The Power of Fan-Made Seduction

Contributor Maryam Bokhari explores fan edits, specifically thirst edits, and the ways fans consume such media. 

Fan edits romanticise the mundane, captivate the masses, and persuade the sceptic. Like it or not, fan edits have mastered the creative compression of long-form media. Through visual, auditory, and graphic manipulation, they condense complex narratives and magnify key moments, characters, and aesthetics. It's no wonder Gen Z loves them – with our attention span ever-dwindling, the virality of short-form content is increasingly becoming more accessible and tailored to our interests. 

At their core, fan edits are a form of fan art: media reimagined to share with a community how passionately you feel about a TV show, a movie, or a celebrity. We’ve all saved videos in various folders or had them appear on our feed. Edits can drive audiences into worthy analysis by picking up on tiny details and bonding online communities. We’ve even labelled celebrities to be associated with viral “that edit”(s) of them, like Pedro Pascal and Drew Starkey, which only heightened their popularity even further. Right now, there’s someone out there watching a fan edit and immediately tuning into a show they otherwise had no intention of watching. That’s some pretty persuasive stuff.. 

But what exactly is so powerful about a “thirst edit”? 

Like a Siren singing on the rocky shores of an abandoned beach, TikTok thirst edits are destined to bewitch you on the sheltered grounds of your FYP. Their goal is immediately aesthetic, a seduction of the viewer through the combined weapon of music and video. Most TikTok thirst edits, for example, begin with a buildup (usually slowed and reverberated) to prepare for the larger impact of the character or person being edited. When they are finally introduced, the “camera” (or rather, clips) focuses on aspects that are either objectively attractive (such as close-ups of their face and body) or clips scenes together that are attractive due to the editor’s specified intention. For example, edits may involve close-ups of ordinary movements (such as hand gestures) and dialogue that appear sexual or appealing when cut and reordered into a suggestive context. 

TikTok edits have even redefined the way music is being created. Nowadays, songs are being released with catchy one-liners, hooks, and rhythmic sections. We’ve all seen (or made) playlists of “songs that make me feel like I’m in an edit”.  For thirst edits in particular, songs chosen typically range from fast-paced pop music, slow indie, R&B, and rap, commonly using suggestive or romantic lyrics. Examples include “Soaked” by Shy Smith, “My Heart” by Mariah Carey, “Money Talks” by The Adventures of Stevie V, and practically all of Sir-Mix-A-Lot, Charli XCX and Flo Milli’s discography. 

But what’s a thirst edit without a community? I’m sure you’re familiar with how freaky TikTok comment sections are. The online accessibility and occasional anonymity of the comment section establish it as a space with zero secrets and zero shame. If an edit of someone has been published, I would argue (besides “like” count) that the magnitude of the comments and their content determine how much the video has impacted them. Munger (2024) labels this experience as a “social media whirlpool,” where communication about something becomes intensified through a positive feedback loop. To express respect or gratitude, comments such as “standing ovulation” instead of standing ovation, and “thank you for this, I was hungry” are humorous ways to compliment the editor. If the edit is particularly lustful, you’ll get comments saying, “If anyone found out I liked this video, I’m cooked”. Ironically, you’ll also find things like “I have nothing appropriate to say”, “they’d talk you through it,” “a tear just ran down my leg,” and “this made my whole week” (you can figure that one out yourself). Half of these are so tame I can’t even bring myself to repeat the diabolically horny ones I’ve witnessed (just know they’d rival Shakespeare himself!). 

Regardless, sexual fantasies, types, and personal “turn-ons” are depicted in thirst edits in a way that can be sexually liberating. While the editor constructs the narrative, the algorithm ensures it finds its audience. Some examples include “XYZ made me realise I was gay” or “finally, I’ve found my people” or “this edit single-handedly made me watch XYZ”.  From a neurological perspective, desire targets our limbic system, which is responsible for providing meaning and significance to certain stimuli, such as visual information (like a thirst edit of a character you like). This connection then triggers corresponding physical responses, providing the motivational aspects of sexual desire and positive emotion. Edits may also strongly improve estimates of attractiveness, regardless of whether you’ve previously found someone attractive or not. For example, “I’m gay, but XYZ can get it” or “wait, why’s he kinda…” 

Additionally, edits generate layered forms of hyperreality, a concept introduced by Jean Baudrillard in Simulacra and Simulation (1981), in which representations begin to replace and even surpass the original reality. When I splice together clips from various films and interviews, I’m not just remixing media; I’m constructing a version of reality that is divorced from its original context. In this sense, I’m masking the absence of basic reality itself. For instance, someone might say, “I watched this movie because all the edits made me think XYZ was going to be the main character,” demonstrating how edits create expectations rooted in simulations rather than actual narratives. Not to mention how Hunger Games: Sunrise on the Reaping hasn’t even released an official trailer yet, but editors are still able to construct clips of actors into edits of “fake” scenes based on the novel to express their excitement and appreciation of the cast. 

A clearer example of this is the Marauders fandom on TikTok, which has reconstructed the backstory of pre-Harry Potter characters so convincingly that their non-canonical interpretations—fan-cast actors, imagined dynamics, and headcanons—have become more culturally relevant than the source material. This collective simulation serves as both a creative expansion and a political rejection of J.K. Rowling’s problematic ideologies. Through aesthetic edits and curated casting choices (eg, Ben Barnes as Sirius Black), the fandom has built a hyperreal universe more “real” to many fans than the one Rowling created. 

My favourite example is the “Goncharov” phenomenon, a fictional 1973 Scorsese mafia film that…well, never actually existed. Tumblr (and eventually TikTok) users collaboratively invented lore, cast, soundtrack, fan fiction, and fan edits that are indistinguishable from those of an actual cult classic. Goncharov became “the greatest mafia film ever made,” not because of its existence, but because its simulation was so complete that it rendered the absence of an original “irrelevant”. 

Overall, what I find most fascinating is how Gen Z has transformed edits into a daily ritual of consumption. We share edits with friends to convince them to watch a show, and we request songs to be edited about certain shows/characters. Instead of rewatching a show, we’ll watch our favourite scenes edited on TikTok. We notice patterns and symbolism and convey deeper truths about ourselves and the media we consume. My edit folders, both the cinematically crafted edits and the shamelessly thirsty ones, are deeply important to me. To show someone an edit you’ve saved is an intimate thing. You’re essentially “baring” your soul to someone. It’s like saying, “This is who I am, who I like, what I’m into…please don’t judge me!” 

Pretty quickly, you’ll realise you’re not alone, because there’s always going to be someone out there who’s a little more heinous than you think you already are. And there’s always going to be an editor responsible for that.