#why stiles with the lichtenberg scars

[teencopandthesourwolf]

SENSING YOU

sterek, 950 words, teen, angst, derek hale POV, derek's self-loathing of epic prepositions, PTSD, panic attacks, grounding exercises, emotional healing, they're in love your honour, pre-slash.

authors note: stiles gets derek to name 5 things his senses are aware of, to try and bring him back from an escalating panic attack.

.

"The rain."

Rain, like there has been a year-long drought. Summer downpour hitting the huge skylight with such force, the sound is almost unreal. A cacophony. Each drop that reverberates is actually a tiny glass arrow and all of them— billions of them—have been aimed at the loft and its many window panes. All searching for their target.

Derek feels every last raindrop just as much as he hears them. 

Regardless of his mutated cells, Derek knows that, really, he is made of something much thinner. A thing even more fragile than glass. And he has been fractured. For a long, long time now. There's dozens upon dozens of the hairline cracks, splitting right through his confidence. His resilience. His dignity. Derek has his very own version of Lichtenberg scars, but these ones are etched right onto his soul and refuse to fully heal. There are so many parts of him that if he broke completely, right here, right now, the sound would be deafening. 

Self-preservation for Derek has become somewhat of a chore which, left to his own devices, he would not be scribbling down on his to-do list.

There's also a heart that beats too fast, echoing throughout the large space where Derek sits, attempting to be present. The beats are rapid, but currently much steadier than his own.

Derek is still shaking. 

"You," he says next, only looking up briefly. "I see you."

When Derek chances another glance, Stiles' mouth only hitches a little, at one corner. His eyes, though, shine with a gentle smile—smooth, amber stones set in cool ivory—even in the low light, despite looking directly at something so very dark.

He's so fucking special. 

Stiles is working hard to be still, Derek sees. Derek knows. The kid is still blinking too much though. Derek can see his front teeth tapping an uneven rhythm at his bottom lip, trying desperately not to chew on it. His bony knee, beneath deep red sweatpants with cream GO-FASTER stripes, is infinitesimally vibrating, rather than the usual wild jiggle.

Derek sees how much Stiles cares and wonders why. Wonders how. He takes a deep breath. In through nostrils, out through mouth.

"Pity."

Stiles shakes his head. "No. Try again."

Derek shuts his tired eyes. 

"Concern."

"Try harder," Stiles' voice is firmer yet still quiet. 

Derek's jaw clenches, keeping pace with his erratic heart.

Stiles waits. He always waits. 

"Love," Derek whispers.

"That's the one, Big Guy."

Derek inhales deeper and more even.

Stiles' love is fiercely scented. Like freshly spilt blood and spices and smoke. Like he'll do anything for an asshole who is not even the same species as he is. Hell, it even smells like it's real. Derek needs it and is scared of it and knows he doesn't deserve it, even if Stiles' pheromones forever scream that Derek is seven shades of wrong about the latter.

The top notes, they're wild poppies and adoration and desire; the heart notes are  earthy and solid, trusting and full of tenderness, sandalwood and white sage incense; and the deep and musky, almost damp smells are the base notes that hum like an autumn redolence, like fire and rage and cloves and a conviction that winter is and will always be coming.

Stiles now reaches, slowly, let's his hand hover just above Derek’s. Patient as ever.

Derek now reaches out too, holds that hand, acknowledging its presence. Stiles' presence. His own.

Stiles is here. Not alone. 

"Anchor." Derek carefully but tightly squeezes the long-fingered hand now in his grip. "My anchor."

Stiles takes the hand Derek's holding and places the palm of it to his cheek, his lean face leaning into Derek's touch.

Derek finds his other hand wrapping itself around the base of the kid's skull, the tip of Derek's thumb brushing lightly at the short, wispy hairs that curl against the grain at the neckline of flannel shirt. He brings himself and Stiles together, foreheads meeting. Now he is allowed, touching Stiles is instinctive—and it's almost everything he needs to be able to feel like he can breathe again.

Then Stiles bares his neck and Derek is there, burrowing his nose and soothing the canine inside of him, rubbing his whole face into the kid while gulping deep breaths, scent for scent. Stiles is holding Derek down by his thighs and it's a thousand times more centering than any grounding exercise. Derek is part wolf—but he is all primal. His hands smooth themselves up and down slender but muscled arms, his legs pushing against the inside of Stiles', before he gives in and grabs ass and hauls the kid into his lap.

"Want you," Derek growls.

"Last one, Der. You need to finish this." These days, Stiles has restraint Derek could only dream of.

