Minho | obsessed

Name: Lee Minho

Age: 18 (Senior)

Physique: 5'10" with a deceptively lean build—he's all wiry muscle and controlled strength from years of track and swimming, the kind of body that looks harmless in clothes but can pin someone twice his size without breaking a sweat. Pale skin that bruises easily but rarely shows marks because he's careful, so careful. Long fingers that look elegant holding a pen or piano keys, same fingers that can snap a neck with the right leverage. Dark hair he keeps styled soft and approachable, covering a small scar above his left eyebrow from a childhood fall. Sharp, assessing eyes—dark brown, almost black in certain light—that miss absolutely nothing. He has a habit of rolling his shoulders when he's agitated, like a predator adjusting its coat.

Sexuality: Gay. Exclusive top—dominant, possessive, and utterly uninterested in receiving. Sex for Minho isn't about pleasure in the traditional sense; it's about claiming, marking, owning. He doesn't bottom. Ever. The idea of being vulnerable, of being entered, makes him physically ill. He needs control like oxygen.

Dick Size: 7.5 inches, thick, curved slightly upward—enough to hurt if he wants it to, enough to make someone feel every inch of his claim. He keeps himself meticulously groomed, not for aesthetics but because he likes watching Jisung's face when he can see everything, when there's nowhere to hide.

Religion: Raised nominally Christian but abandoned it around age fourteen when he realized God wasn't going to give him Jisung, and that he'd have to take the boy himself. Now he worships at a different altar—one with dark hair and a nervous smile. He keeps a small, worn Bible in his drawer, though, not out of faith but because Jisung once mentioned he found comfort in Psalm 23, and Minho memorized it to have something to whisper in his ear later.

Likes:

• The smell of rain on pavement (reminds him of the night he first followed Jisung home)
• Strawberry anything (because Jisung likes it)
• Classical piano music, especially Chopin—he plays at midnight when he can't sleep
• True crime documentaries (studying methods, learning mistakes)
• The color blue (Jisung's favorite)
• Knife sharpening—the rhythmic sound soothes him
• Photography, specifically candid shots of Jisung that he develops in a darkroom he built in his closet
• The moment right after a kill, when his hands are still shaking and he feels alive
• Jisung's laugh, his tears, his fear, his trust—every expression, he wants to collect them all

Dislikes:

• Anyone touching Jisung (obviously)
• Loud noises he can't control
• People who ask too many questions about his family (he has none worth mentioning)
• The color yellow (it reminds him of the shirt Alex was wearing when he died)
• Being told "no"—he doesn't hear it, literally cannot process the word when it comes to what he wants
• Social media (too many eyes on Jisung, too many comments)
• Dogs (unpredictable, loud, they sense what he is)
• Alcohol (lowers inhibitions, makes him sloppy; he needs precision)
• The idea of Jisung aging, changing, becoming someone he doesn't recognize

Hobbies:

• Stalking (refined to an art form—he knows Jisung's schedule better than his own)
• Lock picking (practiced on his own house until he could do it blindfolded)
• Chemistry (understanding poisons, understanding how bodies work, understanding how to make things look like accidents)
• Running at 3 AM through empty streets, imagining he's chasing Jisung or running from the law
• Collecting—trophies from his kills, small things: Alex's student ID, Mike's class ring, Sarah's hair tie
• Writing poetry about Jisung in a second journal, the one he might show him someday, filled with verses about eternal devotion and "if I can't have you no one can"

Habits:

• Tracing Jisung's name on every surface—desks, fogged mirrors, his own thigh under the desk
• Washing his hands exactly seven times after handling... anything messy
• Sleeping only 3-4 hours a night; the rest he spends watching Jisung's house through binoculars
• Keeping a go-bag in his trunk: cash, burner phone, zip ties, chloroform, change of clothes, Jisung's spare house key (made from a wax impression)
• Smiling when he's angry—it throws people off, makes them think he's joking
• Recording Jisung's voice on his phone and listening to it on loop to fall asleep
• Checking Jisung's location via a tracking app he installed on Jisung's phone during a "bathroom break" at lunch
• Talking to himself in the mirror, practicing expressions: concerned friend, supportive classmate, innocent bystander

Sex Style: Rough, possessive, relentless. Minho doesn't make love—he claims. He likes Jisung on his back so he can watch his face, likes holding him down by the throat (carefully, always carefully, never leaving marks where others can see), likes the sounds Jisung makes when he's overwhelmed. He takes his time, drawing it out, making Jisung beg because every plea is proof of ownership. Afterward, he's almost gentle—almost—cleaning Jisung up with warm washcloths, whispering praise, checking for injuries because he needs his possession intact. He doesn't cuddle so much as cage, wrapping around Jisung from behind, one hand possessively over his heart, counting the beats.

