#&&. { prisoner of his own mind // brendon }

[cringecompanionapologist]

Had a Random Burst of Inspiration

I'm not sure if anything will actually come of this, but I wrote a bit of Turlough being a big brother to Adric and thinking about how they both have nightmares. This isn't anything like a complete story, even a short one, but I've been having writer's block for nearly a month now and I'm just excited that I created something.

CW: Turlough remembers being branded with the Misos Triangle, and the same thing happening to a literal infant. Nothing graphic, but it's mentioned, so now you know. There's also some talk about what happened to Adric in Castrovalva, so the word "torture" is used.

Adric was afraid of the Master. Of course, they all were, to some extent. Turlough found him more irritating than anything else. He usually just let the Doctor handle him and stayed out of the way. But, the other companions had a different perspective. To Tegan, this was the man who randomly murdered her aunt. To Nyssa, this was an evil being walking around inside her father’s corpse. And to Adric, this was a monster who kidnapped and tortured him to make him a weapon to use against the Doctor.

Nyssa and Tegan didn’t talk to him about their problems. They had each other and Turlough wasn’t about to stand in the middle of whatever they had. But when Adric had nightmares, he woke him up. They only shared a room because there were only so many bedrooms close to the console room and the Doctor didn’t want them getting lost. Honestly, they only shared the room around half the time anyway, with Turlough spending more and more time in the Doctor’s bed. But, on the nights they were sharing a room, sometimes Adric would wake up thrashing and muttering refusals. He wouldn’t obey the Master. He wouldn’t betray the Doctor. Turlough would crawl out of his own bed to wake him up, rescuing him from his own mind. He’d try to soothe him, though he had no idea how to do that. It was exhausting. He often fell asleep in Adric’s bed next to him, as if his physical presence could keep the bad dreams away.

Turlough knew what it was like to have nightmares, and to be tormented by some evil thing that wanted the Doctor dead. He never bothered Adric about them. There was nothing the kid could do. Anyway, Adric could sleep through basically anything. He never had to know. Even though he knew things about him that no one else in the TARDIS did. He knew that he’d had a family once. A mother, a father, brothers, sisters. He had no idea what happened to most of them. He knew his mother was dead. He’d been there when it happened. His older brothers and sisters ran away after that and he never saw them again. They were probably dead too. As for his father and younger brother…

Those were the worst nightmares. Worse than the Black Guardian, worse than the bullies at Brendon, worse than the battles, even worse than that day at the academy where he is mother died in from of him. It was those screams. Some nobody who called himself a judge reading out sentences of death and exile with no emotion in his voice. The smirks of the Custodians as the prisoners were paraded in front of them and strapped down. It was bad enough when they branded him. It was bad enough when they branded his father, who put on such a brave face for his children. But Malkon…he wasn’t even a year old. He had no idea what was happening. He was just suddenly yanked from his father’s arms and burned with a hot iron. Those screams…

Based on Trion maturation rates, Malkon would look around Adric’s age now. Maybe that’s why Turlough felt like he had to watch over him. He also knew that Adric had had a brother once, one that would be around Turlough’s age. They grew up without parents, so this brother, Varsh, was all he had. 

Adric saw Varsh die in front of him like Turlough watched his mother be gunned down. They both understood what it meant to watch the person who’d kept them safe become a pale corpse in front of their eyes. Turlough was fortunate enough that when his mother died, he could run to his father, even if he didn’t do much to comfort him. Adric ran to the Doctor. He’d only just met him, and he wasn’t any better than Turlough’s father when it came to comfort. Turlough suspected that the incarnation of the Doctor he knew was even worse than the one before him in that regard. Though, he’d gotten better. At least, Turlough didn’t feel as bad about his nightmares when he woke up next to him.

[akindofmagictoo]

manuscript search tag game

one more for now! this comes from @sleepyowlwrites :D 

my words are suspicious, splinter, spicy, sweater, sparkle (and bonus scintillating, somber) 

suspicious (Dragonsong) 

When he was out of earshot and the door was closed behind them, Isi said, “Are you alright?” 

Robin shuddered. “I think he might’ve seen something of Enya. Or maybe me. He was really suspicious of… something. He wanted to ask me about it, but he also wanted to come inside and investigate. And I wasn’t really sure what I could do. I left my cane in my room. I was a bit worried he’d just shove me over and go in anyway.” He swallowed. “Good timing.” 

“Poor timing on Brendon’s part, really.”

“Still,” said Robin. “What if he did see something? I couldn’t ask him, obviously, so I don’t know what he might know, but…” 

splinter (Hurricane) 

“Aella?” His voice shook. 

“Yes! It’s me!” She righted herself, grabbed the door handle, and pulled. Curled up in the corner furthest from the hole in the hull was Theo, one arm wrapped around himself. His shirt was stained red. 

“Are you alright?” She dashed towards him and dropped to her knees. Please be alright. 

He looked up and she breathed out. His face was pale, paler than it should be, but he was alive and conscious. A splinter had left a long laceration along his forehead, and there were two bloody slashes in the shoulder of his shirt. She reached gingerly for them. “The cannonball. It didn’t hit you?” 

He shook his head and drew in a shaky breath. Good. Flying splinters were painful, but infinitely preferable to a six-pound ball of metal. At least in her opinion. 

The door banged behind her. She’d left it open. Whatever. 

bonus splinter (Hurricane) 

As she had the thought, one of the still-functional deck cannons went off, smashing a section of the Firebird’s rail to splinters. She grimaced. So much for things going their way. The last thing they needed was to lose the Firebird. Nunez would be cranky, and once again they would be stranded with no way of catching Anvindr. Again. Tempest only had so many friends that would be willing to loan them a ship. 

Cai might like that, she thought ruefully. 

spicy spice (Dragonsong) 

The table wasn’t designed for five people; Sierra sat pressed up against Isi and halfway into Holly’s lap, though she didn’t seem to mind. Robin and SB had a bit more space on their side of the table. 

Sierra tucked in enthusiastically, apparently unbothered by the heat. Holly glanced at Robin, then began to eat her own soup. It was simple, but well-spiced, and no one spoke until the plates were clean. Not even Enya, who had her own small bowl on the floor. 

Isi smiled. She’d have preferred to be travelling today, but despite the crammed setup, the little house felt like a home.  

sweater  

sparkle (Dragonsong) (magic sword magic sword!) 

“I cannot promise how well we can fly,” said Fintan. “We have been kept here a long time. But there is perhaps something else I can do.” He lifted his head higher, towering over Isi. “Hold up your sword.” 

She unsheathed it, steel ringing on leather, and held it high. Fintan inhaled deeply. A soft rumble began at the back of his throat. Isi sat as still as she could manage, waiting. 

Fintan exhaled. A ball of orange fire issued from his mouth and enveloped her sword blade. It warmed her hand, warmer and warmer until she thought it might burn, but faded abruptly away. She lowered the sword; despite the fire, the blade was cool to the touch. As she turned it over, it seemed to sparkle in the weak sunlight. 

somber (Dragonsong) (I love this section tbh. and not just because I love Fintan. it has a very fantasy feel to it that I love.) 

“We shall fly away,” said Fintan. “You assume anyone can catch us once we are freed.”  

“Where will you go?” 

“Wherever I want to.” Fintan’s wings, curled up beside his body, twitched and flexed. 

Isi smiled. “Where do you want to go?” 

“I don’t know for certain. Wherever the wind calls me. I was born here, in the cradle of these mountains, and then they became my prison. I will not die here.” 

A somber mood settled over the conversation like a blanket. A light one, but it was there. Isi ran a finger gently over the rock she sat on. “You will be free soon. Free to go where you will, to live where you will. To die where you will.” The thought of Fintan dying was a sad one, but he seemed content. Not content to die in this place, this prison, but to die elsewhere. Despite her sadness, there was a certain beauty in the idea that he would die free. 

I will tag @rosiewritesandrambles @ambsthom @josephinegerardywriter and @mel-writes-with-her-dragons :D your words are forget, forgive, frame, fire

[hopescript-blog]

tag dump

[unbrckenwallsxinspo]

Trigger // SELF PARA

When: April 1st, after midnight

Where: Devon and Alyssa’s House

Summary: Kinsley Maxwell decides to play an April Fools prank on Devon, but it goes horribly wrong.

Trigger Warnings: Guns, mentions of death, murder, suicide, and drugs

Mentions: Devon, Ryan, Tavin, Alex, Kinsley 

@thewiildthings​

🖂 Incoming message! From: ronimaxwell@gmail.com To:devprescott88@gmail.com I found some old pics of Jade that I thought you might like to have.

A few years had passed since Jade's murder. Devon was now only a couple weeks away from his 25th birth, he was raising their daughter as a single parent, and still lived in the two story cabin home that his in-laws had helped them purchase.  He wished he could say that life was good, but deep down, there was still pain that just wouldn't disappear no matter how hard he tried to ignore it. No matter what he did, he still lived with the memory of watching Jade take her last breath.

It was after midnight in Nashville. He should've been asleep, but instead he was on his laptop, looking at the email that his mother-in-law had sent. Four pics of Jade that he'd never seen before. The first one being when she was only about four months pregnant with Alyssa and went to a late night diner with friends. The second being her with friends at a hotel about a month before she and Devon got married. The third was her wit friends atsome electronics store in a town they didn't recognize. The fourth was one that Devon had taken of her while on a lunch date after their wedding. So many good memories. No more to be made.

A year after she died, Devon tried to take his own life. Months of therapy followed until he finally stopped going. In his mind, he no longer needed the help. For a few years, that mindset worked. Until recently. Lately he'd begun to sink back into a depression, suicidal thoughts and all. Alyssa was the only reason he hadn't ended his life. She was his reason for living. Still, he was haunted by nightmares of Jade's death. He blamed himself for it happening. After all, he shouldn't have tried to escape, then the robber wouldn't have felt the need to fire his weapon. So it had to be Devon's fault, right?

"Daddy?"

He clicked out of his email and closed his laptop as soon as he saw the seven-year-old in the doorway, clinging to her teddy bear and rubbing her tired blue eyes. "Hey, love, can't sleep?"

Alyssa shook her head and climbed onto the bed, nuzzling her face against Devon's shoulder. She knew how to make him feel safer without even trying. Wrapping his arms around his little girl, he laid back against the pillows, a heavy sigh leaving his lips as he looked at the clock on his nightstand. It was 12:30 AM. He'd surely be awake until it was alright daylight out. That was often how his nights turned out.  Good thing he had tomorrow off from work.

"Daddy?"

"What's up, kiddo?" He ran his fingers through her hair, forcing himself to smile as he lovingly kissed her head. 

"Do you think I'll ever see my mommy again?"

The question was anything but simple. He believed they would see Jade in the afterlife, but he knew what Alyssa really meant, and he couldn't give her the answer she wanted. That broke his heart.

"Someday, baby." He gulped, rubbing her back. He was kind of relieved when she didn't push the issue farther. Normally she had a lot of questions about pretty much anything and everything, but he preferred that she not ask too many questions about her mom. He never had the right answers.

Their brief conversation was interrupted by something outside. Something that Devon didn't recognize. He supposed that it could have been the wind or a trashcan falling over or a bird or something, but it sounded like none of those things. So Devon's fight or flight response was quick to kick in. 

"Stay here. Try to get some sleep." He murmured as he got up from the bed. A few months after Jade died, he purchased a pistol without telling anyone. He kept it in a safe in his closet and only he knew the combination. Maybe right now he didn't need the gun, maybe there was a logical explanation, but that knocking...it didn't sound good, so of course his first reaction was self defense.

