𝙋𝙇𝘼𝘾𝙀𝘽𝙊

Last Login:
November 13th, 2023



Gender: Male
Age: 33
Sign: Aquarius
Country: United States

Signup Date:
October 08, 2019

Subscriptions:

Previous12Next

08/22/2020 01:09 PM 

i. relationship study | stiles+scott.

 
A collision of memories; the oil and water of joy mixed with betrayal. Scott's arms around his shoulders, followed by a night of quiet mourning following Claudia's death, was just as clear as lies falling from Scott's lips -- lips covered in Lydia's lipstick. What was love? Stiles was aware of love to certain degrees. The love and loss shared among parents and offspring and unrequited teenage love were extremely familiar, both laced with their own ups and downs, however the love for a friend was supposed to be pure, even eternal. The friend he trusted with his secrets, his mind, his very life.

Heart could have been handed to Scott McCall with the unwavering certainty of its safe return. Like everything in life however, a shelf life was stamped on every single thing, and loyalty was not eternal. They both could have blamed the werewolf DNA forced upon Scott. Weak tape covering a gaping wound. Stiles sulked and gnawed on the cyst of a growing problem, and it wasn't conducted in complete silence, yet it was treated as such. "I'm sorry." "Are we good?" As his best friend's heel continued to apply pressure to Stiles' sternum, would he still give up his heart for safe keeping?

The crowned alpha (somehow granted the responsibility and power of the town) cleaned his friend's dried blood from beneath claws free of guilty and riddled in judgement. Stiles was just a human - incapable of standing his own and dared not shout frustrations and hypocrisy back at the werewolf. When a conniving stranger earns more trust than a best friend.. the heart is abandoned to the dirt and the worms. At least the dirt dwellers inherit the heart, using every bit to their benefit.

Love and trust are not whole without the other.

 

08/22/2020 01:08 PM 

iii. crossover study | the witcher

Wissha. Wissha. Chicken-scratch of writing matching the equally chicken-brained creature which, without a complete set of teeth nor a highly developed tongue for speaking, pronounced Wit-cher as Wis-sha, was one of many mad scribbles filling the scholarly journal. Chicken-brained or no, the ever endangered Rock Trolls had quite a bit of information to offer over the killers for hire when they weren't mad over the taste of human flesh, of course. Beside the queer, monstrous sketch of Rock Trolls, both a male and female (though there was no clear distinction which was which), pages meant for an artist's hand were littered with charcoal sketches of said monster killers.

Ornate swords of steel and silver, either completely inspired and forged by gnomes and dwarves or holding elven inspirations, witcher symbols, sigils, and the men themselves .. at least what Stiles imagined them to appear based on witness testimony. It was a rather arduous task, not only putting words to image, but sifting truth from fiction. Some peasants and townsfolk went as far as describing the witchers as monstrous as the beasts they killed — angry lips covered in blood, bulging eyes hungry for a purse, swords for fingers. Preposterous! The source of stupidity and ignorance was an underground well at the core of the world as it seemed endless and it affected the entire natural world.

Naturally, with soldiers afoot in nearly each civilized corner of the world, sketches of a warrior, a true warrior (as Stiles' referred), did not take much to conjure. Tales and pictures, even encyclopedias regarding the (in)famous and elusive witchers, did not satiate this curiosity. Like the people's stupidity, his curiosity was vast and seemed to reach no end. It made him thirst; it kept him up at night, and it kept danger at his heels. However as several witcher schools were dead and obsolete, a single witcher captured more reputation and tales than seemingly the entire lot over the centuries.

Like a maiden chasing the dream of fame on a stage, Stiles followed the trail of — no, not the witcher himself, rather the troubadour who followed the trail of the witcher Geralt. One fool following another. It was in Novigrad where the rich boasted their wealth along with the poor, and pavement gave way to much and manure, where the night deemed fit to grip Stiles' head in the proper direction. The guards, drunk bastards as they all were, took their patrols about the harbor and the wealthy hills, while the poor were left to fend for themselves.. and rip each other apart. As foolish as Stiles was, he did not inebriate himself, nor did he venture were thieves and vagabonds were notorious, but word of the famous troubadour's presence in the vicinity had him acting foolishly.

The second the candle light and fires of the an awake night were suffocated by a dominant night, the talons of dread languidly crawled up his spine. He clutched the lizard skin bound journal tightly to his breast as to cease the hammering of his heart. Was it fate, or would some bugger strangle him in such a filthy place? With very little moon light guiding him, he walked more with fear and curiosity than confidence. Even with dogs howling, peasants retching, and women moaning, the breath of men fighting was undeniable to the keen ear. He heard it long before steel and iron met; the searing noise of metal colliding was so sharp and immensely powerful that Stiles froze himself upon the stone corner of a distillery.

