#what's in your wip folder?

[helloliriels]

The Badly Summarized WiP Game ...✍️

Thanks for the tag @raina-at (seen here)

Rules: Pick a bunch of your WIPs and summarize them as badly as possible, then ask your followers to vote on which one they’d be most likely to read.

Tagging if you haven't jumped in yet or wanna! @chriscalledmesweetie @totallysilvergirl @anyawen @weeesi @kitten-kin @calaisreno

[screwpinecaprice]

Skitches of some planned draw your OTPs that I'm not exactly sure if I'll complete. Gonna be soups busy for the next couple of days (weeks?)!

[cobaltfluff]

he is LEARNING... but he also gets an IQ debuff when pretty guys smile at him

[tgtbata]

any way you want

[softasawhisper]

. 🥑 .

[eavangeek]

I've seen two posts in the Bone Gramps tag complaining about "Erectile Dysfunction is not realistic :/ he's only in his 50s :/" and

1) where are the rest of the Soft Penis Freaks you are referring to

2) the only Erectile Dysfunction Fics that I know of, are on Ao3

3) I know this because I wrote BOTH of them

4) I like it!! I know what I'm about!!

5) is a fetish my bomies (Bone Homies). Forgive the pun, but don't think too hard on it

[xenonsdoodles]

80s goth rocker seppy from an au I worked on ages ago but never did anything with :)

[kris-mage-fics]

wip whenever

rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your wip folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have wips.

Tagged by @emeraldgreaves and @kingdom-dance, thanks for tagging me! <3 I'm not listing all my wips, there are far too many and most of them I have no intention of finishing. So here's the one's I've been working on most recently (all of them are Shepherds of Haven fics):

entry about being the Hero of Haven

dress shopping with Lavinet

Magical Heist

Only you and I were meant to be

Red 5+1 - Part 1 - first meeting

Wallmire banter

Tagging @bigmeandragonlady, @crystallpistol, @phenanthreneblue, @renru, and @snowthornes! No pressure of course! And if you see this and want to join in, consider yourself tagged! <3

[aldisobey]

WIP Word Game!

Always love a tag, and I seriously appreciate it @caffeinatedmunchkin (and also @ollypopwrites because this is the actual game you had tagged me in before). Alright here we go. I’m letting myself be messy here.

Rules:

You will be given a word. Then you share one sentence/excerpt from your WIP(s) that start with each letter of your word.

My key word was S a t i n

I’m breaking the rules and giving you ‘cut content’. I’m toiling over wips in a weird way. I don’t know how else to let some of this see light of day and I’m taking the opportunity to make this what I want. Because these are fun…uh, character studies? These are bits I want to get at, these are things that are true and real for the characters, but I don’t know if I’ll ever have time to flesh it out. They all need editing okay but have fun, here is some writing process, these are all technically 'wips'. You could say they are different stages of stories or scenes. S - is from Nevarran Noble Anatomy, currently dropped shortfic A - is a pulled paragraph from post-epilogue I'm still looking at T - is a silly I - is a look at a dialogue first draft N - is a flowy first draft.

------------------------------

“See that ya shits? The fuck you think might happen if dead tissue gets in there hmmm? You gonna explain that one to dear old Professor ‘I’m not taking more than ten students’ Volkarin that you killed his lover?” Rook’s entire body went red. “Think that’ll help ya make the list?” the botanist was snapping and pointing her fingers, “Yeah and you! I know your family is gonna have a goddamn inheritance war if you can’t find a competent corpse whisper. Mother’s knickers. Idiots.” “Well he can’t be more than a paramour. A proper Nevarran Necromancer would never fail to lavish a lover.” The noble’s jangling limbs gestured to the bare arms of the Warden, smirk on his face as he sneered towards Emmrich. Rook hopped off the examination table with a heavy thump, slammed that muscled weight down, and strode over to that noble. Spit on his shoe. Locked eyes on the shocked countenance before him as he hissed out a, “Hey, darling dearest heart, can I have a knife back. Please. Time for the practical demonstration. I can show where to stab so he’ll live.” “Rook, I think it’s time we took our leave.” Emmrich finally spoke, voice hushed. Rook leaned forward and grinned wide, “I don’t wear rings for a reason, want to see why?” Smile too wide the Warden extended his hand as if in greeting. The laborious movement drew the eye. Bent, bruised, one could tell numerous bones had healed incorrectly. Movements were stiff, cracking, fresh cuts and life long calluses ran the surface. Menacing. It held an air of strength that promised instant injury if the brat dared lay his own there. Emmrich paused overlong. Mind reeling. Rook didn’t know it, but he faced someone with royal connections. And the necromancer knew that stance, this silence. The gathered Nevarrans might think it acting, bravado. But Rook was still. Quiet. Loose. Every nerve primed for movement. He’d kill that man. And for a moment…Emmrich considered letting that happen. Rook didn’t need the knives. Normally the Warden was kind, de-escalating, talking things out if possible. But the moment a threat appeared he removed it. Mercilessly. And Rook wasn’t wrong, a man such as this would be a threat. But only alone, only if Emmrich were to disappear. This was no trouble, this was a fight won by Professor Volkarin long ago. Emmrich smiled pleasantly and swept in between them, back to the student, took hold of Rook’s outstretched hand in both of his, gave it a gentle squeeze, raised it to his lips and held it there as he cooled the Warden’s gaze in the depths of his longing stare. “You needn’t sully your hands darling.” Emmrich spoke slow into the knuckles. One would think the room had emptied but for the two of them. The professor dropped their hands from his lips, twined his fingers with Rooks, and held firm as he drew the rogue away with a gentle pull, “Come, we have a reservation to make.” Smiling dumb Rook let himself be taken away, threw a bright laugh at the noble over his shoulder. “Ooh, those undead cooks again?” “If you desire it dearest.” And they were gone. Rook forgot his shirt.

