strong scents hurt so i don't understand the appeal of perfumes but i do tend to like people's detergents, sometimes their shampoos, and the smell of water on skin so i think that's close enough!! :}
Very interesting to me that Abigail preferred Hannibal over Will, but Will had an emotional connection to her that Hannibal didn't - or at least not to the same extent.
I think maybe one day he could've found a stronger bond considering she had also killed and eaten people, but during the series she's really just a tool. Hannibal uses her to like... babytrap Will. And tbf it worked, Will didn't tell Jack what he knew when he discovered Abigail murdered that guy - if he was willing to cover for her, maybe eventually he'd cover for Hannibal too, the 3 of them too intrinsically tied for him to separate, I mean that's the trapping part. But she was just a means to an end, a relationship Hannibal nurtured for his own gain with Will....whereas Will really did view her as his daughter.
Very interesting to me...off-put by Will (especially towards the end of s1), but he had the most vested interest in her well-being out of the pair...
I’ve been thinking a lot about how Spider felt when he hit puberty and started growing facial hair, making him even more different to the Na’vi. I wonder if he hated it.
Also the inherent tenderness of a boy trusting someone else enough to help him shave for the first time… something about it makes my chest hurt. I really tried to capture it in Foreign Body but there’s so much more that I wish I’d left space for.
More WIPs from a project that was supposed to be a quick joke and is now A Whole Thing!
Here is a preliminary Hikari, and Samo's big brother! He has also escaped his genre, and he is not aware that most of the things he says sound incredibly threatening! Although only Hikari seems to notice anyway. (Luckily for Hikari, he really is a nice guy!)
late 20’s garrett graham x f!reader
Word Count: 5.2K
Rating: E
Summary: Garrett finally opens up to you about his father.
Warning: (SMUT MDNI 18+), secret relationship, sports commentator reader, language, slight insecurity, sexy shower fun, munch garrett (he's fucking feral), praise, dirty talk, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), pet names, domesticity, fluff, emotionally constipated garrett, angst, phil graham appearance, mentions of garrett's canon childhood experience, emotional argument, fucking softness, I think that’s it
A/N: Since Belmont is 28, I'm imagining Garrett to be late 20s as well. And shocker… he's a professional hockey player for the Bruins. GIF found HERE.
PART 1
You sunk into Garrett's couch with your legs tucked underneath you. Your coffee was cooling on the side table next to a glass of orange juice, both within arm's reach.
Headphones on, you were deep in work mode despite being decidedly not dressed for work. Just underwear and a Bruins shirt. No camera meant no dress code, and you were closing out items anyway before your day off tomorrow.
"Yeah, so I'm looking at the numbers from yesterday's segment," Tom's voice crackled through your headphones. "The engagement on that topic about the MLB trade deadline was solid."
You grabbed your coffee, cradling the warm mug. "Better than the first draft?"
"Way better. I think we should lean into that angle for next week's piece on the AL East standings."
Your relationship with Tom sat in that complicated, quietly satisfying space where professional friction had slowly turned into mutual respect. At the start, he was a colleague who always seemed to question you harder than anyone else—sometimes unfairly, sometimes bluntly, sometimes in ways that made you question whether he even liked working with you. But over time, something shifted. He started noticing the details in your work, the consistency, and the way you handled pressure. And with him being Rich's (your boss) right‑hand man, having his approval carried weight.
"Agreed," you nodded, even though he couldn't see you. "I can have notes to you by the end of business. Actually—" you paused, "—I'm taking tomorrow off, so if we need revisions, it'll have to be a quick turnaround today."
"Oh, right, you're working remotely. D.C, right?"
"Yeah," you felt your cheeks burn at the lie.
"Doing anything special?"
"Nothing too crazy," you said, keeping your voice level. "Just hanging out with some college friends. Girls trip."
"Nice, nice. That sounds good. You deserve the break—you've been grinding pretty hard on these segments."
"Thanks, Tom. I appreciate that."
There was a pause, and you heard the ambient noise of the studio in the background—someone laughing, a printer running.
"Alright, well, send me those notes when you get a chance, and enjoy your time off."
