Archive of Our Own

Jisung has divination running through his veins.

Ever since he was a small boy, his Eomma had said, Jisung-ah, you were sent by the Lord. He sent his very own angel to bless the world around you. And Jisung- well, he believed it. Jisung believes he is a light to the shadowed earth. Where temptation and damnation run rampant, Jisung is the torch that sinners can crawl towards for salvation. His every move is thought out well in advance; the pew his family sits in on Sunday mornings allows the stained glass windows to surround him with light, akin to that of a halo. When he sings he is shy, blushing and batting away compliments even though he knows he is the best in the choir by a long shot. Modesty is more agreeable than vanity though, and while Jisung knows he is talented and pretty and evokes envy, he also knows he should act like he isn’t.

Jisung learned, from a very young age, that the world is a corrupt place. The Hwang family down the street goes to church every Sunday and sits in the pew in front of Jisung’s, they attend all of the holiday dinners and pray with the flock, but Jisung can see through it. Their son sneaks out to the run-down park every night to meet another man; Jisung has seen them when he walks, the cicadas keeping him company. He sees them smoking, kissing, doing disagreeable things. The Hwang boy’s mother likes to drink when it’s late in the evening, when her husband should be coming home from work but instead he is out until dawn doing Lord knows what. Their whole family is caught in temptation- damned.

All we can do is pray for them, Eomma would murmur in his ear after church. We can pray, Jisung would think, biting his tongue until bitter iron sank between his teeth, But what’s the point when they are so far beyond saving?

A new family moved in across the street, two houses down from Jisung’s own. Kim Seungmin, one of the only people Jisung would consider a real friend, told him about it during Wednesday night service.

“They seem nice,” Seungmin had shrugged, not one to speak without knowing the full story. The dark circles under his eyes from his late nights, where he studies the scriptures in the few breaks he allows himself from academia, are prominent tonight. Eomma says Seungmin is a good influence. Jisung knows Seungmin is two steps away from falling into vulnerability, falling from grace- but still, he likes the other boy well enough. “I haven’t met any of them, but they have a son. Lee something.”

Another neighbor to the marsh, another person Jisung will have to make heads or tails of.

It’s not like Jisung thinks he is a prophet; Jisung knows he is made up of flesh and bone, just like Seungmin and just like the Hwang boy. The difference is written in the way he carries himself, devoid of temptation and blatantly uninterested in others. Jisung pays no mind to the girls who blush and bat their eyes at him every Sunday, he pays no mind to the church boys who look at him too long to be considered innocent. Jisung is not stupid by any means, he is very observant. However, Jisung is not letting the gaze of others impact his own vessel. They are not worthy of touch, Jisung is yet to meet someone who is.

That’s why he keeps to himself, outside of Seungmin. That’s why he keeps himself company, with music and academics and walks at dusk with only the cicadas to whisper secrets. His neighborhood is quiet at this time of night, most families murmuring to their children to shut their windows and stay inside after the sun sets. The community has told hushed stories of what lies in the marsh after dark since before Jisung was born, since before Eomma was born, even. Nevertheless, he is not perturbed by the unknown. Jisung embraces it, like the marsh is an extension of his own flesh, like the throb of moss covered bark is akin to the pulse of blood in his veins.

His favorite spot is nestled just out of town, a large boulder that seems to be permanently dampened by the algae growing at it's feet. The rock is far enough into the marsh that his peers avoid it with an eerie feeling sucked between their teeth. Jisung loves to sit atop the stone, looking out over the wetland, as if he were the God who made it.

Tonight, a shadow on the tree bark gives him pause. Something has inhabited the boulder, crouching atop the grey stone. The chill of the night creeps into his bones, and Jisung fleetingly thinks the monsters of the marsh have finally come to assess his bravery. Then, a voice-

“Someone there?”

Jisung doesn’t recognize the lilt of the words. It isn’t Seungmin, or the Hwang boy, or even the pastor’s son Felix. Jisung knows everyone in town, small towns come with that sort of knowledge. There is a rolodex of names and faces in his mind’s eye, and the pitch of the words don’t register. This voice isn’t familiar.

When Jisung’s feet press into the damp earth beside his favorite boulder, he first looks at the algae. His eyes travel up the cracks and grooves of the uneven landmark until he reaches dark platform boots dipped in mud and dried dirt. From there, his eyes drift over equally dark jeans, pale skin stretched over taut muscle, and a t shirt from a band he doesn’t recognize. The spiky red lettering and explicit symbolism make him think he wouldn’t want to recognize it, either. Then, to meet the gaze of another.

Jisung has met plenty of boys in his life, with his all-boy graduating class, the pastor’s son, Seungmin, that Hwang boy’s secret friend- Jisung knows boys. The person in front of him does not resemble any other boy he has ever met. The flick of feline eyes run over Jisung’s small stature, the raise of sharp brows, perfectly full lips fighting the upward tilt they try to take; Jisung is aware of his surroundings in a pin-point way. He is aware this person is no boy. This is a… man. A man, sitting on Jisung’s secret hideaway.

The way the man watches Jisung makes him fight to keep a shiver at bay. The monsters of the marsh have taken on a sickening vessel- one that makes Jisung’s skin buzz in a way he has never felt before.

“Are you the thing in the swamp I’m supposed to be afraid of?” The man hums, lips finally giving in to that small quirk upwards. His head tilts, like a curious big cat sitting atop his perch. His dark hair falls to rest over one of those narrowed eyes.

“I always assumed a swamp monster would be more… wet.” He continues, when Jisung doesn’t speak.

Jisung feels the twitch of his eye, fighting discomfort at the feeling of unplanned events unfolding. He has not lost control, but he does have to recalculate. His irritation makes the cogs in his brain turn slower.

“It’s not a swamp,” Jisung finds the voice to say, getting back to his senses with superiority laced into his words. It’s important to show new neighbors where their place is, even if it is in the subtlety of a raised eyebrow and a smirk on his lips. The man looks too comfortable on Jisung’s boulder.

Instead of shying away, as any good person would when faced with the possibility of conflict, the man tilts his chin up in defiance. Jisung feels his own smirk fall slightly as the man’s grows longer.

“What’s the difference?” He asks, a small breath of air escaping from his nose.

Jisung wraps his white cardigan tighter around his body to fight off another cold chill. The night is dipping considerably colder than what is normal for the season.

“A swamp has thick trees,” Jisung begins, voice etched with condescension thinly veiled. “The marsh is protected by a treeline, but is only wetlands and tall grass. There are no trees in the marsh.”

The man hums again, tracking the way Jisung’s arms wrap tighter around his body. Jisung fights the way his feet attempt to shuffle, forcing his chin higher to meet the stranger’s gaze head on. In turn, the man breaks eye contact to look ahead, into the marsh with no trees. Jisung hasn’t looked away, but doesn’t feel like he won anything.

“Learn somethin’ new everyday,” The man drawls, almost to himself, before turning back to Jisung with that same dark stare. “So, marsh boy, you got a name?”

Jisung’s throat clicks with the effort it takes to hold back his scoff. Everyone in his town knows everyone, this man will learn his name eventually. Better yet, Jisung will know this man before the town can whisper the first story about where he came from. In a way, Jisung giving the stranger his name is worth it- just to watch townspeople clench their jaw when they realize they aren’t the first to know him. When they realize Jisung beat them, like he always does.

So, Jisung offers his name. The man repeats it, words rolling off his tongue like they shouldn’t have been spoken- like Jisung’s name was tainted by the pink tongue that swallowed his vowels. Oddly, it isn’t the same feeling he gets when his name is taken by the choir boys, or the blushing girls sitting in their families’ pews. This feeling is stickier, sweet and alarming all at once.

“Call me Minho,” The stranger practically purrs, and Jisung could almost see the flash of his eyes when he turned away again. He doesn’t look back this time, instead choosing to stare out at the marsh and listen to the cicadas. Jisung has spoke to them many times, sitting atop the very same boulder this- Minho has stolen.

Now, from his place below with his knees turned inward, Jisung can almost hear them laughing at him. He can almost feel them crawling on his flesh and burrowing into his bones.

“Jisung, come here. Say hello to our new neighbors.”

Jisung grits his teeth in a poor excuse for a warm grin. The sun is hot, the back of his neck prickling with sweat that makes his hair start to curl one the early Summer heat. His Sunday best is worn without a wrinkle to be seen. Beside him, Eomma wraps dainty fingers around Jisung’s sharp shoulders. In front of him, an older woman stands with the newest shadow lurking in Jisung’s periphery.

Lee Minho looks entirely different than he had two nights ago. Yet, his eyes hold the same glittering shine and his teeth are still sharp, canines glinting in the bright sun from above as his teeth bare into a grin that looks genuine, though Jisung could bet it more false than his own. He looks out of place in his grey button down, white cashmere vest poured over his chest, darker grey slacks hugging his thighs close. His hair is styled, the barest hint of gel keeping wild strands caged in their control. When Minho glances from his mother to Jisung, his grin gets sharper- his eyes narrow like he is sharing an inside joke. Jisung hates the idea of having an inside joke with him- the rolling nerves in his gut attest to his discomfort.

“Hi Jisung-ssi, I’m Lee Minho,” Minho says, as if Jisung didn’t know him- as if he had been a mirage the marsh had conjured after dusk. Jisung feels horror creep into his throat when the man holds out a hand, pale fingers wrapped in deep blue veins and a singular black ring.

