#sick patton

[savesavva]

moceit with @thegoldenduckie designs! because theyre lovely and because i had this image for some time and finally draw it <3

[annaizscribbling]

I am sick. Take this

[punkeropercyjackson]

Anybody who thinks black actors getting casted for originally white characters recieving tons of hate from the get-go is because fans want 'accurary' is a fucking dumbass.Every website since the 2010s has been the 'Logan Lerman is the perfect Percy Jackson' website

[delimeful]

in sickness and in health (8)

warnings: captivity, arguing, remus talking about remus things, panic, gratuitous amount of puns, lmk if i missed any

-

“What’s going on?”

The impromptu staredown between all three humans was interrupted by Roman hurriedly leaning obnoxiously far over the counter, bodily blocking Patton’s view of the two borrowers.

“Patton!” he blurted, clearly aiming for a casual air and instead landing somewhere in the realm of ‘stewing in blatant panic and guilt’. “Hello there, what an unexpected and lovely surprise to see you here, in… the kitchen of your own home.”

Next to him, Virgil heard the small, distinct thwap of his fellow borrower’s palm meeting their face.

“…What’s going on?” Patton repeated, sounding far more awake this time.

“Extremely normal, non-fairy-related things,” Roman answered, visibly sweating.

“Extremely bloody Dionysian orgies,” Remus said at the same time, considerably louder.

Virgil could see just enough of Patton’s expression to watch the way it crinkled in a sort of morose confusion.

“In the kitchen?” he asked, voice pained, as though that was his main problem with the suggestion.

“If there aren’t any knives involved, can any orgy really be called Dionysian?” Remus replied in a faux-wise tone, lifting his arm to make a deeply inappropriate gesture in accompaniment with his words. This technically cleared the way back to the wall, but as it turned out, only for a moment.

Before either of them could get too hopeful about any chance of escape, Remus ended the gesture by quickly clapping his hands over the both of them in a makeshift dome shape.

Next to him, the other borrower only flinched a bit, but Virgil couldn’t help the outright squeak he made at the sudden limbs dropping down over them.

There was another pause from the humans above them, this one distinctly more harried.

“Um, guys?” Patton’s voice had gone from confused to concerned. “What was—?”

“Broken whoopee cushion,” Remus insisted. “Filled it with mayonnaise, you know how it goes.”

“He sneezed!” Roman added, his voice sliding up a few pitches. “Gesundheit, Remus! Totally nothing strange about that— Padre, wait!”

There were big steps drawing closer, now, and Remus’s hands cinched in a little tighter around the two of them. They were forced to huddle even closer together, and the other borrower’s bony elbow collided with his side in a way he wasn’t convinced was accidental.

He shot them a glare, which they returned with an expression that was equal parts indignant and frantic. After a second, they forced a barely-there whisper through grit teeth. “It’s your human. Will he hurt us?”

“How am I supposed to know?!” Virgil hissed back, just as quiet. “I didn’t ever get caught before you showed up!”

Not while the human was conscious enough to remember it, anyhow.

The other borrower’s eyes narrowed into slits, reminding Virgil that he probably shouldn’t be antagonizing the guy that already proved themself willing to try and murder him once. Before they could respond, though, the conversation over their heads continued.

“Guys,” Patton said, sounding stern. “What have we said about wrangling critters in my home?”

“That it was a firmly banned activity after the Great Frog Croak-tastrophe?” Roman guessed sheepishly. “And, y’know, that was certainly a fair and just ruling for that situation, however—!”

“Nuh-uh, I don’t wanna hear it,” Patton replied, unwavering. Virgil could practically envision the way his human was standing from his tone alone: hands on his hips, eyebrows raised expectantly. “Frog or not, I’m sure whatever you two caught will be much hoppier once they’re released safely outside, right Remus?”

“Eh, you might not feel the same after you see them, Pattycakes,” Remus warned. “I know I’m usually the harbinger of pests, wrangler of rats, champion of centipedes, but not even I know what to do about these guys.”

There was the shuffle of clothing, like Patton was shifting in place, and he sighed. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to figure it out together, huh?”

There was a moment of hesitation where Virgil assumed the twins were exchanging a wordless meaningful look, as they so often did, and then the distinct slide of glass across a countertop.

The moment the hands around them twitched, Virgil shifted into a crouched position, drawing his legs under him and preparing to bolt the moment there was space, even if it was probably totally futile. Next to him, he could feel the other borrower doing much the same.

Rather than lift off of them, however, the hands shifted to pinch even closer together, forming the shape of a spade, like a pair of nut shells that had been glued back together at the edges, leaving a hollow space inside. The two of them were forced to scramble upwards into the hold or get limbs stuck in between the sides of Remus’s palms as he scooped them up off the counter completely.

Virgil’s stomach dropped at the upwards movement, completely out of his control, and he reached out and latched onto the side of the other borrower’s shirt with a white-knuckled grip. They were still at least a little concussed, and Virgil wasn’t letting them get separated now, not when he’d already gotten himself into the most terrifying situation in his life saving them. Wherever they were going, they’d at least be stuck in it together.

To his surprise, the other borrower gripped him right back.

After only a few seconds, they were lowered and deposited onto a familiar smooth surface. Virgil grit his teeth at the feeling, resisting the urge to scream in frustration. He’d just gotten out of this stupid glass pitcher!

He didn’t get much time to seethe indignantly, however, because the moment Remus’s hands pulled away, there were much bigger problems to face.

Three of them, to be precise.

Heart in his throat, Virgil slowly lifted his head to look up at the face of his human, warped through the curve of the glass.

With a confused furrow to his brow, Patton moved to take a step closer, and then stopped short as the sight before him properly registered. His hand flew up to cover his mouth, his eyes widening with surprise. “Oh my!”

“I toad you so,” Remus interjected unhelpfully.

