curly panics when he realizes he's attracted to his co-pilot. a mixture of professionalism and fear of making you uncomfortable are keeping him from pursuing his feelings.
so, when you find out that he has a thing for you, you tease him to see how long it'll take for him to give up.
directory/m.list
next chapter ⇨
words: ~3.5k
t/w: sexual references but no actual yucky (yet), reader being lowkey sadistic, cute curly <3, gn!reader/pronouns but reader wears a bra
a/n: hi. been obsessed with this video game recently—well, especially with Curly (go figure. i like fictional men). i needed to make something self-indulgent bc i just like this man way too much. and because i just want to make a world where none of them have to suffer. enjoy~
~jambalaya does not exist in this world~
Planned Shipment Duration: 382 Days
Elapsed Transit Time: 292 Days
It had been over nine months aboard this damned ship, and Curly was just short of going mad. Not the kind of madness that came with sleep deprivation—he’d conquered that particular beast long ago, his body numb to the restless nights. No, this madness was quieter, more insidious, burrowing into his mind and refusing to leave. It trailed him through the claustrophobic halls of the Tulpar, slipping into the smallest crevices of his day-to-day. The worst part was, he knew exactly what caused it.
Or rather, who.
His co-pilot. The bane of his existence. The source of his sanity slipping through his fingers like sand.
Curly groaned and scrubbed his face with his hands, his calloused palms dragging over stubble. The cockpit was bathed in the green glow of the ship’s display panels, casting long shadows over his hunched figure. For once, he was alone. His co-pilot was off—God knows where—and he was left to grapple with the gnawing frustration that never seemed to diminish. It wasn’t the kind of irritation that burned; it simmered, steady and unyielding, until it became part of the fabric of his thoughts, melting like wax into his very being.
He could see their handwriting on the little sticky notes scattered around the console, each one an infuriatingly sweet reminder to stretch, drink water, or take a break. He tried to ignore the way those notes made him feel a little lighter, even when he wanted to crumple them up out of spite. Then there were the meals—hot, fresh, and left beside him during the long hours he spent poring over ship diagnostics on days he’d forget to come to the main lobby for food. Like clockwork, they arrived, a silent reminder that someone out there cared. Too much, in fact.
It wasn’t the fact that they’d climbed the ranks with startling efficiency or that they were nipping at his heels for his own position. But the issue wasn’t their competence. Hell, he’d been the one to recommend them to the crew. No, the problem—the real problem—was that he didn’t mind the notes. Or the meals. Or the way their laugh lingered in his head long after the joke had ended.
That was the crux of it: he didn’t mind. He cared too much.
Curly growled under his breath and pushed himself out of his chair, dropping into a push-up position before the thought could take hold again. One. Two. Three. The strain burned through his biceps and shoulders, grounding him in something tangible. In the beginning, this ritual had worked. Twenty push-ups, and he’d feel clear-headed enough to get back to work. But now? He was well into quadrupling that number, and the haze in his mind hadn’t lifted.
“Damn it,” he muttered, shifting to one-armed push-ups. Sweat beaded on his brow, but his thoughts remained stubbornly fixed.
It was their fault. The way they lingered in his peripheral vision during late-night shifts, always a step ahead of him. The way their presence filled the cockpit, electric and steady, as if the entire ship ran on their quiet energy. He hated it. He needed it.
Curly collapsed onto the floor, the cool metal pressing against his flushed skin. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the dull ceiling, and exhaled sharply. But it wasn’t their fault. It was all his.
Because no matter how many push-ups he did or how hard he worked, he couldn’t seem to outrun the one truth he hated most: he was falling for his co-pilot, and there was no way to make it stop.
It all started so innocently.
A couple of months ago, when Curly’s sleep was deteriorating thanks to the unholy cocktail of chronic insomnia and the Pony Express directive of “only indulging in five hours of sleep a night,” the signs of wear were becoming impossible to hide. His dark circles deepened, hollowing out his features, and the number of minor piloting errors he made began creeping upward. He hated slipping up, especially in front of the crew. But you had been there, catching the mistakes before anyone else could notice, your tone warm and forgiving as you covered for him without a single reproach.
“How many hours of sleep did you get last night, Captain?” you asked, glancing at him with a knowing arch of your brow. The question was less accusatory and more concerned, which somehow made it worse.
The third time you caught him in the cockpit, chugging yet another cup of bitter instant coffee, you sighed with exasperation. He barely had time to process what you were doing before you nudged him toward the door with a bottle of melatonin clutched in your hand.
“Rest, Captain,” you said firmly, standing your ground in front of him with a tilt to your chin that tolerated no argument. “Don’t go abusing yourself—and caffeine—like that. Do me a favor and take one of these with some water. I’ve got the ship tied down.”
Before he could retort, you physically pushed him through the doorway and locked the cockpit door behind him. He stared at the bottle of melatonin in his hand, blinking in confusion, his mind too fogged with exhaustion to properly argue. He barely made it to his quarters without bumping into a wall. Still, he heeded your demand.
When he woke up hours later, groggy but undeniably more refreshed than he’d felt in weeks, he returned to the cockpit to find the door unlocked and you sitting in his chair, nursing a steaming cup of water between your hands.
The smile you gave him as he walked in—small, gentle—made something in his chest falter, like the ship had hit a pocket of turbulence. He ignored it, chalking the reaction up to gratitude. “Thanks,” he muttered before reclaiming his chair.
That should have been it. A one-off moment. But it wasn’t.
The next time was when you came bounding into the cockpit, an excited glint in your eyes, holding a bundle of old films scavenged from storage. “Look what I found!” you exclaimed, dropping them onto the console as if they were treasures unearthed from a sunken ship. The crew’s old stash of classic movies. You suggested a movie night, and by the weekend, everyone was gathered in the living area, dressed in mismatched pajamas as per your insistence.
The fake day-and-night screen in the living room had been converted into a movie screen (thanks to a favor from Swansea), and you’d somehow transformed the cramped space into a cozy theater. The crew was laughing, the air thick with the buttery aroma of popcorn—smuggled aboard in direct defiance of Pony Express regulations. Swansea lounged in a corner, throwing popcorn into his mouth with perfect aim, while Daisuke and Anya shared a bag of candy bars, their laughter ringing out during the film’s funniest moments.
And then there was you, looking at the rest of the crew, a relieved smile on your face from seeing them having fun and relaxing.
You’d curled up on the couch with bunny slippers, wearing an oversized t-shirt that reached down to your knees. Curly found himself staring at the way your legs curled up in front of you, the smooth skin catching the flickering light of the screen. He shook his head and willed himself to look back at the film, feeling an odd mix of discomfort and… something else.
It wasn’t just your legs that had caught his attention. He watched your shoulders relax as you looked at the others having a good time. From your shoulders, his eyes slowly trailed up to your neck,
There was the lace halter bralette peeking out from the neckline of your shirt, delicate and intricate, its strap circling your neck like a whisper of fabric. He’d overheard you mention it in passing to Anya once, saying how they were more comfortable than traditional bras. Cute, you’d said. Anya had agreed wholeheartedly, and the two of you had launched into an entire conversation about comfortable alternatives, leaving him both bewildered and hyper-aware of the intricacies of brassiers.
That night, you’d tied your hair up, sweeping it off your face and revealing the curve of your neck. He hated how his eyes kept trailing there, lingering too long on the strap of your bralette before snapping back to the screen.
What was wrong with him?
The laughter of the crew filled the room, but Curly’s focus was elsewhere. He watched the way your shoulders relaxed as you leaned back, your smile warm and unguarded as you looked at the others enjoying themselves. It had been a rough couple of weeks, but in that moment, you looked so at ease, like you were carrying everyone’s joy on your shoulders and doing it gladly.
His gaze drifted again, following the line of your neck up to your jaw and almost to your lips before he froze, his chest tightening with realization. He was staring. Stop it, you creep. His heart thudded in his chest, the weight of his guilt sinking in. The last thing he ever wanted was to make you uncomfortable, to let you see just how hopelessly he was starting to lose control of his own feelings.
And yet, even as he looked away, forcing his attention back to the film, the memory of your smile lingered in his mind, burning as brightly as a star in space.
Later that night, after the crew had dispersed to their quarters, Curly lingered in the living area. The faint smell of popcorn still hung in the air, and empty mugs cluttered the low table, remnants of the impromptu movie night.
He hadn’t planned to stay, but you were still there, stacking empty bowls with practiced efficiency. You hummed softly as you worked, the sound low and content.
“You don’t have to clean up,” he said, his voice startlingly loud in the quiet.
You glanced at him over your shoulder, an easy smile spreading across your face. “Neither do you, Captain. Yet here you are.”
Curly looked so charming, sweeping up the crumbs from the ground with a bashful smile. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Force of habit, I guess.”
He stepped forward and started gathering stray candy wrappers. You didn’t protest, and the two of you worked in companionable silence. The only sounds were the soft clink of mugs and the occasional hum from the ship’s systems.
“Thanks for tonight,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter. He kept his eyes on the mug in his hand, turning it absently. “I think… the crew needed it.”
You paused, a little surprised. “Needed what?”
“A break. A reminder that things aren’t always so…” He trailed off, searching for the word. “Mechanical.”
You laughed softly, and the sound was warm enough to make his chest ache. “Even machines need downtime, Captain. And so do you.”
He glanced at you, his resolve faltering as you met his gaze head-on. Your eyes were steady, soft, and full of something he couldn’t quite name. For a moment, the ship felt too small, the air too thin.
“I guess I’ll work on that,” he said, forcing a crooked smile and dropping his gaze.
As the months passed, his little problem only got worse.
It started as little things.
The way Curly’s voice would soften when he said your name, like he was tasting it before letting it leave his mouth. How he always seemed to position himself between you and anything remotely dangerous during routine checks, even if the “danger” was just a loose panel or a slightly sparking wire. You noticed those things before, but they hadn’t meant much to you at the time.
But lately, you’ve started picking up on more.
Like how he fidgets whenever you lean over his chair to point something out on the cockpit screen. Or how his ears turn red if your hand brushes his when passing tools or data tablets. At first, you think it’s funny—how someone so competent and in control can get so flustered over little things. But then, there’s the moment in the Main Lobby.
You’re digging through one of the upper cabinets, on the hunt for something sweet, when you hear his boots scuff against the floor behind you.
“You’re always after the chocolate in the vending machine,” he says, leaning casually against the counter like he isn’t watching you a little too closely.
“And you’re always after the coffee,” you quip, holding up a ration bar triumphantly.
