oxlabyrinthxo

27 / owls / ♡ Netflix / reading / writing / music ♫ / adventures / Scorpio ☆ / @mermaid_reads / fangirl / Indiana / http://nerdyowlbooks.blogspot.com/

[coffeenonsense]

the pretend plot of bg3: you've gotta get these tadpoles out and stop a giant floating brain with delusions of grandeur

the real plot of bg3: in order to date us (the party) you must defeat our seven evil exes: a half-demon warlock patron, the literal goddess of magic, a vampiric lord, an insane cult leader , an archdemon, the goddess of darkness, and finally, the Trauma

[heyitsjaki]

Astarion knows an easy mark when he sees one 🤣

Bonus Gale reaction:

[heyitsjaki]

When the netherese orb in your chest ruins your love life for a SECOND time 🤣

[adactaaries]

Finally, him!!!

[heyitsjaki]

Pictured: Gale rolling a nat 1 on his insight check

[bettydice]

writing dialogue for Astarion in like a normal text editor is very difficult actually because it feels like all his dialogue should be created with WordArt

[knightnick]

Patreon | Kofi | Redbubble

[sweeneynoir]

felt the urge to do a run where all the companions look like they fell out when i shook a box set of 80s sword and sorcery movies

and of course a tav based on sarah from the labyrinth and princess lili from legend

[echoechowhiskey]

[thewritetofreespeech]

Can I request Clingy Astarion headcanons with Tav and he really likes sleepy cuddles too.

Astarion, now that he knows cuddles are a thing, is obsessed with them.

He spends every night curled up next to Tav. Right next to them on the bed, with his arms around them; even though he doesn’t technically sleep.

He also makes a grand show of ‘going to bed’ now.

Commenting on how late it’s gotten, dramatic yawns, inching closer & closer to the bedroom.

If that doesn’t work Astarion will just pout. Much like a grumpy cat who is ready for bed and his owner won’t get move.

Staring around the corner at them with a piercing, miffed gaze until they come along.

Only content when they are finally in bed ready for rest.

[litsenn]

Dream team.

[elandra-beltharys]

And I’d choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I’d find you and I’d choose you.

Took a stroll down memory lane today to recreate some of my older characters for this. 18 months of Astarion and I still can't get enough.

Here's to many more ᥫ᭡

[quinoaphoenicks]

I love you guys but I think a lot of you are the kind of people who are susceptible to falling in with a cult.

[teaboot]

You’re right. We should all band together under a trustworthy and influential leader who can keep us safe from outside threats

[truerhearts]

ASTARION is acting different.

he's quieter around camp now. less of those sharp-tongued quips that usually flow so easily. he catches himself staring at her when she's not looking, then quickly glances away like he's been caught doing something wrong.

his feeding has become reverent instead of ravenous. he hesitates now, asks if she’s sure, presses a soft kiss to the pulse before he bites.

he seeks her approval in ways that have nothing to do with seduction. when he makes decisions, his eyes find hers first. her good opinion has become as essential as blood.

and now during fights, he’s reckless with his own safety now, throwing himself between her and harm without thinking. “i can handle myself, you know,” she’d say, crossing her arms.

“i know darling…” he trails off, staring at his hands. he doesn't understand why he did it either. the thought of that blade finding her skin had sent him into a panic he couldn't name.

she doesn't know why, of course. he barely knows himself. but he has a hunch, and it terrifies him.

he doesn't know when it started—somewhere between her asking "did you rest well?" and the way she bandages his wounds tenderly—but now when she looks at him, really looks at him, his dead heart does this stupid fluttering thing.

when she brushes against him, her warmth doesn't just touch his skin. it goes deeper. settles in places he'd forgotten existed, places that ache with want that has nothing to do with feeding or fucking or getting what he needs to survive.

maybe it's because she cares. actually cares, not the fake concern people use when they want something. she shows it in the small things: "you seem tired today." "i saved you some of the good wine." "the stars are beautiful tonight, aren't they?"

to someone who hasn't experienced genuine affection in two hundred years, these little moments feel like everything.

the nights when her tent flap opens for him now, everything is different. he moves differently. less performance, less of that practiced charm he's perfected over decades. he's gentler with her, almost hesitant. his hands linger on her face before he kisses her, and she looks at him like he's something precious instead of dangerous.

