies during inspections, even when you insist you’re fine. That time he casually gave you his jacket when the living quarters were colder than usual, like it was no big deal.

“Earth to you,” Curly says, snapping you out of your thoughts. He’s holding out a water pouch, his brow slightly furrowed. “You zoned out there for a second. You okay?”

You take the pouch and give him a smile. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

You tilt your head, studying him, and your smile widens when he shifts under your gaze. “Nothing important.”

It’s a lie, of course. You’re thinking about him—about how he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention, about how he tries so hard to act unaffected when you’re around.

And for the first time, you feel a little wicked. If Curly likes you, why not have a little fun with it?

Curly knew something was off the moment you walked into the cockpit.

It wasn’t just the way you greeted him, your voice light and playful as always. It was the way your smile lingered, like you were holding onto a secret you couldn’t wait to let out.

“You’re up early,” you said, dropping into your seat beside him.

“Could say the same for you,” Curly muttered, keeping his eyes on the console. He was grateful for the excuse to look busy, though the screen in front of him was just a diagnostic report he’d already read three times.

“You’re always so serious, Captain.” Your tone was teasing, but there was something else beneath it, something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

He didn’t respond, didn’t trust himself to.

The silence stretched, and just when he thought you’d moved on, you leaned closer—close enough for him to catch the faint scent of whatever soap you used.

“Hey, Curly?”

His stomach flipped. “Yeah?”

You paused, drawing it out, like you were savoring his anticipation. Then, with a sly grin, you said, “You’re staring.”

“I’m not—” He froze, his heart skipping a beat. “What?”

“You are,” you insisted, your grin widening. “You’ve been staring at that same report for the last ten minutes. What’s so interesting about it?”

Curly’s mouth went dry. He scrambled for an answer, but his mind betrayed him, replaying every fleeting glance he’d stolen of you earlier that morning. How long had you noticed?

When he didn’t respond, you leaned back in your chair, smug satisfaction written all over your face. “Relax, Captain. I’m just messing with you.”

But you weren’t. Not entirely.

Because as you watched the tips of his ears turn pink and saw how his jaw tightened, you realized something. Something that made your pulse quicken and your lips curl into a wicked smile.

He likes me.

And now that you knew, you couldn’t help yourself.

Curly swore the ship’s cockpit had never felt this small before.

You were now hovering just over his shoulder, leaning in to inspect a blinking diagnostic alert on the screen. The proximity was maddening—he could feel the warmth radiating off you, the sleeve of your Pony Express jumpsuit brushing against his arm every time you moved.

“Hmm,” you mused, tilting your head. “Looks like a minor power fluctuation. Nothing to worry about, but we should log it for the next maintenance check.”

He nodded stiffly, trying to focus on your words instead of the fact that your hair was so close it tickled his cheek. “Right. I’ll, uh, take care of it.”

But when he reached for the keyboard, so did you. Your fingers grazed his, and you both froze.

“Sorry,” you said, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. A playful smile tugged at your lips, and he didn’t trust it for a second. “Didn’t mean to get in your way, Captain.”

“It’s fine,” he muttered, turning back to the screen. But his fingers trembled slightly as he typed, and he cursed himself for it.

“You know,” you said, leaning against the edge of the console, your voice deceptively casual. “You look good when you’re focused like that.”

He nearly choked. “What?”

“I said you look good when you’re focused.” You shrugged, like it was the most normal, casual thing in the world. “It’s kind of intimidating, actually. In a good way.”

His face burned, and he fought the urge to bury it in his hands. “I—uh—thanks, I guess...”

The smile you gave him was nothing short of devilish. “You’re welcome.”

You stayed there, watching him a little too closely, and he could feel his pulse thudding in his ears. Finally, he risked a glance at you, only to find you tilting your head with mock innocence.

“Everything okay, Captain?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly, focusing hard on the screen. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Oh, no reason.” Your voice was light, teasing. “You just seem a little... tense.”

He stiffened, embarrassed and confused as to what you were doing but powerless to stop it.

“You know,” you continued, leaning a little closer again, “you really should loosen up. It’s not good for your health to be so serious all the time.”

“I’m not—” He cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”

“Hmm.” You studied him for a moment, and then, with a mischievous glint in your eyes, you added, “If you ever need help relaxing, Captain, just let me know.”

He froze, his brain short-circuiting at the double meaning behind your words.

Before he could stammer out a response, you straightened up, patting him lightly on the shoulder. “Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. Don’t work too hard, okay?”

And just like that, you were gone, leaving him alone in the cockpit, his heart racing and his mind a chaotic mess.

He groaned, burying his face in his hands. He was doomed. Absolutely doomed.

From the moment you saw Curly’s ears turn red, his fate was sealed. You’d never imagined the stoic, dependable captain could be reduced to such an adorable mess, and now that you’d seen it, there was no going back. It was just too cute—the way his bravado would falter, his words stumbling over themselves as he tried and failed to maintain composure.

Normally, Curly was all broad shoulders and easy charm, his commanding presence impossible to ignore. But you’d discovered a crack in that armor, a secret button that turned him from the ever-confident leader into a flustered, helpless schoolboy. And oh, what a delightful button it was to press.

You’d always found him attractive—how could you not? He was responsible, dependable, and unfairly handsome. But for the longest time, you assumed he’d only ever see you as his co-pilot, someone to rely on professionally but never personally. Yet now, the way his gaze lingered a moment too long, the subtle flush on his cheeks whenever you got a little too close, told you a very different story.

It gave you a strange, heady sense of power, and you had absolutely no intention of letting it go to waste.

A small, wicked thrill ran through you whenever you imagined the possibilities. What if you teased him just enough to make that carefully controlled exterior crumble? What if you pushed him to the edge, until he couldn’t hold it in any longer? Your mind wandered to a particularly wonderful thought: Curly, unable to take it anymore, bending you over the console with a heated, desperate confession.

You shivered, the fantasy almost too delicious to bear.

And so, your mission began—not to reject him, but to push him. To tease and torment, to watch his resolve unravel thread by thread. You weren’t cruel, not really. You knew he’d crack eventually, and you planned to reward him handsomely when he did. But until then?

Until then, you’d savor every stolen glance, every stammered reply, every moment he tries and fails to hold himself together.

After all, what was a little mischief between co-pilots?

a/n: let me know what y'all think! biggest thank yous to those who have written curly x reader fics thus far, y'all fueled me lmfao.

oh yeah.. smut.. eventually...

taglist is open! lmk if you want to be on the taglist for just curly/mouthwashing characters or if you want the news on alll my fics... also might be accepting requests hehe! i can't guarantee that i can do em, but i'll accept ideas!

thanks for reading! <3

btw. not beta read, please let me know if there are any typos or inconsistencies stay safe & hydrated as always!

(and go to sleep if you're reading this super late. don't be a curly. take care of yourself! (i say, writing this at midnight))

crossposted on ao3

directory/m.list next chapter ⇨

[kkanabel]

i am horrifically enamored with this. the actor au is amaaazing- it makes me both inspired and gives me jambalaya (jimmy) hope

Actor au! My love 💟

Reader is a camera worker afab for the NSFW parts. Oh yeah NSFW MINORS DNI

Captain Curly 🎉

He met you on the first day of set. You were messing with a camera tripod that wasn't working properly. Muttering swears as you look at the metal contraption.

You were too busy trying to figure out the stupid camera to notice the man looking at you.

As shooting went on there was a day the director wasn't there. The producer stepped up, only issue was the producer was an asshole. It was a student film anyways.

As they shot a scene you realize one of the actors was going too far near the road during a flashback scene.

You automatically shot up behind the camera. Meanwhile the producer was too busy flirting with another person.

"Cut! Cut you dumbasses." You shout, setting down your headphones as you run from behind the camera. "Fucking stop Jim!" You yelled as Jimmy and Daisuke looked at you confused, stopping in their tracks.

"The fuck Y/N!?" The producer shouted once he realized what had happened.

"Are you fucking stupid!?" You yelled, finally snapping at the guy in front of you. "They were way too close to the fucking road you know cars just speed through here. You say as if on cue a car speeds past them.

"Yeah yeah, know your God damn place camera girl." The producer sneered. Curly then walked up.

"Calm down Daniel, she was just looking out for the crew, you obviously weren't." Curly said, defending his coworker.

"Watch it Grant, I can have your ass fired if I wanted to." Daniel said, crossing his arms as if he won.

"I'm sure Vivian would love to hear that you fired her only actor that knows what he's doing. No offense guys" Curly says. Turning towards his costars for a moment.

"none taken" Daisuke says. He took the job out of boredom. Jimmy took the job after you begged him for a week straight. And Swansea took it because Daisuke offered him up.

Curly volunteered for the job because he thought you were cute and wanted to spend more time with you.

Daniel scoffed and walked away. Muttering something about the two of you.

Curly laughed as the other man walked off.

Ever since then the two of you got closer.

After shooting wrapped up he asked you out.

Curly was nervous before your first date.

He took you out to a movie.

You ended up talking through a majority of it, ranting about the different shots and how they did the practical effects.

He loved listening to you the spark you had for film.

One date because two, then three, then before you two knew it he was asking you to move in with him.

Of course you said yes, you two got an apartment your last year of college.

NSFW

The first time you hooked up it was after the cast and crew party after wrap up.

The two of you were wasted and one thing led to another.

Even drunk he was still so sweet with you. He tasted like whiskey and citrus.

The way his hips moved against yours in a dance of fiery passion.

The morning after you expected him to be gone. But actually you woke up to the smell of coffee.

Curly leaned against the doorway, a mug in his hand as he greeted you. "Morning doll." He said, kissing your forehead.

That was when you realized that he was someone you wanted, no *needed* in your life.

Afterwards sex with him was always sweet.

A service top 100%

One day he needed to blow off steam and of course being the amazing girlfriend you are, you offered to help.

You couldn't walk the next day.

Daisuke🌺

Like I said he picked it up because he was bored.

He saw you fighting with the camera and fell in love.

The way you excitedly ranted about the inner workings of your favorite films.

He asked you out not too long during shooting.

He took you to an arcade.

He did his best to win you one of the crappy stuffed animals from the claw machine.

He spent all his tokens but on the last go he won you a little dog plushie. You still keep it on your bed to this day.

NSFW

A switch leaning towards bottom.

He's not normally submissive but he's inexperienced. So he wants you to be in control so you can feel good.

When he is top though hes a little rough with it. Panting and whining like a dog while he thrusts into you non stop.

Probably has a power play kink (I forgot what it was called) but you're the one that has most of the power.

Let him call you ma'am and he goes all night.

Same with you praising him.

Anya

She was originally in tech with you. She worked on lights until the original actress quit the project due to the producer being an asshole.

The director knew she'd do amazing at the role and set her up with an audition. Of course she knocked it out of the park.

You supported her from behind the scenes.

You were the one to ask her out.

You two went to the park and had a picnic.

Soon you two graduated from college and life went on. You moved in together and got a cat, Anya getting a job as a nurse and you working your way up to a director.

I can't really think of any NSFW ideas for Anya rn if anyone has any idea pls share :)

Jimmy.(He's not a rapist in this AU I don't condone any of his actions as a victim of SA and rape)

You had to convince him to audition.

You were friends since highschool and believe it or not he did theatre.

You saw the way he looked with the spotlight on his face, like it was his only home.

So when you were starting a new project you BEGGED him to audition.

He was hesitant, he hadn't acted in a while so he was a bit rusty.

He walked out of the audition room nervously.

By the time the cast list was out he ran up to you, excitedly holding the paper of acceptance as he hugged you tightly.

You two both carpooled there, sometimes you drove sometimes he drove. You always got coffee before even if y'all were late.

When he asked you out it was at the cast and crew after party.

He took you to an off-Broadway play. He wasn't a fan of musicals. He still has some song in his playlist though.

Afterwards you went on more dates then you two moved in together.

NSFW

He tries to be gentle he truly does.

But when he's in the moment he can't help but slam his hips against yours and bite a little too harshly.

He immediately apologizes after though and give THE BEST aftercare in the whole world.

He 100% whimpers when he's close.

He also goes kinda braindead when he cums. Mumbling stuff like "fuck I love you" or yes over and over again. You live for the desperation in his voice every time he's close.

