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bitternanami · 9 months ago

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something i think is really interesting about dungeon meshi is the cast's respective views on food as the story progresses. the way many adventurers get through the dungeon is to eat when they Must, but mostly rely on healing magic to keep going when they're tired or beaten down. death is something you can buy your way out of, here.

having these lower stakes when it comes to running yourself too hard has made a lot of people in this setting kind of devalue food and what it does for you.

im not all the way through the manga yet, but so far i really like how it goes about debunking that mindset.

long post under the cut, cw explicit discussion of disordered eating. textual depiction of unhealthy methods of dealing with it. please be cautious!

it seems like to most folks, food is either a decadent luxury, like when the governor offers mr tance a feast as a show of power and wealth, (although he is the only one who actually eats in that scene as he talks about his ambitions);

[id: the governor and mr. tance talk politics and hierarchies, while the governor eats from a bowl. mr. tance's meal is not visible behind a speech bubble.

"so you believe the sorceror is an elf?" he asks.

"i can't say with absolute certainty," mr. tance replies, "but the spells are not ones dwarves and humans typically use." /end id]

like the painted-royal feasts laios tries to partake in that never actually nourish him...

[id: laios, fresh out of the living painting feast, surprisedly holding his grumbling stomach /end id]

or, to the working class, it's pretty much exclusively fuel. i'm thinking about the scene where kabru's party, ostensibly intended to be our view into how adventuring Typically goes for most people, is shown preparing to go to the dungeon by like. walking up to someone and ordering 'a weeks' worth of rations.' purely functional.

[id: kabru enters a store, and the merchant says "welcome!"

kabru says "i need a week's worth of rations for six, and two days' worth of water."

"sure thing." the merchant then reaches behind him and grabs a large cube-shaped package, wrapped in nondescript cloth and tied in place. it thumps onto the counter in front of them both. /end id]

when kabru hands mickbell his food for the trip, he complains about how heavy it is on his back. it's a necessary liability.

we also see chilchuck, in an early chapter where there isn't much food to go around, grumbling about how he used to be better at not noticing when he was hungry. he's frustrated that he's more attuned to his bodily needs, now that he's starting to fill them with regularity.

[id: chilchuck, the only one awake, sits in his bedroll and glares at the timekeeping-candle burning down in front of him while he listens to his stomach growl. moving to find his canteen and fill himself with water instead, he thinks to himself, "my stomach has gotten weaker. i used to be able to go two days without food." /end id]

(like im not even gonna lie this is a big mood. the healing process is really really annoying)

even laios, early on, working out the logistics of going back for falin, considers his expenses and ultimately the thing he decides to save money on is their food supply. like, even the guy most invested in eating as an experience kind of just assumes he will Figure It Out. its what hes eating, not how hes eating it that matters to him at that point.

[id: marcille looks down at the ingredients they've gathered, the walking mushroom and the scorpion in an unappetizing heap on the ground, and asks laios "so how exactly do we eat them?"

he responds "let's just cook them, like normal." /end id]

but its here that senshi introduces the idea of food as art and as healing. its exciting and its fascinating for laios, getting to taste the creatures hes been reading about and fighting, but i dont think it would ever really help him feel full if not for this.

[id: three panels of laios tasting the scorpion hotpot, looking stunned, and then excitedly telling senshi "delicious!"

senshi matches his energy, asking "isn't it? isn't it?" /end id]

pictured: guy who had resigned himself to kind of just doing his best rediscovers the joy in something tasting really fucking good

what they did last time isnt going to work. falin is gone, and constantly anesthetizing their pain and healing through their weakness is no longer a realistic option for the party. in order to make it through they must all relearn how to eat well, one by one and as a group over and over again, because its either that or nothing.

one of my favorite depictions of this idea thus far is when marcille is seriously low on health and mana, and both of these problems are mitigated by taking care of herself, and trying to get iron and protein

[id: marcille, looking sickly, wakes to laios saying, "marcille, marcille, can you sit up? we've got something nice for you."

she watches senshi grill pieces of kelpie liver on a low fire, while laios ties a bib around her neck. /end id]

and drinking a bunch of dead water spirits. she gets the idea, she's supposed to get in nutrients and it'll help her feel better, but in aiming for the quick, inefficient fix, namely chugging that shit down like she heard it was good to Stay Hydrated and decided that would be the thing that fixes her,

[id: marcille throws back a cup of boiled undine-water, her face red. laios asks, "do you really need to drink it that fast?"

