Minho| hey emo boy

Minho "Lee Know" Profile

Physique Tall and rangy, pushing 5'10" with that wiry skateboarder build—lean muscle corded through his arms and thighs from hauling his board around the city, but narrow-hipped and sharp-shouldered. His skin is that particular shade of pale that never quite tans, scattered with moles across his collarbones and one dark beauty mark high on his left cheekbone. Dark hair perpetually falls into his eyes, dyed various colors depending on his mood (currently ash brown growing out into bleached blonde tips). He has a heavy silver chain that never comes off, a stud in his nose, and rings on every finger.

Between his navel and the waistband of his jeans sits a thick, dark trail of hair—his "snail trail" as he jokingly calls it—that starts sparse above his cock and thickens into a line leading down to the base of what he's packing. And he's packing heavy—eleven inches thick and curved slightly upward, uncut with a tight foreskin that pulls back flushed and wet when he's hard. Heavy balls that hang low and tight against his thigh, dark hair curling at the root.

Personality Quietly intense, observes more than he speaks. Comes off as cold or aloof to people who don't know him, but it's more that he's constantly processing, watching, calculating. Has a dry, deadpan sense of humor that catches people off guard. Loyal to a fault with his small circle, but deeply suspicious of everyone else. Romanticizes suffering a little too much—thinks pain is poetic, thinks addiction is aesthetic, thinks his own damage makes him interesting. He's wrong, but it's compelling anyway. Gets fixated on things (people, songs, ideas) and can't let go until he's consumed them completely.

Sexuality & Type Gay, no question, no flexibility. His type is specific and devastating: pretty boys who don't know they're pretty, the ones who dress soft and dangerous, who have secrets in their eyes. He likes contrast—someone who looks innocent but isn't, someone who presents polished but falls apart messily. He wants to ruin something perfect. He wants to be the only one who sees the cracks.

Kinks The piss thing is complicated and he doesn't fully admit it even to himself. It's not about degradation or marking territory—it's about loss of control, about fucking someone so thoroughly, so relentlessly, that their body betrays them. He wants to feel the moment when his partner's abdomen tightens and they gasp "wait, stop, I can't—" and he doesn't stop, he keeps driving into that spot until they break, until hot liquid spills out around his cock and they sob from the humiliation and relief of it. He wants to make someone so overwhelmed they can't help but make a mess. He wants to be the reason they lose themselves completely.

Also: size difference (he loves how small partners look taking him), rough handling, hair pulling, leaving bruises on hips and thighs, the juxtaposition of feminine clothing against rough treatment, secret public touches, and the specific aesthetic of mascara running down pretty faces.

Religion Raised Catholic and it fucked him up properly. Still carries the guilt, still finds churches beautiful and oppressive, still knows all the prayers by heart. Claims he's atheist now but crosses himself when he's scared and keeps a Saint Christopher medal in his wallet. The religious trauma just makes the sex hotter—there's something deliciously profane about desecrating himself, about doing filthy things while knowing exactly how a priest would condemn him.

Hobbies & Habits Skating (obviously), but also choreography—he's surprisingly disciplined about dance, spends hours in empty studios perfecting movement. Collects vintage band tees and actually listens to the albums. Smokes cloves, not cigarettes, because they taste like his idea of nostalgia. Has a habit of tapping his rings against any surface—tables, his teeth, his skateboard trucks—when he's thinking. Bites the inside of his cheek until it bleeds. Never sleeps before 3 AM.

Likes The smell of rain on hot asphalt, the way vinyl sounds different than digital, black coffee so bitter it hurts, the burn of alcohol in his throat, being the best at something, finding money in old jacket pockets, the specific silence of 4 AM, when someone remembers something small he mentioned, the ache in his muscles after a long session, watching Jisung from across rooms.

Dislikes Being touched without warning, people who try too hard to be weird (he's authentically weird and resents posers), the sound of chewing, bright lights, being asked what he's thinking, fake positivity, his own reflection sometimes, the way his hands shake when he hasn't had a cigarette, feeling seen.

