Will write: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Pre/post story, oc/general works, head cannons, comfort fics, Fanfiction, original stories, generally any genre (including horror), any pov or gendered reader
Won't Write!: Will be discussed within the requests, but generally won't write pedo content, scat or watersports, anything you wouldn't ask any writer.
Art Rules
(As of right now, I am not taking commissions, but I'll gladly do requests)
Will Draw: Doodles, ocs, horror themes: blood, organs, bones, etc.), and minicomics.
Will Not Draw: The same themes as the writings rules but I will not draw anything overly sexual or overly gory/gross.
Fandoms I Write For
Castlevania, Arcane, Love and Deepspace, Baldur's Gate 3, DnD, Outlast (all three), Wuwa, HSR, Phantom of the Opera, Alice: Madness Returns, Twisted Wonderland, Black Butler, Identity V, Genshin Impact, Demon Slayer, Obey Me, Attack on Titan, Junji Ito Collection, Sailor Moon, Bayonetta, Inuyasha, Land of Lustrous, Diabolik Lovers, various horror games (To be continued)
TW: Reader is (was) already married, Misogyny, Eddie Gluskin should be his own trigger, murder, cannon typical violence, extremely traditional values, somewhat cheating (?), forced marriage implied
♪⁕↬ Eddie Gluskin, a fine man with dreams of a wedding, ironically owns a bridal shop where he helps the newly engaged. He had seen many come and go, from young fresh college students eager to join in marriage to the elderly wishing to remember the old times. But then you came in, without a man on your arm but the engagement ring glimmering on your finger.
♪⁕↬ He thought you'd be just like the rest, more eager for the dresses than the tailor. But as he measured you for your dress, you treated him like an old friend, going on about your husband, chatting up the place like it was a parlor.
♪⁕↬ Eddie was down bad the moment you left, feeling that familiar beat in his chest amp up. Too bad you were already married, he shouldn't go stealing you from your lover; it's not a very polite thing to do.
♪⁕↬ But alas, it's like you made Eddie a part of the wedding rather than a mere worker employed before it, inviting him to the wedding as a guest. He met your husband, a happy lad busy with funding the wedding and handling guests. But, he was too happy, too meek, too willing to let you do whatever you want. A husband must keep his wife in line after all.
♪⁕↬ Once the dress was finished, the Mr. Gluskin you knew flipped his decision. Tonight, he would strike. He didn't care for your husbands feelings, only getting what he wants. You can't blame him right, minx?
♪⁕↬ The day before your wedding, your poor husband happened to be drunk out of his mind and accidentally crash head on into a brick wall. But, at least his death was swift, was what Eddie told you as he cuddled you close and let you cry on his shoulder. He would let you grieve until he could marry you himself; all he had to do was wait just a little longer.
♪⁕↬ Once your husband's remain were buried, Eddie was quick to make arrangements, not that you knew of- of course. He stowed away the wedding dress you asked to be sold in his home, he tucked the fabric flowers into a box for later, and made sure to change all your invitations to his name, rather than your husbands. He felt like a middle school girl with a crush when he wrote 'Gluskin' after your name.
♪⁕↬ He met your parents, giving them the charming smile and a comforting hand, vowing to protect you and help you through this hard time. They adored him of course. He soon did the same with your friends, wooing them into leaving you alone. And once he had you backed into a corner, the viper struck.
♪⁕↬ "You should live with me. A change of scenery would do you well, darling, then you don't have to worry about work or money," The man said, hugging you close as you dried your tears. The request unfortunately didn't work the first time.
♪⁕↬ Eddie would pester you about it just enough to put the seed of doubt in your mind, until you cracked. All his patience was worth it when you finally agreed to move in, just don't mind the tools in the basement he had used to deal with his anger, they're just tools dear!
♪⁕↬ You were finally in his clutches the moment the front door closed, a symbolic forcing of the torch from your husband to Eddie.
♪⁕↬ And he would be damned if he ever let his new wife go.
ME X ARTHUR MORGAN X SADIE ADLER X JOEL MILLER X ABBY ANDERSON X SEVIKA X SILCO SMUT IM IN THE MIDDLE ARTHUR AND JOEL ON THE CABOOSE SEVIKA STROKING MY HEAD SADIE IN MY MOUTH ABBY CUCK CHAIR
glad you clicked
Big m has taken over: she won’t let me use her real name; im venting HELPPPPPOO HELP MEEEEEEE
TW: Misogyny, mentions of dub/noncon, cannon typical violence/gore, smut, Eddie's a whole trigger warning himself
♪ Ah, Eddie. Where to begin?
♪ A man with a picket-fence dream of a happy, submissive wife and a home full of little hands running about. The perfect wife: someone who would hold him when he was stressed, someone who would be obedient, patient, motherly.
♪ These seem unattainable until he was thrust into Project Walrider, forced to go into the machine and go through terror in the means of science. And there, he met you. A lovely nurse who would put her foot down for her patients, no matter their background.
♪ Your empathy, your beauty, your everything, was divine in his eyes. The epitome of the perfect woman for him. He would work on your similar behavior with other patients of course, can't have your eyes drifting to other men like a whore, right?
♪ Then the night the Walrider broke free, those dreams of his came true. He found you hiding in a vent, pulling your out by your ankle, he'll be sure to kiss your bruises later.
♪ It's in your best interest after taking care of him for so long to just play along, to play up the perfect role until you could find a radio or a phone.
♪ For now, you will let him dress you in white and prepare his vows with a smile on your face.
♪ That didn't exactly work though as the moment you said your do's, he picked you up like a romance movie, and brought you to one of the nicer offices. He kept it clean of course, anything for his favorite nurse!
♪ His hands were rough, can you blame him? He's been so pent up, how dare you take so long to meet him!? His lips and teeth marked your skin from ankle to cheek, leaving bruises and bite marks in blood and moans.
♪ His manhood was large, any woman could easily lie about their virginity when it came to how much he stretched your cunt. The blood that dripped down your thigh was enough proof to him that you were pure. Even though his hips never stopped, he cradled you close, whispering loving words of children and marriage into your ear and caressing your hair, holding your hand through it all.
♪ Now, assuming you two somehow manage to escape, having children is his first goal. Getting a home and a job is second.
