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In this world, besides humans, there is another race called demi-humans. Though outwardly human, they possess animal characteristics from the species they share traits with, usually manifest as heightened senses or physical features. They are considered superior to humans and dominate the upper class. Displaying these traits is essential at social gatherings. Night after night, London's mansions will illuminate until dawn, crowded with nobles proudly flaunting their lineage.
One man peacocks his way through the glamorous ballrooms, capturing the heart of London with absolute grace. The tailored suits he wears, the fine colognes he chooses, and the fashionable accessories he possesses do wonders for the green markings around his eyes. As the heir of a prestigious family, a renowned military veteran, and the owner of a rising trading company, he is the most desirable bachelor in the room. Concealing his features behind a mask crafted from brilliant peacock feathers, Albert shines brightest at masquerades, where he can effortlessly seize the center of the dance floor and attract a queue of eager partners vying for a turn with him. He dances, he drinks, he charms, and he conquers.
But one would be a fool to think Albert Moriarty is a vain and harmless bird. The iridescent markings around his eyes are not feathers. Small, tightly packed, and gleaming like jewels, they are the cold hard scales of a cold-blooded creature.
Mycroft stands quietly in a corner. Though not a nobleman and well-known for owning the most unsociable club in London, his position as Director of the Intelligence Office often earns him invitations to these grand balls. The feathers on his head twitch into tufts resembling a pair of ears. Across the dance floor, Mycroft’s pupils dilate and lock on Albert as he waltzes with a female partner, tracking the story he whispers into her ears.
After the fifth dance, Albert excuses himself from the partners and makes his way toward Mycroft, lifting a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
“Has someone caught your attention tonight, Director?”
“Only the one who needs to submit a report to my desk by ten tomorrow morning.”
“Already finished,” Albert replies, a sharp smile playing on his lips. He steps into Mycroft’s personal space, disguising the movement behind the soft clink of their glasses. Tilting his glass so the rims slide against each other, his voice lowers until it drips with sweet venom. “But if you are in such a hurry to read it, I can provide a personal briefing.”
To the disappointment of the single ladies, Albert follows Mycroft to his private carriage. The moment the door closes, Albert nudges his foot forward till the tips of their shoes meet. Mycroft remains perfectly still. His gaze lingers on Albert’s face, studying the vivid green markings tracing the edges of his eyes. The scales flicker radiantly every time they catch the soft light of the gas lamps beyond the window.
Entering Mycroft’s residence, they shed their outer layers. When Mycroft turns to hang the coat, Albert’s tongue flickers out and his scales harden. He charges forward, but he is not the only nocturnal predator in the room. Mycroft’s eyes darken and sharpen. He catches Albert’s wrist, then slams him hard against the wall; one hand pins Albert in place while the other locks on his jaw. A subtle tightening of muscle beneath Mycroft’s palm tells him Albert’s fangs are out.
“Report first, M.”
Albert makes a face. Mycroft’s rigidity is really infuriating sometimes, but he answers nonetheless, “The document is secure. No casualties on our side. The target will board a train to Birmingham at three tomorrow afternoon. I have assigned 003 to tail him. The detailed report will be on your desk by morning.”
Mycroft holds his grip.
“Is there anything else you require?”
Mycroft remains silent.
“Can we make this personal now?” Albert drawls, his words stretching into a suave purr.
Mycroft lets out a low grumble.
Albert smirks and flicks the tip of his tongue to taste Mycroft’s finger before slowly tracing it, his fangs poised to strike. Unfazed, Mycroft runs his thumb along the sharp edges of those fangs, then their lips meet in a violent rush. They crash together, tongues tangling in a messy and filthy battle for dominance.
“You know, if the ball was too much for you, you could always come find me,” Albert whispers when they part for air. Each word is as soft as velvet dragged across bare skin. It is said the snake committed the original sin, tempting man out of paradise with the forbidden fruit.
“Bite,” commands Mycroft, before leaning closer.
First comes a tiny pang on his lips, followed by the taste of iron flooding his mouth. One, two, three... Mycroft counts silently. The disastrously sweet venom courses through his veins, richer and finer than any vintage wine he has ever tasted. In this relieving and ethereal moment, nothing else matters. He is once again an innocent child playing in the backyard, breathing in the fresh scent of grass showered in sunlight. He is once again a foolish boy racing up and down a hillside, his whole being wrapped in the gentle breath of summer. The chaos of London withdraws. His tongue grows numb, his vision blurs and his hearing dulls. He can no longer see the small lizard climbing the wall across the room, nor can he hear the faint chirping of the fledglings beyond the window. The world becomes darker and quieter. Sight and sound cease overwhelming his mind. Finally, the world falls blank, and he can take a rest.
Mycroft clutches at Albert’s shirt. Touch becomes the only sense he can rely on. Now, the most vivid source of reality is Albert’s warmth, enveloping and shielding him from the night breeze.
Albert hums softly as he feels Mycroft weaken in his grasp. He licks Mycroft’s neck, relishing the faint scent of pheromones. Then, with ease, he wraps Mycroft’s arm around his shoulder and carries him to the bedchamber. After tucking Mycroft beneath a heavy blanket, Albert presses a gentle kiss to the dark shadows beneath Mycroft’s eyes.
“Happy to serve, Director, but the hour is late. Fare thee well, I bid you adieu.”
Feeling Albert pull away, Mycroft’s grip tightens. God knows what could happen when a Lord of Crime roams freely at night. As London’s watchman, it is his duty to keep tabs on every dangerous individual under his roof.
“Worry for me, Director?” Albert only asks when Mycroft cannot answer. “I am not afraid of the night.” He gently caresses Mycroft’s cheek. “But if you’re that concerned, I’ll take it as an invitation for me to stay.”
Then he climbed into the bed, positioning himself carefully between Mycroft and the window. When morning comes, he will get the warmth from both Mycroft and the rising sun.
Mycroft opens his eyes when the first rays of dawn filter through the curtains. His sight and hearing returned, ready for a new day. Beside him, Albert curls into a ball. The morning light gilds his scales in gold, making the brilliant green shimmer like precious emeralds.
Mycroft presses a kiss on the scales and leans close to Albert’s ear. He only answers when Albert cannot listen.