hey hey! do you have any rules for requests? just wanna make sure me and my fellow mouthwashers (is that what we’re called? hell if i know) don’t overstep any boundaries at all!
tell me why i forgot to ever put my guidelines down LMFAOOAOA
STUFF I WRITE FOR: jjk, chainsaw man, mouth washing, legend of zelda, love and deepspace, gachiakuta, and more coming !
there’s also a ton of stuff i love that i don’t write for soooo just ask me ab it and i probably wanna talk ab it 😈
OKAY GUIDELINES
THINGS I WILL WRITE:
fluff & angst — full fics, drabbles, headcanons
AUs are also a yes — full fics, drabbles, headcanons
cheesy tropes — idc i live for ts send them in
smut - headcanons, drabbles
all gender readers! i lean towards more gn and f readers but i’m never gonna write off any gender
i’m a strict x reader writer — the most you’ll get is slight mentions of ships in long fics
THINGS I WILL NOT WRITE:
dead dove do not eat — no way in hell bro 💀
furry stuff — no shade meant i’m just not experienced with it!! furthest i’ll go is like A/B/O au stuff
dubcon, noncon, etc (all assault related stuff) — not comfortable w it. if i include it in a story (HIGHLY unlikely) it’ll be a timeskip
freaky stuff like scat and foot stuff — eugh. i might mention feet stuff as a joke but never for serious
trust me guys if i don’t like the request i just won’t answer it 💀
You've been through a very, very bad accident that left you in a six month coma from which you just woke up. You're alive, you're back! Except you have no memory of anything. Your parents are elder and live in another state, the nurses inform you, and the only person able to take you in is none other than your husband. You're married, by the way. Now you're going through the process of learning, once again, how to be you while trying not to lose this version of yourself.
Therapy night means two hours where you’re in a room that helps, and he’s out in a world that doesn’t. He uses the gap to line things up, lock things down, pay the quiet prices that come with the machine he runs.
Tonight it takes more than it should.
By the time he gets upstairs his shirt sticks at the collar and the raw edge under his knuckles has opened again inside the wrap.
He plans to make it nothing. Shower, food he won’t taste, a joke if you need one, sleep if your head allows. He keys the lock and finds you in the armchair with a blanket and your hair pulled back like you gave up trying to tame it. The lamp is low.
You look up once and he knows you know.
He keeps his face neutral. You don’t ask. You stand, cross the room, and take his hand in the exact grip you always used — thumb on the side of his palm, a small pull that says move.
He lets you.
He hates how relieved he is by that alone.
Not the bath.
Not tonight.
You pass the hall where the light hits the tiles and steer him into the kitchen. Kettle. Mug.
He leans on the counter because if he doesn’t he’ll lean on you and he refuses to put that in your arms after you spent two hours holding your own.
“You want the strong one,” you say.
Not a question. You already have the tin in your hand.
He watches you measure, watches water go to boil, watches you rotate the mug so the chip points away from him the way he always does for you. It hits him in a stupid place.
He covers it by unwrapping his hand and rewinding the tape with his teeth.
“Gimme that,” you say, and he hands it over like he didn’t want the help.
You tape him clean, snug, the way you did before, your mouth set like you’re fixing a hinge.
“Good?” you ask.
“Yeah.”
You carry the mug to the living room, put it on the table, then point at the floor like you own it.
“Sit.”
He snorts.
Tired comes out as mean if he isn’t careful.
He sits anyway, back against the couch, knees bent, his size turning him into furniture whether he likes it or not.
You climb onto the couch behind him, legs open to bracket his shoulders, and your hands go straight into his hair.
He didn’t realize how close he was to cracking until your nails find his scalp.
It’s a clean, dumb relief.
He shuts his eyes because they try to sting and he has a hard rule — you don’t mop him up, not now, not yet.
He lets his head tip back an inch into your palms.
The first slow pass from crown to nape erases a layer of noise he didn’t have a name for until it’s gone.
He remembers telling you in the hospital — of all the details he could have picked — I like when you play with my hair.
He’d said it to give you a thing you could do that wouldn’t break either of you.
You heard it and kept it.
This is exactly that.
No steam. No tub. No old choreography where you’d haul him by the wrist and he’d fold to it and then return the favor until the bed complained.
He grieves that version for a second, ugly and fast and files it with the rest. He can’t afford to mix memory with need when your day already demands enough.
“Tea,” you remind him, soft.
He reaches for the mug and you pass it down so he doesn’t have to move.
Heat and bitter and something that tastes like a room with the door shut and the noise outside. He drinks, your nails drag slow lines over his scalp, a pattern he recognizes without thinking — three strokes, scratch at the base, pause, repeat.
You did it when you liked him, when you wanted him quiet, when you were bored and pretending not to be.
You’re doing it now because you noticed he needed quiet more than talk.
“I’m fine,” he says, out of reflex.
“You look like a man who picked a fight with a wall and blamed the wall,” you answer, fingers never stopping.
He huffs.
“Wall started it.”
“Shut up,” you tell him, which is exactly the right amount of disrespect.
He lets out a line of air that isn’t quite a laugh. His shoulders lower a notch under your knees.
He can feel the rest of the night he isn’t giving you sitting behind his ribs, tapped and waiting — the call that ran too long, the guy who wanted to see how far a threat could travel, the delivery that arrived with a scrape on a place that should never have had a scrape.
He wants to hand it to you because you always handled it better than anyone, with a look and a question that made him choose sense over heat. He doesn’t. He drinks the tea and lets you decide his next ten minutes.
“You’re not bleeding on the rug, are you,” you ask, practical.
“No.”
“Good.” Your thumbs push into the tight spot near his temples. His eyes roll back without permission. You catch it. “Relax.”
He does, and hates that word less when you say it.
The room goes small in the good way — lamp, table, your knees a weight he trusts, his mug warm in his hand. The off-key song he hums when he’s trying not to snap shows up in his throat without sound.
You scratch behind his ear the way you learned made him melt and he almost says more like a fool.
He swallows it.
“How bad,” you ask after a minute, not digging, just taking inventory.
“Bad enough,” he says. “Handled.”
You don’t force a deeper answer. You shift up, catch a handful of his hair, and work your nails along his scalp in small half-circles.
He feels the tight places give. It’s not romantic.
It’s better.
It’s effective.
He takes another drink.
“You’re going to ruin me for every chair,” he mutters.
“That’s the point.”
His mouth pulls without his consent.
“There she is.”
You go quiet, but your hands keep moving. The right one finds the old nick in his hairline. You trace it once and let it go.
He didn’t think he had room in him for happy tonight, turns out it was waiting for something as dumb as that.
The tea cools. He sets it down and stays put.
You adjust so your heels don’t go numb, stretch a little wider, knees pressing his shoulders.
He sits under you like a house made to be leaned on. He hates how much he likes it.
He hates that he almost asks you to slide down into his lap and see where it goes, because he knows where it goes, and he knows why you made tea instead of steam and why your hands are in his hair instead of on his throat.
He was a bastard for years and he got used to you fixing it by setting him on fire.
You’re not doing that tonight.
You’re cooling him off.
He can learn.
“You smell like the street,” you say, not accusing.
“I’ll shower.”
“Later,” you decide. “This first”
So he waits and enjoys.
He lets you do the slow work — scratches, little pressure at the base, a pull that makes his shoulders loosen like a knot he’d forgotten about. He feels like he could fold and put his head on your thigh and stop pretending to be made of iron.
He doesn’t.
He holds.
Not for you — for him.
You gave him the room. He can stand up in it.
You bend, put your mouth near the crown of his head, and say, “Stay.”
Not a command, an invite.
It flips a switch he didn’t know was still accessible.
He stays.
He thinks about the past — how you’d see him come in late and give him that look that meant shower, bed, shut up, and he would, and then the night would go hard and mean and perfect.
He misses it like a limb that still itches. He grieves it once again, clean, so it doesn’t bleed into this version. He files the grief and pours what’s left into the part where you made him tea and caught him at the door with one look and put your hands in his hair because he told you he liked it and you remembered.
“Thank you,” he says, which is not a word he’s good at. You hear it anyway.
You tap his shoulder.
“Finish your tea. Then shower. Then you can fall down.”
He picks up the mug and drinks the last swallow. It’s gone lukewarm and still hits right.
He stands slow so he doesn’t jar you, turns, and catches your face with his eyes like he’s trying to make a copy to carry to the bathroom.
