#mouthwashing fanfiction

[pinkshortbread]

🌺 Daisuke Headcanons 🌺

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE !

Warning : Contains some NSFW and SUGGESTIVE content.

Damn, he is terrible at flirting, which makes him still attractive though. Cute but sometimes his jokes can be a pain to listen. "Wanna be Minecraft without the craft ?" "DAISUKE I SWEAR TO GOD-"

The type of guy who likes matching clothes with you. Everything you both go out for something, he has so many ideas : accessories, shoes, type of clothes, colors. He is the one who thrifts and shops.

He sings in the shower. Yes, he does. Don't say otherwise. He even has his own playlist on Spotify to scream over the lyrics.

Tongue piercing. He did it without his parents knowing when he went on vacation with his friends, he lost a bet. He likes it though.

I don't like to headcanon him as an innocent guy who didn't have any experience with relationships or sex. I mean, he is a young adult : something between 20-25 to me. So yeah, he has been in relationships before. He did have sex, but not a huge bodycount.

A huge fan of giving hickeys, he LOVES marking his mate, which can lead you to some trouble sometimes, especially at work when you didn't notice in the morning when you wake up after a steamy night.

This dude ? Giving head >>> Recieving head.

PDA all over the top.

"Daisuke look, this plush is cute- DON'T BUY IT I JUST SAID IT'S CUTE I DON'T WANT IT-" "Aw man."

Basically, the golden retriever boyfriend.

[bratdotcom]

Sweet Like Apples

swansea x coworker!reader ⋆ asking him to open fruit for you (read part one of the coworker!au here)

⋆ tags : coworker!au, established relationship, coworkers to lovers, tooth-rotting fluff, swansea acts a little mean bc he doesn't want daisuke to think he's gone soft (you're really killing his tough guy persona)

word count : 1k+ (and proud!! >3<) ⋆

Daisuke and Swansea sit together in the Tuplar's conversation pit. Daisuke sits with one heel on the couch, balancing the book in his hands with his knee. Swansea watches quietly as he scribbles his answers onto paper, already knowing which ones he's gotten wrong without giving the sheet a second glance.

Swansea exhales calmly.

The kid was starting to grow on him. He was beginning to think he was too harsh.

He softly reprimands the intern, no actual disdain behind his words. Swansea keeps his voice steady, though. Can't let the kid think he was going soft. "Don't sit like that." The older man lightly taps his shoulder, making Daisuke's hold on his pencil slip. "You wanna end up like me?"

Daisuke fixes his posture, sitting more properly on the L-shaped couch. He gives Swansea a quick roll of his eyes and continues to concentrate on his book work. Swansea rolls his eyes in response, a small, barely noticeable wry grin on his face as he looks away.

Ever since you came into his life, acknowledged his feelings for you, the whole world seemed a whole lot better. Brighter, even. Compared to the artificial stimulation of the sunlit sky, splayed across the living room walls.

The screen was bright, but damn, you were brighter.

"Let me see that." Swansea holds out his work-worn palms, gesturing for Daisuke to give him his mechanic's handbook. He obliges, hesitantly scanning his tired face for approval. The older man points at each line of ink with the tip of lead, reading over the bubbled answers Daisuke put in.

The tension was palpable. To Daisuke, at least.

To Swansea, this was another day at work. "You got all of these wrong." He says, dragging the nub of Daisuke's pencil over each question number, voice gruff yet lenient this time around, even though by now, he would've called him out on his mistakes.

Daisuke was a good kid. He had a good head on his shoulders. Even though he acted stupid. Swansea could probably count enough times on his hands how reckless he was at his age.

Another sigh leaves his person. Swansea sets the pencil in between the pages of Daisuke's workbook and places it down on the palette-shaped coffee table.

Swansea strums his fingers against his thigh before methodically standing up, using the wooden divider that separates the conversation pit from the rest of the lobby to support his weight. "Let's take a break." he suggests, much to Daisuke's surprise.

"Wait- what? Really?" he asks, eyes widened in a mixture of shock and surprise. A part of him was relieved that he wouldn't have to stick his nose into a musty book, but another part of him was genuinely surprised that Swansea of all people was suggesting that he should take a breather.

"Fifteen minutes." He states firmly, arms crossed over his beer belly. "That's all you're gonna get outta this, kid." he tilts his head off to the side, waiting for the younger man to get up himself.

Daisuke grins at him,fifteen minutes was better than getting no minutes at all. Swansea huffs out a quiet laugh, watching as his intern makes a beeline to the kitchen, your expanse of the ship and expertise.

Just as he thought, you were there. Apron and all, cutting up fruits into little cubes.

For a guy like him, the kitchen was small. A little cramped for his size, but in a comforting sort of way. He knew you'd be here, always, waiting for him. Just like that night you shared with him weeks before.

Having three people in the kitchen definitely made it more crowded than it needed to be. Swansea's glad that you and Daisuke were chatting amongst yourselves. You, being too focused on explaining what you were making and Daisuke, too absorbed in listening along and sneakily grabbing bites of cut up fruit to slip into his hand for later. Swansea doesn't say a word.

A warm feeling in his chest as he watches the two people he cared for most on the ship talking to each other. There was a word for this feeling, wasn't there? He couldn't remember.

"Swansea, hun, can you help me with this apple?" You crane your head away from the counter top to address the man directly. Swansea almost chokes. The way the nickname easily leaves your lips, like you've been married for years, even though you just recently admitted your feelings for him.

You were going to be the death of him.