Anyways guys- lmk how you feel about the actor au? I love it sm because there's little room for angst because it feels like everyone gets a happy ending 😁 also for the producer and the director I used a random name generator y'all can change it if u want <3

[kkanabel]

façade ❃ twoshot ❃ chapter two

prohero! bakugou katsuki x prohero! reader

you and bakugou have been broken up after he "cheated" on you with a coworker at Endeavor’s Agency in your third year. seven years later, you both have to go under disguise as a newlywed couple to gather intel against a crime syndicate in a small town.

directory/m.list

⇦ previous chapter | END

Words: ~1.4k T/W: nsfw, minors dni, yucky under the cut, gushing/squirting, cunnilingus, porn with SO MUCH plot, bakugou being bakugou, cursing, overstimulation

Your eyes searched his, questioning, hopeful. And in that moment, you saw the same love, the same fiery passion that had brought you together so long ago. Without a word, you reached up to take off his hoodie, feeling the tension in the room thicken like a blanket of desire. His hands mirrored yours, eagerly peeling away the layers that separated you.

The fabric of your clothes fell away like petals from a rose, revealing the softness of your skin and the contours of your body that he had missed so much. His eyes roved over you, drinking in every inch, and he couldn’t believe you were here, with him, after all this time. His touch was tender, almost reverent, as if he were afraid to break the spell that had brought you back.

You stepped closer, feeling the warmth of his body, the heat of his skin against yours. His hands found the curve of your waist, and he pulled you closer, his mouth moving to kiss along the line of your collarbone. A soft moan escaped you as his lips grazed over your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

The room was a symphony of sighs and whispers as you both worked to free yourselves from the last barriers of clothing. His fingers traced the lines of your hips, your stomach, and up to your breasts, teasing and playing as your breath grew shallower. The anticipation was agonizing, the need for him to fill the emptiness you had felt for so long growing more intense with each passing second.

And when you were finally bare before each other, the air was charged with a hunger that was palpable. You looked into his eyes, and in them, you saw the same need, the same desire that reflected in your own. He was the same as before but bigger—new muscle and new scars sprinkled all over his skin—showing just how long you two have been apart.

 Without hesitation, you reached for him, guiding him to your bed, the mattress welcoming your tangled limbs as you lay down together.

The world outside faded away as he positioned himself over you, his gaze locking onto yours. The past was forgotten, the misunderstandings erased. 

With a low growl, he kissed you again, his tongue dancing with yours as his hand moved between your legs, his fingers finding you wet and ready. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your core as he began to explore your body with the same intensity that had once defined your love.

You arched your back, pushing yourself closer to him, urging him to keep going, to never stop. His touch was a brand, a declaration of his ownership over your heart and body. And as he pushed into you, you knew that no one else could ever make you feel like this—like you were flying, soaring through the sky on wings of pure ecstasy.

He leaned down, whispering into your ear, "Were any of them as good as me?" His voice was a mix of vulnerability and hope and snark, his eyes searching yours for the truth. “Those little shits who dated you during the time you weren’t seeing me?”

A wisp of a smile danced on your lips as you reached up to caress his head buried between your legs. "They didn't have your fire," you murmured, feeling a thrill at the way his pupils dilated, the way his breath hitched at your words. "They didn't know me like you do."

He knew exactly where to touch you to make fireworks go off behind your eyelids. Each little touch or graze of his drove you crazy—just as it did many years ago

The past was forgotten, the hurt buried under layers of passion and need. The only thing that mattered was the here and now, the two of you, reunited at last. And as he moved, his eyes never leaving yours, you felt a sense of completeness that you had never thought possible. Your nails dug into the sheets as he licked at your clit, his tongue flicking and swirling with a precision that left you gasping for more. "I missed this," he murmured against your skin, the vibration sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. "I missed you."

You could only whimper in response, the sensation of his mouth on you too much to process in words. Your hips bucked, your legs wrapping around his shoulders, urging him closer, deeper. He took the invitation, his tongue delving further, tasting the sweetness that was uniquely yours.

"Bakugou," you moaned, your voice shaky with desire. "I missed you too."

And as he brought you closer to the edge, his mouth never leaving you, you felt the last of the barriers between you crumble away. 

With each stroke of his tongue, the world outside grew fainter, until all you could hear was the sound of your own breathing, the rhythmic beat of his mouth on you. You could feel the climax building, a storm gathering force deep within you, threatening to break free.

And when it did, it was like a supernova—white-hot and all-consuming, a release of years of pent-up passion and longing. You cried out his name, your body trembling beneath him as the waves of pleasure crashed over you.

He watched you, his eyes dark with lust and love, his hand moving to stroke your clit in time with his tongue. "You're mine," he murmured, his voice a gravelly promise that sent shivers down your spine. "Always have been, always will be. Fuck, those sweet little sounds of yours. They haunted me in my sleep."

And as you lay there, boneless and sated, you knew that you had never truly belonged to anyone else. The flame between you had never died; it had just been waiting for the right moment to roar back to life.

And as the aftershocks of your orgasm subsided, you pulled him up to kiss him deeply, tasting yourself on his lips. "I'm yours," you whispered against his mouth, feeling the truth of the words resonate in every fiber of your being.

He kissed you back, his hands roaming over your body, his cock hard against your thigh. "I want you," he rasped, his voice a raw need that sent a thrill through you. "All of you."

With a nod, you sat up and sat him up, sitting onto his lap to face him. You reached down to guide his inside, feeling the stretch and the fullness that only he could give as each inch filled you up perfectly. And as he began to move, slow and deep, you knew that this was where you were meant to be—where you had always been meant to be—right in his lap.

“And you?” You keened, focusing on bouncing up and down on him. “What about all those girls you hooked up with? How were they?” You looked straight into his eyes as you rode him, as if challenging him.

He scoffed, reaching back to grab a handful of your ass and using it to bounce you on his dick harder and faster. “Oh?” A smirk played on his lips. “Jealous, huh? What about that one pretty boy you were all over last year?” He punctuated his last word with a particularly hard thrust that made you squeal.

“Stop-” a moan stopped you. “Stop avoiding the question!” 

He flipped you over into a mating press, reaching deep into your core and hitting right at your sweet spot. “None of them were as sensitive as you.” He rubbed his thumb onto your clit– the pressure of that combined with his thrusts made you come undone all over his fingers and dick. 

“Or as mouthy as you.” A hard thrust into you while you were still cumming. 

“Or as perfect as you.” Another hard thrust.

“Or had such a pretty O-face like you.” Another.

By this point, there were tears welling up in your eyes from the sheer level of pleasure he was giving you. With each thrust, he was hitting you deep inside– brushing against your cervix and hitting your g-spot just right. Your soft walls clenched and clenched around him, struggling to take all of the stimulation. 

With one more movement of his hips, you screamed as you gushed all over his hard length, but your brain was too fucked out to process anything even though you hadn’t done that in seven years.

He flipped you over onto your stomach and pistoning his hips into yours as he came, handfuls of your ass in his hands.

He groaned as he just kept ruining you. “You’re the only one.”

a/n: WHAT DO YALL THINK.

thanks for reading! taglist is open! lmk if you want to be on the taglist for just bakugou/bnha chars or if you want news on allll my fics. i plan on writing haikyuu characters eventually, too!

btw. not beta read, pls lmk if there are any typos or inconsistencies <3 stay safe & hydrated as always!

taglist: @kalulakunundrum

directory/m.list ⇦ previous chapter | END

[kkanabel]

façade ❃ twoshot ❃ chapter one

prohero! bakugou x prohero! reader

you and bakugou have been broken up after he "cheated" on you with a coworker at Endeavor’s Agency in your third year. seven years later, you both have to go under disguise as a newlywed couple to gather intel against a crime syndicate in a small town.

directory/m.list

next chapter ⇨

Words: ~5.8k

t/w: cheating (but it was a misunderstanding), angst with a happy ending, alcohol use, cursing, fluff

Your steak was partially-eaten at the restaurant next to the hardly touched side dishes. Across from you was a person who was familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Watching him was like listening to a once-favorite song you no longer enjoyed. The words that came out of your mouth were sugared.

“Love, your food is getting on your face!” You giggled, light and sweet, a performance for everybody else in the room, but your appetite shriveled. Just looking at him was enough to ruin it. 

His black hair might’ve been part of the disguise, but it was his eyes that truly twisted your stomach. That fiery intensity in his look hadn’t dimmed, no matter how much he tried to blend in. His physique was no different. Broad shoulders and strong arms were all wrapped up in a get-up that he’d usually never wear— polos and khakis hardly fit his personality, but they fit his arms and shoulders damn well. 

Though you’d never admit it.

You were hungry earlier, truly. After an entire day of scouting the town with Bakugou, both of you memorizing the layout and studying the locals, you were ready to devour anything. But you’d forgotten one critical detail—you’d have to share a meal with him. Now, Bakugou sat directly across from you, his damn eyes watching you, piercing through your every thought with a single glance.

You were so hungry earlier, too. After an entire day of scouting the town with him to discreetly memorize and study the surroundings and the locals, you were ready to eat anything and everything. But you’d forgotten one critical detail—you’d have to share a meal with him. Now, Bakugou sat directly across from you, with those damn eyes piercing through and analyzing your every thought with a single glance.

It made you sick. These eyes were the eyes that ruined you when you were younger. More stupid, more naïve. 

Bakugou—disguised under a different name—grinned in a way that was so unlike him it almost made you laugh. Almost. “Thanks, honey. What would I do without you?”

The sound of his voice, those saccharine words, made your skin crawl. He was acting, just like you. But knowing he didn’t mean it—knowing he never would—made it worse. It twisted the poisoned knife he’d left in your heart all those years ago. 

Your target was at another piece of steak, sawing at it until the knife clattered against the plate. The small bite tasted like cardboard in your mouth. It wasn’t the restaurant’s fault—you were just in bad company. The restaurant reviews were beaming even though the only reason you came here was to memorize the faces of the workers, who were all suspected to be working with the villain organization you were targeting.

“Pfft, I know. Just like when I fixed that old shirt of yours the other day. You’re welcome, by the way,” you replied, snark dripping from every word, as if you really had been together for years.

He paused mid-chew, his jaw tightening for just a moment before he forced another smile. This one was all teeth. “I’m lucky to have such a talented wife.”

It sounded wrong coming from him, hollow. He never said things like that, not genuinely. You forced your lips into a lovesick smile, but it was hard to keep the bitterness from bubbling to the surface.

If you had your way, you would’ve never spoken to him again. But fate, cruel as ever, had other plans. A mission had dragged you back into his orbit, this time forcing you into the role of his newlywed wife of all things. Your agencies had decided you two were the best fit for the job in this small town by the edge of the mountains—because apparently, everyone else was too busy.

However, the reason why you decided this wasn’t exactly for the “better of the world” or for some selfless bullshit reason. It was him. It was all Bakugou. He was the reason why you used work as an excuse to run away from life in the beginning.

You both work in the same field in neighboring towns. How did you not expect to have to work with him in close quarters again? You had to do it a couple times in the past, of course. But in those cases, you never had to utter more than a polite greeting or a quick debriefing to him.

But heroes don’t disobey orders. You couldn’t choose anything else. This was a month-long mission, so you’d both have to concentrate and act like the world’s best couple while you two secretly worked and played right next to the villains. 

After almost a decade of working in the pro hero field, you were able to eat your restaurant food while listening in to conversations between the world’s most disgusting people. It never got rid of your appetite. But sitting here with a simple coworker was like torture.

Even after seven years, he wreaked havoc on your emotional state. Sure, his existence was like listening to an old favorite song. But that song that you once enjoyed became corrupted with bad memories—memories of him kissing a coworker that he told you “not to worry” about while drinking. 

Bakugou looked at you, his fiery gaze softening for a moment, like he could sense the storm raging inside you. But he said nothing, just smiled that infuriating, fake smile.

You pushed your plate aside, hunger long forgotten. Even after all this time, he still had the power to wreak havoc on you. It didn’t matter how much you wanted to move on, how much you tried to bury the memories. The song you once loved had been tainted—ruined beyond repair. And now you were trapped in this duet, pretending for the sake of the mission, pretending for the sake of the people living in this town. But no matter how well you acted, every glance from him chipped away at the facade, like a scab being picked off a wound that refused to heal.

The restaurant's warm lighting reflected off the metal utensils on the table, your plate of half-eaten steak a reminder that some things, no matter how familiar, could never taste the same again. His voice, a mockery of normalcy, grated on your ears, each affectionate word laced with a layer of tension you couldn’t ignore.

As Bakugou stood, you noticed he was two paces ahead of you by the door. He turned slightly, waiting, and extended his hand as any good husband would. You hesitated for a fraction of a second before slipping your fingers into his. The warmth of his hand, once comforting, now felt suffocating.

"You okay, honey?" he asked in that low voice reserved for public ears, his eyes softening just enough to sell the act. But then his tone dropped further, meant only for you. "I know you hate me, but you need to commit."

The subtle squeeze of his hand sent a warning up your spine, anger sparking in response. You glanced away, biting back the retort that hovered on the tip of your tongue. He was right, and that made it sting more. When you looked back at him, his expression had morphed into something bright, affectionate. Disgustingly fake.

