ᗷIᑎᑕᕼI ᗪᗩ ᐯIᑎᑕI

I only write for AFAB. Skin tone and body type will not be specified.

The hashtag #binchithinks are drabbles, thoughts, and fics I like.

I don’t use a TW system, but my fics tend not to include common triggers (e.g SH, SA, etc,). If they do they will be mentioned at the beginning.

I do not consent to my fics being reposted elsewhere nor being fed to AI. If you wish a part two of something, request it, do not AI generate it: that constitutes intellectual theft.

• Frank is all-in from day one. Once he decides he likes you, he’s obsessed in the sweetest, most chaotic way. He’ll call you at 3 a.m. from a payphone in the middle of nowhere having made the tourbus stop just to say he misses you.

• v soft and protective even with his fuckboy wild exterior. He’ll fight anyone who looks at you wrong (even if they're bigger than him) then immediately turn around and kiss you HARD like he's worried you'll think he's some thug

• alwayssss touching you. Hand on your lower back at shows, arm around your shoulders in the van, fingers in your hair when you’re in the back of the van after gigs.

• writes you little notes on napkins, on setlists, on the back of his hand... wherever. They’re usually messy and smudged and covered in doodles of hearts and guitars.

• loves showing you off to the crew or to anyone who'll listen. “This is my girl.”

• XTRA extra clingy on tour. He’ll pull you into his bunk on the van (even tho it's a tiny twin bed), wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your neck after shows. bonus points if he's drunk and hasn't showered yet

• ugh very protective on tour. If anyone in the crowd gets too handsy or pushy if you're watching front row, Frank will jump off stage mid-song to deal with them, lean over the barrier to kiss you then get back on stage like nothing happened.

• love love loves when you wear his hoodies and MCR merch. He’ll “accidentally” leave them in your bag so they smell like you when h gets to wear them next

• passionate if not a little... feral in private (mostly private, anyway.) What do you expect! He’s handsy, bitey, horny, and loud about it. He loves leaving marks on you or showing off the scratches/hickies you left on him when he takes his shirt off on stage.

• still v v sweet afterward tho e.g., holding you close, playing with your hair, whispering how much he loves you and is glad you came on tour w him because the guys are driving him fucking crazy

• shows jealousy in the most dramatic, least punk way possible: pouting, then immediately making out with you in front of whoever made him jealous.

Mikey had broken his wrist during rehearsals, doing some stupid jump and landing poorly. The doctor said six weeks, but the band was in the middle of a massive run of shows and they needed a bassist fast, so when their agent called you, you flew out that same night trembling with excitement. That’s how you ended up on stage with My Chemical Romance during their Long Live the Black Parade tour despite being twenty-something years younger than them.

You’d been a fan since you were a teenager, and you’d played bass as a session musician before, but this time felt different: the crowds were bigger, the pressure was higher, and Frank Iero — still ridiculously hot, and still your teenage crush — had become something of a mentor to you on tour.

The first few rehearsals were intense; learning twenty five different songs with deviations from the originals was tricky, but Frank was patient with you, sitting beside you for hours in the practice space, his arms resting on his own bass that he was using to show you as he walked you through Mikey’s parts. “You’re doing great,” he said reassuringly as you sighed: you'd fucked up the same riff five times in a row. "Yeah, right," you scoffed. "You must be going mad by now." He was close enough that you could smell his cologne and feel the warmth of his body. He smiled and shook his head. “It's all good. Just move your wrist on the chorus, like this.” He reached over and gently adjusted your hand position, his calloused fingers lingering on yours a second longer than necessary. His older, experienced presence in the face of this stress was calming, protective and patient in a quiet way. Before tour began, Frank had pulled you aside. “You’re the only girl on this tour,” he added softly, eyes meeting yours. “If anyone gives you shit — fans, crew, whatever— you tell me 'n I’ve got you.” You couldn't stop beaming.

On stage, having spent so much time with Frank, the chemistry was electric. Frank would play right in front of you, his solid thigh brushing against yours as you jammed, thick arms moving powerfully over his guitar. He’d glance up at you with a fond, proud smile, mouthing “You got this” during the tricky choruses. You'd be lying if you said it didn't help to know he had full confidence in you. During Helena, often the finale, he’d lean in close, playing face-to-face with you. It became something of a routine to play like this, bouncing your excitement off of each other; the crowds loved it and, more importantly, it made you feel settled on stage.

