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Inside the bar, it is warm, thick with smoke and voices, a labyrinth of haunting echoes and veiled auras. Unseen by the eye, but undeniable to those bound to the darkness and what lies beyond. Where the light falters, silhouettes materialize, not born of flesh, but of something that lingers… something unreal.
Glass rings with the sound of broken prayers, voices slip like serpents through the air, and a cold breath creeps beneath the skin. There is the feeling of being watched by eyes that never blink, while shadows crawl along the walls, stretching farther than they should.
Sixty doesn't give a shit. If anything, he's the one everyone else should be worried about. His claws quietly clatter on the floor, though most humans barely notice. Only those who are sensitive to the supernatural, the cursed, or other demonic entities might catch even a hint of him. To the ordinary folks in this town, he's just another shadow passing by - completely invisible in this shape.
Allen is already sitting at the counter, waiting. Calm, posture perfect, eyes half closed. To anyone else, he just looks like some guy enjoying a drink. But Sixty knows better. He hasn't touched his drink yet; instead, he spins the glass between his fingers like he's in some low-budget spy movie, eyes tracking Sixty's every move.
Overprotective idiot.
Rolling his eyes, Sixty slips deeper into the haze, silent and certain of every step. His nose brushes the air, following unseen trails as he rounds corners, sniffing on tables where shadows cling too tightly to their owners, and listening to some unvoiced murmurs. Here and there he pauses, sensing something, but each time he draws back, muzzle wrinkling, before snorting with a huff and moving on. The pitch-black hellhound with the star-shaped blaze comes across only a few formidable presences, yet his lips twitch, curling as if he might offer those jerks around a knowing grin.
Most turn away, shrink deeper into their corners, or even ditch the place on the fucking spot. Poof, and just like that, they are gone. In the end, he does not find what he was hoping for. Still, the smell is there - fragile but unmistakable. Well, he can work with that. At least they did not come here for nothing.
Sixty takes his time. When he returns to Allen, the shift is a smooth ride, fur peeling into the skin, limbs stretching until a lean young man with fire in his eyes drops onto the stool beside him.
Teasing, he bumps his human partner with his shoulder. "Wanna hear the good shit or the bad shit first?"
Allen takes a slow sip, sets the glass down, and fixes his reflection in the liquid. His expression softens with discreet amusement, a hint of relief mingling beneath it.
"You really think I care about that?"
"Nah, probably not," Sixty replies, tilting his head, letting the warmth of his body press subtly against Allen's. "But since you’ve been so grouchy all day, I figure you could use any scrap of good news in your pathetic little human life."
Allen huffs softly, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. He doesn’t look at Sixty, but the corner of his mouth betrays him with the faintest quiver.
"How generous of you," he says, a ghost of a smile on his face. "Though your kind of good news usually means we’re screwed."
Sixty grins, broad and unapologetic, leaning a little closer, just enough for Allen to feel the pressure of his thigh against his, deliberate and provocative. His fingers sweep lightly over Allen’s arm, eyes never leaving his.
"Aww, that’s rude," he purrs, voice low and silky smooth. "Keeping your life interesting isn’t easy, ya know. And c'mooon," he adds, letting the words roll off his snake-like split tongue, "you’re totally into it. Enjoying every single miserable, chaotic second of it."
Allen snorts, masking it as irritation but his pulse ticks a little faster under Sixty’s playful touch.
"And you really enjoy tormenting me, don’t you?"
The demon's grin curves sharp and wide.
"Tormenting you? Hey, somebody’s gotta make things a bit messy. No spice, no price."
Humming, Sixty props himself up on the counter, one cheek resting on a hand. His shoulder curls into Allen’s, insistently close, demonstratively marking his territory.
Allen allows it. As he turns to his partner, his gaze meets those fascinating, ember-red eyes.
"You’re a fucking menace," he sighs flatly, a hint of challenge in his tone.
Sixty simply shrugs. "Never said otherwise," he fires back without missing a beat.
For a moment, they just look at each other. Sixty calm and composed, Allen frowning. Silence stretches between them, filled only by the murmur of the bar, the clink of glass, the scrape of boots across wood. Finally, Allen breaks it first. His lips twitch, and a low, unwilling laugh rumbles out, tugging at the edges of his stern, handsome face. Such a sexy motherfucker, holy hell. Needless to say, Sixty snaps at it immediately.
