#(I think there is some fandom bias of normal and this people are more inclined to make him the most “main character” by insisting he’s the | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

beautifulpersonpeach · 11 months

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Hi BPP,

I debated on this ask but decided to go for it. I have what may seem like an odd question but feel like you're probably the most sober minded about stuff like this because you've been in Kpop spaces a long time, aren't a Jimin bias, and have a much better understanding of how the big three and Hybe move. So I know you said in one of your previous posts that anyone thinking Hybe would purposely sabotage their own artist and choose to lose money is basically being an idiot (or something to that effect) I was inclined to agree except I can't think of another reason why things that may seem minor to some really do keep happening to Jimin.

His profile and merch not on Spotify.

His albums still not being shipped to Chinese fans after all this time.

Face not being restocked on the store.

Articles about an irrelevant racist shading Jimin and Yoongi actually posted on Weverse by the critic who was practically salivating over a Like Crazy freefall.

And the latest Take Two post by BH on Twitter with him being the only member with no embedded preview while all the others have it on theirs.

Now while the last may seem minor, the point is you can clearly tell it was intentional. Like you can't convince me someone just made a mistake. All these things and others taken together are not a coincidence. They are legit moving like he's not their artist at all, imo.

Anyway, my question is I know trending hashtags aren't all that effective. My ideas/experience of how to properly address these 'slights/errors/issues' or whatever we're calling them with BigHit where they will actually take it as serious from the fandom is non existent. I didn't mention all the things that happened with BB because for all we know that's being handled behind the scenes or not. Either way that ship has sailed and BB is basically committed to being shady to BTS so that to me is a losing battle until alot more people who can affect change in the industry join that conversation or until BangPD buys a radio station🙄. All that said it does seem to me it that someone in that company has a serious issue with Jimin. I know solos are problematic and always victimize the boys but in this instance I do think there is a legit concern. I have actually started to see other actual OT7 start to acknowledge there might be a problem. I guess my question is as loved as Jimin is (outside Army Twitter that is) I would think with enough incentive, push, noise by the fandom Hybe would get their butts in gear and resolve/address some of these things. At the very least ship the albums Chinese fans paid for. I know I can write to them but I guess I want to actually be effective and that takes more than one person so my question is have you ever seen this before and if so how exactly has Army addressed it in the past and gotten results? Yes, I know Jimin is a grown man and can advocate for himself but to be frank it doesn't seem like he spends too much time on focusing on unfair treatment. This seems to be more than that though and all these micro aggressions seem to keep happening. It's not like Jimin is aware his post on Tweet is different or his fans haven't gotten their CDs. Thanks for listening to my long diatribe and please don't hesitate to tell me I'm an idiot if I'm looking at this all wrong. I can more than take the criticism and frankly would love to have another perspective that makes a modicum of sense, instead of what seems like the obvious.

***

'Anon' later followed up with a link to a more exhaustive list of suspicious incidents that only happen to Jimin at the hands of HYBE. 'Anon', I know I said I'd get to this later, but I realized this would be simplest/quickest ask in my drafts to respond to, so might as well get this out of the way because the backlog I've got is atrocious lool.

Hi Anon,

I read the laundry list of suspicious incidents.

Normally, when I see these lists of grievances, I ignore them. For two reasons:

Hard as it might be to believe, I don't care to spend my time defending BigHit. With what I do for a living, incompetence is unforgivable, so you won't find me getting in the way of anyone checking even a whiff of it in BigHit.

This is just what solos do, collecting an ever-expanding list of targeted sabotage on their chosen member, to buttress their case for why the member they believe is better than the rest, should leave his company and go solo. Like, that's literally what all these people are there for. Hobi solos have a list that's twice as long as the Jimin one, just from the last 12 months. Jungkook solos have a shorter list but I can wager 40 pounds it will be longer than Jimin's by the end of the year. RM's grievance list is more focused on the fandom than the company, but even then there's complaints of shipping and restocking delays aplenty. No other group of solos have perfected the art more than Taehyung's, in my opinion. Solos exist to differentiate their chosen member, in every way - he is more disadvantaged, more talented, more long-suffering, more harmed, more beautiful, than anyone else - all of it is fuel to intensify their devoted support of that one member. It has the side-effect of motivating solos to stream harder so if a missing cake pic gets someone to rejig their playlist, you won't find me getting in the middle of that. I too want more streams for Jimin and other members.

Plus, most of the claims in these lists can be easily dismissed or cross-referenced by anyone who keeps up with things for all seven members, to see that most of these issues aren't unique to Jimin or any one member.

For example,

300k JITB sales were deleted off Hanteo with no explanation, even more sales were deleted in week 2, again with no explanation,

OTS is still not registered on KOMCA more than 3 months after release,

Indigo still hasn't shipped to China, RM solos use a network to get albums in after the sales are registered/counted in Singapore,

Jungkook's brother was doxxed on a gallery linked to the company and YG,

Suga's profile still doesn't have a bio and merch page, and his Agust D page didn't get one until March 2022 - years after Agust D and D-2, merch came two weeks after D-DAY was out,

Taehyung's official youtube views were frozen for 37 hours straight and millions of views deleted,

Yoongi and Jin's in-ears didn't work during Not Today encore stage,

Jungkook's Spotify streams were mysteriously deleted in 2022 to give a Blackpink member the title of most streamed k-artist until pushback then the streams were recalculated,

JITB was not listed on the official BTS website shop or by Geffen for months after it was released, like, you couldn't even find it to see if it was sold out or not from those websites,

etc...

And this is just off the top of my head. Not like this is a competition, I just happen see it for various members, other k-pop groups, and have recently seen a Stella Quaresma solo stan make a similar list, and seen grumblings from FLO stans on inconsistent streaming numbers for the group. Also, most people eventually come to understand that BigHit is the only fully independent label under HYBE.

And so, I usually ignore grievance lists like that, and leave whoever feels so moved as a result of it to do what they want.

Because, as I keep saying, everyone in this fandom just does what they want. And, all of what I wrote above aside, of course it's bad enough that these things are happening anyway. It doesn't matter how common it is, if it happens to the whole industry or just one person, if I think it's wrong it bothers me, even if only momentarily.

And so, I do what I want.

Usually that means doing my research to confirm the claim or my suspicions, talking about it with friends, if the issue is on a 3rd-party platform I raise the issue through that platform's support channels, and write an email to BigHit in Korean if it's a problem on their end - if I've got time and I think it's an extremely urgent and severe problem. Most ARMYs already do this for issues they find very serious. And yes ARMYs have gotten results. Examples include rectifying misleading/insulting subtitles towards Jimin on a Vlive in 2021, fixing potentially misleading subtitles on the Festa 2022 video, and getting JITB's album finally shown on the official BTS website though this took months.

Personally, lack of public twitter announcements (Jimin's BB #1 was highlighted by company leadership to investors), cake pics, and albums still available to be purchased on the US store (FACE is not completely sold out on the US store), don't make the cut for me, also just as I don't expect JYPE, Universal or Sony to comment on their artist streams getting split, I don't expect BigHit to, but again, do you. Everyone else does anyway.

I hope I haven't come across as excessively flippant in my response to you, because I appreciate the time and care you spent sending me this ask Anon. I'm just another fan after all, and my opinion is only worth as much as yours. You're seeing things happen to Jimin that you cannot explain, injustices the company and fandom seem apathetic to, and you love Jimin and simply want the best for him. He deserves only the very best, as do other BTS members. You want to respect the agency of the adult male artist you support, but at the same time it's true he's not meant to micro manage his career, and the people paid to do it sometimes do a sloppy job. Plus antis and sasaengs worming their way into company spaces is a very real risk that's worth keeping in mind.

I'm constantly working under the assumption that the people I'm writing to aren't stupid, that everyone can think for themselves to decide what they want, and that anyone who ends up a solo, manti, or toxic shipper, was always going to be one. And that is just as well.

And so, I hope by this point, you can understand why I'll be saying what I'm saying next:

I read that laundry list, and it was immediately clear it was written by and/or sourced from solos or someone who spends a lot of time in a siloed environment in the fandom. Generally, anyone who thinks a member is always uniquely targeted, is well on their way to becoming a solo stan or is spending a lot of time around people hyper-focused on one member, and in k-pop fandoms, that means spending time with people who actively or eventually hate other members and seek to remove the chosen member from the group.

The motivations of solo stans inform every single thing they do, and it has less to do with love, and more to do with control. Everything in that list is crafted in such a way to communicate one message only. To do it, solos often rely on half-truths, artificially isolated accounts, and flat out misinformation. Which is a pain, because oftentimes there's some truth mixed in but like the boy who cried wolf, these lists lose their veracity soon enough for ARMYs who see these lists 7 times over. And because the ultimate motivation for solos is control, their approach to solving these issues is usually one that aims to destroy the public reputation of the team or weaken whatever connection is there to begin with.

Like, if I knew nothing about BTS and I read that list, I'd think you were lying if you told me the same company provided Jimin with remixes to support buying efforts, set him up with a camp for his first solo endeavour, etc.

At the end of the day, there'll be more of these issues for Jimin and other members, at least going by what I've seen flitting through various music fandoms for artists under big companies. Plus, being an ARMY for a while, I've come to expect something or the other happening from the industry mostly, towards BTS (also, YG is BigHit's distributor...). I trust that BTS are in control of their careers, and when I see things that don't make sense, I use any channels I find appropriate to flag it so it's corrected. If solo stans highlight something, I double-, triple-, and quadtriple-check it because those people just think different.

If you've made it to the end of my diatribe, thanks for taking the time.

Goodluck Anon.

#I read this post just once over to catch typos lol #so if you see any typos please excuse it #anyway #jimin #park jimin #bts #solo stans #bangtan #kpop #bts fandom #bts army

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sam-and-buck · 3 years

Text

At Home With Captain America

Fandom: MCU

Pairing: Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes

Rating: G

Words: 7.7k

Also on AO3

“What can you tell me about how you got to know the Winter Soldier?”

Wilson chuckles. “The first time I met Buck—Sergeant Barnes—he ripped the steering wheel out of the car I was driving on the freeway. He got on the roof, punched through the windshield, pulled the steering wheel off. Just like that.” He mimes with his hands as he describes it.

This doesn’t sound like an auspicious beginning to me, but Wilson is laughing.

At Home with Captain America

By: Adrien Davis

Published: February 2, 2026, 3:35 PM

To say I’m intimidated by interviewing Captain America in his own home would be an understatement, and I would never have thought to ask if I could do that if he hadn’t personally invited me. Normally, I’d start one of these articles by describing the location, maybe even throw in an anecdote or two about how I got there, but that’s not going to be possible here.

Sam Wilson lives on [REDACTED] in [REDACTED]. It was a windy day.

Here’s what I can tell you: it’s an apartment. A nice one. Two bedroom, two bath.

“Am I allowed to describe the inside of your house?” is one of the first things I say to him, after getting his permission to turn on my recorder.

“Go right ahead,” he laughs, arms crossed over the worn USAF logo on his gray t-shirt. “Just don’t put the street name in there or anything.”

Wilson gives me a moment to poke around. Whoever decorated this place has good taste; it’s no haphazard bachelor pad. There’s an exposed brick wall in the otherwise slate blue living room, several plants (which I assume are fakes—albeit convincing ones—since Wilson is, by his own admission, not home as often as he’d like to be), a sturdy walnut coffee table, and a magnificently squishy-looking red couch.

It’s unmistakably lived in, though. I don’t get the sense that the place has been scrubbed spotless or particularly arranged for my visit. There are two abandoned mugs on coasters sitting on the coffee table, along with several different remote controls, and a stack of half-finished books with dog-eared corners. A pile of mail has been pushed to the side. Next to the door, a wall-mounted coat rack holds several leather jackets in shades of brown and black, and at least as many sweaters, mostly navy blue, charcoal and maroon. The shoe rack underneath houses multiple pairs of black combat boots, worn running shoes, house slippers. And next to that, on the floor, a large, gleaming silver case with red detail that could only contain Wilson’s Falcon wingpack. The legendary shield is propped up against it, ready to go at a moment’s notice.

I’m trying to imagine how it would be to leave the house for him. Got my keys, wings, phone, shield, wallet?

