Prompt Post No. 13
Welcome to Round 13 of the Inception Kink Meme. This post will be closed to new prompts once it reaches five thousand comments.
New Prompting System
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- Forty-eight hours ( Read more... )
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Graveyard-hopping probably isn’t the most dignified of princely actions, but Arthur doesn’t really give a shit.
He’s the youngest, an apathetic royal brat with parents who couldn’t care less where his wanderings take him, so long as his drunken escapades are kept to a minimum. (His last bar-fight was recorded for posterity in the form of a bard’s tale - a whole twenty-three verses long. The King and Queen were not pleased. The Crown Prince was too busy laughing uproariously to properly file a beheading notice. The minstrel lived to see another day.)
At present, it’s a late afternoon in bumfuck nowhere, and Arthur is sitting against some dead guy’s monstrous overcompensation of a tomb. His legs are splayed out and his fingers are clutching the neck of a wine bottle. He’s gotten to the point where the words on the label are one massive blur, but he does know he’s drinking a red. And that’s more than enough reason to keep swigging.
His horse chooses to poke his head over the surrounding stone wall, and snort in his general direction. Arthur swallows down a mouthful and glares.
“Don’t judge me, Cobb.”
Cobb the Fifth (descendent of Cobb the Original, first of the royal steeds) glances disinterestedly at the bottle before returning to a patch of delicious grass. Fine, whatever. He doesn’t really have any especial attachment to his wayward owner, anyway.
Arthur is pretty much on the doorstep of oblivion when the iron gate creaks open. A man steps in warily, bescruffed and clutching an empty burlap sack.
“Oh, fuck,” Arthur groans as he stumbles to his feet. “Hey...you. Don’t mind me.” He dumps the remaining wine on the tomb beside him. “Funeral libations going on here. Nothin’ to see.”
The man promptly kneels.
“Man, not this shit again. I’m not even wearing a crown. Did you follow me? Did my parents send you?”
Arthur’s queries seem to fall on deaf ears, as the man completely ignores them in favor of a thatch of stinging nettles. His hand reaches out to grasp one, when Arthur miraculously recalls the duller parts (which is to say, all the parts) of Introduction to Plant Science, and cries out, “Dude, don’t touch those!”
He then marvels at his capacity to somewhat care about a total stranger, even through the haze of inebriation.
Nettle Man looks up briefly to blink, and proceeds to grasp the nasty plant, anyway. The spikes wreak their revenge in the form of welts and blisters, but the expression on his face remains blank.
“You’re out of your fucking mind,” Arthur concludes. “I like you.”
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Hearts in my eyes, anon. This is brilliant. COBB THE FIFTH IS OFFICIALLY MY FAVORITE, THOUGH.
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After the graveyard is one-hundred-and-ten percent free of nettles (Nettle Man is nothing if not thorough), he turns to leave. The bag is slung over his shoulder and his injured hands are curled close to his body. They’ve already swelled to a fire-blazing red. And Arthur, whose mouth lacks something of a filter, blurts out, “Where are you going?”
Nettle Man shrugs and gestures vaguely towards the setting sun.
Arthur’s sure his face is already flushed and stupid-looking, but he tries for a grin. “What a coincidence. I’m headed there, too.”
A look of severe doubt crosses the man’s face.
“No need for that, hey. I’m as free to roam as you are.”
Seemingly adamant about keeping the conversation one-sided, Nettle Man strides out.
A taunt follows him. “I have a horse, you know. And you don’t.”
This seems to stop Nettle Man in his tracks. He looks over at Cobb. Cobb looks over at Arthur.
“Like this is the first time I’ve done this,” Arthur bares his teeth at his mode of transportation. Cobb looks about ready to kick him. “Buck up, chum. You just stuffed your face. Now, if you could carry us to this guy’s intended destination-”
His voice lilts in the form of a question. Nettle Man hesitates for a moment before using the back of one hand to push at Cobb’s drooping reins. All of a sudden, it hits Arthur that this man might actually be mute. And not just an admittedly interesting asshole.
“Yeah, no. I get it. Guide away.”
Nettle Man nods, gritting his teeth as he pulls himself onto the saddle. He falls naturally into a riding posture worthy of a prizewinning equestrian. Arthur narrows his eyes. Interesting asshole, indeed.
He fusses with a stirrup and attempts to clamber up behind Nettle Man. Unfortunately, his liquored-up body isn’t exactly prepared to follow instructions.
“Goddamn it,” he spits out, swaying slightly to the left on his second try. Cobb huffs in amusement. “Shut up, Cobb.”
Nettle Man doesn’t even move from atop his perch. Selfish fucker.
Eventually, the benefit of having the royal gene of pigheadedness pays off. He always gets his way, Arthur thinks triumphantly, smiling to suppress a fresh wave of nausea. He reaches behind him, absently patting around Cobb’s ass for his satchel.
