#ts analogical

[mvrphysart]

analogical hc: when virgil notices logan is overworking, he sits on his lap and kisses him to make him relax a bit <3

[loganslowdown4]

Virgil: I know a few words in Latin-

Logan: Which are-?

Virgil: Exorcizamus te, omnis, immundus spiritus et christo-

Logan: What about ‘hello’?

Virgil: I don’t know ‘hello’

Logan: You know how to exorcise a demon but you don’t know hello?

[loserlovercafe]

I feel sick so analogical W.I.P be upon ye

[justyourtypicaltuesday]

Was inspired to make more sanders sides ship art - enjoy.

[unicornfroggy]

I’ve been seeing a lot of analogical lately. Wanted to join the fun :)

[04thz]

Migraines - an Analogical oneshot

Logan's had issues with migraines for a long time, but never told the other sides about it. During a particularly bad one, Virgil comes to check on him.

Mild TW for mentioned vomit/throwing up - this is based on my own experience with migraines, and I basically always end up puking so Logan does now too lmao

Word count: 2444

Also! Just a quick FYI, I have an AO3 now! This one and the two NaruMitsu fics I made recently have been posted there. Will potentially move my older fics there as well, so in case anyone wants to read more of my writing without having to scroll through the wall of random that is my blog, I am 04thz on there as well. Anyways, enjoy the fluff lol

It was just one of those days. Hardly the first Logan had dealt with, but they never got any easier. He squeezed his eyes shut as another jolt of pain went through his skull and rolled over in bed to face the wall, where less of the light creeping in under the door could reach him. The movement caused a swell of nausea, and he forced himself to take a few deep breaths to suppress the urge to vomit, pulling the marine blue duvet up to further cover himself. 

God, he hated migraines. Tension headaches weren’t all that uncommon for the logical side, nor were caffeine headaches, but those were usually manageable with water and a couple painkillers, and if nothing else he could at least work through the more subdued pain. Whenever he felt a migraine coming on, that was it for the rest of the day, he would most likely not be getting anything else done until it was over. If he was lucky, the pain would be gone within a few hours and/or after a quick nap, but sometimes – like today – he’d wake up with a dull ache radiating out from one or both temples, which would steadily worsen over the course of the day, until it felt like one side of his head was being repeatedly wacked with a sledgehammer. And as if the throbbing pain weren’t bad enough, it was more often than not accompanied by crippling sensitivity to both light and sound, full-body chills, and such intense nausea it was nearly impossible to move without throwing up.  

Logan never told any of the other sides about his problem. Not only did he not want to appear weak, but also as long as he kept up with his work it was unlikely they’d think it odd that he'd stay couped up in his room for a day or two every once in a while; that was hardly unusual for him anyhow. Besides, it’s not like they could help with his predicament, actually there was all likelihood they’d make it worse. When he felt the aura of an oncoming migraine, he’d simply excuse himself from any social situation and bunker down in his room with a water bottle, painkillers, and a large bucket, in case he’d fail to quash the relentless waves of nausea. This time there hadn’t been any social situations to excuse himself from; he never even made it out of bed, much less out of the room. After trying and failing to go back to sleep to avoid the issue all together, he’d simply taken a pill and steeled himself for the dreadful day ahead.  

He’d managed to eat a couple bites of the breakfast he summoned for himself, and even done some reading before the gnawing ache became too intense to focus on anything else. But when it came time for lunch, he’d barely gotten the first mouthful down before it violently came back up, along with his breakfast. With throat burning and eyes running, Logan was forced to admit defeat, and he’d spent the next few hours subsisting on small sips of water, while trying to block out what little light seeped into the room and willing the day to just be over already.  

It was in this state that Virgil found him that afternoon. The alarm clock on Logan’s nightstand read 17:15 when he heard soft footsteps in the corridor outside. The three quick knocks on the door weren’t loud, but nonetheless agonizing, and Logan had to grit his teeth to suppress a pitiful whimper that threatened to escape his still sore throat.  

“L? You in there?” 

Logan sighed and tried his best to keep his voice steady. 

“Yes, Virge, I’m here. What is it?” 

The brief reply had sounded more abrasive than intended, and a minute passed in silence before a hesitant question came through. 

“Can I come in?” 

Logan took a deep breath and weighed for and against before turning back towards the door. 

“Yes, you may, just... please keep your voice down.” 

The door was slowly pushed open and Logan had to put his hands up to cover his eyes as the room was suddenly illuminated by the bright light spilling in from the hallway. Virgil stepped into the room, hands buried deeply in the pockets of his hoodie and shoulders pulled up; Logan’s blunt manner had clearly put him a bit on edge. Logan pressed his hands against his face. 

