#how to write an outline

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

🧩 How to Outline Without Feeling Like You’re Dying

(a non-suffering writer’s guide to structure, sanity, and staying mildly hydrated)

Hey besties. Let’s talk outlines. Specifically: how to do them without crawling into the floorboards and screaming like a Victorian ghost.

If just hearing the word “outline” sends your brain into chaos-mode, welcome. You’re not broken, you’re just a writer whose process has been hijacked by Very Serious Advice™ that doesn’t fit you. You don’t need to build a military-grade beat sheet. You don’t need a sixteen-tab spreadsheet. You don’t need to suffer to be legitimate. You just need a structure that feels like it’s helping you, not haunting you.

So. Here’s how to outline your book without losing your soul (or all your serotonin).

—

🍓 1. Stop thinking of it as “outlining.” That word is cursed. Try “story sketch.” “Narrative roadmap.” “Planning soup.” Whatever gets your brain to chill out. The goal here is to understand your story, not architect it to death.

Outlining isn’t predicting everything. It’s just building a scaffold so your plot doesn't fall over mid-draft.

—

🧠 2. Find your plot skeleton. There are lots of plot structures floating around: 3-Act. Save the Cat. Hero’s Journey. Take what helps, ignore the rest.

If all else fails, try this dirt-simple one I use when my brain is mush:

Act I: What’s the problem?

Act II: Why can’t we fix it?

Act III: What finally makes us change?

Ending: What does that change cost?

You don’t need to fill in every detail. You just need to know what’s driving your character, what’s blocking them, and what choices will change them.

—

🛒 3. Make a “scene bucket list.” Before you start plotting in order, write down a list of scenes you know you want: key vibes, emotional beats, dramatic reveals, whatever.

These are your anchors. Even if you don’t know where they go yet, they’re proof your story already exists, it just needs connecting tissue.

Bonus: when you inevitably get stuck later, one of these might be the scene that pulls you back in.

—

🧩 4. Start with 5 key scenes. That’s it. Here’s a minimalist approach that won’t kill your momentum:

Opening (what sucks about their world?)

Catalyst (what throws them off course?)

Midpoint (what makes them confront themselves?)

Climax (what breaks or remakes them?)

Ending (what’s changed?)

Plot the spaces between those after you’ve nailed these. Think of it like nailing down corners of a poster before smoothing the rest.

You’re not “doing it wrong” if you start messy. A messy start is a start.

—

🔧 5. Use the outline to ask questions, not just answer them. Every section of your outline should provoke a question that the scene must answer.

Instead of: — “Chapter 5: Sarah finds a journal.”

Try: — “Chapter 5: What truth does Sarah find that complicates her next move?”

This makes your story active, not just a list of stuff that happens. Outlines aren’t just there to record, they’re tools for curiosity.

—

🪤 6. Beware of the Perfectionist Trap™. You will not get the entire plot perfect before you write. Don’t stall your momentum waiting for a divine lightning bolt of Clarity. You get clarity by writing.

Think of your outline as a map drawn in pencil, not ink. It’s allowed to evolve. It should evolve.

You’re not building a museum exhibit. You’re making a prototype.

—

🧼 7. Clean up after you start drafting. Here’s the secret: the first draft will teach you what the story’s actually about. You can go back and revise the outline to fit that. It’s not wasted work, it’s evolving scaffolding.

You don’t have to build the house before you live in it. You can live in the mess while you figure out where the kitchen goes.

—

🛟 8. If you’re a discovery writer, hybrid it. A lot of “pantsers” aren’t anti-outline, they’re just anti-stiff-outline. That’s fair.

Try using “signposts,” not full scenes:

Here’s a secret someone’s hiding.

Here’s the emotional breakdown scene.

Here’s a betrayal. Maybe not sure by who yet.

Let the plot breathe. Let the characters argue with your outline. That tension is where the fun happens.

—

🪴 TL;DR but emotionally: You don’t need a flawless outline to write a good book. You just need a loose net of ideas, a couple of emotional anchors, and the willingness to pivot when your story teaches you something new.

Outlines should support you, not suffocate you.

Let yourself try. Let it be imperfect. That’s where the good stuff lives.

Go forth and outline like a gently chaotic legend 🧃

— written with snacks in hand by Rin T. @ thewriteadviceforwriters 🍓🧠✍️

Sometimes the problem isn’t your plot. It’s your first 5 pages. Fix it here → 🖤 Free eBook: 5 Opening Pages Mistakes to Stop Making:

[sysig]

You're still standing off to the side. Somehow, center stage has shifted from under your feet without you realizing, and you're standing in the wings, performing to no one.

Starring Role (Patreon)

[doubletroubletag]

i got almost all the next month's updates sketched! i'm not doing the last one simply because i am feeling the burn out of composing these pages. (each have at least 6 pages, a good amount have the max 12!)

that said, these are all just sketched. i want to do it in this order: backgrounds -> lineart -> transcript. i got other projects i need to work on (winning hat and NightFell) so I can't really guarantee when Tag will start to update again.

