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briarberrythornedhart · 3 days ago

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Maritime Warfare

Contains: flirting, banter, not appropriate work behavior, licking someone’s hand, suggestive talk, fluff

Eddie is very used to people pulling away.

He plays chicken, or teases, or gets in their faces. He flirts hard and dirty. And his target inevitably backs away and it hurts a little but Eddie tells himself it’s what he wanted. That he ‘won’ somehow. Because they think he’s too scary, or intense, or TOO MUCH and they always back away, but Eddie doesn’t even flinch... So - it’s a win of sorts. Right??

Cut to the moment when Eddie’s pulse is racing and he is sweating kinda all over and his cock is pressed uncomfortably against his jean fly but he can’t adjust it or YOU might notice his hand and follow it down with your hot eyes.

He’s only gone ATOMIC because you flirted back.

🍦 🦇 🍦

The new StarCourt Mall is bustling. Built further up Coal Mill Road, Northeast from Lover’s Lake, the new Mall has a lot of the old mall’s classic’s, including a Scoops Ahoy with the new management from Murray Bauman.

When Eddie got hired at Guitar Center he found he could get the occasional free scoop from Dustin Henderson if he were on shift. But the week SHE started working there, he suddenly found himself wanting ice cream for lunch - and only Ice Cream - every day.

“Back again, I see? Things slow at the Rock Star Factory?” His dream girl asked, adjusting her vest and readying the sample spoons. Probably because the last time he was here, Eddie swore he was gonna try every flavor. He had quickly done the math that with the 2 samples policy it would take him about a month to complete that quest.

“No officially licensed ‘Ahoy’ greeting dished out for little ol’ me??” Eddie asked.

“Ahoy. there. Matey. Are you ready to set sail on an ocean of flavor?” She said with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes. I’m hungry for a tasty adventure.” Eddie nodded.

She stuck out her tongue. Which was what he wanted to really taste... “Dustin is off work today. It’s just me here so don’t hold up the line with your usual indecision paralysis, okay?”

Eddie indicated ‘who me?’ by touching his chest, innocent as the day is long. “What’s the proper rank to address you by whilst I order?” Eddie asked. “Is it cadet, boatswain, or plain ol’ ...Seaman?’ He asked with a wide smirk.

She laughed, “You’re gonna call me whatever you want, Eddie, I don’t know why you ask permission.”

“I just can’t believe this uniform you have to wear, it’s a bit campy, don’t you think, like... don’t you mind that you have to wear that little hat and that the guys uniform is less tight and not as short?”

“Is it, I hadn’t noticed.” She said dryly, “Why..? do I look especially bad in it??” Eddie was almost certain he saw her pout, for a millisecond.

“No,” Eddie shook his head emphatically and gestured wildly with his hands, almost taking out a little kid who was pressing his face to the ice cream freezer. “You- you look great. I bet Murray hired you because he was thinking about what you’d look like in that get up... and out of it. You know he’s a big perv, right?”

Eddie leaned in, got closer and straightened her ‘My Name Is Y/N, Ask me about Scoops Points” Pin...and instead of her knocking his hand away or telling him to hurry up and order, or telling him to shut the fuck up, all of which he was prepared for as normal responses to his nonsense - she leaned in closer and whispered, “Murray’s never-ever gonna see what’s under this get up. That’s for Your Eyes Only, Sailor.”

Eddie nearly swallowed his own tongue.

“So whatt’ll it be?” She asked. “Probably not vanilla, right? You don’t look like you enjoy plain vanilla.” She looked him up and down, grinning.

“I l-like vanilla sometimes...” Eddie stammered.

“With something drizzled on it? Extra whipped cream on top? Over hot pie? Oh - I can warm up a couple big soft cookies for you??”

“DO YOU WANNA go out sometime?!” Eddie started this out a little louder than he meant to.

Her eyes were so surprised on him - her mouth was in the shape of a little ‘o’.

The other patrons all seemed to be looking at him all the sudden and yet that was not as nerve wracking as waiting for her answer.

“I’m sorry I should not have asked you - you’re at work - Can I just ... ::sigh:: have a scoop of chocolate please and thank you.” Eddie murmured, and rubbed his forehead hard enough to hurt a bit.