------------------------------

All Rook’s build. Close as possible. Venatori freshly caught. Spaces of the Necropolis were his alone. The peers that dubbed him ‘young Volkarin’ would be the only few that could check, possibly even see. And their attentions were elsewhere for decades. He could keep them here alive. Long as their lives might permit. Had to remain alive. Material. Simple reagents. The shift in Emmrich’s mind came crashing. He’d saved these men. Had saved many in the chaos of the aftermath. They would be dead without him. The moments of life left were owed.

------------------------------

“Turlum!!” Rook throws a truffle at Davrin, and with a squawk and a ‘dammit Rook’ Davrin never gets to finish the joke he started as he’s smothered in a rush of fur and feathers.

------------------------------

“It…it’s that, but Emmrich it’s mostly not. I’m worried about you.” -this is Harding- “And Rook.” -taash- “And Rook. But Emmrich look at where we’re at. Why did you want to go to the Deep Roads?” “You’re a bad liar” -taash shrug- “Taash, not helping. But they're right. You’re studying the Blight aren’t you?” “And what of it? I’m researching a cure. Harding. It’s changed. Who knows what it will be tomorrow, someone must endeavor to understand it.” -Emmrich- “Should that someone be you? You might be too close. Maybe…maybe just enjoy what you got with Rook now? And if that blight stuff ever changes I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

------------------------------

Night never really came to the Lighthouse. The name alone forbid it. Yet dusk arrived. The pots and pans washed and returned, baths steaming but empty, and the warmth of quiet wrapped the near atmosphere. Rook sat on the floor of Emmrich’s study. Cross legged and hunched on a plush rug before the fire, book propped by a pillow before him. The rug was relatively new. Rook had protested. Floor’s fine! I’ve called worse a bed. Sincerity rang in laughter and a chair sat empty across the room so it must be a preference. But Emmrich had taken it upon himself to see to some comforts. Smiled soft from his desk now as he peered up to see it in use. Recalled it’s christening. Oh pretty! Boots had gone flying the first time Rook spotted it, clothes nearly followed but quick words halted the excess, Emmrich, it was a long day in Arlathan, I don’t want to get twigs in it. Emmrich had ‘nearly’ rolled his eyes at that one. Taken Rook by the shoulders and pushed him to it. Darling, I’m a mage, tidying the thing is a triviality. Please. Rook needed no further encouragement, spun in Emmrich’s hands, placed a peck on his nose, and fell back starfished onto the rug. Landed with a loud thud. Barefoot, grinning, and stretching like a mabari in the mud the rogue sank into the fine fibers sighing. That had been some weeks ago. A few pillows and stacks of books surrounded it now. Rook’s back warmed by the fireplace, furrowed brow visible to Emmrich at his desk. The Warden snorted, almost a laugh, shook his head, brow smoothed and smirking he turned the page. “An error darling?” “Hmm?” Rook didn’t catch it at first. Mind taking a moment to shift from realm of reading thought to listening ear. Blinked as those warm round eyes flicked up to the necromancer. “Oh!” It clicked then and Rook chuckled. “It’s entertaining, but they talk too much in the fights.”

------------------------------

All my moots have been tagged from what I've seen. Okay I haven't seen I'm just not sure who to go to and am crippled by perception and want to throw this out before I don't. use BONES if you see this and want to throw something at me.

[radley-rambles]

I'VE LOST HERBO AND TWINK SOLIDARITY: ON ICE????

[mothman-can-write]

i hate not being able to finish a fic undistracted because i Never know whats happening when i come back to it. i am not in control of where the fic goes. i give The Characters an improv prompt and they run away with it. if i turn my back for thirty seconds the train of thought has become unrecognisable from the original prompt and i have no hope of getting the train back on the tracks. theyve commandeered this train, and i was never the conductor to begin with

[helloliriels]

It's WIP Wednesday!

Liri, Liri, oh so cheery

How does your WIP garden grow?

