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

“Thanks,” you say.

The air around her small, rounded ears shimmers as her actual ones do something complicated.

Better dressed people, with straighter postures and a “job to do” sorta vibe walk around. Residents, you guess.

And everywhere, once you get to looking, fisters in their uniforms.

“Stay close,” Gale says. He don’t even need to.

Y’all move in and you immediately catch snippets.

“They’re coming back.”

“Regroup.”

“Barely staved them off, last time—”

“I know the stories were exaggerating. An army of goblins? Preposterous.”

You pause at that last one. A woman, dressed better than the refugees. They stand next to some kinda, it’s gotta be a washing well. A wide pool set in bricks, a trickle of silver water tinkling in from a tiny spigot in a stone post. A couple other woman sit on the little wall, dunking wet clothes, beating them with a wooden paddle.

“No drow would ever come to the surface to march with humans, much less the lower races,” another woman says.

You know an in when you see one. You edge in close to the line. Scoop up some water in two hands and scrub your face with it, flicking the excess into the dirt. “My husband and I saw them. A few days back. Looked like rabble out to steal chickens.”

The women glance to you. The assessment is quick: your clothes are sturdy, if worn, but the embroidery is nice and you look very well fed. Beside you fidgets a little doll of a girl without so much as a scraped shin or chipped tooth.

“That’s what I’m saying,” Preposterous says. A cautious joining into the fold. “It’s a raiding band, nothing more. This whole ‘cult’ business is just overblown country bumpkins trying to come to the city to eat our scraps.”

“Then why’d they send the Steel Watch?” Orange Skirt, next to her says.

“So the rabble rousers could see what they were trying to provoke. It’s for our own safety. Put a little fear into those wretches.”

“It sounded terrible,” a third woman says. Her hair is coiled into a cap of braids sewn into place with white, linen strips. Her dark eyes flit, her gaze unsteady on any one thing too long.

“Of course it did, my dear,” Preposterous says. “These things are always awful. But without the Watch, I dare say every filthy bandit would have gotten in here.”

There’s heads on spears out lining the road. You wonder if that woman—or any of them, really—have been out to see it. The bodies. The burning pits. You can smell it, even in here. A thin coat of gray ash covers the roofs and walls and cloth awnings.

“Has anyone even seen Ravengard, recently?”

“The Mouth says it’s illness.”

“Some illness.” The tone implying something far worse.

But that name. Wyll’s dad, right? Unless he’s got other, prominent family in here?

“You think the archduke would have let those bandits in here?” you say, stepping out on some thin ice. Hoping to fuck it don’t give way beneath you. You’re using your best northern accent. Dirt potion translates your actual one, somehow, and you don’t want to risk magic bullshit making you sound like a hick. Not on your first mission back out.

“Archduke Ravengard is a coward.” The last woman has been watching the whole thing while beating the shit outta a tunic. “He’s gotten weak. Too many kickbacks from the patriars. His flaming shits would’ve let us all burn just to sell off the land.”

Oh. Kay. There’s some hostility there. Familiar hostility. That is an opening.

But Preposterous cuts in. “That’s why we all have to thank Lord Gortash. He saw we needed help and he stepped in to protect us.”

Gortash. That name is familiar. Something hazy you don’t want to think about. Something in that fucking shithole underneath them towers, that horrible confidence that you had to shoot your friends to keep them safe from themselves. You was plotting out how to do it, how to manipulate it, and y’all saw three people out by the hell pit (that held a god of death, this fucking place). And a voice burning with rage and blue fire, the sheer hatred rolling off her tongue over that name.

Beside you, Gale is on alert. His smile is easy and warm as ever, but his eyes go sharp.

“I think I’ve heard of him,” you say.

This gets you a couple looks. Doubting your place among the fold.

“We’ve been with my husband’s family out in the country,” you say. “We just got back to visit my sister.”

“It’s important to get the little ones some fresh air now and then,” Orange skirt says. “What’s your name, sweetling?”

“Tribe,” Wesa says.

“Elsa,” you say, because you panic. Look down at Wesa who’s definitely getting bite-happy. “She’s on a phase.”

They way they blink at you. “Phase” don’t seem to be translating.

“And she’s shy.”

That one goes down better. Orange skirt gives her an only slightly puzzled smile. “Well, don’t you worry about that. She’ll get over it soon enough with the right company. A face like that, and her parents will be beating back suitors with a stick.”

“If she doesn’t beat them first, I’d imagine,” Gale says.

To which Wesa grins and clicks her teeth.

“Lord Gortash,” you say. Place your whole bet on the table. “I’ve heard fantastic things about him.”

Like the way he sold Karlach to hell and she’d like to rip his head off very, very literally.

“They should make him archduke,” Preposterous says.

To which Braids bites her lip. Looks down. Too obvious, because it’s like saying “ball” in front of a retriever dog and snags the attention of everybody.

“I,” she says. Fiddles with a long stocking halfway dangling in the water. “It’s only. Probably nothing.”

Poor thing wants to bolt. But Preposterous and Orange Skirt done scented blood, and even Grudge looks to her. Frowning, but looking.

“It’s my cousin. The one married to a cobbler. Some of the patriars have been coming to his husband’s shop since that party I told you about last year? I, probably shouldn’t be saying anything.”

“We’re talking about family,” Preposterous says. “There’s no harm in that. What of your cousin and his husband? Their health is still good?”

“Oh yes, of course. It’s…”

Behind y’all, somebody shouts. A kid streaks off, weaving into the crowd as a man at a stall hollers after them. The group of fisters nearby barely glance their way.

“They’ve been working several orders,” Braids says. “All rush jobs, came in last tenday.”

“The patriar’s shoes?” Orange Skirt says. “They always want things. Is that all?”

Braids shrugs.

But Grudge’s eyes are narrowed. She accidentally meets your gaze and startles. Drops it to focus on her washing.

“Well, the pointed toe is going out of fashion,” Preposterous says. “Have you seen Gistaen’s new pair? The square shape suits her feet much better, and she does need that.”

You and Gale detach. Stroll up the street a bit and disappear yourselves into the crowds. A tug on your left pocket, and Wesa stuffs something inside. A single, white stocking. When…?

“Tribe,” she says and smiles. Pats your pocket.

Right.

“What are you thinking?” Gale says. “Your face. You wear that expression when you’re working through a problem.”

Oh, well. Now your ears are warming.

“We got something in my country we call the Pentagon Pizza Index. Pentagon is the big, military headquarters in the capital. People note when there’s a bit uptick in the food delivery orders. Means more people there staying past when they go home to eat. Usually means something’s going down.”

The last part also don’t seem to translate right, so you explain it.

When you do, Gale nods slowly. “That level of communication in your world is extraordinary. It must make any military actions difficult.”

It’s a whole new form of warfare. Or avoiding it.

“But it’s a fair point,” he says. “Something has stirred the patriars to action. And for shoes.”

“They got a shindig coming up? Shindig is a party.” Gale really does love Earthian vocabulary. It’s still funny to hear him murmuring with your accent.

“I’ll be using that one, I believe,” he says after muttering it a couple times.  Then, “But to the point, there are no festivals I can think of in this region in the next few tendays. No gods days, either.”

“Victory party?” you say. Then interrupt yourself, “The order came in last week, Tenday, I mean. Before the army got here.”

Something already planned. An answer, right there, taking shape in your mind.