kevwriting

[kevwriting]

i would 100% have done the same (i haven't heard of this game)

fun fact about me:

when I was a kid doing the "they loves me, they loves me not" it didn’t take very long for me to figure out that I should only pick flowers with odd numbers of petals, buttercups being my most frequent pick.

And then I felt like that was cheating so I picked flowers with numbers of leaves to many for me to bother counting, daisies, and then i went back and forth depending on my mood.

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okay so i do see this too now

OHH it's because we're mutuals on my side blog

i am so confused

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nice to meet you too !!! my aforementioned irl has started reading it so i'm waiting for him to get partway along so i can then start i'm very comfortable letting him find me fanart so i'm at no risk of getting spoilered

HAVE YOU READ WORM HAVE YOU HAVE YOU

HI YES I HAVE!!

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omg skfkhsksls my irl got me to read it and i finished like a week ago but this is my first time encountering someone in the wild sllsksksks i have not read ward yet tho. so no spoilers pls

HAVE YOU READ WORM HAVE YOU HAVE YOU

HI YES I HAVE!!

[kevwriting]

Rowaelin Masterlist

Regular Fics:

Multi-chapters:

One-Shot

Special Event:

Kinktober 2021 (on hiatus)

Mr. and Mrs. Whitethorn’s six Yulemas

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hi hi do you have board exams right now too?

not rn !!! my board didn't do the split so im gonna have just one final board

best of luck to u !!! i am still studying my prelims start in a month

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friendly reminder that you're really powerful

you can make people smile just by complimenting them, you can make them laugh by telling them a good joke, you can love and what really is more powerful than all this? you can make someone's day by telling them they're pretty you can make them happy in so many ways you're so powerful

wield that power wisely, my sweethearts

i love you

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i hope my soul bleeds beautiful

for what is- what is art, if not the blood of our souls

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for what is- what is art, if not the blood of our souls

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i hate everything but also me and i love me? and i am too much for me to handle and i am rash and i think too much i think too less i don't know how to think i don't know how to breathe this is it this is my stupidest mistake i cannot make one stupider yet i just did i cannot seem to stop disappointing myself i cannot seem to stop worrying

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every day is just can i be in love who will i be in love with it is so difficult but i know it has felt so easy i love you i love you i love you i love you i love people i hate people i love the world the world is despicable it is too much maybe it will all be okay if i fall in love it is horrible the world burns but can i— can just i be okay

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some people say they wish the adventures they had were real and that they lament the lack of it and i cannot help but think if it were real i would not survive and maybe i am only meant to tell the stories that they live and when brick heck said "i think there are two types of people: those who are meant to live, and those who are meant to read about them, and i am the latter"

maybe i am the latter

[kevwriting]

The Curse Forevermore

It is a curse of the land that we live on, A curse of the world that we inhabit. A slow, dripping venom, enchanted with a power, No less effective than a deadly serpent, With the ability to kill a god.

Look at the stars, pray once, Mutter a few words, hope again. "It will be better," a chant. Is it? Will it be?

The curse of mortals, The curse of youth. The curse of future, The curse that has always been. Or has it?

It is simple, a falling star at midnight. A drop of water dripping into a lake. For now, it is no longer a drop, Simply one amongst millions. Now simply unnamed.

Oh, to be forgotten, is one's greatest curse. For what can be worse, Than to speak and be unheard, To paint and to be unseen, To sing a note and have it lost in the wrinkles of time, Lost, forever. Oh, to be forgotten.

I believe, It is the curse, That has two young hearts smile to each other, Knowing, truly, that neither mean it at all. Knowing, deep inside them, that it is all but a lie, An integral one. For it is nigh impossible for shattered glass to serve its purpose as a bowl. And it knows.

I believe, it is the curse, That those two young hearts smile to each other, Knowing, that it is a lie, But smiling, smiling until they no longer have to pretend, A waltz with knives. For it is no less dangerous.

Looking at the stars, The two souls smile to one another, Closer to freedom, but not so, Closer to happiness, but not so, Closer to their dreams, but not so, Forever in their souls, it lives on.

It is the curse, I believe, That the joy, and the love, and the hope, Live solely on in hearts. It is where it lives on.

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my heart is lost adrift in a sea far from land oh, what I would give to float to a beach astray

there lies no comfort here out in the cold vastness of the water oh, what i would give to find a land to lay on

shouts to the sky are futile no god rescues me but to be honest anyone who would save me would be no less

[kevwriting]

A Waltz of Powers

Love Hurts as Nothing Else

Hearts lie heavy,

Always weighted down,

By the grief, and love, and beauty,

A gentle sunrise on a small town.

So has Syrae's,

He knows no love without pain, or hurt

For him, it is eternal.

No one without the other.

A rainstorm on a winter night,

Fog clouding eyes on hills,

Tears, flowing, a constant stream,

That is how he lives his years,

A nightmare or a hellish daydream.

The stream never ceases,

Relenting only when the other stream,

The stream of power

Is let loose,

With its wake of destruction to follow.

The world is fortunate the stream lies in his hands,

For it would long have been dust,

If it was any other.

A Chance at Recklessness

A landscape is called barren,

When it lies devoid of life.