🥰 Aahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, STELLA!!! I'm currently reviving several WiPs (and super excited about them!!!) THANK YOU FOR ASKING!!! (and now i feel like i have some accountability):

Six Impossible Things - John finds a list hidden in a book ...

(I Thought I Knew) The Shape of You - tentacles happen

Antagonish - a non-TEH compliant return fic 1st ch already up

The Shape of Us - another 1st ch up fic that i am continuing

FTH fic for thegildedbee (making progress!!!) - it has morphed again (a collage was an excellent way to put it!!!) and I have a good feeling about it this time! It will be something brand NEW!

Christmas in Honeycutt - thinking thinky thoughts ... and may get a few scenes written soon! Found my way forward!

Sleepless in London - may start to jump around writing scenes and see what happens *crosses fingers* definitely have a way fwd!

Paint Me Like I'm Yours - John is taking an art class. Sherlock volunteers to model. Explicit. (yes, im finally going to finish it and POST dammit!) 😎

Spin the Bottle - explicit jumper chapter insert I teased (2 yrs ago???) and wrote three or four times, but never shared (only im taking the jumper authorship back). and going to move it to my psued. see how this works ... 🤞(oh god)*takes deep breath*🤞

We'll see what happens!!!!

And then a few new prompts jumped into my mind:

Sherlock Moves the Furniture - (jeezus) ... this one is happening! (apparently)

An Annual Engagement (TBD) - Sherlock visits the office every year, to fill out papers and other formalities. This year he runs into someone interesting, and wonders if he has to wait a year to see them again?

Prompts I'd love to read but not gonna write, have at!

Invitation Only - Unilock. John gate crashes a party at a posh house and spends the evening hiding with another gatecrasher (or so he thinks). Turns out to be the guest of honor. Embarrassment and misunderstanding ensues. Sherlock crashes John's next party in return to try to win him over.

Twisters AU - John is a YouTube star and local storm wrangler with a New York journalist riding along for the storm season, when a gorgeous outsider shows up from London (?) making waves in the rival teams camp. Who is this guy? and how the hell is he always one step ahead of John's team? (I wonder if we can beg @discordantwords for this one instead??? haha.) (kidding not kidding) i would eat this up for breakfast.

Something Missing - Sherlock has a habit. Stealing. He only steals what he needs. And has rules. So many rules. About the houses he steals from. About the frequency of theft. An egg or two here. A cup of milk there. A scoop of laundry detergent. Never enough to get caught. When he frequents a couples house (Watson's) and figures out the wife is not what the husband thinks ... he begins to wonder about his rule of not interfering in his hosts lives ... ?

I guess that's enough to be going on. There are a few more, but I'm unburying myself from the loudest first. THANK you STELLA for asking!!!!! (god that was a long answer) bahaha! - xoxo Liri

[muppetimpeccablylostonline]

i love ao3 sm like wdym im fangirling because the author of a fic i Love from the incredibly niche tag that i just published a work for read And commented on my fic.

like,,, my dude You are part of the reason i wrote it and was brave enough to post it and now you’re here with me but also we’ve never spoken even though your words made me feel comforted and seen im,,,

i love humans (mostly).

[luna-azzurra]

Weirdly Healing Things to Do When You’re Feeling Creatively Burned Out...

Write a fake 5-star Goodreads review of your WIP—as if you didn’t write it. Go ahead. Pretend you're a giddy reader who just discovered this masterpiece. Bonus: add emojis, chaotic metaphors, and all-caps screaming. It’s self-indulgent. It’s delusional. It’s delicious.

Give your main character a Pinterest board titled “Mentally Unstable but Aesthetic.” Include outfits, quotes, memes, cursed objects, and that one painting that haunts their dreams. This is not about logic. This is about ✨vibes.✨

Make a “deleted scenes” folder and write something that would never make it into the book. A crackfic. A “what if they were roommates” AU. The group chat from hell. This is your WIP’s blooper reel. Let it be silly, chaotic, or wildly off-brand.

Interview your villain like you’re Oprah. Ask the hard-hitting questions. “When did you know you were the drama?” “Do you regret the murder, or just the way you did it?” Bonus points if they lie to your face.

Host a fake awards show for your characters. Categories like “Most Likely to Die for Vibes,” “Worst Emotional Regulation,” “Himbo Energy Supreme,” or “Best Use of a Dramatic Exit.” Write their acceptance speeches. Yes, this counts as writing.

Write a breakup letter… to your inner critic. Be petty. Be dramatic. “Dear Self-Doubt, this isn’t working for me anymore. You bring nothing to the table but anxiety and bad vibes.” Rip it up. Burn it. Tape it to your mirror. Your call.

Create a “writing comfort kit” like you’re a cozy witch. A candle that smells like your WIP. A tea that your characters would drink. A playlist labeled “for writing when I’m one rejection email away from giving up.” This is a ritual now.

Design a fake movie poster or book cover like your story is already famous. Add star ratings, critic quotes, and some pretentious tagline like “One soul. One destiny. No chill.”

