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Lost was the writer without their muse, and lost was Arthur Kirkland, in a murky tankard of ale.
Another day devoid of inspiration, another play outright rejected. Arthur had tried the best theatres around -those which weren’t closed down thanks to rats- but the owners craved sword fights, betrayal, or comedy to split a man’s breeches. What they wanted, to put it bluntly, was anything but Arthur’s sweet stories. His fantasies of love in the forest, or summer mornings between young newlyweds.
No upon no hit a weak point, and so Arthur resorted to drink; his one source of loyalty, kindness, until the sixth ale would prove too much, and he’d throw it back up in the streets. After that he would stagger on home, pray that the landlord didn’t nag for rent, and rest his weary head.
Two tankards in, one third closer to home, Arthur drew shapes in ale spilt on the table. A busty lass came to tempt with her wares, lifted skirts and stroked his thigh, but Arthur couldn’t be persuaded. He made figures and sliced them in two, dragging a wet fingertip with a snort. A cat turned out more like a dog, fire like a stream of dribble, and upon failing to draw a simple star, Arthur created a girthy penis, with additional ale splatters for balls.
This was, undoubtedly, a masterpiece. Arthur’s greatest creation to date. He ought to steal the entire table, present that to the stuck up theatre owners, and see what they made of him then! He’d have a cheeky piss up their wall -petty revenge, delicious nonetheless- and curse the success of all future productions.
Arthur giggled, the third ale arrived, and with it came a strange velvet tone. A chime in a cesspit of slurring. He looked up, jaw slack, breath gone; poetry and drink took his mind in spectral hands. It shook his brain and set it back down, like a blood-soaked, sixteenth century snow globe, where words were a snowflake flurry, and flesh the glassy container.
Green eyes resembled a gem, a charm or... no- a prize! A whisper from Aphrodite, whilst tan skin was... well, fuck, Arthur stumbled. He couldn’t do the view justice right now.
The source of Arthur’s delight and bewilderment propped his chin against his palm, and stared out from curls of brown hair. He’d taken a seat at Arthur’s table, the one everybody avoided, and promptly engaged in conversation.
“Hello there.”
Arthur swallowed. “’Ello.”
“Nice art,” the man praised his phallic ale stain, bringing his chair in close. “A decent size... could always be bigger.”
“I- uh...” Arthur cleared his throat, looked at penis to beauty, back again. “Sorry but, do I know you...?”
“You do now,” replied the man. “Name’s Antonio.”
“A-Arthur.”
“Well met, A-Arthur.”
“Just Arthur.”
Antonio refrained from further jibes, flashing his companion a toothy smile. "I hope you don’t mind the intrusion, unless you’d rather...” his eyes drifted lower, admiring the alcoholic cock, “work on growing your-”
“No,” Arthur straightened, brushed off his earlier self-pity, and all plots to urinate on theatre buildings. He liked to imagine he appeared rather... dashing. Mature, mysterious, somewhat rough. Something brought Antonio to his table, after all, and it can’t have been his awful illustrations. “You been here long?”
Antonio blinked. “D’you mean this table, tavern, or city?”
Arthur opened his mouth to respond, but Antonio jumped right in.
“This table, a few minutes at best. The tavern not much longer. The city? I dare not say.”
Alright, Arthur’s interest just piqued. This pleasant fellow wore his smile too well, not akin to a well loved coat, but more... he couldn’t quite say. Arthur’s head insisted it was genuine, whilst the gut spied a flare in his eyes, a shred of something dangerous within.
Unfortunately for common sense, Arthur craved the unspoken risks. Feet wished to dance in the arms of strangers, spend the cold nights skin to skin, grunting and chasing that euphoric escape. What he needed, in simpler terms, was Antonio sprawled upon his bed, pleasured until breaths came out in pants, and a sheen of sweat adorned his skin.
The toe of a boot ran up Arthur’s leg, pushing him closer towards the edge. Startled Arthur had gone for his drink, almost knocked it, caught it, swore, and blushed when Antonio giggled.
“You’re fun, I like you.”
“I-I, um-”
“Thank you? Of course. You’re welcome,” Antonio plucked his own tankard from the table, an action which baffled Arthur further. It hadn’t been there a moment ago, but sure enough Antonio drank, and licked his lips as he set it back down.
“I’ll fetch us another round soon,” Arthur offered, the least he could do for his guest. “And since we’re here... y’ know, together, might I enquire as to what-”
“What you do?”
“Yes.”
Antonio’s mouth curled up on one side. A fingertip traced the rim of his tankard. “It’s difficult to explain.”
“You could try.”
“I could,” Antonio replied. “Or I can ask what exactly you do, since you’re so keen on interrogations.”
