[fic] Concert; Miyavi/Heechul
Title: Concert
Fandom: SuJu/Jrock
Pairing: Miyavi/Heechul
Rating: R
Word Count: 1 020
Notes: Excuse the crap title. Because Miyavi is a sex god, and he would have kissed/touched/molested Heechul on stage had he been able to go to his concert. How has no one else written this pairing yet?
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It’s a simple invitation, sent formally through management to management, (come see the show, fans will love it, it’s good for international relations) and Heechul can hardly resist the temptation of it all. He stays up countless nights, hunting down anything he can, music, videos, pictures, translations, anything, before he accepts the offer, because if there is one thing Kim Heechul cannot stand, it’s unnecessary ignorance.
So he accepts.
He loses himself in the fast, complicated rifts, the smooth roll of the r’s, the sharp screams, the music that is so different from what he himself sings. The curving smile, the stark lines of dark dark ink placed against pale pale skin, the smudged and painted eyelids, all of that mixed with raw talent. He finds it’s all so intoxicating and exotic from his day-to-day that he finds his nervous excitement build as the day grows closer, it bubbling up until he thinks he might burst with anticipation.
So he goes.
He arrives early, of course, smushed into an impossibly small dressing room with sour looking cordis, anxious hairdressers, flustered translators, other busy looking people, but all he can see is that impossibly stretched smile. He’s all teeth and lips and makeup and metal, with liquid words that crash like waves against the commotion of pre-performance prep, while a petite woman tries to keep up, skipping and stumbling over words as she tries to keep up. Their conversation is jumbled and mixed with laughter as half understood stories are told and he feels like a reckless teenage again, the whole situation feeling like a drug. Before he knows it, Heechul has eyes and cheeks and temples painted with swirling orange and black and purple, name written in thick blocks along the line of his jaw, and he’s being swept along towards the stage with the others.
He lets himself be led for once.
The shrill cries of the crowd are piercing, but it doesn’t matter as he spins and shouts and sings along in a jumbled mockery of Japanese because he feels like he’s drunk on adrenalin and this is the closest he’s felt to flying. It hardly registers, but a hand threads through his hair, and drags him in, lips coming together with enough force that his teeth knock together and he can taste the metal of the older man’s piercing before he’s pushed away, the noise rising in a deafening crescendo as the fanservice does it’s purpose, and the show goes on as normal.
The show is all over far too soon.
He’s hot and sticky and pressed up against the door of a small supply closet. Those sinful lips are pressed against his neck, tongue flicking across the damp skin of his throat, and he moans aloud. He he’s so hard, too fucking hard, he thinks he might come right then and there just from the sensation of sharp nails raking along his stomach. There’s a hand on his cock and those lips are back against Heechul’s own , and it takes less than five minutes before he’s gasping and bucking his hips and spilling onto those talented, talented fingers. He hardly thinks before pushing back, minds still in that post release haze of ecstasy, dropping to his knees. He listens to the jumble of foreign words that are panted out as Heechul closes his mouth around the singer’s hard length, words that don’t need to be translated (faster, don’t stop, please, please, fuck), and he lets his teeth graze along as he pulls his head back. He tastes sweat and paint along with the salty tang of release, half choking half swallowing as a deep growl resonated in his ears. There were no sweet moments or actions, both simply fixing their clothing and joining back with the rest as though they had just gone off for a brief chat.
They part with a bow less than half an hour later, that petite translator is telling him that he’s welcome to any show Miyavi puts on in the future, and as he stumbles exhausted into his car ride home, paint smeared with dried sweat and saliva, all he can remember are those flashing white teeth behind a exhilarating smirk.
-
Fandom: SuJu/Jrock
Pairing: Miyavi/Heechul
Rating: R
Word Count: 1 020
Notes: Excuse the crap title. Because Miyavi is a sex god, and he would have kissed/touched/molested Heechul on stage had he been able to go to his concert. How has no one else written this pairing yet?
-
It’s a simple invitation, sent formally through management to management, (come see the show, fans will love it, it’s good for international relations) and Heechul can hardly resist the temptation of it all. He stays up countless nights, hunting down anything he can, music, videos, pictures, translations, anything, before he accepts the offer, because if there is one thing Kim Heechul cannot stand, it’s unnecessary ignorance.
So he accepts.
He loses himself in the fast, complicated rifts, the smooth roll of the r’s, the sharp screams, the music that is so different from what he himself sings. The curving smile, the stark lines of dark dark ink placed against pale pale skin, the smudged and painted eyelids, all of that mixed with raw talent. He finds it’s all so intoxicating and exotic from his day-to-day that he finds his nervous excitement build as the day grows closer, it bubbling up until he thinks he might burst with anticipation.
So he goes.
He arrives early, of course, smushed into an impossibly small dressing room with sour looking cordis, anxious hairdressers, flustered translators, other busy looking people, but all he can see is that impossibly stretched smile. He’s all teeth and lips and makeup and metal, with liquid words that crash like waves against the commotion of pre-performance prep, while a petite woman tries to keep up, skipping and stumbling over words as she tries to keep up. Their conversation is jumbled and mixed with laughter as half understood stories are told and he feels like a reckless teenage again, the whole situation feeling like a drug. Before he knows it, Heechul has eyes and cheeks and temples painted with swirling orange and black and purple, name written in thick blocks along the line of his jaw, and he’s being swept along towards the stage with the others.
He lets himself be led for once.
The shrill cries of the crowd are piercing, but it doesn’t matter as he spins and shouts and sings along in a jumbled mockery of Japanese because he feels like he’s drunk on adrenalin and this is the closest he’s felt to flying. It hardly registers, but a hand threads through his hair, and drags him in, lips coming together with enough force that his teeth knock together and he can taste the metal of the older man’s piercing before he’s pushed away, the noise rising in a deafening crescendo as the fanservice does it’s purpose, and the show goes on as normal.
The show is all over far too soon.
He’s hot and sticky and pressed up against the door of a small supply closet. Those sinful lips are pressed against his neck, tongue flicking across the damp skin of his throat, and he moans aloud. He he’s so hard, too fucking hard, he thinks he might come right then and there just from the sensation of sharp nails raking along his stomach. There’s a hand on his cock and those lips are back against Heechul’s own , and it takes less than five minutes before he’s gasping and bucking his hips and spilling onto those talented, talented fingers. He hardly thinks before pushing back, minds still in that post release haze of ecstasy, dropping to his knees. He listens to the jumble of foreign words that are panted out as Heechul closes his mouth around the singer’s hard length, words that don’t need to be translated (faster, don’t stop, please, please, fuck), and he lets his teeth graze along as he pulls his head back. He tastes sweat and paint along with the salty tang of release, half choking half swallowing as a deep growl resonated in his ears. There were no sweet moments or actions, both simply fixing their clothing and joining back with the rest as though they had just gone off for a brief chat.
They part with a bow less than half an hour later, that petite translator is telling him that he’s welcome to any show Miyavi puts on in the future, and as he stumbles exhausted into his car ride home, paint smeared with dried sweat and saliva, all he can remember are those flashing white teeth behind a exhilarating smirk.
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