#my faillures as an author

[mrssimply]

the people wanna know about "For services rendered" please 😚❤️

Ahahaha, of course the people wanna know about this one.

That one is the answer to @bluelolblue's prompt from... MONTHS ago. She asked for a desperate kiss. Now, you would think it would be easy wih Santino and John to have a situation where they kiss deperately. Yes. Lot of them.

But I didn't want to write something I had written before, so I dug a lil deeper into my brain, who prompty punished me by giving me a scenario that would span over (lemme check) seven chapters (and you know my chapters it's not just 1k words per chapter).

When I was stuck on TBoR, that one jumped on virtual paper right out of my fingers, and it felt GREAT. Then two things happened:

I couldn't seem to make a choice about a central information. I could neither decide how to reveal it, or how big the consequences of that central information would be on the story. Then, suddenly that central information started to make less and less sense.

It got too big. It became too complex, and I tried to reduce it, then it was not epic enough because I had a peaceful resolution but I wasn't sure it was the right way to go... Then I understood this wasn't an answer to Blue's prompt anymore but a whole story that had gotten away from me, as they always effing do!!

In conclusion, I suddenly lost touch with that story, not knowing why I was writting it anymore, why it was so complex, how to simplify it. I also kinda started to low-key hate a couple of scenes I was proud of before (but that's my normal reaction so I wasn't too worried about that).

So that story is officially on hiatus, I'll write another fic completely for Blue, and in the meantime, that one you sorta prompted (for now named With a Bang!) is going well... in my head at least xD. But that one, while having less words written, actually has a lot more chance to ever see daylight than For Services Rendered.

I think it's the first fic in a VERY LONG time that I'm considering just burying.

Did you smell blood or are you just that lucky, asking me about my faillures as an author T-T? (Joking of course, it actually feels good to let it out).

BUT since the people wanna know, here is a snippet under the cut:

“C’mon, D’Antonio, stop wasting our time and just sign it, you got everything you could’ve hoped for and more,” DeSantis growled, arms crossed. “I don’t have a pen,” Santino replied with an innocent smile.  There was a moment of bewilderment where every player around the table imagined they’d heard wrong. Who came to a negotiation without a pen, and even so, it was so childish.  DeSantis hit the table with a fist, before grabbing his lawyer’s pen and practically throwing it at the Camorra representative. He didn’t catch it, letting it fall and roll away. John hadn’t missed his cue in the meantime: he silently walked toward Santino, taking the instrument out of his pocket to hand it to Santino. Who was still playing with his lighter.  He didn’t take that pen either, and John frowned: maybe he’d misunderstood? “You know what?” Santino said, activating the flame. He didn’t bring it to his cigarette, but took one of the contract copies in his other hand. “I just remembered something.” He brought the lighter under the paper, and everyone watched it take fire with a dumbstruck expression.  “We D’Antonio don’t negotiate,” Santino finished with a deranged smile. The fever of insanity shone in his bright green eyes, reflecting the fire. DeSantis was at the end of his rope, he drew his gun. John moved by reflex, jumping over the table with the fountain pen still in his hand. He kicked the gun away with a foot, rolling on the desk to plunge the pen into the Lucchese representative’s neck.  Everything slowed around him. As he tore out the instrument, people started moving: the Five Families’ men went for their guns, but John caught one by the wrist, wrenching it to the side. He used the stylograph to stab the guy under the chin, and then twisted it in his hand to transpierce the left eye of his opponent.  He fell, like his boss, in a gurgle. In the meantime, Cefalu had gotten on his feet, and was firing in the direction of Santino. John didn’t take the time to check if his secret lover had made it, he let the flow of the fight take him to the Gambino’s leader and grabbed his head to throw him down against the table. John left him dazed to confront the last bodyguard, who was aiming at him. The hitman dived under the man’s arm, felt the bullet fly over his head, and used his open palm to hit the bodyguard’s throat. He gurgled, choking, which allowed John to take his gun. Faster than the mobster could react, John killed him with his own gun, a bullet between the eyes. Cefalu was getting up, blinking and wiping the blood away from his face. He threw himself at John with an animalistic growl. The assassin elbowed him in the solar plexus, and they grappled for a moment before John finally threw him on the table over his shoulder. He’d lost the gun, but found another pen lying on the table. Since it had worked well so far, he didn’t hesitate, and finished the crime boss by stabbing him with the instrument through his ear. The silence that followed was deafening. He could hear the blood rushing through his ears, and his heart beating wildly. He looked at Santino, who hadn’t moved if only just to light his cigarette, the burnt paper still smoking in front of him. He smiled at John as he blew out the acrid fog.