Swansea smooths out the company logo on his shirt. His heart was beating wildly against his chest like a battering ram, all because you decided to call him something other than his own name. You called him hun. All you did was call him hun.

He pretends to let out an uninterested huff as he saunters over, a strong hand over the logo of his work uniform.

If Daisuke wasn't in the room with you he would've reacted much worse.

Swansea's intimidating frame looms over you. "Gimme that." He says, holding out his other hand. "The apple?" you ask, setting down your paring knife. "No sweetheart, the bowl." Swansea replies flatly, Daisuke snickers. Swansea shoots a glare at the younger man, as if to quiet him, which he instantly obliges.

With a soft chuckle, you hand him the apple. "I need this guy for the fruit salad." You explain, watching curiously as Swansea twists the stem, tossing it off into the pile of scraps you had neatly set off to the side. "You're not going to use a knife?"

"I don't need a knife." he replies, the meat of his palms digging into the apple. His calloused fingers dip into the calyx of the apple. With a twist of his wrists, Swansea cleanly splits the apple in half.

Once again, Swansea pretends that it's nothing and hands you the apple. The apple that he split in half with his bare hands.

It was his turn to make you feel all warm in the chest now. "You're welcome, by the way. Just make sure I get a bite before everyone else does, alright hun?"

Hun. Hearing Swansea call you that almost gives you a heart attack.

Swansea smiles at you like you were the only person in the kitchen with him. He walks out of the kitchen, content with your reaction. The wide-eyed look you gave him was priceless.

He sits at the kitchen table, smiling boyishly as he hears Daisuke hammering you with questions about your relationship with his superior. He'll step in eventually. But for now he'll enjoy the feeling of content in his chest.

[postcrashcurly]

Yeah, Yeah, Yeah by Heartilation on AO3. Fandom: Mouthwashing Ship: Anya and Curly (Loosely implied on Curly's end) Topic: Modern AU where the characters work at a corporate aviation company. Curly gets absolutely plastered at the club. Click HERE to read!

Summary: After months of convincing, Curly accepts Daisuke's invitation to the club. (See Read More for full summary)

"He remembered being somewhat of a bar-fly in his college years. Hole-in-the-wall businesses with sticky floors and beat-up jukeboxes were familiar to him, but this was an entirely new generation. It wasn’t a simple beer with their frat brothers, instead, they wanted brighter lights, louder music, and drinks with higher alcohol content. Just peering at the drink menu reminded Curly that he was, in fact, a 38-year-old man who never cared to get used to the new party scene. Drinks with names that made his face flush and pretty bartenders made ordering a nightmare."

[puzzledcretin]

I wrote a fic for my homie for crimmas so you should like read it or whatever...

@omagpies

[paradlselost]

MOUTHWASHING

unfortunately i’m extremely busy now and don’t have the time to finish these , so enjoy 3 unfinished mouthwashing fanfictions ! none of these are beta read either so i’m sorry ):

UPTOWN GIRL

captain curly x female reader

Two-hundred fifty-three days, seventeen hours, and twenty-nine minutes. Thats how long the last voyage had taken, how long it had been since hes seen you. A hand moves up to run through his hair, parting the messy blonde waves in an attempt to smooth himself up. A good impression, thats what he needed, and some courage.

Jimmy has been relentless in making fun of him and his infatuation; a one-sided romance he often thinks far too much about for any self respecting captain, at least, according to his co-pilot. But really, he can’t help it. The stupid smile that forms on his face at the mere thought of who was waiting for him back home - or who he was hoping was waiting. It had crept up on him once or twice, maybe you’ve decided not to be patient and god knows he wouldn’t find out until his return. Its a sour thought, one that festers in the back of his mind on those late, sleepless nights. But he fights through them, pushes them away, a man can hope.

Perhaps he’s too much like an excited puppy, wagging his tail as the ship finally lands back at the Pony Express docking area. The others get to go out first, Swansea’s wife no doubt waiting for him like she always is; and to invite the others over for dinner once more, much to the mechanic’s dismay. What’s one more dinner after nearly a year of them? Regardless, as captain, it’s Curly’s duty to stay behind and double check the ship. Anything broken or faulty or out of place that isn’t reported will come out of their paychecks.

Minutes feel like hours as he does the final inspection, finally stepping off the ship platform, clipboard in hand. The warehouse is filled with people, though only Swansea’s family seemed to have made it, hes grumpy, but Curly can tell he truly is happy to be home with them. The rest are mechanics, working on the outside of the ship where it has been scraped by small asteroids. Putting the Tulpar back together, but not too much so because god forbid everything on the damn ship runs smoothly.

“Welcome back Captain, those for me?” The overseer steps over to him, the first person to greet him after his long voyage. Despite the smile on the mans face, his eyes are less than pleased and Curly knows that the man truly does not care about the people working for him, only for the paperwork that he can scrutinize and find things to dock pay over.

“Yes sir. Everything’s in there.” He matches the demenour of the other man, polite but professional as he hands over the files and clipboard. Everything on board, every incident and bi-montly psych eval. Ever since Jimmy had joined the crew the number of reports has had to go up, and despite Curly’s insistence that he shape up, it seems he has a difficult time not being an asshole.

“Very well, thank you.” The overseer doesn’t say much else before he steps away with the paperwork, back to his office to hand to his secretary to mull over. It’s out of the captains hands now, and his mind is quickly off the prospect pay dock when he finally spots you.

