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snoggedTitle: Blurring Reality Lines
Author: snogged
Disclaimer: Carter Bays, Craig Thomas, and all sorts of other fancy corporations own How I Met Your Mother. I don’t. Please don’t sue.
Pairing: Lily/Marshall
Rating: FRAO/NC-17
Warnings: angst, sex
Word Count: 525
Setting: Season 6 – “Desperation Day”
Summary: Lily reaches out for something solid.
A/N: written for the prompt “waking up in bed alone” for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
angst_bingo
Beta:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dreamsofspike
Dreams swirl and swish through your head, leaving images in their wake. They are the paintings that you can’t produce for yourself. They are the ones that you’re sure would land you a spot in the Louvre instead of the plain old white wall at the veterinary clinic.
Before you can smile, before you can enjoy your new-found fame, the colors fade and blackness creeps in. The smoky tendrils threaten to swallow you whole, but instead of waking up, you reach forward blindly, groping the space beside you for something solid.
At first, your fingers don’t find warm skin, but when they do, you grab hold. Your arm slides over his waist and a soft grumble escapes his lips.
“Lily.”
The way he says your name, no matter how exhausted he sounds, makes your heart leap. His awareness of you, his attunement to you shows as he snuggles closer, as he folds up against your tiny body. He is the mountain man and you are the snow spread out across his back.
(Will you be the big spoon for a little while?)
You brush your lips over his shoulder and your hand slides down his stomach, seeking out the elastic band of his sweat pants.
He rolls his hips, permitting you to reach inside and wrap your hands around him. He’s still flaccid, but you know it won’t take long to get him excited, won’t take long before he’s inside of you.
There will be no talk of babies tonight. It won’t matter if your bodies are facing north, south, east, or west. It won’t matter if Marshall has soaked the family jewels in ice cold water or if you have warmed your lady parts to a balmy 99.8°.
There will be no talk of his father or the funeral, even though the dirt from Marvin’s grave is still fresh under Marshall’s fingernails.
The nighttime lets you forget these things.
Even if it’s only for a moment.
Slowly but surely, his cock stiffens and twitches against your palm. You press your lips to his jaw line and your hand starts to move up and down his shaft. He moans in pleasure and you continue your ministrations.
Relief floods through you as his abdomen tenses, as his groans get louder, as his wetness coats your palm.
For a moment, it feels like everything will be okay.
Until the alarm clock buzzes- rudely tearing you away from the fantasy and forcing your eyes to open.
As daylight floods through your window, you find your arms and legs wrapped around your body pillow, dry-humping it in earnest.
The glass of water that had once been on the nightstand is clutched in your hand, its contents emptied onto the sheets and onto your skin.
The reality of the situation is this:
Marshall’s dad is dead.
Marshall stayed in Minnesota.
Marshall insisted that you fly home, pleading with you that your first graders were more important than his emotional state.
And until he comes home, you’ll be forced to repeat this morning over and over again, wondering how anyone can stand to live with the pain of waking up alone.
Author: snogged
Disclaimer: Carter Bays, Craig Thomas, and all sorts of other fancy corporations own How I Met Your Mother. I don’t. Please don’t sue.
Pairing: Lily/Marshall
Rating: FRAO/NC-17
Warnings: angst, sex
Word Count: 525
Setting: Season 6 – “Desperation Day”
Summary: Lily reaches out for something solid.
A/N: written for the prompt “waking up in bed alone” for
angst_bingoBeta:
dreamsofspikeDreams swirl and swish through your head, leaving images in their wake. They are the paintings that you can’t produce for yourself. They are the ones that you’re sure would land you a spot in the Louvre instead of the plain old white wall at the veterinary clinic.
Before you can smile, before you can enjoy your new-found fame, the colors fade and blackness creeps in. The smoky tendrils threaten to swallow you whole, but instead of waking up, you reach forward blindly, groping the space beside you for something solid.
At first, your fingers don’t find warm skin, but when they do, you grab hold. Your arm slides over his waist and a soft grumble escapes his lips.
“Lily.”
The way he says your name, no matter how exhausted he sounds, makes your heart leap. His awareness of you, his attunement to you shows as he snuggles closer, as he folds up against your tiny body. He is the mountain man and you are the snow spread out across his back.
(Will you be the big spoon for a little while?)
You brush your lips over his shoulder and your hand slides down his stomach, seeking out the elastic band of his sweat pants.
He rolls his hips, permitting you to reach inside and wrap your hands around him. He’s still flaccid, but you know it won’t take long to get him excited, won’t take long before he’s inside of you.
There will be no talk of babies tonight. It won’t matter if your bodies are facing north, south, east, or west. It won’t matter if Marshall has soaked the family jewels in ice cold water or if you have warmed your lady parts to a balmy 99.8°.
There will be no talk of his father or the funeral, even though the dirt from Marvin’s grave is still fresh under Marshall’s fingernails.
The nighttime lets you forget these things.
Even if it’s only for a moment.
Slowly but surely, his cock stiffens and twitches against your palm. You press your lips to his jaw line and your hand starts to move up and down his shaft. He moans in pleasure and you continue your ministrations.
Relief floods through you as his abdomen tenses, as his groans get louder, as his wetness coats your palm.
For a moment, it feels like everything will be okay.
Until the alarm clock buzzes- rudely tearing you away from the fantasy and forcing your eyes to open.
As daylight floods through your window, you find your arms and legs wrapped around your body pillow, dry-humping it in earnest.
The glass of water that had once been on the nightstand is clutched in your hand, its contents emptied onto the sheets and onto your skin.
The reality of the situation is this:
Marshall’s dad is dead.
Marshall stayed in Minnesota.
Marshall insisted that you fly home, pleading with you that your first graders were more important than his emotional state.
And until he comes home, you’ll be forced to repeat this morning over and over again, wondering how anyone can stand to live with the pain of waking up alone.