Dead Account(mostly)

HOW DID I MAKE THESE BEAUTIFUL HANDS?!

Four years ago Quvenzhané Wallis became the youngest Oscar nominee and today she is a published author! She is the first person born in the 21st century to be nominated for an Oscar. Lil Sis is blossoming and feeding creative minds on top of her stellar acting skills! Good for her, and good for all the little ones that will get to read them.

I WAS PROMISED A BATTLE

*throws down gauntlet*

Tag List:  @the-doggie-and-his-cuddlefish @fallingineternity @fangirlfiles1 @cup-of-blue  @reaper8439979 @lastfemaletimelord @zoeyheys @lizzysperil @trilight102 @frustratedwaffle @the-diaries-of-a-nerd @vladimeme @prplzorua @anxiousdepressedkid @ alzac-saber @softanon @chaoticgood-anon @321angst @vixenneko @justanotherpurplebutterfly @chemicallyimbalancedromance @hetaisawesome @virgilient @soft-blue-badger @latin-logic @the-sanders-sides  @emovirgil @itmepaigeb @evil-queens-rule @youcancallmeverge @datonerougecookeh @hells-angel-hevens-demon @glaceon-in-a-sweater @here-to-vent @thehomicidalbean @abstractedthinking @watch-me-introvert @alicethemadhatterapprentice  @i-prayed-to-you-cas @cherryblossomrebellion @musicphanpie-b @cochroachkappa-blog @sanative-sanders @you-can-call-me-verge​ @doctorwhitttaker​ @getupanddothething​

Chapter Notes: I’m so sorry for the delay on this one! As you might imagine, this chapter had a bit riding on it, emotionally speaking, and I wanted to be sure I got it right. Big thanks to @thuriweaver for helping me out and providing a critical sounding board each time I wrote myself into a corner! 

CW: Negative self-talk, self-loathing, anxiety, panic, nightmares, misunderstandings, cursing

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

* 

It was early the next evening before Virgil could bring himself to face the other sides again. 

That night had been easily one of the most miserable of his life. After taking apart the doll and stealthily returning the pilfered articles of clothing, he’d retreated to his room and locked his door, then crawled into his bed. As he’d feared, it felt huge and far too empty, and he found himself shivering, unaccountably cold. He realized he’d gotten used to having the warmth of the heating pad cradled to his chest as he embraced the pillow. 

He briefly considered recommissioning the heating pad by itself, but quickly dismissed the idea. It…hurt, somehow: the thought of using part of the doll only. It was stupid, he knew it was stupid, but he found himself almost mourning the thing, like it’d been a friend or something, and he couldn’t bear to think about trying to create a substitute. 

Besides which, he shouldn’t need one. He should never have needed the doll in the first place. It was that kind of weakness that made the others hate him so much, and if he ever wanted to be someone they could respect (or at least someone they didn’t despise), he needed to stop being so pathetic. 

So he’d huddled up in bed, shivering under the layers of blankets he’d piled on instead, trying not to give in to the fear that was creeping around the edges of his thoughts. 

But it was difficult. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the faces of the other sides, staring at him in disgust and anger. He’d jerk back awake, heart pounding and tears streaming from his eyes, a half-formed apology still on his lips. And then he’d lie in bed, trying not to cry, missing the doll with all his heart. 

It was late–or rather, early–by the time he did drift off, exhaustion finally allowing his troubled mind to slip into a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. But it wasn’t peaceful sleep. The nightmares that had plagued him before he’d created the doll returned with a vengeance, just as he’d feared they would. They were mostly vague–shadowy shapes that loomed in corners exuding threat and danger–but there were a few new ones in the repertoire, all featuring the other sides. Mostly they were giving him the same horrified looks they’d given him in the commons, or calling him names like freak and loser. But in one particularly awful dream, they’d been talking to Thomas about him, outlining his flaws and discussing all the reasons they should get rid of him after all. Just before he’d awakened, he’d been listening to Logan and Roman discuss ways they could work together to take over Anxiety’s job duties, with Logic examining situations for potential danger and Roman handling the fight-or-flight response accordingly. Thomas had been nodding along, looking thoughtful, and Patton had been beaming, proud that they’d finally solved Thomas’s ongoing ‘problem.’ Virgil had awakened from that one halfway to a panic attack, and though he’d only gotten a few hours of sleep, he elected not to try for any more. 

