sunflower field

( I like pain and burning light and wanting things from people who don't want to give them to me )

[yellowfingcr]

✤ YELLOWFINGCR —  a selective & nonprivate roleplay / ask blog for yellowfinger heysel from dks 3; oc and crossover friendly! please read rules before following!

🌻 about | 🌻 rules | 🌻 verses

🌼 my promo | 🌼 the promo tag

🌿 positive reminders for you

🌿 art tag

💛 graphics credit

Visit Original Link

[pmamtraveller]

hearts in trees

[vitorofthescaleless]

Hello one and all. Speaking plainly for a moment. Unfortunately circumstances have caught up with my family at the moment and we find ourselves short on bills. Fortunately the gap isn't terribly big, but it's still larger than I have the ability to cover right now.

We're looking to fix a gap of about 300 at the moment, and I know times are tough but if you'd be willing to share/contribute it'd mean the world to me.

paypal/cashapp: $mrkmanne (Yeah I made that one awhile ago...)

Any bit helps, but please consider sharing if you can as well. Thank you all.

0/300

[heavensghost]

Lucky 2 b here!

[gotiskk]

[oc-loving]

when is your oc's birthday?

[yellowfingcr]

She is dead and this is not her house, though the shape of it is the same, and so is the scent and the placement of all things that matters most, and the sight of it as she wakes after wounds deadly is itself another wound, deeper and longer yet, because this is not her house, and she knows she will never see it again.

She'd tried to bargain, foolishly, with Him: she'd tried to say, afraid and alone with His empty presence, please, do not do this to me. This is the image of the last place I've lived before You took me in Your hands and reshaped me to Your liking, the last place Heysel, the woman, not the hunter, lived in. I can tell You carved it from my memories, because the chair in the kitchen is moved just so, slanted with the motion of someone lifting from it, and I can see the soft indentation of my mother's body in the couch, and three cups of tea, two empty and one not, for my father had a habit of getting distracted, of not concluding a task and beginning another and so he'd leave behind half finished things behind himself and it feels as if I was there and it is not fair it is not fair I do have love for You but this is a hundred needles through my heart, it is glass in my lungs.

Things did not change. She had died again, and back to the house, upon opening her eyes, she was. She'd tried, again, her voice smaller: I am begging You. Do not do this to me. The shape is right but the walls are wrong, they were not bone white losing red, like bleeding tree-sap; and there were not cracks, here and there, daring to display a within not of bricks but of meat, marbled with fat, still wet. I know this but if You insist on doing this to me I'll cease knowing and this house not mine that You have given me will be what I'll remember instead, and I am so afraid of this idea, this notion, please, please don't do this to me, memories are ever fleeting, I want to remember, my God, have mercy, have mercy.

Things did not change.

On her hands and knees upon the pavement of her not house she'd tried, weeping: please please please stop. Please. I am Your hunter, Your servant, wholly Yours. This has to be a show of Your kindness, to give me a place of last warmth to soothe me and keep me before returning me to life anew, I will not believe in Your cruelty, but this is flaying me alive. I am begging. Please stop.

Things did change.

She had died; injury, catastrophic, far beyond the bravery of her flesh, and there came the cold then the dark. But upon opening her eyes again, in the space between life and death, in place of her house there was nothing; and nothing; and nothing. At first Heysel had thought, I must be asleep yet, or healing, still, for sight has not returned to me, and so she'd tried to part her eyelids. But they already were. Fearful, then, she'd tried to move, advance, grasp at anything unseen surrounding her, to listen for clues of where she was. And to her horror, then, she understood that her senses were not returning a lone information to her at all.

There was no light and there was no sound. There was no understanding if she was laying down, or standing, for her flesh was telling her nothing, because there was only that, all around her, only ever that, she un-existed within the void of His palms clasped tight, between the roof of His mouth and His tongue, and here she could go no further, she could only scream without voice I AM SORRY I AM SO SORRY PLEASE ANYTHING BUT THIS RETURN ME TO THE HOUSE PLEASE PLEASE DON'T DO THIS TO ME I LOVE YOU I WANT TO LIVE I AM SO AFRAID I WANT TO LIVE.

