Literally Just Fanfic Ideas @just-fanfic-ideas - Tumblr Blog

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onenicebugperday

Baby sea lions are a kind of grub

I like to think eventually sea lions will turn into beetles

its-a-beautful-day

This was such a fun idea to draw!! Absolutely would love to see sea lion sized diving beetles 💖

heywriters

If you want to write a dumb little story with a dumb little plot and ridiculously silly characters. No one's stopping you. Genuinely, no one should be allowed to stop you. Write that dumb story with your whole heart and don't hold back.

prokopetz

I love it when you see art of, like, a big fuckoff werewolf raging in perfectly fitted Regency finery. Like, that stuff doesn't stretch – there are only two ways this scenario happens, and both of them have fascinating implications:

Their werewolf transformation magically resizes their clothes to fit their hulking nine-foot-tall beastman form, and understands the principles of tailoring well enough to make that look good; or

They've had outfits specially made for their hulking nine-foot-tall beastman form, and the ravening ragebeast they become makes a point of changing before going forth to rampage and slaughter.

dajo42

if a supervillain said "you wont kill me thatd make you just like me" i would simply say "no it wouldnt id be saving millions of people" and the villain would say "but youd be dooming yourself. could you really live knowing youre a killer" and id say "well id certainly have trouble. ill probably be very sad about it. definitely a lot to unpack" and theyd say "so you wont do it" and id say "oh no im still gonna" and theyd say "what" and id say "youre a supervillain responsible for countless deaths and yet here you are desperately trying to bargain for your life. you want to live. which means you can easily live with yourself after being responsible for countless deaths. i, on the other hand, will at the very least have tremendous difficulty with even killing just one person and at worst might just jump out a window right after i do it. the very nature of this whole conversation about whether we are the same has proven to me we are very much not the same and i am certain killing you to save millions is the morally correct decision here" and theyd say "what" and id say "get killed idiot"

becomingsoup

hello everyone, hope you enjoy this lab mouse adaptation of Frankenstein; I am completely exhausted

just-evo-now

… i saw this without the caption at first and i thought it was a lab mouse desperately trying to fix his friend who had been sacrificed

tlbodine

The implications of “what if Frankenstein, but mouse” are vast and deserve careful follow-up and contemplation.

ceekari

@kriber

thoughtsformtheuniverse

#for real though#what if we were both experimented on and we were nothing but test subjects and you were the only light in my life and I in yours#what if we saw each other through it all#what if we didn’t get to be people what if we didn’t get to determine our own fates what if we were cut into again and again#what if you died and I didn’t – a failed experiment and a successful one – what if you died and the world didn’t end#what if I said no. no. this will not stand.#what if I took all that had been done to us and I did it to others ruthlessly and without hesitation#for the slightest chance I could have you back#what if I treated them like disposable things – like we have always been treated – what if I said they don’t matter#only you do#in exactly the same way you and I have never mattered#what if I refused to let death part us#what if I pieced you back together with the flesh of our kindred and it worked and you lived#what if you were my creature and I was the monster that made you#what if you were my friend and I lost you and I got you back and I lost myself#what if I loved you to the point of atrocity#what if I pulled on the thread holding your body together and did not weep and did not know if the love was enough

#and we were both mice

tags via @aethersea because holy shit

the-modern-typewriter

“How can you not be angry?”

“I am angry,” the werewolf said. “But unlike you, I don’t have the luxury of showing it without being called a monster. Without someone taking it as a sign of proof that I need to be put down like a rabid dog, that I’m just like what the stories tell you.”

“But everyone gets angry…that’s human.”

“Up until the point when you’re not human.”

mckitterick

such a wonderful metaphor for anyone Othered by society

kittsman

The mightiest warrior, Sir Pigglesworth.

ayellowbirds

i didn’t know what i needed to see to motivate me this morning. Apparently it was a cavy in bronze scale. Gods bless.

thefingerfuckingfemalefury

He is a noble knight in days of old!

iguanamouth

they are Questing

nat-20s

unironic number one most important and useful writing tip I can give you is to make your women weirder. If your female characters are feeling flat or one dimensional give them a odd lil obsession or hobby. ESPECIALLY the sexy characters add a little “strange and offputting” spice in there and I’ll 1000% guarantee they’ll become better. Listen to me. Listen to ME it’ll work or your money back let the femme fatale give live newts to people as thanks and she’s become a more engaging and realized person.