Jisung can almost feel the narrowed eyes of Eomma, urging him to be respectful and take the hand offered. His own fingers tremble slightly as he lifts his wrist, barely touching the hand outstretched as he grits his teeth into the shape of a pained grin.

“It’s nice to meet you,” He says, voice far warmer than the sudden chill creeping up his spine. Minho squeezes his hand in a cool grip and Jisung hates that his own is starting to sweat. The sun is still beaming high, beating down on his back covered with a thin white button down, but the goosebumps on his forearms don’t seem to mind the warmth.

“You as well,” Minho is saying, voice soft and gentle enough that Jisung almost scoffs. “How long have you lived here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Jisung’s head twitches to the side involuntarily, neurons firing without his permission like a man possessed. “All my life.”

Minho raises his eyebrows, feigning polite interest. “Oh? Well, if you don’t mind- I don’t know much about the area yet. Would you maybe… be willing to show me around? It would be nice to have a friendly face.”

Minho somehow manages to bring a flush to his cheeks, as if he were shy about the prospect of asking for friendship. Jisung’s ears are ringing so loudly he almost doesn’t hear the quiet noise of approval from Eomma, his vision is tunneled enough that he barely sees the other woman across from her grin with delight. Minho is still gripping his hand. Jisung tries to pull his sweaty fingers away, only for the man’s grip to tighten with a flash of defiance behind his faux earnest eyes. Jisung sucks in a deep breath, chest expanding in a show of confidence he knows looks fake. His grin slips, eyes narrowing in on his hand clasped in another and pale fingers lain on his wrist, pulse fluttering beneath them. The fingers tap twice, in time with his jackrabbit heart, just enough to make it beat that much faster.

Sunday service will start soon. Seungmin is probably sitting in his family pew, eyes unfocused and vision hazy from lack of sleep. The Hwang boy is sitting in front of Jisung’s pew, exchanging hidden glances with the buff man that sits diagonal. The pastor’s son Felix is sitting in the front row, Bible pristine and hand clasped around a pen to jot notes in his notebook.

Minho is looking at Jisung in a thinly veiled, starved state. Jisung is finally able to unlatch his hand.

“I would love to,” Jisung says, flare he doesn’t quite feel trying to force it's way into his words. The pat of approval Eomma lands on his shoulder doesn’t make him feel the same satisfaction it normally does. The feeling of validation for his perfect manners is overshadowed by the man across from him, flitting cat-like eyes over his stature like he can see right through him.

Jisung tries his best to pay attention to the sermon; the passages reviewed today have been highlighted in his Bible, read again and again over the course of his many Sundays. Jisung could recite the passage in his sleep.

Cast all your anxiety unto Him, because He cares for you; Be alert and sober of mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.

Jisung glances to Seungmin, sitting behind him and slightly to the left. The other man glances up, eyes rolling while others are focused on the words of the Lord. Jisung hides his small smile behind the hand feigning to scratch his nose. When his eyes leave his friend’s, they drift further. Naturally, they land on the pews across the isle.

Minho and his mother are sitting two pews back, with Minho leaning on the arm at the end of the wicker seat. His attention seems to be caught on the sermon, but Jisung sees no shine in his gaze- no interest in the drone of biblical law. Rather, as if he can feel the thoughts pointed in his direction, the snap of his eyes meets Jisung’s own wide stare with a slow blink.

The corners of the man’s lips turn up, quirking so slightly it would be missed by a less diligent observer. Jisung has started to study Minho like the words written in the book sitting on his lap; he wants to read between the lines of Minho’s palms, figure out just how much is fact and how much is an embellishment written for someone’s personal gain. Jisung feels the twitch in his fingers, the need to figure it out before anyone else even starts to ask the questions. Something about Minho is ringing the warning bells in Jisung’s head- the ones that sound awfully similar to the large bell outside his place of worship.

He flicks his gaze away first, losing the battle today as he turns back to the podium in front. The dreary, jewel toned curtains hanging behind the pastor almost look like they are moving- dancing to the inaudible tune of his own heart hitting his ribcage.

After service, the pastor calls for a meeting with the next generation of leaders of the flock. Jisung almost scoffs, the young men in the audience are anything but leaders. But he waits patiently, smiling at Eomma before she dips away to chat with Minho’s mother. Jisung moves to sit beside Seungmin closer to the front, Felix in front of them and the Hwang boy behind with his muscular… acquaintance.

“Well, men-“ The pastor, Brother Lee, speaks with a clap. He is youthful in mannerism despite the crows feet by his eyes and deep smile lines around his mouth. Felix looks like him.

“I called you to stay after today’s sermon because I have an opportunity for your growth in the flock. As many of you know, Deacon Paul is stepping down from his role to spend time with his grandchildren- an honorable choice.”

Brother Lee continues to praise his peer, Jisung almost zoned out. Beside him, Seungmin huffs a breath barely audible.

“So we’ve decided it is time to initiate the next generation of deacons- of leaders to the people, and godly men to look to when a reminder of His grace is warranted. Which brings me to my point, finally-“ A chuckle, which Felix grins at. “This weekend we are camping! Deacon Paul and I will chaperone as we learn what the Lord has to offer in His creations. We leave Friday morning, coming back Sunday evening. Brother Dean will carry the sermon for next week.”

Nimble, long fingers tighten their grip on Jisung’s thighs as his hands start to sweat, irritatingly so. He doesn't hate things- because really, it’s more an inconvenience than the thing in question- but he does feel irritation spike in his throat. Pastor Lee says something about tents of four, pairing off into groups, but Jisung’s vision is already tunneled in on the Bible case lying on his dark slacks.

Jisung cannot stand bonding activities. He much prefers his time spent alone, doing better things and learning so much more than the mundane act of camaraderie, or how to tie a stupid knot. He likes to walk at dusk with the cicadas to keep him company, likes to sit on his back porch at dawn with the birds chirping good morning. What he doesn’t like, however, is staying in a tent for two whole days and nights with the choir boys who look at him like he is the last supper.

The group breaks apart when Pastor Lee moves to exit, saying a belated goodbye to his flock still lingering. Seungmin’s glare cuts toward Jisung at the same time Jisung rolls his eyes over.

“Kill me now,” Seungmin says, arms crossed over a tweed jacket. “What could possibly be more fun than a weekend spent mandatorily camping with boys I despise?”

Jisung nods, biting into his lower lip. “Although I usually disagree with you, I can’t fight this one.”

“Well, yes,” Seungmin huffs, almost amused. “Because I’m right- Now we just need to figure out who would be the least painful to coerce into our tent. God forbid we get stuck with two pricks I can’t even look at without wishing their necks would snap.”

Jisung hums, unfaltered by his friend’s harsh language and deadpan deliverance. Really, Seungmin has said worse in his presence many, many times before. Instead of dwelling, a throat clearing catches their attention.

“I’m not trying to meddle,” Felix’s deep voice hums out, shy and soft as he tucks blonde hair behind his pierced ear. The diamond stud glints in the fluorescent bulbs of the fake chandelier above. “But I wouldn’t be opposed to sharing a tent with you both, if you wouldn’t mind. I wasn’t planning to ask anyone, but I was also dreading the… less savory men who may be left to choose from.”

Seungmin snorts at Felix’s words and the shudder that follows after, meeting Jisung’s glance with his own. Jisung shrugs in response, looking back to Felix’s wide, hopeful eyes.

“That sounds nice,” He smiles, perfectly polite. Really, he doesn’t mind Felix. The man is nice enough when they exchange pleasantries, asking about Eomma and his studies and what he’s been into lately. Jisung wouldn’t mind having a tent shared between the three of them, even if camping is not ideal.

“Were you thinking of anyone else for a fourth?”

Felix shakes his head, lips pursing in thought. “Maybe Chan? He hangs out with a few questionable people, but he isn’t so bad. Or Jeongin, the pianist’s son- He is quite funny.”

Seungmin wrinkles his nose, head shaking. “No. Definitely not Chan, he’ll be rooming with those meatheads he hangs out with. Jeongin is probably skipping altogether with his bullshit night terrors excuse. Wish my parents would let me get away with that.”

Felix’s eyes widen at the crass language, cheeks turning pink as his gaze darts around them to check if anyone overheard. Other than that, he doesn’t comment. Instead he nods again, considering the meaning behind Seungmin’s words.

“Okay… So Hyunjin? Changbin? They might be-“

“Rooming together?” Jisung fights a grimace, twists a smile in its place. “Definitely.” He doesn’t care if Hyunjin is kissing a man, but he is disturbed at the mental image of Hyunjin kissing… anyone, really. He is disturbed with the boy in general.

The three fall into silence, thinking through their options. Maybe they can get lucky enough to not need another person, if the group is uneven in numbers. Maybe Chan Bahng will somehow forfeit his friends to bunk with Felix, who even Jisung can admit is hard to say no to. Maybe-

A shadow looms over Jisung, darkening his lap and left shoulder. His teeth grit and jaw clench without his permission, as if his body is aware of the fight or flight needed to escape. Felix’s big eyes bat upward, toward the man tormenting Jisung, and he gives a friendly smile.

“Hello, I haven’t seen you before. Lee Minho, is it?”