With a soft, practiced smile, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his temple, your lips lingering just long enough to sell the charade. "Sorry," you murmured sweetly, "I'm just exhausted from today."

The two of you walked out of the restaurant hand-in-hand, each step weighed down by the tension between you. Onlookers would see a couple perfectly in sync, fingers intertwined like a newlywed pair lost in their own world. Only you knew the truth—the burning desire to be anywhere but here, holding the hand of the man who shattered your trust years ago.

You heard whispers about him from time to time—rumors swirling like autumn leaves caught in a gust of wind. Bakugou was popular among the female heroes, and his name was often accompanied by a chorus of giggles and teasing remarks. “Dynamight totally hooked up with so-and-so last night!” they'd say, exchanging knowing glances and coy smiles.

You knew. You were at the same party that he was at, and you saw him with a random woman seated on his lap, all proud that she was there. The way he looked at her sent disgust through your stomach. 

You didn’t know that his eyes darted to you as soon as you sent your attention back to your partner.

Your coworkers would drench the office in gossip, speculating about his encounters, claiming he still refused to settle down with anyone, despite his countless admirers. At the moment, you brushed it off, telling yourself it was just idle chatter—nothing more than the usual buzz of workplace gossip. After all, you were in a relationship, and Bakugou was just an ex, a chapter of your life you thought you had closed for good.

But beneath that confident facade, a knot tightened in your stomach each time you heard his name mentioned. You tried to shake it off, burying your feelings under layers of indifference. Yet, deep down, the echoes of those conversations stirred up memories you thought you had forgotten, rekindling the doubts and insecurities that haunted you.

Nobody at this office knew that you and him used to date in your UA days. Even within your class, only a handful of people knew about it out of fear that villains would try and use you against each other.

Even as you forced a smile and participated in the banter, a part of you was always wondering: Did he really move on, or was he just pretending?

And now, with every step you took together, the countdown to your next "date night" loomed, an event you dreaded more than the mission itself.

Walking hand-in-hand, you left the restaurant together, keeping up the facade. Every step felt like it dragged you deeper into the pit you thought you had clawed your way out of. The town’s dim-lit streets were quiet, a peaceful contrast to the storm inside you.

As you approached the small cottage the mission had forced you to share, you tugged your hand away from his. The weight of his touch lingered, a reminder of how easily he could still reach you, even if you despised it.

The two of you had been sleeping in the same bed, despite how much you hated it. The first night you arrived at the cottage, you’d tried to sleep on the couch—anything to avoid the shared space that felt far too intimate for what you were capable of handling. You thought you’d been quiet, moving around pillows and blankets in the dim light of the living room. But of course, Bakugou had noticed.

“We’re married,” he said, the words like a shot to the chest, each one punctuated with a venomous reminder of the act you both had to maintain. He stood at the doorway, arms crossed, his silhouette barely visible in the shadowed room. “Come to bed.”

It wasn’t a request. His voice was low and laced with a touch of irritation. You knew why. There could be eyes on you, even now. Someone could be watching from the shadows, waiting for a crack in your performance—waiting to tear down everything you were working to accomplish. The mission was clear: gather intel, take down the villains, and do it without drawing suspicion. And part of that required playing your part as the loving, newlywed couple. 

The perfect, unblemished duo that could never be doubted.

You stood there, clutching the blanket in your hands, torn between what you wanted and what you had to do. It felt like a cruel joke. You and Bakugou, sharing a bed, pretending like the past years hadn’t carved a canyon between you. But you knew he was right. He was always right. No matter how much it stung to admit, he now had a way of pushing aside personal feelings, of locking away anything that might distract him from the mission.

You, on the other hand, weren’t that strong. 

The memory of his voice—so sharp and cold—lingered as you made your way back to the bedroom that night. It was a silent truce, but you hated the way it felt. Like you were once again trapped in his orbit, dragged back into the center of something you thought you had escaped. You slid under the covers beside him, the bed too small for the space that stretched between your bodies. You could feel the heat of him, so close, and yet miles away. It was suffocating.

It didn’t help that Bakugou played his part so perfectly. He’d initiate the small touches, the easy smiles and kisses in public, all with that infuriating ease of his. It was like he had no problem pretending you were still the couple you once were. As if the memories didn’t hang over him the way they hung over you. Every kiss in public, every affectionate gesture was a jab, a reminder of how effortlessly he could turn his emotions off. He was so damn good at his job, not letting anything—especially not the past—interfere with his focus.

But for you, it was different. Every time he reached for your hand or pressed his lips to your temple, it cracked something inside you. He wasn’t kissing you—he was kissing the role. You knew that. He was just following orders. And yet, there was something about the way he could act like nothing had changed that left a pit in your stomach. 

Did he still care? Or had he buried the past so deep that it was nothing more than another file in his mind like you thought you did?

Even after dating multiple other people, you thought you were fully over him, but this mission just opened up this rusty can of worms.

The thought kept you up more nights than you’d admit. You stared at the ceiling, the weight of it pressing down as you listened to his steady breathing beside you. 

How could he pretend so well when you were struggling just to breathe in the same room?

You hated that he could compartmentalize everything, lock it all away as though nothing between you mattered. It felt like you were the only one still caught in the wreckage of what you once were—while he had moved on so easily. There were times, especially in the quiet, that you almost wanted to confront him. To throw it all out there, demand answers, demand something. But the mission hung over you both like a guillotine, ready to drop the second one of you messed up.

It was worse at night. The bed felt impossibly small, the silence thick between you. Your shoulders would brush sometimes, and every accidental touch sent a jolt through your body that you hated yourself for. The memories of the past—the good ones, before everything fell apart—would trickle in when you were lying next to him, and it was impossible to shut them out.

You’d catch yourself remembering what it felt like to sleep beside him back then. The warmth of his body against yours, the way his arm would drape over your waist in a protective, possessive way. Those nights, you’d feel safe, wanted. 

Now, lying beside him in silence, you felt the exact opposite.

The worst part was knowing that you truly still weren’t over it. Over him. Even after all the hurt, all the unresolved anger, he still had that power over you, and you hated him for it. And maybe, somewhere deep down, you hated yourself more for still caring.

It was a cruel twist of fate that had thrown you into this mission together. Forced to act like you were happy, like you were still in love. Because, no matter how much you resented him, there was a quiet, bitter truth that gnawed at you—a truth you didn’t want to face. Some small part of you still was.

The people you dated after him? They were nothing more than distractions. Fleeting attempts to erase the mark he’d left on you. But nothing could ever compare to the way he made you feel during those two brief years at UA. When you were together, he made you feel like you could conquer anything. He brought out a side of you—someone confident, strong, capable. You’d grown, both as a person and a hero, because of him.

And then he destroyed it all.

What happened at the end of your relationship had shattered you. His betrayal had torn through everything you thought was real. He ruined your trust, your sense of self-worth, everything you’d built with him. In one moment, all of your confidence—your certainty in yourself and your place in the world—was obliterated.

You still remembered how it felt, that crushing weight in your chest when you saw him with her. The girl he told you not to worry about, the one who was nothing but a friend, according to him. The image was burned into your memory, an ugly scar that you couldn’t heal. How could you ever trust anyone again after that? How could you believe that you were enough when the one person who made you feel like everything had turned around and made you feel like nothing?

You spent years trying to rebuild yourself, but the cracks remained. No matter how far you’d come in your career, no matter how many missions you succeeded in, there was always a small, insidious voice in the back of your mind that whispered doubts. The kind of doubts that made you question whether anyone would ever see you as more than just a temporary convenience.

Listening to the steady rhythm of his breath while he slept beside you each night made your stomach twist. The peace he found in sleep was maddening, as if he could slip into unconsciousness so easily while you lay there, trapped in the turmoil of your own thoughts. It was cruel, really, how he could do this so effortlessly.

The next morning blurred into a haze. Sleep had eluded you, leaving your body heavy with exhaustion and your mind thick with unrest. You and Bakugou went through the motions, keeping up appearances, going to your fake jobs—tasks that were merely covers for gathering intel on your target. But the mission wasn’t the only thing that weighed on you.

It was the end of the week. The day you had been dreading.

Date night.

The two of you walked through the park, just like a real couple. His hand fit securely in yours, his grip firm but relaxed. It was all for show, you reminded yourself. This was just a role he was playing, nothing more.

The air was damp and cool, the scent of rain still lingering from yesterday’s showers. Autumn was settling in—the breeze carried whispers of the coming cold as orange and red leaves fluttered through the air. You watched as they drifted down, spiraling slowly before landing at your feet.

You stole a glance at him, studying his sharp profile as he stared straight ahead, expression unreadable. His jaw was tight, betraying nothing, but you knew Bakugou better than anyone. He was never oblivious. He simply chose not to show it.

"I overheard this couple the other day," he said suddenly, his voice light, laced with an artificial sweetness. It was code, meant to sound innocent to any passerby. "They were planning a trip to Kyoto. Like our honeymoon."

It was a message. A meeting would take place 14 kilometers away, in a forest. His words, however, stung for different reasons. The mention of Kyoto dredged up memories you had tried to bury. Of stolen moments, of the days when you believed him. When his words weren’t tainted by lies.

Your gaze lingered on his lips—lips that had once promised forever, now nothing more than a vessel for deceit. "Sounds nice," you said, keeping your tone light. "I miss it already. Maybe we should go back sometime." Your answer was clear—affirmative. You would assist him.

His eyes widened, just for a moment, caught off guard by the weight in your voice and the look in your eyes. Then, he stopped in his tracks, pulling you into his arms as if this were just another romantic stroll in the park. He kissed you, soft and slow, his lips sending a confusing warmth through your veins.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice gravelly, low enough for only you to hear. It was too rough, too raw—too close to something real. And for just a second, you questioned whether this was still part of the act.

You hesitated, the words sticking in your throat. When you finally forced them out, they sounded hollow. “I love you, too.”

He stiffened ever so slightly, his expression shifting into something hard that was more like him, before his face softened into that easy, charming smile he wore so well. A passerby would have seen a happy couple, sharing a sweet moment in the park. But you weren’t a random passerby. You knew him.

You hated it—the way his touch still sent heat curling through your chest, the way your heart betrayed you every time he got too close. You couldn’t stop the growing blur between the facade and the truth, and that terrified you.

As you strolled through the park, the memories of your time at UA flooded back, weaving through your thoughts like the golden leaves swirling around you. You could still remember those late-night study sessions, the way he would pull you close while you both tried to catch some sleep in your dorm after a long day of training. Bakugou was always warm, a solid presence that made you feel safe, even when the world outside was chaotic.

But there were moments that cut through that warmth like a winter chill. You recalled the time during your third year when everything had gone wrong. The mission had turned sour—dangerous and overwhelming. You had been curled up against him, your head resting against his shoulder, the two of you trying to find solace in each other. His warmth wrapped around you like a blanket, a comfort that made you forget the world for just a moment.

Then the call came. His phone rang, breaking the fragile peace. It was a female coworker of his, voice laced with panic, relaying urgent news about the mission. Without a second thought, he’d shot up, leaving you behind with a “Babe, I’m sorry. I’ve got to go. It’s the agency.”

 The way he’d jumped into action had shaken you, the sudden absence of his warmth leaving a hollow ache in your chest. In that moment, you had brushed it off, convincing yourself he was simply doing his job. You understood, or at least you wanted to believe that you did.

But now, as you walked hand in hand with him, that memory gnawed at you. You felt a pang of regret for not stopping him, for not looking back and saying something. You had let him go, thinking it was the right thing to do, thinking it wouldn’t matter.

This mission was nearing its end. Soon, you’d be pulling down the entire crime syndicate together, all the pieces falling into place. But each step you took beside him tightened the knot in your chest, making it harder to keep the lines between your past and present clear.

You both walked home as the sun set, painting those same oranges and reds everywhere. A color that suited Bakugou too well.

You couldn’t fall for him again. Not after everything. But despite all your efforts, you were slipping.

And you didn’t know how much longer you could keep pretending.

“We’ve got another date tomorrow,” Bakugou said, his tone measured as he unlocked the door.

You nodded stiffly, the thought of another evening like this one making your skin crawl. “Yeah. Can’t wait.”

But just as you turned to head inside, his voice caught you off guard. “(Y/N)—” Your real name slipped from his lips, so casual, as if the past years hadn’t driven a wedge between you. The sound of it froze both you and him mid-step.

You hadn’t heard him say your name in years, and it hit you harder than you’d care to admit. When you turned, his eyes were locked on yours, an expression there you hadn’t seen since before it all went wrong. Something raw, maybe even regretful.

“I mean—” He caught himself, the moment of vulnerability quickly masked with irritation. “Forget it. Just… whatever.”

