A Bit More Practice Soaps Of Different Kinds

a bit more practice Soaps of different kinds

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shh rn all thats going through my mind is you leaving for work and johnny being so whiny about it. you two own a shared apartment & are just “best friends,” but the lines are blurry.

the man does everything—he fixes the sink, tossing a plier in his hands with a toothy grin. he takes you out to dinner—“luv, no need to be shy—i can pay f’it.” and orders a grand course meal. dessert included. fanciest wine, and the table is set elegantly. you had a feeling this man loved ya. sometimes you also feel bad because he drops cash on you like its nothing.

“its not about me being shy—“ you’d try to say.

“aye—so lets ave’ a good time?”

and now, he sits at the door like the good man he is—frowning at your absence. one leg is outstretched, the other folded in and eyes widening when he sees jellybeans, your cat stride in.

“ahh there she is.” he’d scoop her up to his chest. a lil fur-ball—a ragdoll kitty.

“waitin’ f’or y’er mum. she’s always so busy.” johnny grumbled and pet the ragdoll, back leaning against the front door.

“what’dya think? should i get er’ some flowers? ya think that’ll be nough’ to drive er’ crazy?”

johnny spends a while debating with your cat, simply waiting for you to come home.

waitress reader’s reaction to bartender Ghost getting hit on by someone they think is more attractive?

Oh, she would be so so jealous.

You're wiping down your table, standing on your tippy-toes to reach the middle of the high-top, when you spot the receipt tucked in between the sugars and the pepper. Another successful, big tip, and you're tucking your rag into your server apron and jogging across the floor to share your victory with Simon - when you spot her.

She's sitting at the bar; perfect, blonde waves of her hair cascading down her upper back. She's stylish, wearing a green, corduroy jacket and skinny jeans, wedges on her perfectly manicured feet. Her ankles are crossed politely on the edge of the barstool, her back is arched with perfect posture, and you just know her boobs are a ten out of ten, even though you're facing her back. She's definetly taller than you, you can see that while she's sitting down.

You're so jealous you're probably steaming - and the worst part about it is Ghost. He's not giving her the gruff, unbothered attitude he usually gives everyone at the bar - far from it. He's leaning back against the liquor shelf, eyes crinkled in what you can only assume is a flirtatious smile, hands gripping the counter to flex those goddam Greek-god muscles. He listens to her as she prattles on, laughing at everything and anything he has to say (he just asked if she needed more napkins. Why the fuck is that so funny?!)

Truthfully, he's over this chick. He's the same as you, playing up his charm to keep those tips rolling in - but this girl is exhausting. Always laughing, kinda daft, talks like she's the only woman on the planet... his muscles are tense as he fights the urge to throw his rag at her, he's grimacing behind his mask, teeth clenching to hold back an annoyed groan and god does she ever shut the fuck up-

He notices you, standing in the middle of the restaurant floor, pen tucked into your hair, with flyaways sprouting from your scalp like fireworks, chin slightly jutted out in a pout. Your hands are balled into fists at your sides - you're choking your notepad to death, and you have the nastiest, most adorable look on your face that Simon's ever had the pleasure of seeing.

He scoffs, folding his arms over his chest. "Doin' alright, luv?"

You blink at him, and he has to hold back a snort. The girl turns around to you - great. She's hot, too.

"Oh- hey..." she grabs her ramekin from her dish and holds it out to you. "Is there more ketchup?"

You glare at her for a few moments, not bothering to hide your distaste for her. Simon's about to get it himself, but you snatch the ramekin from her and storm past the kitchen door with a "lemme see."

Ghost furrows his brow at your irate behavior. He wonders if one of the customers gave you a hard time; he politely excuses himself from the woman (thank fuck, she's getting exhausting) and goes to check on you in the kitchen.

"-ye need a feckin' wot now?!"

"I need you to fill a ramekin with half ketchup and half tobasco!"

"Ye got hot sauce oan all th' bloody tables!"

"I need you to do it!"

Ghost chuckles to himself, putting the pieces together. He isn't blind - he recognizes that green-eyed monster anywhere, lord knows he's felt it too. Makes his chest ouff up a bit, seeing you get all ruffled and grumpy over him. It also makes him feel a bit better about fussing over you, when his patrons try to win you over. Guess we both have double standards.

You walk back out, smiling at the woman and handing her the ramekin back. "You got the last of the ketchup! Enjoy!" And, with a cheeky grin, you walk back off to tend to your tables.

She looks at Simon and he shrugs. "Looks like ya got lucky."

Ughh thinking about simon ghost riley in university and you see him drawing a few times one day on campus, sitting on the bench. He wore a black hoodie, hiding his form and hood pulled over his masked face. Lengthy tall fingers held charcoal, all smudged and dirty. He seems so focused you don’t say much, so you eye him & walk away, leaving it to him. But apart of you wonders what’s got him so wound up and focused on drawing. You never took him as the type to draw anyway.

And then next week you see him walking out the gym, balaclava mask pulled up to reveal pink chapped lips, busted from his the boxing class offered at University. He held his duffle bag over his shoulder, biceps flexing as long legs strode down the pathway—most likely to his dorm. The idea that he drew so meticulously and in the dead the night, so serene and wistful—

And then this. An absolute fighting machine, all biceps and a hunk of muscle. Not a single thought behind those eyes as he focused on darting out punches.

Both of it had you eager & melting to know more about this mysterious man.

college!ghost and you waking up at the same time. You have a class to get ready for at 9am, but in order to be ready you’d have to catch breakfast at 8am. Now it was 7:30. All you wanted to do was go back to sleep like the bedbug you were. Classes, you thought annoyed. You now brushed your teeth, messy hair down in waves and mussed up from sleeping. The fluorescent lights don’t help either. The bathroom was a public one, so anyone could’ve walked in at any moment.

And suddenly the door swung open. In there stands the man you’d been seeing around—blue and black plaid pajamas, a soft tee shirt and his balaclava mask off. His caddy hangs in his hand. You stare in shock—toothbrush in your mouth, hand not moving. Your messy sleep deprived eyes boring into his. First thing you notice: his mask was off. Scars roamed his face, tracing his features. He was gruff and blonde—you pegged him as a brunette. Guess I was wrong this time, you thought.

“Wot you starin’ at?” He’d gruffly say, voice thick from sleep. You looked away immediately, brushing your teeth faster as a distraction.

“Nothin.” You managed to say—although mumbling from the toothbrush in your mouth.

The brute of a man just stands next to you, not saying another word. The harsh curve of his nose shines in the light, bags under his eyes as he reaches for his toothbrush in irritation. He didn’t think anyone else would be up at this time, at the ass crack of dawn. He brushed his teeth, hazy eyes staring in the mirror. All he could see were you beside him: in his peripheral.

All clad in shorts and a tank top, strap falling to the side. Hair tousled as you brushed your teeth then washed your face. He had to ask himself: why did you need all those steps just to wash your face? Now he found himself staring curious, although shifting his gaze away so you wouldn’t catch him.

Just another gal, he thought. Maybe he recognized you from the room across—but then again it was the ass crack of dawn and his mind was a mess.