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 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.

The late-night news droned on in the background as you dozed off on your couch; you barely registered the anchor’s urgent tone in your half-sleep state. "...still searching for convicted three-time murderer and juvenile offender Courtland Gentry, considered dangerous and likely armed." You cracked one eye open: an image of a broad man clad in a blue jumpsuit appeared in the top right of the screen. He had down-turned blue eyes— one swollen shut with a bruise from his apparently violent arrest the previous year— and a weathered face that looked neither smug nor regretful. You let your eyes shut again as the solemn reporter continued. "Gentry broke free during a transfer earlier today. If you see him, do not approach; contact police immediately. On to weather, we can expect sunshine starting from Wednesday...”

You must have drifted off somewhere between the weather and the next story, the 2 a.m. TV's glow flickering across your sleeping face. It couldn't have been twenty minutes later when a scrape coming from the kitchen woke you; your eyes flew open and you sat up with a jolt. You lived alone, and could not imagine what kind of an animal could have slid open your kitchen window. As you stared wide-eyed over the back of the sofa, knuckles gripping the fabric in disbelief, you watched in horror as a figure pulled himself hastily through the frame. He pulled himself to his feet, clutching his side, and you locked eyes: prison-cropped hair and stubbly, it was the man from the TV. 'Convicted three-time murderer' Courtland Gentry looked as surprised to see you as you were him. Before you could draw breath to scream, he was crossing the room in a panic; a large, calloused hand clamped over your mouth, the other pinning your shoulder back against the cushions firmly as he reached over the back of the sofa. Your muffled shout vibrated against his palm. “Listen to me," he whispered, voice low and calm like he was trying to sound as non-threatening as a fugitive could. "I’m not going to hurt you, but you need to be quiet." His face was inches from yours, sharp blue eyes staring down at you expectantly, a smear of blood along his jaw visible in the TV's blue glow. “Do you understand?”

You froze, trying to recall advice for what to do in such an event: all you could think was to cooperate and give him whatever he wanted to try and stay alive. As you nodded frantically, your gaze drifted to the dark stain spreading across the side of his shirt: fresh blood. He sighed in relief and removed his hand from your shoulder, placing it against his bleeding torso and wincing as he pressed down on what was an obviously grievous wound. "I need your help,” he nodded down to his side, grimacing. “Got shot on the way out. Don't think it's life-threatening, but I can’t keep moving like this. So," he continued, "bandages, first-aid kit... got any?" Again, you nodded frantically, eyes gesturing over to your bathroom. He turned his head and nodded once in silent understanding, then paused, hand still over your mouth. You could feel the tremor in his fingers as he spoke. “I just need somewhere to lay low a couple hours, then I’ll be gone.” His eyes searched yours, intense and surprisingly calm given the situation. “You have my word. Now, if I let go, are you going to scream?” He waited, watching you carefully with raised eyebrows.

Your pulse thundered in your ears. A dangerous convict was in your flat, bleeding on your furniture, and yet you found yourself shaking your head no and believing it. He looked like a man who had run out of options as you stared up at him. His blue eyes were sharp but exhausted, pain etching deep lines around them. After a long, terrifying second he carefully lifted his hand from your mouth, ready to clamp it back down if you screamed. You didn’t; the only sound was some midnight TV segment chuntering on in the background. “Good,” he murmured, voice rough with relief. “Thank you.” He eased back just enough to give you space to sit up. “I— I have a first aid kit,” you whispered, scared to speak too loudly, "but it's in the bathroom." Your hands trembled as you pointed behind him to the bathroom. Courtland watched you carefully, like an uneasy dog. "Alright. I can work with that."

Shell-shocked and in a daze, you returned clumsily to the living-room with the first-aid kit. Courtland had lowered himself onto the couch and turned on a small lamp next to the sofa, wincing as he peeled his shirt up and off. The sight of his bare torso as you approached from behind— lean muscle, old scars— made your stomach twist; nonetheless, you kneeled in front of him, placing the box on the table and carefully prying the latch open. You looked up at him for permission to move closer, and, when he nodded, you slowly crept forward, squinting at his abdomen; up close, the gash was ugly and deep, much worse than the odd graze you had ever treated. You wondered whether this twenty-year-old, dusty, household first-aid kit would be up to fixing a bullet-wound, but Courtland interrupted your spiralling doubts. "This isn't my first rodeo," he gestured to his scar-addled torso. "If I could reach it, I would do this myself, but I can't, so I'm going to talk you through it, ok? Just need to do what I say." It was comical that he was trying to reassure you when he was the one sporting a bullet-wound. Your eyes darted between his and the bullet hole: this man was dying and you had nothing more than a girl-scout first aid kit to retrieve the bullet, sterilise and pack the wound. Still, you nodded, resigned to cooperating. "Okay. Clean the tweezers." You obeyed, trembling hands ripping open the plastic of the individually packed anti-septic wipe and shakily wiping down the tweezers. Courtland peered down at you as you worked. "Now pull bullet out." He said it like it was just another instruction in a recipe: you clenched your jaw and moved closer, tentatively placing one hand on his torso to peer into the wound. “I'm sorry,” you mumbled, an advance apology for the pain you were about to cause. He let out a humourless huff, gritting his teeth. “Just do it.”

