Trying to think of Good Ask despite Everything (having a cold). Um. Hm.
Jon having wet dreams about the Prentiss attack for Months. Waking up sweaty and terrified and wet. Once awoke to find himself desperately humping a pillow. Ashamed the whole way through but not enough to stop himself from cumming. Is that anything?
-Sparky
OUGH. ARE YOU KIDDING THIS IS EVERYTHING. Maybe they didn’t get out all the worms like they thought…or maybe the corruption marked him in a different way than Elias intended. Maybe in the moments the worms got into him he heard it. The singing. The hunger. That buzzing feeling deep in his bones. It was terrifying and the worms were so loud and for a moment he could’ve sworn they were talking. He could hear them. He could hear them and then he was in the hospital and he was so so itchy.
Godddd. This is so good. Thinking about the worms claiming him. Writhing deep inside him burrowing and making a home for themselves and feasting on his beloved body , so beautiful and perfect for them, they will take good care of it, they won’t let any part go to waste, he will be a beautiful home. Thinking about them writhing and him bleeding and shivering under the sensation of being consumed and adored and pain and pleasure mixing until he can’t tell the difference. Of being consumed by what wants him, taken away from the Eye (the what?) to somewhere safer and better by things that love him and writhe inside him and leave him wet and soaking overwhelmed with sensation and then he wakes up. Horrified at his own brain. Maybe it’s a trauma thing, or whatever. Brain unable to process this horrible thing that happened and trying to make sense of it. Maybe he shouldn’t have read her statement. His dreams are full of worms and they are so loud. They sing and they purr and he can’t stop thinking about it. He doesn’t know why his brain is doing this. Or why he’s so damn itchy. He eyes her statement in growing fear. He’s so goddamn itchy he can barely think. It’s not helping the fear that somethings wrong.
He wakes up in the night soaking wet whimpering for someone to love him so much they need to bury themself deep in his ribcage and never come out, need to become one with him, of being wanted so completely they’d devour him before they’re satisfied. He always feels ashamed whenever he starts palming himself, whining, so itchy. No amount of showering makes him feel less itchy. He can’t ask Tim if he feels it too. He’s so so itchy. The dreams are terrifying and far more pleasant than they should be. It’s a sweet, intoxicating kind of fear. The kind that satisfies some deep hunger in his brain he didn’t know about. He scratches his arm raw. He thinks about a million tiny bodies writhing under his skin voices so loud and he squirms a little too much over it. There’s something very very wrong with him.