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.

Ray is the definition of a best friend. He’s the person you can call at 3am when you can’t sleep or when your world is falling apart, and you can bet he’ll always be awake and pick up, asking, “want me to come get you?”

Very much protective of you, big brother style. Ray might look like a big softie (which he is, usually) but he is also six foot tall and built from carrying gear around all the time. He doesn’t like to start fights, but he has before and he would do it again. I'm thinking this sort of thing would mostly happen on tour in the early days if someone calls you a groupie or something (Y2K sexism was rabid)

if he brings you on tour, he makes sure there's a spare bunk right above his, and makes sure to prep the guys that they need to be cleaner and make sure to put the toilet seat down, etc. It's like a month long sleepover and he wouldn't have it any other way; you stay up all night after concerts, laughing and trying not to wake up anyone else, then fall asleep in the same bunk. Strictly tells the guys that you are strictly OFF LIMITS to them!!! Unless you develop a crush on one of them, in which case Ray is like subliminally influencing him to fall in love with you too

You make each other mixtapes (like burned CDs or cassettes) with songs he thinks/knows you like or that you listen to together. sneaks in songs he wrote but never showed the band.

Ray is the bestttt at comforting need I say more???

secretly he is a MASSIVE gossip. He’ll never admit it, but he loves when you tell him drama. He’ll sit there with wide eyes, eating chips, going “Wait… seriously?”. Equally he comes back from gigs with excellent gossip about fights or breakups.

Makes you wet yourself laughing on a regular basis

You might well be the only person aside from his mom allowed to touch his hair. He’ll sit on the floor between your legs while you help him with his curls or braid little sections for him.

Goodbye hugs before tour are the kind of hug where he sways a little and rests his chin on your head.

calls you “kid” even if you’re the same age, makes fun of your music taste, then immediately follows it up with a compliment so you know he’s joking. Is equally so easily ragebaited (please refer to the clip where Gerard accuses Ray of owning nudie magazines and he shouts "THAT'S NOT MINE!")

Late-night drives in the tour van yayyy. He’ll pick you up with no destination, windows down, playing music

He’s your personal hype man. If he's away on tour, he sends you long voicemails from his shitty cell phone for when you wake up telling you how proud he is of you and how much he misses you. "Call me when you get this!"

lowkey jealous of how easily you make friends. He’ll grumble, “Must be nice being outgoing,” but he’s always happy to be your plus-one to parties and stays glued to your side the whole time, even if he's secretly a bit jealous that you've made new friends. "ANOTHER party? Jeez... isn't one best friend enough?!"

if he’s working on new music, you’re the first person he plays it for. He gets all shy and nervous, watching your face the entire time. Your opinion matters more to him than almost anyone else’s

This party was too crowded, too loud, and too hot: Frank didn't mind crowded, loud, and hot when it was at a gig, but when it was full of people who wouldn't look at him twice if they ran him over, he hated it. Regardless, he came because you'd asked him to; because you were his girlfriend; and he was stupidly, pathetically in love with you. He stayed glued to your side most of the night, arm slung around your waist, fingers occasionally twisting into the hem of your shirt like he needed the reminder that you were still there. “You good?” you asked softly, turning to brush your fingers along his jaw. Frank nodded enthusiastically, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before taking a swig of some nasty mixture of liquor that Mikey had forced into his cup. “Yeah. S'just... loud in here.” You nodded, unconvinced. Frank didn't mind loud and you knew it: he played guitar in a band that didn't do 'quiet'. Still, you weren't going to argue— you were just glad he'd come.

The other half of the night, Frank wandered off to find his own friends (of which he had three, all of whom you had miraculously managed to get invited). The four of them had gone outside to smoke, then returned to the sprawling, expensive leather couch in the front room that they had claimed as theirs earlier on that night. Frank sat between Ray and Gerard; Mikey sat in an armchair, drunkenly waving at girls passing by: he seemed to be the last to learn that nobody from school was going to fuck him unless he paid them and offered them witness protection afterward, but Frank amused himself by watching, anyway.