The desert just north of Sun Sandbox stretched out like a red ocean under the merciless sun, heat shimmering off the cracked asphalt as you slammed an elbow into the Draculoid's face. "Ugh!" You grunted with effort, twisting and writhing to escape its grip. You’d been stupid to try and raid this gas station for supplies: Zone Five was out of range of your camp's radio, and was known to be frequented by BL/Ind enforcers. Still, you'd thought you'd got lucky when you drove past, but you should've known an un-raided, silent gas station was chilly; there was a reason nobody had raided it: Draculoids camping out, looking to meet their kill quota.

That's how you ended up here with your wheels shot out, your gun kicked away, fighting tooth and nail to get free from a Draculoid's grasp. He reeled for only a moment in the wake of your strike, white mask gleaming blindingly in the late-afternoon light, and he straightened up too fast for you to escape its grip. His ray gun hummed with lethal charge as he cracked you over the head with its handle, sending you down to the ground hard. Pain shot through your skull as your vision turned white.

The Draculoid stood over you as you crawled backward, cradling your now-bleeding scalp, but your back hit the wall of the gas station. Fuck. You were cornered. Raising his weapon with mechanical precision, the barrel glowed a sickening yellow that so many Sandworms before you had seen, signalling this was it: the end. You squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for the shot that would end everything.

A single gunshot cracked through the air like thunder splitting the sky. Your eyes shot open, adjusting to the light just in time to see the Draculoid crumpling to the floor at your feet with a dull, lifeless thud. You squinted into the near horizon: a few feet from where he had been stood over you, the figure of a man clad in red leather and a motorcycle helmet came into view, his gun smoking.

Silence rang in your ears, broken only by the low idle of his motorcycle and your ragged breathing. The man holstered his gun quickly and walked over, boots crunching on the earth. Even with the bright yellow helmet and visor down, his presence felt steady, a calm in the middle of chaos. He bent slightly and offered you a dusty, gloved hand; you took it. His grip was firm, warm through the leather as he pulled you to your feet like you weighed nothing.

“You alright?” His voice was low, muffled by the helmet. You nodded, still catching your breath as you peered back at your reflection in the dark visor, which read 'GOOD LUCK'; indeed, his arrival had been good luck. "Yeah. Uh— thank you. Thought I was ghosted, there.” He was silent, then raised his arms to pull his helmet off in one swift move, shaking out a thick head of dirty blond hair. Sharp hazel eyes scanned your face, studying you for a moment like he was checking for injuries; his eyes settled on the blood now trickling down your forehead from your scalp. You raised your hand to your head: it felt hot and wet, and as you pulled it down to examine, you found it had stained red with blood. "Oh," you murmured, wiping your bloodied hand on your cargo pants. His jaw tightened in something like disapproval.

He glanced over his shoulder, down the empty stretch of desert road. “You alone out here?” he asked. “My camp’s a few miles back. I was trying to scavenge supplies but he shot my wheels out,” you nodded to your now-smoking quad bike across the road, tracks clear from where you'd skidded to a stop and been ambushed. He eyed the bike for a moment and you admired his angular nose and jaw until his eyes snapped back to yours. "You a puppy?" "A— a what?" you blinked. He dropped his gaze and kicked a rock, smiling slightly at his feet. "It means new." You blinked. "Well, that answers my question," he smiled crookedly. "What Zone is your camp?" "Two," you replied: at least you knew the answer to that question. He whistled low. "Far from home, huh?"

It was quiet for a beat, then he jerked his head toward the motorcycle. “I can take you back.” You hesitated, eyes flicking to the sleek black and yellow bike. “Honestly, it's miles away and I already owe you one—” “I’m Zone Two, as well,” he said simply; there was no room for argument in his tone. He turned and walked toward the bike, speaking over his shoulder as he climbed on. “Come on. You'll get ghosted if you stay, and I won't be here to save you, this time." He smirked as he pulled the helmet back on. You hesitated, then followed and climbed on behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist. He was solid under the leather jacket: warm, steady, and reassuring. The engine rumbled to life beneath you, a comforting growl that meant you were out of here. "Hold on tight, puppy."

