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fraughtbroth.bsky.social
Soup!🕯️
@fraughtbroth.bsky.social
350 followers 200 following 9.9K posts
🏳️‍⚧️ Sylvan | He/him | OC Account | 30+

Love of love written by the broken-hearted; love of life written by the dead.

Absolutely NO AI.

OCs: #soupoc | Lore: #carrionlore | Writing: #soupwrites | Gposes: #soupsnaps | Music Recs: #soupjams
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fraughtbroth.bsky.social
Oh wow I did not know this happened to Livejournal...
December 2, 2025 at 3:35 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
Losing my mind over this image.
December 2, 2025 at 12:34 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
How I felt being clocked by clown
December 1, 2025 at 8:24 PM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
🤡
December 1, 2025 at 8:13 PM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
Well have you
December 1, 2025 at 8:03 PM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
#soupwrites

🐲🪰
“Ah, crisp night air, a lovely garden of roses and… a crying child,” came a voice from over D’Artagnan’s shoulder as he shook with sobs tucked between a rose bush and a plinth with his knees to his chest.  “Come out, you despondent thing, this garden has too many fountains as it is,” the woman called to him. Her voice had a low, almost rakish quality to it, velvet and sophisticated, weighted with that classic Pillars drawl, but with an acerbic serration that was utterly compelling, even as he wanted to hide from the sky. From her.  Slowly, he unfolded his limbs and peeked from over the plinth, blinking tears from his eyes. A woman stood there, a glass of something as dark and dry as her expression in her carefully manicured hand, dressed to kill in fitted corsetry and waves of pitch silks. A tall and buxom woman, standing a full head above him even at his fourteenth Summer, her inky hair cut in a sophisticated bob curling against her jaw-line. She clicked her tongue and rolled her mismatched eyes; one a steely, shimmery white, the other a deep black, and clicked her tongue. “What moistens those pink nostrils of yours, child?” “... go away,” D’Artagnan said, his jaw taut even as his eyes threatened to spill over anew with a fresh torrent of tears, even as his chest threatened to go concave with sobs.  The woman raised her eyebrows, sipped at her drink and grinned like a knife, “Now that you have told me to go away, I never shall. You are mine, now, little weepy thing. Come out. That bush will tear your brocade. Let Auntie have a look at you.” Like a reluctant prey animal, he unfolded himself slowly and cantered out, eyes fixed firmly on the flagstones, hands worked into nervous fists at his sides. "No way for a proud son of Ishgard to stand, fiddly little boy," The woman sighed, click of heels on stone as she stepped deftly toward him, her fingers gripping at his chin in an instant, lifting his tear-stained face to her appraisal, "Tsk. Beaky and sallow, is this why you weep? Some boys weep beautifully, but you are as a wilted leaf crushed underfoot, to think I'd wondered at your bellowing, Gods forfend, but oh, look at your hair—" She released his chin and quickly plucked a leaf from his auburn curls before he turned his head away, "You've a good bit of autumn in your features… you are the Cotard boy, are you not?" "… D'Artagnan," he replied, at once obedient and reluctant, longing to slip away and yet rooted where he stood. "So you are," She said, mismatched eyes appraising him up and down as if he were goods at market she planned to negotiate down to a lower price, and handed him her wine glass to hold as her manicured hands came to straighten his vest, his collar, brush a twig away from his shoulder, "And you will call me Auntie Lisette, though I am your cousin, after a fashion. I will be your favourite of the Beaumonts, trust." She laid a hand on his chest, gentler than her disposition, and his brows knitted looking up at her. At her breast, a brooch glittered in starlight; an iridescent dragonfly crafted from glass and precious metal. Even at his young age, he knew this for an ill portent, for the insect's other names included "Devil's Horse" and "Devil's Fly," on account of its resemblance to a very small wyvern. "Do you like it?" She asked, fingers at her breast to touch its shifting iridescence, "It marks me for something you are much too young to understand." Anathema, D'Artagnan didn't say, and handed her wine glass back to her. With a smile as sly as a cat with a canary, she leaned forward and pinched his cheek between thumb and forefinger, "We will meet again. And again, and again, beaky little colt, mayhap I will tell you why I wear thi…
December 1, 2025 at 5:02 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
OOMFIE PLAY NIGHTREIGN NOW?
December 1, 2025 at 4:00 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
Pre-Calamity Coerthas makes me extremely emotional.
December 1, 2025 at 3:48 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
How I treat my friends
December 1, 2025 at 12:12 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
An elf to balance the humours.
November 30, 2025 at 11:31 PM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
While searching for an entirely different piece of writing, I found this snip of Nenna scolding Egg.
November 30, 2025 at 11:02 PM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
#soupwrites

