All in all, this promises to be a silly but excited night.
Somebody put into Simon's head the fact that, now, she wants to make a big, soft kind of extremely garlic-ked bread. In her kitchen, you would imagine! No, nope, nothing of the sort. That 'somebody' is a video about a person making that dish in the woods, so of course the tiny demoness will follow it like a religion. Like it's something to live by. Is she doing this just because she knows Wrath will follow her? ... Maybe. Or maybe he will tag along so she won't turn into uncanned food for wolf. If it's for another reason? She doesn't suspect anything, blissfully unaware of anything but her own excitement.
Gathering ingredients it's not difficult, really: she just needs some herbs, oil and the classical ingredients for a bread, doesn't she? The pitter-patter of her naked feet can be heard from another room as she hangs in the kitchen, humming to herself and climbing up and down the counter to get a giant pan and then another, tying them together with a knot and pulling them over her back. Without putting shoes on (because those are for losers,) Simon ventures back into the living room, excitedly bouncing up and down with each step. You can tell that she's very excited when the frightening demon that she's supposed to be turns into a sparkly-eyed child that thinks of nothing but fun.
''Babe!'' She calls from near the door, hopping in place. ''Babe, I'm ready! Lessgo!''
It isn't difficult for her: the demoness has the necessary wits, if required, to manipulate situations and people to her liking -- paired to boot with enormous strenght. She is free to choose between violence and mental showdowns without losing even so often. It's a very appreciated compromise, to know that there can be a compromise. Having the freedom of a choice is like a balsam to her, and some playing can only lift her mood up in both good and bad days.
There are some games, however, that even she is extremely reticent to engage in.
Simon goes to bed at a late hour, vaguely remembering clinging to her boyfriend, only to be woken up by the sound of pitter-patter over the cold tile floor: Aaron, her oldest child, is holding his little sister Rosie's hand, seating her over the bed and proceeding to climb in. The poor child settles over Wrath's arm, hiding in there. ''What's wrong, sweethearts?'' She asks her children, tongue still heavy with sleep, as she lifts the covers to allow them underneath. ''Had a nightmare? Was it bad?''
''No,'' Aaron shakes his head, and Simon is taken aback by how frightened he looks, despite trying to hide it in his father's chest. ''Mom, there's something at the window.''
The demoness is abruptly and violently kicked out of her sleepy state, likening the awakening to someone hitting her with a punch to the face.
''Mom will go and check on it, then I'll get back in bed,'' she speaks softly, fixing the covers around the three of them. ''Don't worry, hun.'' They both seem comforted, already drifting off under fuzzy warmth and the soothing presence of another adult.
Simon is weightless. This plays in her favor when she travels the brief distance between their bedroom and her kids one, across theirs, her eyes affixed over something moving over the window.
It's eyes are bandaged with a tattered piece of cloth, it's long, tubular tongue swirling over the glass. It has not, however, broke in yet -- a sign that the protective barrier she crafted is working properly. Six-digit fingers are trying to undo the lock over the wooden frame, making up for a gross and frightening sight to wake up to in the middle of the night.
Perhaps, for a child. For the demoness, nothing seems to be scary anymore, not to a paralyzing degree.
In a slow stride, Simon wordlessly approaches the window. Her finger undo the latch closing it in a single, swift motion. Then, she inhales and is out of the window in a second, plying her body unnaturally to shove herself head first into the monster. With a low growl in her throat starting like an engine, she wraps her hands around the archangel's throat, summoning brute force to squeeze -- and tears their heads off, still in midair.
The night welcomes them over the damp, soft grass of the garden, mere seconds before it gets crushed underneath an heavy, headless body, golden ichor raining in thick drops, flattening most of the stems as it unfolds. The victorious, blonde one climbs off the lifeless, miserable creature and begins to feel the numbing sting of the material burning her skin.