she gasps out "...the magical energy stored in nature spirits is actually quite hard to absorb. even if you drink a lot, the majority of it is excreted without being absorbed," and takes another drink. "that's why i need to drink as much as i can."

laios says weakly "you'll get water poisoning," but marcille only stops when senshi puts a hand on her shoulder and says,

"it's easier to absorb nutrients if ye digest them with food. that's a fundamental rule of nutrition."

marcille says, "senshi..." contemplative

and he holds out a bowl of tentuclus and a thumbs up. "let's get cooking!" /end id]

she doesn't immediately realize the answer is that she needs more than that. she's been working hard. she needs care, and she needs nourishment.

once she gets that, though, she makes her boiled water into a stew, and she works to make that stew as good as she can, and everyone can have some.

because in dungeon meshi, to feed yourself or allow yourself to be fed is treated as performing a kindness for yourself. food is what propels you, but there is also an art and a joy inherent to the process of making it; in the way you feel when you've had enough to eat.

[id: senshi watches as chilchuck and marcille eat and excitedly hash out plans.

"i've got a good feeling about this! maybe it'll work out!" chilchuck says

marcille responds, "well it's easier to feel optimistic on a full stomach!"

senshi smiles, proud. /end id]

^^^ i want to put this image on my wall

when you're working through disordered eating habits, you really do have to keep learning this shit. (in my experience, learning about cooking is one of the best ways to do so.)

i'll have to see if my thesis holds up as i continue, but i think one of the reasons the portrayal here resonates with me so hard is that ryoko kui puts most of her characters at eye level with me on this. they're all working at it, too. the text and i are both commiserating, and encouraging each other, 'have some more, you'll feel better.'

#its late -_- idk if this fullly gets across what i mean but ive been thinking about this for weeks #dungeon meshi #recovery #cooking tag #disordered eating cw #im on chp 31 atm but im like. squinting and steepling my fingers looking for this theme as i go now #meta

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cod-thoughts · 1 month ago

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Day 17 of 31 days of COD

Word count: 2.2k

Relationships: team as family, ghost & price

Tags: character study, introspection, ghost realising praise may not be so bad after all

Deep down, Ghost feared that any praise came with strings attached. If they were praising him, what did they want in return? Could he really trust that their gratitude was genuine? Ghost had learned early on that admiration was often a prelude to betrayal, and he wasn’t willing to risk that again. At night, when the base was quiet and he lay in his bunk staring at the ceiling, he would replay memories of his past—the friendships lost, the promises broken. A part of him—a small, fragile part—craved validation, yet he never allowed himself to seek it. Instead, he buried it deeper, convincing himself that he was better off without the emotional entanglement. Keep reading under the cut or on AO3

Ghost was a force to be reckoned with—sharp, silent, and unbreakable. When John Price recruited Simon Riley for Task Force 141, he recognised Ghost’s potential as an invaluable asset. Beneath the mask, however, Price could see the cracks: the remnants of a life marred by betrayal, loss, and survival.

In those early days, especially after Ghost’s return from Mexico, Price maintained a professional distance. Their interactions were limited to terse compliments like “Good work” or “Job well done,” each one accompanied by the authority of a captain who expected nothing less from his men. Ghost never asked for more; he had learned long ago that vulnerability was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

Despite the professionalism, there was an underlying tension. Ghost could feel Price’s gaze lingering on him, assessing, perhaps trying to peel back the layers. But Ghost resisted. He would rather face down a barrel of a gun than confront the emotional chaos that lay beneath his steely exterior.

One particular mission left a lasting impression on Price. Deployed in hostile territory, they had come across a group of civilians trapped in a crossfire. Ghost had single-handedly rescued them, dispatching the enemy with clinical efficiency, ensuring that everyone made it out alive—a feat no other operative could have managed. Not even Price himself.

Afterward, Price felt compelled to pull him aside. “Simon,” he said quietly, clapping a hand on Ghost’s shoulder, “No one else could’ve pulled that off. You saved lives today. You should feel proud. Thank you.”

Ghost grunted, his gaze fixed somewhere over Price’s shoulder, as if the ground held more interest than the praise. He didn’t respond; he didn’t flinch, didn’t even acknowledge it. Inside, he was wrestling with a wave of discomfort. Praise, he thought, was for people who needed validation. He had survived alone for so long that he believed he didn’t need anyone's approval. What would it change? Nothing, he reasoned. He was good at his job, and that was enough.

