#I went into these books expecting lesbians and bones why was I not warned that they would BREAK ME

[someabsolutenonsense]

Wish somebody would call me an evil stick

[missmeikakuna]

Tired Girl Ch. 2- F/F Fantasy Story

Rated: T

Fandom: Original story

Relationship type: F/F

Description:

High schooler Nosderag is childish, impulsive and- worst of all- powerless in a magical world. Her strong sense of empathy leads her to rescue an injured fairy and bring it back to her dorm, to the chagrin of her love-powered rumoured lesbian roommate Dalzonf. Together they try to return the fairy to its enclosure before they get arrested for animal theft.

The problem is, people with love powers are seen as criminals, putting a giant target on Dalzonf’s back. CONTENT WARNING: This story will have homophobia, bullying and discussions of sexual assault.

Chapter 2: Curious Girl

The two roommates ignored each other the next day, aside from giving each other their numbers in case of emergency. Nosderag read in the library after classes. It had a very old-school design, as in it looked like a tribal village in the middle of the Terio region. 

Everything was made of plants, from the vine-covered walls to the wooden bookshelves to the giant flowers used as chairs. The building carried the sweet smells of native flowers and the appearance of a tribal leader’s hut up in the trees.

Nosderag came across a book about magical creatures native to Astraboleria. That book had a piece of paper between two middle pages with a message messily written in black ink.

If you want to see these for real, go to the storage shed behind the armoury. 

Naturally, Nosderag was not one to follow an order from a bookmark of all things, but the more she read through the book, the more intrigued she was.

Her family never had a pet (too at risk of getting accidentally burned) and she had not seen many magical creatures up close. Outside of the occasional banshee hornbills which screamed in her face and stole her lunch in the park, of course.

Curiosity and basic common sense fought. Curiosity won.

Nosderag slammed the book closed and tossed it into the basket beside the nearest bookshelf. A vine descended from the roof and picked up the book, taking it to the appropriate shelf.

She strolled out of the librarian like an ordinary, non-mischievous person. She kept her steps light and her mouth shut. 

The armoury wasn’t far from the library, only a few hundred metres away. Yes, that may seem like a fair bit, but nothing could compare to that dormitory’s damn stairs. Nosderag could walk any distance now.

The armoury was the second biggest building aside from the dormitory, a tacky purple behemoth with gold trimming. Whereas the other top-secret buildings had an invisible shield surrounding them, the protective magic around the armoury was glaringly visible, in that the entire bubble looked like what you see when you try to watch television in bright sunlight.

Behind the armoury was a rundown shed emitting various animal calls. A creature that sounded like a kookaburra if it had been dragged into the ocean seemed to be competing for attention with what sounded like a metallic lion on helium. Underneath those sounds were clicks and the fluttering of small wings. The dark windows of the shed lit up every so often as a creature made a lightning bolt or breathed fire. Luckily, the walls were fireproof as every building in the school was.

Nosderag pondered the situation. There was sure to be a forcefield, right? How could she get in there? She considered asking Administration for a permission slip, a bureaucratic process that would take a few weeks at least. Still, was she really going to risk expulsion just to sate her curiosity?

Before she could turn around and walk away, she heard what at first sounded like a celery stick being cracked. The pain-stenched scream told a different story. A bone must have broken.

Nosderag instinctively ran up to the shed. She felt a sharp sting throughout her body upon breaking through the forcefield, but she managed to make it inside. She contemplated her hands to figure out how that happened, but then the screeching returned and she raced into the shed through its open door.

Why was it opened? A man’s voice inadvertently answered that question. ‘Get back in your bloody cage, you bloody mongrel!’ His broad Australian accent was quite a shock to Nosderag, who was unfamiliar with it. ‘If you don’t get back in here, I’m quitting and you can get someone harsher to discipline you! How does that sound, huh?’

The ‘mongrel’ was a tiny black bat-winged creature with a red beak and legs similar to a human's, aside from the talons at the end. Her forearms were the colour of gold and she had black hair with a golden streak in it. She was a dead ringer for Arayonda, the goddess of the sky, albeit naked rather than wearing a traditional white tunic. She flew haphazardly around the shed, chirping like a blackbird. One of her legs was clearly broken, dangling around.

The man’s beer gut appeared to be making it difficult to chase the ara fairy around. He wore a sneer and grabbed at the air with his sausage fingers, hoping at least one handful of air would also contain the fairy.

He finally managed to get his grasp on the creature and began strangling its neck. The chirps got thinner and thinner until-

Nosderag tackled him like an American footballer. Her arms weren’t strong but the shock was enough to make the man step back and let go of the fairy.

‘What are you doing?’ he shouted at Nosderag, his face red and his nostrils flaring like he himself was about to breathe fire. She flinched, expecting to be burned. She sighed in relief when no fire came out from him.

‘You can’t kill it! It’s just little!’

‘It’s a little pain in the behind. These things won’t listen to human words. All they need is a good beating to start behaving.’

The fairy perched herself on Nosderag, surprising both humans. She rubbed her beak against Nosderag’s neck and purred like a parrot, wobbling on one leg. Nosderag simply had to cross her arms and smirk at the man.

But it was not enough to dissuade the man, who leapt towards Nosderag to take the fairy. The creature flapped out the door. The man went out to chase her, leaving Nosderag to take a good look at the other animals.

The underwater kookaburra-sounding one was a scaled but winged creature, a sleek vision in turquoise.  Its call took on a deeper, angrier tone when it flapped its small but sturdy wings against its tank at the helium lion-sounding creature beneath it. The other creature was a green eight-legged furry monster about the size of a warthog, and with tusks on its face to match. It began hissing at the scaly bird and its hisses sounded like running water. It put its legs between the bars of its cage but couldn’t slip out. 

At the other end of the shed were four little dragons, all of different types. A Chinese lung rapidly changed the colour of its scales as it spit out little signs of the weather such as rain clouds, snow and a miniature version of the sun. The black-scaled Russian alicha kept trying to eat the little sun whenever it appeared. A bida from Mali, a long serpent with golden scales, seemed very cramped in its cage. It kept crying gold coins that disappeared as soon as they hit the ground.

The final one fascinated her, as it was a rare Sumerian kur with grey and white scales that made it look like a mountain. It seemed happy to see Nosderag, judging by the way it flapped its feathered wings at her.

Nosderag reached out to pet it, but then she heard a noise outside and decided to leave the armoury and return to her dorm.

While walking, she heard a familiar fluttering and stopped. She turned her head to the side and saw the ara fairy from before. She nuzzled her beak against her cheek, panting as she collapsed on her shoulder. Nosderag turned behind her towards the shed for a moment before leading the fairy to her dorm.

Upon reaching the dormitory, she took out her phone and called Dalzonf. ‘Hey, can you power the elevator? I am not walking up those damn steps again. And you better, because I have a surprise for you.’

Dalzonf hung up. 

Nosderag began her pilgrimage up the stairs when she heard the whisk of the elevator as it descended. The fairy hid inside her coat. 

Dalzonf yawned, surrounded by pink mist. ‘By the way, you’ll get a bigger crush on me between this floor and when we get off the elevator. Just a warning. Don’t try to pull anything.’

Nosderag scoffed as she made her way to the elevator. ‘I’m never going to live it down, am I?’