While he was cast in entire darkness that not even the whites of his eyes could be deciphered, the scene in front of him appeared to be bathed in the spotlight of the moon. However the men fighting were starved of light as they fought for their lives, and terribly at that. It was a grand feat of four against one. The first man who fell died quite early, and the three remaining moved with some expertise. Neither man got in the way of the other and despite the apparent coordination, the witcher was in fact hungry for blood. He saw red and gave into the feeling of a cold rage soaking his veins and his consciousness. He moved almost recklessly. Instead of taking one pirouette after the other, he cut the men's lines of defenses and swung his sword down like it was a cleaver meant for butchering. Butchering he did.

The cries of the men in agony were just as loud as the breathing, grunting, and the clashing of words — the level pitch kept Stiles' eyes fixated on the sight without jumping out of his skin. Lips, however, did hang agape as the entire scene melted at the pace of a candle burning. In reality, the men meant their end before they could finish a prayer in their minds. Legs chopped cleanly off, stomach entrails coming undone on stone and dirt ground. Stiles' head grew dizzy at the sheer energy radiating from the fight. It felt like staring at the sun on a blazing summer's day. One last pirouette, and a duck. The man's sword hissed above Geralt's head, nearly cutting the pale, white strands which lagged in the air above head.

It hissed with anger, while the witcher's sword sang as a quick slash from top to bottom sliced the man's chest. The witcher moved so quickly, bent his wrist in such an expert way, that by the time his body was up and straight, the long sword cut the man's throat four seconds past. The sword wielded was of brilliant design and extremely sharp. Carotid artery was severed with such a swift and sharp instrument, that the following gush of blood drenched the witcher's face with adrenaline filled blood. Stiles couldn't marvel at the impressive display of blood spray for, even 15 paces back, the spray which had not coated the witcher splashed upon his own face, too.

The journal at his chest fell to the ground; now louder than any other noise in the vicinity. Like shattering glass only the connection between Stiles' hearing and his brain was now inept. Surely the witcher heard him, but he did not flinch, did not move, as copious thick blood dripped from his body and down the edge of his sword. Pommel still gripped tight. Thick droplets clung to Stiles' parted lips and the urge to spit, hack, and even vomit was so immense, yet he was frozen and terrified. Terrified of what? He felt his skeleton fall before his flesh as a medium sized hand clasped him gently on the shoulder.

Dandelion's breath, a mixture of wine, mead, and cinnamon, coaxed his ear. "It appears the night has not found you well either, my friend." Despite the calming presence of the troubadour's hand, the effeminate man held the pallor of a corpse and (unlike Stiles) had to wretch his eyes from the scene of gore and mania. The charcoal sketches of witchers lied on the ground, and the black was dominated by the crimson of coagulating blood.

That was how Stiles came to meet the White Wolf, Gwynbleidd, THE
Geralt of Rivia.

 

05/17/2020 03:48 PM 

i. relationship study | nogitsune.

Slithering. Venomous. Hot breath causing a queer eruption of bubbled flesh, and bile inducting words drip into ear. He feels completely bare, humble to the horrors of the world as the very essence of supreme fright rips his body into new trauma. A lost, fractured mind -- however the Nogitsune can taste all of his thoughts, and his venom works quickly to disable excuses from a feeble brain.

He's never felt more vulnerable, more feeble and weak, more so than an ant toiling in the soil. Crawling. Claws shed the skin from bones of his skull, peeling layer after layer to crack open the shell of his psyche. Stiles feels [him] inside his ear, his skin, blood, denatured tongue making play of his neurons.

It's the kind of powerful fear that would send any person into cardiac arrest.. Are they the same entity? Is it the devil himself, for the Nogitsune cradles heart in the palm of soiled, bandaged heart to keep Stiles awake and listening.

Over the waves of nausea, adrenaline fails to kick in and he can sense the creature's pleasure in the demise of the poor boy. Sharp jaws of a true predator drag against flesh as the assault of mind-warping riddles... "kore wa nanda?" What is it, it spews with a fury the boy cannot understand but feels. Stiles would give up one leg, no - two, for the terror to cease. Screaming. Frustration and fright.

They tear each other apart, and it's just the opening sequence.

 

03/29/2020 01:50 PM 

ii. personal study | claudia's death.