“Touché.” His lips twitch into a smile, and you can’t help but notice how his eyes linger on you just a moment too long before he turns to grab his mug from the shelf.
It’s not unusual—this kind of back-and-forth—but as you open the bar and break off a piece, you catch him glancing at you again, almost like he’s about to say something. He doesn’t, though, and the moment stretches long enough to feel... significant.
That’s when it starts clicking.
The lingering looks. The slight hesitation in his voice when he talks to you. The way he goes out of his way to make sure you’re comfortable, even when he doesn’t have to. The realization settles in your chest, warm and a little thrilling.
Does Curly like me?
Your mind starts replaying recent moments with a new lens. The way he always pulls you aside first to explain changes to the schedule. How he always offers to carry extra supplies during inspections, even when you insist you’re fine. That time he casually gave you his jacket when the living quarters were colder than usual, like it was no big deal.
“Earth to you,” Curly says, snapping you out of your thoughts. He’s holding out a water pouch, his brow slightly furrowed. “You zoned out there for a second. You okay?”
You take the pouch and give him a smile. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
“About what?”
You tilt your head, studying him, and your smile widens when he shifts under your gaze. “Nothing important.”
It’s a lie, of course. You’re thinking about him—about how he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention, about how he tries so hard to act unaffected when you’re around.
And for the first time, you feel a little wicked. If Curly likes you, why not have a little fun with it?
Curly knew something was off the moment you walked into the cockpit.
It wasn’t just the way you greeted him, your voice light and playful as always. It was the way your smile lingered, like you were holding onto a secret you couldn’t wait to let out.
“You’re up early,” you said, dropping into your seat beside him.
“Could say the same for you,” Curly muttered, keeping his eyes on the console. He was grateful for the excuse to look busy, though the screen in front of him was just a diagnostic report he’d already read three times.
“You’re always so serious, Captain.” Your tone was teasing, but there was something else beneath it, something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
He didn’t respond, didn’t trust himself to.
The silence stretched, and just when he thought you’d moved on, you leaned closer—close enough for him to catch the faint scent of whatever soap you used.
“Hey, Curly?”
His stomach flipped. “Yeah?”
You paused, drawing it out, like you were savoring his anticipation. Then, with a sly grin, you said, “You’re staring.”
“I’m not—” He froze, his heart skipping a beat. “What?”
“You are,” you insisted, your grin widening. “You’ve been staring at that same report for the last ten minutes. What’s so interesting about it?”
Curly’s mouth went dry. He scrambled for an answer, but his mind betrayed him, replaying every fleeting glance he’d stolen of you earlier that morning. How long had you noticed?
When he didn’t respond, you leaned back in your chair, smug satisfaction written all over your face. “Relax, Captain. I’m just messing with you.”
But you weren’t. Not entirely.
Because as you watched the tips of his ears turn pink and saw how his jaw tightened, you realized something. Something that made your pulse quicken and your lips curl into a wicked smile.
He likes me.
And now that you knew, you couldn’t help yourself.
Curly swore the ship’s cockpit had never felt this small before.
You were now hovering just over his shoulder, leaning in to inspect a blinking diagnostic alert on the screen. The proximity was maddening—he could feel the warmth radiating off you, the sleeve of your Pony Express jumpsuit brushing against his arm every time you moved.
“Hmm,” you mused, tilting your head. “Looks like a minor power fluctuation. Nothing to worry about, but we should log it for the next maintenance check.”
He nodded stiffly, trying to focus on your words instead of the fact that your hair was so close it tickled his cheek. “Right. I’ll, uh, take care of it.”
But when he reached for the keyboard, so did you. Your fingers grazed his, and you both froze.
“Sorry,” you said, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. A playful smile tugged at your lips, and he didn’t trust it for a second. “Didn’t mean to get in your way, Captain.”
“It’s fine,” he muttered, turning back to the screen. But his fingers trembled slightly as he typed, and he cursed himself for it.
“You know,” you said, leaning against the edge of the console, your voice deceptively casual. “You look good when you’re focused like that.”
He nearly choked. “What?”
“I said you look good when you’re focused.” You shrugged, like it was the most normal, casual thing in the world. “It’s kind of intimidating, actually. In a good way.”
His face burned, and he fought the urge to bury it in his hands. “I—uh—thanks, I guess...”
The smile you gave him was nothing short of devilish. “You’re welcome.”
You stayed there, watching him a little too closely, and he could feel his pulse thudding in his ears. Finally, he risked a glance at you, only to find you tilting your head with mock innocence.
“Everything okay, Captain?”
“Yeah,” he said quickly, focusing hard on the screen. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Oh, no reason.” Your voice was light, teasing. “You just seem a little... tense.”
He stiffened, embarrassed and confused as to what you were doing but powerless to stop it.
“You know,” you continued, leaning a little closer again, “you really should loosen up. It’s not good for your health to be so serious all the time.”
“I’m not—” He cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”
“Hmm.” You studied him for a moment, and then, with a mischievous glint in your eyes, you added, “If you ever need help relaxing, Captain, just let me know.”
He froze, his brain short-circuiting at the double meaning behind your words.
Before he could stammer out a response, you straightened up, patting him lightly on the shoulder. “Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. Don’t work too hard, okay?”
And just like that, you were gone, leaving him alone in the cockpit, his heart racing and his mind a chaotic mess.
He groaned, burying his face in his hands. He was doomed. Absolutely doomed.
From the moment you saw Curly’s ears turn red, his fate was sealed. You’d never imagined the stoic, dependable captain could be reduced to such an adorable mess, and now that you’d seen it, there was no going back. It was just too cute—the way his bravado would falter, his words stumbling over themselves as he tried and failed to maintain composure.
Normally, Curly was all broad shoulders and easy charm, his commanding presence impossible to ignore. But you’d discovered a crack in that armor, a secret button that turned him from the ever-confident leader into a flustered, helpless schoolboy. And oh, what a delightful button it was to press.
You’d always found him attractive—how could you not? He was responsible, dependable, and unfairly handsome. But for the longest time, you assumed he’d only ever see you as his co-pilot, someone to rely on professionally but never personally. Yet now, the way his gaze lingered a moment too long, the subtle flush on his cheeks whenever you got a little too close, told you a very different story.
It gave you a strange, heady sense of power, and you had absolutely no intention of letting it go to waste.
A small, wicked thrill ran through you whenever you imagined the possibilities. What if you teased him just enough to make that carefully controlled exterior crumble? What if you pushed him to the edge, until he couldn’t hold it in any longer? Your mind wandered to a particularly wonderful thought: Curly, unable to take it anymore, bending you over the console with a heated, desperate confession.
You shivered, the fantasy almost too delicious to bear.
And so, your mission began—not to reject him, but to push him. To tease and torment, to watch his resolve unravel thread by thread. You weren’t cruel, not really. You knew he’d crack eventually, and you planned to reward him handsomely when he did. But until then?
Until then, you’d savor every stolen glance, every stammered reply, every moment he tries and fails to hold himself together.
After all, what was a little mischief between co-pilots?
a/n: let me know what y'all think! biggest thank yous to those who have written curly x reader fics thus far, y'all fueled me lmfao.
oh yeah.. smut.. eventually...
taglist is open! lmk if you want to be on the taglist for just curly/mouthwashing characters or if you want the news on alll my fics... also might be accepting requests hehe! i can't guarantee that i can do em, but i'll accept ideas!
thanks for reading! <3
btw. not beta read, please let me know if there are any typos or inconsistencies
stay safe & hydrated as always!
(and go to sleep if you're reading this super late. don't be a curly. take care of yourself! (i say, writing this at midnight))
general dating headcanons for captain grant curly.
sfw— lowercase intended ^_^
g/n reader - no pronouns mentioned
requests are open, i do all the characters ^.^
notes; i love this guy. all of these are pre-crash on earth. i would love to write for post-crash/found curly someday perhaps. these are kind of everywhere. not proofread oopsies. wrote them sleep deprived zzz .. going to bed now!
— this man is extremely overbearing when it comes to his love. i mean there’s a reason everyone compares him to a golden retriever.
— in my small brain he is 6’2 and very beefy. he works out! it’s canon! gym bro and will annoy you about your protein intake.. but it’s because he cares!
— he is a morning person. it’s annoying unless you are one too. he will get up at 5 on the dot! he is not a coffee drinker in my opinion, or at least a morning one. he heard cold water is best in the mornings as a teen and stuck with it since.
— by the time you’re awake he’s already had breakfast (prepared you some as well, of course), ran a couple miles, and did all his chores.
— this man is the definition of acts of service. he is extremely considerate. If you're particular about food, how it’s cooked- how it’s served, he will make the effort to do so correctly.
— if you ever bring it up though he’ll just say ‘it’s the bare minimum for a man’ haha
— sort of likes it when you’re sick. not in a weird way, he just thinks it’s cute how you act. and he likes to take care of you. he is a very traditional man in that sense.
— i think he’s very private with his love! like everyone would know you’re together, no doubt about it. maybe subtle hand or cheek kisses in public but not much more than that. i think he thinks love is a very intimate, private thing.
— he’s not materialistic in any sense, quite the opposite. he’d invest and save in high quality things, get you the exact ring you’d want or do research in your hobbies to make sure you’d like what he’d purchase.
— i also like to think he sort of puts up a front when with others, but not with you. ideally, he’d want someone he can be vulnerable with from time to time and not feel as if he has to walk on eggshells constantly.
— he’d like pinching/poking at your tummy. he seems like a tummy guy. like he’d grab at it and squish it. i think he’d find thighs cute too.
— i think he’s definitely a cute-over-sexy kind of guy!! i stand by this!! no one can convince me otherwise.
— he likes playful banter! playful teasing! someone quick-witted. it eases up any potential tension.
— he would also just hold your hands and rub your fingers softly, kissing your knuckles. again, he’s very soft with his love. he’d be upset to hurt you in any way, especially physically. he knows he can be a bit too much when it comes to affection. and he never wants to make you uncomfortable!!
— back to his whole ‘private intimacy’ thing. he feels closest to you when you’re ‘parallel playing’.. doing mundane things, your own hobbies, but being beside each other- he feels so lucky to be able to do that. it feels domestic.
— we’ve already seen it in-game, but he does not like to argue whatsoever. sometimes it does him good, apologizes quickly, but in more serious moments it could definitely come off as him brushing off your feelings.
— he doesn’t intend to, he just wants to avoid arguing at all costs.
— more of a “let’s just talk things through” kind of guy. haha. as his partner you’ll have to understand how to talk to him, i assume.