Derek's breaths are ragged again. He attempts to steady himself with what he has learned so far. Tries to focus again. He's still twitchy, yes, but less so. 

"Taste," he huffs.

Then it dawns on him. 

In their efforts to stop his panic in its tracks—for him to regain a handle on his slippery self-deprecation dial—Derek realises that by finishing the task and finding an example for his fifth and final sense to experience, it'll mean he actually does get to have Stiles. Stiles will give that to him, a gift.

Derek will relish warm and soft cinnamon kisses, filled with trust and both sweet and sour, with mint gum and unbound affection. He will devour hot and fevered open-mouthed kisses, laced with frayed nerve-endings, cheap candy and desire.

Still agitated. Still tense. But Derek is calmer now. Able to hold onto what's real. 

He cracks his neck, breathes some more, then silently requests with a ready look.

"Taste," Stiles iterates, licking his lips.

.

(barely edited bc that seems to be how i roll these days)

#i feel like a writer's favourite whump character #lol #sterek #sterek fic #stiles stilinkski #derek hale #teen wolf #angst #cw ptsd #cw panic attack #emotional whump #healing together #pre slash #fanfic #tcats writes #teencopandthesourwolf

[criedwxlf]

@openwovnds  said:   &  trace a scar! [  now accepting memes.  ]

     he’s tired. at least, that’s what he’ll tell himself later when he thinks about it. he’s usually more attentive when it comes to undressing these days, making sure that no one else is around to ask questions or be shocked. but he’s tired, and scott’s not just anyone  ---  he’s scott, and it leaves stiles less guarded even on the worst days. it’s why he strips off his last layer, the simple undershirt, in the locker room without thinking. his focus is more towards getting in the shower and rinsing off quickly than it is to the boy behind him. so it’s a shock to his system when he’s being touched suddenly, a bucket of cold water to his head, that has stiles flailing and turning around. scott almost gets slapped in the face for his efforts, and stiles stares at his best friend wide eyed for a long heart thumping moment.   “dude! what the hell!”   a brief moment and a mental check allows him to figure out what exactly had made scott breach his personal bubble, and stiles makes a face. he’s done his best in the last few months to hide the reminder of what he’d done, what his body had been through, and now he watching that slip away.   “it doesn’t hurt,”   he allows, figuring it’d be easier to simply reassure his best friend. after all, there is a giant ass spider web that covers his upper back, the lingering remains of the lichtenberg figure curving even up over his shoulder to sometimes peek out of his shirt.   “deaton says it should fade over the years.”   but that it might never go away, simply because stiles’s guilt wouldn’t let it. and he was okay with that; a physical reminder of what his body had been forced to do under the hands of the nogitsune.

#openwovnds #meme reply. #general arc. #i have Thoughts regarding scars / marks left behind over the years

[vanishcd]

[[ Headcanon: Stiles’ Scars

Being the only fully human in the pack an one of the few people who can even sustain injuries and scars, it still makes me emotional thinking about just how many marks of the supernatural my Stiles has across his body.

* First, the Lichtenberg figure. This is one I personally headcanon staying on him, for several reasons. The shot that caused it, wolf lichen, was literal poison in his veins to keep the nogitsune at bay. And it’s toxic to the human, as well as the fox, and left it’s mark. The marks run the length of veins under Stiles’ skin, but it’s no coincidence Morrell draws parallels to lightning. The only reason the poison didn’t kill them both is because the toxin is neutralized by electricity. Void’s foxfire, a part of Stiles as long as the nogitsune possesses his body, saved them both. Effectively neutralized Void but only for a short time. This is why the mark fades as Void begins to gain control and the poison runs the course. However, since it is a poison against both of them, the healing only goes so far. 

The radiating strike pattern will always be there, faint red-purple across his left shoulder-blade and back. He can be touchy about it being seen or touched, especially if someone’s deliberately noting it. Especially if it’s from someone who was there for it.

* The kaiken scar. Again, as a result from Void’s actions and the kitsune healing process. Void takes Noshiko’s blade and slices open Stiles’ stomach with it. Later, when he’s found by the pack, the healing process is slowed–a combination of deliberate distress inflicted for the pack, and the kanima venom. Where it gets interesting is when Void and Stiles split–Void takes over Stiles’ former body, but leaves the real Stiles with his reminders. The Lichtenberg figure and now the long gash across his abdomen. Since the body Stiles now has was effectively created by Void, these are permanently a part of him, like birthmarks. 

