[ Certainly, his heart leaps. To have found a sensitive little place among all of Sebastian's enviable composure is akin to striking a satisfying wound on a rival, a playmate. To nudge wickedly against it is to toy with his own experience in being on the receiving end of 'weakness', skirting around the edges of it deftly without looking twice into the dark basis that held every insult and injury he'd ever received. He utters a delighted little oh! at the sharpness that comes to Sebastian's gaze, the edge of his smile.
For a moment, he expects a blow and it would be proudly received, at that. It's like scoring a point in the game he hopes could be endless between them. He's not had anyone like this in his life, clever and shrewd in ways that truly keep him teetering on the edge — caught somewhere between feeling so very wise and so very inexperienced. ]
I'm as keen on the decadence as I am the blood on the floor, Sebastian. I look forward to it.
[ He knows what he says, as the demon takes stock of the thing embedded within his body. The evocative image of a tattered hole over his heart, as though nothing were left to it at all but the wound; the soul and the heart, the mind and the personality — all existed as elements of the soul, and he hasn't stopped to wax philosophical on his own shard, nor the nature of them. Not yet, he hasn't had the time or the desire, after all. How does a god's soul become so compact, when it is as vast as existence itself? Their conversation about the lacking fullness of their beings lingers in the back of his mind.
For a small thing, there is a lot to it. Like dipping a curious finger into a dark pool of water and immediately knowing it goes on forever; there is a faint bitterness to it, the edges of something once full-bodied and rich gone to tatters from rough treatment. The pressure building in the ears as a thunderstorm builds heavy and low in the distance, the silken slide of fine grains of sands being carded through sensitive fingers. A single burst of wrath like a ripe fruit, the hint of that dark coil of Set's divinity kept so far from him; the potential of his evil. Wrath, bleeding spite, irascible resentment and oh, there is something possibly lovely in the tarnish, too —
It's the last thing Sebastian might taste, since he's taking his sweet freaking time. But it's only a taste. There's so much more in there, undoubtedly. A god is the soul, too. ]
im so glad we all were expected to know what our characters' souls tastes like
For a moment, he expects a blow and it would be proudly received, at that. It's like scoring a point in the game he hopes could be endless between them. He's not had anyone like this in his life, clever and shrewd in ways that truly keep him teetering on the edge — caught somewhere between feeling so very wise and so very inexperienced. ]
I'm as keen on the decadence as I am the blood on the floor, Sebastian. I look forward to it.
[ He knows what he says, as the demon takes stock of the thing embedded within his body. The evocative image of a tattered hole over his heart, as though nothing were left to it at all but the wound; the soul and the heart, the mind and the personality — all existed as elements of the soul, and he hasn't stopped to wax philosophical on his own shard, nor the nature of them. Not yet, he hasn't had the time or the desire, after all. How does a god's soul become so compact, when it is as vast as existence itself? Their conversation about the lacking fullness of their beings lingers in the back of his mind.
For a small thing, there is a lot to it. Like dipping a curious finger into a dark pool of water and immediately knowing it goes on forever; there is a faint bitterness to it, the edges of something once full-bodied and rich gone to tatters from rough treatment. The pressure building in the ears as a thunderstorm builds heavy and low in the distance, the silken slide of fine grains of sands being carded through sensitive fingers. A single burst of wrath like a ripe fruit, the hint of that dark coil of Set's divinity kept so far from him; the potential of his evil. Wrath, bleeding spite, irascible resentment and oh, there is something possibly lovely in the tarnish, too —
It's the last thing Sebastian might taste, since he's taking his sweet freaking time. But it's only a taste. There's so much more in there, undoubtedly. A god is the soul, too. ]