Welcome to Incubus Tales: A Thousand Words by Hushicho. In Noctemberg, it is always night. Dhiar, proprietor and gay incubus, welcomes you to Phantasies, a very special shop. Sensuality is more than just Dhiar’s stock in trade, it is his raison d’être. NSFW.
A new chapter appears every Thursdays. This week is Chapter Eleven.
11th Night—Help, I’m Alive
This part of the city wasn’t really a proper part of the city. It had been, once, but with the migration—a slow migration, given the general longevity of its inhabitants—it was simply left to deteriorate, to become as dilapidated and abandoned as it had. It was easy to see that the place had once been grand and beautiful. It still possessed a certain beauty, but one tinged with sadness; nothing new had been built in ages.
The primary reasoning behind this was that it had become a kind of relic itself, and home to relics. The oldest vampire of the city, the most ancient demon, could not compare to the age of the youngest revenant. Even if physically they remained young, there was something about them… something about their dark eyes, their pallid, cool bodies… the way they moved, the unnatural silence with which they seemed to do everything.
And here Dhiar found himself, in the midst of the buildings overgrown with moss and vine, masonry cracked and split, wood of construction mixed with the slender woody tendrils of the plants that thrived in the underground.
“Love the decor,” the Incubus commented, crossing one leg atop the other and sitting back in a chair that was probably once especially fine. “It’s got such distinctiveness to it!”
“I’m grateful for you coming to deliver to me.” The man to whom he spoke was one of the very same revenants who made up the majority of the district’s population.
His hair framed his face, styled haphazardly, a red so dark as to appear almost black in the low light. It matched his eyes. His skin, of course, was palest white. Bone white. And the clothes covering his body were aged, to say the least: fine cloth and tapestry, but frayed and worn, though not yet threadbare.
Dhiar wiggled his fingers. “Money’s money! Anyway, I thought I might be able to bring a little cheer to a place that was supposed to be fairly dismal. Really, though, I think it has a charm of its own.” He glanced around the room again. “It’s at least honest. No pretence. No façades. It is what it is. In a half-reclaimed-by-nature way.”
“This place is the past and the future of Noctemburg,” the revenant replied, walking to the crate brought from Phantasies. “Every part has come from this, every part will go to this, when they grow tired of it. The Earth has its own ways of addressing things. Oh, this is perfect. Perfect!”
Dhiar loved a challenge. Like vampires, revenants tended to be on the cooler side of body temperature. Unlike vampires, however, revenants rarely indulged in the sensual pleasures, rarely enjoyed each other’s company. They merely went about their undead existences in a sort of silent commiseration.
They did not speak of the zombies. Those were unfortunates, barely ambulatory, barely even undead…
So different from the man in Dhiar’s eyes, into whose tone some happiness had seeped. It made his eyes light up. He looked almost lively.
“I don’t believe I caught your name,” Dhiar at last spoke, pushing himself to his feet and walking over to his customer.
“Lothring,” he answered, turning to face the Incubus, holding the tunic up along his chest proudly. “Does it suit me?”
“Very much.” Dhiar reached his hands out and began to unfasten the buttons of the man’s waistcoat, so easily, so casually. “Let’s try it on.”
“What… what are you doing?” If Lothring could have blushed, he would have. “I…”
“I’m helping you to undress. It’s a luxury that few have, you know.” Dhiar glanced up, into the darkest eyes he had ever seen. “It’s imperative I make my customer happy.”
The touch alone sent bolts of ecstasy through Lothring. He felt himself overwhelmed, and his fingers fumbled at the tunic. The battle was lost, and the garment tumbled back to the crate, draping over its side. He didn’t always remember to breathe, but it seemed right this time. He felt his breath catch in his throat. A soft sound came from his chest.
Dhiar slowly worked the waistcoat down the man’s arms and off them, then began to undo the buttons of his shirt. “I haven’t seen a shirt of this style in at least twenty years. It’s beautiful. I wish it would come back in style again. It makes a man look… delicious.”
Lothring, however, could not manage to form words. Had it really been that long? This was the newest clothing of his wardrobe! Had it really been that long… since…
“Your skin… is luscious.” Dhiar leaned in to kiss at the centre of the revenant’s chest, the skin there cool but not cold. Just like the demeanor of the man: aloof, but not unreachable, and warming by the second.
The Incubus slowly opened the shirt, working it down the shoulders, over the man’s arms, leaving it at the forearms to fix the arms back. He took in the lean musculature, the erect nipples, the barely-visible sigils tinting the skin from distant rituals that had faded. Delicately he applied his tongue to the right nipple, tracing the tip around the areola, then dipping to the nub, teasing it.
The bare skin touching, the attention, all of it washed over Lothring like a wave crashing on his unready shore. His mouth hung open, his eyes glazed with stunned indulgence. His trousers were so tight. Somehow his clothes must have shrunk.
No, he thought, that’s not how it goes. That’s not what this is.
What was forgotten for a moment came flooding back, when Dhiar’s wandering hands found his trousers and worked them slowly down. Somehow it had become cooler and warmer at the same time. He could not remember the last time he noticed the temperature, or that it affected him at all.
As he felt another lick, this time at his left nipple, he trembled. Moving his arms to let the shirt drop to the floor, he lifted his hand and ran it through the Incubus’s magnificent curls.
Oh help, the words flicked through his mind. It’s so beautiful. So wonderful. I’m drowning in it.
He let himself go under.
* * *
Impatient to find out What happens in Dhiar’s shop? Get the entire book direct from Circlet Press!
About the author: From an early age, Hushicho held a special passion for storytelling. Throughout his life, he has worked in numerous media and various places in the world. He is the author of the long-running Incubus Tales webcomic, upon which this serial is based.
Welcome to the intriguing city of dreams, Noctemberg, where it is always night, and to Phantasies, a very special shop run by Dhiar, proprietor and gay incubus. Sensuality is more than just Dhiar's stock in trade, it is his raison d'etre. In Incubus Tales: A Thousand Words, Dhiar meets new loves, rekindles relationships, and bring his special brand of sexual healing to lovers and readers alike.
Also available in paperback!