#but the most dangerous part of the real world

[watercolorfreckles]

Could you do a story where a guard of a Supermax prison befriends a supervillain, because he treats him like a genuine human being instead of an animal; and later, all the power-dampeners suddenly fail; and all these villains just revolt against the guards; but supervillain makes sure he’s safe since he was always kind to him?

I understand if you don’t want to!!❤️

Hello! This has been sittin in my inbox for many months during my huge writing rut, sorry about that! I know you also gave this prompt to @the-modern-typewriter and she's been making an incredible series with it on patreon! I changed some things around because I don't want to in any way attempt some sad copy of her interpretation, but I was still inspired by the prompt itself, so I've taken some fairly big liberties to avoid any significant similarities! Hope that's okay! Also, please manage your expectations, I do not compare to the magic that is TMT's writing 😆

TW: Brief depictions of body horror. Violence.

The power blew out in sections. The lights dissolved sector by sector with a sickening whine and click–one by one–in approach.

The commotion ripped Eloise from the fictional world she was lost in, aged page corners still pinched beneath her thumb. Her spirited storytelling abruptly died behind her teeth.

Somewhere in the distance, one person shouted. Two.

Her gaze flicked behind them to the door isolating herself and the bound supervillain from the other sectors of the Maximum Security Prison for Powered Individuals or, as everyone called it, The Max. Seeing nothing but black beyond the bullet-proof glass, her attention snapped forward again to the supervillain imprisoned across from her. 

Was this the start of some elaborate escape plan on his part? Why did it have to happen on a day that she was stuck fulfilling her community service hours instead of being something she could safely gawk at in the newspaper from a distance in a few days? Her stomach did a nauseated flip. 

“What are you doing?” she blurted, voice quivering only a little. Her fingers tightened around her book.

The villain made a show of looking pointedly at his restraints. Wrists strung taut and chained to either wall, he shrugged an innocent shoulder at her as if to say “clearly, nothing.” He was perched on the edge of his bed like a bird, tilting his head with a matching sort of probing curiosity. 

For all the chaos outside of the room, Artisan had not a hair out of place. He appeared perfectly unconcerned, though as thoroughly trapped as ever: ankles shackled, arms stretched uselessly apart from each other. The power-dampening collar wrapped around his neck still blipped a faint red light, indicating it was active. 

The prisoners were rioting. Surely they couldn’t get too far? Containing the most dangerous of powered individuals was, after all, the express purpose of the facility…

The lights above them flickered, dipping the room in and out of inky darkness before settling into a dimly lit haze. Eloise’s breath stalled. The imposing dark felt like a threat, as if the lights could keep the monsters at bay. It only made a little sense, in the way that a child feels safe from the monsters under their bed as long as their nightlight is plugged in.

Except that these monsters were real. The most dangerous in the country. And she was currently feet away from the monster that made even other monsters run.

He hadn’t seemed so bad in the time that she’d known him. Quiet, impassive, yet twisting her gut with pity any time she eyed his barbaric restraints. The least she could do–while crossing off her hours–was to read the supervillain a story every few days. She couldn’t change his fate. Couldn’t make him more comfortable. What she could do was rattle off, sheepishly, about fictional worlds and impactful characters in literature and the way that a well-crafted story could transport you somewhere better.

A crash, gunshots, a scream. Tension racketed through Eloise’s shoulders. More shouts chased thundering footsteps.

Things were going very, very, wrong. And she was very much out of her depth.

Eloise jolted as something struck the door, her special-edition copy of Mary Shelly's Frankenstein falling to the ground and skidding away.

Finally, the lights cut out. With it, every noticeable piece of tech died. All of the energy felt sucked out of the room as if vacuumed. The camera’s blinking light disappeared. Alarms that should have been wailing cut silent. Speakers, keypads, and security systems, all dead. The secondary generator hadn’t sprung to life yet. That meant that this was more than a simple power outage. This was a calculated revolt.

 Eloise’s mind raced through a list of everything else that must have been failing. Coms. Sedative gas. Shock collars. Layers and layers of security locks…

Power dampeners.

Panic clamped vice-like and suffocating around her throat. Artisan’s collar was no longer blinking. 

She froze in the eerie silence of the cell, afraid of shattering the fragile calm. Her heart thumped, rabid, against her ribs.

Chains rattled and clinked to the floor.

Eloise bolted blindly for the door, smacking her palm against the DNA scanner while frantically swiping her “Volunteer Staff” badge through the card reader. When neither miraculously came to life, she resorted to banging on the door.

“Let me out, let me out! Guard!”

The door could only be opened by one person inside the cell and one outside simultaneously unlocking the security checkpoints. Even if the power were on, if the guard on the other side was gone…

The emergency floodlights kicked on, bathing the building in startling fluorescence. Eloise flinched, briefly stunned.

Hands grabbed her firmly from behind, yanking her backward.

Eloise yelped. “No, please–!”

The spot that she had been standing in exploded, steel door and concrete chunks collapsing into the room in a barrage of shrapnel. Something–no, someone–landed, bones crunching, at her feet. The guard who had last been standing on the opposite side of the door lay motionless. His blood puddled the floor, staining the soles of her Converse sneakers.

A horrified sound choked in Eloise’s throat.

Another supervillain strode in, eyes alight with hatred and something more–power. His lip curled, waving a mocking hand–engulfed in green energy–at the guard’s corpse. “God. I’ve wanted to do that for far too long. That one always got on my nerves.”

Artisan looked unimpressed. “You’re making a mess in my cell.”

Eloise’s breath caught. Hearing the supervillain’s voice was jarring. Artisan rarely spoke. Not that any of the other staff had ever actually attempted conversation with him… But even in news clips and YouTube videos, he carried himself with the kind of self-assured quiet of someone who had absolutely nothing to prove. His lethal efficiency did more for his reputation than any words could.

The other man was a villain named William Frenzy, a telekinetic with a gleeful taste for violence.

Faced with Artisan’s startling calm, Frenzy… paused. Faltering on a tight rope he had moments before been strolling across. 

“Yes, well. It won’t have to be your cell much longer, will it? They can’t stop all of us.” He smirked at the dead body on the floor. “Some of them can’t even stop one of us.”

Eloise shrank back toward the corner nearest the door, agonizingly slow, willing the ugly shadows from the artificial lighting to swallow her up while the supers focused on each other. She was the kind of person that people tended not to notice; a background character in the perimeter of a story that the protagonist would meet once and never spare a thought again. She wished, then, that invisibility really was her superpower.

Artisan said nothing, his steely gaze fixed upon Frenzy.

Frenzy floundered beneath the scrutiny. The smugness buffered on his face. Finally, he huffed, crossing his arms. “I made you a nice and easy door out. You’re welcome.” He flicked a hand toward the gaping hole in the wall.

Eloise inched further toward it.

Artisan tutted, and while it wasn’t aimed at her, it shot a cold thrill up her spine. She froze, briefly, before continuing her tantalizing escape. She listened to Artisan speak again. 

“I did not need anything from you. I’ll be getting out regardless. You on the other hand…” 

Eloise stared as Frenzy’s skin shrank taut against his bones, the frame of him creaking and groaning like an old tree in the wind. The air choked out of him, fingers grabbing at his jaw as it stretched open too wide. The corners of his lips tore, slitting his mouth into a gaping maw.

The faintest of smiles graced Artisan's lips as he continued, soft as ever. “Say sorry.”

Eloise didn’t wait to see the carnage through, slipping out into the hall and running.

The other sectors were washed in the same sterile glow as Artisan’s cell was, blue-tinged and horrible, like the lights in a dentist's office. She kept to the edge of things as best she could, clinging to the walls and dark corners.

There was brawling in every sector—guards with weapons drawn mowed to the ground by the creatures they had wardened for so long. A villain fell as shots rang out. Another grabbed the guard from behind, cracking his skull against their knee. 

The smell of blood stung Eloise’s nostrils. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe.

She turned to flee down another hall, but two fighting inmates crashed into the doorway in front of her.

Eloise squealed, jerking backward into the belly of the room's chaos.

Don't notice me, don't notice me, don't notice me.

Everyone was so occupied by their chosen prey, maybe she could fade into the background. Maybe she could–

Her heel caught on something and she tumbled, gracelessly, to the floor. It took her several moments to register the lake of blood seeping warm and sticky into her clothing. 

Terror blurred her brain in a white flash bang.

Disappear, disappear, disappear…

“Mm. What do we have here?”

Eloise couldn’t bring herself to lift her head. She clamped her eyes shut, another child’s illusion of protection. 

The villain opposite her chuckled. He ripped her volunteer badge off of its clip against her chest. Her eyes snapped open again. She recognized him as a ringleader among superpowered thieves. They called him Volt.

“Volunteer, eh? A pretty thing like you should know better than to willingly set foot in a prison full of men with nothing left to lose. It’s been a long sentence, darling. I could make excellent use of your volunteer services. Get up.”

Numbly, ears full of static, Eloise shook her head.

Volt frowned, electricity jumping to life in his palms. “No?” He reached for her, hand nearing her throat.

“Keep your hands to yourself or I will remove them.” 

Artisan’s voice was calm. His eyes were not.

The room quieted.

Spatters of red decorated Artisan’s prison uniform. A few drops dotted his face and he brushed them away with his knuckles, smearing the crimson across his cheek. Almost lazily, he popped his neck and stretched his shoulders, no doubt sore from the strain his restraints kept him in.

The villain across from Eloise paused, sparks still dancing across his fingertips. He regarded Artisan with the same wary caution as Frenzy had.

Before he'd been… Before Artisan had…

Eloise swallowed back the nausea climbing her throat.

Finally, Volt’s hand lowered. “She's yours?”

“She's hers. Step away.”

The man hesitated a moment too long. Artisan didn't offer a second warning. 

As if puppeted, the man's fingers raised to gauge at his own eyes. He screamed, the faint evidence of Artisan’s power shimmering over him. He clawed, next, at the skin on his face, peeling it back like wet wallpaper. 

As promised, his wrists crunched and bent, wrenching all on their own at impossible angles.

Eloise covered her ears, unable to bear the screaming. She felt sick.

“Stop,” she whispered finally. “Please.”

It did. The man collapsed into a sobbing, bloodied heap.

When Eloise managed to look at Artisan, she startled to find his attention fixed on her.

They stared at each other for a stretch of silence that itched. She imagined being forced to choke on her own lungs, or her skull constricting in on itself until it squashed her brain into pulp. For being so bold as to run, he might snap her legs and reaffix them the wrong direction, or splinter her bones to poke, grotesque, out of her skin. They always did say that his victims were his personal works of art, bodies twisted into shells of monsters.

He crooked a finger, beckoning her.

The edges of her vision swooped fuzzy and vertiginous. She rose onto wobbly knees and pushed herself to her feet. When she swayed, Artisan caught her elbow, slipping an arm around her waist to lead her forward.

He did not look back at the others, with complete confidence that no one would challenge him.

No one did.

Eloise was barely aware of taking one step after another. When they arrived back in the villain’s cell, the bodies of Frenzy and the dead guard, thankfully, were gone, though the floor was streaked with the drag lines of their blood.

She wrenched her gaze away.