"Dad--"

"Stay here!" He whispered before he walked into the door, shutting the door behind him. He was about to head downstairs when he heard the familiar ring of his phone, which was coming from Alyssa's room. Huh. He must have left it there when he was putting her to bed earlier. 

He hurried into her room and grabbed the phone, answering with urgency. 

"Hello?!"

"Hello, friend. Remember me?"

"Who is this?!" Devon snapped as he pointed the gun in front of him, inching slowly out of the room and towards the stairs. 

"You mean you don't remember me? From the Flash Mart?"

Chills went down Devon's spine. The Flash Mart was where Jade was killed. But her killer was in prison! He couldn't possibly be calling. This had to be a joke. A sick, evil joke. 

"Come on, Devon. I met you and that lovely wife of yours for a few minutes. Lovely couple, you two were."

"Whoever you are, you better leave me alone or I'm calling the police!" He yelled before promptly hanging up. He choked back sobs as his shaking hand clutched the gun tighter, walking slowly down the stairs. To his horror, his front door was wide open, wind blowing leaves across the floor. And in the doorway was a tall, hooded figure wearing a hockey mask and holding what appeared to be a machete. A bloody machete.

BANG!

Devon didn't notice that the man had practically jumped back through the doorway in fear, as a bullet struck the floor and another at the wall. His mind was spinning, but he was focused enough to fight back against the perceived enemy. This was not happening. This was NOT happening.

"BRENDON, YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE JASON VOORHEES OR SOMETHING, NOT MY SISTER'S KILLER, YOU MORONIC ASSHOLE! Tavin, seriously, get over here now. Devon's got a gun! Shit shit shit...No, I'm hiding behind the car!"

Devon paused at the sound of Kinsley's voice. He knew this was some kind of prank that she'd come up with, but his mind was racing and his muscles were so tense that somehow he still felt like there was danger. So the gun never left his hands and his finger never left the trigger as he searched the surrounding area for Kinsley's "friend."

"Devon, it was a prank!"

Devon no longer heard a word Kinsley was screaming at him. He was focused entirely on finding the asshole she'd used for said prank. The scary thing was that he wasn't even thinking of the potential consequences of his actions. He didn't think about the possibility that he might hurt or even kill someone. He was definitely not himself in that moment.

"W-where are you..." He murmured, panicked tears in his eyes. The flashbacks were playing over and over in his head, and he felt nothing except a desperate desire to protect himself and his daughter. In that moment, he wasn't at his home. He was back at that convenience store and he was fighting for his life.

He was so deeply trapped in his own mind that he didn't hear the slam of the car door a few feet away. He heard someone call his name and he cried out softly as he whipped around, pointing the gun in the direction of the voices. Then, all of a sudden, he felt a pair of arms grab him from behind, the gun falling from his hand.

"Ryan, did you just forget that he has PTSD?! You don't sneak up behind someone who--" Was that Alex or Tavin speaking? Devon had no idea. He was too busy crying and trying to get out of Ryan's grasp, panicked breaths escaping him. 

"Well, did you want him to shoot someone? Because I don't know about you, but I like liv-Thank you, Devon, for your knee making contact with Ryan Jr." Ryan groaned as he let Devon go, gripping his crotch as if that would relieve the pain Devon just inflicted upon him.

Devon was spiraling. Heavy breathing, sweat dripping down his face, barely holding back sobs as he combed his fingers through his hair. He was going insane, he was sure of it. Maybe he was even dying. At this point, he didn't mind that possibility too much. He just wanted the pain to stop. He didn't want to live in fear anymore and if dying would relieve that fear, then so be it.

"Okay, I got pot, coke, or molly. Take your pick." Dammit, Alex. No one gives a shit about your stupid drugs.

Suddenly, Devon's mood changed from fear and panick to pure anger. "Alex, I don't want your drugs. I want to take that pistol and put an end to me misery, that's what. I'm sure you can relate, right? Besides, we all know that you'd rather keep that shit for yourself."

Alex had a stricken expression on his face now and if Devon were in his right mind, he'd feel guilty. But he didn't. He didn't care if Alex got his feelings hurt. He had just as many problems as Devon did, if not more, and it was time someone called him out on it.

"Dude, that wasn't cool and you know it. Let's just...go inside, okay?" He felt Tavin's hands on his biceps and he relaxed only slightly, shaking with panic and anger as he was ushered into the house. He was close to breaking down again, but whatever. Tavin had seen him break before. In fact, he was the one person that Devon felt comfortable being vulnerable in front of. 

"I'm gonna use the restroom." He gulped, shaking off his friend's hands and hurrying into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind him. He took the time to look at his reflection. Messy hair that he hadn't washed in days or really maintained at all, heavy bags under his eyes, pale skin that was currently sparkling with sweat, obvious weight loss...clearly life had been kicking him in the ass and he hadn't done a damn thing to make it any better. He didn't see the point.

Momentarily, he saw Jade standing behind him, then he saw a dark, hooded figure drag her away. He sobbed as he threw a punch at the mirror, watching the glass shatter. What followed was a few knocks on the door and Tavin calling his name. Devon figured if he stayed quiet long enough, maybe he'd be left alone. But of course not. Within a few minutes, the door somehow opened. Ryan had picked the lock. Lovely.

"Dude, what the--" Tavin grabbed his hand and said something to Ryan about getting the first aid kit from the kitchen. Then he felt Tavin's arms around him and he finally broke completely, tears soaking his friend's shirt.

[canyousevmyheavydirtysoul]

Bodyguard II: Familial Ties (Part I - Chapter 10) (Brendon Urie x Reader)

Brendon returned from his impromptu road trip a mere five minutes before the break of dawn. The journey had lasted longer than he’d anticipated, but he couldn’t deny the miraculous effect it had on him – he felt at ease for the first time in months.

He entered the facility and rode the elevator down to the cell, making his way toward the problem he’d left behind. Roman was seated on a steel chair in front of the door to the cell, maintaining a firm gaze at its occupant.

Even though Brendon had mastered the art of sneaking up on people – right down to the skill of making sure that no matter what shoes he was wearing, his footsteps were almost completely silent – Roman’s instincts were that good that he was able to detect the presence of his fellow agent, and he turned to extend a greeting.

“You can catch some sleep,” Brendon said to him, cocking his head in the direction of the elevator, “I’ll take over.”

The Samoan shook his head and scrunched up his face. “Nah, it’s all good. We rotated shifts and I just took over from Ambrose a couple minutes ago. ‘Sides, I don’t think leaving you alone with him is the smartest idea.”

Brendon shoved both hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and raised a questioning eyebrow. “Hey, whose side are you on, here?”

Roman chuckled softly. “Kinda hard to pick,” he shrugged, “None of us even know the full story.”

“Well you’re not missing much, I can tell you that,” Brendon mumbled, turning his body and cementing his gaze on his brother, whose head was hanging down as he slept.

Roman observed Brendon for a little while, internally debating whether or not he should instigate a makeshift therapy session. It hadn’t boded too well for him in the past, that much was true, but he couldn’t help but feel like Brendon was in dire need of someone to talk to. So, at the risk of getting punched square in the jaw, he opened his mouth to speak.

“Look, I know that pep talks are Rollins’ thing,” he started, making Brendon shift his attention from the assassin to the Hound, “but when it comes to being a good listener and giving sound advice, I’d like to think that I’ve pretty much got that in the bag. Ambrose is good for if you’re looking for someone to get you drunk. And possibly arrested.”

Brendon wheezed at Roman’s last comment and – realising that he was now unlikely to get himself out of the forthcoming conversation – moved towards the wall so that he could rest his back against it.

“What I’m saying is,” Roman continued, outstretching both hands, “if you wanna talk about your brother, or your family, or anything from your past, I’m always here. Full confidentiality – I wouldn’t tell a soul. And I know you have this whole enigmatic, emotionless thing going for you, but sometimes… sometimes even enigmas need someone to vent to.”

“And you’re willing to be my guy?” Brendon asked, even though he already knew the answer.

Roman nodded. “If you trust me enough to let me be, yeah. It’s just that I can tell how much having him here is affecting you – even if you weren’t expecting it to, or didn’t want it to. And I’d hate for you to self-implode over this.”

Brendon let the words sink in, staring at Roman’s combat boots as his mind worked and he tried to make a decision over whether or not he should open up to his colleague. He knew that if he did, it would absolutely stay between the two of them; Roman was an incredibly private person, so he understood Brendon’s need for secrecy to be held.

He also knew that speaking about it to someone would make him feel better. Hence, he said screw it and accepted the offer for a psychotherapy session.

Brendon explained everything to Roman. Everything from how his father left their mother while she was pregnant with him, to their childhood, to Mason running away and getting involved with Hydra, to eleven months ago when the Director informed him of his brother’s work as The Phantom Warrior, to when he faked his death so that he could look for him and get the answers he’d been wanting his entire life, and everything in between.

When he was finished talking, he drew in a deep breath and started cracking his knuckles, while Roman arched his brows and let out a low whistle.

“Man,” the Hound grumbled, “talk ‘bout tragic backstories.”

Brendon scoffed. “Tell me about it.”

Roman’s facial expression morphed into a frown as a realisation just then dawned on him. “Wait, you said Mason’s alias is ‘The Phantom Warrior’?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that the name of the guy who killed (Y/N)’s-“

“Yes.”

“So your brother was-“

“A major part of all of the events that unfolded over the last year and a half?” Brendon spoke with a straight face and an emotionless tone, pushing himself up from the wall to stand upright. “Yes.”

“Shit,” Roman muttered, shaking his head and running a hand through his long, slick hair.

“That’s a nice way of putting it,” Brendon remarked, glancing once more at Mason, who was still asleep.

Roman wasn’t finished with the conversation, however, and so continued with his pressing questions – he was too intrigued now to even worry about a potential punch coming his way.

“I’m sorry, uce, but I gotta ask…” he started, looking for any signs of non-compliance from Brendon; when he didn’t get any – only an expectant look from the brooding agent – he continued, “This guy practically ruined (Y/N)’s life. Yours too. And considering that she clearly means-“

Brendon tensed slightly, and Roman halted his speech immediately, trying to find the words to rephrase his sentence and avoid the situation from escalating to an unpleasant one. When he found them, he proceeded.

“-she’s obviously significant part of your life, and you swore to protect her and all that. So, if you’re not interested in having Mason as your brother and if you know all the pain he’s caused, why did you blow up that jet and come on this mission to find him?”

The other agent sighed tiredly and rubbed both hands over his face, shutting his eyes for a moment before answering.

“It’s a very complicated reason. And a personal one. But the gist of it is that I need answers,” Brendon spoke, pivoting his head to look through the glass at his brother, who was showing signs of waking up.

Mason slowly raised his head, blinking away the traces of sleep and squinting as his eyes adjusted to the light. When he was fully awake, he focused his gaze on the glass in front of him. Even though it was a one-way window, he seemed to know exactly where to look and somehow, he locked eye contact with his brother.

“And he’s the only one who can give them to me.”

~

There was a clang of porcelain against metal as a plate with a sandwich on it and a mug of coffee was all but tossed onto the side table in the cell, next to the prisoner. Mason’s eyebrows arched as he looked down at the food, somewhat surprised that he was being done such a kindness.

Not too long after, his hands were freed from the restraints holding them in place, and he hurriedly rubbed the skin around the area where he’d been bound to alleviate the irritation there.