As he sped off down the dusty road, the wind whipping past, you pressed your cheek against his back and held on tighter, watching the endless desert pass by. Every so often, his gloved hand would rest over yours on his stomach— a small, quiet reassurance for either you or him, you weren't sure.

The ride felt shorter than it should have. When he slowed down at the entrance of Zone Two where various gangs' camps began to sprawl, he called over his shoulder: "Which one?" You pointed to a large makeshift tent, a collection of rust-orange marquees that belonged to your group. He nodded and sped toward it. As he finally slowed to a stop, the sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon, painting the desert in deep oranges and reds. He killed the engine and helped you off the bike, steadying you when your legs wobbled. You stood there for a moment, reluctant to let go of his hand as he looked up at you, still seated. “Thank you again,” you said softly. “For the ride, too." He lifted his visor just enough for you to see his eyes — sharp and strangely soft, deep set with tiredness. “You don’t owe me anything,” he murmured.

He lingered for a second longer than necessary, like he wanted to say more. Then he lowered his visor and revved the engine, kicking the stand up as he readied himself to leave. "Wait," you shouted over the roar of the bike. His head whipped back to yours expectantly. "What's your name?" He paused a moment before replying, once again muffled by the helmet. "Kobra. What's yours?" "Y/N." He nodded. "Well, Y/N, I'll see you around." You swore you could hear the smile in his voice. "You stay safe out there."

The first time you met Driver was in your uncle Shannon’s garage. You’d stopped by after class to drop off some paperwork that he'd asked you to print because he couldn't figure his out. You'd reluctantly agreed, preferring to avoid the garage when you could: the place stank of motor oil and metal, and you always found yourself standing awkwardly, unable to do anything useful. Of course, you were happy to help your uncle: he'd practically raised you, after all.

As you walked through the garage to the back, you spotted Shannon through the window of the office arguing animatedly with someone on the phone. About what, you didn't know— some lowball offer, you assumed— but you weren't about to interrupt. When he slammed down the phone moments later, he looked more scared than angry; he ran an oil-blackened hand over his face and dropped his gaze to the floor contemplatively. Tentatively, you raised a knuckle to gently knock on the glass. Shannon's head shot up— he was never usually this jumpy— but his features relaxed into a smile as you waved and held up the papers through the glass. "Hang on," Shannon called through the window, limping round to the side door, "gimme a sec." You adjusted the bag on your shoulder and walked the short distance to meet him at the office door. "Hey, kid!" Shannon smiled, pulling you into a hug that left a small, oily smudge on your top. "Hey, Shannon," you nodded, ignoring the desire to wipe at the stain: you didn't see Shannon as much, these days, what with him constantly working and your schoolwork, so you tried to overlook the things that bugged you about him— one being his ever-stained hands, and another being his aptitude for trouble (hence his limp). "The papers," you nodded and handed the stack out for him. "Knew I could could count on you," he beamed and jovially patted you on the shoulder. "Just gotta check they're all there before I send them off, won't be a second," he nodded enthusiastically before steering you toward his work station in the garage. "So, how's school? You been working hard?" "Always," you smiled. "I taught you well, right?" You braced yourself and began to answer the bombardment of questions, which were met with even more questions: it was never a quick affair with Shannon.

Shannon stopped at a worksurface strewn with tools, which he swiped to the side with one calloused hand. As he leaned over the stack of papers, flipping through them, your eyes wandered round the garage: nothing had changed since the last time you were here. At least you thought so, until a handsome, tall man in a long sleeved, denim blue work shirt stepped out from under the hood of a silver Chevy, looking across at you: he hadn't been there last time, you were sure of it. You offered a small, awkward smile; he merely looked at you curiously before returning to his work under the bonnet. Disappointed, you dropped your gaze and turned back to Shannon, who was still muttering under his breath as he flipped through the stack of papers. "...didn't need its belt changed but I had to charge for the converter...not sure when that'll expire."

You zoned out, picking idly at your finger nails, until a voice made you jump. "Shannon," it said, "eleven-inch wrench over here?" You looked up: it was the man who'd been working on the Chevy. "Sure, here you go," Shannon distractedly passed him the wrench, barely lifting his head. “Oh. Sorry, kid— this is my niece, Y/N. Y/N, this is Driver. Best wheelman I know.” Driver nodded courteously and a small, barely-there smile rested on his angular lips. "Nice to meet you," he said, allowing his eyes to meet yours at last. Up close, he had an intense gaze: you could already tell he was the kind of man who didn’t need to say much. You realised you'd not replied. "You too," you blushed. Driver gave you a small nod, blue eyes dancing with quiet amusement, staying on yours for a little longer than necessary as Shannon pored over the papers. Then, he turned and walked away. That was it: no small talk; no handshake. But something in the way he looked at you stuck with you.