If that were true, Autumn would be no less.

A person whose soul was more extreme

Than the driest desert,

Or the highest peak.

In a world of beauty to the eye,

She is blind,

For nothing can be beautiful that is not appreciated

And nothing can be appreciated that does not deserve it.

Autumn is loath to believe anything does.

Many objects are loved, in this world,

As a soft rainbow in a sunny sky,

A chirp from a bird in a quiet night,

Or a gentle breeze in the midst of summer.

None appeal, to the stone that is her heart,

She would simply call a diamond,

For what beauty can the most beautiful object see,

When there is nothing more so than itself?

Love From the Heartless

There has never been a time,

Where Autumn and Syrae

Have not loved each other.

It is an absolute truth.

Does the sun rise each day,

At dawn, as clockwork?

It would be foolish to ask,

As it is known, that it does.

Does water quench thirst?

Or fill the sea?

Does a lion hunt a deer?

Nobody would dare to ask.

It is the same, with the two of them,

Because there has never been a time,

When Autumn has not been at Syrae's side,

And he at hers,

It is known.

Most Stories Never Wish to Begin

They who are known,

they who are envied,

For being known from a story,

Are often envious of those not.

It is rarely a boon to be seen,

To be known in such a way,

That a mere mention of your name evokes the thought of you.

Oh, to be forgotten.

Syrae desires for joy,

Good, in the world.

There is rarely ever enough,

Through his eyes,

And all he can ever do is try,

Him against evil.

It feels so, that it is only ever him.

The force of good has always been too small,

Yet it oft prevails,

So is the force of it.

So is its power.

So is his.

The Inevitability of Inevitability

As inevitable the victory of the kind is,

So is the rise of cruel.

It is as thorns on roses,

Always present, ready to prick,

Only sated with the taste of blood,

No lesser than a bloodthirsty beast.

And so, however much so Syrae would wish otherwise,

It rises.

Much to his disappointment, and chagrin,

It grows.

And his is the only power strong enough.

Souls, and hearts, full of life,

Laughter and joy and smiles,

Are what he prizes most,

Light prevailing over darkness.

That is the cost of being kind,

Kindness tested in forges with more heat than the sun,

And more difficult than wars,

For if there a hundred swords,

Made of the strongest iron,

Not one will refrain from drawing blood,

None, but a human,

Forged in no furnace,

But the furnace of life.

Destruction, Unimpeded

It is usual for life to grow,

Thrive, in its settlements,

Fester, until it simply is,

The place inseparable from the living.

And just as usual for it to be destroyed.

But even the tallest of trees,

Is no adversary,

For it is but ash in the wind,

Simply a victim to flames blazing,

Crawling up its bark.

Fire makes its own path,

Burning through even the thickest of bushes,

And the toughest of trees.

It has no opponent strong enough to withstand its power,

None powerful enough to face it down.

But one crafty enough, its victory over the flames guaranteed,

A flood to the ignited fuel,

But when it is not present,

Nothing can survive its wrath.

And as half the world burns down,

The water too far to attempt extinguishing,

Syrae's heart hurts.

It hurts too much.

Guilt and blame,

Regret flaming in his heart,

For even if his stream was no flood,

It was the best there was. He was the best there was.

And he failed.

The Fierceness of Betrayal

Oft, swords in the back sink in deep to the hilt,

Blood spews from the chest, tears from the heart,

Until there are no more tears to cry.

Regret is often strongest during this time,

As is anger,

For how would one feel,

To turn eyes to a hand holding a dagger,

Sunken deep into flesh,

To see a smile made stronger by love,

Love they had given themselves.

Syrae knows not,

Of the pain heading his way,

The tears his eyes are yet to shed,

The blood he wishes he had shed from his own chest,

A pound of flesh he would pay,

If only to save hundreds.

Regret to flare of his own ignorance,

And anger of the loss of trust,

Both not far in his future,

Eyes to see a familiar conniving smirk,

Throat to gasp at the surprise.

Sweet, Sweet Blood

Autumn wishes, against all hope or luck,

That it could not be so,

That she did not feel so.

But she did.

It was a quaint pleasure,

To sink a blade into deep flesh,

See a drop of blood dribble out,

And then a flood pour through.

The joy on her face shone bright,

The eyes twinkling with sharp sadism,

For it was only her who smiled,

As the screams rung through the night.

Unrelenting.

It was only when she tired of smiling,

That she set him on fire.

Her stream of fire. As was Syrae's of water.

A Waltz of Powers

They dance for hours on end,

Her flames a stinging barb into his life,

A stark warning of death,

One he cannot ignore.

He stands strong,

His face tinged with weariness and despair,

For how do you unleash upon one that you have loved,

That you have given your heart to,

That you have trusted?

She harbours no such fear,

No such regard as he does.

Who is the better person,

The one with a conscience,

Or the one without?

For if the latter wins,

They do so without honour,

But in the end,

Is honour really as important as life?

Or is it nothing but dust in the face of the enormity of life,

The possibilities it holds,

The beauty it encompasses?

They waltz for hours,

Each step a perfect match,

Each move directly matched by the other,

A waltz to be admired, to be watched.

A waltz of powers.