[thaliagrayce]

Jason was headed to the Big House when he caught sight of Nico leading a trio of terrified-looking twelve-year-olds to where Mrs O’Leary lay napping in the strawberry fields. It had been Nico’s idea to introduce some of the younger campers to monsters in what passed as a safe environment. He’d argued that Mrs O’Leary could be a great tool for teaching, and for making the kids less likely to panic when they first met monsters in the wild.

Nico looked more and more relaxed as the group got closer to Mrs O’Leary. She lifted her head to give a sniff, and Nico went straight to her and leaned on her sun-warmed flank. Jason always liked watching Nico interact with her. He looked so much more at ease around the hellhound than he did around most campers.

“Spending a lot of time with him recently, huh?

Jason did not jump. It took effort. Leo had materialized on his left, and he was looking at Jason as if he expected a response.

“Yeah,” Jason said once his heartbeat had returned to normal. “Nico’s really cool, once he gets comfortable around you.”

“Hm.” Leo squinted into the fall sunshine to where an Ares kids had tentatively held her hand up for Mrs O’Leary to smell. It was going well until Mrs O’Leary sneezed, and the kid flinched hard enough to fall on her butt.

Jason could almost hear Nico’s laughter from here, if he focused hard enough. He felt himself smiling in response.

“Should I be, like, nervous?”

Blinking, Jason turned back to Leo. “What?”

“Di Angelo isn’t trying to replace me or anything, right?”

Jason snorted. “Of course not.”

“You sure? He looks like a man who’s gunning for the Jason Grace Best Friend title belt,” Leo joked. Jason rolled his eyes at him. Nico looked like a boy who needed to lean on his SUV-sized dog to stay upright when he laughed.

“Aw, come on. You know it’s not the same.”

“How?!” Leo’s tone was light, so he was probably teasing, but Jason still had a hard time differentiating sometimes. Leo was good at hiding his real hurt behind jokes, but he also told a lot of jokes with no substance to them. Whatever raised a reaction. Jason wasn’t sure how serious he should treat this line of questioning.

“I don’t know, it just isn’t. We mess around a lot, right? I’m usually nicer to Nico—”

“So what I’m hearing is it’s different because you treat him better! I’m too late!” Leo cried out, finally pulling free a wire from the walkie talkie he’d been messing with. He flashed a grin at Jason, showing off the disemboweled gadget.

Teasing, then. Jason felt himself relax.

“You wouldn’t want me to be nicer and you know it. Besides, we both know you can take it.”

“And Nico can’t?” Leo was already turning his attention back to the walkie talkie.

“It’s not that, it’s more like…” In the field, Nico reached out his hand to the kid who’d stayed in the back of the group up until now. Even from this far away, the kid looked scared. Nico supported them as they walked up to Mrs O’Leary, though. He held their hand through something that had obviously scared them. It was such a Nico gesture, Jason couldn’t help but smiling.

“He could take it, sure, but he shouldn’t have to. He deserves to be treated gently.”

There was silence for a while, and Jason only really became aware of it when Leo slowly leaned forward into his field of vision. His eyebrows had made a migration toward his hairline, and they didn’t look like they were dropping anytime soon. Jason thought back over what he’d said and blushed. When had he started looking at Nico again, anyway? He turned away from the strawberry field to look at Leo full on.

“Dude,” Leo said.

“Shut up.”

“I was joking before, but like, now I’m not sure. Do I legit have to be worried you like him better?”

“I don’t like him better, I just like him different. It’s totally normal.”

It was true, too. Even more than he’d even realized when he said it. Friendship with Nico didn’t feel like any other friendship he’d ever had. It was… quiet. Intense. It felt charged, but relaxing at the same time. It was contradictory and almost addicting, Jason couldn’t really describe it. He caught himself before his eyes drifted back to the strawberry fields and made himself focus on Leo, who looked dubious to the point of being borderline offensive.

“Different, or—”

“Different,” Jason insisted. “Just like I like you and Piper different. Not better or worse, just… Different.”

Come to think about it, though…

“Sure fuckin' hope you like me and Piper different,” Leo grumbled. “You’re my bro, but I don’t want you pulling your Loverboy moves on me. I mean…” Leo kept going, but Jason was too busy spiraling to pay attention.

He’d said he liked Leo and Piper different, but did he? The way he felt about Leo was a lot closer to the way he felt about Piper than it was to what he felt for Nico, if he stopped to think about. Remarkably similar, really. His palms started to sweat.

Oh gods, he thought. Do I have a crush on Leo?

[hopefull-mindset]

Two Corpses in a Coffin.