This one Stiles is less likely to balk at being noted, though he really doesn’t like to remember the sensation of that blade…Its more of just an unpleasant reminder…

* Donovan’s bite. The only mark Stiles has from the supernatural part of his life that comes from an outright attack. As evidenced in the show, the bite was deep and took a long time to heal. Because it actually went deep enough to graze muscle, it’s sensitive months, even years after. Occasionally, Stiles will will show visible reaction when he has to move his right shoulder/arm a certain way. Pretty much the only one that bothers him because of the way it healed. 

Despite the deep trust he has for anyone that might see it, there’s still a chance he’ll flinch if any attention is brought to it. The circumstance was reconciled, but Stiles still carries that night in his head, he will for a long time. The bite is a reminder that he’s vulnerable, but he is capable of killing, accidental or otherwise. A reminder to never let it be otherwise. A reminder of what nearly took his best friend and pack from him, that guilt and silence are as deadly as metal and teeth. That he’s human, and aware of all the good an bad that comes from that. He doesn’t talk about this one outside of the pack. Occasionally, he’ll reach a hand up to it while thinking, more of a kind of protection/absent-minded thing than anything else. ]]

#headcanon #ooc #gore tw #the donovan scar is like #morbidly interesting to me #visually #(also the healin wound pictured is weeks on. how did no one smell the blood the next morning???)

[amberfyresdreamscapes]

eichen (hell) house

smoke and mirrors verse fic written for fringexxelement

If he hadn’t gone into Eichen seeing his dead mother, Stiles wondered if his sanity would really have come into question. Even at ten, with the many issues he had, the one thing no one could deny was the boy was scarily smart. He made intuitive jumps faster than most people could perceive. It sometimes meant his commentary would be lacking in verbal steps and seemed disjointed to anyone who didn’t know him well, and often even for those who did. Claudia had always been able to follow him, had even been attempting to help him verbalize the missing steps.

She hadn’t managed to get very far with that before she died.

For all that, Stiles knew that while his issues could likely cause people to see him as criminally inclined, might land him in prison if he wasn’t careful, he wasn’t crazy. Eichen had been the overwhelming choice because of his mutant abilities and Eichen’s ability to contain and restrain them, not because of questions of his sanity. Though the lack of concern over the deaths of the Hale family did have people looking at him like an odd specimen, something strange and alien, it still wouldn’t have warranted a label of reality challenged. And his father was, to then, the only one he’d mentioned Claudia’s presence to.

Sensing things in odd ways was nothing new to Stiles and when his mother had been alive he’d trusted her enough to talk to her about it. Claudia had never looked at or treated him as though he was damaged. When he’d spoken of being able to feel things on his skin as though tactile sensation had been enhanced to function well enough as sight or sound (and was often blended into the two) Claudia had mentioned synesthesia to her young son.

Once it was explained what it was, Stiles thought it could fit, but it was more than that. While he couldn’t argue that certain sounds or images would invariably produce some specific tactile sensation there were other things that seemed to trigger it he couldn’t explain nearly as well. Like emotions. Which were things neither seen nor heard but could do the same thing. It was a guide he’d used from the time he was very small and had only really aided him in learning to manipulate and play people.

It never occurred to either of them it could be a mutant ability. If Stiles had told his mother about the things he ‘felt’ when there was no one in the immediate vicinity perhaps it might have sparked a thought. But Stiles wasn’t a typical empath so it never really came up.

Because it didn’t, he never really felt the need to talk about odd things he ‘saw’ or strange things that happened when he slept. It had been there as long as he could recall, hadn’t just suddenly began like the electricity that danced in him. And by the time he was left in Eichen with attendants who looked at him like he was something other he had no reason to share. Or to explain how often he was led more by what he felt on his skin than what he saw with his eyes.

Claudia was an apparition that looked completely real and solid save for the fact no one else but Stiles could see her. She wasn’t transparent, was real and whole though she rarely spoke. And Stiles, who had learned years ago the value and power in hoarding secrets, chose to keep her continued presence near him from those at Eichen as much as he could.

Not that it went unnoticed by any of the adults who had any contact with him. It was obvious his focus was often elsewhere, pauses as he regarded what looked like nothing before answering or responding to people. When asked directly he would give patently false wide eyed innocence with a smile that could charm anyone who didn’t know the mind hiding behind it.

That Claudia could simply appear and wink out of existence in an eye blink was odd, but then she was dead. Stiles was very aware of that. The one thing Claudia could no longer do was physically touch him, and yet he could ‘feel’ her more now than before she had died. He considered it a fair trade and clung to it stubbornly as something that was his alone.