After you hung up, you pulled out your headphones from your laptop, suddenly very aware of where you actually were—and who was sleeping down the hall. With an hour to spare before your next meeting, you decided you needed to take a quick shower, knowing that once the back-to-back meetings started, you would be multitasking and sending Tom updates. You slipped away, padding quietly down the hallway of Garrett's penthouse. The floors felt cool under your bare feet as you eased the master bedroom door open. Morning light filtered through windows overlooking the city skyline, casting soft gold across the king-sized bed where Garrett lay sprawled on his stomach. His curly brown hair was a tousled mess against the pillow, one arm flung out across the sheets. You tiptoed past, careful not to wake him, and stepped into the attached bathroom.
The shower was a masterpiece of luxury—floor-to-ceiling glass walls, multiple rainfall heads, and built-in benches of heated Italian marble. You turned the water on and let the steam rise while you pulled your Bruins shirt over your head and slid your panties down your legs. Your hair went up in a loose bun to stay dry. You stepped under the spray, reaching for the body wash you knew Garrett kept stocked just for you. The familiar scent filled the air as you lathered your skin with the loofah, working the suds over your breasts, down your stomach, and between your thighs. The hot water rinsed over your shoulders while you massaged your calves, the tension from work easing with each pass of your hands.
Your mind suddenly wandered to when Garrett asked you to go to the ESPYs, and you realized that you still hadn't given him a real answer. Realistically, you should have said yes immediately. But the ESPYs weren't just any event. It was the event for athletes. Red carpet. Photographers. Thousands of eyes. The kind of scrutiny that made your stomach clench just thinking about it. You had spent years building a career in sports media precisely because you could hide behind the work. The stats, the analysis, the research—that was where you thrived. You loved the intellectual puzzle of it, the satisfaction of breaking down a game or an athlete's performance. Being on camera was the necessary evil, and the part of the job you did not love. You learned to smile through the discomfort, to project confidence even when you felt like an imposter.
But this was different.
Attending the ESPY's wouldn't just be about your credibility as a reporter. It would also be about being Garrett Graham's girlfriend on one of the biggest nights in sports. And that meant everything would be different. The comments wouldn't be about your analysis or your questions. They would be about your dress, your hair, your body, and your face. They would compare you to his ex, his rumored romances, to other women in the industry, to some impossible standard you'd never meet. They probably would wonder what he saw in you.
Sometimes… late at night, in the quiet of your apartment, you let yourself wonder the same thing.
Why had he fallen for you?
You weren't a model. You weren't glamorous. You were just... you. A girl who favored athleisure to evening wear, who preferred a ponytail to styling her hair, who felt more comfortable in a production meeting than at a party. You were competent and smart and good at your job, but you weren't special in the way that someone like Garrett Graham deserved.
You were still thinking about him—how hard it was to maintain this long-distance secret relationship with both of you constantly traveling when the glass door opened behind you. Warm hands settled on your hips before you could turn. Garrett's voice, low and rough with sleep, brushed your ear.
"Good morning, Ace."
He pressed in close, his bare chest against your back, water already soaking his curly hair into dark, dripping ringlets that clung to his forehead. You felt the hard line of his cock against your ass as he leaned down to kiss the side of your neck. His lips were soft at first, then firmer, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver.
You tilted your head. "Good morning. I thought you were still asleep."
"Was. Then I heard the water. Couldn't resist joining you," he murmured against your skin. His fingers traced up your ribs, cupping your breast, thumb circling your nipple.
"I'm sorry if I woke you up," you sighed, leaning into him. "You looked so peaceful."
He had… and those moments were rare.
Usually, he was thinking about the next game, analyzing plays, and mentally preparing. Hockey demanded everything. 80 plus games a year meant Garrett's life wasn't totally his own—it belonged to the schedule, to the team, to the relentless cycle of play and recovery. Morning skates, afternoon games, evening conditioning. Road trips that ate up weeks. Injuries that he played through because the team needed him. Nights where his body ached in places you didn't know could ache.
And even though he was on a break and you were soaking up these precious few weeks between the next season… you both knew it would be here in a flash.
Garrett chuckled against your skin.
"Peaceful's overrated when you're naked in my shower." He rolled his hips once, letting you feel every inch of how hard he was. "Fuck, baby, you have no idea what you do to me."
His other hand drifted lower, fingers dipping between your legs, and he groaned when he found you slick despite the water.
"Already so wet for me. Love how you sound when I touch you like this." He stroked your clit in slow circles, listening to the catch in your breath. "There it is."
You dropped the loofah to the ground.
"Garrett…" you reached back, fingers threading into his wet curls.
"Yeah, baby. Say my name just like that." He pressed two fingers inside you, pumping lazily while his thumb kept working your clit.
