Fanfiction is "fiction written by a fan of, and featuring characters from, a particular TV series, movie, etc," according to Google. However, it is often one of the most misunderstood pieces of fandom-related creations. It seems to have a bad name in the world outside of fandoms as being largely pornographic, while inside fandoms it tends to be taken for granted. And while it is true that pornographic fanfictions and ones that aren't as well-written do exist, it's so much more than that.
For one, there are at least thousands of works on several platforms. The ones I use are FanFiction and Archive of Our Own ("ao3," my preferred platform), although there are others.
Outside of the porn stereotype, there are other misconceptions about fanfiction, including things about writing quality and the abilities of the writers themselves. Here's the thing: I have read fics (my short name for fanfictions) that are better than a lot of novels. I have been privileged to get to read works by some of the best authors I have ever come across. People who write fanfiction are seriously talented.
People also think that the content of fics are lesser, that they're all fluff and nothing heavy. I've read so many fics that completely contradict this, fics that deal with the foster system, mental illness, major world events, torture, the list goes on. I personally am writing about Broca's aphasia and depression -- it's not exactly sweet and cute.
But the misconceptions of fanfics can extend even into those who write them. For example, I hate admitting to my writers group that I've started another fic. I feel like they're judging me for not writing anything "real" or working on my novel.
That being said, there are a lot of great people who read fanfiction and leave the sweetest comments:
With the permission of the authors, I pulled two of my favorite fics to further explain what fanfiction really is (warnings: both fics contain some form of explicit material, mostly violence/torture, although I will avoid that here as best I can, and there will likely be spoilers for the fics in talking about them.)
The first is "This Hurricane" by Cameron Kennedy:
Three bullets. Two guns. One dead man, and one realization - "Nothing," Italy says coldly, with tears on his cheeks. "There is NOTHING I won't do to save Germany."
"This Hurricane" is written for the anime "Hetalia" (an anime featuring personified countries), but it holds none of the lightheartedness of its source material. Rather, it tackles an extremely dark topic -- World War II, and, more specifically, the Holocaust:
"Got deported to a camp. Specifically, to Auschwitz." He wipes an eye. "I'm so, so sorry."
The emotions are portrayed hyper-realistically and in a completely human manner. For example, the character of Prussia has to deal with the fact that his brother Germany is dying:
"GOTT VERDAMMT!"
A distinctly German scream echoes down the hall and causes both Italy and the guard to jump simultaneously. Moments later, a door at the opposite end of the hall is brutally slammed open, and a blur of a blue and white figure is screaming and cursing for all his worth.
"FICKEN! ARSCHLÖCKER! FICKEN FICKEN FICKEN! F-ficken! F-f-ficken!"
The man turns and notices Italy, and suddenly his expression of anger melds away into complete and utter hopelessness.
"...Ficken," he repeats to himself, very softly.
Italy never, ever could have predicted that Prussia would then sink to the floor, curl up in a ball, and begin sobbing.
There is also the idea of actions and the results of said actions, best shown in Italy himself:
"Well." Italy's own voice mocks the both of them; its tenor is dripping with a mixture of blood and tears. He brings his hand forward and tilts that chin at an angle so he can look directly at the face it belongs to. Except - eyes.
OhGod, the eyes -
- and Italy steps away.
Nevernevernever. Never.
"I - I should let you hang."
It's not mocking anymore; something has broken. Some part of the fire has gone out, leaving the ashes and a horrifying skeleton of what has already been done beyond repair. But maybe it's not too late - there was something else - Prussia's gun. "I should l-let you h-hang," he whispers. "B-but I can't anymore. Oh, oh Jesus, I - God, I can't!"
Never. Never?
He pulls the Walther out, cocks it, aims, and fires.
[...]
Italy runs. Germany reacts almost instantly, but Italians are naturally fast - Italy is already out the front door, heading towards the back of the house with the garden - is he wiping his eyes? - and the gun in his hand is slowly rising higher and higher towards his own head -
"Feliciano!"
And then the Italian is falling - he must have tripped on something, and he barely avoids falling into a nearby rosebush. The gun must have slipped from his hands, too, because Germany sees him trying to scramble for it in the wet dirt, but by then it's too late.
Germany pins him on the ground, holding him down by the wrists and by straddling him, keeping his legs around the Italian's thighs. And Italy is crying hard, so hard, and it's so obvious that he's completely scared to death that Germany feels it in his own soul, as cliche as it is. "Feliciano, I - I don't - "
"H-h-how long?"
He sounds so defeated - almost as though he's dead. Germany stumbles over his own words a minute and finally manages, "...Yesterday."
"A-and - " it gets visibly caught in his throat for a bit, " - and y-you know th-the t-truth."
Not a question. "I... No. Yes." Germany sighs angrily at the turmoil in his head. "I know parts, I suppose. Feliciano, I - " He has to swallow when his eyes meet Italy's again. "I apologize for alerting you to my knowledge of the guns in such a... such a careless way. I - " Another bitter sigh. " - I would just like to hear the truth from you. I expect nothing less and nothing more... Is that so unreasonable?"
A pause.
And then, of all things, Italy glares at him, and his hands curl into fists. In his surprise, Germany loosens his grip on Italy's wrists, although the Italian doesn't seem to notice.