But the damage was done. That one slip cracked through the walls you thought you built. You both knew it.

Your phone buzzed with a message from a number you had blocked for the past seven years. You had unblocked it for the mission, but part of you had hoped he wouldn’t reach out.

1 New Message from Bakugou Katsuki:I’m outside.

No other explanation, just like him.

The mission was over; the crime syndicate was dismantled, and both of your agencies had everything under control from here on out. You didn’t have to talk to him anymore. Yet here you were, standing at the threshold, opening the door to the man who had shattered your heart.

Bakugou stood there with two meals and a bouquet of flowers, the sight both comforting and surreal. He was no longer in disguise—this was him, the real Katsuki, stripped of the masks he'd worn during your mission. You accepted the flowers, their scent pulling you back to memories you had tried to forget, and sat down to eat, but the air felt heavy, thick with unspoken words.

“You’re quiet,” he muttered, eyeing you with that familiar intensity. “What’s going on? You’ve been actin’ weird since I got here.”

You swallowed hard, knowing he’d pick up on it. He always did, whether you wanted him to or not.

“I’m fine,” you lied, the words catching in your throat. Suddenly, you stood up, desperate for distance, but his hand shot out, gripping your arm gently but firmly, halting you in your tracks.

“Don’t pull that bullshit on me.” His voice was low, thick with concern. “You’ve been off for days now. Spit it out.”

Your heart raced, pulse hammering in your ears. You couldn’t keep this bottled up any longer.

“I can’t do this,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Can’t do what?” he pressed, brows furrowing in confusion.

“This,” you said, gesturing vaguely between you. “Pretending. Acting like everything’s okay. It’s not. You—” Your voice cracked, but you forced yourself to continue. “I can’t let myself fall for you again. Not after what you did.” Regret seeped in, laced with self-loathing for letting him affect you this deeply.

His expression twisted, a mix of bewilderment and concern. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

You felt the dam inside you break, the flood of emotions you’d been holding back spilling over. “I saw you, Bakugou. Seven years ago. You kissed her, that girl on your mission. You ruined everything, and now I’m—” You clenched your fists, struggling to keep your voice steady. “Now I’m falling for you all over again, and it’s killing me.”

He stared at you, stunned into silence. Then, slowly, he let go of your arm and stepped back.

“Wait,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, tinged with disbelief. “You… you think I cheated on you?”

“I don’t think,” you snapped, bitterness flooding your words. “I know. I saw it with my own eyes, Bakugou.”

His gaze widened, processing your accusation, then something clicked, and realization washed over him. “Holy shit,” he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. “You really thought…? That kiss wasn’t what you think.”

You blinked, confusion swirling inside you. “What?”

“I didn’t kiss her,” he said, voice rising slightly, desperate to clarify. “She kissed me. I didn’t want it. I pushed her away and never talked to her since.”

Stunned, you stared at him, grappling with the weight of his words. “But… you never said anything.”

“I wanted to,” he admitted, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. “I thought you knew. I thought… damn it, I thought I didn’t deserve to fix it.”

The air around you felt charged, heavy with emotions that threatened to explode. Could this entire mess really be a misunderstanding?

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” you asked softly, the hurt spilling over into your voice, memories of your pain surfacing anew.

“Because I’m an idiot,” Bakugou admitted, his voice thick with regret. “I thought it was too late. Thought I’d already lost you.”

The truth of his words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of unspoken feelings. As tears began to well in your eyes, you felt the walls between you shatter, leaving behind only a fragile, flickering connection.

Tears blurred your vision, and before you could process it, he stepped forward and wrapped you in his arms. “I’m so fucking sorry,” he murmured, voice cracking. His grip was tight, as if he was afraid you’d slip away. “You’re the only one— fuck, you’ve always been the only one.”

The tension between you dissipated, but the weight of everything you thought you knew hung heavily in the air. His eyes were bloodshot, reflecting the pain and regret etched into his features, tears spilling over. It was a sight you’d never thought you’d witness—the strong, brash Bakugou Katsuki, reduced to this vulnerable state.

Just how deeply had this affected him? The thought lingered, and as the truth hung between you, you couldn’t help but wonder if this was the beginning of a new chapter or just another cruel twist of fate.

Bakugou’s grip on you tightened, as if he feared the moment would slip away, just like the years had. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed. It was a comfort and a reassurance, a silent promise that he was here now, willing to fight for this connection.

“Just let me in,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. “Please.”

And with that simple plea, the dam holding back your emotions broke. You stepped closer, heart pounding in your chest, every insecurity and doubt crashing against the newfound hope. You needed this; you needed him.

In that moment, you surged forward, pressing your lips against his. The kiss was tentative at first, a gentle exploration, as if both of you were afraid to break the fragile spell woven around you. But as his lips moved against yours, the urgency of everything unspoken flooded the space between you. 

He kissed you like a man starved, lips tangling into a kiss that held all of yours and his pain for the last seven years. It was a kiss that spoke of longing, regret, and an undeniable desire that had been buried for far too long.

You responded with fervor, deepening the kiss as his hands tangled in your hair, anchoring you to him. Every hesitance melted away, replaced by a passion that ignited every nerve ending in your body. It felt like coming home, a feeling you had both craved yet feared to admit.

As the kiss deepened, you could feel the weight of the past slowly lifting, the pain of misunderstandings giving way to the warmth of reconciliation. You lost yourself in the moment, surrendering to the feelings that had been pent up for seven long years. His lips moved with a fervor that mirrored your own, igniting a fire that blazed brighter than anything you had experienced before.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and dazed, your foreheads rested against each other, hearts racing in unison. He searched your eyes, looking for confirmation that this was real, that he wasn’t just dreaming.

He felt himself overheating from the passion of your kisses, each one igniting a fire within him that he had thought long extinguished. His mind soared in high heavens, finally basking in the warmth of your presence after years spent in the cold shadows of longing. He had followed your social media from behind an alternate account, feeling like a ghost haunting your life, a silent spectator filled with regret every time he clicked on a photo that showcased your happiness without him.

All the weight he had carried—the suffocating pain of feeling unloved and unwanted—began to lift, like a storm finally breaking. He regretted even talking to that female coworker, ever. In hindsight, he would have quit his job at Endeavor’s Agency in a heartbeat if he had known it would cost him the chance to be in your arms. The memory of those years was a constant ache, a reminder that he had let something precious slip away.

He had tried to move on, but the moments replayed in his mind like a cruel movie reel. He remembered the nights when Kirishima had dragged him to parties, urging him to loosen up, but the moment Kirishima disappeared into the crowd, all he could see was you and some guy—glowing with laughter, surrounded by people who didn't understand the depth of his heartache.

Then he saw it—the news flashing a photo of you with that actor. “A fucking actor this time? She’s fucking an actor?” The bitterness clawed at his throat. “They lie for a living. They’re just damn frauds.”

You looked so damn happy, smiling up at that guy as if he hung the stars in the sky—just like you used to smile at him. It felt like a knife twisting in his gut, a searing reminder of what he had lost. He was consumed by jealousy, the bitterness so overwhelming that he downed shot after shot, trying to drown out the memory of your smile, the way it lit up his world. He found a random girl with the same hair color, desperate to fill the void, but it never worked. She didn’t talk like you; her voice didn’t hold the same warmth, the same inviting tone that wrapped around him like a familiar blanket.

He replayed the same mantra every month when you posted another photo on Instagram or when he saw you on the news with someone new. “You’ll never be mine again.” The words echoed in his mind like a painful lullaby, lulling him into a false sense of acceptance while simultaneously ripping his heart apart.

Yet here you were now, in his arms, and for the first time in years, he dared to hope. But the memories lingered, haunting him, the ghost of every moment he had let slip away swirling around them. Bakugou knew he had to confront the past he had run from, and as he kissed you, he resolved to do everything in his power to make sure you never felt that emptiness again.

a/n: smut coming for the next chapter in this two-parter! i realllllllllly enjoyed writing this one! it pulled at my heartstrings WHILE writing it. i had to pause from time to time and just take a breath lmfao

thanks for reading! anywayy, taglist is open! lmk if you want to be on the taglist for just bakugou/bnha chars or if you want news on allll my fics. i plan on writing haikyuu characters eventually, too!

btw. not beta read, pls lmk if there are any typos or inconsistencies <3 stay safe & hydrated as always!

taglist: @kalulakunundrum

directory/m.list

next chapter ⇨

[kkanabel]

apricity ❃ oneshot

fire spirit!bakugou katsuki x archaeologist!afab!reader / siberian au lmao

words: ~6.6k

directory/m.list

T/W: nsfw, minors dni, yucky at the very end, fingering, porn with plot, overstimulation, size difference, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, alcohol use (not during the yucky but waay before the yucky), bakugou being bakugou, not beta read

Frost clung to the window panes of your cabin as you pulled on the last of your layers—a thick, fur-lined coat with a hood drawn tight around your face and a scarf was wrapped around your nose and mouth. The mornings here were unforgiving, the bite of the wind sharp as knives as soon as you stepped outside. You grabbed the ax by the door, its handle starting to grow familiar in your gloved hands, and pushed the door open into the early morning light. A heavy breath left your mouth in a plume of white as you approached the woodpile, ready to chop enough firewood to keep your small cabin warm for the day.

Frost bites at your cheeks as you swing your ax down on a thick block of firewood as the crisp snap echoed in the cold air. Each heavy breath from you escapes in a foggy plume in the biting winds of Yakutia. The village sits nestled in a wide, snow-covered expanse, tucked into the curve of towering mountains, the sky above streaked in pale blue and white. It’s early morning, but the cold is already unforgiving, gnawing at your layers of fur and wool, testing the warmth of your windproof, insulated pants. 

A brief break in the wind brings a fleeting warmth from the sunlight— the sun’s faint brush over the top half of your face offering relief in the middle of a frozen landscape. You close your eyes for just a moment, savoring it, before returning to your task. The sound of the ax cutting into the wood mixes with the rustle of pine trees in the distance, their branches weighed down by heavy snow.

You swung the ax, splitting a log in two. The dry wood splintered easily, and the sound echoed in the quiet wilderness. The only other noise came from the wind as it howled through the trees, carrying with it the promise of an even colder day. The cold worked its way into your bones despite your many layers. You stayed in cold places before, but the tundra was different. It was a place where even warmth felt fleeting, only offered by a fire or the thick fur you wrapped yourself in.

Satisfied with the pile of wood you’d gathered, you stacked it by the cabin door before retreating inside, the warmth of the hearth greeting you. The fire crackled steadily, casting a golden glow against the dim interior. The gas stove hissed as you lit it, filling the kettle with water for tea. Your stomach growls, reminding you that breakfast is long overdue. 

The crackle of kindling and the warm orange glow spread throughout the small wooden cabin, where you've been staying during your research.

After tossing a few more logs into the fire, you set about making breakfast. It came together simply—creamy and warm fish broth, pancakes, and smoked fish—a meal that filled the small space with a comforting scent. The small palm-sized pancakes were crisp on the edges, their golden brown surface sizzling in the pan. You smile to yourself, remembering a tradition you picked up from other villages. 

As you finish cooking, you toss a pancake into the fire as an offering to whatever spirit might be watching over you. You heard it was a custom in your research. The villagers here don’t seem to do it, but it never hurts to be polite to the unknown.

By the time breakfast was finished, you had your notes spread out across the small wooden table, pencil scratching against the rough paper as you wrote. The village had called on your expertise after reports of strange events: food disappearing from homes, unexplained housefires, and villagers speaking in hushed tones about a spirit causing trouble.

You were already puzzled as to why the villagers would have called on an archaeologist and not an investigator. Your research into the village’s history has led you to strange old scrolls and whispers of a forgotten spirit, but the more time you spend here, the more you realize the villagers are reluctant to speak. The flickering firelight dances along the edge of your notes as you sip on a steaming cup of tea, savoring the warmth that spreads through your chest. 

Ghosts and spirits don’t exist, you reminded yourself. Still, there was something to be said about folklore. It was tied deeply to history, and that was your true interest—the stories behind the stories.

The villagers were tight-lipped, though— your inquiries had been met with vague answers and nervous glances. Today, you planned to spend more time in the village center, talking to whoever would listen. The old man who ran the inn had mentioned something about ancient scrolls kept by a family who had been in the village for generations. Perhaps you could find more information there.

Later, you head out to meet the villagers. Bundling up again, you stepped outside into the snow. The cold was immediate, but you pushed through it, your breath forming thick clouds in front of you as you made your way toward the heart of the village. 

Houses stood small and stoic against the barren landscape, with thick snow blanketing their roofs. Smoke rose lazily from the chimneys, the scent of burning wood hanging in the air. Snow crunches beneath your boots as you walk through the narrow, icy paths, nodding to the occasional passerby. The wind is sharp today, tugging at your fur-lined hood. 