‘Not for as long as I’m blackmailing you.’

‘Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me how much of a shithead you are. I almost forgot. You’re... like an oasis in the deserts of Cenaschramm.’

Nosderag’s cheeks burned as her heart leapt. Everything but Dalzonf became blurry like her eyes were movie cameras putting the other girl in focus.

A laugh escaped Dalzonf’s pursed lips. ‘Well, that’s a new one.’

‘Your eyes are like perfectly cut andalusites,’ Nosderag said, leaning in closer.

‘Alright, that’s enough-’

‘You are the reincarnation of Marosos.’

Dalzonf pushed her away and kicked a wall of the elevator. ‘This damn relic. Needs so much damn power.’

The effects of her love tolxing did not disappear as soon as the elevator reached its destination. They stayed in Nosderag’s system for a few minutes. Apparently the symptoms of this magic included making the affected person follow their target of affection like a duckling and then agreeing to her demands to sit in the corner.

Nosderag’s cheeks slowly started to cool down. She blinked quickly as she got her bearings again.

‘So, what is your surprise?’ Dalzonf asked.

‘Oh, yeah, say hi to… I don’t have a name for her yet.’ She opened her coat and revealed the ara fairy.

‘What.’

Exasperation dropped down onto Dalzonf’s face like a waterfall.

‘She was getting hurt by the groundskeeper,’ Nosderag explained as she brushed her finger against the fairy’s little cheek. She gave the other girl hopeful eyes.

[fanfic-from-a-67-impala]

I’m a Believer

Fulfilling a square for @spnonewordbingo: BRUNCH

Characters: Charlie x questioning lesbian!reader, Sam, Dean

Word Count: 2466

Summary: You were never one for romance, and the idea of love seemed as out of reach as ever. You figured maybe it happens for some people and not others.

But then you saw her face...

Warnings: teensy bit of angst at the beginning

A/N: I’ve been sitting on this idea for a while. I swear I’m getting to requests soon.

Listen to the Monkees song here.

The bunker door opens and closes, followed by Dean’s heavy, uneven steps clanging down the stairs. He reaches the library, where you and Sam lounge in the chairs.

You glance up from your book. “You’re home early.”

“Finished early,” Dean replies, flopping into one of the chairs.

He left for a bar only a few hours earlier to blow off some steam, which usually involves him stumbling through the door in the wee hours, the smell of perfume still lingering on his skin.

“No luck?” Sam asks.

“No, no—plenty of luck,” Dean smirks. “I thought I hit record time last Valentine’s day, but my God, this girl—”

“Okay, thanks, man. Don’t need to hear any more,” you interrupt.

“Sure you do,” Dean says. “Isn’t the deal that you live vicariously through me?”

You shake your head. “What makes you think I have to?”

“Oh, even Sam sees more action than you.”

“Dude, come on,” Sam warns.

Dean holds up a hand. “All I’m saying is—how long have we been riding together?”

“Too long,” you mutter.

He rolls his eyes. “Well, in all our ten years, give or take, not once have you, you know, spent the night out.”

You set your book on the table and cross your arms over your chest, raising an eyebrow.

“I’d offer to help, but—”

“But you know I’d knock you on your ass before you could get out the words ‘last night on earth,’” you finish for him.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “And not in the sexy way.”

You sigh. “I guess it’s just nice to have some kind of connection before I end up in bed with a guy, you know? And, so far, I… haven’t.”

“Sure,” Sam says. “But you don’t want to find someone you do connect with? Dean and I both have at one point or another.”

“I used to,” you shrug. “But I don’t know. I’m starting to think it’s never gonna happen for me.”

Dean scoffs. “What, are you kidding? You could have any guy—”

“You know what?” you cut him off. “How did this become about me?”

“You’re right. It’s none of our business,” Sam concedes.

He turns to Dean. “Anyway, it’s a good thing you’re back early. I just got an email from Charlie. We’re meeting her for brunch tomorrow.”

“Brunch?” you question.

“Yeah,” Sam shrugs. “Right, I forgot you’ve never met her. Charlie’s a hunter friend of ours.”

You furrow your brows in confusion. “What kind of hunter eats brunch?”

Dean chuckles. “She’s got her quirks, that’s for sure,” he admits. “But you’ll love her.”

“Good enough for me,” you nod. “What time are we leaving?”

A bell dings above your head as you follow the boys through the doorway of a cafe in town. The air is tinged with the bite of roasting coffee and something buttery.

A waving hand catches your eye from across the room. The woman it belongs to waves and smiles in your direction.

Definitely not Charlie, you think. You can’t possibly be meeting someone who looks like she belongs on the cover of a magazine.

Still, the boys head in her direction.

Following them, you smooth out your clothes, suddenly regretting your casual choices this morning.

She slides out of the booth and jumps into Sam’s outstretched arms.

“What’s up, bitches?” she says when he releases her.

Dean scoops her up. “Hey, kiddo.”

She pulls away and smiles up at him. She has a beautiful smile, really. It lights up her vibrant green eyes. Long red curls frame her face, and light freckles pepper her cheeks and nose.

You feel your heartbeat start to pound when her curious green eyes land on you.

“(Y/N), this is Charlie,” Sam introduces. “Charlie, (Y/N).”

“So, you’re the famous (Y/N),” she says.

Heat rises to your cheeks. “I don’t know about ‘famous.’”

“Are you kidding?” she says. “These guys told me all about you. Man, I would’ve killed to be there when they first discovered the angels.”

“Well, I would’ve killed to be the one who defeated the leviathans.”

She ushers the three of you into the booth where she was sitting.

“So, Charlie,” Sam says, “what have you been up to?”

“Oh, you know. Hacking big bads, burning bones—the uszh,” she answers. “I was in Missouri on a ghost hunt, decided I’d come by and visit.”

The waiter none of you noticed rounding the corner gives Charlie a disturbed look.

“Uh… what can I get you?” he asks.

Once you’ve all ordered, Dean looks around the restaurant. “Nice place. Very hipster.”

“I know, right?” Charlie says. “I found it online. It got four and a half stars on Yelp.”

“Sorry, ‘Yelp’?” Dean questions.

Sam clears his throat. “It’s a site where people—”

“I know what it is.” Dean turns to Charlie. “I just didn’t peg you as a Yelp kind of girl.”

“Don’t judge me. It’s helpful,” she retorts.

“Sure would’ve been helpful a few weeks ago,” you mutter.

Dean groans. “Oh, don’t remind me.”

“Why? What happened a few weeks ago?” Charlie leans forward in her seat, interested.

You chuckle. “So, we roll into this small, middle-of-nowhere town. It’s before the crack of dawn. It had been a while since the last food break, and there’s one place with its lights on in town, so this one—” you point an accusatory finger at Dean— “drags us there. We take one look at the menu. Turns out it’s a vegan place.”

Charlie laughs and turns to Dean next to her. “You, Dean Winchester, actually stepped foot in a vegan restaurant.”

“Okay, in my defense, we’d been on the road for twelve hours.” He shakes his head. “I wish we’d never taken that case.”

Sam scoffs. “Right. You’d have let those people die so you could have meat.”

“Damn straight.”

You and Sam continue the story while Dean frowns at the memory, pausing only for a satisfied sigh at his burger when the food arrives.

