sessho08: (cm still)
[personal profile] sessho08
Title: hold on
Fandom: TVXQ
Pairing: Homin
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1167
A/N: This is a result of one of my "now I'm going to start typing and see what my fingers come up with" sessions. A bit unclear, I was told (and I agree) but I'm actually quite happy with what I ended up with? The setting and the concept even if the execution may be lacking. In fact, I liked the idea enough that I kept going back to in with my thoughts and musing and finally got inspired for a short continuation of sorts. (Which is a first for me. And which will be posted too. Someday, I guess.) Enjoy? :>




it goes like this. he wakes up in the morning, stays in bed for next twenty minutes, letting his alarm ring twice before he turns it off for good. he heaves himself up on the days when he's particularly tired, springs up on the days he's not. recently there has been more of the former but it doesn't feel bad per se. he's just tired but tired he can deal with. he shuffles his feet as he directs his steps to the bathroom. there, he takes a leak, he brushes his teeth, he sheds his clothes, he showers. the water's always scorching, the way he likes it.

some people have been surprised when he expressed that but it really does wake him up, better than cold showers do. or at least it results in a less hostile version of him and surely, that's appreciated. (showers when he lets the freezing water pour over his naked body happen too but usually it's when he got self-indulgent with the alarm or has a morning erection. it's not all that often though.) he spends around ten minutes under the stream, fifteen during winter. after leaving the shower stall, he dresses in the clothes he has left prepared on the top of the washing machine the night before. it's an effective habit and saves him much time in the morning as he doesn't have to pick out his attire with his mind still muddled with sleep and fuzzy. he shaves, paying extra attention to the skin of his throat - it's easy to miss spots if the skin isn't held taut enough and he really hates that.

when he's done, he leaves the room and trails to the kitchen. if he's lucky there's breakfast already waiting when he arrives there. he's not lucky often. he fixes a simple but hearty meal. it's a bit childish, maybe, but he still believes that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. he eats, chewing slowly, his mind fully focused on the action. (if there is breakfast ready by the time he makes his way to the kitchen, his mouth stretches in a smile. his companion doesn't cook all that well but the effort is appreciated nevertheless.)

after breakfast comes work. "comes" is a very fitting expression indeed since work appears in a form of his manager at his doorstep. the other rings once, never more since he knows that it annoys him. there's no need to abuse the doorbell, his hearing is perfectly fine. they leave together. sometimes he glances back, at the half-open door leading to the kitchen, but then manager goes:"what is it, did you forget something?" and no, he didn't. he's not wont to losing sight of things.

they travel to the destination of the day by car. it's a very nice car, grand, its seats all scentless leather and expensive comfort as he sinks into them with a sigh. they reach the workplace. as they exit the vehicle, manager holds his elbow in a delicate grip. his fingers don't retract all the way to the building.

today's client is a woman. she's relatively young, her voice high and clear. it'd be beautiful if not for the slightest of tremors that disrupts it. they sit down in the room she guides him to, manager directed to the adjoining kitchen instead. they sit down. he gets the armchair (it's always the armchair), she takes the sofa opposite. she tells him her story. he listens to it attentively, his back straight and his hands resting lightly on his knees. when she's done, her long tale arriving to its conclusion-deprived end, he steeples his fingers under his chin. the feel of smooth skin that his fingertips graze just barely helps him think. he offers his solutions, presents his price. she hesitates, it's obvious in the way her voice is shaky, syllables drawn-out. he doesn't press. after a moment of pregnant silence, she agrees to his conditions. they usually do, he rarely leaves empty-handed.

they set the date. his manager enters the room and the details are discussed and settled. they go back by mostly the same route, derailing only to dine at a restaurant he's never been to but was meaning to drop by, someday.

he spends the rest of the day reading, his fingers restless as they smooth over the uneven surface. this time, it's a novel. it's a ridiculous one, an exaggerated love story with confused heroine that falls for the handsome mysterious guy. it's not what he'd choose normally but every now and then, it's nice for a change of pace. he doesn't take many breaks, too engrossed in the silly tale.

evening comes, its arrival marked by the subtle hint of pain in his digits. tonight, there are no footsteps to be heard from the room at the other end of the apartment. he strains his ears to no avail even when he knows it's futile this time. still, it's regretful. he could use some company. there's no point in such musings, though. he sets the book back to its rightful place and he makes his way to the kitchen. again, there's no ready food awaiting his entry. he prepares it all by himself - stir-fry rice with vegetables and some meat. maybe a bit too heavy for this hour but his stomach must be made out of steel for it never rebels against such treatment. he eats in silence, trying to keep wistful sighs from escaping from his mouth. he's not lucky today but moping is not an option. unbecoming, honestly.

after he's left the dishes in the dishwashing machine and turned it on, he lets his feet take him to the bathroom. it's automatic by now. he has his evening shower, tap all the way to the right. he can almost feel his body getting tinted pinkish red as the steaming water keeps on pounding onto his bare skin. he takes his time in the evening, allows his hands, his digits, his fingertips to wander, to caress, to stroke and finally, to tug. he climaxes with his head thrown back, steady stream of droplets on his face, on his chest; trickling down his legs along with his own semen. after he's cleaned himself thoroughly, he leaves the stall. the bathroom is filled with steam, his pajamas slightly damp when he puts them on after drying himself. it's a bit jarring, the feel of the fabric against his skin but just a bit. he can take as much.

his feet are heavy when he makes his way to the bedroom. his bed isn't cold but it isn't warm either. he burrows under the covers, hides his face in the pillow, trying to chase away the disappointment before it sinks down, before it joins him under the duvet.

tomorrow. maybe. he lies waiting for the sleep to claim him, to free his mind, keep it from wandering too close to this hope. (waiting to rouse again because, maybe.)




Comments and criticism as always much appreciated ♥
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April 2014

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