♪ Somehow, Eddie get a stable job that makes enough money to get by. Maybe a chef, or a tailor, or a blue-collar worker. Either way, he makes enough to provide for the children.
♪ Once your pregnancy tests turn positive, say goodbye to any sense of your own future. You'll be washing dishes, cooking dinner, and nursing babes for the rest of your marriage.
♪ However, his rough handling (including outside of sex), lessen up a bit. He then gets all his rage out on men that looked at you wrong, or women who bat their eyelashes at him. Under a new alias and the government busy with Mount Massive's disaster, he gets under the radar quite easily.
♪ Surprisingly, he makes a decent father. Not good, but not bad. He teaches your children questionable things, especially when they get to their teen years, such as how to dispose of "whores" or "disgusting men." It greatly depends on the genders of your children.
♪ If he has girls, they are generally coddles and spoiled, but quite sheltered to avoid them "catching the eyes of boys" or "being ruined by the terrible world." But, with gentle teaching, he may learn to let your girls leave the nest and find their own futures.
♪ If he raises boys, he teaches them not to let sluts walk over them or let any men try to steal the girls they like. He encourages obsessive behavior, but with a few lectures and gentle parenting as well, he may learn to let your boys respect those around them and find lovers they genuinely care for.
♪ In all, it greatly depends on how susceptible Eddie is to change, especially with proper care and therapy. He'll either kill you after an argument, or live a marriage of trial and error.
Career: Former psychologist for Murkoff, currently a special Ex-pop
Background:
A Japanese American woman found her way at Murkoff post WW2, desperate for a job that would see her worth and intelligence outside of her race and gender. Somehow, she landed a job in a minor research group, one focused on Murkoff’s sudden interest in the world of the mind and therapies. Assuming she would be helping people and newly damaged veterans, Tsumako willingly gave her research and expertise to Murkoff to use in their MK project.
Being paid well and praised by the company she found a home in, she was in utter bliss and loyalty. But while looking through files, Tsumako came across suspicious files that felt exploitative and dehumanizing towards patient profiles within the MK project. Over several months, Tsumako dug up all of the nasty and disgusting history Murkoff had, eventually falling into a mindset to expose Murkoff and take down Easterman directly.
What began as a professional dispute in the confrontation collapsed into something feral. Months of guilt, fear, and complicity erupted when Easterman casually described her findings as “a very elegant way to break people without leaving marks.” Mai attacked him—not with weapons, but with words and hands, screaming accusations that shattered the sterile calm of his office. She did not win, having been apprehended by security. But she did something worse in Murkoff’s eyes: she scared him. Now, Easterman sat in his cozy chair in a hidden room behind a TV screen to broadcast his teachings.
With little pushing, Easterman convinced Murkoff to integrate her as a special Ex-pop, one much like the Jaeger, to be indestructible and to teach a lesson- what may happen if a worker goes against him.
Tsumako was stripped of her identity and certifications, and turned into “The Yuujo.” She is now a symbol of disobedience, where a tough woman should always fall back into. Murkoff dressed her accordingly: silks, painted face, ceremonial adornments meant to reduce her identity to service and submission. The costume was not aesthetic, it was instructional. She was not to lead. Not to command. Not to resist. She was to soothe, endure, and heal others just enough for Murkoff to continue hurting them.
To ensure compliance, a sprung hook mechanism was surgically installed inside her mouth, forcing her jaw unnaturally wide and shredding her ability to speak. Any attempt at sustained speech caused pain, blood, and involuntary gagging. Her jaw was permanently damaged and her muscles torn. She is to be trusted, not heard.
But even with her voice taken away and her mind tortured to obey, parts of her still seep through the cracks. She makes her footsteps loud and slow when she’s supposed to float, bangs on doors to open them rather than turn the knob-she makes her presence known with the hopes of giving reagents a chance to run. But when she does get her hands on a patient, she ends them quickly, a simple twist of the neck or a bash to the brain. A mercy.
Murkoff sees her as a tool. But she knows she’s a weakness, evidence of fear.
How They React To a Modern Reader {BG3 Male Companions & Gortash}
This piece is a request and though it took me a fair bit to finish, I’m happy to finally present it!
As the title implies, this is how I imagine the male companions (and Gortash) would react if a modern reader shows up based on my own headcanons about them.
Astarion
Astarion spots you before you speak. You stumble into the camp in a daze, eyes wide, lips muttering things no one understands.
“What the fu – was that a real fireball?! Are those horns? Holy hell, I’m in a fantasy video game. This is not a drill.”
He doesn’t draw his blade. Not right away. Instead, he folds his arms, tilts his head, and watches you unravel like a particularly entertaining riddle.
“Well now. What curious little nonsense are you whispering?”
You’re the most absurd thing he’s seen in ages – barefoot, blinking at the sky like it offended you, and demanding someone hand you a phone. Which no one, obviously, knows the meaning of.
He gives you one look and smirks, fangs flashing.
“Oh good. A lunatic. I was beginning to worry this group was getting predictable.”
The others are skeptical, but you? You’re reacting the way someone does when they’ve finally stepped into the book they’ve always wanted to read — equal parts awe and swearing.
You point at Gale like you’ve spotted a celebrity.
“You’re a wizard? Like, a real one? You cast spells? And you’re not in jail?”
You admire Karlach like a dragon-slaying action figure come to life.
“You’re a tiefling. Oh my god, you’re actually real. You look so cool. Can I touch your horns? Is that weird? It’s weird, isn’t it.”
And when Astarion introduces himself with an elegant, mocking bow?
“Oh no. You’re the hot vampire. This is… this is Baldur’s Gate 3, isn’t it? This is a game. Did I die?!”
He blinks. “Excuse me – game?”
You say something about “Larian Studios” and “saving throws,” which means absolutely nothing to him. Naturally, this delights him.
Your words are wild things — mangled, made-up, shameless. You say:
“I need a vibe check.”
“You’re giving villain arc energy.”
“Slay, king.”
Astarion is appalled.
“Slay? Slay?! Darling, that’s what I do to people. It’s not meant to be a compliment.”
He swears you’re possessed. Hexed. Unintentionally hilarious. But as the days go on, something changes.