Well into the meal, while Sam is recounting new information he found in the Men of Letters’ archives, your foot brushes against someone else’s. You glance across the table at Charlie, who darts her eyes downward when you meet them, withdrawing her foot.

“All right, I’m going to go get this settled,” Sam says, holding up the check as he slides out of the booth.

“And I’m going to hit the restrooms,” Dean adds before heading to the corner of the restaurant.

You take a sip of cold coffee while Charlie wraps her hands around her glass.

“So,” she says, “this was fun, right?”

“Yeah, it was nice,” you say. “Thanks for letting me tag along. I’ve never done brunch before.”

She bites her lip and leans her hands on the table. “Well, how’s about we have a real meal? Maybe dinner? Tonight?”

You almost choke on your coffee in surprise. You stare at her, convinced you must have heard her wrong.

“Who am I kidding?” she says. “Of course you have plans tonight.”

You shake your head, almost too quickly. “Free as a bird.”

A wide smile grows on her face. “Cool,” she says. “There’s a place across town—Giovanna’s. Say seven?”

You hesitate a moment. You should tell her that you have no intention of getting involved with her, that you don’t even like women.

But don’t you? Doesn’t the overwhelming feeling of wanting to see her again as soon as possible mean there’s something there?

“Sounds great,” you nod.

You walk through the glass doors of the restaurant at thirty seconds past seven.

After brunch, you went back to the bunker and spent an hour deciding what to wear. You’d never cared much for the way you looked before, but tonight, you suspected, was special. You wanted Charlie to see you at your best, something you’ve never wanted of anyone.

You shouted to the boys that you were going to run some errands, and you slipped out, drove into town, and waited in your car a block away from the restaurant until seven o’clock rolled around.

You freeze in the doorway. What were you thinking showing up here alone? By “we,” she obviously meant you and the boys. How stupid will you look when you waltz in by yourself expecting a date when she’s expecting a group dinner?

“Hi,” the hostess greets from behind her stand.

The restaurant smells like rich bread and wine, not even a hint of the greasy odor you’ve become so familiar with at your regular diners. The tables are lined with tablecloths, each set with utensils, wine glasses, and a small flickering candle.

“I’m meeting someone,” you tell the hostess.

“What’s the name?” she asks.

“Uh, Bradbury, I think.”

Across the room, you spot Charlie at a table. She sits at a table for two so that her side faces you. She wears a maroon-colored dress that complements her hair, which she pulled up into a bun.

You barely pull your eyes away to tell the hostess, “I found her.”

Charlie smiles when she glances up at you.

“Hey,” she greets, standing up to give you a hug. “Wow, you look great.”

“Thanks. You look really nice, too,” you say as the two of you settle into your seats.

You stumble over your words at first, but the longer you talk with Charlie, the more relaxed you feel, and conversation flows easily.

She tells you she’s from Kansas and bounced from places like Chicago, where she met the boys, to Michigan. She tries to downplay her computer skills as nothing important, but the enthusiasm in her voice tells you that she’s exceptional at what she does.

You tell her about your hunter’s childhood, growing up on the road, living by motels and dusty backroads like any hunter does. You exchange stories of life on the run—whether it’s from monsters or law enforcement doesn’t seem to make a difference.

Halfway through the entree, your phone buzzes, the screen lighting with Sam’s name.

You look up at Charlie with a wince. “I’m sorry. I should probably take this. The boys get worried.”

“It’s no problem,” she waves you off. “You do what you gotta do.”

You head outside the restaurant and press the button.

“Hey,” you answer.

“(Y/N),” Sam greets. “Just checking in. You okay?”

“I’m fine, Sam. Just got caught up in something.”

He pauses, listening. “What kind of something?”

“Nothing,” you assure him, listening to the gears turning in his mind. “I’m just in town, nothing funky about it. Promise.”

“All right,” he huffs. “Well, as long as you’re in town, do you mind picking up some lighter fluid? We’re running low.”

You let the line go silent for a moment as you construct some story that would offer a reason why you won’t be coming home with lighter fluid, or any supplies, really.

“(Y/N)?” he asks before you think of something.

“I can’t do that,” you spit out.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I’m kind of… on a… a date?”

“You’re on a what?”

“What?” Dean’s muffled voice sounds through the speaker.

“She’s on a date,” Sam says. “You’re on a date?”

You sigh. “Yes, and you two are interrupting it.”

“Wait a second,” Dean says. “Who? Where? Wh—”

“Date now, details later,” you insist.

“All right, all right,” Sam says. “I guess we won’t wait up?”

“Yeah, don’t,” you say. “Good night, boys.”

You switch off your phone and dart back to your table, where Charlie waits patiently.

“All good?” she asks.

You nod. “All good.”

Again, you slip into a natural back-and-forth of light anecdotes and shy advances.

A lull settles between you over a shared dessert, and you decide to break the silence.

“You know, I’ve, um—” you pause to lick your spoon— “I’ve never done this before.”

“Had a chocolate souffle?” she suggests. “That’s a crying shame.”

“Well, that, too,” you shrug. “But I meant I’ve never done this before.” You gesture between the two of you. “The date thing. With a woman.”

Realization fills her features as she smacks her lips lightly and places her spoon on the plate.

“Well…” she drawls. “What did you think?”

As you play the night through in your mind, storing some moments to remember on a rainy day, you can’t help the smile that crosses over your face.

“Five stars.”

The next morning, the bunker halls are cold and quiet, but you hear the boys’ voices as you round the corner of the kitchen.

Their chattering ceases as their expectant eyes land on you.

“So?” Dean says after you say nothing.

“‘So’?” you repeat, pouring a cup of coffee.

He rolls his eyes. “So, how ‘bout that Chiefs game?”

“How was your date?” Sam interjects.

You take a sip of your coffee and turn to them. “It was good.”

Dean throws his hands in the air while Sam stares at you with wide eyes.

“It was… better than good?” You bite your lip and sigh. “It was great, and it was magical, and I think I’m in love. Is that what you want to hear?”

Sam looks to his brother, then you. “That’s great, (Y/N), but are we ever going to meet the guy?”

You turn your attention down to your coffee. “Well…”

“We already know him, don’t we?” Dean says. “God, tell me it’s not Garth.”

“What? No—”

“It’s Garth, isn’t it?” he says. “I swear, that guy keeps making the eyes at you.”

Sam furrows his brow. “‘The eyes’? That’s not even a thing.”

“It’s a thing. You just don’t—”

“It’s not Garth!” you shout.

Dean’s shoulders relax as he huffs out a sigh.

“Then, who…” Sam trails off as his eyes drift to your left.

Charlie stands in the doorway, wrapped in a grey Men of Letter’s robe.

“Morning,” she says, stepping toward you.

You smile at her, frustration at the boys melting away. “Good morning.”

She wraps an arm securely around your waist before turning her head to the boys.

“What’s up, bitches?”

They stare at you for a minute, mouths gaping.

“Charlie?” Sam finally manages. “Charlie’s your guy?”

“Hey, I am a lady,” she remarks. “A queen in some realms.”

He nods. “Of course.”

“We just didn’t think you…” Dean gestures to you.

“Oh, me neither,” you admit, draping an arm over Charlie’s shoulders. “But it feels right, you know?”

