THE BOY WITH NO NAME.

𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚔𝚒.

[mieczyslawtm]

fuck it, i’m over here.

[uniewazout-blog]

                                                       𝐈 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫-𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧                                                                         𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐠𝐚𝐳𝐞.

canon divergent mieczyslaw stiles stilinski. reimagined by rionach.

[mieczyslawtm]

fuck it, i’m over here.

[mieczyslawtm]

fuck it, i’m over here.

[uniewazout-blog]

                                                       𝐈 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫-𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧                                                                         𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐠𝐚𝐳𝐞.

canon divergent mieczyslaw stiles stilinski. reimagined by rionach.

[mieczyslawtm]

fuck it, i’m over here.

[mieczyslawtm]

if you’d like to continue our thread(s) on my new blog, please like this!

[uniewazout-blog]

                                                       𝐈 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫-𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧                                                                         𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐠𝐚𝐳𝐞.

canon divergent mieczyslaw stiles stilinski. reimagined by rionach.

[mieczyslawtm]

fuck it, i’m over here.

[mieczyslawtm]

if you’d like to continue our thread(s) on my new blog, please like this!

[mieczyslawtm]

me and my very sober mind : void voided stiles. like legit cancelled him out. completely annulled him. invalidated him. 

[mieczyslawtm]

hello. i’m going to be moving stools to a brand new blog over the next few days. he’s going to be written differently and with a new arc and it’s going to be dark and twisty. 

[mieczyslawtm]

if you’d like to continue our thread(s) on my new blog, please like this!

[mieczyslawtm]

dark & twisty

[mieczyslawtm]

hello. i’m going to be moving stools to a brand new blog over the next few days. he’s going to be written differently and with a new arc and it’s going to be dark and twisty. 

[mieczyslawtm]

hi s.tiles is a mouthy bottom

[mieczyslawtm]

𝙾𝙿𝙴𝙽.

    𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌. It curdles, somewhere deep in his gut, and prickles, slow across the skin, but oh – OH, it jolts more than anything else. He still tastes rot, something still feels sticky on his fingertips and, if he lifts them to his nose, they’ll smell coppery. RUST. Plasma-stained. But his hands hold their vice-grip on the sheets, damp, as if they could ground him. THEY CAN’T. Not when he is still screaming through the tail-end of sleep, or whatever it was that held him under consciousness. He screams through the fog that clots his mind, that tells him that he is still asleep, that will not let him focus just enough to see that HE IS NOT ASLEEP AT ALL.