Seungmin is shifting to his right, opening his stance and inquisitive stare toward the figure now sitting on Jisung’s other side way too close. Realistically, his thighs are closer to touching Seungmin than the other man- but Jisung feels his warm breath hit his neck all the same.

“That’s right. Felix, Seungmin?” Minho asks, nodding to each man and allowing them time to nod in return. His gaze drifts right past Jisung, who feels his anger spike at the dismissal. He doesn’t need the attention, but he also doesn’t like the feeling of not getting it. That isn’t something he’s used to, nor should it be something he has to experience.

“I hope you all don’t mind, I don’t really know anyone yet and I was wondering if you had a fourth bunk mate for the trip?” Minho asks, a smile etched onto his features that doesn’t meet his eyes, brow raised in a way Jisung is sure the others perceive as earnest.

Felix grins, bright white teeth and crinkled eyes and bunny nose twitching. Jisung feels dread pull in his gut when even Seungmin hums noncommittally, as if he can pick nothing apart from the apparition in the pew. Usually the sane, rational one- Now, Jisung feels he is the only one who can see the devil on Minho’s shoulder.

“Of course! We’re so glad you asked, we just needed one more.” Felix is doing small little jumps in his seat like an excited puppy, tail wagging fast enough Jisung can hear the phantom taps on the wooden bench. “This is great! I can’t wait to get to know you all better! I don’t really talk to many people- I mean, Chan is nice, and Jeongin makes me laugh, but I find it hard to make time in between…”

Felix continues rambling, Seungmin listening on as if he were genuinely interested. Jisung has never known Seungmin to be interested in anything outside of text written before the marsh grew to flourish, before the stars lit up the sky. He isn’t even yawning, or stifling a yawn, or drooping his eyelids in boredom. Instead, listening and nodding and providing small little smiles when Felix mentions topics Jisung didn’t pick up on.

What Jisung does pick up on is the way the body beside him shifts, flesh and blood and bone never quite constructed in a way demanding his attention more so than this. Minho lays an arm over the back of the pew, making Jisung flinch only slightly, and the lazy chords of his voice are mixed with an edge quickly becoming too familiar. The tone he uses when only Jisung can hear, when no one else is there to listen.

“Are you excited?” He hums, voice toeing the line of laughter and something darker. “To get to know each other more, Sung-ah?”

Jisung’s fingers twist around the bookmark in his Bible, yarn frayed at the edges from years of use. He inhales through his nose, exhales the same way because opening his mouth for breath would be too telling. Minho would know- he would know something. Jisung isn’t sure what, but he wants to keep it hidden.

Jisung’s head rolls to the side, hoping his eyes relay unimpressed. Minho’s lips aren’t quirked at the edges, they are sharply drawn into a line as his gaze intently scans Jisung’s features. The light is behind his eyes again, not monotonous like they were during the sermon. Dark irises wrap around darker pupils, small circular pools waiting for Jisung’s every twitch of muscle.

“I already know everything I need to know about you,” Jisung says, eyebrow flicking up. Minho hums in what sounds like agreement, with that hidden condescension underneath. Complacent in the easiest way even when he looks at Jisung like he is only humoring him, taunting him.

“And what is it you know?” Minho asks, arm shifting on the pew. His fingertips are so close to Jisung’s spine he can almost feel the searing heat- wondering if Minho pressed forward a centimeter more, if his fingers would singe and burn and scar down to the bone marrow.

“I know you moved from nowhere, and you will go nowhere after this.” Jisung starts, looking towards the empty stage and deep red velvet of the curtains. “I know you don’t really believe in the sermon, but you want to keep your mother happy. Zoning out over an hour of shouting is easier than a screaming match back home.”

Jisung glances to Minho then, waiting for the sick satisfaction to curl in his gut when he sees that half smile fall right off his smug face. When he realizes Jisung can see right through him in the same way he seems to see through Jisung. Maybe all it takes is someone just as mangeled at their roots as you are to be able to put you in your place so pointedly.

But Minho isn’t dripping with embarrassment or defeat or anything close to stepping down. Minho is worse, if anything- mouth baring his teeth in a slow, sharp grin with canines dripping in venom. Jisung feels his heart palpitate, beating more like a furry animal caged and cornered than a human.

“Keep going,” Minho murmurs, chin tilting up minimally in encouragement. Jisung feels the hand at his back run a single fingertip over his button down, not enough pressure to touch skin but enough to feel the ache of almost touching over the meticulously ironed cloth.

Jisung tries to even his breathing again, presses his thumb into his wrist to track his heartrate. It’s too fast, beating too hard, but this is a battle he can’t afford to lose after Minho has won so many in such a short time. “I know you get bored easily in a town like this. Always searching for something to keep your attention longer than the last, always hunting for the next little mouse you want to play with. But see- towns like this, that’s the problem. You never find anything to keep you on your toes. You’re just… looking for more and more, until you fly too close to the sun and you fizzle out. Go nowhere.”

Jisung had gotten quieter, memories of people he knew- memories of his father drifting by and wading away like the creek behind his old high school. He had said more than he meant to, said way more than he probably should have. He has never told anyone about his deepest thoughts and the burning fire in his garden, not even Seungmin. No one knows Jisung as anything but the picture perfect honey-toned boy who sits four pews back from the podium every Sunday morning and Wednesday night, right beside Eomma and holding the Bible in his lap like it is something holy rather than something he feels scorching his fingertips.

He had let his words fall too haphazardly, not quite spewing the entirety of disdain but getting too synonymous for comfort. He isn’t looking at anything but his hands now, thumb still pressed to the thump, thump, thump of his skinny wrist. The fingertip on his back has stopped its trajectory, paused and barely holding his shirt between a thumb and pointer finger.

Unable to stand the silence, or the ringing in his ears, Jisung glances back up with narrowed eyes. Minho is watching him, satisfied with the cream he was afforded from his ventures. The man nods his head slowly, eyes raking down Jisung’s too-pink cheeks.

“You got me,” He says softly, arm falling away from the pew and letting the cool air drift back to Jisung. He moves to stand, affording Jisung with one last quirk of the corners of his mouth. “Guess it’s easy to read someone that mirrors you so well, hm?”

Jisung doesn’t watch him leave. He turns back to Seungmin, now without Felix, and responds to his questioning brow with a roll of his eyes that feels forced. Seungmin shrugs like that was all he needed, standing and walking in tandem with Jisung as they leave the church to collect dust.

Jisung is running.

Time is far beyond him, his feet hit soil that is too dark to be seen. The marsh water clumps into the dirt on his white shoes, making the stomp of his fast feet ricochet to his ears with a wet squelch.

The birds aren’t present to warn him of what is ahead. Jisung can hear the heavy foot falls behind him, not running but somehow keeping even pace with him, his own feet falling in time with his jackrabbit pulse. And Jisung tries to look around- to get his bearings in the land of his second home- but the marsh seems to turn away from him, growling and thundering away from the realm of familiarity.

He doesn’t know how long he runs, all he knows is the sweat at the back of his neck is dripping down to his collarbones and forming a puddle in the hollow there. His mouth is a desert, tongue made of cotton and too heavy for his throat. Suddenly, Jisung comes to a halt- lost and lungs burning with frigid hellfire. He listens, and waits, and listens more.

The marsh is quiet. No footsteps, no birds, all Jisung can hear is the thump of his own heart beating and the shaky sound of his own shivering breath. When he moves to take the next step forward, Jisung feels his world tilt on its axis.

He falls.

Of course he falls. A tree root, gnarled and looming out from the soil below, had grabbed hold of his ankle while he wasn’t paying attention. The marsh shouldn’t even have trees. And suddenly the footsteps are back, wet, slow, and loud in his ringing ears, closer and closer still. All Jisung can do, petrified and vulnerable in ways he had never been, is squeeze his eyes shut. He doesn’t know who is behind him, but he feels the dread scratch up his throat. Even without looking, the petrichor and bergamot mix fluidly with stone and damp moss, and Jisung will always be haunted by this presence. He knows the devil has closed in on him, Asmodeus wielding a sword of steel and waiting to strike him down. The fingers that curl around his ankle have claws, and the tittering laughter in his ear is a siren song.

Jisung knows, deep down in his subconscious, that this was his destiny from the beginning.

The alarm blaring by Jisung’s bed makes him snap awake, heavy breath and damp sheets from the slick sheen of sweat on his body. Beyond that, he realizes three things in quick succession.

Number One: He slept through the first four alarms he had set, only waking up to the shrill ring of the last attempt to bring his mind to conscientious territory. Jisung is running late, perhaps for the first time since he was a young boy. The thought plagues him for all of two breaths before the train in his mind moves again.

Number Two: Today is Friday. The young men of the flock will be seated on the bus Pastor Lee rents out for trips such as this, on their way to the middle of the forest in an attempt to- what did he say? Ah, learn what the Lord has to offer in his creations, within an hour. Jisung has twenty minutes to pack and shower and look presentable if he wants to arrive on time and pluck his seat beside Seungmin for the journey.

Number Three: Jisung is… aroused. In his pajama pants, an embarrassing tent mocks him and makes a red flush rise to his cheeks fast enough to make him dizzy. He refuses to stoop so low as to deal with it.