“Shut the door, please...” 

Virgil used his foot to push the door shut and Logan sighed with relief as the room was once again shrouded in blissful darkness. He lowered his hands and pulled the covers tighter around himself. Virgil leaned against the door, looking at him uncertainly as his eyes quickly adjusted to the dark. 

“Everything okay? Haven’t heard from you all day, and you don’t look so good.”, he said quietly. 

‘Not so good’ was rather an understatement. Logan had caught glances of himself in mirrors on better days and knew all too well he must look terrible; pale and shivering, hair a mess, eyes hazy, these kinds of days typically made him look like he was half-way to the grave. Not to mention his pajamas – consisting of indigo flannel bottoms and an old, faded Doctor Who t-shirt – were in desperate need of a wash. Reluctantly he reached for his glasses, sliding them on and looking at Virgil tiredly, though he could hardly make out more than a silhouette. 

“I have a migraine. Nothing to worry about, just... highly unpleasant.” 

The last two words came out as a sigh. Virgil tilted his head, taking a step towards the bed. 

“Oh, I see.” 

He slowly made his way over, pausing for a second and wrinkling his nose as he was hit by the rancid smell from the bucket on the floor. He looked at Logan, who wearily motioned for him to sit down on the bed. Virgil carefully sat down at the edge of the bed and started fidgeting with the drawstrings on his hoodie. They sat in silence for a while, until Virgil started finding it intolerable and softly spoke up. 

“Do you uh... need anything? Like an ice pack or something?” 

Logan went to decline the offer, mostly wanting to be left alone, but stopped himself. 

“That... would be great actually.” 

Virgil nodded, summoning an ice pack and a small towel, handing them to Logan. 

“Thank you, Virgil.” 

He gingerly placed his glasses back on the nightstand before laying the towel over his forehead and placing the ice pack on the side of his head that was throbbing the worst. He exhaled slowly, finally feeling some blessed relief as the chill of the ice somewhat dulled the burning pain. Virgil watched him, a small smile creeping onto his face. 

“Did that help?” 

Logan nodded ever so slightly, gently shutting his eyes underneath the towel. 

“Yes, thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it.” 

Virgil looked around, having no problem seeing in the very faint light from the door, though he’d know the room like the back of his hand even if he couldn’t see it. Out of all the other sides’ rooms, Logan’s was probably the one the anxious side had spent the most time in. If he’d had a nightmare or just couldn’t sleep, it wasn’t unusual for him to make his way over, and Logan was typically happy enough to let him in. For all he harped on about circadian rhythms and healthy sleep schedules, it was not uncommon to find the logical side sitting by his desk or reading late into the night. Sometimes, if he was feeling especially anxious, like after a bad nightmare, Virgil would ask Logan to read aloud to him from whatever book he was currently working his way through. Many nights he’d fallen asleep listening to various detective stories and scientific theories, curled up under the large, galaxy print blanket on Logan’s bed. Logan was a constant, a steady presence in Virgil’s life, even more so than the other sides, and seeing the normally - at least outwardly- unshakeable man in his current state was honestly a bit unnerving.  

“... Do you get migraines like this often?” Virgil asked softly, turning to look at Logan’s half-covered face. 

“Once or twice a month at most. They aren’t always this bad.” Logan replied tiredly. 

The anxious side chuckled quietly, mostly to himself. 

“Just bad luck today huh?” 

He could just about make out the slight movement of Logan furrowing his brows under the towel. 

“Wouldn’t call it ‘bad luck’ exactly. I have admittedly exceeded my own limitations by quite a large margin over the past couple weeks, it’s hardly surprising it would end like this.”   

Logan wasn’t sure if it was the pain, the drowsiness or just the fact that it happened to be Virgil sitting on the bed with him that made him inclined to share “unfavorable” information like that so freely, but he had to confess it was rather nice to not keep it all to himself for once. He was aware he was working on an unsustainable schedule, despite his best efforts to keep Thomas and his fellow sides from doing the same, and it felt – yes, felt – good to say so out loud. Like giving the thought some sort of external presence was a step in the right direction towards amending the issue. Virgil returned to fidgeting with his hoodie strings, watching Logan’s chest slowly rise and fall for what seemed like an eternally long minute before breaking the silence: 

“You haven’t been taking care of yourself?” he said, concern apparent in his voice.  

Logan sighed and moved the ice pack slightly to the left, before he let his hand fall to his side 

“I suppose not, no. There’s been so much work to do lately, everything else sort of got left by the wayside, so to speak.” 

“L, you can’t do that. You have needs too, you can’t just work and work and ignore them. That’s not healthy.” 