You hunch your shoulders against the cold as you make your way to the center of the village, where a small crowd has gathered. The scent of charred wood hit you before you saw the blackened remains of the structure, now little more than rubble. Your heart skipped. Another fire? The villagers spoke in low murmurs, and as you drew closer, you overheard snippets of conversation about the thief who lived there—a man who had stolen from his neighbors. 

You frowned, remembering a neighbor of yours had told you to stay away from the man who was known to frequent bars and have sticky fingers. The same man used to live in this home that was no more than a pile of charcoal.

You’ve heard the rumors about the “spirit”—they say it punishes those who harm the village, but you’re not convinced. Fires like these happen in dry regions all the time, and it’s not uncommon for Yakutia, even in winter. You jot down a few notes, watching the fire consume the house, the warmth a stark contrast to the frigid air biting at your skin.

Was it possible the spirit the villagers whispered about had been punishing him? Or was it just an unfortunate accident, a result of negligence and the harsh conditions?

You shook your head, noting down the details. The more you learned, the stranger the situation became. It was only when you returned to your cabin that evening, exhausted from talking to the hesitant villagers, that you realized just how strange things had become.

Later that day, you return to your cabin, taking in the familiar creaks of the wooden floor under your boots and the soft flicker of your gas lamp lighting the room. The air inside is only a little warmer than the biting cold outside, but the crackling of the fire in the stove offers some comfort.

You sit at your table, flipping through pages of your notebook. The pencil scratches lightly against the paper as you record observations, every sound amplified in the quiet room. The rhythmic back-and-forth fills the space, a welcome lull amid the chaos of your investigation.

A knock at the door pulls you from your thoughts.

Standing in the doorway is one of the villagers—a man about your age, wrapped in thick furs with snow dusting his shoulders. You’d visited his family home a little while ago to ask about the happenings around the village, but their answers remained vague as all the others.

He’s cradling something in his hands. His breath fogs in the cold air as he shifts his weight, his eyes meeting yours with a mix of curiosity and something warmer. “I found these,” he says, extending his hands toward you. “Thought you might want to take a look.”

In his arms are ancient stone blocks, their surfaces engraved with symbols, faint but intricate. Your eyes widen at the sight. These carvings look similar to what you’ve seen before but older, almost primitive in comparison to the more refined relics you'd encountered earlier.

“Where did you find these?” you ask, stepping closer.

“In my house,” he replies, shrugging as if it’s no big deal. “They were buried under some old planks. Figured they were important.”

You offer him a grateful smile. “Thank you. These could be a huge help.”

He smiles back, a little too long. “I hope so. It’s, uh, the least I could do. The villagers… we don’t really know what’s going on with all this, but I figured you’d be the one to figure it out.”

As a thank-you, you hand him a small bag of food—some dried meats and bread you had stored away. His face lights up, and he nods gratefully before leaving you alone again to examine the stone blocks.

The sun sets quickly in the tundra, and soon, the only light in your cabin comes from the gas lamps and the fire’s low embers. You’re absorbed in studying the runes when a familiar knock sounds at the door again. When you open it, the man stands there once more, his eyes glinting in the soft lamplight. You let him in, not wanting him to stay in the cold for too long.

“I wanted to tell you more,” he says, a little breathless from the cold or perhaps something else. He shifts on his feet, seemingly nervous. “There are stories—whispers, really. The villagers don’t talk about it much, but some say there was once a spirit who protected us. He might’ve even been part of our village, long ago.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And why wouldn’t anyone mention that?”

“They’re ashamed, I think,” he replies, his voice low. “It’s been forgotten over time. No one’s sure what happened, but... there are theories that we abandoned him, and he’s been angry ever since. That’s why the strange things have been happening.”

You nod, processing the information. It feels like a piece of a much larger puzzle, but there’s still so much missing.

As he talks, you notice the way he looks at you—his eyes linger a little too long, his words carrying a soft edge of admiration. He’s clearly interested, but you decide to brush it off for now. You smile politely, pretending not to notice the way his gaze follows you as you walk back to your table. You’ll be leaving the village as soon as you finish the case, so you didn’t want to lead him on.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice firm but kind. “This is really helpful. I’ll look into it.”

The man nods, his shoulders slumping slightly as though he expected more. “Of course,” he says, his voice quieter now. “If you need anything else, just let me know.”

As he leaves, the door shuts with a soft click, and you turn back to the runes, your thoughts swimming with new possibilities. If what he said was true, there’s more to this mystery than the villagers are willing to admit. And now, it seems like the forgotten spirit might hold the key to it all.

A couple days later, as you ice fish by the frozen river, you set your net and lean back, watching the starting to sun dip on the horizon. The quiet stretches around you, broken only by the occasional crack of ice shifting in the distance. You peer down at your catch, noting the modest haul in your net. Then you blink—there, next to your net, are two large whitefish lying in the snow, far too large to have escaped without you noticing.

Confused, you glance around. No one is near. The fish are pristine, untouched by the ice or snow, as if they had been placed there deliberately. You shake your head, chalking it up to luck. Maybe they jumped out when you weren’t paying attention? The reflection in the water catches your eye, and for a fleeting moment, you see the sharp jawline of a handsome man’s face turned towards you as if he were ice fishing with you. You blink again, startled, and the image is gone when a fish swims by and ripples the water—just your own face reflected in the water.

You shake your head. It’s nothing. Maybe I’ve just been single for too long… 

You thought about contacting that man from the other day for just a moment. 

Later that night, after cleaning the fish and preparing a simple dinner of stroganina—raw, thin slices of frozen whitefish—you sit by the fire, letting the warmth soothe your tired muscles. The fish melts on your tongue, rich and buttery, as you sip water to wash it down. You couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched. You chalked it up to exhaustion. After all, nothing had happened that you couldn’t explain away with logic and reason. You even joked to yourself as you drank water, “If only I had some vodka to go with this.”

You took another sip, and suddenly the liquid burned down your throat.

You froze.

This time, there was no logical explanation. You looked down at the cup in your hands, heart pounding in your chest. How had the water changed? You hadn’t touched anything else, but the unmistakable burn of alcohol lingered.

Startled, you stare down at your cup, heart pounding. This—this can’t be explained away. Your mind entertained the thought of a Siberian Jesus Christ. 

The fire crackled behind you, its warmth now somehow menacing. The quiet of the tundra felt heavier, the weight of the mystery pressing down on your chest. This place, this village—it wasn’t just the cold that seeped into your bones. There was something else here. Something old. Something powerful.

The next morning, footsteps in the snow led you away from the village, out into the wilderness. 

The morning air was crisp, each breath leaving a wisp of white in the early sunlight. You bundled yourself tightly against the cold, pulling your fur-lined hood closer around your face. As you stepped outside, you noticed something strange—footprints, fresh in the untouched snow, leading away from your cabin. They hadn’t been there the night before, and curiosity tugged at you.

You followed them, your boots crunching softly against the snow. The air was still, save for the occasional rustling of distant trees swaying under the weight of frost. The path led deeper into the woods, the towering trees gradually closing in around you, until the footprints stopped at the mouth of a small, hidden cave.

The entrance was barely visible, half-buried in snow, but something about it drew you in. You knelt down, brushing the snow from the edges, revealing intricate stone blocks covered in carvings similar to the ones the village boy had brought you. Painted masks, adorned with swirling patterns of reds and whites, lined the inner walls, and Yakutian knives were arranged in ceremonial positions.

The air inside the cave was still, almost too still. You fumbled for your matchsticks, striking one and holding it up to cast a soft glow around you. The light flickered over the stone walls, revealing carvings of fire and snow—an odd combination, yet it made sense somehow, here in this frozen land. It felt like a shrine, a forgotten place of worship, long abandoned.

In the corner of your eye, you noticed a small stone just outside the cave. It was partially dusted in snow, but the engravings on it were clear. You leaned down, brushing it off with your gloved hand.

The instant your fingers touched the stone, a deep, gravelly voice echoed from behind you. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

You squealed, whipping around, only to find no one there. Your heart hammered in your chest, and you stumbled backward, falling straight into the snow. There were no footprints, no sign of anyone else. Just the eerie silence of the winter woods.

The spirit’s presence began to grow after you got home. Not just in the subtle warmth of the room or the way the hearth crackled to life at your arrival, but in the unmistakable feeling that he was always near. The warmth you once chalked up to the peculiarities of the stove now seemed deliberate, purposeful. The fire would roar to life just as your fingers began to freeze from the cold, as if it were watching, anticipating your needs.

It was no longer a question of if the spirit was real, but how deeply it was intertwined with the world around you. Every time you struck a match or lit a lantern, the flames danced longer than they should, their movements almost playful, as though teasing you. You tried to brush it off as wind or the natural flicker of fire, but something about the way the flames moved—how they seemed to respond to your presence—was undeniable.

It was trying to communicate.

It started with the crackling of the fire. At first, it was faint, like a low murmur beneath the sound of the wood burning. You would sit in front of the hearth after a long day of research, the warmth enveloping you, the sound becoming a constant companion. There were times you swore you heard words in the fire’s crackle, an indistinct whisper. "It’s just the wind," you told yourself. "Just the wood popping." But the more time passed, the clearer it became. The crackling wasn’t random—it carried meaning.

Then, one evening as you sat alone in the cabin after tossing a pancake into the fire, a cold gust of wind howling outside, you finally heard it: “You’re back.”

The voice was faint, almost lost in the sound of the firewood splitting, but it was there—low, gravelly, and unmistakable. You froze, heart pounding, eyes wide in surprise as you stared at the flames. For a moment, you thought you’d imagined it. But the voice came again, just as you leaned closer. “You’re not afraid.”

You weren’t sure how to respond. Your throat felt tight, your hands clammy despite the warmth. You tried to rationalize it—maybe you were exhausted, hallucinating from the cold. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t your imagination. Slowly, carefully, you muttered, “Am I... supposed to be afraid?”

The flames flickered in response, and you could swear you heard a huff, like a quiet laugh. Then the voice returned, clearer this time. “You’re stubborn.”

You couldn’t help but smile at that, a mix of amusement and confusion swirling inside you. “If you’re a spirit,” you said softly, “then show me a sign. Let me know I’m not losing my mind.”

There was a pause, and for a moment you thought maybe the voice wouldn’t return. But then, the fire roared, flaring up for just a second, casting the entire cabin in a brilliant light. The heat was so intense that you instinctively stepped back, heart hammering in your chest.

So it was real.

The days after that were filled with small, subtle gestures. The fire seemed to burn longer without the need for more wood. When you struggled to chop firewood or gather supplies, you would return to your cabin to find fresh logs stacked neatly by the door or a basket of fish left outside. You didn’t question it anymore, though each act left you both grateful and uneasy. Eventually, he told you his name— Bakugou Katsuki.

"Thank you," you whispered to the fire one evening, unsure if Bakugou could hear you but needing to acknowledge the help he had provided.

The flames flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls, and you could almost sense his presence, as though he were sitting just beyond the hearth, watching over you.

It wasn’t just the warmth he brought. It was the feeling of protection, a sense that he was always there, keeping the biting cold at bay. The wind howled outside, but inside, the fire crackled with a steady, comforting heat, as though Bakugou himself were standing guard over your cabin.

As the connection between you and Bakugou deepened, so did the manifestations of his presence. There were times when you could feel warmth pass by you in the room, like an invisible hand brushing against your skin. And then, there were the footprints. In the mornings, you would find faint impressions in the snow outside your door—footprints too large to be your own, too distinct to be explained by passing animals. They led away from the cabin, disappearing into the woods where the trees whispered in the wind.

One night, after a long day of gathering research and barely avoiding frostbite, you collapsed onto the bed, too tired to even remove your boots. You stared into the hearth, watching the flames sway and shift. As you drifted off, you swore you saw something in the fire—a figure, tall and broad-shouldered, standing amidst the flames.

"Bakugou," you whispered, sleep pulling you under. The fire flared again, and in the brief moment before darkness claimed you, you felt the warmth of his presence like a blanket around your body, lulling you into a peaceful sleep.

With each passing day, Bakugou’s presence grew stronger. There were moments when you caught glimpses of him in reflections—on the frozen surface of a nearby pond or in the gleam of a window. He would appear for just a moment, the outline of a figure, the flicker of a flame in his eyes, and then he’d be gone, as though the world itself was trying to remember him.

"Why were you forgotten?" you asked the fire one evening, your voice barely a whisper. There was no immediate answer, but the flames shifted, as though Bakugou were trying to find the words.

"It wasn’t supposed to be like this," came the gravelly voice at last, softer than before. "I was supposed to protect this village. But something... something changed."

