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pray/prey

Summary:

Sometimes, when Seungmin is on his knees for someone else, he feels a little like praying. How funny, he thinks, to have spent so much of his childhood on his knees, chanting God’s name, begging for an answer, for Him to tell Seungmin that he isn’t alone. Now, he’s on his knees, forcing someone to pay attention to him. He can hear the other man gasping and moaning his name.
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or: seungmin doesn’t believe in god. minho still worships him.

Notes:

this work is entirely inspired by this line from the poem "Laika” by Sarah Doyle:

"Dogs have no gods,
know only to worship the hand
that feeds. There is no canine
word for pray."

or: the author exploring her own religious upbringing and the act of being seen by those who love you for you through the lens of a fic

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

The problem, Seungmin thinks, with killing and reinventing himself time after time after time to constantly please his fans, his company, his members, himself , is that, at some point, he has to acknowledge the fact that he wasn’t ever really alive as himself in the first place. He became an idol too early, they all did, really, but because of that, there was never any time for Seungmin to figure out who he wanted to be. Now, he’s just the product of a fucked up industry, shaped by stylists and executives and publicists with sharp teeth and quick tongues who know all too well how cleanly excise the parts of Seungmin that are too messy, too real.

 

The weight of expectations bore down on him like a lead cloak, suffocating any semblance of authenticity. Each video, each live, each music show, each public appearance, only serve to widen the chasm between the persona he projects and the fractured fragments of his true self. He is a puppet pulled by strings woven from the desires of others, manipulated into a performance of existence that leaves him hollow and drained.

 

Seungmin isn’t religious, not in the way that Jeongin is. He doesn’t go to Mass anymore, nor does he pray the rosary or ask the saints for help. But growing up Catholic isn’t the kind of thing you can grow out of, not really, even when there’s no space for religion in the idol industry.

 

So in Seungmin’s mind, he is Adam, waking up from sleep, discovering that something that made him him was taken. The wound is closed up, packed neatly with flesh, and no one can even tell that something is missing. But Seungmin knows. He can feel the gap where his rib once lived. He can still feel the hands inside of his skin, taking.

 

It’s different for Seungmin than it was for Adam, of course. In the Bible, Adam’s rib is taken to create Eve, his perfect match, molded to fit him. It is not good for man to be alone, God said. In real life, Seungmin’s rib is taken and destroyed. He is alone and he is missing something.

 

The worst thing is that Seungmin knows he deserves it. He chose this. He’s the only one who didn’t grow around that gap within him. Instead, he let it fester and rot. His body is a home for disease, but not for him. There is something inside him that is not Seungmin, placed there by the company, changing every cell in his body and leaving Seungmin a husk of a host.

 

There are two types of resurrection in the Bible, one for the just and one for the unjust, a tantalizing promise of redemption or damnation. The just get to live forever, but the unjust are cast into a lake of fire. 

 

Seungmin thinks he’s missed some vital lesson that would protect him from the reality of being an idol. Everyone else seems fine, seems like they’ve adjusted well.

 

And Seungmin is burning.


A while ago, just after Stray Kids had debuted, an older male trainee kissed him in an empty practice room after a particularly brutal dance practice. Back then, pieces of Seungmin hadn’t started to vanish in his sleep and he still feels human enough that the man’s hands make his skin itch when they touch him.

 

He pushes the trainee away from him and snarls at him.

 

“Get the fuck away from me.”

 

“What?” the older boy laughs. “You’re not going to put out for me, baby?”

 

Seungmin shakes his head, swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

The trainee's laughter echoes off the walls of the empty practice room, a mockery that reverberates through the air like a cruel taunt. Seungmin bristles at the sound, his jaw clenching with a rage that threatens to boil over at any moment.

 

"What's so funny?" Seungmin snaps. Seungmin is a snake then, his voice laced with a venomous edge, glaring at the other trainee with undisguised contempt.

 

The older boy's laughter finally subsides into a smirk, his eyes gleaming with a predatory glint that sends a shiver down Seungmin's spine. He’s not a snake anymore, he’s prey and he knows he’s about to be eaten without even having a chance to run.

 

"You really are naive, aren't you?" the older boy muses. "You think you can make it in this industry without learning to play the game? That your ‘leader’ will keep you safe?"

 

Seungmin's fists tighten at his sides, his nails digging into the flesh of his palms, splitting skin as easily as they would the flesh of an apple. 

 

"What game?" he spits, choosing to ignore the dig about Chan. His leader has always been adamant about fighting his own battles.

 

The trainee's smirk widens into a grin, his eyes flashing with a cruel light as he takes a step closer to Seungmin, invading his personal space with a kind of unsettling familiarity. Seungmin is getting used to having his space violated. 

