#*cough* beautiful backline *cough*

[leapdayowo]

Anyways, what?

still such a funny and iconic moment haha omg :3

Also here’s a concept for a docm77 design :D

I’m considering different designs, and this one has more round shapes and such which I think I like?

[canyousevmyheavydirtysoul]

Bodyguard II: Familial Ties (Part I - Chapter 8) (Brendon Urie x Reader)

Punching a code into the keypad situated at the garage entrance into the S.H.I.E.L.D facility, Brendon tossed a permissive look over his shoulder at his teammates.

“Clear,” he nodded a moment later, stepping back to allow The Hounds to do their bit.

He and Dean held open the heavily barred doors for Seth and Roman, who hoisted the unconscious body of The Phantom Warrior out of the back of the SUV and into their arms. With Roman keeping a firm grip under the assassin’s arms and Seth taking care of his legs, the two agents hastily made their way over the threshold of the entrance and into the facility.

“Holding cell or infirmary?” Seth asked, using his elbow to knock against the button mounted on the left wall of the hallway and call for the elevator.

“Cell,” Brendon answered, letting go of his grip on the door and striding into the building as well, followed closely by Dean, “I don’t give a shit about any injuries he might have.”

Seth and Roman shared a quick look of dubiousness, but didn’t make a move to say anything. Dean, on the other hand…

“Well yeah, but he’s no use to you if he’s coughing up blood or breaking out in cold sweats,” The Lunatic remarked with a scoff, prompting the brooding agent to toss him a cold, hard glare. “I’m just sayin’, if I were you-“

“But you’re not me, now are you?” Brendon silenced The Hound with a sharp response. The older man grinded his teeth together before continuing. “And if I wanted your input, Ambrose, I woulda asked for it.” He snapped his head in the direction of Seth and Roman, the elevator open and waiting behind them. “Cell. Now.”

The bitter iciness that accompanied his presence hung in the air even after Brendon had started down the hallway, walking towards the communication centre with strong purpose. The company of his newest prisoner unsettled him more than he cared to admit, and he needed to take his mind off of the situation and regroup before attempting to proceed with his plan.

The Hounds watched intently as their fellow agent made his way down the long hallway, not saying anything. Once Brendon had rounded the corner and was out of earshot, Dean piped up yet again.

“I’m telling you guys,” he shook his head before turning to his friends and stepping forward to join them as they backpedalled into the elevator, “if he doesn’t see (Y/N) soon, he’s gonna snap and kill all of us.”

~

Whenever Brendon was in this particular state of mind – emotionally volatile and anxious – (which, honestly, was an incredibly rare occurrence), Spencer had always been his go-to; his best friend would talk him down and help him regain his mental balance.

But since Spencer (and well, everyone else) was under the impression that Brendon had been blown up on a quinjet a number of months ago, calling him was not exactly an option. And so, he settled for the next best thing…

“Vodka,” Dallon nodded, though it seemed to be mostly to himself, “Vodka always helps. Do you have vodka over there? I’m sure you’d be able to find some somewhere; it is a Stark-designed facility after all.”

“I highly doubt that alcohol is the answer I’m looking for,” Brendon sighed, gripping the edge of the desk with both hands and leaning forward. His eyes were heavy and tired and he blinked a couple times in the hopes that it would help. It didn’t.

“Wouldn’t hurt to try,” the techie shrugged, readjusting his glasses that were slipping down his face with one hand while the other twirled a Chewbacca pen.

Brendon raised his head and looked at Dallon’s face on the screen in disdain, narrowing his eyes in irritation.

“You’re fucking awful at this, you know that?”

“Hey, I’m trying my best to be the guy-support-guy that you need!” Dallon defended, straightening up in his chair and clutching a hand to his chest. “But I’m, like, one of the most anti-social people you’ll ever come across. I’m not at all skilled in the art of consoling people.”

Brendon let out an aggravated growl. “I’m not in mourning. I don’t need consoling. I just need-“ He stopped talking and closed his eyes, hanging his head and drawing in a deep breath.