"Ooh, look at that. So you do still know how to smile. Thought your face was carved out of stone these days."
His tongue flicks briefly over a fang, but for now the usual bite of sarcasm is gone, what lingers instead is warmth, a glow in his eyes that’s meant for Allen alone. And there’s a flicker in his eyes too, a quiet promise, something that ties them together tighter than they’d allow themselves to see.
The tension in the man's shoulders seems to fade a little.
"Ah, shut up," the human says in a teasing voice, shaking his head as he knocks back the rest of his drink.
For Sixty, this is the perfect moment to refill. Moments later, two fresh glasses slide onto the counter. Behind the bar, the mirror offers no hint of the bartender’s presence. The ice clinks softly as Sixty traces a slow circle around the rim of his glass. Next to him, Allen sips his drink, but Sixty feels his eyes following his movements, sliding along his arm, the line of his throat, the delicate curve between his neck and shoulder. Damn, he’d kill to get laid right now.
"And what's the good news then?", the brunette catches him asking.
"Well, they were here, definitely. The whole space smells of them." His voice curl into Allen’s mind like smoke. Not for long, but just long enough to leave… something behind.
Allen swallows hard. "What exactly?"
"I dunno. It’s different for everyone. Fear. Disgust. Guilt. Whatever. Just… be glad you don’t feel it."
In the far corner, a group of card players laugh too loudly, like the noise could protect them. One of them, however, never laughs. His eyes keep darting to the door. Sixty's grin widens.
"He can smell it," Sixty murmurs, leaning closer, breath brushing Allen’s neck. "He knows what passed through here."
A barely perceptible shiver runs down Allen’s spine, echoing through Sixty. He knows what Allen wants to ask, just as Allen knows that he's obviously not gonna answer. He’d rather bite his tongue off.
But Allen doesn’t push, just tips his glass, the liquid swirling lazily.
"So the tip wasn’t a lie."
With a crooked grin, Sixty shifts the glass back and forth. "Nope. Which brings us to the bad news. There's only traces of them. They were here, quite a while ago."
"Shit." Allen clicks his tongue. "So nothing concrete."
"Depends. The trail leads outside, toward the docks. Faint… but still begging to be followed."
Allen’s jaw tightens. Sixty finally lifts the glass and drains it in one smooth motion, wagging a finger at him. A charming way of telling him to shut up for a second.
“Though," he goes on, fire dancing in his eyes. “I’d much rather call it a day and have a good, hard fuck instead.”
Sixty gives him an encouraging wink, beaming from ear to ear. Allen, however, doesn’t bat an eyelid, yet, as always, the truth hides in the details. A shallow break in his breath, a betraying spark in his eyes, his thigh quivering beneath Sixty’s touch, right where a grabby hand is now getting up close - as shamelessly as it gets.
Allen exhales sharply through his nose, steady but tense. His fingers tighten around his glass, as if that could keep the fire prickling beneath his skin under control.
"That's not why we're here," he utters in a dry, deep voice, though not nearly as firm as he wants. "You're not taking this seriously."
A naughty grin spreads across Sixty's face as his hand slides deeper between Allen’s muscular thighs, deliberately slow, shamelessly invasive.
"Oh, I do take it seriously. All of it."
Allen huffs, trying to hide the rising heat in his chest, but Sixty immediately senses him quivering, his self-control nothing more than a fragile mask.
"We don't have time for this. You should focus on our mission."
Words Sixty has heard countless times. Their own private foreplay, so to speak - a thought that makes him smirk. As always, the foreplay only sharpens his appetite for more.
"Don’t worry. I always get my mission done," he purrs, letting his hand drift eagerly down to Allen's crotch. When he feels the man’s already hardened erection beneath his fingers, his own dick jerks hard. "And trust me, I'm focused. Completely on you… and that hot little demon slayer in those sexy, illegal tight leather pants."
Sixty’s grin widens, teeth flashing briefly, eyes glinting. His thumb brushes over the tip of Allen’s dick through the material, fingers trailing up and down, grazing greedily along the sensitive edges. Deliberately slow, pressing just enough to make him shiver.