He starts mimicking you.
Poorly, and on purpose.
“This meal is giving... mediocre. Truly, Shadowheart, do better.”
“Oh Gale, your little explosion was so slay. Should I clap now or later?”
He adopts the slang like a nobleman trying to speak tavern tongue — mocking, theatrical, but with growing ease. And gods help you, he makes it sound good.
There’s something else underneath the dramatics. A subtle shift in how he watches you. Because no one speaks like you. No one acts like you.
You don’t belong here and you’re not even trying to hide it. That intrigues him more than he lets on.
“You wear your strangeness like a second skin. Are all your people so… refreshingly bizarre?”
He starts asking questions – half-joking, half-sincere. What is a "Starbucks"? Why do you call people “bestie”? What in the Nine Hells is a “TikTok”?
He files it all away. A scholar of the strange, collecting every new word like a trophy.
He claims he’s keeping you around for the entertainment. Says you amuse him, like a little pocket-sized bard who fell out of the sky.
But when you wander off too far? His voice sharpens.
“If you insist on throwing yourself into danger, at least let me come along. I wouldn’t want to miss the moment you get eaten by a talking bush or whatever this plane has in store for you.”
He keeps close to you at night, lounging near your bedroll with an ease that’s too calculated to be casual. He’ll insult your “bizarre little scroll-box language” but he’ll also hand you a cloak when it’s cold.
“I can’t have you dying of exposure before I figure out what you are, can I?”
You’re not just another traveling companion. You’re a walking enigma with pop culture references and soft clothes and no idea how to wield a longsword. And gods help him, he’s starting to care.
The first time you call him “bestie”:
He stares like you slapped him with a fish.
“I… what did you just call me?”
When you try to explain, he cuts you off with an absolutely horrified expression.
“No. Absolutely not. I’d rather be called a thrall.”
He starts using it anyway — only to bother you. And it works.
“Shall we slay today, bestie?”
Gortash
You appear in his city — his throne room, even — rambling about timelines and “NPCs,” looking more confused than a drunk imp. A mortal, clearly. A nobody. But something’s… off.
You speak with no fear. No decorum. No clue who he is.
“Okay, okay. Deep breath. You’re Gortash. Enver Gortash. You're the — oh my god, you’re hotter in person — I mean, you’re the bad guy, right?”
He doesn’t flinch at the disrespect. He just smiles, slow and razor-edged.
“Well. Aren’t you bold? Or stupid. I haven’t decided yet.”
He watches you with the interest of a man deciding whether to cage a songbird or snap its neck. Something about you is unpredictable and unpredictability demands investigation.
The first time you call him “a drama king with daddy issues,” he doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at you.
“...A what?”
You explain with a grin. He listens. Silently. Then repeats it — slowly.
“Drama. King.”
He hates that it rolls off his tongue with such flair. He hates that you grin at him like you’ve won something. He’ll mock you for your dialect, call it crude, tasteless, “symptomatic of cultural collapse.”
But two days later? He uses the phrase “power move” in conversation.
And he means it.
Gortash is a master manipulator. He assumes you’ll be easy to read.
But your responses are erratic. You compare devils to “marketing execs,” call his robes “high fantasy couture,” and refer to him as “a walking red flag with good eyebrows.”
“You do realize you're insulting the most powerful man in Baldur’s Gate?”
“Yeah, but like, respectfully.”
You should be terrified of him. But you’re not. And that unsettles him more than he lets on.
He starts testing you. Throwing rhetorical knives cloaked in velvet words. Threats that sound like compliments. Challenges that look like games.
And you? You match him. Not with power, but with unshakable weirdness.
“Are you flirting with me or plotting my assassination? Honestly, it’s giving both.”
“Why not both?”
At first, you're a novelty. A curiosity. But the longer you linger, the more he starts including you in his plans — subtly.
“Come. Watch the gears turn.”
He lets you sit near the schematics, asks your opinion under the guise of mockery, and studies how your modern logic fits — or doesn’t — into his world.
You drop ideas like:
“Have you considered...a PR campaign?”
“You’d make a killing selling merchandise. Gortash-branded daggers? Hello?”
“You’re basically the CEO of Fear.”
He pretends to dismiss you.
But his artificers are soon testing slogans.
You’re not strong. You’re not trained. You trip over uneven cobblestone and panic over sending stones. You once mistook an imp for a hairless cat.
But you don’t obey. You question him. You joke with him. You touch things you shouldn't.
“That’s the nerve spine of the Steel Watch.”
“It looks like a soda machine from hell.”
He doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t care. He’s already decided you belong to him.
Not as a subordinate. Not as a threat.
As a personal puzzle.
“You came from a world with no gods. No magic. No purpose. And yet… you laugh in the face of devils. Curious.”
His gaze lingers longer. His commands are quieter, but colder when others try to claim your attention.
And gods help anyone who dares touch you without his permission.
The first time you call him “bestie”
His soul leaves his body. Visibly.
“You… what did you just say?”
“You know, like — ‘best friend’. Bestie.”
“I have tortured men for less.”
But you catch him later whispering it under his breath like a spell.
When you use modern business lingo
You: “This whole Steel Watch situation is peak corporate overlord vibes. Like, you’re so the final boss.”
Gortash: “You keep referring to me as if I am... fictional. I find that both insulting and endearing.”
He leans closer.
“Tell me more about these... CEOs. I think I’d like them.”
Gale
When you stumble into camp, wide-eyed, pointing at everything like a tourist in a magical theme park, Gale is the first to approach.
He assumes you’re suffering from magical disorientation.
“Ah, fear not! A case of planar confusion, no doubt. Happens to the best of us. I am Gale of Waterdeep, arch — well, moderately accomplished wizard — and I shall assist you in—”
“Oh my god, you’re Gale! Like, the Gale. This is Baldur’s Gate, right? Is this… is this the real thing? Am I in a game?!”
His smile falters. He blinks.
“I… beg your pardon? A… game?”
You start rambling about video games, hit points, "romance options," and Larian Studios. None of it makes sense to him — your wonder? — That he understands.
Instead of brushing you off, Gale leans in like a scholar stumbling upon forbidden lore.