Besides…if this was what his nights were going to be like without the doll, he figured he’d better get used to being tired again. 

He spent most of the afternoon hiding in his room, listening for the sounds of the other sides. He kept expecting one of them to knock, demand that he come out and explain himself, but no one ever did. Virgil’s overwrought nerves couldn’t decide if that meant they were waiting for him to own up to the situation on his own, or if they simply didn’t care enough to bother with him. 

He couldn’t decide which would be worse.

At last, though, he decided that even if they didn’t particularly care about him, he at least owed them an apology. He had stolen their things. And if he could apologize for it…maybe they’d be willing to let it go. After all, there was no harm done: he’d returned the items, good as new. Even Patton’s cardigan, which he’d managed to get the makeup stain out of after watching a few youtube tutorials on the subject. 

And if they didn’t care, then maybe they wouldn’t bother asking why he’d stolen them. They could just chalk it up to one of his idiosyncrasies and shrug it off. They might still be mad for awhile, but as long as he didn’t do it again, maybe they’d get over it, and they could just go back to the way things were. 

He really should have known better. 

When he finally emerged, it was nearly dinner time, the first thing he saw upon opening his door was that someone had taped a folded note to it. He gulped, pulling it down with shaking fingers and unfolded it. 

Virgil, please come downstairs when you are able. We need to talk. 

The note was written in Logan’s cramped scrawl. Virgil felt the blood drain from his face, his heart beginning to pound. He closed his eyes, gripping the note tightly and hearing the paper crinkle in warning, and took several long, deep breaths. He couldn’t quite manage his usual 4-7-8 rhythm, but he was at least able to stave off the first fluttering beats of panic’s wings in his chest. He swallowed nervously, and tucked it into his pocket, before taking a moment to compose himself. 

Well. Time to face the music.  

His legs were shaking as he descended the stairs. His heart had set up camp in his throat, and was pounding there loud enough he was sure the others heard him coming long before they saw him. They were sitting on the couch, facing the TV, which was playing The Emperor’s New Groove. Virgil swallowed again, thinking wryly that it had always been one of his favorites; he hoped he’d still be able to watch it after today without it bringing up too many bad memories. 

Logan noticed him first, glancing over his shoulder when a floorboard creaked under Virgil’s weight. He grabbed the remote and turned off the TV, getting the others’ attentions, too–they all turned and looked at him at once, and Virgil looked at his feet, bile rising from the pit of his stomach to sit sour at the back of his throat. 

“Virgil. We were just debating whether we should come up after you,” Logan said. His voice–as always–was even and calm, and Virgil cursed the logical side for being so hard to read. 

He shrugged, once. “M’here,” he mumbled. 

“So you are. Why don’t you come and have a seat, buddy?” That was Patton, kind to the end. Of course. 

Virgil drew in a breath, and stepped forward, moving around to his chair. He crawled in and drew up his legs, hugging them to his chest as if they might shield his heart from what he was about to hear. When he dared glance up, he saw the others were still watching him, their faces unreadable (except, again, Patton, who was looking at him with what could only be described as pity). He also noticed, to his chagrin, that the stolen articles of clothing were currently laid out on the coffee table in front of them. 

“We need to talk about this,” Logan said softly. “But we wanted to give you a chance to have your say, first. So.” He adjusted his glasses, and nodded at Virgil. “Go ahead.” 

Virgil huddled in on himself, wishing he’d thought to pull up his hood before coming downstairs. It’d be too conspicuous–too obvious–to do so now. 

“M’sorry,” he mumbled. Then–because that really wasn’t going to cut it–he forced himself to speak louder and more clearly: “I’m…sorry. I shouldn’t have, um.” He nodded at the table. “I sh-shouldn’t have taken your clothes. So m’sorry.” 

Logan and the others waited, and Virgil had a moment of panic, trying to figure out what else he should say. Did they want more groveling? More debasement? What? God, he wished one of them would just say something already; this silent treatment was killing him. 

