iiinova — where your digital self keeps evolving

Soup!🕯️ @fraughtbroth.bsky.social · 21h

This is the gale/oleander dynamic when I fully embrace that Oleander is going to enable the worst of his ambition:

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Soup!🕯️ @fraughtbroth.bsky.social · 21h

Oleander when his boyfriend is thee Vampire Ascendant and his bud is a literal god and his other bud is Grand Duke:

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Soup!🕯️ @fraughtbroth.bsky.social · 11/10/2026

Age yourself with a childhood crush

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Soup!🕯️ @fraughtbroth.bsky.social · 11/10/2026

Can't fit this on the ref sheet, but consider this another Oleander inspo. This fuck.

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Soup!🕯️ @fraughtbroth.bsky.social · 11/10/2026

I haven't gposed in forever and figured I'd practice with a portrait of Egg. Did u miss him.

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Soup!🕯️ @fraughtbroth.bsky.social · 11/10/2026

This is me with the puppygirls btw.

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Soup!🕯️ @fraughtbroth.bsky.social · 11/10/2026

I hate to Twilight on main (or on anything) but when I think of what it's like for Oleander to look at you (and potentially set you on fire) I think of this diva.

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Soup!🕯️ @fraughtbroth.bsky.social · 10/10/2026

Sorry for not answering Discord messages, I'm in here atm

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Soup!🕯️ @fraughtbroth.bsky.social · 09/10/2026

Thank you, and also thank you Eatshitpitt420 for validating this.

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Soup!🕯️ @fraughtbroth.bsky.social · 09/10/2026

This is what It's like having me in your server btw

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Soup!🕯️ @fraughtbroth.bsky.social · 07/10/2026

Should I let him have a cigarette or no

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Soup!🕯️ @fraughtbroth.bsky.social · 05/10/2026

This is what it's like with Sam and Lir on my feed

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Soup!🕯️ @fraughtbroth.bsky.social · 02/10/2026

Being my friend means that you get messages like this in your inbox on occasion and that's just how it is when you befriend a creative who does much of their planning in their own dome.

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Soup!🕯️ @fraughtbroth.bsky.social · 30/09/2026

I do for real have a sign in my bathroom that explicitly forbids summoning demons in there, btw.

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Soup!🕯️ @fraughtbroth.bsky.social · 30/09/2026

I want to fuck him, that's what's up.

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Soup!🕯️ @fraughtbroth.bsky.social · 30/09/2026

Up thinking dirty thoughts about this guy

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Soup!🕯️ @fraughtbroth.bsky.social · 20/09/2026

I've hired this thing to fucking stare at you.

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Soup!🕯️ @fraughtbroth.bsky.social · 18/09/2026

I love when I make edits in real time.

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Soup!🕯️ @fraughtbroth.bsky.social · 15/09/2026

My best friend is so supportive, in spite of how annoying I am.

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Soup!🕯️ @fraughtbroth.bsky.social · 10/09/2026

Ubj gurl sryg fhozvggvat gung yvar gb UD, cebonoyl.

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Soup!🕯️ @fraughtbroth.bsky.social · 10/09/2026

#soupwrites Ascended Astarion taught his illiterate consort to read on a lark, and the consequences were unexpected. Or were they? 699 words, rated E (I will elaborate on this snippet later) 📖🕯️

"My treasure has found himself enamored of the library," Astarion had said to the servant, his warm fingers toying idly with the silken curls at Oleander's nape as he bent over a flattened scroll, "Bring more candles."

His tone carried a golden lilt of affection, as if he thought the whole affair irresistibly twee, delighted to entertain this dalliance for however long it suited, having said over and over that he could deny Oleander nothing.

He hadn't realized until much later that he'd spent weeks ensconced in the library, having no inherent need for sleep, food, drink. He found that he could sit unmoving in the same position indefinitely with little consequence, neither stiff of limb nor restless, only his eyes dancing across pages, drinking deep of stanzas when poetry suited him and devouring dense accounts of war when he hungered for bloody history.

Somewhere between the Epic of Gilgeam and The Rise and Fall of Netheril, Astarion came to him in the dark.

