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,.).

I do not consent to my fics being reposted elsewhere nor being fed to AI. If you want a part 2 of something, request it, do not AI generate it; that constitutes intellectual theft.

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.

I'm kind of interested as to why George makes such a good yandere boyfriend and i have a couple of theories

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.

Living with vampires had many benefits, but on days like today, you hated it. You watched enviously as Alice and Jasper finished their schoolwork in a matter of minutes, speeding in a blur out the front door to go and hunt; Rosalie and Emmett were not far behind, following in fits of giggles; Edward, of course, had finished his homework on the walk to the parking lot, and was already up in his room reading. Obviously, it was easy for them: they had been through school more times than they could count; they had to litter their work with mistakes to make it more realistic. You, however, were experiencing high school for the first time, and did not have the luxury of centuries of education.

The stack of textbooks and notes on your desk felt like it was mocking you. You’d been staring at the same page for twenty minutes, the words blurring together as anxiety clawed at your chest. Exams were in two weeks, and no matter how hard you tried, it felt like you were falling behind. Cool arms wrapped around you from behind, snapping you out of your spiralling doom. Esme— you could tell by her perfume and gentle touch— rested her chin on your shoulder, her voice gentle as she spoke into your ear. “Sweetheart,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Do you think it's time for a break?" You shook your head, eyes stinging as you blinked them for the first time in a few minutes, too occupied with the words on the page. “I can’t. There’s too much. If I don’t finish this...” you sighed, unable even to finish the sentence. Carlisle emerged slowly though the doorway, eyes soft with their usual concern. He crossed the room silently and sat in the chair next to yours, taking your hands in his cooler ones. “Esme's right,” he said quietly, “you’re going to burn yourself out. Sometimes the most productive thing is to rest.” He let a sympathetic smile rest on his lips but you avoided his gaze, ashamed. You dropped your pen and slowly met his eyes. “What if it’s not enough? What if I just...can't learn this all?" As you whispered the words, Carlisle's fingers traced gentle circles on the back of your hand, his eyes meeting Esme's over your shoulder; even without telepathy, you felt like they could read each others' minds, at times.

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.

જ⁀➴ Fics

'Manners Maketh the Wizard'

(Fred Weasley x Muggle! reader) Stumbling in front of a bus in central London, Fred saves you the only way he can: apparation. This leaves you with a lot of questions, and no (believable) answers. Of course, he takes the muggle home to the Burrow to plead for his family's help.

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five

'Two-Way Diary'

(George Weasley x Muggle! reader) After you find a diary that writes back to you in your late-grandmother's belongings, things start to get weird and you find yourself entering a whole new world.

Chapter One Chapter Two

જ⁀➴ Imagines

George Weasley

Broad & Bruised (Injured!George x Caring!reader) Triwizard (Friends to Lovers!George x reader) Period Care (Caring!George x reader) Say that Again (Protective! George x reader) 🔥 Festivities (Shy!George x reader) Borrowed (George x Ginny’s BFF! reader) First Meeting (George x reader) Forbidden Forest (Protective!George x reader) Revenge (Protective! George x reader) Surprise (BF!George x reader) Concussion (George x Wood! reader)

Fred Weasley

Meeting Mrs Weasley (Fred x Syltherin! reader) Don't Cry (Comforting!Fred x reader) Clingy (Needy!Fred x reader) Scarred (Post-War!Fred x reader) Happy Go Lucky (Fred x Sunshine! reader) Make You Jealous (Fred x Jealous! reader) Amortentia (Crush!Fred x reader) Grumpy Girl (Fred x Malfoy! reader) Marry Me (BFF!Fred x reader) Torturous (Protective!Fred x reader) Should've Been Me (Heartbroken!Fred x reader) Bulk Season (Gym!Fred x reader) Hands to Myself (Handsy!Fred x reader) She Said No (Protective! Fred x reader) Like a Brother (BFF!Fred x reader) Make Pretend (Fake BF!Fred x reader) Divination (Crush!Fred x Nerd!reader)

Both Twins

Clumsy (Yandere!Twins x reader) Thinking of you (Twins x reader) Christmas (Stoner!Twins x reader) Our Family (Twins x reader) Two Dads (Twins x Pregnant! reader) Silly Girl (Patronising!Twins x reader) Beauxbatons (Twins x Beauxbatons! reader) Keep You Happy (Twins x Shy! reader) Marauders Map (Twins x Vampire! reader)

જ⁀➴ Headcanons

Misc.