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.

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.

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.