Even with sleepy eyes and unbrushed hair, she flashes you a smile that makes your heart flutter. As if to return the sentiment, she tilts her head up to peck your lips.

“Now,” she says, “about that ‘I think I’m in love’…”

Tags: @ellie-andthemachine @gaybrieljax @electraphyng @emerald-watermelon-199 @mersuperwholocked-lowlife​

[floralseokjin]

— aquiver | 01 (m)

aquiver (adj.) [uh-kwiv-er] in a state of trepidation or vibrant agitation; trembling; quivering

Yoongi can’t remember the last time he was able to successfully bring himself to the point of orgasm, then Namjoon gives him a business card advertising ‘Healing Hands’, and that’s where he meets you; pretty and innocent looking, who gets paid to provide hand jobs for a living…

pairing | min yoongi x reader genre/warnings | mature themes, talk of masturbation, smut, language words | 10,110

» 01 :: 02 :: 03 :: 04 :: 05 :: 06 :: 07 :: 08  ✓

“You busy?” Namjoon asked, popping his head around the corner of Yoongi’s bedroom. It was just him tonight; Jin was still at the dance room practicing for what felt like all day—Hoseok with him, teaching him—the patience of a god, but Yoongi knew his attempts were futile to say the least. Yoongi shook his head in reply, not bothering to use actual words as he stiffened his back against his desk chair. He was still embarrassed about the other day.

Namjoon had caught him in a not so flattering position at his studio. By unflattering, he meant sweats slung down his hips, dick in hand, headphones on and porn on full blast. He’d had the fright of his life when he’d heard an uncomfortable cough behind him after the video had stopped and turned to find Namjoon there, his eyes open wide, but not hiding the amused grin that threatened to spill into full on belly rolling laughter.

Somehow he’d found himself admitting that he hadn’t been able to jerk one out in what seemed like months—hell, it could have even been months for all he knew—He stopped counting the days after a while. What were friends for if you couldn’t tell them your deepest, darkest secrets…? Well it wasn’t that dark, but Namjoon got the message. He probably could have gotten the message anyway, the fact that the porno had just ended and he still hadn’t come yet give the game away.

It’s not like he hadn’t tried. There was no problem getting it up, so to speak, but maintaining his erection long enough was the problem, especially when there was no sign of coming any time soon. He’d watched every porn imaginable: threesomes, gangbangs, orgies, lesbian, hentai… The list went on and most of the time his dick just fell limp, leaving him more sexually frustrated than ever.

He’d even gone as far as to imagine past real life experiences—like that time when he was eighteen and the girl who broke his heart not long after had sucked his dick for the first time. He’d never quite lost control like that before. His whole body had shook with pleasure to the extent that at one moment in time he thought his skin would just fall of his bones. In hindsight, she was a cheater who got around a lot, but nothing had been hotter than watching her suck his dick that night—nothing, but alas, not even the thought of that could make him come. Maybe there was something wrong with him? It sure felt like it…

Namjoon had surprisingly not been that bothered by Yoongi’s little confession. In fact, he said it happened to him all the time. Nothing compared to a women’s touch he had said, and sometimes that’s just what men needed…

“I have this place I, er… go to,” he insinuated and Yoongi watched him for a moment confused until his eyes widened in shock, realisation hitting him.

“What?? Like a brothel?” He half shouted in disbelief.

What a fucking pervert. If he thought Yoongi was just going to one, he needed to re-evaluate their friendship.

“No! Not a brothel per say… More like a softcore one, but like, it’s not a brothel, more like a shop — They don’t have sex with you or anything, just give out hand jobs for money.” Namjoon watched Yoongi eyeball him some more, before carrying on, trying to make it better, but essentially making it worse.

“Like, they’re all pretty girls! No old women—honest.”

Yoongi scoffed in disbelief. As if that would change his mind! He wasn’t going to go to any sex shop to pay for a hand job. He’d rather die an old, stubborn git with about ten gallons of come still left inside of him, that was for sure.

However, here was Namjoon again… two days later, walking into his room with a small rectangular card in his hand. Healing Hands, Yoongi read silently, as he placed it down on his desk.

He scoffed, ignoring the feeling of his cheeks burning red raw. Was this guy serious?

“What the hell does that mean?” He asked, nodding his head in the direction of the card.

“It’s the shop I was on about.” Namjoon answered, sitting down on Yoongi’s bed, making himself comfy. “It’s called that because it’s a psychic house—You know, they do tarot readings and they have mystic balls and shit. Only thing is they have a place out back where they dole out hand jobs for like fifty bucks.”

Yoongi couldn’t believe his ears. He knew the words were coming out of Namjoon’s mouth, but they didn’t make sense. Psychic shops, mystic balls and hand jobs. This was something out of a book—it had to be, and Namjoon had been there!

“Did you ever think about using that mystic ball so it could tell you how wack you’re being right now?!” He yelled out frustrated. “I’m not going to any dirty old sex shop which is probably riddled with disease.”

Namjoon sighed out loud, his eyes rolling so far back into his head that all Yoongi could see was white. “Well, you better do something soon, because you’ve been an intolerable idiot lately—to everyone! It’s not our fault you can’t make yourself cum!” Namjoon shot, standing up and making his way to the door.

Yoongi sat gobsmacked at his outburst, unable to form words, the awkwardness of the situation finally getting to him and rendering him speechless. Was this actually happening right now…?

“All I’m saying is—just try it. You’ll be surprised. It’s not what you expect—honest,” Namjoon tried again, his voice softer this time, before he left.

His parting words rang inside Yoongi’s head as he sighed in frustration, running his fingers through his dark hair. This was ridiculous. He could make himself come if he wanted. He knew he could, and he found himself pulling his dick out of his sweats, fondling himself, trying to make himself hard—but it was to no avail. He was still as limp as a rag. This was useless.

He tried to imagine anything—a girl doing it, or maybe using her mouth; the wet, warmth of her tongue, or maybe the wet and warmth of some other body part as she bounced up and down on him. However, nothing worked. It was like trying to get blood from a stone, and he practically screamed in exasperation as he stuffed his dick back in his underwear. He couldn’t even get hard now? Why was the world punishing him like this?

He looked over at the card on his desk. He doubted the hands were as ‘healing’ as they said they were, probably calloused and dry, but the more he stared at the card the more he found himself caving…

He shook his head, as if waking himself out from under a spell and picked the rectangle up, throwing it in the trashcan—just to be on the safe side. It hit the bottom next to some snack wrappers and he kicked the bin away with a huff.

He needed to avoid temptation. He wasn’t giving in…

The next day he came home from his studio to find Jin already in their room, lying on his bed eating ramen straight from the pot. Yoongi paused once he put his bag down at the foot of his own, wondering if he should ask the older boy for some advice. Seeing as he was older he knew there was less of a chance Jin would tease him. The others would just laugh at his misfortune or like Namjoon, fill his head with stupid ideas. It was now or never, and he quietly slumped on his bed before turning to face him.

“Hey man… Can I ask you something?” He began slowly, not really knowing how he should approach this.

Jin met his gaze questioningly, but when he saw the look on Yoongi’s face it turned brighter, as if he knew what he was going to say already, “Is this about your problem down south?” He asked, raising his eyebrow as his eyes trailed towards Yoongi’s crotch.

