Chapter Text
To fall in love within a loveless city.
O Lord, grant Thy mercy to this beast.
1.
Twelve suns orbited the ceiling, casting a blinding glare over this city of filth and sin. Arthur Kirkland leaned back against the velvet sofa, his gaze drifting aimlessly toward the massive crystal chandelier overhead.
If only that thing would fall right now, he thought idly. He imagined those razor-sharp crystal shards raining down like a localized storm, severing those sycophantic tongues and piercing the glands of every socialite desperate to be marked. Whatever the carnage, it would surely be a more exquisite feast than this tedious party.
The sheer violence of the imagery provided a flicker of stimulation to his numbed nerves. Ignoring the idiot beside him who was droning on about a family trust fund, Arthur stood up. Gripping his long-handled black umbrella, he walked straight toward the outdoor terrace.
The wind on the terrace was fierce, instantly stripping away the stifling heat of the ballroom.
There was no rain—not even a cloud in the sky—only the brilliant, artificial light refracting off the glass curtain walls of the surrounding skyscrapers. Yet, the moment Arthur stepped into the night, he habitually unfurled the heavy black umbrella. He moved to the railing, overlooking the glittering, rotting corpse of a city beneath his feet. From this height, luxury cars and pedestrians flowed like grime through the city's veins.
Finally, some peace.
He tilted his head slightly, resting the umbrella's handle against his shoulder, and freed a hand to tap a cigarette out of a silver case. The wind howled; beneath the shadow of the silk canopy, he struggled to shield the flame of his lighter. The umbrella ribs creaked softly in the gale, forcing him to turn his body to protect that last spark of warmth in the world. Just as the flame was about to lick the tobacco—
"Sir, this is a non-smoking area."
Arthur's fingers froze. The flame was snuffed out by a hand that had suddenly intruded into his space. Annoyed, he looked up to find a young blond man in a waiter's uniform standing beside him.
The stranger stood with his back to the city's sea of lights, half his body encroaching past the boundary of the umbrella's edge. His eyes were brimming with a professional smile, and a faint scent of sea-salt Alpha pheromones drifted around him.
The youth had a pair of stunningly beautiful blue eyes the kind of vibrant, sterile blue that looked as if it had been calculated by a computer. Curiously, they were framed behind the glass barrier of wire-rimmed spectacles.
As their gazes locked, a nagging sense of recognition prickled at the back of Arthur's mind. There was an indefinable attribute to the boy, whispered of a familiarity Arthur couldn't quite pin down, as if he might have seen this face somewhere before. Perhaps in a dream, or a different life.
"Non-smoking? There's someone doing hallucinogens at my six o'clock. To their left, in the lounge, God knows how many people are hopped up on pheromone boosters for an orgy. And now, you're telling me this is a non-smoking area?"
"Yes, sir."
Arthur let out a sharp huff of derision. His eyes swept over the name tag on the waiter's chest; beside an embossed eye-shaped crest, a name was engraved in elegant script:
Alfred F. Jones.
A nobody. A man of no consequence.
The lighter flickered again with a crisp clack. The butane wasted on this single spark was likely more expensive than this little waiter's hourly wage.
Arthur did not pull away; rather, he deliberately leaned forward, lowering the umbrella so that the black canopy shrouded them both in a narrow, private shadow. He took a deep drag, his cheeks hollowing, before exhaling a thick cloud of white smoke directly into that flawlessly hypocritical, smiling face.
The smoke blurred the distance between them, hitting those thin lenses and swirling around Alfred's straight nose. The young man didn't cough, nor did he offer a sharp reprimand, his mask remained perfectly intact.
Arthur frowned. The frustration of not getting the expected reaction only made him more irritable. He pulled a few crisp Franklins from his wallet and roughly shoved them into the side pocket of the waiter's fitted trousers—as if he were stuffing trash into a bin.
"The fine." Arthur retracted his hand, tightening his grip on the umbrella as he lifted his chin defiantly. "Is that enough?"
Alfred remained smiling. He raised a hand, pressing it against the fabric of his trousers to feel the thickness of the bills.
"Very generous, sir," he said, held his ground, using the wind as an excuse to press half a step closer.. "However, according to tonight's exchange rate, this tip is a bit... excessive. As compensation..."
He paused. His gaze slid shamelessly from the corner of Arthur's eyes flushed pink from the alcohol, down to his open collar.
"I can offer you some off-menu services... whether it's simple stress relief, or a more... profound release.”
Arthur didn't even bother to lift an eyelid. He sneered internally; the world was crawling with idiots who thought a bit of natural beauty was a ticket into a Kirkland's bed. One moment they were playing the dutiful moralist, the next they were wagging their tails for cash.
"Not interested."
