disco elysium was ahead of the curve they managed to make a man so magnetic he seduced three quarters of the player base despite the fact he's canonically a dude highly prideful of having a big obnoxiously loud car
I’m not Christian, I don’t go to church anymore, and my pastor died, but when he was alive I’d sometimes go to his sermons and I remember one time he said “it feels good to hate, but we know that it isn’t allowed, so when we’re told that we’re allowed to hate someone we get so excited that we forget we’re supposed to love”, and if my humble atheist ass might borrow some church talk I’d like to perhaps submit that
Anyhow sometimes on the day to day I feel disgust or revulsion and I have to ask myself “is this a danger to anyone at all or am I just looking for something I’m allowed to hate” and a solid 98/100 times it’s the latter so once again thank you pastor D
hi! first of all, i love love LOVE all your writings!! i love the way you depict these characters, especially karen and dex. i've scrolled through lots of daredevil character fics but yours is my fav all the time ngl
i was wondering if you could write daredevil&punisher characters reacting to their s/o who do sh? I've recently gave up to the urge and it would mean a lot to me if i could read this subject in your style. If it's too much, i totally understand.
(I'm a un-english user so apologies if there were any grammer mistakes lol)
reader self harms 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher hc’s
r e q u e s t e d ♡
characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / james wesley
sensitive content below. please proceed with caution and make sure you are in a stable enough mindset to read. <3
⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯
the first time he notices it’s not visual, it’s tactile. he won’t have to catch you during the act, or wait till you tell him. matt’s world is built on texture and sound, so he feels the change in your skin under his fingertips one night. raised lines, the catch of scar tissue, or the way your pulse spikes when his hand brushes a covered area. he won’t say anything right then; he freezes for a heartbeat, thumb hovering, and you can see his mind racing.
later, his brain pieces together patterns: the way you’ve been hiding your wrists under long sleeves even when it’s hot, how your scent shifts (blood has a metallic tang he can detect easily), your heart rate doing that jagged flutter every time the topic of mental health comes up.
by the time he says something, or before he catches you, he’s already known for a while.
he brings it up gently but directly. matt doesn’t dance around the truth once he’s decided to speak; he sits down across from you, voice soft, like he’s afraid of spooking you. “i can tell you’re hurting yourself,” he says. “i… just want to understand why.” his hands are folded, fingers rubbing his thumb anxiously — that’s his tell when he’s upset.
internally, it guts him. matt’s whole life is built around protecting people, and the idea that you’re in danger from yourself triggers his protector’s instinct in a way he’s not equipped for. he feels guilty, like he should have noticed sooner, or like he’s failed you somehow
matt is very careful with touch after he knows. his heightened senses mean he always notices bandages or fresh wounds, and he’ll adjust instinctively, holding you where it’s safe, brushing hair back instead of gripping your arms, never making you feel exposed.
he does research, a lot of it. you’ll notice new books on his nightstand about trauma recovery, self-harm, and mental health. he even asks karen for advice, framing it as “a friend” if he has to.
he’s big on replacement coping mechanisms. he’ll buy you a stress ball, ice cubes, anything tactile you can use when the urge hits. he’ll talk you through it, “if you need to hurt, try this first. or call me. even if it’s 3am.”
matt knows he can’t “fix” you, but he still tries to create small, safe rituals. late-night tea in the kitchen with the lights dimmed, a walk on the roof when he senses your anxiety spiking, a warm hand at the back of your neck grounding you.
if you let him, he’ll offer to bandage you.
he’ll gently suggest therapy or professional help, but he frames it as support, not judgment: “i’ll go with you, if you want. i’ll wait outside.”
becomes hyper-vigilant about your tells. the way you go still, the way your scent changes when you’re in a bad headspace. he’ll check in more, sometimes almost too much. “you okay?” “are you safe?” “need me to come over?”
when you relapse, he doesn’t shame you. he’s sad, he’s worried, but he sits down next to you, takes your hand, and says, “this doesn’t change anything. you’re still here. i’m still here.”
he prays for you. not in a preachy way, but quietly, hands clasped at the church when no one’s around. sometimes he’ll light a candle for you.
⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯
frank notices everything. it’s part soldier, part dad-instinct, part trauma. he’d pick up on it faster than most. he’s used to scanning for injuries, reading posture, and cataloguing every detail. he sees the long sleeves, the way you pull your arm back too fast when he reaches for it, the faint scent of antiseptic or iron in your bathroom.
the moment he knows for sure might be abrupt. maybe he walks into the bathroom without knocking and catches a flash of a blade, or he pulls your sleeve up when you’re hurt and sees old scars. his reaction isn’t subtle, his whole face changes; he goes very, very still, like a switch flipped.
he’s not a man of speeches. the first thing out of his mouth would be low, hoarse: “what the hell are you doin’, sweetheart?” not angry at you, but at the sight.
he’ll close the distance immediately, not rough but firm. he takes whatever object you’re using and sets it aside, almost automatically checking for damage, bleeding, infection, how deep. his hands are steady because battlefield training kicks in.
he kneels in front of you, big hands on your wrists, palms up, scanning. his voice stays low but hard-edged: “look at me. you’re alright.”
guilt first. frank will think it’s his fault somehow, that his life, his violence, his enemies bled into you. he’ll replay every moment he might’ve missed the signs.
heartbreak second. frank carries his heart quietly but intensely, and realizing you’re in that much pain hits him harder than any bullet.
protective rage third. frank has nowhere to aim it. he’s used to “find target, neutralize target,” but here the target is pain inside you. he has to learn to sit with that.
he becomes hyper-present. frank will hover like a watchdog, not smothering but always there. if you head to the bathroom, you might hear him shifting in the hallway. if you’re late coming home, he’s calling. he’s not trying to control you; he’s trying to keep you alive.
will start removing potential tools from easy reach, blades, razors, even broken glass. he does it subtly, making sure you don’t feel punished, just safer.
will bandage your wounds himself if you let him. he’s good at it, he’ll disinfect, wrap, and kiss your forehead after, no words.
frank’s a fixer. he won’t just say “don’t do that”; he’ll set up a whole safety net. numbers of crisis hotlines taped to the fridge, a therapist he “happens to know,” someone who won’t push you but will be there if you want.
he’s not great with emotional vocabulary, but he’s blunt about love. you’ll hear a lot of: “you matter to me.” “i can’t lose you.” “come here.”
he does not shame you. his tone stays practical. if you relapse, he helps you clean up, sits beside you on the floor, hand on your back, silent until you’re ready to talk.
frank is very serious about your safety outside his line of sight. he keeps tabs, not stalking, but definitely making sure he knows where you are and that you’re okay. if you give him access to your location, he’ll track it and only act if something seems off.
frank also starts steering you into activities that build confidence and agency: self-defense lessons, shooting at the range, gym time. not because he expects you to fight but because he knows feeling stronger helps with mental spirals.
can be too protective. his instinct to “lock down the perimeter” can slide into hovering or scaring off your friends without realizing it. he has to be told explicitly, “i need space” or “i’m safe.”
makes sure you eat. he’ll cook, simple, filling food, nothing fancy, and slide a plate in front of you without comment.
memorizes your bad days cues: the way you withdraw, the songs you play, the text style you use. he’ll show up with coffee, a soft shirt, or a distraction when he senses one coming.
he’s proud of you for every little victory. if you go a day without harming, if you tell him you’re struggling instead of acting on it, he’ll murmur “good job” and kiss your temple. he treats each step as something real, not corny.
⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯
foggy’s the type to notice small changes in vibe before physical signs. he picks up on your tone, the way you cancel plans, how you avoid eye contact. it takes him a while to connect the dots because his brain resists going to the darkest place, but once he sees actual scars or evidence, it hits him hard.
maybe he notices bandages peeking out while you’re doing dishes, or you leave the bathroom door ajar and he glimpses a fresh cut. he freezes mid-step, his hand tightening on the doorframe.
the first words out of his mouth aren’t rehearsed. it’d probably be a quiet, almost stunned: “hey… what happened?” his face softens instantly, not scolding but aching.
he’s visibly shaken, cheeks pink, eyes shiny, but he tries hard not to let you see panic. he’s a caretaker, and he knows the moment needs your stability more than his emotions.
gut-punched. foggy’s whole thing is being the steady, good-hearted comedic relief in the middle of chaos. realizing you’ve been hurting yourself feels like he’s been looking the other way.
deep sadness. foggy is naturally optimistic, always trying to see the good. seeing you in pain will rattle his sense of security.
foggy will gently bring it up in conversation later. “i’ve been thinking about the other day…” he wants you to know it’s not a secret shame locked in a vault, but something you can speak about.
he’ll research. he’ll read about self-harm, coping skills, and local therapists. starts bookmarking resources.
he’s the type to print out a list of grounding techniques and tape it to your fridge with a silly magnet. he’ll say, “i know it’s cheesy, but… maybe it helps?”
foggy is an acts-of-service person. he’ll start cooking more, making sure you eat regularly, walking you to the subway, calling at night to check in if he can’t be there.
builds in tiny “checkpoints” in your day. texts like “how’s lunch?” or “made it to class okay?” like a friend making sure you’re hanging in there.
will sit up with you on the couch at 3am watching trash TV all night just so you don’t feel alone with your thoughts. he’ll toss you a blanket, half-asleep but still making you tea.
makes “self-care nights” feel less clinical. instead of “we need to do grounding,” it’s “let’s do facemasks and watch a bad movie.”
he’s careful not to police your body or your privacy. he’s seen what happens when people feel cornered. he won’t try to take sharp objects from your reach, instead, he keeps showing up, offering help, reminding you of your worth.
he’d buy you small, thoughtful fidget toys or sketchpads if you’re open to alternate coping mechanisms. he’d frame it like “i saw this and thought of you” rather than “here’s your coping tool.”
he’s not frank, he won’t go punch a wall. but he might cry in the shower or at his desk when you’re not there. he’ll talk to matt, karen, or marci in vague terms to unload without betraying your trust.
starts wearing a small token you gave him, maybe a pin, a bracelet, as a private grounding tool for himself. when he’s worried about you, he touches it.
post-it notes. sometimes he’ll leave little affirmations around your apartment, not corny quotes, but private jokes or “hey, you’re loved. -F.”
foggy can overcompensate. he’ll start dropping everything at work to check on you, burning himself out.
he’ll sometimes swing too hard into humor, making jokes when you’re not ready. if you snap at him, he’ll look wounded but apologize quickly.
he’s not trained in crisis management. his help might feel clumsy sometimes, like buying you a random stress ball and thinking it fixes everything.
⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯
karen is hyper-observant when it comes to people she cares about. she notices changes in mood, tone, or body language almost before you do. she’s also intuitive about secrecy because she’s been there.
she’d clock the small things first: long sleeves on hot days, flinching when she brushes your arm, your avoidance of physical closeness sometimes. it might take weeks for her to build the picture.
she wouldn’t confront you cold. karen tends to wait until she’s sure rather than risk accusing you of something heavy. she’d do her homework first.
when she finally catches you, maybe she walks into the bathroom when you forgot to lock the door, or she sees fresh bandages while you’re changing shirts, her breath would catch. she wouldn’t yell. she’d say your name softly, like a question.
karen’s first instinct is to ground and comfort, not interrogate. she’d drop to her knees next to you, keep her voice low and steady. reach out but not grab — “can I touch you?” — because she knows touch can be overwhelming.
she’d probably tear up, but she’d bite the inside of her cheek to keep from crying in front of you because she doesn’t want to make it about her.
karen has a lot of survivor’s guilt and protective instinct. seeing you self-harm would break her heart because it would feel like she missed something or failed to protect you.
can be impulsive. she might push too hard one day, asking too many questions. if you snap at her, she’d immediately apologize but then spiral about whether she made it worse.
she’d also feel this flash of recognition, she’s been through self-destructive behavior herself (substance use, dangerous decisions). it wouldn’t be alien to her.
sadness mixed with fierce determination. karen’s the kind of person who doubles down when someone she loves is hurting.
karen would bring up professional help but in a very “I’m on your side” way. she’d research therapists, hotlines, support groups, but she wouldn’t shove them at you. she’d sit beside you, laptop open, saying, “we can look together.”
she’s a journalist. she’d use her research skills to find articles, coping methods, and then translate them into little practical things, keeping a first-aid kit stocked, buying fidget tools, or bringing you coloring books as a non-threatening outlet.
she’d also share pieces of her own story in a careful, measured way. not to shift the focus but to affirm you’re not alone.
would check in verbally a lot. “How’s your head today?” “Any rough patches?” She’d make emotional check-ins feel normal, not like an interrogation.
she’d also make an effort to keep fun, normal conversations going so you don’t feel defined by self-harm. she’s big on “let’s watch a bad movie” or “let’s go to that diner.”
if she found you actively hurt, she’d quietly and competently clean and bandage the wounds. she’s been around enough chaos to handle blood without panicking.
would start keeping a small stash of bandages and antiseptic in your apartment just in case.
she’d offer to sit with you while you try alternate coping mechanisms: ice, sketching, calling a friend, grounding exercises.
karen knows from her own life how damaging it is to be shamed. she would not take away your autonomy or issue ultimatums. she’d be careful to frame everything as “let’s do this together” not “you have to stop.”
she’d be open to therapy herself if it would help you, couples counseling, support groups, anything.
if you needed space, she’d respect it but stay reachable. her texts would be consistent and warm: “Just checking in. No pressure to reply. I’m thinking of you.”
karen’s the kind of person who might go cry in her car after she leaves your apartment, gripping the steering wheel. she’ll journal about it or vent to a trusted friend (without betraying you) to keep herself steady.
she might pick up new self-care habits herself, yoga, therapy, prayer, to manage the anxiety of worrying about you.
she might overextend herself, juggling work and caretaking until she’s exhausted.
because she’s survived trauma, she might occasionally project her own fears onto you (“Please don’t do what I did”) without realizing it.
she’s also fiercely independent and might struggle with not being able to “fix” you immediately.
⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯
she wouldn’t ask right away. she’s calculating. she’d watch you for a while, trying to figure out your pattern, because she sees the world as a series of threats and habits.
when she finally does catch you, it could be abrupt: she comes back to the apartment unexpectedly, finds you in the act or cleaning up. she freezes, then steps forward like she’s approaching a weapon, not a person.
elektra doesn’t do gentle well. her first reaction might come out as anger: “what the hell are you doing?” because panic feels like anger to her. she’s furious at herself for not catching it sooner and furious at you for being vulnerable in a way she can’t control.
she’s more likely to grab your wrist, spin you around, take the blade or whatever out of your hand than to crouch and whisper. it’s protective but invasive. her voice might be sharp. she’s trying to keep control of the situation but it comes out like scolding.
if you start crying she’ll go still. she’s terrible at dealing with tears. she might turn her back, inhale, then force herself to soften: “look at me. i’m not— i don’t want to hurt you. i just— damn it.”
she’d feel frustration and helplessness. elektra is used to acting to solve problems. pain that can’t be punched out of someone confounds her. contempt directed at the world, at whatever made you hurt, but also at the “weakness” of pain because she’s trained herself to see vulnerability as a liability. she’d feel tenderness, buried under the anger. she’s furious because she actually cares.
would immediately confiscate any obvious means you use, knives, razors, not as a healthy boundary but like an operative clearing a room. she’s not subtle.
she’d offer you training. she’d say “if you need to feel pain, use the gym, come spar with me.” she tries to redirect the impulse to something she understands.
texts “alive?” instead of “how are you?”
would start dragging you on late-night rooftop runs, sparring sessions, adrenaline-heavy activities. “if you’re going to bleed, at least bleed for something.” it’s messed up but it’s her form of care.
hovering physically. after finding out, she’d start showing up unannounced, sleeping over without asking, tailing you at night. she’d act like it’s normal, but it’s surveillance born of worry.
when talking about it she’d be very blunt: “did you do it again?” not “how are you?” but “tell me the truth.”
elektra doesn’t really “do” emotional caretaking. she might shame you without realizing it, calling it “stupid” or “weak” when she’s actually terrified. she’s used to control and secrecy, so she might keep your self-harm secret even from people who could help, thinking she’s protecting you, but actually isolating you.
she might project her own self-destructive instincts onto you — “I’m fine, so you can be fine.”
could become jealous of anyone else you open up to, interpreting it as betrayal.
she might overcompensate by trying to “fix” you with training, missions, or violent distractions instead of listening.
she’d buy you things without comment, bandages, tea, a weighted blanket, and leave them on the counter. she’d invite you to travel with her last minute — europe, a beach house, some safehouse she has — as a distraction.
might try to teach you her breathing exercises from training. she’d sit opposite you, knees touching, guiding your inhale and exhale until you steady.
she’s not consistent. some days she’ll be clingy and protective, other days she’ll disappear on a mission and leave you feeling abandoned.
she could weaponize your vulnerability in an argument, not maliciously but because she hits below the belt when she’s angry. she’d regret it after but she’s volatile.
she’s deeply competitive and might resent the time/energy your recovery takes from your relationship.
⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯
dex is hyper-observant to the point of paranoia. he notices the tiniest inconsistencies, the sleeve tug, the way you close the bathroom door, the bandaids, the antiseptic. he builds a picture before you even realize he’s clocking it.
will “check on you” without telling you, reading your texts over your shoulder, scrolling through your socials, following your location, calling your friends. so it’s very likely he pieces it together from multiple angles rather than you telling him.
he might actually catch you in the act because he shows up unannounced. you said you were at work late; he drives by, sees your car at home, goes in, and finds you.
if he doesn’t catch you directly, he’s still going to confront you because the obsession of “i know something’s wrong” becomes unbearable.
dex’ panic comes out sideways. he’ll go pale and quiet first, then swing hard into over-talking. “what the hell is this? why would you do that? is it me?”
his fear of abandonment lights up immediately. he thinks: if you’re hurting yourself, you’re about to leave me. or you’re pulling away. he spirals into “you hate me,” “i don’t make you happy,” “you’re planning to disappear.”
