( Peter β not-Peter β stiffens. It isn't the boy who answers him, but The Thing. He's so curious of it, but there's a wariness, too. A need to protect his own vessel, and to protect Luna from what this entity can potentially do.
Those voices whisper (or scream) for what they want β sadness, pain, fear, hate, hungry. Certainly, the demon king has known those things, not so long ago. When he was ripped from one host and during the time he was waiting to be given his next. The host's young body and mind had to be made vulnerable in order for his spirit to be able to occupy it. It had to be eroded down, torn away, piece by piece. Peter had to be made empty. And there had been so much sadness, pain, fear, hate. Peter's family had crumbled to pieces. Paimon had torn them apart, one by one, by one.
....But that wasn't his decision, at the root of it. It was the cult, guiding him, manipulating him... He's learned, since then. Learned how they'd used him, sought his abilities to provide great knowledge and treasures. Learned how permanently occupying a host isn't something he's meant to do at all. Learned how he's been trapped here.
...But this Thing. This Thing ripples with the urge to consume, to destroy, and Paimon flinches as the memory of what it is to do those things ripples up in him, too. It moves, it twitches and crawls towards him; the boy it occupies cries. Paimon draws up like a spider, limbs taut and crouching, baring his teeth at it in warning. He isn't afraid of it, but wary of what it's stirring in him, and some aching part of him pities itβ )
You will not feed here.( He warns, staying where he is. He'll meet it head-on. )Not on my witch. Not on my vessel.
( He lifts his head enough so that his chin is jutted, swollen eyes staring down at the Thing, studying with an intensity. What he says next is a different kind of warning, because the boy seems ready to split at the seams. )
You are going to rip apart your container. You are hurting it too much.
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Those voices whisper (or scream) for what they want β sadness, pain, fear, hate, hungry. Certainly, the demon king has known those things, not so long ago. When he was ripped from one host and during the time he was waiting to be given his next. The host's young body and mind had to be made vulnerable in order for his spirit to be able to occupy it. It had to be eroded down, torn away, piece by piece. Peter had to be made empty. And there had been so much sadness, pain, fear, hate. Peter's family had crumbled to pieces. Paimon had torn them apart, one by one, by one.
....But that wasn't his decision, at the root of it. It was the cult, guiding him, manipulating him... He's learned, since then. Learned how they'd used him, sought his abilities to provide great knowledge and treasures. Learned how permanently occupying a host isn't something he's meant to do at all. Learned how he's been trapped here.
...But this Thing. This Thing ripples with the urge to consume, to destroy, and Paimon flinches as the memory of what it is to do those things ripples up in him, too. It moves, it twitches and crawls towards him; the boy it occupies cries. Paimon draws up like a spider, limbs taut and crouching, baring his teeth at it in warning. He isn't afraid of it, but wary of what it's stirring in him, and some aching part of him pities itβ )
You will not feed here. ( He warns, staying where he is. He'll meet it head-on. ) Not on my witch. Not on my vessel.
( He lifts his head enough so that his chin is jutted, swollen eyes staring down at the Thing, studying with an intensity. What he says next is a different kind of warning, because the boy seems ready to split at the seams. )
You are going to rip apart your container. You are hurting it too much.