You look at him like you know exactly what he’s doing.
You don’t say a thing.
“Back in five,” he says.
“Four,” you say, because you like to win.
He snorts again, easier this time, and goes.
Water. Soap. Shirt he doesn’t deserve to ruin.
When he comes back, you’ve flipped the blanket and made room. He drops down on the floor again, back to the couch, and you fold him into the same frame — knees against his shoulders, hands in his hair, tempo set.
He doesn’t cry.
He could.
The line is right there.
He lets it sit and not spill.
What he does do is let his chin drop and his shoulders go slack and his jaw unclench.
You feel it and answer by dragging your nails a little rougher.
He makes a sound he’d deny. You don’t tease him.
“Better?” you ask, later.
“Yeah,” he says, and it’s honest. “You noticed.”
“Of course I noticed.”
He hears what you didn't say.
You noticed because you're his wife.
He nods, once.
That pulls something deep and good through his chest. He didn’t think he’d get this back — being seen without having to raise his voice or break something to telegraph it.
He doesn’t say any of that.
He stays where you put him and takes what you give and calls it what it is, enough.
Rouxls Kaard is hands down the funniest Deltarune character. Every time he shows up he’s always up to the new dumbest fucking thing you’ve ever heard of and is somehow consistently inventing new ways to lose at literally everything. Incredible.
guys whatever you do do NOT like three Radiohead posts on instagram reels late at night it sent me down a rabbit hole of vent posts and now im crying what the hell
i have so many romance plots and regular plots in my head but i hate writing dialogue because it becomes so apparent that every character holds a piece of me that becomes increasingly apparent the more they develop and that accountability of acknowledging that all my characters are by some extension self inserts is not something i want to face
like its like holding up a piece of my soul and another piece of my soul and making them kiss
I hate to break it to you guys but I'm going on an indefinite hiatus :(
it's been amazing having so many people's support for my writing and meeting others on this platform!! i'm definitely going to come back
I'm just struggling with burnout from school and intense Christmas stress and family issues so my motivation is really low
AUURGGGHH I NEED MORE MOUTHWASHING X READER !!!!!! mayhaps Anya, daisuke, and curly with a flirty fem or gn reader?? or literally anything idc I don't have a lot of ideas i just want someone to write about the pookies 😔
I GET YOU I GET YOU I just need the content or I'll die and turn into a pile of dust
Mouthwashing x gn!Flirty Reader characters included: daisuke, anya, curly tw: none, fluff <3, pre-crash because they obviously made it home right guys. right
daisuke
okay look i love him but lets be so honest he has no game. like negative
when you two get comfortable enough to be friends (and he's figured out he likes you), he’ll try to make these cheesy flirty comments that fall flat on their faces
embarrassing enough as is but. oh man
once you start flirting back??
he’s gone. won’t function. the first innuendo drops from your lips and he's blue screening
he’ll just kinda stop, go wide eyed and go “…huh??”
he wasn’t expecting two things: the fact that you just said that to his face and the fact that he highkey liked it
from that point on, he’s gonna try his best to match up to your flirting game
(doesn’t work) (at all)
Kinda thinks of every interaction as a competition to get you back for surprising him that first time
hypothetically! if he manages to do it? he’s going crazy
in his head he’s jumping around twirling his hair confetti cannons etc etc
Outwards he might just be smiling super big and teasing you a tad (doesn’t want to gloat because he doesn't want to be a jerk and wants the flirting thing you two have to keep going)
doesn't care if you do it in front of the others, just maybe not inn front of swansea
(feels like his dad is watching him try to flirt with a girl)
OVERALL: he likes it sm. It just freaks him out when you do it out of nowhere when he’s not prepared because he needs to get you back
anya
okay she doesn't seem the type to flirt before you two get comfortable
she's a sweet woman with respect and care for you, I doubt she'll go around saying she wants to.. do things, yk
when you start flirting, she'll def be caught off guard
"...excuse me?"