There are pictures on the walls and the mantle above the fireplace, under the television. People who I can only assume are Wilson’s relatives by their similarly gap-toothed smiles. Veterans. Wilson in full air force gear next to a blond man I don’t recognize. Then Captain Steve Rogers, in the 1940s with the Howling Commandos, and in the twenty-first century by himself. Wilson with Rogers, and Natasha Romanoff. One conspicuously empty nail where a large frame would clearly fit.

Scattered among these are several very old, dour black and white photographs of a dark-haired family. The first shows a mother, father and two small children, a boy and girl. The second is the mother and children only, taken some time after, judging by their apparent ages. The third is several years later still; the same children with light eyes and dark hair, but they’re teeangers now, and without parents. They look haunting and out-of-place among the glossy prints of Wilson’s big, happy family in matching 80s colorblocked tracksuits, or Wilson and his sisters in front of a Christmas tree, surrounded by wrapping paper and toys.

There’s also a wood-framed painting that stands out: an idyllic watercolor of a little farmhouse with a green roof and shuttered windows in a field. A small pile of lumber and a white mailbox make up the foreground. The most distinctive feature is the signature at the bottom: S.G.R. I know those initials.

“Captain Rogers painted this?”

“Uh huh,” Wilson nods fondly, hands now in his pockets. “Man of many talents. Maybe every talent. Having a hard time thinking of anything he wasn’t good at.”

I hear the unstated in that. A tough act to follow.

I think, for purposes of journalistic integrity, I should probably insert my bias before we go any further. We had never met before this interview, but I am and have always been enormously supportive of Captain Wilson and the work he’s done, and have written myriad articles and think pieces about him over the past several years. He’s shown himself time and again to be a man of unshakable integrity and endless emotional intelligence, and frankly, I’m more worried about the poor sucker who’s going to have to follow Wilson. Rogers did a lot of great things, but among the best of them was choosing a successor.

I tell him as much and he smiles, looking down at his shoes.

“Yeah, I know that’s how you feel,” he says. “I requested you for this piece, actually, because of that. People are going to accuse me of wanting a softball interview here, and maybe they’re right. For this one, I think that’s what I need.”

I’m not sure what he means by that, but he continues before I can ask.

“We should probably do this in the kitchen.” Wilson indicates behind us with his thumb, after I’ve stood silently in his living room for probably way too long. “That couch is too comfortable. I end up falling asleep every time I sit on it.”

The kitchen is, perhaps, a little cramped. There’s a large, dark marble-topped kitchen island that just fits in the center of the room with four bar stools tucked under it. The cabinets are tall, with glass doors showcasing a massive collection of healthy, but non-perishable food. The shelf nearest us holds several well-used bags of pantry supplies: chickpea flour, arrowroot starch, raw sugar. There’s a pasta shelf above it, but no Kraft Mac in sight; everything is lentil-based, chickpea-based, black bean-based.

“Have a seat,” Wilson says, inclining his head towards one of the barstools. “Can I get you something to drink?” He opens the refrigerator.

“We have…” he pauses. “Water. Sorry, just got back from Ecuador this morning. Sparkling or still?”

I accept a glass of still water from Captain America. He sits down on the stool next to mine.

His house, or what I’ve seen of it, is homey in a way I can’t imagine any of the late Tony Stark’s buildings ever were, and I mention this.

“I lived at the Avengers Tower briefly,” Wilson tells me. “Tony liked everything streamlined, really modern. Kinda sparse for my taste. I needed some real furniture when I got out of there, you know? Like, things that were made by human beings. Stuff with ‘character,’ that’s what Steve would call it.”

“So you decorated this place?”

“I think it’s about fifty-fifty,” Wilson says, indicated with vague hand motion.

This is my in.

This interview, as you may have read on the cover description, is actually intended to be an exposé about the working partnership between Wilson and Sergeant James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, but I didn’t want to be the one who brought him up first.

All I knew going in is that they’re a package deal in the field, a unit. We’ve all seen the footage.

Also, Barnes lives here too, but evidently, he’s not home.

“What can you tell me about how you got to know the Winter Soldier?”

This doesn’t sound like an auspicious beginning to me, but Wilson is laughing.

“I hope he apologized to you for that,” I tell him, because I’m not exactly sure how else to respond.

“Oh yeah, of course he did, even though he knows I don’t blame him for it. He doesn’t remember it at all,” says Wilson. “There are a lot of gaps, to be honest. Most of it is gaps.”

What Wilson is likely referring to here is the decades-long period in which Barnes was under the complete mental and physical influence of the Nazi splinter group known as HYDRA. If you’re unfamiliar with the history of Sergeant Barnes, I’ll list a couple of great articles for you to read at the end of this one. I assure you, it’s worth your time.

Wilson has without a doubt been Barnes’s most ardent supporter. He’s spoken out many times about not judging Barnes based on the actions he couldn’t control, and has masterfully refocused the national conversation towards Barnes’s invaluable contributions in World War II and in the recent war to bring half the universe’s population back into existence. Wilson has been quoted as saying, “The least extraordinary thing about Sergeant Barnes is his vibranium arm.”*

But perhaps Wilson’s most effective act towards building public confidence in Barnes was his decision to designate him as an almost exclusive mission partner. Even if the general populace has been reluctant to trust the Winter Soldier, it is abundantly clear that Captain America does, absolutely. Barnes is a constant in the footage of Wilson’s exploits. The moment he touches down on the ground after a successful arrest or negotiation, Barnes is right there. He’s been sighted treating Wilson’s minor injuries, tightening straps on the Falcon wingsuit before Wilson takes flight, and he stands quietly behind Wilson during almost all of his many public appearances.

Despite his ubiquitous presence in Wilson’s company, Barnes has remained elusive for comment. He has no social media, and the only public statement he’s made to date was in November of 2023, in support of Rogers’s decision to pass on the legacy of Captain America. Barnes expressed his categorical agreement that Wilson is “the best and only choice for this job,” describing him as both “worthy of the honor,” and “equipped for the burden.”**

“Is it fair to say that Sergeant Barnes almost comes with the shield?” I ask.

Wilson makes a face.

“No, it isn’t,” he shakes his head. “The shield is an accessory; my partner is not. I really don’t like it when people lump him in with the shield. It sort of minimizes how Bucky and I have made a series of conscious choices to be the way we are now. Especially because he’s experienced being fully stripped of his personal autonomy—as a veteran, I can say I’ve had a taste of that, but nothing like what he’s been through—and I think it cheapens his choice to do what he does if we imply that he, as a person, is a package deal with my title, you know?”

The therapist in Wilson is showing. In addition to his decorated military history and service as Captain America, he has a background in psychology, and a Masters degree in Social Work with a focus on Veterans’ mental health issues. He’s worked extensively with the VA as a leader in group therapy.

“So Sergeant Barnes is by your side day in and day out because he wants to be?”

This, Wilson has another unequivocal answer for. “Yes. He wants to be there, and I want him there. And here at home.”

“Tell me a little more about that,” I say. “After the...steering-wheel-stealing incident. Once he was more or less himself. Did you two hit it off right away?”

Wilson laughs again. “Not at all,” he says. “I think there was this resentment, kind of, in the beginning. Like I’m Steve’s best friend and no, I’m Steve’s best friend. Real elementary school stuff. He really got on my nerves; just everything about him annoyed me, and the feeling was mutual. Looking back…”

And here Wilson pauses for a moment. He chews on his bottom lip, and I notice all at once how nervous his body language has become. His fingers are drumming on the table, the line of his shoulders is taut, his leg is bouncing. He clears his throat though, and seems determined to continue.

“Looking back, I can see where it was coming from. It wasn’t clear to me at the time, but now I get it. There was this one time, it was during the fight over the Accords. We barely knew each other at this point. Buck and I, we’re fighting Spider-Man—who neither of us had ever even heard of before, like, that afternoon—and he pins us to the floor of this hangar with that goo he shoots out of his wrist. Really gross. I manage to get Redwing [Wilson’s drone] to fling Spider-Man out the window. So we’re just laying there, me and Bucky, stuck. And he goes ‘you couldn’t have done that before?’ And I just turn to him, and I’m like, ‘I hate you.’”

At this, Wilson really starts cracking up. He relaxes visibly, just a little.

“Did you mean it?”

“I sure thought I did,” he says, still chuckling. “Like, I wasn’t about to take it back.”

He continues: “Anyway, so after Steve, you know, passed on the shield to me, that’s when things really changed. Actually, back up a second. After the whole Accords incident, we ended up sending Bucky to Wakanda for like… to hear him describe it, it’s like we sent him for a two-year spa retreat. They unscrambled his brain as best they could—and really, I think it’s a good thing they couldn’t do any more because I wouldn’t wish some of his memories on my worst enemy—and he spent like months meditating in a hut and milking goats and going to therapy every day. When I met up with him again, I barely would’ve recognized him.”

“So that’s kind of when you guys reconciled? The arguing stopped?”

“Oh, it never stopped,” Wilson says with a grin. “We still argue all the time, about all kinds of things. Just ask Rhodey [Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes, aka War Machine] or Scott [Lang, Ant-Man] or anybody. But the dynamic shifted a little, I think. Bucky’s got… Like I can’t imagine some of the stuff he’s been through, but he’s just kind of learned to roll with it. He is hands down the most resilient person I have ever met. Easily. It was real hard to keep hating him when he was so dead set on getting me to like him, too.”

“Can you walk me through the process by which you two decided to live together?”

“Yeah,” he says, and the nervousness is back. He smooths his hands on his thighs over his jeans. “So, basically, once I got the shield, we’d just barely come back. Like everyone else who got… I—I still don’t know if this is like an okay question to ask people. Do you mind me asking if you were dusted?”

I don’t mind. “Yeah, I was.”

“So you get it,” Wilson says. “Might be the most vulnerable I’d ever felt. I got nothing. Nowhere to go, just the clothes on my back. Then Steve hands me this shield and this enormous legacy—and I look back and there’s Bucky, standing a couple of yards behind me, nodding like, yeah, it should be you. He was the first person who knew, and he’s been right by my side ever since.”

“So you decided to stick together?”

“The original conversation about it was pretty logistical,” Wilson says, rubbing his beard. “There was so much going on, it’s hard to remember exactly what was said, but I think it was along the lines of him offering to fetch the shield for me while I learned how to throw it, and stuff like that. Just easier to do when we’re together 24/7.”

“So rooming together didn’t actually grow out of field partnerships?”

“It was definitely the other way around,” says Wilson. “Basically, I’d get a call from the powers that be that there was something I had to go check out, and it was easier to just walk across the hall than to pick someone else, try to wake them up, and then have to rendez-vous and strategize.”

“I’ll bet,” I say.

Wilson nods. “Easier and faster. Bucky can go from dead asleep to fully geared up in under three minutes. The first few times were like that, with me just knocking on his bedroom door like ‘hey, I need—’ and he comes barreling out covered in knives thirty seconds later like, ‘where are we going?’ We just… clicked. And I’ll be honest; I was really surprised. He’s got my six, I’ve got his, and I never question it. I started asking for him specifically on all my assignments after that, and Fury [Nick Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.] and everyone caught on quick that that’s how it was gonna be. I don’t have to ask anymore.”

“Do you see this continuing long term?” I ask.

Wilson doesn’t hesitate. “Definitely.”

“How would you describe your relationship with Sergeant Barnes now?” I ask. “Clearly you’re partners in the field, and roommates, but…”

Wilson takes a deep breath. His hands are shaking, but he clasps them together in front of him and looks me straight in the eye.

“As of last month,” he says slowly, “Bucky and I are married.”

In the spirit of my interview with Captain America, who stands for honesty and justice and integrity, I think you deserve to know the truth. I want to say that I didn’t drop my recorder, but I did. It clatters to the floor, luckily undamaged.

That startles Wilson into a laugh. For the second it takes me to retrieve my recorder from under my seat, I wonder if he’s kidding.

“Come on,” he says. “Say something. I’m getting nervous.” He’s smiling, but not joking.

“Congratulations,” I blurt out. “I...really?”

“Yeah.” The tension leaves his body in a rush. “We, uh, it’s official.”

I’m struggling for questions at this point. The talking points I was planning on hitting in this interview are all suddenly moot, and I decide to throw out my mental to-do list entirely. I finally settle on, “How long have you two been together?”

“A little over two years,” Wilson answers. “About three months after I took up the shield.”

“How did it happen?”