 

"The game of survival, Seungminnie," he replies, his voice sickly sweet and all too close to Seungmin’s ear. "You’ve got to know that to be an idol is to give your body away. Your body isn't your own anymore. It belongs to the fans and the company, not to you."

 

Seungmin recoils at the trainee's words, but deep down he knows it’s true. He’s seen the other idols that have debuted behind the scenes at music shows and he knows there’s a reason Chan is so overprotective of the younger, prettier members of the group, like Hyunjin or Felix or Jeongin.

 

At Seungmin’s flinch, the ice in the older boy’s eyes cracks, just a bit.

 

“It’s easier,” the trainee says, stepping closer to Seungmin again, “If you do it on your own terms.”

 

Seungmin walks away then, but he never forgets the trainee's words.


Seungmin gets older and he learns to seek out touch first, in transient spaces of lust and longing. Abandoned practice rooms turn into empty rooms at music shows, back rooms during awards season, and backseats of cars with tinted windows. Seungmin gets older and simple kisses turn into heated makeout sessions, into hookups, into dirty, messy, quick sex. 

 

It becomes a ritual of his, a sacrament, a sacrifice, a means of divine grace.

 

The trainee, who never debuted and was kicked out of the company one month after cornering Seungmin in the room, was right. It helps. 

 

He works in a world where flesh is a type of currency, where bodies are bartered and traded like commodities in a marketplace. It’s better to offer than to have it taken. When someone else has their hands on his body, it never feels good, but it’s easier if it’s on his terms. If he asks, and whoever he’s set his eyes on that day reciprocates, he gets to choose who touches him. 

 

Sometimes, when Seungmin is on his knees for someone else, he feels a little like praying. How funny, he thinks, to have spent so much of his childhood on his knees, chanting God’s name, begging for an answer, for Him to tell Seungmin that he isn’t alone. Now, he’s on his knees, forcing someone to pay attention to him. He can hear the other man gasping and moaning his name.

 

It is a twisted form of worship, a blasphemous offering laid bare upon the altar of his own desires. He revels in the illusion of control, in the fleeting semblance of power that comes with each meeting. Maybe Seungmin is both God and sinner, creator and destroyer.

 

Or maybe Seungmin is Adam and, for a brief moment, whoever he has his mouth around is Eve and he isn’t alone. They’re in Eden, in the garden, and he’s shaped it the way he wants. The snake isn’t here yet, telling him that what he is doing is dirty , is wrong

 

So Seungmin kneels, knees raw and red, and he repents and he reclaims . His body is his again and he controls who touches him.

 

Seungmin pulls off the other man when he comes. The man’s head slams into the wall and he gasps, “Jesus Christ,” and Seungmin has to hold back his laughter.

 

After, when the other man has left, Seungmin slumps to the ground. He is dirty with sweat and come. He is disgusting, ashamed and humiliated. He will never be clean from sin and there is no God who can give him his body back, but Seungmin can steal it.

 

Seungmin deserves this. At least that’s what he tends to think. “Cursed are you,” God told the snake, “You will crawl on your belly and you will eat dust all the days of your life.” Seungmin and the snake survive on scraps. He is something to fuck, but not to love.

 

His body protests when he stands and he likes it. 

 

It feels like atonement.


He knows his members know what he’s doing. They all have their own vices and no one ever begrudges him his, but he sees the way Minho’s jaw clenches when he rejoins their group, his mouth kissed raw.

 

The problem, Seungmin thinks, is that he wants Minho and doesn’t want the older boy to know because he knows he can’t touch Minho, can’t contaminate him with all of his Seungmin -ness.

 

That’s why, when Seungmin finds Minho in his room after a schedule one day, where Seungmin had vanished into a dark room with another idol on set that day and come back limping, he wants nothing more than to run away.

 

Minho doesn’t let him.

 

“Kim Seungmin, we need to talk,” Minho's voice is low, tinged with a hint of desperation that sends alarm bells ringing in Seungmin's mind. He can feel the weight of Minho's gaze boring into him, stripping away the layers of his carefully constructed facade to expose the raw vulnerability that Seungmin tried so hard to hide.

 

For a moment, Seungmin entertains the idea of feigning ignorance, of deflecting Minho's concerns with a casual dismissal or a flippant remark like he normally would. But the sincerity etched into Minho's features kills any hope of evasion. Seungmin doesn’t want to lie to Minho.

 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Seungmin mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. But even as the words leave his lips, he knows that Minho sees straight through his feeble attempts at deflection.