“Eat,” a hard, cold voice demanded, its owner taking up residency of a steel chair that he’d brought into the room with him.

Tossing a fleeting glance at his brother, Mason made haste of reaching for the sandwich, only then realising how utterly famished he was; he hadn’t eaten in days. He took a giant bite out of the meal he held in his hand and started chewing; he could sense Brendon’s eyes on him, so he turned to look at him.

“It’s rude to watch people eat,” he remarked through a mouthful of food.

“It’s also rude to murder innocent people and leave their daughter an orphan,” Brendon countered, venom in his tone despite it being calm, “so I guess we’re both assholes, huh?”

Mason stopped chewing, twitched his eyes and swallowed before addressing his brother. He tilted his head slightly. “Why do I get the suspicion that there’s an underlying context to your last comment that I’m unaware of?”

Brendon didn’t reply, leaving the assassin to attempt to piece together his own version of an explanation. Mason studied Brendon for a little bit as his thoughts ran rampant, then when it clicked, he let out a short, smug laugh.

“Oh, my god,” he scoffed, leaning back in his seat, “Brendon, did you find yourself a girl?”

The teasing tone of his brother’s question pissed Brendon off, and he had to fight hard not to swing his fist again. Instead, he summoned his anger into his words.

“Watch yourself,” he warned.

The threat was clear and unwavering, and capable of summoning fear into even the mightiest of men. But Mason’s brotherly instincts were clouding his mentality.

“Is she cute?” he asked.

“Mason-“

The assassin held up his hands in defence, and made an innocent face. “Hey, I’m just askin’ normal questions, here. I imagine she’s totally-“

The rest of Mason’s sentence disappeared under the smash that resounded throughout the room – a result of Brendon swiping the coffee mug off of the table, clear across the room and into the pristine wall, painting it with a nasty brown colour.

“You don’t get to fucking ask questions about her. You don’t get to talk about her,” Brendon hissed through gritted teeth, eyes wild, “You ruined her life; took what mattered most to her. Just like you did to me.”

Mason’s smug and taunting demeanour faltered, then, and his body language and facial expression turned solemn.

“Brendon, like I’ve said before, I had good reason to run away and start over,” Mason reminded, looking at his brother with downcast eyes, “And if you’ll let me, I’d very much like to try and explain everything to you.”

“I’m not interested in your excuses,” Brendon spat, seating himself back down and pointing an accusatory finger at his brother, “I told you that I brought you here for one reason and one reason only.”

“And you haven’t told me what that is, yet,” Mason sighed, closing his eyes for a couple seconds.

“I need you to explain something to me.”

“What, exactly?”

Brendon ran his tongue all along the inside of his mouth and ran a hand through his hair, taking a moment. When he finally gathered himself, he took a deep breath and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

“I don’t even know how to phrase all of this, but I… you and I… we’re not normal. I know we’re not,” Brendon managed to get out.

His words managed to pique Mason’s interest, and he straightened up, raising one eyebrow in a silent request for his brother to elaborate.

“We’re stronger. Faster. Smarter. Superior to the average person. It’s more than good genetics. It’s something…” Brendon sighed and threw his hands up to visualise his puzzlement, “something else. I know for a fact we’re not fucking superheroes, so… what the hell are we?”

Mason smirked lightly and jabbed a finger in the agent’s direction. “You left ‘insanely good-looking’ off of your list.”

Brendon’s jaw tightened. “Mason.”

The assassin sniggered under his breath and straightened himself up before wrinkling his face and holding his hands out to the side.

“So,” he started, inhaling deeply and then looking at Brendon, “you’re wrong. It is good genetics. Or bad genetics, depending on who you ask. Basically what I’m trying to say is… we have a mutant gene. We’re mutants, Brendon.”

“Bullshit,” was Brendon’s immediate response.

Narrowing his eyes and shaking his head in irritation, Mason scoffed. “Why would I lie?”

“If we were mutants, our abilities would be impossible to miss. We’d be a million times more potent than we are,” Brendon argued with a slight frown.

Mason nodded. “You’re not wrong there, little brother. We do have the mutant gene, handed down to us by daddy dearest, but it’s not the normal mutant gene, per se.”

Brendon’s forehead creased to signal his confusion, and Mason furthered his explanation.

“Alright, so, we need to backtrack a little bit. When dad was born, he inherited the gene from his father. But you see, this particular gene is different to the rest of the mutant one. It enabled the carrier with the ability to trigger the gene at will; essentially, they could chose when and where to summon their abilities. Whereas with regular mutants, they don’t have that choice. So, dad had that gene and he was what they refer to in the mutant world as an Anomaly. Anomalies are incredibly rare. Only ten in a billion.”

“And you expect me to believe that we were three under one roof?” Brendon scoffed, clear disbelief on his face.

“God no,” Mason snorted, shaking his head, “No, I only said that dad was one.” Brendon frowned, and Mason shifted in his seat. “Okay, I’m gonna explain everything in proper detail, which – ironically – is precisely the story I was trying to tell you earlier, about why I ran. You see, if you’d have let me speak yesterday, we could’ve saved a lot of time.”

Now growing agitated, Brendon huffed impatiently. “Just get on with it.”

“As you wish,” Mason smirked and winked at Brendon, who rolled his eyes, “Like I said, dad was an Anomaly – a mutant, and an incredibly smart one at that. He spent his teenage years attempting to make some kind of scientific breakthrough, and when the second World War rolled around and he’d learned about the scientific miracle that was Captain Steve Rogers and his transformation into a super-soldier… that was when he came up with the idea for – in his words – ‘his only great invention’… A mutant serum.”

“But that’s impossible,” Brendon shook his head, not yet buying into his brother’s story, “Mutants can’t be created. They have to inherit the gene.”

“Yeah, but dad found a way to bypass the law of inheritance. Think about it,” Mason once again held out his hands and leaned forward as much as he could, “if regular genes such as the ones for eye colour can be extracted or manipulated and used in in vitro fertilization, who’s to say that the same can’t be done with the mutant gene?”

“So you’re saying that dad found a way to harvest the mutant gene and what? Create the better version of the super-soldier serum?”

Mason nodded in confirmation. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. And he almost had the technique mastered, too. He spent hours experimenting on himself, using the gene to develop this- this,” Mason struggled to get the words out, as if speaking it left a bitter taste in his mouth, “potion, essentially, that would greatly increase the potency of his abilities. But, much to his fucking dismay, by the time he had gotten it right, he was too old to benefit from it. He injected himself with the serum, but its effects were minimal. He realised then that no such abomination of nature came without some kind of condition, and in this case, the recipient of the serum had to be considerably younger than a middle-aged man. And…” he hung his head down and scoffed before looking up at Brendon with a lopsided grin, “I’ll give you three guesses as to who his next test subject was.”

Brendon felt his chest constrict and he was certain that his heart skipped a beat. Swallowing the massive lump that had formed in his throat, he croaked out an answer.

“You?”

“Ding, ding, ding!” Mason waved one finger in the air before pointing it at his brother. “We have a winner.”

“He used you as a test subject?” Brendon repeated, still taken aback at the revelation. He knew that his dad was a total douche, but this was beyond any douchiness he could ever imagine. Using his own son as a lab rat? That was pure evil.

Mason’s face hardened and he grinded his teeth as he recalled the memories from back then. “He fucking tortured me. Do you know how hard I begged, how much I cried for him not to do it? But do you think he cared? No, he didn’t care. He never cared about me, about you, about mom… all that mattered to him was his fucking vision.” The assassin let his head fall back and he laughed bitterly. “You know what he did? He made me train like a fucking cutthroat. Said it was ‘the only way to make sure that the serum was working’. I was seven, can you imagine that? Mind you, I passed every challenge he came up with, but that’s not the point. I was a baby.”

Brendon stayed silent as he listened, and remained silent for minutes after; the heaviness in the air was so strong that no speaking was required from either brother. Then, Brendon asked a question.

“And mom?” he lifted his gaze to meet his brother’s. “She just… let him do that?”

Mason smiled sadly. “She tried to stop him, but it was no use. He’d just berate her; yell about how she was getting in the way of his vision, and how he would be the one to change the world or some shit like that. It was a failed effort. But then she found out she was pregnant with you, and it was like there was this fire that had ignited in her – she said she couldn’t have two sons fall victim to such a tyrant, so she kicked him out. He didn’t wanna leave, obviously, but then I twisted his arm until it broke, and I said that if he didn’t, I would kill him. He was gone by morning.”

Brendon’s lipped twitched upwards ever so slightly. “Wow,” he mocked.

“Hey, you ain’t the only badass Urie out there,” Mason chuckled.

“So you’re the reason I never had a dad, hm?” Brendon spoke with a straight face, but somehow, Mason knew that he was (for the most part, at least) joking.

“If you wanna look at it like that, sure,” Mason shrugged, cocking his head to the side, “I saw it as saving your life – since, ya know, dad had the serum in his blood and passed the gene on to you when he, well, made you. But whatever.”

Brendon rolled his eyes and wheezed, standing up from the chair. “Please. I woulda kicked both of your asses. And that isn’t even a joke.”

Mason looked at his little brother – really looked at him – and saw the incredible man that he’d become and he couldn’t supress the proud smile that spread across his face, albeit a small one. “I’ll bet,” he muttered.

“So,” Brendon spoke, bringing the subject back to their father, “where’d he go after mom kicked him out?”

“Hell, if I know. I wasn’t too interested in keeping tabs on him, as you can imagine,” Mason grunted, “Although I do know where he ended up. Dead. Killed by The Winter Soldier in 1991.”

Brendon’s eyes widened infinitesimally as he pieced together the information. “1991. That’s the year you left.”

“I was too scared to run before; afraid he’d find me. So when I heard that he was dead… Fuck, I’d never felt such relief.” Mason seemingly stared into the distance, eyes clouded over with dreaminess as if he were reliving that glorious moment over and over again.

His reminiscing was short lived, however, since his brother’s icy voice tore it to shreds mere moments later.

“Why did Hydra have him assassinated? Why was he considered a threat?” he interrogated.

Mason blew a raspberry and shrugged. “Beats me. I assume it’s something to do with the serum, but I dunno. Could be something else entirely. I tried to find out, but they don’t take too kindly to their assassins – sorry, their weapons – asking questions. Makes them panicky. So eventually, I stopped asking and I stopped looking. I don’t care why they had him killed, to be totally honest. I’m just glad that they did.”

There was a tense silence that enveloped the room thereafter, one that allowed both brothers, but Brendon in particular, to fully digest the conversation that had just transpired.

The agent felt significantly less heavier; the uncertainty over his familial matters had always been a nagging, lingering thought at the back of his mind, and he was ever thankful that he had now managed to get rid of it. While the newly discovered information did pose a challenge, it was one that he welcomed dearly. Mutant gene or not, he was still – and always would be – one of the most badass motherfuckers on the planet.

Mason, on the other hand, was not feeling so confident.

He realised that Brendon had gotten what he’d wanted – an explanation – and now, Mason was of no use to him. The assassin had no idea what to expect next and so was understandably anxious.

“Brendon?” he knitted his brow. “I’ve given you what you wanted from me.”

“Yeah,” Brendon said emotionlessly, with a slight nod, “you have.”

“So… where do we go from here?”