Wilson grins. “Uh, well. I had sort of been…having feelings about him, you know, for awhile. Actually, it’s more like I had noticed that I was having more-than-friendly feelings in the few weeks leading up to that. I think the main reason we had so much trouble getting along in the beginning is that it took some time to process those feelings as attraction. So in a way, I was interested on some level right from the get go.”

“Even if that person wasn’t...behind the wheel of their own brain, so to speak—” I start, but Wilson interjects.

“I see what you did there.”

“—I think it would take a lot for me to be attracted to someone who had previously tried to kill me.”

“Less than I would’ve expected, that’s for sure,” Wilson says. “But it’s not like I was checking him out while he was busy tearing my wings off my back; I’m talking about once he was mentally present in his body. That was like...two years after the whole steering wheel incident, and I hadn’t seen him at all in the interim. I didn’t even know where he was during that time.”

“So it had at least been awhile since he had tried to kill you?”

“Oh yeah. And plenty of other people tried to kill me in those two years, and they weren’t even sorry about it. You gotta adjust your standards, you know?” he says with a laugh.

“Anyway, if you ask him, he says he’s been all in since the moment he saw me back in Wakanda after his little vacation. Now we’re talking about four years since the steering wheel thing. Me, Steve, Nat and everybody; we landed in Wakanda and Bucky’s there. He and I look at each other over Steve’s shoulder, and like, bam, that was it for him.

“And then there’s five years where neither of us exist. We get back, we fight the monsters, Steve gives me the shield, and while all this is happening, apparently Bucky has come to the conclusion that he’s in love with me. After that, he was just waiting for me to catch up.”

“And he just knew you’d get there? Did you give him any indication that you were interested, or…?”

“I definitely did, but not intentionally,” says Wilson. “He’s very perceptive—like way more than I was giving him credit for—but I think it’s a combination of that and me not being as subtle as I think I am.

“Because, see there’s this invisible line I’ve drawn here—at least that’s how he was thinking about it—and I keep dancing a little closer to that line every day, the line being the no homo line; the point where you can’t take it back. The flirting, I mean. I, of course, think he has no clue and that I’m being slick about it. Actually, lemme ask—how much detail are you looking for here? Like do you want to know the whole story or just—”

“Lay it on me,” I tell him. “Just however you want to tell it.”

“Alright. Where was I? So I’m just there going back and forth on whether or not it’s a good idea to risk this roommate-partner-buddy thing we’ve got going here by trying to make a move that, frankly, I have no clue if he’s gonna be receptive to. You have to remember we’re talking about a guy from the Great Depression here, like that’s the time period he grew up in. I’m no historian, but I think it’s common knowledge that if you were a man who was attracted to men back then, you mostly kept that to yourself. The chances of him bringing up his sexual orientation unprompted are very low. And like, I’m 90% sure I’ve caught him looking before, but that’s never a guarantee, you know?

“So, instead of sitting down and having a mature conversation about my feelings, I keep doing this thing where, for example, say he’s trying something new with his hair, and I’ll say something nice about it. And then I follow up immediately with, ‘Almost makes up for your ugly mug,’ or whatever, which—I mean, he’s such a good-looking guy, like what ugly mug, obviously I don’t mean that. And he’s not stupid, he knows what he looks like. So he picks up on what I’m doing, doesn’t say anything, and lets this go on for months.

“Eventually, there’s one night… We’re on the couch, watching like, I don’t know, Seinfeld or something. Whatever was on. He’s reading a book on my tablet, looking all relaxed and handsome. I can’t have that, so I start egging him on like I usually do, and I guess I got close enough to the line that he just puts the tablet down, turns to me and says, ‘Sam, you know there’s no line, right?’

“And I’m going, okay, what does that mean? Like, is this a conversation I was previously a part of and forgot or...? Where is this ‘line’ thing coming from? And so I ask him—I think I just said, ‘What?’ At that point he looks me right in the eye, and he goes, ‘You can kiss me if you want to.’” So I did, and he was ready for it, like no hesitation. Like I said: waiting for me to catch up.”

This, as you can imagine, is far beyond the level of detail I could have ever imagined I’d get about Captain America’s love life in my wildest dreams. I decide to ask a new question, because I feel like I’d be pushing my luck to delve further when he’s already been so open about this experience.

“Who proposed and when?”

“Ooh,” says Wilson, “I guess technically I did, but I’m gonna go on record saying that one was a group effort.”

“Well, now you’re gonna have to explain that,” I tell him. “What’s a ‘group effort’ proposal look like?”

“Hmm. I backed myself into that one, didn’t I?” he says. “First, I want the record to show that before I called you guys to set up this interview, I specifically asked Bucky if there were any us-related topics or whatever that were off-limits to discuss and he said ‘No,’ and I said, ‘Are you sure?’ and he said ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ and I said, “You better be sure, because whatever I say is gonna be public knowledge after that,” and he said “I know, I get it, Jesus.” Then I dropped it because he sounded like he was getting kinda irritated. If he didn’t want me to tell you any of this stuff, that would’ve been the time to speak up, so here we go:

“We were at… Well, I can’t tell you exactly where we were, but let’s just say we were working. There was nobody else in the room, but we were getting ready to go out in the field; seemed like it was gonna be a pretty...intense situation out there. I had my whole suit on, he was calibrating his arm, and the conversation ended up at living wills. As you can imagine, that’s an important thing to have when you’re in this line of work. So he proceeded to tell me that the last time he’d updated his was never and that his next-of-kin was nobody. And I was like, ‘So what, your grenade launchers are all gonna go to the state? I don’t even get the red one?’ and I’m just giving him a hard time, you know, and he’s like, ‘Sam.’

“And then, my god, he just goes all the way off about how much he loves me and trusts me and I—we don’t usually go there. I mean, we’d been on the same page for a long time as far as, we’ve established that we’re in love, this relationship is going well, but it’s not something that we’d verbalized in any real depth. That’s just a level of like, exposure, vulnerability, I think, that doesn’t come naturally to most people, myself included.

“So he just keeps talking—and I think it’s fair to say he’s not a very talkative guy most of the time—and I’m standing there with my jaw on the floor because he is not holding back, and this is all clearly unrehearsed. Like, this is just how he really feels about me, apparently. By the time he’s finished, I’m crying, he’s crying, it’s a mess. And so I open my mouth, and I have no idea what I’m gonna say to all that, but what comes out is, “Will you marry me?” I wasn’t planning on it, but suddenly I just knew. Best decision I ever made.”

“And you’ve made some very important decisions in your life.”

“That’s right. I know which ones I’m leaving out by saying this was the best, and I stand by it.”

At that moment, as if on cue, the lock clicks, and Sergeant Barnes walks through the front door carrying two very full bags of groceries on his vibranium arm. He tosses a set of car keys into a little dish and locks the door behind him.

“Hey, babe,” Wilson calls out, catching his eye.

“You did it?” Barnes asks.

“Yeah.” Wilson tilts his head up.

Barnes rounds the corner, pecks Wilson on the lips with all the comfort and familiarity of a couple who have done it a thousand times. I hear him murmur, “Proud of you,” under his breath.

Barnes sets the groceries on the counter in front of me as Wilson introduces us.

“Call me Bucky,” says Barnes, reaching out with his right hand to shake mine. There’s a silver band on the fourth finger, and when I look back over at Wilson, he’s slipping his wedding ring out of the pocket of his jeans and putting it back on his left hand.

“Wasn’t sure if I’d be able to go through with all this,” he says, gesturing to me and my notepad. “I took the wedding pictures down in the living room too, before you got here.”

“I knew he could do it,” Barnes tells me. His voice is low, soft, and so quiet, a hint of an old Brooklyn accent underlying his words even now, despite everything he’s been through and everywhere he’s been. He shrugs out of his nondescript hoodie and tosses it on one of the unused stools, grabbing a kettle and putting it on the stove.

“Hibiscus or chamomile?” he asks me, pulling two boxes of tea bags from one of the grocery bags and letting me choose before turning to Wilson. “Bad news, hon. They were out of your whole wheat pita.”

“Again?” says Wilson, with feeling. “Really?”

“They only had the gluten free. I guess I could check the other store tonight, but it’s supposed to rain later, and I kinda don’t feel like going out again,” Barnes says, head buried in the cupboard as he stacks cans. “I was thinking maybe I could just try making ‘em. How does that sound? How hard can it be, right?”

“‘How does homemade pita sound,’ he says,” Wilson repeats, jabbing a thumb towards Barnes. “Can you believe this guy?”

“I honestly can’t.” It’s the truth. My brain refuses to reconcile this man with the supposed playboy I read about in my 11th grade history textbook, nor the internationally feared assassin.

“Is that a yes or no on the experimental homemade pita?” Barnes asks Wilson, still deep in the cupboard. “No promises on quality.”

“That’s a yes, Buck,” says Wilson, then he turns to me. “Don’t listen to him; he’s a great cook.”

The Winter Soldier is a great cook, I write in my notes. And then I realize this is my moment to shine.

“I actually know a good recipe for homemade pita,” I tell them. “It’s whole wheat.” That gets Barnes’s attention.

“You do?” he says, pulling out his phone. “Can you send it to—hmm.” He frowns. “Sam, it’s not showing the thing.”

“What thing?” Wilson asks, taking Barnes’s phone from his hand. “Oh, yeah, that’s cause it’s set to Contacts Only, Buck, you have to switch it to Allow Everyone.”

Wilson looks at me, smiling. “Bucky here hates technology—”

“—I don’t hate technology—”

“Oh yes you do, you won’t even let me get you an iPad—”

“Yeah, for what? What do I need it for? I wouldn’t even use—”

“You wouldn’t use one, huh? How about I stop letting you borrow mine for a couple of weeks, then we’ll see how you feel.” Wilson turns to me, passing Barnes’s phone back to him. “He should be showing up on your AirDrop now.”

Sure enough, I’m able to send the recipe link to Bucky’s iPhone. He thanks me and starts scrolling right through it, argument apparently totally forgotten.

As Barnes continues to read, periodically checking on the kettle; Wilson excuses himself to help put away the rest of the groceries, which are mostly produce.

“I hope you have like, immediate plans for these,” Wilson says, inspecting the avocados as he pulls them out of the paper bag. “They are ripe, man. Tomorrow’s gonna be too late for them.”

“Yeah I do, I was gonna make grilled chicken and avocado sandwiches for dinner,” Barnes replies. “I got tomatoes, swiss cheese—”

“What’s all this about pita then if we’re having sandwiches?” Wilson asks.

“No, the pita is the bread here,” Barnes explains. “You stuff everything in the pocket. I’m gonna have to get started pretty soon; probably gonna double the rising time since it’s cold out.” Wilson hums in apparent approval of this course of action.

I lose Wilson to the refrigerator for several minutes. He stands back up after arranging things in the crisper to his liking.

“Any chance I could get a peek at those wedding pictures?” I ask.

“Oh,” says Wilson. “That okay with you?” He turns to Barnes, who nods, carefully steeping bags of tea in three steaming mugs, and then leads me back to the living room.

Wilson has stashed two silver-framed pictures in a drawer of the coffee table, apparently in anticipation of my visit, and he pulls them out to show to me. Both are taken in front of a familiar-looking farmhouse, which I struggle with for a moment before placing it as the exact one in Captain Rogers’s watercolor painting that’s hanging to my left. Wilson’s suit in the photo is a matte but brilliant shade of cobalt; Barnes wears black.

One is of just the two of them, arms around one another and foreheads together. It’s almost too intimate to look at; I feel as though I’m intruding on something intensely private, even though Wilson is standing right here offering me a glimpse of it.

He puts that one back up onto the mantle.

The next is them in the center of a large group that consists of some people I recognize and others I don’t. Familiar faces include Dr. Bruce Banner [The Hulk], Clint Barton [Hawkeye], and Maria Hill [Deputy Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.]. Also present: King T’Challa of Wakanda and his sister, Princess Shuri. There’s a young girl in a white dress, carrying a flower basket and missing a front tooth, standing in front of [C.E.O. of Stark Industries] Pepper Potts. Next to them is a teenager with floppy brown hair doing an indescribably awkward double thumbs up.

“Who’s that?” I ask, pointing at him.

Wilson snorts. “Some punk. Family friend.”

That picture gets hung on the empty nail next to Captain Rogers’s painting.

Barnes knocks quietly on the doorway behind us. “Tea’s ready.”