“Fascinating. Tell me everything.”
Gale’s used to people fearing magic. Or misusing it. But you? You’re utterly enchanted by it. You gasp when he casts Prestidigitation. You call him a "walking fireworks show."
“Your magic is so cool! You’re like — like Dumbledore but hot.”
“I’m sorry, I’m like what now?”
You introduce him to concepts like "boss battles" and "XP grinding," and while he doesn’t grasp the mechanics, he’s utterly taken by your passion.
For the first time in a long time, someone looks at his magic with joy instead of dread or expectation.
When you say, “This is a total vibe,” Gale politely asks for a definition.
You try to explain. He still doesn’t quite get it. But that doesn’t stop him from adopting the phrase immediately — incorrectly, of course.
“This stew is… quite a vibe, wouldn’t you say?”
You can’t even be mad. He’s trying.
He starts collecting your slang like he collects ancient tomes, dropping phrases like:
"It’s giving… majestic."
"I simply must slay this look."
"We need to circle back to this later."
“I rather enjoy your linguistic peculiarities. Though I suspect Astarion is using them incorrectly — intentionally, I might add.”
Gale starts studying you — not in a cold, calculating way, but as someone who has just discovered a new school of magic.
He takes notes.
On your slang
On your world
On your “peculiar resistance to this plane’s inherent dangers”
He asks you questions like:
“In your world, you consume entertainment through… flat glass boxes?”
“Please, elaborate on these… ‘memes’ you speak of.”
You show him doodles of pop culture icons in the dirt. He hums thoughtfully, comparing them to old Faerûnian fables.
You call him "bestie" and he doesn’t flinch — instead, he nods as if you’ve bestowed a rare title.
“Bestie. A term of endearment, yes? I shall wear it with pride.”
He insists on teaching you "basic magical theory" to keep you safe. He brings you food. He explains Faerûnian politics with the same excitement you use when talking about "Star Wars" and "Marvel."
When you wander too far, his concern is immediate but polite.
“Ah — careful! The woods can be treacherous. Would you mind if I — just — perhaps, walked with you?”
His protectiveness is gentle, not possessive. His affection shows in the way he listens. The way he remembers your strange little phrases and sprinkles them into his conversations like spells you’ve gifted him.
And when you start to miss home? He’s the first to notice.
“I suspect your heart aches for your own plane. But should you find yourself… inclined to stay, well… I dare say you’ve become quite the indispensable companion.”
His voice softens.
“Besides… who else will help me perfect this whole… ‘slay’ business?”
The first time you say "main character energy"
Gale: visibly preens
“I knew you were perceptive. Please, do go on.”
He 100% believes this is the highest compliment.
When you try to explain the concept of a "player character"
Gale: “So… you’re suggesting I am but a fragment of a larger tale? A… controllable entity? Hm. Intriguing. But I assure you, I make my own choices.”
He absolutely starts leaning into this idea as if he’s now playing his role to perfection.
“After all, we can’t let the audience down.”
Wyll
When you first appear — disoriented, rambling about "cutscenes" and "romance options" — Wyll’s immediate instinct is protective. He assumes you’ve been the victim of a powerful curse or planar mishap.
“Steady now, friend. You’re safe. I am Wyll, the Blade of Frontiers and you are…?”
“Oh my god, you’re real. You’re so real. You’re — wait, this is the actual Baldur’s Gate 3, isn’t it? I’m in the game. This is insane. You’re—”
“I… I’m afraid I don’t follow. A game? Are you injured?”
He crouches beside you like you’re a spooked animal, speaking in the gentlest hero voice possible, assuming you’re in shock.
When you explain (badly) that you’re from another world where his life is just a story? He’s rattled but too polite to show it.
“You mean to say… my life, my blade, my battles — they’ve been observed? Recorded? By countless eyes? Hm. I hope I made them proud.”
Of course you tell him he’s a fan favorite and that gets him blushing like a schoolboy.
“A fan… favorite, you say? Well now. That’s… a little overwhelming.”
The first time you tell him “You’re giving golden retriever energy,” he’s completely baffled.
“I am… giving what?”
You try to explain. He still doesn’t get it. But he writes it down so earnestly like he’s collecting crucial diplomatic phrases.
“Golden… retriever… energy. Right. I shall use this wisely.”
He starts testing your slang in the wild:
“We slay monsters, yes? We slay.”
“This campfire is giving… comfort.”
“Vibe check, my friend. Are you well?”
His delivery is so pure you can’t even correct him.
Eventually, he starts mixing formal chivalric language with slang:
“Fear not, bestie. I shall smite our foes posthaste.”
“Wyll… did you just call me bestie mid-fight?”
“I thought it was an… honorable title.”
Wyll takes one look at you — a stranger in strange clothes with strange words — and immediately appoints himself your unofficial guardian.
“You know not the dangers of this realm. Until you are steady upon your feet, you shall walk beside me.”
You try to argue. You insist you’ll be fine. You reference plot armor.
He smiles, good-natured but firm.
“Plot armor or no, it’s the duty of a blade to shield those in his company.”
When danger strikes, he’s already stepping in front of you. He teaches you how to hold a dagger properly. He insists on walking on the side closest to the road.
It’s not controlling — it’s just Wyll being Wyll.
“You may come from another plane, but you’re one of us now.”
Wyll wants to know more. He listens with genuine curiosity when you describe cars, skyscrapers, and "cell phones." But he never pushes when you get homesick or overwhelmed.
“It must feel like walking through a dream you can’t quite wake from.”
“Yeah… but I kinda like this dream.”
His kindness is never condescending. He doesn't study you like an experiment — he just wants to understand you better.
Sometimes, when you’re feeling low, he humors you by asking:
“Tell me more about these… heroes you admire. Perhaps I can aspire to be one, too.”
“Wyll, you’re already the blueprint.”
“The blueprint? Another noble title, I presume.”
Wyll is the type who saves the slang for private conversations. In front of others, he’s still the chivalrous Blade of Frontiers. But when you’re alone? He lets loose:
“You’re absolutely slaying this journey, you know.”
“That battle was… a vibe.”
“Truly, you have main character energy.”
And when you call him "bestie" for the first time?