kinda just goes blank and super awkward the first few times
you def have to tell her/show that it's not genuine when you first start flirting w her so she doesn't get freaked out
settles into the idea slowly, goes from awkwardly smiling to laughing at your antics
in her head (once she's used to it) she's just thinking that each innuendo is a little piece of character she likes about you
appreciates your humor in the long run bc she needs it sometimes
answers usually with "oh, stop it," or "oh my gosh," with a little smile
just make sure to do it in moderation, she might feel a little objectified if done too much all at once yk
OVERALL: thinks it's funny and a little cute! lightens her mood
curly
he stays pretty professional with it lowk
does get way more casual with the flirting/innuendos but it's only in private when the others aren't there to witness it
he personally thinks it's unprofessional for a captain to have a crush (silly as it sounds) on his subordinate so he's very cautious
however. you start doing it, and he's not sure if he's making it up or if he genuinely heard you flirt. with him
in his mind, he's just done a fist pump
he's happy because it means you're actually trying to have fun with him and he can finally let loose!!
from that point on, your relationship would most likely blossom
he'd shoot you looks that say "wtf" if you flirt with him in front of the others but in private you two are so casual with it
doesn't faze him actually
if he's tired and a little loopy when you two are going back and forth he'll start laughing really heartily at it
only makes you more like someone he can really relax around while on the job
OVERALL: he like likes it. just stay professional with it, yk
can you guys tell who's my favorite LMFAO sorry if it's a little ooc I'm working on it trust anyways love u guys and send in more requests!!
could you do post crash curly x reader relationship headcanons with someone who is still loving and caring towards even after all the changes he has gone through and just wants him to get better
for all u curly whores out there. love u
Homecoming curly x gn reader wc: 1.66k tw: description of post-crash curly, fluff because he needs it
It's been 17 years since he disappeared.
You knew the risks of dating someone who worked in space, who took year long expeditions out in the vast unknowns of the galaxy. In fact, you took it in pride that your relationship still thrived every time he would come home to you.
In fact, you were anticipating his return this time around even more, mainly because of the ring he had slipped on your finger a week before he departed.
Curly, your fiancé. The love of your life. This was just like any of his longer expeditions, a year long.
And then that year passed. And he didn't come home.
You fought with the company for three years after that, overcome with grief and terror at the thought of your fiancé out there with his crew in the middle of space with no outside contact. The company did nothing but give you empty promises that "they were trying their best."
A fourth year passed, then a fifth. You felt that hope that Curly would return waver.
A sixth year, a seventh, then an eighth. Your hope had faded. You loved him, you did. But he was gone. And there was nothing you could do.
It’s been 17 years since he disappeared.
You tried to move on. You tried to find another man like him, kind and funny and everything you ever needed. That whole pathetic ordeal failed miserably. You were left alone, crying in bed, thumbing at your engagement ring.
You're out grocery shopping one day when you get a phone call from an unknown number. You answer, quietly going, "Hello?"
The person on the other end answers back, voice urgent. You hear the news you never thought you'd hear.
You almost don’t believe it. It must be some kind of new hacker, one that would use something like this against you.
But would it hurt to believe for once that maybe, just maybe…?
Your hand goes white-knuckled around your phone in fear of dropping it, eyes helplessly wide. You need to get to the hospital. Now.
When you get there, there's an enormous crowd. Reporters and interviewers clog the hospital loading area, where nurses and doctors are trying to push a patient covered by a white sheet into the hospital.
You walk, then jog, then run. He's here. He made it. 17 years stuck in space, and he made it.
You force yourself past the crowd, elbowing people to avoid getting trampled. You yell over the commotion to the receptionist, and she calls a nurse to escort you to his room.
Everything feels like a blur. Your ring is back on your finger, right where it belongs. The yelling and flashing lights of the mob fades away as you're guided into a clean hospital room. The nurse smiles sweetly at you, her voice a little bittersweet.
"He'll be here eventually. I can't tell you how soon, but I'm sure surgery won't take that long. Just wait."
She pats your shoulder, exiting the room and leaving you in silence.
Surgery? What'd he need surgery for?
Your mind swirls with worry. He shouldn't need surgery. He was fine. He is fine. He has to be fine. Right?
...Right?
Please let him be fine.
There's no clock in this room, but you know that you spend a long, long time waiting, the only sounds being your own breathing and the muffled chirping of birds outside.
The sun sets. The moon rises. And there's still no sign of him.