Virgil moved a bit closer to Logan, turning his body so his knee just barely touched Logan’s outer calf. The latter shifted slightly, somewhat unused to physical contact of any sort.  

“I know that, Virge. I am trying to find a better balance, but it’s easier said than done.” 

Virgil placed a hand on Logan’s knee, resting it lightly so that the other man may move away from his touch if he so pleased. Logan didn’t move his leg away, instead he slowly lifted a corner of the towel off his face, looking at Virgil questioningly, though the anxious side knew he probably couldn’t actually see him in the dark and without his glasses. Virgil bit his lip softly and ran the fingers of his free hand through his bangs.  

“I care about you, Logan. I know you hate the feelingsy stuff and all, but I really care about you, and I don’t want you pushing yourself like that. I’m worried about you, dude.” 

Logan drew in a breath, slightly taken aback. Virgil usually wasn’t much more forward about this sort of thing than himself. And that word; Worried. Virgil was worried about him. He noticed that Logan didn’t leave his room that day, he cared enough to come check on him and at least attempt to help with his splitting headache. None of the others typically even noticed he wasn’t present unless it happened to be for an extended period of time. As much as he hated to admit it, that hurt, and the fact that Virgil had sought him out and expressed concern for his wellbeing meant more to him than he knew how to properly verbalize.  

“Thank you, Virgil. I... appreciate that.” was all he could muster up through suddenly knotted vocal cords. 

Virgil gently rubbed Logan’s knee. There was, as always, an implicit understanding between them. Even if Logan didn’t know how to say it, Virgil understood that his concern was important to him. 

“I mean it. Just... I’m here for you, okay? You can always talk to me if something’s going on.” 

He was half expecting the conversation to be over at that point, and was just about to leave Logan alone to sleep off his headache, when the logical side spoke up again: 

“Virge? Could you maybe... read to me?” 

Virgil stopped in the middle of getting up, sinking back down on the mattress. Logan shifted the towel back over his eyes and continued: 

“I was reading Murder on the Orient Express earlier, but I didn’t get past the first few chapters before my migraine got the better of me.” 

Virgil smirked playfully. 

“Again? Don’t you have it memorized by now?” 

Logan scoffed, rolling his eyes despite the agony it caused. 

“I am too tired for musical references right now.” 

“Sorry, couldn’t resist.” 

Virgil snickered and reached for the book on the nightstand.  

“Can I lie down?” 

Logan nodded ever so slightly, and Virgil carefully nestled himself in between him and the wall, leafing through the book until he came across the ornate bookmark Roman had gotten for Logan’s appreciation day a few years previous. He smiled; half convinced Logan would have gotten rid of it by now. He cleared his throat and began reading. Though he wasn’t as big a fan as Logan, Virgil did enjoy Agatha Christie’s writing, having heard both Murder on the Orient Express and a couple of her other books read out multiple times, and he did find some pleasure in being able to return the favor after being read to restful sleep so many times. A few chapters in, he glanced over at Logan and noticed that he’d drifted off. He put the bookmark in place and carefully returned the book to its spot on the nightstand before removing the thawing ice pack and wrapping it up in the towel. Propping himself up on his elbow, Virgil watched his companion’s relaxed face with an adoring smile, and soon found himself dozing off to the slow, almost hypnotic rhythm of his breathing.  

When Logan woke up in the morning, finally free of the excruciating migraine, and found Virgil sleeping with his hand resting on Logan’s chest, he couldn’t help but smile to himself. Careful not to wake the other man, he got out of bed and put on his glasses. Before leaving for a much-needed shower, he made sure to tuck Virgil in properly and – much to his own surprise – gently stroked his cheek with the back of his hand. Virgil smiled contently in his sleep, and Logan quietly left the room with a warm, pleasant feeling in his chest.  

[i-had-a-bad-feeling]

Can anyone give me good Prinxiety fics? Or analogical hurt/comfort fics? Pleaaaase I’m so bored. Or possibly any winter-based SaSi fics? Pleaaase

[zhydoesart]

"when the rain stops" (acc version)

for @kieraelieson for @tsspromptmonth 2024 Sleepy Bean Cafe event.

Prompt: Logan is an Ancient being of some kind, who's never needed things like 'companionship' or 'affection' or 'physical touch'. Until a human ever so gently breaks down his barriers to give him those things revealing he's been in desperate need of them all along.

AO3 version (with stylized section breaks)

Logan has been dead so long he can hardly remember what it was like to be alive.

He stopped counting after the first couple hundred years, once the memories of his human life had begun to fade, and, worse, he’d stopped mourning their loss.

The vampires in stories always lived out in big old mansions in the middle of dark forests. That’s half true of Logan. He does live in the middle of a forest—the trees provide good cover, both to hide his home and him, and to shield him from the sun which irritates his skin—but he doesn’t need a mansion.

