#fandomculture

If Sylvia Plath wrote about Bellatrix Lestrange, she would not be writing about a cartoonish villain. She would be writing a descent into the glass jar of obsession, blood purity, and the terrifying, cold hunger for something that makes a person feel alive. Plath was a master of the internal landscape, where the mind is a terrain of jagged glass, cold static, and burning intensity.

For Plath, Bellatrix would not just be a Death Eater. She would be a woman who has systematically stripped away everything in herself that is not Lestrange or Black, only to find that what remains is a hollow, electric rage.

The Plath Blueprint for Your Fic

Has Bromance Disappeared — Or Did We Just Rename It?

It’s Thursday. It’s technically Theory Time.

But today isn’t a wild plot twist theory. It’s something else.

It’s a pattern I’ve been noticing for years — something that feels cyclical, almost inevitable — and yet somehow new every time it happens.

I want to talk about the disappearance of “bromance.”

Because I genuinely think it doesn’t exist anymore.

Or rather — it gets renamed.

And once it gets renamed, it never goes back.

When Bromance Used to Be a Thing

There was a time when intense male friendships were allowed to just… be intense friendships.

We had:

Merlin — Arthur and Merlin.

X-Men: First Class — Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr (McAvoy and Fassbender era).

Supernatural — Dean and Sam (yes, even there).

The O.C. — Seth and Ryan.

Even older duos like Starsky & Hutch.

Back then, intense bonds were often labeled bromance.

People made edits. People wrote meta. People joked about “they love each other more than anyone else.”

But it largely stayed in the realm of friendship — powerful, consuming, emotional friendship.

Now?

That same dynamic almost automatically becomes romantic or sexual in fandom spaces.

The word bromance feels… extinct.

The Modern Pattern

Let’s look at more recent examples:

Supergirl — Kara and Lena.

9-1-1 — Buck and Eddie.

Once Upon a Time — Regina and Emma.

These are relationships built on loyalty, emotional intimacy, sacrifice, protectiveness.

And they are almost immediately categorized as romantic by large portions of fandom.

Now let me be very clear:

This is not about sexuality being the issue.

I loved Kurt and Blaine in Glee. I love Yuri and Charlie in School Spirits.

Queer ships are not my problem.

My question is different.

Why does intense emotional connection now almost require romantic framing?

Why can’t we let certain relationships exist as something beyond labels?

The Agape Problem

I think part of this is that we’ve lost a category.

There’s friendship. There’s romantic love. There’s sexual attraction.

But what about something else?

There’s a concept — agape. A kind of love that transcends romance, transcends friendship, transcends physical desire. It’s total. It’s consuming. It’s soul-level connection without needing to become sexual or romantic.

Some relationships on screen feel like that.

Buck and Eddie sometimes feel like that. Kara and Lena sometimes feel like that. Regina and Emma, in a different way, felt like that.

And instead of allowing that category to exist, we flatten it.

We rename it romance.

Or we dismiss it entirely.

And in doing so, we kind of erase the possibility that friendship — or something adjacent to it — can be just as epic as romance.

“But Shipping Isn’t Harmful”

Here’s where it gets complicated.

Shipping is creative. It’s fandom expression. It’s imagination. It’s community.

But I’ve noticed something shift.

Years ago, you could say: “I love their bromance.”

And no one attacked you.

Now, if you say: “I see them as friends.”

You can get treated like you’re denying something sacred.

Like you’re blind. Or worse — like you’re bigoted.

And that’s the part that genuinely confuses me.

Because in earlier eras, fandom could hold both:

“I ship them romantically.”

“I love their friendship.”

Now it often feels like it has to be one or the other.

Is This Cultural?

So here’s my actual theory:

Maybe we’ve become so starved for meaningful emotional intimacy in media — especially between men — that the only framework we recognize for deep vulnerability is romance.

If two men share emotional openness, protectiveness, devotion — we assume it must be romantic.

But why?

Why can’t male intimacy be allowed to exist without being sexualized?

Why can’t two women share obsessive loyalty without it being read as suppressed romance?

Why did bromance fade away as a label around 2018–2019?

Because it did.

And the shift feels noticeable.

The Personal Layer

I’ll admit something personal.

I once experienced that kind of connection in real life.

A bond that didn’t fit friendship. Didn’t fit romance. Didn’t fit anything neat.

It was just… my person.

That person died.

And I’ve never experienced that kind of connection again.

So when I see those dynamics on screen, they comfort me.

They remind me of something pure.

And maybe that’s why I resist when every intense bond gets automatically reframed as sexual or romantic.

Because sometimes the beauty is in the ambiguity.

Sometimes the beauty is in not labeling it at all.

So Here’s My Question

Why do you think bromance disappeared?

Why does intense emotional intimacy now almost automatically get romanticized?

Is it cultural evolution? Fandom amplification? Queer coding awareness? Loneliness? Media literacy shifts?

Or am I just nostalgic for a category that doesn’t exist anymore?

This isn’t a fight.

It’s a genuine Theory Time.