"D-do you really think," he begins in a low voice, "that y-you can just s-say you're sorry and that it makes everything r-right?" His arms are beginning to shake - Germany can feel it. "Y-you expect th-the biggest secret of my life to j-just be something I let go so easily? A-and," he lifts his head off the ground and narrows his red eyes even further, "do y-you think you're actually being r-reasonable with that request?"
Germany can hardly even breathe."What about it is not reasonable?" he asks, honestly not sure what the Italian is hinting at. "I've known you for God knows how many decades anymore, and I want to know the truth - !"
"Oh, y-you want the truth," Italy spits out, his head dropping down again. "You found out yesterday th-that I kept two guns in a desk, and y-you managed to learn part of the story, a-and so you ask for the truth! I found a d-dying nation in Warsaw more than five years ago, w-with cuts a-and bruises and b-burns - " he lets out a sob, " - and o-only part of the s-story to go with it, a-and I d-didn't push y-you f-for the d-details!"
[...]
"Ve! - I would rather break m-myself than other people!" he wails. He chokes on his own tears for a moment as Germany stares at him with widening eyes. "I - I would," he repeats. "I - I know I w-would - "
"...How?"
Germany can't believe he just asked that question; neither can Italy, apparently. "S-scusi?"
"How did it happen?" he elaborates, his voice cracking. "I can see how you would be worth my ordeals, but - but not how I would be worth yours."
He's still crying; fresh tears are running down his cheeks. "It was H-Hitler, a-and if you'd h-heard what he said a-about you... I shot him. B-but I..."
"...Ja?..."
"B-but before that," he whispers, seeming terrified to say it out loud, "before that - I crucified him."
Clearly, this stuff isn't explicit in the way outsiders think of fanfiction, but also isn't something that can be taken lightly. It's gorgeous and heartbreaking and should be given far more credit than it gets.
The second fic I chose, similar in weight to "This Hurricane," although, in my mind, exceeding it, is "This Is My Last Breath" by FlyByNightGirl:
War stories, laughter, dances, disasters, stars. Family, fall out boy, falling, nightmares and two broken hearts.
(There's a double love story about two boys with 70 missing years in between - somehow Sergeant James Barnes became The Winter Soldier, and this is how.)
"TIMLB," a Captain America fic, is an excellent example of the potential scope of fanfiction. It spans seventy years, from before the first Captain America movie to after "The Winter Soldier" (it was written before Civil War came out, so it functions as if that movie does not exist). At 731,363 words, it is more than five times longer than Hamlet, Shakespeare's longest work, which is longer than the average novel (which has also made it very hard to find the quotes I wanted, so there aren't as many here).
Reading this was one of the first times that I legitimately cried when reading:
“Prove it. Hit me.”
If Bucky was gonna be all self-assured and stubborn, rubbing that lie in Steve’s face and grinding him to the ground under his heel, Steve was going to call his f*ing bluff.
Because Bucky wasn’t gonna do it.
Bucky’d never hit him, because Bucky’d never hurt him, because Bucky loved him. And standing here, sliding down the thick black cable towards a speeding train, Steve knew he wasn’t gonna do it.
They avoided the train wreck the first time, dropping down to land atop Bucky’s shallow grave, the instrument of both their deaths rushing through the ice beneath their feet and the slow motion train wreck of the past months wasn’t derailing now.
Bucky wouldn’t.
The corner of Steve’s mouth turned up, lips parting to say something smartass that he’d gotten his ass kicked for a thousand times in alleys, some smart remark that Bucky’d shake his head at and pull Steve into a hug for with that affectionate punk or some other exasperated declaration of love that was anything but I love you.
He didn’t see it coming.
Bucky didn’t wait to hear Steve’s smartass remark. Didn’t haul him in for a hug.
The metal arm hauled back.
And Bucky swung.
See, Steve knew he wouldn’t. Steve knew Bucky’d never hit him, because that’s what this was all about.
It had to be about protecting Steve. About Bucky being so scared of the strength of their love and how it could crush them both if he finally let go, surrendered.
Had to be that Bucky knew loving Steve could hurt him. That Bucky’d rather go through the hell of not being together than hurt him again.
It had to be about saving Steve. That had to be the reason.
Because then at least Bucky loved him.
But.
But the imprint of metal knuckles were smarting on his jaw. Copper, blooming inside his mouth. That wasn’t.
Bucky’d hit him. Bucky’d hurt him. Bucky’d chosen to hurt him. To prove it.
To prove.
It wasn’t about--
Steve’s jaw was on fire and Bucky was just standing there and it wasn’t about protecting Steve.
It wasn’t about anything. It was simple.
Bucky didn’t.
Bucky didn’t love him.
Bucky didn’t love him.
Bucky. Didn’t love him.
Bucky didn’t love him.
Bucky didn’t--
I read a lot, both fics and novels. And "TIMLB" is one of, if not the, best thing that I've read. It's incredibly well-written and well-researched. There's no suspension of belief required beyond what is already in the MCU -- basically, it's hyper-realistic. I don't even have the words for this fic. I have been reduced to babbling about it in the past, and that's where I'm going now, too. It's heartbreaking from the first chapter to the last and more than worth the time commitment required to read it through.
To wrap up, the best thing that I have read regarding fanfiction is as follows:
