#straightverse

The feeling burned and bubbled like lava deep in the pools of his stomach. It feels like a slow rising tide of heat and a ticking time bomb for a volcano to rupture.

This, arguably, feels worse than that hypothetical metaphor.

His fingers tapped anxiously on every surface, be it the counter or his knees. He flinched at every voice that wasn't his son's. He played nice for the same reason and dropped the smile when the conversation is over.

Dan feels like he's about to set a forest on fire for how on edge he is.

Why perhaps? One reason.

He doesn't feel like he'd be spotten in that fire.

No, let's rephrase. He'd be the first suspect. Try again. The forest. It's the forest.

Dan is, hypothetically, in a forest. Always surrounded by trees, even though he's easy to spot, nobody can hear him.

And nobody would even dare to remember that he's there. But setting a small fire to the forest?

All eyes and fingers point to him. Sometimes it's not even his fault, but who cares? What if there was always some person who could never ever do such a thing? And if they did, nobody would ever suspect them because they're so nice, so lovable, so..

Not. Dan. He feels like this in this house.

He's a ghost again in a house that isn't his, and the host doesn't even bat an eye when he tries to at least make it haunted.

Speak of the devil when he's alone down in the basement, hearing the stairs creak in a slow timed rhythm.

"Is something wrong?" His demeanor changes completely when he's separating himself from his thoughts. An empty but convincing smile plasters on Dan's face as he turns from his shittly made desk.

"Do you need anything?"

Nightmares aren’t a new thing for Quackity. Not at all. What was new was desperately trying to avoid sleep to evade the nightmares.

After that whole sleep incident on Tumblr she really did try to sleep. The thought was simply too off-putting to actually lull her into any sleep, good or bad. However, napping with a way to wake up helped. Enough to keep her going for a day anyway.

It was late. Exactly how late wasn’t any of Quackity’s problem. She opted to focus on making something small in Luzu’s kitchen.

Their kitchen? Details were rough.

Groggily Quackity threw together a couple of ingredients. Avocado toast sounded nice, as she gently peeled the rough green skin off the flesh. From behind her feathers lightly shook, a call to go to bed.

Maybe tonight she will join Luzu?

Then it was the message.

Your hearts picked up one by one as you stumble up from where you sat in front of the builder block.

You rush over to where the explosion was. You couldn't lose Sunny too, they just got outside. This wasn't fair.

Tears build up in your eyes as you run, even as your legs ache and your lungs were sore. You're panting and your throat burned and it sucks everything sucks!

You stumble over branches and sticks, you fall and tumble but you clamber up each time.

This wasn't fair. This wasn't fair.

She can't take Sunny yet.

She wakes up as A1 sometimes. Screaming. Always screaming.

She didn't do that in her lab room. Sometimes she did, maybe. But here it's worse. She doesn't know why, either. She's okay and safe and she wakes up screaming anyways, feeling like she was burning or dying and drowning. Sometimes it feels like electricity, her wings flapping and fluttering and ramming themselves into everything, feathers tangling into mess on the floor.

Lately, the nightmares haven't been about dying, though. It's a sharp and mean twist to it all, like scraping your knees on concrete, like letting yourself get too close to the flames. It's been about mama.

Her Mama was always so beautiful, but she wasn't beautiful that night. She was scary. She was covered in blood. Not blood, not like Asha's blood, red hot and stick, but Mama's blood, black and scary as the night time, like the dark without a nightlight or the sky without stars.

In these dreams, she looks like the bear in the woods. The still one, the small one, broken and bashed open, still and cold and quiet. She thinks about her warm, big mama, still and cold and quiet, unmoving, just as hard and sad as the body in the woods.

Asha dreams about her mama and wakes up silent, eyes wide, heart in her stomach, dissolving. She wakes up crying, shaking, dizzy.

It was so easy, almost pathetically so. Then again, Death as a concept was lonely. So having something of its own that always return to it, that loves it? Of course it would want to keep it as close as possible. Of course it would react to sharing it with others with anger and jealousy.

The difference between them, is that Death is patient and kind. Death can wait until all the other competition fade away into the veil and collect its belonging. Death learned patience and kindness. Death swallowed its bitterness with sweetness and with the end in mind.

Ender King, did not care for such nonsense. The adventurer had always been theirs, and all those foolish little insects that flock over to him and fond over him where in his way. They knew nothing of how to care for their Angel. They knew nothing on how to treat him. Not like the Titans, not like Death, not like HIM.

It took days of slowly whittling away at Death's self assurance. Whispers of "Are you sure?" and "What ifs", echoing through its mind on repeat. It was frustrating at first how assured Death was of its place, until Ender King picked at the right insecurities. What about the Reapers? They're not going anywhere. Slime Demons notoriously live long lives, they'll be around for quite a while. If the Hellhound end up interested he could see him for who knows how long being the dog of that Beast.

The Ender King won't lie, having Death shield itself in the palm of his hand gave him immense pleasure. It reminded him of when a time way back. But this time, this time, Ender would make sure not to loosen his grip on Death. Two bleeding hearts, just for him to irritate the wounds.

Though, it must praise the 'Federation', it really made his work much easier with the kidnapping of his Angel's brat. Desperation always looked so at home on the direcrow's face, and he couldn't wait to see it much closer. Especially considering how irate he was with his crow bringing along that damn bird of his when he was specifically told to come alone. A soft 'tsk' leave his mouth, it mattered not, he decided.

And you're crying. And you hate yourself. You hate your chest and your teeth. You hate the way your clawed feet click against the floor. You hate where you can feel the second set of wings just beneath the surface, just below the other ones. You hate the skirts and the bows and the pretty girly cardigans and you hate all the generously gifted boy clothes you don't deserve from Juana and Tilin.

You hate yourself.

You hate your parents. You hate the people you thought should have been. You hate your perfect, wonderful best friend and all trick's 'perfect' (and still so flawed) parents that are trying so hard. You hate your brother and his perfect attentiveness and the kindness that he takes when he bandages your bleeding knuckles. Your knuckles always look bruised, now. It's not lady-like. It's not like your mama.

You don't look like your mama anymore.

You hate yourself. You don't even know who you are, anymore.

Tallulah is sweet and kind and perfect. She looks just like her mama, other than the gross dragon parts, but that's okay. She hides them. She's a flower child who loves music and nature and the world. She's kind and good and soft.

And you aren't. And you hate it.

And Mama's gone again. She's coming home soon and you look nothing like her.

You think you hate her, too.

After a minute or of running, they flopped onto a bench in the hall. They hadn't brought their cane, thinking foolishly that they "wouldn't need it" on this trip. Their back hurt and their lungs hurt, and they kinda felt like their stomach was digesting itself.

"Eugh.."

Cucurucho didn't die alone. Correction, it didn't walk alone. It walked side by side with a doppelganger, a mimic even, but better. This bureau was better.

It kept its mouth shut, stunned from the fear when it knocked on its door and spoke from the same voicebox as its. Oh. Right. It doesn't have a voicebox, this one does. See? Better.

And so they walked, from its office and making their way over to Maintainence.

The trip was quiet, nothing but the sound of metal hitting against the white pearly quartz floor and the gears and shift and click with every move.

Cucurucho spoke first.

"So," Its voice wavered. "We finally meet. Funny how this is the beginning of the end."