And so you did: he squeezed eyes shut, save to look down a few times to direct you, and grit his jaw as you finally pried the bullet from the wound. Your stomach churned as you dropped the bloody metal onto the coffee table. "Good," Courtland affirmed. "Now we need to clean and pack it."

You cleaned the gash as gently as you could; he tensed under your hands, jaw clenched tight, but stayed perfectly still. A low groan escaped him when the antiseptic hit the raw flesh. “Easy… easy,” he breathed, eyes half-closed. One of his hands came to rest lightly on your shoulder— not restraining, just steadying himself. His palm was warm and rough. “You’re doing good."

The closeness was overwhelming. His scent— sweat, blood, and adrenaline— filled the small space between you with heat. Every time your fingers brushed his skin, you felt goosebumps rise.

After five minutes of silence, you found yourself a little bolder; you'd pulled a bullet from his side: you felt you were owed an explanation. “Why my place?” you prompted softly as you packed gauze into the hole. Courtland replied immediately, as though he were listing off attributes of a safehouse. You had an inkling he was not your average con. “Lights were off. Ground floor. Looked… safe.” His thumb brushed absently against your shoulder. “Didn’t expect anyone to be home, let alone someone like you—” he hissed suddenly as you hit a tender spot. “M'sorry," you muttered. "'Someone like me'?” He looked down at you, eyes intense through the discomfort. “Kind.” You didn’t answer. Instead you focused on taping the bandage securely, wrapping it around his lean waist. Your hands kept brushing the hard planes of his abdomen, and you tried to ignore the way your pulse jumped every time.

became obsessed w you the day his mother married your father and you ended up under the same roof.

he's 17 and you're 16 when your parents remarry, and he carries his 'curiosity' about you for years until he realises that he keeps dumping his girlfriends because none of them are enough like you. eventually comes to terms with the fact that he wants to fuck you silly.

he keeps a hidden sketchbook filled with drawings of you: some innocent, many not. He draws you sleeping, in the shower, changing... the more explicit ones he hides under his mattress for fear his mom will find it when cleaning his room

100% a panty stealer! At first it was just one pair, then it became a collection. He keeps them in a box under his bed and uses them to jerk off, involuntarily moaning your name quietly so no one hears. first time he does that he's so disgusted with himself he burns them, then regrets it because now he has to steal more. SIGH

He listens to you through the wall. The first time he hears you quietly moaning, or a quiet 'buzz' from your room, he thinks he's died and gone to heaven. It becomes a routine, lying in bed with his eyes closed waiting to hear the hum of your vibrator, then pressing his ear to the wall, cock in hand for as long as he can manage.

Can tell when you've not orgasmed in a while because a) he keeps a diary of the days you do masturbate based on what he hears and b) you're cranky after a week of not touching yourself. He winds you up extra on those days with the belief that you'll cum extra hard the next time you do. He's so considerate <3

sometimes purposefully knocks on your door when he hears you masturbating so that you have to tell him to 'HOLD ON I'M...GETTING CHANGED!' and answer the door all flustered while he smirks and you can't figure out why.

Takes the liberty of charging up your vibrator whilst you're at school or work so that you can BOTH get off that night!

He gets jeaaaaalous with a capital J when you date, or even talk to, guys. will go as far as to “accidentally” ruin your plans, delete messages confirming a date or time with a guy, or show up wherever you are with that bullshit big-brother act saying he doesn't like the look of your date. often manages to get your dad on board, claiming that the guy you're dating is a known trouble-maker; your dad will tell Henry to go and pick you up and bring you home, which he does with great pleasure, claiming he's just following orders.

lets you cry on his shoulder about bad dates, comforts you despite his throbbing dick at the sight of your wet, doe-like eyes.

"He's an asshole, Y/N. You deserve better. Stop going on dates with these fuckin' jerk offs and wait for someone to appreciate you for what you are."

I'm potentially envisioning a drunken/stoned kiss if you're home alone together for the weekend, which neither of you ever bring up again but he thinks about constantly

once again, he is just a massive panty sniffer and general clothing thief. He’ll jerk off with your used underwear, sports shorts, even a SOCK because he was so desperate, wrapped around his cock, imagining it’s you riding him. He cums so hard he has to bite his lip until it bleeds to stay quiet on these occasions.

watches you shower as often as he can, self-justifying it as an art study.

touchy in an innocent way that’s anything but: he'll “accidentally” walk in on you changing; he’ll brush his fingers against your chest when reaching for something; he'll play fight with you just to touch you; throw you over his shoulder when you're snappy...

