Ship/Member: 97z Major Tags: none Additional Tags: grief, unhealthy coping mechanisms Permission to remix: Yes
nsfw but only a little
*** "Eisa," a voice calls, and Seokmin replies with an answering grunt, eyes glued shut from sleep. He's tucked tight into a blanket meant for two, wrapped around himself in sleep. He has to pee.
"I made breakfast," Mingyu says, closer this time, and when Seokmin is able to open one eye a crack he sees the steaming pot in one hand, wooden spoon stirring even off the heat in the other, his stained yet cheerfully yellow apron, and hideous slippers that probably cost a grand. Seokmin grunts again.
Exactly thirteen minutes later he's seated at the kitchen bar with the blanket still wrapped around him and a warm bowl in front. He doesn't eat.
"I'm going to run some errands later, if you want to come with," Mingyu offers even as he's swallowing his food whole, like he can't get out of there quick enough. Seokmin shakes his head, shrinks back into the blanket like a tortoise, or turtle, he doesn't remember, but Mingh-. Seokmin remembers.
The blanket stays with him the entire morning, like a heat shield on a crashing escape pod. Seokmin thinks he's burning up anyway.
Mingyu comes back with a snack and sets up delicate porcelain cups on the coffee table in front of Seokmin's mostly horizontal form on the couch. "I think it'd be nice," he says as his big hands fumble with the lid of the teapot, engulfing it like a giant might with a child's playset. A loud clink, whispered "fuck", and Seokmin flinches, shuts his eyes tight. He doesn't like tea. Not anymore.
"Are you going to cry every time we fuck?" Mingyu asks, irritation crowding his voice. Seokmin kisses apologies into the knee over his shoulder, hot tears sliding down his nose, the long length of Mingyu's thigh. The body below is too big, too mouthy, but smells the same, one half-used bottle of bodywash switched out for another.
Seokmin sets a punishing rhythm, for himself, for them both, and Mingyu quiets. Seokmin's hands stay firmly planted, like if he can't feel the thick cords of muscle, then he can pretend. That the man below him is
He gasps and shakes to a finish with the wrong name in his mouth, grasping at scraps of a ghost between them.
"Can you hold me a little?" Mingyu asks, after, so quiet that Seokmin almost doesn't hear. Touching him feels like a hand to a hot stove, but he does his duty, wraps him up in arms that are too big. Mingyu's never had a problem playing make-believe, either.
[FILL]
Major Tags: none
Additional Tags: grief, unhealthy coping mechanisms
Permission to remix: Yes
nsfw but only a little
***
"Eisa," a voice calls, and Seokmin replies with an answering grunt, eyes glued shut from sleep. He's tucked tight into a blanket meant for two, wrapped around himself in sleep. He has to pee.
"I made breakfast," Mingyu says, closer this time, and when Seokmin is able to open one eye a crack he sees the steaming pot in one hand, wooden spoon stirring even off the heat in the other, his stained yet cheerfully yellow apron, and hideous slippers that probably cost a grand. Seokmin grunts again.
Exactly thirteen minutes later he's seated at the kitchen bar with the blanket still wrapped around him and a warm bowl in front. He doesn't eat.
"I'm going to run some errands later, if you want to come with," Mingyu offers even as he's swallowing his food whole, like he can't get out of there quick enough. Seokmin shakes his head, shrinks back into the blanket like a tortoise, or turtle, he doesn't remember, but Mingh-. Seokmin remembers.
The blanket stays with him the entire morning, like a heat shield on a crashing escape pod. Seokmin thinks he's burning up anyway.
Mingyu comes back with a snack and sets up delicate porcelain cups on the coffee table in front of Seokmin's mostly horizontal form on the couch. "I think it'd be nice," he says as his big hands fumble with the lid of the teapot, engulfing it like a giant might with a child's playset. A loud clink, whispered "fuck", and Seokmin flinches, shuts his eyes tight. He doesn't like tea. Not anymore.
"Are you going to cry every time we fuck?" Mingyu asks, irritation crowding his voice. Seokmin kisses apologies into the knee over his shoulder, hot tears sliding down his nose, the long length of Mingyu's thigh. The body below is too big, too mouthy, but smells the same, one half-used bottle of bodywash switched out for another.
Seokmin sets a punishing rhythm, for himself, for them both, and Mingyu quiets. Seokmin's hands stay firmly planted, like if he can't feel the thick cords of muscle, then he can pretend. That the man below him is
He gasps and shakes to a finish with the wrong name in his mouth, grasping at scraps of a ghost between them.
"Can you hold me a little?" Mingyu asks, after, so quiet that Seokmin almost doesn't hear. Touching him feels like a hand to a hot stove, but he does his duty, wraps him up in arms that are too big. Mingyu's never had a problem playing make-believe, either.