❝ my chemical romance, panic! at the disco, fall out boy and twentyonepilots imagines. ❞
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𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐘 𝐎𝐖𝐍, 𝐔𝐍𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒
𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐄.
𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃:...
Note: If you haven't read the original version, I highly suggest that you do so before reading this one. x
P.S. This one got a little bit comical towards the end, but I couldn't help myself! There was too much angst :/
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"Yeah! Yeah, that's right. Leave! Fucking leave just like the rest of them!"
Your brow creased into a worried frown as you heard your husband's rage-fuelled voice echo down the corridor, and you picked up your pace immediately, practically running.
You reached the dressing room just in time to see Dallon and his wife rushing out; she was practically carrying him away, and the sight created a pit in your stomach.
Swallowing hard, you turned into the room to be met with the sight of a fuming Brendon, viciously tugging at his hair as Zack tried to calm him down; the latter caught sight of you and stepped back, allowing opportunity for you to step in and do your wifely duty by comforting the overly emotional singer.
"Bren." You started forward, reaching out to him, but he ignored you and continued pacing and mumbling under his breath.
"Bren," you tried again, this time taking his hand from his hair and intertwining your fingers with his; his rigid posture relaxed instantaneously at the feel of your skin against his, and he finally turned to look at you.
For the first time in all of the years you'd known him, you found yourself wishing that he hadn't, because the look of pure anguish in his usually warm eyes was so intense that your knees almost caved in and buckled.
His did, and he fell into your embrace with a sob so loud that you were certain that it echoed throughout the entire expanse of the universe.
~
"Baby," you sighed and let your shoulders drop as you languidly strolled over to Brendon, "I get that you're hurting but is this really necessary?"
Brendon barely glanced at you, grunting as he raised the baseball bat above his head before bringing it down in a fluidly cruel movement, striking the unsalvageable TV he had picked up from the junkyard a few hours prior.
"I've gotta get this anger out, (Y/N)," he muttered; his breathing was so harsh, you could hear it all the way on the opposite end of the vast garage.
"There are other ways, you know."
"Like?" He indulged your attempt at getting him to stop, even though he had no intention of doing so.
Stepping forward, you shrugged your shoulders. "Sex?" you offered, arching your brows, "It's a win-win situation."
You were gifted a smirk to go along with his response. "Babe, with the mood I'm in, you wouldn't be able to walk for weeks."
