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.

Ten minutes ago, you had been sent out of class for calling your classmate an asshole after he threw a marker at the back of the school-punching-bag's head: a less-than-fortunately proportioned boy called Johnny Henderson who they liked to pick on because he didn't fight back. You'd reluctantly traipsed down the hallway of Belleville Preparatory High, shoes squeaking as you dragged your feet, and thrown yourself down in one of the stiff, reddish-brown armchairs. Your knees were bouncing, arms crossed tightly over your chest as you awaited your certain fate: a week's detention— again— inevitably. Your mom was sure to be pissed.

The receptionist peered judgementally over her glasses, one pencil-thin eyebrow raised, before returning to tapping rapidly on her clunky keyboard. Evading her gaze, you peered around: the waiting area outside the Principal's office smelled like stale coffee, printer ink, and the seemingly mandated trace of body odour that clung to every high school with boys in attendance. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh, greenish glow on the beige cinder block walls; a sad little wooden clock ticked loudly on the wall between two identical wooden doors— one leading to the Principal’s office, the other back out to the hall from which you'd come.

As you picked nervously at your cuticle, the door to the hall opened as another student shuffled in. You glanced up at the new arrival: a lanky boy with straightened, mousey hair that fell into his eyes and obstructed the black-rimmed glasses sitting crooked on his nose. His white button-up shirt was untucked, wrinkled, and slightly spattered with blood, red-and-navy-striped tie loose at his collar; there was a fresh split on his lower lip, a darkening bruise blooming across his left cheekbone, and a trickle of dried blood descending from his right nostril.

He looked exactly like the kind of boy your mother would warn you about if she saw him, but you were in the same Chemistry class as he, and knew better than to be intimidated: Mikey Way was, much like Johnny Henderson, a school punching-bag. In fact, he and his three friends— including his brother from the grade above— seemed to be some of the least popular, least athletic individuals in the entire school; it was a miracle that they still came in at all after years of swirlies, wedgies, and other jock-delivered pains.

Mikey dropped into the chair beside you with a heavy sigh, wincing a little as he leaned forward and clasped his hands together. For a moment he just stared at the floor, jaw tight; then, he turned his head slightly toward you, head still angled toward the floor like he didn't want you to know he was looking. His eyes met yours; you offered him a tight-lipped, almost sympathetic smile. “…Hi,” he murmured, voice quiet as though he weren't sure he wanted to be heard. "Hey," you replied quietly, nodding cordially. He cleared his throat, looking around awkwardly before returning his gaze to yours. “What you in for?" "Called an asshole an asshole," you sighed. "You?" He touched his split lip with a small, self-deprecating smile. “Got in a fight. Well, sort of." He pushed his glasses up his nose and looked away, wringing his hands. "Got beat up," he murmured shamefully.

You studied his profile for a second: despite the bruises and the blood, there was something quite gentle about the way he carried himself — quiet, observant, like he was more than he let on. You felt suddenly quite sorry for him. “That sucks," you muttered. He nodded quietly, a pink blush dusting his cheeks: embarrassment, or maybe just bruising. "I’m Y/N,” you offered, hoping to distract from his— and your— turmoil. “Mikey,” he replied, the corner of his mouth twitching upward momentarily. "Think we're in Chemistry together, actually," you added. "Friday's at two p.m., right?" "Right," he nodded slowly in agreement. "Thought I recognised you." He looked mildly regretful of his words, and pushed his glasses up again even though they hadn't fallen down; you looked away and supressed a smile.

