#mouthwashing fanfiction

[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."

[tenshx]

☼ boundaries ☼

➪ read it on ao3

✰ pairing: captain grant curly x reader

✰ word count: 5.4k words

✰ summary: curly finds that distance and time has done nothing to rid of the fact that he’s hopelessly in love with you.

✰ authors note: guess what gang,, i finally found the strength to finish writing this. 😎 I LOVE CURLY SM!! this whole story was him just basically being in love with the reader,, it’s almost 11 pm at night so there are probably errors, pls just ignore it till i revise.

Strange.

You haven’t gotten an emergency phone call for as long as you could recall. The past few months have been rather mundane, having the same clients here and there enter your office with the occasional new face that would eventually become a passing memory.

But you suppose it comes with the job of being a therapist in this rather small town.

You stare at the caller ID with blurred vision, mind fogged and voice scratchy from being abruptly woken up by your rather harsh ringtone blaring in your ear. You cringe at the sound— all too jovial and bright in contrast to such a gloomy and rainy evening. There’s a silent reminder in the back of your mind to set it to something more neutral, less frightening to the ears to ease your heart as you rouse.

With another glance at your bedside digital clock, you sigh— there was no excuse for you not to answer, agreeing to be on-call for most days at certain times. If they had only reached out thirty minutes later, you wouldn’t have to force yourself out of your nap.

Reluctantly, you answer, running a frustrated hand through your hair in hopes to release some stress. You quietly clear your throat, attempting to sound as if you hadn’t just woken up, trying to mimic a responsible human being working diligently instead of wasting their day away rotting.

Yet nothing could truly prepare you for the panic in your coworker's voice, her tone startling you a bit as you begin to sit up straight against the headboard of your bed. You don't even get a chance to speak, let alone say a greeting, before she’s bombarding you with a plethora of information that your mind could barely process in the span of a minute.

You try to slow her down; once, twice, before you give up entirely and allow her to speak freely, doing your best to listen and soak in as much as you could in your exhausted state. She’s blabbering about some urgent request they received for a patient that needed to be seen immediately, how this particular man was rescued from a stranded Pony Express ship that had been crashed years ago.

You’re intrigued now.

It had been years since you’ve heard that name, way back when the company had gone bankrupt and ultimately shut down with time.

It had been years since you’ve heard anything regarding that company. Last time being..

Then suddenly, she says a name, one all too familiar with you and you suddenly feel cold, mouth feeling like cotton as shock and disbelief set in. Your surroundings seemingly freeze, the air feeling incredibly dense as you try to ground yourself.

This had to be some kind of joke— they said he had been presumed deceased, his file eventually collecting dust in your cabinet as they ended their search for the Tulpar ship a long while back.

Somehow through the paralyzation, you manage to speak, but it comes out as a whisper in a voice you don’t recognize.

“.. What did you just say?”

She stops for a moment, hearing your almost skeptical tone, but eventually answers with a deep breath.

“Your former patient, Grant Curly. He was rescued about a while back and had been undergoing medical procedures and physical therapy. They gave him the green light to begin therapy for his mental state and..”

You don’t hear the rest as reality attempts to pull you back down, hand gripping your phone a bit tightly, trying to make sense of the situation. While he was your patient, you both considered each other friends rather than a professional relationship.

He came in quite often to confide in you about his passing issues; his family, relationships with friends, his job and education and the pressure that came with it.

His very last appointment, one that you remembered clearly— your last memory of him — he spoke about that very same ship he was stranded in, how he had a sinking feeling he couldn’t describe, how he was trying something new by dragging one of his closest friends into the delivery as his co-pilot.

You forget his name — Joe? Jerald? Jimothy? You shake your head. That doesn’t sound right. You do, however, remember how he mentioned that his friend was trouble, a convicted felon at his young age, and that maybe this would help him get a fresh start. A reset at life.

He was always so kind at heart, wanting the best for everyone around him. It was always a trait you admired deeply about him, a simplistic thing that picked him out of the crowds of patients admitted into your office.

You want to think more, remember Curly from the deepest part of your memories, but your coworker cuts your mind short of it.

“.. He’s different now,” she says and you hold your breath, not sure how to respond at this point. “At least thats’ what I’ve heard. I.. I’m not sure how to describe his injuries, but he’s not the same.”