he takes his time now. when he peels away her clothes, he does it slow, reverent. each kiss tastes like honey and guilt because he knows—fuck, he knows—that he started this as a lie.

the pleasure is overwhelming now. more intense than anything he's felt in centuries because it's real. when she arches beneath him, when she whispers his name like a prayer, it threatens to break him completely. he's louder now, lets himself feel everything instead of just doing what was necessary to play the part.

but with every touch, every breath, the guilt eats at him. this isn't the calculated seduction he'd planned. this isn't using her for protection. this is something else entirely, something that feels too much like love and too much like betrayal.

she trusts him. opens herself to him completely, and he built this on a lie.

after, when they're tangled together, he holds her tighter than he should. she fits against him perfectly, her head on his chest where his heart should be beating if he were still alive. if he were still worthy of this.

"what's wrong?" she asks, voice soft. her fingers trace patterns on his skin, and there's concern in her voice. she’s noticing.

"nothing," he lies. his fingers find her hair, thread through it like the motion might calm the storm in his chest.

"you're different tonight. quieter."

different. if she only knew. if she only knew the man she's falling for was built on deception. that every tender moment between them started as manipulation.

"i'm just thinking," he says.

she doesn't push, she never does. just settles deeper against him, breathing slowing as sleep pulls her under.

he stays awake long after she's asleep, studying her face in the candlelight. the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. her lips, slightly parted. the complete vulnerability written in every line of her body.

she trusts him enough to sleep in his arms, and the weight of it is crushing. how naïve. she doesn't know he'd originally planned to use her. doesn't know every sweet word in those early days had been calculated, how it was all for his benefit.

but somewhere along the way, the performance became real.

two centuries of survival instincts stand off with something newer, invasive almost. something that makes his chest ache. something that whispers maybe he could be worthy of the love he sees in her eyes.

the realization hits him like dawn breaking as he lay with her, now noticing he stayed all night. feeling the rhythm of her breathing as she slept in his arms, how warm she was against his cool skin. how she trusts him.

he loves her.

the thought should terrify him. instead, it settles into his bones like coming home. he loves her. not just her body, not just what she can do for him, but her. her kindness. her strength that never comes at the cost of gentleness. her trust that she gives freely, even to broken things like him.

he loves her, and he's completely fucked.

[agoodflyting]

One of my favorite things about BG3 is how many of the core companions/playable characters have backgrounds as -- essentially -- one of the mook npcs you might have to kill in another story. Every one of them was made to have their tragic backstory revealed in a note you loot from their corpse after hitting them with a fireball.

Shadowheart is a servant of an evil goddess. Her cult spends its time spreading darkness and misery. The only thing that separates her from the Sharrans you can kill at their temple is that she's the one who was sent on the mission to get the Astral Prism.

Lae'zel is a Githyanki warrior, bred for battle. As with Shadowheart, the only reason she's your companion instead of an npc that you kill and loot at the Temple of Lathander is that she's the one who got tadpoled and survived.

Karlach is Zariel's champion with an engine for a heart. She even says she's the best at it. How many times has she been the mini-boss some adventurer failed to defeat, in their quest in the Hells?

Astarion is the spawn of a vampire lord. How many times, in all those years, have adventurers broken into Cazador's mansion, and his spawn have been compelled to fight them? In another universe, the Mindflayers grab Dalyria instead, and its Astarion you have to fight to defend her.

Wyll sees himself as a hero, but we find out that Mizora has been manipulating him into hunting targets who might have been innocent victims the whole time. He even starts as just another bounty hunter in Karlach's story. How many times has he been the monstrous stalker to someone who crossed the Hells?

Gale is a wizard who dabbled in forbidden power and became something dark and dangerous. In another game, there would be a mission where you'd have to raid his tower and stop him from potentially ending humanity by messing with the Karsite Weave.

I just kinda love this, and I love how the game brought all these characters together and basically said: look how in the right circumstances, anyone can be a hero.

[moonselune]

The boys reacting to reader collapsing from exhaustion please?

Gale:

The stars had just begun to glimmer overhead, the velvet sky above the Shadow-Cursed Lands dimming into the kind of darkness that swallowed sound. The campfires crackled gently, casting flickering halos of warmth against the long stretch of gloom, but you were still going. Still walking. Still sorting. Still preparing.