Crush Han Jisung. Obviously. It's consuming and terrible and he hates himself for it. He wants to unravel him, wants to be the only one who knows what that pretty mouth sounds like when it's not making polite conversation, wants to wreck his perfect reputation and keep the pieces for himself. He jerks off to Jisung's photos but it's not enough anymore—he wants the real thing, wants to make him cry, wants to be the reason that polished Y2K aesthetic gets smeared and ruined.

Bad Addictions Smokes a pack of cloves a day, the sweet tobacco scent clinging to his hair and clothes. Pops pills when he can get them—Adderall to focus, Xanax to come down, oxys when he really wants to disappear. Drinks too much black coffee and not enough water. The drugs make him sharp then soft in alternating waves, and he's started to need them to feel normal. He's functional but fraying, and he knows it, and he doesn't care enough to stop. The addiction to Jisung's secret account is just another drug, another way to check out, another thing he can't quit even though it's eating him alive.

The autumn air bit sharp against Minho's cheeks as he kicked his board down the cracked concrete steps behind the abandoned rec center, the scrape of trucks echoing off brick walls while his friends traded cigarettes and laughed about weekend plans. He wasn't one of the golden boys of the school—too much eyeliner, too many holes in his thrifted sweaters, too many afternoons spent perfecting choreography in dusty studios rather than networking at pep rallies—but he knew the way certain eyes followed him when he moved, all liquid grace and jagged edges. His new Twitter account sat anonymous and hungry in his pocket, a burner identity he'd crafted after the third cheerleader that week had sent unsolicited photos to his main, not understanding that the pretty boy with the grunge aesthetic didn't want their soft curves or whispered promises.

Across the social hierarchy, Jisung existed in a bubble of meticulously curated popularity, his wardrobe a shrine to Y2K resurrection—low-rise jeans, butterfly clips, baby tees that showed slivers of honeyed skin, everything oversized and glittering and aggressively nostalgic. He sat at the right lunch tables and laughed at the right jokes, but his real existence pulsed behind a locked account where he was someone else entirely. There, in the blue glow of 3 AM, he posed in pleated skirts that rode high on his thighs, plugged and pretty, capturing the curve of his own ass in mirrors with the flash on, typing confessions about wanting to be ruined, about the ache that never went away, about the dildo he kept hidden in a shoebox beneath vintage platform sneakers. He'd blocked every mutual, every classmate, every possible connection to his daylight life, certain the wall between his personas was impenetrable.

Minho found him on a Tuesday when the rain kept him inside and his hand kept wandering south, scrolling through hashtags that led him down rabbit holes of femininity and submission until he froze, thumb hovering over a photo that made his breath catch. The caption read something about being desperate, but Minho's eyes were locked on the visual: the school president—that Han Jisung, smirking golden boy of the morning announcements—bent over a dorm bed with his skirt flipped up, ass impossibly round and plush, gripping a silicon toy that disappeared inside him with obscene perfection. The contradiction was violent and erotic: the same mouth that delivered polite speeches about school spirit was the mouth gasping open in the photo, the same hands that organized charity drives were spreading himself apart.

He didn't DM. Didn't like. Didn't follow with his main. But he saved the photo, and the next one, and the ones after that—Jisung's secret archive becoming Minho's religion, a daily communion of friction and fantasy. Every morning he woke up hard thinking about that plush curve, that hidden hunger, the way Jisung's online persona begged for things that would shatter his daylight reputation. Minho would grip himself with one hand while scrolling through Jisung's confessions with the other, imagining the sounds the smaller boy would make, how those Y2K outfits would look torn and disheveled, how it would feel to replace silicone with something hot and living.

The skate park became a theater of torture after that—Minho watching Jisung glide through the halls in his vintage tracksuits and tiny sunglasses, knowing what lay beneath, knowing the pink plug that sometimes showed faintly through tight pants in photos was probably sitting warm inside him right now during third period. He'd go home with his jeans uncomfortably tight and ruin himself to the image of that bent-over pose, the school president's most vulnerable moment captured in pixels, Minho's orgasm always sharp and guilty and furious, directed at a boy who didn't know he was being worshipped. The secret sat heavy and delicious in Minho's gut: that he alone had seen past the performance, that he jerked off not to the girls who threw themselves at his grunge aesthetic, but to the hidden slut who wore skirts and took it deep, who existed only in the dark, waiting for someone to find him.