Allen swallows hard, his pulse hammering, though he does nothing to stop that needy hand on him. Not that he could, even if he tried. Sixty just knows perfectly well how to wrap him around his little finger. His shameless attention, the teasing weight of thigh against thigh, the slow, deliberate friction. All of it is already cracking that rigid human mask.
A ragged edge in his breath betrays just how much control he’s losing. Humans are so predictable.
"Damn it," Allen growls softly, hips jerking slightly. Then he finally reaches for the hand in his crotch. Fingers close around the wrist, but still nothing more. "That’s enough," he hisses, but his grip on Sixty’s wrist is weak, half-hearted at best. Plus the faint flush rising to his ears says more than words ever could.
The demon chuckles, highly amused, and gives the hard dick a confident squeeze.
"Aww, you sure? Kinda feels like you’re asking for it." He leans a fraction closer, his nose brushing Allen’s ear. "So tense, Captain. I could loosen you up real nice."
Hungry, he bites down on the soft earlobe, sharp teeth grazing skin. Having no problem at all giving him a handjob in the middle of this shithole, Sixty’s fingers just keep moving, stroking and squeezing, mischievous and daring.
Allen’s breath hitches, his body betraying him with every twitch of his hips. A growl rattles in his chest, low and dangerous. His grip tightens around Sixty's wrist, strong enough to break bones, but not enough to make him stop. Provocatively, his hand wanders up to the belt, teasing the heavy buckle with deliberate, playful tugs, as if he might tear it open right there.
"Six," Allen snarls, his voice rough, just before his mouth crashes against his in a kiss that feels more like a brawl. Teeth scrape, tongues dart, their breaths mingling, shallow and fast.
The world narrows down to heat, friction, and the taste of each other.
The kiss isn't gentle, but rough and demanding, a clash of pulling and pushing, both enjoying the tension.
Sixty grins into it, his lips molding against Allen's, tongues tangling around each other in a fierce, desperate rhythm. Heat spikes between them, their bodies pressing, grinding, every movement charged with a raw, unspoken need.
Sixty's fingers bury themselves in Allen's hair, holding him in place. The human responds with equal force, hand wrapping around the back of Sixty's neck, pulling him closer.
After a beat, the demon pulls back first, teeth scraping Allen’s lip in one last, mocking drag before shoving him aside with a grin that’s all teeth.
"Mm. Someone’s really needy," he purrs, licking his lips slow, savoring the taste.
His hand skims across Allen’s chest in a bold little caress before he slips off the stool, stretching with lazy arrogance like he owns the whole damn place. With a sly tilt of his head, he then turns smoothly away, shoulders rolling as he prowls toward the back of the bar, steps slow and deliberate, hips swaying - the kind of walk that makes sure Allen’s eyes will follow. Though not for the same reasons as before.
"Six! Where the hell are you going?" Allen’s voice cuts across the haze, half command, half frustration, just as the restroom door creaks open.
"Oh, just powdering my nose!" Sixty calls back over his shoulder, sing-song, mock-innocent, right before the door swings shut behind him and he knows he's made it. He always does.
Their smell isn't as strong here. The guys they were hunting probably didn't need to piss or shit while they were around. Sixty takes a moment, leaning against the cracked door before stepping over to one of the leaking sinks. As always, his face twists into a disgusted grimace when he spots his own damn reflection. Somehow, those stupid bloodsuckers are really lucky; they don't have to deal with this shit.
In the stained mirror, a young man blinks back at him. Brown, almost black hair - short, slightly curly, with a strand that stubbornly falls across his forehead, where a star-shaped scar is visible. His eyes are brown too, but shimmering with a fiery red.
Sixty sighs, bares his teeth, and almost has to laugh at the sight of his pitiful fangs, or rather, cry. These tears are infuriating, always coming when he doesn’t need them.
"What are you staring at?" he hisses at his reflection, swallowing hard.
He misses his true self. The way he was before, powerful, untouchable, feared. Now he is nothing but a shadow of that demon, a cheap imitation, slowly humanized over decades. He can't even transform properly anymore. Once a proud, fearsome Cerberus, he can now only shift into a lapdog. A far cry from what he used to be, a shadow of his former might, trapped in a world that is both foreign and painfully familiar.
The heart in his chest aches, at least the human part of it, the part Allen gave him. The part that brings all those annoying emotions and feelings. The one that feels everything too deeply, that binds him to this world, to Allen.