Artisan’s hand moved further down her arm to her wrist, gesturing that she sit on his bed. When she shifted to do so, his grip tightened, tugging her to a stop. She frozen and tried to read his face. 

His dark brows were furrowed, suspicious eyes flicking from hers down to her hand.

He pulled down her sleeve and held her wrist up between them, revealing the power-blocking cuff clamped around it. His head cocked. He waited.

Eloise swallowed. “I’m not a super. I mean- not a super-super. Just a…..no one.”

“A no-one who volunteers at The Max? With a power-dampener?”

“They’re terms of my probation,” she blurted. “A thousand hours of community service here and a power-inhibitor for a year. I think they put me here to threaten me with where I could end up if I continue on like… Um…”

“Me.”

“A villain,” she clarified, as if that was better. 

Her gaze flitted from the fingers wrapped around her wrist and up to the villain’s face again. The harsh lighting haloed him, dimly silhouetting his face. He looked haunting. He looked lovely. A beautiful house, old and creaking, wrapped in ghosts like a bride’s veil and left to rot. 

“What did you do?”

“I…” Eloise felt very small. “I lied about being powered on my documents. So that they wouldn’t put me on the registry. When they found me out, I tried to run away.”

Artisan’s scrutiny burned her cheeks. He let go of her wrist.

“...What can you do?”

“Nothing special,” she said, cradling her wrist–wholly uninjured as it was–in her other hand. “It doesn’t even work most of the time. My power is sort of…blending in. Going unnoticed. When it’s working, I could stand in a the White House and people’s attention would glide over me as if I belonged there. Not quite invisible, but… It just tricks your brain into not thinking twice.”

Artisan’s eyes narrowed.

Eloise flinched back a step, stumbling back over her fallen book onto the bed. She stared at him.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

Some of the tension eased from her shoulders, but she still waited for the catch. “Why aren’t you out there with the rest of them? Trying to escape?”

The villain considered her for a long moment. He sat down beside her, and the hard cot creaked beneath his weight. “Mm. That’s just it. No one inside the prison could have blown the power-dampeners. They require someone with powers to turn them off or on, and the security is impenetrable. My team has tried. Besides, if this was a simple power outage, the inhibitors would still be on. But they’re not. This was premeditated–and no one imprisoned here could have done it. No one on the outside could have done it. So. Process of elimination. Who’s left?”

That was the most Eloise had ever heard Artisan speak, and she could only sit and listen intently–As he had when she’d read him stories. Her brain whirred in a jumbled jigsaw of puzzle pieces. 

“It… It could only be an inside job.” She wet her lips. “The heroes- The higher-ups- They want the prisoners to break out so that they can kill them. A clean massacre. Justified under the law. The world’s most dangerous criminals could never be allowed to escape…”

Artisan smiled and it swirled something in her insides. “A convenient way to get rid of all of the pesky criminals clogging up the system. I’d bet anything that there are 50 snipers surrounding the building, waiting to slaughter anyone who steps foot outside.”

“Oh.”

“Oh,” Artisan agreed, his smile easing into something softer; something with less feral teeth.

“Thank you for helping me,” Eloise whispered. “What do we do now?”

Artisan hummed. He bent down and swept up her book, dropping it into her lap. He laid back against his pillow and crossed his arms behind his head. The bloodspots on his skin and clothes glittered in the lowlight. 

“Keep reading. I want to know how it ends.”

[bellasfortuna]

been playing a lot of That's Not My Neighbor and it got me brainrotting on the idea of what if you were a doorman for a military compound during a doppelganger outbreak, and the residents were the 141/co. so here's a blurb

TW: body horror, mentions of murder, explicit threats of bodily harm

The sound of the door locking shut with a loud clank resounded through the tight entry hallway. It felt like every sound always echoed if not thundered through the tiny office and small box sized hallway that was bracketed by the door leading outside the compound and the door leading into the compound, the reinforced steel and shatterproof glass felt as constricting as they did protective.

Laswell's warning to me when I accepted this job, passed the initial tests, the initial psych eval and physical tests, kept running through my mind: "The compound is a safe and secure environment, and the first level of protection hinges on your job. Do your job and do it well. The safety of everyone in the compound hangs in the balance if you don't."

Of course, the unspoken part, I also understood. This was a military compound, housing some of the world's most trained and deadly soldiers. People who were more than capable of, and in the past had, disposing of doppelgangers. When your life revolved around tactical warfare and covert operations and living and breathing danger, even the true capacity of unknown danger that the doppelgangers encompassed couldn't phase you. If I did fail, let one through, inside the first layer of secure walls, there were more failsafes, more deadly soldiers, who could handle it; but that didn't mean there wouldn't be casualties. And as the least trained and arguably least deadly (even in a world where I passed the minimum requirements to work on base, physicality and weapons training included), I would be the first casualty.

None of that was going through my head the first time I saw one of them, really saw one of them, in that tiny entryway, with the only barrier between us being the shatterproof glass and reinforced steel frame. It was easier, when the paperwork was clearly forged, the slam of the protective metal shutter and the blaring alarm, they didn't sound so horrifying, jarring, yes, but not horrifying. I could disconnect from the idea that something unspeakable, something I definitely didn't want to know about or the specifics of, was happening behind the metal shutter with the cleaning crew and the doppelgangers I was calling them for. It didn't feel real.

"Y' think yer safe, inside tha' tiny box, they don't care 'bout you, they prolly don't even know yer name, they wouldn't come if ye screamed while my claws sank into yer soft skin, ripped the screams right outta yer pretty throat, so open the door," it hissed, voice dripping with malice and barbed vitriol. It wore Mactavish's face, but it was all wrong, gone was the rugged handsomeness the Scot usually bore. Gone was the chiseled jaw and stormy blue eyes, in his place was something unnatural, something dangerous. Face slightly bloated and too bulky, it had too many eyes, wide and bloodshot and glaring icily at me through the window.

[beardedmrbean]

Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, D-N.Y., said during an online discussion she hosted on Monday that "false accusations of antisemitism are wielded against people of color."

The "Squad" member hosted an online livestream titled "Antisemitism and the Fight for Democracy" on X, admitting that the rise in antisemitism and attacks against Jews since Hamas' Oct. 7 assault on southern Israel – where about 1,200 people were killed and approximately 250 others were taken as hostages into Gaza – "undermined" the progressive movement.

"Antisemitism, hate and violence against Jews because of their identity is real, and it is dangerous. It is also important to say here in this moment and during that conversation that criticism of the Israeli government is not inherently antisemitic and criticism of Zionism is not automatically antisemitic," Ocasio-Cortez said.

"That being true does not mean that we should not recognize that criticism and when that criticism crosses a line into real harm against our Jewish community," she continued. "Antisemitism is an assault on our values as Americans and especially as progressives. Antisemitism is also a threat to a community that is a vital partner in our struggles against injustice. So, when the Jewish community is threatened, the progressive movement is undermined. That is why we reject it as fiercely as we reject and look for misogyny, Islamophobia or any form of bigotry or discrimination in any space that we occupy. Right now, antisemitism is on the rise in America and across the world. Acknowledging that fact does not take away from fights for liberation, it actually advances them."

"At the same time, it is also true that accusations and false accusations of antisemitism are wielded against people of color and women of color by bad-faith political actors," Ocasio-Cortez said. "And weaponizing antisemitism is used to divide us and create a false choice between the fight for Jewish safety and the calls for Palestinian self-determination. Defending and standing for the rights of Palestinians is not antisemitic, and we must be able to identify when bad-faith political actors make accusations simply to divide us. People can disagree bitterly about Israel and Gaza, but it has felt that we’ve been at a point where even coming together to acknowledge and discuss any antisemitism at all can feel impossible."

People who have represented both sides of the political spectrum slammed Ocasio-Cortez for saying that there are false claims of antisemitism aimed at people of color.

"She is one of the most dangerous people because people are fooled by her," former Democrat New York State Assembly member Dov Hikind told Fox News Digital in reaction to the congresswoman's discussion. 

"She's part of the radical extremists of the Democratic Party," Hikind, who joined the GOP last year, continued. "It's why so many people are leaving the Democratic Party. It's why so many people are not going to vote for the Democratic Party, for Biden or anyone else. I am convinced of that, that this will be an historic year in terms of Jews moving away from the Democratic Party, historic. People like Ocasio-Cortez, she contributes to the hate. She makes things more dangerous – really, really sad."

"By the way, I've never met antisemites who didn't say they were against antisemitism," added Hikind, who founded the organization Americans Against Antisemitism. "And she's full of it. She's absolutely full of it."

The Republican Jewish Coalition (RJC) also reacted to Ocasio-Cortez's remarks in a statement to Fox News Digital.

"AOC’s ‘Squad’ includes the most noxious antisemites in Congress," wrote Sam Markstein, RJC national political director. "And across the board, Democrats have shamefully refused to hold the Hamas Caucus of their party accountable. It is shocking that the Democratic Party has this much difficulty calling out antisemitism – instead of despicable race-baiting, AOC should focus on fighting bigotry in her own ranks."

For the discussion, the congresswoman brought in two speakers, Stacy Burdett, a Jewish community advocate against antisemitism and bigotry, and Amy Spitalnick, CEO of the Jewish Council for Public Affairs. 

At one point, Burdett spoke about the "conspiracy frame" of antisemitic rhetoric, pointing to differences between criticizing Israeli policies or decisions and being antisemitic. She specifically warned viewers that when discussing the Israel-Hamas war, comments that seem to allege "evil control of government policy by Jewish billionaires or Zionist donors" perpetuate dangerous antisemitic stereotypes.

"So, if your criticism of Israel is trafficking stereotypes, you're really in the bigotry zone," Burdett said. "I mean, stereotypes kill. That's how the Nazis got the German people to live with this so-called Final Solution. And so we do the work all the time to avoid words that correlate with negative stereotypes. And we need to do that here. Second, you know, empathy and care and inclusion cannot be limited only to Jews who reject Zionism."

While Burdett warned against using stereotypes dealing with Zionist donors in the discussion hosted by Ocasio-Cortez, the congresswoman herself made an incendiary remark of her own just a day earlier. "Hmm it’s almost like AIPAC functions as a political slush fund for Republican billionaires and should not have influence in the Democratic Party, let alone our primaries," Ocasio-Cortez wrote on X on Sunday, referencing the American Israel Public Affairs Committee, whose goal is to strengthen the U.S.-Israel relationship and works with members of both parties. Hikind said AIPAC is a "legitimate organization" that follows the law and supports both Democrats and Republicans.

"They don't have any preference over Democrat or Republican. We know that. You can check the records. So for her to say this," Hikind told Fox News Digital, reacting to Ocasio-Cortez’s X post. "My mother went to Auschwitz in 1944 with her entire family. They were all murdered because they were Jews, OK? And when I hear people like AOC and others indulging in these antisemitic tropes, which then are picked up by other people, and that results in assaults on Jews, and that results in hatred towards Jews, she is contributing towards that."

[just-late-roman-republic-things]

one of the things i always feel guilty about is empathizing with certain historical figures who, more or less, turn out to be a spawn of the devil. sulla's familial relationships always intrigued me because in a way, i see parallels between our lives. i cannot turn out a maniac like him (perhaps not as large scale but corruption spreads like a disease anywhere) yet it is still a fig in the tree, ripening slowly and it scares me.