he’s not good at physical restraint in a healthy way. if he finds you holding something sharp, he’s grabbing your wrists, snatching it away, tossing it across the room. it can easily turn aggressive.
his voice might jump between whispering and shouting. he’s trying to stay in control but it keeps breaking through.
he feels sheer panic. his nervous system goes full fight-or-flight. he’s terrified not just of you being hurt but of losing you, and to him those are the same thing. he has so much guilt and self-blame. “i should have seen it, i should have stopped it, it’s my fault you’re like this.” then, he’ll feel rage at whoever or whatever he thinks “made” you do it. he’ll immediately start trying to identify a villain he can punish. dex genuinely idolizes the people he attaches to, so seeing you in pain feels like his world crumbling.
hypervigilance. he starts watching you constantly. you’ll feel eyes on you at all times. he shows up at your job, your apartment, your gym, like he’s “just checking in.”
interrogation disguised as concern: “where are you going? with who? when will you be back? did you eat? are you sure?” over and over.
if you call him out for overstepping, he’ll panic, thinking you’re about to leave. he’ll deny, deflect, then break down. “i just wanted to keep you safe.”
over-disclosure. if you ever shut down or get quiet he’ll start “confessing” everything to you, his own violent thoughts, what he ate, who he spoke to, as if by unloading his secrets he can make you do the same.
threats of self-harm (direct or indirect): not in a manipulative sense he’s fully aware of, but because his BPD goes straight to “if you leave, i’ll die” territory.
unhealthy bargaining: “if you promise me you’ll stop, i’ll stop [insert thing he does to cope].”
physical closeness. wants to sleep literally on top of you. sits on the bathroom floor while you shower. won’t let you out of his sight for hours.
tries to control your schedule. “if you’re always with me, you won’t have time to hurt yourself.”
might push you to train with him at the shooting range or gym, thinking if you’re physically tired you won’t self-harm.
monitors your phone and social media obsessively. deletes contacts he thinks are bad for you.
he can be deeply insensitive about mental health. he’ll say blunt, cruel-sounding things like “why would you do that to yourself?” or “are you trying to make me crazy?” because he’s overwhelmed.
he’s jealous of anyone else you confide in. if you have a therapist, a friend, or a hotline, he’ll see it as competition.
stalking and surveillance under the guise of protection. tracking your phone, waiting outside your work, following you at night.
he hides his anger but it leaks out in passive-aggressive jabs or little punishments, going cold for hours, slamming doors, leaving cryptic texts.
he’ll do the “i’m not mad” thing while obviously mad, sulking, slamming cabinets, going silent for hours but hovering in your doorway.
his sensitivity means he can blurt out mean things without realizing, then be wracked with guilt after.
⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯
he might walk into the bathroom while you’re cleaning up, or catch a glimpse of scars when you’re changing. he’s outwardly calm, but you can see something flicker behind his eyes.
because he’s so invested in control, he masks that panic with a smooth, soft tone. “you got somethin’ you wanna tell me?” he crouches, tries to make eye contact, but his jaw’s tight.
clinginess spike. he can’t lose you. from that moment he starts hovering, staying longer at your place, texting you more often, subtly rearranging his schedule so he’s around.
billy has his own history of abuse, self‑hatred, and destructive coping. seeing you self‑harm cracks his persona; it’s like looking at his own pain reflected back.
protective but selfish undertones. part of his drive to help you is genuine care. part of it is ego; he wants to be the one who “saves” you, because it validates his own survival narrative.
billy doesn’t naturally do emotional support, but he knows curtis does. he might go to him privately, not to dump your secrets but to ask how to “handle this,” what to say, what not to say.
he doesn’t trust therapy. he’ll try to show you instead that “if I crawled out of it, you can too.”
starts pitching you his own survival story like a motivational speaker. “look, I’ve been lower than low. I built myself back up. You can do the same.” he frames your healing as something you choose and build, because that’s how he survived.
expensive dinners, weekend trips, new clothes, spontaneous plans, anything to make you feel glamorous, wanted, and alive.
he starts checking in constantly. texts like “how you doin’?” “what’s your head like today?” “you at home?” — but phrased casually so it doesn’t look like hovering.
makes you the center of his world, arm around your waist, pulling out your chair, ordering for you, making sure everyone sees how much he adores you.
when he notices you slipping into a dark mood he’ll try to snap you out of it with charm, joking, teasing, lightly touching your face. “hey, look at me. you’re too gorgeous to look like that.” it’s not the most emotionally attuned approach, but it’s sincere in his way.
he’ll start dropping little self‑improvement tips disguised as offhand comments: “when I was in a rut, I started running. changed my life.” “ever tried boxing? I’ll show you.”
