[ Of all of the things Paimon is, he is also aā sensitive thing. There's a certain detachment towards others, towards humankind, by default; and yet among his kind, Paimon in particular is capable of a sort of attachment. He is the only one of his brothers to require an offering in order to be summoned in the first place. That gesture is one that deepens the bond between himself and whomever is at the opposite end. Hands must extend an offering, and he must reach to accept; contact is made.
He is sensitive. To energy, to will and desire, to the nuances of human strength and weakness. He must be, in order to provide for them what he does. Though he's lost much of himself, diluted and watered down and now confined to certain human limitations in this place, he still... feels more than any normal human can. It's there ā his sensitivity, prickling like a living thing.
Her overloaded emotional state as a result of his own bursts in him, a spark of illumination. And whereas he was overwhelmed by everything moments before, he is learning, and very quickly, that this is okay. What connection is here between them is powerful and unstable and he'sā okay with that. It burns, but not painful. He... seeks it, this stimulation, this direct flow from someone else into himself, where he has been so numb and so alone for so long.
He feels so alive.
But she's shirking from him for a moment, pulling back; she's tired, and he does know, through Peter, that the witch-girl has been ill. He doesn't quite understand that he must be especially gentle with her, however; he still has very little control over his own mental voice here. It causes a certain curiosity to perk its head in him, but he falls silent when she uses his name, immediately halting. She says his name. That is power, and he will respect it. He waits awhile before answering, and when he does, it's: ]
Careful. Please.
[ He repeats the words ā not as an instruction to her, but simply as an.... imitation of the words themselves. He even very subtly imitates the tone of Luna's mental-voice. Sounding them out. Careful please. He does grow quieter, but mostly because he's still imitating what she does, how she feels. The softness she's displaying now, the careful way she gingerly reaches back out for him. He flutters a bit more gentle when she does. He doesn't explicitly remember what curses are, not yet, and yet deep-down he understands. Those run as ancient as him, too, but he knows, somehow, that they aren't involved with him. ]
Not curse.
[ ...The question, though. 'What do you want?' He understands what she's asking, but not how to answer. What...does he want? Does he want anything? Has he ever? His memory is still filled with empty spots and mixed-up places, and for a moment he thinks what he wants is Mom and he doesn't understand why. Something in him aches, and then at once he becomes afraid.
The question ā the implication of it ā frightens him. It's the unknown. He doesn't know.
Mere seconds ago, he became more gentle as she had, and yet all of a sudden he isn't anymore. Undulating, constantly shifting like waves, Paimon changes again ā quickly. He shudders terribly sharp, and in his sleep, Peter frets again, fingers curling into bedsheets. The demon is a second heartbeat, pounding too hard, too cutting. It hurts; the boy, still asleep, frowns as that ache leaks from him. ]
I want you. Talking to. I want you to hold. Hold again? Me? You hold me. It was nice. This is nice.
[ He knows "nice" because of Peter. He's said it before, often, about things Luna has done, and Paimon's slowly picked up on the usage. Garbled, confused, the demon reels out the words, the only thing he can make sense of in the moment: an immediate, simple want, which is Luna's hands to hold him the way they once had those months ago, palms to his face, soothing him down where he'd been so fitful and upset in Peter. She'd comforted him. No one ever has. He's never been capable of being comforted that way. ]
Hold again. I want you to.
[ He just.. repeats it like he's stuck on a loop, and Peter is giving whimpers now, the sounds soft but progressively rising as he shifts uncomfortably, pained, in his sleep. ]
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He is sensitive. To energy, to will and desire, to the nuances of human strength and weakness. He must be, in order to provide for them what he does. Though he's lost much of himself, diluted and watered down and now confined to certain human limitations in this place, he still... feels more than any normal human can. It's there ā his sensitivity, prickling like a living thing.
Her overloaded emotional state as a result of his own bursts in him, a spark of illumination. And whereas he was overwhelmed by everything moments before, he is learning, and very quickly, that this is okay. What connection is here between them is powerful and unstable and he'sā okay with that. It burns, but not painful. He... seeks it, this stimulation, this direct flow from someone else into himself, where he has been so numb and so alone for so long.
He feels so alive.
But she's shirking from him for a moment, pulling back; she's tired, and he does know, through Peter, that the witch-girl has been ill. He doesn't quite understand that he must be especially gentle with her, however; he still has very little control over his own mental voice here. It causes a certain curiosity to perk its head in him, but he falls silent when she uses his name, immediately halting. She says his name. That is power, and he will respect it. He waits awhile before answering, and when he does, it's: ]
Careful. Please.
[ He repeats the words ā not as an instruction to her, but simply as an.... imitation of the words themselves. He even very subtly imitates the tone of Luna's mental-voice. Sounding them out. Careful please. He does grow quieter, but mostly because he's still imitating what she does, how she feels. The softness she's displaying now, the careful way she gingerly reaches back out for him. He flutters a bit more gentle when she does. He doesn't explicitly remember what curses are, not yet, and yet deep-down he understands. Those run as ancient as him, too, but he knows, somehow, that they aren't involved with him. ]
Not curse.
[ ...The question, though. 'What do you want?' He understands what she's asking, but not how to answer. What...does he want? Does he want anything? Has he ever? His memory is still filled with empty spots and mixed-up places, and for a moment he thinks what he wants is Mom and he doesn't understand why. Something in him aches, and then at once he becomes afraid.
The question ā the implication of it ā frightens him. It's the unknown. He doesn't know.
Mere seconds ago, he became more gentle as she had, and yet all of a sudden he isn't anymore. Undulating, constantly shifting like waves, Paimon changes again ā quickly. He shudders terribly sharp, and in his sleep, Peter frets again, fingers curling into bedsheets. The demon is a second heartbeat, pounding too hard, too cutting. It hurts; the boy, still asleep, frowns as that ache leaks from him. ]
I want you. Talking to. I want you to hold. Hold again? Me? You hold me. It was nice. This is nice.
[ He knows "nice" because of Peter. He's said it before, often, about things Luna has done, and Paimon's slowly picked up on the usage. Garbled, confused, the demon reels out the words, the only thing he can make sense of in the moment: an immediate, simple want, which is Luna's hands to hold him the way they once had those months ago, palms to his face, soothing him down where he'd been so fitful and upset in Peter. She'd comforted him. No one ever has. He's never been capable of being comforted that way. ]
Hold again. I want you to.
[ He just.. repeats it like he's stuck on a loop, and Peter is giving whimpers now, the sounds soft but progressively rising as he shifts uncomfortably, pained, in his sleep. ]