Like true members of the literary intelligentsia, my friends spent the summer consuming a 530,000-word coming-of-age novel: “All the Young Dudes,” written by Archive Of Our Own’s MsKingBean89. For the uninitiated — or the uncool, if you ask me — “ATYD” is a fan fiction about the Marauders from the “Harry Potter” universe which interprets Sirius Black and Remus Lupin as lovers. 

Fan fiction — writing that takes pre-existing characters and places them in alternate narratives — has existed since the dawn of storytelling. “Romeo and Juliet” can be seen as a fan fiction of Pyramus and Thisbe. Dante Alighieri’s “Inferno” could be interpreted as a self-insert fan fiction of the Bible. 

So why, given their rich history, are fan fictions not seen as valid literature? The answer, like many cultural hierarchies, lies with patriarchy.

To start, modern fan fiction can be traced back to slash fiction from the 1960s and 1970s, where Star Trek (1966) fans paired Captain James Kirk of the USS Enterprise with his first officer, Spock. In these early examples, writers emphasized the tenderness and care between the two men, reconstructing a kind of masculinity that values emotional intimacy. 

What makes this redefinition of masculinity all the more powerful is that queer people and women are in control. The 2013 AO3 census revealed that 90% of AO3 users identify as women and 69% identify as members of the LGBTQIA+ community. Given this presence in both production and consumption, queer narratives get the spotlight. This is evidenced by the fact that 78% of AO3’s most popular relationships are gay, according to AO3’s 2025 survey. 

“I think we’re seeing a basis for grassroots, popular critiques of television by women around the world, who want to tell stories that matter to them but tell them differently to reflect the idea that a new way of imagining is possible,” said Henry Jenkins, slash fiction scholar and professor at Annenberg School of Communications and Journalism.

Allowing women and queer people to create their own narratives represents a reclamation of space in a media landscape that often excludes them. It allows them to reframe traditionally heterosexual dynamics through a queer or female lens, enriching original media with new interpretations and expanding its cultural significance.  

“It creates a common space for these women to talk about sexual fantasy, sexual desire in a way that’s really hard in a world that tends to polarize around sexual identity,” Jenkins said.

In the case of “ATYD,” framing Sirius Black and Remus Lupin as queer deepens and recontextualizes the canonical relationship between the two characters. 

Some derivations of “ATYD” even headcanon — hold a personal belief or interpretation about a fictional work that isn’t explicitly part of the original material — that Lupin is transgender, adding another layer of self-concealment to the lycanthropic character — both challenging themes of identity and positioning itself in political opposition to J.K. Rowling’s abhorrent views on transgender people.  

Fan fiction, like all art, is inherently political: It transgresses societal norms because it emerges from dissatisfaction with the status quo presented in popular media. Due to this transgression, banning websites like AO3 has become a practice in countries like China. 

Since these stories have the opportunity to disrupt these norms, they are often discredited and denigrated by the dominant class as frivolous, unimportant or worthless, a class, in most instances, populated by cisgender, straight, white men. Those in power create culture in their image. 

This stratification extends throughout the arts: Films directed by women receive 63% less distribution than films directed by men; paintings created by women only account for 2% of total art sales. Even though women represent the majority of the publishing industry and sell more books than male authors, books written by women are priced 45% lower than books written by men. 

“It needs to be looked at in detail, as every case of this kind of thing adds subliminally to the general perception that books by women are disposable, forgettable and less worthy of attention,” novelist Joanne Harris said in an article published by The Guardian.

Subconsciously, society trusts men more in the creation of art and media. We view their work as worthy of consumption by default. Fan fiction, especially since it functions outside of the capitalistic market of payment for a service, subverts these traditional structures by championing fiction written by women. 

No one should feel ashamed of reading fan fiction. Sure, not every piece is as thematically rich as “ATYD.” But the diversity of style is what makes it accessible. One of the biggest threats to systems of power is democratizing it; anyone can write fan fiction, just as anyone can read it. 

So, after you read this article, open up AO3 or Wattpad and remember how powerful it is that the creativity of women and queer people can be celebrated in such an anti-patriarchal, democratic forum.