#sub minsu

Minsu’s quiet—painfully shy, even outside the bedroom. He always seems like he’s trying to make himself smaller, like if he breathes too loudly, you’ll look at him and realize you could do better. You hate that he thinks that. You’ve told him a hundred times how much you adore him, and still—his cheeks burn every time you compliment him. Every praise gets stored away in some sacred corner of his mind, like he's starving for it.

In bed, he’s even quieter. Sometimes you don’t even realize how much he’s trembling until you touch him. His voice is soft, almost inaudible, like he’s scared he’ll say something wrong. But when he does speak? “Can I—um. Can I kiss you?” “Did I… d-do good?” You always stop and cup his cheek and say, “You did perfect, sweetheart.” And the way his eyes flutter shut from just those words? Devastating.

He’s got a big dick, yeah. And you make it so much worse for him by teasing him about it in that low, smug voice that always gets him flushed. “Shame,” you say, eyes dragging down his chest. “All this, and no idea what to do with it. Guess I’ll just have to keep teaching you.” He goes red instantly, buries his face in your shoulder, tries to hide—but he can’t hide the way his hips twitch. He likes it when you talk down to him, even if it flusters him.

He’s not the type to ask for things outright. He just gets soft and clingy. You’ll find him hovering at the edge of the couch while you’re reading, fingers twitching at his sides like he wants to reach out but doesn’t know how. When you finally ask, “You need something, baby?” he just nods, sheepishly. It could be a kiss. It could be your cock down his throat. He’ll take whatever you give.

Sir kink is quiet but deep-rooted. He whispers it sometimes without meaning to, usually when you’re being especially firm with him—tugging his hips into place, pushing him down against the mattress, telling him to be still. “Yes, sir,” he breathes, lips parted, and when he realizes he said it out loud, he gets all flustered and apologizes like it’s a crime. You just smile and say, “That’s right. Say it again.”

He lives for physical closeness during sex. Doesn’t matter how he’s positioned—he needs to be able to see you, hold you, bury his face against your skin. You once tried fucking him from behind without holding his hand, and afterward he quietly admitted, “I… I missed you.” Now you make sure to always wrap an arm around his waist or lace your fingers with his. He calms instantly with that grounding touch.

Praise is everything. He didn’t grow up hearing it, so now he drinks it in like water. He can be sobbing, shaking, overwhelmed—and the moment you murmur good boy, he chokes on a moan and nods, like that one phrase makes it all okay. “You’re doing so good, baby.” “You’re taking me so well.” “I’m so proud of you.” He melts under it. It rewires his entire nervous system. He needs it to come.

He doesn’t ask to be tied up. But the one time you gently pulled his arms behind his back and bound his wrists with your belt, he went still for a long, trembling breath—and then moaned so softly you almost missed it. Something about the helplessness, the surrender of it, makes his brain go quiet. He gets so still. So obedient. Like he’s giving you his whole self without needing to speak.

Hair pulling? He’s done for. You learn this by accident—fist tangled in his hair during a rough kiss, and he whimpers into your mouth, hips bucking. When you do it while fucking him, making him look at you even when he’s falling apart? He cries. Literally. Pretty, glassy-eyed tears that you kiss away as you keep telling him how perfect he is.

Despite how shy he is, he’s obsessed with sucking you off. It’s quiet, reverent—he doesn’t even need you hard. Just likes the weight of you in his mouth. The act of worship. You’ll be half-asleep and suddenly feel his breath against your thigh, gentle fingers easing your waistband down. No words. Just a soft sigh as he curls up around your cock like it calms him.

He loves being used. Not in a rough, raunchy way—more like an offering. He wants to make you feel better. Wants to be your comfort. You come home tense, and he’s already stripped and kneeling on the bed, arms folded behind him like he’s not even allowed to touch unless you say so. “You can take it out on me, sir,” he whispers, voice barely audible. “I’ll be good.”