You guys have a... close relationship: some call it bizarre, others call it downright incestuous. So what if you sleep in your big brother's bed after a guy broke your heart? it doesn't mean anything.

He’ll crawl into your bed while you’re sleeping and just watch you, sometimes touching himself right next to you. Once he came on your thigh and cleaned it up before you woke up.

He wants to corrupt you SO bad. You've never smoked a cigarette before? here, come out with your big brother Henry and try some. sit on his lap whilst he rolls a joint, even! He won't tell your dad if you don't tell his mom.

If you confided in him that you're a virgin, he would tease you relentlessly, whilst also fantasising about being your first. He gets off on the idea of you trusting him completely while he’s thinking the dirtiest thoughts imaginable.

Inevitably probably does offer himself up to be your first, just for practice with someone you trust! He is SO selfless <3

The ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, doing almost nothing against the thick, humid heat that pressed down on the bedroom like a weighted blanket from hell. The windows were swung open, but the night air outside was just as oppressive. You lay on top of the sheets in a tank top and shorts, already glistening with sweat. Ken, of course, was undeterred. You'd been rejecting his hugs all day because of the heat, and he had had just about enough.

He scooted closer on the mattress (wearing just his heart-patterned boxers), his blond hair slightly damp at the temples: when someone from Barbieland starts sweating, that's how you know it's hot. Still, his big, hopeful eyes locked onto you with puppy-like longing. “Babe...?” he asked softly. You knew immediately from his tone what he was about to ask. “Can we do even a little cuddling? I can be the big spoon, if you want? I’ve been practicing my form— look!” He turned onto his side and stiffly demonstrated his new 'technique', smiling up at you proudly as he did so. You turned your head toward him, giggling despite the discomfort. “Ken, you know I want to, but it’s just so hot. If we cuddle I’m going to actually dissolve into a puddle, and you’ll have to explain to everyone why you're dating a pile of Y/N soup, and it'll be a whole thing." You huffed and wiped some hair from your damp brow, exhausted even by talking. Ken’s face fell, earnest tragedy flashing across his features once again. He flipped onto his back with a theatrical sigh, one arm dramatically draped over his forehead. “But we always cuddle at bedtime,” he whined, staring at the ceiling with wide sad eyes. “I need the closeness, the connection, the… the 'Ken and Y/N forever' energy to fall asleep!” You patted his arm sympathetically, then returned to your spread eagle position, trying desperately to let the lukewarm air hit as much as your body as possible.

He was quiet for a beat; you could almost hear the pink, plastic cogs turning in his head. “Okay, how about this,” he said, rolling onto his side enthusiastically, propping his head on his hand. “What if we do cold spooning? I’ll go take a cold shower, and become a human ice pack. You won’t even notice the heat!” It was beyond endearing that he'd be willing to do that for you, but still: the idea of flesh-on-flesh right now sent a trickle of sweat down your spine. "I dunno Ken..." you began, "still sounds a bit suffocating." He furrowed his brows, then doubled down. "We could put one of those cooling gel packs that you got for my sprained ankle between us? Like a little, cold chaperone. A chilly third wheel, if you will!” He beamed at you. You shook your head.

Ken's suggestions became increasingly ridiculous, ending with a final suggestion of his climbing into the fridge every ten minutes of spooning. When you gently but firmly said no to all cooling contraptions (because even that sounded sticky and awful right now), Ken nodded solemnly and sighed, like a man accepting his tragic fate.

He rose from the circular bed, and disappeared into the bathroom for a minute. When he returned, his hands were carefully carrying two damp washcloths he’d run under cold water. He placed one across your forehead with great gentleness, and laid the other across his own chest like a tiny blanket. Droplets of cold water ran down his hard flank, and you both sighed in relief. “See? I’m adapting,” he announced proudly. “I’m being very independent. Look at me, not cuddling: I’m basically a zen master.”

He lasted about four minutes before he started scooting his foot over until just his ankle brushed yours— the tiniest possible point of contact. You shot him a look that said 'I see what you're doing'. He smiled innocently at you. You laughed softly and let him keep the ankle contact.

Eventually, he settled on his back, but reached out so his pinkie finger could hook with yours on the mattress between you. “This is good,” he said quietly, though his voice was still a little wistful. “I just like knowing you’re here. Even if we’re both turning into puddles… I’m your puddle, and you’re mine.” After a moment, he added with a small, cheeky grin, "but when it cools down, I’m getting full cuddle tax. With interest". "Of course," you giggled, giving his pinkie a squeeze. He curled contentedly into the bed, blankets thrown aside.