Jisung is a man- he has touched himself. Of course he has, he is only flesh and bone and distinctly human-minded. He does believe this vessel he possesses is a temple, but as Seungmin had put it, everyone has to jerk off or they risk insanity of psychiatric proportions. So, Jisung has… jerked off. His refusal in this moment is less concerned with the action, more concerned with the reasoning behind it.

His dream had been horrific. Jisung has never felt so panicked, so trapped in a place he holds in his heart as comforting. The footfall behind his running form still echoes in his head, heavy boots clunking behind him while he darts across the mud. Once he had fallen, Jisung remembers how he felt. Scared, helpless, sick- not the sort of thing that should have caused this effect. Not exactly what usually gets his blood pumping south.

His shower is cold so as not to make his situation worse. It’s quick, and packing is too. The small duffel thrown over his shoulder after Jisung gets dressed feels too-heavy, digging into his bones, but he won’t have to worry with it for long before it is thrown onto the bus. The jog he breaks into to make it to the church on time makes the slightest layer of sweat coat the back of his neck and he tries not to remember being chased. When he catches the tail end of the men boarding the white vehicle, thick cursive letters on the side to spell their church’s name, he sighs in relief.

Tucking his duffel under the seat next to Seungmin, he flops down by the isle cushion. Seungmin glances at him sideways, offering an earphone to him. “Rest well, Sleeping Beauty?”

Jisung huffs a laugh, heartbeat fluttering in his throat but slowly calming. He accepts the earphone, tuning into the woman screaming over the tiny speaker. Seungmin has always had odd taste. “I missed my alarms, almost didn’t make it.”

Seungmin nods, glancing out the window as the bus full of rowdy church boys lurches into drive. In the first row, Jisung can see Felix’s blond hair peeking over the seat and gives him a small wave. Felix grins, entirely too bright eyed and bushy tailed for the sun to barely be kissing the sky. The Hwang boy is sitting two seats back from him, his friend by his side, whispering to each other with pink cheeks while trying not to look suspicious. Chan Bahng is with three of his muscled friends, taking up the back row of seats and laughing loudly along with his peers. The pianist’s son is sitting up ahead, his raven hair rustling with the air coming through the cracked window to his left. Jisung stops his train of thought before he meets the eyes of anyone else.

The drive to the camping destination is bumpy, but Jisung lets his eyes wander to the window past Seungmin’s head for most of it. The rush of greenery passing too fast for his eyes to settle calms his racing thoughts, lets him blur out the memories of his dream like the blurry landscape in front of him. The woman in his ear is still screaming, now singing about loud barks and deep bites. When the bus slows to a halt, breaks squeaking and Jisung’s teeth gritting, his eyes flutter closed at the thought of what is to come.

When he opens them again, dark hair and dark eyes are floating past his side, the smell of petrichor and something darker wafting afterwards.

Minho will be in Jisung’s tent.

The thought is almost enough to disturb the deep breathing techniques Jisung had applied to calm his trembling hands and rapid heart. He forces himself to clear his throat and stand alongside Seungmin, remembering that he will not have to be alone with the man of his nightmares at any point during this retreat. Seungmin and Felix will be in the tent, and every moment spent outside will be hounded by group bonding. The idea is oddly comforting, although Jisung doesn’t know which would be worse between forced smiles and the inability to mask the baring of his teeth. He supposes feigning politeness is better than letting his anger come to fruition.

Felix is exiting their tent when Jisung and Seungmin arrive, the fourth party nowhere to be found. Felix smiles at them, white cap placed over his blond ponytail. “Hi! My da- I mean, Brother Lee- he wants everyone to meet at the fire pit. I can save you both a seat?”

Seungmin nods before ducking inside the tent, leaving Jisung to thank Felix before following afterwards. The tent is… small. Wide enough to fit four sleeping bags, a rickety, wooden table in the corner holding a small battery powered lantern, and not much else. Jisung sees Felix’s pastel blue bag by the sleeping bag on the far left, white jacket folded neatly on top of it. A bag is also placed on the far right sleeping bag; a black duffel with what looks to be a hand-stitched LM in the corner. Before Jisung can even attempt to save himself, Seungmin decides his fate by tossing his own brown bag to the floor by Felix’s bed.

Jisung squirms, smiling weakly. “Switch with me?”

“Why would I do that,” Seungmin deadpans, phrasing the question like a period punctuates it. Jisung huffs, folding his arms in a defensive pout.

“I just like the left side better!”

“Okay, so switch with Felix.”

“I would feel bad asking him, he’s so nice.” Felix doesn’t deserve to be hounded by the black smoke that is sure to come out of Minho’s vessel in his sleep.

“Oh, and I’m not?”

Jisung pauses, raising an eyebrow. Seungmin mimics his expression, somehow soaking irritation into Jisung’s skin and causing a buzz only his best friend- his only friend, although Felix may soon be added to the list- can accomplish. After seconds of silence, Jisung cracks. “Fine- But if something happens to me, I’ll haunt you.”

The other boy scoffs, a bit incredulous in his tone. “What the hell could possibly happen to you when we’re not even three feet away from each other?”

Jisung feels a shiver dip down his spine when he glances back to the red LM on the black duffel. He sincerely hopes- prays, even- he doesn’t find an answer to that question.

The bonfire isn’t lit this early in the day, but Pastor Lee says it will be later in the night. The day is spent with a nauseating amount of motivational speeches, blah, blah, you’re a man, blah, blah, doth thou walk with the Lord, and Jisung learns more about the church boys in attendance than he would ever want to know. Hyunjin and Changbin like to pretend they both have girlfriends, even wearing purity rings they deny matching, while Chan Bahng likes to pretend he isn’t blushing every time Felix turns attention to him. The pianist's son, Jeongin, did actually make the trip- and he insists he doesn’t fake his night terrors when Seungmin starts arguing about it, grinning at the other boy out of spite.

Minho is, well, not being a physical annoyance. He is on the other side of the empty fire pit, crossed arms and legs spread wide while he nods at one of Chan Bahng’s friends as he speaks. The boy (Jisung knows his name is Song Mingi but refuses to say it) is talking animatedly with his hands. He gestures vaguely to the trees, grinning when Minho’s shoulders raise like he is exhaling through his nose in a muted laugh. Jisung doesn’t understand what could possibly be funny.

He should feel glad the attention isn’t directed at him- except it is. Every time he glances to the other side, Minho is already looking at him. If he’s not watching Jisung, he has a lopsided grin on his face that only widens when the other boy looks at him, as if he can sense his stare through the side of his skull. Minho dressed casually for the retreat, no longer wearing the muted white and grey of his Sunday best. In a sea of pure, light clothes, his black jeans and band tee stick out in a way that is almost obscene. His boots have dried soil and mud around the edges. Jisung’s teeth clench and his throat constricts- feeling the phantom need to pant for air and check for mud on the soles of his feet.

The gathering slowly gets rowdier as the day grows darker, waning crescent moon shining in the sky by the time the fire is lit. Jisung forces Seungmin to make his smores, pouting when he doesn’t burn the gooey marshmallow anywhere near enough to satisfy his taste buds.

“What do you want from me? To put coal in there instead?” Seungmin gripes, smearing a completely white marshmallow onto his own graham cracker.

Rolling his eyes, Jisung scoffs. “You know nothing about a refined pallet. My taste buds won’t allow unseasoned food to enter my mouth.”

Seungmin squints, giving Jisung a look that means he should feel stupid. “You just called charred marshmallow seasoned food.”

Jisung wants to give him more attitude with his shrug. Instead, his throat closes up again, and unfortunately he knows exactly what that means. Something could be said about Pavlovian conditioning, or whatever- with the way bergamot and petrichor and an undertone of sinister intent makes him salivate like a dog. He wants to have a loud bark and deep bite, like the woman in the song said.

“Poor thing, want help?” Minho is asking in that soft, sickening lilt. And Jisung- Jisung is too stunned by the sudden heat of him burning brighter than the flames lighting his eyes up. Jisung didn’t even see him move from the log he had been sitting on all day, but here he is.

Luckily, or maybe very unluckily, Seungmin responds for him. “Oh thank fuck, Minho can deal with you instead.” Then, he’s gone. Moving down the row of logs and towards the pianist’s son. Probably to torture him a little more with his presence and tendency to gaslight.

Jisung is left alone to let the smell of firewood choke him and feel burning touch circle his wrist, grip lazy but persistent in the pinch of fingers touching at either side. Minho uses his other hand to take the pointed stick Jisung was holding like a weapon, mouth tilting up at one edge when he is left defenseless. A fresh marshmallow is punctured by the wood, both of Minho’s hands now holding the long stick towards the flame. Jisung knows he is imagining things, but the fire seems to burn higher under his attention. It is still sizzling on his wrist where the other man had touched, a third degree burn sure to manifest if Jisung looks down.

“You’re too careful,” Minho is saying, voice soft and white front teeth peaking out from behind cherry lips. It should be unlawful to have teeth like a bunny when you are so vicious. “The secret to a perfect burn is to let the sugar melt, almost to the point of too much. Don’t pull away until the breaking point is in sight.” He’s looking at Jisung, then- eyes holding orange fire and lips pulling further upward. “Although, sometimes it’s fun when you push past the breaking point, just to see how far you can go before it burns to nothing.”