 

Minho steps closer and Seungmin’s body heats up. His eyes drop to Minho’s lips and Minho freezes. There is a pregnant pause that stretches between them. And then, without warning, Minho closes the remaining distance between them in a single stride, his hand reaching out to cup Seungmin's cheek in a gentle caress.

 

Before Seungmin can react, Minho's lips are on his own, soft and tender, but brimming with an intensity that steals the breath from his lungs.

 

It takes everything in Seungmin’s body to pull away from Minho, to not chase his mouth when the other pouts at their separation.

 

“Hyung, what?” Seungmin gasps out. “What the hell was that?”

 

His heart is beating out of his chest and he’s panicking because Minho can’t like him, can’t want to touch him. Seungmin would ruin him.

 

At Seungmin’s question, Minho rolls his eyes.

 

“A kiss,” he says, long and slow like he’s talking to someone who has never been kissed in his life. And in some ways, he is. Seungmin’s never been kissed like that before, like it was something to be savored and enjoyed. Like he was something to be treated softly.

 

“Why did you do that?” Seungmin asks, still staring at Minho like he has lost his mind.

 

“Because I wanted to,” Minho states plainly. “Have you ever known me to do anything else? You looked like you wanted me to as well. If I read you wrong, I’m sorry. I can leave.”

 

Minho stands then, like he really is going to leave Seungmin, and Seungmin’s heart lurches.

 

“No,” Seungmin breathes out, catching Minho’s wrist and pulling him back. “No, I wanted to. I still do. I just–”

 

Seungmin drops his gaze to his lap, where his hand is still gripping Minho’s arm. He can see the white on Minho’s skin, surrounding his grasp, and he drops Minho’s wrist quickly. Seungmin was hurting him.

 

“Hey,” Minho says softly, taking his now free hand and lifting Seungmin’s chin, guiding Seungmin’s eyes back to his. “Finish your thoughts before you get lost in that brain of yours.”

 

“I just,” Seungmin starts again, “Want to know why.”

 

Minho’s stare is level as he looks at Seungmin like he actually wants to be looking. It has none of Chan’s concern, or Hyunjin’s confusion, or Jeongin’s understanding. He shrugs.

 

“I love you,” he explains and Seungmin feels his face color. This, he knows, would be embarrassing if they were anyone else, but Minho knows him better than anyone else, and Seungmin knows Minho like the back of his own hand. “Why wouldn’t I want to kiss you? It’s you , Kim Seungmin.”

 

It’s Minho's confession, his soul laid bare for Seungmin to take and Seungmin starts shaking, just slightly, at Minho’s words. He’s afraid to reach out, to pollute, to corrupt. Minho is too good and Seungmin is just Seungmin.

 

Minho frowns at Seungmin’s silence before Seungmin watches realization dawn on Minho’s face. Seungmin’s own face tenses up. He’s always loved Minho’s ability to read their members like a book, but, right now, he wishes Minho was reading something other than him.

 

“Seungminnie,” Minho whispers, and it’s too soft, too different from how they usually talk. It feels good, but it also feels bad, and Seungmin curls tighter into himself. His fingers find their way to his knees where they press into the bruises that always sit there, evidence of an ugly meeting in an empty room, and his breathing picks up.

 

“Don’t pity me, hyung,” Seungmin snaps, “I don’t want it.”

 

He feels Minho’s hands grip his shoulders and he flinches away from them so hard his nails drag down his skin.

 

“Breathe, Seungmin.”

 

Minho’s hands are suddenly back on Seungmin’s shoulders, gripping tightly and pulling Seungmin’s trembling body into Minho’s steady one. One arm wraps around Seungmin’s chest, holding him flush against Minho’s body, and the other drops to pull Seungmin’s hands away from where they’re drawing blood on his thighs.

 

“I wasn’t giving you my pity, dummy,” Minho tells him, his mouth pressed to the top of Seungmin’s head. His voice is calm and strong, but it’s tight in a way that Seungmin knows means Minho is angry. One of Minho’s fingers taps at one of the darker bruises on Seungmin’s knee. “You don’t deserve this. You deserve to be treated with love.”

 

Seungmin makes a noise of protest, but Minho cuts him off before he can get any real words out.

 

“No,” Minho’s voice is softer now, less angry, but it’s still firm. “You don’t deserve that and I don’t know why you think you do. You think you’re this unknowable thing, but you aren’t. I know you, Kim Seungmin and I still love you.”

 

“Hyung,” Seungmin says, and, just like always, Minho knows him and knows what he wants.

 

Minho maneuvers Seungmin from where they’re standing until they’re facing each other, kneeling on Seungmin’s bed. Minho stares at him, waiting for Seungmin to make the first move and, for once, he doesn’t feel dirty or guilty or abandoned when he begs.