starts dictating your schedule, “don’t stay up so late,” “come to this gym with me,” “let’s get out of town this weekend,” which can feel suffocating if you’re fragile.
impatience with relapse. if you slip, he’ll mask disappointment with smooth words, but you can feel it, a tense jaw, a quiet sigh. he doesn’t understand why it’s not a straight upward line.
trying to “sell” you hope. he frames healing like a business plan. “step one, step two, step three.”
late at night, “I can’t lose you to this. Tell me what you need.”
stands with curtis, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know how to help them, man. You’re good at this stuff. Tell me what to say.” curtis gives him a look, and for once, billy listens.
believes in luxury as therapy. it’s how he healed. so he’ll keep throwing you into beautiful spaces, expensive meals, and “power moves,” hoping the shine rubs off on you.
deep down, he’s scared you’ll leave him or that you’ll die on his watch. he covers it with charm and bravado, but there are nights he stares at the ceiling next to you, wide awake, jaw tight.
⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯
observational, not intuitive. she’s an investigator by trade, so she’s attuned to details. changes in your routine, how you dress, unexplained injuries. she notices inconsistencies: you’re suddenly wearing long sleeves in hot weather; you dodge questions about your night; you keep a locked drawer in the bathroom.
she may catch small things. a prescription bottle, receipts for bandages or antiseptic, late-night internet searches left open on your phone.
she works long unpredictable hours. she might come home early and find you in the bathroom. she won’t scream or burst in; she’ll push the door open with that “agent tone” and freeze, eyes locked, taking in every detail.
dinah’s training takes over first. she gets calm, almost eerily so. she speaks low and steady, like she’s de-escalating a suspect: “Hey. Put that down. Talk to me.”
will not infantilize you, but she also won’t leave you alone in the moment. she’ll physically take the object away if she can do it without a fight, or she’ll position herself between you and it.
after the immediate danger passes she’ll sit on the floor with you, knees bent, trying to breathe slowly so you match her breathing. she’s more about grounding than hugging, she’ll reach for your hand only if you reach first.
dinah prides herself on being aware. seeing you hurt yourself hits her ego — “how did I miss this?” the agent part of her is already filing a mental “case,” triggers, means, risk factors. she’s running an assessment like it’s a threat profile, but for you.
checks your wounds medically, makes sure you’re not in danger of infection or needing stitches. she’s matter-of-fact about it, like patching a field injury.
she’ll push hard for therapy or counseling. not a vague “you should see someone” — she’ll research names, call offices, hand you a list.
keeps mental notes on what topics, people, or environments upset you. she won’t always be right, but she’s trying to build a protective bubble.
talks you through breathing exercises, sensory grounding, or give you tasks, “drink this water, look at five things in the room,” anything to break a spiral.
might try to involve you in her routine, gym time, morning runs, grocery trips, thinking that having a schedule helps.
can come off like she’s interrogating you, demanding answers: “When did this start? Why? How long? Who knows?” She’s trying to get facts but it feels like a cross-exam.
she’s used to being the one who stops bad things. she’ll overreach, trying to “manage” you instead of supporting.
if you self-harm again after she thought things were better, she might snap: “I thought we were past this.” immediately regrets it, but it happens.
dinah is not a hug-and-cry person. she can seem cold even when she cares deeply.
⏜︵ JAMES WESLEY. 𐂯
might see marks accidentally, when you reach for something on a high shelf, bend down, or roll up a sleeve. he won’t gasp or react outwardly. instead, he stores the information and watches patterns.
when he decides to speak, it’s calm, measured, clinical. he’ll say, “i noticed these.” not accusatory in tone, but waiting for you to explain.
he doesn’t yell, cry, or panic. his face stays neutral, but inside he’s processing strategy. he wants to ensure your safety efficiently without drawing attention.
he’ll make sure the immediate physical risk is addressed. bandages, antiseptic, making sure infection is prevented. no hugs, no hand-holding, just action.
will ask pointed questions about triggers, frequency, and risk without judgement. “when does this usually happen? what sets it off? who knows?”
he dislikes unpredictability and feels mildly irritated that this is happening without his knowledge. it’s not moral judgment, it’s operational, things need to be controlled.
may briefly wonder if he should’ve noticed sooner. he doesn’t admit it aloud; instead, he tightens his control on the situation.
subtle tracking of your patterns. he notes times, moods, and events that correlate with the behavior. he doesn’t hover physically, but he keeps tabs.
will research therapies, medications, or interventions. he may leave a note: “I scheduled a consultation. Review the options.”
expects you to follow a schedule that minimizes risk. mealtimes, sleep, exercise, all observed and gently enforced with reminders.