He wants to know what it is that Sixty feels here.
Loneliness. The feeling of not belonging. Homesickness.
He misses his home. His brothers. But the way he is, he can't go back. He's an outcast. A huge disappointment for everyone. The only chance of returning would be to become intact again. But to do that, he needs the missing piece of his soul, and that would mean killing…
Fucking humans.
The porcelain bursts under Sixty's fingers. The reflection staring back at him is unbearable, every fragment of glass mocking what he’s become. His breath comes harsh and uneven, chest heaving, eyes burning with a mix of anger and grief. He doesn’t even think, his fist smashes into the mirror, shards scattering across the floor.
He doesn’t feel a thing. It’s been a long time since he’s known anything like real, physical pain. It's just a memory, and the last time he tasted it, he nearly bit the dust.
Cracks spiderweb across the glass now, reflecting a shadow of the one he once was. And from between these cracks, a silhouette wavers into view, trembling on the edge of the light. Allen. Calm, steady, incredibly grounding. His blue eyes lock onto Sixty’s, unwavering.
"Ready to fuck?" Allen’s voice is low, teasing, but carries something deeper, something knowing.
Sixty snorts, the sharpness of his rage fading, leaving a restless heat in its place.
Allen steps closer, bridging the distance between them, and holds out his hand with quiet insistence. "Come here. Come to me."
It’s almost like an order. No, it is an order. Sixty obeys, letting himself be drawn against that broad, warm chest without resistance, burying his face into Allen’s shoulder. His scent, earthy, with a hint of soft leather, rises to his nose, unchanged after all these years. Among a thousand others, Sixty would recognize it immediately.
One day you'll have to kill me, he whispers to Allen, directly into his mind. Before it's too late.
A kind of mantra they’ve repeated over the decades. As usual, Allen doesn’t react, but holds him close, gently brushing his hair. That simple, quiet touch is enough to still Sixty’s restless, mended heart, letting him sink into a rare, fleeting moment of peace.
Sixty melts into the warmth of Allen’s embrace. His lover hums small, soothing noises into his hair, lifts a hand to his cheek, and with a quiet, deliberate motion, draws Sixty into a gentle kiss. Soft, patient, and full of unspoken understanding, it carries the weight of years, yet feels tender and new.
Now, Allen takes control, his hands move with gentle urgency, cradling Sixty’s face, threading through his hair, guiding him closer, setting the rhythm. Sixty drowns into it, every part of him responding. It’s tender, yet charged with an unsaid intensity. A mix of desire, trust, and the weight of everything they’ve carried for decades.
The kiss deepens, slow at first, then with a quiet insistence, echoing the desire they feel for each other. Sixty’s fingers dig into the leather of Allen’s heavy coat, giving him the dramatic look of someone straight out of a low-budget Van Helsing film.
When they finally part, it’s only slightly, their breath mingling before their mouths collide once more. As their tongues tangle and tease, Sixty pulls his partner with him, stumbling backwards. Allen's hands don't stay still either, grabbing and pulling, sliding deeper, grabbing his ass and claiming his hips.
Bumping into one of the sinks, Sixty doesn’t hesitate to turn and shamelessly present himself to Allen, immediately feeling his hard torso pressing into his back. Allen’s arms snake around him, drawing him flush against himself, lips trailing along Sixty’s neck as he grinds insistently against his ass, still hard and needy.
Sighing, Sixty tilts his head to the side, eyes fluttering as he props himself against the sink. In the fractured mirror, he catches glimpses of them both. Himself, exposed and achingly human, and Allen behind him, radiating a dark, demon-like aura that makes his chest tighten.
Sixty shudders at the sight, biting his lip as hands slip into his pants, rough fingers wrapping around his dripping, aching dick. He parts his thighs willingly, heat pooling in his belly, bucking his ass provocatively against Allen.
"Stop teasing," he moans, trembling against the persistent pressure, body clenching as a thumb glides over his sensitive tip. "C’mon, just get on with it. Lemme me feel you."
Allen growls softly against his skin, the sound vibrating straight through Sixty’s spine. His slippery fingers run over his groin, dip into his navel and up to his hipbone, leaving a wet trail under the fabric, guiding him more intently against his pounding erection.
The heavy click of a belt buckle plays like music to Sixty's ears.