Write a scene you’re not ready to write—but just a rough, messy outline version. Not the polished thing. Just the raw emotion. The shape of it. Like sketching the bones of a future punch to the gut. You don’t have to make it perfect. Just open the door.

Let your story be bad on purpose for a day. Like, aggressively bad. Give everyone ridiculous names. Add an evil talking cat. Write a fight scene with laser swords and emotional damage. Just remind yourself that stories are meant to be played with, not feared.

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | oneshot angst [18+]

title. let me be free of you

He would live in this lifetime of hell over and over again if it meant that in some other one, there exists a world where he never hurts you.

ᰔ pairing. friends to strangers au - best friend!gojo x reader (f)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru, your love of a lifetime, tells you he’s engaged to another woman. inspired by the novel & netflix series “one day” created by david nicholls

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem!reader, angst, mentions of sex/explicit content, coming of age themes, reader & gojo are in their 30s, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of alcohol, cheating, lots of mutual pining & longing, bittersweet ending

ᰔ word count. 4.8k

a/n. hellooo! i've had this finished in my wips folder for a long time but never got around to posting it sooo just wanted to let it see the light of day haha. hope you enjoyyy <33

➸ masterlist

“I’m engaged.”

The words leave Gojo’s lips as much less of a confession and more like a blabber, like a toddler desperate to keep conversation going in the face of a disinterested adult. Wasn’t how he expected to share the news of a lifetime to the love of his lifetime, but he hopes it breaks your heart to hear it. 

He watches your eyebrows flatten from the crease that was bothering them before, and then slowly raise into soft arches above your eyes–those damn beautiful eyes that, even when they twinkle with hurt, still make his heart skip a beat in his chest.

He recalls for a moment the night the two of you met, drunk and dizzy from drinking out of a shared bottle of Prosecco, which only had half of the liquor left in it to start when he had first found it bleeding out to dry on the grassy lawn at the front of your university. It was graduation night, the last day to celebrate finishing four years of hell, and he had nothing to his name other than a rolled up diploma shoved in the pocket of his suit pants and the charm left in the youth of his smile. He wanted to spend the night with Aiko Rei, which was not a unique desire as most men on campus did, and he had a fair shot of getting into bed with her just like all those times before. But instead he was sitting at the top of a staircase inside the campus’s English literature building, making history in the crisp year of 1986 by being the first man of the robust age of twenty-three to pass up sex with the school’s lady heartthrob for–well, conversation with a sort of ditsy girl that he just met a half hour ago.

“What do you plan to do with your life?” he heard you ask him, a hard enough question to stomach when one is sober, and an impossible question to stomach when one is already trying not to puke flat Prosecco.

“Pardon?” he asked, in hopes to dissuade you from the question. In hopes that you’d get the hint. But you don’t. And he’d soon learn throughout the years of your friendship to come that you never did.

“Your life!” you exclaim, “we’re graduates now! What do you want to do with it?” You pat harshly at his thigh, closer to his groin than to his pocket, most likely because you’re tipsy too, but he realizes you’re referring to the rolled up paper protruding at the pocket. 

Truthfully, Gojo had never thought much about what he wanted to do after graduation. Hell, he didn’t even think he’d make it this far. Not once since he got here, not once since he flunked out of first-year history, not once since his father passed away during his third-year final examinations, and most certainly not after he got caught having “unethical affairs” with his communications professor just two months ago. And yet the esteemed board of scholars decided he was fit for a diploma anyway, and now he’s answering to, effectively, a stranger what he plans to do with said piece of paper.

“I don’t know,” he says to you, “I’ll do whatever.” 

Gojo Satoru could get by with doing whatever. He was good at everything he did. But his teachers and mentors and his own father would always warn him– son, it’s better to be an expert at one than a half-assed show-off in all. Well, they wouldn’t use the expletives, but that’s what it had sounded like in his head.

His dad would’ve liked you. He was always telling him to find a girl that challenges him, asks him the right questions, and pushes him to become a better man, the kind of woman his mother was to his father. Much opposed to the airheaded girls of Gojo’s college campus he would sneak into the house and forget to shoo off before sunrise, an occurrence that happened enough times for the respect in his father’s eyes to dwindle with each woman he’d watch his son dispel from their residence. Until eventually, Gojo started paying rent as punishment.

So, twenty-three year old Gojo, what do you plan to do with your life? Or do you have no idea of anything that extends beyond where you are right now, sitting across this strange girl you’ve just met on the death of your educational youth, at the top of a stairwell lined with passed out, drunk newly grads at nearly 4 in the morning? Right now, he’s eyeing the hem of your dress, the way it’s ridden up slightly but the mesh overskirt still tickles the skin of your thigh. He’s certainly able to picture what’s beyond that fabric, and maybe imagine the color of your panties, but what’s to come for his life? No. As previously mentioned, he never thought he’d get this far.