By the time the sun is beginning to rise again, you're fighting a losing battle. You try so hard to stay awake, but there's only so much you can do when your body is fighting for you to drift off. So, you do. Your head tips forward, your ring clenched in a fist as you finally succumb to slumber.
You wake up about five hours later to a mass of two doctors, a surgeon and four nurses wheeling in a body, accidentally brushing against you in the process.
It takes you a moment to register what's happening, and then you almost jump to your feet. Immediately, adrenaline floods your veins, and that same nurse from earlier who escorted you pushes you back down in your chair, smiling placidly as the doctors block your view. She looks tired, significantly more than when she brought you to this room almost a whole day ago.
“Not yet, honey. Let us get him all settled in and we’ll give you your time to see him.”
You can’t help but get this awful feeling in your gut. Why won’t they let you see him? What happened to him that he needs this many people to “get him all settled in?”
The doctors and nurses whisper under their breaths as they work, dancing around the bed, never letting you get a glimpse. There’s a weak, raspy groan, unrecognizable, and a nurse immediately cuts off that groan with a “Morphine pump, please.”
Machines begin to beep as Curly is hooked up to monitors. His heartbeat is steady, albeit a little bit slow, as demonstrated by the rhythmic beeping echoing through the room.
One by one, the staff leaves. The surgeon goes first, then the doctors, and finally, the nurses. The last one in the room with you is the nurse who escorted you in, adjusting the sheets around the obscured form of youor fiancé. She sighs, hesitant, almost unable to meet your eye.
“Honey, I just want to… to warn you. He’s changed. A lot. We’ve done what we can, but… there’s only so much we could do.”
Your mind whirls as you stumble to your unsteady feet. Only so much we could do? “What happened to him?” You don’t even register the way your voice trembles slightly. The nurse looks at you, her gaze sympathetic.
“...he seems to have been in some kind of… internal explosion on the ship. It’s a miracle he even survived so long. That cryopod we found him in saved him, really–”
You don’t even let her finish before you’re pushing past her, eyes fixing on the form in the bed. Your heart drops at the sight in front of you.
Covered in the mesh of clean, sterile bandages, you can see the bloody muscle work and burnt flesh beneath it all. Glazed over and drugged up on painkillers, a single, eyelid-less eyeball stares into nothing. His jaw is slightly open, no lips left to conceal the slightly chipped teeth of what used to be his beautiful smile. His gaze drags to your horrified one, gaze blurry with the effects of the morphine flowing through his veins.
You bring a shaking hand up to your mouth. The nurse silently leaves you two alone.
“...Curly–? What– what happened to you?” You whisper, gently kneeling down by his bedside, too scared to touch him, too scared to hurt him even more than he’s already been hurt.
He just looks at you, fighting through the haze of painkillers. A small, pained groan leaves him, raspy. A single tear drips from the corner of his eye, causing him to groan again as the salt burns his raw injuries.
You can’t take your eyes off him. Your fiancé. Your everything. Reduced down to this.
Slowly, you sit yourself down on the floor beside him, staring down at your engagement ring. Curly makes a soft, pained noise when you duck out of his very limited line of vision. You can feel your mind swimming. What are you going to do? What is he going to do? Will he even survive with injuries like this? Is this any life worth living–
Something grazes the top of your head, a little choked gasp leaving Curly. You look up, seeing a heavily bandaged stump hanging off the edge of the bed, presumably having just gently brushed against you.
You meet Curly’s blue eye again, swallowing down your anxiety. Bcause clearly, he’s still in there. And he’s still him.
You’ll stay. You’ll stay as long as he fights for his life.
————
You’re lying with Curly on the couch, adjusting one of his prosthetics. He’s been complaining in his raspy voice about how tight it is on his thigh. You’re leaning against him, screwdriver in hand as he watches one of his favorite TV shows. It used to be ongoing when he left for the trip, but it ended five years ago. He’s still catching up on it.
Despite his severe scarring, he still acts like he did when he left. Like he’s 32 still, even though the doctors say he’s 49. He just stared when they said that, barely acknowledging the thought of it.
You two did end up getting married. It was a small celebration, barely anyone invited on either side. Curly is still hesitant about being percieved with his… new look.