Frank peeled his eyes off of Mikey, searching in the crowd for your figure. He found you easily, knowing the shape of you in a crowd like the back of his hand: he'd spent a good deal of time searching for you in crowds this big when he played with his band, and had become rather good at picking you out. When he spotted you, you were laughing with a group of people from your English class, ever the bright, easy, magnetic social butterfly. He loved how good you were at this, how people gravitated toward you; he hated how bad he was at it. He also hated how some tall asshole with a backwards cap kept leaning in too close to talk to you— some frat-adjacent dickhead Frank faintly remembered playing for the school's football team. Something ugly twisted in Frank's chest as he watched.

"Face it," Ray shouted across to Mikey, "we're never gonna make it into any of these girls' beds." "Maybe if they'd invited the lunch lady," Gerard mumbled. Ray snorted, nudging Frank in the ribs. "Right, Frank?" Frank tore his eyes from you just long enough to reply to Ray and to catch Mikey rolling his eyes at Ray's pessimism. "Yeah, yeah. Right." Frank was too distracted to offer anything more than that, and his eyes returned to you seconds later.

You were still talking to— or rather being talked at by— the football player. Something hot was bubbling in Frank's chest, and he didn't think it had anything to do with the disgusting concoction he'd been drinking: he knew the feeling of envy all too well to pretend that's not what it was. Frank watched as the guy leaned over to pour more liquor into your cup as you shook your head no (Frank thought he could make you out saying 'Oh, no, I'm all good, thanks' as he poured), then make a joke that you smiled weakly at, turning back to your friend. Clearly not taking the hint that you weren't interested in talking, the guy placed his hand on your lower back. Frank could no longer contain himself and shot off of the sofa, brushing a hand through his gelled, black hair as Ray called after him: "Hey! Where you goin'?"

Frank stepped forward, flicking the guy's hand resting on your back. “Hey, man. How about you move your hand off my girlfriend?" he spat. The football player spun around, removing his hand in surprise. He was at least half a foot taller than Frank, but you'd bet he wasn't half as pissed off. “Relax, dude. We’re just talking," he smirked as he looked down. “Yeah, well," Frank snapped, "talk with your mouth, not your hands." You turned and squeezed Frank's forearm gratefully, cooling him down. “Frank, it’s all good,” you murmured. Frank was momentarily embarrassed to have been so pissed off: you were good looking and social, and he didn't want to ruin a good time for you, but his touch looked unwarranted. Then the guy laughed. “Yeah, why don't you listen to your girlfriend? That is if she knows she's your girlfriend.” "Hey—!" you turned back to the football player, scowling, but Frank was already in motion.

Frank was admittedly small, more used to dodging than swinging, but he was broad and knew he had a powerful swing in him. Plus, insecurity, jealousy and Mikey's aptly named 'Blackout Rage Juice' made him stupid. Frank shoved the guy hard; he shoved back harder. Within seconds it was a mess of swinging fists and shouting. Frank got a solid hit in, splitting his lip, but the guy was bigger, stronger, and had friends that were looking to fight (Frank betted his friends were outside passing round a joint and talking about the newest edition of Fangoria). A fist connected with Frank’s cheekbone while another caught him in the ribs; someone grabbed him from behind while another landed a punch to his mouth. “Hey,” he heard you shout, pushing through the forming crowd. "That's not fair— stop!" You watched as they pummelled Frank, who dropped to the floor after a nasty kick to his ribs. The hostess pulled them apart, scolding the boys for getting blood on her mom's rug: Frank’s lip was bleeding, his left eye was already swelling, and his knuckles were split open. He looked like a scrappy alley cat that had fought a much bigger pack of dogs. "Jesus Christ, Frank!" you squealed, crouching in front of him as the crowd dispersed, disappointed that he was still conscious. "Can you walk?" You grabbed his arm as he hoisted himself up and dragged him outside into the cold night air.

