2025-03-07 1:57:54 ¶ ● ⬈

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Don’t think about Jon picking at the tiny holes in his skin imagining if the CO2 had gone off a few seconds later. Pressing his fingers deep thinking about them crawling inside, he’d never be alone again. The itching in his soul, as he thinks what of he had accepted it? What if he could have been a home to something that truly loved him.

~AnAces (I am normal so normal)

skiesandcandy:

> OHHH my god. Explodes. Dies.

> Staring at the holes along his face, tracing them, remembering how it felt. Those small writhing bodies and their tiny little teeth and their song, that sweet sweet song that plagues him even now. Wondering what if they’d missed a worm or two. But no. Nothing writhes under his skin nothing burrows nothing feeds he is empty and he is alone in his flat and he is picking at that hole, that hole that has nothing coming out except blood. There’s something wrong in his brain but what if. What if nobody had gotten to that switch. What if that moment where he slumped was all they’d needed? There’d been so many of them still writhing towards him at rapid speeds when Elias pulled the switch. How easy could it have been for them to turn him into a nest. A home. If he’d let them. If he’d reached out and offered, like she had, like he can’t stop thinking about her doing, burying his hand in that wasp nest and feeling something so eager so excited to have someone to love and protect and feed off of and stay with forever and ever and adore begin to burrow into him. There is no nest. The worms are all dead. The worms are dead and gone and this is a good thing and he keeps walking through those dsmn tunnels and staring at them. Sitting down next to them and resisting the urge to touch but only barely. Only barely. It itches. It itches so horribly and he cannot shake the feeling that if they were in him they’d be alive they’d be alright and they’d be getting full and happy off of all his flesh and blood and be perfectly content and happily purring at him that he is a lovely host. When did he start scratching at those holes again? They’re so itchy. They’re so itchy he wants to scream and cry and would they love him, would they burrow inside so deep and find all his terrible flaws and think they were beautiful, eat them too? He scratches his arm all alone and he thinks of being a warm warm body for a hundred happy little creatures who love him very very much. Of laying down on the floor and accepting it. Of sighing softly and letting them begin to eat him, shuddering and shivering as more and more and more begin to squirm towards him.

> Hes so itchy it hurts to breathe. He’s pushed everyone out. He’s alone. It itches. It burns. He wanders around aimlessly so so tired so lonely nobody WANTS him anymore and he doesn’t blame them and it itches. It itches so horribly he thinks he might break. He doesn’t know what will happen when he does. He keeps thinking he sees something crawling and squirming and going too quickly to check. There’s nothing there.

> There is something trying to build a nest outside his flat. He hasn’t gotten around to call an exterminator. He’s tired. And he’s so, so itchy.

> (If Tim and Martin and Sasha and Elias weren’t at risk. If it was just him. Would it have been so bad if nobody had been around? If he’d broken that wall all by himself and he’d gotten caught? Pinned down by a million warm, writhing creatures? Burrowing deep into his organs and feeding and feeding and feeding until they were satisfied? Would it have been so bad? He itches. He itches. God, he itches. He rereads Her statement over and over again and he still. Fucking. Itches. It’s so hard to think when he’s this itchy. It’s hard to sleep. It’s hard to eat. He just. Itches. All the time. Deep in his bones. Something is singing to him and the itch is so loud and he’s so alone. He’s all alone.

> It itches.)

> @anaceshornyblog just in case tumblr doesn’t work . Again