— he is a good man. a great man even… husband material..
co-pilot mischief ✫ both broken ✫ chapter tres ✫ finale
captain curly x teasing!reader
it’s been a month since your epiphany that Captain Curly has a sweet little crush on you, and you’ve been teasing him the entire time. what happens when you push him even closer to the edge?
you asked that question, and here we are: Curly has officially broken.
directory/m.list
⇦ previous chapter
words: ~6.1k
t/w: sex, minors dni, overstimulation, fingering, REALLY OVERSTIMULATION, multiple orgasms, curly being a lil shit, so much yucky, gn!reader who wears a bra, no specific genitalia mentioned for reader (if i fucked up & did somewhere, pls lmk), any other things i should mention?
a/n: hi. been obsessed with this video game recently—well, especially with Curly (go figure. i like fictional men). i needed to make something self-indulgent bc i just like this man way too much. and because i just want to make a world where none of them have to suffer. enjoy~
~jeremy does not exist in this world~
Planned Shipment Duration: 382 Days
Elapsed Transit Time: 342 Days
Since the incident, you’ve noticed Curly’s behavior shift from his usual awkward-but-adorable responses to something else entirely—avoidance. Every conversation with him feels clipped, every interaction rushed. This avoidance comes to a head when you have to discuss the ship's fuel readings.
“Captain, can you double-check the fuel calibration?” you ask, stepping into the cockpit with a tablet in hand.
Curly is already seated at the console, his back stiffening at the sound of your voice. “It’s fine,” he mutters without looking up, his fingers flying over the controls.
You narrow your eyes. “Fine? It’s been showing inconsistencies for two days now. Can we be sure it won’t cause an issue later?”
He exhales sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening. “I’ll… take care of it.” Still, he doesn’t glance at you, his gaze fixed on the screen as if the fuel levels are the most riveting thing he’s ever seen.
You step closer, placing the tablet on the console in front of him. “It’d be quicker if we checked it together,” you say, deliberately leaning over just slightly to try and catch his eyes.
But he shifts, pulling back as if your proximity physically burns. “I’ve got it,” he says tersely, still avoiding you.
The clipped tone stings more than you expect. You hesitate, studying him. His hands grip the edge of the console, the veins in his forearms standing out as though he’s using every ounce of willpower to keep his composure. He looks tired—no, exhausted—but there’s something else in his expression, something tight and defensive.
You pull back, watching him with a frown. There’s an ache in your chest you weren’t prepared for—a pang of guilt mixed with frustration. You liked teasing him, pushing his buttons just enough to see the cracks in his armor, but this? This feels different. It’s like he’s shut a door between the two of you, and you can’t help but wonder if you pushed too far.
You bite your lip, torn. Was it the water incident? The shirt? Or maybe it’s been everything—the touches, the flirtation, the unspoken tension you’ve been toying with for weeks. Whatever it is, the wall he’s built feels higher than before, and it leaves you restless, your stomach knotting with something that feels a lot like regret.
That night, sleep refuses to come. You lie in your bunk, staring at the dim ceiling of your cabin, your mind replaying every moment from the cockpit earlier. His stiffness, his avoidance, the way he couldn’t even look at you—it all swirls together, making your chest feel heavy.
Was he angry with you? Embarrassed? Or worse—had you made him so uncomfortable that he didn’t want to be around you anymore? The thought makes your throat tighten, and you sit up, running a hand through your hair in frustration.
The hum of the ship’s engines fills the silence of your cabin, steady and soothing, but it does little to calm the turmoil in your chest. You’ve been lying there for hours, staring at the ceiling, your blanket pushed to the side as your mind cycles endlessly.
You can’t stop thinking about him.
The look on Curly’s face earlier had been… different. It wasn’t just the usual exasperation you’d grown fond of teasing out of him. It was heavier, like he was carrying something you couldn’t quite name, something you weren’t sure you should have pulled at.
You close your eyes and groan quietly into the darkness, guilt and frustration twisting in equal measure. Sure, it’s fun to watch him squirm, to push his buttons just enough to see the cracks in that carefully constructed exterior. But you may have gone too far—even if the water spilling on your shirt was a complete accident. His jaw had set so tightly, his words clipped in a way that left no room for your usual playful retorts.
The memory sits heavy in your chest now, pressing down like a weight.
You roll over for the hundredth time, but the ache of regret and the nagging spark of curiosity keep you pinned wide awake. It’s not just the teasing, is it? Not really. It’s the way his silence speaks louder than his words, the way he looks at you like he’s bracing himself to lose something he doesn’t even have yet
You sigh, sitting up and running a hand through your hair. You know you should leave it alone, let him come to you when he’s ready, but patience has never been your strong suit.
Sliding out of the bunk, you glance at the reflection of your sleepwear in the metal panel across the room. The skimpy fabric makes you hesitate, but only for a moment. If you’re honest with yourself, part of you still wants to provoke him. But another part—the part twisting in your gut—just wants to be able to speak to him normally again.
The ship feels colder at night, the air biting against your bare skin as you make your way down the narrow corridor. The faint glow spilling from the cockpit confirms your suspicion: he’s there, just as you expected.
You pause in the doorway, your heart beating harder than you’d like. He hasn’t noticed you yet. His head is bowed, his fingers raking through his messy blond hair as he leans over the console. He looks… defeated. The sight sends a pang through you, sharp and unwelcome.
Taking a breath, you step inside, keeping your voice soft as you speak. “Couldn’t sleep.”
He straightens abruptly, his shoulders stiffening as his chair creaks under the sudden movement. His eyes meet yours for a moment before flicking downward and darting back up, his jaw clenching. You catch the faintest flush across his cheeks, but his expression is unreadable.
“What are you doing here?” His tone is flat, but there’s a strain beneath it, like he’s barely holding himself together.
“I could ask you the same thing.” You try to smile, but it falters. Stepping closer, you cross your arms, suddenly feeling more self-conscious than you expected. “I—” You stop, unsure of how to begin. “I just… I wanted to check on you.”
His brows furrow, suspicion flickering across his face. “Check on me?”
“Yeah.” You force a small laugh, but it sounds hollow even to your own ears. “You seemed… off earlier.” You hesitate, glancing at the console to avoid his gaze.
The silence that follows feels heavier than when the ship’s gravity went haywire and pushed down on you all. You risk a glance at him, only to find him watching you with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. His hands grip the armrests of his chair like they’re the only thing anchoring him, his knuckles pale.
“It’s fine,” he says finally, his voice tight, controlled. Too controlled. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
The way he says it makes something inside you crack. You know that tone, the one he uses to push people away, to keep himself locked behind walls you’ve only just started to glimpse behind. And it hurts.
“Curly…” You step closer. “That’s not what I—”
“Don’t,” he cuts you off, his voice sharper now, his eyes flashing with something you can’t quite name.
But you don’t back down. Not this time.
“Don’t what?” you challenge, leaning closer to him. You keep your voice soft, almost hesitant, but there’s no mistaking the edge behind it. “Don’t worry about you? Don’t care?”
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he might not answer. He just stares at you, his stormy blue eyes locked on yours, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he finally says, but there’s no conviction in the words. They’re a shield, flimsy and cracking.
You tilt your head, your voice dropping lower. “Why not?”
“Because…” He looks away, running a hand down his face, and you see the way his fingers tremble. When his gaze snaps back to yours, there’s fire in it, raw and unfiltered. “Because I can’t keep doing this, alright? I can’t—”
He stops himself, his voice breaking on the last word, and your heart stumbles in your chest.
“Can’t what?” you press, taking another step closer, your bare feet brushing against the cool floor. Your voice softens, and this time there’s no teasing, no game. “Curly, just tell me.”
He lets out a frustrated sound, somewhere between a growl and a groan, and rises abruptly from his chair. The suddenness of it makes you flinch, but you hold your ground.
“You don’t get it, do you?” His voice is louder now, but it’s not anger—it’s desperation, raw and bleeding. “You waltz in here in your—” His eyes flick down to your barely-there pajamas before snapping back up, his expression torn. “—your… whatever that is, and you look at me like that, and you think it’s funny, don’t you? Messing with me, pushing me, like it’s all some game!”
You blink, stunned by the outpouring of words. “I—”
“No,” he cuts you off, his voice cracking. “You don’t get to talk right now. Do you know how hard I’ve been trying? Trying to keep this… whatever it is… locked down? To keep things professional, to not…” He trails off, shaking his head like he’s trying to dislodge the thought.
“To not what?” you whisper, your voice barely audible.
“To not ruin everything!” he bursts out, and the words hang in the air between you, heavy and unrelenting. “Do you have any idea what it’s like, waking up every damn day and seeing you, knowing I can’t—shouldn’t—feel this way?”
His chest heaves, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He’s closer now, the space between you shrinking with every ragged breath.
He leans in closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours, and you can see the tension in his jaw, the flicker of hesitation before he barrels on. “Do you know what it’s like to sit next to you every day, to have you so close and know I can’t touch you? Can’t tell you?” His laugh is bitter, almost self-deprecating. “God, I can’t even think straight when you’re around. You’ve got me walking into walls, screwing up flight routes, forgetting my own bloody name half the time.”
“Curly…” You reach out, but he grabs your wrist before you can touch him, his grip firm but not painful.
“Don’t,” he says again, but this time it’s a plea, his voice breaking. His gaze locks on yours, his eyes glassy with an emotion you’ve never seen from him before.
And then, before you can say anything, he moves.
In one swift motion, he pushes you back against the console, his hands braced on either side of you, caging you in. His face is inches from yours, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, the unsteady rhythm of his breath.
“I can’t…” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “I can’t do this anymore.”
Your heart pounds so loudly you’re sure he can hear it, but you don’t move, don’t dare to break the fragile moment hanging between you.
“Then don’t,” you murmur, the words slipping out before you can stop them.
His eyes search yours, and for a heartbeat, everything stands still. Then, with a groan that sounds like defeat, he closes the gap, capturing your lips with his in a kiss so fierce it steals the breath from your lungs.
The kiss is not soft or measured, but raw, desperate, and full of everything he’s been holding back for months. His lips crash against yours with an intensity that makes your knees go weak, and you gasp into him, feeling the weight of all his pent-up frustration pouring out into this moment.
His hands, rough and calloused, grip the edges of the console beside your hips like he’s barely holding himself together. You feel the tension in his arms, the way his muscles cord and flex, the sheer power of him caging you in.