“What the hell was that?” you hissed, gently tilting his face to inspect the damage under the streetlight. Frank winced but didn’t pull away. Blood was smeared across his mouth and chin. “He was touching you," he mumbled. “So you decided to get your ass kicked?” You lifted the hem of his top up to press against his bleeding lip, revealing a fresh bruise blooming on his abdomen. “Are you some kind of masochist, or are you just stupid?” Frank looked away, jaw tight, embarrassment and adrenaline still buzzing under his skin. He didn't reply, slouching to sit down against the front-garden fence. You sighed in frustration, regretting what you'd said. "Why, Frank?" you pleaded after a moment, voice soft as you grabbed his hands and crouched in front of him. He took a moment before dropping his gaze to his shoes. “I hate this shit,” he muttered. “I hate not being able to do what you do. Your boyfriend should be able to show you a good time— take you out and be fuckin'... sociable,” his voice cracked slightly as he met your eyes. “But I’m just not that guy, and you’re you. You could have anyone and nobody thinks I'm good enough for you. Including me," he whispered.

2002 Frank Iero was a problem. A walking, talking, smirking problem who, unfortunately, was the only person on campus who sold pot that wasn't padded out with oregano. Everyone knew his was the best; everyone also knew that he was kind of a dirtbag, but you had first hand experience of it. You’d lost count of how many times you’d sworn that you were done with him— with fucking him, letting him convince you he gave a damn, and then finding yourself not hearing from him for weeks until he shot you a sleazy text when he found out you'd bought from someone else. You had told him the last time you saw him that you wanted out, but your friends knew you knew Frank, and had sent you on a mission to pick up from him one last time. You had agreed, knowing nobody else sold anything close to it.

You cussed under your breath as you shuffled down the hall to his dorm, mentally prepping yourself to tell him that you just wanted an eighth, that no, you weren't staying for a fuck, and yes, this was the last time you'd be seeing him. You wrapped your knuckles against his door. No reply: typical. You knocked once more, irritably, but as your knuckles were about to hit the peeling paint, the door swung open, revealing Frank in an unfairly snug black tee and jeans. Smugness appeared on his face within seconds of seeing it was you. "Y/N," he smirked. "Not seen you in a while." He leaned against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. "Frank," you nodded, meeting his gaze coldly. "Just here to pick up." Frank took a moment, raking his eyes over you before straightening up. "Ray's out." He disappeared into his dorm, leaving you to close the door behind you. The usual smell of boy and marijuana hit you; you sighed.

"Where've you been?" Frank asked over his shoulder, throwing himself down onto the torn-up sofa and patting the space next to him expectantly. "Where've— where've I been?" You scoffed: Frank hadn't replied to you in a week. You'd stopped double texting months ago, figuring you'd keep your dignity the less you made it obvious you'd hoped to hear back. "I've been here, Frank. Same as always," you huffed, ignoring his gesture for you to sit with him. "Cool," he mumbled distractedly, sprawling himself across the beat-up couch, legs spread, rolling a joint with lazy precision. He didn’t even look up at you as he spoke. "You gonna come sit and smoke with me?" You knew from experience that wasn't all that would happen. You clenched your jaw, arms crossed over your chest, shifting your weight awkwardly from left to right leg. "I told you last time, Frank. We're can't do that, anymore." “Yeah?” he drawled, voice low and amused. You froze in irritation, squinting down at him. “I'm serious, Frank,” you hissed. “I’m not doing this weird...off and on bullshit anymore. It's over.” Frank all but rolled his eyes. “You said that last week. And the week before that.” You hated how calm he sounded; how sure he was. “Because you keep doing...this!” You threw your hands up and gestured wildly. Frank raised an eyebrow quizzically, still not looking up at you as he rolled. “One day you’re texting me saying you miss the way I sound when I come, and then you ignore me for a week." You drew a deep breath in and dropped your hands, determined to keep your cool. "I literally asked you what we are and you laughed, so forgive me for not wanting to be around you much.”