"There is no greater loss than that of a parent losing a child", words written by a parent and not a suffering young child; Stiles hated the literature. The entirety of his life, the woman he came to know and love from sun up to sun down, slowly withered away into a husk of hurt and confusion before his young eyes. Perhaps it was the early dosage of emotional torture which enabled Stiles to deal with the chaos of a supernaturally inclined life during his teens. Watching friends perish by the sword, witnessing flesh char, and being controlled by an evil spirit -- it paled greatly to a eleven year old boy's immense suffering.

The youth grew up and he grew up fast, however he held onto foolish behaviors and silly quirks to maintain a degree of joy inside his soul. Not only did Stiles need it, Noah needed that spark, too. As Stiles watched his mother slip between lucidness, mania, and clarity, he perceived the world for what it really was and the strange dynamics of adult hood. Noah lost his lover, the love of his life, yet Stiles lost both of his parents. Although the boy had been the one to feel the life vacate Claudia, upon his father's arrival to the hospital after hearing word, a large piece of Noah died. Stiles lost them both. It was eleven year old Stiles who watched over his father, cleaned up the empty takeout containers, and disposed of bottles of alcohol.

A very dark side of his childhood he shared with no one, for the admittance of Noah's slipping as a father would crush the man further.

As Stiles sobbed over his mother's death, he sobbed over his father's passed out body in the living room. He understood his father's spiral into sorrow, however Claudia's sudden rage towards her own son had frightened him the most. Deteriorating, her brain was losing losing function. From phantasms that were not there, sleepless nights, and erratic behavior.. Claudia was not Claudia, yet whenever Stiles was present, her mind appeared to be clear. She either gazed at him lovingly or shot him looks of accusation and mania.

"You.. it all started when you were born," The snap in her speech had frightened Stiles greatly, and it had taken Noah's strength to pry and calm the woman. Could such a thing be triggered by child birth? She loved Stiles, he knew it, however the woman also stared at the boy with a strange clarity until the day before she died. The day of her death was different. Riding on a cloud of heavy medications. She was fitful and clammy, but warm and smiling all the same -- just as a mother should be. Stiles had rushed to the hospital when he heard of her incoming peril, and gripped her hand beside her death bed.

"Mieczyslaw.. Mieczyslaw.. My sweet mischief." Clammy hands gripped his, but it didn't hurt for he felt like he had his mother again. "Mommy... Mommy," Stiles recited his love for his mother as though he were casting a spell to keep her alive. The spell, prayer, wish did not come true, and Noah opened the door of the room to find his son's head lying atop Claudia's dead chest; their fingers interlaced. There are things he never even told his best friend, for Stiles had to grow up fast.. and growing up means pushing down things that eat away at your heart and mind.

 

03/29/2020 01:49 PM 

ii. personal study | day with mom.

Hunger for knowledge did not trump a day spent with his mother, nor his father, though Stiles had always been more of a mother's boy. Perhaps it was an eerie premonition of the tragedy to strike the Stilinski household, or it was as simple as the similarities shared between mother and child. Claudia was the one gave Stiles his name, and she was the parent who indulged the young boy in art, mythology, and reading.

Noah would return home from shifts sometimes at five in the afternoon, sometimes at one in the morning, thus during the few optimal times for the entire family to spend together -- Noah saw so much of his wife in their child. Curious and quirky, the young Mieczysław would run to his parent's bed in the morning with a heavy book in hand and demand for story time. At first, it had always been Cladia who speak off his ears about scholarly and worldy things, and not just before bedtime.

Stiles enjoyed kindergarten to a degree, but as most kids were more interested in playing with toys and were frightened of slugs, the youth wanted to run around in the mud to catch bugs and listen to stories about the gods who created thunder and the gods responsible for love. Her fervor for the world and knowledge only increased as her mind slowly began to rot, but all the moments were sweet before things took their serious turn.

"My sweet Mieczysław." Her hand would smooth down his wild, brown locks, and Stiles would look to her with the largest grin -- teeth missing and all. "Mischief!" Words came out nearly a slur as missing teeth made it difficult to speak properly. Claudia would drop down to a knee, allowing Stiles to climb atop her back for a piggy back ride around the house and yard. They took care of the house, but Stiles' preferred activity was making an 'educated' mess in the yard. He enjoyed tasting everything he found just as much as he enjoyed finding bugs to play with.

"Mud doesn't belong in your mouth, and don't you dare step on a worm. They help the earth, and they don't mean anyone any harm." She was right, of course. Claudia allowed the boy to pick up and house the bugs he found in a glass jar -- but just for the day. At the end of the night, all the living creatures were returned outside. The youth didn't bother watching his mom cook (his mind too wild to focus), but he loved the way she danced and hummed in the kitchen; the aromas of her cooking a fond memory.