Logan’s home is a sturdy old house made of dark wood. It has two stories, and some of the details are too finely crafted to be anything other than hand-carved. He supposes he must have known a builder, must’ve somehow convinced them to build this house for him, either through money or favors… but he can’t recall anything about them.

Logan’s house has two bedrooms. His own is set toward the back of the house, taking up much of its small second floor. Its westmost windows look out over, of course, the forest. Beyond the forest, on the horizon, lie the mountains, their snow-coated peaks rising up beyond the feathered tips of the sea of dark pine trees spanning as far as he can see.

He doesn’t have much in the way of furniture, but the room is small enough that it still feels cosy rather than empty with just a bed, desk, and two bookshelves. The furniture he does have is made from the same dark wood as the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the bark of the trees outside. Each shelf is filled neatly from one end to the other with perfectly pristine books—Logan has read each and every one at some point during his… extended life. He’s read several of the more compelling works of fiction more than once.

His bed, in the corner nearest the big window, is made, dark sheets pulled neatly up, tucked under his pillow. His desk, too, is clean. (In fact, not a single surface in the room, nor the entire house, has even a spot of dust.) Stacked in the corner is a small pile of paper scraps, on which are his late-night scribblings. Some of them are poetry; some of them are journalistic observations; some of them are ill-advised, and even poorer-executed, attempts at creative fiction. Over his long life, he’s tried his hand at many things, the majority of which did not stick.

Some of them had stuck, though. Paintings of landscapes decorate the walls of the hallway. Logan had been taken completely by surprise when he’d attempted to recreate the view of the mountains from his window and found that he was calmed by the smooth strokes of the brush. By his own standards (which are, admittedly, not up to par of those of an artist), the paintings aren’t bad. He doesn’t have much use for art, but he finds them pleasing to look at, so he hangs them on the wall.

The second bedroom has another bed. As far as Logan remembers, it’s never been anyone’s, and he wonders why it’s there. Had it been made for someone, once?

-

Logan likes when it rains. For one, because of the cloud cover, he doesn’t have to worry about the sunlight if he chooses to go out. He doesn’t mind the sharp drop in temperature whenever it rains, either, because he can huddle beside the brick fireplace with a book and a blanket, and the tapping of the rain on the wooden roof makes for the perfect white noise while he reads.

Logan’s mind tunes it out the first time, but the second time, it’s much louder. He lets out a minute exhale, setting his book aside on the coffee table. His joints protest—they always stiffen when cold weather rolls around. He shrugs the blanket off, laying it neatly over the back of the couch.

Who on earth would it be knocking on his door, in the middle of nowhere, in the pouring rain? As far back as he can remember, he’s never had any visitors, not even the accidental traveller who got lost in the forest. He’s so far from civilization that someone would have to come here on purpose… or else they are very, very far out of their way.

The door sticks in the frame as he tries to open it, having swollen from the humidity of the rain. Finally Logan manages to open the door wide enough to see the person standing on his doorstep.

The first thing he notices is that they’re absolutely drenched, from their bedraggled purple hair, hanging in their eyes and dripping water onto their cheeks, to the visibly soaked black leather boots that stop midway up their shins. They stand, stance uneven, hands tucked as deep as they can go into the pockets of their jacket, but it’s clearly not waterproof either, judging from the way their whole body shakes when they shiver.

Logan’s predisposition to be annoyed at a total stranger encroaching on his space vanishes as he takes in exactly how pathetic they look, sopping wet and helpless as they drip onto his porch.

“I assume you’re seeking shelter?” he says, although it’s really more of a statement than a question.

“P-please,” the human pleads through chattering teeth.

Logan sighs. “Alright, come inside.” He ushers them in. He has to push harder on the door than usual to get it to close, as it again sticks in the frame, but it latches, and he throws the lock into place.

Logan turns to the human. “Take those off.” He gestures to their boots and their jacket. The human complies, pulling back their wet hair out of their face, and he catches a glimpse of two heterochromatic eyes staring at him in green and purple. (Alright, perhaps not completely human—he’s never seen a full-blooded human with purple eyes.) He examines their shirt, which is marginally drier than their coat had been, but not by much, and it’s probably better to simply get them into a fresh change of clothes than expect them to dry naturally. “Stay here.” They nod, settling into a sitting position on the floor of his living room.

Logan returns a few minutes later with a bundle of dry clothes picked from his own closet. “The bathroom is upstairs. Enter the first door on the left.” He hands it to the human.

They smile with what he imagines is probably gratefulness. “Thank you.”