As Price walked away, Ghost felt a tightness in his chest. The words proud and thank you echoed in his mind, mingling with memories of past betrayals. If they’re praising me, what do they want in return? he thought. Ghost had learned early on that admiration often masked ulterior motives, and he wasn’t willing to risk that again. Instead, he buried the feelings deep, convincing himself that he was better off without emotional entanglements.

---

The years slipped by, and Ghost remained the unshakable operator that everyone expected him to be. He and Price worked seamlessly together, their bond growing stronger with each mission and every near-death experience. Yet, their dynamic was always the same—efficient, mission-focused, and devoid of sentiment from Ghost’s side.

Price observed how Ghost dismissed every victory, shrugging off gratitude like it was an unnecessary weight. He noticed how Ghost would turn away from compliments, as if they were tangible burdens he couldn’t bear. For a long time, Price respected Ghost’s boundaries, knowing that the man had endured more than most could imagine.

Yet, the more Price saw this behaviour, the more it troubled him. He could see the shadows in Ghost’s eyes, the way his shoulders tightened whenever praise was directed his way. It was as if Ghost believed he had to earn his worth through actions alone, as though his value was tied to the missions he accomplished rather than the man he was.

But beneath the surface, Ghost was slowly beginning to change. He couldn’t shake off the weight of those simple words—You saved lives today. You should feel proud.—which echoed in his mind during sleepless nights. They gnawed at the fortress he’d built around his emotions, forcing him to confront his trust issues.

At night, when the base was quiet and he lay in his bunk staring at the ceiling, he would replay memories of his past—the friendships lost, the promises broken. A part of him—a small, fragile part—craved validation, yet he never allowed himself to seek it. Instead, he buried it deeper, convincing himself that he was better off without the emotional entanglement.

---

When Soap joined the team, Ghost was initially wary. He didn’t like new faces, especially those as loud and brash as Soap. The Scot’s relentless optimism and easygoing nature rubbed Ghost the wrong way, making him feel exposed and vulnerable in a way he wasn’t ready to confront. But over time, Soap’s presence became a constant—an irritating force of life that Ghost couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard he tried.

Soap admired Ghost from day one, fascinated by the silent, brooding man who never seemed to falter. The more Ghost withdrew into himself, the more determined Soap became to break through that tough exterior. He would often toss compliments Ghost’s way after missions, eager to elicit a reaction.

“Bloody brilliant out there, Ghost! You made that look easy,” Soap would declare, his infectious grin beaming as he slapped Ghost on the back. “Honestly, couldn’t do half of this without you, mate.”

Ghost’s response was always the same—a grunt or a curt nod, if he acknowledged it at all. But with each compliment, the warmth that spread through him became harder to ignore. The corners of his mind, once barricaded, began to stir at the edges, whispering that perhaps he wasn’t as alone as he thought.

There were quiet moments—fleeting, almost intimate—when Ghost found himself holding onto Soap’s words long after they’d left the battlefield. During downtime, Ghost would catch Soap's eye across the room, his laughter ringing like a bell, and something inside him would stir. He found himself thinking about the things Soap said—You make it look too easy—and he felt a flicker of something he had long since buried: hope.

But Ghost was still conflicted. He valued his solitude, the silence that wrapped around him like a familiar cloak. It was easier to keep his distance, to remain the enigma the team had come to know. Yet, with Soap, there was an allure that beckoned him to step closer, to lower the walls just a fraction.

---

It wasn’t until years into their work together that Ghost hit a breaking point—a moment that forced him to confront the emotions he’d spent his entire life burying.

The mission had gone south. An ambush scattered the team, leaving Ghost isolated with Gaz, who had taken a bullet to the leg. Ghost hoisted Gaz onto his back, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he fought off enemy forces, determined to get his teammate to safety. Each step was a battle against exhaustion, his muscles screaming in protest, but he pressed on. The weight of Gaz’s body felt both heavy and grounding, reminding him that he wasn’t just fighting for himself anymore.

When they finally made it back to base, the rest of the team was waiting, their faces a mix of worry and relief. As soon as Gaz was handed off for medical care, Soap stormed over, his expression a blend of gratitude and awe.

“Ghost, you absolute beast!” Soap exclaimed, his voice thick with emotion. “You saved Gaz’s life out there. I don’t have the words for what you did. Seriously.”

Price stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Ghost’s shoulder, his grip strong and reassuring. “We owe you,” he said, his tone steady and filled with sincerity.

In that moment, something inside Ghost broke. The tension in his chest—the wall he’d built around himself—cracked under the weight of their words. For the first time, he didn’t brush off the compliments. He didn’t shrug them away.