A silence settled between you for a moment. Mikey extended his frame to lean back against the chair and stretch his long, black skinny-jean-clad legs out. You had the sense he was looking at you out of the corner of your eye. “You new?” he murmured eventually. You took a moment, chewing the inside of your cheek pensively as you turned to look at him. “Started this year. So not that new, I guess.” He nodded slowly, then gave you a small, crooked smile that made your stomach flip in surprise. “Sounds like you're having a great time so far.” You didn't take Mikey for a funny guy, so you laughed softly, somewhat surprised. "Yeah," you replied. "It's been a riot." Mikey’s eyes lingered on you for a second longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering behind his glasses: pride, perhaps. "What about you," you prompted. "Do anything to make this whole experience liveable?" Mikey paused thoughtfully before returning to your eyes with a sheepish smile. "I play music." Your eyebrows shot up. "Neat," you nodded. "What kind? Wha'd you play?" Again, Mikey took a minute to reply: he turned his gaze back to the floor, fiddling with his thumbs. You would've thought nobody had ever asked him a question before in his life. "I play bass. It's kinda... you know the Smashing Pumpkins?" You nodded quickly, encouraging him to continue. "Well, kinda like them, but worse." "That's really cool," you said. There was no mistaking the growing blush on his face for a bruise, now. "You really think so?" he asked earnestly. "I mean—" he lowered his voice— "thanks. I think it's cool, too." You smiled, eyes crinkling; he smiled back.

The clean studio lights of the interview area hummed ahead of you as you stood leaning against a stack of equipment cases. A few feet away, a lanky interviewer sat with his back to you, a clipboard on his lap, while Gerard sat on the sofa attentively answering his questions, jet-black hair falling into his eyes, white button-up slightly untucked, remnants of last night's eyeliner making his eyes pop. He looked every bit the rockstar he was, although slightly better tempered and less of a diva than his peers in the same scene. While Gerard would never do anything to be rude (even when asked uncomfortable questions), he had one habit that came across as a little cocky— bored, even: his gum chewing; his loud, open mouthed gum chewing.

You never thought that a man chewing with his mouth open would be attractive, but it drove you crazy to see him acting a little more like the carefree rebel that reporters made him out to be. You knew that it was just how he concentrated, how he kerbed needing a cigarette all the time, but you couldn't help fixating on it.

The interviewer asked another question about the album, and Gerard answered as he always did: gesturing animatedly with his hands as he spoke. "Writing it, actually— I wrote it on the train. We were in pre-production in New York City—" he paused to brush a hand through his messy black mop, chewing thoughtfully— "I was riding the subway from Queens, in New York, and these teenagers would get on..." You tried your best to listen to what he had to say, despite having heard this story a few times before, but every few seconds you heard it— the rhythmic snap, pop, smack of him chewing. It should have been annoying; instead, it made your stomach flip. You couldn’t stop staring at his mouth; the way his jaw moved; how his eyes drifted around the room as he spoke, impassioned yet far away; how ridiculously gorgeous he looked doing something so ordinary.

God, he’s so pretty, you thought, crossing your arms over your chest to soothe your quickening heartbeat. The way the black hair framed his face, the little smirk he got when he was excited about something… it was all so unfair. What could a man possibly need such thick eyelashes for?

The interview wrapped up shortly after. Gerard stood up as the assistant removed his mic pack, scanning the room until his eyes landed on you. His searching, slightly concerned expression softened into an excited smile as he made a beeline straight for you, still chewing. “Hi, sweetheart,” he greeted, voice a little giddy. He pulled you into a quick hug, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other staying at his side holding his coffee as he pecked your cheek. “Didn't know you were watching. Did I do okay?” He steered you both to the exit, arm round your waist. “You were great, Gee. You're a reporter's dream,” you smiled, squeezing his side. He smiled down at his feet as you walked, grateful for the affirmation. Teasingly, you added, “It’s funny... how you chew gum. Good-funny, I mean. I just never noticed it before." Gerard pulled back just enough to look at you, eyebrows raised with amusement as you walked through the doors leading outside. “Oh yeah?” "Yeah. Like you chew more when you're thinking hard. It's a cute habit—" Before you could say anything else, he stopped and pulled your body flush with his, pressing his mouth to yours. In surprise, your mouth fell open with a silent gasp: Gerard took the opportunity to slide his tongue smoothly across your lower lip, and you felt the gum transfer from his mouth to yours. You grinned against his lips.

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."