Roman cuffed his shoulder, and Remus immediately jabbed two fingers into Roman’s side in retaliation. It was only a firm warning look from Patton that kept them from devolving into another slap fight during the most terrifying moment of Virgil’s life.

Virgil shifted to stand, shuffling back until he didn’t have to crane his neck so painfully to make eye contact. Humans were so big, and it had never been more evident than it was now, staring up at giants.

Staring up at Patton. He was pretty sure he’d had a nightmare that had gone exactly like this. Well, minus the concussed would-be assassin. And the frog puns.

Patton, for his part, had developed a genuinely distressed twist to his features as he took in the sight of the two of them. After a moment of wavering, his gaze settled firmly on Virgil, sending a prickling sense of alarm up his spine.

“Hello again,” said Patton, smiling at him.

Virgil froze. The borrower behind him froze. Even the twins froze for a moment, before their heads both snapped around to stare at Patton with eerie synchronization.

“You know them?!” two voices asked, in two very different tones.

Virgil felt dread drop into his gut like a stone down a sewer grate. There was no way.

“I know one of them,” Patton answered, unperturbed by everyone’s shock. “That’s the little guy who helped take care of me while I was sick!”

He lifted a hand in demonstration and wiggled his fingers, the healing burns on them still visibly shiny.

The twins gaped. “He what?”

Behind him, in a far more bewildered tone, the other borrower echoed them: “You what?”

“You shut up,” Virgil muttered sourly without turning to look at them. His heart was practically shaking in his ribcage, knowing that the human had remembered all along, that Patton had returned home well-aware of the intruder in his walls.

The realization felt chilling, like a thimble of icy water had been dumped down his shirt. Patton hadn’t acted strange at all, hadn’t cast any speculative glances at the walls or scanned any shelves for undersized intruders. The twins and their ghost-hunting equipment clearly hadn’t known the truth, so why would Patton? Virgil hadn’t even suspected.

Who knew what would have happened after Roman and Remus left, and it was only the two of them, with Virgil blissfully unaware of the danger he was in?

Well. Caught like this, he supposed he was going to find out soon.

Patton’s smile faded, carefully watching the way Virgil’s chest was visibly shuddering with too-shallow breaths.

“You thought I froggot, huh?” he said, looking inexplicably sad. “I thought about it while I was in the hospital, and I kinda figured we’re really not supposed to know about you guys. That means it was pretty darn brave of you to try and help me anyways.”

Virgil swallowed, fear sticking in his throat. He didn’t know what to say. He certainly didn’t feel brave.

The other borrower stepped up to be at his side, ignoring Virgil’s reflexive attempt to shoulder them back behind him.

“I suppose the saying is true, then.” They paused, narrowing their eyes in a silent challenge. “No good deed goes unpunished.”

The encompassing flourish they made was a little wobbly, as though their balance was still off, but it got the point across: Patton had recovered from his illness, and they were stuck in a pitcher on his counter.

Virgil’s incredulity at the other borrower was enough to snap him out of the worst of his frozen terror, his head whipping to the side to stare at them.

They were insane. They had to be, using such sharp words and an even sharper tone with a human. This was just about the worst time to instigate an argument. The two of them were stuck in a pitcher on his counter!

Unsurprisingly, neither of the twins looked particularly happy with the accusatory turn the conversation had taken. Patton had been their friend for a long time. They had always jumped at the opportunity to defend him from harm in the past, and Virgil doubted that would change now.

For all their tomfoolery, the two of them could be downright vicious when they were angry. If they were willing to tear fellow humans a new one for messing with Patton, it was gruesome to imagine what they’d do to a pair of borrowers. They’d already been terrifying enough when they’d only been curious about him.

Before either of them could begin to speak, however, Patton nodded once, almost to himself, and pivoted to face his friends.

“Howsabout you two get started on cleaning up the living room so we can settle down and get some proper sleep?” he asked, the request firm enough that it was clearly more of an instruction than a suggestion.

Both twins started protesting immediately, looking extremely put out at the idea of abandoning Patton with their exciting new find. They were talking over each other, the words tangling and becoming an indecipherable mess by the time they reached Virgil, but he was fairly certain he heard phrases like “—but I’ll only lie awake haunted by fairy law and order,” and, “—you can’t keep me away from my new pyromaniac bestie!” in the mix.

“Mhmm, yup, we can discuss all of that later,” Patton replied stoutly, ushering the two of them towards the entrance to the kitchen with insistent sweeping gestures, like a shepherd with his herd. “There’ll be plenty of time to talk over breakfast in the morning, but it’s getting late, so hop to it!”

“We’re being banished with frog puns! This is an amphibian atrocity,” Roman bemoaned.

“Froggin’ unbelievable,” Remus agreed. 

However, even with all their complaints, they seemed to understand that Patton wasn’t budging this time, and reluctantly allowed themselves to be shooed out of the kitchen like the world’s noisiest sheep.

At Virgil’s shoulder, the other borrower took the opportunity to lean in while the humans were across the room.

“You ‘didn’t ever get caught,’ hmm?” they asked, still far too smug considering the situation they were in.

A muscle in Virgil’s eye twitched. Despite everything, he wasted a moment considering the merits of trying to inflict another head injury on his fellow captive. They’d been a lot more tolerable with the beginnings of a concussion.

“Do you want to go back to trying to stab each other?” he snapped instead, stepping pointedly away even as he made the thinly-veiled threat. “Because it seems like you want to go back to trying to stab each other.”

“Oh, I’m so terrified,” they replied drolly, crossing their arms. “Won’t someone save me from the horrible Monoxide assassin and his entirely genuine threats?”

Virgil stared at them for a moment, disbelieving. “You know, I think I actually liked you better when you were trying to murder me in cold blood.”

“Don’t lose hope. Maybe I’ll try again later,” they retorted with a dangerous glint in their eye, and then they were both falling silent as Patton approached once more.