She gave him a large scoop of chocolate in the Kiddie Scoop Sloop. Too much to fit in that container, really.

He handed her a $5 bill and Eddie studiously looked at Everything except Her while she rang it up

“Your change?” She said and pressed that same 5 back into his hand?? and held it there until he looked back into her eyes.

“Whut?” Eddie knew she’d cast a spell on him, he was stunned-reeling and likely to remain so for some time.

“Hey - It’s dripping all over your hand, Messy.” She took his hand holding the Scoop Sloop and licked a drip from his forefinger over his knuckles. Her tongue was so warm.

“Let’s go out after work?” She asked. “You get off at 7?”

Eddie thought for a beat. “Usually, but I’d like to get you off first.”

And she didn’t pull away or flinch. She just smiled.

Eddie had never been so happy to ‘lose’.

#eddie munson #scoops ahoy gal!worker #eddie munson fluff #let’s build a new StarCourt Mall I need it #dustin henderson #don’t lick someone’s hand while you are working food service you freak

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tinfoil-jones · 3 days ago

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Gravity Falls: For Your Own Good, Ch. 15

Summary: A few years after moving to Gravity Falls and having his lab built, Stanford Pines happens upon his estranged twin brother, Stanley. He mentally prepared himself to be suffocated by his brothers neediness all over again - what he wasn't prepared for was Stanley walking right past him like he didn't even notice him.

Rating: M for language, violence, and adult implications

Preface: Dialogue only, but some actions will be annotated for clarity. Cross-Posted on AO3 Here

First - Prev - Next

“Hey F, could I get some of that dip? Someone threw all of my cans of Snus away when he confiscated my stuff.”

“Sure thang, handsome. Oh- you sure you need that much Stan? You’ve cold-turkey’d nicotine for weeks now.”

“I’ll be fine, stretch. It’s not like I haven’t done worse for less.”

(...)

“Fiddleford, is there a particular reason Stanley is under the table in the recovery position?”

“He tried too much chew all at once, he’s got the nic-sick.”

“Stanley, I told you that you needed to quit that nasty habit! This is precisely why I threw your tobacco products away when you came here.”

“Y’know this headache was bad enough without you yelling at me.”

“I cannot believe you enabled him.”

“Stanford, he's a grown man, he’s allowed to use nicotine if he wants to.”

“He can still hear you. And you know what? I don’t think you ever need to bitch at me about it ever again, Doc. I’m not touching the stuff again for a long time…”

“It’s for your own good.”

“PhD, next time you think about saying that I want you to remember I’m not above hitting a guy with glasses.”

(...)

“Stan, how old are you?”

“Twenty-seven going on twenty-eight.”

“Do you remember when your birthday is?”

“Not the date, no. I know it’s late spring or early summer.”

“And I know your memories are hazy, but did you ever… celebrate it?”

“I think the last time I did was before I was on the streets. After that? There wasn’t a point, I was alone. Why do ya need to know, F?”

“I’m just checking is all.”

(...)

“Stanford, how old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“When is your birthday?”

“June 15th.”

“And if I remember correctly from BMU, you never celebrate it?”

“Last time I did I was seventeen.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“I told you back then Fiddleford, I did not see a point, I was-...”

“Used to sharing it?”

“Why?”

“I’m just checking is all.”

(...)

“So each of these is supposed to be your, what, doctors cert?”

“Doctoral degree, and yes.”

“So you have a dozen of them?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. Twelve whole PhDs? That’s pretty cool.”

“...You really think so?”

“Yeah, most people don’t even got one - but you got one for each finger huh?”

“That’s not why I-. Well, yes, I suppose I do.”

“Stanford! Stan! I’m back, come over to the kitchen!”

“Do ya know what he left for?”

“He did not say.”

“Why’d he turn out the ligh-.”

“Surprise!”

*Stan and Ford stop at the entryway to the kitchen. Fiddleford is standing next to the table, which has a sheet cake and twenty-eight lit candles*

“...”

“Fiddleford, what is this?”

“I know you said you don’t see a point to your birthday, but I couldn’t help myself.”

“Oh, it’s your birthday?”

“...Stanley. It’s not just my birthday.”

