Going through stuff. This is a way to let out my own feelings and release them into the net: projecting them onto defenseless fictional characters.
It's the days when it's easy that really scare Stiles.
He kept a shard of glass from the station ("a souvenir," the nogitsune had whispered gleefully to him in the confines of his mind), and he keeps it in his desk drawer, carefully and thoroughly cleaned after each use. He's never been into pain as a vehicle for any kind of pleasure, but once he had his body back, he had to have control.
Stiles tells himself he doesn't need to, it's not a habit yet (so it can't be an addiction), he only does it when he feels like it. It just so happens that he feels like it every time he begins to fall asleep, feels the dark tendrils of the nightmares—the memories—just brush his skin. He feels like it when he jolts himself alert, rushes to his desk to reaffirm control. It's his body, he'll do what he wants with it. Even when it hurts, it's such a relief to have the power.
After, when he can breathe easy again, he rinses the glass in the bathroom sink, wipes it thoroughly with rubbing alcohol, then rinses it again. He dries it carefully, so as not to nick himself accidentally.
It goes back into his drawer, and he is allowed a few hours' dreamless, semi-restful sleep.
Until next time.