"Garrett—" you panted, voice cracked and hoarse. "Christ."
"Good girl," he growled. Every sound you made him harder, made him want to drop to his knees right there. Garrett turned you gently so your back met the warm marble wall. You whined when he removed his fingers, and the pout you gave him nearly ripped his heart into two. He shushed you by kissing you deeply, tongue sliding against yours, and then dropped to his knees right there on the shower floor. You looked down at him as he kissed your ACL scar on your knee, and while water streamed over his broad shoulders, highlighting the Latin tattoo across his shoulder blades: Nullum Gratuitum Prandium. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you open as he looked up with that signature flirtatious smirk.
His tongue dragged through your folds in one long, hungry lick. He groaned loudly into your pussy at the taste, the sound vibrating straight through your clit. Two fingers pushed back inside while his mouth sealed over you, sucking and licking with focused intensity. Every moan you gave him made his cock jerk between his legs, heavy and aching. Garrett's thoughts stayed locked on you—how your thighs trembled, how your voice broke when he hit the right spot, how soft and pliant you became under his tongue. He loved reducing you to shaking in pleasure. You were all sharp edges in your day-to-day.
Feisty... taking no shit.
Then you would come home to him and melt like this. It drove him fucking crazy. He grunted into your folds, the sound raw and needy, tongue flicking faster as your hips rocked against his face.
"G-Garrett—fuck, Garrett," you moaned, fingers tightening in his wet curls.
He answered with another deep groan ripping from his throat, the vibration pulsing through you while his fingers continued to work you. Garrett's mouth glistened with your slick when he pulled back just enough to watch your expression. Your face scrunched tight as the pleasure built—brows drawn together, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut.
"I'm—oh, I'm close, p-please keep going," you begged through clenched teeth.
"Feels good?" he teased.
"Yes," you sobbed. The wet sounds of his fingers moving inside you mixed with the rush of water and your own gasps were making you light-headed.
He dove back in, sucking your clit while his fingers stroked that perfect spot. He knew exactly how to work you. Your boyfriend was patient and relentless. Before Garrett, finishing had always been a struggle—something that left you frustrated and self-conscious. He made it his mission to change that. Every time he touched you, his focus stayed locked on your pleasure. And right now, he was reading every twitch, every sound, adjusting pressure and speed until your thighs started shaking around his head.
"Oh god, Garrett—" your voice was wrecked. "I'm gonna come… I'm—"
Suddenly, your orgasm hit hard, and you were screaming his name as sweet relief flooded your veins. Garrett moaned loud and long into your pussy as you came, the sound desperate and satisfied while he licked you through every pulse. His tongue kept moving, drawing it out, groaning against your clit like he couldn't get enough. When your legs stopped shaking, he rose slowly from between your thighs. He leaned in and pressed soft, lingering kiss to your lips, tasting your own release on his tongue. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking gently as he gave you space to breathe through the aftershocks.
"You did so good for me, Ace."
You kissed him back at first, soft and hazy, but something shifted. Your fingers slid into his wet hair and pulled him closer, harder. The kiss turned urgent, teeth nipping at his bottom lip, your tongue pushing past his with sudden hunger. He thought to himself how badly he wanted to give you a moment to settle, to let the tremors ease before pushing further, but your hands were already roaming down his chest, nails scraping lightly over his skin as you kissed him again, deeper, more demanding. Your body pressed forward, seeking more.
"Mmm, slow down a little," he murmured against your lips, trying to ease the pace.
You didn't listen. Instead, you turned in his arms and placed your open palms against the tiled wall of the shower. Water streamed down your back as you reached behind you, grabbing his hips and pulling him flush against your ass.
"Garrett, please," your voice came as a whine. "I need you inside me right now."
"Fuck, baby," he muttered, forehead dropping to your shoulder. "You're still shaking."
"I don't care," you begged, pushing your ass back against him, grinding slowly. "I need you. Please, Garrett. Fuck me."
His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging in. The moment clearly had cracked open into something hotter and fucking needier. Garrett's breath came heavier as he lined himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance.
He still tried one last time. "You sure you don't need a minute?"
"Please." Your answer was another desperate push back, voice breaking. "Fuck me hard. I want it now."
Garrett groaned and finally gave in, sinking into your perfect pussy with one solid thrust.