Yoongi spluttered. How did he already know?

“Namjoon told me,” he answered the silent question, not bothering to say anymore, and Yoongi silently seethed. Who else knew? The whole dorm probably.

“Don’t worry I haven’t told anyone.”

God, was he a mind reader now? Did he happen to work at Healing Hands? He seemed to know a lot.

“So I guess he also told you about that place?” Yoongi asked, choosing to ignore his own discomfort and plod on through.

Jin nodded, putting down his now finished cup of noodles and turned to face him. “Of course.”

“What do you think I should do?” He was almost certain he’d get more sense out of Jin.

“Well… you really can’t make yourself cum?” Jin asked matter of factly, and Yoongi gaped at his openness, feeling his cheeks heat up, before stuttering out a no.

“Hmm—what do you think of when you’re doing it?” He interrogated, and Yoongi began to feel uncomfortable. This was getting weird now, all he wanted to know was if he should go to the damn hand job store.

“Well, I don’t know. Just stuff… things… The usual.” He shrugged, not making eye contact.

“Wow, Yoongi. Those damn things always—without a doubt—turn me right on!” He replied with sarcastic astonishment, his facial features contorting as he joked, and Yoongi rolled his eyes.

“You know what I mean. It’s just nothing ever happens. I’ve tried everything, and I mean everything. I’m so blocked up, I’ll need a plunger soon!” He complained, his voice gaining volume and he dropped his head into his hands when he heard the older boy laugh, annoying and squeaky, and he wanted to curl up and die right there and then.

Jin heard him sigh in defeat, feeling guilty. It wasn’t really a laughing matter, he knew that. He’d been there himself—he guessed everyone had at some point in time.

“Look—let me tell you a little secret.” He began, and Yoongi looked up in curiosity, his dark hair in array. “The other month I too, couldn’t make myself come… so, I just got some help.” He explained simply and he watched Yoongi’s forehead crinkle in confusion, before, slowly, realisation flashed across his eyes.

“Oh god—not you too!” He groaned, his head back in his hands, and then it was Jin’s turn to frown.

“Hey! Don’t knock it until you try it.” Jin scolded, “Honestly, it was perfectly fine. You just go in, talk a little and then she gets down to business. I had this really nice girl—we spoke about our hobbies and we even had the same favourite film!”

Yoongi watched in silent horror as Jin went on and on. Trust him to make friends with a hooker. That’s what she was, right? Or was it different when they were all in the same building? Did it become a brothel? He had no fucking clue, but he couldn’t believe his ears. Who else had gone to this damn place? Fucking Jungkook?

“Look, if you still aren’t keen on the idea, then let me tell you this.” Jin added, standing up from his bed, and Yoongi guessed he was about to leave. “After it was done, I’ve had no problem knocking one out since—It was like a miracle cure. Maybe because it’s a psychic house, I don’t know… but honestly—

“You do realise that’s just a gimmick, right? They’re not actually psychic? They just used that so they dish out illegal sex acts without getting caught.” He interrupted, and Jin sighed in frustration.

“God! Does not being able to make yourself cum turn you into an insufferable bastard? ‘Cos you’re really beginning to annoy me. You’re the one with the problem—not me. I got mine sorted, like I suggest you do—because one thing’s for sure, I’m not helping you out.” He lectured, opening their bedroom door to exit. “I mean, I love you Yoongi—but not that much!”

At his parting words, he was gone, and Yoongi was alone again, left with himself to mull things over. Maybe Jin was right. He was becoming an insufferable bastard, Namjoon had said more or less the same thing yesterday, and if what Jin had said was true… maybe it would cure his little problem. It was worth a shot, right?

He quietly crept towards his trash can, taking a deep breath before he put his hand inside, rifling around for that damn rectangular card. It went against everything he believed in—but he was desperate, and it needed to work.

He chose a Sunday. Sunday seemed like a good idea. It would be quiet, he hoped. He hadn’t told anyone he was going because he didn’t need any ‘I told you so’s’ from Namjoon or Seokjin, so he’d said he was going to his studio to try and write. In reality, he was taking a taxi to the address, stopping ten meters short so he could walk the rest of the way and calm himself, because his heart was beating ninety to the dozen.

Every step closer to the building he took, the heavier his breathing got, until he had to prop himself up against a wall, his head leaning back so his bangs fell into his eyes as he tried to steady himself.

He’d thought about wearing a mask to cover most of his face, but he didn’t want to scare the poor girl. He would just have to brave it and hope she didn’t recognise him. That’s what he was most worried about, right? His career would be over if he got found out.

He shook his head at his own arrogance. There was no chance the person would know him, and if she did, she was sworn to secrecy regarding her clients. He would be fine – for the most part… He just had to get over his nerves. He would just have to think of it as if it was his first performance in front of a crowd. Only it was a different kind of performance and there was only one person watching…

Oh god. He moved swiftly, before he lost his nerve, stopping in front of the shop as he arrived. It was dark. The bricks paint black, with one measly window that was semi-opaque – like those in a bathroom. You couldn’t see in, and they couldn’t see out, bar for some blurred colours. The door was wooden – painted a dark purple, and the sign above read ‘Healing Hands’ in the same colour, one side hanging crooked as if it hadn’t been secured properly. He grimaced, put off by the exterior, but he knew he had to do this. It was the only way he would be able to function properly. He needed to find out if the problem was him or his dick.

So, he opened the door firmly, the handle creaking as he turned it and a bell chimed to indicate his arrival as he walked through the threshold. Thankfully it was quiet. No one sat in the foyer, (he guessed that’s what he should call it) bar a woman of about forty years of age at the desk— a receptionist, he guessed again.

She didn’t look up as he entered, or as he made his way towards her, and he actually had to cough to gain her attention when he had been standing there awkwardly for a few seconds. He felt his cheeks already heating up as she looked up from the magazine she was reading with her eyebrow raised.

“Yes?” She asked him.

“Erm—hi—I…”

Oh no. He’d been so focused on actually getting himself here, he hadn’t once wondered what he actually asked for when he did. This place was camouflaging as a psychic house for crying out loud. There were probably code names for things, and he nervously scratched the back of his neck, looking around the room nervously. Posters adorned the walls, showing mystic balls and other make believe shit, most curling at the corners, the tack that stuck them to the wall, becoming dry. The walls themselves were also purple, matching the exterior door and sign, and he searched for something—anything, that could help him out.

“What do you want?” The woman asked again, quite obviously losing patience, and he looked at her again, visibly scared. “I’m guessing you don’t want your tarot read—so what is it?”

Yoongi couldn’t help the look on his face as he balked at her. What the hell did that mean? This was getting all to weird… was it too late to leave? He could already feel his spine prickle as he broke into a cold sweat. His heart now motionless as he practically died from embarrassment, but he inwardly shook his head, telling himself to pull together—he was so close to that sweet release he’d been craving for months he could taste it, and his stomach stirred just at the thought.

“I-I need some…help…?”

The words came out weak and dubious, as if he was asking her what he needed, for a split second wanting to joke and scrap it, changing help to healing, but he thought a joke wasn’t the best thing in a situation like this, and Mrs. Grouchy didn’t look like she’d appreciate it anyway.