On the screen was a blown-up picture of you; one taken at a charity event hosted by Tony Stark a few months ago. You were smiling into the camera over your shoulder, the low backline of your dress exposing your smooth skin.

The sheer radiance of your beauty caused Brendon’s throat to tighten and his knuckles transitioned from their usual colour to a much paler white as he took his frustration out on the desk (in a reasonably peaceful manner).

A second later, the image disappeared and Dallon’s face popped back onto the screen, this time with a hopeful expression.

“Did that help?”

Yes and no. Yes, because now those errant thoughts that had been plaguing his mind a couple minutes ago had been replaced with the nagging reminder of what your skin felt like, and how badly he wanted to touch you again. And no, because he knew that those new thoughts would consume him from the inside out, until he had you in his arms again. He wasn’t sure which feeling he preferred, to be honest – the one he had before seeing the picture or the one that came after. Both were equally torturous.

But of course, Brendon didn’t offer that as an answer and instead responded to Dallon’s question in a painfully Brendon-like manner.

“If you ever blindside me like that again, I’ll shoot your dick off, Weekes.”

“Thought so,” Dallon smiled, reading between the lines to pick up his friend’s answer of ‘yes’. “She’s doing good, by the way. At least, she was last time she checked in.”

Brendon’s brows knitted together in confusion and he stood up straight, removing his hands from the desk. “What do you mean ‘last time she checked in’? She’s not at HQ?”

Dallon shook his head no. “Nope. She’s in a desert in New Mexico on a consultation with Doctor Ro- Shit,” the techie immediately shut his mouth, swallowing harshly and averting his gaze when he realised the trouble that he had undoubtedly just caused.

Brendon felt an immeasurable wave of fury wash over him. “She’s what?”

“Uh… Ooo! Do ya hear that? Fury’s calling for me. I, uh, I gotta go. Talk soon,” Dallon rattled off, nervously fumbling over his words.

“Weekes, wait-“ Brendon groaned in anger as Dallon signed off before he could stop him.

Hearing that you were with Aaron Ross in the middle of a goddamn desert doing who knows what made his blood boil, and in an effort to rid himself of even the tiniest bit of anger, Brendon grabbed one of the desk chairs and tossed it across the room. Chest heaving, he shut his eyes for a second before running a hand through his hair and starting for the door, heading for the cell on the lower level.

~

The scratchy fibred sack was roughly ripped off of the assassin’s head, exposing his reddened face to the cool air of the holding cell. He blinked a couple times, squinting his eyes as he tried to adjust to the harsh white light cascading down upon him.

Once he regained his orientation and his vision cleared, he could properly see the three burly figures towering over him. A slight smirk appeared on his chapped lips.

“While I admit that you are a bunch of strikingly handsome gentlemen, I’m afraid you’ll have to find someone else to join your little party; I don’t swing that way.”

“Jesus,” Dean muttered to his friends under his breath, “He even sounds like him.”

“So if you wouldn’t mind letting me out of these restraints-“ he continued, raising his hands as best he could while tied up. He was cut off by Seth.

“Listen, bud, you can cut the whole confident jackass act,” The Architect narrowed his eyes in irritation as he gestured at the prisoner, “’cause it’s not gonna work here. Believe me.”

“I suggest you get comfortable, ‘cause you’re not leaving anytime soon,” Roman informed, reaching down to tighten the belts around The Phantom Warrior’s wrists, just to emphasize his point.

“Really, gents, I’m sure you’re making an excellent effort at all of this,” Mason spoke with a condescending tilt of his head and a chuckle, “but I promise you that there’s no form of torture I haven’t been through. There’s no way you’ll get me to spill whatever you’re hoping for.”

The Hounds turned to each other and shared an amused look before turning to look at Mason with smiles.

“You’ve never seen torture quite like what’s waiting for you behind that door.”

On cue, the thick metal door to the cell opened with a gust of wind, and in strode one of the world’s most intense forms of torture.

Brendon walked with a confidence that only he could exude, checking his smart watch as he strode towards the prisoner. He stopped a mere two feet away from him, and delivered a smirk much more devilish than the assassin had given a few moments ago.

“Hello, big brother.”

_______________________________

Thank you for reading x

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