Stiles didn't know what he wanted to be when he grew up, all he knew he wanted to be as cool as his mother. She seemed so adventurous and open-minded; a wonder she lived and did little in Beacon Hills after starting a family. Noah was bound to return home any minute, thus mother and child busied themselves with catching fireflies in the front yard. They didn't come often to Beacon Hills, so the Stilinski's enjoyed their visit during the hottest nights of the summer.

Claudia was barefoot though insisted Stiles to wear shoes as they raced around the front yard with clear bottles in hand, catching as many luminescent bugs as possible. For a little boy, his maximum level of glee and excitement were reached. A memory so clear even in adulthood. The soft lightning of the Stinlinski house in the background, and the silhouette of his mother's dress dancing in the night as yellow-green hues surrounded them. The lights to Noah's car broke up the serene night but shortly after, he was joining the family in the adventure.

The night complete.

 

[ This blog post is viewable to friends only ]

11/10/2019 03:29 PM 

iii. crossover relationship study | stiles + lizzie.




He's no mind reader. Gifted with gesticulations of the arms, a sharpening wit on his tongue, and the ability to draw laughter from others -- he's not special. Others conquer the world with katanas slashing through the air, claws digging into enemies, and magical abilities that would make an x-man jealous. Again, Stiles is not special.

Dressed in peasant's robes, his eyes watch the special people above him and yes, they may tell him he is not below them, but the male knows better. Her hair is spun with fine gold, a hue snow and precious metals are envious of, and her lips carry a confidence which turns heads. Sharing coy glances and curious fingers daring to intertwine with one another.

What they shared was brief, memories kept underneath the bleachers after lacrosse practice. She is the snow that turns with the seasons and ultimate covers the ground.


[ This blog post is viewable to friends only ]

11/05/2019 06:31 PM 

i. relationship study | stiles+peter.

Hatred and desperation collide. He does not understand this man, this lawless beast who scorches the earth with each turn of events much like a march of Roman soldiers leveling humanity. Peter Hale takes and takes with one hand, but not without handing a merciful poisoned treat with the other. Each time Stiles' mind disfigures into thoughts of loathing and ill-will, any thoughts of wanting the werewolf dead are thrown out of his consciousness. No one deserves to die, especially one who has aided in his and his allies' survival -- malicious motives notwithstanding.

He does not understand him, and yet... desires to as if the former alpha was a puzzle built for his own design. With each piece lied on the table or a red string hung on the board connecting two points, his discoveries are laced with further confusion. What drives Peter Hale? What makes him happy? Has he ever felt happiness? An intricate beast which even his own analytical mind cannot decipher. Peter nearly killed his friends, offered the BITE to him, and his eyes were the most fitting ice cold blue --- he saved Stiles; nearly killed himself escaping the Wild Hunt.

Murky thoughts keep him up at night when the stars fail to answer life's questions, and the full moon mocks him.

The youth wishes to crack open the binding of HIS book, allow digits to thumb through page after page until his pads are left bleeding from the cuts. How many others have fallen victim to sick curiosity, and fueled the inner alpha inside that beast.


10/17/2019 03:22 PM 

ii. personal study | feed me.


Potentially triggering subject matter.


Chaos - the very aroma burned something fierce inside its belly, coiling like a serpent constricting prey under the warmth of a high sun. The tip of nose pressed against the soft column of Lydia's neck, brushing past strawberry blonde locks smelling exactly like the hue. One quiver followed another, and the flat of his tongue, wet and insatiable, pressed against supple neck to drag from collar bone to ear lobe. Sweat was laced with thrilling fear as the wet warmth erupts the young woman with disgust and fright.

He did not desire her happiness nor her compliance; he wanted to devour the hurricane of emotions that threatened bile to rise to the back of her mouth. Pallid digits, bone-white at the knuckles, clung to the iron foundations of the bars holding her in, and his own long digits moved to join hers. The fox pinned her, rendering her completely helpless, as he forced her to bare witness a face she often found comfort and friendship with. By the end of the hour, he would make certain all his friends could not stand to look at Stiles the same way ever again. This chaos was just the beginning.

"I will follow you for 1000 miles but not miss home. It desires neither food nor flowers. It fears not water, fire, knives, nor soldiers. But it disappears when the sun sets behind the western mountains. Who Am I?" A seizure of fright is the only answer the Nogitsune receives.

Previous12Next

View All Posts



Mobile | Terms Of Use | Privacy | Cookies | Copyright | FAQ | Support

© 2024. RolePlayer.me All Rights Reserved.