🌸 best compliment you ever received?
☕ coffee or tea?
Caged moon is judging your answer 👁️👁️
Best compliment I ever received? I feel like it’s impossible to pick, I feel like crying when someone is even the tiniest bit kind.
Coffee or tea? Hm …
… I was gonna say tea but he forced my hand.
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I love your anon design so so so so much, they live in my head rent-free, tired gray queer trying to make it through life, they own my heart and soul.
y/n prepares for their nightmare shift where all of the ppl they work w/are insane, want them carnally, or are both at the same time.
they cant even have coffee ta cope w/the horrors. everytime they drink it their body fucking explodes in hatred of them. but thats okay, they have tea :]
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“Black coffee for Racetrack.” Crutchie says pertly as he sets down the cup. “Enjoy.”
“Thanks, Charlie.”
Crutchie blinks for a second, the name foreign to his ears after not hearing it all day – and grins impishly.
“And who said my name’s Charlie?”
Mister Racetrack pauses mid-sip, his cup halfway to his face, and fixes him with a puzzled look.
“I mean...” He chuckles amusedly. “Your nametag, for starters?”
Crutchie smiles, feeling far too smug, and shakes his head.
“Oh, honey,” he says wickedly, “I don’t use my real name at work.”
Racetrack furrows his brow, and takes a step towards the counter as if pulled by a string.
“What is it, then?”
“Oh, no,” Crutchie tuts, "if I don’t get to know your name, you don’t get to know mine.”
A grin starts pulling Racetrack’s lips, keen and hungry. When Crutchie looks away from his mouth to meet his gaze, Racetrack’s eyes burn.
“Care to make it interesting?” He asks with a knife-sharp glint. Crutchie finds himself pressing his hands against the counter, leaning forward without any thought.
“How so?”
“First to guess right wins.” Race shrugs, pretend-casual.
“Hmm...” Crutchie flicks his gaze to the ceiling, pretending to think. “Wins what?”
“Bragging rights.”
“Obviously.”
“And a free drink.”
“How’s that a prize for me? I work here.”
“And what makes you think you’ll win?” Race challenges, and it takes Crutchie a second to realize they’ve been leaning closer with every word, balanced precariously on the counter, close enough to feel the steam of Race’s coffee.
There’s a word, a perfect comment for Crutchie to make, right on the tip of his tongue-
The doorbell jingles overheard, and Crutchie stumbles back like he’s been burned.
“Free drink.” He nods, fussing with his apron. “Deal.”
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