Gojo is thirty-four now, eleven years since that night the two of you met. And he sits next to you on a garden bench under a pitch black sky with stars speckled across, but only dimly visible. 

It’s been years since he’s seen you. You two had a “falling out” at the cusp of thirty, almost a decade of friendship fizzled away, because of his selfish actions. He couldn’t let you go, but he couldn’t want you the way you wanted him either. He didn’t feel like he deserved to have you. You were too good for him, and he knew it. So he wasted a decade chasing after other women, and in return, he lost the one he knew he was supposed to spend the rest of his life with.

It’s the night of your college roommate‘s wedding, all gathered here today to celebrate their love, and he knew he’d run into you here. You were the bride’s maiden of honor, and you looked beautiful. With your hair half tied up, a pretty clip twinkling with every movement of your head, and with strands falling down over the smooth curve of your neck, bare skin of your chest tightly covered by the nude fabric of your dress. He was fully lusting after you, and he has been all night, the picture of beauty and grace, and it was wrong. Because, again, he’s–

“You’re engaged?” you finally break through his thoughts, break through the trance that he was lost in by the sea of your eyes. Forever pulling him in like you were a wicked siren for his soul, when all you’ve ever wanted from him was his love.

He shifts a little, the thick fabric of his navy blue suit stretching with the movement as he fidgets with his hands in his lap. He’s sitting close to you, his shoulder brushing against yours, the contrast of his broad masculinity so evident against the feminine curve of your bare arm, the thin strap holding up your dress threatening to fall down the hill. His thumb twitches, because he wants to pull it back up into place for you like a gentleman, but he’s not sure if that’s what his hand would actually do. Because all he really wants to do is peel the dress off of you. 

“Yes,” he says, still tantalized by the glow of your skin under pale moonlight, “engaged.”

“To be married?”

“Well, what other kind of engaged is there?”

“You’re not allowed to get married.”

He snorts. “Says who?”

“Says me!” you exclaim, sitting up straighter, "I turn my back for one moment, and you've gone an got engaged? You're awful!" The strap of your dress falls down over your shoulder, his eyes immediately darting to it. He sees you pull the strap up back into place, and a flit of his eyes to your face reveals to him the slight dusting of an embarrassed pink to your cheeks. 

There’s a silence that settles between the two of you. Distant commotion is heard, likely from the wedding venue as people engage in reception activities and dances and cheers, while the two of you remain in this garden escape, the wall of primly trimmed bushes sheltering you two from having to pretend to be people you’re not amongst a crowd.

“Aiko…” he hears you say beside him, and although the name of the woman that has rolled off your tongue is the name of the woman he’s supposed to love, it only makes him feel sick to his stomach to hear you say her name. “She seems lovely.”

“She is,” is all he can manage to say. And he also knows this seemingly lovely woman is probably drunk off her face back at the reception hall, giggling at all the men that approach her from the sight of her flushed face, and he should feel some sort of jealousy or possessiveness over that, but he can’t seem to muster any. Unlike the grit he had to his jaw an hour ago when he saw you dancing with a man he heard you introduce to your friends as just an “old friend” of yours from college. He felt more anger in that moment than he’d ever felt watching his soon-to-be-wife getting talked up to by the sleazy men twice her age. 

“She must be very rich,” you say. “She looks it.”

“Oh. Yeah. Her family’s very well off,” Gojo says.

“So will you become rich too?” you ask him, “when you marry her.”

His eyes flit to the sky briefly. “Doubt it.”

“How come?”

“The old man doesn’t like me very much. I imagine he’ll cut ties after the wedding.”

“Her father?”

“Yes.”

“And why is that?”

“Well. I guess it’s not every father’s dream to find out his prim and proper daughter’s been knocked up by the good-for-nothing boyfriend he’s been threatening her to say good riddance to for months now.”

The silence finds the two of you again, but this time haunting and gutting. That was a blabber, if anything. So nonchalantly said, with no emotion or spirit, to the one person in this world who he’s always felt like he can be himself around.

“She’s pregnant?” you say beside him, voice breaking slightly at the end, and he can’t bear to look at you for some reason. Some sort of admission of guilt, but what for? What exactly was he repenting for?

He lets out a small laugh, like the absurdity of the situation finds him all the same. “Yeah.” 

“That–” you start, stiff next to him, before he feels the tension relax but only rigidly, “that’s wonderful, Satoru. I’m–...I’m really happy for you.” You turn your torso to wrap your arms around him, and his lips brush the sweet skin on your forehead as you bury your face in the crook of his neck. He wraps one arm around you, a sort of friendly hug as he rubs the skin of your arm soothingly, and his heart aches from the emptiness when you release him. 