You really couldn’t care less about it. He’s the one thing you realized you couldn’t really live without. And you make sure to remind him of it whenever he stares into the mirror too long, whenever he stumbles on his prosthetics, whenever he gets stares in the grocery store with you.
You feel a familiar lick at your ankle, and you laugh, patting the couch beside you. Curly’s service dog climbs up, settling with a sigh. Curly pipes up, vocal cords raspy and damaged from the explosion all those years ago. You’re just happy he can speak again after months of speech therapy.
“...what happened to the dog not coming on the couch?”
“Don’t banish your service dog. Cruel.”
He huffs, his way of laughing without drying out his throat completely. You lean back on him, setting his prosthetic down on the floor beside you both.
It’s domestic, really. Though you can only guess what the hell happened on that ship, you’re not here to remind him of it.
You’re here to love him. And to make sure he knows he is loved as he is.
You can just hope he believes you.
I headcanon that he's visually impaired post crash (another reason to use the dog!)
hiii I was the anon for the rest and relaxation and GURLYOUATEEEEE you totally made my day in the middle of the night,I was searching for fluff but I mostly read all of them already loveyouuuuu
I also do hv another idea if you don’t taking the request hehe, dad swansea and reader w daisuke, swansea walked past a place and is surprised to see how close we r (since the relationship is mostly hidden from everyone) it’s just a random thought,can’t really think of any scenarios that could match this but I hoped it’ll give u some ideas thankyouuuu<33
(ngl still kinda scared to reveal myself so imma still go anon)
girl stay anon if u want!! u can choose an emoji so I know who u are in the future <33
Caught Red-Handed daisuke x gn reader wc: 1.19k tw: a little heated but it's just making out. that's it
Swansea isn't stupid. There has to be a logical reason for Daisuke to be going AWOL without any warning so frequently these past few weeks.
He just hasn't figured what that logical reason actually is yet.
Just give Swansea a day or two. Surely some more mouthwash will help spur his thoughts and give him the answer. Right?
Right.
-------
You and Daisuke are giggling as you clatter your way into a spare, surprisingly un-foamed room, Daisuke fumbling blindly for the light switch.
The light flickers on, and he's met with the sight of you smiling wide at him. He huffs, unable to stop his own smile. You speak quietly, your back to the doorway.
"Just say you want to kiss me."
Daisuke laughs, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you in closer. His voice is just as hushed, if a little louder. He's never been that good with controlling his volume.
"I have literally no problem with saying that. I wanna kiss you."
You reach up, framing his face with your hands. He's always so warm, especially now that he's got this blush on the high of his cheeks. You pull him down so your noses are brushing together, your breath mingling with his.
"Go on, then. Kiss me."
-------
Swansea has finished his first bottle of mouthwash of the day, and he's feeling a little hungry. He trudges over to the ration vending machine, punching in the code for a pack of saltines.
He watches the sluggish machine kick the saltines out of the little shelf, sending it tumbling down to be dispensed-
It gets stuck on the little flap at the bottom. He groans, banging on the thing as if it would help.
"God damnit. Just the thing I fuckin' need right now."
He mutters beneath his breath as he tries everything he could think of. Hitting the machine. Kicking it. Shaking the entire thing (which he only stops because it might fall on him.)
By the time he's run out of ideas, he's pissed off and still hungry. He peers at the damned flap that wouldn't let him get his fucking saltines, and finally sees the little latch it's stuck on.
His sluggish, ethanol-ridden brain clicks. He needs a small screwdriver from his kit to just push the flap past that little notch and he'll finally have his saltines.
He huffs, adjusting his shirt and setting off towards his supply closet.
-------
You don't really know how some simple, sweet kisses turned into this. But hell if you're complaining.
It's a desperate mash of lips and tongue, your hands in his hair and his hands on your waist, occasionally squeezing when you tug just right at his scalp. He's got you gently pressed against the metal wall, almost a subconscious act.
You feel like you're drowning in him, his warmth, his very essence as you lose all sight of what surrounds you, of what lies in the future. You can barely even remember if you shut the door behind you.
It's only him and you right now.
He's no better at this point. He feels like he can't catch his breath, but he doesn't want to part with you for one second. One hand sneaks beneath your shirt to rest on the small of your back, just to feel your skin on his. He shivers.
You huff slightly, parting for air. He chases your lips, brown eyes already pleading for more. You smile, teasing him lightly.