You, you, you, smiling and chatting with Anya as if the two of you had seen each other just the other day. You’re always here to cheer the group up when they return, to be a friendly face where families aren’t. His legs move before his brain, walking up to where the two of you are chatting without much thought. He wants to see you, to hear your voice so much its teetering on a need.

Of course, he’s interrupted by the sudden appearance of Swansea’s wife. Another smiling face, holding a small basket of those baked goods she always brought on their return. Despite his urgency, he stops to make polite conversation with the older woman. The mechanic is already being ‘forced’ to carry one of his daughters on his shoulders. Curly’s heart aches slightly, perhaps he can have that himself.

“It’s so good to see you, honey, and thank you for keeping him in check. I’m sure he was absolutely grumpy the whole trip.”

“Haha well, you know him. ‘ve only ever really seen him smile when he’s finally repaired something thats been bugging him for days, or when he gets home and sees you guys.”

“You’re sweet. Oh, I made you those cookies you like as a thank you.” She reaches up, gently pinching the cheek of his freckled face before she hands him the basket.

“I should be thanking you for these, they’re amazing.”

“Mom, dad said hes going to take us out for dinner! Lets go lets go lets go!” One of Swansea’s daughters runs up to her mother, taking her hand and only allowing the woman to get a small ‘goodbye’ in before shes whisked off.

Curly blinks a few times, finally now having the time to go up and talk to you, though you’re no where to be seen. Anya is gone as well, probably already going to her locker to get changed back into her normal clothes and get out of here. Jimmy left ages ago, storming out as soon as he had the chance, and you? He has no clue where you’ve gone.

With a soft sigh he begins to walk, making his way out of the busy warehouse room and down an empty hallway to get into his locker room. All his belongings that were deemed not essential sit in that metal container, along with his clothes. It’ll be nice to get out of the Pony Express jumpsuit in the very least, even if he is still bummed about not getting to see you. You’re all he thinks about when he’s away, his infatuation getting so bad some days he finds it hard to focus on the task of being an actual captain.

“Are you leaving without saying hello?” Your voice startles him out of his thoughts as he quickly turns around to see you. A soft smile plays on your face, head tilted to the side as you tease him. God, he’s missed you.

“I tried, but I got preoccupied and then you were gone.” He points out, his tone is accusatory but only playfully. He could never be mean to you, never be upset with you. You’re everything to him, the only thing that keeps him motivated to come back to Pony Express when he could most definitely find a better job with the experience he’s gathered.

“My father called me away.”

Right, the overseer and dear old dad to you. It’s why he isn’t too forward, why his glances are in secret and swift. He can drink you in during times like these, when theres no one around to spread rumors about one of the best captains flirting with the bosses daughter.

I DONT WANT TO SEE

TOMORROW

daisuke x female reader

Soulless eyes follow you as you walk through the metal halls, posters lining the walls that all stare down at you. Judging, watching, as if any slip up will be recorded and used to taunt you on that paycheck at the end of the voyage. Polle is everywhere, goading you with its presence like a mischievous deity; riding a rocket, trapped under boxes, waking up, standing in the lounge. Mocking.

Your hands rest against the bottom of the pile of boxes you carry, relying solely on your internal navigation of the layout of the ship to get around as your vision has been blocked. Headphones rest against your ears, attached to the mp3 player at your hip. Nat King Cole croons through the waves, the song looping back on itself to meet the choir at the beginning once more. Thirty-five days you’ve been up here, just over a month and so far the music you deemed essential to bring on the trip has been your only real sense of company.

Your crewmembers are nice in the very least, everyone but Jimmy. Instinctively you know to stay away from him; to make polite conversation only when he initiates it. There is something wrong with him that effects the rest of the crew, like a parasite that digs under your skin and no amount of scratching or bleeding can free you from its presence. Everyone else simply does their own thing - Swansea stays in the Utility room most of the day, obsessing over fixing that stupid vent Pony Express didn’t even bother touching. Daisuke is emotional support, despite being a last minute addition you’re sure the voyage would be a lot more gloomy and boring without the resident ray of sunshine aboard. Captain Curly is great, truly, he seems to understand people very well and is understanding - though his inclusion of Jimmy on the trip gives you pause.

Anya is the only one you feel a true kinship with. Despite being squeamish she tries her best, you can tell. When Daisuke burned himself with one of Swansea’s tools she was quick to bandage him up and its a bit sad to know she never truly made it through medical school because she deserves better than being on the Tulpar of all places. Besides, the two of you are roommates; which means secrets whispered in the dark of the room and a certain amount of trust placed in each other.

Tomorrow, so I hear, the clouds will disappear. The door to happiness will open wide… The lyrics are murmured under your breath, listening to the same song for the uptenth time allowing you to put yourself on autopilot to get your daily chores done. Cleaning has already been completed, running diagnostics in the cockpit to make sure everything is going smoothly, now you are on restocking - hence an ungodly pile of boxes you carry to and fro. You watch, out of the corner of your eye, the posters that you pass. Giddy up galaxy, lend a hand, rise and shine, don’t be daft. You have to hand it to them, they somehow managed to make the soulless Polle look almost likeable in the little illustrations. Like one of the crew, a confidant and friend and not someone who will dock your pay if you sleep in a minute longer than you’re supposed to.

A huff falls from your lips as you step up to one of the walkways, the door that you specifically remember leaving open now closed and you know taking a hand off these boxes will result in a huge mess. You try your hip, shoulder, and even leg but the damn thing doesn’t budge. You’re ready to set the boxes you have strategically stacked in order to get it open when you hear muffled talking behind you. Nudging your headphone off your ear with your shoulder, you turn to attempt to look at whos speaking and it doesn’t take your vision to decipher the upbeat tone as Daisuke.