_______________________________

Thank you for reading x

 Taglist:

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[just-folie-a-deux-it]

Mob vampire AU but Brendon was human when Ryan’s mob found him and Ryan ends up falling for a human -🍦

If as a vampire Brendon would have been terrified to meet Ryan, imagine him as a human. He’s surrounded by a gang of vampires that are fairly well known for taking humans and changing them just to be assholes and then leaving them for dead in the streets. Pinned against the wall with one leech’s hand in his hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat, Brendon catches sight of a figure standing in the alleyway he’s been cornered in and blinks, but the figure is gone and Brendon convinces himself he just imagined a hero in his time of desperate need. Except that right as he’s about to get bit, the vampire holding him flies across the alley and slams into a brick wall hard enough to crack it and the others scatter. Shaking with eyes wide enough to rival the Moon, Brendon sees that his hero wasn’t imagined, but is a tall, pale vampire with loose brown curls that touch his chin. The vampire doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask any questions, but throws Brendon over his shoulder and is running (Brendon assumes he’s running. The world is a blur to his eyes, they seem to be going faster than any car ever could and it’s making him nauseous) down the streets and keeps going until they reach a building that looks sort of like a prison, or maybe a compound and then he walks inside with Brendon still slung over his shoulder. Brendon, of course, is scared out of his mind by now and is positive he’s being taken captive as either some sort of fuck toy or blood bank or maybe both. But once inside the vampire sets him down and in a voice much softer than Brendon thought he would possess, asks him if he’s hungry. Brendon is, though he didn’t realize he was, and he supposes if they poison him at least that means they won’t eat him so he nods and the vampire leads him to a dining hall where many other vampires are sipping out of wine glasses of dark red that he knows isn’t wine. One glances up and arches a brow, asking “A human, Ryan? What the fuck?” but the vampire (Ryan? Ryan Ross? Please not Ryan Ross) just shrugs and says “He was gonna get turned. We can take him home tomorrow.” as he goes to the kitchen. Brendon follows, and even if it is Ryan Ross, infamous vampire mob boss, he’d rather be alone with him than a handful of other strange vampires he doesn’t know. Ryan makes him a sandwich and doesn’t bother explaining why, in a compound full of vampires, he has any human food at all. He just watches while Brendon eats and then offers him a shower and shows him a bedroom (with a bed, not a coffin) where he can stay the night. Brendon surprises himself by sleeping soundly, though he wakes to Ryan lightly shaking his shoulder and informing him that despite what he said last night, Brendon can’t go home today because the gang Ryan saved him from now has a bounty on him and will brutally murder him if they can get his hands on him. At the best. This is how Brendon finds himself staying in the midst of the city’s most feared vampire mob for his own safety, becoming nocturnal by circumstance and slowly but surely unafraid of his surroundings. 

[pkmntrainergreyze]

THE EMO SCHOOL

The Emo School: Intro part 1

based on a Tumblr post…….. Post is so long that I have to put in some part 2 (0-0) 

Inspiration

Chapter 1

Brendon entered the room with a slight grin covering his humored disposition. His blazer a bit torn from the bottom right due to a time Gerard accidentally cutting it from an art project last Friday. The students’ voices just kept going louder and it didn’t satisfy Brendon.

After all….

He IS the teacher now.

“You little sh*ts better stand up and greet me in three-” He was rudely cut off by his own students who made an ear-blasting sound when their chairs scratched the rough floor.

“Good morning Mister Urie!” He scoffed as he dusted off his chair, it seems like the cleaners didn’t do their job properly. He shot a glare at the group but then realized one of the Friday Cleaners students is beautiful so he kept his mouth shut.

It is quite noticeable that his class is more attentive than Patrick’s, who teaches Music Theory in his section, with his “dashing” looks most of his students are probably female, with some exception of “straight” guys, but Brendon didn’t mind that, he’s kind of a bi himself, but he denied all claims, honestly, no one knows his sexuality.

His dark bitter chocolate eyes dipped in milky ovals landed on things written on his blackboard with disgust. What a waste of pure chalk that costed about $2 dollars a box.

“Call me xoxo”

He knocked on the blackboard with the tip of his knuckle. It made half of the class snap their neck in just a second while the others processed a bit.

“Erase this. Now” The chairman of the board, basically the blackboard version of a janitor stumbled from his seat as he grabbed the black weary eraser from their adviser’s desk. While the poor student tried to reverse the scribble, Brendon shuffled a bunch of cards. His advisory class tried peeking in but all efforts seem to go in vain.

“No, this is for eight AM 2. Don’t be so ambitious.” His smirk faded into a frown.  “-besides, why would you guys want an assessment? I thought all of you are pro at procrastinating?”

Suddenly, students rushed at their words with the same message, but some stood out of the others with their booming stereo-like loud voice.

“Oh no sir we’re good- brilliant even!”

“hell yeah we are!”

“Sir we all know you’re hot so pretty please don’t make us take the assessment today!”

His lips curled, just as he thought; his students are lazy as fuck.

Rolling his eyes at the thought of his monthly salary, he placed his hands on his hips. He felt like that Arts teacher; who also ruined his clothes.

“You lazy f- craps better have your homework done” And as the signal came little girls came flooding at his desk, no not like that. He found himself staring into space once more like it is more interesting than the Godzilla his student is drawing.

God, he needed a breather.

‘Work work work work work, what is this? A Rhianna-f*cking-song?’ His thoughts echoed at the back of his head, as much as he found it is a saddening truth. 'Wait, isn’t this story set on 2001?’ he thought for a bit before ignoring it.

'How come a freaking music teacher work this much?’

It took long for him to exhale and notice the projects are lined neatly. He just stayed there with the same pokerface expression and muttered a thanks.

He’s urging for something

He’s missing something

He needs something….

He needs alcohol

No not only that; packs of snowy white cocaine that lingers in his nostrils, the scent of burning tobacco and- oh God, he can smell the faint scent of weed as well.

The voices of his students ringed in his ears like a drum from a parade. No matter how loud it could get he only focused on his distracting thoughts that causes the class to be interrupted from time to time.

“Hey, is Mister Urie okay?”

“I don’t know, poke him”

“Why would I poke a teacher? That would result a week detention…. Well I mean it IS mister Urie but- nu-uh!”

This conversation was followed by a soft growl coming from the back. Melanie’s hands clenched her book tightly before violently crashing her eyes shut. Her lips curled up with her teeth in sight.

“Will you all shut up?”

It went silent from there as their teacher continued to gaze at the polychromatic walls of what seems to be a prison cell full of mathematical posters hanging on each side. Well, it never made sense for him but he believes it is the analogy of the School; a prison cell for genius convicted, and the spoiled cafeteria food makes sense as well.

The scent of newly bought textbooks drafted for a moment when he heard a pang from a student’s table while the one’s on the right torn up a page with scribbles of names from a black notebook with white marks that seems to say “Death Note”.

He never really understood the nature of teenagers; at their age he would have cut classes and run around the school’s rooftop.

Why did he even picked Education as his course?

Oh right…

His cousins picked Edu as well

Mothers.

He still couldn’t waft away the scent of the nonexistent scent of tobacco.

Mister Urie snapped his neck once a familiar glasses-wearing blonde figure entered the classroom hastily before approaching the pondering man and snapped his fingers, but it didn’t alert Brendon as much as the students inside the room. Patrick’s crinkled forehead clearly states that he’s draining positive energy as he watches Brendon scratch his eyes on turtle mode. He felt something rise in his throat when Brendon went back to his starting contest appointment with the wall.

“B-Brendon, I thought the CCTV cam was on freeze when I saw you there, why are you not teaching the class? What’s up?”

“What class?” He slurred drunk-like, the almost-hilarious-but-still-stressful scene was unfortunately left unnoticed. He acted like a first grader introduced to the world of free air-conditioning, and Patrick just had to have the role of the empathetic teacher at her first day of school.

“Your advisory class B-den! If Pete sees this I’d have to explain things again! Please stop slacking off, my class will notice I’ve been gone so long…” His voice trailed off, without noticing he got the man’s attention “You know what they do to teachers like us in school…”

Patrick always had the role of Brendon’s saviour; always getting him out of trouble, he basically persuaded Pete not to fire him on that Junior Prom they had back then when he poured the punch on his student’s face. He’s such a miracle worker.

Sadly, he wasn’t seen as that figure from his ungrateful students. They seem to taunt him each day of the week and scare him in every possible way. It wasn’t a pretty sight to always wake up to.

Soon enough, Patrick left the room, Brendon knowing it when he heard the sliding doors shut. He sighed and opened up his laptop.

“Alright, seems like today we’ll be having our boring discussion about Folk Songs…”

●———————–●

Scene 2: Did you just poured bad vibes in my cereal?

Brendon stared at the punk art teacher as his hand fumbled in his leather jacket pocket and the other twirling his see-through black BIC pen. The bored, disappointing look from Gerard’s face amused Brendon, it was a once in a lifetime view; like watching a blue moon above the skies, through the windows he’d wish to reach- only this time, he hoped the stares he gave didn’t reached the snappy black headed male.

Unfortunately, for him, the ink monster glared at his form in such a vicious way. He released his spoon from his tight grip and a small clank echoed. For some odd reason, Brendon is so intimidated by a man probably smaller than him.

“Hey twat, do I look fab enough that you have to pour bad vibes into my cereal?”

“S-sorry”

Turning away to swallow his sterilized milk in his right hand to avoid the sinking gaze Gerard’s giving him made the man scoff at his poor attempts of ignoring him.

“The heck is his problem?” he muttered under his breath before sipping into the small pool of white contained in a glass.

'Honestly, what made me fucking look at him in the first place is the fact that he’s eating RAW cereal, no milk whatsoever’

His chuckle seems to be only audible in the table he’s in, which makes Dallon raise an eyebrow at him after looking at Spencer shrugging lightly.

“What’s up with Brendon?”

“Maybe he accidentally poured cocaine instead of powdered milk. Hey Ryan, do you think that’s cocaine?” The fact that Spencer said it so seriously that made Dallon full of dread. Ryan rubbed his once imaginary beard and took a moment to tilt the glass in Brendon’s hand to examine the liquid.

“…Is that a joke or…?” Poor Dallon, he didn’t know everything Brendon did from the past years, sometimes ignorance is bliss.

“That’s sterilized of course, if Brendon did added cocaine or used powdered milk it would probably look… solid, let’s be real, he couldn’t make milk properly without me”

“Thanks Ryro”

It would be an appropriate moment to play a sound effect that yells 'What the f*ck is going on!-’ from the look of the history teacher’s face.

A student; Jon Walker passed their table with a confused look as well before placing his tray into his table, the clank wasn’t that loud and thankfully it didn’t attract his teacher’s attention. Melanie continued poking into her lunch food even with another person’s presence.

“Why are you here?”

“Avoiding my teachers’ radar, they’ve been talking weird stuff and this table is the farthest, can I sit here?”

“Do whatever you want, just don’t place your hands on my things or ask anymore questions, I want silence as I read my book”

Even though Jon had a lot of questions, such as how the heck did she had a cake for lunch and a batch of cookies in her right or why the hell did she brought a teddy bear to school; he shut his mouth.

Holiday by Green Day boomed in the school’s speakers loudly, so loud you could feel your heart vibrating. Behind the sudden audio; the principal chased for the culprit, which is probably Frank, the science guy.

This is just another normal lunch break at school.

Brendon looked around the fading white paint of the cafeteria, noticing the dust covering it’s corners. Brendon sure do have some wall fetish in this story huh?

Okay, that’s weird to write.

“I’m having second thoughts Ryan, are you sure it’s sterilized?”

“Ya”

“He didn’t even lay a finger at his lunch, I mean, look at that, that’s lasagna right there”

“…I’m actually jealous, is that mozzarella?”