Out of the corner of his eye, Virgil caught the contemplative frown that flashed over the other borrower’s face, the only glimpse of their consternation at facing down a human. They may have had plans aplenty to deal with the twins, but Patton was clearly more of an unknown to them.

…Virgil knew Patton. He’d spent enough time watching the human to get attached, grown familiar enough with Patton’s life to cheer on his efforts and fret over his disappointments. He should be able to find the right words to get them out of this, convince his human the way the other borrower had effortlessly fooled Roman, but… he couldn’t.

It was impossible to think up a strategy for this situation. How could he possibly reconcile Patton, the guy who helped organize weekly PTA bake sales and volunteered to look after kittens he was allergic to and cried when he saw roadkill, with a human who knew, who would keep them trapped, who needed to be pleaded with for their release?

How was he supposed to bargain with a monster if he couldn’t even accept that the monster existed?

“I’m sorry if the twins frightened you,” Patton said, voice lowered to a softer volume. “They tend to be very exuberant, but they don’t mean any harm.”

The other borrower looked as though they were on the brink of scoffing at the very idea that they couldn’t handle Roman and Remus, a defensive slant to their shoulders.

“Why?” The word tumbled from Virgil’s mouth without his permission, his shoulders hunching under the undivided focus of Patton’s gaze.

“Why what?” he asked, tilting his head slightly like a confused dog.

“If you knew,” Virgil forced out, fingernails digging into his palms, “why didn’t you tell them? Or— or look for me?”

Understanding settled onto Patton’s expression, and he hummed thoughtfully, as though considering how to phrase his answer.

“If you wanted to be seen, you would have come out and said hi,” he finally said, simply. “You saved my life by calling for help. If you wanted to stay a secret, the least I could do is make sure to keep that secret safe.”

Virgil blinked up at him, trying to force the words into a configuration that made sense. Humans didn’t just let mysteries exist, especially not ones that were so easy to grab ahold of.

“I won’t lie and say I’m not awfully curious about you,” Patton continued, and his hand was reaching out for the handle of the pitcher and surely, this was the moment that it all came crashing down—, “but you can’t force a friendship. Especially not like this!”

Slowly, in gentle increments, the pitcher was shifted to lay on its side, the open end facing away from Patton. It was practically a straight shot to the closest wall entrance, their freedom waiting where the back of the counter met the kitchen wall.

They’d been prepared to make a break for it at the earliest opportunity before, but now, with escape dangled in front of them, both borrowers hesitated. Virgil exchanged a dumbfounded look with the other borrower, trying to stomp down the insane hope bubbling in the back of his mind.

“If you ever want to talk, you know where to find me!” Patton finished, making sure the glass was stable and settled before releasing it and stepping back. “Otherwise, my lips are sealed— and I’ll make sure Roman and Remus keep the secret, too.”

He made a zipping motion over his mouth, eyes crinkled with amusement at the edges, and then turned and walked out of the kitchen without a single glance back.

Virgil hadn’t uttered a single plea, and yet, the path back to the walls was right there. He looped the other borrower’s arm over his shoulder and led them, step by faltering step, across the counter, even scooping his bag up as he went. Nobody came rushing in, nobody stopped them from taking those last few steps into the safety of the walls.

He’d expected to face a monster, and instead he’d been offered kindness, unasked for and freely given.

They were both quiet as they shuffled further into the familiar cramped space, as though a single sound would shatter the illusion of this impossible release. The other borrower pulled away after a moment, their pain of their concussion likely more manageable in the dark. The silence stretched, relief and exhaustion weighing on them in equal measure.

Virgil yawned despite himself, absently wondering if they were going to continue that semi-murderous argument about cults and who wronged who, and if the other borrower would be willing to reschedule it to sometime after they’d slept.

Ahead of them, a third figure stepped out of the shadows, quickly looking them over as though checking that everyone was still intact. Oddly enough, they sort of smelled like gunpowder.

“Hm. That certainly didn’t go according to plan,” they said bluntly, the oversized pack on their back jingling slightly as they stepped forward. “Still, we all survived, so I suppose introductions are in order.”

[blackoutbugza]

For an art request, genderbent/fem! Sides? Maybe a fem!Logan perhaps?

aaaa it’s finally done after like 8 years

here are the sides

(if you tag this as romrem

i will physically fight you)

the girlies

[halfhissandwich]

yes this au is stabbing me in the heart again, why do you ask?

[lefaystrent]

Me, Myself, and These Guys Who Kinda Look Like Me Ch. 1

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Pairings: Thomas/Sides

Summary: It starts with dreams. Then Thomas starts seeing the dream people in the waking world.

Thomas doesn't know how to bring it up to anybody or if he even should at this point.

AKA, Thomas has to acknowledge the six colorful characters in the room, much to their long-awaited delight.

AO3 Link: click here

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It starts with dreams.

The first one, he stands in the middle of his living room. Everything is exactly where he left it, contrary to many of his previous dreams where reality constantly shifts. It's different this time, because it's so real, like he actually stood there with his socked feet on the carpet, lights and lamps on and the windows dark outside. He breathes, and he feels his lungs expand, and he speaks. He talks. There are people standing around him in a semi-circle. One by the stairs, one on the bottom step, a couple in front of the TV, and the others in front of the blinds. And they have distinctive colors and cadences, so vivid in their mannerisms. They argue, they debate, they laugh, they listen.

It starts with that first one, a dream yes, but for some inexplicable reason Thomas finds himself gasping awake in a cold sweat. He throws off his covers and sweeps around the room, unable to get past the nagging sensation that he is not alone.

More dreams persist, to lesser degrees. There is nothing to do about them but experience them. He dreams of horseback riding with a prince, riding fast through wind-swept lands. He lays under a starry night and points out constellations with someone who knows more than he ever could. He bakes cookies and hums 'Sweet Caroline' with another voice keeping harmony. There is wine and he shares a drink with a cloaked, dapper fellow. He falls into the ocean and meets what lurkes beneath, hears cackles beneath the waves. And he lets hands nestle protectively over his ears and tell him to breathe in and breathe out.