when discussing self-harm, he’s precise and unemotional. “this is dangerous. it stops now. here’s how we prevent it.” no sugar-coating.
asks you to explain triggers explicitly and works with you to minimize exposure. he might even control aspects of your environment to reduce risk.
if you don’t comply with his structured routines or advice, he may respond with cutting remarks, “i’d prefer if you followed the plan.” no overt anger, but very pointed.
his attempts to protect can feel intrusive. he wants everything optimized for safety, which can be suffocating.
treats your well-being like a mission. you’ll notice he notices small things immediately, a scratch, a bruise, a change in tone, and reacts swiftly, without fuss.
if you ever relapse or struggle, he’ll take it as a project to fix. he may plan interventions, track patterns, and never lose composure. he’s a rock, in a very unemotional, strategic sense.
when you’re upset, he’ll stay silent until you speak first. he doesn’t offer platitudes, but he listens intently and provides solutions or actions rather than comfort.
★ a / n : no muse bc we all know he would just be freaky and this is a serious topic…. i really appreciate your kind words and i hope my work can help you even slightly. im really proud of you , i know it can be difficult but im so happy you’re here. :) if anyone is struggling, please know help is out there, and no one will think any different of you for wanting it.
I really love this piece. I’ve been clean for over three years but the urge still pops up from time to time so I find these kind of fics really comforting. Not only are your posts so visually pleasing with all the aesthetics but they’re so well written, I’ve had such a wonderful time going through your blog. I’m sure I’ll be lurking on your page once again when season two of ddba comes out so sorry in advance haha
Caroline Kaplan, the actress for Captain Ava, shared these detailed images of her costume and her on the other side of the porthole from The Convict.
Madison Miller, part of the make-up team, shared photos of Markiplier getting all done up. I love that they laid him out in the table for this.
Isaac McKee, who played the young version of The Convict, showed off his full costume while hanging out with his older self. He even signed autographs when he went to the movies which is so cool and I hope for only good things in his future!
Sam DeMartino, an assistant editor, provided a bucket of blood and a nice up-close image of the sub’s console.
lesbian heated rivalry wouldn’t be in hockey because there are already many out queer women in hockey due to the fact that hockey is viewed as a men’s sport. the whole reason hockey is captivating for mlm is because it is a toxically masculine sport and the idea of having out queer men in that sport is surprising (requiring them to stay closeted/have situationships/etc), whereas it is not nearly as surprising for queer women. therefore, lesbian heated rivalry would actually occur in a setting like ballet, gymnastics, or some other stereotypically feminine sport (that has toxic feminine standards) where queer women are not as visible. in this essay i will
i was raised in the ballet; specifically the boston ballet. dancers are usually "jumpers" or "turners", i was solidly a jumper and a "good corps dancer". while i had some skill, i am "curvy", which genuinely is frowned upon in ballet. but i was short and technically-accurate enough to just keep-being-casted. I think I've been pretty much every character in the Nutcracker, minus the leads. I did sometimes land titled roles when dancing with smaller companies - including Sleeping Beauty, where i was the Evil Queen.
i got it over one of their permanent soloists. she was nice to me, even though she was a better dancer than i was (and a much better turner). i had shown up on audition day and taken the role from her. the choreographer had told her to her face: you have the dance skills, but she has the stage presence. that kind of conversation just happens in ballet. she cried about it later, i caught her coming out of the bathroom. i had apologized on his behalf. i said it's not fair. i asked her if she wanted to get dinner, my treat.
she was often knitting or listening to music, so we didn't talk a lot, but she had been nice. she just seemed introverted, and i am unfortunately an extrovert. i often tried to include her, but she would rarely participate. we were in one of those circles, discussing exes. i am always very careful in these conversations; and never out myself. i am often, after all, in a room of somewhat-naked women. i do not not want any of them to think i'm like that. i do not want the fuss. (it's happened to me before. it was ugly.)
we were putting on our pointe shoes, and I was laughing. "no i swear. we got into an argument about it. my ex was like - what do you mean you actually dance on your actual toes. i guess my ex thought it was like, a euphemism? mind you, i wasn't even the first dancer they dated." i flexed my foot, shimmied the shank a little lower, tested the box placement. it only hurts for the first year and a half, kind of. also every time you have to jump en pointe. after that, the worst pain is just the 100 dollars every time you need a new pair (which is often).
around us, the green room was a flurry of tutus and hair spray and people in very-thick slippers. most dancers are very friendly, actually. it takes a very specific kind of person to physically destroy yourself for hours on end; and then to do that in front of a live audience, half-naked. in sequins. with your leg over your head.
