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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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