Atsadi's Shenanigans

It’s all BG3!!!

Holy fuck people made art 🥹:

Drunk Batstarion by @britonell

Eleanor by @lyzelky

Eleanor and Astarion, sitting on a bench by @britonell once again 💜

Eleanors! by @shierke

Astarion is trying to flirt (critical fail) commissioned by @sasseffects and drawn/rendered/colored by @squirrelcurls and @vipermenace

Eleanor and Astarion in their matching outfits! Bonus: Astarion being a total shit. By @lyzelky (😭)

Tent Scene from WSWB chapter 9 commissioned by @allymcfee and created by @summerwarlock

Also Tent Scene from WSWB, commissioned by @allymcfee and created by @crunchyncrumbly

NSFW?

Astarion and Eleanor by @mutualcombat (with more detailed pic of the softness)

Snippets:

Tiddy Cuddles - actually SFW. Batstarion never walks anywhere ever again when he can get uppies.

One Shots (All of them are rated E smutfics):

Stuffing - an entry for Wanksgiving 2023, sexually explicit. Ties into Feeding Alligators.

All I Want for Solstice - happy holidays 2023, have some fluffy smut! Eleanor tries to spread holiday cheer. Astarion tries to spread Eleanor's legs. Rated very much E for explicit sexual content. Technically a two-shot, but whatev.

Valentine’s Day Special - Roses are red, violets are blue, blah blah I’d like to fuck you. Or: Astarion bought a toy. Eleanor wants to give him a night he won’t forget. ASTARION GETS PEGGED.

You Could Just Ask - Astarion is terrible about communicating what he wants. But Eleanor is getting good at translating gremlin. ASTARION GETS PEGGED AGAIN. The man is a MENACE.

Something Full-Bodied and Red - Aunt Flo comes to visit Eleanor. Astarion is thrilled to make her acquaintance.

Tightrope and Lace - Astarion has a proposition: you’d look lovely in rope. And you shouldn’t be the only one who gets to dress for the occasion.

A Misuse of Potions - Pt. 1: Astarion has a plan. A nice, simple plan. His love has been gone for almost a tenday, but now she's back, and he needs her to obliterate him in the best way possible.

Long fics:

All are rated E for sexual content, language, and violence.

Feeding Alligators - Completed:

Turns out, it’s not heart disease that gets you. Not a car crash, the second coming, or even a plain old slip in the shower that removes you from this mortal coil. It’s motherfucking aliens. Your Uncle Randy would be so proud. Or: two losers cheat, stab, and flirt their way to a win.

What Shall We Become - Completed

After tripping a mad wizard’s trap, Astarion—now blinded—must navigate the Underdark with Eleanor back to their crew. These two shitheads must cheat, stab, and flirt their way through flooded caves, monsters, and something hunting them in the dark. All while very confusing feelings begin to muddle up Astarion’s Very Simple plan.

Fingers Sifting Black Earth - In Progress

Split up, y’all did. Safer that way. And then not one, but two separate fucking parties followed you and Gale (ain’t heard nothing from him and you cannot worry about another thing right now).

“We wasn’t gonna let you go alone, boss,” Fezzerk says. “You’re big, but numbers is better.”

“Tribe,” Wesa seems to agree.

That…is a compliment? You think?

“Is he recruiting goblins now?” a gur says. “Werewolves and thralls, aye, but goblins?”

“They’re with me,” you say. Still panting like you’re dying.

This draws their leader’s sharp focus. She’s been sizing this shit show up, even with Diddler pressing a knife up under her leg (that’s gotta be the femoral artery, right, holy shit, Diddler). Now she says, “Who are you?”

They was so sure so sure you was a hapless victim. Which, fair. Part of you wants to play into it now. Keep them off their guard. Off your ass.

But this can go sideways real fast and now all the goblins is involved. You got a break. A pause. A way to deescalate. You got to take it.

“My name’s Eleanor Ripley. Astarion and me—and five others—was kidnapped and infected by squid—uh, mindflayers a couple months ago.”

“Are you certain you ought to be telling them this?” says the man who thought chatting up a bog witch was funny.

“We been trying to get them brainworms out. Turns out they’re magicked by a conspiracy of what y’all call the Dead Three?”

This lands like a grenade. You literally watch suspicion and alarm ripple through them like shrapnel.

“We killed one of them, Ketheric Thorm, and followed the other two back here. They got a giant squid brain wearing,” what did Gale call it, “the Crown of Karsus and it’s hidden somewhere in Baldur’s Gate and we think they’re trying to infect the city.”

You wasn’t mentally there for all that. Gathered that in the weeks after, lying in the back of a wagon in a fevered haze of puking and worse.

“If that was true you’d have turned by now,” one intrepid denier says.

“Magic bullshit,” you say. “I think they’re holding it off so they can get everybody at once.”

Which you just pulled out your ass. But you played a plague game for a couple weeks back during the lockdown, and that strategy worked good. Keep infection high, keeps symptoms low until you got numbers, and then boom. Bodies falling everywhere.

The leader looks at Astarion. Really looks. “You walk in sunlight, spawn. And escaped your master?”

“Em, well, sort of?” he says, voice all high and tight.

“Ulma, they’re full of shit. That one’s either compelled or stupid enough—”

“That Gortash fella everybody’s talking about?” you say. “He’s one of the two we’re tracking.”

That one slaps them all quiet. Not for long, though. Seems Greaseball dug himself into the city like a goddamned tick. That's a wild accusation to toss out so casual.

“They’re mad. Kill them, Ulma. We can finish the rites at camp with that thing’s head.”

