lostcybertronian:

This took me forever to write omg

Tags: @caffeine-eater @authorsathenaeum @tiny-yan-an @darkstache-iplier @redraspberrycats @holyshitsnakesandspace @blue-greenstylinson @cookieface678 @bing-iplier @storm337 @sketchy-scribs-n-doods @pixelenchanter

Warnings ahead for implied nsfw, blood, implied stabbing

Prompt 149: “Since when have we ever been friends?”

    “Dammit, Author!” Dark slammed the newspaper down onto the table, his gray face set with rage. “Look at the mess you’ve made. I’m not here to clean up your blunders, Author. And I’m not here to put you back together.”

    The Author scowled down at the paper and bit back a scathing retort about how, technically, he’d put himself back together. He’d stitched up the gash in his arm himself, taken care of the stab wound in his chest himself.

    His dark eyes glittered in the candlelight as he skimmed the headline: Mysterious Man Prime Suspect in Stabbing.

    Just below that was a black and white photo of a hunched, fleeing figure. And while the photo was blurry and not of good quality the figure was undeniably him.

    Figures. He knew he’d heard the shutter-click of a camera as he’d retreated into the woods, but he’d convinced himself he couldn’t do anything about it. Couldn’t do anything but stumble blindly over sticks and rocks and into branches, all the while pressing both hands over the wound in his chest in a desperate- and futile- attempt to staunch the flow.

    “Well?” Dark prompted, crossing his arms and fixing him with a cold glare. “Care to explain yourself?”

    Hot fury rushed through him and the chair grated across the uneven wooden boards as he stood, ignoring the pull of the stitches and the hot spike of pain that jammed itself into his chest like he was being stabbed all over again.

    “I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he spat, and with a dramatic flourish he swept the newspaper off the table, sending the pages fluttering to the floor. “My characters are my characters, and I do with them as I please. Why the *fuck* do you even care? You never gave a shit about me. Why start now? Since when did we become friends?”

    When he finished his rant, he expected Dark to lash out. To be angry. To rage. But instead, there was silence. Dark just stared at him.

    Then he laughed.

    And the Author could only blink in disbelief as Dark tipped his head back and laughed, like the Author’s spiel was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

    Then his hands shot out and he seized the Author by his shirt.

The Author just barely suppressed a half-surprised, half-pained yelp as he found himself mere centimeters away from Dark.

“We’ve never been friends.” The words came out barely more than a hiss, but then Dark’s eyes drifted down, to the Author’s lips, and the Author swore he saw a flicker of something there. Longing? Lust? He wasn’t sure.

“But,” Dark added, continuing to stare at his lips, “that little rant of yours was hot. You’re very … endearing … when you get worked up like that.”

The Author’s breath hitched as Dark leaned closer, brushing their lips together. His mouth was cold, just like the rest of him.

Despite himself, the Author found he didn’t mind.

So when Dark leaned in again, crushing their lips together and kissing him like he was starving, releasing his shirt in favor of reaching up to wreath pale fingers through his hair, in favor of clutching him closer, the Author closed his eyes and reciprocated in kind.