“Hmmm... You're easy to talk to, and I feel like you have a scent similar to mine.” - Komaeda Nagito, Chapter 1

“How should I put this… It was a smell exclusive to those who were already finished.” - Kamukura Izuru, Chapter 0

[psychomusic]

oc time again! + her town & culture (heavily inspired by pre-roman italic populations)

she is suri sauthon. her story is linked to my swtor imperial agent, tar'x, but most of her life except for the one year away where she meets him, is spent in a town in the mountains of mirial.

despite mirial being cold and desert, and many cities developing underground, her town flourishes thanks to a force nexus, venerated in the form of an ancient, sacred, alive crystal. the ecosystem of that mountain depended on what "the horned crystal" was capable of giving them, but mirialans couldn't live off of that alone, so they developed trade and some rudimental technology, even if oftentimes it was bought thanks to the highly profitable trade of a plant used to make medicines that slowed down aging and had overall healing properties.

note: everything that's generated by this nexus has these healing properties BUT they have to be processed, except for those who bathed in the waters of the cavity under the crystal - the "real" nexus, but not the worshipped one. the waters were sacred but they were not thought to be miraculous, unlike the crystal, who instead was thought of as the keystone of the ecosystem: without it, everything would fall apart (and that is partially true: the cavity was the "real" nexus but thanks to the crystal, also strong in the force, the properties were spread all over the mountains). those who bathed in the cavity's waters - so, all of the town, who had a sort of baptism there - could eat the plant, make whatever food with it, and not only that plant, but everything generated by the nexus, that, again, had similar properties. this allowed people to live up to normal life-spans without advanced medicines or, much, really. to those who didn't live there, though, after the processing, had incredible effects, slowing down aging - for those who took it regularly - and making people able to live up to half a century more than the average]

originally, there were four tribes of nomads that lived thanks to horned farm animals that decided to settle down into one bigger town and other smaller settlements, to live off of transhumance. this division of the tribes stayed into the political and social organization: every person belonged to one tribe specifically, and had slightly different rituals and culture. for examples, each tribe had their own priests and healers, with different techniques and traditions. the town, tho, was guided by a group of people in the high priesthood, a position you could reach only by having earned the trust of all tribes. those high priests had many roles: they guided the people into sacred processions common to all the tribes, they managed the trading with outsiders, they did the maintenance of the temple of the summit (the one that functioned as casket to the crystal) and created a special liquid to offer the crystal that helps it grow.

this particular temple was important because 1. it was very visible, from every angle of the town, and it became an important identity symbol; 2. it stored the venerated horned crystal; 3. it had the altar where sacrifices were made for the crystals. that altar had a hole connected to the cavity, that allowed the liquids to reach the underground; 4. it had various symbols: statues representing each tribe + the high priesthood, and typical mirialan tattoos carved into the wood of the trees that served as columns for the temple, symbolizing 8 values that who dared to enter HAD to have; 5. it was on the way to an important lake (called "mother lake" because the lake the town was built around to depended on the waters of that other lake) where they traveled to in important processions; 6. it was said that a the wizard who unified the tribes made it with its magic, making the plant grow to hold the temple's roof. this wizard was, actually, a force user, obv.

BACK TO HER THOUGH: she's daughter of one of the high priests, who was in charge of managing the trades with outsiders, and lives in a house on the mountains with her mother and him. her parents are from different tribes (that's one of the things that earned him trust from the 4 tribes): when a child is born from two different tribes, they don't pick one to allign to, but they're usually linked automatically to the one with more relatives in it (in her case, the father's tribe: she had many uncles and aunts on his side while her mom only had one sister).

later, though, she got quite tied to her mother's tribe due to a mysterious illness that only her mother's tribe healer was able to cure. she spent 4 years (from 10 to 14 years old) living with the healer and learned her secrets. to better study, she wrote them down. when she returned home, she studied to become a priestess with her father. at 22 (the average age: you can't become priest before your 20s), she was supposed to take a test and become a priestess, but the healer of her mother's tribe died and the tribe asked her to take her place. she couldn't technically do that, but both tribes estimated both her and her parents and she was allowed to become both. she then decided to try to become a high priestess, and became one at 25 (a quite young age). being part of the council, she tried to convince the various tribe healers to unite their knowledges and write them down, and eventually made it. healers still remained tribe based but they now had an "upper, inter-tribe level" similar to high priesthood.

years later, the sacred horned crystal is stolen from the temple by some Hutt mercenaries looking for a profit. given the trust she has earned from all the tribes and the fact that her father is the high priest that deals with outsiders (and she's been hearing stories and advice about it since she was little), she is the one tasked with getting it back. without the growing crystal, the keystone to their ecosystem, the village would have lasted only a few years. in hrr quest, she meets imperial intelligence agent tar'x laran and, as they "solve the mystery" and fight to have it back, they get closer. they'll get married and have a daughter, Vegoia (who's the only one who actually will get to the plot of my story. this was all background)

[razzafrazzle]

another character from die as lovers may, my funney vampire story... had this design bouncing around in my brain for years honestly

[image description: a reference image for an original character named dr. pranali guin, a fat, older dark-skinned woman that has black hair with a white streak pulled into an updo. she is wearing a tight white dress with a cropped black jacket and an orange ribbon around her neck. next to her are blurbs stating that she is 55, that her pronouns are she/her, that she is an aroace woman, and the following: "acclaimed sexologist who is rather humorless. incredibly suspicious of rowan, but isn't quite sure why. not as stern as she looks. has really bad eyesight, but refuses to wear glasses out of spite. loves melodramatic soap operas and keeps a journal detailing every plot point in them. probably autistic." end id]

[orengejoshi]

do u write fanfics? i need to GOON 💔

damn brother, you just gonna come at me like that? alright I see you

that's a great question tho! I have indeed thought about writing a fic... for years tbh...