A shaky sigh slips from the demons throat as his pants are finally tugged down, unleashing his perky, little ass. In the broken mirror, he catches the sparkle in those dark blue eyes before Allen’s reflection grabs his head and spins it to face him and capture his mouth in a slow, deliberate kiss.
His grip tightens around him, holding him flush to his chest, until no space was left between them. Sixty sinks back with another desperate groan, grinding against his human as a couple of fingers slide into his soaked, aching hole.
"That’s right. Take it," Allen murmurs, his teeth grazing his lip. "Show me how much you want it."
He starts fucking him with those fingers, hard and demanding. Every thrust, every push sends a wave of heat crashing through Sixty, sharp and sweet. And yet still, it isn’t enough. It never is.
"David, please," Sixty whimpers under his breath, with shameless hunger, wanting to feel him deeper, harder, everywhere. "Cut this shit…"
Lips brushing against the shell of his ear. "But you like that, don’t you?"
Fucking human. Looks like he’s not the only one who loves to torture. Then the fingers are gone, and their bodies crash together, slick and perfect, the world collapsing into the blinding rush of finally having him inside. Sixty’s eyes flutter, his lips fall open in a guttural sigh, the sound ripped raw. Allen’s dick slams into him, smooth and merciless, stretching him full to the edge. Sixty’s knees buckle, he claws at Allen’s arm, clutching the sink as he takes every searing, balls-deep thrust.
It’s overwhelming, sharp and deep, yet drenched in aching tenderness. Allen takes his time, moving with deliberate rhythm, rocking him apart, fucking him slow, dragging out every pulse of heat. The mirror fractures their reflection into a hundred trembling shards, each one catching the relentless press of body against body.
Each single thrust drives them higher, and Sixty gasps, wonderfully lost in the sensation, the ache and the pleasure blending until there’s nothing left but the raw, consuming connection between them. Their eyes never leave each other. Allen leans closer, teeth grazing his shoulder, whispering words that make him shiver, each one sending shivers down his spine as they move together, perfectly synchronized, knowing every inch of each other.
Sixty’s demonic fire throbs inside him. His sharp, midnight-blue claws rend the human’s flesh, slicing deep yet leaving nothing permanent, the skin sealing itself immediately. The air around them thickens, charged, alive with the pulse of sex and desire, of something beyond human comprehension.
Allen's hands grip Sixty's hips, trying to anchor himself, as his thrusts become harder, faster, more uncontrolled. The sulphurous tang of his own blood floods the demon’s mouth as he bites down on his lips, the fire inside him flares, spiraling down, into every sinew, every heartbeat.
"Please... ", Sixty cries out, a guttural, feral sound, the porcelain of the sink cracks and crumbles under his grip. "Please... please..."
He doesn't even know what he's asking for. To come? To be fucked harder? Or simply to never be let go. Whatever. It doesn't matter. Allen's eyes look into his as he is pushed over the edge and they crash into each other one last time in a wave of sensation that feels infinite, unstoppable.
凸(>皿<)凸 凸(>皿<)凸
"Why am I never allowed to drive!"
"Are you seriously asking that?"
"Yes, damn it, I can do it! Hey!?"
Allen, the jerk, doesn’t even answer, just swings himself onto the motorcycle. Straight away, the engine of the old piece of junk coughs and stutters to life under his smug ass as he twists the key like it’s no big deal. Sixty crosses his arms, pouting, forehead creased in annoyance.
Sighing, Allen rolls his eyes.
"You know why. Now hop in."
With a twitch at the corner of his mouth, he points to the ridiculous sidecar attached to the machine. Sixty’s face darkens immediately. Clearly not amused.
Okay, maybe he wrecked the last ride. But still.
"Six!?"
Sixty flinches. "All right, all right! Chill the fuck out."
He hops into that stupid thing, in the only way that makes it even halfway tolerable. Muttering curses, he squeezes his fluffy ass in, fuzzy chest rumbling with loud complaint. But the sulk doesn’t last long. Moments later, his fluffy ears flick in the wind, tail thumping wildly against the metal when a gentle hand reaches over to scratch them.
Fuuuucking human.
Then Allen hits the gas and they head for the docks.
Can't we just go home and have sex?
Oh, shut up.
凸(>皿<)凸 the end 凸(>皿<)凸