Some weeks later, Shannon called asking you to take five grand out of his bank in cash and to bring it to the garage. This wasn't out of the ordinary for Shannon and, since discovering Driver, you'd been more keen to do your uncle favours as an excuse to swing by the garage; you assumed he needed it for a car part, so you agreed and planned to head over that evening.

The day dragged on and the queue at the bank was long; you arrived later than expected and rushed straight toward the back office, cash in tow. "Shannon? It's Y/N. Got that cash you needed. Sorry I'm late, I got held up. Want me to—" You froze: bloody boot prints were leading away a parked car where Shannon lay limp in a pool of his own blood. You dropped your bag, cash and all, hands shaking as you crawled toward him to cup his cold face. "Sh—Shannon? Shannon!" You shook him; you screamed; you cried, begging him to wake up. It looked like he'd taken a serious wounding to his forearm, and had bled out before you'd arrived. Before you could become aware of your name being called, a pair of strong arms wrapped themselves around your waist and hauled you up off of your knees, jeans now soaked in Shannon’s blood. "No! No—" "It's not safe. We need to leave. I'm sorry."

You were squealing down the highway in Driver's silver Impala less than two minutes later, almost unaware of how you got there. Every time you closed your eyes, the image of Shannon's body burned the back of your eyelids, so you stared with glazed over eyes out of the front window, slack-jawed and silent. "Shit." The first word Driver had said since he got you into the car. Your eyes locked on to his profile, trying to gauge what was going on. His eyes darted between the road ahead and the rear-view mirror, and you twisted your body to look out the back: two black SUVs were gaining. "We're being followed?" Driver didn't answer your question; he didn't even glance over, but you could have sworn his grip on the wheel tightened. “Stay low,” he commanded. You obeyed, sinking in your seat. You did not like where this was going.

The engine roared as he shifted gears, taking a sharp right without braking. The car drifted perfectly around the corner. Gunshots cracked behind you. Driver didn’t flinch. He just drove faster, one hand occasionally leaning over to brush your shoulder like he needed to remind himself you were still there. He took every shortcut, every hidden turn, losing them block by block. When the last SUV finally disappeared in the rear-view mirror, he let out a slow breath and finally looked over at you: you were still sunk low in your seat, peering up at him in fear. "Think we lost 'em."

He drove for another hour, making sure they’d lost the tail completely, before pulling into a quiet motel on the outskirts of the city. He paid in cash, got a twin room, and began to lead the way to your room. Weak in the knees, still in shock, you dragged behind a little; Driver shot a look back over his shoulder at you and stopped momentarily, considering. The muscle in his jaw ticked as he spun around. "Gimme that," he murmured before pulling your bag off your shoulder, slinging it over his, and taking your hand in his gloved one. "Come on. Not far now." He led you up the stairs, glancing over at you worriedly. You didn't have it in you to look back, or to offer any reassurance that you were ok: you weren't.

At the door of the room, Driver dropped your hand to fish for the right key. He pushed open the door and stood back, waiting for you to walk in. You shot him an unsure look; he responded with a small nod of reassurance; you stepped through. The room was nothing special: peeling blue wallpaper, décor that hadn't been updated since it was first put in fifty years ago, and two twin-beds that looked like they must just collapse at any moment. Driver followed you in to the room, closing the door behind himself quietly and purposefully, and slinging the latch into place. You stood in the middle of the room, awkward and tired. "Why don't you get yourself cleaned up." You turned slowly to face him, confused by the mundanity of the statement. As his eyes fell to your lower body, you realised: you were soaked in blood. "Right."

When you emerged from the shower, wearing just the top and panties you came in, blood-soaked jeans discarded in the bath, you found Driver pacing the room, checking the window locks and tightening the curtains. Glazed over, you took a seat on the edge of the furthest bed and watched as he obsessed peered cautiously out of the window. He checked every lock twice before he finally let himself sit at at the small plastic table in the corner of the room.