Logan takes his place next to the fire once more, picking up where he left off in his book.

-

He smells them before he sees them. Being a vampire has awarded Logan with a keen sense of smell, but the rain had made it difficult for him to note their scent. He picks it up now, a pleasant, a strong scent of woodfire with hints of… hm, cinnamon. They approach tentatively, socked feet muffling their footsteps to an almost silent quality. They take a moment too long to figure out what to say, and so Logan looks up from his book.

“Better?”

“Uh, yes. Thanks.” The human tries unsuccessfully to conceal their shiver with a shrug.

“This blanket is big enough for both of us.”

Their eyes widen. “Oh, uh, thanks.” Their face reddens. “I guess I wasn’t hiding that very well, was I?” They sit on the floor next to him.

“Not at all,” Logan says with a small smirk. He wraps the blanket around their shoulders. “What brings you here?” he asks after a few minutes pass in silence.

“I was… out looking for herbs. I live in a village that’s on the edge of this forest. Uh, one of them. Somewhere.”

Logan raises an eyebrow. “From your apparent lack of herbs, I take it you were unsuccessful?”

The human groans. “Yeah, I, uh, I lost my bag in the forest somewhere. I slipped and fell in the rain trying to find shelter and I didn’t notice I dropped it.”

“What were you looking for?” Logan asks.

“Oh, well, I have anxiety, and I have trouble sleeping sometimes. When I make heather into a tea, it seems to help.” They look away.

“Witch?” Logan says.

“Who’s asking?” They side-eye him suspiciously.

“Vampire,” Logan supplies helpfully.

To his surprise, they don’t back away, and they don’t flinch. Logan doesn’t have much contact with humans, but he’d assumed all humans were taught to be scared of vampires. Instead, their gaze takes on a shade of understanding. “Ah. Yes, then, witch.” They offer their hand out to him. “I’m Virgil.”

“Logan,” he offers in return. Virgil’s hand has a slight roughness against his palm.

“So, Logan, what brings you here?” Virgil asks with a half-smirk.

“I don’t… recall.” Unbidden, his brows furrow. “The human mind is only equipped to hold on to a finite amount of information, memory included, and I’ve lived for long enough that my oldest memories have been discarded.”

The look of understanding in Virgil’s eyes deepens, and something about that, being known and understood, makes Logan vaguely uncomfortable. “How much have you forgotten?”

“I only recall the past few hundred years of being a vampire. I don’t have anything from when I used to be human.” Logan aggressively averts his eyes, choosing not to acknowledge that Virgil is perceiving him on a level he’s never experienced.

“Oh. That sucks.”

“I suppose.” Logan gazes at the flickering fire. “I don’t know what I’m missing, and I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.”

“Are you alone here? Not that it’s… well, any of my business.”

“Yes. And, when the rain ceases, I will be again.”

Virgil seems to understand the implication, falling silent, and Logan’s eyes return to his book.

-

The rain does not cease the next day, nor the day after that. It’s been hundreds of years since Logan last saw rain this heavy in these parts of the woods. Whatever material had been used to seal the wood together must be miraculously hardy, because it doesn’t leak.

Virgil keeps to themself, having taken up residence in Logan’s spare bedroom. They keep the door open, and a few times he’s walked past and caught a glimpse of Virgil, well, doing magic. He’s met witches before, but they tend to be somewhat secretive, and whatever relationships he’s maintained with them have tended to be strictly business, so their displays of magic are few and far between. With Virgil, however, it seems to flow out of them as naturally as they expel carbon dioxide from their lungs when they breathe.

“I’ve seen you watching me.” Logan jumps, turning suddenly to see Virgil smirking at him from the armchair in the corner of the living room. “You’re curious about my magic, right?”

“Yes,” Logan admits, adjusting his glasses. No point in pretending after Virgil caught him red-handed.

“I can show you?” Virgil tilts their head in a come here? gesture. Logan sits on the sofa. “I’m not really that powerful or anything, I’ve just got, like, the basic magic talent, but I guess that’s impressive to anyone who’s not a witch, right?” As they speak, their hands begin to glow faintly purple, and the light reflecting almost makes it look as though their eyes are glowing too. Virgil holds out a hand to Logan, who stares at it. “Here, take my hand for a second? Trust me.” Logan cautiously takes the extended hand, and he shudders as a small shock of warmth instantly shoots through his body, involuntarily pulling away. “Cool, right?”

“I…” Logan pauses. “It is… interesting.”

“Do you have any special powers or anything?” Virgil asks, twirling around their still-glowing hands in a mesmerizing pattern that draws Logan’s gaze as if he was hypnotized. “You know, as a vampire?”