Of course he wouldn’t be. What good could come out of being stranded in a dark abyss, especially with any kind of injury? His emotional and mental state had to be fucked up in some way.

But you don’t want to think further than that. You don’t want to vision your friend’s suffering.

“Okay,” is all you manage to croak out, not wanting to continue this conversation at the moment. You’re not sure how to cope with the news, how to deal with the resurfacing emotions that you thought you’ve overcome the past few years. Your stomach feels queasy and you feel your throat closing in.

You find that sleep doesn’t come easy that night.

⁂

You don’t know what to expect when you enter the office. The usual calm music doesn’t sound as soothing, the aromatic oils you usually set up first thing in the morning smells a bit more churning than relaxing.

They tell you he’s ready, a few rooms over as he waits for his scheduled appointment time. Twenty minutes isn’t enough time to prepare yourself, hands frantically grabbing your clipboard along with his updated file. Fourth degree burns, amputated limbs, damaged vocal chords, and several other injuries you couldn’t stomach yourself to read. They said it was speculated he crashed the ship, but his refusal to talk left the rumor unconfirmed.

Somehow, you don't believe it. He was in a slightly jumbled mental state before his departure, but it wasn’t enough for him to commit something so devastating and cruel.

You convince yourself twenty minutes isn’t time but fail ultimately. The past week since the news dropped should’ve been more than enough for you to process.

But it isn’t. No amount of time will ever be.

So with another shaky sip of your coffee and a final look of your reflection through your computer screen, you let out a deep breath before pushing yourself out of your chair.

⁂

You’re not sure who you’re staring at.

Maybe you’re dreaming, you had to be.

He was different, both physically and mentally — you knew that his burns and amputations were an incredibly clear sign he’d be basically unidentifiable, but you weren’t sure what you were expecting.

His one eye, the same vibrant blue you’d remember from anywhere, staring at you with a mixture of unfamiliarity and familiarity all at once as he looks up from where he sits. There’s a surgical mask covering the bottom of his face, a beanie covering his head, and a patch covering his right eye in an attempt to cover the damage done, but it honestly doesn’t do much. His leathery and irritated skin gives it away along with his amputated limbs, now adorned with prosthetics he doesn’t seem to be used to.

Then you realize you’re gawking at him almost, jaw open a bit and eyes wide in a way that could come off as rude. But you don’t mean to be, you’d never be — not with him. You’re horrified, a bit sickened by his appearance, not because he looks appalling and unpleasant to the eye, but because it suddenly strikes you that he isn’t the same man you’ve known for years.

You clear your throat and he tenses a bit, sitting up straight with his gaze still fixed on you. He’s almost like a puppy yearning to be beckoned, as if waiting for you to recognize him.

“I..” Your throat feels dry but you try to push past, not wanting him to feel uncomfortable. “It’s nice to see you again, Grant.”

You haven’t said his name since he was pronounced dead, knowing that you encouraged him to depart, unaware that you were sending him off into his impending doom. An unfathomable guilt blooms in your chest, realizing that you were involved in the consequence of his current state.

He doesn’t stop staring, as if trying to observe you properly, his eye scanning you from head to toe before you offer him a strained smile, making your way to your chair. There’s a part of you that wonders if he recognizes you despite age finally catching up a bit to mature your features more than before, if he remembers the sound of your voice that danced with his during his sessions.

But regardless of your attempts to keep things professional, the words escape the proximity of your lips before you could push it down.

“Do you remember me?”

You can’t help but ask, voice quiet and hesitant, wanting to break the silence but unsure of how to.

He doesn’t respond at first and you believe you’re passing memory for him for a mere second, a drop forming in your stomach, but he spares you a nod and your eyes light up a bit. Your shoulders visibly relax and his does too at the soft smile forming on your face, his hands slowly loosening around the fabric of his pants. His eye then falls on the notepad provided for him as if he wants to tell you something, vocal chords still damaged and voice box still under maintenance.

So in response, you gently move the table closer to him, lightweight and cheap, providing him with one of your pens shortly after. You’re not sure if this is what he wants, but as he moves his prosthetic arm shakily to grab and scribble something nearly incomprehensible on the paper, an obvious sign that he was still working his way through his new limbs, you realize you’re still able to read him the same way you have before.