The woman let out a sigh, as if she heard this every night—well she probably did, and motioned her head to a sign standing on the desk, “which one?”

Yoongi followed her movement with a frown, unsure of what she was on about until he began reading it in his head. Oh shit. There were timed sessions? Each option was called ‘Palm Reading’ (very fucking original, he thought) with a length and a price next to it, and he skimmed over each quickly, having a mental breakdown as the information sunk in. The cheapest option, ten minutes, was definitely too short; he wasn’t even sure if he could get himself hard in that allotted time, especially in front of a stranger, and he wondered who was magic enough to slip one out that quickly? It seemed impossible to him now.

The most expensive, an hour, just seemed to scream fucking desperate. How sad and lonely did you have to be to pay $125 for a wank that lasted an hour, and he shuddered at the thought. There were other options, varying in length and price in between, but he settled on the middle one—thirty minutes for $65. It was pricey, and maybe way too long, but he needed damage control. He couldn’t even think about what he’d do if he couldn’t even come during this, probably run out, curl up into a ball and die of humiliation.

“Option four, please,” he muttered, and he cringed at his use of please—he wasn’t asking for a fucking ice cream.

“Palm reading 4?” She asked, as if she was taunting him, and he nodded woodenly, feeling the shame wash over him. “That will be $65, please,” she requested with a false smile and Yoongi groaned in his head, reaching behind to pull his wallet out of his back pocket, quickly dishing out the notes onto the counter. Was this what his life had become? Paying for sexual favours?

“Thank you,” she said, taking it from him and placing it in the ancient till underneath the counter. “I realise this is your first time, so take this and read it.” She told him, handing him a pamphlet from beside the till. “Company policy—once you’re done reading, knock on the first door to your left, and wait to be called in. Have fun—you’re her first customer of the night.” She informed him, another taunting smile on her face and Yoongi grimaced, taking a step back as he realised there were doors in this room—he’d been so caught up in wondering what to say, he hadn’t even noticed, but obviously duh, what did he expect? Where else they go for some privacy?

He turned his back to the woman at the counter, turning his attention to the pamphlet as he began reading, his face paling as he got further and further into it. No touching, well, again, duh. No lewd language or actions, no shit. Make sure you’re clean and your hygiene is as perfect as can be—okay, gross… but yeah, he’d had a shower before he’d left, obviously, and lastly, MAKE SURE YOU HAVE NO STI’S (WE CAN TELL). Really though? They could tell? Not all the time, and he shifted on his feet, anxiety setting in. This was all too real. This was sex he was thinking about, about to do—obviously not full blown sex, but a sexual act nonetheless. His dick was about to be in a woman’s hand—a strangers hand… and he didn’t know whether to feel excited or scared, both probably, as he turned to face the woman at the counter again, wondering if he should let her know he was done reading, but it turned out she’d been watching him the whole time, and as she saw him looking, she plastered a false smile across her face again, a non-professional good luck leaving her as he stuffed the paper in his pocket.

Why the hell did she keep saying shit like that, who was behind this door? She was going to have a good laugh about this later on, and probably with the person behind the door… He was getting scared out of his wits now, and he took a deep breath as he raised his fist to the wooden door, knocking lightly, unable to be firm.

“Come in,” a voice rang from inside, and he faltered. It wasn’t what he was expecting, almost sweet, definitely young; or maybe he was being tricked and when he walked in it would be some eighty-year-old woman… Yoongi wasn’t ageist, but he didn’t think that would help get him off, he’d have a hard-enough time anyway, even if the girl was a supermodel…

He took a few more deep breaths, his chest squeezing when the woman at the desk sighed in impatience, and he just went for it, gripping his hand on the handle as he twisted and opened the door slowly, knowing that when he’d leave this room, he’d have probably had an orgasm… hopefully… and he tried to stop his heart from racing as he entered and looked up, meeting your eyes.

His first thought was, wow. What the hell were you doing working in a place like this? No judgment, but you were light years away from the woman as the desk. Yoongi was crap at guessing ages, but he thought you were around his age, maybe a couple of years younger at the most. Next was, she’s so pretty… Yoongi hadn’t spent a lot of his life chasing after women, not after is popularity began to grow and he became more invested in his work (ha, like he wasn’t already…but everyone got the picture). Woman just weren’t on his list yet, but he knew when someone was pretty—and here you were, standing in front of him as pretty as can be, your smile soft as you eyed him, and he realised you were waiting for him to close the door.

He mumbled to himself, not making sense as he tried to apologise and turned to shut it, watching the last bit of outside as he it clicked shut. This was it, no turning back. He was either going to come, or not, and he shuffled back to face you, unsure of what to say or do. You—the stranger was about to have your hand wrapped around his dick, going to see him at his most vulnerable, and the thought made him feel a little sick. He was already turning bashful, and he looked everywhere but your face as you spoke.

“Is this your first time? Or have you been before—just you’ve never been to me?” You asked curiously, and Yoongi faltered. You could swear he was going to some therapy session or something—well, in some way he was…

“ ‘m first time,” he mumbled, eyes now definitely skimming his surroundings as he felt his cheeks redden.

It wasn’t what he suspected. He didn’t really know what he had imagined, maybe to be as grotty as the receptionist room? But no, this was… sterile—clean, almost like a doctor’s room, walls plasterboard white with matching while tiles, a—and there was no other way to describe it—doctors bed akin to those they examine patients on, in the corner of the room, and a seat next to it, followed by a tray on a little side desk, complete with lotion and a box of tissues. This was too clinic, Yoongi thought. He didn’t know what was worse—too grubby or too sterile. He felt as if he’d been abducted by aliens. He must’ve been to be here.

“Do you want to sit down?” You said, your voice filling the room once again, sounding awkward as you watched him just stand there, as if he was here for the scenery, and he focused on your face long enough to see you jut your head in the direction of the bed—the death bed, that’s what Yoongi wanted to call it. He could feel his impending demise looming already.

“All this standing about is eating into your time,” you pointed out, a giggle in your throat and as he looked at you, trying to push his own body into the corner of his room, you must have seen the fear in his eyes because you smiled sweetly as you followed closely behind him, a reassuring look in your eyes as you spoke again.

“It’s okay to be nervous,” and Yoongi took a deep breath—he was more than nervous, he was in near pandemonium, every nerve in his body fighting with one another, and he tried to keep his voice calm as you asked him a question.

“How long do we have?”

“Thirty minutes,” he mumbled again, sure his voice was becoming more and more hard to decipher as he went on.

You give him a pointed look, “You better not be lying to me,” and Yoongi turned panicked, before you laughed, hitting his shoulder lightly, “I’m only joking, just to lighten the mood,” you explained. “I’m the happy one—if you got anyone else, you’d already be laid down and half way to cumming by now.”

Yoongi’s eye widened at your frankness, not understanding if he should already feel turned on. So far nothing was happening down there and he dreaded to think what he would do if he couldn’t get hard.

“Don’t get me started on Greta out front,” you grumbled. “If you lied, she’s gonna be knocking on that door soon…” and Yoongi couldn’t help but smile.