Jisung, for all his worth, cannot fathom Minho is still talking about the stupid, fucking marshmallow. The way Minho looks at him like he is circling prey, like he is playing the long game and he is nothing if not patient in his hunger, has Jisung frowning and anger unlike he has felt in his twenty-four years of life lighting up his chest. When he opens his mouth his lungs fill with soot and ash; all he can think of when his heart starts to beat alongside the spite in his throat is the sweat at the back of his neck is dripping down to his collarbones, the footsteps are wet, slow, and loud in his ringing ears, all Jisung can do is squeeze his eyes shut-

“What the hell are you doing to me?” Jisung whispers, voice cracked with crimson and evangelical wrath. Water is lining his lashes, but the heat of the flame by his side keeps it at bay, evaporating the wetness but never dampening the feeling in his sternum. Minho does not smile, nor does he lean closer and pull Jisung in. He blinks- just once, slowly, the shadow of his dark lashes dancing high on his cheekbone. His response is just as quiet, although graceful in a way Jisung just can’t be. Especially not now, not when he can feel the edge of the cliff under his muddy shoes.

“Do you want to hear an answer because you’re mad? Because you’re scared?” Minho asks, glancing down to Jisung’s parted lips.

And Jisung can’t respond. When his brain settles and his ears ring with faint laughter of the boys around them, he realizes the answer Minho is waiting for is neither of those things. Jisung feels too wrong, too close to burning alive, for this to be fear. He feels too much like a moth drawn to candlelight for this to be anger. Minho searches his face, huffing out a laugh at what he finds in Jisung’s silence. The mirthful hum that follows breaks the bones of his ribs, and he just needs one replaced. He needs a piece of another fitted into the space left behind in his ribcage, something to make him feel whole.

“Jisung-ah, you’re not a stupid boy,” Minho says, almost fond. “Everything you do is with intention, even the color of the pen you use to write in your sacred book. I have no doubt you are able to pluck my intent from the game we play.”

Minho pulls the marshmallow away from the flame, securing the charcoaled sugar between a piece of chocolate and a graham cracker. He stands, brings the treat with him between melted fingers. He glances at Jisung again, grinning wide and leaving sharp teeth to break the dessert open. Jisung feels something inside his own chest crack.

He knows then- can feel it. Something inside Jisung has shifted; like a finality, a final piece that had been missing without him noticing. So used to feeling hollow, he had never realized a part was lost. Without a doubt, Jisung knows- he will never come back from this. The rapture has come to pass, and Minho has a hand locked around his neck to keep him from ascension. He has clawed and mauled his own skin to try to get away, but he never knew why he was fighting. In vain, he fought because it was what he was supposed to do. Jisung is divine and his veins are made of holy oil and rosaries are tied to his waist. Minho has lit a fire of frigid blue flames right under him, scorching his blood and breaking the beads around his body like they are nothing more than plastic. Jisung knows he should be pulling away still, desperate to fight the temptation of another, and yet he is pushing to bare his neck into the palm, keeping him from what lies above.

With Minho’s back turned to him, his focus now pinned on someone else (Chan, weirdly enough), Jisung should be breathing easier. Instead his heart is rabbiting in his chest, fingers flitting over his pulse and feeling the beat of it as if it were right under his epidermis. Seungmin is not by his side, still far off with the pianist's son, but Jisung feels the light touch of another on his shoulder. Looking up, he is sure a halo of light surrounds the blonde hair glowing in the dark above him. Felix smiles softly, teeth barely peeking out with canines unsharpened, and Jisung feels what little salvation he may still be deserving of pulling at his chest.

“Hi, Sung. You okay?” The boy asks, gently sitting beside him. His hand is still on his shoulder, fingers curved like the bow of a violin. “You seem pale… and a little clammy.”

Jisung lets out a shaky breath, smiling in a weak attempt to make Felix’s shoulders lay calm. “I’m okay, really. Just feeling a little off. I may be getting sick from the marshmallows.”

Felix nods, wincing as if he can feel Jisung’s fabricated pain. Then he looks to the fire, seemingly content to sit in the quiet Jisung knows should be peaceful. But his skin is buzzing, the serpent’s tongue licking up his jugular, endless wind howling at him from every corner. He needs to break the short lived silence before it breaks him.

“Have you spoken to anyone here?” Jisung asks into the fire, feeling silly for being so blatant in his need for a voice of reason. Felix doesn’t comment on his desire for salvation, only hums.

“Yes, actually. Chan and I talked for a while, then I joined Seungmin and Jeongin. Though I left quickly, Jeongin looked close to throwing Seungmin in the fire pit.” Felix giggles here, and the sound makes Jisung’s smile feel a little less forced. “I also spoke to Minho briefly.”

Jisung shouldn’t ask. He does anyway. “About what?”

Felix shrugs, Jisung can feel it in the palm still lain on his bony shoulder. “I just asked what he’s been up to this week. He said his eomma helped him cook dinner the other night, and he went for a run late last night to burn off some extra energy so he didn’t get restless on the bus ride today.”

And suddenly the footsteps are back, wet, slow, and loud in his ringing ears, closer and closer still. All Jisung can do is squeeze his eyes shut.

“How late last night?” Jisung hears a voice timidly whispering the question, belatedly realizing it is his own. His vision has started to tunnel, focusing in on the bright orange of the flames in front of him and watching the very center start to turn blue in his mind.

“I’m not sure, definitely after midnight, though.” Felix says, his voice somehow piercing through the haze slowly enveloping Jisung from the inside out. “He went walking through the marsh. I told him that’s how his boots got so dirty, but he just laughed.”

He doesn’t know who is behind him, but he feels the dread scratch up his throat. The fingers that curl around his ankle have claws, and the tittering laughter in his ear is a siren song-

“Jisung?” Felix asks after him, iron fingers squeezing his too-sharp bones and cracking the glass of his skin. Jisung feels the shake of his own exhales, the sweat at the back of his neck and the hollow of his throat, the grip on his ankle tightening and pulling.

He knows, deep down in his subconscious, that this was his destiny from the beginning.

Jisung doesn’t remember leaving the bonfire, only mumbling to Felix that he had a nauseous feeling in his gut. Felix had tipped his head like he understood, like he knew Jisung and he knew the secrets of the divine. The walk back to the tent is nothing but the sound of Jisung’s sneakers crunching dry leaves and his breaths puffing out too loud. When he falls to his knees on his sleeping bag, alone but feeling phantom teeth gnawing at his flesh, he clenches his eyes shut so tightly technicolor bursts behind them.

Jisung knows- he isn’t a fucking idiot. He couldn’t have been chased through the marsh last night. His white shoes have no mud. His ankle is bruised, but he is convinced he fell sometime this morning. He must have, half asleep and rolling the bone so that the shape of fingers bruising his untouched skin is only a coincidence. The five indents of small cuts right above them are surely only some deity playing tricks on him, laughing at the poor soul tarnished with their attention.

He may feel sick at the thought, but he understands the creature yearning inside of him, clawing at his spine and muscle to get out. Jisung wants; he wants Minho to dig nails into his skin until he presses into raw muscle, he wants the taste of blood and metal to sink into his mouth at the bite of teeth on his tender lips.

Jisung knows what it feels like to be wanted, eyes raking over him and fierce blushing and looking away just as quickly. It always makes his eyes roll back, exasperated and bored and wanting none of it- wanting to be more reckless than a quiet kiss behind the sound booth while prepping the microphone for after Sunday school is over and before the sermon begins.

Minho wants and it is suffocating. All encompassing, violent even if he has never shown aggression in any form. Jisung wants him to- to show aggression. To crack. To crack because of Jisung, a being made of want and yearning and the need to be scruffed by his neck so he can finally be taught his place, on his knees kissing the ground Minho walks on. He wants to bleed by the incision of the other man’s canines, or his nails, or even the sharp cut of his tongue and wit. He wants to be scarred by Minho’s lips. He is playing with fire and he wants to burn, burn, burn, go up in smoke and let Minho breathe him in and sit deep in his lungs and live within him.

Jisung doesn’t realize tears are stinging his chilled cheeks until a sob racks through his frame, hands gripping cloth and soil below him. He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t lay down, not even when he feels the presence of another- not even when Asmodeus holds his shoulder with a firm grip, nails digging into soft skin just enough to drag him down to the pit.

“Poor boy,” Minho hums, somehow even sounding pitying with his condescension. “What do I do with you, hm?”

The question is rhetorical, but Jisung’s tongue was made to respond to Minho. He knows that now, so he opens his mouth. “Please.”

“Please? What are you begging for, darling?”

Jisung doesn’t know. Minho knows, but He’s asking anyway. He wants Jisung to confess something he can’t even wrap his head around, like a secret he doesn’t understand. This is a trick- Jisung knows, he isn’t stupid, but even so…

“Please,” he whispers this time, head hanging low between his shaking arms that barely hold his weight. “Anything you want, everything you’ll let me have.”

Minho laughs, soft and fond, wrapping the sound around Jisung’s throat and following it with His hand. His knuckles are scarred, permanent red tinting the rough skin, and Jisung whimpers deep in his chest when they brush his chin, holding his gaze upward. The sting in his eyes is reminiscent of seeing God- the way the people in the flock feel when they see Heaven in prophetic dreams. Jisung blinks wet lashes up at Minho, and there is a halo around His head. Even with tattered and ripped wings- even with the eery glow of red aura shaping around His body- Minho is ethereal.