It takes him a bit to write but eventually, his hand retreats back to his side, him rolling his shoulder a bit in an attempt to stretch it. You pull the notepad closer to you, deciphering his writing to the best of your abilities.

‘You look the same. How could I forget?’

You blink a few times, rereading the same scribbled line before a small laugh leaves your mouth at the lightheartedness of his comment. Deep in your heart, you assumed he’d write something dreadful or heart wrenching, perhaps even something that you wouldn’t understand, but it’s something so simple and strange that it forces a smile out of you. It reminds you that there’s still a part of him buried deep despite everything.

“I’m not sure if that's an insult,” you banter a bit and he shakes his head as vehemently as he can, not wanting to give you the wrong idea.

With Curly— the most honest and selfless man you’ve met— you dont think he’d ever let you think otherwise.

He doesn’t say much after that, but he continues to stare, his bright blue eye almost piercing through you. You want to say more, you want to tell him how you’ve missed him terribly and the conversations you’ve both shared. How he’s made such a big impact in your life in such a short amount of time and that when he disappeared, leaving you behind, everything just—

Thirty minutes was all he had left of this session, all that his insurance was willing to cover. So with a deep breath and another smile, you sit straight and organize your papers.

You nudge the notepad towards him, “Whenever you’re ready, I’m all ears.”

⁂

Curly’s not sure how to feel about all this.

One minute, his life is turned upside down, him being the ultimate cause of his crews doom and the next, he’s being rescued from that same ship, a silent offering of a second chance at life.

One he doesn’t deserve, but was selflessly given anyway.

Recovery is difficult, having to navigate through the basics again, having all this unwanted attention at him. People wanting to interview him left and right, others looking at him with disgust while others look with sympathy and pity.

Curly’s not sure how to feel about anything, really. He’s not even sure if he’s even feeling or if he’s simply forcing himself to act human again despite being trapped in an endless void of despair — in a body he can barely recognize.

He’s lost most of his friends. Many of them refused to involve themselves with him for a few reasons; his sudden changed appearance being the first and him being the sole blame of the intentionally crashed freight ship being the next. As much as he wanted to keep them in his life, he knew he was far too exhausted to explain everything.

His family situation is a bit better, but with all their constant pushes to talk about what happened, to communicate with them, he feels a bit pressured. It doesn’t help that his mother cries in devastation almost every time she sees her once successful and perfect son in absolute shambles. He’s never made his mother cry in such a way, only with tears of pride and joy.

He’s not sure if he can take much more, every blow heavier than the last.

Then somewhere between the lines of recovery, his doctor brings up therapy, suggesting the same clinic you worked in, and he feels nauseous at the idea of seeing you. You’ve been on his mind since the moment he’s gained consciousness once everything truly settled, him valuing the connection you both shared more than most of his other relationships.

Curly instantly denies with a desperate shake of his head, realizing how afraid he truly was. He’s unable to handle another rejection, especially not from you, one of the people he’s held the utmost respect for.

His doctor tells him to sit on it, think it through, claiming how this would be a healthy outlet for him to ventilate his emotions to help him recover steadily.

He does for a few weeks, especially with the pressure from his parents, considering several options. He can either find a new therapist, resort to online therapy, maybe even confide in a support group, but he finds that he can’t stray away from the idea of seeing you again after all these years. The thought of him never knowing if you’d accept him or not lingers far more than the fear of rejection sitting in his heart.

For him, that alone was enough motivation for him to set an appointment, both relieved and terrified to see your name pop up in the system just like old times, his throat feeling tight at the thought of seeing you again.

Before he knows it, his appointment chases him faster than he could process the whole situation. He feels queasy as he sits idly in his assigned room, his hands shakily doing its best to pull on the fabric of his sweatpants.

He’s nervous, absolutely mortified, wondering if he’s made a mistake setting this appointment. A handful of unbearable scenarios begin to form in his already anxious mind; you staring at him in disgust, you leaving the room in horror, or him being completely wiped from your memory.

He flinches at that thought; he’s not sure if he finds comfort in knowing that he's basically nonexistent to you, realizing that he could walk away without any repercussions and allow you to live your life freely without having to explain his disappearance or if he’d be heartbroken, having to come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t as valuable in your life like you were to him.

