Jewel

#dungeonmeshi

"beyond my years"
growing up too fast
trauma result; response
trying.
first years; hollow vessel, stasis
age of birth: 25
now; glass half full
dopamine fleeting
feelings recede; numbness prevails
entails: transient good,
perpetually
a curse.
the dark will always prevail
trying . .

"living is harder than dying"
despite this still;
the wailing, the crying
trying.

Blood is prettier outside the body. I learned that lesson young, when my father, the monster, still stalked the plains in search of fresh prey. His preferences were incorrect, however. He cared about volume—lakes of blood impregnated with the anti-clotting compounds that our family's bodies so copiously produce, blood gushing down altars through carefully carved channels, blood divorced from its source so that he could forget the bodies that produced it. He reveled in the metallic tang of it, the joy of immersing his body in it to feel the ebbing warmth and the tender touch of half-formed clots against his swollen dick, and, yes, the taste of it in on his tongue. My father hated bodies. He hated to be reminded of the source of blood, and this was, I think, the source of much of his cruelty. He needed what his victims gave him, and he hated them for that. He was, as I have said, incorrect, and it was that flaw which led to his downfall. Sometimes I like to take one of my concubines—the ones I don't mind killing, of course—down to the crypt to fuck and bleed her atop his sarcophagus. He hates the scent of it, the squishy sounds bodies make, the moans and whimpers, and, more than any of that, the blood trickling down the slowly warming metal. His lips cannot reach the slightest drop of it, I made sure of that, but the sound of him bucking and struggling against his chains is as potent an aphrodisiac as the sight of those first drops of blood welling up from freshly cut skin, red and fragrant and not yet dripping down to stain the ground below. The sight of it—the thought of it!—is so captivating, so compelling; it fills me with heat, makes me long for the taste of it, the joy of adding fresh cuts, of burying myself in my victim's body, of filling myself with her, devouring her until nothing remains but my pleasure—! But I forget myself. That is not the story I mean to tell you, my dear hunter, though someday I will show you precisely what I mean.

I am not the last of my family. I assure you that we can die, though only with great difficulty, and I expect that knowledge will do more to tempt your visit to my lands than anything else I can offer. You could never reject a challenge when I knew you, and I do not expect that the decades have changed that. Perhaps you have grown more cautious, and certainly you have shaped yourself into a more skillful weapon, because you remain alive even as the list of your accomplishments has grown deliciously unwieldy. How many monsters you have triumphed over, my dear hunter? How many beasts and witches have died upon your blades? Where were you in '87, when my agents couldn't find the slightest trace of you upon this earth? I'm sure that you'll tell me when you finally visit. I will *make you* tell me. But in any case—my father still lives, as I said. It pleased him to kill his own father, and I understand that his bones were immersed in molten lead and buried somewhere far from the heat of blood; the habits of a less enlightened age. My solitary brother is a boor, and I hope very much that you will meet and dispatch him before I make you mine, but my sisters are lovely things. I think you will enjoy their company, despite their tastes being far less refined than my own. You may wonder why I am telling you this now, my dear hunter, when I said so little about myself during our time together at university. I remember how you and the rest of our friends used to tease me with increasingly outlandish guesses—the prince of a distant country, a woodcutter's savant daughter, a merchant's orphan heir—what a silly game! Sometimes I was tempted to simply tell you all the truth, though I do not think I would have survived long afterward. I was so careful, my dear hunter. I had to be. I do not any more. I understand that you stayed in contact with many of our old friends. I have read many of the letters you sent them. Do you wonder why fewer and fewer of them are able to reply?

I have taken pains to ensure that this letter will find you, whether within weeks or months or years. My agents are loyal and determined, and they know that their own families' fates depend on their success. The bonds of family are such delicious things, and I adore the taste of a daughter's lifeblood pooling between her mother's thighs ... But I won't try to explain that to you. Not yet. Someday I'll make you understand. If all has gone well there is a map attached to this letter; if not you will simply have to work a bit harder to find me. I think I have given you more than enough reason to—you always were such a moral woman, so infatuated with your own idea of what the world should be, and I know that time has only made you more so. I think that knowing what I am, what I have *always* been, will eat away at you like an ulcer until you finally come to visit me, to put an end to me— And then, my dear hunter, I will make you mine. Sincerely yours, Silvana Frost, Duchess of Rimwald

🩸

a daughter is a kind of doll for mothers to impose their will upon

The tumblrinas are always so right

why isnt bionicle

i'm literally getting a book to write a vow of subservience to you every day, with a feather quill dip pen, in a leather bound tome

she says im giving her the life of her dreams, chat is this good? ???

glad our interactions are noteworthy

she keeps suggesting better wording for the rules im giving her and i want to tell her to not speak out of turn about it but she is unfortunately so correct about matters of language

girl who loses two days worth of reward points for speaking out of turn

i will not talk back to Sir i will not talk back to Sir i will not insult Sir i will not insult Sir i will not disagree with Sir i will not disagree with Sir i will listen to Sir i will listen to Sir i will not swear at Sir i will not swear at Sir i will not raise my voice to Sir i will not raise my

River darling that's no way to speak to your owner

she's pacing around saying its not a cuck thing and exclaiming fuck
and then she goes 'why does that make me so hard?????'

i think it might be a cuck thing

it'll be so good for you

:)

it's what mothers are for, little dove~

picture of me with the needle in my thigh

picture of a bandage on the injection site. im pointing at it and making a peace sign

ANGEL FIRST INJECTION

angels flock together like birds of a feather

dm your local puppy girl 'scritch scritch scritch' today

bunnies are for cruelty

it is a hot safety measure

Always refer to me as Sir Dont talk back when I give you a command You are my property, not an independant person and you will not lead others to believe you are a person I will decide what you do and do not consent to in all cases, if someone wants to use you, they must ask me not you

uum i think these rules might be getting a little bit out of hand

i think you should be happy when you have simple rules and not make fun of them, ok ?

i think bad things happen to girls that make fun of their rules

one month till borthday
oh no

We will never tell our superiors to Shut Up ever agaib
We were a bad hound and deserved our punishment as retribution

sorry ill stop being 24 soon

hello yes, my darling angel??

i hate insomnia

both such good ideas