Fingers hook into Jisung’s open mouth, his panting coming out a little faster, a little harder. Minho is kneeling now, coming down to Jisung’s height, and the fingers He uses to prod at Jisung’s insides are tainted by metal and smoke. Jisung fights the flutter of his lashes when he laves his tongue over the rough callouses at the tips of Minho’s fingers, unable to quiet the moan that spills from him when Minho’s thumb rubs over his molars. It feels like being claimed; Jisung is branded and owned and Minho is destroying him, only to rebuild him atom by atom- only to sculpt his flesh into His image.

“Sweet little lamb,” Minho murmurs, reverent, gaze a bit glassy the longer He stares at Jisung’s lips. “I’ve waited so long for you to be here, in this moment. Patience is a virtue, and now we can reap the reward.”

His fingers leave and Jisung can’t even mourn them; soft lips are pushed into their place.

Jisung’s gasp couldn’t be stopped, even if he attempted. His mouth feels permanently open, jaw unhinged as Minho’s tongue sears a passage inside. The kiss is nothing like the ones he has had behind the sound booth after Sunday school- it is unlike anything he could conjure in his own prophetic dreams. Minho’s lips feel like lightning, sparking against Jisung’s mouth and zapping a path down his spine, electric in a way that leaves him paralyzed and his fingers digging into the fabric over dirt below him. His pliant tongue attempts the same dance Minho is performing, dipping down to His gums and flicking behind His front teeth, but the weight of a body pressing him down into the soil makes him surrender.

Minho knocks his inward turned knees apart to carve a space for Himself in between. He presses one thick, toned thigh upward and Jisung can only throw his head back against the sleeping bag, whimpering as stars explode behind his eyelids. Minho grins at him like He is amused by the response, like Jisung is just too easy to read.

“What is it, lamb? Never been touched before?” Minho asks, wearing an absurd rendition of a pout on His lips. They look swollen, cherry-slick and kissed, and Jisung comes to the startling realization that he did that.

He doesn’t know what to say in response- too humiliated with the notion of not having sex the way Minho has. Never with another man, although he has participated in oral a few times. He always denied having others touch him, because while Jisung was bored and wanted his mouth stretched full, the feeling never gave him the ache in his jaw he craved. He had told others to not even bother with taking care of his own needs, excusing himself by claiming he jerked off when he hadn’t even been hard to begin with. The pitiful attempts at dominance from men with ironed khakis were laughable- Jisung couldn’t imagine getting off on it. The only women to ever fulfill him, even slightly, had been a little teasing. A little rough with their nails- even then, Jisung couldn’t fully lean into it. He craved having his control ripped away, craved someone who knew him so fully and wholeheartedly he didn’t need to have self-expression. He didn’t need thoughts of his own when the other person would be the only thing running through them, anyway.

But Minho doesn’t need a rambled answer, so Jisung’s only thought is to blurt out, “I’ve fucked!”

As if that isn’t mortifying enough, Minho responds with a laugh. Full body, leaning over Jisung and resting His forehead against his sternum. Minho chuckles as He comes back to himself, still grinning when He steadies with a grip on Jisung’s bare hips, jeans now slung low from the rumpled movement and shirt pressed tight under his pectorals. His skin is practically vibrating, engraved with rough fingertips on his bones.

“Oh, really?” Minho is saying now, sharp grin and calculating eyes as His gaze eats Jisung whole. “Should I be worried? More experienced than me, church boy?”

Jisung huffs, looking down and pausing to whine in a humiliating pitch when Minho’s thigh tenses against his neglected length again- still trapped behind the zipper of his pants. “I mean- women-” He tries to mumble, but Minho’s thigh pushing forward makes him cut the thought off with another little gasp.

“Hm? Wanna try that again?” Minho says, tracking his every twitch with deadly precision.

Jisung could die. He is being tortured. He tries again. “Women! I’ve- I’ve been with women.”

He feels rewarded when Minho’s expression warms, only slightly. When the hand gripping one of his hips moves ever so slowly, popping open his pants button and unzipping the metal below, it feels like an Olympic medal.

“Do you think I’m anything like a woman, Sung-ah?” Minho asks, not mean- curious. There’s a tilt to His head that pulls His bangs to cover eyebrows, a light in His eyes as if they are still by the fire. Jisung bites his lip harshly, enough to feel the crack of skin, and Minho’s eyes immediately zero in on the prick of blood blooming from white teeth. He licks His lips, teeth gnawing on the skin soon after as if to mimic him.

“No,” Jisung whispers, because it’s true. Minho isn’t comparable to a woman, or man, for that matter. He is an entity previously unknown, a shadow personified, a creature to make Jisung crawl and desire constrict around his useless heart. Minho grins at him like He knows, like He is admitting to being ethereal without saying a word.

“I’ll only ask once,” He says, tilting Jisung’s chin between His thumb and index fingers as his pants are fully loosened, belt tossed to the side in one quick snap. ”Are you sure you want to do this, Jisung?”

And Jisung- he has never been more sure of anything in his life. So, without blinking away from the other’s intense gaze, he says: “Yes, Minho.”

Consent is key, even for the devil.

Minho pushes Jisung’s shirt over his head with a quiet reverence, calm before the storm. Jisung is gasping as soon as a warm mouth attaches to the fragile skin of his collarbone, nipping enough to make bright red bloom under the attention before He is slinking lower, hot breath exhaled teasingly against Jisung’s chest as hands push his pants down, getting kicked off his legs soon after. Jisung expects Minho to move past his torso and get to the main event quickly, not knowing when the others will start making their way back towards the tents, but wet heat closing around his pert nipple has his eyes widening, mouth gaping as he immediately grips Minho’s broad shoulders with blunt nails sinking into cloth.

Minho hums against him, the vibration sending sparks up the live wire of Jisung’s spine. This feeling is so new- Jisung feels pinpoint pleasure, jolting and smacking his hand over his mouth to attempt to muffle the whimper that has already escaped. No one has ever- Jisung has never felt attention like this. Hasn’t even thought of showing his chest any care, unaware that the sensation could work him up this harshly, have him panting. But here Minho is, teeth nipping just slightly too rough, right on the edge of too much, and Jisung’s back snaps into an arch on its own accord. Fingers twist and pluck and pull at the other side of his chest, mouth and hands switching off on how to deliver pleasure and pain to his bright red pectorals.

“You’re so responsive,” Minho says, almost speaking to no one. His eyes are intense when His lips and tongue travel down to suck at the skin below his navel. “I thought you said you were so experienced, hm?”

Jisung feels a flash of embarrassment, quickly turning to mortification when his dick twitches in his increasingly wet boxer briefs. He whines, a little pathetic, brain turning to mush as his buttons are pushed too perfectly. Minho’s sharp teeth find the bone at his hip, right above his underwear, and Jisung can feel the grin pressed there after He bites down, listening to the yelp Jisung tried so hard to stomp down.

“Minho, please- Hurry before someone comes in,” Jisung pants out, whiny and twitching and burning with Minho’s attention fixated on him. He trails biting kisses across Jisung’s waist, a belt made from bruises etched into his skin, and Jisung feels so desperate he wants to kick his legs out in a pout. He wants that belt to constrict his movements.

“Why are you worried about someone coming in, darling?” Minho asks, tips of His fingers slowly moving under Jisung’s briefs. His waistband is flipped down teasingly, the barest hint of his pubic bone meeting the air. “You don’t want them to know how wet you are for me? Embarrassed by how much you need this?”

Jisung has not felt need since he was thirteen years old. His father flashes through his mind for a millisecond, gone before he can process the reverberating cries of Eomma begging him to stay. Jisung has not felt need since he was thirteen, his own begging when Eomma would only grant him approval if he was sitting in a pew echoing in his skull. Even with that sick need bubbling up in his Amygdala, he has never needed anything like this. In this perverted fantasy he has conjured, in this tent with Minho digging a singular nail into the skin above his length hard enough to leave an angry red indent to make him focus.

Jisung wouldn’t be able to remember what Minho last said, if not for the way he clings onto His every word. “We’ll be in trouble if- if people- see.”

Minho’s eyes flash in the dusk of the tent. His lips twitch like they want to smile, even as He refrains. “Trouble is fun, Sung-ah. Danger is what makes you drip like this.”

Minho’s hand, soft and entirely too hot for Jisung’s sweaty skin, encircles Jisung’s weeping cock right at the base. The sound that falls from his lips is too loud, and panic flares in his chest just as a buzzing settles in his veins. Minho grips him just right, hard enough to make his eyes roll back, and pushes his briefs down his thighs with His other hand so he is effectively restrained below mid thigh. The pressure on his aching cock mixed with the sight of Minho’s tongue between His teeth as He stares down at Jisung- not at what He is doing to his dick, but right in the eye- is enough to almost send him over the edge.

“You think you can handle getting fucked tonight?” Minho murmurs, jerking Jisung’s cock with a lazy, almost bored rhythm even as His hand stays tight around him. Jisung moans again, both from the feeling and the thought of getting fucked.

So he nods, whimpering when a thumb brushes the sensitive head of his cock. “Do you-“ Another whimper. He tries again. “Did you bring, like, supplies?”