“Wow…” you say, looking up at him with pretty eyes, eyelashes fluttering as you blink rapidly to process the information, and he wonders if you really are happy for him. He doesn’t want you to be. He wants you to be furious, to tell him off for getting another woman pregnant after leading you on for so many years, maybe he wants you to slap him, or grab him by the collar of his shirt and shake him until all he sees is a million of you through dizzy vision like some paradise. He wants you to be mad, because it’d mean that you still care. It’d mean that you still think there’s something here to salvage between the two of you. 

But he’s engaged. And he’s having a baby. What was more final than that?

“So…are you marrying her because of–”

“The wedding is in four weeks,” he cuts you off, but he knows the statement answers your question regardless.

“Satoru…”

He leans off to the side a little to reach into the pocket of his suit pants, and he pulls out what is now a slightly bent envelope and he hands it to you. You take it from him gently, holding it weakly like it was something beyond you. Like something distant and foreign and strange. When all it was, is a wedding invitation. 

“Listen…” he starts.

He sees your eyes dazed as you stare at the lettering on the outside of the envelope.

“We’ve been friends for a long time, y/n. And I know the last time we saw each other was–” Hostile. Angry. Disappointing. Ended with you cussing him out on the street and then saying you never want to see him again. “...not ideal, but I still care a lot about you, and, uh, so, it would mean a lot to me if you came to the wedding.” For fucks sake, even on the brink of losing you forever, he still can’t find the right words to say. “Aiko, she–” He tastes bitter in his mouth, “well, I’ve told her a lot about you, and she’d really love it if you came as well.”

You’re silent as you gently peel back the opening of the letter and then pull out the small card stock invitation. The gold printed letters shine as you inspect it, fingers tracing the patterns of words that profess the Rei family’s intent to wed their daughter to Gojo Satoru. Your Gojo Satoru. Your best friend in this whole wide world. He watches your eyes carefully, but he can’t discern what he finds in them.

“Gojo Satoru…” you drone off, “to be wed. And to be a father.” Years of late night talks of the future, of kids and Christmas and love, with reality seemingly sly on the horizon only to have crept up so abruptly. It was pinched between your fingers right now. That reality.

His shoulders sulk slightly. And when you look up at him again, there’s a sheen of tears in your eyes.

“I can’t come to this,” you whisper, “and you know that, Satoru.”

His heart breaks. A physical pain that twists in his chest so tight at just the sight of seeing you sad. Sad again over the actions of his own. They say you always hurt the one you love, and he had always wondered what sort of evil person would do such a thing, only to find out he’s only ever hurt you this entire time. 

He should’ve kissed you that night the two of you met at graduation. Should’ve shut you up and all your existential questions by pinning you to a wall and pressing his lips against yours. He should’ve taken you to bed and fucked you, and then held you in his arms until you woke up in the morning. Should’ve listened to you talk his ear off about how he’s just like all the other guys, who pretend to care, but only want to have sex and then never to speak to the girl ever again. And he should’ve laid there in bed, nose nuzzled in your hair, taking all the scolding despite having no intent to ever leave you.

Instead, he wasted so much time. Sure, he had your friendship. His best friend for years, but the two of you could’ve been something more. Could’ve spent the years together, instead of writing stained letters or leaving messages on answering machines while the two of you were miles away. He could’ve been waking up with you every morning with the scent of your shampoo on his sheets, instead of clinging to pillows in foreign motel rooms. He could’ve been engaged to you, and he could be whispering sweet nothings in your ear of how much he wishes the baby will have your eyes. 

But his thoughts are lost in fantasy. He is what he’s done, nothing more and nothing less. His eyes fall to your lap, the invitation still held loosely in your hand, and then a droplet of water falls onto it.

“I–” you stutter, wiping at the tears spilling down your cheeks with a hesitant swipe of your hand, “I need to go.”

You stand up off the bench and he quickly stands up with you, grabbing your wrist to keep you here with him, and you halt but only with you facing away from him. He yanks at your wrist harshly, pulling you into him so his chest is flush to your back, his arms wrapping strongly around you and his nose nuzzling into your hair, breathing you in greedily like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance.

“Satoru–” you gasp, your hands immediately grabbing at his forearms that are tightly crossed across your collarbone. “What are you doing–” 

“Say it,” he whispers, gruff and impatient, “tell me to do it, and I will.”

“T-Tell you to do what?” you stutter, struggling a little in his hold but he only holds you tighter.

“Tell me to leave her, and I will,” he says, his lips brushing at your ear now, the scent of your perfume maddening to his senses, and one of his hands slowly trails down and the knuckle of his thumb presses into the softness of your breast.

You squirm, a small and soft moan leaving your lips.

“T–” you breathe in harshly, “this is wrong.” 

“I don’t care,” he growls, arms sliding lower to hold you under your breasts, so tightly that your heels lift off the ground. “Just say the word, and I’ll leave everything behind for you. I promise,” he breathes in deep, the desperation making his head hazy, “that I’ll do things right this time. Just you and me–” 

“You’re going to be a father,” you remind him, and he shuts his eyes closed tightly, the responsibility of the word bearing on his shoulders but his desire for you overshadows every shred of sense or dignity or integrity he has left in him, because he felt like he was losing his mind after wanting you for years just to never have you. 