Frank finally looked at you, eyes dark and unreadable. He licked the edge of the rolling paper slowly, deliberately. “I think you know,” he said, voice flat with irritation, “that I don’t do dating. I don’t do girlfriends. I fuck and I sell. That’s it.” You felt the familiar lurch behind your chest: this conversation was going nowhere. "Whatever," you scoffed, straightening up. "Do you have the pot or not?" "Yeah," Frank nodded as though completely unbothered by this entire thing. "Great," you huffed, digging in your back pocket for the thirty five dollars, extending them out to him. Normally, he would take the cash, shove it in his back pocket, and retrieve more than what you'd asked for from the table in the middle of the room, not bothering to weigh it up. That was partly why your friends had sent you: he always seemed to be generous with you. That and your friends were scared of him. On this occasion, however, Frank eyed the cash then dropped his gaze back down to his joint as though bored. "It's fifty."

You froze, closing your eyes momentarily and clenching your jaw in irritation. "Seriously, Frank?" you hissed. "An eighth is thirty-five dollars. Even you should remember that." Frank leaned back on the sofa, crossing one leg over the other. "Price went up." A smile played at his lips as he lit the joint. Unbelievable. "Fuck you," you laughed dryly, shoving the cash back into your pocket. "I'll go and buy from Mikey, then." Last time you had bought from Mikey, Frank had thrown a major tantrum about you 'cheating on him' with a guy who 'didn't know his ass from his elbow'. You weren't sure if he meant cheating on him as your situationship or as your dealer. Either way, he was not happy.

You stormed toward the door, ready to walk back across campus, when Frank spoke. “Come here." You hated yourself for hesitating for only a second before turning on your heel to face him: he was looking at you, at last. Frank raised his eyebrows expectantly when you didn't move. "Would you sit the fuck down?" he gestured to the sofa, words muffled by the joint hanging between his lips. Your eyes bore into his as you begrudgingly approached him. Before you could sit, Frank pulled you down into his lap, one hand sliding up your thigh under your skirt while the other held the joint to your lips. “Open,” he murmured. You took the hit, eyes never leaving his. The smoke filled your lungs, warm and familiar. He watched your face the whole time, thumb stroking the inside of your thigh. "See?” he mocked, voice rough. “Mikey's doesn't hit like that, does it.” You exhaled shakily, turning your face from his. “Fuck you, Frank.”

An hour later you were in his bed, back arched, his mouth between your legs while your fingers gripped his hair. He went for it like he was starving; like he was trying to ruin you for anyone else. When you came, shaking and gasping his name, he crawled up your body and kissed you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “Still done with me?” he asked against your lips. You hated how weak your voice sounded. “Yes.” He laughed softly into your mouth.

Later, tangled in his sheets, you made the mistake of poking the subject again. “I don't get it,” you said, turning to face him; smoke curled around his face as he peered up at the ceiling, occasionally blinking down at you. "If you want to fuck me and get me high, great; but I'm gonna see other people, too." You paused. "Including Mikey, if I want." He went still, then handed you the joint. Frank watched you inhale with half-lidded eyes, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare hip, as you inhaled. “We’re whatever I say we are,” he finally answered`. “And right now, I say you’re mine.” You wanted to argue; you wanted to leave, but you just sighed. "Whad'you wanna see other people for, hm?" Frank purred, taking the joint back and purposefully brushing your cheek with his hand.

Silence settled between you two: you were dissatisfied, and Frank could sense it. He spoke suddenly. "I'm not fuckin' anyone else." You froze. "But—" He shot you a lazy, half-bored, half-irate look. "I'm not fucking anyone," he repeated himself. "So I don't see why you should be." You didn't know what to say. "Alright," was all you managed. "Plus," Frank began, "nobody makes you come like I do, and nobody gets you high like I do, either."