“Did what I had to,” he replied, his voice rough and low. But the acceptance in his tone was new. It wasn’t just duty or obligation anymore; it was something deeper, a recognition of his worth beyond the battlefield. Ghost realised then that he wanted—needed—to hear those words. Not out of self-doubt, but because he finally understood he wasn’t alone. He had a team—a family—who saw him.

In the quiet moments that followed, as the adrenaline faded and exhaustion set in, Ghost found himself staring into the fire, thoughts swirling in his mind. Could it really be this simple? he wondered. He wanted to believe it, wanted to embrace the warmth that enveloped him, but years of mistrust clung to him like shadows.

---

From that point on, things began to shift between Ghost and the rest of Task Force 141. It was subtle at first, but Price, Soap, and Gaz began to notice the change in Ghost’s demeanour. He wasn’t just tolerating their compliments anymore—he was listening. He didn’t deflect their praise as quickly and didn’t shut himself off after missions.

The team leaned into this change, seeing how Ghost’s posture

softened when they acknowledged his efforts. They noticed the way his eyes lingered a bit longer, how his silence was slowly morphing into quiet acceptance. Soap, particularly, made it his mission to bombard Ghost with compliments, always accompanied by that cheeky grin and a twinkle in his eye.

“Honestly, Ghost, you’re making this too easy for me. You’re like a bloody machine,” Soap would say after a particularly successful mission. Ghost, to everyone’s surprise, would offer a small nod, perhaps even the faintest hint of a smile beneath his mask.

Gaz started to do the same, offering quiet words of praise during training. “Good work, Ghost. That take-down was smooth.” There was an honesty in Gaz’s tone that struck a chord with Ghost, a reminder that they were all in this together.

Even Price, who had long understood Ghost’s need for distance, began offering more encouragement. “I’d follow you into hell, Simon. You’ve earned that,” he’d say after Ghost suggested an almost impossible feat for the team to accomplish, his voice steady and filled with trust.

Ghost found himself replaying those moments in his mind during the quiet hours of the night. He would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the day pressing down on him. Each compliment, each nod of approval, was a gentle push against the walls he had erected around himself. Could he really let them in?

With time, Ghost began to return the affection—not in grand gestures or declarations, but in small, subtle ways. He would stand a little closer during downtime, quietly leaning into their presence. When Soap joked around, Ghost would allow the faintest of smirks to appear beneath his mask, a flicker of warmth igniting in his chest. He even began using their names more often—a small sign of intimacy that the team didn’t miss.

---

Years down the line, the bond between Ghost and the rest of 141 was unbreakable. Where once there had been walls of silence and solitude, there was now warmth and camaraderie. Ghost still wasn’t the most vocal or outwardly affectionate, but the team had learned to read the subtle signs that let them know he reciprocated their feelings.

Small gestures emerged—pats on the back, a cup of tea after a hard day, and an unyielding commitment to ensure that every one of them returned home after missions, no matter the odds. Ghost found himself taking the time to check on his teammates, asking if they needed anything, surprising even himself with how natural it felt.

One evening, after a particularly brutal mission, the team gathered around a table, nursing their injuries and reflecting on the day. Soap passed Ghost a drink and leaned back with a grin, his expression slightly loopy from the alcohol.

“Ghost,” Soap began, his voice filled with warmth, “you’re the reason we keep getting through these bloody messes. We wouldn’t have made it out today without you watching our backs.”

Ghost glanced at Soap, then around the table at the others. Gaz smirked, and Price gave a slow nod of agreement, his eyes warm with approval. Normally, Ghost would brush such comments off, perhaps making a dry retort. But tonight, with the warmth of camaraderie enveloping him, he simply nodded, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Thanks,” Ghost said quietly, his voice soft yet genuine.

The team grinned at him, a collective warmth settling over them. In that moment, Ghost understood that he didn’t need the mask to hide anymore—not with them. Not with his family.

As the laughter and chatter continued, Ghost found himself reflecting on how far he had come. For the first time in his life, he felt seen, heard, and truly valued. The emotional scars of his past still lingered, but they no longer defined him. Instead, he was part of something greater—an unbreakable bond forged through fire and trust.

In this family, Ghost realised he could let his guard down. He liked it. He needed it. Not from anyone else—just from these three men who had stuck by him through thick and thin, guiding him as he navigated this newfound territory of connection and acceptance.

#call of duty #cod #call of duty fanfic #simon ghost riley #john price #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #q's 31 days of cod #q writes #this was #a struggle #to say the least but its up and im gonna forget about it now

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