[ He nods, quickly, firmly — though less with any real confidence and more a sort of desperation, like he's holding onto the concept as tightly as he can, fully expecting he might lose his grip any moment. Keep that safe space. Keep thinking about it. Keep going.
Even as that odd sick feeling within him begins to build, on a level deeper than Peter can know, can control or understand — there's energy and intention and power here, and by the time Johanna's reaching across for his hands, he's also sweating. It's a cold sweat, one that leaves him shuddering soft and uncontrolled, beads of perspiration at his forehead and the back of his neck, and his complexion's paler, eyes a little wet and weepy, like he's sick.
But he reaches for her hands even if his own are shaking, hangs on tightly, lowers his head with a grimace as another wave of nausea and ache coil through his gut. He's panting, feeling dizzy, eyes going half-lidded suddenly.
'This is your home. This place is your place, this body is your body'
Abruptly, Peter's head snaps backwards, exposing the slender line of his throat, which begins to ripple with movement — the boy's slack mouth giving a few soft gagging sounds before they build to something else. Something that sounds distinctively like growling. It builds and builds, and with it, the energy to the room begins to change — something crackling, buzzing, like white-hot static. Oppressive.
He isn't letting go of her hands, and in fact is slowly holding on tighter, nails beginning to dig into the woman's skin. The sounds become louder, animal-like, yowling — angry. ]
cw: demon business
Even as that odd sick feeling within him begins to build, on a level deeper than Peter can know, can control or understand — there's energy and intention and power here, and by the time Johanna's reaching across for his hands, he's also sweating. It's a cold sweat, one that leaves him shuddering soft and uncontrolled, beads of perspiration at his forehead and the back of his neck, and his complexion's paler, eyes a little wet and weepy, like he's sick.
But he reaches for her hands even if his own are shaking, hangs on tightly, lowers his head with a grimace as another wave of nausea and ache coil through his gut. He's panting, feeling dizzy, eyes going half-lidded suddenly.
'This is your home. This place is your place, this body is your body'
Abruptly, Peter's head snaps backwards, exposing the slender line of his throat, which begins to ripple with movement — the boy's slack mouth giving a few soft gagging sounds before they build to something else. Something that sounds distinctively like growling. It builds and builds, and with it, the energy to the room begins to change — something crackling, buzzing, like white-hot static. Oppressive.
He isn't letting go of her hands, and in fact is slowly holding on tighter, nails beginning to dig into the woman's skin. The sounds become louder, animal-like, yowling — angry. ]