“Do you need some help?” Part of you doesn’t think you’ve ever been so grateful to hear his voice, usually hes pestering you about something Swansea has said while you’re in the middle of doing your job, but that goofy smile on his face is a welcome sight today.

“Please. Someone closed the door.”

“Probably Jimmy, I saw him going down to the cockpit. Hey, is one of those boxes for the Utility room? Swansea has been buggin’ me to grab some more of those little wire tie thingies.”

“Yeah, top box. Actually if you could grab it that would be great, then I just have medical and the lounge to restock.”

He nods and grabs at the one on top, making an exasperated grunting sound as if it was a lot heavier than he’d expected, though him moving it allows you to finally see over the other two you carry. Immediately, you’re greeted with the sight of a lollipop in his mouth. You furrow your brows, tilting your head to the side as if trying to figure out how the hell hes’s managed to hide contraband like candy for this long, and more importantly, why he hasn’t shared.

“No way, how did you get that on here? I had to practically threaten to sue so they’d allow me to keep my music.”

“I’m amazing at hiding things.” A shit-eating grin spreads on his face as he pops it out of his mouth, the red candy a bright contrast to the bleak grey walls. “Honestly this is the longest i’ve managed to keep my halloween candy.”

“Halloween was like eight months ago.”

“Yeah, its a little stale because i forgot about it in my garage at home, but I mean its candy! Here, have one.”

He sets the box down on the ground in front of him and reaches into his hawaiian shirt poocket, pulling out two more of those lollipops as well as quite a few crumpled up post-it notes. He’s sweet, really, and with a grin you shuffle to be able to grab one from him. The boxes you hold teeter on being held by only one hand, but you quickly unwrap it and put the candy into your mouth before fixing them to be stable once more.

You give him a soft, thankful smile before he is called away by a relatively grumpy sounding Swansea. The candy tastes amazing as you continue on your way to medical. Its sweet, not overly so and not fake tasting like the sweetener packets provided by Pony Express. A taste of home, a reminder of what is back on Earth and everything you’ll get to experience again after this trip.

HELLO , GOODBYE

{ cw } depictions of gore and body horror . jimmy . au ized

Do you feel it? How God has forsaken you? Your blood is tainted; screaming for retribution. What do you see in those soulless eyes? Broken muzzle scattered across the floor, white foam splattered with crimson. You are an uninvited guest to this birthday, everyone else wears their party hats; you have not been given one and yet you have brought a gift for the birthday boy. You are too kind, too good to be treated like this.

“Jesus.” A hand clasps over your mouth to block out the smell. Something has died here, you’ve been sent on enough rescue missions to know the scent of decay; how people turn on each other when given the first plausible opportunity. Can they be blamed? Can you?

The lounge is empty, an axe thrown into the large screen dancing with yellow and orange pixels. A sunrise, you presume, a dawn of a new day and hope for these poor souls trapped here - or, whoever is left. Part of you hopes there is no one, that corpses are the only thing left because surely whatever has survived all these months can no longer be considered human. A monster stalks the halls, you can feel its eyes boring into your back no matter where you turn.

The Polle Pony statue is broken, the fiberglass pieces crunching below your boots. Eyes turn to look down at what is left: unfixable, but that isnt your job. Besides, you’ve always found nothing behind those smiling eyes, would it be worth fixing anyways? So you kick it away, turning its gaze from the horrors that its indirectly caused. How silly is it that a fucking mascot gets closure before everyone else?

“Hello?” A voice calls through the dead silence of the ship, knocking you out of your thoughts. It is faint, weak, as if someone or something was gathering the rest of its strength to call out to you. In a moment, you begin to walk through the old ship halls, lights flickering and dimming as the power continues to drain. No doubt the television screen draws too much to itself, greedy and selfish. Taking and taking only to produce false hope that anyone left in this tin bucket might see a sunrise once more. You’ve fallen for the facade yourself, hook line and sinker into the false blazing yellow sun.

“Hello? Where are you?” Your voice calls back, hand resting on the Pony Express issued firearm holstered at your side. You wont fire - instinctively you know you are too afraid to kill anything and you thank whatever diety is listening that you havent had to fight off a cannibalistic lunatic yet in your rescues.

You step over piles and piles of discarded containers, lights just bright enough to make out the branding. Blue mouthwash. You can taste it on your tongue, a sickly sweet mint promising to chase away the bad and return you to salvation. A lie, another thing you’ve fallen for. Is this what the ship was carrying? Is this all these lives are worth, a few hundred boxes of a promise to kill ninety-nine point nine percent of germs? Perhaps its a good thing in its own way - the automation, afterall: does an artificial mind yearn for anything more than what the limitations of its creator has decided?

You stand in front of the door to the medical bay, an eeriely warm light flooding through the crack at the bottom. Calm, safe. Reaching for the handle and pulling it open you are met with quite a sight, spotless and clean just as it should be and yet completely at odds with the rest of the ship. Blue dividers have been set up, obscuring your view of the beds and in turn, whatever is on them. Little orange containers are neatly stacked on the counter, painkillers, it seems, beside them sits a radio.

“Hello, hello. I don’t know why y- Hello hello, I don’t know why y-” The same song line repeats itself, stuck on the chorus of a Beatles song. Your eyebrows furrow together, reaching out to turn the volume down; had that been what you were hearing? Was there truly no one left on the ship? Perhaps you’d be lucky if that was the case, but the silhouette behind the dividers causes doubt to bubble in your chest. Whatever it is, whoever they might be, they only produce a sound when the music is quieted. A deep, almost animalistic grumbling.