“Well. That is appreciated, kiddo,” Patton said at last, sighing softly. He sounded disappointed, and Virgil–God, Virgil wanted to cry. Why–why the hell hadn’t he hidden the damned pillow better? 

“I suppose it’ll do for now,” Roman agreed, settling back and frowning at Virgil. 

“We would like to extend an olive branch,” Logan said after another moment of stifling silence. “None of us have missed your improvement over the last few months. We had…perhaps falsely attributed it to our efforts to include you upon learning your name. But it seems clear now there was another coping strategy in your employ.” 

Virgil hunched his shoulders, nodding miserably. 

Patton slumped visibly, nodding as well. “I see. Well…I can’t say that we aren’t…a little disappointed, kiddo,” he softly. “But if this is what you need…we don’t want to take that from you. So…” He pushed his cardigan, neatly folded, forward on the coffee table. Roman and Logan did the same with their own clothing, before settling back again. None of them seemed quite willing to meet his gaze, except Patton, who looked…hurt. 

Oh God. 

“I…you d-don’t have to,” Virgil whispered, as their faces blurred in front of him. “I get it. It’s…weird. I’m s–I’m sorry.” 

Roman stood and moved away, over to the window, gazing out at the mindscape beyond with his hands clasped behind his back. Patton looked down at his hands where they were folded in his lap. Only Logan met his eyes, calm and quiet. 

“It’s…it’s not that weird,” he said softly. “There are plenty of psychologists who prescribe anger management dolls to their patients. I believe they are colloquially known as ‘dammit dolls.’ And many cultures used to burn figures in effigy, though for the sake of fire safety I appreciate that you have refrained from doing so here.” 

At first, Virgil was so confused he couldn’t even speak. He could only stare, stunned, as Logan continued: “In fact, I have to admit, you did an excellent job keeping our clothing intact. I suppose I can admire your restraint, all things considered.” 

Coherent thought slammed back into Virgil, and before he could stop himself, he blurted, “Wait, what the hell are you talking about?” 

That got everyone’s attention again; Roman turned to frown at him from the window, and Patton looked up from staring at his lap. 

“What…what do you mean?” Logan said slowly, frowning, glancing at the other two before looking back at Virgil, bewildered. 

“You…you think I was…beating up your clothes?” Virgil couldn’t wrap his head around it. Sure, Princey had thrown the suggestion at him when he’d discovered the doll yesterday, but Virgil had just assumed…once they’d taken a moment to really think about it, the doll’s real use would have been obvious.

“What else would you have been doing?” Roman said slowly, his frown turning to one of genuine confusion. Even Patton looked baffled, his head tilted inquisitively to one side, and Virgil groaned, hiding his face in his hands. 

“Virgil? What?” Logan asked. “What is it?” 

Well. Great. Now he’d have to tell them, because…because he couldn’t let them go on thinking… 

“Guys. It…it was…it was a hug doll,” he mumbled into his hands. 

“A what?” 

“A hug doll,” he said, just short of yelling. He flushed, humiliated, and continued: “It…I…I made it so I could. Um. S-see…see what it would be like.” 

“What what would be like?” Patton breathed, eyes wide and wet with tears. 

“To, um. To you know.” He waved a hand vaguely. Please don’t make me say it. 

“To get…to get a hug?” Roman whispered, now staring at Virgil like Virgil had just told him Disney was cancelled forever. 

Virgil hunched in on himself, looking down at his knees and letting his hair obscure his features. He shrugged again. “Stupid, I know,” he mumbled, face aflame. 

“Virgil…” Logan sounded…strange. Choked. Virgil flinched a little. Dammit. 

“Yeah. I said I know. So, um…let’s just…pretend this never happened, and never mention it again, okay?” He waved his hand at the clothes. “I’m guessing you’ll want to take those back,” he added. 

There was a beat of awkward silence. Then Patton rose to his feet. “Yeah,” he declared, voice quavering. “Yeah, we do.” 