An awkward silence settles in with us once we sit back down in the kitchen, Wilson and Barnes next to one another, and me across from them. I flip through my notes, taking a sip from my mug.. My drink is sweeter than I was expecting, because apparently the Winter Soldier has added agave to the hibiscus tea he made me. It’s delicious.

Barnes eventually breaks. “So whatcha go over so far?”

“How we got together, how we got engaged,” Wilson answers him. “In detail too, so if you don’t want that published, you’re gonna have to grovel at the journalist yourself, because you said—”

“Oh my god,” says Barnes, old-school New York sarcasm dripping from every word. “How dare you tell people about the best thing I ever did, huh? Now they’re gonna think I’m like, a sensitive, good guy, and here I’ve been coasting along on this murder cyborg image. What have you done, you dick?”

Wilson rolls his eyes.

“So...you’re okay with it?” I ask them, absolutely ready to scrub the record if he hesitates.

“You kidding me?” says Barnes. “Every other week comes up some new atrocity I committed against my will in like...the 70s, and you think I’m gonna be upset with people knowing that once in a while I say nice shit to someone I love? Write it. Please. Knock yourself out.”

Okay then. Since Barnes seems willing to talk, I ask them if I can throw them a few questions I have for them as a couple. Barnes looks as though he wasn’t anticipating this.

Wilson turns to him. “You wanna be here for this?”

Barnes nods slowly, hesitantly, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“You’re okay?” Wilson asks. “You decide you’re done at any point and I’ll end it. Or you can go hang out in the other room, your call.”

“I’m good for now,” Barnes decides. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“You can ask whatever you want,” Wilson says to me. “I can’t promise we’ll answer everything, but go ahead and shoot.”

“I guess the first question I have is: what’s the hardest thing about navigating your jobs as a couple? What bothers you the most about that?”

Wilson exhales loudly. “I mean, the obvious answer is the danger,” he says. “The nature of what we do is fundamentally unsafe. I think it goes without saying—I’ll still say it—that we’re always aware that one of us might not make it back from a mission, which is...” Wilson trails off for a moment, shaking his head. “You don’t get used to that feeling. The fear.”

“Mm hmm,” Barnes agrees, from behind his mug.

“And,” continues Wilson, “I’m also aware that by doing this interview, I’m putting Bucky in additional danger. I’m not naive enough to think that the people working against us won’t try to use my relationship with him as leverage against me.”

“That makes sense,” I say, because he’s absolutely right, and pretending that public knowledge of his marriage doesn’t put them both in a new kind of danger seems disingenuous. I face Barnes. “Your turn.”

“Racist assholes,” says Barnes immediately.

Wilson smirks and cocks his head in agreement. “Sometimes I think I’ve talked that subject to death, other times it’s like I could never hope to address it enough. Today feels like the first one.”

A diplomatic, but clear answer. Time to move on.

I’m about to ask the next question when he adds: “Another thing that gets under my skin is how it’s like Bucky’s image in the eyes of the general public is totally dependent on me hyping him up all the time. As far as I’m concerned, he’s proven himself a hundred times over, and yet if I’m not on T.V. reminding people of that every day, it’s suddenly like ‘oh, the Winter Soldier, can we ever really trust him?’

“I just… It bothers me. I want us to come to a collective understanding that everything that happened happened to Bucky, not because of him. It kinda circles back into another of the things I’m passionate about, which is mental health care and awareness. I think if we as a society were better about recognizing and addressing mental illness, and particularly Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, I wouldn’t have to keep having this conversation about my husband.”

Barnes’s face is getting pinker and he says nothing, but he’s smiling a little at Wilson, who puts an arm around his shoulders.

“Anyway, we can move on,” says Wilson, his expression going easy again. “Just had to get that out there one more time.”

“Hopefully this one’s a little more pleasant,” I say. “What inspired you to come forward about your relationship? I know you guys—” I gesture between them, ”—have been together for a couple years, so why now?”

“I want to go on a date in public,” says Bucky. “I haven’t been on a date since the 40s.”

“That’s right,” says Wilson. “We’re doing all this so I can take him Denny’s and hold his hand over a $6.99 Super Slam.”

When I finish laughing, Wilson continues. “Part of it’s because we realized it’s gonna get out there whether we like it or not. You already knew when you got here that we lived together, and that’s because that information got leaked to the public last week, so it was always just a matter of time before people found out anyway. I’d rather have some control over that narrative; better you hear it from me and Bucky, how we want to tell it, than in some tabloid.”

He’s right about that: they would undoubtedly have been outed one way or another. Their status as “roommates” was reported by TMZ a week and a half ago, and there was a Buzzfeed piece only yesterday, rife with gifs, entitled 15 Times Captain America and The Winter Soldier Made Us Wish We Were Their Third Roommate, that ended on the note of how Wilson and Barnes are “absolute BFF GOALS.” Wilson continues:

“But I think the biggest reason is that we decided, together, that we actually think it’s good for people to know. I’ve seen firsthand the impact that having a Black Captain America has had on the Black community and on the national topic of race, and we think—we hope—that a Captain America who is a member of the LGBT community will have a similar effect.

“The people who already hate me aren’t going to like me any better or worse for being bisexual, but some bisexual teenager out there is hopefully gonna read this article and feel a little bit better about themselves than they did before. That’s really the impact I want to have here. Got anything to add, Buck?”

“Actually, yeah,” says Barnes, staring at the counter in front of him and fiddling with his wedding ring. “I grew up gay in thirties. The idea of being able to just...tell people, that’s still amazing to me. The fact that I’m sitting here talking about it with a stranger and you’re not screamin’ in my face right now…”

“You do know I’m not straight either, right?” I ask him. I’m not exactly shy about that, it’s the kind of thing most people can tell just by looking at me.

“Even so,” says Barnes, finally looking me in the eye. “You fool around with a fella back in the day—or worse, you make a pass and he turns you down—then he knows about you, and then it’s like, what if he tells someone? Some of the worst shit I ever saw came from people who found out that way. So, other gay guys. Basically you never felt safe.”

“What about Captain Rogers?” I ask. “Did he know?”

“Oh yeah, Steve knew,” says Barnes with a dismissive wave of his hand, like that ought to be obvious. “He wasn’t gonna tell anyone; I got too much dirt on him.“

“Pfft. He’s messing with you,” Wilson interjects, directed at me. “There’s no dirt on Steve anywhere; believe me, I’d know by now if there was.”

“I want you to guess how many times I’ve had to clean up Steve’s puke,” says Barnes in a total deadpan, leaning forward. “Whatever number you think it is, the real answer is higher.

“This again,” says Wilson. “I keep telling you Buck, Steve throwing up on you at Coney Island isn’t the big scandalous story you seem to want it to be.”

“Sam wasn’t there, he didn’t see it,” Barnes insists. “We were with these girls and they just left us standing there by the Cyclone, covered in hot dog chunks. Actually, that part was kind of a relief ‘cause one of ‘em was definitely jonesing for me to kiss her before that, and I really didn’t want to.

“But seriously, after everything we went through together, I knew I could trust Steve with anything. And that made me luckier than most—at least I had one person. Lots of guys had no one.

“Anyway, my reasons for coming out with all this are probably more selfish than Sam’s. You know some of those Nazis—we’re callin’ ‘em something else these days, like ‘alt-right’ or whatever, but I know a Nazi when I see one—they have this crazy idea of what I was like back in the day. They’ve got this fantasy, like a golem of toxic masculinity with my face on it, and I just want to publicly shit on their dreams. Every date I ever went on with a girl was a total sham, and I was scared down to my bones that someone would figure that out. I fight because someone needs to and I’m good at it, but I hate hurting people and I’d much rather be sitting here cuddling on the couch with a man. This man.”

Barnes is grinning big and wide by the time he finishes—a real, genuine smile that brings out the sparkle in his eyes—and suddenly I feel like I’m catching a glimpse of what Wilson must be seeing in him. Wilson himself is laughing.

“I like how you snuck your little buzzword in there, baby,” he says. “Toxic masculinity. That’s one of Bucky’s things he learned about from his Wakandan therapist.

“Obviously super important,” Wilson adds, lest I think he’s making light of something serious.

“I think it’s great that we’re talking about it so openly now, especially with respect to the military.”

Barnes tilts his head in agreement, checking the time on his phone. We’re probably approaching the point at which he wants to get started on that pita bread, and I’m definitely in his way.

“So what’s next for you guys?” I ask.

“Isn’t that always the question?” Wilson asks, taking Barnes’s right hand in his left and resting them, intertwined, on the countertop. “Sometimes it’s aliens. Sometimes not. Who even knows anymore?”

“Hopefully, a whole lot more of this,” says Barnes, looking down at their hands.

Wilson smiles. “Well, that’s a given. That’s always.”

This is when Barnes gets up to pull a stand mixer out of one of the cupboards, and I read that as my cue to take my leave. I end my recording, Wilson thanks me for stopping by, I promise to give him an advance copy of my writing to make sure he’s comfortable with what I said, and I find myself standing back on the sidewalk of [REDACTED] moments later.

I’m not typically in the habit of including as many details about the dinner plans of my article subjects as I have here—and I’m certainly testing the limits of my editor’s patience with the word count—but in the spirit of Wilson’s wishes for what his coming out story will mean to the people of America, I wanted to emphasize how human his marriage is.

Barnes and Wilson have extraordinary jobs that they are undoubtedly uniquely suited for and that most of us will never fully understand, but they are also two people who have been through a lot of hardship and found happiness and peace in one another. And that’s something that most of us do understand: love, the human experience that transcends the divisions we give ourselves.

*From a press conference Wilson gave on May 7, 2025.

**From a statement written by Barnes and issued through a S.H.I.E.L.D. representative on November 1, 2023.

For further reading on Barnes, the author recommends:

1. Greatest Generation X: The Impossible Life of James Buchanan Barnes, by Ariel Guzman, published in 2025.

2. R.Y. Uhlencott’s column “The Wolf of Brooklyn” in the October 2024 issue of Time covers the basic timeline and trajectory of Barnes’s life.

#sambucky #sam wilson #bucky barnes #winterfalcon #mcu #marvel #tfatws #sam(antha) tag #my fanfic tag #fanfic

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dappersheep · 3 years

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Food Fantasy: An Analysis on what killed a Golden Goose (3/3)

Ladies and gentlemen, we've arrived at our final destination.

Again before we start, we have our obligatory disclaimers. I do not own the game or its characters, nor do I claim to know the true history and likely fate of this game. I am entitled to the thoughts and opinions written within this post. Feel free to agree or disagree with the points being made.

This post also remains untagged from the main foofan tag. Only my followers will see this.

We are in the third and final stretch, and the checkpoint is past the cut.

Community

So... here we are, fellow Master Attendants.

As consumers of this piece of entertainment media, we are free to enjoy it however we wish. Appreciating what is there, creating something new from what exists, playing the game by the meta or however you want to play it (within your means and at your own risk of course). There's no one true and absolute way to experience the game.

However, just as you can enjoy something, doesn't mean you can't also point out flaws or shortcomings of the media in question. As an active veteran player, I've already pointed out the many gameplay design flaws already. And I'd be pretty dumb to say that Food Fantasy's writing is perfect. Hell, it has a lot of holes from a worldbuilding consistency standpoint.

And what of things from the community side? Yes, there will be times you'd see content you consider cringe, or something in fanon you don't agree with. Or there happens to be fan theories and fangirling posts you don't like the take of because of X or Y.

And that's fine. If we all happen to play the same way, like the same thing, agree on the same thing and produce the same thing, well, this would be one helluva boring community, wouldn't it?

But what if someone decides the way you're playing the game is wrong and harasses you over it? What happens if someone decides that their interpretation of the game's flavor text and lore is more important than what anyone else thought about it? What happens if someone decides that they're absolutely right, and you and everyone else who disagrees deserves to be bullied out of the fandom?

As much as I want to say we aren't part of the problem why the game is deteriorating, we are unfortunately, part of the reason why the game is as such even if most of the blame is directed towards Funtoy and Elex themselves.

⦁ Whale Authority. Whales will always be part of a gacha game's ecosystem. Without them, the game won't be able to maintain its upkeep costs, moreso for one that services global regions instead of just one. But when a game decides to cater its decisions of what features should be prioritized and when it should be launched around only its most elite paying players' voices -even if that influence has since tapered off-, you know there is something wrong with the publisher's management team and priorities.