“Nothing you wouldn’t expect,” Logan answers, and then wonders why he’s telling all this to a complete stranger. “I have rudimentary dark vision. I don’t need to sleep every night, and I have the ability to go much longer without feeding than most creatures do, but the limit seems to be around two weeks.”

“Let me guess, you’ve tested it?” Virgil says, and while their tone is teasing, Logan gets the impression that they genuinely want to know.

“Yes,” he responds, more flustered than he would prefer to acknowledge that this human has been able to read him like a book.

“Why am I not surprised?” Virgil laughs. The sound is pleasant. “Vampires don’t actually burn in sunlight, right? That seems… really inconvenient.”

“Ah, no. That is a common misconception. From my experience, I simply tend to sunburn much more easily than the average human.”

“I can relate,” Virgil says, gesturing to their exposed skin, which is quite pale.

The conversation has rolled to a slow stop, and Logan fishes around for something else to say before it gets awkward. “Have you been sleeping alright?”

Virgil blinks, frowning. “Oh, uh, yeah. I didn’t think you’d remember that? When I said I have insomnia. I thought you said your memory was bad?” They raise one eyebrow.

“Unfortunately, that only applies to autobiographical memories. When it comes to objective fact, my memory is perfect. …How have you been sleeping?”

Virgil plays with the sleeve of their jacket. “Oh, you know… Not well,” they admit. “But it’s, it’s fine, y’know? I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t have to be,” Logan says with a gentleness that surprises even himself. “I would prefer for you to be able to go home, but, as the rain doesn’t seem as though it will cease anytime soon—as long as you are under my roof, I would like for you to be comfortable. Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Virgil tilts their head as they look at him, like his confession has shifted something in the way they think about him. “Uh, nothing I can think of at the moment. I used to have a cat, once, and I think having something else breathing and warm next to me helped… but I’m not asking you to, uh, cuddle with me or anything. I, uh…” Virgil sighs. “No, nothing I can think of.”

“Alright.” Logan studies Virgil. “Is there anyone waiting for you in your village?”

“No, it’s just me. I’m all alone. Kinda like you, I guess.” Virgil offers Logan an awkward half-smile. “Guess we can be, uh, alone, together?”

Logan mirrors with an equally as awkward half-smile. “Yes, I suppose.” Sensing the conversation had come to its end, he gets to his feet. What was it again that he had come down the stairs to do…?

-

Logan, in his own opinion, has been doing well at ignoring the nagging pain in his temples. It tends to occur when he's particularly hungry and has gone too long without eating. He’d been running low on blood before the storm had hit, but he’d assumed he would’ve been able to obtain more before he’d gotten to the “starving” stage. He was incorrect, and the pain had been getting worse every day in the last week. But he’s doing fine.

Which is why it comes as such a surprise when he wakes up on the floor of his bedroom to see Virgil peering down at him.

“You okay?” Virgil asks uncertainly.

“What happened?” Logan asks. At that moment, he’d been trying to sit up, and simply finds that he cannot—he’s too weak.

Virgil’s eyes narrow. “I’m going to hazard a guess, based on how pale you look right now, that you haven’t eaten the entire time I’ve been here, for whatever reason, and you just collapsed from hunger. Does that sound about right?”

“Perhaps,” Logan admits reluctantly. “But I'm fine.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Virgil says as Logan fails to sit up a second time.

“I don’t need help.” He manages to very slowly clamber to his feet, but the moment he takes a step forward, he teeters again, and, to his embarrassment, Virgil catches him.

“Yeah, you do,” Virgil says with the most firmness Logan has heard them use. “Why haven’t you eaten?”

Logan, accepting that he can’t excuse his way out of this—for some reason, Virgil seems to care about his wellbeing—sighs. “I ran out.”

Virgil’s eyebrows rise. “Oh, great, I can help with that.” In his relatively ill state, it takes Logan a moment to realize that Virgil pulled their jacket down off of their shoulder and is baring their neck to him.

“No,” he says, forcefully pushing away from Virgil and attempting to seem as though he’s found his balance.

“Why not?” Virgil is the picture of innocence, eyes big and head slightly tilted to one side.

“Because…” Logan growls in frustration.

“Got some internalized vamp-phobia in there?” Virgil prods gently.

“I do not wish to harm you,” Logan says softly.

“Have you hurt somebody before?”

“Well, no…”

“Then why do you think you might hurt me?” Virgil gets closer.

“I’ve never fed from a living being before”—as far as I know—“how can I be sure I wouldn’t hurt you? What if I couldn’t control myself?”

“Logan.” Virgil snorts. “I’m a witch. I may be pretty low-level, but I can defend myself.” They hold up their finger, and a small flame erupts out of it before extinguishing. “If it came down to it, I’d stop you before you hurt me.” Virgil once again exposes their neck, and Logan tears his eyes away from it and back up to theirs. “Logan. You’re starving. Let me help you.”