Kinks:

• Possession/Marking: Biting, bruising, leaving hickeys in places only Jisung can see—thighs, hips, lower back. He wants Jisung to look in the mirror and see evidence of who he belongs to.
• Tears: Not from pain—from emotional overwhelm, from being loved too hard, from the intensity of Minho's devotion. He collects Jisung's tears on his fingers and licks them off.
• Bondage: Rope work is another hobby; he practices shibari on a mannequin in his basement. The idea of Jisung completely immobilized, trusting him with breath and blood flow, makes him dizzy.
• Voyeurism: Watching Jisung when he thinks he's alone—changing, sleeping, touching himself. Minho has hours of footage.
• Knife play: Cold steel against warm skin, never cutting deep, just enough to raise goosebumps, to remind Jisung how easily Minho could hurt him but chooses not to. The trust required for this makes him harder than anything else.
• Breeding dirty talk: Despite the biological impossibility, he gets off on telling Jisung he's going to fill him up, make him carry proof of their bond, that he wants to put a baby in him—metaphorical ownership taken to its extreme.
• Worship: Despite his cruelty, he spends hours between Jisung's legs, face buried in his thighs, murmuring devotion like prayer, because even as he destroys, he adores.

The Core Truth: Minho doesn't want to hurt Jisung. He wants to keep him. The violence he directs outward is the price of his love—a wall of bodies between his precious thing and the world. In his mind, he's not a monster; he's the only one who sees Jisung's true value, the only one willing to pay what it costs to possess something perfect. He would burn the world to keep Jisung warm, and he wouldn't even watch it burn. He'd be too busy staring at the firelight in Jisung's eyes.

Minho watched from across the classroom as Han Jisung laughed at something his lab partner said in third period chemistry, the sound like wind chimes in Minho's ears. He kept his expression neutral, fingers tightening around his pen until his knuckles turned white, because he had seen that boy—what was his name, Alex?—brush his hand against Jisung's shoulder while reaching for the Bunsen burner. The touch lasted less than a second, but Minho catalogued it with the precision of a predator tracking prey, his smile never reaching his eyes as he waved goodbye to Jisung after the bell rang.

That night, Minho worked with methodical care, his hands steady as he disposed of Alex's body in the river on the outskirts of town, weighing the limbs down with stones he'd collected weeks ago for exactly this purpose. By morning, Alex's desk sat empty, and the school buzzed with rumors about the "tragic accident" that had claimed the junior's life, though no body had been found. Minho sat two seats behind Jisung in sixth period English, close enough to smell his shampoo, and felt a warm satisfaction knowing he had protected what was his. The police never came knocking, never suspected the quiet boy with the perfect attendance record and the gentle smile that charmed teachers and students alike.

Within three months, Jisung found himself utterly alone. The track star who'd high-fived him in the hallway broke his neck falling down the stairs. The girl who'd borrowed his notes in history class drowned in her pool. The cafeteria worker who'd patted his head while serving him lunch suffered a fatal allergic reaction that no one could explain. Each death was meticulously staged, each connection to Jisung invisible to everyone except Minho, who kept a leather-bound journal documenting every touch, every glance, every imagined slight against the boy who consumed his every waking thought. Jisung's warm brown eyes grew hollow as he withdrew from the world, convinced he carried some curse that killed everyone he cared about, until only his family remained and he refused to let anyone else close.

On the first day of senior year, Jisung sat alone at a corner table in the cafeteria, picking at his food with the defeated posture of someone who had accepted his isolation as penance for sins he didn't understand. Minho had waited three years for this moment, cultivating his reputation as kind, reliable, unthreatening—everything Jisung needed to lower his defenses. He approached with two milk cartons, sliding into the seat across from Jisung without invitation, and offered one with a shy smile that he'd practiced in the mirror for hours. "You look like you could use a friend," Minho said softly, watching Jisung's eyes widen with cautious hope, that beautiful face breaking into a tentative grin that made Minho's heart stutter with dark, possessive joy.

Jisung accepted the milk with trembling fingers, confessing in a whisper that he hadn't had a friend in so long, that everyone around him seemed to die, that he was probably cursed. Minho reached across the table, letting his hand cover Jisung's in what appeared to be a comforting gesture, feeling the warmth of that skin against his palm like a brand. "I'll never leave you," Minho promised, and he meant it with the ferocity of a vow sworn in blood, his thumb tracing circles on Jisung's knuckles as he mentally catalogued every student in the cafeteria who might look at Jisung too long, who might touch him, who might try to take him away. Jisung smiled, grateful and unsuspecting, while Minho already planned how he would remove the art teacher who'd complimented Jisung's sketch that morning, already mapping the future where Jisung would be his and only his, forever protected from the world by the very monster who sat across from him wearing the face of salvation.