Sunlight filtered through the half-closed blinds of the bedroom: his and your clothes strewn across the floor, paperwork covering most surfaces, and empty cigarette packs filling the bin. You stirred slowly, the events of last night coming back in heated flashes— you'd met him at the party, he’d pulled you aside with a thoroughly charming, lopsided grin and introduced himself as Holland; he'd told you he was an undercover PI and you'd told him he wasn't very good at staying undercover.

You didn't like to make a habit of this kind of thing, but you really needed to blow off some steam, and things escalated once you got back to his place.

You sat up quietly, reaching for your clothes on the floor; nobody was in the bed next to you, so you figured it was late enough in the day for you to get a move on. It had been fun— really fun— but mornings after one-night stands were always awkward, and you didn’t want to overstay your welcome. A quiet clink of ceramic stopped you; Holland was standing in the doorway, wearing boxers and a crumpled, floral button-down over a white-vest— the same outfit he'd come home with you in, minus the pants— and was holding two mismatched mugs of coffee. His hair was a complete disaster, and there was a faint red mark on his neck that you were pretty sure you were responsible for.

“Morning,” he said, voice raspy. He offered you one of the mugs with a sheepish little smile: it had a thick chip in the rim. “I, uh, made coffee. Tried not to burn it this time. I usually do. Burn it, I mean. Not on purpose. Just happens.” “Thanks," you smiled, gratefully accepting the mug. "I was just about to head out, actually. It's noon, right?” Holland’s face fell slightly. He set his own mug down on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It's only ten. You don’t have to go,” he murmured under his breath. “I mean— not that you have to stay. That sounds creepy. Jesus, what I mean is… if you wanted to stay, have a shower, eat some breakfast... my daughter Holly's still asleep—” "You're called Holland and your daughter is called Holly?" you giggled, interrupting him. He blinked then smiled. "...Creative, right?" You smiled into your mug as you sipped, contemplating what he had said. He looked at you with tired but earnest eyes, the same ones that had drawn you in last night at the party. “I don’t usually do the whole ‘bring someone home from an undercover gig’ thing,” he rambled, as though that were a thing. “Actually, I’ve never done that before." His cheeks flushed pink. "But with you… last night was… yeah. Really good. Like, really good.”

Tonight's house party was like any other you'd been to with the guys: loud, sweaty, and smelling like cheap beer and smoke (nicotine, marijuana, bonfire— you name it). It was the time of night where everyone was wasted or near enough to it to run a little wilder. The main room was packed with kids screaming along to the shitty stereo and the backyard was occupied by everyone else, either making out or smoking.

You were in the kitchen fixing yourself another drink when Frank spotted you. “There you are,” he huffed, pushing through bodies to get to you. You turned around to find him shirtless, hair a sweaty mess, a fresh bruise forming on his ribs from whatever he'd just been doing; he had half-sweated off the drawing of a heart on his chest with your initials in it that you'd sharpie'd on him earlier. “Been looking for you all night," he grinned as you absentmindedly reached out to trace his chest. Before you could respond, he rested his arms on the table behind you, caging you in either side of your waist and pushing your back against the surface to kiss you. He tasted like beer and stale smoke. “Y'look good tonight,” he mumbled against your mouth, leaning his weight on one hand so he could grab your ass with the other. He didn’t care who was watching— Frank never did. He leaned in to pull your bottom lip into his mouth with his teeth, drawing a gasp from you that allowed him to slip his tongue back into your mouth, lip ring cool against your lips.

“Wanna get out of here?” he finally whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Or we can just fuck here. I’m not picky.” "I know you're not," you scoffed, wiping your lip gloss from his lips. "I don't wanna leave yet, so...bathroom?" Frank grinned as he dove into your neck, biting down lightly. “That's my girl,” he murmured. “C’mon. Let’s go be disgusting somewhere.” He took your hand and dragged you through the house. Every few steps he’d stop to kiss you again, desperately unashamed that he couldn't contain himself.