Courage takes a few moments to build in you, debating on if you should simply run back to your own ship and mark the Tulpar as destroyed. Sure, Pony Express will take the failure out of your paycheck but was the money worth potentially your life? Yes, you decide, and your hand grabs at the blue curtains to pull them aside. In front of you sits a disfigured being, poorly bandaged and amputated. For a few moments you wonder if they are even alive, but your suspicions are deemed false by the shallow breathing of the person; as if any movement causes immense pain.

Hesitantly, you step forward into the room created by the dividers, getting a better look at whoever this was. Bile forms at the back of your throat, threatening to creep up and gag you. Pity dances in your eyes; a human response for someone whose been stripped of theirs. The lights that dance above the bed are dim compared to the others in the room, almost as if they have been darkened by something, perhaps the person lying below them. Skin has been burned off, bandages covering not nearly enough of what they need to be to even attempt to heal any of the wounds. A large brown eye stares up at you, watching your every movement. You bite back the vomit that claws its way up, moving to observe him a bit more.

“What are you doing? Who are you?”

The voice behind you causes you to jump, whipping around and coming face to face with a taller man. His blonde hair is dishevled, matching the beard that obviously hasn’t been taken care of in a while. You dont blame him, not with everything thats clearly gone on. Besides personal grooming, he looks strangely normal, perhaps a bit underweight but again, you cannot blame him. His blue eyes pierce into you as if observing your very soul. Instinctively, you are scared of the imposing figure - you have no knowledge of what happened on this ship, for all you know hes the reason for the mutilated body lying in the bed behind you. The axe he carries certainly doesn’t help.

“Oh-. Pony Express wants to issue their sincerest apologies about not tending to your rescue sooner as per policy all company ships are only checked into if their cargo hasn’t been marked as delivered within a week of the expected date.” You stumble over your words, running your fingers over the outline of the holstered gun at your hip, the only thing flowing from your mouth being the recited Pony Express line. The last one you’d ever have to use with the new automation.

He steps forward, backing you into the wall just beside the bed. Though, within a moment he simply sighs and begins to pace, running his hand through that messy blonde hair of his. Its almost as if the idea of rescue is troubling to him, you are used to crewmembers almost hugging you in joy, although, this is the worst a ship has looked and you can naturally assume that it has been floating here for a long time. He murmurs to himself, under his breath he speaks information that you are not privvy to. Your eyes flutter back to whoever lies in that bed, voice wavering as you speak up once more.

“Is that the Captain of this ship?”

“What? No. That- I mean, he’s the co-piolt.”

His words are laced with malice, you can hear the anger in his tone that he even has to speak about the man wrapped in those bandages, helpless and doomed. Your eyebrows furrow, turning back to look at him with an accusatory glance. How can this man speak with such a tone about someone so broken? It isn’t fair to the co-pilot nor is it fair to you. You can only imagine how the rest of the crew is fairing, dead, probably.

“Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t- hes not- look. You don’t understand what happened.”

“No, but I’d like to. In fact, I need to for my report, we can start with where the rest of your crew is. I was given a basic overview of the staff assigned to this vessel and if that is the co-pilot then that leaves the Captian, the nurse, the repairman, and the intern. Which one are you?”

“The Captain.”

“Well, a fine job you did, then. Where are the others?”

A sigh falls from his lips, strands of hair pulled out far too easily. Part of you wants to comfort him, to tell him that this was surely and accident and not his fault; but he is the captain and he cannot be afforded such luxuries. Still, his blue eyes turn from steely to soft and pathetic in an instant, as if a switch had been flipped in his brain, and with a gesture to follow him he begins to walk out of the medical bay. Everything in you screams that this is a trap, that he is leading you to your own demise and he will take your ship and leave you with the pile of corpses that make up the other crew members. Leave you with the husk of a human being that lies on the cot.

But you take the chance anyways, hand still resting on your gun as you follow him into the darkness of the deck below. Foam lines the walls, a measure to protect the ship and as a result the occupants inside,

[coffeebuoy]

i’m writing a curlya fic! if you like to ship curly and anya and you’re interested in a modern meetcute au, here is a link. hope you enjoy :)

[itsallmouthwashing]

Through Hell, Jimmy's Personal (Band AU Scene- Full)

Songs Used in Context (playlist here): MAYDAY (40), Through Hell (4), Ængus The Prize-Winning Hog (1)

Playlist Expansions (if you want more lore!) One, Two, Three

As results of my recent poll, here is Through Hell, Jimmy's Personal. I didn't realize that I put down a story that was supposed to be for the very end of the story on my poll, so for my own sanity I'm rearranging the timeline so accommodate and have something bigger- so this happened more toward the middle I suppose.

When I do the full-length fic, this scene may be a bit different, but for now this is how Jimmy's return from his bender goes. It's Tulpar's first concert after his return from his (first :)] bender, everyone is on the mend personally but Jimmy is still in his head about what he's done. (fellas, is this taking responsibility?) You'll find out more when we get there in the fic though :)

Please listen to Through Hell (below, or here) so you have a sense of what is going on musically in the story :)

_____P--L--E--A--S--E----E--N--J--O--Y______

It's a tradition in between some songs to showcase everyone and their talents. It gives us time to take a breather, drink water, clear our throats, whatever. Someone takes one for the team so the rest of us can recover, even if it's for exactly sixty seconds. Sometimes 70 if one of us really milks the whammy bar or if Daisuke gets a little too invested in his cymbal finish. Sometimes 75 if I get distracted when Curly wipes his mouth before rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck.