Anon...I'm not your therapist, but I'm posting this because I suspect a lot of people on here have similar fears.

There are many reasons why you might feel drawn toward a "bad" character or historical figure:

Escapism. When I was a teenager I loved Alucard from Hellsing. Not because I wanted to run around killing people like he did, but because it was fun to imagine being invincible. It's another form of playing pretend.

It may help you process difficult feelings or thoughts. As a kid, my classmates and I sang songs about bombing our school and decapitating the teachers. (It was a different time.) In play therapy, kids often fantasize about killing their parents - even if those parents are good people. Because again, it's not about really wanting to kill, it's about letting out feelings of frustration, in a symbolic and nonviolent way. Catharsis.

Maybe it feels validating to see a character who shares some of your feelings or experiences. It's a form of representation. Also cathartic.

Intrusive thoughts. Repeated thoughts of "What if I do [bad thing]?" usually occur because your brain knows it's bad and is trying to avoid doing the bad thing, not because you secretly want to do it. Just having these thoughts, but not wanting to act on them, does not make you more likely to do it than someone without these thoughts. It can also be a symptom of OCD.

Maybe the character was engaging in a book or TV show you saw. I suspect a lot of Sulla's popularity comes from novels like Masters of Rome and Roman Blood, where he is fascinating and well-written.

Maybe you just think he's hot. There's a reason why the "bad boy" is such a common love interest in romance fiction, and it's not because the readers are too clueless to notice he's a bad role model. It's pretend.

We're often drawn to the forbidden and taboo because they're taboo. It's like watching horror movies. By exposing ourselves to dangerous or scary topics on our terms, we retain a sense of control, and can learn to cope with those feelings.

If you have low self-esteem, your brain might just be inventing reasons why you're a bad person, and if it weren't Sulla it'd be something else.

Whatever it is, there's a part of yourself that needs space to feel, to breathe, to express itself. If you try to reject it, you'll just keep holding onto this shame and fear. A lot of people do that. They often become judgmental or controlling of others because they're projecting their own judgment and shame outward.

Instead, I suggest drawing a line between your thoughts and your actions. Thought crime isn't real. You cannot harm or help people just by thinking something, so applying morality to thoughts is pointless. As long as you act toward people with kindness and respect, you're golden.

I noticed a lot of Christian language in your message (moral corruption, the fig tree, spawn of Satan). Try looking into non-Christian religions and philosophies. Look at what Epicureans, Daoists, Buddhists, and other cultures have to say about being a "good" or "bad" person. Then decide for yourself who you think is right. This will make you more confident in your own judgment, and less easily influenced by people trying to shove their moral baggage onto you. (If you need a starting point, I've always loved Stephen Mitchell's version of the Dao De Jing. It's short, beautiful, and gentle.)

Try to go easier on yourself, anon. The very fact that you worry about this is a sign that you have a good heart deep down. The most dangerous people in this world aren't those who admit to having "bad" thoughts, but the ones who refuse to consider they could ever be wrong or bad.

[cripplecharacters]

3/3 sorry for sending parts of this ask so far apart. English is not my first language and it takes me some time to phrase things properly (sorry if any part of this gargantuan mountain of asks is hard to understand) and it was getting late.

So the last on the list is my male MC and i am realy not sure if i should give him an FD because the way he gets it meets the trope of "someone bad did this to me" and it has other problems

Some more relevant info:

There is a singular way for mages in my world to bring someone back from the dead and its the hardest and most dangerous spell, with much harser restrictions that magic normaly has Mages are born with their powers, its esentialy the intent of the user expresed throug one or more of their senses and/or movement there is realy no wrong way to use it most of the time. Some more complicated things requer the user to do things with specific senses in a specific way but they are realy taxing spells and requer the help of a non magic user to ground the mage so they dont "overheat". This spell requers all this plus a specific order of rituals to be followed perfectly and spells recited perfectly. Its sort of the expection to all the rules magic normaly follows but it allows two things magic normaly is incapabel of doing.

1 Creating biological matter with a will of its own that doesn't requer a mage's control to move and function to creat the body.

2Teleportation, even then a very specific kind of it that allows the main casters soul to enter the realm of the dead to find the soul of the person they wish to bring back and bring them back and bind them to the newly created body. To bring the dead person back to life.

Its a bit more complicated than this, but this is the core of. Of course nothing is perfect so actualy executing this without any mistake is imposibel. How much the resurected person resembels the person they were befor they died and their overal healt at the moment depends on how well these two steps are executed, how much time has passed and also sheer luck.

No person brought back from the dead is exactly as they where. The characters interpret this as a price at first but they are not right about it. Its both just a natural conseqence of the proces being inperfect no matter what and also dying and spending any time in the realm of the dead changes a person, both because dying is (a sometimes negative) monumental experience in the case of most of the people brought back no one else remembers and the same goes for the afterlife that souls reborn into a new life completly forget but they are going to remember to some degree (the longer they been dead for the more they remember)

This is not treated as the "came back wrong" trope in general and especialy not in the case of the MC. And the FD has nothing to do with how the resurection spell normaly works and everything to do with a certain aspect of his death and what happened after whic i dont know if it makes it worse.

The antagonist was the one who killed him, and used the rest of of his remaining powers to creat a pocket dimension and drag his soul with him there. The god of the dead manages to pull him into their own realm. Problem is They can't keep him there permanently because of what the antagonist did and for the entire time he is dead the death god and the antagonist are playing a very high stake game of tug of war with his soul . This is relevant because when the other MC starts the ritual to resurect him he is in the afterlife where he is suposed to be but when she gets to the part of the ritual where she enters the afterlife the antagonist pulls him back into his realm before she finds him and she needs the death gods help to follow him there, she finds him there and almost manages to bring him back to the real world without troubel but the antagonist manages to find them at the last moment befor they get back to the death gods realm to go back to where they suposed to be from there. He grabs the MC by the face and hair (i mention his hair because its something he is attached to and it has relevanc later) to keep him from moving and begs him to don't leave him alone there for the rest of time.

The MC pushes him away as hard as he can, whic causes damage. Whic could be fixed if they spent some time in the afterlife but since every moment they prolong the ritual is very taxing on the female MC due to the amount of magic it requers and the antagonist could theoreticaly pull him back at any moment he choses to not wait and asks her to take him back to the living realm and finish it right away. This is what leads to the FD in my curent plan of the story and i am woried about several things

1 The someone bad did this to me thing whic is true to some degree in the case of both Balthazar and his father. Since the antagonist is responsibel for the existence of the magic fires and the king's orders directly lead to his father losing his eye and he is a secondary antagonist who turns especialy hostile after that incident. Plus all three of them have an acquired facial diference and the other kinds have no rep, which i feel bad about. But i alredy made most of the characters i need i could either give one of the existing ones an FD thats not aquired, whic would feel like i tacked it on as afterthought or create a new character with an FD, but then i would do that just to give them an FD whic would make for a flat character and bad rep. I dont feel great about either of those options. Any other way i could balance this to some degree?

2 The whole thing implying that something happening to his soul influences his aperance , specificaly that part of it stays in the antagonists hand. Its mentioned earlier that a souls size or shape says nothing about their nature and has no effect on their worth, due to the fact that even though they resembel humanoid shape but not completly and not always depending on the souls own preference most of the time. Also the injury is not directly the reason more so the fact that the created body is not realy "solid" until the soul enters it and it conforms to the shape the soul takes(whic is influenced by the antagonists action here so i feel like its on thin ice) whic means that it could differ from an abeled aperance even if the mc was unharmed. This actualy happens with two of his fingers on his left hand whic he didnt lost but since he was strugeling to keep them in shape they dont manifest. So there is evidence in the text that this is not exactly the case but a bad faith interpretation wouldn't need to dig deep and i would like to curb that. Is there any way to do that or should i revrite this part.

3"the came back wrong" trope, not invoked but "came back different" is still a bit close for me even if refers more to a change in personality rather than potential phisical differences. There is a moment some of the other characters freak out but its only due to the fact that they worry that the injuries will bleed and/or are causing the MC pain. The MC himself is more bummed out about his hair than he is about the scars since the antagonist also grabed that and thanks to that its rather short (whic is something he dislikes due to things that happened in the story previously) After its clear that the MC has no troubel aside from some sensitivity in the scars they calm down. They consider the ritual very sucesfull and the mc didn't change much personality wise considering the circumstances and the only memories he has troubel with are the ones he had troubel with previously. This might lessen the circumstances but i would still like to choke unfortunate implications at the root but also balance out the characters reactions since the scars are still a big change.

4 This happens towards the end of the story and there are only a few chapters after this so the MC is not FD representation for most of the story. Would it be a "here is nothing hold it well" situation or would it be worth anything as representation? The story ends on a very positive note and both of the MC's and the minor characters are the happiest they ever been in a long time, but its still not a lot of time and there are a lot of implications that need to be tackeled to put it in. Would it still be worth it?

There is two other points i could put most of the injuries in (he needs to have both of his eyes for a later part of the story to happen so that would need to happen at the end regardles) but both of them have their own problems. One of them is a big fight with the antagonist, and they lose there whic beside the "someone bad did this to me"would cary other not so nice implications. The other is when the prince attacks him, but it would change the story to a degree. Both of these are still a good way into the story and another problem with them is that the story takes a turn for the worse after they happen and the MC struggels a lot with his self esteem and self image. He is forced to lead the other branch of the militia whic forces him to both alter his aperance in a way he doesn't want to (cut off most of his hair and wear an uniform that makes him completly identical to most of the people around him) and make decisions he doesn't agres with that make him feel like a monster. I worry that it would lead to unfortunate implications about the facial difference regardles of the text stating that he feels like this due to resons unrelated to the FD. Would it still be better? Maybe with some changes? Perhaps him liking the scars because they make him distinct in some way?

here is a picture of him at the end of the story that i recently made that i realy like. Apologies for the bad quality my phone was not cooperating so i had to take a screenshot of it to put it here. Also the drawing doesn't show it well (i am not good with digital drawings)but the scars are suposed to be sunken in and the one that runs through his nose does alter its shape a bit.

Also would it be alright for him to wear his hair how he does in the picture? Since it covers a portion of one of his scars, specificaly the part where his right eye was when it lays flat. He doesn't wear it like this to hide his scar ( I didnt design it for that purpose) but because he likes to have long bangs (i like how he looks with long bangs)but he needs to keep his hair away from the left side of his face to not obscure his remaining vision. Is this okay or would this count as the mask trope?

I thank you in advance for your answer, reading your blog already helped me lot with writing things more mindfuly and avoiding causing harm

[Image description: screenshot of a drawing of a white man with multiple scars across his face, missing one eye. He is smiling. End ID.] 

Hi again :-)

I'll go straight to the main questions!

