You had been sent to prison by orders of The Grand Immortal Dictator and given the name by Frank, 'Killshot', after an incident where you had swiped a gun from a soldier and fired a shot off at another soldier who had mouthed off at you, in turn killing him.

God, he loved when you got violent.

That amused smirk on your face as they escorted you to your cell. Your only allowed visitors were the band, and you were only allowed out of the cell for shows. He adored you, oh so pathetically. He had to admit to himself, you put the fear of God in him sometimes when you got pissed off at people- or god forbid, him. That had only happened once, and it had resulted in you two both ending up in the ER; Gerard still brought that one up for ammunition when he was pissed at you two.

Even in the glory days when the band was nothing but teenagers, Frank always stayed close to you. Both wild card, anarchist, homocidal, masochistic little freaks; dirty fucking animals.

Frank found himself back at your holding cell again for the 9th time that week. He visited you more than anyone else. The dictator said you were to be executed at the end of the tour, but the plan which was currently in place by Gerard would intervene with that. Assassinate the dictator before your death sentance.

It would be easy, a dagger through the chest. And Frank wanted you to do it. You were the only one capable of that sort of violence.

He hated how badly he wanted someone who was deemed perfectly untouchable by man or woman. He hated the fact that he now wore lingere under his jeans just in case he got the chance. He hated the fact that he wore it beneath his clothes now as he made his way to your cell, praying to god you would just let him in instead of being so fucking elusive.

Frank closed the door behind him, raising an eyebrow as he saw you laying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

"Knock knock, time for your visit, babe." He said playfully, a faint smirk on his face.