Was Arthur making a disaster, or progress? Hell if he could tell by then. They finished their ales on an awkward note, wherein Arthur begrudgingly explained his failing career, the joys of writing versus making any coin. Antonio proved himself a patient listener, boot toying with Arthur’s calf, and in due course deemed Arthur quite decent. Strange, but certainly decent.
“May I speak plainly?”
“Be my guest,” Arthur answered, waving him on with a hand. “You work in a similar profession?”
“Well, not really- ah thank you,” Antonio acknowledged the drinks brought to their table. “My job is rather varied, and therefore complicated. No two clients are the same, and once you’ve visited, you can’t go back. Some might wish it, however.”
Arthur nodded and hummed to show interest, whilst his head screamed in mild alarm. What the blazes did Antonio mean?
“It doesn’t help,” Antonio supposed, “that there’s many in my line of work, and our boss? Well-” Antonio paused, expression soured and pretty lips pursed.
Arthur ensured to tread the subject carefully. “Is he a bad sort, so to speak?”
“Romulus is nice, always has been to me.”
“Then...?”
“He played favourites,” Antonio huffed. “Here I was simply minding my business, doing well, you understand?”
Rhetorical or not, Arthur couldn’t respond. Or rather, his companion wouldn’t let him.
“My honourable, devious leader,” Antonio pushed on with a sigh, “repaid years of loyalty, service, results by abandoning me when I needed him most. Contracts don’t appear by themselves. It takes work, or a lot of drink, and then he gave someone a helping hand!”
“Oh,” Arthur furrowed his brows. “That does sound rather awful.”
Antonio pulled a face, washed it down with a mouthful of ale. “Worst of all, I can’t be truly mad. They’re blissfully in love, at peace. Can you imagine it, those two, of all people?”
“I-”
“No, of course you can’t, you don’t even know who I’m on about.”
Arthur broke into a nervous laugh. “I could try to imagine their faces.”
Antonio shrugged, a sign of hope. “Alright then, one looks like me, except older, longer hair. The other’s huge- I mean tall, broad shouldered, probably a very good shag and probably,” Antonio rolled his eyes back, “well endowed in that area as well. But you know somethin’? He’s weird. Really weird.”
Arthur stared at his artwork for a second, now a blur within the grain of wood. “How come?”
Before cracking into that little story, Antonio scanned the room. He waited for a group of men to pass along, glanced to Arthur and explained above a whisper, “he called my boss, they met in his study, only there were... bodies. Relatives, and not.”
“He killed them?” Arthur gasped, likewise wary of potential eavesdroppers.
“Yes and no.”
That didn’t help one bit.
“His family were murdered,” Antonio continued. “Then he killed the killer, rather slowly at that. Drilled a hole in his head, made him pay. Kept his skeleton for fun. Anyway, he called my boss, all the bodies just behind him, and demanded a partner for sex.”
Arthur wrinkled his nose, pulled back. His attention flickered to the lass from before, who found a desperate man to bother for money.
“We’re not like that,” said Antonio. “And besides, it’s been eighty nine years now. I should be over it.”
“Eighty nine?”
“Yes?”
“Eighty nine bloody years?” Arthur clarified. Antonio looked a year or two older than him at best, but to speak of business conducted so long ago... he- no, he couldn’t be that old! It wasn’t possible, surely, right?
“You said you’re a writer?” Antonio asked, changing the subject altogether.
Reluctantly, Arthur indulged him. “Yes. I write poetry and plays.”
“What year is it?”
“1590.”
Antonio aaah’d and tapped a finger to his chin. “You’re dealing with Shakey then.”
“Excuse me?”
“Willy Shakers. Shakespeare?”
Arthur grimaced. He’d heard the name enough, alongside others beloved by theatres, but rivals were a thing and-
“Has he written that tragedy yet?”
“The what now?”
“The tragedy? Star-crossed lovers?” Antonio wagered by Arthur’s dumb expression, that the answer was probably no. “Never mind, forget what I said. But it’s coming and it’ll be big. You’ll never surpass his skill or reputation.”
Arthur recoiled, but not in offense. To write, and have his works performed, had been a dream from a very young age, and yet upon Antonio’s words... he was ready to give up the lot. Something in those eyes urged for Arthur to trust, to believe that Antonio knew of the future, of the past, and all in between.
Antonio couldn’t be human, and Arthur couldn’t find it in him to refuse.
“Very well,” he surrendered, soft-spoken. “If I stopped now, whatever should I do? I need work, I need money and-”
“You need me,” Antonio purred in his ear, cupping the swell of Arthur’s breeches. “I’ll guide you, give you something even better. Something no one else in this city can achieve.”