"Why are we here?" Your voice broke the silence that had settled between you two. The AC suddenly felt as loud as a motorbike in the wake of your question. Driver paused, eyes still glued to the floor, then he rose and walked toward the bathroom silently, the sound of his boots heavy on the carpeted floor. He peeled off his driving gloves, threw them on the counter, and washed the blood from his hands in the sink. You fiddled with your thumbs from the bed, waiting. The tap turned off with a bang, and he turned to you from the doorway. "People from Shannon’s life think you know too much. They were going to kill you and take the money as soon as you got back to your apartment—" "But I don't know anything at all!" "They don't know that. To them, you're a loose end that needs tying up." You felt your stomach drop. “So what do we do? I can’t just… hide forever.” As you spoke, he dried his hands slowly on the thread-bare towel. Then, he crossed the small room and crouched in front of you, resting his hands on your knees. His touch was surprisingly gentle for someone who had just dragged you out of a murder scene. “Not forever,” he said, voice low and steady. “You’re staying with me until I make sure they’re not coming after you. I’ll handle it.” You stared at him, heart racing. “You could get yourself killed doing that. You could've gotten yourself killed like Shannon just coming to get me tonight.” You shook your head in enthusiastic protest. “I know.” His gaze didn’t waver. “But Shannon was a good man. And I…” He paused, jaw tightening like the words were difficult. “Shannon knew this was coming. He told me to look after you if anything happened, and that's what I'm going to do."

You swallowed hard, the weight of everything crashing down on you. “I don’t understand. Who are these people? Why Shannon?" Driver exhaled slowly. "You need to rest We'll talk more in the morning, okay?” He stood and gently swung your legs up on to the mattress on which you perched; Driver pulled the thin blanket over you, then hesitated for a moment before sitting on the edge of the mattress beside you.

one being that he grew up in an ENORMOUS family where he was constantly overshadowed, either by Bill and Charlie's careers or Fred's natural aptitude for chaos; George is, after all, the quieter, more mild of the twins

George thus is part of a unit for his whole life: more people gravitate towards Fred, whilst George tends to just be 'Fred's twin'

So, when he meets you, you make him feel seen as an individual

You get paired together in a rare class that Fred isn't also in and get chatting: you don't even accidentally call him Fred. In fact, you say that it's quite easy to tell them apart because of their noses. Plus, you say, Fred is a little louder

George is down bad immediately because ERM hello!!! You see me for who I am? MEOWWW

This isn't to say George doesn't love being a twin, because he does! He just doesn't like being overshadowed and mistaken for his brother all the time

I'm also headcanoning that Fred cracks on with Angelina, giving George a bit less time with him which makes him feel weird: for the first time in his life he isn't the only one his twin spends undivided time with

So you and George start going out. You go on a lot of one-on-one dates, because he's hesitant to introduce you properly to Fred: what if you, like most everyone else, find Fred just that little bit more magnetic? He can't stand the idea

But your first meeting with Fred goes fine: you clearly have no interest in Fred, and you reassure him that comparing the two twins didn't even cross your mind

So, Fred's no longer a perceived threat to your relationship... but everyone else is.

You see your friends less and less because George constantly needs your help with the new Skiving Lunchboxes, or to come watch his game, or to do homework together

Now he trusts you're not going to fancy his twin, he leaves Fred to babysit you: Fred would never turn down his brother's request, so he keeps a watchful eye on you on evenings where George can't be around (usually when he's got detention). Fred will be lounging in an armchair in the common room, half reading some comic, when you get up and move toward the portrait hole. "Don't think George would approve of that'". You probably tell him to come off of it and that you're just going for a stroll; Fred just sighs and rolls his eyes. As you swing open the portrait hole, George is standing on the other side, just coming back in. "Where you off to, love?" he asks innocently, wrapping an arm round your waist and steering you back toward the common room. "Come on, it's too late for you to be wandering around alone.

The Divination classroom was overwhelmingly warm, the air thick and foggy with incense as you ascended the ladder into the classroom. This was not your favourite class, by far: nobody, even yourself, a keen academic, could take Professor Trelawney's 'seeing' seriously, especially not after she had predicted your bloody death four times last term. Much to her disappointment, you were still alive.