After opening six different doors (two of which contained people with similar ideas to yours, leaving you giggling and blushing when they shouted, 'hey!'), you finally found a vacant bathroom upstairs. He swiped an arm across the counter to clear it as he kissed you, lifting you onto the surface, and forcing his way between your thighs. His body pressed against yours as he groaned against your mouth. “Christ," he whined between kisses. “Makin' me act like a sixteen year old that's just discovered jerking off.” "You're disgusting," you mumbled into his mouth, pulling back to peel your top over your head. "Mmm," he moaned in agreement against your lips, unbuckling his belt. "Only for you."

You wrapped your legs around his waist as he unzipped his jeans: you could see the outline of his boner in his boxers. You didn't wait to grab him through the fabric, forcing him to steady himself on the counter when his knees became weak as you palmed him. He kissed you like he was starving, tongue sliding against yours as he ground his hips forward into your hand. Once he'd regained his strength, he hoisted your skirt up around your waist, fingers hooking into your panties and pulling them down your legs. He didn’t even take them all the way off; they dangled loosely at your ankles, giving him enough freedom to push two fingers inside you, curling them perfectly as he swallowed your moans. You gasped into his mouth, nails digging into his shoulders. “Oh my God,” he moaned as if he could hardly believe his luck. “This wet from just some kissing? Maybe you're the disgusting one.” "Shut—up," your gasps punctuated the words as you squeezed your eyes closed in ecstasy in the crook of his neck, one arm around his shoulders, the other gripping the bicep flexing as he pumped his fingers into you.

He fumbled with his pants as he worked you open, pushing his jeans and boxers down just enough to free himself; he was not a perfectionist in any sense of the word, nor did he waste time: pulling his fingers out of you, he pushed them into your grateful mouth distractedly as he lined himself up and slowly pushed himself in to the hilt, leaving his fingers in your mouth as he did so. “Fuck,” he hissed, forehead pressed to yours. Your head was spinning with pleasure as he pulled his fingers from your mouth and cupped the back of your head roughly to kiss you.

He went for it hard and fast— the way he approached most things. The counter creaked beneath you with every thrust, but it was so loud that you didn't worry about anyone hearing. His thick arms caged you in, one hand gripping your thigh, the other braced on the mirror behind you, steaming it up instantly. His hips snapped forward relentlessly, becoming more and more rhythmless as he went. “Feel so good,” he grunted, biting down on your shoulder as you cradled his head. "Yeah?" "Yeah."

It didn't take long before he was groaning loudly as he spilled inside of you, hips stuttering. He stayed buried deep for a long moment, breathing hard against your neck as his arms supported his weight on the counter below you. He eventually pulled out, watching keenly with perverted delight as he dripped out of you. He snapped out of his trance when you— still seated and spread open— leaned over him to grab some toilet roll and began to wipe at yourself. Frank tucked himself back into his boxers before helping you off the counter, his hands surprisingly gentle now. As you shimmied your panties back up, he kissed you again before pulling your top over your head for you.

The desert air was thick with the smell of ozone and burning rubber as the Four tore across the sand toward the BL/Ind outpost: you had been taken earlier that morning when out alone to scavenge, and the Four had traced your radio to the outpost as soon as they could. The engine of the Trans Am roared beneath them, kicking up clouds of dust that left great tracks in their wake. Party Poison’s hands were white-knuckled on the wheel as he chewed anxiously on a piece of gum. “We’re getting her back,” he snarled to no one in particular. “I don’t care what it takes.” Kobra and Jet rode in the back, the wind whipping through their hair as the car flew over the dunes. The sun was just beginning to rise, painting the sky in bloody oranges and pinks. From the passenger seat, Ghoul turned his ray gun over in his hands; he'd never seen his best friend like this. “We’ve got your back, Party," he reassured him. "Just...don’t do anything stupid.” Party knew he couldn't make that promise. Unblinking, he put the pedal to the metal.