“Bestie? What a curious word. But if it means I have earned your trust… then I shall bear it with pride.”
When You Joke About Him Being a "Player Option"
Wyll: “I hope you chose wisely, my friend. Though I suspect I had stiff competition.”
You: “Honestly? It was always going to be you.”
Wyll: visibly short-circuits
“Ah—well—thank you—I—ahem—it seems I must continue to… to slay.”
The First Time He Says “Vibe Check” in Battle
He absolutely yells it like it’s a heroic rallying cry.
“VIBE CHECK! BLADE OF FRONTIERS, TO ME!”
You: dying of laughter in the background
Halsin
You appear in the forest — rambling about timelines, side quests, and asking if this is "the canon route." You immediately latch onto Halsin as the safe one. The stable one.
“Oh thank god, you’re Halsin. You’re the cool druid. You’re supposed to be chill. Please tell me this is Baldur’s Gate 3. I can’t — I can’t handle another Skyrim glitch.”
Halsin blinks slowly.
“I… am not familiar with these words. But you are trembling. Sit. Breathe.”
He approaches with calm authority, offering you water, assuming you’ve just suffered a traumatic planar shift. He’s patient. So patient.
Even as you ramble about "player characters" and "romance options," he listens without a hint of mockery.
“I do not understand all you say. But I understand fear. You are safe here.”
“Wait — tieflings are real? Is that an owlbear? This is SO MUCH BETTER than real life.”
You immediately want to see everything. You ask endless questions, from wildshape mechanics to druid circles. You fawn over the animals. You point at his bear form and say:
“That’s sick. You’re like a tank with maxed-out charisma. Total main character energy.”
Halsin, who understands none of those words, just chuckles.
“You are… very kind. I think.”
The first time you call him "bestie," he pauses.
“Bestie. Is this… a rank of honor?”
You assure him it is. He believes you.
“Then I shall strive to be worthy of it.”
He starts sprinkling your slang into daily life, but he uses it so sincerely it makes your heart ache.
“The forest is giving… peace.”
“Today’s hunt? We slayed.”
“I believe you would call this… good vibes?”
He even starts greeting you with “Vibe check, bestie” in the most solemn, druidic tone imaginable.
While others might be amused by your eccentricities, Halsin is quietly concerned. You are a stranger here — your references, your stories, your slang — they all speak of a life far from this one. And he knows how lonely that must be.
“This world is not your own. But while you walk it, you will not walk alone.”
He keeps you close — not out of control, but out of care. He teaches you the forest paths, shows you edible herbs, and insists you learn how to light a fire without magic.
When you call him your “comfort character,” he doesn’t understand the full meaning but he smiles anyway.
“If I can bring you comfort, I will.”
Halsin asks about your home gently, never pushing.
“Your world seems… strange. Full of stone towers and metal carts. And yet, you long for it.”
When you get homesick, he offers you space but also a quiet place by the fire.
“Stay as long as you need. Or… longer.”
If you try to laugh it off with jokes and slang? He’s not fooled.
“It’s all right to miss your own forest. Even if it’s one I cannot walk with you.”
When You Call Him “Golden Retriever Energy”
Halsin: quietly confused
“Golden… retriever? Is that a creature in your world?”
You: “Yeah, and trust me — it’s a huge compliment.”
Halsin: smiling softly
“Then I accept it, bestie.”
When You Explain TikTok
You: “It’s like… little moving images. Entertainment. Distraction.”
Halsin: “Ah. So… like a flock of sparrows, quick and fleeting, demanding attention but offering little nourishment.”
You: “…Yes. Exactly that.”
Halsin would 100% call social media “sparrow thoughts.” He’s so wise, he’d accidentally invent poetic terminology for modern concepts.
Halsin doesn’t parade you around like a curiosity. He doesn’t tease.
He simply… accepts you. All your slang. All your weirdness. All your wonder.
And when you call him your “emotional support druid,” he simply replies:
“Then I shall support you. As long as you need me to.”
Rolan
When you stumble into his vicinity — wide-eyed, rambling about “timelines” and “player choices” — Rolan’s first instinct is to frown.
“Oh, marvelous. Another disoriented fool wandering into the camp like a lost sheep.”
You try to explain you’re from another world, you start using words like “canon” and “NPC,” and he immediately cuts you off.
“Spare me the rambling. Whatever your affliction is, someone else can deal with it.”
But he keeps watching you from the corner of his eye, because you’re… strange.
You don’t obey the usual rules. You don’t know the most basic things, but you speak about the world like you’ve seen everything.
He finds you… irritating. Intriguing. Mostly irritating.
The first time you say, “This is giving side quest energy,” he looks physically pained.
“What are you even saying? Do you speak Common or not?”
You explain. He calls it “utter nonsense.”
You call him “bestie.”
He glares at you like you’ve just insulted his entire bloodline.
“Do not… ever… call me that.”
But you don’t stop. You keep using slang — "slay," "main character energy," "vibe check" — until one day, mid-battle, you hear him mumble:
“Tch. We slay.”
You: gasping
“OH MY GOD DID YOU JUST—”
“Silence.”
He insists you’re not his responsibility. He makes a point of saying you’re someone else’s problem. But whenever you wander off?
He’s the first to scold you.
“Why are you this far from camp? Do you want to die?”
You try to brush it off: “Plot armor, bestie. I’m good.”
He looks visibly exhausted.
“You have no armor. And stop calling me that.”
Still, you notice your packs are often double-checked by morning. You find spells hastily scribbled for your use. If you trip, his hand catches your arm without thinking.
But if you thank him?
“I only did it because watching you fall on your face would have slowed us down.”
Sure, Rolan. Sure.
You have no idea how magic works here, and Rolan can’t stand your reckless enthusiasm.
“You’ll get yourself killed. Fine. If I must, I’ll teach you basic cantrips. But if you embarrass me, I’ll deny knowing you.”
He’s actually a very good teacher, though he insists your progress is “tolerable at best.”
You, meanwhile, keep throwing in phrases like:
“This spell totally slaps.”
“That’s a big bad boss moment.”
“Your arc is so tsundere-coded right now.”
He has no idea what that last one means. You don’t explain.
Rolan eventually realizes you don’t belong here — not just physically, but existentially.