“Hang on, I’ve got a compass here somewhere...”
Nettle Man kicks lightly with his heels, and Cobb grumbles before setting off in a trot.
“Oi! What the-” Arthur sputters, his arms flailing and eventually landing around Nettle Man’s waist. The side of his face is plastered against broad shoulderblades. “Mrfgh. This was not what I had in mind.”
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Cobb has slowed to a disgruntled walk, and somehow Arthur ends up riding backwards. He slouches, leaning against Nettle Man’s back, and props a leg up.
“The fuck are we going?” He looks about lazily and chews on a fingernail. His companion’s only response is a deep exhale.
“Don’t be judging me,” Arthur says without bite. He’s long come to terms with his innate talent for attracting ire and exasperation. Also, he’s hungry. “There’s food where we’re going, yeah?”
He feels a shoulder rise and drop unconcernedly against the back of his head.
“There better be. Otherwise, we’ll be forced to eat Cobb.”
Cobb’s tail swishes up, the ends whacking Arthur in the face.
“Ow. God, I was kidding.”
He runs a sleeve over his abused cheek, and tilts his head to the side, contemplating the burlap sack.
“I’m assuming you need those weeds for something, but honestly. Gloves. Try them.”
Nettle Man’s back stiffens. Arthur scoffs and digs an elbow into his side.
“Why so sensitive? It’s not like you’re planning on brewing some kind of death potion.”
His chortle dies quickly when Nettle Man neglects to respond. Suspicion creeps into Arthur’s tone.
“Am I giving a ride to a murderer? Is that what you are?”
He tilts his head back to see Nettle Man casually making a dirty gesture.
“Just checking. Strangers with candy and nettles, etcetera. But so you’re aware, I’ve been trained in the Art of Asskicking.”
Ignoring Arthur’s babbling, Nettle Man nudges Cobb towards the edge of a densely-wooded forest. The trees are packed so closely together that the leaves seem to meld into one dark, ominous organism. It shudders with the wind’s high-pitched whistles. Dusk is already creeping across the land, meaning none of them can see past the third treeline. Arthur peers warily over Nettle Man’s shoulder.
“Yeah. This looks safe.”
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captcha: make wivic. yeah, awesome anon!!!!
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Still loving this. ♥
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Keep going!
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Guided by Arthur's InstaTorch, the trio cautiously traverse the eerie quiet of the woods.
"Seriously, what would you do without me?" Arthur mutters, holding the torch aloft. The flame sputters sadly, and he bangs it against a tree trunk. "Fucking prototype."
Nettle Man pauses briefly to give his fellow traveler That Look, which Arthur reciprocates with That Face. Cobb resolutely disregards the both of them, and thinks about hay.
They carry on in relative silence, until - quite suddenly - a shrill and tiny voice breaks the air above them.
"Hey, watch where you're going!"
Spooked, Arthur automatically ducks and digs his fingers into Nettle Man’s bicep. (Later, he will deny that he shrieked like a little girl.) Conversely, Nettle Man merely holds out a palm, onto which a fairy descends from nowhere. She strides angrily across, hands clutching the hem of her singed jacket. Arthur stares in fascination and pushes the torch closer.
"You're a fairy."
"And you're an assface," she snarls. Nettle Man gently prods her, and she rolls her eyes. "Nice to meet you. Welcome to Limbo Province. I'm queen on paper, but you'll refer to me as General Mal."
"You're French," Arthur deduces, then adds belatedly, "Your Generalness."
"We're expats. You know how it goes. Unemployment rates, currency appreciation, one thing led to another...and bam, we ended up here."
"Je m’en fous,” he offers tentatively, trying his damnedest to remember something other than the magnificent bosom of his French instructor.
Mal frowns a little. "You're lucky I don't punch you in the balls. Take my royal pardon before I change my mind."
Cobb lets out a wheezy, whiffly horse-giggle. Arthur looks like he wants to commit equicide.
"Well." The fairy general kicks off her shoes and settles on top of Cobb's head. "I guess I can hitch a ride with you, seeing as we're headed in the same direction and all."
For once, Arthur can't find anything to say. Cobb seems inordinately pleased.
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I REFUSE TO ADMIT THIS LOGGED IN, BUT I HAVE THIS SAME DIFFICULTY. FRENCH TEACHERS AND THEIR HORRIBLY DISTRACTING BOSOMS. APPARENTLY IT IS A THING.
Also, ILU anon. You're amazing and you make me giggle madly.
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The sounds of crickets chirping, frogs croaking, and owls hooting might actually be soothing, if they weren't punctuated by the terrifying howls of a lone wolf.
"This is definitely not safe," Arthur hisses. "We could all be eaten alive."