Oleander didn't know how long he'd been watching; perhaps moments, perhaps an age, but when he spoke, it was a tether pulling him from the page.

"Will my love spurn me for his books again this night?" His tone was mournful. In the light of the candelabra he held, the lines of his face were exhausted and drawn, gaunt with worry.

Oleander said nothing, only gazed at him wide-eyed and chastened like a cat caught with a canary in its claws. He tried to speak, "No, my love, but it's only been moments, only a day—" and naught but a weakened whisper slipped past his open lips. He had inadvertently muted himself, he would discover later; his vocal chords had atrophied after weeks of disuse, weeks of stilled breath and hardly a single swallow.

Astarion was in his robe, a heavily embroidered crimson affair, its opulence contrasting poorly with the grey cast of ennui haunting his features. He pulled it more tightly around himself, as if a chill deviled him, and Oleander realized how bitterly cold the room was, how dry his tongue, how shaky his limbs when he dared a small movement to rise and walk toward him, and slumped heavily against his chair again.

Astarion clicked his tongue, "Dotty little thing, you've not fed in four tendays," he said, humorless and morose, "Look what you've done to yourself, mute and starving. My poor pet." He swept forward, set the candelabra down, and sat himself upon the desk, reaching forward to swipe a warm thumb softly over Oleander's cheek.

He realized with horror that it came away smudged with dust.

Astarion looked deeply at him, into him, as if Oleander were a bumbling prodigal child that had wrought him grave humiliation, and sighed, spreading his thighs. He pulled the hem of his robe up and up over the taught, supple expanse of his inner thigh, pearlescent in the candle light. His warm hand cradled the back of Oleander's neck, gently urging him forward. Oleander's mouth met sweet meat there, and his teeth followed, puncturing until a font of blood spilled hot over his wanting tongue.

Astarion stroked and patted him as he drank swallow after swallow, warming from within. "I was silly, you know. Fretting to myself that you had fled me in spite of all these grand indulgences—" He made a little low sound in his throat when Oleander bit down harder, the better to coax more blood into his mouth, his gullet, "—that your devotion had winnowed down to boredom. Oh, how ridiculous I've been. How wonderful it is to know how desperately you need me still."

Later, they made tender, tremulous love in their neglected bed, fraught with the razor's edge of their mutual need. Astarion mouthed at his collar bone hungrily before sinking his teeth in to taste him, coaxing from him a hoarse cry that raked his throat raw. It was only just a taste; he withdrew quickly, licking his lips and savoring the scant dregs, rocking his hips into Oleander almost lazily, still filling him.

"How lucky you are, my heart," He said against Oleander's mouth, "That I am here to temper you against your very worst impulses."

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Soup!🕯️ @fraughtbroth.bsky.social · 05/09/2026

Sniffed out like a rat in a fox den.

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Soup!🕯️ @fraughtbroth.bsky.social · 30/08/2026

I love writing Astarion because I get to inject more flippant humor into my prose, I love you Astarion, you fucking suck.

At night, he found himself slinking about camp looking for opportunities to catch him alone, and shockingly found few; Oleander's standoffish nature and hard mien seemed as alluring to the rest of the party as it was to him. He was ever surrounded, even if he looked cross for it, lending a silent ear to a torturous procession of tedium from the others, especially Gale of Waterdeep, who sat too close, smiled too much and too freely, and dared little, inconspicuous touches to Oleander's shoulders and knees in a casual, convivial way that made Astarion wither with something meandering vaguely towards jealousy.

He felt the hungering hunter, hackles raised at another predator caressing his prey with more comely claws; he grew a mote more desperate with each casual encounter he witnessed, vexed by missed opportunities, dashed hopes, carefully laid plans turned to ashes in his mouth.

Once, he spied Gale weaving a shimmering, flashy illusion of ships passing at harbor out of thin air, which drew from Oleander a rare and genuine smile as he watched in wide-eyed wonder. Astarion had made a muffled sound of disgust rather like a cat heaving a hairball and stalked to his tent to sulk until his blood hunger summoned him to the wooded darkness beyond, where he would enact his rage on fauna unlucky enough to cross his path.

Gale of Waterdeep's most impressive trick was being Faerun's most accomplished cockblock.

So to speak.

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