The day you google “[name of the couple ] fanfiction”, the game is over. You don’t get off the Fanfiction Train, full stop. It’s like in those nightmares where you try to run away from horrid monsters, but you just cannot run fast enough—and 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 it’s not like you read one fanfiction, no—you read tons of them. In a row. Overnight, generally. But it’s 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, it’s a computer screen.
This is the fifth stage, called the “Compulsive Reblogging Phase”. Hours and hours spent laughing like a moron on acid or sobbing your eyes out because “they are so beautiful omg and its so sad cuz they’re either fictional and NOT FUCKING CANON YET or real people and still so far in the closet they basically live in Narnia /loud sobs/.” Before you realize it, you’re twenty and you’re 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. It’s not, like, socially acceptable. Yet. You want your mum to think that you text all day long rather than to find out that you’re stuck with a +70000 words long fan fiction with a plot thinner than Dita Von Teese’s 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 “rimming”, “D/s”, and “PWP” (plot without plot, and that’s saying something) or even “butts getting fucked what else would you ask for really” 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: “I won’t obsess this time, I won’t exaggerate, I won’t get emotional over this"—it’s 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 yuou’re not in hell—you sit next to Satan.
Final note: if a fangirl denies spending AT LEAST one night per month curled up under the sheets with bloodshot eyes as she’s too absorbed by reading some PWP fanfiction on the screen of her smartphone to go to sleep—incidentally 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 Mexico—she is lying.
Because that’s how it goes.
That’s the utter truth.
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 you’re stronger than this, stronger than an OTP, okay. It’s your decision. It’s 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.