The entire thing is discreetly disposed of in her locked basement: after that, Simon takes a quick shower to rid herself of the viscous ichor over her flesh, and stalks back into bed, where the childrens have fallen asleep, comforted, safe and warm. They don't need addictional words, and Simon cannot sleep. But when she tries to settle, a move too much stifles Aaron awake; the child rolls to her side, burying his face into his mother's comfortable shoulder. ''Mom?''
''Just a nightmare, Aaron,'' the demoness hums softly, a finger threading over her child's hair and barely brushing at his curled horns. ''Mom checked. Nothing's in sight, promise.''
''Kay,'' he mumbles, and upon seconds, he has fallen asleep between her and Wrath.
All is peaceful, outside. Elsewhere, her mind is a murderous storm with a particular want of blood and guts and golden ichor spilled across as much surface as she can get.
There are a few things that may sign a death sentence with the demoness. One of these happen to be touching her family, and something scared her children. Something that only another person could have sent -- out of spite, testing, or because of a loss of control.
No matter. It will be finally solved in the next days, and she chides herself for having waited so much time to deal with the trouble. Bothersome little obstacles should have been dealt with already, but she hesitated. She didn’t regarded them with excessive importance. She lazed around and waltzed around the issue far too long.
In the morning, it’ll be time to fix it once for all.
You watched as Madison turned into wood, even if not fully, and seemingly lost himself for a few moments before you were able to type enough supportive stuff to bring him back to your senses.
You watched your family fall apart for the whims of a cruel god, and kept watching.
You watched as plenty of people choose to ignore it, or focused on their lives and minuscole, insignificant troubles compared to your acquired family slowly fading away.
You watched people help or not help. Most of it is unknown to you, but it's forcing you to make decisions in behalf of others.
When this will be over and done, you will have to take a strong degree of control of Madison and Seculus's lives for a while. Fix what's wrong with their doings in order for your (now rarely seen around) best friend to return among you all, perhaps rip apart some people with the coldness you usually employ to get in battle.
Co-dependency must be eradicated to the root, apparently, in order for your friend to breathe again.
Madison will go to regular therapy, and he will not get a saying in this. Some good strategies to help are very needed, not to mention to regulate the trauma of this.
You watched, and you started disliking people around your friends, and you understood the need to be the one in control to help them not succumb to their mellow and compliant personality. Sometimes, it's needed.
You would have kept watching, if your dagger didn't tlunked particulary hard against the nightstand.
You knit your eyebrows together from the bundle of heavy blankets around your legs, grimacing at the object: your precious, long-lost weapon has been vibrating over itself for the past days or so -- and you cannot connect it to anything else than the calm and decisive feelings you're getting. You have rarely been so determined to, as you put it, 'deflagrate a deity' and save your friends, so maybe there's that...
It's worrisome, through. It started to become annoying to hear the damn thing costantly rattling at your side -- so you had to take it off, feeling uncomfortably less safe without it, and even afterwards it kept doing it. You have been informed that it stops vibrating when you leave the room, which reminds you of the eternal connection to your title and person and that ancient weapon you stole eons ago.
However, you have patience. Expecially with objects.
When you finally laid your phone down and picked it up, it begun to vibrate again -- more firmly, hitting your hip in the process of securing it around your waist again. ''What is it?'' You ask it, a tad exasperated. In response, it stops vibrating and it seems to pout, refusing to answer. ''Come on,'' you encourage it as you climb down the stairs, directed outside. ''I'm gonna take you out for a walk, and then you can tell me. Okay?''
How does a dagger pout, you'll never know. But it certantly gives off that feeling well.
A minute later, you're crossing your arms at it in your backyard. ''What if I unsheathe you, huh? Would you like that?''
It begins vibrating again, with more force. You smile a bit and do as you warned it to.
... The power that emerges from the blade, the second it's drawn, cannot be contained: you watch in disbelief as the blade grown into the one of a rather thin sword, and you almost stumble when your feet connect with the cold grass and you focus most of the strike towards the ground.