Because Eichen quickly became a definition of Hell for Stiles. He was kept in a room smaller than he was used to with few things to occupy his mind and dampeners built into the walls to inhibit his abilities. It was a constant oppressive feeling that made him feel claustrophobic and led to fits of rage that were absolutely stunning compared to any displays of temper previous to his incarceration. And led to techs and aides learning very quickly Stiles was a more powerful mutant than they’d kept housed before.

He found creative ways to overload the dampeners, something that shouldn’t have been possible. The first time he managed it, the next time he was retrieved to see whatever doctor thought could ‘help’ him, the tech had received a nasty surprise and was lucky to get away with simple electrical burns streaking his arms.

It did nothing to increase Stiles’ popularity.

He was kept tranquilized for a time after that and when he finally swam up out of the haze of drugs found he’d been fitted with odd cuffs that turned his abilities back on himself when he attempted to use them. He developed permanent Lichtenberg scarring down his left side, left arm and back before he learned how to use the feedback to turn himself into a live conduit. It hurt like hell but he learned to embrace the pain, ride it, use it.

They finally encased his hands in gloves with inhibitors built in them that tamped his power down and muffled it. Stiles hated every minute of being trapped in them. It made him feel like he was wrapped in wool, made the world feel as though it was distant and removed and did more to drive him into his own head than anything else they’d done to him so far.

And he didn’t even want to think about the various experimental procedures they used to try and ‘help’ him learn to control his temper and power.

The dampeners and inhibitors were supposed to not only contain and restrain his abilities but keep him from being influenced by other possible mutant abilities. However, there were always exceptions to the rule and Stiles had an unknown (to him or anyone else) tie that didn’t truly seem affected by the inhibitors and was likely a large part of how he managed to circumvent them so frequently.

He was only ten and he didn’t know much about the various vagaries of mutant abilities. Didn’t know there were mutants who could affect perception and thought, could bend the very fabric of reality or create whole dimensions. It wasn’t something he had any reason to know. He could hardly have known that the things he saw that no one else saw where extension and overlap from a plane of existence created by a very strong empath with far more sanity issues than his own. Couldn’t have known that by some chance he had been intrinsically tied into this plane that really only seemed perceptible to the mutant who created it and his brother. Especially since neither of the two were anywhere in physical proximity to him.

What Stiles did know was that by the second month in Eichen Hell, he had retreated as much as he could from the cold stark reality of his cell and the various tortures visited on him. Though there were moments when those glittering whiskey colored eyes would regard his captors with feral intensity so fierce even drugged and forced to wear the inhibitors nurses and techs were hesitant to get close enough to him to keep him drugged and compliant, he didn’t offer much fight. Truly he was only half there, following his mother to explore this odd surreal landscape he seemed pulled into more often than not.

His tactile sense was far stronger than any others in this odd realm and he learned to rely less on his eyes and ears, learned to ‘see’ and navigate by the sensations brushing, tapping, stinging along his skin. Perceived how many people who worked in Eichen wore masks to hide the darkness that crawled like maggots and slime deep within them.

Wherever this place was, walls didn’t seem to mean a whole lot and he could at least escape Eichen. He followed a faintly familiar tugging, something he seemed to recognize even if he couldn’t say why. Claudia seemed to urge him on, not being fond of Eichen any more than Stiles was and not nearly as much in evidence since they started keeping him pumped full of drugs. With the dampeners and inhibitors he couldn’t even burn the drugs out of his system as he’d managed the first couple of weeks. The loss of his mother’s regular presence left him unbearably lonely so it made an odd kind of sense to follow the odd tugging sensation if only because his cell offered him nothing.

Where he ended up was no place on any map in any country that existed, he could feel it down to his toes. There was an odd beauty in the stark landscape caught in perpetual night and washed in blues and greens and purples and whites. Crystal and ice that should have been cold and forbidding but drew him like fire did. Skies lit with ribbons of color he could feel slide along his skin more than he could see and impossible stars of no constellation he’d ever viewed.

It wasn’t completely unfamiliar but he’d only ever seen it in fading dream images before, never as vividly real as it was now when he desperately wanted to be elsewhere than he was. He had the distinct feeling he wasn’t alone there, but neither could he see nor find whoever had led him here. He could feel them though. Butterfly wing flutters along his skin, two distinct echoes with an odd resonance to them he nonetheless recognized.