For weeks, the images of these- people? They haunt him in his sleep like wisps of smoke. So real in the moment, but fogged over when his eyes open. He tries to recall the things said, their exact expressions, who they remind him of. There has to be a reason they plague his nights. A connection he missed. Why it seems to matter, he doesn't know, only that it did. Incredibly so. Thomas could write off the dreams. If it was just some really specific, lucid dreams he kept having, fine, he can deal. Maybe refer to a dream dictionary, see what might be bugging him in real life.

Then he starts to see the dream people in the waking world.

He's filling his thermos in the kitchen and out of the corner of his eye, he catches a black polo shirt and blue tie. When he looks at the sink, there's no one standing by it. He turns around, but Thomas is definitely alone in his house. He shakes it off. Rationalizes it. Moves on.

He stands in the store, contemplating the pros and cons of protein bars versus candy bars. A yellow hand flashes, and he swears he glimpses a hatted figure., but as Thomas spins around in the aisle, there's just a mom and her kid. No one dressed that formal or intriguing.

Thomas gets together with his friends. They're working on a new video, a music mash-up because those have done well in the past. For a second, he blinks and there's a figure dressed in white and red standing next to a hooded figure, and it's like they're a part of his friend group, just goofing off. But when Thomas blinks again, there's no one standing behind Quil, and Terrance is waving his hand in front of Thomas's face to get his attention.

He goes to bed, dozes and peeks the eyes that stare at him from the open closet door. There's a shine of sequins and jazz hands. Before his heart can start, there's a soothing weight at his side. It reminds Thomas of when he had nightmares as a kid, how his dad would sit at his bedside and tell him goofy stories with the most serious voice. The prescence remains even as he drifts to sleep. It follows him into his dreams.

For weeks, it goes on, and Thomas doesn't know how to bring it up to anybody or if he even should at this point. How does one say, "I think my imagination has dreamed up whacky characters who are now haunting me." They'd tell him he's working too hard, that he should get more sleep, or that he's always been so creative. Worse, they'll think it's more serious. It can't be that serious. It can't be actual hallucinations, right? He's not really interacting with them, and though it feels real for those half-a-seconds, it's not concrete. It's out of focus, and somehow not alarming. Should he be alarmed?

It's a whole mishmash of indecisiveness. It's the American way, to say, "Well I'm not dying, so I don't need to go to the hospital yet." He's just one Floridian man with a lot on his plate, and yeah, maybe he's working too hard, maybe his head had been hurting more lately from all the whiplash of trying to spot the men from his dreams. Maybe he's just going through a weird phase. If he waits long enough, surely...

He works himself to exhaustion. And his head really has been hurting more than usual. It pounds through the back of his head and erupts behind his eyeballs. He's starting to toss and turn more in bed until he gives up altogether. One day, he goes out to meet Joan and Talyn. They take one look at him and send him back home. The bags under his eyes have bags, and they claim they can hang out just fine with him resting at his apartment. And the crowd of colors follow, the ghosts hanging close but always in the peripheral. 

He wants to tear his hair out in frustration at himself. He kind of does think he's going insane.

Then to no one's surprise, he gets sick. Really sick.

The headaches are insufferable. He's running a fever. He doesn't know how high. He lost his themometer at some point and told himself that he would eventually get around to buying another one. He can't leave the house to get another one. Hell, he can barely leave the bed. And he'd be damned if he calls anyone for help. The most he allows is a text to his mom letting her know that he needs to cancel coming over for lunch, that he's staying home to rest. She sends back a series of well wishes and love, and Thomas thinks of how lucky he is to be her son and thinks in spite of himself that she was here to take care of him.

He's never been that good at taking care of himself, and this latest illness brings it into perspective. He's got pills somewhere, Ibuprofen that could bring the fever down and ease the overwhelming ache, but it's like admitting defeat. They haven't been doing anything for his head lately anyway. There's definitely voices edging around him, reminding him of what he should do, how foolish he's being. How if he could only listen...

Thomas rebels and curls up into a shivering ball under his covers.

He doesn't keep track of time. The curtains hanging over his bedroom window are too thick to let much light in anyway. There's darkness, and there's pain. He comes out of another dream, half-awake and bleary-eyed. The pain in his head comes to a blinding, boiling point. It's far too much and Thomas full-out whimpers. Weakly, his body contorts to try to find some relief that he knows is not there.

"Medicine," he hears a voice. He doesn't know if it's one of them or himself begging. The fever has him in a death-grip and he questions if he ever truly woke up. "We've got to get him to take some medicine."

"I'm working on it!"

"I know this situation is worrying, but please try to remain calm. Let me try-"

Thomas gasps as a knife twists inside his skull. He sees little stars and fireworks, and it spins him so off-kilter he thinks he's about to faint or throw up. Belatedly, he realizes that he's crying. A dull panic envelopes him. He regrets not calling for help sooner. He thinks he's dying now. He wants his mom desperately.

"I don't like this."

"None of us like this!"

"He looks pale, like a corpse. Do you think he's dying?"

"Not at all. He's perfectly healthy, don't you see?"

"You're okay Thomas, we're here. I just wish-"

"Logan's got it! He managed to grab it, he's bringing it-"

"Okay, but how do we get him to take the medicine anyway? In case you forgot, we can't touch people!"

"Please don't yell, I'm trying to concentrate."

"Sorry."

It doesn't make sense, and Thomas isn't entirely convinced the chatter is outside of his head. It's so hot and so cold, and Thomas wishes he knew where he left his phone or how to make his muscles co-operate, or ya know just how to stop his head from exploding.

There's shuffling and the whisper of cloth moving. His bed dips? He swears someone is sitting on his bed right beside him. He hears the subtle swishing of a pill bottle, the cap opening. There's more words being said, but he can't concentrate past the ringing pitch in his ears.