⦁ Interguild drama. While I did not personally follow any of this, this has certainly been the peak of in-game tension back in the day. Poaching good players from both competitive and smaller guilds, guild mergers that often ended up making the annexed guild/s the equivalent of UK colonized India or Australia, suck-ups chummying up to guild leaders to keep a spot in an active, high ranking guild (for bragging rights!) despite never contributing much to overall damage, and just general dislike of certain players' attitudes. Actions like this have disillusioned many players about their playing experience and the reason why many eventually just lost the motivation to log into FooFan.

⦁ Cheaters. You know very well about the Hacker-teme I've mentioned before, but that was in context of Elex being incompetent with dealing with them. Here, I would like to point out the players who are desperate to dominate the playing field for whatever reason to the point that they would resort to cheating the ranks with forceful modifications of the APK. Whether it is to rank high in catacombs weekly, get a top spot in daily disaster damage, or weasel their way into the competitive whale ranks of a major ranking event, these are the people who have no qualms messing with the code to give themselves an easier time with the game. And if they're caught? Some pretend that they've made a mistake, some quickly sell the account to escape the blame, some others just scamper away into the dark and hide in the lower ranks where they can't be found. Others simply don't care and keep cheating until Elex decides to finally ban them... if Elex ever decides their rebates score isn't worth saving the account.

⦁ Ship wars. Ah yes, a staple of drama in any fandom. There doesn't need much explanation to this as we've all had our fair share of running into a battleground in whatever fandom we visit. Someone ships BB52 wholeheartedly? Nope, problematic 'age gaps'. Someone likes Napoleon with Pastel? Someone's bound to misinterpret their bios in order to justify that Napoleon was being abusive. Spaghetti and Borscht? Borscht is minor coded, ship her with Vodka instead. Whiskey and Pizza or Cassata? Cancelled! And I've never heard of the Foe Yay trope or pretend I don't know about it! Rarepairs? Disgusting! No fanon in my canon playground! Turkey and Eggnog? Gasp! How dare you, you pedo-shipper-even-though-you-never-said-you-shipped-them-romantically-but-that-isn't-my-point!

⦁ Character Obsession: Bias. On one hand, you love a character so much. Relate to a character so much. You have thus pulled this character into the folds of your bosom and coo at them like a mother dove and get so minutely triggered if someone so much as makes one disagreeable or joking comment about the character that you fly into an overreactive ballistic rage that would make a Canadian goose honk in fear. You don't care what they are in canon. You don't care about the possibility of mistranslation. What matters is the fanon space you carved out for them to exist in and that's all that matters. The problem with this is when this obsession takes over common sense and social etiquette and it steps into harassment territory. You begin to think: I'm the only one who 'understands' the character. I'm the only one who wishes better for the character, everyone else is out to defame them! Oh wait, you like them too? Do you like them the way *I* like them? No? Maybe if you're my 'friend', I'd let it slide. But to everyone else? No one else has the right to like them as much as I do. No one! Never mind that they're completely fictional- No one hurts my bias because in turn, they're hurting *me*!

⦁ Character Obsession: Anti. On the other hand, you hate a character so much. This character just makes you see so much red. Their smug little smirk just makes your blood boil. Their fictional backstory makes you recoil in disgust. You hate that someone else loves a character you hate so much. You cannot *believe* that someone could be so daringly stupid to like a problematic character. They must be problematic too then. They must be hiding real life secrets that are problematic! Yes, yes. That's right. That person's a supporter of abuse. That person's into pedophilia. That person is into military lolita fashion that Japan started the trend of but clearly Japan was part of the Axis Powers! And that... that person... that person... is a roleplayer and a yaoi fangirl properly interacting with minors and adults. How dare they...!

⦁ Fan Translations. Normally it wouldn't be a problem that a group or two or several are translating pieces of the game's lore ahead of the official. But with Elex's very delayed translations and extreme allergic reactions to translating Food Soul bios, people have become dependent on fan-translation groups to get their fix. The problem herein lies... is when the translators get drunk off the power that they are one of a handful in a small community who can magically transcribe the oriental moonrunes into English. The problem starts when the translator starts to have an inclination. The problem starts when the translator loses their professional detachment and start adding in details here and there into the fan translated product that ultimately changes the meaning and direction of the entire story. The problem is also escalated when that translator's embellished product is touted as the truth by their followers. If there was an upcoming character whose backstory is connected to a character they hated (either because of someone or they just don't like the character) and you were hoping to read the fan translation? How would you know that what you get isn't something doctored to the point it's basically fanfiction?

⦁ Social Justice Vigilantism. Sometimes someone does not have a character obsession or need it to be annoying. Sometimes, someone just wants to ring the alarm over something they find 'problematic' in order to police and sanitize the enjoyment of the media for 'everyone'. They no longer really take enjoyment out of a new Food Soul design being leaked, they no longer read the lore just to enjoy what it has to offer. Instead, they nitpick bits and pieces of the design and point it out repeatedly as a reason why the whole thing is bad. They point out bits of the story and inject their interpretations of it without really comprehending what they've read in full and react badly to it. What's worse is that they have no qualms publicly posting their reactions and eagerly and hungrily await those likes and echoes of agreement that they were right.

⦁ Circles of Influence. Everyone has a group they eventually gravitate to in a fandom. It comes with its own pros and cons. Sometimes you join a group because someone you admire is in there, sometimes you join a group because you just want to mingle and see more content. All valid reasons. Arguments can't be avoided in a group, it has to happen... But you have to take care. You have to take care to feel the change in the air of the group. When someone starts pushing people to agree with them. When your most admired people start to feel overly sensitive about certain characters or issues. When you start to feel obligated to spy on other groups outside of this one for 'nonbelievers', 'traitors' and 'heretics' who do not think the way this group does, and that bringing back bits and pieces of gossip as offerings would somehow make you more favored in the eyes of the inner clique or remain inside it. There is a gripping sense of annoyance when that person comes in to complain but you can't do anything about it but nod and agree. There is a pervading sense of fear and apprehension of overstepping an invisible boundary. There is fear that you might be next on the chopping block, after witnessing one of the others being ganged up on and thrown out without a second thought, their name spat upon like they're worth less than dirt. And so reluctant you are to give up what you have with them that when they push you to do something you are reluctant to do, all in the name of 'harmony and justice'... You do it. Even though it would mean offering yourself up to the mob with no salvation, and the stark realization that... [they] never cared about you as a friend.

And we've come to the end of this analysis trilogy. The writing got a little bit strange in this post, but honestly this is the best way I could put it. I'm aware things can and will be more complicated than the bullet points I've written but I'm just one person and I tried very hard to keep details of all the drama that happened in this fandom as vague as possible. Of course, that wouldn't work if you know what I am talking about.

The community is quiet now for the most part, the game is somewhere between limbo and the living plane. Things could be better for us, but I don't really count on it.

I wish I could leave a bit of a moral warning or something. But rather than do that, I just hope this was an entertaining read into one individual's eyes into Food Fantasy and everything that makes it up.

#ravings of a madman #food fantasy but not tagged right

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blackaquokat · 4 years

Text

The Song You Might Have Been (Chapter 1)

Fandom: A Heist with Markiplier/Who Killed Markiplier

Pairing: Prison Attorney (Yancy x Y/N District Attorney)

Summary: In which circumstances occur and the assistant district attorney ends up in the same prison as a certain inmate who might be their only chance at survival.

A/N: Yes, it’s been months. I’m sorry. I had trouble finishing the last chapters so I put off posting it, because I didn’t want to leave you guys hanging if I never finished, and then I got hit with a major bout of depression regarding my writing and a bunch of other stuff in my life.

But, I’m feeling a lot better about myself and my writing, so I thought I’d share what I did have of this fic. Yes, this is the same nonbinary DA from my other series. Please let me know what you guys think!

Many thanks to @timelords-13

---

It’s unthinkable. Except that it isn’t, because it happened.

You’ve been framed for a crime you didn’t commit.

And the frame job is good. Enough to have you arrested. Enough to taint what little good reputation you’d cultivated in the city as a public servant working under the District Attorney.

But not good enough to convince your closest friend.

“Listen,” Damien reassures you, just before you’re hauled off to prison, “Don’t worry, we won’t leave you in there. I’m on this, Mark is on this—”

“Why should I be reassured that your B-list actor friend is interested in my case?”

Damien rolls his eyes. “I understand your doubt, but Mark is well-connected, my friend. His social capital rivals mine. I’m sure he can get a dedicated detective interested in clearing your name.”

“Why do you expect me to trust Mark’s judgment in detectives—”

“My friend, retain some of your optimism, or at least have some faith in me, please? And, listen, while you’re in prison, Make. Friends. Or alliances, at least. You’re going to need someone to keep you alive.”

“What, you don’t think I can look after myself?”

You knew he was right, he is right, but if you didn’t give him a little bit of a hard time like you normally would, you would have lost what little cool you’re retaining.

And so here you are. Being escorted into prison. A non-white, not-quite-male prosecution lawyer.

Great. Just great.

And apparently your reputation precedes you. Once you’ve been processed and properly stripped of almost all your personal possessions (you managed to sneak a picture of your mother into the pocket of your jumpsuit), you find yourself shoved into the outside yard and on the receiving end of stares from just about every prisoner milling about.

Your natural prickly bravery is warring with your fear of being in a place like this with no chance of protection. You find the most uninhabited corner of the yard and lean against the fence, hands in your pockets. Touching the photo in your pocket helps to ground your pounding heart.

Make friends. Easy for Damien to say. He’s not the one with the personality of a housecat only slightly used to human interaction, but that’s what happens when you dare to go against the status quo from the get-go and refuse to take shit from anyone about it.

The big difference between you and Damien is in your political approaches. Damien is transparent, kind, honest, and has enough social capital that the entire city adores him. Even the tabloids don’t dare to trash his reputation and any attempts to do so have fallen flat.

You, on the other hand, are far more cutthroat and firm in your approach. You emphasize justice and cracking down on the criminal element in the city, but you don’t leave out corrupt officials either. You’ve put just as many white collar criminals away as blue collar, and you’ve done so without any particular bias. You’ve created the reputation of an incorruptible crusader, but not someone who pursues a case without being absolutely sure the perp is guilty.

Hence your cynicism about the likelihood of anyone liking you enough to a) keep you alive here in a prison full of criminals you prosecuted or b) clear your name and get you out of prison in the first place.

“Hey!”

You immediately tense up. Please don’t be talking to me, please don’t be talking to me—

“Hey, you’re the attorney that put me in here!”

Jesus Crucified Christ.

You make eye contact with the guy approaching you and, sure enough, you recognize him. A former gang member who’d taken a side job as a human trafficker. Who’d have thought even gangs looked down on that sort of thing? It was thanks to the gang leader himself that this guy was charged in the first place.

“Trent Newman,” you greet nonchalantly. “Long time, no see.”

Newman’s eyes narrow dangerously. He moves toward you like he’s got a shiv in his pocket. What’s the turnover on dead guards and prisoners here? You’ve tried to find out in the past, but the Warden who’d earned the nickname “Murder-Slaughter” didn’t exactly have an open book policy into the kind of prison he ran.

“Well, looks like my luck is turning around!” His hand reaches into his pocket. Shit. Sometimes you hate it when you’re right. “I’ve got something I’ve wanted to give to you since the trial, and now I’ve got my chance!”

You move slowly into a defensive position. Getting shivved on Day One of your prison stint won’t look good for you. “You sure you want to do this now, Newman? With the guards around? With this many witnesses?”

“Do I look like I care?” Newman spits back.

“Well, youse should, shouldn’t ya?”

Newman whirls around and your attention focuses on the guy who just popped up behind him. This inmate has multiple tattoos on his neck and arms, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his biceps.

“But, c’mon, Boss, this ain’t just any criminal, this is an attorney, this is the attorney—”

“I thought I told you, Newbie Newman. No one gets shivved here without my knowin’ ‘bout it. So why don’t youse go occupy youself elsewhere whilst I welcome our new guest?” This guy’s tone is casual enough, but only an idiot would miss the outright threat underlining his words.

Newman is an idiot, but he’s not that clueless. He tosses one last glare your way before storming off.

Once Newman is gone, this guy saunters up to you with all the confidence of someone who’s been here for too many years to count. “I’ve heard of youse, I think. You’re that big-time attorney somebody, huh? I’ve got quite a few inmates here who’ve got youse to thank for their residence.”