In Stranger Things, the monsters aren't just the creatures from the Upside Down — they're the way people change when fear and conformity take hold.

The show has always been about people learning to see difference as strength, not danger. But somewhere along the way, the fandom built around that message started reflecting the very thing the story warns us about.

It's been such a joy to follow discussions, get hyped over new promotional material, and theorise about Season 5. There's something special about feeling part of a community that's just as excited as you are.

And yet, that same community can be disheartening to witness. Comment sections fill with hostility; hate laced with homophobia, ignorance met with smug superiority, a need to win. It's a constant reminder of how easily the internet strips away people's empathy.

This is a show about empowering outsiders and accepting people for their differences, and yet the discourse often feels like the exact opposite.

The hate directed at Finn Wolfhard and Gaten Matarazzo simply because what they found most entertaining about a scene wasn't what fans wanted to hear...that's not passion, it's petty.

Likewise, the hostility toward the Duffer Brothers, the cast, the promotional team — with accusations of pandering to "Byler" fans or sidelining "Mileven" fans — comes across as a refusal to step back from a narrow view to consider other possibilities. Most people don't want to seem close-minded, so you'll see demands like "show me the evidence", though rarely with genuine curiosity. Evidence doesn't land when someone feels their sense of self or worldview is being threatened — and if it did, the mountain of analysis already circulating would speak for itself. It runs deeper than just wanting your favourite characters to end up together.

When people snidely remark "it's not that deep," what they really mean is "I don't want to think about it." We've been trained to treat emotional or analytical depth as pretentious rather than participatory, even though curiosity is what stories are for. Anti-intellectualism is a sibling to forced conformity: it punishes those who look closely. People with different life experiences often notice truths we can't yet see — not because they're inventing them, but because the story speaks their language.

And that's what makes the fandom discourse feel so eerily on-theme. The need to be right, to have your ideas affirmed, to silence or ridicule other interpretations — it's all a kind of forced conformity. You can see it play out in every comment section: "Mileven endgame!" and "Byler endgame!" shouted under every post, each side circling back to mock the other with "your ship is sinking" sentiments. It stops being discussion and turns into performance, a ritual of shouting until everyone agrees.

Even language like "Milkvan" the Byler community began using to avoid harassment from Mileven fans, even seems to have been weaponised. The irony is hard to miss: a word invented to create distance from hostility has become another way to signal allegiance.

But the show we're fighting over has been telling us from the beginning that this instinct — to demand sameness, to crush difference — is the monster. The Mind Flayer spreads by making everything a part of itself. When we treat fandom like a battlefield instead of a conversation, we're doing the same thing: trying to force each other into one mind.

The challenge we all face is learning how to stay curious — even when we disagree.

Roll for Insight — Can you spot the monster hiding in plain sight? (DC: 15, disadvantage if keyboard is weapon of choice.)

Other posts in this series:

Roll for Empathy — An Introduction

When Marvel editor Tom Brevoort said he would rather make Marvel fans angry than have them be indifferent, the quote immediately made the rounds online. It is the sort of thing that sounds bold in a soundbite. It suggests a creator who values passion and engagement over apathy.

But the more I think about that statement, the more it bothers me. Not just as a comment about Marvel Comics, but as a glimpse into a broader editorial philosophy that I hope never comes anywhere near Gargoyles.

Because the philosophy behind that quote is fundamentally adversarial. It treats the relationship between creators and audience as something combative. The idea is that provoking the audience is good because at least they are reacting.

But storytelling is not supposed to be a fight between the creators and the fans.

The best long form storytelling is a relationship built on trust. The audience invests their time, their attention, and their emotional energy in the story. In return, the storytellers reward that investment with thoughtful character development, meaningful consequences, and narratives that respect the intelligence of the audience.

When that relationship works, you do not need to deliberately provoke anger to maintain engagement. The audience is already invested because the story itself matters to them.

That is one of the reasons Gargoyles has endured for decades. The series was built from the beginning on the idea that the story mattered and that the audience mattered. It treated its characters seriously. It respected continuity. It allowed actions to have consequences that carried forward through the narrative.

And perhaps most importantly, it never treated the audience as something to manipulate.

What Brevoort’s comment suggests is a mindset that views the audience less as partners in the storytelling experience and more as a resource to be managed. If they are angry, that is fine. If they are arguing, that is fine. If they are frustrated, that is fine. As long as they are still paying attention.

But that mindset can easily lead to the kind of storytelling that prioritizes reaction over substance. Shock over meaning. Short term controversy over long term narrative integrity.

Anyone who has followed the comics industry for a long time has seen this pattern play out repeatedly. A shocking twist. A controversial character decision. A sudden retcon designed to generate headlines and online arguments.

For a while, it works. People argue about it. Social media explodes with reactions.

But the long term effect is erosion. Readers begin to feel that their emotional investment is being used against them. That the story is less about the characters and more about generating the next moment of outrage or surprise.

Eventually the audience stops reacting.

Eventually they stop caring.

