“Large expretho with extra cream and thugar, pleathe.”
Three seventy four. The price of your drink of choice has been seared into your mind with how often you have been in this coffee shop over the last week. Far too many hours have been put into the program you have been working on, leading you to long nights and little sleep. Frequent visits to the local fast food chains and occasionally forgetting basic hygiene practices have become common place.
You slide a five over to the barista as she rings you up, pocketing the change she hands back to you before she's moving swiftly to make your drink. You're vaguely aware of the fact that you look like death warmed over, and you're fairly certain that you are beginning to smell like it, too. After all, there are only so many times in a day where you can use Fabreeze to hide the fact that you've pushed aside basic needs.
She hands you your drink, and you're making your way to your usual spot- a lone table in the back corner next to a shoddy looking electrical socket that you have decided works well enough. You set up your small work station once you're comfortable that you will be left well enough alone, your thin fingers tightly gripping that cup. You take a sip, and find the brown liquid drinkable enough. At least they're learning that when you say extra cream and sugar, you mean extra cream and sugar.
You haven't really been a coffee drinker. Not really. Too much of the stuff messes with your psionics and makes you exhausted and jittery the moment that crash hits. Not to mention how sick you feel the next day after drinking the stuff. Who knew that caffeine hang overs were actually a thing?
Still, these last few days, the brown bitter liquid has become your savior in your long days of being far too overworked. You had taken this job, thinking it would be a quick pay. The project looked simple enough for what your client was offering. How on earth could you possibly say no?
You honestly had wished you had said no. Even with your pile of late bills, it simply wasn't worth it. You did the math. You're not being payed enough for how many hours you put into this. You code the project and send it to them, only to have it get sent back because they want to change sixteen different things that they didn't even list. Hell, you're pretty sure that, with how many hours you put into this, you're not even getting paid minimum wage anymore.
You can't wait until you can finally send your client the final project, and get that money. Ohhh, are you ever so tempted to tack on a little bit extra on your bill. This is simply ridiculous, and it is only fair that they cover the cost of your caffeinated beverages.
God, do you need a shower.
You're thankful for the look you have today. College student frump with an extra side of scruff. If the patrons of the shop didn't know any better, they would think you were just some homeless troll. Hell, they might still think you are, and have simply made residence out of the little shop, considering you're here from open to close. However, you don't bother with what they think. Instead, you're opening up your various coding programs, setting off to work on this god forsaken project. The sooner you get this done, the faster you can get home, shower, and sleep off the caffeine crash of a lifetime.
“Hey there, pretty boy. This seat taken?”
You grunt, looking up at the man that has sauntered over to you your table. You hadn't even noticed him walk up, having gotten too lost in your work. You blink a couple of times, grabbing your coffee taking a long pull of the warm liquid as you quirk an eyebrow.
Blond hair, shades, jeans and a tee-shirt, yet he's still beyond attractive.
Dave Strider. You're wondering how a hot mess like yourself managed to land a catch like him.
You're wondering how the hell he got pretty boy out of the hot mess that you currently are.
“D Eth. Do I look like anything that would constitute pretty at the damn moment?” You snark, taking another drink of the espresso before turning to face the computer. “I honethtly didn't know overworked, frumpy, unkempt, groady troll wath a thing of yourth.”
Dave just laughs, that cool nonchalant laugh that he only gets around you. Even if you you look like hell, he's still giving you that wonderful flutter.
“Oh babe, you know I love you like that.” He grins. He is genuinely hitting on you.
You are, as you put it, an overworked frumpy, unkempt, groady troll. Yet here he is, genuinely hitting on you.
If you weren't in a relationship with the man, you would have thrown him against the wall with your psionics just for bothering you. He's lucky.
“Tho it ith a thing of yourth. Nithe to know.” you quip, fingers tapping away quickly on that keyboard, lines of code passing your sight. “Too bad. On the I'm done with thith job, I will be a showered, shaved, unconsciouth troll. There ith not a fucking thing you can do about it, D Eth.”
He just lets out another chuckle, and before it even hits you, he's gently pulling your face into his hands, his pale lips against your black ones. It takes you a moment to realize that he's kissing you, mind slow from the lack of sleep, and soon you're kissing back.
His lips taste of chai tea and earth honey, slightly chapped against your own. A drink you think he thinks is ironic, for sure. It just makes his lips that much more wonderful. You're hoping he feels the same about the taste of over-sweetened creamy espresso on your own lips. It's a quick kiss, barely a moment, but it still makes your head spin.
“So, on you being showered, shaved and unconscious. Will there be cuddles involved?”
You can't help but to smile, moving in to ruffle his white locks.
“Yeth, thweety pie. There will be cuddleth.”
If that wasn't an incentive to get this job done, you don't know what is.
That incentive, which is made so much sweeter by another chai flavored kiss.