Work had wrapped up earlier than expected, giving you enough time to pack before the private charter flight later that night. Garrett stood by the dresser, folding a few shirts, while you threw in some bikinis, linen blouses, shorts, and sandals. The essentials. 3 days at Martha's Vineyard didn't require much.
Your laptop sat closed on his bed, the work emails finally silenced for the next 72 hours. It felt surreal, honestly. When you and Garrett were still pretty new to your relationship, you had been scrolling through photos of the island on your phone and had mentioned never visiting Martha's Vineyard before. He caught you mid-daydream and simply said:
"Then we're going. This summer."
You hadn't expected him to actually mean it. Not with his schedule. Not with the logistics of him being... well, him.
But he figured it out. A private charter, wheels up at 8 pm. The bus or the ferry was impossible; one sighting of his location with you would be everywhere by morning.
You sorted through the drawers Garrett had cleared out for you months ago, adding a couple of sundresses and a light jacket that were already hanging in his walk-in closet, which he insisted you use. Near the bottom of one of the drawers he'd given you, you pulled out a few pieces of lingerie he hadn't seen yet—delicate lavender lace with thin straps and matching panties. As you tucked them into the side pocket of your suitcase, Garrett glanced over.
"What's that, Ace?" he asked, stepping closer with a curious smile.
You yelped, quickly covering the fabric with your hand. "Stop looking!"
He chuckled low in his throat and leaned in anyway, one arm sliding around your waist. His lips found yours in a slow kiss. Your hands moved up to his chest, his tongue brushing yours while his fingers traced the small of your back. The moment stretched until a sharp knock sounded at the door. You pulled back, breathing a little fast. It was probably the take-out you two had ordered before leaving for the flight.
Garrett gave your hip a gentle squeeze, eyes still dark. "I'll grab it," he murmured, though his gaze lingered on you a second longer before he left the bedroom.
You were mentally running through your checklist: toiletries, sunscreen, that book you had been meaning to start, phone charger—when you realized your phone was still in the kitchen. You started heading over there when you heard voices in the hallway—Garrett's, unmistakably tense, and another man's, lower and more measured. You paused, not meaning to eavesdrop, but the words caught you mid-step.
"She's important to me," the other man was saying.
"I don't care," Garrett's voice cut through, sharp and final in a way you'd never heard before.
There was a heavy silence. You should have turned back, but you were frozen mid-step.
"Cindy would really like to meet you," the other voice said.
You forced yourself to move, needing to do something, needing to understand, and that's when you rounded the corner into the entryway. The man standing there had Garrett's sharp jawline and dark eyes, though his hair was threaded with gray. His gaze shifted to you immediately, assessing in a way that made you feel suddenly very small.
Phil Graham.
Garrett's head snapped toward you, his expression flickering through surprise, then something territorial and stubborn settled across his features.
"Oh, I'm sorry," you said quickly, taking a small step back, your voice smaller than you intended. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"I didn't realize you had company," Phil said, his tone neutral but weighted with something you couldn't quite place.
"I do," Garrett practically hissed.
You blinked, caught off guard by Garrett's sharp tone, and tried to read the sudden tension that had crystallized in the room.
"I don’t mean to intrude," Phil's eyes remained on you, assessing, patient in a way that somehow made it worse.
"You're not intruding," you said quickly, then hesitated. "I mean, we were just—" you stopped, realizing you didn't actually know what to say.
"We were in the middle of something," Garrett said flatly, stepping slightly closer to you.
Phil's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. "I can see that."
Heat crept up your neck.
"This is—" Garrett started.
"No need," Phil cut him off smoothly, a slight smile crossing his face. "I know who you are. Lovely to meet you in person." He extended his hand. "Great interview that you did with my son."
"Thank you, Mr. Graham," you shook his hand firmly. "That's very kind of you to say."
You weren't necessarily nervous about him seeing you here, or now knowing about you and Garrett. After all, he was in the public eye and probably understood the importance of discretion. But for some reason, you also felt like a teenager all over again who had just been caught making out with her crush on the couch.
"Phil, please," he said with a warmth that seemed genuine. "Mr. Graham is my father."
You nodded, offering a small smile. "Of course... Phil."
After a few more minutes of polite conversation, Phil excused himself, mentioning he would catch Garrett another time. The door closed behind him, and you turned to find Garrett staring at you, his expression dark and irritated.
"Why were you so nice to him?" he asked, his voice tight with an edge you haven't heard before.