The "evil causes FD" as a trope is more annoying and overused than it is harmful to real people, so if anything will slide, it would be this. Would it better if there was some variety? I mean, probably. But if they are as story-defining as it sounds, trying to work around the ones mentioned already seems like more effort than it's worth. The real "fix" here would be to add something to balance that doesn't go into that, so let me address that:

I don't think that putting one on an already existing character would necessarily feel like an afterthought. Characters with FD don't have to be "centered" around their facial difference, nor even talk about it particularly much (I mean, I don't talk about my FD all the time either? I have hobbies, lol). They can just Look Different, and there are facial differences that primarily cause visual changes. E.g. vitiligo, port wine stains, blepharophimosis syndrome, rosacea (though it can also cause pain), alopecia, visual effects of previous cancer (like having no nose, for example, but there's a lot of head and neck cancers). It's fine to have a character who just... has a facial difference, there's no need to attach some plot point to it. Maybe there's someone on the royal court that has no ties to being evil or violent, and they just happen to have facial asymmetry?

For new characters: I would add minor/mentioned ones that have some sort of facial difference that is Clearly Non-Traumatic. It doesn't need to be a character particularly important to the story. As long as they have character traits that are unrelated to their disability, it should work. Just describe them as having some sort of facial difference during their introduction - maybe there's someone that shows up to care for one of your characters after their injuries, and they happen to have craniofrontonasal dysplasia? Facial differences and disability are just a regular part of life, they're often boring and not "useful" to stories. Just like random characters being unusually tall or something, there's no "reason for it to be there", people just are like that.

If you want some more ideas, I'd recommend this post!

As of the soul thing; probably fine. Now if he was the sole character with FD then I wouldn't say that, but there are other characters who don't have this problem.

With that said:

In the previous part, you mentioned that the MC was attacked with a knife ("cuts his face with a dagger") - wouldn't he already have a facial difference? I don't mean to say that he can't have two, rather that having one unrelated to his soul (or the lack of it) would be more realistic in the literal sense, as well as wouldn't have this kind of implication at all. If he's already scarred before getting his soul damaged, there's no way to conclude that these two are related.

For the reactions around the new disability, probably fine as well. As mentioned in the previous part you specifically avoid the “better dead than disabled” which is great. If MC's friends are concerned that he is in pain, that's fine (it makes sense).

Re: other options, I don't think there are many differences in the scenarios themselves (especially with how I feel like that MC would already have a facial difference from the part 2 fight?). That said, I feel like making him like his scars specifically because they make him different is awesome. Especially when he is in a scenario where he’s miserable because he’s forced to dress and look the same as everyone else, but his scars make him feel better. I will take almost any message about facial differences being explicitly positive :-) It would be nice to see!

I wouldn't say that it counts as the trope because you can still see the majority of the scarring. Just show it from time to time to not make it seem like a missing eye is some sort of bloody hole in the middle of a human head (I sure wish I didn't have to say that, but here we are), and you should be fine.

I hope my answer helps!

If you need clarification on anything, feel free to reach out :-)

mod Sasza

[furiousgoldfish]

abusive parents: in the 'real' world--

me: ah yes, because your house where you force children into submission is an imaginary land, devoid of reality, a fantasy place where nobody has experienced an actual real-life event, and you yourself have transported this place out of reality only for me to be able to experience this imaginary world where you are the god and decide whats real and what isn't, as well as what past events can be revisioned to your liking. Which one of us isn't living in the real world again.

[mejomonster]

I started reading Billy Bat manga by Urasawa Naoki (u may know him as the guy who did Monster) and jesus christ its wild. Absolute experience. Judas and Jesus are in it, so are ninjas, so is lee harvey oswald (technically at least 3), theres a bat thats satire about how evil mickey mouse and disney are, there's lying cartoons galore, there's the civil rights movement, the oppressivr terror of the ku klux klan and the structural damage of segregation and fucked up laws, and the pervasiveness of advertising and the coca cola company ("golden cola") there's real events sprinkled with gratuitious fictional shit about manipulative God Billy Bat (or perhaps "administrator/guide to the human race"), a scroll that could control the world, Fake walt disney has hired killers, the looming brutality of imperialism and corporations buying out poorer areas, killing in other countries and breaking laws and whatever else is needed to acquire what they want, there's a cartoon dog kennedy assasination, a baby kevin inherits the powers of an older kevin, there's ninjas and priests, there's a small town out west full of cowboy larpers who are this comic artists biggest fan club, a secret agent Smith with a heart of gold (one hopes), a teenager named jackie whos seeing visions, there's a good and evil fake "mickey mouse" bat but frankly theyre probqbly both evil cause either way they lie and manipulate to get people to do what they want, judas cameos not only in his jesus arc but as a little kiddo, and like. Im not even halfway done. Einstein JUST showed up.

[elftwink]

besties i am trying so hard to get rid of my fear of insects and arachnids i am chanting to myself about the value to their environment but i just saw a spider, failed to catch it in a jar, and immediately (like INSTANTLY) lost it among the boxes and stuff in my room and now i live in fear. normally when this happens i leave the room until ive forgotten about the spider but it's the middle of the night and i was planning to go to bed soon so idk what my plan is. currently sat at my desk casting furtive glances at the box it vanished into

[devondespresso]

trying to rewatch stuff for fic reference in stranger things season 4 is particularly painful because there is clearly the one plot (of the several consecutive plots) thats The Important One (its El's) and its the least investing one possible (sorry girly ily i promise)

im trying to rewatch that scene where the hawkins gang break into the school, and in my head its a straightforward line of events, its got its own unique location, objective, everything it need to be a simple, impactful standalone scene.

but its the hawkins-kids plot. so actually its put through a paper shredder along with a few other plots and little strips of it are scattered between bigger strips of one of the El-plot scenes, specifically owens telling the viewer El the super duper scary stakes of the plot.

so the progression literally goes like

30~ seconds of max steve and dustin in the office

45~ seconds of lucas and the team

30~ seconds owens talking

20~ seconds lucas

a few seconds of Lucas and hop on screen while owen talks

50~ second of owens talking

10~ seconds or less im not sure of cali gang

10~ seconds owens

<10 seconds of max steve dustin, half of which owens is again talking over

10~ second owens

40~ seconds max

50~ seconds owens

10~ seconds cali gang

35~ seconds owens

60~ seconds max, finishing her scene and ending the episode

im. going. crazy.

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 1 - The Introduction

Summary: Captain Price has been fighting the requests to add an omega to his team until those requests become commands. You find yourself traveling half a world away to join a pack of highly trained soldiers to balance out their dynamic. Not all of them are quite so happy about your arrival, but you're a good omega who does as you're told.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, language, brief moments of panic on the reader's side, scenting, military inaccuracies, let's be real this is so unrealistic but it's a/b/o you're not here for accuracy.

Author's Note: I couldn't help it and I've found myself falling into the Call of Duty brainrot once again so here I am to bless you with some poly 141 a/b/o goodness. It's just part 1, I promise things will get better as the story goes along.

MASTERLIST | Next ->

“I don’t like this.” 

“Believe me, John, I know. But the higher ups are putting a lot of pressure on us with this initiative and I’ve pushed back as much as I can. They’re convinced it will be good for morale and team dynamics.” 

He wants to protest, but he’s been protesting this idea for three months. “What more can you tell me about her?” 

“Not much that isn’t already in her file.” Her tone is not lost on him. She can, but that’s not a conversation to be held over the phone. “She’s quiet and polite, a bit jumpy but she relaxes once she gets to know you. Remember, I picked her out myself.” 

That doesn’t make him feel any better.

He flips through the file again after he hangs up with Laswell. He almost has it memorized by now, having looked through time and time again since the letter was dropped on his desk three months ago. 

He stares at the photo, the headshot taken by the institute in her file. She’s cute, as most omegas are. American, but she had grown up on military bases. At least this world wasn’t entirely unfamiliar to her. He grimaces as he looks over her DOB below the photo. She’s young, younger than he would have liked, but at least she was old enough to drink. 

He sighs through his nose as he flips through her records. She’s been in the institute for nearly ten years, likely sent as soon as she presented. He flips through page after page of test results, notes from her instructors, personality and temperament analysis, essays and essays worth of information written on her and also by her. He didn’t care so much about what her instructors thought, he was more interested in her. 

“Christ.” He breathes as he pauses on the page with her statistics, rubbing his eyes. The file has everything in it, down to heat tracking and her early signs it was starting. 

As if he doesn’t have enough to worry about, now he’s going to have an omega under his care. 

He hasn’t considered taking an omega in well over a decade. Back when he had been young and reckless, he had once considered starting his own pack, but then his career in the military began to take off and he let that dream go. It became too dangerous, and he had seen many times what happened to omegas who were left behind during deployments for too long. 

His team didn’t need an omega. He had briefly considered it in the beginning as they adjusted to the new dynamics, but he knew it was too dangerous and their schedules were far too unpredictable for the sort of stability omegas needed. He had fought time and time again against the push to add an omega to the team. They had settled into their roles easily, and operated perfectly fine with the missing dynamic. 

Then the Omega Initiative was born and he found himself with no grounds to refuse anymore. Task Force 141 was getting an omega whether they wanted one or not. 

He can’t help the tickle in the back of his mind that something else might be going on. He flips back to the first page, staring at the omega’s photo. They’d be here in a week. She’d be flying with Laswell to London where she’d be given a few days to adjust before they’d fly in here and she’ll be left with her new pack. 

Price closes the file, leaning back in his chair. He has a lot to do in the next week. 

You stare down at the files laid out on the table. Four of them, hardly more than a single page each, most of which was blacked out. They’re all older than you, their birth years at least visible to you. Most of the things on the file you don’t understand, and you weren't even sure how tall they were since you can’t convert meters to feet in your head. 

You’re tired and on edge, nervous about tomorrow when you'd meet your new pack. You sit back in your seat, letting out a long breath. 

“I know.” Station Chief Laswell, Kate as you had been told to call her, takes the seat across from you. “You’re going to have to get used to hearing the word classified. What they tell you about themselves is, of course, up to them, but the things they do, the places they go, even with your security clearance as high as it is, that will all still be-” 

“Classified?” You finish for her. 

Kate smiles. “Exactly. It’s mostly for your safety. The less you know...” 

The less there is to make you a target. 

You’d been given that speech before you left D.C. You’d been given a lot of briefings, as Kate had called them, since you had been pulled into the director’s office at The Institute and told to pack your bag. You remembered Kate and the interview you had done a few days prior. It hadn’t been any different than the other interviews you’d done before, except that you were chosen this time. 

What had come after was three months of intense briefings and training, for what, you hadn’t really known at the time. They had told you little, at least until last week when Kate pulled you into her office and told you what was happening and why it was happening and where you were going. 

“You don’t have anything to worry about, though.” Kate continues, something you’ve been told over and over again during your briefings. “They’re all good men. John and I know each other well. I wouldn’t have picked you if I didn’t think you could handle them.” 

You continue to stare at the files. Two alphas, two betas. It wasn’t an unusual pack, evenly balanced, except for the missing omega. If the situation were different they may have elected to have two omegas to keep the even balance. This wasn’t a normal situation, though. This was a military pack, special forces at that. It wasn’t unusual for packs to form on bases, especially those stationed together for long periods of time. Alphas and betas united together with one purpose, one collective goal. 

That was why so many alphas were drawn to the military. 

That, and the excuse for violence. 

Omegas weren’t allowed to enlist, omegas weren’t allowed to hold many jobs at all. It was usually only in special circumstances, and even then, they were more likely to be assigned into a pack than be allowed to work and care for themselves. In a lot of ways you were lucky. You wouldn’t have to fight to find a pack, fight to find a match, fight for one of the few decent alphas left in the world. Your road had been chosen for you as soon as you presented. 