Life comes to her. Death does, in time, as well, as it always does to His hunters, painful and terrible. The cold, then the dark.

She wakes. Opens her eyes to the house that's not hers, bone-white, losing red. The two empty teacups, the one that's not.

And Heysel only says:

I thank You, Oedon, for you immense kindness. I am Your hunter, wholly Yours. I thank You. I thank You.

[yellowfingcr]

// the eternal conflict between "I'd love to write er heysel sword fighting since that's something she can technically do" and "I'm terrible at writing fighting"

[yellowfingcr]

picture of a nameless woman

[pnglove]

[yellowfingcr]

[x] [x]

[awakeningthevioletswithin]

Blithe

Watercolor On Black Paper

2024, 10"x 14"

Forsythia

[yellow-cat]

some days are really hard and it can be difficult to understand why. but usually its probably because my blood is haunted

[yellowfingcr]

[x]

[itwashotwestayedinthewater]

I fucking love my bitter pill! Not even hard to swallow!

[yellowfingcr]

"A shallow bowl, as you asked. "Cayin extends his arm and offers the recipient. In his hand, a small round pot that fits squarely in his long-fingered hand, but around which his grasp curls upwards all the same. "It's the right capacity, I hope?" - @sihilkaah

Gods and grace, what is he doing to her?

Heysel recognizes herself as a creature of hunger. Heysel would not deem it so important a trait to the description of her person had that hunger not been something to tame and break, shove and threaten, mutilate and collar into place, in outraged affronted attempt at reaching further than its grasp, for the love of the struggle, for quietly making the indulgence of its needs that much more delectable- isn’t the meal enjoyed with an empty stomach so very pleasurable, after all- but; but. Even when released so it is an exercise in permission. It is she who pulls at the leash, she who yanks the collar. None other. None other. Discipline shaped her into an arcane assassin, as the taxidermist shapes the corpse. She may not speak of what it took to achieve the result of her but she did think, after she had emerged from the teaching halls no more an adolescent but an adult, clad in killing leathers, a venomous laughing thing: I am my own finest instrument. Nothing may be taken from me, for I can relinquish all. My skin is a knife and my mouth is a fishhook.

Is that still true now? After death and life again and a long strange journey? On her own, with other people?

With Cayin, twice-met?

It is leashed. Is it? Watch him proffer the thing she’d requested, a humble bowl, for her to use for her experiments and machinations and intrigues. Watch her look breathless at how the fine length of his beautiful fingers wraps so neatly beneath and about the container.

It is leashed. Is it? The muscular pressure of desire, brushing sweet-warm along her pulse, easily awakened by a sight this harmless, but how the mind leaps. Away from prying eyes, does he not hold her the same way, her good lord? With awareness of measure, for as long as necessary. Her body against his shape, and the roaming and the wandering of his bare palms across her chest, bereft of leathers. Is her skin still a knife, when he feels the sweat and the heat of her under his touch? Is her mouth still a fishhook, when he brings his to hers? She knows the answer. You do as well.

Her lord is a dragon born anew. Hunger belongs to him, is him. It exerts a gravity upon her that she marvels at in naked awe, and the reason she supposes lies past the wonder that is him and the loveliness of his muscle, beyond the brilliancy of his mind, aside the sincere tremendous love for all that his name embodies- it is the sheer staggering fact that it is nothing like hers, in dimension and understanding. Heysel has her own mighty pile of skills and deadly notions and acts that she does very well. Cayin, in this, is her better. None do hunger like him. None at all.

So how could she not feel her own wants be drawn to his, despite all their taming, their breaking? As light to a black hole. As a body to a fall. She wants, and wants, and wants of him unending, and she feels no strain, no struggle, no collar yanked in this.

He’s done something to her. But she doesn’t dislike it.

“It's the perfect capacity,” says she, gently taking the item. Her gloveless fingers linger over his; and the smile that curves her lips is not just fond. “Your assassin is indeed grateful for your generosity. Thank you very much,” and she cannot help herself, the way her voice slants so very low, "my lord."

[yellowfingcr]

// did you know? today this blog is 10 entire years old! 🎉happy birthday heysel blog to you I owe a lot