"Was I supposed to be rude to him?" you replied, genuinely confused.
"That's not what I—" He ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the gesture. "You don't understand. My father doesn't deserve that kind of... politeness from you."
You crossed your arms, trying to make sense of this sudden shift. "Garrett, he's your father. I was being respectful. What's wrong with that?"
"Everything," he says quietly, and there was something in his tone that suggested this went much deeper than your brief interaction with his father.
You knew there was clearly history between the two that you didn't fully understand, but Garrett had always been clear: he and his father weren't close, and his mother's death had made things worse. You never felt comfortable pressing for details. It wasn't that you didn't want to know. You desperately wanted to understand the full picture, but every time you opened your mouth to ask…something would stop you. Maybe it was the way his jaw would tighten when the subject of his father came up. Maybe it was the practiced smoothness of his deflections, how quickly he'd redirect to something else. Or maybe it was that you could feel the boundary he'd drawn, even if he'd never explicitly stated it.
So you respected it. You let the questions die on your tongue. You accepted the outline of the story without demanding the details, even though you knew there was so much more to the story.
"Do you want to talk about why your father was here?" you asked carefully.
"Not much to talk about."
"Garrett—"
"I should finish packing," he said, cutting you off and walking back into his bedroom.
"Okay," you whispered to yourself.
You stood there, helpless, realizing that there would always be this part of him you couldn't quite reach.
And it hurt.
You sat in the back seat of the town car, your forehead pressed to the cool glass, watching the blur of pedestrians and storefronts slide past. Garrett sat rigid beside you, his attention locked on the glowing rectangle of his phone, thumbs idle. He hadn't spoken since the car pulled away from his building.
Your phone buzzed.
You glanced down and couldn't help the smile that spread across your face when you saw a text from your older brother.
The Favorite Child: just finished a 14-hour shift and somehow no one threw up on me. call that a win
You typed back quickly, your thumbs moving across the screen.
You: legend. you still down to hang out next Sunday?
The move to New York had been great because you were finally close enough to actually see your brother instead of just FaceTiming between his surgical rotations. He was completing his fellowship in Philly, which was a quick train ride away.
The Favorite Child: yeah lets do it
You: we also need to finalize planning dad's surprise retirement party
Your phone rang before you could even set it down. You answered with a laugh already in your voice.
"Surprise?" your brother said, his exhaustion evident even through the phone. "Dad already knows about this."
"Yeah, obviously. But let Mom think it's a surprise. Dad's going to let her."
"Okay, that tracks… But also—why is she trying to book an actual venue for this?”
"I know," you groaned, lowering your voice slightly and glancing sideways at Garrett, who was still pretending to be absorbed in his phone. "She keeps suggesting these places. And I'm like, we have a backyard. We have a perfectly good backyard."
"Because Mom thinks a backyard is where you have a cookout, not a retirement party," he said, mimicking her tone perfectly.
"Okay, so you got the weekend cleared?" you asked, already knowing the answer might be complicated.
"Yeah, Friday and Saturday," he confirmed. "I'm flying in on Thursday night. But I gotta fly back that Saturday night. Sunday morning shift."
"At least you'll be here for most of it. That's what matters."
"Tell that to Mom when she realizes I'm leaving before the actual party winds down," he said with a tired laugh. "She's already upset enough that now we're both living on the East Coast."
"I know."
Your brother had been in constant motion since college. Medical school, residency, fellowship—he'd been chasing opportunities across the country. But you'd always been the stable one, the nearby one. Growing up in Detroit, you'd been tethered to your family by proximity. College at Michigan meant you were still close enough to come home most weekends if you wanted. Even when you moved to Chicago, for all its distance, it was just 4 and a half hours away—something you'd done dozens of times, showing up to your parents unannounced or for holidays, making it feel manageable.
But now? Your job took you to New York. Your mom cried when you told them, but they were the right kind of tears—the ones that came with a smile so wide it seemed to hurt her face. Your dad kept saying "New York, New York" like he was testing out the words, like saying it enough times would make it real, would make him proud enough to counterbalance the ache.
Seeing your parents and your extended family now required a flight. The casual Sunday dinners, the ability to show up when someone needed you…that was gone.
"I'll run interference," you promised, glancing over at Garrett again. He'd finally looked up from his phone, eyebrows raised in a silent question. You mouthed my brother , and he nodded. "Just... try not to mention the flight until closer to the date, yeah? Maybe it'll help if she feels like she has you for the full weekend first."