He opens his eyes, not realizing he had closed them again. There's something being pressed to his mouth, a pale wrist hanging above his face.

He doesn't think, just grabs the wrist.

Dimly, he's aware that the chatter muffles. Mostly though, his clammy hand has the wrist in a frantic clutch. It's cold, and he kinda wishes he could pull it to his forehead, a cooling balm.

He whines again in misery and a voice clears their throat. Hands touch at his shoulders. First one, hesitant, then more. He's being sat up, and it does nothing but wrench his equalibrium into a joyride. Moaning, he sits in a gasping slump and waits for whatever is to come.

There's a couple of pills forcing their way into his mouth. He doesn't fight it, a part of him realizing someone is trying to help him. They slide past his tongue, and then a water bottle presses to his lips. They tilt his head back to allow him to pull slow sips.

It's not magic. The pain doesn't disappear, and the fever doesn't sporadically abate. He's still a mess, but there are hands lending him strength. They ease him back down on the bed. They right his T-shirt where it's bunched up and shift the covers. They push back his hair, and Thomas wants to weep when a wet cloth settles over his forehead.

There are whispers, soft and sweet and awed.

Drained, he falls unconscious.

***

When he wakes next, the headache is still there. However, it's a low thrum in a way that Thomas hasn't experienced in days. That in and of itself is no small miracle in his eyes.

His fever must have abadated at some point in his rest as well. He finds the covers have been kicked off of him, the vent from the AC blowing against sweat-damp skin. He feels gross and tender, and he can't remember the last time he ate anything substatial or had a proper shower. All in all, he might as well have been a piece of wet laundry that had been beat over a railing and left out to dry.

Can insides be bruised just by sickness alone? he thinks as he blinks lazily. There's the ceiling, white above him. In his room, there's a hush, and he knows even before he sits up that there's a crowd.

His arms shake as he pushes himself up. He's too tired to do anything but stare at nothing in particular. There are six people around in his room. It's not the biggest bedroom, so they're rather sandwiched in where they can.

He recognizes them of course. Thomas first sees the bowler hat. The guy who wears it sits in his only chair in the corner, legs crossed. A man decked out in sparkly green sits on the floor beside him, hair fluffed with a shock of white in the bangs. Standing at the foot of the bed, arms mid-pinwheel, is the prince. He's staring down at Thomas like- well, Thomas isn't really looking at his face, so he's not really sure, but it's like he's cut himself off mid-sentence once Thomas sat up.

There's another figure standing to Thomas's immediate right. It's the black polo shirt and blue tie. Glasses. The man's wearing glasses. Somehow, Thomas never noticed and he doesn't understand why his brain is latching onto this fact as if it's ground-breaking information.

Beside him on the bed sitting criss-cross applesauce is another guy with glasses. It's the one he dreamt of baking cookies with. He's hovering to his left, a hand raised in the air towards him but not going any farther.

"Hey there, Thomathy. Feeling any better?" He's got a polo shirt on too, but light blue. It looks like very soft fabric. The cardigan tied around his neck even softer.

Thomas doesn't react. Doesn't know how he's supposed to react. He still doesn't look directly at any of them, and he's not all the way convinced this isn't another dream.

"Hey Colon Sanders!" the green guy hollers. "Hey! HEY!"

"You know those people who think they can get through language barriers simply by being louder?" Bowler Hat says. "That totally works is what I'm saying, do keep trying."

The green guy does nothing more than blows a raspberry. "Poop. And shit. Poop shit."

"I... suppose it was a little much to hope," the prince gives a little chuckle, but it's sad.

"Is he still sick?" a gruff voice asks below Thomas and to the right. Out of view and almost missed. Thomas focuses on the purple hoodie. He's crouched beside the bed, arms barely taking up any room on the mattress by Thomas's hip. His fists are clenching. "Maybe he's gonna hurl. Does he look like he's going to hurl?"

"He is undoubtably still sick," Blue-Tie announces. "It will take time for him to recover, and we managed... much more than we thought possible last night. There is victory in small successes."

"Has anyone tried touching him again though?" the prince asks hopefully.

In answer, Thomas twitches his hand until it lands on Purple Hoodie's fist. There is definitely a hand there under Thomas's own. The cuff of the sleeve slides against the side of his hand. It's real too. Purple Hoodie gives a barely perceptible choking noise. He's gazing up at Thomas like he's sprouted wings and laid eggs. Thomas doesn't exactly meet the stricken stare, but it's close.

Around them, the others don't notice at first. They've started arguing, and wow is it weird to be able to hear all the words finally. He hears some of their names, and he hears their voices with crystal clarity. And all the while, the fist under his hand is beyond stiff and unmoving.

Cardigan, from Thomas's left, gasps. His hands fly up to his cheeks.

"Patton Pending?" Prince asks in response.

"Thomas is holding hands with Virgil, look!"

And everyone does.

Six pairs of eyes hone in on Thomas holding hands with a guy, and it's the least gay thing ever.

"I don't think I'm dreaming," Thomas declares. He picks up Virgil's hand for good measure, and the dude lets him. He's got this deer-in-the-headlights expression going on, and the eyeshadow he wears is impressive, but Thomas is more concerned with testing the weight of the hand. It feels like a hand and moves like a hand. Therefore, it must be a hand.

Thomas drops the hand. "Yeah, I don't think I'm dreaming." He grabs the water bottle left on his bedside table and calmly drinks some. He can't bear the tacky feeling in his mouth. He needs to brush his teeth at some point.

"Holy shit," Green Guy surmises. Bowler Hat has uncrossed his legs and sat forward with intent.

"Thomas?!" Prince and Cardigan and Blue Tie all say in varying stages of alarm.

"That's my name," Thomas agrees. He's so tired. He sits the bottle in his lap in favor of rubbing at his face. He thinks he remembers crying at some point. God, what a mess he must look like.