"You're so clingy."
"I don't care. I wanna kiss again."
You gladly oblige.
-------
Swansea's nursing on a mother bottle of mouthwash as he trudges down the metal halls, silently keeping stock of where everyone is.
Anya's in the medical room with Curly. Jimmy's probably moping in the cockpit.
That leaves you and Daisuke. He's seen you two kids around each other a lot, so he figures you two are probably giggling about something stupid somewhere on this ship.
He finishes off the first half of the bottle when he rounds the corner to the short hallway where the supply closet is.
He takes a step forward, then hears a strange sound. He pauses momentarily.
Was that... a laugh?
No. He's making it up. His mind must be going. Must be the damn ethanol or something.
He walks forward, shaking off that strange feeling. The supply closet door is already open. Weird. He takes a big gulp as he steps in front of the room, pushing the door open-
He almost spits out his mouthwash at the sight.
-------
You and Daisuke part with a muffled yelp and the sharp "Ow!" of Daisuke hitting his head on the overhead light as he tries to step away from you. He can only do so much with the limited space.
Swansea's just standing there, coughing as he struggles to swallow his mouthwash.
You glance at Daisuke. He's standing completely straight, his face red and eyes staring straight forward. You don't even have to look in a mirror to know you look just as embarrassed.
Swansea splutters.
"Wh-What the hell are you two doing-? Are you two-?"
You can practically see the gears revving in his head. You swallow slightly, unsure of what to say.
Swansea just stares, gaze darting between the two of you. He manages to regain his composure, dragging a hand down his face. He speaks, gruff.
"...did you really have to make out in my supply closet?"
Daisuke groans slightly, apologetically to explain, speaking fast.
"We didn't mean to! We just- we needed someplace to go, a-and I said I knew a place-"
You cut Daisuke off, shooting him a look to remind him that no one's supposed to know you and him are a thing.
"Uh, actually, we were just, um, hugging. Yeah. I needed a hug. In private."
You smile awkwardly, hoping that that flimsy, disjointed, shitty excuse is enough to throw Swansea a little off your trail. Maybe he's too drunk to question this.
Please let him be too drunk to question this.
-------
Swansea has said it before. He's not stupid.
And he is definitely smart enough to understand that this little... thing between you and Daisuke has been happening for the past few weeks. It makes everything click into place, especially why he's been missing at strange intervals in the day.
He is also smart enough to realize with the way you two practically repelled off each other when he opened the door, the way that you're trying to convince him you two were "hugging"-
You don't want the others to know.
He sighs, taking a large swig of his mouthwash. He grumbles, stuffing one hand in his pocket.
"Look, I won't tell if you don't want me to. Just... don't do whatever you two were doing in my supply closet. That's just fuckin' nasty."
He turns on his heel, hearing Daisuke awkwardly call out a "Thanks!" and a sheepish laugh from you follows soon after.
He huffs, gaze on the floor below him as he trudges away.
No harm in young love on this ship. He's got his mouthwash. Daisuke's got you. Mentor and mentee.
He should congratulate Daisuke for doing something right for once later.
💍 anon here to check up on you as your shining knight in armor 🏇 !!!
to mine most cherished,
hast thou fared well? hast thou taken thy rightful rest? i have found joy in thy writings, and i pray thou hast also derived pleasure in crafting them. take heed of thyself,
from thine earnest admirer, 💍
MY ANON FIANCEES A POET GUYS
i love u 💍 i’m doing well i love writing and life rn 🥳🥳🥳🥳
also guys seeing the notes you add on reblogs are so funny so um. do them more!!
Curly relationship headcanons? Anything really i just need the content pls 🙏
hell to the fuck yeah
Curly - Relationship Headcanons curly x gn reader wc: 1.0k tw: slight gore, jimmy mention
PRE-RELATIONSHIP: the pining pre-departure
Curly met you on Earth while he was debriefing at headquarters after a previous mission
Thought you were pretty while you were taking your ID picture
Walked over, asked you your name, starts his small talk
Immediately gets even more drawn in by your personality the more you talk, especially if you start to exchange banter with him
Is super reassuring if he hears you’re a little nervous about traveling in space for the first time, since today’s the day you get your first ever job assignment
Whenever you’re talking, in his head he’s literally hearing the “blah blah blah place name. backstory stuff” audio
He’s outwardly very suave, subtly complimenting you, joking around, keeping his appropriate distance
he’s so glad he did some shitty flirting in college because this means he’s super good at it now
Just thinks you’re so utterly beautiful in his eyes and he silently prays he gets you on his crew, though the chances are slim
Guess what. You come back out of the debriefing room with a smile on your face and he knows
Internally, he’s freaking out (in a good way) because the person he’s highkey swooning over already is in his crew which means a whole year with them (!!!!)