You hadn’t rested. Not really. Not since that last fight, not since the argument with the goblins in the pass, not since the near ambush from twisted shadows. You’d kept your pace steady, your shoulders square, pushing through the weight in your limbs and the ache behind your eyes. You thought if you just did one more thing, the tension would stop building in your chest.

But your body had other plans.

You didn’t even remember falling. One moment you were standing, checking your gear, your fingertips trembling from fatigue, and the next—

Blackness.

A quiet thump. The faint scuffle of feet on earth.

Then a voice, fraying at the edges with fear: “Wait—wait! No, no, no—gods, please—!”

You came to slowly, like rising through molasses, every sound muffled by a distant ringing. The smell of lavender and parchment hit your senses before anything else—then warmth. Gale. He was crouched beside you, cradling your head with trembling fingers, his brow furrowed with frantic concentration.

His face was pale beneath the firelight, lips pressed in a tight line, panic storming behind his eyes like thunderclouds.

“There you are,” he breathed, voice rough, like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until you stirred. “You—by Mystra’s grace, you scared the life out of me.”

You tried to sit up. “I’m fine—”

“No, you are not,” Gale snapped. The edge in his voice shocked you—it was so rare, so unlike his usual soft-spoken warmth. But it cracked with strain, with the sharp weight of helplessness. “You collapsed. Not tripped. Not stumbled. Collapsed. You’ve been running yourself ragged, and you think I wouldn’t notice?”

You blinked at him, throat dry. “I just—there was a lot to do. I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t mean to?” he echoed, his eyes going wide, almost wounded. “That somehow makes it better?”

His hands trembled as he brushed dirt from your cheek, then stilled when he cupped your jaw gently. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself. You don’t have to carry it all.”

You looked away, ashamed—because you had been trying to carry it all. Because you didn’t want to be a burden. Because you thought if you didn’t slow down, maybe everything else wouldn’t catch up.

But Gale wasn’t done.

“You think I wouldn’t burn the very weave itself if it meant keeping you safe?” he asked, his voice suddenly soft again, but still fierce. “You think your worth is measured by how much pain you can ignore?”

Your lip trembled, just a little. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh, eyes glistening. “Then you’ve failed spectacularly.”

You smiled despite yourself, and Gale immediately folded forward, resting his forehead against yours, his breath warm and shaking.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

He closed his eyes, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Don’t apologize. Just let me help. You don’t have to prove your strength by hiding your exhaustion. Not from me.”

He helped you sit up, guiding you gently like you were made of glass—his hands constantly checking for bruises or signs of injury, his eyes flicking across your face like he might lose you again if he looked away too long.

“I’ll rest,” you murmured finally.

“You’ll rest now,” Gale corrected, brushing your hair back. “And you’ll let me stay, even if all I can do is hold you while you sleep. Agreed?”

“…Agreed.”

And so he settled in beside you, holding you close beneath the stars, heart still racing, fingers still trembling—but never letting go.

Astarion:

The campfire crackled gently in the distance, its glow barely brushing the edges of the clearing as the evening slipped into deeper shades of indigo. The world beyond was all hush and shadow, quieted by the oppressive weight of the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Everyone had started winding down, preparing for rest. Everyone except you.

You had been pacing—relentlessly. Repacking your gear. Polishing a blade you’d already sharpened twice. Pretending that the tremble in your limbs wasn’t there. That the weight behind your eyes didn’t burn. That you hadn’t been pushing yourself beyond the brink for days.

And then, quite simply—your body gave out.

Your knees folded. The world tilted. And the last thing you heard was a very undignified shout:

“Oh for—you dramatic idiot!”

You woke with a sharp inhale, but the moment you stirred, cold hands were already gripping your shoulders, a familiar voice hissing through clenched teeth:

“Don’t you dare try to sit up.”

Astarion loomed over you, silver hair in slight disarray, cravat askew, red eyes wild with something that looked like fury—but was far too sharp-edged to be anger alone. He was kneeling at your side, holding you like you were made of glass and pure trouble at once.

“You absolute menace,” he growled, inspecting you as if he might hex your exhaustion into submission. “I knew you were overdoing it. I told you. And what do you do? You drop like a sack of poorly stitched laundry!”

You blinked slowly, confused. “Astarion—”

“And not gracefully, mind you,” he continued, indignant. “You just crumpled. I had to catch you like some harlequin in a second-rate opera. I nearly broke a nail.”