“Are you okay Stan? You’re looking spooked. I apologize if I put you on the spot-”

“N-No. I’m fine. It’s uhh- I don’t even know when my birthday is.”

“It’s today. We’re twins.”

“...”

“You still don’t believe-.”

“Wouldn’t, you know, the other guy, be upset?”

“There is no ‘other guy’, it’s literally you.”

“I’m- I don’t… I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Stanley, I understand you’ve stubbornly held onto the belief that I’m insane and trying to replace something I’ve lost-”

“The cake’s getting covered in wax here, fellers.”

“But I haven’t celebrated my birthday in a long time, because I’m used to sharing it. I am not trying to force you to, but I’m requesting you let me share it with you; I want to share it with you.”

“...Fuck it, I said I’d play along with your delusions until you got over it. Okay, PhD, I accept your offer. But I’m taking all of the corner pieces of the cake.”

“I can accept those terms.”

“Okay you two, I don’t think we got enough time to sing the happy birthday song before the candles melt themselves outta their wicks. So just blow ‘em out and make your wishes.”

(...)

“Hello, Dr. Stanford Pines speaking.”

“Stanford?”

“Hey Ma.”

“Happy birthday hon.”

“Thanks Ma.”

“Please tell me you celebrated your birthday this year. I know your last one couldn’t have been easy after-”

“I was busy with research last year. This year, yes I celebrated, I have… Company, this time.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. Listen hon, I know it hasn’t been easy without Stanley since… the accident.”

“I’ve had more than enough time to think about it. I am not going to lie to you and say I’m not upset at all, but it’s been long enough that I have other things to concern myself with.”

“I just want you to know if things get too hard, don’t be afraid to talk to your old Ma again.”

“...I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I love you, Stanford.”

“I love you too, Ma.”

To be continued…

#for your own good #early amnesia au #mystery trio #he did it guys he said the title #Stan calling Ford anything but his name #gravity falls #cross posted on ao3 #fanfic #fanfiction #stanley pines #stan pines #stanford pines #ford pines #fiddleford hadron mcgucket #fiddleford mcgucket #fiddlestan #caryn romanoff pines #caryn pines

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takamor · 19 hours ago

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“what are you doing here?”

in all honesty, he should’ve expected the brittle ring to your voice.

he really should’ve expected how you fold your arms around your chest as if protecting your heart from him. (he’s been so rough with it in the past, after all.)

and especially how you squint your eyes at him like you can’t believe he’s really standing in your doorway at one in the morning, rain pounding against his back and a lopsided grin on his face. (he doesn’t blame you—never has. he can’t even believe where he’s at, but he’s not exactly surprised. you’ve always felt like home to him.)

it’s not a surprise how you stand squarely between him and your entryway, but there’s a part of him that breaks anyway. (he isn’t welcome here, he knows it, but it’s one in the morning on a rainy tuesday night and he just wants to go home.)

“c’mon, darlin’, you know why i’m here.” he tries his hardest to sound lighthearted, but there’s a wobble to his tone, and he hopes he didn’t imagine you softening just the slightest bit.

but just as quickly as he sees a flash of tenderness across your face, you’re back to glowering at him the best you can and standing your ground. “no, i don’t, atsumu, considering you broke up with me two weeks ago.”

“is it cheesy of me to say i’ve regretted it every day since?”

“incredibly, but also incredibly like you.”

“even if it’s true?”

“especially if it’s true.”

it’s easy to fall into familiar banter with him, a reflex almost. atsumu has always been easy to bicker with. there’s something bittersweet about how sharp both of your tongues are and how thick your skin is. it was the foundation of your relationship. evidently, a weak one. and whether it’s the alcohol pumping through his veins or the feeling of belonging taking root in his guts, he doesn’t realize he’s reached out his hand towards you until he feels his knuckles brush against your cheek. you indulge it just for a moment, long enough to remember how good it felt to wake up to him every morning, before grabbing his wrist.

“what are you doing here, atsumu?” you repeat, firmer this time, his pulse thumping against your palm.

he feels guilty, but not enough to leave. just enough to look slightly sheepish and gently wriggle his wrist out of your grasp so he can scratch the back of his head. a nervous habit of his, and you can appreciate that he has the sense to be somewhat ashamed. “jus’ wanted to see ya’ is all…”

you hold your chin up and he shrinks away from your glare. “then you should’ve thought twice about breaking up with me, huh?”

