#self-insert characters

Evelyn’s pov

The car is fucking loud. Somehow, I notice it better in the daytime, when I’m driving at speed for eight hours with my sister bitching in the passenger seat. I adore my car, I do, but Doc is not subtle. Normally that works in my favour, but today? After almost eight hours of highways and freeways and other cars? It’s irking me.  Admittedly, everything is irking me at the moment. Everything from the curls that have come loose and sit around my eyes when I check my mirror to merge, to the brightness of the sky overhead, to the sound of Fiore continuing to have an issue with the upholstery on Doc's seats. 

“So have you figured out where I’m gonna drop you off yet?” I ask, cutting through the new round of complaints about the comfort of the leather seats. As though I had the time to put the seat covers on this morning when she was snarling and spitting and hissing like a feral cat. She pauses in the tirade to glance down at her unlocked phone, Carmine eyes scanning over messages between her and one of Whitebeard’s people, filling her in on the half a dozen fights set for tonight in our desired city. 

She twirls a piece of hair around her finger as if she hadn't just been threatening to skin my car. It’s bright orange as if it’d been dyed with the morning sun, and the dark brown closer to the roots looked like it was growing out, but she’d always been able to turn heads. “I’m thinking the one out in the dockyards. You know, with the warehouses?” Ignoring the almost white golden fox ears sprouting from her head and the nine tails to accompany them. “I remember.” I nod. Of course I did; one of the first fights she’d attended, though just as a spectator, was at those docks. Gramps always spent a decent chunk on gambles when they were hosted there, and Dad had still been trying to get him to quit it when we’d left. “Tell me which warehouse I’m dropping you off at so I’m ignorant. And don’t get caught.” “I’m not an idiot, Slut bag.” “I know, but it bears reminding.” I mutter. “You know as well as I do that it’s one of the favourites.” She rolls her eyes, folds her arms and turns away from me, “Whatever.”

I have never felt more like our father. “Fi, the warehouse?” “Seventeen,” She snaps, sharp teeth bared in mock warning. The drive is quiet from then on, at least for a while.

•°•°•❈•°•°•

We make it into the city, and more importantly to the warehouse, before the sun is fully down. Fiore grabs her go-bag that has all the shit she needs and climbs out silently. Before she can slam the door shut, I grab it and look out at her. She has her tails on display, a writhing mess of fluffy white-silver-grey behind her, and her ears poke up from the loose hair that sits around her face. I know that she’s been picking at her claws for hours, but she won’t let them scratch up the car. “Hey. Kick their asses. Don’t end up in the morgue.” She grins, her teeth all sharp and dangerous, “Of course. Don’t tell me what to do.” I roll my eyes, “Sure Fi, go win some money or whatever.” The door is closed before I sit back up properly, and she is inside the warehouse, probably going to register for at least half a dozen fights, or one particularly brutal one, depending on how she feels.

I leave as soon as she’s out of sight. Longer than I’m meant to stay, but not long enough to attract too much attention.  It’s an easy enough task to navigate my way through the familiar streets, deeper into the city, and then back out the other side again, even in the falling darkness. The houses in the suburbs all almost look the same, the lawns still evenly cut, the bushes and trees all still perfectly manicured.  When I get to the one I am looking for, I’m struck by how familiar it is, how I could almost step out of my car and walk back in time to the days after my graduation. The rose bushes were starting to bud, and the flowers would probably come out soon, the trees had been trimmed and were also starting to flower.  The porch light is off, which means that my parents aren’t home yet, and I honestly can’t be bothered with waiting for them, so I park on the grass, before reaching back to grab my own go-bag, electing to leave mine and Fiore’s main bags for now, and make my way to the ivy trellis.