but there's a myriad of problems

well first of all I'm not native in english. that is probably noticeable more often than not. I sometimes even use a translator, I always secretly got google/dict.cc open in a second tab. didn't formally learn english, I just snagged it by proxy listening to American Youtubers and reading manga online. that's why I prefer to ramble a bit in public or to my damn self in private areas than live-texting 1 on 1/in groups; bc I can take more time totally judgement-free. you're gonna see me "typing..." for 30 minutes and wonder wtf is taking this mf so long?!

apart from that there's dyslexia. I can't spell one word correctly without swipe-to-type autocorrect. I think all arguments I've gotten into stem from me mistyping, using completely wrong words, messing up the sentence structure etc

my brain is a single dense cloud of fog that'll occasionally split open to drizzle down a bunch of jumbled thoughts that I could turn into barely cohesive words if I'm brave enough and exude copious amounts of energy.

so my linguistic skills are not up to par. my intelligence lies more in... intrapersonal and existential departments.

unsurprisingly I've thus become a visual artist to express myself.

the catch is... that I understand paperhat, I do.

but I can't seem to draw toxic dynamics. my head is just empty about how to depict it. it's like it doesn't come naturally to me. not without going overboard and making a whole comic that I would likely abandon before even reaching the half mark. I've been given these angelic skills along with the curse that I shall only draw joyous, bright scenes.

however if I could write it... now we're talking.

as a matter of fact, I'm pretty sure that most of my ideas are way too dark and sober. people don't know me like that so I'm petrified about the presumably shocked response when and if I did drop smth like that.

I'm not ready for that... I have really severe OCD (that the internet is making way worse with their anxious tendencies to interpret smth sinister into any and all fiction that is not happiness and rainbows. which seems new to me, idk where this mindset to read so deep into shit is suddenly coming from. I was here 2017-19, left for like 3 years and all of a sudden everybody's fallen off their rockers)

writing domestic stuff is too boring for me... there's gotta be gut-wrenching horrors and drama and tragedy and conflict!

none of this would be PG (which is what I assume you're asking for anyway) I'd just write smut with sprinkles of character studies and a pinch of comedy mayhaps, but I used to do that about 10 years ago and it was so bad. the way I describe these scenes comes off very plump and cringe

I... might. dip my toes into it later this year.

I'll drop a few ideas in the tags... maybe 2 ideas. very roughly. without spoilers, just in case.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

📊 How to Use Tropes Without Turning Your Story into a YA Checklist

You can tell when a book was written by vibes and TVTropes alone.

It’s got: ☑️ the reluctant chosen one ☑️ the love triangle ☑️ the mysterious brooding boy™ ☑️ the sassy best friend ☑️ the dead parents ☑️ the villain with daddy issues ☑️ the scene where someone says “you don’t know what I’m capable of” and walks away dramatically

And like… that’s fine.

Tropes are tools. But here’s the thing: they are starting points, not story goals.

If your plot reads like it was drafted by a checklist in a Pinterest caption, it might be time to recalibrate. Here's how to actually use tropes without turning your book into a YA Mad Libs generator:

─────── ✦ ───────

🧩 Tropes Are Patterns--Not Presets

A trope is a pattern, not a requirement. It’s not a law. It’s not a plug-and-play feature. And it’s definitely not your plot.

The “enemies-to-lovers” arc? That’s a container. What you put inside it, that’s where the originality lives.

The goal isn’t to avoid tropes. It’s to do something interesting with them.

→ Why are they enemies? → What does the “love” cost them? → What happens if they fail to become lovers?

Tropes don’t carry the story. The conflict does.

─────── ✦ ───────

⚔️ Complicate the Familiar

Here’s a trick: if a trope feels too easy, break it in half.

Examples: → “Reluctant chosen one” → okay, but what if they wanted it, and then hated it once they got it? → “The mentor dies” → cool, but what if the mentor fakes their death to manipulate the protagonist? → “Sassy best friend” → no. Make them real. Give them pain. Give them depth. No more walking punchlines.

Tropes are scaffolding, not shortcuts. Add weight. Add doubt. Add betrayal.

─────── ✦ ───────

🕳️ Interrogate Why You’re Using It

Ask yourself: → Do I love this trope or do I feel like I have to include it? → Am I doing this because I’ve seen it done… or because it serves my story? → Is this trope the only interesting thing about this scene?

If your answer is “because that’s what YA stories do,” delete it. Go deeper.

─────── ✦ ───────

💔 Tropes Aren’t Substitutes for Character Arcs

You can’t use “grumpy x sunshine” and call it development. Tropes are flavors, not meals.

Give us: → Choices with consequences. → Conflicting values. → Character growth that costs something.

Otherwise? Your grumpy guy is just a Pinterest moodboard with a pulse.

─────── ✦ ───────

🧨 Use Reader Expectations Against Them

You want to use a trope and not make it predictable? Weaponize it.

Example: → Start with a love triangle. Let the MC fall hard. Then have both love interests realize they’re in love with each other. → Use the “chosen one” trope… but make it about dismantling that myth entirely. → Introduce the “villain redemption arc” and let them choose to stay bad because it makes more sense for them.