"You can see us?! Like you can actually see us?!" Prince exclaims. He staggers one knee onto the foot of the bed in his haste. His eyes are so bright they make Thomas's squint. "Thomas, please say you can see us. Don't let this be a dream."

"I've seen you guys in my dreams," Thomas murmurs. He doesn't know how else to answer. If he's matter of fact, maybe things will be easier to process.

To that, Prince is at a loss. An excited loss, but still a loss. He wears a half-cocked grin of question, glancing to Blue Tie and Cardigan and Virgil. And Bowler Hat is now standing beside him.

"Patton, do us all a favor and poke him," Bowler Hat commands.

Patton pokes Thomas's shoulder. It's gentle enough and sways Thomas minutely. With rapt attention, Patton pokes him again.

"I poked him," Patton says with wide eyes.

"You poked me," Thomas confirms.

And that's when the chaos erupts. They're all talking at once, some of them trying to get his attention again. Virgil's got a vice of a grip on the bedsheets. Prince tries crawling onto the bed, only held back by Bowler Hat. Green Guy grins at him in the most bewildered fashion. Blue Tie is gesturing for everyone not to talk over each other, and Patton keeps poking Thomas's shoulder while saying, "Poke, poke, poke."

It's a lot to take in for a guy who thought he was dying a few hours ago. With that same calm in place, Thomas drags his legs over the side of the bed onto the floor. Virgil scrambles back to give him room. Thomas wonders if he should apologize, and then reminds himself that this is his room and that dream people shouldn't exist.

"Thomas?" someone calls, he doesn't know who.

"I'm going to go get a shower," Thomas announces.

No one stops him. They get quiet again, and he can feel them watching him. His body is sore and his head won't shut up, but he manages well enough. Blue Tie steps out of his way so he can grab some clothes from his dresser. If anyone tries to say anything more to him, he ignores it completely. He's too busy barricading himself in the bathroom.

[bellagrohl]

[prodigal-explorer]

patton and janus be kind to roman challenge (impossible) (they can't fucking do it it's impossible)

[crrative]

I wanna make a TSS fanfic site out of this blog but where the physical fuck do I start? Someone make a request.

[exsqueezememacaroni]

HEAD ON!

X

[sleepyvirgilprompts]

Virgil was woken by a knock at the door. Patton’s voice said, “Are you okay, Anx-- Virgil? We haven’t seen you all day.”

“Go away!” he called out reflexively. Then he caught himself. Patton was just a floofball, he didn’t deserve to be grouched at. “Sorry. I’m fine. I just... want to be left alone today.”

There was silence for a moment. “Your voice sounds a little scratchy, kiddo. Are you sick?”

Shit. “I’m fine, Pat. I’m just tired of peopling, okay? Just--” He yawned. He was pretty sure he hadn’t been asleep for more than about ten minutes before Patton had woken him up. “Leave me alone. Please,” he added as an afterthought.

[delimeful]

in sickness and in health (7)

warnings: arguing, fear/panic, lying, injury mention, gratuitous sarcasm, lmk if i missed any!

-

Virgil exchanged one quick, panicked glance with his attacker-turned-rescuer, and knew he was screwed.

Regardless of their sudden, deeply suspicious change of heart, there was no way this guy was going to stick around to get caught on behalf of a Monoxide borrower, former member or not.

And if they stayed, they would be caught. Virgil was already as good as in Roman’s hand, his escape interrupted at the worst possible moment. Perched at the top of the pitcher without a hook to grapple down with, he was essentially stranded above a bone-breaking drop.

The moment the other borrower bolted, Roman would be spurred into action, and Virgil would be right back in the pitcher where he’d started.

Maybe with a fellow captive, depending on how quick the borrower was.

… The concussed borrower. Right, so they were both screwed.

Heart racing, Virgil let the rope fall from his grip, keeping a steadying hand on the thin lip of the pitcher as he turned to wait for the human’s approach.

The human, who was still standing there, gesticulating wildly. Had he been talking at them this entire time?

“--realized they were suspiciously well-timed firecrackers, and you know what they always say about timing in my Theater 102 course–,” he continued, before abruptly cutting himself off. “Hey! Excuse you, I’m trying to have a conversation here!”

Virgil turned to see that the other borrower had simply started walking away. They glanced over at him briefly, their carefully faux-casual gait not even stuttering.

“Oh, no, do go on,” they drawled with an eye roll, like they were bickering with an annoying stranger in a colony instead of sassing a human. “I was so deeply entertained by your self-congratulatory monologue.”

Virgil held his breath, feeling slightly faint as he waited for violence to ensue.

Roman squinted at them for a long moment, and then smiled beatifically. “Why, thank you! It’s good to know someone around here appreciates my theatrical flair. Not everyone can pull off the flair required for such a thrilling aha moment, you know.”

“Mhmm,” the stranger agreed, sounding entirely insincere and yet somehow managing to prompt Roman into an entirely new tangent about dramatic reveals and cliffhangers. They met Virgil’s wide-eyed incredulous stare with an extremely smug look.

They weren’t actually walking away, he realized belatedly, but towards the bag Virgil had abandoned on the counter when they’d had their first unfortunate encounter.

His bag held all his recent borrowings, and more importantly, his hook, which was basically the only thing that could feasibly get him down from his current conundrum without endangering the other borrower further.

They weren’t leaving him. Like an insane person, they were actually trying to salvage the situation, and somehow, it was working.

“--believe that they cast me as an understudy for that chronic overactor, it’s practically criminal!” Roman continued.

“That’s not the only thing that’s criminal,” the stranger muttered, looking as though they’d heard this particular speech one too many times before.

“What was that?” Roman asked, and then seemed to process that they’d traversed a good chunk of countertop. “Wait, where are you going?”

He stepped forward slightly, craning his neck to see around the warped glass of the pitcher, and Virgil felt his grip on the glass grow tangibly sweaty. The stranger, crouched next to Virgil’s bag, paused mid-rummage.