This isn’t off to a promising start, delayed shivving notwithstanding. You wait for him to get to his point.

He inclines his head at you. “Not much of a talker, huh? That’s fine. I loves to chat it up. The names Yancy, by the by.” He rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck. There looks to be a pack of cigarettes stuffed into his rolled up sleeve. “So, what are youse doin’ in here? Get a little tired of following that justice book of youse’s? Take a bribery from the defense? Get a little snort of the good stuff?”

“Frame job,” you answer, against your better judgment.

“So you finally snapped and framed a guy? Can’t say I’m surprised, you lawyer types—”

“No, I was framed,” you correct. You’re not sure why. It’s not like it will matter to this guy.

Yancy’s eyebrows shoot upwards. “Is that right?” When you don’t respond, he leans forward, his eyes squinting at you. “So you tellin’ me youse innocent, then?”

Your brow lifts at him in response. “Would you believe me if I did say that?”

Yancy blinks at you like a baffled cat. He leans even closer, sniffs a few times, and straightens away from you. “Yes, yes I think I could. What were youse framed for?”

Wait? What? Does guilt smell like something? Your arms cross over your chest. “Uh, well, I don’t have any proof on me—”

“This ain’t the kinda place lookin’ for proof, just get on with youse’s tale, huh?”

Well then. This wasn’t exactly how you expected to tell your life story for the first time. This day is already shaping up to be far different from your expectations.

“Another attorney at the office was on the take. Connor Smith.” His office nickname had been “Pit-stain,” but that’s not exactly pertinent to your story. “Leaking information and taking bribes from another public official that I’m pretty sure is embezzling from the charity he’s running. Maybe even funding the new drug empire in the city. I only had been investigating off the books for a week before Smith ended up dead, and the police found evidence implicating me.”

Yancy listens to all of this quietly, nodding along and stroking his chin with two fingers. “I see, I see…” Then he shrugs. “Well, that’s unfortunate for youse, but hey, life’s an unfair bowl of cream, ain’t it? So, while you get comfortable in youse’s cell, I can show youse the ropes of this place—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” you interrupt. “You’re making it sound like I’m never getting out.”

Yancy blinks at you again. “Well, why would youse wanna leave?”

Is he...is he serious? “Why would I want to stay in a prison full of inmates who want me dead?”

“What, like that jackass Newman?” Yancy scoffs. “Look, Gorgeous, many of youse’s arrests are happy to be here. No water bills, hooch wine, no nine-to-five job eating their mind away.” He clicks his tongue and winks. “What more could you ask for?”

Well for starters, you’d like wine not made out of toilet water, but that’s not the point right now. “My freedom, maybe? Because I’m innocent?”

“Hey, what makes you think I’m not innocent myself?”

“Are you?”

“No, but it’s the principal of the thing, ya know? Innocent until proven guilty, and all that nonsense!”

You can’t help it. You laugh. This is so goddamn surreal, and you’re still utterly baffled that this is your life for the foreseeable future. Your laughter catches Yancy off guard and you wave your hand dismissively. “You’re right, you’re right. Still, I think I’ll focus on staying alive until my name is cleared.”

Yancy’s eyes narrow at you again. “What, you think you’re too good for this place, is that it?”

The anger in his voice is confusing. “No? I just...have…” You shrug helplessly. “I have people I need to get back to.”

The anger leaks out of Yancy’s posture as a look of understanding comes over his face. “Ah, I see! Youse gotta piece on the outside, huh? Well, Gorgeous, that’s what conjugal visits are for, I don’t see why that would hold youse up—”

“No, God, no, that’s not what I meant. I mean...ugh, fine.” Against your better judgment, again, you pull your mom’s picture out of your pocket and show Yancy. It’s one of the few you have of the both of you together. Happy. Smiling.

Much to your horror, Yancy yanks the picture right out of your grip. “Hey!”

He skips out of your reach without taking his eyes off of your mom’s image. “Youse the family type, huh, is that it?”

You snatch the picture out of his hand and stuff it back into your pocket. “What if I am?”

“Hey, no need to act all defensively there, Gorgeous,” Yancy reassures. There’s a glint of...something in his eyes. You’d dare to call it regret if you didn’t know better. “But lemme tell you what I’ve learned since coming here, yeah?” He leans in just close enough to make you uncomfortably aware of his soapy smell. The last person to be this physically close to you was Damien. “You’ll forget about youse’s familial bonds soon enough. The past doesn’t survive within these walls, you hear?”

He pulls away from you just as the prison bell rings and you suddenly feel like you can breathe again. “Anyways, you’ll change youse’s mind soon enough. Once you forget about your worries and strife, youse’ll fit right into this luxurious place.”

The man jogs inside with a gang of inmates surrounding him before you can respond.

You don’t see Yancy again until breakfast the next morning.

After a night of anxious sleep on the bunk underneath the cellmate who barely spoke two words to you (you’re pretty sure this is another criminal you condemned in court), you weren’t really sure what to expect at mealtime. You came in long after dinner the day before and your conversation with Yancy left you wrongfooted for many reasons.

(Of course, first things first, you have to deal with the public showers. Hopefully that’ll be the worst part of this experience.)

You settle at a corner table all by yourself. Breakfast consists of a runny but hot oatmeal and a small carton of milk. Your appetite is nonexistent, but seeing as the food situation might not improve anytime soon, you take small bites anyway. You can’t afford to let your strength wane from hunger.

“Are you the framed lawyer?”

You almost choke on your oatmeal as you spin around in your seat and see a giant of a man standing behind you, his forearms crossed. There’s a spider web tattoo on his bald head and a long bushy beard on his chin. “I...might be?”

He nods and sits next to you. The seat creaks underneath him. He pulls a fork out of the pocket of his jumpsuit and takes a giant bite out of your oatmeal. “Boss told me to make sure no one bothers you. The name’s Jimmy.”

By “boss” does he mean Yancy? Why the hell would Yancy bother with giving you a personal guard?

“...oh. Thanks?”

Jimmy nods gravely. “I do what the boss tells me. He’d be here himself, but he had business to tend to with the warden.”

You have nothing to say to that, so you continue eating your oatmeal and continue to just let Jimmy eat off your plate. He asks for your milk carton and you hand it off without a word.

It’s not until breakfast is about to end that the man of the hour himself appears. “G’morning, g’morning, Legal Eagle!” Yancy greets. “How are you and Jimmy the Pickle here getting along?”

“They gave me their milk!” Jimmy reports with a toast of your milk carton.

“Oh, a generous lawyer?” Yancy looks you up and down. “First one to come to this place. That’ll be all, Jimmy, thank you.”

When Jimmy goes to leave, turning back one last time to smile at you with a wave of the milk carton, Yancy takes his place the next seat down from you, feet coming up to rest in the space between the two of you.

“Dare I ask why you assigned me a bodyguard?” Suspicious as you are, you try to convey through tone that you have no problem with having one.

“Can’t have a new inmate die right off the bat, now can I?” Yancy pulls a bread roll out of his pocket and tosses it to you. You catch it in surprise. “Casts a bad look on me. No one dies here without my say-so.”

You take a bite out of the bread roll. It’s a little stale, but it’s much preferable to the oatmeal. “So I’m more useful to you alive right now?” You’re not offended. At this point, you’ll take what you can get until you’re released from Happy Trails Penitentiary.

“You could say that.” Yancy blows a loose strand of hair out of his face. “I was just talking to the warden about your cellmate situation.”

“What about it?”

“Well,” the bell rings, signalling the end of breakfast, and Yancy winks as he swings his feet off and hurries away again, “you’ve got a new one, of course!”

You don’t think much of this until that evening. In the meantime, your first job is in the kitchens washing dishes. There’s a pleasant routine to doing a chore you’re familiar with. The guard in charge of this job is more than terrifying, but he leaves you alone once he sees how quick and efficient you are. (You’re not so naive as to forget that prison guards can be even more dangerous than the inmates.)

Jimmy plops next to you again at lunch and your time in the yard passes, miraculously, without incident.

When it’s time to return to your cell for the night, you see an unfamiliar pair of legs dangling from the top bunk. Then you see the face at the other end of the body.

“What,” you begin with no small amount of suspicion, “the hell are you playing at?”

“I’m sure I have no idea what youse talkin’ about, Legal Eagle,” Yancy (because of course it is) responds in a too-innocent voice.

Looks like that nickname is sticking. Great.

“Listen,” Yancy continues when he sees that you’re not at all convinced at this ‘coincidence’ that has taken place not even twenty-four hours after your arrival. “Like youse said. There are plenty of inmates here who’d like to see you dead. I can hold off most of them, no problemo. But a few are just whack job enough to be out of my hands. They barely listen to the warden, let alone me. Henceforthing, I say that the best bet is to keep an eye on youse myself. I’m a rather busy bee durin’ the daytime, so I’ll be takin’ the night shift, I will.”

He shifts around the bunk until his top half is dangling upside down, right in front of your face. “Unless you’d rather someone sneak in at night and stick ya in youse sleep.”

“I think you know the answer to that,” you retort. “But why put in this much effort to protect a new inmate, and more than that, a prosecuting attorney?” A thought occurs to you and your eyes widen. “Wait. Do you...do you know something about my case?”

Even upside down, Yancy’s face is inscrutable. “I guess you’ll have to figure that out for youself, don’t ya, Gorgeous?” He lifts himself back onto the bed and crosses his ankles. “Why don’t you get some rest, huh? The guard in charge of the kitchens doesn’t take too kindly to cranky inmates who don’t appreciate the work they’ve been given.”

You stand there, glaring at him, for another several seconds before dropping to the floor and doing fifty push-ups. Because you didn’t do your usual twenty-five last night and also because you’re not just going to take this guy’s word as gospel. You’ll wait until he’s asleep first before getting to bed.

Thank you for reading! Please relbog/comment! If you want to be tagged/untagged for the rest of this series or this pairing, please leave a message in my inbox!

Link to Chapter 2 is here!

@starcrossedforever87 , @dontworryaboutanything , @beereblogsstuff , @falseroar , @intemperantiae , @memetoyoko , @soul-wolf , @marki-dumb , @withjust-a-bite , @raimeyl , @scribbeetle , @its-dari , @neverisadork , @silver-owl413 , @sassy-in-glasses , @chelseareferenced , @sketchy-scribs-n-doods , @axolittle-boi , @wildfandom , @shrinkthisviolet , @purple-anxiety-blog , @conceitedink , @skidspace

#kat writes #ahwm #a heist with markiplier #ahwm yancy #prison attorney #y/n district attorney #wkm #please guys #i need feedback on this one

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alma-berry · 4 years

Note

1) I think it's really dangerous to suggest that a non-straight character being popular is tied to their 'pornographic value' and blatant proof of mass fetishisation bc it achieves the exact opposite of normalising lgbt ships (it pushes them to the margins/silences discussions centred on them) and it creates a damaging narrative of lgbt characters being nothing but their sexuality and having no hope of ever being recognised as more than their sexuality/romantic inclination.

(I’m gonna answer each part of this ask individually cuz this is long and I have a lot to say)

2) I rarely see these kind of discussions aimed at straight ships. I've never seen someone imply that Julian is a fan favourite because he's with Emma and had sex with her. The mixed reactions Jace and Clary got, and are still getting, have little to do with their sexual orientation. Most people I've talked to are side-eyeing the J/C/M triangle bc a lot of us are over love triangles, not because Cordelia is getting in the way of J/M.

I couldn’t agree more. Our need of queer characters is not in order to create our own little bubble. We need queer narratives to be normalised, such as queer identities. Normal not in a form of “same as” but in a form of “just as valid as”. That why you’re so right, and we need to be very careful in the way we phrase ourselves and our demand for more queer representation. This world consists of so many kinds of people, and each and every one of them should be appreciated on its own, by its own right and its own story, and not just as a title or a box that should be checked.

3) As far as wlw ships are concerned, the silence around them is in part the result of Cassie's own treatment of her (sparse, so so rare) wlw characters. There's very few of them and the ones we do have, Cassie's own investment in them is lacklustre. They are sidelined, barely mentioned, rarely involved in the main plot. Exiled, chained to a sickbed, they don't get to shine as protagonists braving their own adventure.