“….Do you only care about cheese?”

“Nope” Ryan replied with a small rare beam “I’m also fanatic on milk and other dairy products”

“I can’t”

“Then you shouldn’t”

“Frank, Josh I told you it’s inappropriate to play Green Day songs here!” A third party’s voice shook them all. It was Mr Wentz, the principal. He held a yellow folder in his right hand and the other held CD. Frank and Josh laughed their ass off while running, some tactic he mastered to annoy the principal.

“JUST ADMIT IT PETE, YOU USED TO MAKE HILARIOUS GREEN DAY COVERS!”

“GET BACK HERE MISTER DUN!”

Meanwhile a lonesome student named Bernice in the corner just kept muttering the jaws theme (something the skeleton clique would probably be doing)

While Frank and Josh ran for their life, the other Frank, the student, munched to the food he bought in the cafeteria with his best friend slash crush, Eva.

“Everything’s going too fast, we’re going so fast! I mean, so many things are happening in one minute” Frank’s hysterical comment seemed normal considering the setting he’s in. If the retirees, most especially the old Math Teacher heard about his statement he probably had gone berserk right now.

The silence inside the table was replaced by Eva’s hum but it didn’t satisfy him that much.

“I want to be out of here”

Eva laughed at his statement “Silly” her voice seemed a bit cold- just like the ham and cheese kariman one of the students is munching on.

“You can’t escape this place” Jessie said with a small crooked smile lingering for a moment before Frank punched his arm playfully. The five always eat lunch together while Frank release complaints, okay, maybe quartet, he always seem to forget his own food as time flies by, and occasionally, the others do it too, especially Mikey when his older brother slash arts teacher of a brother is around them to joke around.

Sometimes, Frank’s words get into Jessie and Eva so much she makes a funny video out of it in a video hosting website called “Youtube”, and sometimes Frank complains in the same platform.

Ray just stared at his phone, typing something in it. His fluff of hair sometimes turns into an obstacle when Mikey’s eating, or when he’s staring at the cafeteria menu. Nonetheless; every hindrance in the five’s friendship never stop them from seating in the same table…. maybe because it’s the one and only table they can occupy.

“It seems that you guys are having fun…” The sudden voice got them to jump in their seats. Tyler’s weary eyes and dry throat seems to appear almost everywhere in the students’ imagination, his equations haunt them for the rest of their lives, but unfortunately not in examinations.

“Y-Yeah Mister Joseph, we’re good”

On the other end of the cafeteria, the two teachers that’s assigned in Senior High had one of them reading a comic book with a straight face and the other playing games on a GameBoy advance. Their bored expressions envied the happy faces Brendon’s table have.

“Hey Andy, how can you catch a Pikachu in this game?”

“I don’t think you can Joe, but there’s a high chance you’ll get a Garbodor in the canteen though”

“Not bad, what does it look like?”

“…Garbage” The future Gen V Disappointment that Andy somehow managed to predict. Yes, he lied about said Pokemon being real, the only Pokemon games released at the time are probably Red, Green, Yellow, Blue and Gold, Silver, Crystal, either way it doesn’t matter.

The silence in Andy’s table are quite unique, meanwhile Spencer struggles to keep his table in the same level of volume.

Every scene are completely different from the other. Every topic, every sentence, every stares; it’s all odd comparing all the tables Brendon passed by to get to his seat.

From the calm John eating soggy biscuits with Melanie to the racing Principal, they had both escalated situations.

Each of them had stories, had emotion, had…. trashes in their bag, had bubblegum under their table- you get the point.

It was like that for the rest of the lunch break, like I once said, the noise in the cafeteria was normal. This– this mess is the same setting, same people, same school you’d be oh-so-interested to be admitted in. The ideal school all highschoolers proclaimed to be their dream school was never thought out to act this way. Say…

Having second thoughts?

[dippedanddripped]

On Nov. 4, 2016, less than a week before the Election Day showdown between Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump, Supreme took to Instagram to encourage their followers to vote. “This might be the most important decision of your life, make it count. Go Vote Tuesday, November 8th,” the caption read, underneath a photo of skater Sage Elsesser holding an “I Voted” sticker, flanked by his cohorts Tino Razo, Jason Dill and Bianca Chandon designer Alex Olson. The text also included two telling hashtags—#imwithher and #fucktrump—that pinpointed the exact political allegiances of the legendary New York skate brand.

As noted in press coverage at the time, this was the first instance of Supreme endorsing a political candidate, although it wasn’t the first time the brand had waded into politics—in 2005, for example, they memorably released a batch of stickers that read “Fuck Bush” in the typeface of their famous box logo.

As far as political statements go, the Instagram photo and caption weren’t especially nuanced; they didn’t even mention Clinton by name. But, what Supreme did accomplish was tell their customers and fans exactly where they stood politically, a disclosure that, according to some, is becoming more and more important to shoppers in the current political climate.

“Consumers are actively looking for brands that share their values,” Celine Semaan says. The founder of socially conscious clothing and accessories label Slow Factory—you may have recently caught Selena Gomez wearing the brand’s “We The People” necklace, created to benefit the ACLU—Semaan is an outspoken proponent of fashion activism. “There is an urgency in brands to be more engaged in politics,” she says, noting that the traditionally safe practice of remaining silent for fear of alienating customers who vote with their wallets is no longer a viable option for any brand, including those in the fashion space. “We need to have a serious commitment from brands to embrace their power and leverage their audience to raise awareness, empower, and support change,” she says.

Streetwear industry veteran Bobby Hundreds has regularly used social media to call for similar action. “I think it’s risky to not speak to truth,” he tells Complex. “The most effective brands channel the people behind the label and their perspective. If you’re quiet in this climate, you appear disingenuous or sycophantic. Thirsty. And I guarantee that it will backfire. Whether today or in the future, your silence will speak volumes to the marketplace.”

A recent survey conducted by public relations firm Edelman lends credence to his claim, confirming that 57 percent of global shoppers say they buy from or boycott brands based on the brand’s stated political stance.

Semaan believes that in the realm of fashion, streetwear brands are inherently well-positioned to speak up. “Streetwear has always been avant-garde in fashion, as it has always been able to grasp the energy and the movement the youth was bringing forward,” she explains. The category has a legacy of social activism, dating back to examples like PNB Nation’s “Intention and Deed” T-shirt commemorating the Black Panther Movement or Freshjive taking on police brutality, or the retailer Digital Gravel supporting brands unafraid to make bold political statements. “Historically, streetwear was founded on the principles of response,” Hundreds explains. “Like most subcultures, the artists and designers who pioneered streetwear were outspoken and sought change. Streetwear, especially, is a political statement.”

Protest T-shirts, in general, date back even further than what we now know as streetwear. “We saw a surge in political statements on tees during turbulent times like the Vietnam War and the Cold War era,” Scott Tepper, founder of the Los Angeles brand Ignored Prayers, says. “We are currently living in one of these times.”

James Bond, co-founder of L.A.’s Undefeated, agrees with that characterization of our present era. “If you really look at streetwear as a culture, it’s under attack from the police, politicians, and the right,” he says. “As a culture, we need to educate and inform each other when we can.”

As such, politically-tinged streetwear is easy to find. For spring, Supreme released pins that said “Fuck the President,” a T-shirt just after the election that encouraged wearers to fight racism and sexism, and pieces that honored former President Obama. Tepper’s Ignored Prayers created a “Nuclear Summer” tee last month, warning of World War III. Nike publicly disavowed President Trump’s Muslim travel ban and his withdrawal from the Paris Climate Accord. After Trump told French First Lady Brigitte Macron that she was “in great shape,” Reebok released a flowchart explaining why the comment was inappropriate. The all-female Bronx skate team Brujas designed a streetwear capsule collection advocating for prison reform, London’s HypePeace flipped the Palace logo into a pro-Palestine hoodie, and everyone from Brain Dead toBianca Chandon has denounced Trump on social media. Bobby Hundreds tweeted a call to arms for streetwear designers to incorporate their anger about the white supremacist rally in Charlottesville, VA last month into their designs, then provideddownloadable, hi-res artwork to encourage DIY-minded activists to make their own anti-Trump and anti-Nazi garb. Undefeated added a mural of Colin Kaepernickkneeling during the National Anthem to their L.A. store on La Brea Avenue.

“Colin K. used his platform to speak his voice, and we will continue to use our platform to inform and inspire change,” Bond says. “Ironically, we have a diverse consumer, so it's great to see them come in and be inspired or shook by our visual protest [that] forces them to think how they want to participate.”

Perhaps no one more fully embraces the platform streetwear designers occupy than Brendon Babenzien, founder of the clothing line Noah. In addition to making an effort to run a transparent business by critiquing his own packaging or explaining, dollar for dollar, why certain pieces he designs cost what they do, Babenzien frequently takes to his blog to advocate for a wide spectrum of timely concerns, fromtransgender rights to environmental consciousness. He often does so with pointed criticism aimed at the current administration. Noah has released Black Lives Matter T-shirts with proceeds donated to the cause and a “Human Rights”-themed capsule collection. After Charlottesville, Babenzien revisited the Human Rights product and introduced a sticker, sales of which benefitted the ACLU. He also temporarily shut down the Noah e-commerce site, replacing it with a looped recording of the Dead Kennedy’s “Nazi Punks Fuck Off.” Prior to the election, he offered to give full refunds to any customers who are also Trump supporters. It’s impossible to speculate how much potential business Babenzien lost by rejecting passengers on the Trump Train, but it’s safe to say he places his principles ahead of right-wing dollars, at least.

A representative for Noah said Babenzien was traveling this month and unavailable for comment; he did not respond to a request sent to his personal email. Last year, he told Highsnobiety that he has modest expectations for the effects of his work. “We’re pretty small, so we’re not changing the game with the money we raised,” he told the site in an email. “But the debate might have some small impact. Our approach to everything is brick by brick.”

Our President himself, it should be noted, is among those who’ve harnessed the power of fashion activism. Last November, Bobby Hundreds observed that Trump’s red Make America Great Again hats—ubiquitous among his base before the election and since—take a page from a familiar handbook when he tweeted that “Trump is basically starting a streetwear brand now.”

MAGA hats are but one example of how the same medium can be used by opposing sides of the political spectrum and those with any number of motives—which includes, inevitably, brands simply looking to cash in on a movement. “For some, I call bullshit,” Tepper says. “For some, the formula is purely about generating dollars, and that is ok.”

Semaan is confident that an emboldened and educated consumer will be able to see opportunists for what they are. She cites examples from other industries, like the backlash against Kendall Jenner’s ill-advised, protest-themed Pepsi commercial. “Brands looking to jump on the activist wagon because of hype and trend will be exposed,” she says. “Their customers are 10 times smarter than their marketing consultants and will find out if the brand is just trying to gain profit.”

It’s unclear what the end result would look like if we had an economy in which every company adopted the uninhibited activist stance taken by streetwear brands like Noah. For what it’s worth, according to the same Edelman study, 51 percent of consumers worldwide report that they believe brands are better suited than governments to solve social problems. “It would be a wasted opportunity not to take advantage of the medium we have at hand,” says Tepper of streetwear brands. “At the very least, make something to stir up a conversation.”

Semaan would like to see streetwear labels go even further. “I challenge them to think of ways to create a positive impact with the sales of their items,” she says. “It goes beyond the statement T-shirts.”

Adds Hundreds, “Last I checked, ideas carry much more impact in the universe than cotton T-shirts. They certainly last longer.”