“I’m merely trying to multitask,” they replied, blinking innocently. “I’d just love to sit here and listen to you go on and on all night, but I have my own pressing responsibilities to fulfill. Ones that you– or rather, mostly your twin, of course– have already complicated.”

“Responsibilities?” This earned them a dubious up-and-down glance. “Like… catching dewdrops in flower petals, or...?”

Virgil wondered if the human was nearsighted, to miss that vexed eyebrow twitch.

“Contrary to your entirely flattering assumptions,” they grit out, “I am actually here on much more pressing business. The life-or-death kind.”

“No way.” Intrigued, Roman shuffled closer, entirely drawn in by the mystery of it all. “I mean, we knew it was serious, with Patton ending up in the hospital and all, but it really wasn’t just an accident? We thought it had to be ghosts for sure, but if there’s fairy criminals– Are there fairy assassins?!”

Virgil felt his blood run cold, as though he’d just plunged through a sheet of too-thin ice and dropped into freezing waters. And yet even through the shock, the symbol branded on his arm had never felt more searing.

The stranger met his terrified gaze through their own burn scars. The two of them had been marked by the same hands, and both of them knew exactly how spot-on Roman’s guess really was.

The moment they told him what Virgil was, the moment they revealed the bloodstained legacy he’d been born into, it was over. Patton had fallen deathly ill, and a human-murdering cult member had been sneaking around in his walls. No matter how oblivious Roman could be, he was more than smart enough to connect the dots.

They might not be his humans, but Virgil had seen enough of the twins to know exactly how vicious they could be in defense of their friends.

He was as good as dead.

The stranger’s expression flattened out, and they looked away with a sharp jerk of their head.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that. I don’t specialize in assassins,” they lied, voice airy.

While Virgil attempted to remember how to breathe, Roman had uncapped a pen and was frantically scribbling shorthand notes on his arm, apparently vividly inspired by the implication that there were fairy assassins out there.

As casual as anything, the stranger tucked the metal curve of Virgil’s hook into the loop of his belt. His gaze was unreadable as it flitted over Virgil, but this time, it didn’t linger.

“Oh, oh, I’ve got it!” Roman announced. “You two are partners! The grizzled veteran and the bright-eyed rookie, a classic crime-solving set up!”

Virgil didn’t even want to know who had been assigned what role. The stranger seemed to be thinking along the same lines, spreading their hands disarmingly as they responded.

“Oh, so close!” they said, a hint of mockery in their smile. “Actually, the criminal that I’m bringing to justice… is your unwitting trespasser up there.”

With a suitably shocked gasp, Roman turned to stare at Virgil. The stranger also turned to stare at Virgil, but at a considerably slower pace, wearing the sort of malicious glee that one typically saw in a cartoon cat that had successfully caught the canary.

Oh, you lying snake.

The scornful words tangled up in his throat the moment the human’s heavy gaze landed on him, years of deeply-ingrained instincts keeping him entirely mute.

So instead, he lifted up his free hand and flipped them off with as much vitriol as he could feasibly work into a single gesture.

“See how the miscreant wounds me even now,” the stranger said, pressing the back of their hand against their head as though they might enter a swooning faint from the offense. “Clearly, a human as quick-witted as you can understand how important it is that I complete my task and make them pay for their crimes.”

Roman nodded emphatically, completely taken in. “That’s why you were helping them out of the pitcher! Not to help them escape, but to prevent them from escaping the firm hand of justice!”

“I knew you’d understand,” the stranger agreed pleasantly, taking a few steps towards Virgil and his makeshift glass prison. “In that case, if you’ll just stand aside while I retrieve the culprit in question…”

“Oh, of course!” Roman replied, and then cast a considering look at where Virgil was dangling. “Actually, since it’s our fault— really, more Remus’s— that you have to go to the trouble in the first place, let me just—,”

“There’s no need for that, truly,” the stranger tried to cut in, clearly having caught on faster than Virgil. Their words were rushed, but still not fast enough to prevent Roman from reaching out and plucking Virgil off the edge of the pitcher, easy as anything.

Easy for Roman, anyways. Personally, being abruptly lifted into the air by a hand bigger than him was causing some difficulties for Virgil.

Mostly the fact that if this kept up, the heart palpitations were going to take him out before the humans or murderous victim of his former cult could.

“There we are,” Roman announced grandly, holding Virgil slightly aloft in front of the stranger in offering, like he’d grabbed them a tissue instead of an entire living person.

Virgil made eye contact with the other borrower, who looked mildly chagrined, and then gave in to the feral raccoon that lived in the back of his mind and twisted around to bite the human.

“Jiminy fucking Christmas,” Roman swore, immediately dropping Virgil as though burnt. “You bit me!”

Virgil made a sound like a deflating air mattress as he hit the ground backfirst, the impact knocking the wind out of him.

“Did you see that? They bit me!”

He ignored the sting of rapidly-forming bruises to roll to his hands and knees, his breathing coming in wheezing stops and starts as he tried to refill his lungs. There were borrower-sized steps approaching, and Virgil snapped his head up to glare furiously at the stranger. “Don’t.”

They stopped short, holding their hands up in a mockery of nonaggression.

“I can’t believe you bit me, and not Remus!” Roman had never sounded more offended.

Right. That was a cue to leave if Virgil had ever heard one.

He got to his feet, attention already locked onto the nearest wall entrance, and staggered the first few steps forward before a hand latched onto his wrist.

“Stop right there,” the stranger said, the words demanding but the tone of voice closer to a warning. “You’re not going anywhere like that.”

Virgil was tempted to take a swing at the guy, since apparently the first concussion hadn’t knocked enough common sense back into their head. He yanked his arm away with a scowl, but then froze mid-motion at a flicker of movement overhead.

