Shitty writing done in half an hour and I thought “Hey, why not upload it, right?” Took inspo from a post that I think @markired had or answered or something where Dark is there for Anti etc, but I just love the design of Anti and Dark as characters and wanted to explore how it would be to write about them. So, yeah! Enjoy!
WORD COUNT: 2326 words
WARNINGS: Um violence, I guess? There’s a drop of blood? And the title kind of describes the general mood of the story lol
PLEASE GIVE ME CONSTRUCTIVE FEEDBACK! I LOVE IT!!!
It was 7 o’clock.
Dark and Anti sat on the couch, dinner just finished, TV on and playing. Dark
sat on the armchair as usual, arms straight on the armrests and legs relaxed
outward, nonchalantly giving a vibe of power and assertiveness despite being
calm and relaxed. Anti sat lazily on the long couch, leaning on the back of the
chair, arm resting on the side, and he lazily slumped his weight onto his arm, concentration
dissipated. His foot tapped restlessly, his eyebrows concreted in a downward
slope showing his mind were elsewhere than what was playing on TV. Dark knew
something was up with him. He never just sat
there bouncing his foot. He either zonked on the couch and laid flat, or he was
hunched over on the edge of the corner playing video games. Something was
wrong. He casually watched Anti for a while longer, trying to solve him like a
person solves a rubix cube. However, he was smart, and Anti was just as easy to
solve as one of those trivial cubes. To Dark, they were simple. And it was
simple to tell how Anti was feeling. He was mad. Something, or someone, had
rubbed him up the wrong way.
It started with a book and some morbid curiosity. Because didn’t it always with you? From the womb to the tomb, that was how you were about these things.
To be fair, maybe it was a bit of prejudice on your part as well—maybe not the kind that got people hurt, or worse, but a judgment call was a judgment call, poor or otherwise. You just… weren’t expecting to see some burly hunter who looked like he could probably crush another man treating the pages of a worn paperback like an infant. It was almost paradoxical, how he was perched on a bench with the book cradled in one hand, reading by the glow of a Lestallum streetlight and looking far too absorbed to just be passing the time between bounties. If anything, he looked like a professor in hunter’s clothing. (You could have waxed something poetic about how they weren’t all that different, but your brain was too fried at this time of night for that.)