[imordnir]

Preperations

“By the GODS! Could you not?!”

Mordnir’s hand came down to slap the arm of the man who was reaching far too close to his snowballs. The well dressed gentleman glanced up to the Death Knight and scoffed. “Sir, if I do not get your sizes correct I will not be able to make your clothes properly!” A grumble and a sigh, he was right. Truth be told, Mordnir had barely thought about the smaller, less obvious parts of Nobility before making the step to legitimize his name. It’s been almost a life time since he was a child in his father’s affairs and even that was cut short when he was sent off to train under the Silver Hand. Much has changed since then, he wasn���t even close to the same person as he was in those days.

Labella’s reaction to all of this was rather... well, tame. Mordnir had expected her to scoff at the idea, the woman so wild and free that the concept of nobility would have seemed almost like a prison than a privilege. He was glad that she was around, this would have been exponentially times harder if he did not have his Bella, the one woman in the world who knew him ALMOST better than he did.

His thoughts were jerked aside as the man brushed against his junk again. His Cyan eyes narrowed and judged the man with a look so cold, Northrend would be considered tropical. “Sir... I will end you if you do that again.” The man swallowed his fear and stood, “Very well, Ser. I believe I have everything I need.” Mordnir cut him off. “...And then some, I’m sure. The maid at the door has your purse, let her know when to expect your delivery.” The clothier nodded his head and stepped out, Mordnir taking a deep breath to shed his formalities. He stepped down off of the stool and walked to the window, gazing out to watch the keep go about their daily chores. Behind him walked a young man with a set of scrolls in his hands and a tabard marked with two blue Lions Rampant on a black foreground. “Ser, I have the reports from the border to give.”

The Knight nodded his head and stepped forward, taking the scrolls and reviewing them with the Herald from House Holt. This was a difficult situation he’s put himself in. The Keep laid just outside of the old borders of Lordaeron. This made him not only separated from the rest of the Alliance but also reminded him of the proximity to the Scarlet Monestary. Thankfully the majority of the keep laid into the mountainside and was not easily seen from the frequently traveled roads. Both the Silver Hand and The Ebon Blade were aware of his presence. Though they offered no military support (surprise, surprise) they did express their willingness to care for anyone who escaped the hold if it was under siege. This barely left a good taste in his mouth. Attackers rarely let anyone out of the gates of a town or keep during a siege, those who did leave were usually the defenders sallying forth in a final, desperate attempt to break their attacker’ s will. He took a deep breath, shaking his head. Cannons. I forgot about the DAMN cannons. This was troubling; The Scarlet Crusade had really expanded their armament since the last he heard of them, which was years ago. They fielded an impressive arsenal of field artillery in the Cathedral, though truth be told, he had no idea how they got them all in there, let alone get it back out. This left Mordnir in a rough political spot; Would he upgrade his own arsenal and fit his bastion with field guns? If he did that- how would he do so without bringing too much attention to him and the people who lived within his walls?

“Fuck...” He uttered, the herald looking at him with an elevated brow on his well kept visage. Mordnir’s eyes fall on the herald again. “What’s your name?”

“Brendon.” “‘Brendon?’ I always took you for a Jim...”

“No Ser, Brendon.”

“...I’m calling you Jim” The man furrowed his brow and opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by Mordnir’s overly playful attitude. “JIMMY BOY, I need you to take THIS-” He picked up a scroll and flailed it in the man now dubbed Jim. “-back to Addlewood.”

Sigh.. “What is it, Ser?”

“The direction to your mother’s house- Are you a herald or... Never mind, I don’t know where I was going with that. Some kind of joke with messengers being to fucking nosey.” He narrowed his eyes at jim with a smile. The herald grumbled and took the scroll.

“If you open that, I swear to the grave I will let my fiancé turn you into a cucumber and leave you somewhere in the Mage’s Quarter of Stormwind- you know, with all the horny pandaren?” The Herald narrowed his eyes again, nodding and stepping out swiftly. Mordnir sat down on his chair, the furniture sliding a crossed the wooden floor with an obnoxious groan. He only hoped the letter would reach Addlewood unmolested.

My Lady Adhelin.

Preparations are underway to secure Neverbloom keep as a place for our eventual ‘conversation’ with the Scarlets. Hopefully this message reaches you safely.

PS; There is a new batch of wine ready in Addlewood’s cellars when you’re thirsty. A Pinot.

PSS; The guy delivering this is now called Jim. His real name starts with a ‘B’, I don’t remember what it was, breakfast or something.

[womenofcolor15]

Viewers Of Aaron Hernandez’s Disturbing Netflix Docu-Series Go Crazy + Former Lawyer SLAMS Doc For Speculation Of Aaron’s Sexuality, Ex-Fiancée Takes Social Media Break

Netflix’s docu-series about former NFL star Aaron Hernandez has folks going crazy on socials media after its release. Meanwhile, his defense attorney, Jose Baez, and Aaron’s ex-fiancée, Shayanna Jenkins, also react to the disturbing docu-series. Get it all inside…

When Netflix released Aaron Hernandez's docu-series “Killer Inside: The Mind of Aaron Hernandez” last week, it sent shockwaves through social media.

The three-part documentary pieced together the former New England Patriots player's life and events that led up to him committing suicide in April 2017 after he was acquitted for a double murder. He was already serving a life sentence after he was found guily for the murder of his friend/semi-pro player Oldin Lloyd. Viewers were given a sneak peek into his life through interviews with people who were closest to the tight end, including friends and former teammates.

Getting a behind-the-scenes look at Aaron's life, fans and spectators were shocked by the events that led up to him taking his own life. The doc-series was quite disturbing on several levels and Twitter was in a tizzy.

Below are some reactions:

  Aaron Hernandez called his fiancé from jail n asked her what she did today and shorty caught an attitude saying “i was involved in a search warrant today AGAIN” and he goes “u still got ur freedom tho so what u stressin’ about!” I really hate men

— mean ass (@nishacange) January 20, 2020

  This dude was really trying to win an Oscar in a Aaron Hernandez doc pic.twitter.com/RC7lcVEeMV

— Steve Perrault (@Steve_Perrault) January 20, 2020

  Y’all keep saying Aaron Hernandez girlfriend held it down...but what about his cousin Tanya?!?!?!.....she held it TF ZOWNNNNNNN ...she ain’t say SHIT ...she battling cancer...got kids && everything && still didn’t say SHIT she know a lot more than the gf && she never ratted pic.twitter.com/zN3Tn8s3ef

— JazzyYamCakes (@QweenJazze) January 20, 2020

  Bow wow deserves an Oscar for his performance in the role of Aaron Hernandez’s girlfriend in the documentary pic.twitter.com/p8gi284vEb

— Richard Sair Ramirez (@SimplySair) January 20, 2020

  During the first episode of this Aaron Hernandez story on Netflix... pic.twitter.com/fWm3ffVZSZ

— BlackChefJTaylor (@ChefJTaylor) January 15, 2020

  watching the Aaron Hernandez doc anddddddddd sorry to my future son u will NOT be playing football.... ever. Instead, u will be sent straight to acting school to become the next timothee chalamet. these are the rules! mom needs red carpet moments! no sports for u!!

— indy (@itsindysev) January 15, 2020

  Yeah this Aaron Hernandez shit is significantly more wild than I expected. Curveballs

— Pete (@gambleandbattle) January 15, 2020

  Everybody talking about Aaron Hernadez having CTE, being gay and what not...... but what about the fact HIS MOTHER said all he needed was structure? Like she is happy he was locked up..... what did they put that boy through that turned him into a murderer?

— Frances I RESIST TRUMP DAILY (@francesryab) January 15, 2020

  This Aaron Hernadez Doc let's me know the pain inside humans will make them do things to hurt people around them so they can't feel the pain they are going through.

And his mom really messed him up after is padre died that's shitty#AaronHernandez

— Brendon Duron Crudup (@CoachCrudup) January 16, 2020

  YO... This Aaron Hernandez story on Netflix is wild.. How much of this could have been avoided if he did not feel trapped in his own head? People CONSTANTLY underestimate the effects of mental illness. IDC, what naysers say, he was fighting internal demons...

— Chris Milton (@fatherofballers) January 15, 2020

  My face when #AaronHernandez jokingly asked his agent, from prison, if he could get him a Smith & Wesson deal. Holy shit!!! pic.twitter.com/xBiKnWUKLB

— Tyree (@Tyree901) January 16, 2020

  During the final episode, it was revealed 27-year-old Aaron Hernandez suffered the most severe case of chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE) ever that Boston University researchers had ever seen in a person his age.

The docu-series focused a lot over whether Aaron struggled with his own sexual identity. His high school teammates/childhood friend Dennis SanSoucie, who played football with him at Bristol Central High School in Connecticut, alleged in the documentary that they participated in a sexual relationship, but kept it lowkey.

  So you guys believe him or nah ? #AaronHernadez pic.twitter.com/JlBt7Qqa5s

— Fra (@FraBRAH) January 20, 2020

  While some people believed Aaron committed suicide because rumors about him being gay were circulating, his defense attorney, Jose Baez, defended Aaron, claiming the accusations in the documentary are NOT true.

        View this post on Instagram

                  I don’t give a damn about what some lame ass documentary has to say about Aaron. I knew him, they did not and while he was far from perfect, they are not even close to the truth. People have no idea how documentaries are made, the truth is usually found on the cutting room floor. These producers lied directly to my face, so I don’t expect their money making scheme to be much better. #ripchico #baezlawfirm #aaronhernandez

A post shared by Baez Law Firm (@baezlawfirm) on Jan 15, 2020 at 6:37am PST

"I don’t give a damn about what some lame ass documentary has to say about Aaron. I knew him, they did not and while he was far from perfect, they are not even close to the truth," Jose wrote. "People have no idea how documentaries are made, the truth is usually found on the cutting room floor. These producers lied directly to my face, so I don’t expect their money making scheme to be much better. #ripchico #baezlawfirm #aaronhernande"

Jose also spoke out to TMZ about why the doc pissed him off. The site reports:

That's just not the case, though, according to Baez ... who says Aaron's death was triggered by advanced CTE -- a brain disease the tight end had developed since his youth. Baez insists Aaron's sexual orientation played ZERO part in his fate.

The fact SanSoucie made it into the doc pisses off Baez ... who tells us he only agreed to speak on camera if 'Killer Inside' producers promised to NOT interview certain people about Aaron's sexuality.

He didn't mention SanSoucie by name, but Baez made it clear he feels double-crossed by producers. Worth noting ... SanSoucie was the only person who appeared on camera making the gay allegation.

  Aaron's ex-fiancee/mother of his daughter Shayanna Jenkins (above at his funeral) also reacted to the docu-series, revealing she was taking a break from social media:

        View this post on Instagram

                  #stayhumble

A post shared by Shayanna Jenkins - Hernandez (@shayjhernandez) on Jan 16, 2020 at 8:57am PST

  "I wanted to let all of you sweet sweet souls know I have tried to read every message sent on IG and through email (positive and negative) ... The amount of support and positive energy is again unreal! I'm sure you will all understand how imperative it is to take some time away from social media," she wrote on Instagram.

  Former Patriots player Ryan O'Callaghan - who was featured in the doc - also reacted to the docu-series. He never played with Aaron, but he talked about the struggles he faced suppressing his own sexual identity.

"I'm not going to speculate whether (Hernandez) was gay or not," Ryan said. "I was very careful with my words in the documentary to not do that. The last thing I would ever want to do is out someone."