and-corn

are evil dragons really evil, or are they just vitamin D deficient?

peach-pot

trans guy who doesn’t realize he’s turning into a werewolf because he assumes it’s all just normal side effects of starting testosterone

toastyglow

one of my dreams last night went like this:

there's a couple who wants a child. but there's no stork to bring them a baby.

instead, a big frog shows up on their doorstep with two wooden boxes and says they must choose one, but beware! if they choose wrong, the baby will be as ugly as the frog itself!

rather than feel trepidation, the couple instead starts gushing over how cute the frog is, actually! at which point the frog itself transforms into an adorable baby for them to keep.

the end!

jonahmagnus

In world where there is two types of tower-dwellers, a Princess is locked in a tower.

There are two types of tower-people: A Princess, put there to remain pure until marriage or until rescued, and a Wizard, put there by choice to study and learn in isolation. Princesses are defined by their beautiful long hair, and wizards are defined by their beards and impressive 'stache.

There is a Princess, and she lives in a tower. She was put there recently by her mother and father, to keep her pure and untouched until they can secure the marriage to another kingdom and a prince shes never met. She has long, almost brown sandy-blonde hair, pale green eyes and a slim, tender build. She is not the fairest in the land, but she is fair and pretty. If compared to a rose, she would be the humble yet graceful willow tree, slender and tall. She has wanted to be a wizard since a young age, but there is no way for a Princess to become a wizard. Princesses are delicate girls to be protected and sold off until their either dead or Queens or have found True Love.

She used to run the castle halls, stick in hand, robe fashioned out of a delicate silk bedsheet, shouting fake spells at birds while her servants chased her. But as she grew older, her restraints became tighter, and more and more often, she was confined in her room to embroider in solitude with barely the comfort of a window or a maid. The life she is forced into makes her hang her head low, makes her hands be paper-soft, and demands her hair be long and beautiful and perfect like all other Princesses. The world she longed to be a part of was a world of study and experimentation, and as the kingdoms Princess and tool, she could not even dare to hint at her desires into adulthood. She could become a witch, she knew, flee the castle barefoot and sink into the loving embrace of the swamp. But witches don’t live in towers, and they mostly make potions instead of spells, and they don’t grow the flowing whimsical beards that wizards do.

But that does not mean she has to be bored in her tower. Fascinated by magic as she always has been, she arranges with a long string of bribes for books on spells and forbidden potions to be smuggled along with her meals. She studies them while the clock ticks down for either a prince to arrive or her marriage to be finalized. Either one will doom her, and she wants to enjoy herself as much as possible until her marriage. She pours over the books long into the night by candlelight, and all day, she rests her pale, tired eyes. She experiments, and she reads, and she studies non-stop, barely stopping for meals and littering her books with an assortment of food stains. She cuts off her hair to use in bubbling gold potions, her skin becomes scarred with a rainbow of the consequences of failed experiments, and her dresses turn into makeshift cheesecloths and fire-fuel. She washes late into the night after she is done with her work for the day in the darkness, not glancing into the mirror that has become cracked and dusty. When her eyesight starts to fail from strain and working in darkness, she fashions for herself bottle-round glasses, blown by herself in the depths of her tower. Engrossed as she is in her studies, she does not notice the tower warp, and the meals stop rotting, and how she started out in one circular room but now has a loft and a second floor and the fact that the tower seems much much taller then it was originally.

What she DOES notice though, is when brushing crumbs from her face she feels facial hair on her upper lip.

She rushes to the bathroom and thrusts a candle into the holder as she looks at herself. In the dusty mirror, she sees the beginnings of a bushy mustache sit on her upper lip, much further along in growth then be logically possible without her noticing. It’s a pale blonde, like her hair, and she notices faintly that there are streaks of grey in it, a very familiar shade of grey. She brings a trembling hand to her upper lip.

Much, much later, a prince rides up to the tower. It is tall, and warped, and very clearly belonging to a wizard, despite the royal family claiming their daughter lives here.

He shouts up, a bit nervous because of the thorny vines wrapping the beautiful stonework.

“Hey! Does a Princess live here?”

A young man with large bottle glasses and a rather impressive mustache leans out of the tower, his short, sandy-blonde hair spilling lightly in the wind. He starts to say something, then glances back into his house. A smile breaks out on his face as he seems to realize something.