And even though he never says it outright, you become his person to look after.
When you’re quiet for too long, he’ll mutter:
“You’re being weird. Say something stupid. I’ve grown used to it.”
When you call him your “comfort character,” he rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t walk away.
When you call him “bestie” for the hundredth time, he snaps:
“Enough. I’ll only permit it when we’re alone.”
But he still lets you say it.
When You Try to Explain Social Media
You: “It’s like… a messaging system. But public. And people argue for fun.”
Rolan: “So… like an open tavern brawl but worse.”
You: “Exactly.”
Rolan: visibly horrified
“Your plane sounds insufferable.”
When You Joke About Him Being a Side Character
You: “You’re totally a side quest companion, but like, one with a hidden romance route.”
Rolan: deadpan
“You truly have a gift for speaking nonsense.”
Pause.
“But if I were… would you choose me?”
You: softly “Of course.”
He glances away, flustered, pretending it meant nothing.
i DESPERATELY need more outlast content, I might write some stuff. But for how popular the games are, I haven't seen a lot of content for some more underrated charatcers (The kress twins, the twins in outlast 1, Val, Liliya, Miles Upshur, etc.)
eddie would either be a total pillow prince if he bottomed or he would just flat out refuse to bottom. the second one i feel is very unlikely, he wants to please his darling, no?
A/N: experimented a little with this
From a realistic perspective, his masculinity is very fragile. Any sort of threat to it ends in violence and a feeling of betrayal. So I can't really imagine him bottoming, at least at first. Now say he finds his darling wife and stays with her for a while (or best scenario, get's therapy), I could see him being opened to experimenting with bottoming.
It would take a whole lot of convincing, but after consumating the marriage, he would lay beneath you, his large hands gripping your waist as he looks up into your eyes. "You wanted to be on top of me, darling. Why don't you continue..." Eddie purred, his rough fingers moving towards your hips to move them.
As you grind against him, he finds himself forgetting your atop him and could turn the tables at any moment.
Because he knows deep down that he could overpower you in the blink of an eye, and that risk gives him a euphoric, curious high.
(CW: Murder, cannon typical violence and gore, NSFW MDI, misogynistic points, not beta read)
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
He's not exactly the best. No spa trip or massages, but he will praise and cuddle you till your fall asleep (while inside you of course), but that's about it.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
For him? Probably his hands. He can get so much done with them! He can caress you, hold you, hug you, choke you, stab you. Oh how useful his hands are! You on the other hand- literally any possible feminine trait. But if I were to choose the top two, it'd be boobs and hips. Both traits give life, and both he can squeeze.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
He definitely likes it inside you the most. Less messy, and means your even closer to him than before. And, of course, can get you pregnant and round for him. Cumming on you would take some getting used to if he's not opposed to it completely. Don't wanna waste it when it could be in your womb.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
Eddie secretly gets off to head and eating you out. He doesn't like to admit it. "Too vulgar," he tells himself as he's actively licking you up like a thanksgiving meal. Getting a blowjob feels amazing, a little too good to admit.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
He has quite a bit of experience with past women but he usually didn't get past much before murdering them, barely getting to orgasm half the time. But he generally knows what he's doing! Just don't mention basic female anatomy or how fertility works.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
He's quite serious, but he may crack a soft self deprecating joke or a chuckle of degradation, but God forbid you try to ruin the mood, he'll hang you from the rafters.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
He prides himself on staying well trimmed, at least as much as the Asylum would allow. He doesn't want to be dirty for his wife after all!
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
Extremely romantic, compared to the other's a least. Kisses, love bites, dates. Whole nine yards before finally claiming you, even if he is actively choking you out right now...
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
He doesn't like doing jacking off that much. One, it reminds him of his desperation within his cell. Two, it feels vulgar, impure. He would much rather be plunging himself into your depths.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Baby's list is LONG: breeding, lactation, size, degradation, praise, bondage, blood, blindfolds, somno, roleplay. Anything that gives him power or control over your vulnerable body turns him on.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
Within the home ONLY. You don't want other's seeing your display do you? Eddie doesn't exactly enjoy peeping toms. He will, however, fuck you on every surface within your home/ sections of the vocational block.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
Literally anything you do. His libido is insatiable. A single hip sway, a glance at your breasts, anything and he's dragging you to the bed.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
Daddy kink and age play really aren't his thing. Due to his own trauma and actually wanting to be a dad one day, it feels gross and in poor taste. Nor does he like any penetration in himself either. Eddie also doesn't like dildos at all. What, is his cock not good enough for you?
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
Not a five-star in giving head (he probably barely knows what a clit is), but he's a quick learner. Receiving it is another thing. He can be quite forceful, tugging on your hair and pushing you down his cock till you gag, only stopping when your vision start to blacken.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
He's so pent up, surely you'll forgive him for letting all his urges out at once right? It's a wife's duty to take her husband's cock however he wants. When he's growing tired though, he'll go slow or just let you warm him instead (though this is very rare, it's oddly sweet).
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
While he's willing to fuck you literally any time, he wants to take you for as long as possible. Responsibilities? What's those? He only knows about pounding within you till your pregnant with his babies!
R = Risk (are they willing to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
He loves talking risks. Condoms? What's that? Not allowed in his side of town. How else are you gonna get pregnant? Experimentation is iffy. Depends on what it is, but it has to be on his terms or not at all.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
If this man can lift several men to a gym ceiling, then he can easily have sex till the sun rises (and then some). He last decently after the first night, though he will attempt to make you cum with him.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
Like I said, dildos are an absolute no. But once he wraps his head around vibrators? Or boy, say goodbye to rest. Being able to keep you up and hot for him even when he's working? What a miracle! He loves leaving you wanting as punishment, tied up with a vibrator inside you. And plugs? His absolute favorite. Can't have any of his seed dripping out of you, letting you sit on his lap with one inside you as he sews.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Only unfair when you've misbehaved, but he usually gives in after a while, his own neediness too much to bear. He does degrade you quite a bit though, surely you understand, you slut? Besides that, he usually gets straight to the point.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
He's quite vocal during sex! Among noises and grunts, he usually is talking the whole time. He speaks of his fantasies of having children, how close he is, how he feels. Really anything in the moment.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
He's great at fingering even if he doesn't realize it. With his long, large fingers, he can easily bring you to ecstasy in mere minutes. He probably won't even realize it until he gets to you and beds you. Definitely awakens something in him.