Set up the pattern. Then snap it in half. That’s how you surprise a jaded reader.

─────── ✦ ───────

Final thoughts from your local trope goblin:

→ Tropes aren’t the problem. It’s treating them like a checklist instead of a narrative engine. → A good trope doesn’t make your story good. How you twist it does. → If a story reads like it was built from Tumblr quotes and nothing else—it’s gonna flop.

So go ahead. Use the trope. Then ruin it. Make it weird. Make it hurt. Make it yours.

—rin t. // story mechanic. trope thief. YA bingo card burner. // thewriteadviceforwriters

Sometimes the problem isn’t your plot. It’s your first 5 pages. Fix it here → 🖤 Free eBook: 5 Opening Pages Mistakes to Stop Making:

🕯️ download the pack & write something cursed:

[andhumanslovedstories]

New Chapter ft. Bad Coping

[Emotionally devastate a disciple. +50 B-Points.]

[Welcome back to the plot! This System was wondering when the pacing would pick up again.]

“He’ll be fine.”

[Trait: Poison Tongue. You’re never unarmed. In conversations, you have an instinctive sense for the most hurtful thing you could say.]

“Shut up.” Shen Qingqiu was slumped over his desk, his head buried in his arms. He couldn’t stay like this for long. It was too comfortable a position. He couldn’t risk falling asleep. At the same time, wow, his arms sure made a nice pillow.

[Trait: Ambusher. Win the fight before it even starts. Gain a significant bonus on all actions against a currently non-hostile enemy.]

[ineed-to-sleep]

What if we fell in love and you died LMAOOO what then

[stanpinesdykewife]

Are you still working on that angsty fic where the reader tells Stan he doesn't have a say in who they talk to or fuck? That little sneak peek alone had so much delicious drama, I'm so curious to know if you intend on finishing it.

YES yes i do! wow i can't believe you remember that!! yes, i plan on finishing it but my writer's block has been pretty heavy... but it means a lot that you asked!! i know i've been pretty bad at keeping my promises lately HAHA but since you asked and since i still can't tell you when i'll finish it, i'm happy to share a little more of that scene under the cut!!! hopefully this will help hold you over until i start churning out content again:

lady plumber WIP stan/reader (fem) pre/during/post-canon/unspecified angst and smut, 997 words (picking up from this snippet!)

“I'm not yours. I don't belong to you.” You catch the rest of your words in your throat. You don't want me. You don't want me.

For a few moments, Stan is speechless. He stares at you, his eyes searching your expression, his mouth opening and closing and opening again. You stand there, staring at each other, and the rest of the bar laughs and drinks and shifts around you.

Stan’s brown eyes shine in the dim lights, and he purses his lips. Darts his tongue out to wet them before opening them again, taking a breath in like he wants to say something. But you—fuck, you fucking hate that you’re doing this—your eyes flicker down to watch his tongue, and they stay there to watch the thin sheen of spit glistening beneath a pink spotlight. Your gaze lingers for a beat too long. When you look back up at Stan’s eyes, his brows are raised. Then he relaxes. His lips curl back into a crooked grin. You already know you’re fucked.

“Doin’ what?” Stan asks lowly, still looking at you. You finally look away, lowering your head to look at the back of your own hand, willing it to move. Stan’s hand comes up between your bodies, and he presses it against yours, and his touch is so gentle. His hand covers yours entirely. He flattens your palm against his chest. The hair there tickles the sensitive skin of your wrist. “Look at me, will ya?”

“I know you don’t,” Stan says cooly, like he’s approaching a spooked horse. The simile is apt, because when he takes a small step forward with his hands raised, you have half the mind to kick him in the head with all your strength before running away. But you’re frozen in place, like you’ve sunken six inches in mud and silt and your nice shoes are all fucked up but you’d do more damage trying to take them off. You don’t move as Stan comes closer, and closer, and your head is forced to tilt up to see his face.

“Stop,” you say, your voice sounding much too soft in the bustle of the bar. Your hand comes up, meant to dissuade him from coming any closer, but it doesn’t work. All it does is press your hand against Stan’s bare skin when he stands right in front of you, and your knees go weak at the warmth from his chest, the heat melting against your fingertips, all the way up your arm, warming you up from the inside out. You say, softer this time, “Stop doing that.”

You look up. Stan smiles down at you.

“Let’s talk this out,” he suggests, “somewhere more private.”

You fucking hate yourself.

You nod.

Twenty minutes later, Stan is pressing you facedown on your bed as he pounds into you from behind. He’s fucking you so well you can almost forget the shame boiling beneath your surface.

“Fuck, I missed you,” you whine, gripping the edge of the pillow. You're drooling into it, spit and moans and unholy little gasps falling out of your mouth and soaking the soft cotton. You don't care. Stan’s dick is so big in you, so deep, and the stretch feels so good. It's like your body's been waiting for him to come back, to make room for himself again. You repeat yourself, moaning into the pillow, “Missed you so fucking much.”