“Fine,” Logan says finally. “But we should move to somewhere more comfortable.”

-

“I’m ready whenever you are.” Virgil, for once not wearing their jacket, waits patiently on the couch. Logan nods, sitting next to them. In such close proximity to Virgil’s neck, he can feel his fangs extend in his mouth. He takes a deep breath before biting.

Almost immediately, Logan gets a rush of energy, and he reminds himself that he needs to pay full attention to what he’s doing to ensure that he can control himself.

Virgil, to their credit, doesn’t make a single sound the entire time Logan is drinking their blood. Their eyes open slowly and alight on Logan with a drowsy sort of languidness, not quite focused.

“Are you alright?” Logan asks softly.

“Hm?” Virgil stares at him for a moment. “Oh, yeah. That didn’t hurt as badly as I was expecting it to.”

“No?” Logan’s brows furrow.

“No, it was kind of nice,” Virgil smiles. “Is there some sort of calming agent in that vampire saliva of yours?”

“I, I’m not sure.” It isn’t something he’d ever considered before, but it certainly would make it easier for a vampire to feed.

Would that mean it was a form of nonconsensual drugging? He certainly hadn’t gotten Virgil’s permission for that, only to feed from him to keep Logan from starving. Surely this then went beyond the bounds of that agreement—

“Hey.” Virgil lightly pats Logan’s hand. “What’re you overthinking about. I know that look. I own that look.”

“Do you feel violated?” Logan blurts.

“What?” Virgil laughs. “Logan, what are you talking about?”

“I can’t help but think you may be onto something with the saliva hypothesis…”

“Aaand now you think you drugged me? You didn’t know.” Virgil leans up against Logan, more in the way a pet wants to be near its owner than in a struggling to hold themself upright way. “Not your fault.”

“I… suppose…” It’s taking most of Logan’s concentration to string together words into sentences with Virgil’s warm body up against his much colder one. “What are you… doing?”

“Hm?”

“What are you doing?” Logan repeats.

“Oh.” Virgil notices they’ve pressed themself up against Logan. “I wanted to be… near you?” they say shyly. “I think, like alcohol, vamp saliva can’t really make me do anything I didn’t already want to, just makes me less anxious about it. Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” Logan says quickly, mind stuck on Virgil wanting to be near him. “You’re warm.”

Virgil smirks. “Let me guess, you’re cold-blooded?”

“Perhaps,” Logan replies, a small smirk of his own slipping unbidden onto his face.

“That works just fine for me.”

Logan’s book is still on the end table where he’d left it last, and he can just barely reach it from here. Virgil grumbles softly when he jostles them, so he does his best to stay still once he can hold the book on his lap.

After about half an hour, it occurs to Logan that Virgil has been very quiet and very still. Sure enough, they've fallen asleep tucked into his side. He has the very bewildering realization that, not only does he enjoy Virgil’s warmth, not only is the pressure of Virgil’s body against his own calming, but a part of him feels some sort of affection for this human that he's known less than a week. And… he realizes he's going to miss them when they leave.

-

Virgil ends up sleeping for four hours—they must have really needed the rest. Logan’s finished his book and is a few chapters into rereading it by the time they begin to stir.

“Did I fall asleep?” they ask, voice rough, and Logan is overtaken by an unprecedented surge of… fondness?

“Yes,” he says, resisting the urge to kiss their forehead—what is happening?

Logan has never needed anyone else, he has been fine on his own this entire time, and he will be fine again when they leave.

“And you let me do that?” Virgil cranes their neck around to look at him, clearly perplexed. If Logan had to guess, judging by their demeanor, he would say that the calming effects of his saliva have worn off at least most of the way, if not entirely.

“You're warm,” he says again.

Virgil shrugs. “Fair enough, I guess.” They settle again, this time with their head on his shoulder. Their soft purple hair brushes against his neck in a pleasant way. “Feeling better with some blood in your system?”

“Yes, thank you.” The fang marks on Virgil’s neck are crusted with dried blood. “I would like to clean your neck.”

“Oh, yeah, alright.”

Virgil sits on the closed lid of the toilet, and Logan runs warm water over a rag. They wince, hissing slightly through their teeth when he touches the bite marks, and he pulls away.

“Tell me if I'm hurting you,” Logan says, making sure to look Virgil in the eye.

“Yeah.” They nod, and he wipes away the crusted blood as gently as he can. “Hey, Logan?”

“Mm?”

“I think one of my ancestors knew you.”

Logan’s hand stills for a moment. “What?”