X = X-Ray (what's in his pants)
Everything about this man is BIG. Size-wise, Eddie's cock is probably between 7-8 inches. Enough to spear you and slice in half.
Y = Yearning (How much do they yearn for sex)
As I've already said, this man's sex drive is insane. The only thoughts on his mind half the time are "find wife," "marry wife," "make babies," "be a dad." So, you can assume he wants you 24/7.
Z = Zzz (How quickly he falls asleep afterwards)
He'll fuck until he cant' feel his legs and when that happens, he'll wrap his arms around you, snuggle you close, wait till you've passed out or fallen asleep, and then get some shut-eye.
Its was absolutely perfect. 😍🤩 ❤️🔥Please. 🥹Write more about this man. We need him.🙏🏻
A/n: (We need more content for this man I beg) This was mostly just playing around with his writing.
Eddie Gluskin x fem! Phycologist
Imagine, you've been working in Mount Massive for a few weeks now and are given a new patient. You've already seen how terrible this place is, but your stuck between a wall and a hard place, so you're pretty fucked.
The new patient was forbidden from being near any male doctors. You'd seen the photos. Those that made it out alive had massive bruises and cuts along their body, those that didn't looked like some grotesque horror show.
If anything was clear, it was that he was volatile. As a last resort after the engine therapy, they send you, a woman, to be his doctor.
The halls are quiet near Gluskin’s cell. Patients were shaking in their beds, trying their best to keep their sporadic yelling to a minimum lest they upset The Groom. The tile floor smelled like artificial lemons and bleach, and there were a few bloodstains in the corner of the space, missed from lack of care.
It was like an execution awaiting you, the guillotine that was the door inching closer. You peep through the small window, watching as he drew something at his desk, his hands cuffed to it. It would’ve inhumane if you hadn't seen his file. It was better for him to be in cuffs than you dead beneath his boot.
You knocked and stepped into the room. “Good morning, Mr. Gluskin.” You said softly, trying to gauge his reaction. He stiffened before relaxing. “A woman. Here? Oh, apologies, I haven't even introduced myself!”
He stood from the desk, his large frame nearly touching the ceiling. You were thankful for the cuffs even more now. He had some rashes on his face from the engine experiments, even though you had requested nonlatex tubing.
“Eddie, right? A pleasure.” You said before introducing yourself. It didn't seem like he was listening though as his eyes glimmered with awe.
“Yes, yes, formalities and all. You're so sweet for caring for me, love. What'll our wedding look like? Flowers, purple tulips, give me ideas.” Eddie said, the conversation suddenly shifting.
You gave him an awkward smile. “Right, no wedding today I'm afraid. I need you to be a bit better first.” Eddie tensed, your rejection light but still hurtful.
“Am I not the best candidate here? What, you'll settle with the crazy man next door like a whore?” Eddie spat, growing angrier with each sentence.
“No, Eddie. I need you to work with me, okay? I'm sure you're very sweet and hardworking, but we need to get to know each other first, don't we?” You explained. Eddie huffed and slumped into a chair as you opened his file.
“Why did you kill those men?” You asked suddenly, making him click his tongue.
“They were vulgar, unable to bear children. They were rude whore that disobeyed me, tried to run and betray me.” Eddie said, a grin on his face as though he killed a mere bug. "This wasn't exactly what I was thinking of when you said "getting to know me," darling-"
“Does it have to do with your mother?” You asked carefully, interrupting him, your tone soft but still urging him to answer.
He tensed again, his expression fading. “You,” he hissed. “What do you know about that?” His nails dug into his knees.
“It's in your file, Eddie. I know a lot of what happened to you, but I'm not going to punish you or make you feel unworthy for that.” You assured him.
He gritted his teeth, trying not to chew on his gums. “Those fucking guards, they're scum of the earth. They pin me down, just like… never mind.”
You didn't urge him to continue, you knew what he was talking about. You gave him a nod. “I'll tell the guards to be gentler with you. But you have to promise me to work with them as well. Deep down, they have your best interest.”
You were lying just a bit, but he didn't need to know that.
“Right, you're right, darling. If those vulgar men leave me alone, I will behave.” Eddie promised with a sudden charming smile.
“Good, I think our meeting is over for today, I'll see you tomorrow, Eddie.” You waved goodbye, stepping away from him and missing the way he stood up behind you and the way his grin widened.
As you stepped out of the cell, one hand on the cell door, a siren nearly ripped through your ear drums, blaring and flashing red. “Warning! All personnel must evacuate immediately.” A robotic voice blared. But right as you were about to run, you felt someone grab you from behind, place their hand over your mouth, and a prick in your neck.
You struggled, clawing, biting the hand over your mouth, but your vision grew darker, your limbs grew heavier.
“Sh, sh, sh. I know it's scary, my love. But it'll all be okay, I'll protect you, just like a husband should.”
You were perfect. Quiet, meek, minding your own business. What else could a man want in a woman!?
He was hooked the moment you waved back to him with your swinish eyes. Women and men were usually separated except for in the communal rooms where everyone was watched carefully. Or at least, as carefully as lazy guards wanted to.
Courting was sweet but discreet. Giving you treats from his own lunch tray, a borrowed book from the library by your cell door. Anything small he could give you, he would. You two could sneak off too, sitting beneath a shaded tree and letting him whisper affectionate dreams of family and marriage in your ear.
You fit his mold just by gender alone, the womb within you an immediate attraction.
When you two finally did begin courting formally, he was head over heels. He was caring when he wasn't angry, always feeling “bad” when he hurt you. He hates to do so, but you need to be punished! How else are you going to learn?
When the doctors forced him into the engine, all he could think of was whether or not you were facing the same. Each thought filled him with a deep rage and fear.
He became more protective, actively fighting off doctors and guards whenever they got rude or rough with you, much less bringing up any experimentation, if the main guard’s broken jaw had anything to say about it.