But as you walk through the door with a faint knock, your eyes wide and mouth agape, he feels himself shrink, yet there’s a blossom of yearning in his chest as he gazes at you with absolute desperation and awe.

In a flash of a second, every poor attempt of him convincing himself that things would be better otherwise suddenly diminishes into thin air.

He wants you to remember him, yearning for that once close connection you both shared before everything happened. A deep part of his soul hoped you were reminiscing the same way he was, recalling all the memories you’ve both built together as friends, despite Curly feeling something more.

Like a melody, his name escapes your lips, the soft, comforting sound of your voice almost intimate to him. He’d love it whenever you’d grace him with the sound of his name, feeling almost special coming from you.

When you take a seat close to him, the nostalgic scent of your perfume brushing against him, he almost forgets to answer your question.

“Do you remember me?”

Of course he does. He always has, even on the brink of death. Forgetting you would be a crime in his eyes— you were everything to him before he left and just maybe, his feelings aren’t as different as he sought it out to be.

The only thing that breaks him out of his trance is the defeated expression on your face and he realizes you might’ve hoped as much as he has. So with a quick and simple shake of his head, he sees your eyes light up and a smile form on your face and he realizes his feelings would never change for you, even if it was one-sided.

He also registers in a small span of ten minutes that he still needs a lot of practice with the new attachments to his body, his fingers awkwardly holding the pen, using all the strength he could to write something comprehensible at the very least.

Curly learns he’s a man of words, wanting to tell you everything but not being able to. He has this itch to express how much he’s missed you, how he's never stopped thinking about returning home and telling you everything like he always has, how you still hold your beauty despite the years coming, and how he'd finally confess and tell you he’s loved you for as long as he could remember.

But he settles—frustrated—with a simple message, telling you that yes, he remembers you and no, he would never forget.

He feels himself grow a bit breathless at your familiar laugh as you reread the paper several times, growing nervous at the sudden tension between you two leaving— as if he's never left in the first place. As if he was the same man you remember him as before all this.

The perfect Captain Grant Curly.

⁂

It’s almost as if a part of you is back home.

He sets an appointment almost twice every week whenever he isn’t bombarded with his physical therapy and checkups, just like he always has. Sessions are just as you recalled, the spark between you two still as bright as ever, but with his added trauma, bad days were definitely inevitable.

There were times he’d invest himself into the conversation, sharing jokes or simply just listening and replying in any way he can, and there were those moments where he wouldn’t spare you a word or glance, just wanting to bask in your company in his dampened state.

Even on his worst days, you don’t question him. Pressure was the last thing he needed and with time, you were sure he’d slowly open up.

He does, but scarcely, throwing fragments of his memories that you try to piece together whenever you could, wanting nothing more but to understand and help him. There’s an ocean of emotions in his gaze as he attempts to share his experience on the freight ship; fear, devastation, and panic filling his expression faster than he can pull it from the air.

So you tell him to take his time, that you’ll always be there, and that alone builds the comfort in him to return to your office without hesitation.

Recovery is easier with you.

It’s never been easier. For once, someone is on his side and he knew it’d be you at the end of the road waiting for him.

You always have, even before Pony Express, before anyone else.

So when he finally receives his voice box, finalized and complete to his liking, he finds himself rushing to your apartment, taking the next uber to your door. He’s aware it's late— you’re probably getting ready for bed, relaxing on your day off like you deserve to, but he can’t wait.

He wants you to be the first to hear his voice after so long into his recovery after offering yours for so long, his name so delicate in your mouth.

It’s nearly seven at night when he's at your doorstep, faint knocks echoing through the empty halls of the buildings as he anxiously waits outside, hoping that his appearance wouldn’t attract attention from any passers or your neighbors.

Yet none of that matters as he hears muffled footsteps coming from the other side, the silence allowing his anxiety to grow for a mere second before he hears you.

“Grant—?“ He hears you fumble with the door lock before the knob turns and you come into view, wide eyed and confused.

He doesn’t have the patience to properly observe you or spare you an explanation on why he's at your flat at such an odd time of the day. He knows he should’ve texted you like he usually does before ever meeting up, but it’s different.

This is different.