“look—” he tries to get out the rest of his sentence, he really does, but it’s freezing cold and the rain is starting to sting his skin and his tongue feels a lot heavier than it should and his vision is starting to blur and, by god, he thinks he might actually be crying. how much more of a fucking cliché can he be? pathetically standing on his ex’s porch in the pouring rain, sake and regret causing his body to feel stuffed full of cotton and stones, hands shaking from nerves and cold air. atsumu miya is truly the epitome of pride and self-destruction at its finest. “i…” he runs his hand down his face in hopes that it’ll sober him up a little, and his previous suspicions are confirmed when he can feel the telltale warmth of tears. “i was an idiot and bein’ selfish and i shouldn’t a’ said what i said—”

“you called me insecure when i told you i wanted to spend more time with you.”

“i know and i’m sorry and if you—”

“you said if i wanted to date an all star athlete then i shouldn’t try to drag them down.”

“i know and—”

“you called me childish. you. of all fucking people, atsumu.”

he isn’t sure when you guys started yelling or when your words started to feel more like fists, but his hands are shaking and he thinks his heart is breaking. it feels like it is. his stomach is churning and he’s certain it isn’t from the alcohol; his lungs ache with every breath he takes; his throat is raw and closing more with each minute that passes by; his mind is racing trying to keep up with his mouth, but it can’t seem to catch up. someone must’ve hit his power button, because he feels as if he’s shut down. he’s frozen. unsure whether you’re going to keep fighting him or just slam the door on him. he hopes it’s the former, so he has more time to memorize the curves of your face.

“what gives you the right, atsumu miya?” you continue on, indignation staining your words. “what gives you the fucking right to break up with me after i told you i was worried about you caring more about volleyball than me, and then show up on my doorstep in the middle of the night drunk off of your ass? i tried calling you, texting you, and you never fucking answered. you even blocked me on your socials before the night ended. even osamu, your fucking twin brother, reached out to me because he knew how much you meant to me. and right when i’m starting to warm up to the idea of moving on, you show up. you fucking show up...”

he reaches out to wipe the tears from your cheeks, but you flinch away this time, scared of crumbling under his touch. the ice in your chest has melted enough to reveal the clumsy stitching you’ve done to seal angry cuts he left. you don’t want to show the ugly deeper ones you’re still trying to figure out how to bandage. the wounded look in his deep eyes has you longing to feel warm again.

“please,” he whispers. “jus’ let me inside and you can yell at me. you can even kick me out after, i promise. but my feet are numb and i dunno how much longer i can stand out here without catchin’ a cold. and i think your neighbors are startin’ to hate ya’.”

it’s one in the morning on a rainy tuesday night, and a drunk atsumu miya is standing on your doorstep, and it’s the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen him. something cautiously optimistic twinkles in his eyes as you scoot over to let him in your apartment, and he folds in on himself as he squeezes past you, and it’s so unlike him, a seedling of hope starts to bloom in your rib cage. atsumu has never tried to make himself appear smaller for anyone’s sake, but he’s trying his best to shrink his body for you. with the deliberation of someone handling glass, he slips feet out of his shoes and makes his way over to your couch, droplets of rain rolling off of his clothes and landing soundlessly on your carpet. anxiety radiates off of him in heavy waves. he fiddles with the strings of his jacket, dark eyes watching your every movement, the corners of his mouth twitching, muscular legs bouncing with anticipation as if he’s ready to bolt at any given moment.

it’s the most nervous you’ve ever seen him, and a part of you feels righteous.

“what are you doing here, miya?” it’s the third time you’ve asked him the question and the softest way you’ve done it. and though he cracks at the formality of his last name, he can appreciate how delicate you sound while whispering it.

finally, somehow, he finds his voice buried under the lump in his throat. “i’m an idiot. i ruined the best thing to ever happen to me because i got scared, and i wanna make it right.” he bites his lip. copper explodes on his tongue and it shouldn’t taste so good mixed with sake, but he finds himself indulging nonetheless. when you don’t speak, he continues on in an uncharacteristically gentle voice. “‘m sorry. i dunno how much my words are worth to you now, and i don’t blame you if you hate me. i kinda hate me right now…” He humorlessly chuckles and glares at the floor as if it were the source of all of this. “but i miss you. none of this shit means anythin’ to me if i don’t have you, darlin’.”