The first time you whispered I wanna get you pregnant while deep inside him, he gasped so loud you thought you hurt him. But then he nodded—frantic, teary-eyed—babbling, “Please, wanna try, wanna feel full.” He knows it’s impossible. Still likes to pretend. Still wants to be bred like he’s yours forever.

And when it’s over—aftercare is sacred. You clean him gently, kiss his forehead, cradle him like he’s breakable. “Don’t go yet,” he whispers, scared you’ll leave too soon. If you try to get up, even just to get water, he’ll look so lost that your chest aches. He needs you to stay. Needs you.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

Min-su’s high, hallucinating. You’re not. That makes it worse. You see all of it. How gone he is. How far he’s slipping. And how fucking hard he’s getting, even as his hands shake.

He’s already sweating through the cot when you find him. He’s really twitchy. His pupils are blown wide while his cheeks are raw from where he’s been scratching again. There’s this broken-up half-laugh coming out of his mouth like he thinks it’s funny—like they said something funny.

“Se-mi’s wearing my hoodie,” he whispers, head tilted toward a bare wall. “Thanos said he’s gonna take it off.”

You kneel down slowly. He flinches like you hit him.

“They’re not here,” you say.

He laughs harder. “I know. That’s the worst part.”

You’re about to ask how much he took. You don’t. It doesn’t matter. His thighs are shaking under the blanket. There’s a wet patch blooming through the front of his sweats. He’s hard and scared and twitching like he’s stuck in a glitch.

You touch his shoulder. He gasps like you lit him on fire.

“Hurts,” he says. “But it feels—oh fuck. Don’t stop.”

You haven’t even started. But fine. If he needs something real, something to shove the ghosts out of his brain, then you’ll give it to him.

You haul him up. One hand in his hair, one under his knees. He’s boneless. He lets you manhandle him into the bunker's back corner like he weighs nothing.

“Tell me who’s watching,” you mutter, yanking the blanket off.

“Thanos,” he breathes. “He’s right there.”

You grab his chin. Force his eyes to yours.

“Watch me.”

He does. Barely. Until you spit in your hand and start stroking him through the fabric. Then he goes somewhere else. Starts moaning. Soft at first, then sharper—little gasps like he’s scared to sound needy, like it’ll make it worse.

You get his sweats down just enough to see the tip leaking. He’s pulsing in your grip.

“What’s he saying now?” you ask.

“Nothing,” Min-su pants, already writhing. “He’s just—he’s just watching.”

You press a finger to his hole, and he gasps like you knocked the air out of his lungs. So fucking tight. Dry, too, but he’s high and begging already. You spit again and push in slowly. He twitches around it.

“Real enough for you?” you say.

He nods. Too fast. His mouth is open. He’s not blinking. You fuck your fingers into him until he’s jerking with every thrust, moaning like he wants to be heard through the fucking walls.

“Please,” he hiccups. “Please just—fuck, just stay. I can’t—I can’t—”

You shove your cock in before he finishes the sentence.

He screams. Fists the blanket. Tries to push his hips up, but you slam him back down with one hand on his stomach.

You lean in close, mouth on his ear.

“They can’t fuck you like this.”

Min-su moans so loud it rattles the cot.

“They can’t make you cum.”

You bite his neck. He claws your back. The rhythm’s a mess. No grace, no pacing, just desperate friction—raw and absolutely brutal. You feel him twitch around you, the way his thighs shake when you grind in deep. He starts crying and still doesn’t stop rutting.

You fuck him until the voices shut up.

You fuck him until his legs give out, until he stops moaning and just gasps, open-mouthed and glassy-eyed, stuffed too full to think.

You grab his jaw. Force him to look at you again.

“You hear anyone now?”

He shakes his head. Silent.

You fuck harder He needs it, almost desperately.

When he cums, it’s like a seizure. His back arches, his mouth opens wide, but no sound comes out. Just a gasp and a pulse and the way he clings to you when it’s done—like you’re the only thing still real.

You don’t pull out. You just hold him there. Press your forehead to his, your hand over his chest. His heartbeat’s still going. Fast. But real.

The only voice left is yours.

“You’re fine.”

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.