You waited, hoping for more, but the fire quieted, the conversation left unfinished. You knew he was withholding something, something important, but he wasn’t ready to reveal it just yet.

As the winter deepened, so did your connection. The emotional tension between you and Bakugou simmered just beneath the surface. He was no longer just a spirit haunting your cabin—he was a presence, a force that kept you safe, a companion in the long, cold nights. And as his voice grew more familiar, so did your thoughts about him. You started to look forward to the conversations by the hearth, the way the flames would flicker in response to your words, how his presence made the cabin feel less lonely, less cold.

But with that warmth came an ache, a yearning that neither of you dared to speak of yet. You wondered how far this connection could go, how real Bakugou could become.

One thing was certain: you were no longer alone in the tundra. And Bakugou, once forgotten, was starting to be remembered—by you.

The air was sharp and cold as you made your way back to the shrine, a small group of villagers following behind you. In your hands, you held an offering—a bundle of dried herbs, fish, and pancakes, all delicately wrapped in cloth. The villagers murmured amongst themselves, nervous but willing. They, too, had grown weary of the strange occurrences and were ready to do whatever was necessary to end them.

The old man leading the group had spoken of the fire spirit with reverence, explaining that the villagers once honored Bakugou with offerings to ensure their prosperity. Over time, however, the traditions had been forgotten, and with it, so had Bakugou’s power. Now, you were determined to set things right.

The path through the woods felt familiar. You’d followed it before, and yet today, it carried a different weight. You could feel him, his presence in the air, watching you from the shadows of the trees. It was as if the entire forest was holding its breath.

When you arrived at the shrine—a cave hidden deep within the woods—the villagers began to build a bonfire at its entrance. They stacked wood and kindling, and soon, flames licked the sky, casting the ancient stone carvings in a warm, flickering light. The shrine walls, covered in depictions of fire and snow, seemed to glow under the fire's embrace.

You approached the altar, laying the offerings down gently. The villagers bowed their heads, murmuring prayers to the forgotten spirit, asking for forgiveness. As you knelt beside the offerings, you couldn’t help but glance over your shoulder, feeling an intense heat—not from the bonfire, but from somewhere deeper within the cave.

For a moment, the flames crackled louder, and the ground beneath you seemed to hum with energy. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, everything went quiet. The strange occurrences in the village—the fires, the whispers in the wind, the unsettling feeling of being watched—ceased. You could feel it, a weight lifting off the air. The offering had been accepted.

The villagers left soon after, grateful for your leadership and certain that Bakugou’s anger had been soothed. But you lingered, something pulling you back toward the cave.

Once the others were out of sight, you found yourself drawn deeper into the shrine. The carvings on the walls seemed even more intricate in the dim light, and you ran your fingers over the smooth stone, marveling at the ancient craftsmanship. Your thoughts wandered to him, to Bakugou. Was he truly satisfied with the offerings? Would you ever see him again?

A soft crackling sound broke the silence. You froze, every hair on your body standing on end. Slowly, you turned around, your breath catching in your throat.

There he stood.

Bakugou, no longer a fleeting presence or a whisper in the flames, but solid and real, towering over you. He was just as you’d imagined—no, more. His bare chest, muscled and powerful, was only partially covered by a thick fur that draped over one shoulder. His skin seemed to shimmer with warmth, his eyes blazing red like embers. He exuded strength, yet his gaze—intense and unwavering—held something deeper. Hunger.

"You came back," his voice rumbled, low and gravelly, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your mouth went dry. "I… I wanted to make sure the offering was enough."

He didn’t answer immediately, his fiery gaze trailing over you, making your skin tingle under the intensity of his stare. Then, with one swift movement, he closed the distance between you, pinning you gently against the cool stone of the cave wall. The heat of his body was overwhelming, a stark contrast to the cold of the cave, and you felt your pulse race.

"You shouldn’t be here alone," Bakugou growled, his breath hot against your skin.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words were lost as his lips crashed against yours, fierce and demanding. His kiss was consuming, like the fire he embodied—wild, uncontrollable, and impossible to resist. You melted against him, your hands instinctively reaching up to grip his shoulders, feeling the taut muscles beneath your fingers.

His body pressed against yours, his warmth enveloping you as his hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer. The world outside the cave disappeared—there was only Bakugou, his touch, his heat, and the insistent press of his lips against yours. You gasped as his hand moved up your back, sending sparks of electricity through your body.

The intensity of the kiss left you breathless, and when he finally pulled away, just enough to let you catch your breath, his lips brushed against your ear. “You don’t know what you’ve done to me,” he murmured, his voice a husky whisper.

You barely had time to respond before the world shifted. One moment, you were in the cave, pressed against the stone; the next, you were back in your cabin, the familiar warmth of the hearth surrounding you. But Bakugou was still there, standing tall before you, his hands still on your body, his lips only inches from yours.

Your eyes widened in shock. “How…?”

He smirked, his eyes gleaming. “Fire is everywhere,” he said simply, as if that explained everything. “And where there’s fire, I can be.”

Before you could fully comprehend what he’d just said, his lips were on yours again, softer this time but no less urgent. He kissed you like a man who had waited centuries for this moment, his hands exploring your body with a reverence that made your knees weak.

The fire in the hearth flared behind you, bathing the room in a warm, golden glow as Bakugou’s body pressed against yours, his heat making your skin burn with desire. Every touch, every kiss felt like it was stoking the flames inside you, and you couldn’t stop yourself from wanting more.

You moaned softly against his lips, your hands tangling in his hair as the intensity between you grew, the connection undeniable. He growled in response, deepening the kiss, his grip tightening as though he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Whatever boundaries had existed between the mortal world and the spirit realm no longer mattered. In that moment, there was only you and Bakugou—fire and flesh, spirit and soul, bound together in a heat that refused to be extinguished.

Without a word, he approached you, his movements as fluid as molten lava. He bent down and claimed your lips, You gasped at the contact, your body responding with a fiery need that matched his own. 

He quickly peeled off your many layers of clothes. His hands found their way under your pants, taking them off as his touch burned your skin and he spread your legs. The world outside the cabin faded away, leaving only the two of you and the dance of shadows on the walls.

Bakugou knelt before you, his intense crimson eyes never leaving yours as he parted your folds with his fingers. You shrunk under his close gaze as he took the sight of you in. “So perfect,” he groaned, grabbing at your soft thighs with two large hands and spreading you out for him.

 The first lick of his tongue sent you spiraling, the sensation intense on your clit. You moaned, your hands grabbing at his blonde spikes, your body arching towards the heat of his mouth. He took his time, tasting you, savoring you, driving you closer and closer to the edge of release.

But just as you felt yourself about to fall over the edge, you pushed him back, the need to explore his body consuming you. 

You pushed him onto the ground, pulling down at his pants. “It’s my turn,” you proclaimed. 

He looked up at you, a question in his eyes, but you didn't waver. You dropped to your knees pulling down his pants and gasping when his hard shaft bounced out of the fabric. It was the size of your face, and its girth was something else. 

He noticed your awe at him, and his ego was inflated even more than it already is. “Like what you see?”

You roll your eyes, taking his thick length in your hand and bringing it to your lips before giving the tip a peck. He groaned, a sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the cabin. Your hand grasped at his strong thighs. Teasing him, you spent time kissing all over his outer and inner thighs before moving to his shaft. 

You took your time, exploring every inch of him with your mouth, worshipping him as he deserved. You licked him up and down his hot length, watching as his eyes screwed together in pleasure before you took his whole length into your mouth— up and down his length in a bobbing motion.

His hands tangled in your hair, guiding you, urging you faster as he grew harder. The heat of his body was intoxicating, his scent a heady mix of sweet smoke and masculinity that made your head spin.

The fire in the hearth of the cabin roared to life, casting shadows across the room as you brought him closer and closer to the edge. His groans filled your ears, the only sound in the quiet night, until he could take no more. With a final, desperate thrust, he emptied himself into your mouth, the heat of his cum like liquid fire. 

Bakugou chuckled, his eyes never leaving yours as he lifted you to your feet. He picked you up with ease, carrying you to the soft fur that lay before the fireplace. Gently, he laid you down, your skin feeling like it was on fire from the heat of his touch.

"Your body," he murmured, tracing the curves of your hips with his thumb, "it's a masterpiece.” He leaned down, capturing a nipple with his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. You arched your back, gasping as the heat from his breath melded with the warmth from the fire, making it feel like you were melting from the inside out.

"Bakugou," you moaned, his name a prayer on your lips as he moved to your other breast, giving it the same loving attention. His hands roamed over your stomach, his fingers finding their way between your legs again. 

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Katsuki,” he corrected, as he began to fuck you with them, slow and deep, watching as your eyes fluttered closed and your mouth fell open in ecstasy.

As he worked his fingers into you, a low hum escaped him. “So damn tight,” watching as your face wrinkled up in pleasure. 

"Look at me," he growled, his voice a demand that you couldn't refuse. You met his gaze, the intensity of his stare making your heart race even faster. His thumb brushed against your clit as his lips pulled themselves into a grin as he sent a shockwave through your body. "I want to see you come apart for me."

As soon as he said these words, his fingers curled directly into your sweet spot. Your vision went white with pleasure. In the background, his grin only became more animalistic as he leaned down to catch a nipple into his mouth. His fingers worked you to the edge, driving you crazy.

The orgasm crashed over you like a massive wave, leaving you trembling and gasping for air. Your thighs were wet and sticky with your own release.

He watched you, his own arousal evident in the way he held himself, his eyes never leaving yours. "That was just the beginning," he promised, his voice a rumble that sent another shiver down your spine.

He watched you— all spread out and pretty for him on the fur, watching the warm light of the fire bounce off your delectable skin as you tried to catch your breath and your legs shook. He couldn’t help but mark you up all over as he sent you over the edge once more with his lips and fingers this time. A light chuckle left him as you cried out his name and writhed underneath him— overstimulation already starting to take over.

Your breathless voice called out to him in the small space of the cabin. “Katsuki,” you beckoned, “please… I need it.” You knew that he kept going at this rate, you’d go insane.

“You sure, princess? You think you can take it now?” His head kept burying itself between your legs, kitten licking at your clit before sucking at it and thrusting his fingers in and out of you. “You’re still not loose enough,” he says as he curls his fingers up again, releasing a squeal from you. 

You just kept cumming— each time you came, your walls only got more and more sensitive, pulling you to orgasm again.

Bakugou watched in sadistic joy every time your walls tightened further around his fingers. He came back up to you to catch your moaning lips into a kiss before trailing down and leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses all over your neck and chest. When he started playing with your clit again, you came again, tears welling up in your eyes from sheer pleasure. 

Your mind couldn’t fathom anything but Bakugou. Your mouth cried out broken strings of his name until he finally withdrew his fingers from your core, licking them up lasciviously. He lined himself up with you, tapping his tip against your puffy clit, making you jolt. Your entrance was still convulsing from your long string of climaxes as he finally pushed himself against it, groaning when he felt himself slip past the ring of muscle. 

He took in a sharp breath of air. “Could you quit clenching?” His head rolled back in pleasure, not even fully inside of you yet. “I’m already,” he pushes himself in further, “strugglin’ as it is…”

He was so thick. It filled you up, making you cum when he was only buried into your walls up until the tip and then some. “I’m sorry,” you managed to whine out, breathless, “I can’t help it!”

With these words, he froze and stared at you climaxing before pushing the rest of himself in, causing you to scream. He gave you a moment to relax with his entire shaft inside of you. You felt so full— he stretched you out so good. “So noisy,” he smirked, only spurring your voice to get louder with each thrust.

He started to pick up a steady pace, pistoning in and out of you. Each thrust made you shudder—his length stretched you out perfectly and hit you in all of the right places. Your hands gripped at the fur beneath you for any sort of purchase. He wiped one of your tears away, burying his head into the crook of your neck and groaning with each thrust. 

You believed that spirits didn’t exist, but here you were, getting dicked down by one. And you were sure as hell enjoying it.

As he pounded away at you, your eyes rolled back into your head, your moans turning into cries. He was so rough, so primal in his movements, it was like he was trying to claim you. And with every thrust, it felt like he was getting closer to doing so. 

He kissed down your neck, nipping at the soft skin with his teeth. His hands roamed over your body, gripping your hips tightly as he thrusted in deeper and harder. The noises of your pussy squelching in the cabin were obscene, but they only served to spur Bakugou on.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he murmured against your skin.

His thrusts were getting faster and more erratic, so you knew he was close. You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him on, needing him to fill you up with his heat. And then, with one final, powerful thrust, he did. You felt the warmth of his cum fill you up, spilling into your womb like molten lava.