He turns you around in his hold so that you face him, and he crashes his lips to yours, muffling the surprised mmf! that dies in your throat in surprise as his hands hold your waist, relishing in the feeling of satin fabric pulled taut over your curves.

Forbidden, yet a taste that he’ll risk because there was no curse that was worse than the fate of having to pine after you for years.

Ah.

But.

But it was all fantasy, this moment in his head, where he takes you on the freshly cut grass of this garden. 

Something that only briefly flashes through his mind as his warm hand wraps around your wrist, from where he was still seated on the stone bench, and not on his feet holding you like he dreamed for. Like he longed for.

He feels the weight of his arm so heavily, as if it weren’t his own, and he slowly lets go of your wrist.

When he looks up at you, there’s longing in your eyes. A hurt that he didn’t even know he was capable of causing, just for him to realize that you’ve always looked at him that way, and he’s never been keen enough to know it until now. He grew up too late. He took too long.

His phone starts buzzing in his pocket, and he reaches in for it, then flips it open and sees his soon-to-be-wife’s name on it. He feels nothing at the sight.

“Hello?” he speaks into the device when he holds it to his ear, and he sees you take a couple steps away, rubbing anxiously at your elbow as you pretend to busy yourself with the study of the lamp. “Yes, I’ll be there soon. I, uh, I’m just with a friend. A couple of friends, actually. We’re having drinks by the pond. Mhm. Yes. I will. Okay, see you soon. I—…I love you too. Bye.” And then he snaps the phone shut. 

“Heading back?” he hears you ask.

He stands. “I’ve got to.”

“Okay.” 

You two walk down the shrubbery of the garden that was arranged like a maze, him a few paces behind you, and he watches the delicate line of your posture as your hand brushes against the green walls of foliage that encase the two of you, the feeling of wanting to touch you and hold you almost suffocating. 

“Hey,” he calls out to you, and he shoves his hands in his suit pockets. You turn around immediately to face him, like his voice was permission to do so.

“Yes?” you ask.

He blinks up at the starry sky, and then looks at you again. The soft cast of distant warm lighting falls over your face, making you appear like a renaissance painting, similar to those that you would point out to him at museums when you two would see each other on holiday back in your early twenties. He could never understand the charm of those paintings, no matter how many times you tried to explain it to him, but seeing you in this light right now, he finally understands the beauty that you saw. 

“I’m, uh,” he rubs at the back of his neck, and then scoffs out a small laugh, “I’m a little drunk right now, but–” He stops himself. What was he trying to say? And was it of conscious mind? “I just need to tell you that…I really regret…not speaking to you. I mean, for letting the silence drag on for years. You’re my–...my best friend. We’re a pair, you know? The two of us. For years, people would ask me where you were. And why they haven’t seen us together at all recently. And it was hard to admit that we hadn’t spoken in years.”

You take the smallest of steps towards him, and look up at him with empty eyes. 

“What I’m trying to say is, is that, well,” he finds himself tripping over his words, “I miss you. And I miss our friendship. And–...I miss having you around.” He glances down at his shoes, polished and reflecting off the moonlight directly above him. He rocks back and forth on his heels ever so slightly. “I know you said that I piss you off to lengths unimaginable to my tiny pea-sized brain, but I can’t help myself, y/n,” he admits, “I think you and I, we’re just meant to always be. In some how, or some way…”

You purse your lips together, gaze shifting lower to eye at the silk of his tie. 

“Can we be friends again?” he asks, the words feeling juvenile on his tongue. Like whispered apologies between children on a playground after shoving one another onto wooden chips, except the wounds he’s left on you run much deeper than a superficial scrape. 

You blink slowly, tilting your head up at him. “Friends?”

“Friends.”

You wipe your palm off on the satin of your dress. “I missed you too, you know.”

His eyes widened slightly.

Your hand finds its way up your arm, until you weakly cup your elbow with your palm and look off to the side, avoiding eye contact with him. “There were so many years where I thought that there was something between us. And maybe I was foolish for thinking that way, that you would ever see me that way–”

“y/n,” he tries to interrupt you. 

“But…the pain of not having you the way I wanted to was much less worse than the pain of not having you at all,” you say, your gaze finally shifting towards him. “But, the thing is, I needed to feel that pain to get over you. I had to.”

His heart stills at those words.

You glance down at the ground now. “I missed being able to tell you things. To laugh, and cry, and argue. I miss humbling your stupid ego. I miss being able to call you at any time, knowing you’d pick up when I needed you.”

His heart aches so much he wants to reach into his chest and hold it.

“The thing is,” you continue, “you would’ve been the first person I would’ve run to to tell them that I lost my best friend.” There were tears shining in your eyes. “But what could I do when you were the one that I had lost? Who could I have turned to then?”