Without Divination, you would be averaging all O's (Outstanding), but because of Professor Trelawney's class, your average was brought down by your A (Acceptable). You just could not help yourself from drifting off into a light snooze when the classroom was so warm and she was droning on for so long... It was not at all an environment conducive to learning. Of course, it made it even harder to concentrate when she paired you with the Fred Weasley. You’d been hopelessly in love with him for two years, and how couldn't you be? He was selfless, clever, popular, funny, and really didn't care what anyone thought of him: he was the perfect combination of silly and serious. It didn't help that he was also about six-foot-three, built well from all of the years of Quidditch, and had a real knack for making you blush. Still, there was no way he could like you back. You were, according to Fred, 'just as bad as Hermie the Bookwormie' when it came to studying. You didn't fool yourself with the idea that Fred Weasley, notoriously averse to schoolwork, would be interested in more-than-friendship with someone as interested in their grades as Hermione Granger.

As you tried to look unbothered by your partnering, Fred slid into the much-too-small seat across from you with an easy, crooked grin that made your stomach flip. “Looks like fate’s finally smiling on me,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “Or Trelawney’s trying to get me to behave by pairing me with you." You huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you pretended to study the crystal ball between you whilst actually fighting back a grave blush. “We should, erm, probably look for revelations or something.” You furrowed your brows in faux concentration. Fred leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers idly playing with the doily in boredom. "Yeah. Patterns. Sure.” His eyes wandered the room listlessly before settling on you; you could feel him staring as you took notes on what you saw "So, I think I see three rings... maybe that's something to do with Quidditch? Oh no, maybe they're doors, actually..." You scratched a line through your notes, jotting down your findings with as much enthusiasm as you could muster for the subject.

Professor Trelawney drifted by in a cloud of perfume and scarves, peering into your and Fred's crystal with dramatic flair. “Oh, my dear boy,” she gasped, clutching Fred’s shoulder. "What? Death again?" “No, no! I see great romance in your very near future! A passionate connection… someone who has been right under your nose for a very long time…” Fred’s eyes flicked to you instantly as she continued; you stifled a laugh, sure that his look was one of disbelief.

Henry Letham had been alive for forty-two years, but was only twenty-one. See, Henry was killed in a car crash and brought 'back', if you can call it that, in 2005 on his twenty-first birthday: some lousy gift, that was. He often wished he'd been left to die alongside his family, but the benevolent scientist, Ryland Grace, now one of Henry's surrogate brothers, couldn't fathom not giving someone a second chance at life, even if they weren't really alive. Henry was far from the first of Ryland's charity projects, nor was he the youngest vampire in his coven: Ryland's vampirism was the product of a science experiment gone-bad in 1977, and he had thus taken to saving 'strays' when he felt it was right. First there had been Holland in 1979, a PI who had drowned drunk in his own bath, then Henry, then, finally, Courtland in 2002, a CIA operative stabbed in prison. Henry slotted in right between Holland and Courtland in vampire-age, but was physically the youngest in human years.

One good thing about vampirism (and there weren't many) was that it gave members of a coven a similar appearance. Much like human genetics, vampires turned by the same person developed similar vampiric features: all of Ryland's 'creations' sported the same kind of fangs, of porcelain-smooth skin, of angular features, of luscious hair. Ryland had been clever enough on the first occasion to use his coven-mates' similar looks to claim that they were all brothers, to explain their tight-knit bond and reclusiveness. He consoled himself that it wasn't strictly a lie to tell people they were blood brothers, because they were— just not in the way most people meant.

Now, it was 2026 and the Mid Atlantic coven had been moving around New York City for years, figuring that it was a busy enough place to slip in, get their fill of blood, and go unnoticed. They were right: nobody had figured them out, yet. Still, they weren't planning on staying much longer to ensure nobody cottoned on to the fact that they weren't aging. Henry, for example, was pursuing— for the fifteenth year in a row— an education in Fine Arts. Pale, dark-haired, with haunting blue eyes like his brothers, Henry spent most of his time in the attic, painting feverishly because he didn't need to sleep anymore. Canvases full of stormy skies, burning cars, and the same faceless figures over and over again lined the walls of his bedroom in the 4-bed town house they rented with cash.