Communication wasn’t in words but impressions and abstract thoughts. Stiles wasn’t sure if it was real or a dream but it felt too vivid to simply be some fantasy his mind had created to escape his tormentors. And never having been given to seeking out friendships, always having been far more keen on being the puppet master and watching others dance to his tune, it was odd being in the presence of those who seemed kindred in some way he couldn’t explain. Whoever they were, they didn’t feel much older than him and he was certain there were only two of them, though without a visual confirmation he couldn’t be sure.

It did keep him somewhat sane, having this place to retreat to, having these people to interact with on some level.

Unfortunately, his split perception made him less receptive to what those at Eichen were attempting. And while his primary psychologist would have loved to keep the child on a permanent basis, Noah Stilinski, upon suffering pangs of conscience, had started demanding to see the young son he’d left so precipitously.

Whatever else Stiles was or had done, he was still Noah’s son. More than that, he was Claudia’s son and the only link Noah had left to his wife. He knew how much his wife had loved the boy no matter what his temperament and difficulties. After the first week of being alone in the house, he started to question the wisdom of dumping a child in a place like Eichen. Unaware of what was being done to his son, told only that Stiles was ‘resisting’ help (he was aware his son could be stubborn, recalcitrant and defiant) he didn’t become insistent until he’d been told the same story for three months.

Noah proceeded to prove his son wasn’t the only one capable of being stubborn, recalcitrant and defiant.

Which meant the doctors needed to allow the man to see his son. Which rather meant getting the boy capable of some kind of visitation interaction. By the fourth month, Stiles’ reactions to outside stimulus had been so greatly reduced as to almost be a different child. He ate and bathed and went to the bathroom as directed but his voice had been silenced and other than the periodic focused feral intensity, he disregarded anyone who attempted to interact with him.

It took another month. To pull Stiles firmly back to the reality of his cell and doctors and needles. To adjust the drugs to keep him sluggish but not a virtual zombie. Stiles resented every second of it. He learned hatred but also learned how to manage his explosions of temper. Instead of flaring hot and sudden, it burned cold, solidifying into something like diamond inside him. He told the techs and doctors and anyone who handled him, very calmly and far too evenly for a child of ten, that he would kill them all eventually. Matter of fact, not blustery threat, and something that chilled those who handled him far more than his behavior when he’d first come in.

It did, however, give the doctor the ammunition he needed to resist Noah’s insistence that Stiles didn’t need to be kept in such a place for so long. Not to mention, during his periods of having his drug cocktails adjusted it had come out in garbled spurts that not only did Stiles see his dead mother but he saw any number of other things less believable and was vehement in their actual existence.

The first time Noah saw Stiles after leaving him in Eichen, almost five months to the day, he could barely recognize his son. Stiles regarded him with a look of utter betrayal, almost eerily still save for random and restless fidgeting and constant tapping of his toes against the floor in repeating patterns. The doctor explained the gloves that kept his powers restrained were for everyone’s safety. Used the Lichtenberg scarring as an explanation that the child had tried to hurt himself when he couldn’t harm someone else. Patiently explained that Stiles really needed long term treatment.

All Noah could truly see though was the betrayed look deep in those whiskey colored eyes that watched him with an intensity that hadn’t been there before. He had seen many looks from his own son, but never a look of such utter and complete betrayal.

It took four months to get Stiles released. Noah working constantly to find some kind of option, some leverage, some way to refute the doctor who seemed to believe Stiles should be kept in Eichen for good. If Stiles hadn’t started to play the game it might not have worked.

But even a ten year can figure out that being kept in a cell required an excuse to be kept there and he learned. He learned to lie, convincingly. To hide what he was and what he wanted. He learned to dissemble so well the doctor no longer had any excuses to keep him. It might still not have been enough if he hadn’t been only ten.

However, Stiles was only a child, mutant or not. He was also capable of exerting a subtle empathic influence even he didn’t know he was using and shouldn’t have been able to with the number of dampeners that hemmed him in. There was speculation over whether he possibly had any other abilities than the control of electricity but he never showed any obvious signs of other abilities except for a slow building sympathetic rapport between those who dealt with him regularly.

The tie he had to the other realm that was in some ways nothing less than an actual manifestation of another young mutant’s insanity was more than just a link to a place. Even firmly in the hard physical reality he was still very aware of its existence, another layer to the world around him that he saw much more frequently now. The awareness never went away now, was always there even when he couldn’t see it specifically.