“Fuckin’—shit,” Stan curses, breathing heavily from behind you. He has a bruising grip on your waist, drawing you back every time he drives into your cunt. You don't expect an actual response from him, not really. So it's not your fault your heart skips when he says, “Missed you, too, babe. Missed this perfect cunt.”

“Yeah?” you ask, your breath catching in anticipation. Then Stan squeezes your waist, adjusts his grip slightly so his calloused fingertips are in that crook between your thigh and hip, and a low moan draws out of you. “You missed me?”

“Fuck—Yeah,” Stan grunts, fucking into you with fervor, and the swell of feeling in your chest makes you shudder, makes your face flush. “Missed the way you feel around me. So fuckin’ tight. And the way you sound when I…”

He trails off to thrust hard into you, forcing your body forward a few inches. Then he grinds, making you cry out, and one of his hands slips down underneath your hips to find your clit. He's so rough about it that you instinctively startle forward, but Stan just grabs you with his other hands and pulls your hips back to be flush against his. His fingers let up a little and you melt, moaning loud into the pillow, your hips rocking back, and forth, into his hand, back onto his dick, in your own perfect rhythm.

“Yeah. There it is,” Stan huffs behind you, a smile playing at his voice. But he sounds just as hazy and sex-drunk as you do, high with the incredible rush of breaking a dry spell for some good fucking sex.

(Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder if that's the best way to describe it. A tolerance break. A relapse. You wonder if you’re addicted to fucking this handsome man who's so much older than you, so much meaner to you than he has any right to be. You wonder if it's dangerous. If there’s any merit to that small part of you that insists on packing all your shit and changing your name and driving, alone, until your car breaks down in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, left with your inanimate belongings and a soreness in your chest and a cold, empty passenger seat.)

Then Stan says, “That's right. Moaning so pretty for me, sweetheart.” (And you decide you’re better off not thinking about it.)

[losver07]

okay so im planning (JUST PLANNING) a canon-compliant fic and im making a list of spells or details id like to add (because writing magic is shit hard but it's soooo much funnnn)

so yeah enjoy??? these WILL go into my future fic

remus enchanting muggle books, lycanthropy research or personal notebooks's covers to look like textbooks or really boring titles (sirius is still interested even if it's, like, "advanced latin grammar" and it pisses remus tf off that he always asks to have a look)

peter using his pocket watch to calculate what proportion of a class slughorn actually spends teaching them stuff vs the time he spends divagating

pre-transition reg throwing a spell so that every time someone refers to him with his deadname he hears 'regulus' in his head. he doesn't use it at home, though

james enchanting his glasses so he can physically see a dark shadow near people who are not feeling okay, his little secret to helping everyone. also, sirius jokingly puts them on once and let's just say james isn't looking so bright

remus lending sirius one of his jumpers and casually mentioning that it's enchanted to always smell like him (sirius MELTS)

the valkyries sharing tips and spells to do their makeup, such as ways to make their mascara waterproof or their lipstick to stay on for a whole night

peter always carrying pieces of parchment with him to draw and document bugs he finds, as well as plants

sirius asking the rest of the marauders from time to time to let him be alone with remus in the shack the morning after a full moon. he just stays there to make remus feel better and hides with the cloak when madam pomfrey comes (i have so many ideas for this type of scenes)

lily using the map for her prefect rounds with remus and finding james and regulus making out in a corner of the castle, then screaming "I KNEW IT!"

peter sneaking out into the ravenclaw tower as wormtail to see gilderoy

boggart angst. like, sirius expecting to see his mother but he sees himself instead, dressed in his elegant black heir clothes, back straight, hair short, acting just like he is "supposed" to act, according to his family and still being HAPPY somehow (did he get it wrong? would he be better off if he had obeyed? would that have fixed all the things that are now wrong with him? ...who knows)

also, remus's boggart being greyback because i have so much of the plot planned around that its insane (thank you elaborate metaphors, thank you psychology classes)

peter deafening himself when he's annoyed & wants to sleep in study sessions, making a piece of parchment levitate over his head saying "wake me up when you stop snogging, you WHORES"

i know i have mentioned this before, but regulus using magic to hide the white streak in his hair. this is so important to me i swear to god

obviously, all members of the marauders & co. converting their silver jewellery and overall possessions into tin or steel as soon as they find out about remus

james getting distracted by having conversations with the paintings in the halls and being late to class (especially first and second year)

(from 4th year on) remus taking potions near the full moon, not just for the physical pain but also his temper. also, asking peter the spell he uses to go deaf (that man does NOT stand people the week of a full moon)

all of them somehow coming up with a spell that makes their records' lyrics mute so they can have a karaoke, this is so silly but so real (it was james' idea, too)

in one of their birthdays, making the candles impossible to blow—every time they are put out, the flame reappears. bonus points is the birthday boy's wish was something that will never happen in the fic, e.g. an impossible romance

...

i will be adding more to this because not only is this so fun i also kinda need to lay all my ideas down before i start writing

[puppetmaster13u]

Hi, I have fallen deeply in love with your Down in the Deep au. My brain wants to share some thoughts. 