"Already planning on it," your brother said. "Coward's way out, but I'm taking it."
"See you next Sunday. Love you."
"Love you too," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice.
You hung up and set your phone on the armrest, letting out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding. Garrett was still looking at you.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
"Yeah," you said, and meant it. "Just family logistics."
He didn't answer right away. Over the months, he had watched how you communicated with your family. The fact that you, your parents, and your brother could tease each other without walking on eggshells twisted something deep in his chest. He didn't know what a normal family was like. Garrett especially noticed the way your voice softened whenever you said Mom. It made the absence of his own mother ache sharper, a hollow throb behind his ribs. He missed her terribly, the sound of her laugh, the way she tried to shield him even when she couldn't protect herself. And listening to you now, he felt the sting of envy he usually kept buried. You could call your parents or your brother without dread. You could argue about party venues and still love each other at the end of the conversation. No fallout. No days of silence as punishment. No wondering if you'd said the wrong thing.
Garrett didn't have that, and that wasn't your fault.
"I'm sorry,” he murmured.
You looked up, confused. "For what?"
"Earlier," he said, as he turned to face you more directly. "With my father. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that."
You studied his face, trying to read the conflict playing out behind his eyes. "You were upset. It's okay."
"It's not okay. I was an asshole, Ace. You did nothing wrong. I just—" He stopped, seeming to wrestle with something. "My father and I, it's complicated. And seeing you two together, it just... it got under my skin."
"Why?" you asked softly.
"Because he's good at making people like him. And I don't want you to like him. I don't want you to see him the way he lets people see him, because that's not who he is, and I—" He stopped again, frustration flickering across his features.
"You what?" you prompted gently.
"I don't want him to have access to you," he whispered. "Or ever be near you."
You unbuckled your seatbelt with a soft click and shifted closer to him, closing the distance between you on the leather seat.
"Garrett," you said quietly, your voice steady even as your heart picked up pace. "Talk to me. Really talk to me."
He looked away, his scowl deepening. "I am talking to you."
"No, you're not. You're dancing around something." You waited, giving him space to fill the silence. When he didn't, you pressed gently. "Who's Cindy?"
"His fiancé," he muttered.
"And you don't like her?"
He rolled his eyes. "It's not that."
"Then what is it?" You reached over and placed your hand on his arm, feeling the tight cords of muscle under his skin, and you watched his jaw work, the muscle jumping like it always did when he was fighting something back. His eyes stayed fixed on the window, but the pain there was raw, the kind that made your chest ache just looking at it.
"You always do this. You shut down about your father, and I'm left guessing."
Garrett's head turned slowly, brows drawing together, lips parting like he wanted to argue but couldn't find the words. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes flickering with something raw and wounded.
"I need you to let me in, even if it's just a little. It hurts when you push me away," you admitted, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. "I don't need every detail… but I just need something."
Garrett's shoulders hunched, his free hand coming up to scrub roughly across his face. "Can we please not do this right now? I want to focus on enjoying our time together this weekend."
"You're asking me to go to the ESPYs with you and tell the world that we're together," you continued, lips trembling at the edges, "but you can't be honest with me about your father?"
Garrett's brows shot up, his forehead creasing hard as his eyes widened in disbelief.
"Yeah. What about the ESPYs? Are you going with me?"
"Don't change the subject," you snapped.
"I asked you weeks ago," he continued. "Every time I bring up you and me going public, you hide behind your job. How do you think that makes me feel?"
"That's not fair," you mumbled as tears burned hot at the corners of your eyes.
"Fair? You want to talk about fair?" A flush crept up his throat, spreading across his cheeks. "I've respected every boundary you've thrown up. I've backed off when you say you aren't ready to go public. I've waited. I'm still waiting. And now you're pissed because I won't spill every detail about my dad?"
"I'm asking you to let me in. If we're doing this...if we're really doing this...then I need to know all of you."
His eyes darted away for a split second, then locked back on yours, glistening with unshed tears of anger.
"You think I don't want to let you in? You think this shit with my dad is easy to talk about?"
You felt the fight drain out of you, leaving behind only exhaustion and the ache of knowing that you had pushed too hard. Fuck…you felt like shit knowing this was the first real fight you two had ever had.
"You're right. I'm sorry," you turned slightly, with the intention of retreating to your seat, needing space to collect yourself.
