The day you google â[name of the couple ] fanfictionâ, the game is over. You donât get off the Fanfiction Train, full stop. Itâs like in those nightmares where you try to run away from horrid monsters, but you just cannot run fast enoughâand then you wake up panting and scared to death because they ate you. Now, can you picture Jack Dawson in your mind? Jack being dragged down along with the Titanic while fat-ass-Rose has her life vest to keep her head above water? Good. Because you are Jack. And itâs not like you read one fanfiction, noâyou read tons of them. In a row. Overnight, generally. But itâs still a fresh new obsession, you know, so you try your best in order to avoid the hardcore. You choose painful stories where they both die over gay smut, basically, because you know, you know that the smut is the final step towards damnation.
But then you do it. You do it, dammit.
You sell your soul to Satan.
You track their tag on Tumblr.
They make masterposts, AU memes, more fanarts, fan fictions, gifs. Millions of gifs. Billions of gifs. The light at the end of the tunnel is not an exit, itâs a computer screen.
This is the fifth stage, called the âCompulsive Reblogging Phaseâ. Hours and hours spent laughing like a moron on acid or sobbing your eyes out because âthey are so beautiful omg and its so sad cuz theyâre either fictional and NOT FUCKING CANON YET or real people and still so far in the closet they basically live in Narnia /loud sobs/.â Before you realize it, youâre twenty and youâre spending your days and nights dwelling on the imaginary sexual lives of two strangers/two fictional characters while your sexual life is the fucking Sahara.
(If you can see yourself in this description, welcome to Hell. Straight on and then turn right for the bedrooms. Say goodbye to the infamous light at the end of the tunnel and start filling the papers to take up residency.)
So. Here we are.
The penultimate phase. The smut. ESPECIALLY GAY SMUT, though no one would admit it out loud for, er, obvious reasons. Itâs not, like, socially acceptable. Yet. You want your mum to think that you text all day long rather than to find out that youâre stuck with a +70000 words long fan fiction with a plot thinner than Dita Von Teeseâs waist and a list of warnings that includes the letters B D S and M in various combinations.
You leave fanfiction.net to sail with your armada (pun intended) in the quest for NC17-frienfdly shores like livejournal, Tumblr and archiveofourown, where tags like ârimmingâ, âD/sâ, and âPWPâ (plot without plot, and thatâs saying something) or even âbutts getting fucked what else would you ask for reallyâ are an everyday thing and no one has any kind of restrain in matters of unutterable fantasies.
No matter how many times you tell youself: âI wonât obsess this time, I wonât exaggerate, I wonât get emotional over this"âitâs useless. You will.
We finally get to the last phase. The one where you start to feel like writing about the couple. At this point yuouâre not in hellâyou sit next to Satan.
Forever.
Final note: if a fangirl denies spending AT LEAST one night per month curled up under the sheets with bloodshot eyes as sheâs too absorbed by reading some PWP fanfiction on the screen of her smartphone to go to sleepâincidentally too terrified by the thought of being caught reading smut in the middle of the night by her parents to actually use the laptop and preserve her sight, as it would make her burn said laptop, change her name to Pepito and move to Mexicoâshe is lying.
Because thatâs how it goes.
Thatâs the utter truth.
Fangirl stuff.
Dearest reader, if you recognize yourself in one of the first few points, please, please run while you still can. Save yourself.
If you do not want to, if you think youâre stronger than this, stronger than an OTP, okay. Itâs your decision. Itâs your will. You are already in the tunnel, anyway. Sorry to tell you. You will find out soon enough and resign yourself to this truth.
You. Will. Not. Stop.
You will go down with your ship.
gracieabrams
dailybridgerton
areudirty
2087
