AU. Implied FrUK. Poet!Francis x Critic!Arthur

He approached the performer's stool dressed in clichéd black, eyes shadowed with navy-tinted shades, and waving blond locks peeking out from beneath a dark beret. Grasping the microphone, he murmured some generic title into it, lips brushing the bulbous head as though preparing to suck it off. Disgusting.

The critic seated in the back continued to scrawl biting comments across his notepad in neat, blue-inked cursive. He applied the renowned, dry British humor to his records of the poet's appearance, mannerisms, and ability as the corners of his mouth lowered in distaste. His significant brows quickly followed suit as the man on the low stage continued to let fly his carefully arranged words.

Milky thighs part,

A white marble gateway,

To welcome me to Utopia…

Lewd language, filthy implications, smoldering bedroom eyes peering over the tops of those ridiculous sunglasses lenses… the poet was practically engaging his listeners in sexual intercourse just by speaking. For one or two horrible moments, the critic was convinced that the man was preparing to strip naked right there.

Sheathed in the heat of paradise,

I let slip gentle prayers…

To the temple of your body.

This was hideous, an abomination to the institution of literary work. Even so, the audience seemed entranced by the man's smooth, velvet tone, almost identical to one used in the blissful afterglow of an intimate encounter. The critic turned to a fresh page and proceeded to tattoo its fair body as he had its brethren

Like a storm-tossed ship, we rock,

Powerless in the tempest of our lust,

Tasting of salt and desire.

He could feel himself becoming dirty just listening to the trash – had he wanted sex, he would have ventured out to the strip joint two blocks over. However, his opinion was clearly not shared as the moment the poet stood, dipping into a shallow bow, the small café burst into an enthusiastic round of finger snapping congratulation. The smirk upon his whiskered lips was unbearable as he returned to the table.

"Well, Arthur?" he cooed, dropping gracefully into his chair. "What did you think?"

The critic only cleared his throat and waved his small notepad at the other. "Absolute rubbish, frog."

"Ah… Quel dommage, ouí?" Taking up the other's hand in his, he kissed it almost reverently. "Perhaps I should blame my muse?"

"Twat."

"Come, mon cœur," the poet hummed, dragging the critic to his feet. "I will make a beautiful poem of you tonight."