( The kid's not budging — which probably isn't surprising, considering Peter's "shoves" are more like gentle nudges; even in a situation like this, he has a hard time being too rough with somebody. That sense of urgency is just growing more and more and he stands there stupid and useless at their final warning. But there's some part of him that maybe thinks the younger teen wouldn't actually succeed in their threat to call the demon king out. Clings to that slight bit of hope. After all, Paimon doesn't just rise to the surface; it takes certain words, certain intention. Even if this kid knows his name, surely it isn't a guarantee that they'll actually be able to do anything.... Maybe at most, the demon will stir but not actually come out. Maybe Peter can keep this handled. Maybe—
—King Paimon, they say, and something freezes in Peter (is it ice-cold or scorching-hot? The sensation's some impossible mix of both). The words are assured; they use terms like summon and promised. They give the demon explicit direction. Even if it's slathered in defiance, in some jagged edge of challenge, the intention couldn't be more clear.
It is, undoubtedly, the ideal way to call the demon up out of him. Peter doesn't even have time to react. Suddenly, he's gone completely still and stiff, too stiff.
Without warning, his head snaps back so hard and fast that something at the nape of his neck and along some parts of his spine makes a cracking sound, bones worked too violently. His throat heaves with the convulsion that then spikes through him, wracking his thin frame; Peter gasps for breaths that don't come, eyes wide and wild. He can't stay up, he's falling to the floor, rolling around with gags, choked out of himself. It's been awhile since Paimon tore through him so unmercifully, so fiercely. But the demon's matching the harshness of his summoner's energy, that abrasion, that intention. Desperate to reach it. To answer this call.
Peter's whining like an animal as his body twists and heaves against the floor, long limbs curling and twitching like a spider that's been poisoned, like something dying too slowly. Then those pained sounds give way to something else, as his throat opens up wider and an alien comes through — with strange sounds. Ragged wheezes and clicks and chirps, noises but nothing close to words. The boy's body slowly rolls over, fingers scraping at the floorboards, and the demon just as slowly lifts its head up, mouth wet from saliva, eyes swollen, pupils too big and black.
Paimon shudders a few times, spasms continuing to ripple down Peter's spine, and slowly gets to his feet. Staring with eyes so wide it looks like they might split right at the edges, he takes in the summoner before him with a searching curiosity, a deep hunger. There they stand: golden-eyed, young (perhaps not as young as they seem on the surface), and filled with such heated longing to see him. )
Child....... I am here to answer.( He finds words, though they're hoarse and thick, tongue moving oddly. This hasn't been an easy transition. )
cw: possession horror; epileptic associations
—King Paimon, they say, and something freezes in Peter (is it ice-cold or scorching-hot? The sensation's some impossible mix of both). The words are assured; they use terms like summon and promised. They give the demon explicit direction. Even if it's slathered in defiance, in some jagged edge of challenge, the intention couldn't be more clear.
It is, undoubtedly, the ideal way to call the demon up out of him. Peter doesn't even have time to react. Suddenly, he's gone completely still and stiff, too stiff.
Without warning, his head snaps back so hard and fast that something at the nape of his neck and along some parts of his spine makes a cracking sound, bones worked too violently. His throat heaves with the convulsion that then spikes through him, wracking his thin frame; Peter gasps for breaths that don't come, eyes wide and wild. He can't stay up, he's falling to the floor, rolling around with gags, choked out of himself. It's been awhile since Paimon tore through him so unmercifully, so fiercely. But the demon's matching the harshness of his summoner's energy, that abrasion, that intention. Desperate to reach it. To answer this call.
Peter's whining like an animal as his body twists and heaves against the floor, long limbs curling and twitching like a spider that's been poisoned, like something dying too slowly. Then those pained sounds give way to something else, as his throat opens up wider and an alien comes through — with strange sounds. Ragged wheezes and clicks and chirps, noises but nothing close to words. The boy's body slowly rolls over, fingers scraping at the floorboards, and the demon just as slowly lifts its head up, mouth wet from saliva, eyes swollen, pupils too big and black.
Paimon shudders a few times, spasms continuing to ripple down Peter's spine, and slowly gets to his feet. Staring with eyes so wide it looks like they might split right at the edges, he takes in the summoner before him with a searching curiosity, a deep hunger. There they stand: golden-eyed, young (perhaps not as young as they seem on the surface), and filled with such heated longing to see him. )
Child....... I am here to answer. ( He finds words, though they're hoarse and thick, tongue moving oddly. This hasn't been an easy transition. )
Make known your request.