"I knew people that knew him, but that's obviously a lot different than knowing the guy," he continued. "A lot of the answers I gave, I said 'I don't know Aaron, but' or 'I don't know if Aaron is gay or bi but' and those things get edited out."

"I think it's safe to say people don't just go around killing people if they're happy or everything is going great," he said. "I think it's safe to say he had something else going on if that involved his sexuality or what. I can assume some things and other people can safely assume things but I'm not sure what was going on. I think the documentary did a good job of talking about his past, where he came from and had a pretty normal good life until his dad died and things started to go downhill."

  The docu-series have led some to believe that the doc heavily focused on the homosexuality angle as a cover up for how prominent CTE is in the NFL:

  So...folks claiming Aaron Hernadez being a closeted gay man is a conspiracy to cover up CTE pushed by the NFL? This is some spicy ashy hotep shit. pic.twitter.com/pK0YyWiCoQ

— The Breaking Point (@ProductionCog1) January 18, 2020

    aaron hernadez had the worst case of CTE ever studied in a 27 year old brain and 99% of deceased NFL players brains also show CTE but alas i imagine holding a multi-billion dollar industry accountable for wrong doings is next to impossible

— demitri parkowski (@demiruthparker) January 18, 2020

    conspiracy theory: the NFL wants us to focus on Aaron Hernadez's sexuality to negate the fact that he killed himself because he had CTE which obviously came from playing football

— (@nmb_04) January 19, 2020

  After watching the documentary, it def leaves a lot of questions. If you've watched it, what's your take? Share in the comments!

Photos: Getty/AP

  [Read More ...] source http://theybf.com/2020/01/21/viewers-of-aaron-hernandez%E2%80%99s-disturbing-netflix-documentary-go-crazy-former-lawyer-slams-

[makingscipub]

Metaphors and society (and Brexit)

I have been interested in metaphors and society for a long time. My thinking has been influenced mainly by people who wrote about metaphor (and society) at the end of the 1970s and early 1980s; for example, Susan Sontag, Donald Schön, Andrew Ortony, George Lakoff and Mark Johnson and others, who examined ‘conceptual’ or ‘generative’ metaphors that influence thinking, acting, policy making and so on. I later worked on merging metaphor analysis with discourse analysis, media analysis, visual analysis, social representations theory, corpus linguistics and more. I also tried to dig deeper into the history of metaphor research, which proved to be quite fascinating.

The metaphorical structuring of social perceptions

In all that time I never came across one article that I discovered recently, by a developmental biologist who is still musing about science and society issues today, namely Scott F. Gilbert. In 1979 he wrote a paper entitled “The metaphorical structuring of social perceptions”, which appeared, I should stress, in a rather obscure journal called Soundings: An Interdisciplinary Journal. Since 1979 it has been cited a mere 19 times, another reason why I might have overlooked it. However, those interested in metaphor and society or society and social representations should not neglect it. It is really interesting!

How does Gilbert define metaphors? He writes: “Analogy, including simile and metaphor, is a way of making oneself familiar with novel or complex situations. To say that the mind ‘filters’ information or that ‘all the world’s a stage’ is to put into familiar terms experiences and processes about which we know very little.” (p. 166). He points in particular to science and religion as needing metaphors, as they deal with “matters complex and unseen”. But he stresses that “Society, too, develops its own metaphors, and like those of science and religion, they are apt to change and confront one another.” The aim of his article was “to show that certain of these metaphors are critical to the perceptions of society and the self-perceptions of individuals within it and that changes in these analogies reflect, and in part, create, changes in society itself” (ibid.).

The article goes on to examine various all-encompassing metaphors, what Stephen C. Pepper called in 1942 ‘root metaphors’, through which we think and talk about society or, as Gilbert also calls it metaphorically, ‘the body politic’, from infectious disease to cancer. While dissecting these and related metaphors (for example, war metaphors) of society, the author discusses how we perceive and think about ‘social menace’, such as, for example, the ever topical issue of immigration. He then studies various metaphorical representations of nature (or of what’s going on inside the body) through the lens of the civil rights movement, the women’s rights movement and the emergence of ecological consciousness. In a third part of the article, Gilbert looks at metaphor or models of humanity; as the aggressive ape, the caring creature and, most interesting nowadays perhaps, the machine.

Metaphors, society and… Brexit

I would love to see an update of Gilbert’s article in light of the political, medical and ecological changes that have happened between 1979 and 2019! Metaphors are structuring social perceptions, perceptions of self and society, as we speak. We need to keep track of them. As Brendon Larson has pointed out (quoting Gilbert): “Particular metaphors may thus reinforce prevailing cultural values” (Larson, 2006) or even create them.

Many of you will remember the metaphorical framing of immigrants flooding the country, most prominently in a famous poster of a column of men walking along a road captioned “Breaking Point” created by Nigel Farage’s grassroots Leave campaign. This framing has brought about radical changes in how we perceive our society and our selves; it has in fact inflicted wounds on the body politic that will need decades to ‘heal’. This will not be easy, as metaphors are still flooding in, especially during an election campaign.

Some people are trying to monitor such metaphors that structure social and political perceptions. For example, Veronika Koller and her colleagues at the University of Lancaster have recently published a book on Discourses of Brexit. And if you want to know more about metaphors of the body politic, of Europe and of immigration, you should consult the long-standing work by my colleague Andreas Musolff. (In 1985, he did his MA at the University of Düsseldorf and I did my PhD – ah, good old times!)

In an article discussing this type of work, David Shariatmadari worries about the weaponisation of metaphors in the context of Brexit, and rightly so. I’ll leave you with some good advice from Veronika Koller, quoted in this article, about what to do in a context where social and political perceptions are inevitably structured by metaphors, most of which are misleading:

“Is there any way to reverse Brexiteers’ weaponisation of metaphor? ‘First of all you need to understand what you’re up against,’ Koller advises. Metaphors will always be with us, she concedes, but they can be challenged. One way to do this is by elaborating them. ‘So we can say things like: ‘Ok you say we’re trapped in the backstop and we’re shackled to the EU. So let’s imagine we break out of this prison Great Escape-style, what then? Who will be with us, where will we go?’’ Another is by replacing one metaphor with another. Rather than thinking of no deal as breaking free, could it be more like getting lost in the wilderness, without a map or compass?”

Indeed!

Image: Pixabay: Fractal render (don’t ask me why I chose that!)

  The post Metaphors and society (and Brexit) appeared first on Making Science Public.

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[marlon-256-blog]

It is a very uncommon deficit, those words stay with me... Its what the doctor told my dad, what my dad told me, and what the kids at school made fun of me for... Termolophlaemene, or TPM, its been my closest enemy ever since I was born. Not a lot is known of it but what is known still terrifies me to this day. Around the age of 7 was when it really decided to kick in. I had already had a very difficult social life, I had no friends, my mother was killed in a car accident... She died in my arms that night, I had recently been homeschooled on account of my "deficit" so starting school in the middle of second grade with traumatizing imprints on my mind. It didn't make it easier having uncontrollable and somewhat violent children running around. I couldn't focus. I actually couldn't focus, I wish I could say that was the worst it got. But anyways I would always and I mean always nod off in class, learning simple addition and subtraction was the last thing on my mind. I had.. Imagined things, things no one should ever imagine, I pictured I was inside the mind of a soldier that had just experienced shell shock, the twisted and insane mentality that made him do unspeakable things to himself, I imagined I was a poltergeist terrorizing an innocent family, I laughed and bathed in the utter raw dread and fear the family had knowing I would brutally murder a child that night, right in the middle of these fantasies my teacher would slam a book on my desk to get me on task. I would apologize to her in advance, she thought I was apologizing for nodding off. She had no clue. I was sent to the counselor for the remainder of the day, he would ask me over and over why I couldn't focus. My father being too ashamed to inform the school of my problem, I had to improvise and say that its just a child's mind taking him 1000 miles away form where he actually was. He wasn't buying it. So I decided to bite the bullet and tell him about my issue and what I had imagined. He had looked at me with this sort of remorse that also included fright. He asked what else I might of imagined over the course of the day. I figured nothing bad would come out of this, even though my dad told me not to tell anyone about my problem, I felt like I was safe here. So I'd tell him how I imagined that I was a doctor somewhere in the Victorian era, no anesthetics, bacteria infested equipment, a dim lit room with a few candles. While a man lay before me screaming in agony begging me to just end his life. All the while I was carefully remodeling and moving the broken femur bones and putting them back in their place. I had explained to him my very own thought as an SS officer. Ruthlessly ending the life of another vermin. One after the other, I had taken a shotgun, and I would put caves into each one of their chests, the screams. They only got louder when I had started using a knife. Apologizing and laughing after each one. He had previously asked me to stop explaining but I was too endulged in my thoughts to notice. He had asked me what the name of my condition. And I told him the name, he then asked me what it does to my brain exactly. And seeing how I knew nothing of it at the time. I improvised again. I told him around the age of two, I was apparently the victim of a victim of a vicious dog attack, I was repeatedly dragged and thrown around while the k,9's teeth sank deeper and deeper into my brain, while I was helpless to to anything against it, to add to the brain damage, a passed by who saw the attack tried to help by beating the dog with a stick until the dog left, I could hear the bones inside the dog as they were broken and shuffled around in its body, all the while the woman didn't stop beating this dog, some of her blows reached me and I could hear my own skull cracking against the force of her. The whole time I'm trying to mumble out barely audible words. I'm sorry. And The counselor didn't tale that very well. That's when everything went from ok to really bad. My father had been sent to civil court on belief that he had abused me and neglected me, and he won the trial but it was a bit ironic. He started drinking. He started to yell and scream. He started to hit me. The beatings were terrible. I would have something sprained by the end of every lashing. At least I was able to zone out while I was being bashed to what was at one pint the next month in a full body cast. I had constantly told him I'm sorry. Just like my teacher. I had asked for a meeting with my councelor, my father, my teacher, and my doctor, and after two years of constant pleading and begging I had finally got what I asked for. I was nine then and I had moved to another class since those two years but I begged for my teacher I had then. The teacher and the councelor had been informed on what my current situation was. The beatings, and my father had once again been taken to civil court, found guilty and spent the next 6 years in prison. After the gavel hit, my father was being escorted outside and I shouted I'm sorry about five times. He looked at me with hatred as he was to be gone until I was a teenager. And once again, I said under my breath. I'm sorry. I had still gone to school staying with a neighbor knowing about what was going on.there was kids but they were way older than I was. A 17 year old and a 15 year old. Mr and Mrs tentri were usually never around. So the only company I had was these older kids. They would never want to be around me. They thought I would hurt them somehow. So one day I went up to them and said. "Britney, Brendon, I'm really sorry. I know I scare you sometimes and I don't mean to. I just want to be friends. And Britney had sympathy for me and she had handed me an extra controller to play video games with them, I really took a liking to her. She was the only one nice enough to invite me to hang out with them. But Brendon disliked this. He complained the whole way. Britney tried to defend me but nothing worked. He called me names and very often shoved me out of The way. One last time I told him I'm sorry. So one night. I grabbed a knife from the kitchen, but as Mr and Mrs tentri never left anything sharp around us I only found use for a butter knife. He gurguled and screamed all the while the dull knife went furtwand further into his Adams apple. While he was wriggling around I ran to Britney's room asking her to come see what I did. So we rushed to Brendon's room. The high pitch scream deafening my hearing for a bit threw me off guard meanwhile Britney grabbed me and started shaking me. Violently she shook me as Brendon struggled to remove the knife from his throat. Britney finally let go of me but started dialing the police. So I had to snatch the phone from her and I pushed it down her throat. And I took the knife from Brendon as he was about to die anyways and I pushed it into Britney's throat to keep her from getting the phone out. The only thing I could do next was leave. I stayed back at my house for a while, trying to hide whenever police aruved and an investigation started. I was scared, frightens on what I might have done for these 6 years, they all should have been when I was. One day I thought it was smart to go back to school, just one more time. I went into the counselors office to talk and release stress. I had apologized to him, and him saying "what for?" Was what I was looking for, I had taken the color pencil I had and the stress ball on the table and shoved the end of the pencil into his eye socket, then to muffle the screams that the principal would have heard, I had stuffed the stress ball down his throat. I repeated to then stab him in the chest with safety scissors, as they were the only other sharp object in the room, and I watched him as he died. The sounds of muffled gurgurling filled my adrenaline ten fold. I had come up with the excuse that the councelor thought it was about time I was to go back to class, lunch was not yet over but I had that alibi for if someone who knew where I was supposed to be had seen me. I snuck into ms. Carol's class and she welcomed me in with open arms and within a spilt second looked at me an utter horror. I ran at her with all the force I had in me and dug my fingers into both her eyes, at this point I didn't care if anyone heard because I would have dissapeard for 5 and a half years after that. Pushing my fingers into her skull until I had nothing left but knuckle and fist to see, I had heard the kids line up to wait for class to start up again. Deciding that my deficit was the cause behind my acts like of aggression, I moved in with my life. This nice safe place, where all I have is my thoughts and I. I had gone to the local library to figure out what was left that I didn't know about my problem, I found that there is a nueron in the cerebral part of my brain.. That is eating away at itself, leaving the rest of it to slowly decompose the part of my brain that decides judgment. Being disgusted by this I had preformed evasive surgery.. Since I wouldn't have any access to anasthetics I decided clentching a razor blade in my other hand would distract me from the sounds of the drill. I like to think to this day that the surgery worked. When I turned 10 I felt like it would be a great present to myself to go inform my doctor that I had made a full recovery. And to apologize for any inconvenience I put him through. Walking to the hospital where I was diagnosed I had a feeling of people watching me. Which wasn't odd seeing as how a small child wearing a winter coat in the middle of july was walking by himself. I had been stopped by the police no more than 30 minutes from where I needed to go, they had asked me what was wrong and why I couldn't be on the streets by myself, and acting like the new recovered form of my self I told them thank you and and I gave them directions to what they thought was my home. Along the way they gave me sympathetic stories of when they were children and how their mothers always made them wear big coats. I had told them what happened to my mother. And they asked then why I had such a big coat, and I told them why I had it. In fact I showed them. I had stuck my arm around the passenger and had her in a hold while I repeatedly shot her until the other officer stopped the car and trued to pull his pistol out at me, but my deficit giving me the adrenaline needed, I took the dead officer's gun and had it right under the other officers head