“Don’t try me.” Roman had overcome his affronted shock long enough to move a hand to hover ominously over Virgil, clearly prepared to intercede if he tried to make a run for it. “Remus has brought over seventeen feral rats into our home, I am extremely well-trained in grabbing without getting bitten.”

“How convenient for me,” the stranger said, their gaze fixed squarely on Virgil. “If you would turn around? I obviously can’t take you back until you’re properly secured, and it’ll make things easier on all of us if you just play along.”

Virgil glared back in silence for a long moment.

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand their scheme. It was an insanely risky ploy that required extensive knowledge of the human in question, but the end goal was clearly to get the both of them back into the walls and safely out of human hands.

It was just that the last time he’d turned his back on this particular borrower, they’d literally attempted to run him through. Virgil found he wasn’t too keen on putting his undefended back to a guy who had tried to test out the structural integrity of his internal organs less than thirty minutes ago.

Unfortunately, the alternative was testing the structural integrity of his internal organs against a human who had dropped him less than thirty seconds ago.

Virgil turned around, his entire body drawn taut with tension, and let the stranger wrap some twine around his wrists in an ineffective parody of handcuffs.

“Perfect,” the stranger said, nudging at Virgil’s heels until he got the hint and started their trek towards the wall. “And now, thanks to your gracious interference, our villain can be tried for their crimes in front of a judge with the appropriate legal representation. The system is unimpeachable, the punishment will fit the crime, good triumphs over evil once more, et cetera.”

“‘Et cetera’?” Virgil muttered incredulously.

“You shut up,” the stranger whispered back.

“You know, when I heard about fairy courts, I was kind of envisioning something entirely different,” Roman mused, before visibly refocusing. “Wait wait wait, you can’t just leave! You haven’t even revealed the dastardly crime, or how they almost got away with it, or how you figured them out!”

“Oh, I really can’t delay. Fairy court is just so very time-sensitive, I’m afraid,” the stranger lied without hesitation, continuing to march Virgil forward as smoothly as possible. “I’ll have to return to tell you all about it later– of course, you’ll have to keep this little encounter to yourself. We aren’t typically supposed to disclose such sensitive information to anyone, let alone humans, but I’ve found myself irresistibly charmed by your moxie.”

“Aw, you’re just saying that!” Roman flapped a hand in faux-modesty, and then gasped. “Was I the bright-eyed rookie all along?”

Before the stranger could answer, Remus slid into the kitchen on socked feet, with so much momentum that he slammed against the counter. The painful thud of torso meeting marble did absolutely nothing to deter the grin on his face.

“Okay, bad news, I totally biffed my half of the divide-and-conquer plan. Good news, the other little guy is cool as hell and I’m calling dibs on hanging out with that one in advance,” he announced, and then visibly focused on the two borrowers in front of him. “Woah, what did I just walk in on?”

“You can’t call dibs in advance,” Roman instantly retorted, and then smacked Remus’s shoulder. “Stop being gross, the handcuffs are because they’re being taken away to fairy jail. After facing a trial required by fairy due process, I guess.”

The stranger’s grip on Virgil’s arm tightened, and they sped up their pace for the first time since Roman had entered the room. Virgil would feel more reassured if they weren’t still moving at a very ‘definitely-concussed’ sort of rate.

“I leave for five minutes, and you hand our puny poltergeist over to the cops?” Remus demanded, stretching his arm forward to block their way. “Ro-bro, it’s like you want me to disown you.”

“I would so disown you first, and you know it,” Roman hissed back. “Besides, they’re not a cop, they’re like, the fairy version of a hardboiled detective!”

“I don’t care how gay the detective is, that still counts as a cop!”

Unable to progress past Remus’s flesh barricade, Virgil glanced back at the stranger; they were pinching the bridge of their nose with visible irritation.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

“Like what?” they snapped back, voice equally quiet. “Anything I would say to fool Roman, Remus will rebuff! Anything I would say to convince Remus, Roman will reject! There’s no winning with these two!”

“Oh, great, so we really are screwed,” Virgil bit out.

“Not necessarily,” the stranger replied, unconvincingly. “They’re still distractible by nature. If we contribute to the argument, rile them up–,”

“‘Rile them up’?!” Virgil twisted around further so they could get the full effect of his disbelieving expression. “That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard. That’s insane. You’re insane. We’re going to die.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I suppose you preferred being stuck in the pitcher?” they retorted sharply. “Far be it from me to inconvenience the cultist who fractured my skull!”

“I’m not– You tried to stab me first!”

Whatever they said next was entirely drowned out by the twins, who had escalated their own fight into near-shouting territory. Virgil was only catching every other word, but it sounded like they were yelling about a completely unrelated topic.

Every time Remus responded, his arm lifted slightly further off the counter, like he was only barely resisting the urge to put his brother in a headlock. Virgil locked onto the movement, a spike of anticipation filling him.

“Shut up, shut up,” he interrupted the stranger, ignoring their irritated scowl. “Look!”

The moment they noticed the potential escape route, their displeasure instantly fell away in favor of smugness. “See? I told you they were distractible. My plans always work out perfectly.”

The kitchen light flicked on and off a few times, startling the twins into silence and drawing every eye to the figure standing in the doorway.

“Hey, kiddos,” Patton said, rubbing a hand sleepily over his face. “It’s called a sleepover, not a shoutover. What’s going on?”

Stranded out in the open with three humans looming over them, the stranger endured Virgil’s scathing look with a pained grimace.

“Alright, fine. We’re screwed.”

[loganslowdown4]

Remember how Patton says adultery instead of adulthood?

If Patton doesn’t know the correct meaning of the word ‘adultery’, does he think that it’s written in the Bible that you shouldn’t grow up?

I can see Patton reading the ten commandments and saying “Oh! Thou shall not commit adultery? Welp Thomas, no growing up for you! Video games and candy 24/7, it’s in the BIBLE!”

I just want this joke to be canon 😂

10th Anniversary Vine 💙😭

[cmplicitmovies]