“No!” He shouts back, after a moments hesitation. “But a wizard does!”

wizard-email

It's been a while since I've seen new tumblr fairytale :)

writing-prompt-s

Why did you give the last of your food to that poorly disguised mimic? You were finally at peace with letting go, but now this odd thing won’t leave you alone and is even turning itself into various items in an attempt to aid you.

flower-in-a-horror-novel

The mimic is a young one, and you knew that from the moment you laid eyes on it. It was disguised as a crate, but the angles weren’t quite right. The corners were a little lopsided, and if you looked hard enough you could make out the creature’s mouth.

A sigh escapes you as you toss over the last of your rations, not even bothering to stand up as you do so. What’s the point? You think. I’ve been trapped in this cave for days, nobody is looking for me, and the monsters are closing in. Why should I bother even trying? I could just fall asleep now, and let this little mimic eat me too.

The thing is… it doesn’t. It eats your rations, but when you lay down and try to sleep, it doesn’t attack. You do hear it move closer, but you don’t open your eyes until you feel something nudge your hand. As you barely open your eyes, you can see that the mimic has morphed itself into a crude sword. You can’t help but chuckle.

“You’re cute, but I don’t have anything left to give you.” You don’t have anything left to give for yourself either, but you don’t say so.

The mimic doesn’t seem to take no for an answer. It becomes a dagger, then an axe, then a staff, as though it’s trying to determine what your preffered weapon is.

“Listen, I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but it’s not working. I’m not going to pick you up and take you into some other part of this stupid cave system. Nice try, though.”

You turn away from it and attempt to sleep again. As you do so, you find yourself shivering. You really wish, as you doze off, that you had a blanket.

When you wake, much later, you’re surprised to find yourself covered with the warmest blanket you’ve ever had. You quickly sit up, eagerly hoping that someone had cone for you, but the cave is empty. When you look at the blanket, you notice the imperfect edges and the janky seam across the middle.

“…why haven’t you eaten me yet?” You ask the little mimic that’s now laying on top of you. “What’s wrong with you?”

The mimic, still in the form of the blanket, slithers off of you, but it does not respond. Instead, it begins taking the form of weapons again. When it turns into a crooked staff, you reach out, despite yourself. Your fingers wrap around it and you use it to haul your aching, injured body to your feet. “I guess there are probably nicer places to die.”

You know you won’t get far. And you don’t. Especially not without light. The mimic doesn’t seem too bothered, though. When you collapse again, it scuttles off. Perhaps this was simply where it wanted you to take it. Perhaps now you can finally succumb to your exhaustion.

Then, a few minutes later, a misshapen clay cup bumps against your hand. It’s full of water, and there’s a crack in the middle like a jagged mouth. You pick up the cup and you drink, telling yourself it’s only out of desperation. When you set the cup down, that little cracked mouth seems to smile.

This goes on for what feels like days. The mimic helps you limp along through the tunnels, transforming into whatever you may need at any given time. Every time you fall asleep, you expect not to wake up. Yet, you do, usually with a mimic blanket wrapped around you. It brings you food and water when you can.

The biggest surprise comes when one morning, you find you’re pleased to have survived another night. You’re happy to have the mimic keeping you warm. It’s a new feeling, and a confusing one, but it’s not unpleasant.

The other monsters that you know are down here seem to leave you alone for the most part. You aren’t sure why. It crosses your mind that maybe it has something to do with the mimic. Then again, maybe they’re just waiting for you to die. Death is gradually beginning to sound less and less appealing.

The day you catch a glimpse of sunlight down a long and narrow tunnel is the first day you finally feel like your old self again. Your pace quickens, and you don’t need to lean on the mimic’s staff form quite so much. The illusion shatters when you reach the light’s source. A small gap, high above. You curl up on the floor and cry. When you finally have the strength to look up again, your mimic has become a ladder.

Getting up is hard, in your state. Climbing, even more so. But the ladder is the biggest and best transformation the mimic has done so far, and if it wants you to get out, then you can’t let it down.

You feel it push up under you when you reach the gap. It helps you squeeze through, and then… freedom. Fresh air, and sunlight. You lay on your back on the stone, and you pass out.

You wake up at sunset, with a blanket draoed over you. A blanket with a jagged seam down the middle.

creativepromptsforwriting

Another kind of diversity we need in writing is protagonists without love interests. Give me adults with full-fledged stories that don't include falling in love.

creativepromptsforwriting

This is definitely about more aroace protagonists, but also about characters that are just not in a place where they are interested in romance right now or where the story is just more important than any kind of love interest.