And then, suddenly, his hands shift. One moves to your jaw, tilting your face to deepen the kiss, while the other slides down to your hip, pinning you firmly to the console beneath you. The cool surface bites against your skin, grounding you as his fingers wrap around you with just enough force to keep you there without hurting you.
He pulls away for a moment, searching your eyes for any hint of rejection, finding none.
You open your mouth to speak, but he doesn’t give you the chance. His lips crash back down onto yours, more insistent this time, as if he’s trying to erase every teasing word and playful glance you’ve ever thrown his way.
His body presses closer, and you’re keenly aware of every inch of him—the strength in his broad shoulders, the solid weight of his chest against yours, the way his body is being held between your thighs (which you’ve just realized that you wrapped around him), keeping you and him firmly in place. His free hand trails down your side, his touch firm and possessive.
“Curly,” you keen, eyes fogged from the kisses he just gave you.
“Don’t,” he warns, his voice low and rough. “Not unless you’re ready to take responsibility for what you’ve started.”
The words send a shiver through you, and you meet his gaze, your breath catching at the unrestrained emotion in his expression—anger, yes, but also longing, vulnerability, and an aching kind of need that makes your chest tighten.
“I’m not sorry,” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling but steady enough to hold his gaze.
His lips curl into a gentle smile, and he shakes his head, leaning in until his forehead rests against yours. “I expected such,” he murmurs, his voice softer now but no less intense.
And then he kisses you again, slower this time, but just as overwhelming. It’s less about frustration now and more about everything else—the want, the need, the relief of finally letting it out. His hand slides from your hip to thread his fingers through yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as if to soften the moment, to remind you that despite the force of it all, he’s still Curly.
Even then, as he pulls his lips away to trail his kisses down that delicious neck of yours that he’s been fantasizing about for the past couple months, he bucks his hips into yours subconsciously.
His eyes widen at the realization of what he just did, and he’s just about to apologize when he hears your soft groan, your hips grinding back into his.
You’re going to be the end of him.
“Fuck,” he mutters, his mind goes entirely blank while reaching his hands to grab onto the mounds of your chest as he places wet kisses all over your neck.
The sensation makes you gasp—his warm lips suckling all over the crook of your neck, trailing slightly further down as his large, warm hands grasp at you, fingers gliding against the thin fabric over to the tips of your nipples. He teases it over the fabric, each graze sending a jolt down your core as his pants get tighter.
You watch as Curly’s eyes glaze over while looking at the thin fabric of your shirt, watching your nipples peak and harden under his ministrations. One of his hands pulls away from a breast, brushing down your body until he pulls the skimpy fabric of your shorts and your underwear to the side and places his fingers right onto your heat at just the right spot, rubbing at it.
Your gasping, arms tightening around his neck, and your hands gripping at the hair on the base of his neck only serves to spur him on. His eyes are still hazy with a sheen of lust as he brings his fingers to his lips and licks them lasciviously before easing a finger inside your hole, slowly massaging at your walls until he finds your most delicious spot.
When you tense up and you let out another gasp, his tongue darts out to lick at his lips, knowing that he’s found it. As you reach up to capture his lips with yours, he slips another finger in.
As you’re kissing, you let out a choked moan as he only rubs against that little spot more, fingers starting to curl up rougher and faster. His fingers filled you up so well—so thick and long, pressing your insides in all the right places.
When you clench and spasm around his fingers, you expect him to slow down, but his fingers only get faster through your orgasm. You squeak in response, and his eyes are hooded as he finger fucks you into oblivion.
“Is this what you wanted?” he growls against your lips, his voice thick with frustration and something darker. His breath fans hot against your cheek as he pulls back just enough to speak, his eyes blazing as they meet yours. “To push me until I couldn’t take it anymore?”
His face is a storm of emotions, each one fighting for dominance. His jaw is tight, clenched as though he was holding back. His lips are red and slightly swollen from the kiss, a stark contrast against the stubble shadowing his sharp jawline.
But it’s his eyes that leave you breathless—dark and blazing with an intensity that borders on feral. Those blue eyes, turbulent and unyielding, locking onto yours like they’re searching for every answer you’ve ever hidden. It combines with the feeling of his fingers pressing you in the right spot, making you see stars.
“You’ve been playing with fire, haven’t you?” he breathes, his voice rough and biting. His lips curl into something that’s not quite a smile—a shadow of one, edged with frustration and disbelief. “All those looks, those little comments. You knew exactly what you were doing.”
His hand at the console shifts, and he presses a little closer, his body heat seeping into you. “God, do you have any idea what it’s been like? Watching you parade around like that? Laughing, teasing, pretending you don’t notice what you’re doing to me?” His words are a low snarl now, sharp with exasperation and tinged with lust as he drives his fingers deep into you, earning a squeal from your lips.
“Every time I thought I had it under control, you’d pull something new. A touch here. Showing off some skin there.” His free hand slides along your jaw, his thumb brushing deliberately across your cheekbone. His touch is gentle, almost a mockery of the fire behind his words and the intensity behind his fingers. “You really thought I would break eventually, didn’t you?”
His eyes flicker to your lips, and his fingers keep curling and thrusting inside you in a way that makes you squeak. The sound makes his gaze snap back to your eyes, his expression darkening further. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, trying to ground yourself from this onslaught of pleasure.
“Was this the plan all along?” he taunts, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “To push me so far I’d lose control? Or were you just so sure I’d never cross that line?” He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “Well, congratulations. You’ve got me right where you want me.”
He pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes again, his lips curling into a wicked smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “So tell me,” he murmurs, his tone both a challenge and a warning, “what are you going to do now?” Your gummy walls clench on his fingers as he works you undone again—with both his fingers and his words.
“Please,” you keen, voice breathless. “Just fuck me, Captain.”
The use of his title in that pleasure-drenched voice of yours makes him sharply inhale. He leaned back, a smug smile playing on his lips. "Not yet," he says, his voice low and commanding. "You're going to need to be ready for me. Really ready. So, I’m going to take my time." He knew the company regulations like the back of his hand—no personal items, especially not the kind that could be used for pleasure. And he knew you hadn't had anyone else in almost a year.
Your eyes go wide with shock as he speaks, and you realize what he meant. "But I... I've been... stretching," you protested, face heating up at the implication.
Curly's smile grows, and he leans down, his mouth hovering just above yours. "With your fingers?" he asked, his voice filled with amusement. "That's not enough. Not for what I've got in store for you." You look up at him in shock.
"Trust me," he murmurs against your lips. "You'll thank me for it later. Especially when I break you like you tried to break me. I’ll have you begging, you little tease." His words send shivers of excitement up your spine.
With that, he slides his hand back down your body, his fingers slipping into you again. Your muscles are still contracting from the aftershocks of your two climaxes. He pumps his fingers in and out, watching your face contort with pleasure and overstimulation. But he knew he had to prepare you, had to make sure you could take him.
He leans in, whispering in your ear. "You're going to come again," he tells you, his voice a promise. "And then again. And each time, I'm going to make you feel so good that you'll forget your name."
Your eyes close, breath coming in short pants as you moan into his mouth. Curly revels in the feeling and the view of your hips moving in time with his touch.
Curly slides in a third finger, curling them gently, feeling the slickness of your arousal. Your eyes fly open, and you look at him with a mix of shock and need. "Curly," you gasp, your hips bucking against his hand, hole stretching around his fingers. "Please..." He strokes you in a steady rhythm, watching your face contort with pleasure. You bite your lip, trying to be quiet, but the occasional whimper escapes.
He pushes your tiny tank top up, taking one of your nipples into his mouth, suckling it as he continues to play with you. Your hands pull him closer, urging him on. He can feel your body tightening, your legs starting to tremble. He knew you were close.
And then it happened. With a cry, you cum again, your muscles clenching around his fingers. He still doesn’t stop, though, instead curling his fingers deeper inside you, keeping the pressure on your sweet spot. Your orgasm went on and on, your body shaking with pleasure, legs giving out.
As the last of your tremors subside, he pulls his hand away, bringing his fingers to his mouth. He tastes you, watching as your face heats up. "So good," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. “I’m going to push you until you can’t take it anymore.”
Without warning, he slams his mouth onto your core, his tongue flicking you rapidly. You scream, hips jerking up. Your nails claw at the console, searching for any kind of purchase before gripping his blonde locks.
Curly feels the warmth of your orgasm wash over his hand and lips, juices coating his fingers and face as he watches you come apart in front of him. He'd never seen anyone so beautiful. Your eyes squeeze shut, and you let out a guttural cry, body arching.
He waits for you to open your eyes, to look at him with the same hunger he feels burning in his gut. When you do, there are tears in the corners of your eyes, and you’re panting. "Please," you beg, voice a whimper. "Please, Curly. I need you inside me." Your vision was already starting to go blurry, and you felt a slight twinge of dizziness from all the mind-numbing orgasms.
His only response is a shit-eating grin and his fingers continuing to work you open. The sound of your wetness fills the cockpit, and he couldn't help but groan. You’re so tight, so perfect. And all his. He watches your face as he works into you, his tongue circling you in time with his fingers curling up and down, thrusting in and out. You’re close, so close to breaking altogether, and he can feel the tension building in your body.
“Curly, please, I-” And then, with a scream, you cum again, gushing wetness all over his hand and face. He pulls away, wiping it from his cheek with a grin.
"See?" he says, his voice filled with pride and eyes filled with darkness. "I told you I'd make you beg for it."
Your chest heaves, breath coming in ragged gasps. You stare up at him, eyes glazed. "Curly," you whisper with a needy voice. "Please... I need you."
He stood up, his cock straining against his pants. "Not yet," he said again, his voice firm. "We have all night."
He reaches down, helping you to your feet. You sway slightly, legs weak from the intense orgasms. He swiftly picks you up and carries you to the Captain’s Quarters. The crew is asleep. The only sounds are the steady hum of the Tulpar's engines and your two footsteps.
Once inside, he places you down onto his bed gently, your legs still shaking. He hovers over you, his eyes dark with hunger. He kissed you again, his tongue delving into your mouth, tasting you and your desire. You moan, hands reaching up to tug at his shirt.
He breaks the kiss, pulling his shirt off. Your eyes scrape up and down the sight of his bare chest, his muscles rippling in the dim light. He leans back in, his mouth moving down your neck, leaving a trail of kisses and gentle nibbles. You shiver, skin sensitive from the previous orgasms.
Curly slides his hand down to your hole again, his thumb pressing against you as he kisses his way down your body. You gasp, hips rising to meet his touch. He spread open your legs revealing you, all bare and wet. He took a moment to appreciate the view, your swollen hole and the glisten of your arousal—the glisten of your multiple orgasms.