Goes home with your number. For professional purposes, of course.
Him asking you out on a date a week before your departure is also for a completely professional purpose.
Him kissing you on your doorstep after he brought you home… was not professional. But captains can’t always be perfect, can they?
MID-RELATIONSHIP: the care pre-crash
Before you even step foot on the ship, Curly’s trying to make your quarters as hospitable as they can be
Gave you the biggest room
switched mattresses with another room so you’d sleep comfortably
He’s just a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to you
Once the actual voyage starts, he keeps the relationship at your pace
Isn’t very touchy-feely in front of the others (firm disbeliever in PDA), so the most he’ll do is holding your hand or kissing your cheek
In private, he’s much more free with his affection
If you can’t sleep, he’ll stay up with you
Will call your late-night conversations “dates” because he’ll make a crappy tea for you with the ship's “kitchen” and he’ll let you talk to him about whatever’s keeping you up
He’s a really good listener, actually
His love language is giving words of affirmation with acts of service at a close second
The longer he’s in a relationship with you, the more he just wants to care for you and make your life easier because you deserve it
Definitely lets you come sleep in his bed after a month or two of dating
Loves it when you give him massages. You’re already a stress-reliever, but a good shoulder massage is the cherry on top
ALSO: as much as you may hate jimmy, please keep your words gentle when bringing up issues about jimmy to curly
That’s his best bud (unfortunately) and you need to break the news gently that his friend is not a good person
But he’ll listen. As he always does. But no man is without faults. And actions always do speak louder than empty reassurances.
POST-RELATIONSHIP: the end post-crash & judgement
He never once thought that his ignorance of Jimmy's mental state would lead to such agony.
Directly after the crash, he drifts in and out of consciousness, unable to stay awake from the pain
He sees Anya working tirelessly to stitch up his arms and legs. or what’s left of them.
He hears your reassuring words in his forced, pain-filled sleep.
When he wakes up into a world of raw, unadulterated pain, he resists the urge to cry because he has no lips to form your name, to apologize, to try and explain anything
Anya, or course, being the sweetheart she is, manages to figure out what Curly’s trying to say with just his teeth and his tongue.
She brings you in and Curly could almost cry with relief at the sight of you, a little banged up but safe
Anya works in shifts with you to keep Curly calm and pain-free
Curly can’t do much now but just watch you, wishing he could say the things he was supposed to
But he figures out a disjointed, raspy way of talking with help from you
Can really only say things one word at a time, but he’s just happy to see you light up when he manages a word
You’re really his only respite from the pain and guilt of his everyday life
Tries to call out your name whenever jimmy feeds him his painkillers (beats the shit out of him)
Severely spirals when anya locks the two of them in the medbay because he doesn’t know if you’re safe, doesn’t know if you’re dying and starving and hurt–
And then anya dies and he’s left with his own thoughts and the unmedicated full-force pain of his severe injuries
Lowkey goes a little crazy when the door opens and jimmy drags a bleeding daisuke out and returns to grab the gun
Because he can’t get up and see if you’re okay and he knows jimmy is going to make a huge mistake
You don’t come back to check on him like you used to. His hope to see you slightly fades.
Hears the gunshots. He’s down to his last bits of bleak hope.
By the time jimmy brings him to the dining table and he sees your dead body for the first time, that’s when he hits rock bottom.
You were his anchor. The one person he wanted to live on this stupid ship. And now you’re limp in a chair, manipulated by Jimmy’s hands.
Would’ve preferred jimmy to take the cryopod at this point
Hopes and prays that the company has forgotten about this ship after 20 years.
He doesn’t want to live life like this.
he's so tragic. but who isn't on this freaking ship