most of us have some kind of mental illness. i should tell you that. many of us have adhd. the thing about being a girlchild and being restless is that they have a solution for that: just slam you into endless dance classes. the constant body-awareness is incredibly soothing for me; but it's a lot for other people. we aren't kidding when we tell you we need to be aware of literally every tendon, angle, and muscle of our bodies. i have spent a lifetime focusing on lifting the sole of my foot. my pinky finger is a villain, and i am always trying to tame her back into shape.
her brown hair was perfectly back, her eyes perfectly rimmed, lipstick perfectly applied. she was knitting. the other girls chatting about how boys don't get it and how kristen's boytoy hadn't come to a single show and she was breaking up with him because of it. the conversation turned, we were just ragging on our terrible exes. somebody's ex once totaled her car. someone else's tried to use honest-to-god monopoly money at a starbucks.
and i fucked up, because we were laughing, and i was distracted by getting ready. and i said "yeah, she -" and then i snapped my mouth shut. thank god someone else was already talking. i felt myself blush. my body went cold. i thought to myself - there was crosstalk. everyone was speaking at once. maybe nobody heard. nobody even seemed to look at me twice. everyone was talking about their stupid exes. i smiled and nodded and gave it a few minutes. i was frozen, laughing mechanically. and then i made some excuse and half-ran into the hall, my stupid toeshoes clacking.
i felt like i was dying. fuck. fuck. i slammed my toes into rosin and pretended to warm up in some cramped corner between costumes. i pressed my forehead flush with the cold cinderblocks of the hallway, trying to force my breathing into check. i had to be onstage in a few hours. they're going to hate me now, and put me into some fucking side-room bullshit to get changed. they'll think i was being predatory that whole time. it's all ruined. fuck.
a little cold hand landed on my bare back. she was standing there, tilting her head at me. she has the "ideal dancer body" - tall, thin, long-legged. over that dinner, she'd said balanchine was a pedophile and it's weird they expect us to look like this. and i'd said ballet is a bastion of white supremacy. she'd said: you are the better dancer, by the way. they only like my shape.
she hugged her elbows, little goosebumps on her blued skin. "hey." she wouldn't make eye contact with me.
i felt like crying, which was stupid - despite having shellacked myself into waterproof makeup, i didn't want to risk tearstains.
her mouth twisted. "it's almost time for you to get into costume." her words sat between us awkwardly. we both knew i would be alerted by the costume crew when they were ready for me. she frowned, then, her jaw working like she was trying to say something. instead, she just shook her head a little.
"okay," i said. my voice was weird and scratchy. "thanks."
"did you - i heard you." she put one hand above mine on the wall, one long leg out in a common shape for dancers: a cross of fourth position and attitude; digging her foot down into her shoe, wiggling. she cleared her throat. "i heard you say she."
i dropped my hand. i pretended to stretch. "okay." i said. my brain was blank with fear. fuck. it's ruined. "yeah."
"you've dated... women?" she flexed her feet. pointed. started doing gentle hip swings, her body no more than an arm length from mine.
i looked anywhere else. the other people in the hallway, running around before the show. the racks of clothes. the wires. behind us, the greenroom was muffled and raucous with dancers laughing. i was going to be banned from that space now.
i crossed my arms over my chest. the duct tape creaked. (in a few months, i would genuinely crack a few ribs binding like that. but for then i just took the half-air). "yeah," i said. i puffed it out. "i'm. yeah."
"gay?" she was looking at her feet as she made tiny rond de jambs, working her ankles.
"gay," i creaked.
she paused then, and stepped closer to me. i was suddenly aware she had a solid six inches on me, all of which she carried with perfect grace and accuracy. "you go to contemporary on thursdays, right?"
a ballerina is supposed to enjoy ballet more than anything. i was actually secretly falling completely in love with contemporary dance, because it forgave me for having any mass on my body. "yeah?" i looked up into her dark eyes, trying to figure out where this was going.
she handed me her phone. "text me next time. we'll carpool."
stupid and stunned, i punched my number in, first name raquel last name ballet.
she took the phone back, looked at the screen, and smiled a little. she thumbed a few keys and held it back up: first name raquel, last name ballet: and then a rainbow emoji, girls kissing, and little pink hearts. "gotcha. see you then."
and then she turned and walked away in that particular "walking in pointe shoes" way dancers have, a little rolling lope. she made it look graceful, purposeful. i had no idea how to respond. i just stared at the after her, wordless, boggled.
my phone was in my dance bag, i didn't see the notification until many hours later. chugging water and sweating out of every pore. from an unknown number: the next role is mine, by the way. and then i'll take YOU out for dinner.
andulkaphoto
dededos
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