He collapsed onto you, panting heavily. His weight was a comforting presence as he remained inside of you, his cock still pulsing with every beat of his heart. You could feel his warmth seep into your very core, leaving you feeling complete in a way you never had before.

As the moments passed, he slowly pulled out of you, his cum dripping out and down your thighs. You watched as he looked down, his eyes widening in awe at the sight. He leaned down to kiss you, his hand cupping your cheek. “You’re mine now,” he whispered.

a/n: we're back!

lol not beta read again please let me know if you see any typos or anything that's just like. wrong/inconsistent

my taglist is open! lmk if you wanna be tagged in future bakugou fics or j all my fics in general

thank you for reading & stay hydrated, y'all <3

directory/m.list

[kkanabel]

caffeine addiction ❃ from the start ❃ chapter 15 ❃ finale

bakugou katsuki x reader / coffee shop!au + fashion?au

directory/m.list

⇦ previous chapter | END

words: ~5.2k

T/W: nsfw, minors dni, yucky under the cut at the very end, gushing/squirting, fingering, porn with SO MUCH plot, bakugou being bakugou

You and Bakugou stood in the back of Kindeki, both of you watching as the last stitch of the final dress was finished. It was surreal to think that all the months of stress, frustration, and late nights had culminated in this. You both exchanged a glance, a small smile tugging at your lips. There was pride in Bakugou's eyes—pride for you, for himself, for the line you'd created together.

After packing up, the both of you headed to the runway show. The energy of the crowd buzzed around you as models strutted down the catwalk, the clothes flowing and sparkling under the lights, reflecting the effort and artistry you'd both poured into them. The world finally got to see what you had built together.

As the final model left the runway, the lights dimmed, and silence fell over the crowd. The announcer’s voice boomed, calling for the designers to take the stage. You glanced at Bakugou nervously, but he was already moving toward you, extending his hand. Without hesitation, you slipped your hand into his. Together, you walked onto the runway, and as the lights brightened, the applause became deafening. You bowed, fingers still tightly intertwined with his, and for a brief moment, it felt like you two were the only people in the room.

A few hours later, the congratulatory dinner was a flurry of smiles and laughter, drinks clinking together in celebration. Takumi, Mitsuki, and Masaru sat around the table, proud smiles on their faces as they admired the success of the line. You both had made it—photos of the show were plastered across tabloids and magazines, calling you two creative geniuses.

Bakugou’s mom smirked at him. "You really showed us, huh? You barely told us about this, and now you're all over the damn news!"

Bakugou only grumbled, his face flushed slightly from the praise. "Tch, whatever. It’s not that big a deal."

Takumi raised her glass. "To (Y/N) and Bakugou, the dynamic duo! You both have done something incredible here," she grinned widely, “I’m so proud of my baby niece.” 

Laughter filled the table as they continued reminiscing, flipping through photos of the show, the models, and—of course—that moment on stage when you and Bakugou bowed together, hand in hand. The image had gone viral again– more speculation about your relationship. But when the two of you had toiled so much together for this line, it was only right to bow together, hands locked.

As the night wore on, the room thinned out. Your aunt was chatting with Bakugou's parents, and you were scrolling through the congratulations on social media, cheeks warm from the praise and alcohol. Bakugou, however, had barely spoken for the past hour. He nursed his drink quietly, eyes glancing over at you more frequently than usual.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

When the last of the guests finally left, Bakugou stood from the table, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Hey… walk with me.”

You blinked up at him, confused but nodding. The two of you left the restaurant together, the night air cool against your skin as you made your way down the quiet street. Bakugou shoved his hands in his pockets, his face tense, like he was fighting something inside of him. He avoided eye contact.

"So, you wanna grab dinner tomorrow? Just us. You know, to celebrate," he asked, voice rough but casual.

You smiled, feeling relieved. "Sure! We totally deserve it after everything we went through, huh?"

The next day, the air felt crisp and cool, the breeze gentle as it tugged at the edges of your clothes. Autumn was beginning to make itself known—leaves were just starting to fall, swirling lazily in the wind, but the temperature hadn’t dropped too much yet. It was the kind of weather that felt refreshing, comfortable, not quite the bitter cold of winter.

Bakugou waited outside your apartment, leaning casually against the railing, his posture deceptively relaxed while holding two cups. When you stepped out, his gaze immediately met yours. He was dressed in one of the pieces from your line, a sleek black button-up. The sharp lapels echoed the pointed arches, with intricate gold and glass embroidery that twisted up the sleeves before tapering off at the top. The embroidery was your handiwork—done with precision and care—and it gleamed subtly in the dimming light of the evening. He paired it with simple black slacks that clung to his thighs and a nice watch that added to the understated elegance of his outfit.

You, too, were wearing a button-up from the same collection, though yours had silver embroidery that caught the light when you moved. You had draped it off one shoulder, giving it a casual yet fashionable edge, and paired it with a miniskirt from Masaki's last season—the show when this all started. 

The entire ensemble felt cohesive, like you two were meant to match.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice low and steady as always. You nodded, falling into step beside him as you both began the short walk to the restaurant.

Bakugou handed you a to-go cup with a smirk on his face. The steam from the drink curled in the cool autumn air, bringing with it a warm, familiar scent. You raised an eyebrow as you took it from him, glancing up at him in mild surprise.

“A pumpkin spice latte?” you asked, an incredulous lilt in your voice.

“My pumpkin spice latte,” he corrected, his smirk deepening. “None of that basic stuff. Taste it first.”

You brought the cup to your lips, the warmth immediately spreading through your hands as the rich, spiced aroma hit you. The first sip was smooth and velvety, the creaminess of the milk blending perfectly with the pumpkin flavor, but there was something more. A hint of cinnamon, nutmeg, and the faintest touch of cardamom—subtle but distinctive, the kind of flavor that lingered pleasantly on your tongue. The espresso gave it a slight bitterness that balanced the sweetness just right.

“Wow,” you murmured, taking another sip. “This is… really good. You actually like pumpkin spice?”

Bakugou shrugged, walking beside you with his own cup in hand. “It’s not bad when you don’t overload it with syrup.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Figures you’d have a strong opinion on pumpkin spice.”

He glanced over at you, his eyes flickering to your outfit before he spoke again. “You look good tonight, by the way.”

The compliment caught you off guard. He wasn’t one to toss out words like that casually. You glanced down at your clothes, feeling a little self-conscious but also oddly pleased. The button-up from your fashion line hung off your shoulder in just the right way, and the miniskirt from Masaki’s collection felt like a bold choice, but you liked it.

“Thanks,” you said, looking back at him with a smile. “You don’t look so bad yourself, you know. That embroidery on your shirt really suits you.”

Bakugou gave a low chuckle, his gaze sliding back to the road ahead. “Yeah? Maybe it’s just ‘cause you made it.”

“Duh,” pride nipped at your face but you still felt a warm flush rise in your cheeks. You quickly sipped from your cup to hide it. 

As you walked, the two of you fell into an easy rhythm, sipping your drinks between bouts of light banter. The breeze carried the scent of fallen leaves and distant street food stalls, mingling with the comforting spice of your lattes. You couldn’t help but glance at Bakugou again, noticing the way the embroidered details of his shirt caught the fading sunlight, the golden thread glinting just slightly. He wore the sharp lines and subtle elegance of the piece like it was made for him—and it was.

“This embroidery took forever, you know,” you teased, brushing your fingers against his sleeve.

“I know,” he replied, his voice softer, more thoughtful. “I saw you working on it.”

That simple acknowledgment sent a flutter through your chest. You smiled, taking another sip of the latte and savoring the warmth, both from the drink and from Bakugou’s quiet praise.

The rest of the walk was filled with comfortable conversation, the air between you light despite the growing tension neither of you had fully acknowledged yet. You couldn’t deny it—the night already felt different, special in a way you hadn’t quite expected.

The upscale place Bakugou had reserved was one that usually had a waiting list a mile long. But when he’d called a week ago and mentioned his name, they had been more than happy to move things around. The reservation was set, and tonight was the night. The anticipation lingered in the air as you walked down the quiet streets, the soft rustling of leaves underfoot.

As you strolled, you couldn’t help but let your mind drift to all the things Bakugou had done for you over the past months. The big gestures—like staying up with you during those long nights, or how he’d taken over the sewing when you were overwhelmed—and the little ones, too, like how he’d bring you coffee just the way you liked it or let you wear his sweaters and hoodies when you were cold without a second thought. You smiled softly to yourself, feeling a sense of warmth bloom in your chest.

The restaurant was impressive, with sleek interiors and a warm, ambient glow that set the tone for an intimate evening. You and Bakugou were seated quickly, the waitstaff clearly eager to please. As you settled into your seat, you admired how comfortable Bakugou looked in such a fancy setting. His handsome features stood out under the soft lighting, his jawline sharp when he turned to speak with the waiter, his voice carrying that confidence he always seemed to exude. 

The restaurant was everything Bakugou had promised—upscale but (mostly) not pretentious, with an intimate ambiance. You’d been talking about the runway show and the mountain of attention that followed, but the conversation shifted when you started musing aloud about your career.

“I just can’t help but feel like I didn’t do this on my own,” you said, swirling your drink absentmindedly. “I mean, if it weren’t for my aunt, I wouldn’t have even had a platform to launch from. It feels like... I’m just riding on her coattails.”

Bakugou's eyes narrowed, but not in annoyance—more like he was carefully considering what to say. He set his drink down, leaning in a little as his voice took on that low, gruff tone you were used to hearing when he wanted you to really listen.

“So what if Takumi gave you a start?” he said, holding your gaze. “Everyone in this business gets a leg up from someone. Hell, I wouldn’t be where I am without my parents. The fact that you didn’t build the whole thing from scratch doesn’t take away from what you’re doing now.”

You looked at him, feeling the familiar tension in your chest—the weight of the expectations you’d placed on yourself. “But it still feels like I’m not doing enough. Like... I have to prove that I can do it alone.”

He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You don’t have to prove anything. You’re already doing it. Yeah, Takumi gave you a road to start on, but you’re the one driving. And look at where you are now—hell, look at the stuff you’ve created. You’re not just following someone else’s path. You’re paving your own.”

You blinked at him, letting his words sink in. It wasn’t something you hadn’t thought about before, but hearing it from Bakugou—someone who’d grown up with fashion icons for parents—made it feel different. More real.

“Think about it,” he continued, voice steady. “There are a ton of people who just ride the wave of whatever their parents or mentors built for them. They don’t push it any further—they just stay comfortable, do what’s expected. But you and me?” He paused, red eyes intense as they met yours. “We’re different. You’ve taken what Takumi gave you and pushed it further. You’re creating things she wouldn’t even think of. That’s you, not her.”

You looked down at the table, fiddling with the edge of your napkin, his words slowly settling in. He wasn’t wrong. You had pushed yourself, and your designs were nothing like what your aunt had done. But it was hard to shake the feeling that you weren’t standing on your own feet yet.

“And as for needing help?” Bakugou added, his tone softening just slightly. “Everyone needs help sometimes. You don’t have to do everything alone to prove something. If anything, learning how to use the resources you’ve got—that’s smart. That’s what makes the difference between people who fizzle out and people who go somewhere.”

You glanced back up at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You really think I can pave my own way?”

He snorted. “I don’t think. I know. You’re already doing it.”

The confidence in his voice, the way he looked at you like it was the most obvious thing in the world—it made something in you settle. Maybe you didn’t have to fight so hard to prove you could stand alone. Maybe it was okay to accept the help that came your way, as long as you kept pushing forward.

"Thanks, Katsuki," you murmured, feeling a warmth settle into your chest that had nothing to do with the restaurant's ambient lighting.

He shrugged like it was nothing, but the way his eyes lingered on yours for just a second longer told you it wasn’t. You watched him for a moment, mesmerized by how effortlessly he carried himself, and your thoughts wandered again.

How lucky would I be to have someone like him as my future husband?

Your gaze lingered on his profile, admiring the sharp lines of his face, the intensity in his eyes even when he wasn’t looking at you. The way he treated you, with quiet care and unwavering support, made your heart swell. It was hard not to think about the future when you had someone like Bakugou in your life.

The thought slipped out of your mouth before you could stop it.

“I can only hope that my future boyfriend treats me the way you do,” you said with a soft smile, eyes flickering up to meet his.

For a second, the air seemed to still. Bakugou’s eyes widened, just barely, and his posture stiffened. He didn’t respond right away, and when he did, it was with a tight-lipped nod. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice more rough than usual.

Bakugou froze. His grip on the glass tightened, his knuckles turning white. You didn’t notice. But Bakugou’s thoughts were running wild.

Future boyfriend?