In a lot of ways, though, things were worse for you. 

“How do you feel?” Kate asks, looking you over. You’ve grown to like the beta Station Chief in the weeks you’ve spent together. 

“Tired.” You run a hand across your face. 

“The time difference will do that to you.” Kate says, giving you a sympathetic look. “Not to mention everything else.” Kate stands, stacking the files and pushing them to the center of the table. “I have a couple more errands to run, so get some rest. I’ll pick us up some dinner on the way back.” 

You look nervous. 

He can’t blame you. He’d felt a bit of a nervous twist to his stomach this morning as he’d finished ensuring everything was in place. He doesn’t often get nervous anymore, years and years of experience giving him the ability to expect anything and react accordingly. 

This is different, though. This isn’t a soldier he’s greeting, this is an omega. 

His omega. 

As Pack Alpha he had more of a claim to you than anyone else. It was his mark you’d wear, his scent that everyone would notice first. It was his duty to protect you, to ensure you have everything you need. You’re not another member of his team, you’re not even a soldier. You’re just a poor civilian that’s been thrust into this world of danger and secrecy. 

“Captain Price.” Laswell greets him, shaking his hand. 

He greets her back, but he can’t help his gaze as it flickers to the omega. You’re small, as expected of an omega. Your sweatshirt hides most of your curves, but your jeans hug your full thighs. Most omegas are small and soft, designed to be held and healthy enough to bear children when cared for correctly. 

He doesn’t even want to think about that. 

Laswell introduces you, your feet shuffling a bit as you step forward toward him. Coming from an institute, you likely hadn’t had much contact with alphas before now. You try to stand taller, look braver as you stand before him, but he can smell the tangy edge of anxiety surrounding your scent. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” You say, shaking his hand. It’s small and warm in his, your skin soft and slightly clammy. 

“The pleasure is mine.” He says, releasing your hand. 

You let it drop to your side, pulling your sleeve down over your fingers. You shift on your feet, your body language betraying your nervousness. Hunched shoulders, fingers tugging your sleeves over your hands, shifting your weight foot to foot as if you might take off running at a moment’s notice. Your eyes dart across the airfield taking in the movement around them. You’re on edge, alert, and likely a little overwhelmed. 

“I’ll show you around and let you get settled.” He says, his eyes shifting to Laswell. “You and I have some things to discuss.” 

You follow behind him with Laswell as he leads you towards the building that served as the 141’s home base. He points out different places you might find yourself visiting. The gym, the rec area, the mess hall, and finally their barracks. He leads you down the hallway where their rooms were located, pointing out each door before he gets to yours, sandwiched between his own and Gaz’s, with Soap and Ghost on the other side. 

He opens the door, letting you enter. He stays in the doorway, letting you explore the small space. Your bags had been brought in, the faint hint of the beta Corporal that had brought them in still lingering in the air. There’s four shirts folded neatly on the desk, one from each of them that they’d slept in for the last couple days to give you a chance to get used to their scents. 

“The lads are still running a simulation, but they’ll be done within the hour.” He says, drawing your gaze from the bed. “We’ll let you get settled in and I’ll come get you when they’re ready.” 

“Thank you, sir.” You say.

Laswell steps in as he steps away for a moment, letting the two of you say your goodbyes. You’d likely see Laswell again, and soon, but he knows after three months you’ll have bonded with her just a bit. 

Price leads Laswell to his office after she leaves your room, his ears picking up the sound of the lock clicking into place as they walk away. He’d left it on for a reason, wanting to give you the ability to feel safe and secure as you adjusted, even though you had nothing to worry about. 

“So.” Price says as he sits behind his desk, reclining back in his seat. “What can you really tell me about her?” 

Laswell gives him a knowing look. “The CIA has had their eyes on her for years now. The Omega Initiative as it is now, isn’t how it started. They were going to train omegas as agents, and she was one of the first names on that list. They had FIOT put a hold on her file once she came of age.” 

Federal Institute of Omega Training. The name was stamped on the front of your file. It was the highest rated institute in America, the place where most omegas born to politicians, government workers, and some military went. 

“They had agents go in and pretend to be interested parties just to make it seem like there was interest in her.” Laswell continues. “But, you know omegas aren’t cut out for this kind of work, so they changed the Initiative. She was still at the top of the list, but there were some...hesitations as to where to place her.” 

“What sort of hesitations?” He asks. 

“You saw those scores, John. She’s a good omega. Those purebred instincts are strong, and that makes her an easy target.” 

Most omegas born from an alpha/omega pairing were good at listening to their instincts. That was why they carried such a high standing, even among omegas. But, being so closely intune with their instincts made them more sensitive, more vulnerable. They were more likely to give in to an alpha, if the alpha knew how to play them right. 

Laswell pulls a file from her bag, sliding it across his desk to him. “She’d get walked all over in a larger pack, and the last thing she needs is to get hurt by an overbearing alpha.” There’s something hidden in Laswell’s words, his mind filing that away for later. “I need someone I can trust with her. She’s smart, learns fast. She needs a challenge, but also someone that won’t take advantage of her.” 

“It sounds like you’ve grown rather fond of her.” He says, flipping open the first page of the file. It’s the CIA’s data on her, everything they’d done in the last three months to prepare her for her life as a Special Operations pack omega. 

“Like I said, I’m the one that picked her for your team.” Laswell leans forward against his desk. “She knows what she’s in for. She was well prepared for this kind of life. She’ll let you mark her, no questions asked because that’s what she’s been told to do. She’s obedient, John, almost to a fault.”

“That could be dangerous.” Price says. 

“Yes, it could.” Laswell says. “I’m leaving her in your capable hands. She has my number, and so do you.” 

Price walks her back to the airfield, his head reeling a bit as he replays their conversation over and over. The hidden messages in Laswell’s words aren’t lost on him, and his gut feeling that something else was going on had been correct.

“Take care of her, John.” Laswell says. “I’m putting a lot of trust in you.” 

He hasn’t failed her yet. 

Your body is tingling. You’re not sure if it’s nerves or something else. You haven’t been around an alpha since the day of your presentation, when you had been pulled from your home and taken to the institute. You had nearly wanted to keel over when you came face to face with Captain Price. Your alpha. He’s a commanding presence, the tickling at the back of your neck still not quite gone even though the door is shut and locked. 

The bed is comfortable, not any worse than what you slept on in the institute. There’s extra pillows and blankets stacked at the end, likely for your nest when you finally settled enough to make one. The door to the private bathroom is cracked open, facing the end of the bed. There’s four shirts on the desk next under the window next to the bathroom door, and your bags are sitting in front of the dresser and closet situated on the opposite wall from the bed.

You push yourself to stand, ignoring the way your legs wobble as you stare down at the four shirts on the desk. They’re all olive green, folded neatly in the exact same way. You wouldn’t have known any different, except for the scents gently wafting from them, and the names on the tags. 

Price. You pick up the one that will be the most familiar, bringing it to your nose. Tobacco smoke, aftershave, something sharp like whiskey. All things you had scented on him in your short time together. Underneath you catch a whiff of his natural scent. Something woody, fresh. A tingle crawls up your spine, prickling in the back of your neck again. You drop the shirt on the desk, taking a step back to breathe in the unscented air for a moment. 

You’re breathing heavily as you go for the shirt next to Price’s. Garrick. You press the shirt against your nose, inhaling. Aftershave, different from Price’s. Some kind of lotion. Coconut oil maybe? You can’t pick up more than the base scent of beta, the soothing almondy scent. 

You take another deep inhale of it, letting the beta scent ease you before you let it drop to the desk beside Price’s. You grab the one next to it, looking at the tag. MacTavish. You lift it to your face, scenting another aftershave. There’s something citrusy mixed in as well, slightly watered down compared to the scent of the aftershave. Again, you can’t pick up more than the scent of beta, letting it ease the tickling on the back of your neck again before you let it drop back on the desk. 

One more to go. 

You pick up the last shirt. Ghost. The faceless one. You bring the shirt to your nose, wincing slightly at the sharp tang of gunpowder and metal, smoke and a lingering aftershave. You try to smell deeper, but your nose burns with scent blocker spray. You let out a huff, dropping it back onto the desk. 

This Ghost was dedicated to his anonymity. 

He’s going to be a problem. 

You sink back onto the bed, eyeing the shirts. Your senses have heightened, picking up the scents wafting off of them, mixing in the air. You pick up the sound of boots approaching, three pairs of feet making their way down the hall. You can hear them talking and laughing as they approach. There’s a pause outside your door and you hold your breath, sitting as still as possible. 

Of course they can smell you. You had sprayed yourself down with scent blockers before you left the hotel, but it had likely worn off by now. Even with the blocker, the scent of unmated omega wasn’t hidden easily. The entire base had probably caught a whiff of your scent by now. Caramel, vanilla, strawberries with the undertone of pure omega that made alphas go insane. 

“Coming, Si?” 

Your lungs burn as you hold your breath, and for a moment you’re afraid your heartbeat might be audible from how hard it’s pounding. Steps recede from your door and you don’t breathe until they’ve disappeared. 

You decide to unpack to keep your mind busy as you wait. You don’t have much, mostly clothes from the institute and toiletries. You don’t even have a photo of your family, that part of your life behind you. You put your clothes away, venturing into the small bathroom to put away your toiletries. There’s towels already inside, along with a few things like shampoo and soap. They’re all scentless, like the things you had brought from the institute. 

Nothing that could dampen your natural scent. 

You almost don’t hear the knock on the door, lost in your own thoughts. You take a steadying breath, hand hesitating over the lock. What if it wasn’t Price? What if it wasn’t anyone from your new pack? 

“Just me.” Price’s voice comes through the door. 

Of course he would notice your hesitation. He’s a trained soldier, he’s always going to be aware of his surroundings. You unlock the door, opening it slowly. 

Price greets you with a small smile, your nose picking up the scent of his aftershave and the lingering scent of tobacco smoke now that you’re attune to it. “They’re ready, if you are.” He says. 

You nod. “Yeah, I guess.” It wasn’t like you had much of a choice to say no. 

You slip out the door, closing it behind you. You’d ditched your sweatshirt, wearing a scoop-necked shirt to give them easy access for the scenting. Price leads you down the hallway, back towards his office. You’re not quite sure what to expect, the nervous twisting in your stomach coming back. 

“I thought we’d do it in a meeting room.” Price says, likely picking up on the change in your scent. “Somewhere neutral.” 

It’s smart, it’ll keep you from getting too overwhelmed by other scents or sounds. The last thing you need to do is panic and send them all into a spiral. Talk about a first impression. 

Price pauses outside a door, looking down at you. His gaze is kind, almost sympathetic as you take a deep breath. “Ready?” 

Not really, but you wouldn’t dare say that. You have to do this, and the sooner you got the awkward part over with, the easier things will get. You nod, hands tugging nervously at the bottom of your shirt. “Yes, sir.” 

Price opens the door, stepping in first. You’re glad for the few moments you’re hidden behind him as the scents in the room slam into you. Alpha and two betas, scents you recognize from their shirts. They stand as Price enters, and for a moment you want to stay hidden behind the alpha but you know you have to be brave. You were made for this. The words drilled into your brain over and over again at the institute flash through your brain. You have one job in life and this is it. 