🦪
"Might I…?" Oleander asked, breathy, pupils likely blown wide, though the deep ink of his eyes always spoke some secretive sensuality. Lord Cotard, wooden, regarded him distantly, the cut of his jaw severe in the low light of the flickering hearth, his eyes like two chips of emerald formed around a harsh question, "Dare you…" they seemed to say, even as he, unmoving, did not shrink from Oleander's slow advance, draping one leg and then the other over Lord Cotard's lap. And then, as if some dim sense of propriety commanded him, he closed the starched white collar of the Lord's shirt over his lightly bleeding wound; the little pricks Oleander's teeth had made near the throat, pulsing slightly with each stiffened breath. Covered. No more there, his little aperitif made secret in a folly which Oleander could not rightly name. He drew nearer; smell of clove and the resinous spice of incenses filling his nostrils, the Lord's signature fougere of vetiver, smoke, and what he carried on him of the dead sleeping just a hop of some stairs below. The softness of his own mouth met an unyielding seam then; hard as that of an oyster, and he remembered a little wistfully then some sunny dreamscape of centuries passed buried like gold in the charnel of his memory, how they- they? Laughing, how they'd fished them from the reefs, pried them open with their little knives, swam to the surface with pearls tucked in their cheeks- then gone. The sweetness, the bitterness of the recollection fled from him like light, his mouth pressed against a locked-tight maw. His tongue, little pen-knife, "Might I…?" prodded at the seam of the Lord's mouth with dogged persistence until it gave, and the soft heat within made Oleander audibly gasp. Pearls!
November 30, 2025 at 9:42 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
🥹
A month later, D’Artagnan discovered that it was to be neither; for a girl slipped from his mother’s womb quiet as the grave and when the chirurgeon could coax her wailing, she was named Ophelia. “I’ve never seen Father so delighted,” D’Artagnan complained, creasing parchment carefully between thumb and forefinger, checking each fold and pleat. “Perhaps that inimitable emotion you mistake for delight is… relief.” “Whatever do you mean? Why would he be relieved to have a daughter instead of another son?” With a final triangular fold, the little boat was finished, and he pondered the fountain’s water before moving to set it afloat. "Hmmm, who knows?" His Lady of Rivers sang, and sunk into the fountain, impossibly deep, deeper than the basin itself so that only her eyes were above water, twin green pearls skipping like rocks over ripples as her bleeding red hair fanned all about her. She appeared to him all at once a fairytale siren and a stalking crocodile, floating after his little boat, ilming toward it little by little. He noticed with stinging consternation that no wind sailed his little parchment vessel, but before a storm could gather at his brow, it seemed she knew his ambition and, with a purposeful scrunch of her eyes, the little boat sailed serenely across the glassy surface of the fountain, as if she'd called to the very winds herself. "'Tis cheating," he said with no malice or reproach, a grin splitting his face even as his words came to admonish her indulgence. "Ah, no, there is no cheating in acts of love! We do what we must for no end of smiles! And what is a little lie where grandest acts of love are concerned? I would rattle a mountain of little lies like bones for love of you, my smallest Lord. Trust in that." And he was ever so grateful for it.
November 30, 2025 at 8:39 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
#soupwrites
November 30, 2025 at 8:34 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
#soupwrites

🍃
A grey, gooey thing broke the surface; stringy, wet hair gummy with rot pasted to a balding, mottled scalp with eyes a milky, clouded white, oozing a little like jellied eels. Its flesh was every color in a bruise, so soft and waterlogged that he imagined, if he reached out, the pressure of a finger might make it slough from bone. Its lips had receded from its teeth and blackened gums, giving it a permanent grimace, through which its death rattle whistled. It held its arms out for him, glistening with exposed bone where the flesh had melted away, silent but for the wet rattle in its chest. He understood that this was a monster, similar to the shambling horrors in Nenna’s more daring bed-time tales, but he was not afraid of this drowned thing and its creeping stench of rot, and it held its arms out so lovingly besides. “Who are you?” D’Artagnan asked the dead thing that crawled out of the fountain. “You recognize me not?” She said in the voice he’d known at cradle, the one that sang and whispered to him when all other life in the house slept, “You know not your Lady of Rivers?” “Oh,” D’Artagnan said, and straightened. “Hello. I do know you.” “Does this visage frighten you, little boy?” his Lady of Rivers asked, stepping out of the fountain to lay her skeletal foot on the flagstones. Fascinating, the way the little joints of the toes moved with no muscle to bind them. “No. But weren’t you beautiful once?” “The most beautiful,” She seemed to pout. Odd thing for a shambling corpse to pout so girlishly. He screwed his mouth up, shredded fistfuls of wildflowers with his fingers, crushed petals and ripped stems falling to his lap. “Don’t have to be a drowned thing if you don’t want to be, isn’t this your death?” “‘Tis.” Shimmering, her mottled grey bloomed to ochre flushed by sun and she was very beautiful, indeed, like flowers and sunsets and pastry, dressed in whitest silks and walking toward him on bare feet that looked very normal and human. “Would you…
November 30, 2025 at 8:20 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
Guess what. I found it. And its companion piece.
November 30, 2025 at 6:06 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
Reminds me of more brown-leaning version Holo Taco's Devil's Advocate, which is a shade I've been meaning to cop for a while.
November 30, 2025 at 3:36 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
Essie's "Make the Move" topped with Gaoy's jelly gel in shade 1627. Looks a bit like congealed blood in the right light.
November 30, 2025 at 3:31 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
Whatever, time for skeleton erotica.
November 30, 2025 at 1:13 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
On despair....
November 29, 2025 at 11:23 PM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
Are these sauceless noodles what the fuck
November 29, 2025 at 11:22 PM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
Hello???
November 29, 2025 at 10:37 PM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
November 29, 2025 at 10:35 PM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
Having fun playing dolly time on Pinterest going imaginary shopping for D'Artagnan's dishes.

Haha. Weeee!
November 29, 2025 at 8:46 AM
fraughtbroth.bsky.social
Based on this, a couple of them may be olive servers. I am so sorry that you have triggered my utensil autism.
November 29, 2025 at 8:18 AM