“We ain’t sure what their whole goal is after infecting everybody,” you say. “But they got them robots looking for us, and I don’t think it’s to throw us a party. We’re trying to stop them fuckers. And get rid of the brainworms.”

“Ulma,” somebody says.

Ulma’s eyes narrow. “And you, spawn. What are you here for?”

He glances to you. Seems to find what he’s looking for. Lifts his chin. “My old master has a devilish plot in mind. I’m here to stop it.”

Ulma tilts her head. Her jaw works.

This could sink right back into stupid violence. They don’t deserve it. They’re fighting for their kids, for their lives. But so are you. If y’all can just fucking see that. See this don’t have to go down that way.

“The rest of our band is nearby,” Ulma says. “If this is a ploy, neither of you will make it beyond these walls.”

If Astarion wasn’t a vampire, you’re sure he’d be jittering like a live wire. Instead, he’s completely still. Dead still. Not even breathing.

That man will erupt at the first sign of a fight.

“Fair enough,” you say.

Ulma makes a hand signal. The gur back off. Sort of—several really don’t want to.

“Ease off,” you say to Fezzerk. To Skrunk, who lowers his bow (but don’t unstring it). To Wesa, who glares.

To Astarion, standing there staring at Ulma. He holds that stare as he reaches up, grabs the arrow sticking out his chest, and wrenches it free with a spurt of blood. His jaw goes tight as fuck, but he barely makes a sound.

Diddler lifts his knife. Takes two steps back, hands out.

The first, tentative step to a truce. (Astarion’s got to get a healing potion the second he can; you don’t think these guys is gonna be okay watching him chug down a bottle of blood, even donated blood).

Something else tugs at you. Warm eyes and a warm voice and gentle hands turning you over. The awful, choking metal of blood in your mouth.

“There’s. Uh,” you say. Hear the shake in your voice as you shove your hand into your left pocket. As the beads deep within seem to find you.

Astarion turns that awful stare to you. Gives you half a shake of his head.

But this possible alliance is softer than a butterfly’s fart. If you don’t, if you go in hiding this (or thinking you is, cause who knows what their information network is like and hiding it when they know would be even worse). This’ll go up before you can inhale.

You pull out a string of wooden beads. Pretty things in bright colors, worn smooth.

Ulma inhales real sharp.

“One of yours,” you say. “His name was Gandrel.”

“Darling.”

“He came after us in the month just after we escaped the squidwards.” You gotta push through. Got to. The first hesitation and you will fucking fold and if you do that now…

The goblins is coiled tighter than a fresh bed spring. Wesa’s ears stick straight out.

You touch her shoulder. “Stand down, y’all.”

Move between Astarion and Ulma. Don’t even need the brainworm group chat to know he’s seething about it.

“We didn’t know about the plot at the time,” you say. “Just that we wasn’t changing and somebody in Moonrise had information. I tried…I thought I could get Gandrel to come with us. But there was a fight.”

You swallow. Whole body shaking. Especially the hand you hold out: a tremble for all to see, Gandrel’s bracelet an accusation in your shivering palm.

“I killed him.”

You didn’t want to. You bawled yourself to puking over it. But telling them that is only an excuse. Only to make you feel better about it. It won’t do a damn thing for them, and is sure as shit ain’t gonna make it hurt less.

It ain’t gonna bring him back.

One gur lunges. You flinch, despite yourself, and Astarion makes a low, dangerous noise. But another gur grabs the man and pulls him back even as Ulma gives the man a fucking look.

“I’m sorry,” you say, knowing how stupid and small and useless it is. “He was a really good man.”

You used that against him. Counted on it. Killed him with it.

“He was,” Ulma says through a tight jaw.

Lotta unspoken shit in them two words. Lotta anger. Lotta blame.

“We buried him. Our party, no matter about here, they can give you the location if you want.”

You read about crowds turning. About martial artists and whatever sizing each other up, sensing a shift. Your death hangs real heavy over these people.

It takes every shred of self control you got to stand there. You reach for Astarion through the worm: don’t do anything. Don’t.

All you get back from him is a whirling, gnashing tornado of blood lust and homicide.

You turn just enough to make eye contact. “No.”

If this has the slightest chance of threading the needle, he cannot start stabbing people.

Ulma steps forward. Takes the beads from you. Gazes down at them for a long, long moment as your heart thuds and your pulse spikes so hard you almost can’t see.

“You confess this knowing who we are?” she says.

…not in a way you think she’s hinting at? But you nod anyway.

She finally looks at you. Her eyes is chips of glass, hard and sharp. “Do your people know of a blood price?”

Something like that in the Beowulf stories. More importantly, your dad’s people practiced something similar before the Europeans: blood law. If a person killed a member of another clan, the wronged clan could seek a life for that life.

Such a narrow path to tread.

“Yes,” you say cautiously. Gandrel’s sad eyes in that torchlit clearing. He called you “friend.” But you ain’t gonna throw Astarion in to take his place. Not the goblins or any of your group, neither.

Ulma studies you. Looks behind, to Astarion.

“You have wronged my people more than we can say,” she says. “Both of you.”

You done some shitty things in your life. Things that made you want to disappear. Crawl into a hole. Do a lot worse.

This is right up there. Your stomach twists up so bad you’re about ready to throw up all down your front.

“I will name a blood price on you,” Ulma says. “You will fulfill my terms or die trying, or I and all my people will hunt you to the edges of Faerun.”

Astarion makes a noise. Man’s had enough choices taken from him.

“I can only speak for myself,” you say. “What would you name?”