Leaving Anna aside (who so far is a remarkable character), I agree with you completely. Intentionally or not, this is the case. The wlw representations in TSC is weak, inconsistent (I spoke before of how Helen is a completely different character in RSOM than she was in Tales and TID) and lacking of authenticity. The story of how Haline met in RSOM fell so flat to me, almost as a gag. They have some beautiful moments in TID which I truly love, but as a whole I’m disappointed of how they’re portrayed. But, we can ask what the reason for it might be. Is it because CC has something against wlw ships? I don’t think so. I think the problem is planted in that they interest her less than other ships. Or, we might say, ships with men. I’m NOT saying this is a woman-hating thing, not at all. But I have a lot of criticism towards the way she writes female characters, and I think this specific lack of authenticity in her wlw ships is originated there.

4) Cassie could have made Cordelia a lesbian of colour. She could have matched her with Lucie instead. She could have made Kit, the lost Herondale, a girl instead. Could have written Ty as an autistic, gay girl. Heck, she could have made Julian a girl! She had plenty of mains to choose from as potential wlw rep and she didn't. She either made them straight or mlm and it was her decision. If there's a bias in the fandom, it certainly echoes the one in her books.

Now, this I don’t agree with. There’s a story, and the story has to make sense. Making some characters female or wlw just for the sake of it is not something I think she should do. Also, she doesn’t owe us more representation, she’s doing quite a lot in that department. We can criticise the quality of it, but calling her out for not doing more, or more in the way we want her too, is not fair. I understand completely that we have our own needs of female wlw characters, I truly do (The only characters I can meekly identify with is Helen, which sucks for reasons I already explained), but we can’t pretend we’re owed that by every single author on earth, let alone an author who already is quite a pioneer in that department.

5) So what I'm saying: while she has good rep in her books, her main characters are still overwhelmingly straight and if they are not straight, they are more often than not mlm. And while I'm grateful for the world she has created and every single one of her lgbt characters, I don't think it's warranted to act as if her books treat male and female characters equally, as if there's a perfect balance between m/f, m/m and f/f ships, and insult her fans for working with what she gave them.

No, her male and female characters are not balanced. Not in so many ways… the more problematic thing to me is from a feminist point of view and not from a queer point of view, honestly. But this is not the subject at hand - so no, we can’t say theres a balance, but must we? The world is more straight than queer, that’s a fact. Not that I would’ve minded a completely queer cast of characters (it would be a dream come true) but why be angry about that? Yes, she writes far more mlm than wlw couples, that’s true. Obviously she likes (and frankly, succeeds) writing them more than the others. But should we be spiteful because of that?

Her comment on that post is insulting by all means, I said it loud and clear. Not sure if its relevant to how were “working with it” though.

#queer representation #queer lit #wlw representation #haline #tsc #cassandra clare

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ghostofbambifanfiction · 5 years

Text

My friend had genuine concerns about the anonymous nature of an awards account which had—in my opinion, and as I privately explained to the organiser in a conversation last night—acted as a catalyst for the hateful anons I was receiving at the beginning of the week.

Neither of us believed or stated or even indicated that the organisers of the awards were sending me those anons, or that they intended for anyone to be targeted as a result. It’s very clear that the organiser had created the awards in the spirit of fun and celebration. My belief was that there may have been authors—completely unconnected to the organiser—who felt that their work was overlooked and were pissed off about it. The very nature of an award is that it labels one team or individual as ‘the best,’ and therefore it is pretty standard that resentments can bubble up. I’ve seen it happen before. For whatever reason, I was the one who got an anon questioning me about fandom ‘divides’ and because I was dumb enough to answer it, it snowballed from there until I was being told that I was personally hated by other popular authors.

That was upsetting. I’d already had some shitty personal news on that particular day and I was not able to handle the whole thing in the way I normally would have, that is to say, to shake it off and laugh.

My friend was my shoulder to cry on the whole time. She was already wary of the awards and the anonymity of the organiser because there was no way to gauge bias (or lack of, and again, I am in no way inferring that the organiser was planning on giving all of the awards to her friends and I certainly don’t believe she was. At all. Let me repeat that. At all. I absolutely think she is playing fair) and in the light of what I’d had to deal with (again, I was being told that other authors hated me) my friend continued to be wary. She wanted some transparency. Some others didn’t see a problem with it. That’s fine. We’re should all be able to let differences in opinion slide.

My friend did not personally attack the organiser, but my friend is now being treated as if she personally attacked the organiser. I have seen people reblog the original post in anger, threatening to fight her in a parking lot (?) because the organiser was hurt, and quite frankly, being ill-inclined to read more vitriol in my inbox, I spoke to the organiser directly and privately rather than comment publicly last night. As did my friend. At length.

I still think the awards were an indirect factor in the hate I received because it seems too timely to ignore. I was still honoured to be nominated, and I do not think the organiser arranged the awards with any malicious intent whatsoever. The two aren’t mutually exclusive. I explained this to the organiser last night in a perfectly friendly conversation and she understood. That’s all I have to say on the matter and I remain 100% supportive of my friend and of the feelings and opinions that motivated her to state her thoughts on her blog. I love her and I appreciate her for everything she does.

It’s December 1st, and everyone knows November is a crap month, so I am officially stepping away from further fandom drama.

#opinion #I’m sure some won’t like this #but it’s an honest assessment of the last 24 hours from my perspective #not tagging anyone because I’m sure the organiser doesn’t want to be tagged

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welovekpopscenarios · 6 years

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Friction (Fallout!AU Woozi x Reader)

Admin: Mimi

With your rifle damaged, you had no other choice than head to the nearest city to get it repaired. You didn’t expect the person doing the job to be such an insufferable jerk, however. But things become interesting the more you get to know the man repairing your weapon. Fallout/Post-Nuclear War!AU.

Fandom: Seventeen

Genre: Fluff, Angst

Pairing: Woozi x Reader

Warnings: Language, mentions of violence, Woozi and Reader being assholes to each other

Word Count: 3955

A/N: Will I ever stop writing for Seventeen? No. Will I ever stop writing game au’s? Probably not. As I said in my Mingyu one, don’t get put off by this being a Fallout AU, it isn’t that central to the story, and I hope it’s still enjoyable for everyone to read, but just ask me if there’s anything you’re confused about, I’ll be happy to answer! I wanted to write for Woozi bc I absolutely adore him and why not write for your bias wrecker haw haw help. But yeah, this is a classic enemies to lovers trope bc I’m a sucker for that type of stuff. Also just picture Jihoon being like, a weapons mechanic or whatever and being sweaty and working hard and ugh stop it. I really hope you give it a chance and enjoy it! Happy reading, ily all!

- PART 2 -

The heat of the sun bore down on your skin, sweat pooling into nearly every crevice of your body as the sun seared into the leather bonds and cotton long johns that sat on your frame as a pathetic excuse for armour, leaving you more than irritably sticky and exhausted. The gravel crunched beneath your boots as you made your way through the tore up streets, dodging stray pipes ready to slice your head off from their position in the walls and climbing over car wreckages whose engines have long been silenced over 200 years ago, eyes half-heartedly scanning the corners for raiders or thugs ready to point their pistols at you and steal the caps stashed at the bottom of your rucksack.

Not that you felt like you cared at the moment, to be quite honest. The blaring sun and the hours long walk, sneaking past enemies and taking out the ones who caught you have, to put it frankly, completely drained you faster than you drained all your water supplies in a single day. A raider could easily pop out from whatever hidey hole he’s dug himself, put a shiny one right between your half-closed eyes, and you’d thank him for putting you out of your misery. You were that tired.

And what made this hellish journey even worse was your destination – and your problem. Some time ago your favourite rifle took a tumble from your position on the broken, open second floor of a house you were staying in one night, and when you hopped down to retrieve it, you were heartbroken to find it smashed at the barrel, trigger bent sideways, and completely useless.

Normally you would just toss the weapon aside and grab the newest one you could find, making do, a common occurrence in the wasteland. But this rifle meant something to you, it was special. It was your first one, given to you by your father before he…well. It was important to you, and you needed it fixed. Unfortunately, you didn’t know how to repair the thing, and so that brought you to start your trek towards the last place you wanted to be.

Diamond fucking City. "The Great Green Jewel" of the Commonwealth.

Diamond City – while a hub of trade, services, security and life – was also home to complete nutters and crazies, and that wasn’t even counting the ones trying to kill you yet. Brawlers, thieves, con-artists, and now synths were apparently added to the mix, the city was a complete shitshow, to put it kindly, and to put the icing on the sweetroll, it was all controlled by a racist asshole who liked to keep his civilians as obedient as he thought he could. But, that being said, the city was the only successful one in the Commonwealth, booming with activity, and the only one you somewhat trusted closest to you.

And so you walked for days on end; starving, parched, and sick of it all. Your lips were cracked and drier than the trees standing in the countryside, feet more swollen than a Super mutants head, and limbs moving slower than a Brahmin cow. But still you walked. And by the grace of whatever sadistic deity left above, you reached the entrance of the city, the guards shifting in their positions and shooting you suspicious glares. The one directly outside the gates lifted his gun to you, standing straighter, prepared to shoot you down where you (barely) stood should you try anything. Not that you had the energy, even if you wanted to.

“Hold up,” he grunted, shoulders hunched into a defensive position while you wavered in place, swaying slightly side to side in order to keep yourself upright. “Who’re you and what’s your business here?”

You tried to reply, you really did, but all that came out was a lousy croak of your name, followed by a short coughing fit. “I’m here for weapon repairs,” you managed, breathing heavy, and so completely done with this conversation already. As if you were going to make the city any worse.

The guard shuffled, moving his balance foot to foot, as he mulled you over, eyeing you head to toe. A guard taking watch on the rafters whistled to grab his attention, the young mans’ eyes flitting upwards to him in surprise.

“Let em in, Kookie. They ain’t gonna cause any problem, and they’re just here for business. Just let em through,” he ordered, the toothpick in his mouth moving with each syllable that rolled off of his tongue, scratching at his back lazily as he leaned against the railings. The guard – Kookie – furrowed is brows in uncertainty, eyes flickering between your deadpan face and the other guard. He licked nervously at his lips, fingers fumbling around his rifle.

“But, Johnny, Mayor McDonough said-“

“McDonough said keep the bad ones out. And my excellent judge of character says they ain’t a bad one,” he drawled, fixing Kookie with a look that screamed ‘are you that dumb?’ “McDonough also don’t want anything stopping business in his city, especially a greenie guard. That’ll look very bad on you, kid.”

Kookie look like he wanted to say more, but what could he say? He was only new, and Johnny has been manning the entrance for years. He has to trust his superior. Nodding in satisfaction at Kookie’s compliance, he turned his gaze to you, flashing a smile enough to rival the Cheshire Cat’s you’ve seen in those books your father showed you when you were little. “I’ll open up the gate for you. Head on in, dollface. Welcome to Diamond City.”

You were too dead to make a comment on the nickname, instead throwing a lacklustre salute in Johnny’s direction and ignoring Kookie’s scowl as his eyes followed your form, heading deeper into most popular civilisation in the Commonwealth.

What struck you first was the lights, the entire city lit top to bottom in various types – open flame, bulbs, neon signs, even floodlights – the entire city illuminated and glowing, which only served to highlight the mass of citizens sprawled throughout the area. The noise levels were high, something you weren’t used to unless it was from the occasional scream of pain in the distance. The noise was filled with chatter, people actually having conversations, or promoting their trade from their stalls scattered throughout the centre, and music from the city’s radio station echoed throughout the space faintly, creating an almost happy atmosphere as you walked to the centre.

It was completely alien to you, to see this many people together and not have them try to shoot you, or watching them fight, or any other negative you could find in the book. It also made you do a double take on the city’s reputation. While you were cautious of the metropolis, a seed of mistrust planted firmly in the pit of your gut, you reasoned that the city wouldn’t have stood for as long as it did if it really was full of lunatics and thugs. Maybe this place wasn’t that bad.

Maybe.

When your jaded eyes landed on what looked to be a restaurant in the very centre, manned by one of those Protectron robots and wearing what looked to be an absurd chef’s hat placed neatly on his metallic head and stirring a large pot, you nearly wept with relief, dragging your heavy legs and plonking yourself on one of the stools, burying your head into your arms on the counter in front of you and heaving the longest sigh you think you’ve ever made in your existence.

"Nan-ni shimasho-ka?"

