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fraughtbroth.bsky.social
🎭

#soupwrites
January 18, 2025 at 3:29 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
Happy Sex Sunday. 🤗

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May 11, 2025 at 9:55 PM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
#soupwrites

👅
April 26, 2025 at 4:59 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
For Sex Sunday

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May 11, 2025 at 9:05 PM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
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Working on something else for morbidmay.
May 5, 2026 at 7:14 PM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
#soupwrites

💀
November 28, 2025 at 5:48 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
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🫂
April 24, 2025 at 12:26 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
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⚖️
May 12, 2025 at 5:19 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
💀

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April 21, 2025 at 9:41 PM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
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☀️
December 30, 2025 at 7:05 PM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
#soupwrites

I never share my Emet-Selch. Today I do that.

🚬
May 13, 2025 at 3:41 PM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
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💐
May 12, 2025 at 5:34 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
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🦴
April 29, 2025 at 2:03 PM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
A bit of work on the novel.

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January 10, 2025 at 2:43 PM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
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🥖🎪
May 15, 2025 at 10:22 PM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
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November 30, 2025 at 8:34 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
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I deeply enjoy getting to write D'Artagnan the Funeral Director on occasion.
March 28, 2025 at 2:13 PM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
#soupwrites

🍗
April 25, 2025 at 2:50 PM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
I'd like to indulge in plugging my own work.

Link in thread, mind the tags. #soupwrites
April 5, 2025 at 5:14 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
Working on an erotic horror vignette called "Flicker," a ghost story. In which you are the ghost. | #soupwrites
April 5, 2025 at 4:22 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
CW for descriptions of a corpse.

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🦴👻
January 4, 2025 at 5:44 PM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
He's such a little fucker.

#soupwrites
December 29, 2024 at 11:46 PM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
#soupwrites

:)
Fingertips lit upon D'Artagnan's viscera like the strings of an oud, Nald'thal's mouth parted with a serrated, rapturous gasp, "You are beautiful, undone so…"
November 10, 2024 at 8:44 PM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
#soupwrites

🦴
They passed scenes of great and titillating curiosity, wending their way through chamber after chamber, towering sandstone pillars and vaulted ceilings clouded with drifts of incense smoke in the low, flickering light of many tallow candles. The cowled acolytes grew fewer as they walked on, journeying deeper until such happy company disappeared altogether, recessed alcoves growing darker, corridors narrowing to a squeezing choke as D'Artagnan's heart hammered sludgy-thick and leaden in his throat. He knew not why they aroused his disquiet, these labyrinthine surrounds; Halone's own halls of worship mimicked the same dank and smoky atmosphere. Pools of pitch gathered like doom in Her own mighty cathedrals, yes, age upon age on that worn stone, and every Ishgardian knew the venerated saints ever at rest there, their gilt bones interred in the very walls. Was it perhaps similar here? Bones in the mortar? Nald'thal's most devout disciples tucked in the structure of His house as proof of their constancy to death, to life, to Him? Honey in his marrow at the thought. Oozing and dark. He reminded himself to breathe.
December 31, 2025 at 11:34 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
#soupwrites

Sleeping boys, am I right? 🥴😋
The Warlock wore such a darling expression in sleep that Astarion nearly didn't believe it was him, features so softened and rounded that he looked somehow younger. Different. Unburdened. His sour, serious expressions during wakefulness often marred his beauty like bruises on an apple, but not so now. The boy lay in repose as pretty and pure as mythic portraiture; sweet Endymion languid with perfect helplessness, slaking Astarion's desire with an animal darkness he dare not name. Astarion suddenly felt wretched, bile in his throat, hovering over him like a darkling from a cradle tale, and nearly hesitated but for the hunger that clawed at his throat and the cloying scent of blood that pulled him nearer as if on a lure. Oleander's night clothes were flimsy and loose; just a billowing white shirt that was wide at the neck, leaving the curve of his throat to his bared shoulder deliciously available to Astarion's itching fangs. Deliciously incongruous with his daily garb, which saw him bundled tightly from his neck to his ankles He drew nearer, and opened his mouth— "Drink not from thinking creatures," Cazador called to him from the dark, and though he thought the leaden heart in his chest might burst, he resolved with rage, with determination, to disobey. His jaw opened wider, fangs ready to sink into the salt of good flesh, thinking flesh— Something wickedly sharp bit into Astarion's throat and Oleander was awake of a sudden and facing him, eyes owlish with unmistakable fear, lips whitened and trembling. It took but moments for Astarion to deduce that he had a dagger held to his neck— he considered himself rather lucky, actually; he had watched as Oleander, in the last tenday, immolated a goblin from within and left naught but a pile of greasy ash in his wake, scattered on the winds by an insolent kick from his booted heel as he sauntered onward.
September 21, 2026 at 4:47 AM