But Garrett's hand shot out, his fingers wrapping gently around your wrist.
"Don't," he said quietly, and then he was pulling you closer, his arm sliding around your waist and drawing you back against him. His chin rested on top of your head, his breathing still ragged but evening out as he pressed you into his chest. You let yourself sink into him, your forehead finding the hollow of his collarbone. His hand splayed across your back, and you felt him exhale (long and shaky) against your hair.
His fingers scraped at the first tear that slipped free, trying to wipe it away before it could fall, but another followed right behind it. His mouth twisted, eyes squeezing shut for a second as if he could force everything back inside.
"My father used to beat the shit out of my mom," he said at last, voice cracking on the words. "And... me."
The confession hung between you, heavy and thick. You could hear his breathing, ragged and uneven, see the way his chest rose and fell too fast under his shirt. His beautiful brown eyes were filled with something that looked like fear and shame all at once.
You didn't know what to say… because you had gotten it wrong. You'd built this whole story in your head, assuming this was about pressure and legacy, about a father's impossible standards and a son trying to carve out his own space. You'd imagined disappointment, maybe coldness.
But this was different.
This was violence. This was a child learning that the person who was supposed to protect him could be the thing that hurt him instead. You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands coming up to cup his cheeks. His skin was warm beneath your palms, and you could feel the tension locked in his jaw.
"I love you," you whispered, your voice cracking as tears welled up in your own eyes. You held his gaze with trembling determination, blinking hard to keep the tears from spilling over. "I love all of you—even the parts that still hurt and ache. And all the parts that are still probably slowly learning how to heal." A sob caught in your throat, but you pushed through it. "Especially those parts."
His eyes welled up again, but this time it was different. This time, he let himself break.
Things That May Be Causing Your Writer's Block- and How to Beat Them
I don't like the term 'Writer's Block' - not because it isn't real, but because the term is so vague that it's useless. Hundreds of issues all get lumped together under this one umbrella, making writer's block seem like this all-powerful boogeyman that's impossible to beat. Worse yet, it leaves people giving and receiving advice that is completely ineffective because people often don't realize they're talking about entirely different issues.
In my experience, the key to beating writer's block is figuring out what the block even is, so I put together a list of Actual Reasons why you may be struggling to write:
(note that any case of writer's block is usually a mix of two or more)
Perfectionism (most common)
What it looks like:
You write one sentence and spend the next hour googling "synonyms for ___"
Write. Erase. Write. Rewrite. Erase.
Should I even start writing this scene when I haven't figured out this one specific detail yet?
I hate everything I write
Cringing while writing
My first draft must be perfect, or else I'm a terrible writer
Things that can help:
Give yourself permission to suck
Keep in mind that nothing you write is going to be perfect, especially your first draft
Think of writing your first/early drafts not as writing, but sketching out a loose foundation to build upon later
People write multiple drafts for a reason: write now, edit later
Stop googling synonyms and save that for editing
Write with a pen to reduce temptation to erase
Embrace leaving blank spaces in your writing when you can't think of the right word, name, or detail
It's okay if your writing sucks. We all suck at some point. Embrace the growth mindset, and focus on getting words on a page
Lack of inspiration (easiest to fix)
What it looks like:
Head empty, no ideas
What do I even write about???
I don't have a plot, I just have an image
Want to write but no story to write
Things that can help:
Google writing prompts
If writing prompts aren't your thing, instead try thinking about what kind of tropes/genres/story elements you would like to try out
Instead of thinking about the story you would like to write, think about the story you would like to read, and write that
It's okay if you don't have a fully fleshed out story idea. Even if it's just an image or a line of dialogue, it's okay to write that. A story may or may not come out of it, but at least you got the creative juices flowing
Stop writing. Step away from your desk and let yourself naturally get inspired. Go for a walk, read a book, travel, play video games, research history, etc. Don't force ideas, but do open up your mind to them
If you're like me, world-building may come more naturally than plotting. Design the world first and let the story come later
Boredom/Understimulation (lost the flow)
What it looks like:
I know I should be writing but uugggghhhh I just can'tttttt
Writing words feels like pulling teeth
I started writing, but then I got bored/distracted
I enjoy the idea of writing, but the actual process makes me want to throw my laptop out the window
Things that can help:
Introduce stimulation: snacks, beverages, gum, music such as lo-fi, blankets, decorate your writing space, get a clickity-clackity keyboard, etc.