You can hold power over them. 

The words from the book your bunkmate had smuggled in flash through your mind. “The Powerful Omega”, it had been titled. Authored by a progressive omega, it talked all about how powerful omegas could be, even those forced into traditional roles. You can get them all wrapped around your finger if you wanted to. 

You steady your nerves, clenching your hands into fists at your sides and step out from behind Price. Your skin prickles as three sets of eyes are set on you. Price is speaking but you’re not really listening as you take them in. You recognize the two betas from their files.

Gaz, you pick up Price doing introductions, has kind eyes. He’s tall for a beta, almost the same height as Price. He waves to you, offering you a small smile. 

Soap is the shortest of the four, more what you would expect from a beta. “Good to meet ya, lass.” He greets you, giving you a charming smile. He’s going to push your boundaries, you can tell. 

You’re beginning to see the dynamics already. 

“And Ghost.” Price says, your eyes finally moving to the place you’ve been avoiding since you walked in. 

All hulking muscle, Ghost seems to take up the entire room. Your heart flutters nervously as you meet his dark gaze, his face hidden by a balaclava with a skull painted on the front. His presence is oppressive, tickling the back of your neck. You’re not sure if you want to run or submit to him, every inch of him screaming alpha. 

Price’s hand on your back nearly makes you jump, your gaze finally drawing away from Ghost and back to him. “Come on, take a seat. Tell us about yourself.”  

Price sits at the head of the table, Ghost, Soap and Gaz to his left. You take the seat on the right, staring at the other three members of your pack. You jump into your spiel, things that they already knew if they’d read your file. There’s not much else to tell, since everything about you was in that file. That was its purpose, to make you look as appealing as possible to potential alphas and packs. 

“What about your family?” Soap asks, the sharp scent of your nervous energy spiking for a moment. “Do you still talk to them?” 

You shake your head. “Not for a few years. Institutes don’t really encourage keeping ties with previous packs, but I know there were a few omegas that did. It was hard to keep track of where my family was.” 

“Your father was a Marine, correct?” Price, even though they already know the answer. 

You nod. “Yes, sir.” 

“You lived on base?” He asks. 

You nod again. “Yes, sir. We moved a lot, but we lived in pack housing on every base. We were a family pack, and I was number four of eight by the time I presented.” 

“When did you get sent to the Institute?” He asks, almost regretting answering it. 

It’s a sore subject, he can tell by the change in your face and the slight souring of your scent. “The day after I presented.” You say. 

The tension in the room is palpable, Soap and Gaz’s eyes widening in shock as Ghost's shoulders tense just slightly. Price stares at you with a sympathetic look in his eyes. He knew it was likely shortly after, but that soon? Most would wait until the presentation had finished at least, and usually there was some downtime when it came to getting into an institute as well. 

“My father was a traditionalist alpha.” You say, something they also knew by your status. It was printed all over your file, squeezed in every place it could be as a reminder of your worth to whomever was reading it. “It was because we were already on base that they got to me so fast.” You explain. “It was my dad’s status in the Marines that got me into FIOT.” 

“What was it like, in the institute?” Gaz asks, wanting to change the subject a bit, if only to ease the sourness in your scent. 

You huff out a laugh, the corner of your lips lifting in a smile. “Not unlike the military, I think. We had strict schedules we stuck to every day. Everything was dictated for us, what we wore, what we learned, what we did with our free time and how often we got it. Even what we ate was chosen for us. We always had to be ready to be tested at any time, and we were always being observed.” 

“Your test scores were high.” Price remarks. 

You shrug. “I’m a perfect omega, or so my instructors always said. It comes easily to me. I don’t really have to think much about it.” 

“Did you really kneel for two hours straight?” Gaz asks. 

You huff out a laugh. “Yeah. There was one day...it was a couple years ago. I don’t know what caused it but there was something in the air. We were all on edge and worked up. The director got tired of us and made us all kneel in the mess hall during our two hour afternoon break. No cushions, no pillows. Just all forty of us, kneeling on the marble floor for two hours. Not everyone could do it. Quite a few got too fidgety, couldn’t handle the pain. Three even passed out.” 

“How did you manage it?” Gaz asks. 

Price wasn’t a fan of using instinctual habits as punishment. It left a bad taste in his mouth, and he can only imagine what else you could say they forced you to do with such nonchalance. 

“To be honest, I don’t remember most of it. I just let my mind go somewhere else and before I knew it the time was up.” You shrug.

“We won’t make you kneel for two hours.” Price says. “And definitely not without a pillow.” 

You smile softly. “Thank you, sir.” 

Price watches you, the way your eyes dart around the room again, the sour edge of your scent gone, but the tang of anxiety remains. You’ve relaxed some, though, your shoulders are not quite so tense and you’ve stopped picking at your nails. 

Ghost has remained silent the entire time you’ve spoken, eyes glued on you. You’ve tried not to look at him, finding your words get stuck in your throat whenever you meet his gaze. 

He’s going to be a problem. 

“There’s some rules we need to go over before anything else.” Price says. “You have freedom to roam this building as you please, but one of us will escort you if you need to go elsewhere at least until you’ve been marked. There’s other alphas on this base and I don’t want them getting any ideas.” 

You knew well enough omegas frequented the barracks on bases often. You don’t want to be mistaken as one. Even with their scents on you, you know that won’t stop some. You’re not even sure a mark will stop them either. 

“I want full transparency. If something happens you come to me, or you call Kate if we’re gone. If you need anything too, the same order stands.” You’re beginning to detect the edge to his voice, The Captain slipping through his more casual demeanor. “We have some downtime to adjust for now, but sometimes we may leave for weeks at a time. It will be rough, I won’t lie to you, but Kate pulled some strings and there’s an Omega Specialist that’s been brought in for you. You’ll meet her later, I’m sure she wants to do a full workup.” 

You’ve met many Omega Specialists in your time. The beta medical professionals that go through specialized training so they can assist and treat omegas better than regular doctors and medics. Most of them go through a residency at Institutes, studying and practicing on young omegas. The thought of having at least someone who might understand you on a deeper level is comforting. 

“I’m starving, let’s get the scenting over with.” Soap nearly whines, rubbing his stomach. 

His words strike a chord of nervous energy in you again. You had been prepared many times for the scenting. You’d seen instructional videos and done mock practices with your fellow omegas. Yet you feel like it’s not going to be enough. These were real alphas and betas, your pack. What if you don’t like the way they smell? 

What if they don’t like the way you smell? 

“If you’re alright with it?” Price says, looking at you. 

You’re taken aback by the offer for consent. You weren’t expecting it, as this was something you have to do. What would happen if you said no? Would they respect your boundaries? The fact you had been asked at all is shocking to you. You won’t say no, because you’ll have to do it eventually, and at least this way you’ll be walking around smelling like them. If nothing else, it might make this transition a bit easier. 

“Yeah.” You nod, swallowing down your nerves. “I’m okay with it.” 

All five of you stand from the table, your stomach churning with nervous energy. You try to clear your head, try to calm yourself so you don’t stink them out with your anxiety. You need your scent to be clear, to be as tantalizing as possible. 

“Don’t look so worried, lass.” Soap says as they gather around you. “We won’t bite.” He winks at you playfully. 

Your cheeks warm as Price steps up to you. He is right, that would come later. Likely during your first heat when Price would give you his mark and claim you as his. It wasn’t unusual for packs with multiple alphas to let more than one claim an omega, but judging from what you’ve seen of Ghost, you’re not sure that’s going to happen. 

He had a right to claim you too, but from the look of it, he was the least excited about your joining their pack. 

You tense as Price’s hands settle on your waist, lifting you up so you’re seated on the edge of the table, putting you closer to being eye-to-eye with them. They’re all so big, the natural consequence of genetics and their jobs. 

“Ready?” 

You turn to look up at Price, close enough you can see the freckles on his nose and the grey in his blue eyes. You nod, pressing your hands into the table as you bare your neck for him. Your heart is fluttering in your chest as he leans in closer, pressing his face against your neck. His beard tickles your skin as he rubs his face against your scent gland, warm breaths fanning against your skin. 

He pulls away just slightly, baring his own neck to you. You press forward, gripping the edge of the table as you press your face against his throat. You catch the scents you had picked up on his shirt in your room, the surface level scents that were environmental. You close your eyes, inhaling deeper. Woody. Pine? Spruce? It reminds you of a candle your mother used to burn. There’s another scent, the one that lingers. Petrichor, you think, rubbing your face against his scent gland. 

His hand on your side pulls you back from your scent-induced haze, and you force yourself back from him. You take deep breaths of the sterile air in the meeting room, picking up his scent more clearly now as it mixes with the others. 

“Good girl.” He says, squeezing your side gently. Something flutters in your stomach at his praise, some deep primal part of your brain preening at the thought of making your alpha proud. “Ghost.” He says, stepping back from you. 

You’re snapped back into reality as the hulking alpha steps up towards you, moving almost silently. You try to keep yourself calm as he stalks towards you, his sharp gaze burning into yours. 

He’s testing you. 

You won’t satisfy him, holding his gaze as he reaches you, his thighs pressing against your knees. One hand comes to rest next to your hip on the table, his body leaning in towards you. You’re enveloped by the black fabric of his sweatshirt as his other hand reaches up to tug his balaclava up. Stubble tickles your skin as he presses his face against your throat, breathing in deeply. He lets out a quiet sound as he scents you, almost akin to a growl. 

He shifts his weight, pressing his uncovered scent gland against your face. You close your eyes, inhaling deeply. Gunpowder and metal stings your nose again, along with the scent of his body wash. You press deeper into his throat, seeking out his natural scent. Something deep and musky washes over you, like suede or leather. There’s something fresh in there too, almost like eucalyptus. You press your face closer, inhaling it deeply. Your head spins, and you’re sure your knees would have given out if you hadn’t been sitting. 

Something rumbles in Ghost's chest as you scent him in a daze. While all alphas’ scents carried a natural musk, Ghosts seems to shoot directly to some deep part of your brain even Price’s scent hadn’t reached. 

You let out a quiet whine as he’s pulled from you, his mask back in place by the time you pry your eyes open. Ghost is leaning back against the wall, eyes back to their icy stare as he watches you. Your head is still spinning as someone steps up next to you, taking Ghost’s place. 

“How ya doing?” Gaz asks, eyes assessing you. “Hanging in there?” 

You nod, taking a couple deep breaths to try and clear your head. 

“You’re halfway there.” He says, leaning in closer. “Got through the hard part.” 

His breath fans your neck as he leans in, the familiar scent of beta flooding your senses. He was likely doing it on purpose, trying to calm you after the intensity of being scented by two alphas. You breathe in the almondy scent, relaxing into him as he scents you. Your hands raise, gripping his shoulders as he presses his neck close to your face. You seek out the source of the calming scent, pressing your nose into his scent gland. 

You’re drawn from the room and to the time your family took a trip to the beach when your father was stationed in North Carolina. Salty sea air, briney and clean, and something else, something soft. Like the clean linen scented spray your mother used on the laundry. You’re clinging to him, his arms around you as you relax into his scent. The tingling energy that had begun to build up at the proximity to the alphas fades as you melt into the calming energy of the beta in front of you. 