Minho huffs a breath through His nose, one thin brow raising. “Supplies?”

God. He’s going to make him say it.

“Like, lube…” Jisung could die. He looks away from the other’s unfaltering stare, hissing and blinking back to His line of sight when the hand on his cock tightens too hard in a warning.

“Ah, supplies,” Minho grins. Instead of responding, He lets go of Jisung and pats his thigh twice. “Turn over.”

Jisung blinks with the dual loss of stimulation and short command, his brain working overtime to make his limbs move. Minho grips his hip to help turn him over, with his briefs still cutting off movement around his thighs, and uses that same hand to push on his lower back when he is on his knees again, like he had been when he first fell in the tent. Jisung is malleablized into an arch, knees pushed farther apart by another short pat to each one. Then Minho grabs him by the hips, pulling until his ass is lifted and his cheek is touching the sleeping bag.

Jisung feels blood rush- everywhere, really. To his cheeks at how exposed he feels, how Minho can see every part of him like this. To his head with the knowledge of giving himself to someone in this way. To his weeping cock at the way cool air bites at his skin, hole clenching as his cheeks are spread wide by two searing hands.

“So pretty,” Minho coos, squeezing the meat of Jisung’s ass between His hands indulgently. “Pretty everywhere, Sung-ah. Even here.”

A dry thumb brushes over Jisung’s exposed hole, causing a sound he has only ever heard from a wounded animal to leave his open mouth. Minho shushes him, almost sweet in the way He handles him now. Jisung waits to hear the snap of a lube bottle opening, but it never comes. Instead something warm and wet slides over him, right where he needs Minho most.

”Fuck!” Jisung moans- loud. His eyes squeeze shut at the sensation of Minho’s tongue licking a wide stripe over his hole, not stopping, traveling down to his taint before following the same path back up. Jisung makes an effort to quieten himself before someone comes to check on him, biting his own arm hard enough to leave the impression of his teeth behind. Minho’s tongue is obscene, dripping spit trailing down to Jisung’s thighs and the waistband of his briefs, Minho’s hands keeping his cheeks spread apart to leave him open. His tongue comes to a point, and Jisung’s knees turn wobbly when it enters his tight rim.

To make matters worse, Jisung isn’t the only one moaning. Minho is grunting quietly and hot breath is panted out against Jisung’s hole, as if He is getting off on this, too.

Jisung has never done drugs, hasn’t even touched Seungmin’s secret weed stash, but this is euphoria. Minho is a drug and Jisung is addicted, canting his hips back to grind into Minho’s tongue and pray for more, more, more.

“M- Hyung!” Jisung is sobbing now, with the addition of one of Minho’s fingers sliding inside beside His tongue. The curve of His lips is tattooed on Jisung’s skin. “Feels- Feel so good, hyung. More, more please-“

Minho pulls His mouth away, lips moving to bruise Jisung right between the dimples at the bottom of his spine, replacing His tongue with a second finger. “Hyung, hm?”

Jisung flushes hotter, hellfire lighting him up. “I didn’t-“

And Minho cuts him off with a single motion, a curl of His fingers that makes the technicolor stars reappear behind Jisung’s eyelids and causes a shivering moan to leave his lips. Jisung tastes salt, and he realizes his eyes are wet.

“Don’t worry, pretty baby.” Minho says, fingers digging in to squeeze his ass and make that mean curling motion inside him again. “Keep calling me that, little lamb. I’m your hyung.”

Jisung feels dizzy with the approving note in Minho’s voice, the ring in his ears from the addictive words on Minho’s addictive tongue. He feels a prayer on the tip of his tongue, one that he knows is blasphemous, but the tears soaking his cheeks can wash away the sin. So he begs, pleads, the entire time Minho is pumping three fingers inside him. He isn’t sure what all leaves his mouth, only registering Minho, more, please, and God.

Jisung sobs into his elbow again when the fingers twisting so beautifully leave his now clenching hole, prompting a soft hush to leave Minho’s lips. He pets a single knuckle down the expanse of Jisung’s back, surely noticing the goosebumps left in wake but kissing over them nonetheless. He raises up then, Jisung can feel the weight of His shadow settled over his spine, and without another word something hot and heavy is pushing against him, taking what little breath he has left.

“Are you ready, lamb?” Minho murmurs, a hand softly petting Jisung’s ass. He nods and whimpers and cries into his elbow, never more ready for anything in his entire life, but Minho still doesn’t push in. Instead, He speaks again.

“Sung-ah, will you do something for me before I give you what you need?” He asks, prompting the fog in Jisung’s brain to fade, if only slightly- if only enough so that Minho’s voice can guide him to his desires. He hums in question, unable to stop the shaking in his voice if he speaks, but Minho doesn’t say anything further. So, Jisung struggles to lock in on his vocal chords- gets a grip long enough to remember how to use them.

“Anything, hyung.” He sounds breathless, but his lungs are full of flint and Minho’s cock pushing against his hole is sparking the fire. His hand pulls at the back of Jisung’s hair, just enough to dig His fingers in at the nape of his neck and pull so he can no longer hide in the crook of his elbow. Eyes half-lidded, jaw unhinged, and the cool trail of want dripping down his face- Jisung has never looked more debauched. He has never felt more loved.

“Will you make a promise for me?” Minho is murmuring, exhales against the shell of Jisung’s ear where He is pulling his head back, forked tongue peaking out to taste the flesh there. “Will you promise I have you? Promise your hyung you want for no other? Your desire begins and ends with My touch on your skin, My voice swimming in your little head?”

Jisung is nodding as much as Minho’s hand will allow, as frantically as the grip in his hair gives permission, but Minho isn’t done yet.

“Promise Me,” He hums, far quieter, lips grazing Jisung’s neck and His hand moving to encircle Jisung’s throat. “Promise you want to be Mine.”

Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.

“Please, hyung.” Jisung closes his eyes as the hand on his throat tightens, branding his skin with The Mark. He hopes it stays on his throat, the imprint of Minho’s hand and what He has created forever with him. He hopes anyone who sees him knows he is devoted to his discipline- willing to die for it, willing to kill for Him. “I promise. I want You- only You, always You. I-I want to be Yours- devoured.”

Jisung feels sharp teeth at his neck, grinning and sweet with the venom they drip. Then, the pain that crackles through his body when those sharp, sharp teeth puncture skin.

Minho slides into Jisung’s hole in one smooth, slow grind.

Jisung- Jisung is cumming. His poor, neglected length throbs with his release- he clenches his eyes shut and all he sees is technicolor stars and red hot light; All he feels is Minho’s teeth in his skin and thick blood dripping down the side of his neck. Jisung is tapping into pleasure he has never been gifted, tapping into divinity that can only be accessed at Minho’s hand. And as pure and clean as Jisung once was, he now feels gluttonous in his hunger. He wants to keep Minho inside of him, just like this, for all eternity. He wants this feeling to last forever.

“Good boy, so perfect,” Minho is sighing above him, settling into a slow drag in and out as Jisung’s walls clench down on his cock with each aftershock rattling his body. His hips are only staying in position because of Minho’s hands, he is only aware of his shaking limbs because of Minho’s voice, it is only Minho, Minho-

“Hyung,” Jisung pants, whining louder when the length inside him throbs in response. “Please, need- take it. Take me, use me-“

Minho coos, palm flattening over the bruise between Jisung’s back dimples as He settles His other hand on Jisung’s hip. “Is it My turn, sweet lamb? You’ve had your fun, now I get to have Mine?”

Minho phrases each thought like a question, but His hips meeting the flesh of Jisung’s ass and nails digging in and breaking skin make him think he would say yes to anything. He is still flying, not only with need, but with trust. He trusts Minho, he realizes, to take care of him. Minho clearly knows his body better than he knows it himself. Minho brought him to this point, and Minho is the only one who can make his vessel live up to its worth. Jisung doesn’t remember what confirmation he had given, but Minho is pleased. He grins- Jisung can tell, he feels it in his soul- and leans back on His knees to properly drive home.

Minho’s hands grip Jisung’s hips with a desperate sort of fervor, pulling him to drive Minho’s cock deep into his ass, Jisung’s weak knees trying to keep up with the rhythm He has set for them. Jisung’s body is trembling with overexertion already, sweat dripping from his face and neck worse than it ever has on sticky Sunday mornings. He vaguely registers the wet slap of his ass meeting Minho’s hips each time he is pulled back to fully sit in His lap, Minho driving His hips to snap up into each movement. Jisung can only throw his head back to rest on Minho’s shoulder, eyes rolled back so far in his head he can’t seem to bring them forward. His mouth has not closed, still panting and moving in aborted attempts to beg. Jisung feels the clench of his abdomen, almost cramping from the intensity of his pleasure clawing back up his spine. He can’t believe he is already hard again, let alone close to completion. Minho’s cock is bruising against his prostate, hitting him in the most obscene way from deep within, as if He is claiming every square inch of his insides.

Minho huffs against the side of Jisung’s neck, sweltering tongue licking at sweat and dried blood pooled in Jisung’s collarbone as He grunts from His own descent into searching for the peak of release. “My devoted,” Minho is moaning now- noises leaving His throat without filter as He grinds deep into Jisung, filthy and unholy. “Do you understand what this means, lamb? Just how many ways you have allowed Me ownership of your body, and mind, and soul?”