Arthur turned his face back to the city, rotating the umbrella handle so the black silk stood between them. The spark of excitement he'd felt from his violent fantasies had vanished, replaced by a dull nausea.
Just then, a man who looked like a lackey came rushing out, shouting without a shred of grace. "Mr. Arthur! Good God, you were hiding here!" This was the assistant his second brother had planted on him more of a 24-hour surveillance camera than a staff member.
"The gentlemen are looking everywhere for you! The guest from the oil conglomerate has arrived. The eldest master wants you back at the head table immediately!"
Arthur's fingers tightened around his cigarette. His thick eyebrows knitted together in a scowl.
What did his family take him for? A pet to be summoned and dismissed at their whim?
"I heard you. You're loud."
In a fit of pique, Arthur dropped the half-finished cigarette and crushed it under the heel of his expensive leather shoe, grinding it into the floor as if it were his brothers' faces.
He didn't spare the blond waiter another glance. Straightening his suit, he turned and followed the assistant toward the glass doors leading back into the Tower of Babel. To him, the encounter was over, this Alpha waiter was nothing more than another unremarkable passerby in his hollow life. Yet that flash of blue had already stirred a ripple in the depths of memory, spreading outward, refusing to settle.
As the edge of the black umbrella vanished behind the revolving doors, the terrace fell back into a dead silence.
The sycophantic, expectant smile on Alfred's face vanished instantly, as if someone had cut the power. He stood there, expressionless, as the sea breeze tossed his blond bangs, revealing a pair of blue eyes that held no warmth whatsoever.
*
Arthur sat at the far end of the long table, the designated seat for the inconsequential. He mechanically sliced through a piece of medium-rare veal, his thoughts drifting once again to the massive crystal chandelier overhead. It looked precarious; if it were to fall, it would likely crush his eldest brother, who was currently wearing an obsequious smile for the oil tycoon at the head of the table.
"...I heard your younger brother is in charge of the charity foundation? Quite the accomplished young man." The balding tycoon, attempting a display of grace, casually brought up Arthur at the tail end of the table.
The eldest brother caught the thread instantly. "Indeed. While Arthur lacks a certain... finesse in business decisions, he has a natural talent for mindless expenditures like charity. Isn't that right, Arthur?"
Arthur didn't even bother to parse the irony, choosing to maintain his rigid posture while staring hollowly at his wine glass. "Yes. Quite."
It didn't matter what he said. He was merely a decorative fixture, there to nod at the right times. Besides, they never stayed in this city for more than four months anyway.
Just as this stagnant boredom was about to drown him, the wayward young master felt a hand seize his ankle. The touch was unnervingly warm—searing, even—burning through the thin fabric of his dress socks. It couldn't be a table leg, and it wasn't an accidental brush; the nearest person was at least two meters away.
Arthur stiffened, his silver knife clattering against the rim of the porcelain plate.
"Arthur?" His second brother frowned with displeasure, casting a warning glance. "Mind your manners."
"...Apologies. My hand slipped," Arthur managed to squeeze out, his heart hammering against his ribs. Instinctively, and with a mounting sense of dread, he stole a glance beneath the table.
A hand clad in a white glove gripped the edge of the tablecloth from the inside, slowly and elegantly peeling it back, like a macabre magician revealing a stage.
The waiter he had encountered on the terrace was illuminated by the stray light leaking into the ballroom. Behind the lenses of his glasses, those blue eyes shone with startling intensity in the dark, dusty void beneath the table. Seeing Arthur's pallid face, Alfred's smile only deepened. He didn't speak; he simply raised a finger and pressed it against his lips.
"Shh—"
Arthur's Adam's apple bobbed convulsively. He took a sharp breath, trying to steady his respiration as his insides cramped with nerves. He gave a sharp, warning kick downward.
However, that handslid slowly up the inside of his ankle, his thumb dragging roughly against the fine wool of Arthur's trousers. With a sudden, forceful shove, the intruder wedged his way between Arthur's knees, prying them apart. The zipper of his trousers let out a faint, desperate whimper before it was briskly pulled down.
Cold air rushed in, followed immediately by the heat of a wet, humid mouth. The damp flesh enveloped him without warning, a staggering heat swallowing his dormant member whole. A tongue swirled deftly around the tip, followed by a deep, dizzying suction that made Arthur's scalp tingle.
"Ngh!" Arthur choked back a muffled groan. Hurriedly, he lifted his wine glass to his lips, the frigid glass clinking against his teeth.
"...Yes, the prospects of this project are quite promising..." The distant voices continued to drone on about the accumulation of wealth.