God, his neck.

“Please, give it up for MUSUME!” Curly announces with a flair of his arm.

It’s Anya’s turn. She starts playing a medley of riffs from our warm-ups, trying to keep the crowd juiced as we regroup mentally. Daisuke’s opening a water bottle for her and keeping it in one hand as he sips on the other. 

But she’s tired and sluggish on the stings. He attempts to do jazz hands and water from Anya’s full water bottle spills to the floor. It’s only a little off the top, but it’s enough for Daisuke to attempt shrinking into a moth and living his shortened days on the lightbulb above him.

Thirty seconds is what I give myself to down half the water bottle on the stool behind me. My hand shakes when I put it down, and fifteen seconds is what I give myself to take deep breaths. Five seconds to glance at the setlist in my head. Five seconds to rearrange my thoughts into the key. Another five seconds to breathe. 

Five. Four. Three-

Curly’s hands aren’t supposed to be there. If we just did Mayday, then Decline must be next, and those aren't the starting positions for Decline. I don't have time to double check, not even when Curly mumbles some sort of song introduction that I can't hear because the blood is pounding behind my eyes. Everything is too bright. Everything is too loud. This isn't how it’s supposed to go-

He takes a deep breath and adjusts his stance and it’s a miracle his legs aren't shaking beneath him. I recognize the crease in his brows when he closes his eyes and the hard look of determination to push through when he opens them. 

His hands pick softly at the strings of his guitar where we just finished shredding.

His insides are boiling.

They must be, because mine are too. 

“I’ve been through hell,”

No. 

There's no way. 

This song has been with me the whole time, how could-

“I’ll never be good enough for me.”

Why? 

Where did he find this? 

When could I have let it out of my sight?

“And none of my friends know what goes in my head,”

No, they never could. 

“I’m waiting for the only thing guaranteed.” 

No one but you.

When he points to me as the lights flash it’s enough to remind myself we’re on stage. Thousands of eyes are on me, following Curly’s magic touch as I scramble into place. The key is easy enough to switch gears to, but I feel it all in overdrive. Like someone’s hitting the gas in my mind and its pedal to the metal. Daisuke explodes on his drums, his sound piercing despite the earplugs. I feel the beat through the floor, through my feet, up through my bones and replacing my heart as the hammering in my chest. 

Despite the cheers and wild applause for the debut of a new song, it’s just the two of us. Me and Curly on this stage, in a room of thousands of empty chairs. In a room where the air is so thick it might swallow us whole.

I think I want it to.

“Been a while since I slept right, cause my darkest thoughts keep me up at night-” his eyes are sunken like they’ve always been, if not even more. I don't think he’s gotten much sleep since I've been gone, or since I've been back. 

Curly and his wired lapdog, one roaming the halls, doped out of his mind while his coward of a master was a good boy for teacher. I fought a lot of fights for him- fights that probably shouldn't have turned into fights. But a dog does not know why it bites, except when its purpose is to protect its charge. 

“But I faked a smile even in the end,” 

No one saw us for who we were.

Does he know it’s about us?

I’m staring at him. Most times I need to look down at my hands and find my place. But I see it now. 

It’s standing right in front of me, singing my deepest secrets to the world like they’re a silly joke. A new melody for the public to shape and mold to their own experiences, make love and art to. To be their truest self because it exists.

He shapes them now like clay, his thumbs caked in dried pottery and clothes blotted with water and his efforts. He’s standing from the wheel as he takes away the guards that once belonged to me, wiggle wire carving it from the place it was molded and gentle hands carrying it up and up and up. 

When I see myself through his eyes, that's all my secrets become: pottery.

Shareable. Breakable. Beautiful. 

“I've been through hell-” Just behind us is Daisuke now, smiling as he joins my chorus. When did he have the time to practice this, I realize. When did Anya? 

Anya and Curly join, back-to-back, smiling as they bring the melody up and down in waves that drag me along by knotted hair. I want the image of Curly’s sweat-damp face, smiling as he kills me softly, ingrained in my mind forever.

“Fill me up with a glass of rye until I’m drunk enough to forget,” 

Oh fuck. Dad. God, how could I forget the line about dad? 

A wave of grief hits me, grey and hollow like a ghost coming to haunt me. I watch it move toward me at lightning speed and pass through me just as quickly. And I can't reach back for it. I can't beg for it to brush my skin one more time so I could feel the sting again. 

Remind me that I loved them, I beg despite it.

“Either way I’m fucking screwed-” Curly’s voice snaps me back. He’s doing it now? He’s showing them now? We haven't practiced his screams in so long, I’ve been gone for so long, I’m worried he’ll forget the technique right in the middle. 

I don't know when I took over guitar, or when he took the mic off the stand, but his foot goes to the floor speaker, his silhouette making him an angel descending from the heavens, taking god's fearsome glow with him.

My power move, I realize. The one I taught him at the end of junior year. The one that makes you forget that you’re trying. The one that makes you feel invincible when the heat of the lights hit your skin, the one that makes the girls go crazy.

The one that screams I know what I’m doing. 

“I dont think happiness was meant for me, when all I ever do is seem to fucking complain, so let me be- You’re never gonna change me.”

He has enough time to look at me, smile at me, beam at me, even, before he returns to his blocking. He’s back with Anya for only a second before he’s at Daisuke’s side. He joins on the rise and fall, beaming at me, too, before falling deeper into his drums. 