Despite the scolding, his hands were maddeningly gentle, checking your pulse, brushing back damp hair from your forehead. He was so close you could smell the faint hint of bergamot and aged leather. You could feel the tension in his jaw, in the way his fingers curled ever so slightly into your sleeve as if grounding himself.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, voice hoarse.

He froze.

And then something shifted.

Astarion’s eyes softened—not much, but enough to crack the veneer of aristocratic outrage. He sighed, exasperated and... undeniably worried.

“Gods, darling, what were you thinking?” he said, this time quieter. “You looked like death warmed over hours ago. Why didn’t you say something? Or sit? Or, Mystra forbid, actually rest?”

You tried to offer a weak smile. “Didn’t want to trouble anyone.”

His face twisted like you’d just said the most offensive thing imaginable.

“Trouble—? Oh, how dare you,” he snapped, but now it sounded almost... wounded. “You think I waste my charms on just anyone? You think I go around catching unconscious fools for fun? You are my trouble, you idiot.”

He pulled you upright against his chest with surprising tenderness, wrapping his arms around you as he shifted you into his lap, cradling you like something precious and exasperating all at once. You could feel the way his thumb traced circles along your spine, even as he clicked his tongue in disapproval.

“I swear, if you ever scare me like that again, I’ll—well, I’ll write a very strongly worded sonnet about your irresponsibility.”

You laughed softly against his shoulder. “A poem? That’s my punishment?”

“I am an artist of many talents, thank you very much,” he said primly. “But don’t tempt me. I’ll make it rhymed and awful.”

You looked up at him through tired eyes, heart aching with affection. “You were worried about me.”

“Oh, perish the thought,” he sniffed dramatically. “I was worried about me. What would I do if my favorite pillow went and died from pure stubbornness?”

And yet he pulled the blanket tighter around you. And his hand never left yours. And he didn’t stop holding you—not for the rest of the night.

Furious, indeed.

Wyll:

The world drifted back in slow fragments—light, sound, breath. You stirred, faintly aware of something heavy draped across you, of warmth pressed along your side, of a steady rhythm pulsing through fabric and skin: a heartbeat, far too quick to be your own.

“Wyll?” your voice came out as a rasp, thick and uncertain.

He did not move.

Your eyes blinked open to find him kneeling at your side, bent low, his forehead resting just over your heart like he was listening for something—proof you were still there, still beating beneath his hands. His fingers gripped your shirt, knuckles white, the rest of him utterly still save for the occasional tremble that betrayed just how close he was to coming undone.

“…You’re awake,” he whispered, voice hoarse, like speaking louder might break whatever fragile reality he’d constructed around himself while you were unconscious.

“I’m fine,” you croaked, trying to push yourself up.

Instantly, Wyll surged upward, pressing a firm hand to your shoulder and another to your hip, holding you flat against the bedroll with all the strength of someone who had just seen the person they love go limp and collapse in front of them. His dark eyes were wide, frantic, and furious—not at you, but at the helplessness clawing at him from the inside.

“Don’t you dare try to move,” he growled. “Not after that stunt.”

“I said I’m fine,” you muttered, wriggling against his grip. “I just overdid it a little—”

“You collapsed,” he snapped. “Like a marionette with its strings cut. One minute you were walking, talking, and the next—” He choked, fingers tightening for a split second. “You hit the ground and I—I thought you were dead.”

You opened your mouth to dismiss him again, to soothe, but Wyll leaned in, his voice low and sharp like flint striking steel.

“You don’t get to tell me this is nothing,” he hissed. “Because if you keep running yourself into the ground like this, someday it won’t just be a collapse. It’ll be you not waking up. And I—” He shook his head, his expression crumpling. “I can’t go through that.”

“Wyll—”

“I need you to understand what it does to me,” he interrupted, suddenly, dangerously close. “To see you fall and not know if I’ll ever hear your voice again. So if I seem dramatic, if I seem over-the-top, it’s because I’m trying to teach you something.”

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his curls. His tail flicked with restless tension behind him.

“Because when the real thing happens—when I do lose you—I’ll be ruined. You are the flame I measure all warmth by. And if that flame ever goes out…”

He swallowed hard. “Then I’m nothing but ash.”

Your heart twisted at the way his voice faltered, how the last word was barely more than a breath.