Your name leaves his lips in a whisper, riddled with emotion and a bit of static, cutting you off immediately. Advanced technology is fascinating, able to match his voice as much as he could allow it to be, the familiarity of it knocking the breath out of your lungs. You feel weak in the knees, paralyzed and overwhelmed at the sudden surprise on a random Saturday.

When you don’t reply, lips trembling a bit and expression full of emotion, he takes a step forward, wanting to reach out but also resists to respect your boundaries.

“I—,” he tries to break the silence, wanting nothing more but your approval. “I wanted you to be the first.”

You’re choked up, wanting to say something to him, but the sound of his voice that you haven’t heard in years drowns you in a sea of tears that begin to spill out. You try to wipe them away before they could leave wet trails down your cheek, but it doesn’t go unnoticed. It never does with Curly.

He decides that he’s already broken your boundaries by showing up unannounced, so he takes another chance, moving to envelope you in a gentle embrace, murmuring apologies, muffled through his surgical mask. You don’t shy away from his affection, leaning your head against his chest for a moment to collect yourself before inviting him inside.

⁂

Your apartment remains his safe space, unchanged and truly home from what he last remembered.

He slowly stops setting appointments and instead, shows up at your doorstep, a silent agreement between you both. It feels more private, more intimate, and he feels more welcomed here than the clinic you worked for.

He remembered the night before he left, flowers in hand and him laying next to you on your carpeted floor as you both stared at the ceiling, talking about the future and what he’d do after his final trip. He had mentioned resigning, wanting to do more with his life other than being a captain and you had listened in, wanting to ease his worries before he left.

If only you had known, you would’ve never let him step foot off of the ground. Maybe if you had, things would’ve been different.

But for him, you were always his safe space and continued to be. Despite his world crumbling, that would never change.

“It wasn’t me,” he says unexpectedly as he looks at the ceiling, both of you laying on the floor of the dimmed living room. You turn your head to face him, seeing his defeated expression as he sunk his head into the pillow. “I didn’t…”

He pauses for a moment and you remained unmoved, eyes piercing through him, “.. I wasn’t the one who crashed the ship.”

When you don’t say anything and instead scoot closer to him, he realizes you’re listening and before he knows it, everything spills out, the gate finally breaking open. Only then, you learn how distraught and regretful he is as he explains everything, knowing that you’re only able to hear him— not as a therapist, but as his friend.

You’re mortified hearing the story— of course Jimmy had been the cause of all this. You’ve met him once or twice whenever Curly swung by to drop you something in your office or apartment and he was definitely unfriendly, often glancing at you with judgement and annoyance. You’re not even sure if he properly introduced himself.

Everything his crew had been through because of his selfishness, along with Curly’s blindness to see through his friend’s mistakes. You knew him being a good-hearted person would cost him one day, but you didn’t think in the worst way possible. It was a mistake and while you can’t excuse some of his actions, the last thing he needed was unsolicited advice and chiding from your end.

So you move closer to him, shoulders nearly touching before you slide your hand between his prosthetic one, slowly interlocking your fingers between his. He feels you lean your head against his shoulder, him tiredly sighing before resting his head on yours.

“It should’ve been me,” he says in a moment of defeat, shoulders slumped. “Shouldn’t have given Jimmy a chance. Maybe my crew would’ve been alive.”

You’re not sure what to say to him right now, but you spare him your company to remind him that you’re here with open arms.

To remind him that you’re his safe space.

⁂

“You know,” Curly starts, eyes set on the television as he speaks. “I just wanted to thank you.”

You look up from your book, your sight falling on Curly who was cozied up on the couch with a throw blanket you bought him a few nights ago. The cup of herbal tea you made him about half an hour back had gone cold or room temperature at best, the steam wafting from it moments ago now vanished into thin air.

He seems to pause before speaking again, “For everything.”

With a tilt of your head, you hum in confusion, watching him fiddle with the fabric laid gently over his shoulders. He notices your curious gaze, coughing awkwardly to clear his throat.

“You’re the only person that’s made everything bearable,” he explains simply, his eyes still trained on the screen in front of him. “Even before the whole.. incident, I haven’t really depended on anyone more than I have with you. I’ve told you everything about me and even at my worst, you haven’t left.”

He knows it’s supposed to be a professional relationship; a therapist to their client, that’s all it was supposed to be. Curly was always so adamant about keeping his work and relationships separate out of the sake of professionalism, but this is different.