You slowly raise your head from its place in your arms, eyes searching around the area for the person who addressed you, only finding one guy sitting a seat away from yours, slurping on noodles contentedly.

"Nan-ni shimasho-ka?"

You faced forward, the lights on the Protectron gleaming as he spoke, the waves in his voice bouncing with an electronic twinge. You shot him a confused stare, but he was unperturbed as expected of a robot, continuously stirring his large pot of noodles automatically.

“What?” you asked, positively baffled. Were you too tired to understand basic speech now?

"Nan-ni shimasho-ka?"

You heard a chuckle resonate near you from the only other occupant at the noodle bar. He shot you a friendly grin when you turned your head, still chuckling in pity at your expression.

“Just say yes,” he told you ominously, and while you narrowed your eyes in distrust, you did as instructed.

“Ye-es,” you dragged out the word, confusion lacing your tone and a brow raised on your dirtied face. The robot’s metal claws picked up a bowl from the table, monotonously spooning noodles into the chipped ceramic dish and pushing it towards you when he was finished.

“That’s Takahashi, he cooks the noodles here,” the man explained, inclining his head to the robot who happily stirred his pot. “The noodles cost 20 caps, just put em in the box on the bar.”

Nodding in understanding, you took the sufficient caps from your bag, placing them in said box and promptly digging in, practically inhaling the food your stomach cried out for in the past few days, barely even feeling the burn on your tongue as you swallowed the savoury substance, eyes nearly falling shut in happiness.

“Thanksh man,” you mumbled around a mouthful, too impatient and hungry to stop eating and address the guy who helped you. He smiled slightly at you as you ate, spooning his own a lot more gracefully into his mouth.

“No problem, I was confused when I first got here too. I’m Scoups,” he introduced, hand reaching out to shake your own, his nearly encasing yours whole with how large it was. You returned the greeting once you swallowed. The red glow from the fairy lights strung around the tarp of the noodle bar cast shadows on his smiling face, a genuine smile, such a rare sight in the wasteland. “So, what brings you to Diamond City? Looking for a place to stay?”

You licked sauce off your lips, swirling your noodles absentmindedly in their bowl. You nodded, nails tapping against the table. Scoups bobbed his head in understanding, folding his thick arms on the countertop. “Do you know anyone who can repair weapons?” you asked, and Scoups grinned, mischief swirling in his dark orbs.

“Look around,” he laughed, a wave of his arm accentuating his words, your eyes roaming the space that was littered with all types of services – from mechanics, armourers, merchants, even a hairdresser. “The better question would be where can’t you get it repaired. Pick your poison. But if I were you, I’d go see Woozi. He’s the best in the City for a reason. I’ll take you to see him after you’ve finished eating. You look exhausted.”

You smiled at him in gratitude, one he returned amiably, and finished your meal, listening to him as he explained the layout and manners of the infamous Green Jewel that was Diamond City. A short while later with a belly blissfully stuffed and feeling rejuvenated, you followed Scoups as he led you to one of booths in the city, this one covered with various bits and pieces from weapons hung around the sides and a simple metal sign with ‘Woozi’s’ carved into it hanging high above. Scoups didn’t walk the full distance to the stall, only pointed out its location and mumbling a ‘good luck with him, you’ll need it’ and a ‘see you later’ before he was heading off in the direction of what looked to be a bar.

Edging closer to the stall, you could see the parts more clearly, the grey of the booth littered with scopes and barrels along the walls, some weapons sitting on display on random boxes for all to see, looking in better condition than any gun you’ve ever seen, even shiner than anything you’ve ever seen. Standing at the entrance, the stall was smaller than expected, only bearing the essentials and locks for protection. Sitting at a workbench was who you suspected to be the man himself, fiddling with a shotgun and a look of utmost concentration upon his face that could only ever be found on the most skilled marksmen.

Sweat lined his forehead, falling from his hairline and down his temple, and the occasional oil mark was splattered across his face, on his cheeks, chin, even the bridge of his nose. His teeth bit into the skin of his lower lip, the flesh red and plump from constant worry, and his eyebrows were furrowed almost angrily, as if frustrated with his work, twitching every so often in annoyance, nostrils flaring with every heavy breath that ached to leave his chest. He was definitely one of the better-looking men you’ve seen in the wasteland – a strange feeling in your chest spreading through your tired limbs the longer you stared at him. He had a strange allure, certainly, a man dedicated to his craft with an air of no nonsense about him that was a well needed trait for survival. And that tingly feeling in your stomach was certainly strange, perhaps even more alien to you than the city you stood in.

“You’re in my light.”

Huh?

“What?”

A sharp exhale left the lips you’ve been focusing on far too much to be normal just moments ago, his gloved hands placing the shotgun down carefully and shifting in his stool to face you, pulling the gloves off finger by finger as he stared at you with an expression that almost made you flush with embarrassment, as if you had just done the most stupid thing possible.

“I said,” he spoke deliberately slow, like one would when dealing with a child who didn’t understand what they’ve done was bad, and it had sparks of annoyance flashing through you. The nerve of this guy! “You’re in my light. Or are you deaf? Too many beatings to the head?”

You now understood why Scoups wished you luck when dealing with this guy. You needed it, because each passing second only made you want to punch this guy so hard he’ll be headed straight for New Vegas on the other side of the country.

“There’s light everywhere, jackass,” you retorted, glancing around and at the sky. It was still midday, still hot as hell, and just when you thought you were feeling better, you get sent to this jerk who’ll be responsible for fixing your rifle. If you’ll even let him, at this point. “Or are you that petty?”

Woozi looked untroubled by your comment, resting his left elbow on the table and leaning his weight on it, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips. A smirk you wanted to kick right off his pretty face.

“I need to be able to see what I’m doing. You don’t get to be the best in the city by doing a half-assed job,” he boasted, looking as smug as a raider who just found a huge box of caps on some poor helpless traveller he butchered.

“Then I suggest find a candle and some matches, day light doesn’t last forever,” you suggested cheekily, pleased with the scoff he gave and downturn of his lips. God, this was infuriating. You don’t know why you’re getting so worked up over this. “I need my rifle repaired,” you settled for getting straight to the point. The sooner you could get into a bed, the better.

“Well, no shit. It’s kinda what I do,” he sassed, his stupid perfect brow raised and dark eyes scanning your form, head to toe. You squirmed under his scrutiny, suddenly conscious of the dust caked on your face, the scars littering your body, the dirt hidden beneath your nails. It was foolish, really. Things like good looks and hygiene weren’t a priority anymore, but for some reason you felt like you should have at least scrubbed up a bit before coming to see this man.

Which was absolutely ridiculous. It’s not like you had to impress him.

Certainly not.

You barked out a sarcastic laugh in response, face dry and showing no semblance of humour whatsoever. “Funny, twerp,” his lip curled into a snarl at the insult, “I know that. I was told to come here because you were apparently good. Scoups sent me.”

“Scoups?” he questioned in faint surprise. He hummed, regarding you thoughtfully before eventually sighing in resignation. “Show me this rifle of yours, and I’ll see what can be done,” he sat up straighter, hands facing palm up and awaiting your prized possession. You reached into your rucksack for the rifle that lay sadly at the bottom, dragging it out carefully and placing it into his hands, watching as that concentrated expression from before returned to his face, looking much older than you expect it to be.

His slender fingers toyed with the weapon, running up and down the barrel, pushing the trigger around and giving it a shake, an awful rattling noise resounding from the simple action and simultaneously putting a grimace on both your face and Woozi’s. After another moment of inspection, he placed the rifle down on the table next to the shotgun and left his stool to rummage through crates of spare parts and tools, metal clanging bouncing against the walls of his booth.

“I’ve never seen a barrel that badly smashed before,” he observed, planting various tools onto the surface of the workbench, the table soon filling with wrenches and screwdrivers and pliers, more than you’ve ever seen in one spot before. Taking a seat once again at the table, he placed the shotgun to the side, focusing his attention on your rifle again as he brought it to eye level, a tut of frustration leaving his mouth. “I can fix the trigger no problem, but the barrel is another story. If I was you, kid, I’d just dump it and get a new-“

“No!” you blurted out, panic putting a fresh weight on your chest. You needed this to get fixed. Woozi stared at you in bewilderment, eyes wide in confusion and fingers stalling their movements. There was a beat of silence as you simply stared at each other; Woozi silent as he awaited and explanation, and you silent in shame, heat crawling up your neck. “Please,” you plead, voice near mute but heavy with desperation. “This gun means a lot to me, and I really need it fixed. I can’t do without it. Please.”

It must have been the waver in your voice, or perhaps the shake of your hands, or even the dulling of your eyes that had Woozi’s hardened stare softening until was just blank, returning his gaze to the weapon in question. His tongue poked at his cheek and you watched the action, a cold feeling freezing your body in place as you waited in horrible anticipation. He glanced at you out of the corner of his eyes, swiftly looking away when he met your saddened expression, a faint blush blossoming on his skin, and then he was rolling his eyes, huffing out a quick breath and turning his body around.

“It’s gonna take some time, and a lot of supplies,” he announced, his glare having lost the venomous edge it had and instead just a plain old bothered expression similar to an old man’s. “But, I might be able to get it fixed. No promises though,” he added quickly, but you were too elated to really care, body sagging in relief and a grin stretching ear to ear on your muddy visage.

“Thank you so much,” you beamed, that heavy weight lifting off your chest and your heart feeling brighter for what felt like the first time in months. The blush on his face grew darker as he saw you smile, his own smirk growing on his lips as he gave you a sly look.

“Gonna cost you a good amount of caps too so don’t look too happy, sugar,” he drawled, and your joy began to deflate slowly like air out of a tire. Right, the cost. Shit.

“What’s the damage?” you inquired, forehead creasing in worry as you thought of the little cache in your bag. Fuck, you didn’t need this to burn a hole in your savings, you still need to find a room to stay in and get food and drink. Woozi examined his tools and the rifle, mentally calculating the effort it would take to repair it.

“Giving the time and supplies I need, I’d say around…500-600 caps.”

“500 fucking caps?!” you shrieked. “I don’t even have half of that! And I still need to find somewhere to stay!” Fucking hell, you really couldn’t get a break, could you?

Woozi made a hissing noise that sounded like it was half in mock sympathy, shrugging his shoulders in a ‘what can you do about it?’ sort of motion. “Well, I guess you’re gonna have to find some work around the city then. Plenty that needs to be done, I’m sure. In the meantime, I’ll be slaving away over your precious rifle. But it’ll be done. I’m not a genius for nothing. So, will you have the money or does this conversation end here?”

Your fists clenched at your sides, once again supressing to urge to knock his teeth out of his skull, and clearly, he could tell, smirk growing and eyes narrowing in a challenge. “I’ll have the money. Just…please fix that rifle. I’ll pay you when you’re done.”

“Don’t worry, your rifle will get repaired. But I only accept half up front, and the rest when the jobs done,” he explained. Ah, just another bit of Deathclaw shit dropped on top of your day. This’ll leave you with a dent in your caps, hopefully you can find some work soon, or else you’ll be broke and living on the streets without any way to pay for the gun you’ve walked miles to sort.

“Fine,” you grumbled, hands hurriedly pulling the box out from the bottom and pouring them directly onto Woozi’s workbench, watching as some toppled off the edge and onto the floor of his workshop, loud clinks ringing in their wake. At least you still have that other little bag of caps hidden in your spare clothes. Woozi looked pissed at the mess you made, chest blowing up and deflating thickly as he tried to contain his anger. After all, he couldn’t really say much, you had given him the caps.

“There should be around 220 caps in that,” you announced, closing your bag and shifting it on your back. “I’ll have the rest when you’re done. Bye”

And then you were off, walking back into the throng of people of Diamond City, eyes open for any opportunity for work and shoulders slumped in misery. Woozi was baffled by you, to say the least. In all his time working in this God-forsaken shithole of a city, he’s never met anyone quite like you, quite so…like him. He’s met compliant, kind customers, and he’s met outright assholes who he almost refused to service if the pay wasn’t worth it, but you were different. He got a kick out of how much he pissed you off, how your lovely face would scrunch up in irritation, and tasted his own medicine when you threw it right back at him. Definitely more than meets the eye, with you. But as he stared at your rifle, thumbs rubbing against the dents and cracks, he figured that he’d be done with you soon once this was over and never have to see you again.

Oh, how wrong he was.

And oh, what an interesting week this will prove to be.

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