With a groan, he buries his face between your legs, his tongue flicking over you at the perfect spot. You almost scream, the sensation too much. He slides two fingers inside, desperate to continue stretching out your inner muscles.
He licks and sucks, his mouth a symphony of pleasure. You cum again, body bowing off the bed, hands tangling in his hair. He doesn’t let up, his tongue relentless, his fingers curling inside you, pushing you to the edge once more. Your cries grow louder, more frantic, until you’re almost screaming. And then, just as suddenly, you go quiet.
Your eyes roll back in your head, and you go limp beneath him as your body refuses to stop twitching. Curly pulls back, panting, his mouth wet with your essence. He watches your chest heave, your breath coming in ragged gasps. He knows you’re on the edge, just about to shatter into pieces.
He slides his fingers out of you, watching the way you quiver.
He stands, his own desire clear in the bulge in his pants. "You’re doing so good," he murmured, his voice filled with satisfaction. "Now you're ready." Curly chuckles as he watches your muscles twitch. “So cute,” he mumbles as he zips his jumpsuit down all the way and pulls his boxers down. It's massive, thick and long, standing erect and flushed with arousal.
You’re still unable to form words, eyes blank as you come down from the onslaught of pleasure. Your eyes flutter open when you feel him getting back onto the bed, chest heaving as you stare up at him. "Curly," you breathe, voice shaky. "I don’t… I don’t know if I can take it anymore."
He leans over you, eyes dark with need. "You can," he says, his voice firm. "You will. And you're the one who begged for it."
Curly lines up his cock with your slick entrance, the tip kissing you lightly. It's hot, and you can feel the pulse of his excitement. His reddened tip is so much larger than what you've felt before, veins standing out. Your eyes widen, looking at the size of him, and you feel your stomach flip.
Slowly, with a look of absolute focus, he starts to push in, watching your face as you bite your lip to keep from screaming. The head of his cock, that angry red tip, breaches your entrance, and you can feel your body stretching around its thickness. He goes so slowly, so carefully, that you can't help but trust him. The veins on his shaft stand out like roads on a map, and they feel like they're carving into you as he slides in inch by inch.
The pressure is intense, but you’re so wet, so ready for him. He slides in deeper, feeling you stretch around him. Your walls cling to him, and he knows he'd never felt anything so amazing. He pauses for a moment, savoring the sensation.
And to his surprise, you cum again, walls tightening around his cock. A keening sound tears from your throat, and you buck your hips against him, trying to push him deeper. He holds you still, watching your face, feeling your walls pulse around him.
It was like nothing he'd ever felt before, a wave of pleasure so intense it almost brought him to his knees. “Fuck,” his eyes squeeze shut, voice hoarse.
But he doesn’t stop. He couldn't. He pushes in further, feeling you tighten even more. You were whining now, a high-pitched sound that seemed to echo through the room. He knows he’s hitting all the right spots, that you were on the edge again. And he was going to make sure you fell over it.
You're so wet, so ready for him, that he's able to ease into you with surprising ease, despite his size. Each time he pushes in, you feel your muscles resisting before giving way, your body adapting to his thickness. Your walls clench around him, trying to get used to the feeling of being so full, so claimed. It's as if every part of you is being rewritten, every nerve ending remapped to accommodate his size.
His thumbs press gently against your pulse points, feeling the rapid thrum of your heartbeat. “You’ve been in my head for months. Twisting me up so bad I can’t tell what’s real anymore. Hell, I can’t even close my eyes without seeing you.” His voice has dropped lower, huskier, the edges roughened by emotion and strain.
The feeling of fullness is intense, almost overwhelming, but it's mixed with an aching need for more. You can feel your body stretching, adjusting to his size, and it's both slightly painful and incredibly arousing. He's so much larger than any toy you've ever used, and the thought of taking all of him sends a fresh wave of desire through you.
You glance up at his form, the dim artificial lights overhead casting a faint, bluish hue across his bare chest. His skin glistens faintly, a sheen of sweat highlighting the sculpted lines of his muscles—the curve of his shoulders, the sharp planes of his chest, and the ripple of his abdomen. Shadows deepen in the grooves between his ribs and along the flex of his arms as he shifts, his every movement purposeful, almost mesmerizing. There’s faint golden hair dusting his chest and trailing down his stomach.
The sight of him makes you coo, “Curly, you’re so perfect.”
His eyes never leave yours, and in them you now see a fierce concentration, a hunger that's been building for a long time. The head of his cock reaches deep into you, and you arch your back, the sensation overwhelming. You're so full you feel like you might burst. But then he pulls out slightly, only to push back in even deeper, and it's as if you've been hit by a bolt of lightning.
With one final, powerful thrust, he's all the way in, and you let out a cry that echoes through the cabin. Your nails dig into his back, your body shaking with the intensity of it all. His cock is so big, so hard, that you feel it in every part of you, filling you up in a way you never knew was possible.
Your hips are moving, rutting against him, urging him deeper.
He starts to move, his hips rocking into yours, his cock sliding in and out of your tight hole. You moan, the feeling so intense that you don’t know if you can handle it. Orgasms roll through you, one after another, each one more powerful than the last. You couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began, they just blended together into a never-ending crescendo of pleasure.
Curly's movements then become more forceful, his thrusts deeper and faster. Each time he fills you, you can feel your inner muscles clench around him, trying to hold onto that delicious feeling of fullness. He groans, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he starts to pick up the pace.
Tears slide down your cheeks as he fucks you, each stroke hitting deeper than the last. Your eyes are now squeezed shut, and all you can see was the bright white light of pure ecstasy. You don’t know if you can take it, don’t know if you could handle his size, his strength. But you don’t want him to stop.
The room fills with the sound of skin slapping against skin, the wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out of you. It's primal, animalistic, and you can't help but get lost in it—in the feeling of his body pressing into yours, in the heat of his breath against your neck, in the way your orgasms build and crash over you like waves.
Your body starts to shake, your muscles tensing as you feel another climax building. You look up at him, eyes pleading, and he leans down, capturing your mouth in a fierce kiss. It's as if he knows exactly what you need, and he's more than willing to give it to you.
Curly starts to hit that spot inside you with every thrust, the one that makes your toes curl and your vision blur. You moan into his mouth, your hips rising to meet his, desperate for more. Fuck, but you don’t know if you can take it anymore. He's relentless, his cock driving into you, stretching you further and further until you think you'll shatter into a million pieces.
And then, with one final, powerful thrust, you do.
You push him away, just enough for his cock to pop out of you, and you squeal. “‘Curly,” you keen, twitching all over as you release all over yourself, him, and his sheets. His dick twitches as he watches you spasm all over his bed, coating both of you in your cum and slick.
The corners of your eyes sting with tears of pleasure, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Curly’s gaze doesn’t waver, his lips slightly parted as he watches you, his chest rising and falling with his own labored breaths.
“Bloody hell,” he mutters, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, his voice hoarse and rough. Then, without hesitation, he flips you over with a strength that sends your pulse racing all over again. His hands are firm yet careful, a mix of desperation and reverence in the way he touches you.
“You drive me insane,” he growls, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. The weight of his words settles over you, and you know this is far from over. His frustration, his need, his months of pent-up tension—all of it is unraveling here and now, and you’re the one holding the thread.
And with those words, you know it’s going to be a long, unforgettable night. The thought crosses your mind in a brief, hazy moment of clarity: How are you supposed to walk tomorrow? But the question is quickly swept away, drowned in the whirlwind of Curly’s relentless thrusting and the electric heat between you.
Hours later, when the two of you finally collapse into each other, exhausted and sated, there’s a rare, blissful quiet in the air. His arm drapes over you after he cleans you up, heavy and warm, pulling you against his chest. The steady rhythm of his breathing lulls you into a peace you haven’t felt in ages.
For the first time in years, Curly sleeps soundly. No tossing, no turning, no restless hours spent staring at the ceiling. In his dreams, as in reality, you’re there with him. And ever since then, he hasn’t had any insomnia.
And you? You have no regrets.
a/n: the finale~~ let me know what y'all think!
oh yeah.. smut.. neverending smut..
taglist is open! lmk if you want to be on the taglist for just curly/mouthwashing characters or if you want the news on alll my fics.
also might be accepting requests hehe! i can’t guarantee that i can do em, but i’ll accept ideas!
btw. not beta read, please let me know if there are any typos/inconsistencies
stay safe & hydrated as always!
(and go to sleep if you’re reading this super late. don’t be a curly. take care of yourself!)
Can you please do NSFW alphabet but with curly! <3
captain grant curly nsfw alphabet.
nsfw — lowercase intended ^_^
fem reader —
requests are open and heavily encouraged, i write for every mw character ^.^
notes; it’s always really fun writing for curly! i had a lot of fun writing this one in specific.. sorry for any mistakes. i don’t proofread but it is late where i am so obvious typos might have slipped through. doing jimmy next most likely as the people in my inbox call for it. hope you guys like this one, thank you for all the love!!
nsfw under the cut! minors do not read
a — aftercare, (what they’re like after sex)
— the best at aftercare! it is his biggest priority. he never wants you to feel used, if you ever did i think he’d feel absolutely horrible..
— he’d clean you up, bathe you if you wanted. water, of course- he’d make or order you something if you were hungry. whatever to make you happy!
b — body part (their favorite body part, and their partners)
— i said this in my general headcanons but tummy’s.. he loves placing his hands on your waist, caressing your ‘cute tummy’ he’d say.
— it’s not even a ‘this tummy might hold my kids’ one day thing. he genuinely thinks it’s the cutest and sexiest thing ever.
— besides that, i guess he’d like tits, thighs, the general. he likes everything! doesn’t really have a favorite.
— for his own? he’d have to say his back, or his arms. he works out! it’s canon (literally) so i think he’d be very proud of his body..
c — cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
— who would’ve guessed.. on your stomach. lol. he’d like cumming inside as well, but only if it was safe too/you two were trying for a kid. but on your stomach he just.. he likes that sight, he really does. besides your cute facial expressions that might be his most favorite part!
d — dirty secret (a dirty secret of theirs)
— i don’t consider this dirty, but he does. he’s jerked off to you many times before you got together. not a big deal, but to him it is.
— he probably feels an immense amount of guilt. like, ‘she’s not just a girl for me to ogle at.. she’s my friend that i’m so happened to be in love with..’
e — experience (how experienced are they?)