Climbing the trellis was something Fiore and I only tried once or twice in highschool before we worked out that it was easier to steal the keys and plan to get back once our parents were asleep. Tempting, but not today, I think to myself, looking at the apparently newly trimmed ivy. I push the gate open, walking past the pool and onto the back patio. Dad had decided the foolproof method of us being able to get in would be a key, through the dog door they’d installed for Fiore. She’d been so insulted at the time that she made a point of finding any other way to get into the house, hence the ivy, and accompanying trellis. I reach through the dog door and grab the key, then unlock the back door. I head straight upstairs, the dining room a familiar blur of reds and blacks in the low light. It’s lit by a fish tank, pretty much the size of the wall. I pause. The fish tank is new, filled with what appears to be piranhas. Awesome, Dad had managed to talk Pops into piranhas.  “... what did they do to the turtles?” I murmur, my brow furrowing. We’d had the turtles since we were young, and I’d be beyond annoyed if Dad and Pops had gotten rid of them in exchange for piranhas. I shake off the thought, their tank is upstairs. I turn, walking up said stairs. 

The lounge is the same as I remember, as if it’d been left untouched in our absence. That wouldn’t be all that surprising, actually, dad is just sentimental like that. The turtle tank is there, against the wall beside the stairs. I lean down, peering into it. There’s… one turtle. Mikey, based on the chip in his shell. Odd. I’d have to ask pops about it later, he’d promised to do the maintenance while we were gone. Then I'm onto my bedroom, swinging the door wide open and dropping onto the end of my bed like a lump of rocks. The sheets are clean, scented like something vaguely floral. The walls are still pale teal, the room is exactly as I'd left it. Minus the dust, and the books I'd left stacked beside the desk. Pops hated it. And he’d just have to get used to it again. I don’t bother to do much more than kick off my shoes and pull the blanket from the end of the bed over me as I roll over.

•°•°•❈•°•°•

Fiore’s pov

To nobody’s surprise, and especially not my own, the docks smell like shit. I beat my fist on the door until a bouncer answers– he smells like sugar. Donuts. Sharp eyes and purple hair. Odd, but not unexpected in these parts. Not odd enough to be a signature. “What's the password?” he sounds like he could be more bothered to be there, but isn’t. “Let me the fuck in, is the password.” 

He pauses, before slamming the slider for the hole in the door shut. I start to kick it, hard enough to dent, before he opens it again. “What’s the password?” he repeats, sounding vaguely more interested in my presence than before. “Ever heard of Tiamat?” I ask, stepping back and crossing my arms. The tails and ears may look for show, but they do the intimidation tactic well. The man raises a brow, “Haven't heard that name in a while. What’s got you down here?” I make no attempt to hide my growing impatience. “What do you think, dipshit? Let me in or I’m going to kick down this fucking door.” “Alright, alright… Miss Tiamat.” he closes the slider, before opening the door. Tall, didn't expect him to be that tall.

“Right, thank you,” I say, walking inside. Must be one of Big Mom’s boys. It makes sense, given that she runs most of these places. It’s dark inside, as they all are, dimly lit with warm yellow lights. The patronage is nothing to write home about– old men who get off on the violence and the betting, young men who want to prove themselves in the next fight and middle-aged women who want to pay for a rough night with the hottest fighters.

I turn back to the bouncer, “tell me, who’s the best fighter here tonight?” “The best fighter, Miss? Well, for the younger men–” “I’m not looking for a fuck, asshole,” I snap, “set me up against the best fighter you’ve got here tonight.” He pauses, an amused expression on his face. “Very well, Miss.”

I walk away, towards the ring that the patrons had circled around, the sound of flesh striking flesh echoing with the hollering of the crowd. I follow the sound, face schooled into its regular scowl. This wasn’t impressive, compared to the ones I'd seen in Whitebeard’s territory. Haruta had been fucking ridged about that shit, and there’d still managed to be full-to-the-brim venues every time. I slip past a pair of men, peering into the fight. A scrawny looking younger man, and a built-up man, probably in his thirties. Neither look as though they'd be the best of the night, though the older one looks worn, like he does this for a living.

It takes about half an hour until I'm called on– which I spend finding the bar. A bar at a warehouse? More likely than you’d think. I’m two drinks in before a tall, masked man approaches. Muscled, long blonde hair– I’m fighting this guy? “You’re Tiamat?” he asks. “Asked for the strongest fighter here? He’s ready.” Fucking finally. “Great. So it’s not you, then?” I remain leaning against the bar, chin propped up on my palm. “No ma’am. You’ll be against my boss. Eustass Kidd” I raise a brow. “Never heard of him.” “Must be new to the city, ma’am.”