Oh, fuck. Blocking.

The easiest to fall into is simply letting my hair cover my face and pretend I’m banging my head against the table of air in front of me. I don't know where to move. I don't know what to do with my body except stay frozen and feel everything happen beneath me while my fingers move off muscle-memory alone.

He was always too shy to practice without me and I wonder when he had the time to find a coach. 

But I know a good student studies outside of the classroom. 

I was his coach, I remember. And I abandoned him. 

Did he beg for me when I was gone? Would he scream and stop right in the middle to sob and cry and kick because I wasn't there to give him what he needed? Did he get up in the middle of the night to try again and throw Daisuke’s drumsticks against the wall when he screwed up? Did the garage door rattle with the sheer force of Curly’s pain? 

I think I have to believe he did. Otherwise, I wouldn't believe him if he said he did miss me. 

“I've been through-” Daisuke takes the lead on the chorus this time, letting Curly weave his vocals in like liquid gold on broken shards of a vase. They rise and fall like steady breathing through it all, and I think I need to talk to Daisuke after the show. He’s been holding out. 

I contemplate it, but suddenly don't have the time.

Everything falls silent. Daisuke and Anya and I are still, but Curly is moving his hand just enough to carry the melody. It floats to me in tangible half and quarter and sixteenth notes, all hitting my chest like I’m their staff and they’ve been ripped away from their place in me. 

He’s looking at me. He’s expecting me. 

They all are. Thousands of eyes and then some, stabbing me like I’m standing in a pit and it’s raining needles. 

The mic stands alone in the spotlight. I half expect that if I grab it there's going to be a giant boulder dropping down from behind me. The moment feels too perfectly curated for me; it all feels like a trap. Maybe a bucket of pig’s blood will come raining down instead.

But my hand is already on the stand. My other is grabbing the microphone. 

What am I doing? 

Setting yourself free.

Curly’s hand lifts, holding the pic I gave him when we graduated. Holding my beating heart in his fist. Holding our future in his fingertips. 

A grey pic with a T engraved on one side, the other with the image of a pig’s nose. 

It’s supposed to represent the first song we started and finished together, our finisher for every show, our good friend who struggled from the cranberry bog to bring us hope and life. Ængus, the Prize-Winning Hog.

The image itself is just a long circle with two lines in the middle.

But instead of Ængus, it’s just us again. Two lines in what feels like the vast, infinite space surrounding us. I gave it to him when I was sure it would be just us in Tulpar. Just us carving a name out of ourself in the rock-and-roll obsidian.

I never expected two other lines to rub away at the grooves carved deep into the space I put between me and the world. My only breach was sealed with foam, enough so that if anything punctured it from the inside, everything would come flying out. 

But then Daisuke. And then Anya. 

I’ve used my emergency supply and it wasn't enough. 

And then suddenly I was filled with holes. 

Curly’s hand goes down with Daisuke’s and it rings through me like the morning bell, suddenly reminding me I have somewhere to be. 

On stage. In front of my fans. 

Our fans-

“I've been through- HELL-”

-Screaming to anyone who’ll listen.

“-Faced all my demons,” Curly reminds me at my side. I realize I’ve taken his place on the speaker. My foot is up, guitar clinging to me by its strap and hands clasped around the microphone like a nun begging for forgiveness. In a way, I think I am.

“But I never made it back,” I reply. It's hard to scream when your throat is closing. 

Curly strides towards me as he builds the melody on his guitar. He’s smiling still, warm and loving and inviting. Like he’s welcoming me home. Like I really did make it back. A small leap off the speaker is enough to get me over to the mic stand and secure it in time to get my hands back to the neck of my guitar. 

Daisuke keeps to his own instrument as our voices collide into the chorus, crashing like oceans meeting for the first time since Pangea’s divorce. I want so badly for it to be our lips. I want him here and now on the stage, in front of God. In front of everyone.  

This angel is mine, and his salvation is my own.

When his voice goes just higher than mine, when our voices are the last thing to ring before the applause takes over, I know I don't want to leave again. I never want to leave the stage. I never want to bow-out or step away.

I never want to go through hell again.

He’s panting, we both are, and his chest is gleaming through the open buttons at the top of his button-down. It’s so sheer for a concert, but I guess breathable material is important, even when everyone in the crowd can see your tits from the nosebleeds. 

“Now… who wants to hear about our good friend, Ængus?” Curly asks when he notices we’ve been staring at each other for too long. The crowd cheers and Curly looks back to me, winking. I hope the audience can't tell the difference between sweat and tears.

[soluscts]

it matters (manifest it) — a mouthwashing fanfic by yours truly

a broken coffee machine, two unsleeping crew members, and the pixels between them or: Anya and Daisuke and their uncertain future

Anya & Daisuke, mostly Canon Compliant but somewhat Canon Divergent, Per-Tulpar Crash, Daisuke is homesick (and doesn't want to admit it), Daisuke is a Sweetheart Anya Deserves Better Anya Needs A Hug Late Night Conversations, No Romance

[orchardermine]

I made this entire Tumblr because I wrote a Curlya fanfic called Big Tragedy Kind of Thing in which Curly is an air force vet and I made his dog tag to use as a bookmark when I bind it later. Please enjoy my little craft.

[pinkshortbread]

Can you write some NSFW headcanons about Daisuke and Curly 😭🙏🏿

Thank you so much for your patience, your request had been waiting for a whole week in the ask box. 😔

Spicy headcanons under the cut. ❤️

[Curly Headcanons] - NSFW 💫

Body Type.