You’re different.

This isn’t casual— it hasn’t been since the moment he’s pushed his boundaries, developing a strange relationship with you outside of your office. It’s been anything but that since the day he’s asked for your personal number outside of work, shyly asked to meet up outside of his scheduled appointments, and even going as far as stepping inside of your personal home, the safest place he’s ever found himself in.

He finally looks up at you, wanting to know what you think of this. Wanting to know what you think of him outside of a client.

You offer him a lazy, but comforting smile, shrugging nonchalantly, “No need to thank me. Besides, isn’t that what friends are for?”

He seems to almost deflate at your response, but tries to reassure himself that this is what he wanted to hear. That, at the very least, you considered him something beyond another one of your clients. He should be happy, grateful that you’ve wanted anything to do with him.

Yet—

“Friends?” He lets out a quiet snicker under his breath, feeling his nerves get the best of him. His eyes start to travel, down to his hands clenching the delicate fabric of his pants, to the abandoned coffee mug, and anywhere but at you in fear of your reaction.

He’s decided he’d push his limits one last time, crossing a line that he knows he shouldn’t. You’re silent and he’s more so, swallowing nervously as the quietness begins to crawl up his spine in a manner that terrifies him. The words are itching, scratching its way out his throat as if bile threatened to make its exit.

“Is that all I am to you?” Curly laughs— not in a way that would ease the tension nor lighten the mood, but in a sense of coping, his mind jumbled and in an attempt to soothe the thundering of his heartbeat traveling to his ears. Realizing that it was far too late to go back now, his voice grows a bit quieter as he continues to speak. “By now, I thought that maybe—“

He refuses to glance, but despite his attempts to avoid your eyes, he still somehow feels the sharpness of your gaze piercing through him. You were always an open book to him— easy to read and almost predictable, but right now, he can’t make out the expression you might have on.

He tries to convince himself that maybe it’s shock or a sense of flattery and joy, but the thought of your features twisted in a disgusted manner, revolted that someone of his nature— a freak— would confess to someone as flawless as you washes away any ounce of hope rising in his chest.

It feels like forever and he’s about ready to take your silence as a rejection, already mustering up a reassuring answer to save you from the guilt and awkwardness as his mouth begins to open. He finds that he’s unable to finish his sentence, almost berating himself for taking such a risk.

Then you speak, his mind suddenly blanking, the sound of his pulse racing through his ears.

“You’d thought by now, that maybe what?” your voice is meek, yet gentle, encouraging him to continue.

He doesn’t respond, unsure of how to, suddenly losing the bravery he wore proudly moments ago. Yet, the sound of his name leaving your mouth cuts him out of his trance, resurfacing that little bit of hope drowning in his embarrassment and shame.

“Grant Curly.”

It takes all his courage, but he manages to build the strength to look up at you, eyes meeting yours. There’s an almost serious expression on your face, but the slight flush of your cheeks almost tears your stoic facade down immediately. There’s a glimmer in your eye, as if waiting for a confirmation, and he’s sworn you’ve never looked more beautiful.

The words leave his mouth faster than he can rip it from the air.

“That we’d be something more,” it's almost a whisper, almost breathless, but loud enough for you to hear. “After all we’ve been through, I was hoping you’d see me more than just a friend.”

A wave of emotions cross your features; shock, disbelief, and then joy as a grin forms on your face, cheeks painted a vibrant hue. He’s never seen such a lively glow on you, his chest burning terribly as if all the air was pushed out of his lungs, mesmerized.

He doesn’t get a response instantly, but you quickly close the distance between you both as you nearly leap off the couch, your answer clear as day.

Good thing Curly was never great at keeping boundaries whenever it came to you.

[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.

[askdrunkjimmy]

Ownership by Heartilation on AO3 [based off this post] Fandom: Mouthwashing Ship: JimCurly Rating: Explicit (18+)

Summary: Curly much preferred the taste of cigarettes and the rich mouthfeel of bourbon, that addictive, aged vanilla and caramel profile he couldn’t get enough of. It matched his own taste to a degree; the same Marlboro lights that vaguely yellowed his teeth bit at the weatherline of Jimmy’s lips.

Click here to read

[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."

[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 :)

[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,

[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

[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.

[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.

[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.