“Easy.” He says, his hand on the back of your head as he pulls you away from him. You take a deep breath, trying to clear your head. “Still with us?” He asks, meeting your gaze. 

“Yeah.” You say, sounding breathless. You knew scenting could be intense, but you hadn’t expected it to feel quite like this. 

“Almost done, hen.” Soap says, taking Gaz’s place in front of you. “Lucky there’s only four of us.”

He’s right, you think as you bear your throat for him. You’re not sure you could have handled it had there been more of them. You already feel like you’re floating, enveloped in so many scents you’re not sure what to do. That tingling has begun at the back of your neck as Soap scents you, your eyes meeting Ghost’s. The look in them has changed, his body poised like he’s ready to strike at a moment’s notice. 

Soap pulls back, blocking your view of him as he bears his throat to you. You press your face into his neck, pushing past the scents you knew, and that beta scent, looking for him. 

You inhale deeply, the scent of warm spices invading your nose. It smells like the holidays, cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger enveloping you. You can almost taste the apple pie, see the gingerbread houses. You cling to his shirt, holding him against you as you rub your face against his throat. 

You’re trembling just slightly as Soap withdraws from your hold. It’s subtle, but to them, highly aware soldiers, it’s likely clear as day. Your skin is buzzing, like the fluorescent lights above you. You can hear it now, the buzz of electricity. Your pupils are blown, the room suddenly clearer and sharper. 

“There she is.” The low grumble of Price’s voice begins to pull you from your heightened state, your eyes turning to him as his hand cups your cheek. 

You press into the rough palm of his hand, eyes picking up the grey in his beard and hair as he stands in front of you. He’s older than you, they’re all older than you. Older than you, bigger than you, stronger than you. A small tickle of fear begins to itch in the back of your mind, drawing you from your daze. 

You’re vulnerable, entirely vulnerable and incapable of defending yourself against them. Forgetting second genders, they’re all much stronger than you, not to mention trained fighters. You’d be fucked if they decided to try anything, if they wanted to do anything. You’d be entirely helpless against them. 

They could if they wanted to. 

It would be well within their rights. Even though you had just met, even though you bore no claiming mark, there was nothing stopping them. You couldn’t stop them, and no one would help you. 

“You hungry, pup?” 

Price’s voice cuts through your fearful daze. There’s a slight furrow to his brow, likely picking up the sharp edge seeping into your scent. Omega fear and distress was the one defense nature gave to your kind, aside from the omega itself. It’s a putrid scent meant to ward off alphas and betas. You’ve heard it described as smelling like sulfur, burning coals, gasoline, melting plastic, and sometimes even the ozonic scent that accompanied alphas in a true rage. It was a warning, but it doesn't always work. 

Pup. Price called you Pup. 

You haven’t been called “pup” since you were a pup. It’s a commonly used nickname for any status. You remember your father calling your older brothers pup, even after they presented. It could be derogatory, but it’s more commonly used affectionately. He’s trying to ease your discomfort, the fear welling up inside you. 

The door is open, the fresh air of the hallway watering down the heavy mix of scents that had become trapped in the room. Soap and Gaz have already stepped out, Ghosts hulking figure blocking the doorway for a moment as he follows them, leaving you alone with Price for a moment. 

“Alright?” Price asks as your gaze meets his again. 

You nod, still leaning into his touch. “Yeah, ‘s a lot.” 

“I know.” His thumb strokes your cheek, a knowing glint in his eyes. He leans in closer, lowering his voice. “Don’t tell him I told you this, but Soap nearly passed out when we scented him.” 

You cover your mouth to stifle your giggle. It wasn’t unusual for scentings to become so intense that the receiver passes out. You’re sure if there had been more than four in your new pack you would have passed out. 

“Come on.” He says, wrapping an arm around your waist to lift you off the table and onto unsteady legs. He doesn’t even grunt with the effort, moving you easily. The thought sends a shiver down your spine, but it’s not entirely one of fear. 

His hand is warm on your back as he leads you out of the room, the clean air in the hallway clearing your head further. Most bases have circulating air systems, constantly filtering out scents to keep things as neutral as possible. They’re less effective in smaller areas though, especially after scents were intentionally projected. Most military members wore scent blockers, at least while performing their duties. You remember your father coming home at the end of the day with the dull burn of scent blocker still on his clothes. 

Your head is still spinning a bit as you follow them out of the barracks and towards the mess hall. They seem to almost walk in a formation, though you suppose with years of having it drilled in your head, it’s almost second nature. You’re sandwiched between Soap and Gaz in the middle, Price in front and Ghost bringing up the rear. 

The other personnel on the base give your group a wide berth, and even in the mess you can feel the glances, but none of the stares linger. Price guides you next to him as you get your food, adding things to your tray for you. That tickling feeling starts again at the back of your neck as he makes your plate, your omega preening happily at the knowledge of what he’s doing. 

He’s proving his ability as a provider. 

In more primordial times he might have gone out and hunted for food to bring back to you to prove his capabilities. Even in more modern times, he might have hunted as some alphas still did, or he would have gone to the store to keep the fridge stocked full of food. Alphas are good at adapting to their surroundings and situations. He’s proving his capabilities in the way he can. 

You’re also silently grateful to not have to think too hard about the choices in front of you. Even after a week, British food is still a bit unfamiliar to you. It’s not entirely indiscernible, though, and you’re sure you could pick out things that sounded good if you had to. At this moment, though, with your head still reeling a bit and the unsettling energy of a new place filled with unknown alphas and betas, you’re happy to let Price do it for you. 

He carries your tray and his to a table, sitting you next to him. Gaz takes your other side, Soap and Ghost sitting across from you. The choices in their seating arrangement don’t feel quite so random to you, and you quickly realize the arrangement is similar to the room setup in the barracks. 

A beta for each alpha, you think. Gaz and Price. Soap and Ghost. 

Then there’s you, stuck somewhere in the middle of them. Somehow you’ll fit between them, squeezing into their perfect dynamic. Omegas are supposed to help balance packs, but as you sit with the four members of your new pack, you can’t help but feel like you’re only going to make things more difficult. 

I'm willing to put together a taglist if people are interested...

[staenless]

I really like the way elves treat shortlived races in dunmesh because like. That how elves have always treated short lived races in most media except dunmesh says the quiet part out loud. The elves don't see short lived races as capable, intelligent or in any way their equals and while reading the manga it's scary because they're going to do what they think is best at the detriment of our characters and other short lived races.

And this is common in fantasy media except the elves are more just "stuck up stuffy" than "openly disdainful of shortlived races". Like have you read the hobbit?

And it's cool because in a way you kinda get where they're coming from, yeah they have magic beyond what shortlived races are capable of, they've lived longer and usually have a better understanding of historical events or places. I can understand their desire to control dungeons and prevent human greed from destroying the world which is a real threat in the manga. But they're total dictators, are fine with holding suspects indefinitely and see short lived races as idiot children incapable of literally anything. And this seriously effects the politics of dunmesh world, why thistle was "adopted" as a child with no magical abilities because in humans eyes elves are dangerous, and his connection to the royal family heavily influenced his decision to become the dungeon master.

Idk I just think the bigotry of the elves as shown in the comic is a very cool exploration of a trope many fantasy setting allude to without being willing to commit to. Fantasy creators want stuck up asshole elves but they can't be BAD because they still want people to like the elves. In dunmesh they're openly bigoted and we have to face that head on. I liked it a lot even if it was uncomfortable or made characters I like less likeable, and I'd love to see more of this sort of world building because it's interesting!!

[drownedbycoffee]

THEY AREN'T THE FEARS ANYMORE!! THEY'RE DESIRES

(SPOILERS for TMA, and all of TMAGP episodes so far)

Okay, here me out

Tmagp1: Darla wants to hear Arthur's voice again. She even says: "I just couldn’t face the thought of the rest of my life never hearing him again, I had to try" and later on she even says: "But I had to know, so I went to the cemetery."

Tmagp1: RedCanary wants to know about the Magnus Institute. They want to know why it's listed under 'cleared' when there's no evidence of it. Hence why they go and explore it.

Tmagp2: Daria wants that absolute perfection. She wants to change who she is and get out of that dark place. When she talks about the thing that she felt was missing, she says, "... and that’s when I decide I need a tattoo. I had a couple already – just little things on my shin and my wrist – but I decided I needed something big. Something that really changed my look." She also mentions when talking about Ink5oul that "they just kept pressing me about my life, about why I wanted the ink" instead of asking what design she wanted. And when she got the tattoo she describes herself as now being, "Someone I wanted to know more about." Afterwards she even says how "For the first time ever [she] wanted to attempt a self-portrait. Something real and physical, [she] wanted to feel the brushes in my hands and the oil on [her] fingertips." I think a lot of her statement is about her desire and impulsive need for that perfection and that wholeness that she has been aspiring to for her whole life.

Tmagp3: Samuel wants to stay hidden. He wants and he "need[s] to get up, get out of here for treatment." He wants to get better and most of his delirious thoughts are the things that he wants, or feels like he needs. E.g. "I so much want to see it [the sun] again. This night seems endless. I want to be warm again. I am terribly afraid. Thank god for Maddie. I need to treat her better."; "I just need to rest."; "I need to be careful or we’ll drift apart." And then obviously as the narrative continues, Samuel wants to grow and 'put down roots'.

Tmagp4: The narrator wants to be revered and accepted into the Royal Court Orchestra of the Palatinate. He wants to show off and impress. The violin "was a creature with needs and purpose of its own. The needs were simple enough. Blood. Flesh." It has these needs and desires.

So far, I'm interpreting it to be that everything so far can be interpreted as a desire of sorts, varying in the strength and intensity of it. Obviously, fear is still a big part of it all, because if you want something so badly, aren't you afraid of it being stolen from you? Of it being out of your grasp? Of it being unachievable or impossible in some capacity? Of it being a lie?

Even Sam wants to find out more. He wants to know the why and the reason for things. Gwen wants Lena's job. Collin wants to fix all these bugs and keep Freddie running. Alice wants to just get on with it because she found out that wanting to know the 'why' of things is dangerous.

I think that somehow when the Web took all the Fears into a different universe, they morphed into something else. Or they changed to fit what was the most prevalent thing in that universe, because after all, everyone wants something, even if it's something small and inconsequential. Life and aspects of it has always been characterised by that desire for something. Like people wanting food, shelter, safety, love, warmth, happiness, etc. And I think since the Web was so intwined with Jon and Martin, it absorbed some of their emotions when it found its way into this new world, because after all Jon and Martin wanted to stop Jonah/Elias, to stop the apocalypse, to destroy the Panopticon, to be safe, and they wanted each other. I think the wanting and fear of things are really entwined in it all, though this could be absolute bullshit haha

[arabian-batboy]

If a war between Iran and Israel really will emerge it will not just be Iranians who will suffer, but every country in the region will be somewhat involved, which includes some nations that are already declared as one of the poorest, most war-torn and starved nations in the world. All of whom all be completely unprotected while Israel wreak havoc on their citizens (excluding those who live in puppet-states aligned with the US) with full-support and funding from the US and other Western superpowers to ensure that no matter happens, their influence and interests in the Middle East will not be lost and they'e willing to sacrifice the lives of as many non-Israeli civilians as they want to in order to achieve their goal.