“Her name was Cassidy. Do you…?”

Logan shakes his head. “Like I told you before, I don't have many memories from before I was on my own. …Why do you think she might’ve known me?”

“My mother used to tell me stories, passed down on her mother’s side of the family, about a strange, kind man with gray eyes who came from the woods. She was a witch, much more powerful than me. You were her friend, I think. Helped her with potions and stuff, back when the villagers came to her asking for her to heal their sicknesses. Now we have modern medicine, y'know, so I mostly practice for, well, myself…” They trail off.

“It's possible.” The odds are probably low that there's another kind gray-eyed vampire living in these woods. “It's likely.”

Virgil stays quiet for the few minutes it takes Logan to finish cleaning the wound. “That's not really necessary,” they attempt when he reaches for the bandages.

Logan raises an eyebrow. “I don't want you getting an infection because of me.”

“Yeah, alright,” Virgil relents in an exaggeratedly begrudging way. “If you insist.” They sit still, allowing him to loosely wrap a length of bandage around their neck. “Satisfied?”

“Yes,” Logan says.

That night, while Logan is painting, Virgil appears in his doorway, blinking in the low light.

“Hey. Sorry.”

“What is it?” Logan turns away from his canvas.

“I can't sleep,” they admit. One of their hands grips the doorframe as they squint in the direction of his voice in the dark.

Logan carefully sets down his paintbrush. “You would like me to stay with you.” It isn't a question.

“Uh, yeah. Please? If that's alright.”

Logan brushes past Virgil, taking their hand to lead them down the hallway to the spare bedroom. It simply makes the most sense, considering he can see in the dark and they cannot.

-

The next day, the rain stops.

Virgil joins Logan at the kitchen window. “Storm’s finally passed, you think?”

“Yes, I suppose,” Logan says. “I should walk you back to your village.”

“Aw, you wanna make sure I get back safe?” Virgil smirks.

“Yes,” Logan says with an honesty that surprises himself. He refuses to look at Virgil, and they ascend the stairs a few minutes later to grab their meager belongings.

It takes the both of them to figure out the way back to Virgil’s village. With the wet ground, they each have at least one moment where they almost slip in the mud and have to grab onto the other for purchase. Logan marks the trees with a dab of bright blue from his paintbrush as they pass so he can find his way home.

“Well, here’s me,” Virgil says, gesturing to a small hut. Judging by its size, it only has a single room, and it’s not run-down, exactly, but it’s not in the best shape either. The heavy rain lasting the past week clearly hasn’t helped. “Thanks for, well, everything.”

Logan nods stiffly, and Virgil smiles at him before turning away.

“Wait.”

Virgil freezes. They turn slowly to look at him, and Logan realizes it’d been himself who’d spoken.

“I don’t… want you to go,” he admits with great difficulty.

“No?” Virgil asks softly. Logan almost thinks they sound hopeful.

“I thought I was fine being on my own, because I couldn’t remember a time when I hadn’t been, but now that I have to go back to it… I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

Logan, eyes fixed on his shoes, is taken by surprise when Virgil throws their arms around him, but it’s a pleasant surprise, a relief.

“I don’t really wanna go back either,” they mumble into his shoulder. “I thought that’s what you wanted, and I was gonna go back to the village for you, because I thought that was what you wanted.”

“I want you to stay with me,” Logan says into Virgil’s hair.

“That works just fine for me.”

[princeysanders]

“you're just so literal i- i don't-” 😭😭.

[peachy-lemon83]

Soooo I mentioned them before but watching some Sander side clips and heard Virgil’s line of “why do you only take whatever I say literally” and I realized Patton and Roman say things that make absolutely no sense all the time, but Virgil normally uses logical thinking just with his own cognitive distortions, he truly believes most of what he says and can be reasoned with most of the time.

I love the stair bois and their interactions

(The dab Logan does while Virgil freaks out that he just dabbed, and the looks they give each other when the nostalgia was getting to Virgil too much)

[ladyinsertnamehere]

I haven’t checked the sanders tags but I can’t help but see this as fondness

[mvrphysart]

i’ve done Logan comforting Virgil, but i think Logan deserves some comfort on especially bad days too.

[loganslowdown4]

Roman: It’s illegal to be cuter than me!

Virgil: Logan is going to jail then.

[loserlovercafe]

Here it is- the final piece! Cozy fall vibes achieved.

༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･

Also, fun fact, I didnt use purple in this- just a dark red. Even the green was in the yellows. So uh yeah. Color theory or whatever.

༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･

(Also also, I’ll have alternate versions of this on my Tiktok when I post it tomorrow (if anyone cares lol))

[pools-of-sides]

Analogical Shipboard