— all his relationships were the full on commitment kind. he is not really a ‘one night’ kind of guy. maybe a few times when he’s feeling it. so he’s had his fair share of experience.
f — favorite position (self explanatory)
— your legs on his shoulders! god, he thinks it’s so sexy. and it feels good too. and he can see your entire face. checks off all his boxes.
— but if you ask he’d say, “whatever your favorite is!” and would wanna do it always knowing it’s your favorite. he is a d1 people pleaser.
g — goofy (are they more serious in the moment?)
— i’d depend.. if it was night time and that felt like the mood, he’d be serious about it. like after a fancy dinner night out, all he wants to do is fuck you slow and nice. but if it was the morning, or a long day at work, he doesn’t mind if it’s less serious, per say.
h — hair (how well groomed are they?)
— he’s pretty well groomed, i’d say. i like to think he’s very cleanly.. it’s obvious he cares about his health and looks and the way it is down there counts too!
i — intimacy (how are they during the moment, romantic wise?)
— ahh.. i’d really depend on you. his go-to is soft and romantic. he just loves you so, so much. if sex is the way you want to be shown love then he’ll do it.
— he’s very stereotypical. he wants to whisper sweet nothings into your ear, play with your hair, caress your body in all the right places as he sets a gentle pace. but if you prefer things a bit rougher, he doesn’t mind. just reassure him that it’s okay and that it’s what you want.
j — jack off (masturbation headcanon)
— as a teenager, i think he probably felt bad for jerking off. now as an adult he can understand that it’s a very normal human thing. he doesn’t do it often, especially when he’s in a relationship, but he’s not opposed to doing so.
— maybe once a week if you’re there (like swansea, he would rather just fuck), up to 3-4 if he’s working in space and all alone and such..
k — kink (one of their kinks)
— praise him. god please. he needs it.
— just one, “that feels really good..” or, “you’re doing so well..” gets him going!! he might stop and try to process it, his dick buried inside you as he lets out a long breath- he’s making you feel good? he’s doing that?
l — location (favorite places to do it)
— “anywhere you wanna” god he’s so annoying. unbearable.
— most likely the bedroom. he’s basic. but he’s open to anything semi-public. he just feels like he can love you best in the most intimate setting, your bedroom!
m — motivation (what turns them on)
— i think he gets turned on at the simplest of things to the point it’s funny.. like when you’re looking in the mirror and admiring yourself, you just look so cute and happy..
— and suddenly your skirt looks just a bit too short for comfort, and the bra you’re wearing looks extra nice on you. he’d feel bad, yes. how can he be so perverted when you’re just there- looking cute?
— but he can’t help it. he just wants you in every way he can have you.
— besides that, you straight up saying you want it is enough for him!
n — no (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
— he’s a people pleaser.. if you’re into it, he’ll try it at least once. but for himself? hm. anything that feels too degrading is a no for him either. like free use? he’s not into that. he wants you to feel loved, not that you have to do stuff to get him to love you..
o — oral (preference in giving, receiving)
— giving.. he loves giving. i think it’s obvious. he loves when you place your hands on his hair, your legs squeezing him tight.
— mumble words of encouragement and praise and he’ll feel as if he’s on cloud 9!!
— he likes receiving too. but only if you like it. how many times can he emphasize that..? he does think you’re very pretty in your knees though.
p — pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual?)
— soft and sensual is his favorite like i’ve said. he wants to feel every thrust, appreciate the way your body reacts to every small thing he does. he just loves to close his eyes and fawn over that feeling, it’s one of the best feelings in the world.
q — quickie (their opinion on quickies, how often)
— i think quite often they happen.. like he loves to make love, he really does. but with his and your busy work life, sometimes it’s needed.. if you’re pent up and stressed and need his dick right then and there, and quick? he’s willing!
r — risk (are they willing to experiment? do they take risks?)
— i think he is for your sake, but he’s confident in what he likes and stuff so he wouldn’t wanna try out anything new to his own accord. if he does then he’ll talk that out with you. your comfort comes first.
s — stamina
— if sex ends up being rough, maybe only one. it’s a bit of a mental load on him to be mean to you like that. but usually he’s good with two or three. anything past that seems pushing it.
t — toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on themselves or their partner?)
— he owns a few. only for his partner, not for himself. if you like toys then he’ll definitely utilize them but if not then he won’t force them upon you or anything.
— a bit of a throw away thought but remote controlled vibrators, the idea of it? kind of turns him on.
u — unfair (how much do they like to tease?)
— he likes to tease! just a smidge bit. not too much or else he’ll feel bad but it keeps the mood light and fun. i’ve mentioned somewhere he liked playful banter, so that kinda goes along with him teasing you and such..
v — volume (how loud are they? what sounds do they make?)
— he’s loud! he’s very vocal. when he’s feeling good he wants you to know that. grunts, groans, whines, whimpers.. but sometimes he holds it in and shuts up so he can focus on yours. he likes yours way more.
w — wild card (a random headcanon)
— perhaps.. once in a blue moon, he really needs it. rough and fast, with your hands scratching his back. Your legs are too sore to move, so they just lay there shaken up. it’s different when he’s doing it to please you in comparison to please himself.. you know? like it’s just so much better when he’s just a bit selfish.
x — x-ray (what’s going on underneath?)
— I'm biased. this is my blog, this is my favorite character, these are my headcanons. he has a pretty dick. it’s a nice color, nice to look at. it’s just pretty. 7 inches in length, regular thickness. ok bye
y — yearning (how high is their sex drive?
— kind of average or if not, slightly below average. he loves to show his love in many, many ways. sex is just one of those many things. he can live without it either. if you decided to go celibate, it wouldn’t change his life or anything. yeah, he’d miss it, but you come first.
z — zzz.. (how quickly they fall asleep)
— he has a lot of energy so i don’t think he falls asleep quick. even so, he’d make sure you fell asleep first- that you’re all taken care of before he can rest.
— also, for selfish reasons, he wants to stare at you and your pretty face, play with your soft hair as you sleep. if he could pause time, i’d be then. you’re just so cute.
Pookie I'm BEGGING YOU for a curly x fem reader smut but like he has a rough day and reader asks her to take it out on her so he's like rougher with her than usual 🤭🤭 then there's some nice fluffy aftercare afterwards. As usual take ur time and take breaks!
-🌺 anon
a long day of work, captain grant curly.
nsfw — lowercase intended ^_^
fem reader — content warnings for light choking, degrading.. he’s a bit mean. some creative liberty was taken..
requests are open and heavily encouraged, i write for every mw character ^.^
notes; i don’t like to write full length one shots n such and don’t plan too.. just not my style. so i’ll write this in sort of a headcanon-ny / drabble formatting. just a quick heads up for anyone who requests me! i also.. forgot the fluffy aftercare part.. perhaps another time, or a little pt2 if i feel so inclined..
but this might have been my favorite to write for today. this is my 6th piece for the day (posting in the morning..) thank you for ur request anon..
nsfw under the cut! minors do not read
— curly after a long, tiring day of work, all he wanted was to see your pretty face. it always made him feel better. everytime he opens that door, he’ll hear, “welcome home!!”, “you were working for so long, can’t you cut back your hours?”, “i missed you so much. quit that stupid job, please?” .. you get the point.
— he seems extra tired today. even after dinner, a nice bath, some tv, he still looks so stressed! you have to do something. isn’t there anything you can do?
— eventually he ends up venting about work, how stressed he is. he doesn’t like to but he knows you don’t mind. one thing led to another and he was on top of you.
- ♡
“curly.. you know, you don’t have to hold back as much as you do..” you say, your hands on his arms. your fingertips trace his muscles just slightly, as a way to ease him into the idea.
he groans at that thought. god, he really needs to let it all go. but he can’t do that. he really can’t, “what are you talking about?” he said, playing dumb. but you were able to see through him, of course you were.
“curly..”
“no, i can’t.”
“please.. you can take it all out on me. please? i want it. i really do. don’t you want it too?” you respond so desperately.
- ♡
— you knew your husband well. he’d only do it to make you happy. and if that was it? then he can’t say no.
— he’s a bit soft at first. he’s still holding back. just be patient with him, it’ll take awhile for him to get a bit rough the way he does.
— one of his hands holds tightly onto the bed frame, the other on your shoulder keeping you down. his pace is regular but his thrusts are much rougher, you can feel his dick bruising your insides.
— please be vocal.. it tells him you’re enjoying it too. even all pent up and stressed, he’s prioritizing you’re pleasure. even like this, he’ll make sure you cum first.
- ♡
your mouth is wide open, the prettiest noises coming out of it. he looks down at you, his eyes a bit squinted as he places a hand on your neck. you nod gently as to reassure him it was okay, and that’s when he pressed down.
he lets out a low groan, “fuck, do you like that? seriously?” he teased, his tone mean. you didn’t expect that from him, but it was more than welcome.
“god, should’ve told me sooner.” he said, as he pushed down just a bit- pushing the boundaries of what was you’re regular, “look at you. you’re such a mess. i wish you could see your face right now, it’s fucking pathetic.”
- ♡
— you can tell he feels bad, but small reassurances fuel him. so just nod and smile and he’ll continue.
— at this point his pace quickens and he’s rough with it. his hand that isn’t wrapped around your neck like a vice, is on your hips- digging deep into your skin.
— he’d then turn you over to your tummy, making you go on all fours as he pulls your hair back. kind of like a leash. his dick balls deep into your pussy still.
— god, he was so rough. it hurt, you can’t lie. but it felt so good, so good to know that the sensitive man you married has a side to him that only you have the pleasure of feeling.
— “fuck. seems like you enjoy being used like this. yeah? like a fucking toy? why didn’t you say so before then?” he’d whisper into your ear.
— he cums at the sight of your eyes rolled back to make eye contact with him, your tongue a bit out as you moan uncontrollably. maybe it was also the teardrops that stained your face. you looked pitiful, really.
— “are you okay?” he’d whisper in your ear. he felt bad for cumming first. but he couldn’t help it. he could only hope you wouldn’t be too upset.
— that’s when he’d turn you over to your back to see your face much more clearly. if you tell him now that you need a break, he’s happy to do so- then please you. no harsh words, just love.
— but if you nod, tell him it’s okay- and that you want to continue. you’re in for a long night, because at that slight nod he’s already shoved his dick back in you. he’s desperate, and you’re willing to give it to him.
I was wondering if I could ask for some fluffy (+ nsfw if youre comfortable) headcanons about recovered/rescued curly x reader? I’ve seen very few fics about him and I’m so madly in love with him (particularly how ladonb.kokosa on tiktok draws him).