Henry had never been interested in anyone: not in the humans who stared at him in college hallways, nor in the few vampires he had met from other covens. His siblings teased him relentlessly about it: whilst none of them had long term partners, they often took lovers— human or not, it didn't matter. Henry, however, had yet to consummate his vampirism, primarily for fear of killing them with his strength. “You’re going to die alone, Henry,” Holland said one evening, sprawled across the couch with a cigarette burning down to a stub. “Or, well… stay dead alone.” Henry ignored Holland, as he often did, continuing to read his novel. There were very few art books Henry had not read, by now, so he had moved on to fiction.

Ryland pushed his glasses up, not looking up from grading the sixth-grade papers. Whilst an immensely competent scientist, Ryland left the molecular science community when he figured out that he was no longer aging: he couldn't have his name and photo published in papers when he had looked the same since 1977. So, teaching science to kids was a way to stay involved whilst keeping out of the spotlight. “Leave him alone," Ryland muttered. "Not everyone needs to mate every fifteen seconds like you do." Courtland snorted from the kitchen. “Says the man who probably 'mates' with his telescope.” Holland fell into fits of laughter; Ryland sighed exasperatedly and sent an apologetic look to Henry, who let a slight smile twitch at the corner of his mouth.

But maybe Holland was right: maybe Henry didn't want to stay dead alone.

You, on the other hand, were a freshman student at the college: quiet, a little clumsy (everyone was compared Henry, who carried himself with an unnerving grace), and clearly enthusiastic about your studies, even though you only took Art as an elective to appear academically 'well-rounded'. Henry usually hated this sort of half-commitment to art: it was all or nothing, and he didn't want to have to weed through those kinds of people, so he took to not bothering with anyone in class at all, certain that nobody but him held a genuine passion for art. And so, the first time you saw Henry Letham, he was sat alone in the back corner of the Art studio, staring out the window like he was— or wanted to be— somewhere else entirely. When the professor called your name for introductions, his head turned slowly: a dissonant note in the usually tedious song that was every day. His eyes met yours, almost scowling in analysis, until something in him shifted and he dropped his gaze to his hands, confused. What was that? He didn’t speak to you that day, or the next, but you felt his gaze on you constantly: during lunch, in the hallway, in the parking lot... It should have been unsettling, but it felt oddly magnetic. You'd turn to catch him watching you in the cafeteria, eyes angular and hooded, then pulling away reluctantly with dissatisfaction, as though he'd been looking for something that he couldn't find.

Henry, too, had never felt anything like it. You were human: fragile, warm-blooded, and full of life he had lost long ago. He should have stayed away and he knew it— for your sake, if not for his. And so, to satiate his desire to be closer to you without drawing you into his world, he started painting you. Hundreds of sketches of you reading, walking in the rain, looking straight at him with a soft, curious expression that made his dead heart feel like it was trying to beat again.

His siblings noticed immediately, of course. “Oh my god,” Holland whispered one night, peering over Henry’s shoulder at a half-finished canvas of your face. “He’s in love. Henry Letham is in love. This is...historic.” “Shut up, Holland,” Henry muttered, but there was no heat in it. Ryland leaned in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. “You know you can’t avoid her forever. The girl’s in three of your classes.” Henry stared at the painting. “Yeah, well. I can try.”

The first real conversation you had took place weeks later, in the library. You were reaching for a book on the top shelf when Henry appeared beside you, silently pulling it down and handing it over. “Thanks,” you said, startled. He nodded curtly, as though he were ready to turn away. “You like Reveur?” You tilted your head, not expecting conversation from someone so obviously timid. “Yeah. I like the... quiet longing bullshit.” Henry’s eyes dropped to the cover of the book in your hands. "Hmm," was all he could manage before walking away. How odd he was.

From then on, Henry couldn't help himself; he told himself that he could be controlled, careful with you. He would sit next to you in class, exchange feedback with you on one another's work, walk you to your car when it rained. Other times, he would interact with you when you didn't even know it. Over the first semester, Henry had formed a nasty habit of trailing your scent back to your on-campus apartment, sliding in through a cracked window, and watching you sleep for hours at a time, perched by your side. To Henry, in many ways, this was less dangerous than actually speaking to you: he could satisfy his desire to be close to you without bringing you in to his world of bloodshed and unnatural lifespans. He didn't think he could do that to you; it would be selfish to try. He never touched you, awake or asleep, but the yearning to hold you was tangible and he hoped you felt it, too, even when you were dreaming.