She was called Greta, that figured… He must have said it out loud accidentally because he heard you giggle, and his eyes widened in surprise, and then he felt a wave of pride wash over him—he’d already made you laugh, that had to be something, right? He could do this, it wasn’t that bad. All he had to do was sit there and get jerked off. It would all be okay.

“So, do you want to sit down, or lay down?” You asked, watching him hover his butt on the bed, and he froze. He definitely did not want to lay down—that would be extremely vulnerable, so he went back to what he was doing and sat, practically perched on the edge.

“Sitting down it is then,” you noted, watching him look at you sheepishly, “but scoot up because you may fall off once we get started.”

He knew you were joking, trying to lighten the mood, or whatever, but it wasn’t working, his whole body was tense and as he slid further back on the bed he actually thought his heart was about to give out. He looked back at you once seated, and he watched you take your own seat on the swivel chair, gliding towards him as if you were about to examine him, and he felt everything clench as you watched him right back, your eyes fleeting from his face to his crotch.

He was definitely not hard yet, not even close—in fact, he was the complete opposite, more than the opposite—it had probably shrivelled up in anxiety, and his hands began to shake. How did this shit work? Did he have to get himself hard? Because there was really no way that was possible right now, and on the reverse, the thought of you trying to get him hard was scary as fuck. There were too many thoughts flying around his head right now.

It wasn’t a time to feel self conscious, but what if it turned out is dick was ugly? Like this whole time, he’d been on this earth—twenty-four years, there was something odd with his dick. Obviously, the chances were it was formed perfectly fine, but he could never be too sure. Maybe that’s why he’d never been able to hold a relationship for longer than a few months at a time…? He shook his head, pulling himself out of his thoughts—of course there was nothing wrong with him… well except for the fact he couldn’t make himself come…

“It’s okay,” you reassured him, smiling again, and Yoongi gulped as the next words left your mouth, your hand already resting on his knee. “You don’t need be hard straight away—how about we get to know each other for a bit whilst I…”

You trailed off, letting your hand do the explaining as he felt it begin to trail up his thigh, his breathing quickening instantly. Fuck, you were going for his dick and his first thought was to push it away, panic setting in as he watched you, counting down the seconds until you met his limp, embarrassing dick, but suddenly you stopped, just under the head, as if you knew where it rested against the in side of thigh.

“What’s your name?” You hummed, and Yoongi looked up from his lap, forehead scrunched as what he’d been anticipating never came, and he took a moment to process the question, feeling out of sync with his body as he heard his voice bounce of the walls and buzz in his ears.

“Yoongi.”

He could have facepalmed at that very moment if his hands weren’t shaking at his sides. Why the hell did he have to use his real name? The chances were slim that you actually knew who he was, if so, he would have definitely noticed your reaction as soon as he walked in, but still—how stupid was he? He should have just chosen a false name. He didn’t have much more of a reaction time when suddenly he felt your fingertips move, literally skimming the head of his dick, and to his surprise, it twitched. It was actually alive, and he had a hard time concentrating on anything else as you continued, gauging his reaction at first to see if he was comfortable.

He didn’t dare move a muscle as you began to massage your fingers around his girth, pressing and gliding as you went, before using your whole hand to fondle him over his sweats, your palm rubbing and rolling against him. He was still frozen as a thousand thoughts ran through his head a mile a minute—when was the last time a member of the opposite gender had touched him like this? Honestly, probably since the last time he’d had sex—a year ago.

It already felt different—nothing like his hand, and he watched yours move intently, breathing through his nose, ignoring every scream inside his head that told him this was wrong and that he should run out. The thought that told him how embarrassing it would be to come in front of a stranger—a pretty stranger at that—because he knew he was going to lose the plot—if he was able to come, he was going to lose it so hard, weeks, nearly months of pent up frustration, gone—hopefully. But yeah, he ignored that scary thought, because he could already feel the blood rushing through his body, travelling to that one destination he needed it to be in—he was already feeling light headed and he had to speak, just to keep himself sane as you kept on palming him, your fingers tracking the outline of his balls ever so gently as he felt his stomach flip—fuck, something was happening. This was actually going to happen.

“What’s your name?”

His voice was barely a hum as he dragged his eyes back to your face, trying with all his might to keep it steady as you looked slightly shocked at him, as if you weren’t expecting him to talk anymore, given what was happening now, but you smiled anyway, your nose wrinkling up cutely as you spoke, and he had a strong feeling of misplacement. Here you were, hand on his dick, massaging him to hardness, about to jerk him off for money he’d paid out, when on the other hand, you were so innocent looking; delicate features, cutely watching him, that he didn’t know what to do. He almost wished Namjoon was wrong, and there were, as he so nicely put it…old people here. Yoongi almost prayed it was Greta in here, doing the job, because he was almost sure—after all this was said and done, he was going to have trouble getting it out of his mind, his stomach was already simmering in anticipated pleasure as he thought about your soft, cool hand wrapped around his dick, and he let out a groan, barely audible—he hoped, but he sinking further and further into the point of no return.

“Aurora,” you answered him, and Yoongi wanted to shoot himself in the foot. Of course, you would use a false name. You actually had brains, unlike him, and as if on cue you dismissed it quickly, “it’s not my real name…but I wouldn’t mind if it was.”

“It’s pretty,” he spoke, before he could stop and he cringed at himself. This really wasn’t the time, but you smiled anyway, sheepishly it seemed as you mimed a thank you. He went to explain himself more, even though he’d probably make it worse, when you cut him off, your hand stilling and leaving him, and he was surprised by how much he wanted to protest.

“I think you’re ready now,” you explained, rolling your chair to the tray as you pumped some hand cream in your hands and rubbed them together and Yoongi frowned, looking down to see the evident bulge in his sweats.

Damn—how did that happen? He knew he was half-there, feeling the sensations travel down to his crotch, but he hadn’t realised he was now rock solid—and that he was, suddenly as if by magic he could feel it, heavy in between his legs. How had it been that easy to get an erection? He hadn’t been able to get himself hard in just over a week. Maybe Namjoon was right—he just needed a woman’s touch…and he was definitely about to get it as you rolled back to him, to his side, your hands outstretching towards his thighs again.

“I-er—um…” Yoongi tried to say something, although what he wasn’t sure at this point, but it didn’t matter anyway because his mouth was bobbing open and closed like a goldfish anyway.

What if something went wrong. You were about to touch him—skin on skin, no clothing barrier. What if he went down in some sort of stage fright? What if you laughed at him? There were too many things rushing around his brain and then you asked the question that made his head spin.

“Do you want to pull your sweatpants all the way down, or just rest them on your hips?”

Wait—what? More options, as if the thought of you holding his dick in your fist wasn’t bad enough—him with his underwear around his ankles was not something he wanted to visualise. He’d scare you away with his bruised, knobbly knees and he began to freak out, your question rendering him speechless, reality setting in. He was sitting on some sort of clinic bed about to be robotically wanked like he was a good in a factory, and not only that, but by someone who was getting more beautiful by each passing second. Why did he ever listen to Namjoon and Jin? He’d have probably gotten more sense out of fucking Taehyung.

“Yoongi,” you nudged gently, shaking his thigh. “Don’t mean to rush you, but we only have fifteen minutes left.”