And that is exactly why the idea of Marvel having any kind of influence over Gargoyles makes me uneasy.

Gargoyles is not a property that thrives on shock value or manufactured controversy. Its strength has always been its careful world building and its respect for long term narrative structure. The series rewards viewers and readers who pay attention. It builds its mythology piece by piece, letting the characters grow and evolve over time.

That kind of storytelling requires patience. It requires a creative team that values consistency and long term planning over short term reaction.

Most importantly, it requires a philosophy that sees the audience as something to respect rather than something to provoke.

When I hear a major comics editor say that anger from fans is preferable to indifference, what I hear is an editorial mindset that measures success by noise rather than by storytelling quality.

And that is exactly the sort of mindset that Gargoyles has always avoided.

Which is why, if the choice ever arose, I would much rather see Gargoyles remain exactly where it is now than be absorbed into a publishing environment driven by that philosophy.

Every time I hit “publish” on a new fic, I brace myself — not for hate, not for mistakes, but for silence. And more often than not, that silence comes when I’ve written something without romance at its core.

Because let’s face it: if your fic doesn’t have shipping, it’s statistically doomed to underperform.

💔 According to AO3 data, more than 85% of bookmarked and hit-count-heavy fics are tagged with romantic or sexual pairings. And when you look at Tumblr reblogs, Twitter/X rec threads, and even fanfic awards? The trend is clear: love stories dominate. And if your fic is about found family, grief, personal growth, moral conflict, or slice-of-life friendship moments... well. Good luck breaking 500 hits.

And that’s not wrong. Romance is powerful. It’s emotional, it’s validating, and it drives plot with satisfying clarity. A well-written ship can change how we read canon — and ourselves.

But still. Sometimes I wish that a fic about a character rebuilding their identity post-trauma got the same attention as one where they kiss someone for the first time. That we could crave inner worlds as much as we crave intimacy.

🔍 Writing gen (general) fiction isn’t just harder to get read. It’s harder to get noticed, categorised, or even respected. You tag it as “gen,” and people assume it’s dry, boring, plot-only, or worse: that you’re playing it safe. That you’re not going deep enough.

But I am going deep. I just want to explore the ache of legacy. Or the cost of violence. Or what it means to be loyal when no one asks you to be. And yes, sometimes those things matter more than “will they or won’t they.”

📉 I've seen incredible character studies sink unnoticed while fluff-fics soar. And again: romance isn’t the problem. The bias is.

We all say we love worldbuilding. Character arcs. Quiet moments. But fandom attention doesn’t always reflect that. And for those of us who write gen, it’s easy to feel invisible.

I'm a romance writer, at least, always with a bit of romance. I shouldn't be complaining… but I am. Or rather, I reflect, I reflect on my own bias, on whether I review Gen fanfics or not, on how I organize my searches, on whether I'm being unfair to myself by not giving my soul different stories to feed on.

🧠✨ If you’re one of the readers who leaves kudos, reblogs, or comments on these kinds of fics — thank you. You’re rare, and you make all the difference.

And if you’re a writer feeling discouraged? I see you. Your work is powerful. Even if it doesn’t trend. Even if it doesn’t get shouted about. Even if it’s read in silence, at 2 a.m., by someone who desperately needed it.

Keep writing. Not everything that matters gets bookmarked.

This isn’t an attack on Lili Reinhart. Nor on Meghan Markle, Amber Heard, or Blake Lively. Nor on their fans. It’s an invitation to look more carefully at what we consume as empowerment… and what we defend as if it were sacred.

These figures have publicly shared their pain. They’ve spoken about anxiety, trauma, heartbreak, injustice. And at first glance, that seems brave. But when that pain becomes identity, personal brand, emotional content, something gets distorted.

And the most unsettling part isn’t just how they narrate it. It’s how we protect it.

Fandoms have built emotional sanctuaries around these women. A need to care for them, defend them, shield them from any criticism. And anyone perceived as a “harmer”—an ex, a colleague, a journalist, even another woman—becomes a public enemy.

Context doesn’t matter. Truth doesn’t matter. What matters is protecting the wounded woman.

And that’s where feminism starts to wobble. Because that protection isn’t empowerment. It’s infantilization.

We’re unknowingly returning to the most damaging model of all: the woman-child. The one who needs to be cared for. The one who can’t be questioned. The one who never errs, because her pain absolves her.

That model doesn’t liberate. It traps us in a narrative where fragility is a virtue, and criticism is violence. Where suffering becomes a shield, and vulnerability an emotional currency.

But feminism isn’t that. It’s not about shielding famous women as if they were fragile creatures. It’s about demanding —as we would from any public figure— coherence, accountability, transformation.

We can acknowledge pain without putting it on a pedestal. We can accompany without idolizing. We can care without infantilizing.

Because we deserve models who not only survive their wounds, but transcend them with strength, thought, and community.

If this makes you uncomfortable, touches you, moves you… then we’re already doing something. Because change begins when we stop looking with tenderness and start seeing with clarity.