“don’t say that.”

his eyes snap up back to you and he’s somewhat relieved to see you earnest. “hm?”

“don’t say that volleyball doesn’t mean anything to you,” you mutter, and it’s your turn to glare at the carpet. “i won’t allow you to. with or without me, volleyball is your…thing. it’s what you wake up in the morning for. it’s what you go to bed thinking of. it’s what your mind wanders to. and, yeah, it’s annoying sometimes, but that’s a part of you. don’t let me take that away from you.”

atsumu rubs at his face and inspects his hands, all of the calluses and evidence of his days on the court. a part of him still wants to cut out volleyball, hurt himself as much as he’s hurt you, because he knows you’re right—him without volleyball is like him without food to eat, water to drink, oxygen to inhale. it’s been the one constant in his life, the thing that has brought him back from the ledge again and again. he thought it’d be the only thing he’d care about, until he met you. could one take priority over another? would you make him choose? or was he just scared of you doing it and cut his losses before he could find out? in the end, you both know what he’d choose, and maybe he was trying to save you from that. he never thought of himself as so chivalrous. then again, he didn’t think much of himself outside of volleyball. but he’s been through this story so many fucking times he knows the ending: you’ll grow to resent him because volleyball takes up more of his heart than you do and he’ll end up with another hole in it. it already started when you mentioned you hadn’t seen him much these past few weeks during practice season. and although at the time you brought it up off-handedly, he knows the topic won’t be so easy the fifth time it’s brought up.

and so, he did what he does best: made the kill shot and ended things before they got too hard.

but there’s that annoyingly idyllic part of him that’s hoping, praying, this ending is different and maybe his love for volleyball is a part of the reason you love him so much. seeing him so passionate, pushing himself on the court, looking in your direction after every shot he takes, silently dedicating every serve he makes to you. maybe you see all of that and adore him for it. he hopes you do.

“how drunk are you?” you ask suddenly.

he perks at the sound of your voice. “drunk enough to say what’s on my mind. sober enough to know how stupid i am for tryin’ to pull this off.”

you chuckle despite yourself, and that blossom of hope in his ribcage grows a little more. “well, we’ll talk about this in the morning, okay? i’m tired and not thinking clearly, and you obviously aren’t either. here—” careful to avoid his touch, you grab at the blanket strew over the head of the couch. he still gets a noseful of your shampoo, however, and that’s enough to make his chest ache and his arms long to hold you. “crash on the couch, ‘kay? you know where the bathroom is if you need to vomit.”

“i can hold my liquor,” he begrudgingly mutters as he wrestles to take his jacket off and cocoon himself with the blanket. it smells like you as well, and he can almost pretend it’s you wrapped around his body instead of the woven acrylic. he shivers, despite the warmth provided by the blanket.

you look down at him fondly. it doesn’t help his ribcage one bit. “i know.”

once he’s settled in, you bid him goodnight and begin to tread towards your room, feet heavy and heart feeling even heavier.

“does that mean there’s hope?” he sounds so small, his words rose-colored and dripping with caged optimism, that you can’t help but soften some of your hard edges for him. you glance over your shoulder and are surprised by the shining dark eyes peeking back over to you.

“what?” you dumbly reply, too emotionally drained to contemplate much more.

“you said we’ll talk about this in the mornin’,” he slowly explains, as if his words weigh more than he expected. “does that mean there’s hope?”

“i—” you bite your tongue. atsumu is looking at you as if you have his heart in the palm of your hand, and you have a slight suspension he’s right. hesitantly, as to not break him any more than he already has, you meet his eyes, and there’s that fragile hope staring right back at you. “i don’t know, ‘tsumu. but i’m willing to hear you out.”

he smiles, because you’ve finally used the name he fell in love with hearing roll off your tongue. even if there’s no way to fix what he’s broken, he can at least know that there’s a part of you that’s still fond of him, even if it’s buried under the bitter animosity of heartbreak. that, he thinks, will be good enough for now.

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