Soft Giver / Service and Pleasure Top.

I feel like Curly doesn't have a clue about how big he is down there. He is packed but it's just an average dick, right ? Right ? Oh.

This guy, so affectionate, when he is giving you in missionnary he doesn't hesitate to handle your head so you don't hurt yourself against the wall.

Clearly into you touching his ass during the act, he loves it. Dude has a whole bakery and he wants you to know it.

A lot of praising during the act such as "You're so pretty, taking my cock like this..." "Don't worry about it, you're perfect." "Mh... I like the way you look like right now..."

Has a thing about size difference, loving the way you look so breedable and soft under him. It makes him go feral.

When you two can't do the act, especially when he is working in the cockpit and too busy for him to give you his dick, he pats his thighs so you can sit on his lap and asks you to give some space for his hand into your pants while he checks on the screen and dashboard. And that's on the finger-orgasm not too late after that.

Can be rough ONLY if you ask him to. That can be rare but when he does, he is fond of hearing the sound of his balls slapping against your ass while you sing his name with your tongue out.

[Daisuke Headcanons] - NSFW 🌺

Body Type.

Soft Giver / Noisy Switch / Leaning to Sub Top.

(Cis Daisuke) -> I feel like Daisuke is a little bigger than average, his dick is slightly curved upward when he's hard it's very very useful. :)

(Trans Daisuke for a friend 😘) -> I feel like Daisuke has a t-dick, he still takes his testosterone shots monthly on the Tulpar. Heard about many close friends that T makes you very horny, so...

Sit on his face. He adores the warm feeling growing into his chest when he looks up at you while you cry his name as you ride onto his tongue. It makes him smirk between your legs.

Daisuke has a playlist for sex, nothing too cliché but he does like to cover up the noises you both could make.

Has a thing about overstimulation, even though he looks like he is hurt, oh god he loves it and pleas for it.

"Baby, please..." "I've been a good boy, please please please..."

Messy guy, messy with you and makes a mess. Everything's stickyyyy. <3

No place around the Tulpar is safe, you guys did it everywhere. "Babe, I know it's not the moment but I was thinking about the lounge-" "I was WAITING for you to say that, let's go."

[writing-oof]

lucky

TW: Implied/referenced SA, Past SA, Pregnancy mention, implied abortion

You wish you were angry.

It's so, so much harder being scared.

---

The ship crashes before anything can change.

(or: anya tells daisuke about jimmy. then, the ship crashes.)

(or: or: this game has grabbed me by the throat. ur welcome)

Alt Day of @ailesswhumptober "If you weren't around, I'd be long dead by now."

[tiger-grace]

chat just hypothetically would you guys fw my Mouthwashing fanfiction if I wrote it in the future

it would only be about daisuke like solely about daisuke i love him with every bone in my body

[postcrashcurly]

Fever Dream by Heartilation on AO3 Chapter (?/10): Prologue Fandom: Mouthwashing Rating: Mature Topic: Canon Divergence/Modern AU Ships: NONE

Summary: "Since childhood, Curly has been haunted by vivid nightmares of a doomed space freighter and the tragic fate of its crew. One fateful evening at a coffee shop, he encounters a woman with a strikingly familiar face, only to discover she shares the same tormenting dreams about the Tulpar. Driven to uncover the truth behind their shared nightmares, the two set out to locate the remaining crew members and unravel the fragments of their dreams. Curly vows to rewrite the past and find closure."

Click HERE to read!

[monochromaticbutter]

"Goodbye, Captain"

Short one shot about Anya's last moments and some dialogue with Curly.

Please remember to mind the tags. Don't read this if the content is triggering to you.

[amrass]

Triple Sun part 3/3 is on Ao3

Fandom: Mouthwashing

Rating: E

Pairings/characters: Anya & Curly, Jim/Curly, Swansea, Daisuke

Tags/warnings: Canon-typical warnings, blood and gore, medical procedures, a focus on complicated co-worker relationships

Summary:  Curly's perspective of the Tulpar Disaster, told nonlinearly, and structured like the three zones of a burn wound. Includes the med bay scene, Jimmy's hallucinations manifesting in reality, and memories of the crew on Earth.

A/N: Thank you to those who have been following this series ❤️

Excerpt after the cut:

The sand was eerily white, and the waves crashed against it as if trying to crush the land to death. According to their history books the sea had been less violate before the climate changed, and now calm waves only existed on screens and in artificial or ancient sound files. 

Only when Anya stepped forward and Curly followed, did the crunches inform him that it wasn't sand they were walking upon, but small bony remains. Most of it was already crushed by hikers like them, but some heads and tails remained, like strange seashells in a slightly more organic shape. 

"A fish graveyard," he said. "Huh. I didn't know, I just put in the train coordinates."

"It's beautiful in a sad sort of way," she said, strangely peaceful. "I've wanted to see it for a long time, I just haven't found the time, always buried in my books. They say you can find more species on beaches like this, than all the newly created ones that exist."

"Human beings are evil," Curly said, shrugging.

[plushiefucker-moving]

this is really embarrassing, but i actually wrote my first proper fanfic that wasn't just a quick drabble in my notes app :'•) it is a daisuke centric fanfiction that deals with her past experiences of csa and also her gender identity. please read the tags carefully due to exploring themes that may be triggering to some !!! if u do read it, however, I'd really like it if u told me what u thought of it :'•) construction criticism is appreciated as always !