Add variety: write in a new location, try a new idea/different story for a day or so, switch up how you write (pen and paper vs. computer) or try voice recording or speech-to-text
Gamify writing: create an arbitrary challenge, such as trying to see how many words you can write in a set time and try to beat your high score
Find a writing buddy or join a writer's group
Give yourself a reward for every writing milestone, even if it's just writing a paragraph
Ask yourself whether this project you're working on is something you really want to be doing, and be honest with your answer
Intimidation/Procrastination (often related to perfectionism, but not always)
What it looks like:
I was feeling really motivated to write, but then I opened my laptop
I don't even know where to start
I love writing, but I can never seem to get started
I'll write tomorrow. I mean next week. Next month? Next month, I swear (doesn't write next month)
Can't find the time or energy
Unreasonable expectations (I should be able to write 10,000 words a day, right????)
Feeling discouraged and wondering why I'm even trying
Things that can help:
Follow the 2 min rule (or the 1 paragraph rule, which works better for me): whenever you sit down to write, tell yourself that you are only going to write for 2 minutes. If you feel like continuing once the 2 mins are up, go for it! Otherwise, stop. Force yourself to start but DO NOT force yourself to continue unless you feel like it. The more often you do this, the easier it will be to get started
Make getting started as easy as possible (i.e. minimize barriers: if getting up to get a notebook is stopping you from getting started, then write in the notes app of your phone)
Commit to a routine that will work for you. Baby steps are important here. Go with something that feels reasonable: every day, every other day, once a week, twice a week, and use cues to help you remember to start. If you chose a set time to write, just make sure that it's a time that feels natural to you- i.e. don't force yourself to writing at 9am every morning if you're not a morning person
Find a friend or a writing buddy you can trust and talk it out or share a piece of work you're proud of. Sometimes we just get a bit bogged down by criticism- either internal or external- and need a few words of encouragement
The Problem's Not You, It's Your Story (or Outline (or Process))
What it looks like:
I have no problems writing other scenes, it's just this scene
I started writing, but now I have no idea where I'm going
I don't think I'm doing this right
What's an outline?
Drowning in documents
This. Doesn't. Make. Sense. How do I get from this plot point to this one?!?!?! (this ColeyDoesThings quote lives in my head rent free cause BOY have I been there)
Things That Can Help:
Go back to the drawing board. Really try to get at the root of why a scene or story isn't working
A part of growing as a writer is learning when to kill your darlings. Sometimes you're trying to force an idea or scene that just doesn't work and you need to let it go
If you don't have an outline, write one
If you have an outline and it isn't working, rewrite it, or look up different ways to structure it
You may be trying to write as a pantser when you're really a plotter or vice versa. Experiment with different writing processes and see what feels most natural
Study story structures, starting with the three act structure. Even if you don't use them, you should know them
Check out Ellen Brock on YouTube. She's a professional novel editor who has a lot of advice on writing strategies for different types of writers
Also check out Savage Books on YouTube (another professional story editor) for advice on story structure and dialogue. Seriously, I cannot recommend this guy enough
Executive Dysfunction, Usually From ADHD/Autism
What it looks like:
Everything in boredom/understimulation
Everything in intimidation/procrastination
You have been diagnosed with and/or have symptoms of ADHD/Autism
Things that can help:
If you haven't already, seek a diagnosis or professional treatment
Hire an ADHD coach or other specialist that can help you work with your brain (I use Shimmer; feel free to DM me for a referral)
Seek out neurodiverse communities for advice and support
Try body doubling! There's lot's of free online body doubling websites out there for you to try. If social anxiety is a barrier, start out with writing streams such as katecavanaughwrites on Twitch
Be aware of any sensory barriers that may be getting in the way of you writing (such as an uncomfortable desk chair, harsh lighting, bad sounds)
And Lastly, Burnout, Depression, or Other Mental Illness
What it looks like:
You have symptoms of burnout or depression
Struggling with all things, not just writing
It's more than a lack of inspiration- the spark is just dead
Things that can help:
Forget writing for now. Focus on healing first.
Seek professional help
If you feel like it, use writing as a way to explore your feelings. It can take the form of journaling, poetry, an abstract reflection of your thoughts, narrative essays, or exploring what you're feeling through your fictional characters. The last two helped me rediscover my love of writing after I thought years of depression had killed it for good. Just don't force yourself to do so, and stop if it takes you to a darker place instead of feeling cathartic