The head beneath the table seemed intent on punishing his composure. The mouth took him deeper, the throat tightening and squeezing the shaft with punishing force. In the darkness, Arthur could feel the tip of a nose brushing against the tender skin of his inner thigh, and heavy, hot breath ghosting over his exposed, slick groin.
Arthur looked at the chandelier again, but he could no longer focus enough to count its thousand-gold ornaments. Perhaps he let out more whimpers than he intended, but no one cared. Even if a stray, curious glance drifted his way, they likely assumed the Kirkland boy was high on some premium drug out of boredom. For people of their ilk, such things were hardly a scandal.
Beneath the cloth, Alfred braced himself upward. In the cramped space, his blond hair brushed against the root of Arthur's thigh. The slightly coarse texture, smelling of professional shampoo, sent a jolt of itching sensitivity through Arthur's skin, causing his hips to give an involuntary, frantic twitch. Alfred's hot breath was now focused directly on the engorged, pulsing head of the penis, where pre-come was already beginning to bead.
"Sir... mm... you're completely excited, aren't you? Your legs are shaking... Is it because you're afraid of being caught? Or is it because I'm taking you... nngh... so deep?"
Alfred dipped his head again, taking the entire crimson, mushroomed head into his mouth. This time, he didn't rush to move. Instead, he pressed the tip of his tongue against the small slit of the meatus circling it .
"Ah... hng..." Arthur's vision began to lose focus. The chandelier fractured into three or four wobbling halos of light. Cold sweat slid from his temples, disappearing into his high-collared shirt.
Suddenly, Alfred gave a violent suck. The entire length was vacuumed into that warm, wet cavern. With the downward pressure of the tongue, the suction pulled violently at Arthur's most sensitive nerves. Teeth grazed the tender shaft—a sharp sting of pleasure-pain that nearly sent Arthur bolting out of his chair. To keep his balance, he had to reach down with one hand and white-knuckle the tablecloth over his thigh.
"So hot... sir..." Alfred retreated slightly, pulling a silver thread of saliva that shimmered in the dim light. He wiped the corner of his mouth with a finger, then wickedly darted out his wet tongue to deliver a heavy, slurping lick across the pulsing vein at the base of Arthur's thigh.
"Ha... my mouth is about to be filled with your taste... Then I shall..."
Alfred buried his face back into Arthur's crotch. His tongue became incredibly flexible and demanding, licking from the overflowing tip all the way down to the taut seam of the scrotum.
"Ha... ha..." Arthur could no longer maintain his haughty posture. His spine collapsed, half his body slumped against the back of the chair, and the hand holding the wine glass shook violently. The pale gold liquid sloshed against the glass, a few cold droplets splashing onto the back of his bony hand.
The guests were still muttering something, but the sounds no longer reached Arthur's ears. He could only hear the shameful, wet squelching coming from beneath the table.
Gluck. Plip.
"...Enough..." Arthur pleaded in a voice as thin as a mosquito's wing. "Stop... please stop..."
Alfred only looked up. He opened his mouth wide once more, abandoning all finesse this time. He took it all in, inch by inch, swallowing the throbbing, desperate length all the way to the back of his throat.
Arthur's pupils blew wide. He felt the pheromones of black tea and rose within him surge like a flood breaking a dam, crashing through the mental fortress he had built with years of high-potency suppressants. A scalding, irreversible ache rose from the very bottom of his being, racing up his spine before exploding against his cerebral cortex.
"Ah...!"
At the ignored end of the table, Arthur threw his head back. A heavy, thick release of semen lost all control, surging in waves into the greedy depths of the waiter's throat.
The young Kirkland's ears were flushed a deep, bloody red. The damp, sticky sensation was rapidly turning into an undeniable discomfort as his body heat cooled. The fabric of his trousers clung to his inner thighs; every time he tried to shift his legs, the mixture of saliva and spent fluid dragged and slid between his skin.
He didn't remember how he had excused himself—perhaps the usual lie of "feeling unwell"—before making a beeline for the exit. Within two seconds of his departure, Alfred slipped out from the other side of the table, as lithe and graceful as a leopard that had just finished a feast. The young man moved nimbly through the crowd, adjusting his crooked bowtie, and trailed half a step behind Arthur.
Once they had cleared the crowd, Arthur turned back in a daze to look at the smiling young waiter. The reprimand died in his throat, supplanted by an emerald gaze that swept over the bold Alpha from head to toe.
A moment later, a high-end suite keycard was shoved into the top pocket of Alfred's vest. Arthur's fingers lingered against his chest for a few deliberate seconds.
"Clean yourself up before you come, and don't make me wait!" Arthur lifted his chin.
Alfred stepped back submissively, his long fingers pinching the card in his pocket. The blue light in his eyes turned dark and indecipherable in the enclosed space.
"As you wish, my sir."