It would be funny if the ectoplasm was just making sure Danny has a better chance at surviving a new environment with basic adaptation, wonky but works. But now, it begins to mimic the "native" life forms of this dimension to get even better and comfortable. The more he explored, depending on who he encountered, his ghost biology goes, "Hmm, I like this; it's mine now," and Danny just keeps evolving until he's like the apex predator, but due to him meeting Sebastian first, it influenced his appearances to stay similar to the first creature he saw. 

Basically, little baby(fish)man until someone provoked him, then 

The people's misunderstanding can go two ways: either Urbanshade gave this kid the worse genetic milshake combo they could cooked up or Sebastian is going around (wiki said a female angler can have up to 8 males).

Or maybe Danny, with his teeth changing to the new diet, gnawed on Sebastian not knowing that he's basically injecting the man with ectoplasm in small doses. If theoretically, the unexplained DNA in him was the Pressure version of ectoplasm but also not (they're both extradimensional materials) he could become powerful or mutated beyond recognition. Months go by, luck won out and Sebastian realizes his tail is inches longer than it was supposed to be, and there seem to be patterns appearing on his body. Meanwhile, the cause of his evolution is still held in his arms, watching his "guardian" freak out.

Thank you for listening to my brain dump

ARE YOU IN MY WALLS-

[a-writing-otter]

WIP Wednesday

“I can’t believe you fucked that old man.”

Bill’s head snaps up so quickly from where it was inside of the air duct that he smacks it on the metal internals. When he reappears cursing and rubbing at his head, there’s dust bunnies in his hair and clinging to his eyelashes.

“You can’t believe I what?”

“You fucked that old man,” Red repeats, feet up on the counter as she lazily reads something called “Lumberjack Layabouts Weekly.”

“I—“ And Bill lets out a grunt as he comes down from the ladder to slam his hands on the counter and lean into her space. The action does little to phase her other than make her look up.

“Neither of those things are right!”

Red takes a second to turn the page of her magazine, but doesn’t look away from Bill.

“That’s not what I heard.”

Bill’s eyes roll back into his skull for a second. He thinks of what he was told to do both by the therapium and Question Mark’s fiancée: deep breaths in and deep breaths out, count to ten, don’t visualize throttling them no matter how fucking annoying these fleshbags are.

“First of all, I’m older than him,” he begins, like that’s the important part.

“You don’t look it.”

“That’s because I take good care of myself.” Which is only partially true.

When the Axolotl and the entire therapism decided Bill’s methods of rehabilitation weren’t working, they’d sent him here. To hell.

…to earth.

Stripped of his powers, they’d shoved him into a meat suit that was an “appropriate approximation of his natural form” (Bill resents that statement entirely, but the appearance has grow on him). The dark skin and golden eyes are quite a contrast coupled with the golden hair offset by strays strands of grey or white hair. Melody has helped him figure out how to wash and maintain it, which is far more maintenance than he was expecting after watching Ford for years barely do anything more than occasionally wash it and wake up. Bill’s currently picking dust bunnies out of an individual lock, throwing them into the trashcan by the counter (like hell is he sweeping up in this damned place more than he has to).

He has it on good authority that this is a desirable fleshbag form, both from the open way that people compliment him and the way people stared. …he’s getting used to the staring and has stopped threatening to flay people alive who let their eyes linger too long.

Question Mark calls it progress; Bill calls it not wanting to see that haunted, barely contained disappointment on Melody’s face again. She is simultaneously the kindest and cruelest person he’s met on this plane. In spite of literally everyone’s reservations about Bill being on the same plane as the rest of these humans, she’d been willing to hear him out, offer him accommodations here at the Mystery Shack, and even provide a job if he could behave.

She also detailed to him with a sunshiney smile and no insignificant amount of knife waving that if Bill started anything, anything looking like world domination under her roof, not even the Axolotl would be able to save him.

If nothing else, she’s done more than a little to earn his respect and compliance than anyone else in this entire reality.

So, he’d gotten used to people staring and it doesn’t bother him.

At least, until one particular person started staring.

“Second of all, I didn’t—“ And he looks around, makes sure no hide or hair of thirteen year-old menace can be seen before he continues, “—fuck Sixer.”

Red closes the magazine entirely and shifts to take her feet off the counter and lean on it with her arms folded—this is what she’d wanted to hear.

“I heard Stan caught you two in the bathroom.”

Bill clears his throat and starts back up the ladder to avoid having to look at Red even as he feels something warm in his face.

“Stan doesn’t know what he saw.”

Red lets out a raucous laugh that makes Bill wince and wrinkle his nose as he sticks his head back in the vent to continue clearing it out.

“I heard that you two also got into a fistfight at dinner before that. Weird foreplay, but I can respect it.”

Everyone, mostly Question Mark and Shooting Star, have insisted on family dinners since both sets of Pines twins returned to Gravity Falls. And, somehow, Bill gets lumped into that because he sleeps in the Shack (specifically, the sofa in the living room because everywhere else is off-limits). It’s been three weeks and most everything has been simpatico, Shooting Star was the fastest to warm up after her initial talk too of “unspeakable horrors” she’ll unleash on him if he steps a toe out of line. The fact that he’s powerless seems to make her willing to humor him.