SHWOM.
And half the terrain in the backyard is, now, gone: with a deep gash still blowing smoke out, you're left completely stunned as the dagger-sword is placated after releasing some power, and seems to rest, purring, into your hands.
Aside from that, and the devastated backyard, you're also pleased with the performance. You dedicate your mornings to simple strikes to get acquainted back with the feel of a blade in your hands, humming along with your weapon.
==> At some point, you realize that you're homesick even if you just slept there and even if you had a whole lot of fun. You miss doing nothing at home -- you miss your small little chaotic life, you miss your kids despite having seen them minutes ago, and you miss being safe and sound in Wrath's arms more than anything. Being protected and cared for without a care.
==> This is stressful. Having someone to costantly protect does good to arginate most of your problems -- but it becomes a terrifying thing to do when the protection needs to be costant, or you'll come to a broken situation that requires costant calm nerves to fix. And despite this helping you forget about your problems and you wanting to be caring, it becomes a bit too much at times. Expecially when the new dynamic that created between you and a family member will eventually prevent you from being invited more often.
==> Sleep has become a bit stressful, too: you know that you will wake up to some unknown explosions, that will require you fully awake and running the second you come online. Falling asleep is easy -- but once you wake up, you're filled with dread of what could have possibly happened while you were resting. ... Some days, you felt so stressed that you thought about not showing up online at all and faking a long nap -- but morals withhold you from this vile thing. This is family, it's the one you choose and helping these people it's overdue. There's just a little problem...
==> You are not, in any way, calm. At all.
==> Expecially when you step home, and after the stressful day you had against Sarandiel's taunts and rescuing everyone from themselves, the first thing you do is open your mouth and pour a sludgefall all over your feet, the floor and start crying out of stress. Except that your tears are sludge, your mucus is sludge -- unfortunately, you're slimy and something broke. You're tired and antsy and you run to your boyfriend for protection and reassurance.
==> ... And a napkin.
==> It's a bit later in the day, more precisely way after midnight, that after a day of suppressing her to avoid anyone worrying over you, she has popped out in a more physical form and drained your energies — slowly, but in a way that left your brain feel scrambled and your limbs like jello.
==> When you finally feel safe enough to rest, you make sure to lean on Wrath for both moral and physical support (and a bowl to shove your face in to gather the murk) and try closing your eyes, the semi-liquid fluid slowly leaking like tears from under your eyelids — from your mouth and nose and ear too. You tilt your head to let it drip freely, devoid of any real energies after an exhausting day.
==> At least, you have Wrath to count on. You don't want to make anyone else worry or anguish over you, but it looks like you have a safe place home, to say the least. ... You apologize quietly for staining him, too.
There's this urge to run and bite and yell and (scream!) bloody murder and then tear off (someone's) throat, rabid and uncontrolled. After the impairment, she gives you murderous feelings that prompt you to try and stand up.
Doesn't work. (Try again, ahah!)
Doesn't work. (Better luck next time!)
Doesn't work, (so weak...) and her voice is an omnipresent cacophony in your head that crushes your thoughts and makes your limbs weak, weak, weak. A sharp nail taps over the side of the couch and you can barely feel ants running up and down onto it.
You try to stand up again. Doesn't work (man, you really have weakened--) and this time you're pissed off.
When you plant your feet on the ground, this time, you launch yourself off.
You land in the middle of the living room with an aggressive stomp, lips curled over sharp incisors and a snarl cowering in place as you take control back and she is forced (wait! WAIT! NO!) back into your mind where she belongs.
... There's a crack in the floor, but that can be fixed. You flex your fingers until they turn into claws, feel the skin split and then fix itself and the murk that plagues you dry and retires into it. You kick off the worst feeling of powerlessness you ever had and your joints crack, happy to rejoin you.
It might be just for a few days -- or for the burning, soothing anger at the back of your throat as you spit into a basin what's left of the disgusting substance, but you'll enjoy it.