"As long as you're the appetizer," Mal mutters, absently braiding Cobb's mane. Nettle Man dons a slight frown of disapproval, which is met with a decidedly unroyal raspberry.
"I need cognac."
Bordering on desperation, Arthur roots through his satchel like some kind of frenzied, alcoholic squirrel.
"Haha, squirrel," the fairy general chuckles at her own observation. Cobb's ears prick up on alert. He fucking hates squirrels. Nut-hoarding bastards, the lot of them.
Nettle Man closes his eyes and counts to three. When he reopens them, he is sincerely disappointed that he is still here, in the woods, saddled with these dumbasses. No granted wishes for him today, it seems.
"Oh, thank fuck." Arthur digs out a bottle and eyes the amber liquid lovingly.
"That looks sub-par." Mal squints. "Give it here."
Arthur looks scandalized. "Whoa, this is not for sharing. Get your own."
She grabs a tuft of Cobb's fringe and yanks it emphatically. "You can share your horse, but not your shitty cognac?"
Cobb releases a long-suffering sigh, which earns a sympathetic pat from Nettle Man. The bickering rises magnificently in pitch.
"You don't understand how I feel about my liquor!"
"And you don't understand how much my jacket costs!"
"Bite me!"
"Fuck you!"
"You wish!"
"I am this close to cursing you!"
A sudden and chilling silence descends over them. Nettle Man looks down at the reins, his face wan and pale.
"Oh God, I'm sorry," Mal whispers, flying up anxiously to perch on his shoulder. "I shouldn't have said that."
Bewildered, Arthur and Cobb glance at each other.
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He stares at the back of Nettle Man's neck, as Cobb tiredly resumes his plodding. This isn't a matter of fun and games, anymore, and he doesn't know what to do. All his wanderings, the reckless spending of coins, the making of countless friends he'd likely never see again, the sneaking in and out of farmhouses, and he just-- he thought he'd seen what the world is really like. Obviously, the world is out to teach him otherwise.
"You think too loudly."
Arthur looks up, eyes bright and suspicious. But Mal turns her head and doesn't say anything more.
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"Welcome home."
A chorus of greetings rings from all sides as they enter a dimly-lit glade. Fairies flit to and fro, chattering rapidly in French as they inspect the newcomers. Dismounting, Eames gives them a small wave. Almost immediately, he sets foot on a narrow pathway off to the side, and disappears into the gloom. Arthur, who is still clutching his cognac, frowns in confusion.
"Where the hell is he going?"
"That is none of your business," Mal says with a hint of resignation, like she knows about his propensity to get involved in things he shouldn't. Arthur tears his eyes away from the pathway and looks around him. Tiny houses and buildings are scattered in the boughs of nearby trees, among them a hospital and hotel and possibly a bank; the smallest working economy he's ever seen.
"Not bad for a bunch of expats, eh?" Mal rubs at her shoulder wearily. Arthur is about to voice his agreement, when his stomach grumbles for attention. She raises an eyebrow. "Take a seat, then. Not even guests like you should go hungry."
Settling against the base of an oak, Arthur allows his mind to wander doubtfully towards tiny kitchens with tiny pots and pans. Well, it's not as if he hasn't gone a day without food before. Drawing his knees up, he watches Cobb munch away on the lush grass beneath.
"Nettle Man, you are one mysterious bastard," he mumbles to himself.
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It's the dead of night and he's drunk. Again. Not that this is unusual for Arthur, but -- he attempts to focus his vision -- this is definitely not the kind of resort he wants to stay at.
"Cobb," he whispers loudly in irritation. "Where the fuck are you? We're leaving. Right now."
But his horse fails to materialize. Arthur glares at the few fairy lanterns that are still lit. The fairies stole Cobb. That is the only explanation. They fucking stole him and magicked him into a miniature steed, so General Mal can laugh in his face.
"Never trust the French."
Cracking his knuckles, he sizes up the closest fairy-dwelling tree with the kind of bold confidence typically attributed to those one step away from alcohol poisoning.
"I'm invincible."
He huffs with strained effort as he manages to pull himself up onto a low-hanging branch. A quick glance over his shoulder alerts him to the presence of a broad, silent shadow. Staring at him. Lurking just beyond light's reach.
"Gah!" is what comes out when he tumbles off his perch. A whoosh of air escapes as the breath is knocked out of him. Dizziness consumes his head. The shadow moves closer, closer-- and Arthur opens his eyes to find the visage of Nettle Man staring at him, upside-down. Even though the world around him is threatening to spin off its axis, Arthur can tell it's a stare of massive judgment. His brain makes a minor headway on a semi-coherent reply, but his stomach beats it to the punch. Arthur promptly throws up all over Nettle Man's favorite shoes.
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