He thought this was a date. He thought…

He had finally made a move. But here you were, treating it like just another dinner between coworkers. The words hit him hard, and for the rest of the night, he barely spoke. He couldn’t. His heart was pounding, frustration building with every second that passed.

You noticed the shift in his demeanor—how he seemed quieter all of a sudden, his responses shorter, more clipped than before. But you didn’t think too much of it, continuing the conversation, unaware of the storm brewing inside of him. Every time you smiled at him, every casual comment you made, Bakugou felt the weight of your words crushing him.

Future boyfriend.

The thought gnawed at him, each passing minute pulling him deeper into his frustration. The idea of some other dude going out to dinner with you like this—the idea of you smiling up at the mystery man made his chest burn.

You didn’t even see this as a date. To you, it was just another celebratory dinner. You thought it was casual, something friends or coworkers would do after a job well done. But to Bakugou, this was supposed to be something more.

Dinner passed, and soon you were walking home, the cool breeze nipping at your skin as you strolled beside him. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it felt heavy with unspoken thoughts. You were rambling about your roommate, who had just returned from a trip, unaware of the tension rising beside you.

When you were a few blocks from your apartment, Bakugou suddenly stopped walking, standing still on the sidewalk. You paused, turning to face him.

“What’s up?” you asked, concerned by the serious look on his face.

He stared at you for a long moment, his jaw clenched tight. His heart pounded in his chest, the words on the tip of his tongue. He couldn’t hold them in anymore—he finally snapped.

“You know I’m in love with you, right?”

The words hung in the air between you, raw and unfiltered. Bakugou didn’t look away this time—his gaze was locked on yours, his face pained, vulnerable in a way you had never seen before.

“I’ve been in love with you from the fucking start.”

Your breath caught in your throat. His voice was strained, the weight of everything he had been bottling up spilling out in those few sentences. Trying to process what he had just said, you stared at him, the weight of his confession hitting you like a ton of bricks. His face was twisted in agony, his usual bravado gone. He turned his face away from you, unable to keep watching the dumbfounded look on your face. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t move—until you did. 

Your hands started moving on their own. His eyes were wide as you reached up, cupping his face in your hands, turned his head to you, and pulled him down into a kiss before you even realized. It was desperate and rough, filled with all the emotions neither of you had realized were simmering beneath the surface. When you pulled away, you were both breathless, your lips tingling from the force of it.

He watched your eyelashes flutter in the dim lighting of the streetlights, hair blowing slightly in the breeze.

Bakugou’s voice was low, gravelly, as he leaned in closer. “We’re going to my place. I’m calling a fucking taxi.”

He could barely keep his hands off you as he fumbled for his phone, the weight of everything that had been unsaid finally crashing down around you both. Your hands wrapped around his neck as you peppered kisses down his throat, hearing him take in a sharp breath before taking the call. You couldn’t even register what you were doing—his scent made you dizzy and your heart flutter. The taxi ride to Bakugou's studio apartment was a blur of anticipation and unspoken tension. 

The moment the car door slammed shut behind you, his hands found yours, interlocking firmly. His grip was a silent declaration of intent, and your body responded with a thrill of excitement that shot straight to your core. In the elevator, his lips and hands traveled up and down your body. 

You didn't bother with the lights. The moon's glow from the large windows cast long shadows across the room, highlighting the stark contrast of his broad, muscular form against the black bed sheets. His crimson eyes never left yours as he approached, a hunger in them that was unmistakable.

With a gentle urgency, you both began to peel away the layers of fabric that separated your skin and his. Your hands trembled as they glided over his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his body beneath the material. His arms, as solid as the steel beams that supported the city's skyscrapers, wrapped around you, lifting you off the floor. He laid you down on the bed, his body hovering above, a wall of heat and want. His scent of burnt sugar and coffee enveloped you as you laid atop his bed, the air thick with desire.

He whispered against your skin, "You have no idea how long I've been waiting to do this," his breath hot and sweet as he placed soft, wet kisses along your neckline. His hands found the clasp of your bra, deftly unhooking it, the fabric giving way to reveal the soft swell of your breasts. His eyes grew darker, his gaze lingering, as if memorizing every inch of you.

You felt his weight shift as he moved down to kiss your neck down to the top of your chest, his tongue swirling around your now-exposed skin. His mouth was a promise of what was to come, leaving a trail of fire down to your cleavage. You couldn't help but whimper as you arched into him, craving more of his touch, his taste. 

With a playful smirk, his eyes zeroed in on your peaked nipples. He took one in his mouth, playing with it with his tongue, flicking and teasing until it was a tight bud. You gasped, your eyes squeezing shut, the sensation of his warm, wet tongue rubbing circles onto you sending a shiver down your spine. His hand traveled down to the hem of your skirt, inching it up your thighs, the fabric brushing against your sensitive skin. 

You felt your breath hitch as his teeth grazed over your tender flesh, the pleasure sharp and shooting right to your core. He suckled hard on the side of your breast, leaving a dark mark behind. You could feel your heart racing, your body begging for more. 

He moved to the other side, giving it the same treatment, leaving you panting and writhing beneath him. His teeth grazed the skin, not breaking the surface, but the promise was there—a promise that made you quiver. His other hand slipped over the wet fabric of your panties as he muttered something about “Makin’ you mine…”

“Wait wha-” Before you could manage out any words, he cut you off– you gripped the bed sheets, your knuckles turning white, as he began to rub circles around your clit, the pressure building with every stroke. He somehow knew exactly how to touch you, how to make you squirm and beg. His mouth moved away from your breasts, leaving them sensitive and wanting to find yours again. His kiss was demanding, his tongue dancing with yours as his hand worked its magic between your legs.

The room was filled with the sound of your moans and the rustling of fabric as he removed your skirt completely, leaving you in just your black lace panties. He kissed down your body, his teeth scraping against the lace, his tongue darting out to taste the skin beneath. His breath was hot and erratic, matching the rhythm of your own. 

His devilish smirk reappeared. “This lace looks familiar,” he ribbed, running a stripe of his tongue over your clothed lips. 

Heat rose up your neck, causing you to overheat more than you already were. “T-There was an extra strip of fabric, and I-”

Bakugou scoffed, entertained. “It looks nice,” he says, taking a moment to admire the lace clinging to your body. “It’d be a shame to take them off.”

And then, finally, he slid your panties to the side and took your clit into his mouth. The sensation was overwhelming, your body bowing off the bed as pleasure shot through you like a lightning bolt. You moaned, your hips bucking up to meet his face, his hands firmly holding your hips in place. Your hands shot straight to the nape of his neck, tugging at his hair for any sort of purchase.

You were lost in a haze of sensation, his touch everywhere, his mouth on you, his hands in your hair, his breath in your ear, whispering dirty, sweet nothings that made you wetter, made you need him more. The world outside had ceased to exist. There was only you, and there was only him.

As he played with your nipples, rolling them between his thumbs and forefingers, you felt the beginnings of an orgasm coil tightly in your belly. You could feel your muscles tense, the pressure building until it was all you could think about. And when he inserted two fingers into you, you instantly came apart in his arms, your body shaking with the force of it.

Bakugou pulled away, smiling up at you, a smug look on his face that made your heart flutter and your face heat up. “Already? I’ve barely even started,” he smirked at you. With his fingers still inside of you, he moved up to kiss you again, the taste of your own arousal mixing with the taste of him. 

His fingers thrusted in and out of your wetness for a moment until he curled his fingers up, sending a jolt of electricity up your spine. To your chagrin, a loud squeal came out of you when he did this. Noticing your reaction, his shit-eating grin only got wider and wider before he started abusing that spot pressing up at it over and over again, making you scream.

He watched your face, the way your cheeks heated up and your mouth hanging open in pleasure, and he smirked. "So wet for me," he murmured, his voice a dark caress in your ear. "You're going to drench my hand." And just as he said it, your body responded, gushing around his fingers, making him chuckle in triumph.

Bakugou pulled back to look at you, his eyes dark and hooded with desire. "You're so fucking hot when you come," he said, his voice thick with lust. He held up his glistening digits, and you couldn't help but whine at the sight of your arousal coating them. He brought them to his mouth and licked them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. "So delicious," he added with a wink, and your cheeks burned with embarrassment and desire.

The smug look on his face only served to make you want him more. You reached out, grabbing fistfuls of his shoulders, and pulled him back down to you. "Please," you breathed, your voice shaky with need. "Just put it in..."

Bakugou's smirk grew wolfish as he obeyed, pumping at his girthy length while his fingers retreated from your warmth only to be replaced by something much larger. You gasped as he pushed into you, inch by inch, filling you up until you thought you couldn't take anymore. His cock was thick and hard, stretching you in the most delicious way possible. He paused, giving you a moment to adjust, before starting to move.

With every thrust, the pressure built again, the movement of his cock against your sensitive walls sending sparks through your body. You could feel your orgasm building, a storm on the horizon, growing stronger with every beat of your racing heart. You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him deeper, your nails digging into his back.

He groaned, the sound low and animalistic, and picked up the pace. His hips pistoned into you, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the quiet room. His teeth found your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you cry out. The pain mixed with pleasure, creating a heady cocktail that had you spiraling out of control as the tip of his cock rubbed at all of the right places. You could feel the storm inside you approaching, the thunder of your pulse in your ears, the lightning of sensation in your veins.

“Harder,” you begged with a strained voice.

“You’re going to regret asking for that,” Bakugou managed, his thrusts becoming more powerful, more demanding. He pounded into you, his cock hitting that perfect spot with every drive, making you see stars behind your closed eyelids. His fingers dug into the curve of your ass as an anchor as he thrust himself into you. Your nails scraped down his back, leaving red lines in their wake, but he only growled, the slight pain fueling his need for more. Your breasts bounced with every impact, your nipples pebbled and sensitive, begging for his mouth again.

The bed frame creaked in protest under the onslaught of your passion, the headboard thumping against the wall in a steady rhythm that matched the pounding in your chest. You were lost in the feel of him, the taste of him, the scent of him—everything about him consumed you. Your orgasm was close, so close, you could almost touch it.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped, your voice tight with need.

“Cum for me, Princess,” he said, his voice strained. He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing your moans. His thumb found your clit again, and he circled it roughly, driving you closer to the edge.

Finally, when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, he picked up the pace even more, driving into you with a ferocity that had you clawing at the sheets. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as you came apart for him one last time.

Bakugou’s movements grew erratic, his breathing ragged, as he felt his own climax approaching. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, biting down hard as he came deep inside of you, his warmth filling you up with his tip pressed against your cervix, making you shiver. He groaned out your name, the sound guttural and raw.

You lay there, panting and trembling, as he pulled out, his cock still twitching with the aftershocks of his orgasm. He collapsed beside you, his arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you into the warmth of his embrace.

For a moment, there was silence. Just the sound of your heavy breathing and the distant murmur of the city outside. Then, with a sigh, Bakugou leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “You’re mine now,” he whispered, his voice still rough from passion.

You looked up at him, your eyes glazed with satisfaction, and nodded. You didn’t need to say it back—you both knew it was true. Your bodies were entwined, your hearts racing in sync. This was it. The moment you had both been waiting for, the moment everything changed.

He rolled over, placing you on top of him, and you straddled him, feeling his cock, now softening, pressing against your thigh. You leaned down to kiss him again, your lips swollen from the passionate affair. His arms wrapped around you, holding you tight as if he never wanted to let you go.

“Fuck, that was amazing,” he murmured against your mouth. His eyes searched yours, looking for confirmation, for reassurance that this was real. You smiled, a soft, genuine smile, and kissed him again, deeper, slower, savoring the taste of him.

As your kisses grew more gentle, your bodies began to relax, the tension of the day, the tension of the months of unspoken love, finally dissipating. You laid your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours.

“Thank you for waiting for me,” you whispered, feeling a little guilty that it took you this long to realize his feelings.

Bakugou’s hand stroked your hair, his thumb tracing the shell of your ear. “I’d wait forever for you,” he said, his voice earnest. “You’re worth it, every fucking second of it.”

The two of you lay there, basking in the afterglow of your passion, the moon casting its glow over your intertwined forms. This was the start of something new, something completely unexplored, and you were ready to face it together.

a/n: IT'S THE END!!! OHHHH MY LAWD it's been such a wild ride. thank you so much for reading & an extra special thank you to the reposts and comments-- they mean so much more to me than y'all know. i hope you enjoyed the series!

as always, stay safe & hydrated, and stay tuned for more bakugou~

also, let me know if y'all want some sort of epilogue-- and if so, what do you want to be in it? just their daily lives? their WEDDING? let me know in the comments :>

(oh yeah. as usual, not beta-read. lmk if there are any typos/inconsistencies. thanks!)

taglist: @takoyakitakii, @itzjustj-1000

directory/m.list

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