EVERYBODY shut the fuck up. coffee shop barista au. soap is a barista and this one guy comes in at the same time on the dot every day and orders the same thing every time. (its straight black coffee with so much added caffeine that soap thinks it could kill a horse.) the man is like, 6′4″ and built like a brick house. soap is a pretty big guy himself, but god does he makes him look tiny.
his hair is blond, light enough that in some lighting it looks nearly silver. it seems to be a mess constantly- wavy locks that curl around the tips of his ears, fringe just long enough to partially cover one of his eyes. just long enough that someone could reach up and tuck it behind his ear. and soap wants to, if not just to get to feel his hair- it looks so fucking soft and smooth and soap wonders what his hair care routine is. (because surely you cant get hair that good without putting work into it, right?)
his upper face is littered with scars; over the bridge of his nose, across his cheeks, under his eye. theres probably more, but anytime he shows up he has a face mask on, one with some dumb skeleton design on it that would probably look stupid on anyone else, but somehow he makes it work.
and his eyes- god, his eyes. his left eye is a brilliant shade of blue with a shock of green at the bottom, something soap has never seen before. the two colors seem to clash and meld together all at once, an enchanting phenomenon that soap wants to study. his right eye is a deep, gorgeous chocolate brown, swirled with a lighter caramel tone that brightens his eye but makes his gaze no less intense. anytime he locks eyes with soap, he loses his breath- hes never seen someone so fucking beautiful in his entire life.
his voice is low and gravelly, a deep, accented rumble that soap swears to god he can feel in his bones. the man doesnt mince his words, but every time he does speak soap can feel himself shiver. he hopes it isnt visible.
the only name he gives for his order is ghost. that isnt enough for soap. he wants his first name- his real name, a name he can place to the beautiful face that lurks in his mind. (and in his sketchbooks.)
so he tries to pry it out of the man. he offers his own name first, john mactavish, but ghost doesnt give him his own name, instead opting nod and hum. he takes to calling soap ‘johnny’, something that soap has notably refused to let anyone call him, no matter how close they are. he allows ghost to call him it, finding the heat it spreads through his body pleasant and welcoming it. gaz, his fellow barista, is disgruntled when he finds out that soap is letting someone call him johnny when he was firmly denied the permission to do so himself.
every day soap asks for a name for the coffee, hoping that one day he’ll slip and tell him, but he never does. its always ghost, you know this, johnny. he keeps trying despite the ineffectiveness.
sometimes he throws out guesses. over time they get increasingly ridiculous, trying to get a huff or a snort out of the man when he looks at his cup. whatever name he chooses is accompanied by some shitty dad joke- one time ghost had told one that was god awful, but soap could see the glee in his eyes when he groaned and complained. he sees ghost look at the writing everytime he hands over the drink, and he adores the amusement he sees dancing in his gaze at the jokes, so he keeps it up.
their banter shifts from friendly teasing to flirting constantly- oftentimes mid-conversation. sometimes its soap who does it, (”the maaask... take it off?” “show my face?” “yes.” “no.” “are you ugly?” “quite the opposite.” “i doubt that.”) and other times its ghost. (”you like tequila?” “could use one right about now.” “id murder for a whiskey.” “you mean scotch?” “i drink bourbon.” “like a good ol’ boy...” “... i love kentucky.” “yer out o’ yer mind, ghost.” “thats for sure.”)
(gaz is this fucking close to complaining to price about the sexual tension around them. if he has to deal with soap making eyes at this customer for one more fucking minute he thinks hes going to snap.)
1K notes
·
View notes
George and Punz for 6?
from this prompt list!
yay hi Kasey! you didn't say a lee or ler, so I did lee!Punz / ler!George, I hope that's okay! 😇
prompt 6 - “are you…? oh my god. you are.”
“I see someone’s made themselves at home already,” The blonde tilted his head up to see George standing at the end of the couch with a smirk. He was on the other side of the armrest, where Punz had been resting his ankles with his legs crossed while he lounged and scrolled through emails. “What’s it been like, two hours since you got here?”
“Three, actually.” Punz replied, rolling his eyes with a scoff at the comments. He shook his head slightly, chuckling as he lifted his phone back up to continue scrolling. It was silent for a few seconds, and Punz relaxed back into the cushions, assuming George had walked away.