As dawn broke over the skyline, the Killjoys approached the outskirts of Battery City and pulled up with a squeal at the outpost. The air was ominously still as Jet kicked in the door of the outpost, ray gun charged and ready to go; Kobra and Ghoul exchanged looks of doubt. The sound of blasts echoed off the metal walls as they dealt with the sparsely littered guards: sharp, electric cracks echoed around the room, leaving the air scorched and their ears ringing.

Party moved like a man possessed, red hair wild beneath his yellow mask as he took down Draculoids with the terrifying efficiency that had made him famous among the Zones' citizens. “Where is she?” Party hissed in one guards, face, voice cracking with fury and fear; the Drac simply pointed toward two large hospital-style doors. Without hesitation, Party threw the Drac to the ground, leaving Jet to finish him off with a silenced shot, and strode toward the double-doors.

As the Four tore into the room, they were immediately apprehended, restrained in vice-like headlock by a Drac each with their own gun. This had been a trap, and Party had led his friends right into it: Korse had been after him for years, and now he knew he had a weakness? It was game over. Struggling against their respective captors, they took in the sight before them: you, blindfolded and kneeling away from Korse, hands bound behind your back, the cold metal of a gun pressed to the back of your head. Your face and top was marked with dry blood, and Korse’s gloved hand rested on your shoulder— a taunting weight on your bruised knees, exposed by where your cargos were ripped and bloodied. Party hadn't known adrenaline had a smell until now.

"Korse," Party hissed. “I know how much you love to play the hero,” Korse drawled, “so I thought I'd give you the opportunity to rescue a damsel in distress." “Let her go,” Party growled, windpipe restricted by his assailant. “She's not the one you want.” Korse tutted cruelly, eyes dropping to your kneeled form. "Pitiful: the famous Party Poison risking his friends' lives for... this?” He nudged the back of your head with the barrel of the gun; you whimpered and Party fought the urge to scream. "I never thought I'd see the day you got so stupid." "Don't." The sight of you— alive, for now, but at Korse’s mercy— nearly broke him. “Or what? You even think of touching your gun and I'll blow her brains out.” "Don't give him what he wants!" you shouted, giving Korse another excuse to dig the barrel into your temple.

Party trembled in fury, fingers itching to fight the Drac, but he knew it would mean your certain death; he looked around to his three companions, giving them a warning look to play it cool. As he did, he could see his brother's eyes darting between a fallen ray gun on the floor and Party's foot, mere centimetres away. Kobra was the sharpest shooter Party had ever known, so all he could think to do was bide his time whilst he got the gun to Kobra. "What do you want from us, Korse? Tell us and we can negotiate." Covered by the sound of his voice, Party gently kicked the gun in Kobra's direction, which slid across the cool floor easily: maintaining eye contact with Korse, Party could only hope Kobra had trapped the gun under his foot. "You are not in a position to negotiate, Poison," Korse chortled. "You have a gun to your head, have you not noticed?—"

Before Korse could finish his threat, Kobra had dropped his weight to the floor, sliding out of Drac's headlock, and dove for the ray gun at his feet. Kobra immediately shot the Drac restraining Party, giving him liberty to snatch his own ray gun from his belt and shoot Korse in his shoulder (the body part he'd deemed to be furthest from you), sending him staggering backward from you; Korse's gun dropped to the floor. Momentarily distracted, Ghoul and Jet freed themselves and began to take down the remaining Dracs, the air filling with the sharp scent of gunpowder. Party strode straight through the action to Korse. He tackled the large man, still writhing on the ground in pain from the unexpected shot. Party kneeled over Korse and wrapped his hands around his throat.