You tried to sit up again, to offer some comfort—but he lunged, practically threw himself down, sprawling across your torso like an overgrown, armored cat with an overdeveloped sense of righteous vengeance.

“You are resting.” His voice was muffled against your chest, but the weight of his body was firm, final, and very much unmoving.

You blinked. “…Are you pinning me down?”

“Yes.”

“You weigh a thousand pounds.”

“I will increase it if I have to.”

You sighed, flopping back with a groan of surrender. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“And you’re being reckless,” he retorted, not budging. “So now we’re even.”

There was a long silence. Then a quiet chuckle slipped out of you, reluctant but real. You carded your fingers through his hair, letting the tension bleed from your limbs.

“Fine. I’ll rest.”

Wyll tilted his head just enough to press a kiss to your sternum, his voice a low murmur. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

Halsin:

The moment your eyes cracked open, you knew you were in trouble.

The air inside Halsin’s tent was thick with the scent of dried herbs and pine resin, heavy with the warmth of the furs layered beneath you. It was dim—his tent flap drawn shut—but soft light filtered in, revealing the familiar shape of his travel gear stacked in its usual meticulous order. The cot creaked softly beneath you as you shifted, muscles aching, limbs leaden. There was a wet cloth resting on your brow, cool and fragrant with some kind of forest mint.

You had absolutely, unequivocally passed out from exhaustion.

And Halsin had clearly been the one to find you.

A groan built low in your throat, and with it came your brilliant idea: sneak out. Maybe—just maybe—you could slink off before he returned. You didn’t relish the idea of a lecture from a near seven-foot-tall druid whose entire body seemed to be carved from oak and thunderclouds.

You swung your legs over the cot, wincing as the rush of dizziness hit you. But you were determined. Quiet. Graceful. Almost at the—

“Where,” came a low, thunderous voice from behind, “do you think you’re going?”

You froze mid-step. Slowly, guiltily, you turned.

And there he was—Halsin—massive, bare-chested, his thick arms crossed over his chest, golden eyes narrowed and jaw clenched with a sternness that belonged more to a storm than a man.

“Ah,” you said. “I was just—stretching.”

Before you could retreat or formulate another weak excuse, he closed the space between you with startling speed, scooped you up like you weighed nothing at all, and slung you over his shoulder.

“Halsin!” you protested, smacking at his back as he turned and carried you—without effort, without ceremony—right back to bed. “Put me down!”

“You’re lucky I’m not tying you to the cot,” he rumbled, voice edged with exasperated affection. “You collapsed in the middle of the clearing. In front of everyone. I had to carry you back here—twice, apparently.”

He set you down with far more care than his grumbling suggested, adjusting the furs around you, his large hands surprisingly gentle as they brushed a damp curl from your temple. Then, without another word, he reached behind him and produced a small bundle of cloth.

He opened it to reveal a collection of deep red and violet berries nestled in soft moss. “I foraged these. You need to eat.”

You blinked. “Halsin, I—”

“Eat,” he said simply, with that patient, immovable tone he used when dealing with stubborn animals and, apparently, stubborn lovers.

You gave him a sheepish look, but obeyed, popping a few of the berries into your mouth. They were sweet, tart, and immediately grounding. Halsin watched you the entire time, gaze softening only after he saw you swallow a second mouthful.

Once satisfied, he slid in beside you, the cot creaking in protest beneath his weight. You barely had time to blink before his arms wrapped around you, strong and encompassing, pulling you into the heat of his chest. One leg tangled with yours as he pulled the furs up around both of you.

“You frightened me,” he murmured, his voice low and close to your ear, breath warm against your hair. “I have seen wounds. Disease. Poison. But watching you crumble from something so preventable? It... it undid me.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice already thick and slipping into sleep again. “Didn’t mean to—”

“Shh,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “No apologies. Just rest.”

You tried to protest, but your words slurred, consciousness unraveling like smoke. You barely registered his arms tightening around you protectively, his deep voice rumbling softly as he murmured something soothing in Druidic, something meant to lull, to calm.

“I’ll watch over you,” he promised into your hair. “You are safe now. Just sleep.”

And this time, you listened.

IM BACK WITH THE BOYS ugh I love it, also I'm on a dark bg3 brain rot so that will be the next post. Hope you guys enjoyed this and thank you all for your contiued support!- Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[malueris-art]

An old comic I made a while ago about Astarion's flirty lines.