He lets out a shaky breath, and in a swift motion, his arm wraps around your waist and he pulls you to him in an embrace.

You’re stiff in his hold, mechanical and rigid, so contrary to the soft tears you leave behind on the fabric of his sleeve, but slowly and surely, you warm and thaw. Your hands slide up past his shoulders, linking behind his neck. And his head drops to the curve of your neck, swaying you with him slowly as if it were a first dance.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “for hurting you.”

You breathe out slowly. “Just let me go, Satoru. Let me be free. Let me be free of you.”

He feels the air knock out of his lungs, and the two of you slowly pull your heads away from the embrace to look at one another, although your hands still find a place on his shoulders, and he still holds you close to him by a delicate hold of your waist. 

He wonders if in another life, you two were happy. He wonders if he could ever take back all the decisions he made, and start all over again. On that day the two of you met on that staircase in the west wing of the literature building, he would make a different choice. If he could, he would live in this lifetime of hell over and over again if it meant that in some other one, there exists a world where he never hurts you. 

“It’s time for me to go,” you whisper, eyes darting across the features of his face, studying them but with a familiarity that only you know, because you held his entire life in your palm. Your gaze meets his again, faces just inches apart, and the sweet curl of your eyelashes makes him weak in the knees. “It’s time.”

He nods slowly, his own eyes studying your face as well, except it looks foreign to him now. 

It’s all been said and done. There was nothing he could do to right the wrongs, or undo all the pain. He was to be a father now, and his duties were now towards his wife and unborn child. And no longer to the woman he holds in his arms, one he’s sure he will never stop loving for as long as he lives. 

It’s a sweet moment, the two of you gazing at one another. You look so pretty from this angle, looking up at him with the smallest tilt to your head and round searching eyes. His head subconsciously dips down towards yours in the second that he glances at your lips, but he stops himself. And when you make no move to create distance, he finds himself closing it again, until his lips brush against yours ever so softly. And then he captures them in a kiss, firm and unmistaken, finding solace in the way your lips move against his too, unsure yet passionately at the same time. Your fingers ever so slightly dig into his shoulders while his thumbs soothe at the skin of your waist, the two of you savoring the last moments of a kiss that’ll be the sweetest one you’ll ever know.

You pull away first, a small puff of air leaving your lips as you glance downwards. He rests his forehead against yours, never once looking away from your face. And you both breathe slowly, the soul of the chaste kiss entirely vanishing into the air along with all the hope that the two of you had left to make anything of the way you feel about one another. It was a kiss that almost disqualified any level of sin or guilt or wrong, because it was like one you two owed each other, after years of familiarity and longing. It was the goodbye that the two of you deserved.

His hands slowly let go of your waist, and he takes a step back away from you, softly clearing his throat. The distance feels like a galaxy away, and he briefly runs his thumb along his bottom lip, because the ghostly feeling of your lips on his still remains. 

“Shall we head back?” you ask him, prim and proper in posture and eyes widened in a formal gaze.

His lips are parted, and he finds that he’s panting slightly. And then he slowly nods his head. “Yes.”

.

.

.

[the end] 

a/n. i am sooooo freaking obsessed w "one day" by david nicholls and really wanted to write something inspired by it!! the book literally ripped my heart out and stomped on it like there were so many scenes where i just longingly stared out the window because of how shattering it was but dear god i really enjoyed it, and the show was also so dfkjhsfkhs i had sm feels watching it. so yea this was fun to write!! i hope you enjoyedd n thanks so much for reading :)

➸ masterlist

[pierisim]

-- Recreating the post because I've deleted the original one by mistake 🤡 --

Hello hello !

Here comes the Berliner Kitchen ! I've been very inspired by the handmade kitchen from The Berline Chapters on tiktok and really wanted to add this to the game ! The feature I like the most that you saw on the wip is the back counter elements that enables storage behind the counters and keep the surface empty ! I also loved the raw concrete wall with the tiles, and I am very happy with the result on it in the game !

The kitchen comes with wood, plain color and also metallic version. I can't wait to see what you will do with it !

Quick tip to place the back counters and counters properly, use F5 to unlock quarter tile placement, and there you go !

In this new set, you will find :

kitchen counters

kitchen cabinets

a kitchen counter for the built-in dishwasher

kitchen counter back elements (left, middle, right and angles sections)

a oven

a high oven (requiring Dream Home Decorator game pack)

a decorative high oven

a stove

a hob

a dishwasher

a fridge

a coffee machine

a decorative coffee grinder

a sink

a mortar

raw concrete wallpaper

reaw concrete wallpaper with tiles

You can find the items by searching for BERLINER or Pierisim in game.

Some items share the same textures so make sure to have the packages finishing by "texture" in your mod folder :)

All base game compatible. except for the high oven that requies DHD game pack

unmerged and merged version available.

public release 13th of July

Link for TheBerlinChapters on Instagram : https://www.instagram.com/theberlinchapters/

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