[canyousevmyheavydirtysoul]

You’re My Bodyguard, Not My Owner. (Chapter 20) (Brendon Urie x Reader)

Sixteen years earlier. (Y/L/N) family home, Davenport, Iowa.

Your mother stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and smiling fondly as she watched you through the window. You were playing outside in the abundance of snow that had gathered next to the nearby lake, giggling excitedly as you built up tiny mountains of snow before throwing yourself into it and repeating the cycle over and over again.

She grabbed a washcloth and wiped the counter down before turning around to do the same on the island. She readjusted the fruit bowl and salt and pepper shakers that were out of place from that morning’s breakfast, and tucked the stools underneath the island, returning to her spot at the window when she had finished. Peering through the glass, her heart sunk a little bit when she realised that you weren’t in the spot you had been before.

Her eyes scanned the outside area frantically as she searched for any glimpse of your bright purple coat. When she couldn’t find you, she panicked – immediately running out into the freezing cold, not even bothering to grab a jacket or proper shoes. She had her bedroom slippers on – not an ideal shoe to be wearing while running through snow – but she didn’t care; she was in mama-bear mode.

“(Y/N)!” she called out desperately as she sprinted through the snow, head turning every which way in an attempt to find you, “(Y/N)!”

Your lack of response only fuelled her worry, and she gripped at her hair frustratedly as she continued searching. Her eyes landed on a small hole in the frozen top layer of the lake, and she gasped in horror as she dashed over.

She fell to her knees at the edge of the water and peered in; a strangled cry escaped her throat once she spotted the purple of your jacket just beneath the surface of the water. Without hesitation, she delved her arms in and grabbed a hold of you, using all of her might to yank you up and into her arms.

At this point, your father had become aware of what was going on, and he ran across to the two of you, dropping down next to your mother. “(Y/N), snowflake!”

Your mom held you close to her, brushing the hair out of your face as she continued breathing raggedly. A slight frown formed on her face as she touched your skin and took in your appearance. The water had been glacially cold – she felt it – but somehow, despite having been under for God knows how long, your body temperature seemed to be normal, and you showed no signs of frostbite or hypothermia. No blue lips, no weak pulse… nothing. The only thing unusual was that you were unconscious.

“(Y/N), wake up, snowflake. You have to wake up,” your father said, hands fumbling as he pulled off his jacket and covered you with it.

“Erik,” your mother whispered, catching your father’s attention, “Feel her skin.”

As your father cupped your face in his open palm, his muscles tensed and he swallowed hard. “My God,” he mumbled.

You started to stir, catching both of your parents’ attention and causing your mother to hold you closer. Slowly, you opened your eyes, and when you saw your mom and dad, you smiled warmly.

“Hi mama, papa,” you said. Your voice was completely normal, not hoarse like it should have been. “I fell down a hole,” you giggled.

“Yeah,” your mother laughed deliriously, in disbelief over the situation, “Yeah, you did, sweetie.”

“How do you feel, snowflake?” you dad questioned, narrowing his eyes slightly as he studied you, “Are you cold?”

You shook your head no. “I still feel warm. My jacket keeps me warm,” you smiled, and your parents shared a look.

“Are you sure you don’t feel sick? Or kind of funny?”

You shook your head again. “I feel normal, papa.”

 Present day. SHIELD HQ, whereabouts unknown.

“Do you have an answer for me yet?” The Director questioned, pacing around the tarnished assassin.

“I already gave you an answer. Yesterday,” came his reply, voice flat and slightly annoyed.

“And I told you that that wasn’t doable. Choose something else.”

The Asset lifted his head to look at The Director with a cocky raise of an eyebrow. “You asked me what my price is, and I told you; I want to speak with the girl.”

“Not gonna happen,” The Director shook his head, halting his pacing and coming to standstill right in front of the prisoner.

“That’s my price,” the assassin shrugged as best he could while in restraints, “It’s not gonna change. Your move, Director.”

With a final stony glare at the man in front of him, The Director turned to exit the cell. Once he was out and started down the corridor, he called for Agent Hill to follow him.

“Yes, sir?” she answered, jogging to catch up with him.

“Get me Brendon and (Y/N).”

Purple Rain Bar, somewhere in Maryland.

About two hours after arriving at the bar, you were pushing the border of crossing over from ‘drunk’ to  ‘wasted’, yet you were still going at it on the dance floor.

“This is so much fuuuunnnn,” you gushed, swaying to the music, “I can’t remember the last time I had so much fuuuunnnn!”

“I know!” (Y/B/F) agreed, shuffling closer to you, “It’d be even better if we had someone to dance with, though,” she pouted, eyes scanning the room and settling on a handsome guy not too far away; her face lit up and her lips curved into a smile, “Found one! (Y/N), I’m gonna go talk to him. You don’t mind, right?”

“No, I don’t mind,” you shook your head and although you were talking to her, you were facing in the opposite direction, gazing at the bar, “I found someone too.”

You pushed your way through the array of bopping bodies and headed for the bar. Brendon looked up from fiddling with his watch and raised his eyebrows as you approached him.

“Brendon!” you called, reaching out to grab hold of both of your bodyguard’s strong, calloused hands, “Dance with me!”

Brendon let out an amused scoff as he smirked marginally. “I don’t dance.”

“You danced with me in Germany.”

“That was different. I don’t dance like this,” he nodded his head to the people grinding on the dance floor.

You groaned loudly, tilting back your head and rolling your eyes. “You don’t sing, you don’t dance… what do you do, ya buzz-kill?”

“Excuse me?” he raised his eyebrows again, this time out of shock of what you had called him, “What do I do? I protect you, for one.”

“Yeah, and you’re really good at that but you’re so… stiff,” you pushed against his rock-hard chest, “You need to let loose. Have fun.”

“I’m having enough fun over here.”

“Bullshit.”

“This is your night; go back out there. Have a good time,” he responded, trying to lightly shove you away; you wouldn’t budge.

“Not unless you come with me.”

“(Y/N)…” he sighed, closing his eyes.

“It’s my birthday,” you phrased his words from earlier, and he looked at you through his long eyelashes before heaving a heavy sigh and slipping off of the barstool.

“Lead the way, then,” he said, holding out a hand in the direction of the dance floor.

You grinned broadly at him as you led him by the hand that was still held in yours. Once you were on the floor, you placed his hand gently on your hip, and he followed suit by placing his free hand on your other hip as you hooked your hands around his neck. It was a bit of a stretch, considering he was so much taller than you, but you didn’t mind it.

The song playing was a relatively slow one, so you swayed along to the tune in a contented silence. Neither of you spent too much time looking at one another and no words were spoken, but it felt reassuring – amongst other things – to be so close to one another.

Without thinking, you laid your head against his chest, right over his heart. He didn’t reject your motion or try to stop it. Instead, he brought one of his hands up to the small of your back, where he always placed it. You smiled; his gesture was sort of an unspoken reassurance from him to you. It was his way of telling you that he was there, and that he would keep you safe.

The two of you stayed like that for the rest of the song. (Y/B/F) – who was still dancing with that guy from earlier – caught sight of the situation and winked slyly at you; you gave a shy smile in response.

You reluctantly pulled away from your bodyguard’s embrace once the song had ended, feeling a little disappointed that it was over so quickly. But your spirits were immediately lifted once the opening line of the next song played.

“I love this song,” you gasped, perking up as you started singing along to ‘Uma Thurman’ by Fall Out Boy. When the first chorus started, you began dancing around to the beat, getting lost in the song as Brendon looked on, a hint of a smile on his face.

You continued dancing on your own up until the second verse, during which you grabbed hold of Brendon’s hand again.

“Come on,” you encouraged, but he shook his head no, “Why not?”

He didn’t answer, and you groaned as you dropped his hand and started to walk off, intending to find another partner who would jam out to your favourite band with you, but you only took one step before your hand was grabbed and you were yanked back into a hard chest. Then, you were twirled around and out, before being pulled back in, lifted into the air, dipped, and then brought back up.

You breathed heavily as you looked at Brendon, an incredulous smile on your face. You were standing incredibly close to one another, and a tingle travelled through your body.

“I hope you remember that,” he said softly, “Because it’s never happening again.”

“Oh, I’ll remember,” you replied, voice soft as you continued your heavy (dirty) breathing, “Don’t you worry.”

You were pressed tightly against his chest, and the way he was leaning down made for virtually no distance between the two of you.

The urge to close that diminutive distance was overwhelming.

But you didn’t get a chance to even attempt it, because Brendon pulled away and cleared his throat.

“It’s getting late,” he pointed out, “We should get going.”

___________________________________________________________________________

Thank you for reading x

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