 

“Please,” Seungmin says, and Minho’s lips are back. They’re warm and wet and gentle, dancing over Seungmin’s mouth. Minho’s hands come up to cradle Seungmin’s face and Seungmin twists his own into Minho’s hair. They keep, impossibly, getting closer to one another, Minho’s thumbs brushing over Seungmin's cheekbone, his fingers brushing against his hair.

 

“God,” Seungmin whispers when he pulls back to breathe, like a prayer, and it doesn’t even feel like blasphemy. 

 

Minho presses the length of his body against Seungmin’s and his hands work Seungmin’s shirt off his body. Seungmin quickly tugs Minho’s off and both their pants follow after. Minho smooths his hands down Seungmin’s sides, pausing to look at him, and Seungmin’s breath hitches. Something deep inside Seungmin wants to hide from Minho, but, Seungmin realizes, there is nothing that Minho doesn’t already know. And Minho still loves him.

 

Minho guides Seungmin down until his back makes contact with his sheets and Seungmin relaxes.

 

Minho’s mouth moves across his body, leaving a trail of kisses that burn on his skin. Minho is taking his time, exploring Seungmin with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religion. Seungmin feels worshiped . When Minho reaches his hips, he mouths at the skin there before scraping his teeth against Seungmin’s hip bone and Seungmin lets himself whine, high and needy. Minho’s hands work Seungmin’s boxers down and Seungmin sighs in relief.

 

Looking down, Seungmin is surprised to see Minho looking up at him. Seungmin had expected disgust. He is not pretty the way that Minho is; Seungmin’s body is a tool for his job and that’s it. It isn’t something to be adored, but that’s exactly how Minho is looking at him. His eyes are fond and Minho curls a grin at Seungmin before taking him into his mouth.

 

Seungmin’s vision whites out and he reaches blindly down for an anchor. Seungmin feels Minho tangle their fingers together and desire rockets through Seungmin with a speed he’s never felt. Minho is slow, and not as experienced as Seungmin, but Seungmin has never felt better.

 

Seungmin cries when he comes, his fingers tightening in Minho’s hold and his back arching off the bed. When his body stills, he’s still panting and he feels like he is floating. Minho’s hand spasms in his and he realizes, with a little bit of shock, that Minho just came from making Seungmin feel good. 

 

Minho doesn’t give him any time to think about this fact. He clambers up to settle on top of Seungmin’s body, burying his face in Seungmin’s neck and circling his arms around Seungmin’s chest. Seungmin didn’t know he could feel this close to someone and still want more.

 

“We can clean up later,” Minho mumbles, a little muffled. “Sleep now.”

 

Seungmin huffs out a laugh, the last of the tension leaving his body. He feels warm and comfortable and loved.

 

“Yes, sir,” he replies, laughing louder when Minho freezes on top of him and noting that particular reaction for the future. At that thought, Seungmin pauses. He’s never wanted that before, but he wants a future with Minho.

 

“Stop thinking so hard, Kim Seungmin,” Minho says, pinching his side. “It’s time to nap with your favorite hyung.” 

 

“I don’t see Changbin-hyung here.”

 

Minho wacks him then, before curling even closer, his breath slowly evening out. 

 

Seungmin settles down too and as he’s falling asleep he feels, more than he hears, Minho says one last thing.

 

“I love you.”

 

Right before he lets sleep take him, Seungmin mumbles back.

 

“I love you too.”

 

He’s not even sure Minho is awake to hear him, but it doesn’t matter.


Minho never leaves him. Ever. Even after they’ve had sex, or after Seungmin cries and is the least attractive version of himself, or after a hard practice when Seungmin is sweaty and gross. Instead, he presses his lips to Seungmin’s spine and coils his body around Seungmin, holding him like he’s shielding Seungmin from something.  

 

Minho doesn’t save him—Minho is adamant that Seungmin is his own person and can make his own choices—doesn’t snatch him out of the fire the way Jude 1:23 says the just should do, but he parts the burning lake and lets Seungmin breathe.

 

It’s enough for Seungmin to save himself.

 

So Seungmin can reinvent himself, kill himself, for every comeback, for every show, for every event, because he knows he can be himself when he’s at home with Minho. It could take him three days to rise again, anew, like Jesus, or four days, like Lazarus, because he knows, with the kind of unquestioning faith he once had for God, that Minho will always be there when he comes back, will still know him, will still love him.

Notes:

do you think the nuns at my catholic school are rolling over in their graves knowing that the bible verses they made me memorize are being used in a 2min fic that fully includes gay sex?

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