“You don’t ever touch her!” Party snarled as he leaned his weight onto Korse's windpipe. “She’s mine. You hear me? Mine!” The antagonist wheezed out a laugh, seemingly resigned to getting a final taunt before he died. “She screams...so prettily...when she’s scared," he choked out. "Did you... know that?” A cloud of red seemed to descend upon Party and he could no longer control himself. Delivering punch after punch, his metal knuckle dusters wiped the smile from Korse's face as he became unrecognisable.

It was clear to everyone in the room that, after ten hits, Korse was dead, but Party was drunk on the smell of Korse's blood and continued to deliver blow after blow. "Party..." Ghoul began, tentatively placing a hand on his friend's shoulder, which he shrugged off like an animal defending his meal. "Party," Ghoul shouted: Party froze mid-swing as his friend spoke. "He's dead. Let's get out of here." Shaking and kneeling atop of the now unrecognisable mess of Korse's flesh, blood and bone, Party realised with horror what he had come here to do. Standing and turning to you, he saw that Kobra was trying to pull your restraints loose. He was extremely grateful that you were wearing a blindfold and did not see what he had just done.

Party rushed to you, once again dropping to his knees. "I've got it," he assured his brother, hands shaking as he deftly undid the bindings at your wrists. You looked around blindly, forlorn and disoriented for lack of vision. "P—Party? That you?" Your speech was slurred through your bruised lips. The rope fell away, leaving red marks on your wrists. Party pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly it hurt your bruised ribs. “It's me— it's me. You’re okay,” he rushed out, pulling back for a second to peel the damp blindfold over your head and discard it on the floor. You blinked as you stared up at him, adjusting to the harsh light in the unit. He cupped your face, shoulders stooped to be at eye level with you: he couldn't quite believe he was holding you at last. "I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry it took us so long.” “We need to go, Party,” Jet urged from the doorway. "More will be on the way," Kobra affirmed from beside him. "We shouldn't stick around." Party nodded silently.

You clung to him, trembling, as he lifted you off your feet, carrying you bridal-style out of the building. His heartbeat slammed frantically against your cheek as he followed Jet, Ghoul, and Kobra out of the building, their guns raised as they scoped the exits out like body guards. Party walked behind, slowly, overly-cautious not to bump your head. His eyes darted forward and then back down to you frantically as though you might disappear. “I thought it was too late. I thought— fuck.” "I'm okay, Party. We're okay," you murmured against his chest, fighting down your burning nausea. "It's done." Party peered down at you with adoration and scoffed lovingly: of course you would be comforting him after you'd been taken hostage. "I know," he mumbled, more to reassure himself than you.

The ride back to the diner was quiet except for the howling wind and the transistor radio's crackling. Party refused to let you out of his lap (which was a good thing because there was hardly space in the car for five), arms wrapped tightly around your waist in the backseat, face buried in your neck. The smell of blood and gunpowder clung to him, but underneath it was the familiar scent of his skin.

Thirty minutes later, Kobra hauled the car to a stop outside of your camp. The sun was now blazing down, as usual. Jet and Kobra stepped out of the car into the bright sunlight immediately, discussing excitedly their kill counts. Ghoul shot a look over his shoulder from the passenger seat, opened his mouth as though to talk, then closed it again and let himself out of the car. Party kept a hold of you, unmoving in the backseat with you half-asleep on his lap despite their arrival back 'home'. “Y/N," he whispered into your hair, pulling back to cup your dusty, blood streaked face. "I love you, and I should’ve told you sooner. Way sooner. I was so scared I’d lose you before I could say it—” You silenced him with a quick press of your lips to his: had you not been so badly bruised, you would have stayed much longer in that embrace, but you pulled back to speak. "I love you too," you nuzzled his forehead with your own, wincing slightly. "Now let me out of this fucking car before I actually die." He grinned lopsidedly and gently pressed his lips back onto yours, not daring to open his mouth for fear of hurting you.