I think Curly would feel guilty about dating and sex because of his disabilities, inaction, and trauma but the reader is still head over heels for him anyway ❤️🩹
recovered/rescued captain grant curly headcanons.
sfw/nsfw — lowercase intended ^_^
g/n reader - no pronouns mentioned
requests are open and heavily encouraged, i write for every mw character ^.^
notes; i daydream about this exact curly too!! oh god i love this artist.. writing this in the perspective of you were his spouse previously. let me know if you’d like it if you met him afterwards :)
these r also a bit short so maybe a part 2 if i’m up for it/anyone else would want it. not proofread i never will sorry. this is my 3rd post today i am insane and happy to write!
.. nsfw section is written from the perspective of me, a girl, so sorry men if you cannot relate or feels it doesn’t apply to you too much. i try my best as a non-writer haha. minors don’t read that part thank you please…
here he is in his late forties - early fifties.
SFW
— he feels an intense amount of emotions knowing you waited as long as you did for him— that in those 15-20 years he was gone you didn’t move on *at all?*.. to come back in the state he was in, he felt a lot of guilt.
— he feels even more guilt when you saw him in said state, and still stayed with him throughout the multiple surgeries and months in the hospital.
— that smile of yours always cheered him up. and your reassurance was most comforting. he was lucky to have you as you are lucky to have him.
— curly felt as if he’d have to overcompensate for lost time. he’d plan dates, give you flowers, gift you chocolates or candies you liked. small things like that. he did it often pre-crash but he now does it enough to where it’s still a little special when he does.
— it would take him a long time to tell you what happened, truly. for legal reasons i’d assume he’d have to tell government officials, the media, or some kind of authority what had happened — but the details of it, id take a lot of time for him to speak about. he’d have to speak to a therapist about it first.
— when it came to his inaction, that and the immense survivors guilt he likely holds, he would be scared you’d leave. he’d be upset if you tried to justify his actions too. he knows what he did was wrong. and he doesn’t need you or anyone to tell him otherwise.
— i’m sure curly would donate a lot of the money he receives from media attention, that or encourage people to donate to charities that focus on gender based violence or sexual assault victims. he feels owed too. it’s the very least he could do now.
— back to his relationship with you.. sometimes all he wants is you. sometimes all he wants is to cry in bed as you’re there with him. your mere presence, all of you, is a huge comfort for him.
— he loves that you’re still your happy, old self. and he understands, he’d probably be happy too if someone you thought was dead just came back.
— if i recall correctly, he was in that state for 5 months? most of the time, if anya wasn’t there replacing his bandages or nursing him- he was most likely alone. he doesn’t like the thought of that. and therefore doesn’t want to ever be alone again.
— if you’d allow him, he wants to feel you all over. not in a sexual way. he wants to touch your arms, your fingers, your neck, your cheeks, your face. the feeling of you in his arms feels like gods blessing im sure.
— he’d ask about you. he’s so excited too. he wants updates to your life, your family. what do you like to do now? what’s changed since? do you still like this and that?
— he feels upset that he missed out on those parts of your life, but at the same time he knows that you probably kept him in his heart all those times without him.
— help him get back into his old hobbies!! keep him physically active. update him on all the video games he’s missed, all the movies he’s missed. movie days are probably his favorites. keep him busy.
NSFW
minors do not read
— i believe a strap-on device has to be used, or toys. he is open to all, but he’d enjoy using his hands to please you. it feels more intimate and close. he loves nothing more than touching you— in any way.
— he is old, ok. he lacks stamina, 1 round is enough for him- as long as it’s enough for you. but he is very experienced.
— hand holder!! he loves to hold your hand during sex.. this is canon. i am wrongorgan. he’d rub your palms as you shake, asking “is this okay? does that feel good?” .. please reassure him he thinks it’s the sexiest thing ever.
— uses your facial expressions to reassure himself. he thinks it’s cute when you bite your tongue to suppress your moans. or when your face is all flushed and sweaty. that means hes doing a good job.
— eye contact.. please make eye contact with him. he does struggle a bit with loving himself (especially assuming this is a 1-3 years after he was rescued), but as long as you love him then he shouldn’t have reason to worry.
— loves it when you place your hands on his face, caress his jawline as he fucks you slowly. i think he also likes it when your hands scratch his back. again, it tells him he’s doing a good job.
— i think it’s obvious with the way i write him but he loves talking during sex. i mean, he likes incoherent noises too- just as much as he does talking. but your words mean so much to him. and there’s just so much he wants to say.
— like.. “god, you’re so cute. have you always been like this, sweetheart?” !! he is a gentleman, ok?
— he still prefers a dominant role. he is a service top if i’ve ever seen one. even before the crash, sex is all about you, you, you, then maybe him.
— for the first few times he would be extremely careful and gentle. intimacy is not something he likes to rush. after he gets a bit more comfortable he’d be open to exploring again. like you did as younger adults, but still. he’s old and you’re probably old too ^.^
— feels like he has to make up for all the times you were probably lonely, sexually, the time he was missing.
co-pilot mischief ✫ soaked & see-thru ✫ chapter dos
captain curly x teasing!reader
it’s been a month since your epiphany that Captain Curly has a sweet little crush on you, and you’ve been teasing him the entire time. what happens when you push him even closer to the edge?
directory/m.list
⇦ previous chapter - next chapter ⇨
words: ~3.1k
t/w: STRONG sexual references but no actual yucky (yet), so imma say this is rated mature, reader being lowkey sadistic, cute curly <3, gn!reader/pronouns but reader wears a bra, mentions of curly's mayo slinger , depiction/description of nipples, (service?)dom!curly
a/n: hi. been obsessed with this video game recently—well, especially with Curly (go figure. i like fictional men). i needed to make something self-indulgent bc i just like this man way too much. and because i just want to make a world where none of them have to suffer. enjoy~
~janana does not exist in this world~
Planned Shipment Duration: 382 Days
Elapsed Transit Time: 322 Days
It’s been a month since your epiphany that Captain Curly has a sweet little crush on you.
Once you realized it, there was no going back. Since then, you’ve made it your personal mission to tease him, dangling his attraction above his head like a packet of sweetener just out of reach. At first, you thought he’d crack quickly—his stammering, red ears, and darting eyes gave you plenty of hope—but it turns out he’s much harder to break than you expected.
Curly’s resolve, it seems, is made of iron—or at least something close to it. He holds tightly to his professionalism, though you can tell it’s a battle for him. He does his best to pretend nothing’s happening, no matter how blatantly you flirt or how often your hand "accidentally" brushes against his when passing tools or rations.
The moments he falters, though? Those are pure gold.
Like when you "forgot" to zip up your jumpsuit all the way, the collar slipping low enough to reveal the delicate lace of your bralette and the beginnings of cleavage. You’d leaned over the cockpit console, close enough to invade his personal space, pointing at a diagnostic screen that didn’t really need his attention.
“Captain,” you’d said sweetly, tilting your head just enough to let your hair brush against his arm. “Do you think this reading looks a little off? Or is it just me?”
Curly froze, his broad shoulders stiffening as if you’d just launched a torpedo into the ship. His eyes darted to the screen, then to you, then back to the screen again, avoiding your neckline like it might blind him.
“I... uh, it looks fine to me,” he muttered, clearing his throat. His voice was strained, low, like he was barely keeping himself together.
You watched, delighted, as his ears turned bright red.
And that wasn’t the only time. Every brush of your hand against his, every teasing glance, every accidental bump into him in the narrow halls of the ship sent little tremors through his carefully maintained composure. Once, when you deliberately lingered at his side during a crew meeting, your shoulder grazing his arm as you leaned against him, he shifted uncomfortably, his jaw tightening. You didn’t miss the way his hand flexed at his side, like he wanted to move but couldn’t.
It was adorable, really, how he tried so hard to maintain control. His lips would press into a thin line, his eyes locking onto anything but you, but the faint blush crawling up his neck always gave him away.
You couldn’t stop yourself from indulging in the little thrill of it. His reactions, subtle as they sometimes were, made your heart flutter in ways you didn’t entirely expect. It wasn’t just the fun of teasing him—it was the way he looked at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice. That mix of yearning and restraint, like he wanted so badly to reach out but knew he couldn’t. It was intoxicating.
One evening, you decided to push him a little further.
The ship’s artificial lights cast a soft glow over the cockpit as the two of you worked on a recalibration for the nav system. You’d been at it for hours, but you didn’t feel tired—not when you had Curly as your company.
As he bent over the console, his strong hands deftly adjusting the inputs, you let your eyes wander over him. The curve of his shoulders, the faint stubble on his jaw, the way a lock of his blonde hair fell across his forehead... it was all so unfairly attractive.
“Hey, Captain,” you said, your voice light and teasing.
He glanced at you briefly, a suspicious flicker in his blue eyes. “What is it?”
“You’ve been working so hard lately,” you cooed, stepping closer. “Don’t you think you deserve a little break?”
He straightened, standing to his full height, which only made you want to tease him more. “We’re on duty,” he said, his tone firm, though his nervous countenance betrayed him. “No time for breaks.”
You tilted your head, letting your lips curve into a mischievous smile. “Not even for me?”
His jaw tightened, and he exhaled through his nose. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
You held in a laugh in favor of feigning innocence, widening your eyes. “Enjoying what?”
“This.” He gestured vaguely between the two of you, his hand hovering in the air before dropping to his side. His blue eyes were filled with an unreadable emotion. “Whatever game you’re playing.”
You pressed a hand to your chest, mock-offended. “Game? I’m just trying to help my captain relax. Is that so wrong?”
His gaze flickered to your hand, then back to your face. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Instead, he closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath like he was trying to steady himself. There was trouble written all over his handsome face.
You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you added sweetly, grazing past him to grab a tablet from the console. Your chest brushed against his arm, and you swore you heard him mutter something under his breath—something that sounded suspiciously like your name.
You walked away, hiding your smile behind the tablet. This was too much fun.
But as you glanced back at him, catching the way he ran a hand through his blonde hair in frustration, your heart gave a little flutter. Maybe you were having fun teasing him into madness, but you couldn’t deny that part of you that wanted him to finally snap—wanted to see what would happen when that carefully constructed professionalism finally broke.
A couple of days later, you woke up an hour too early. The mistake had been drinking coffee with Curly too late into the evening. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, a casual moment of camaraderie with the captain, but now you were left wide-eyed in the dark, staring at the ceiling of your cabin.
Giving up on the idea of returning to sleep, you decided to make the most of the situation. Slipping out of bed, you grabbed a water sachet and padded down the quiet halls toward the cockpit, still dressed in your pajamas—just a white T-shirt and the shortest of pajama shorts.