Doctors called it “dependency,” but all Eddie wanted was for you to depend on him, and they would have to forcefully restrain him to keep him from you.
He began physically shielding you. “A guard dog,” some said. “She keeps him from biting,” another remarked.
But he didn't care. He would make you his wife the moment you two were free.
When the women were moved away, he was furious. You were taken from him, ripped straight from his arms by medics that didn't give a shit. But you were let out on good behavior at the other facility.
And when the Mount Massive incident happened, you were asked to help a journalist in an investigation. You prayed Eddie had either been put out of his misery, or found a safe place to hide, so you agreed.
You were important, a previous patient knew the ins and outs of the place well and had first-hand accounts of everything that happened. You were a delicacy that somehow came out uneaten.
You were split up when Chris Walker threw Miles out of the window, giving you time to squeeze through the small gap in a bookshelf between Chris and another hallway.
You rushed through, sneaking and escaping from Frank Manera and Dissociative Dennis, stumbling down some stairs.
You recognized the place immediately, several sewing machines, shelves of spool and ripped fabric. The vocational block. The place you and Eddie would sneak hugs and kisses when the nurses weren't watching. The place was cold and desolate, making you hold your coat closer to your body. A mask around your face kept the dust from getting into your lungs.
And then you saw it. Tied to a bed with its legs spread and its head missing, a body was strung up and seemed to be simulating a birth from the deepest pits of hell, a copper like smell hit your nose, making it burn and your throat hurt. Blow flies buzzed in your ear and tears swam in your vision. You let out a wretch and ran away, feeling sick by the sight and nearly hurling.
You rushed to a nearby door, fighting with the knob before you heard it, breathing. You look up, sweat beading down your brow and your breath shaking.
“Darling,” Eddie said, his eyes fluttering and his grin wide, his hands pressed to the glass. You almost wanted to cry from seeing him again. But something didn't feel right. He wore a suit, had rashes and scabs across his face, and blood beneath his nails and on his person.
You stepped back in silent disbelief before Eddie moved away from the window. Did he even recognize you?
Against your urge to throw yourself at him and cry in reunion, you went with your gut. You hid beneath a desk, holding a hand to your mouth to quiet your breathing.
You finished reloading a battery in your camera as you heard him. “Did I frighten you? I'm awfully sorry, I didn't mean to.” Eddie inched closer. “Have we met before? Oh well, we'll get to know each other soon enough."
That answered your question about recognition and you stayed hidden as he walked past you. On quiet steps, you crawled to the door and toward somewhere to hide until he left.
A broken locker was the only place for now as you heard his singing voice grow closer.
“when I was a boy my mother often said to me~. Get married soon you'll see, how- happy you will be~.”
As quiet as you could, you closed the locker, cringing at the squeak of the metal. The door opened of the room, your heart grew faster. “The smell of my love’s arbor. Darling,” You watched in horror as he wrapped rope around the locker, closing you in. You gasped and yelped as the locker was suddenly moved and tossed to the floor, your back hitting the metal backing hard.
“How sweet of you! You made yourself a gift for me? Oh, I can't wait to unwrap you, again and again.” He chuckled, peering down at you from between the locker's gaps.
“I can hear your pulse, your heart beat. I know you're excited for our marriage, but I don't want you getting cold feet. Hysteria and all of that is a dangerous thing, you know. Here,” a sudden spray of a chemical blew into the locker opening, making you cough and sputter as the sweet substance filled your lungs. Your vision swam, your ears rang, and you were out like a light.
A buzzing met your ears as your vision dazed clearer. That buzzing quickly turned into the sound of a drill? Your eyes opened better this time, only for the metallic smell of blood to hit your nose again. You covered your mouth as you peered through the locker door, finding a table with a saw in the center. Your heart beat picked up again. It wasn't the table that scared you, it was the body atop it.
A man, barely alive, crying and sobbing for mercy was tied to the table. “Please! Mr. Gluskin. Please!” He squeaked.
“Darling I need you to bleed less. I know the fairer sex endures wounds with twice the suffering, but just try for me?” He hissed, sounding agitated. You watched in a dazed horror as Eddie suddenly took his blade and stabbed it into the man's lower body. Fortunately for your psyche, Eddie’s body covered most of the gore as he continued strangling and slicing. Though that did little as you felt your consciousness begin to fade. “No,” he sighed, your mind buzzing back to sleep. “Love isn't for everyone, dear.”
Your eyes opened again, Eddie now standing above a new man, caressing his legs. “Hold still. All these unsightly hairs. Oh! Silky smooth! Like a little girl again,” he said affectionately. “Now the more… delicate bits.”
He then dragged his blade from the man's chest to his loins before using both hands to thrust down, making a cut in his neither regions. Your vision swam a little as static filled the corners, but you're eyes blinked back open as Eddie held the man on his hands and knees.
“Ah, you've given up. Ugly and giving up? You're not even worth stringing up. Bleed here,” He grabbed the man's head, “and die,” He then threw the man's head down onto the spinning saw blade, killing the man in nearly an instant.
You nearly threw up before slipping against the door and passing out for a third time.
You woke up fully this time, attempting to move your hands, but you couldn't. Your eyes shot open, finding yourself on the same table the dead man was on before. Your hands were tied up, but the saw was off. And your baggy, athletic clothes were exchanged for a white dress, cruelly stitched and barely fitting right. “What-” you stammered, only to be cut off as a shadow was cast over your head and your eyes met the man looking at you from above.
I have come from your wattpad acc and have discovered your interesting DiaLovers x reader. It was too interesting that I cannot let it go by HUHUHU. Hence, I immediately went and searched your acc-
And i need to ask, and hopefully you would answer the same one I'm truly hoping it is what I'm expecting😔
Will you continue the hidden wife?🥹 I have come to adore it although short. But it was truly getting interesting.
I apologize if this isn't your first time getting asked about this and have come to bother you as I recently have found your book😥
I cannot help myself when it comes to such stories that truly took my interest!
Hi! Thank you for asking and don't worry, you're the first to ask about this. I do wish to continue the story at some point and I'm glad people still enjoy it. I need to rewrite bits of it as some parts don't make a whole lot of sense now, and I need to think of a proper ending. I do have many plans for the story though and I appreciate your patience!