In actuality, George was still standing by the arm of the couch, looking Punz up and down to see if he could come up with a way to mess with him. His eyes landed on the socked feet that were a mere few inches away from his twitching hands, and he bit his lip to hold in the giggle that threatened to expose his plan. He had no idea if Punz was ticklish or not, but at the very least, it was guaranteed to surprise him.
The brunette watched him for a few more seconds before holding his two pointer fingers in front of him, slowly wiggling them as he moved them closer and closer to Punz’s feet. When George’s finger met the fabric of his sock, Punz jolted with a yelp, immediately bending his legs into his chest. He sat up to face George, who was staring at him with wide eyes and an excited grin on his face.
“Punz…”
“Don’t.” Punz wrapped his arms around his shins, pressing his palms flat over the tops of his feet as George slowly walked around to stand in front of the couch, blocking any chance of escape.
“Are you…” He paused as he watched the blush flood quickly into Punz’s cheeks, spreading down his neck and over his nose. “Oh my God. You are.”
Before Punz could protest, nails were suddenly skittering over his knees, tickling in circles and random patterns that had the blonde squealing with laughter.
“Nohoho! George! Geohohorge, wahahait!”
“For what? You’re anti-ticklish medicine to kick in or something? Just shut up, idiot.” George responded, voice dripping with sarcasm as his smile spread wider watching the boy in front of him squirm and throw his head back with a loud cackle.
“I’m- I’m nohohot an idiot!” Punz protested through his giggles, a tiny snort making itself known every so often when George would hit a particularly sensitive spot on the bottom of his kneecaps. “P-Plehehease George!”
“Just be lucky you weren’t wearing those jeans with all the holes.” George teased, switching back to the pointer finger technique as he continued to swirl little circles against Punz’s knees. He squeezed his eyes shut at the feeling, his laughter growing in volume. Punz couldn’t stop himself as his hands flew up to cover his knees, needing to get rid of the tickling feeling more than protecting a spot that was already targeted.
However, Punz quickly found out that George actually was not done targeting that spot, letting out a huge shriek when he felt a grip on his ankle. George held onto his left ankle, yanking it away from the rest of Punz’s body and holding it up high, causing him to fall back against the couch cushions with the position essentially keeping Punz from sitting back up.
“No! N-No way, George. Please!” Punz pleaded as George turned his head to the side, lifting his chin up to meet the blue eyes that were full of nothing but nervousness and giddiness. He smirked one last time at Punz, ignoring his pleas as he used his free hand to drag his fingers up the squirming boy’s foot.
“Awh, is little Punzy wunzy a bit too tickwish?” George teased in his signature overly British voice he used whenever he messes around with friends, always over exaggerating the accent and making his voice go high pitched. He used his pointer and middle finger to scratch up and down the arch of Punz’s foot, causing him to stomp his free foot against the couch, not knowing what to do with the feeling.
“NOHOHO! Oh FUHUCK, dohohn’t! Stohohop!”
“Don’t stop? Well, alright!” The elder didn’t give Punz a chance to respond before shoving his fingers under his toes, squeezing and scribbling under them while the blonde boy thrashed and pounded his fists into the couch. George smirked, hearing how loud Punz was laughing and also catching the little squeaks that he produced whenever he scratched a finger over the ball of Punz’s foot.
“NAHAHAHA I- I DIDIDN’T MEHEHEAN IT LIKE THAHAHAT!” Punz whined through his laughter, which was now borderline hysterical as George continued to tickle over the wiggling foot he had trapped in his grasp.
“Well, that’s what you said, so it looks like we’re gonna be here for a looooooong time, Punzy!” Punz groaned through his giggles at the nickname, bringing his hands up and twisting them into the neck of his hoodie, quickly lifting it to cover his reddened face.
When George eventually released his foot, Punz attempted to scramble off the couch, trying to escape before he could do anything, but was stopped when the brunette suddenly grabbed his right ankle, this time yanking him into a laying position as George held his ankle in a headlock.
“Where do you think you’re going, blondie? I never said I was done,” George smirked, watching Punz melt into the couch with a new round of laughter as he traced a finger up and down the sole of his foot. “And we’re not finished until I say we are.”
Punz’s eyes grew as wide as saucers, swallowing thickly as he felt goosebumps begin to rise on his skin. He shuddered through his panicked giggles, having a feeling that he definitely wouldn’t be shown an ounce of mercy any time soon.
38 notes
·
View notes