Thought about corruption jon again and lost my mind. I just think it'd be hot and fun if jon was the one getting trapped in his apartment hearing that song so loud and pretty and maybe he's not very good with keeping out worms and maybe he has an Unusual reaction to feeling the first of them start to burrow. Maybe him slowly getting overcome over the span of a few weeks. Maybe him all cute and soaked palming himself right outside the door so be can hear that beautiful beautiful song,,, eyes so wide and desperate and ever since he finally managed to get those works out he's been so itchy again. He didn't realize the itch was soothed. Jon all itchy and his body reacting to things it shouldn't. Maybe Jane should talk to him through the door way. Maybe he should be soaking wet slumped against the door whimpering. Maybe he should gasp out with gritted teeth why does it ITCH. Maybe. Maybe....I understand the themes I swear. I am just horny. And I am thinking about jon presenting himself to an empty room. Body responding to the strange feeling of being consumed by something that loves him in the only way that makes some sense. Just. Jon whimpering and Jane won't leave, not when she knows they're breaking him. Not when it's so clearly only a matter of time.
- skiesandcandy
@skiesandcandy I’m so normal about corruption Jon
Jon knew he had kept all the worms out, he was safe.
Only if he had kept all the worms out why did he itch? Why did the phantom feeling of something crawling inside him keep him from properly sleeping except when he simply passed out? More importantly, why did it feel good?
The song was so loud, so beautiful, calling to him, telling him he’d be safe, and loved and happy. Wouldn’t he like to have a family that wouldn’t leave him? A family that always needed him? To have them inside him, to nurture them. It pulled him forward till he was leaning against the door, to hear better to listen, he wouldn’t open it, no he just needed to hear.
He was so tired, he couldn’t sleep properly, waking up and feeling the phantom crawling after only the briefest sleep. He didn’t have any food left, it wasn’t like he ate at home much so the only thing left was food that had gone bad. He could see the mold inching its way through the bread on his counter, would that be him soon? Either the worms would get in, or he’d starve and either way something was going to be crawling through him. Tunneling through skin and muscle till only his bones were left, and then those would be broken down too till no one remembered him.
Hope had been the only thing keeping him from opening the door, hope that someone would notice, would come save him. Surely someone in his life cared? Only as the days went on and his food dwindled to nothing, no one had come. His only companion the humming and knocking from the front door.
If he pressed his ear against the door the song was so loud, enveloping him, interrupted only by the knocking, which always jarred him a bit, but the knocking was softer now. Jon found himself humming along, his own clumsy mimicking not as beautiful or as warm as the actual song, but he tried. The knocking stopped completely, but he took no notice as the song grew louder. There were words now, was Jane talking to him? She hadn’t said anything since trapping him, but the words were soft and gentle, twining with the music, telling him to open the door, to come out, to let the little ones crawl inside.
Jon felt heat curl in his gut, he wanted that, wanted it so badly. The itch inside him was lessened, replaced by something else, something he couldn’t quite name. He had thought the itch was the worms but hadn’t he always felt it? Almost unconsciously his hand slid down, sliding into his clothes to press against hismself, easy access in just joggers and an oversized shirt. He didn’t want to waste what little energy he had bothering with more professional clothing, no one was around to see him anyway.
He was soaked already, but it felt so good, it usually didn’t, not when he was alone. He could never see the point, but now, now his hand moved on its own, and soon he had two fingered inside, and oh it felt so good as the song pressed around him. Only the itch was back, it hurt, no please, it had been so soothing, the itch he had felt in his bones, no longer there tormenting him. He whined through gritted teeth, begging the voice on the other side of the door, the one that whispered soothing words to make it stop.
He stopped himself from grabbing the doorknob with his free hand only barely. His mind was screaming at him to let her in, to let himself have what he wanted for so long. His other hand didn’t stop, trying to soothe the ache, it was inside him, how else cold he?
He heard a laugh from outside, sounding wet somehow, before the voice returned. It crooned at him, little archivist, please come out, let us be your family. The words turned mocking, telling him they knew he would break, it was only a matter of time.
Jon whimpered, trying to keep his moans quiet as he pressed deeper inside himself. It was a poor copy of how deep the works would bury, would core him open. He wanted something inside, but he would have to move from the door, and the song. So instead he just kept going stretching himself open, half-presenting to the audience behind the door. When he finally managed to find the spot inside himself that made his nerves sing he was a mess, drooling and panting, little whines bubbling out his throat in time with the song.
So worked up he hadn’t noticed his movements had moved one of the washcloths he had blocked the crease in the door with. Just enough for one fat wriggling worm to slide through, the pain was sharp as it bit into his leg, vanishing inside before he could do much more than scream. He could see it eating away at his muscles, sliding deeper and deeper, the song hitting a crescendo. There was nothing he could do as more poured through the gap, he hadn’t managed to stop one, what could he do against a hundred. Still his hand didn’t leave his cunt, his whole body shaking. They were inside, each little mouth sliding through him as they nestled into his very bones, he was their home.
His other hand occupied, his free hand undid the lock on the door, it was a stretch, his legs too weak to lift him, blood pooling around him. He slumped against the wall letting it swing open, he was crying, but it didn’t hurt anymore, the only thing he could feel was pleasure, as the little bodies wiggled through him. Gentle hands riddled with holes wrapped around his wrist, shoving his fingers deeper into himself. He could feel more holes opening across his chest where the worms had eaten through from Jane into him as she held him, whispering that he was safe now, that he’d make such a good home. His last coherent feeling as he came head buried into Jane’s shoulder was the overwhelming sensation of being wanted, before his consciousness faded.