The sound that leaves Jisung’s throat is one he does not recognize, one that makes his aching cock spurt new waves of precum across his stomach and makes Minho curse behind him as Jisung clenches down. Minho lets go of the grip He has on one of Jisung’s hips, fully controlling both of their movements with the other hand as He grabs one of Jisung’s wrists. Minho brings that same hand to His open mouth, leaving the scar of a messy, open-mouthed kiss on the inner side of his wrist. He moans against the skin, making Jisung reciprocate with an unhinged moan of his own when Minho’s thrusts get that much faster, deadly precision against his prostate not letting up but only increasing tenfold.

“Let Me show you how fucked you are, darling.” Minho chuckles breathlessly, sounding half delirious and out of His own mind. “Let Me show you what you will be, for all eternity.”

Minho guides Jisung’s hand, His palm pressed to the back, in a trail to Jisung’s neck. Jisung is made to hold himself there as Minho slows His hips into a filthy grind, targeting Jisung deep inside his most pleasurable caverns. Their fingers entwine around his throat for a long stuttering breath. Just when he wants to beg for the hold to tighten Minho drags their hands down, pausing to make Jisung’s hand grab his tit harshly.

“Hyung-” Jisung starts to beg again, convinced Minho is toying with him. Minho only hushes him, pacifying in the way one would calm a small animal.

“Just stop trying, Sung-ah,” Minho murmurs, their hands falling down his torso. Jisung feels the point of Minho’s nails break him open, alongside the clammy shaking of his own fingers. “Why are you thinking so hard, hm? That’s My job.”

Jisung shutters out a breath, eyes clenching shut at the ever-present grind of Minho’s cock inside him. Throughout all of this, he has continued to ride the edge of that sweet release. Jisung realizes he is more fucked up in the head than he ever thought possible, but the thought is brief and fleeting. Minho is right, always right- all Jisung does is think. He is tired of it; what a beautiful feeling it is to be able to give that up, to let Minho save him from himself.

The lightning licking Jisung’s veins, the fire smothering his lungs, the buzzing under his skin- it is all coming to a head. Minho knows this, can feel Jisung’s need for release building in the tensing of his muscles, and He breathes out another laugh right into Jisung’s ear. His hips slow to an almost nonexistent grind, Jisung whimpers in discontent but cannot bring himself to do much else because Minho is moving their hands once again. He moves them as He presses His nose to Jisung’s pulsepoint, as if his rabbiting heart is only another thing to be proud of Jisung for. Then, their hands stop- right over Jisung’s lower stomach, where he is panting and the skin is- it’s-

Jisung’s stomach is protruding. Minho’s cock is holding shape, carving out space inside of Jisung’s body. Like a rib, sewed into place right alongside Jisung’s own- like the one he had been missing.

Minho pulls out almost completely, leaving Jisung’s hand to helplessly feel his own stomach in order to move back to gripping both of his hips. Time stops as they breathe in tandem, both anticipatory in completely different ways. Then, Minho’s hips snap. His cock settles back inside Jisung, pushing against the hand on his stomach and nailing his abused prostate head-on.

Jisung screams loud enough for the whole fucking camp to hear it, the second time he cums.

With his head flung back on Minho’s shoulder, the other pistoning His hips at an otherworldly pace, grunting and moaning the most debauched noises into Jisung’s ear, Jisung is in Heaven. He is in utter bliss, convinced nothing will ever compare to His God. And Minho is suddenly right there with him, burying His face into the crook of Jisung’s neck and stuttering in the pace of His hips as Jisung feels hot warmth filling him up. He is complete, at long last.

The aftershocks of his second orgasm never seem to end, the twitching in his muscles and the clench of his hole still gripping Minho tightly. Minho is there through it all, holding him steady and whispering words of praise into his ear as His hands rub circles into Jisung’s sides. You are perfect. Made to be Mine. You were carved from My image. Now that I have found you, you will never know suffering. My perfect little lamb.

My Jisung.

My love.

Fuck.

Minho pulls out slowly, gentle despite the way Jisung whines and whimpers in displeasure. He settles against his sleeping bag, eyes fluttering shut as Minho unzips His duffel and leaves the tent briefly. When He comes back there is a cloth dampened with water, oddly gentle in the way He wipes Jisung’s body of the worst of their combined mess. Jisung is gifted breath, recentering himself slowly as Minho dresses them both in their clean sleeping clothes. Minho settles down, laying beside Jisung on top of the sleeping bag he had claimed, and he can’t even be perturbed by the closeness. Jisung can’t find it in himself to worry about the others coming in, or Brother Lee finding them in a compromising position on top of the same makeshift bed. The only thing he finds he is discontent with is the lack of physical touch now, which is quickly remedied when Minho opens His arms to allow Jisung to curl into His side, as if knowing exactly what he needs.

Jisung has no doubt the tent is oozing with post-sex pheromones. He doesn’t care. Minho doesn't seem to care either, even as footsteps crunch fallen leaves nearby, coming closer and closer still. Jisung doesn’t find the energy in his languid bones to open his eyes when a throat clears above him, but he finds the energy to snuggle further into Minho’s side when His arm squeezes tighter around his waist.

“What is it?” Minho hums, lilt in his voice that sounds… human. Like He has practiced the tone and infliction of the words He says, practiced saying them in a way that brings a person’s guard down. Jisung has never heard it before, but he hears it now. It sounds wrong- like Minho should never have to pretend to be anything He is not. He is all-knowing, all-seeing, and He should never be inconvenienced with acting otherwise.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Felix, that is his voice. He doesn’t sound surprised or concerned like Jisung had thought he would be. He sounds like this is a normal course of action, like this was in the script and he expected just as much. “I just thought you would want to know, things are… happening. Weird things. The flock is a little freaked out there. Brother Lee says we should be rejoicing, and everyone should make their way to the firepit.”

Jisung feels his eyebrows furrow, then a warm thumb smoothes over the lines of his face. When his groggy eyes blink open, Minho is blinking long lashes back at him. He is gorgeous- God. Jisung sits up, wincing at the dull ache in his back. He looks to Felix, who is looking at the two of them already. Not judgemental in his gaze, but assessing. Curious, even. As if watching two animals do as nature had intended, as if this was all bound to happen in due time, written in the stars themselves.

“What do you mean, weird things?” Jisung mumbles out, watching Felix’s small, fond smile as he glances at Minho before looking back to Jisung. He squats down briefly, mouth twisting into a lopsided smile as he touches a finger to Jisung’s nose quickly, almost teasing.

“Weird things like, you know, the moon. It’s all red- the deacon and pastor keep going on about a blood moon and the stars falling. He wants to hold service around the fire.” Felix chuckles here, as if the idea had suddenly seemed so absurd to him, as if he didn’t hold the exact same beliefs as his father at all. “Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. I’m going to find Seungmin, and possibly Jeongin. I have, somehow, grown fond of them.”

Jisung feels the ringing in his ears double in volume, confusion slipping down his sweating back like a frozen ice cube. He feels awake, suddenly. Jolting, he looks at Minho frantically before catching Felix’s attention again. “Aren’t you going to the fire?”

Felix grins now, canines sharp and long, the flutter of his lashes like a set of double wings. “No, Sung-ah. We have other places to be. See you again soon.” Felix is gone when Jisung blinks again, the phantom outline of wings and a halo resurfacing every time he shuts his eyes.

“Oh my- Hyung, we need to- to-” Jisung is stuttering, his brain a muddled fog he can’t work through in his current state. Felix had mentioned things Jisung had only ever heard spoken in his least favorite texts, Revelation and the Four Horseman and the Fifteen Doomsday Signs checklist working through his brain syrupy slow. Minho is still reclined on the cloth sleeping bag, smiling at Jisung sweetly. He coos to the other, beckoning him to lay back down with a wave of His hand. Jisung feels the pull of Him like a leash, laying down beside the other again and letting His presence melt Jisung’s bones.

“Don’t worry, darling. You should get some rest, it’s been a long night for you.” Minho says, laying a sweet kiss on Jisung's forehead. His eyes flutter shut, even as his nerves spike.

“Hyung, what about all the- the things Felix said? Shouldn't we see what’s going on?” He asks, clenching fingers in the soft material of Minho’s black t-shirt. He feels Minho’s head shake from where he is resting under His chin.

“No, lamb. We’re not going outside right now. You need to replenish your energy, so try to get some sleep, yeah? When you wake up, you will still be safe and warm. We will be home.” Jisung’s eyes flutter shut as he feels Minho’s words radiate out of His chest, soft melody sinking into Jisung’s ears and warding off the ringing. Now all he hears is Minho’s humming, a lullaby that makes his body drop into submissive posture. He can’t find it in himself to break the silence again, to point out the flaw in Minho’s logic- they won’t be going home for another two days. The camping trip is supposed to last all weekend. But Minho sounds so matter-of-fact, like Jisung will wake in a few hours and they will be Home. Minho has never been wrong before, even when every bone in Jisung’s body would protest His word. So, Jisung allows himself to think he will wake to Minho’s arms, and they will be home.

Jisung’s breathing evens out, the ringing in his ears all but gone now. Replacing it is the soft hum of Minho’s voice singing the lullaby by his ear and the distant sound of trumpets ringing above.