Arthur forced a lump down his throat, longing to claim those taunting lips. “Pray tell, what exactly do you mean?”
“Take me to your home,” Antonio ordered, “and I’ll show you.”
“Come now, little Arthur, you can’t be tired already.”
Arthur held his tongue, groaned between clenched teeth, and stared at the ceiling above. Sure enough, his guesses came true. Antonio the incubus was far from human, naked and bouncing away on his dick, whilst Arthur lay there unclothed but bound, wrists and ankles lashed to the bedposts.
For the record, he wasn’t unwilling. It just would’ve been nice to touch the other; to feel the forked tail above his shapely arse, which whipped Arthur’s thighs now and then, or the horns poking out from short curls. Arthur would’ve flipped the man to kneel on all fours, take him from behind for a while, but as it was Antonio liked power, and liked struggling Arthur even more.
Sometimes, being the tease that he was, Antonio would take things extra slow; slide until Arthur’s tip kissed his entrance, and make a maddening crawl back down. In round two he upped his game, adopted a swift, impossible beat, all the while toying with Arthur’s chest. Unlike Antonio’s impressive curves, Arthur possessed absolutely nothing. Flat as anything, with two small pink buds, and that suited the incubus fine. Every time Arthur came he earnt a kiss, a sultry good boy and half a minute’s rest, before they’d kick off all over again.
During one lust-filled, foggy moment, Arthur wondered if too much sex could kill him. Perhaps this was the process to receiving his gift, or perhaps- oh, Antonio was looking. Green eyes glowing, enchanting from the shadows.
“You’re thinking of me, I hope?”
“Of everything,” Arthur replied, relieved when Antonio paused, and sat nicely upon his groin. “Hypothetically speaking... if I wanted all this, by which I mean you and whatever you’ve promised, how precisely does it work?”
“Eternity with me, you mean?”
Antonio stared at the ceiling beams, and the delay stirred up mild concern. Did he even know what he was offering? Or was it all a muddled lie, a ruse to get in Arthur’s bed?
“We’ll be needing to speak with Romulus,” Antonio eventually replied. “I don’t mean to rub my own ego, but I’m rather good at my job. He’ll be happy I’ve found a partner, but there’s logistics, paperwork involved. I don’t entirely understand it myself, nor do I ever plan to but- yeah, we’ll talk and then- I forget. What else...?” Antonio furrowed his brows, started counting up on his fingers, whilst Arthur remembered where they were. He felt the glorious grip on his cock, Antonio’s buttocks which clenched now and then, and had to bite back on a low, needy moan.
“Can I ask... one more thing?” Arthur panted.
“Sure.”
Arthur shuddered. “Why choose me?”
Antonio blinked, rather cute in the moment, and placed his palm upon Arthur’s chest. “Because I like you, of course. You seem different.”
“But we’ve only just met.”
Antonio faltered. Confused and disappointed, he sighed, tracing a fingertip across Arthur’s chest. Suffice to say, he knew this was coming. “Actually, I...” he began, “I saw you for the first time a few weeks back. Just outside the main theatre. You intrigued me.”
Arthur cast his mind back in vain. He’d visited several theatres, and the main one alone countless times. He’d been in, out, thrown out, broke in, and somehow avoided being put in a cell.
“I like your spirit,” Antonio continued, oddly sheepish despite it all, and definitely cuter as time pressed on. “Ever since my brother found his partner, I’ve been... jealous, I can’t lie about that.”
Arthur grinned to himself. “So Romulus helped your brother... Who’d have thought?”
“I- shit,” Antonio huffed. He’d really landed in that one. “I-It doesn’t matter now, anyway! The point is I kinda’ kept watching-”
“You stalked me?”
“I guess,” Antonio shrugged. “But I do want you, and not in a creepy way, much as my appearance might say otherwise.”
“I like your horns. Tail too.”
Antonio perked up at that. “Then you’re okay- that is to say...” this was harder than he’d previously imagined. He’d worked out scenarios if Arthur refused him, or attempted to take his life, but as for accepting -entirely willing- no, that hadn’t been planned. “... you want to stay with me, forever? Even after what I've said?"
“Yes please,” Arthur chuckled. “I insist. But first...”
“Yes?” Antonio replied, wide eyed and leaning in close. “Is there something else you need? Tell me please. I can try.”
“I’d like to finish,” Arthur gestured down below. “After that, let’s sign the deal.”
Antonio’s oh was a soft, lovely sound. An admission that he’d forgotten about the sex, about tying Arthur to his bed, and attempting to squeeze obedience from his cock. Nevertheless, it was time to crack on, wrap things up, and get some rest. Once birdsong came through the window, and the morning sun rose up high, it’d be time to call dear old Romulus, and drop him a little surprise.