Blood Smeared on My Coffee Cup, Red Like Your Eyes (Quackbur)

Chapter 6: A Date With The Devil

Quackity had to look at himself honestly and ask, 'am I really about to do this?'

Yes, he was, because his bird was an annoying little shit who refused to calm down around Wilbur now.

He could admit that he was actually a bit excited about potentially getting to know the barista a bit better. Still nervous, don't get him wrong, he didn't exactly have the best track record when it came to lovers. But he did want to at least get to know the other better.

The mafia boss could admit that, generally speaking, Wilbur was attractive and was really fun to talk to. He didn't call the shop owner 'pretty boy' for no reason, after all. And there was a reason why he spent so much time in the shop. His banter with the taller man had honestly become one of his favorite parts of the day. There was just something so undeniably charming about the barista that made it easy to get lost in conversation with him.

He seemed to radiate a natural charisma. The kind of drive and passion that would compel you to follow him or to simply be around him. It felt like you could easily get swept up in his presence, and perhaps that came from the confidence of being a clear apex predator. But it was just some strange quality.

It could be found in the glint of brown eyes, or the ease of a smug grin. Simply in the way Wilbur would phrase his sentences or carry himself as he walked. He swears that sometimes Wilbur could probably be leading him off of a goddamn cliff and he wouldn't notice a damn thing until he was falling. It was like being hypnotized in a way. The subtle ways the barista moved could pull you in as his words dulled your senses.

Potentially, it could be tied to the atmosphere of the shop. The sound of the jazz to soothe the ear, the scent of fresh coffee to lure your sense of smell, the different tastes on your tongue when you have your drink or snack, the colors and décor of the shop to please the eye, hell, there was even stimulation for your sense of touch. From the smooth feel of a coffee cup to the cushions of your chair or stool, and, perhaps if you were lucky, Wilbur himself.

Because if there's one thing he's noticed about the shop owner, it's that the man was surprisingly casual with the regulars who were comfortable with him. Playful hair ruffles, high fives, fist bumps, hell, he's seen Wilbur hug one of his regulars who was having a bad day. All assortments of casual touches. He swears that if Wilbur had hybrid features like wings or a tail he'd probably be even more physically affectionate. He could see clear in his mind's eye the image of the barista putting a wing around his regulars, or flicking them with the feathered limb with a laugh. He could see teasing tail flicks or even curling his tail around those having rough days.

The coffee shop could stimulate all your senses in perfect harmony in a way that was never overbearing. And perhaps that was part of Wilbur's charm. He thrived in the coffee shop's atmosphere, able to let that natural charisma run the show in the (normally) relaxed shop. It was his territory, his domain. He had the home field advantage.

So Quackity was extremely curious on how the barista would behave outside of the shop's walls.

"So," he started one day. "What time does your shift end, again?"

"I typically close up at midnight," Wilbur responded without missing a beat, smirking to himself as he arranged something under the counter. "Why? Asking me out, hot stuff? Feeling bold today, perhaps?"

Quackity huffed in amusement, "Yes actually. Anywhere in particular you want to go?"

Clearly the barista wasn't expecting that, pausing. Slowly, the taller stood up and brushed off his vest a bit, blushing faintly.

"Normally people don't bother when they realize how late I close up. Do you... are you serious?"

There was something...cautious in the other's tone. A flicker of hesitant excitement in those brown eyes.