Virgil flinched. But before he could figure out a way to gracefully escape the situation, Patton said: “Because you, Virgil Sanders, are never going to need a fucking hug doll again.” 

The shock of hearing the curse leaving Patton’s mouth made Virgil look up, and he was momentarily gratified to see he wasn’t the only one staring at Patton in surprise. But his attention was quickly taken by Patton, who was glaring at him with tears on his face, his hands curled into fists and his chest heaving. He stalked forward and held out his hand, which was shaking only a little. Unable to think or do otherwise, Virgil took it, his mind barely able to process the sensation of warm strong real! before Patton all but yanked him to his feet. 

When they were standing toe-to-toe, Patton put his hands on Virgil’s shoulders (warm strong safe real real REAL), and said, “Virgil. Unless you beg me not to right now, I am going to hug you.” 

“I…I…” Virgil couldn’t get out the words. His head was spinning, the room was spinning, and his vision was starting to tunnel just a little. All he could see was Patton’s face, inches from his own. 

“Well?” Patton said, stepping closer, until Virgil could feel the heat from his body, warm warm warm REAL–

“Patton.” Logan’s voice was alarmed and distant, coming from very far away. “Patton, wait, I think you need to–”

“Logan…he’s going to–”

“Shit. Patton! Grab him!”

“Roman!” 

“I’ve got him.”

The last thing Virgil knew was the feeling of strong arms encircling his waist from behind, and a broad, powerful chest pressing in against his back. 

Then the world went dark. 

Well darnit if that’s not the cutest prompt ever.

* 

Roman’s looked everywhere. He’s searched his whole realm, his bedroom, his closet–he even looked under the bed (a horrifying endeavor not for the faint of heart). She’s nowhere to be found. She’s just gone. 

“Now, Roman,” Patton says, “don’t panic. I’m sure she’s around somewhere. Where did you last see her?” 

“I told you, if I could remember that, I’d–” he trails off. Because he does remember the last time he’d seen the stuffed rabbit: when he’d had to rescue her from Anxiety’s terrible clutches. He scowls, and turns away from the bewildered Patton, suddenly very certain he knows where his beloved toy is. 

He tromps up the stairs and to Anxiety’s room, pushing the door open without bothering to knock. 

“Anxiety, did you take–” 

He pauses, coming to an abrupt halt, and staring in disbelief. 

Anxiety is on his bed, headphones on, eyes closed. His lashes lay dark along his pale cheeks, visible due to the lack of his usual eyeshadow. In fact, he has no make-up on at all, and Roman realizes he can even see the freckles that are scattered across his nose and cheeks–something Anxiety usually takes great pains to hide. His hair falls in his face, half-obscuring it, and he’s curled in a tight, protective ball. And cradled in his arms–

Mrs Fluffybottom smiles up at him from her place in his arms. Virgil’s nose is pressed against her head, between her long ears. One of his hands is wrapped around her torso; the other arm is curled beneath her. 

He is fast asleep. 

Roman’s heart melts. He sighs, moving forward and–very gently–taking one of Mrs Fluffybottom’s ears between his fingers. He rubs at the velvety softness there, something he’d always done when he himself was afraid or feeling alone–something that had never failed to comfort him, just as the doll herself had always done. 

He glances down at Virgil then nods once to himself. “Take care of him,” he murmurs to the stuffed animal, leaning down to kiss her cheek, then Virgil’s temple, the barest brush of lips to skin. He would deny doing it to his dying day, but just now, he can’t help himself. 

He tucks Virgil’s blankets more securely around him and smiles when Virgil sighs happily and cuddles the bunny in tighter to his chest. Then Roman backs out of the room and closes the door softly behind him. 

When he returns to the commons, Patton looks up from his newspaper, eyebrows raised. “Did you find her, kiddo?” 

Roman nods. “Yeah,” he says, and smiles. “She’s right where she belongs.” 

fill 14 sketch book

bad stuff is good stuff bc you made stuff

do you like sparkle???? draw sparkle

draw what make your heart do the smiley emote

member to drink lotsa agua or else bad time

d ont stress friend all is well

your art is hot like potato crisps

don’t let anyone piss on your good mood amigo

if they do

eat