Kim Heechul. It's a name everyone knows. The face of Korea, practically: big name model with a big personality to match. He's everywhere you look: in magazines, on a wall in a fashionable clothing store, on TV. He's branching into acting these days and his reputation from the fashion industry follows him: unique, to be polite. Irrepressible, to those who like him. He acts like he doesn't care about the media, but there's a charm there, something unlikely that woos people into admiring him and respecting him, even if they don't like him. He runs his mouth and doesn't hide his flashy nightlife, but he can be startling self-deprecating about it. Perhaps it's that self-awareness that draws people in. He may be a bit of a showy asshole, a gilded lily, but he knows it.
Kim Heechul rolls with the high rollers. The cameras and lights follow him, like he was born to be under the spotlight of public scrutiny. He knows which angles he looks best, but he doesn't always give a fuck, which makes him even more interesting. He drinks too much, gambles with the stakes too high, and corrupts the pretty stalwart sons of Korea's businessmen. He flirts shamelessly with men like Choi Siwon, who is filthy rich and disgustingly good-looking, the dream of nearly every single girl and their mother. He takes Cho Kyuhyun out at least once a week, whose squeaky clean good university boy image is fast disappearing.
Everyone knows Kim Heechul. He makes himself accessible that way, carelessly, fearlessly.
Even Kim Heechul has secrets, though. Dirty little secrets he won't let out of his bedroom, where the blinds are drawn and the door's shut tight. Spread out on his ostentatiously large bed, wearing black nylon track pants and a thin white t-shirt, is Kim Heechul's secret.
He's ordinary. So ordinary, if you compare him to the rest of Heechul's life. He's not rich, he's not poor, but from a middle-class middle-of-the-road family. He's an international student studying dance, still stumbling over his Korean after three years. He's an only child and he loves his mom. He should bore Heechul to tears, but he's the most fascinating thing Heechul's seen - or done - in years.
There are people who bow obsequiously and scurry to do Heechul's bidding. There are people who snap back at him, matching him barb for barb, who keep him on his toes. He likes the latter better. Han Geng is neither of those.
He lies back when told but not without rolling his eyes; he never trades quips with Heechul (his language isn't up to muster) but he's quick to roll them over and pin Heechul beneath him. If he's docile, and quiet, it's only on the surface. Han Geng bides his time and doesn't waste his breath when he doesn't have to; he knows when to concede. But he also knows when to push, when to pull, when to sink his teeth into the curve of Heechul's neck and make him arch and moan.
He doesn't want any part of Heechuls fame or notoriety. He doesn't want the hassle of nosy tabloids trailing him from class to dorm. He doesn't want them to dig up his past or pester his family or speculate about what dirty things he may be up with Korea's biggest star. So Heechul keeps his mouth shut, except for when Han Geng's fucking him slow in his gigantic bed with the sheets hanging half off the sides. He pants curses and broken attempts at Han Geng's name as Han Geng grips his hips, white-knuckled, and rocks forward steadily.
Han Geng is Kim Heechul's dirty little secret and he likes it that way. He doesn't see the way Heechul looks at him afterwards, can't interpret the way Heechul trails nonsensical patterns on his arm and spins fantastical stories about dragons and cats. He doesn't know that Heechul doesn't kiss the corner of his mouth, the underside of his jaw, the inside of his wrist unless he means it.
Han Geng is Kim Heechul's dirty little secret, but it's not because he's a no-name who's intruded his way into a megastar's bed, no. It's not that.
Kim Heechul rolls with the high rollers. The cameras and lights follow him, like he was born to be under the spotlight of public scrutiny. He knows which angles he looks best, but he doesn't always give a fuck, which makes him even more interesting. He drinks too much, gambles with the stakes too high, and corrupts the pretty stalwart sons of Korea's businessmen. He flirts shamelessly with men like Choi Siwon, who is filthy rich and disgustingly good-looking, the dream of nearly every single girl and their mother. He takes Cho Kyuhyun out at least once a week, whose squeaky clean good university boy image is fast disappearing.
Everyone knows Kim Heechul. He makes himself accessible that way, carelessly, fearlessly.
Even Kim Heechul has secrets, though. Dirty little secrets he won't let out of his bedroom, where the blinds are drawn and the door's shut tight. Spread out on his ostentatiously large bed, wearing black nylon track pants and a thin white t-shirt, is Kim Heechul's secret.
He's ordinary. So ordinary, if you compare him to the rest of Heechul's life. He's not rich, he's not poor, but from a middle-class middle-of-the-road family. He's an international student studying dance, still stumbling over his Korean after three years. He's an only child and he loves his mom. He should bore Heechul to tears, but he's the most fascinating thing Heechul's seen - or done - in years.
There are people who bow obsequiously and scurry to do Heechul's bidding. There are people who snap back at him, matching him barb for barb, who keep him on his toes. He likes the latter better. Han Geng is neither of those.
He lies back when told but not without rolling his eyes; he never trades quips with Heechul (his language isn't up to muster) but he's quick to roll them over and pin Heechul beneath him. If he's docile, and quiet, it's only on the surface. Han Geng bides his time and doesn't waste his breath when he doesn't have to; he knows when to concede. But he also knows when to push, when to pull, when to sink his teeth into the curve of Heechul's neck and make him arch and moan.
He doesn't want any part of Heechuls fame or notoriety. He doesn't want the hassle of nosy tabloids trailing him from class to dorm. He doesn't want them to dig up his past or pester his family or speculate about what dirty things he may be up with Korea's biggest star. So Heechul keeps his mouth shut, except for when Han Geng's fucking him slow in his gigantic bed with the sheets hanging half off the sides. He pants curses and broken attempts at Han Geng's name as Han Geng grips his hips, white-knuckled, and rocks forward steadily.
Han Geng is Kim Heechul's dirty little secret and he likes it that way. He doesn't see the way Heechul looks at him afterwards, can't interpret the way Heechul trails nonsensical patterns on his arm and spins fantastical stories about dragons and cats. He doesn't know that Heechul doesn't kiss the corner of his mouth, the underside of his jaw, the inside of his wrist unless he means it.
Han Geng is Kim Heechul's dirty little secret, but it's not because he's a no-name who's intruded his way into a megastar's bed, no. It's not that.
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