He escorts me to the ring, offering no new information about his supposedly well known boss. If Dad never mentioned it, I'm sure this guy is just up his ass about himself. When I step into the ring, I see the opposition. A monolith of a man, with a– “I’m not fighting a fucking cripple.” “And I’m supposed to fight some mite-sized prissy cunt who’s too big for her damn britches?” I pause for a long moment. Before bursting out laughing. “Oh, I'm gonna kill you.”

•°•°•❈•°•°•

Third pov

The fight begins with a bang. Literally. Kidd hits the floor as Fiore tackles him, and he manages to grab her by the ankle, slamming her into the wooden floor. Once the two are up again, it’s blow after blow. A broken nose on Kidd’s end and a broken rib on Fiore’s. Both are grinning wildly, exchanging one vulgar insult for the other. “You look like your mother half swallowed.” “You look like you dance on poles for a living.” The crowd is laughing as if it’s a comedy show– and the middle-aged women look like they’re taking hits of secondhand embarrassment. Which is fucking hilarious, because Fiore’s pretty sure that was a compliment. Killer’s right up at the barricade, more curious than ever because he can see that his boss isn’t pulling his punches but is intentionally missing vital spots. He can see that Tiamat is doing the same– hitting spots that’ll bruise, visibly. God he wants to leave, this place is full of a vomiting amount of sexual tension.

Fiore manages to get her arms around Kidd from behind, knees in his back so he can’t get her off. He gets increasingly agitated the less he can breathe. So he taps out. 

He. 

Taps. 

Out. 

The crowd goes silent.

Fiore jumps off him, dusting her hands off as if touching the man had disgusted her. Kidd watches her with his usual scowl. “What’s your name?” he asks, rubbing his throat with his flesh hand. “Why do you care?” she responds, a smirk on her pink lips.  “You just kicked my ass, little girl.”

Self-insert fanfics are mostly frowned upon or thought to be childish, because who inserts themselves into a story? Pssh! Personally, I feel like these types of fanfics are incredibly difficult and easy to write at the same time. First off, you have to make sure that your OC/self-inserted character fits in with the narrative. You have to be careful not to turn them into a complete Mary Sue. Secondly, these types of fanfics do not get a lot of readers or have huge readership across the fandoms. 

Mostly, it depends on which fandom you are in and which online platform you upload your fanfiction on. Ao3 readers do not read self-insert fanfictions, wattpad readers adore them, and ffn.net is 50-50/undecided on them. Still, it isn’t easy work. (Writing isn’t easy, but that’s a topic for an entirely different day.) You, as a writer, have to make sure that your self-inserted character is well-liked, that it resonates well with the readers, that the readers don’t turn away from your story halfway through because they don’t like your OC anymore.

Sometimes readers can get irritated when an OC is inserted into a fanfic, and they can stop reading it. Self-insert fanfics are those stories that we make up in our heads when we watch a show or a movie, or read a book or play a video game, and imagine that we are actually a part of it. We, as writers do have to be careful while writing self-inserts, because the results can be disastrous if done wrongly.

My very first fanfiction was a self-insert. I had discovered ffn.net a few months before that and had read tens and hundreds of fanfics before deciding to post my own. It was tough, and the fanfic just happened to be a crossover between two shows, but it worked. It slowly gained popularity as I uploaded it onto another platform where these fanfics were readily accepted. 

After that, I wrote several fanfics where I added the same OC with the same name. She had different personalities and different characteristics in different fanfics, but I got the same comments on all of those stories. 

‘I love your self-inserted character,’ ‘She’s so great in every one of your fics’, ‘How do you make her so likeable in every one of your stories’. The answer is simple. She is likeable because she is relatable. She has flaws. She is human. She is me. She isn’t who I wish to be, she isn’t this picture-perfect version of me. There is conflict within her, she has her flaws, and she isn’t loved by everyone, but she does care, and she is loved by people close to her.

Make your self-inserted character human. If she/he is going to be you, make her an authentic you, with the conflicts and the insecurities and the likes and dislikes. Make your OC selfish but caring. She/he cares about other people but does not put their lives or their problems above her/his own. Make them friendly but blunt, let them be imperfect. That is how you know that they will be loved.