…also something about him looking like a wet rat? And it was a good thing? Bill didn’t ask. Or, rather, he had asked and she brushed him off and because he knew Stanley will flay him alive if he lays a finger on either niece or nephew, he let it go.

Pine Tree has been a lot more hesitant in his behavior, sure, but he’s recently started being in the same room with Bill and musing aloud in ways that Bill knows are directed at him without talking to him. Pine Tree will state something stupid about the state of the town and when Bill corrects him, he’ll scribble it down, go silent, then rinse and repeat.

Stan has been… well, they were avoiding each other without problem. The closest they get to a conversation is when they’re both sitting in the living room after everyone else has gone to bed and before Stan goes to his bed and Bill passes out on the sofa. Their talk is a roundabout back and forth about complaining about what’s on the television and saying there’s “never anything good on”. Occasionally Bill will liken something on the screen to something he’s seen on television in other dimensions, Stan will grunted, and then they go back to silence.

They’ve also worked out a system where they’re allies in their silent agreement to watch The Duchess Approves as long as no one else finds out about it.

…and then there’s Ford.

They haven’t been in the same room as each other outside of dinner even remotely. Bill doesn’t look at him, Ford doesn’t acknowledge him, and it’s fine.

It’s fine.

It doesn’t bother him even a little that Ford won’t even look at him, won’t talk to him. Doesn’t bother him that when Bill does talk, he rolls his eyes. It doesn’t bother him either that Ford gets up every time Bill enters the room even for a moment. It’s not like he cares about the asshole or wants to see him. It’s fine for Bill.

Fine, fine, fine, fine, fine.

And because it is so fine, he’s not sure what exactly caused him to get mouthy with Sixer the night before.

Ford had made some inane comment and Bill couldn’t help but correct him. Over a trillion years in the multiverse, he knows when he’s right about something.

Ford bit back.

And Bill argued against.

It’d devolved into a petty back-and-forth, both of them digging their claws in places it shouldn’t go without caring for the carnage it spread.

It ended when Bill called Ford “my shining star” like this was just a philosophical disagreement thirty-one years prior.

He shouldn’t have done that.

The next thing Bill knew, he and Ford were rolling on the ground, fists flying and snarling at one another. Ford caught him in the nose, Bill punched him in the mouth, both of them scratching and pulling hair like a pair of animals.

It took Stanley and Soos both to pull them apart, both of them still swinging until they were forced to calm down.

After that, Bill had left his unfinished dinner to sit on the roof and wait out everyone else’s dinner. It was only because the blood wouldn’t stop flowing from his nose while the blood on his knuckles had dried uncomfortably to the point he kept accidentally ripping it when he flexed his hand that convinced him to go downstairs.

He’s still figuring out this whole human thing and, yeah, he was fumbling with the tape and his nose was dripping all over everything and he was fighting not to get it on the stupid sweater he got from Shooting Star and—

That’s how Ford found him.

There were no words as he crowded into the small bathroom with him, took off his gloves, and started to doctor Bill.

Neither of them say that there’s something familiar about this, them being together while cleaning up blood and puss and setting bones, usually injuries inflicted on Ford by Bill. There’s probably something funny about the idea of it being the other way around now.

They’re both too tired or embarrassed to say anything for awhile, but then Ford makes an innocuous statement that raises Bill’s hackles and there goes the peace. Then they’re shoving and pushing into a wall, Bill effectively having Ford cornered against it, chest-to-chest, spitting in each other’s faces, and then—

Then they were decidedly not fighting.

“Yeah, well, Fordsy is a know-it-all prick who doesn’t actually know everything,” Bill defends. “He started the fight.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Red replies in a singsong voice.

“And who’s telling you this?!”

“Don’t worry about it.” Red goes quiet for a moment, but he knows she’s still staring at him. “Did you two really make out though?”

Bill is quiet, can’t quite find the words he wants to say about this. Was his tongue in Ford’s mouth? Yes. Were Ford’s hands in his hair? Also yes. Did Stan walk in while Bill’s hand was halfway down the front of Ford’s pants? Regrettably.

“It was a… heat of the moment thing.”

“Wow. I mean, I knew you two were something back then, but I figured you two had, you know, moved past that.”

Bill doesn’t respond for awhile, leaning back to sweep the dust into the garbage bag he’s holding.

“So did I.”

[uniquethingtastemaker]

The Rook x Observant Reader got even longer. I’m not even talking the current word count which is 39k. I’m talking I have more idea to fit in the end so the entire theme of the fanfic is more wholistic. Yes, there are core themes in this like real novels or short stories. There’s even foreshadowing. I intentionally use story structure to enhance the reader’s experience. I make sure that there’s no scenes that are not there for a reason. If I could take it out of the story and it would still make sense, I’ve banished it to the scrap pile.

I have no idea how this happened. I’m as surprised as everyone else. I’ve been in shock for the past 3 hrs.

Some of these things I didn’t even plan until I looked a little closer and analyzed it and went “oh my god! The parallels!” You’ll get it once you read it.

I’m still in shock but I have to share because wtf. I didn’t plan any of this. It just happened and it’s smart