The place where he’d ‘met’ the other two receded to a place he only saw so brightly and vividly in his dreams and the awareness of the others was something he only retained on a subconscious level. That the three of them continued to affect each other, through that plane and empathically was something he remained unaware of for years to come, truly believing he was alone now. But the link served to augment his abilities. Had Stiles known the empathic control was a mutant power he might have used it far more ruthlessly. It was another thing that would remain unknown for years.

When he was finally released, nine months after he’d been tossed into Eichen, he wasn’t the same. His tendency to babble was restrained and he was much more selective in what he chose to say and who he chose to say it to. His temper was no longer explosive flares but something that burned deeply and coldly. His manipulations were crueler and he’d learned to lie and lie well. In unguarded moments the depths of the damage in him could be seen in his glittering whiskey colored eyes. It took time to learn to hide that as effectively as he hid other things.

He was much more careful in his experimentation with his abilities, much more careful when he resumed giving in to his urges to see things burn. With Claudia’s fairly frequent appearances, he tried to stay within her guidelines as much as he was capable. He didn’t always succeed.

Stiles never forgave his father for leaving him in Eichen, especially when he ended up making two more trips back to the place before he reached 13. But he was learning to be more subtle, sly. He managed to hide his more violent tendencies or cover better when he couldn’t keep them in.

Noah never really forgave himself, either. Seeing how his son had changed, knowing he had become far more dangerous now than he had been before that first stint in Eichen, despite the wariness with which he now regarded Stiles, he tried. The two subsequent trips to Eichen weren’t his call and he did everything he could to keep them as short as he could, which was still longer than they really should have been. Every time Stiles was in and released there was an interesting turnover in personnel. Outwardly it could be assumed, and was officially stressed, that the demands of the job sometimes meant people needed to take a break and move on.

The truth was Stiles’ subtle empathic power only continued to grow, continued to work on those who had frequent contact on him whether he was kept in cells with dampeners or not. Allowed him to play subtle games with the staff and other patients without ever having to leave his cell. It was heady, being able to control people to such a degree. And the reason his last trip to Eichen was his last. The scandal of his primary psychiatrist and three techs who’d worked closely with him killing themselves very publicly was something he relished for years. And nothing that could have been blamed on him as he was nowhere near them when it happened.

At 16, his father was killed in front of him, bleeding out as he watched. It was the only time he had ever actively protected Stiles that the boy could recall. As tempted as he was to burn the town to the ground around him, he gave in to the one deputy who had any kind of charitable feelings for him. He did kill the perpetrator, something the other cops overlooked and covered for because despite his son’s issues Noah was well loved in the department.

The only stop Stiles made on his way out of Beacon Hills forever was to make certain Eichen burned to the ground inside its walls. That every staff member and patient still in the building and on the grounds died in the blaze was something he was proud of. Regret was not something he often felt and since his mother’s death his concern for other people had become nonexistent. He didn’t truly care, felt absolutely nothing over the pain he caused other people. In fact, he reveled in it, being able to pull their strings. Killing was just upping the stakes a little more.

The official story was some kind of massive electrical malfunction in Eichen’s extensive system caused the fire. Stiles wasn’t seen anywhere in the vicinity (at least not by anyone who survived), was actually reported being seen across town and leaving the city. So he may have been suspected but he was never an actual suspect.

His grip on reality was less firm than he believed it was, not having been completely solid before the first round of trips to Eichen. His delusional beliefs had only grown roots and cemented. His access to and awareness of the plane of existence spawned by another’s insanity was every bit as firmly linked, his own bleeding into and braiding into the fabric of the created plane of existence. And even if his conscious awareness of the two he’d first ‘met’ at 10 but had been somewhat aware of his whole life (and continued to be in many ways) remained something that only surfaced in hazy dreams he couldn’t recall upon waking, it provided a compass he was unaware of following, though muted now in ways it hadn’t been previously.

He had any number of theories based on a mix of philosophical ideology, pseudo-science, actual quantum mechanics and what he’d learned of mutant abilities to frame his own insanity within. It allowed him to function in a way that came across as at least sane if sometimes eccentric, no matter how he actually saw the world. His mother appeared less frequently than in years previous but he was always aware of her as he was always aware of the other realm laid over the physical like a second skin. He got more tactile impressions than actual visions except for odd periods of sudden surges in strength. He viewed it as all some form of reality, no matter how the rest of the world would define it.

And those who got to see how truly unhinged he was never survived to spread the tale.

#mental health issues cw #{ my fic } #{ rp verse fic } #serial killer verse #serial killer au #{ mieczysław 'stiles' stilinski } #v: smoke and mirrors