Usually, for the sake of decency, you’d slip on a bralette under the shirt during film nights or crew gatherings. The last thing you wanted was to flash someone like Daisuke or Swansea and scar them for life. But now, in the stillness of the ship’s early hours, you felt a little more emboldened. Besides, you couldn’t help but think about how Curly might react.
You’d caught him looking before, though he tried so hard to hide it. When you wore an extra tank top you found in the cockpit locker (It was Curly’s, and it was at least a size too big), exposing just a hint more skin—shoulders and the teasing curve of the side of your chest through the arm holes that were too big, his face turned a violent shade of red, and he’d buried himself in a book—upside down. The memory still made you grin. His excuse about following “Pony Express directives” to “practice” reading things from unconventional angles was laughable, yet endearing in how desperately he tried to cling to professionalism.
Though ever since then, he’s found it difficult to meet your eyes or even glance at you.
Tonight, the shirt’s white fabric was a little more thin than you usually dared, and you knew it fell off the peaks and curves off your body in just the right way. The thought made your pulse quicken, imagining how Curly would react—if he was going to refuse to look at you, you were going to find a way to force him to.
As you approached the cockpit, the faint hum of the ship’s systems buzzed softly, and the doorway glowed faintly with the green and white lights of the control panels. Curly was there, of course, hunched over one of the consoles. His wavy blonde hair caught the artificial light, strands tousled as though he’d run his fingers through them in frustration.
From the doorway, you took a moment to admire him. He was all rugged edges and quiet strength, his broad shoulders casting a silhouette that almost filled the chair he sat in. His stubbled jaw was set in concentration, the faint shadows of fatigue underlining his blue eyes as they flicked between readouts. Even in moments like this, when he wasn’t putting on his usual air of command, he radiated a certain kind of allure.
Curly’s mind was a storm. He hated this—how easily you unraveled him, how effortlessly you bypassed every wall of professionalism he’d built over the years. It wasn’t just the shirt or the skin it revealed—it was you. The way you moved, the way you smiled at him like you knew exactly what you were doing.
And even then, he felt guilty. Deeply, horribly guilty.
This wasn’t how a captain should think about his crew—especially not about you. He couldn’t stop his mind from straying. He admired your sharp wit, respected your skills, and relied on you more than he cared to admit. You weren’t just capable; you were remarkable.
And that was the problem. Because the more he admired you, the harder it was to ignore the way his thoughts veered into forbidden territory. And tonight, when you stepped into the room, bleary-eyed and relaxed in your white t-shirt, his heart had nearly stuttered to a stop.
“Captain,” you called softly, leaning against the doorway.
His head snapped up, eyes widening slightly before he schooled his expression into something more neutral. “You’re up early,” he said, his voice low and gravelly from disuse, quickly flicking his eyes away from you and towards the ship’s monitors, a habit he’s developed recently.
“Curly?” You said again, waiting until his eyes finally met yours. You stepped inside, deliberately slow, letting him take in your appearance. His gaze darted to you briefly—just a flicker—but his lips pressed into a thin line, and he immediately focused back on the console.
“Couldn’t sleep,” you said, shrugging as you approached him. “Thought I’d keep you company.”
He cleared his throat. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Oh,” You frowned, “but I wanted to.” You leaned over the console, pretending to inspect one of the readings. The motion caused the shirt to shift ever so slightly, revealing the crux of your neck and the faint outline of your collarbone.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him freeze. His strong hands, usually so sure as they worked the controls, stilled. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, and a faint pink began to creep up his neck to his ears. “I—uh…” He faltered, his words caught in his throat. “It’s not much to look at,” he managed, gesturing vaguely to the display.
You glanced at him, catching the way his blue eyes flicked nervously to yours before darting away again. His jaw clenched, the stubble along his chin shifting with the movement, and you noticed the way his broad shoulders seemed to tense as though he were bracing himself.
His hands betrayed him, gripping the edge of the console as though it were the only thing anchoring him.
The curves of your chest moved freely with each step you took. The material was thin, revealing your shadowy valleys. The shirt cupped them like a gentle hand, and the peaks of your nipples pushed against the fabric.
He scolded himself silently, jaw tightening. How could he let his thoughts wander like this? It was unprofessional, inappropriate, and downright wrong. You were younger than him, his crewmate, his second-in-command—he was your boss! And still, despite all the reasons he gave himself to stop, he couldn’t help but notice the way the fabric of your shirt caught the light as he cursed himself for having these thoughts while being your superior.
He noticed too much—the curve of your lips when you smiled, the sway of your hair when you moved, the way your presence filled the cockpit and left him fighting for composure.
You’d casually stepped into the cockpit, rubbing your eyes and clutching a water sachet, (trying to look) completely unaware of the chaos you were stirring. The ship’s dim lighting hummed softly around you as you took in the familiar sight of Curly, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he focused on the console in front of him.
Your gaze drifted for a moment, taking in the quiet stillness of the cockpit. You liked moments like this—when the ship felt like it was holding its breath, everything running smoothly. Your eyes quickly darted back at the ship’s monitors, looking for anomalies. But your attention quickly shifted back to Curly, and concern tugged at the edges of your thoughts.
The dark shadows under his eyes and the faint redness around them told you he hadn’t gotten much sleep. His posture was rigid, shoulders tense even in stillness, and you found yourself frowning slightly.
“Curly,” you said softly, your voice breaking the silence. He turned his head just enough to acknowledge you, his blue eyes weary but alert. “When was the last time you stood up to take a stretch?” you asked, tilting your head in gentle inquiry.
His brow furrowed, and he let out a quiet sigh. “I’m fine,” he replied, though his tone lacked conviction.
You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “Captain,” you said with mock sternness, “don’t make me log a report about your poor self-care habits.”
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face before reluctantly pushing himself to his feet. “Fine,” he muttered, his voice gruff.
You stepped back, giving him space while pretending to busy yourself with your water sachet. In truth, you were staring as he stretched. His arms reached overhead, his broad shoulders and defined muscles shifting beneath his Pony Express t-shirt that was too tight in many places. You let your gaze linger for a moment, appreciating the sharp line of his jaw and the way his stubble caught the faint light and the upper half of the coveralls that were hanging casually at his hips.
But you weren’t entirely selfless. As he finished, you casually lifted your arms to stretch as well, arching your back just enough to emphasize the thin fabric of your shirt. You didn’t dare glance at him directly, but you were sure he noticed. You could almost feel the tension in the air shift, his silence betraying his discomfort—or was it something else?
Then, as you reached for your water sachet, the corner of your hand snagged it, tipping it forward and sending a stream of cool liquid splashing onto both of you.
“Oh no!” you gasped, stepping back in shock as the water soaked into your shirt and splattered onto Curly’s lower torso.
“I—I’m so sorry!” you stammered, grabbing for the stack of napkins you always kept nearby for emergencies. “I didn’t mean to—hold on, let me—”
Holding the napkins, you stepped closer and began dabbing at his shirt, focusing on the damp fabric clinging to his lower torso. His breath hitched when your fingers brushed against him, and his hands twitched at his sides as if he didn’t know what to do with them. His breathing had grown shallow, his eyes darting anywhere but at you.
“It’s fine,” he muttered, though his voice was strained.
But you were too focused on drying him off to notice the growing tension in his body. His shirt clung to his lower torso, outlining the solid planes of muscle beneath, and you worked methodically, your brows furrowed in genuine apology as you dabbed the napkins all over his lower stomach and upper thighs.
“I’m such an idiot,” you muttered under your breath, shaking your head. “I don’t even know how I…” you murmured, your voice frantic as you continued your drying. The napkins glided over his shirt, and though your touch was light and innocent, the intimacy of it was anything but. His stomach muscles tensed under your hand, and you felt a pang of guilt for causing the situation.
“Y-you don’t have to—”
“But I do!” you cut him off, leaning in just a bit closer. “I made the mess, so it’s only fair I fix it.”
His breathing grew heavier, though he was trying his best to keep it steady. His gaze flicked toward the damp, clinging fabric of your shirt again, and his cheeks burned even brighter. Your napkin drying eventually ended on his upper thigh—you’d dabbed that place a couple of times already, but this time, you noticed that it was… bulging. And hard.
And massive.
Then you noticed something else.
The air around you suddenly felt charged, and when you glanced down, your face lit up in horror. Your wet shirt was clinging to your chest like a second skin, the thin white fabric leaving very little to the imagination and turning almost entirely transparent. Splotches of color from your areolas were clearly visible under the fabric.
“Oh my-,” you whispered, your cheeks burning as you instinctively crossed your arms over yourself.
Curly’s gaze darted to you for a fraction of a second before he whipped his head away, his face flushing a deep crimson. He instantly peels off his t-shirt and places it over your head to cover you. If he gets just one more look at you exposed, he’ll-
“Thanks, Curly.” You say, relieved.
He looks down and sees your nipples still poking through the two layers of fabric, and he lets in a sharp breath before he tears his eyes away from you. You hold back an amused chuckle from what just went down, and you sigh wistfully as you take in his shirtless form.
“Darn,” you said finally, straightening and tossing the used napkins into the trash. “I guess this means you need to go take a shower and change into dry pajamas. Maybe even get some sleep while you’re at it. I’ll take care of things here in the meantime.”
He blinked at you, looking dazed and overwhelmed, his lips parting as if to protest, but no words came out. How could you have bounced back so quickly?
You smiled sweetly, your tone light and teasing as you gestured toward the exit. “Go on, Captain. That’s an order.”
For a moment, he just stood there, his jaw working as though he wanted to say something. But then he gave a sharp nod, his eyes avoiding yours as he muttered a gruff, “Fine,” before turning and leaving the cockpit.
As the door slid shut behind him, you let out a soft chuckle, enjoying the scent of his t-shirt (albeit wet) wrapped around you. You try to ignore the heat that builds up in your stomach when you think about him, in the shower, taking care of his “little” problem, wrapping his hand around himself with a groan.
a/n: let me know what y'all think!
oh yeah.. smut.. tomorrow…?
taglist is open! lmk if you want to be on the taglist for just curly/mouthwashing characters or if you want the news on alll my fics… also might be accepting requests hehe! i can’t guarantee that i can do em, but i’ll accept ideas!
btw. not beta read, please let me know if there are any typos or inconsistencies
stay safe & hydrated as always!
(and go to sleep if you’re reading this super late. don’t be a curly. take care of yourself!)
thanks for reading! <3
crossposted on ao3
directory/m.list
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