This is one of the reasons they implanted this cancerous tumor called Israel in our region, to act as military base that cause instability and state-sponsored terrorism in the area so that it would be easier for them to exploit these failed-states that surround it and the best part is? All they have to do to maintain this military base is give them a couple billions and some weapons yearly so that those blood-lust Zionist settlers can do all the dirty work for them, that's NOTHING compared to the costs and casualties of other wars that had the US be directly involved in like Vietnam or Iraq or Afghanistan (off the record; but that's exactly why they're using Saudi Arabia to indirectly destroy Yemen, they learned their lesson, its always better to use a proxy.)

If a war breaks out? The US will not be in any real danger, because they're half-way across the world and all the fighting will be in West Asia and North Africa, far away from them. No American building is in danger of being destroyed, no American city is under the threat of being bombed, the average American citizen will not be in any danger and can just continue living their life like normal, hence why they're always the first ones to start making those WW3 memes, because they're not the ones in danger of dying.

This is precisely why the US's imperialism in the Middle East hasn't slowed down in decades, because they do not suffer any negative consequences from it. All the destruction and casualties they cause is inflicted solely on the native people and the native people only, for the US, they only have things to gain from these wars, whether it was stolen resources or more instability that will further their control and influence in the area.

The US, like every single oppressive empire in history, will not suddenly grow a conscious over-night and immediately halt all their wrongdoings simply because they don't want the innocent people in other countries to suffer anymore. The only way to stop their imperialism is to have them believe that its not worth it anymore, to have the cons of being involved in our region out-weight the pros.

Because at the moment if the only cons here are "innocent Muslims will die"? Then those motherfucking colonizers will NOT stop, they will only stop once it reaches a point where its also the colonizers who are dying alongside the native population and the first step for that to happen is to dismantle this giant settler-colony built square in the middle of our region and forcing these Western Superpowers to choose between continuously spending trillions of dollars to maintain their interests directly or to fucking leave us alone already and save those trillions for something else.

[bogleech]

Anyway while we're on the subject of public misconception towards living things (which is completely understandable because have you SEEN living things? There's like dozens of them!) here's a fresh rundown of some common mistakes about bugs!

Arachnids aren't just spiders! They're also scorpions, mites, ticks and some real weirdos out there

Insects with wings are always finished growing! Wings are the last new thing they ever develop! There can never be a "baby bee" that's just a smaller bee flying around.

That said, not all insects have larvae! Many older insect groups do look like little versions of adults....but the wings rule still applies.

Insects do have brains! Lobes and everything!

Only the Hymenoptera (bees, ants and wasps) have stingers like that.

Not all bees and wasps live in colonies with queens

The only non-hymenoptera with queens are termites, which is convergent evolution, because termites are a type of cockroach!

There are still other insects with colonial lifestyles to various degrees which can include special reproductive castes, just not the whole "queen" setup.

Even ants still deviate from that; there are multi-queen ant species, some species where the whole colony is just females who clone themselves and other outliers

There is no "hive mind;" social insects coordinate no differently from schools of fish, flocks of birds, or for that matter crowds of humans! They're just following the same signals together and communicating to each other!

Not all mosquito species carry disease, and not all of them bite people

Mosquitoes ARE ecologically very important and nobody in science ever actually said otherwise

The bite of a black widow is so rarely deadly that the United States doesn't bother stocking antivenin despite hundreds of reported bites per year. It just feels really really bad and they give you painkillers.

Recluse venom does damage skin, but only in the tiny area surrounding the bite. More serious cases are due to this dead skin inviting bacterial infection, and in fact our hospitals don't carry recluse antivenin either; they just prescribe powerful antibiotics, which has been fully effective at treating confirmed bites.

Bed bugs are real actual specific insects

"Cooties" basically are, too; it's old slang for lice

Crane flies aren't "mosquito hawks;" they actually don't eat at all!

Hobo spiders aren't really found to have a dangerous bite, leaving only widows and recluses as North America's "medically significant" spiders

Domestic honeybees actually kill far more people than hornets, including everywhere the giant "murder" hornet naturally occurs.

Wasps are only "less efficient" pollinators in that less pollen sticks to them per wasp. They are still absolutely critical pollinators and many flowers are pollinated by wasps exclusively.

Flies are also as important or more important to pollination than bees.

For "per insect" pollination efficiency it's now believed that moths also beat bees

Honeybees are non-native to most of the world and not great for the local ecosystem, they're just essential to us and our food industry

Getting a botfly is unpleasant and can become painful, but they aren't actually dangerous and they don't eat your flesh; they essentially push the flesh out of the way to create a chamber and they feed on fluids your immune system keeps making in response to the intrusion. They also keep this chamber free of bacterial infection because that would harm them too!

Botflies also exist in most parts of the world, but only one species specializes partially in humans (and primates in general, but can make do with a few other hosts)

"Kissing bugs" are a group of a couple unusual species of assassin bug. Only the kissing bugs evolved to feed on blood; other assassin bugs just eat other insects.

[neo--queen--serenity]

This episode really highlighted how close Marcille, Laios, and Chilchuck actually are.

The viewer is used to seeing our main characters behave like coworkers up to this point—even friends—and they express normal, understandable levels of concern and fear when their other party members are in danger. But when the nightmare attacked Marcille, it brought out sides of Laios and Chilchuck that the viewer hadn’t seen before.

Laios immediately notices when something is wrong with Marcille, and he tells the others as soon as he’s sure of the problem. Chilchuck and Senshi then follow Laios’ lead as it becomes clear that he intends to make her get some rest.

We see Chilchuck’s hands lay out the bedroll and Senshi’s hands set up the pillow, working in almost perfect tandem as Laios physically wrangles Marcille into bed.

Senshi is in a similar perspective as the viewer, and mostly sits and watches the ordeal unfold. He doesn’t have a shared history, like these three do, so he helps in little ways, but mostly waits on standby for direction.

From here on out, it’s mostly Laios and Chilchuck who take over in planning how to help her.

It’s uncommon for Chilchuck to openly show such distress and worry for one of his party members. He’s used to Marcille being able to defend herself; he’s used to her being capable and strong. He immediately defers to Laios for instruction, (rightly) assuming he will know what to do.

This actually produces a reaction close to real fear from Chilchuck, who outright SMACKS her in a panic to wake her up before getting any further information.

Laios has to quickly stop him, explaining that he could truly hurt her if he interrupts the attack this way. He tells them how he’s going to wake her, and he doesn’t hesitate. He jumps straight in, explaining what he’s doing for the others so that they (Chilchuck) won’t be afraid.

Chilchuck doesn’t question him once. He just does what he can to hurry along the process. He tucks Laios in with his blanket as soon as he lays onto Marcille—an unnecessary action that betrays how much he cares for both of them.

And Laios succeeds in helping Marcille out of the nightmare’s grasp. While trapped in her mind, he reassures her, protects her, tells her how much she’s valued and appreciated. He isn’t embarrassed or sheepish about it, either; he openly declares these things like it’s the most normal and obvious thing in the world.

He gets her out, he saves her. He did the exact thing he set out to do, even though he’d never done it before, and only had Falin’s secondhand information to work with.

Once he wakes, Chilchuck immediately checks on him to see if he’s alright. Chilchuck is clearly still rattled, displeased with having to wait while both of his close friends were unconscious, fighting a battle neither he nor Senshi could see or help with.

Marcille wakes up shortly after Laios, but Chilchuck is still on edge, worrying that she’ll fall back asleep. Laios, too, has a moment of alarm when he makes sure she won’t close her eyes again.

Once he takes the subdued nightmares out of Marcille’s pillow, only then do Laios and Chilchuck relax.

Laios, for his part, remained calm and collected almost the entire time. He did not show panic or fear when it became clear that Marcille was being attacked, nor when he told the rest of the party what he’d be doing to help her. And once the nightmares had been collected from her bedroll, he gently explained what happened, to everyone else’s horror.

Seeing this, it’s not a huge surprise that the Touden party is so successful. We’ve seen Laios handle danger with a level head; we know he’s capable.

But it’s an entirely different kind of talent to face a threat that’s targeting one of your closest friends—which can make even the most competent fighter sloppy out of fear of losing them—one that requires a high-risk, specific rescue style that none of you have ever tried before. And then pull it off flawlessly. Like damn, these guys are lucky to have him.

[tagasaing]

i have to get this out of the way, re: dungeon meshi discussions

major spoilers ahead, obviously.

you know for a series that focuses so much on platonic and familial relationships it’s weird that dungeon meshi has attracted so much useless ship wars though. the most important driving force in the story is two sibling relationships (laios’s search for falin, thistle’s search for delgal) and one of the central themes is how loving others way too much can lead to your downfall (thistle’s desperate attempt to keep his loved ones leads to his mental state deteriorating so much he starts torturing people he claims to protect, marcille’s fear of losing her friends leads to her being easily manipulated by the main antagonist)

even with regards to falin. thistle wants to bring the ‘brother’ he raised back at all costs, he saw a young human woman as nothing more than a dragon, his tool. marcille wants to bring falin back at all costs, she didn’t care about the repercussions of using monster meat instead of animal meat even though she was an expert at ancient magic and should know why it’s such a dangerous practice.

each and every single one of the major characters has some form of tragedy with their family one way or another: the toudens, marcille and her dad. chilchuck and his wife. senshi’s entire backstory. izutsumi’s hidden desire for a mother. namari’s father. shuro and his family. kabru and his mother(both tallman and elf). mithrun and his brother. thistle and the melinis.

even some of the minor characters: flamela and her dead twin sister. the twins and the floke couple. kuro being the closest mickbell has to a family. etc etc

as someone who has reread this manga several times by now, i wonder if people just… read it once as fast as they could and act like they’re some sort of authority on fan discussion. i’ve seen people brag about reading the entire thing in one sitting as if it’s something to be proud of. this manga isn’t meant to be read that fast, that’s how you get people claiming that laios doesn’t reaaally love falin as much as marcille does.

to these people, laios just gets in the way, as if it wasn’t his idea to go down the dungeon in the first place, it wasn’t him who said his pain doesn’t matter because falin suffered more than him, it wasn’t him who felt immense guilt for leaving falin behind, it wasn’t him who found her skull, it wasn’t him who killed her to save her from her chimera form. i feel like people forget about the ‘too’ part when marcille said “i miss falin too”

marcille knows how much falin and laios love each other. that’s why she asked him if she’s allowed to resurrect her and didn’t act on her own. that’s why when both times a shapeshifting monster copied marcille to trick laios, it was what she looked like at the time she was reviving falin.

as someone who DOES ship farcille, none of the romance is canon. this isn’t meant to be anti-farcille. one of the post-canon comics is about falin gently turning down shuro because she wants to travel the world, “you can’t tie a dragon down” after all. she wants to travel the world and find herself because she doesn’t know who she is outside of marcille and laios. even marcille, who was hoping she’d reject him, tears up because of how beautiful and tragic it was.

there are a lot of ship teases because what author doesn’t like a good ship tease. but to say that dungeon meshi is a romantic love more than it is a story about family(both real and found) is a great misinterpretation of the text.