how non-writers think writing works: creating a detailed outline and plan, writing each section carefully and weaving in all the different story threads like a master creator, expertly creating a masterpiece with care and precision
how writing actually works: daydreaming that one scene, creating a half-formed plot in a daze all around it, swearing at characters that don't magic themselves into existence, becoming absolutely obsessed with the story for a solid week, it becomes your entire life, you sit down open a blank word document and write approximately two and a half chapters, lose interest, daydream an entirely new idea for a new story, rinse and repeat
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summary: after avoiding dean for days, he finally finds you
a/n: i take requests!! please don’t be afraid to send in anons. i would love kind or helpful words <3
🏷️: @downbadwellread @cruelsummer01 @hagarsays
avoiding dean turned out to be much harder than you expected.
the first day had been easy enough. after all, campus was huge, and dean wasn’t exactly a fixture in your daily routine. before the party, you could go weeks without seeing him. now, unfortunately, you noticed him everywhere. maybe it was because your brain had decided to betray you. every flash of dark hair in your peripheral vision made your heart jump before common sense reminded you it wasn’t him. every laugh that sounded remotely similar had your attention snapping up from whatever textbook you were pretending to focus on. it was embarrassing, honestly. even worse, hannah noticed immediately.
she was sitting across from you in the student center two days after the party when you abruptly cut yourself off mid-sentence and looked over her shoulder. your reaction lasted less than a second, but it was enough. dean had just walked through the doors surrounded by a group of friends, and before he’d even had the chance to look in your direction, you were already shoving your notebook into your bag.
“absolutely not,” hannah said.
you froze.
“hannah.”
“absolutely not.”
you sighed heavily and slung the bag over your shoulder. “i have somewhere to be.”
“you’re lying.”
“i’m not.”
“you literally don’t.”
you opened your mouth.
closed it.
then opened it again.
hannah pointed triumphantly. “see?”
you hated when she was right
unfortunately, she was right often.
“i’m not avoiding him.”
the look she gave you could have melted steel.
“i’m not.”
“honey, if you avoided serial killers with the same dedication you’re avoiding dean di laurentis, crime rates would hit zero.”
you groaned and stood before she could continue. ignoring her protests, you headed for the nearest exit without looking back. it wasn’t mature. it wasn’t reasonable. but neither was the way your stomach had immediately dropped the second you’d seen dean enter the room.
because that was the problem.
if dean had been exactly what you’d expected, this would’ve been easy.
if he’d flirted with you for an hour at the party and moved on to the next girl, you would’ve rolled your eyes and forgotten about him by morning. that’s what people like dean did. they charmed everyone. they collected attention like trophies. they never stayed interested for long enough to matter.
except dean hadn’t done that.
he’d texted.
twice.
then three times.
then more.
nothing creepy. nothing weird. stupid little things throughout the day. a picture of a dog he’d passed on campus because you’d mentioned liking dogs. a complaint about one of his professors. a blurry photo of a textbook accompanied by the message “look, i’m studying. are you proud of me?” somehow that had made things infinitely worse.
because it felt real.
and real was terrifying.
you’d spent years mastering invisibility. it wasn’t intentional at first, but eventually it became comfortable. people overlooked you all the time. teachers forgot you were in class. classmates forgot your name. boys definitely forgot you existed. there was safety in that. safety in being unnoticed.
dean noticed everything.
which was why, three days later, you found yourself hiding in the oldest section of the campus library like some sort of fugitive.
it was ridiculous.
even you knew it was ridiculous.
the fourth floor was nearly empty, tucked away in a wing nobody used anymore. half the shelves contained books older than your parents. the lights were dimmer there. quieter. safer. you had been sitting cross-legged on the floor between two shelves for almost an hour, completely absorbed in a novel and blissfully unaware of the fact that somebody was approaching.
the shadow appeared first.
you frowned.
libraries weren’t supposed to have shadows.
slowly, you looked up and nearly had a heart attack.
dean stood at the end of the aisle with his hands shoved into his pockets.
just stood there.
looking at you.
for a solid five seconds neither of you moved.
then dean tilted his head.
“seriously?”
your face immediately burned.
“what are you doing here?”
he laughed.
actually laughed.
the sound echoed softly through the empty aisle.
“that’s your first question?”
“yes.”
“not ‘how did you find me?’”
you immediately regretted asking.
because now you wanted the answer to that question too.
dean stepped further into the aisle, looking around dramatically before his gaze settled back on you. “you know, i thought hannah was exaggerating.”
“about what?”
“the hiding.”
you groaned.
dean pointed around the aisle.
“you are literally sitting on the floor between bookshelves.”
“i like books.”
“you are hiding.”
“it’s called reading.”
“it’s called hiding.”
you looked away.
which was apparently all the confirmation he needed.
the amusement faded slightly from his expression as he leaned against the shelf opposite you. for the first time since you’d met him, dean looked genuinely frustrated. not angry. just frustrated enough to have spent the better part of an afternoon tracking you down across campus.
“did i do something?”
the question caught you off guard.
you blinked.
dean shrugged one shoulder.
“seriously. because if i did, just tell me.”
suddenly the conversation wasn’t funny anymore.
your fingers tightened around the edge of your book.
because that was the thing.
he had done something.
he’d been nice.
he’d remembered things you told him.
he’d looked at you like you mattered.
and somehow that was so much scarier than him being a jerk
because if dean was awful, you could hate him.
instead you liked him.
and that felt like standing at the edge of a cliff.
My novel that I've been working on for the past three years : 80k, barely a wip, with missing scenes and a syntax so bad it could be a punishment in all the nine circles of hell
The fanfic I started writing four months ago : also 80k, published on Ao3, edited and beta read
Logan was on his knees like a man starving, his large hands gripping your thighs and spreading them wide with a hunger that bordered on reverence
The low growl that rumbled from his chest vibrated against your skin as he shoved your panties aside, eyes dark and locked on your already slick pussy like it was the only thing that could keep him alive
“Fuck, look at you,” he muttered, voice rough with need “So wet for me already”
He didn’t tease
Logan devoured
His mouth sealed over your clit in one hot, open mouthed kiss, tongue flat and broad as he licked a long, greedy stripe up your folds
Then he went deeper tongue thrusting inside you like he was trying to drink every drop of your arousal straight from the source
He ate you like a man possessed, messy and relentless
Wet, obscene sounds filled the room as he sucked, licked, and fucked you with his tongue, nose grinding against your clit while his hands pinned your hips down so you couldn’t escape the intensity
You bucked, fingers threading through his hair, but he only growled louder, the vibration shooting straight to your core
He pulled back just enough to spit on your pussy, watching it drip down your folds before diving back in, two thick fingers joining his tongue, curling hard against that spot that made your vision blur
“That’s it,” he rasped between filthy licks, voice muffled against your soaked flesh “Ride my face baby , Use me. This pussy is my fucking meal “
He sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking rapidly while his fingers pumped deep and steady
Your thighs trembled around his head, but he didn’t stop not even when you came hard, gushing against his tongue
He licked you through it, then kept going, slower but no less hungry, drawing out every aftershock until you were shaking and whimpering his name like a prayer
John finally pulled back, lips shiny and swollen, chin glistening with your release
He looked up at you with a satisfied grin
“I’m nowhere near done,” he said, voice low and dangerous “I’m still fucking starving”
He buried his face between your thighs again
A/n: hope you enjoy !, don’t know how I feel about this
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
