part of me while writing a fic outline says “they deserve happiness :)” but then a very sinister part of me says “but what if they didn’t”

It's Worth It

As someone who has been stuck in the drafting stages for a long time, I get it. The slog gets tough. You take ages to rewrite something, only to realize the changes you've made contradict what needs to come later. Many hours have been wasted staring at walls, trying to get things to work.

But it will work. You will reach a point where everything makes sense. You will find a way to let go of great words that no longer have a place in your story, because you will be be able to replace them with better ones. You will end up with a better story that you will be proud of.

Keep going.

"Last time I saw you, you promised to kill me."

"Things change. I'm not going to let you use me to kill yourself, you bastard."

AKI HAYAKAWA's shoulders were tense beneath his suit jacket – he'd known you were coming. The Public Safety building loomed dark against the Tokyo skyline as you found him on the roof, his back turned to you, long hair dancing in the night wind.

"Last time I saw you, you promised to kill me," he said quietly, not turning around.

The memory of that promise sat heavy between you, tangled with futures that could never be and a curse neither of you could break. You stepped closer, close enough to catch the familiar scent of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes.

"Things change." Your voice cracked around the edges. "I'm not going to let you use me to kill yourself, you bastard."

He turned then, and the emptiness in his eyes made your heart ache. Here was the boy who'd lost everything, wrapped in the skin of a man determined to follow them into the dark.

"It's not your choice to make," he said, but his usual coldness wavered.

"Like hell it isn't." You closed the distance between you, grabbing his tie. "You don't get to make me care about you and then ask me to be your executioner. I won't do it."

Something flickered in his gaze – surprise, perhaps, or the ghost of what might have been hope. His hand came up to cover yours where it gripped his tie, neither pulling away nor pulling closer.

"You're making this harder than it needs to be," he whispered.

"Good." You pressed your forehead to his chest, feeling his heartbeat – still steady, still alive despite everything. "Someone has to."

The night wind carried the sounds of the city below, but up here, time seemed suspended between one breath and the next. Between a promise made and a promise broken. Between duty and something dangerously close to love.

His other hand came up to cradle the back of your head, so gentle it hurt.

"I never meant for you to..." he started.

"I know," you interrupted. "But I did anyway. And I won't let you go. Not like this."

The curse that bound him still whispered its dark promises, but for now, in this moment, Aki Hayakawa allowed himself to be anchored by someone who chose to stay.

Lesser-known steps of the writing process:

maybe your fanfic doesn’t have to change someone’s life maybe it can just brighten someone’s day for a bit

girls be the shyest , quietest and most reserved person in the world yet have the most inappropriate , violent sexual fantasies in their head

need to be running through a neighborhood while a masked figure chases after me. he's blending in with the steadily thinning crowd, wearing a costume that anyone could be wearing. hiding in plain sight. need to think im safe but hands wrap around my waist and suddenly i'm pulled into foliage behind someone's house. definitely trespassing, but that should be the least of my worries. his hands ripping my outfit apart, clamping over my mouth, smearing the makeup that took me a while. fingers digging into my hair, pulling so hard that i wince. need him to take me from behind, hard and rough and ruthless, his fingers forced into my mouth, rummaging around like i'm hiding something, pulling my mouth open, uncaring about the spit and slobber that slips past my lips. need him to literally use me. like get himself off, maybe get me off in the process, and then just leave me there to find my way home on unsteady legs and holding together an outfit that's basically pieces now.

i will extend kinktober until i decide im done. time bends at my will. im loki now.

most important part of the writing process actually is when you loop a single song on max volume and stare at the word document and imagine the characters doing things for 14 hours. this is known as getting in the zone

"you're the writer, you control how the story goes" no not really. i wrote the first sentence and then my characters said "WE WILL TAKE IT FROM HERE" and promptly swerved into an electrical fence.

I wrote a scene and the characters said "nah, that's dumb" and did whatever the hell they liked.

Quote Prompt

“You always have this little smile when you look at me, like everything’s going to be okay. Everyone else looks at me with fear and disgust, but you… I shouldn’t bring you peace.”

THE city lights painted shadows across his face as he stood by the window of his penthouse office, the skyline a glittering testament to his empire. Blood still stained the cuff of his otherwise immaculate suit – a reminder of tonight's "business meeting." I watched him from his leather couch, nursing a glass of his expensive whiskey, completely at ease despite knowing what those hands had done hours earlier.

He caught my reflection in the window and turned, his expression darkening with something between wonder and self-loathing.

"You always have this little smile when you look at me," he said, voice rough with emotion he rarely showed others. "Like everything's going to be okay." His knuckles whitened around his glass. "Everyone else looks at me with fear and disgust, but you... I shouldn't bring you peace."

I set my glass down and crossed to him, straightening his blood-speckled cuff link with practiced care. "And yet you do."

"I'm a monster," he whispered, catching my wrist in a grip that could kill but only ever held me like I was made of glass. "I've burned down half this city. I've ruined lives. I've—"

"I know exactly what you are and what youv've done." I pressed my palm to his chest, feeling his heart race beneath Italian wool and carefully constructed walls. "I've always known."

He laughed, but it was a broken sound. "Then you're either an angel or as twisted as I am, dolcezza."

"Maybe I'm both." I reached up to trace the scar along his jaw – the one from the assassination attempt last spring, the night I realized I couldn't lose him. "Maybe I see the man beneath the monster. Maybe I don't want either of us to be saved."

His eyes darkened, and I watched the war behind them – the need to protect me from himself fighting against the desperate hunger to keep me close. I knew this dance well. Every time he pulled away, convinced he was tainting something pure, I pulled him back. Every time he tried to push me toward a normal life, I chose him instead. His darkness. His demons. His empire built on blood and fire.

"You deserve better than stolen moments between violence," he murmured, even as his fingers tangled in my hair. "Better than loving a man who makes widows and orphans."

I smiled that smile he spoke of, the one that seemed to both soothe and torment him. "And you deserve someone who fears you properly. We all want things we don't deserve."

He pressed his forehead to mine, a gesture so gentle it made my heart ache. The mighty don, brought to his knees not by bullets or rivals, but by the simple acceptance in my eyes.

"One day," he breathed against my lips, "you'll wake up and see me clearly. And that smile will fade."

I kissed him then, tasting whiskey and regret and that desperate need that always hummed between us. "I see you perfectly clearly," I whispered. "That's why I smile."