Your words shook him out of his crazy thoughts and he willed some sense inside of him. He came here to orgasm—before he exploded and he was going to leave ten times lighter than before if it was the last thing he did. He’d pay extra if needs must. He couldn’t leave disappointed, and with that he began to push his sweats down, ignoring how good his name had sounded coming from your mouth, as he followed with his pants, pulling both just past his hips as he made sure not to look down at the pathetic sight below, his dick springing free, surprisingly still hard, even after all his fretting.

He stared straight ahead at the wall, concentrating on reading some instructional poster on how to palm read (yes—really,) as he brought his hands down to his sides to grip against the side of the bed, nervously anticipating your touch, his legs subconsciously rocking as he tried to ease his nerves.

“Tell me if my hand’s too cold or dry, okay?” You asked, your voice low, easing him into it, and he felt your gaze at his face but he didn’t dare look in fear of spontaneously combusting, so instead, he just nodded stiffly, his jaw clenched, counting down the seconds.

He jumped when he felt your hand wrap around him, not expecting you to be so outright straight away. You mistook it for it being to cold, going to release your hold of him and he panicked, one of his own hands raising up to grip your wrist as he turned to face you, desperation in his eyes. If you let go now, it’ll all be over and he’d lose his nerve.

“Oh—it wasn’t cold?” You asked, and he shook his head, averting eye contact once again to stare at the wall, dropping his hand by his side.

“No—just’a surprise,” he mumbled quickly, surprised he even still had a voice.

He saw you nod from his peripheral “It’s okay to be nervous, you know? This isn’t exactly a normal everyday situation. Just try to relax and pretend I’m not here okay—just concentrate on the feeling.”

You were trying to soothe him again, and for the most part it worked, although curiosity nibbled at him when he heard the slight displeasure in your voice when it came to the normality of this. Did you not enjoy your job? Stupid question probably and one he had no right to ask, so instead, he tried to imagine he was in his bed, it wasn’t you with your hand around him—someone else, a girlfriend maybe—a faceless one, but one nonetheless, and he was enjoying his leisurely time in bed—no timer and he definitely didn’t have to pay for it. The thought was nice, but then you squeezed your palm around him, beginning to glide it upwards and his breath hitched, pleasure shooting through his body in different directions as you slid back down, slowly for the most part—setting a pace, as you tried to warm him up.

Shit. This felt good. You’d only moved a couple of times and his skin was already tingling, warmth radiating from his dick to the pit of his stomach and even making his toes curl as he kept his gaze intent on the wall. His hand never felt this good, for obvious reasons—he wasn’t a woman. You began to pump him faster and the pleasure kept on coming, surprising him greatly as it came so easy to him, and he dug his blunt nails into the cushion of the bed, having to grit his teeth as he breathed heavily, trying not to make a sound, pushing all thought of how stupid he looked right now out his head, especially when he felt you run your thumb over his sensitive head, smearing what can only be called his precum—something he hadn’t seen in so long, and as he felt it dampen the tip he almost wanted to look down just to see for himself, but he stopped, jaw clenched as you smeared more, catching more of his skin as you squeezed around the head and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop the grunt that left him, the pleasure shooting through his veins like molten lava, making him feel tense and light-headed.

You guessed then, that he liked that, and you ran your fist faster around his dick, making sure to twist and squeeze as you reached the top. Men were simple creatures, Yoongi thought—you didn’t need very many moves to get them going when done right, and that’s what you were doing right now. He didn’t even think it was possible for someone other than him to do a better job to himself (even though he was a bright one talking,) but he was slowly losing himself, the picture of his faceless girlfriend suddenly resembling you a little and he couldn’t stop more grunts from leaving his tightly lipped mouth, your hand now sliding down his shaft with such a force, every time it hit the base it sent a thud and a vibration to his balls; painful pleasure that had him curious.

It wouldn’t hurt to look down, he was sure of it. He was sick of looking at the wall and he needed a different visual, one that was making his body begin to vibrate. He peaked a look, hanging his head a little to test the waters and let out a groan. His dick had never looked better in someone else’s hand. It even looked bigger because your hand was so small, and he leant back a big, adjusting the angle so he could watch clearer, his arms beginning to tremble, and if his jacket was off, his veins would probably be pulled taunt to the skin, his grip on the bed tightening with every jerk of your hand.

You had painted your nails a bright pink and they popped against the redness of his dick’s head as you rolled your fingers over it, smearing more of the precum that kept on leaking out of him—a reminder that he was for sure going to come before he left this room, and just the thought alone had his chest begin to heave, his mouth finally opening to let out small pants as his balls began to ache a little—not truly at the end, but he felt the cogs turning, like a stiff motorcycle being started for the first time in years. Honestly, it felt like his sperm was travelling all the way from his toes—traveling from all points of his body as he began to tighten and shake with the feeling. He had so much come in him he wouldn’t be surprised if it had to be stored in different pockets in his body…not that it was possible, but if it was, that’s what was happening to him right now, and his body reacted once more when you squeezed again at his head, stilling all movements to press your closed palm against the sensitive skin, before pumping your hand at a quicker, more vigorous pace.

His head flew back, a noise so unlike him leaving his throat he was stunned for a moment; it was borderline desperate—a man crazed as his panting got louder, coming from his open mouth with a rattle as his fringe hung in all directions, his jaw slack and he didn’t care what he looked like right at that moment in time—he just wanted to come—to feel your smooth—so totally not calloused—hand work him past the point of no return. His reaction must have shocked you a little though, because your movements faltered as he felt your gaze on him, and he was so far gone, his voice left him like a plea.

“Please—please, don’t stop.”

He didn’t care how desperate he sounded, he just needed this. He could feel every nerve in his body prick up as you listened, adjusting your hand to just surround the head of his dick now as you concentrated on getting him to his destination. One way ticket to cumsville, and he almost scoffed—Jin would probably like that one, his sense of humour was skewed, but he didn’t want to waste time thinking of him—or jokes, as he felt sweat begin to form at his hair line, perspiration lines running down his temple as he couldn’t help but groan again, trying to concentrate on the feeling of your hand against his dick, your wrist snapping quickly over the sensitive flesh as his stomach twitched and his groin muscles clenched.

It was honestly stated to feel painful now. He could tell he was close—he could never forget that feeling—but he didn’t remember it being this hard to follow through. It was as if his sperm was fighting against some invisible wall, trying to penetrate it—trying to break free, but it was proving harder to do, and he was very aware his face was flushed as he grit his teeth again, using every last bit of will power he had (which wasn’t much after coming to this place,) to push himself over the invisible line.

He almost forgot you were here he was concentrating so hard, until he brought his hands to his thighs to grip instead, his hands sweaty from the faux-leather furnishing of the bed, sort of wishing he had chosen to lay down because right now he was in fear of falling backwards, feeling the painful pleasure lap in waves around his body—that was until he realised your hand was already atop his thigh, the pads of your fingers massaging circles into his cloth covered skin, as if to subdue him through his mental breakdown, and his fingers pressed on top of yours accidentally, the touch making electric shocks fly through him, warming up his chest before flying to his dick, the tip twitching at another unfamiliar, but oh-so needed touch that he had missed.

When had your hand even gripped his thigh, had it always been there and he was too preoccupied in himself to realise? Well, duh, this was about him anyway. You obviously took no pleasure in this—just another weak-willed man losing his shit over a wank—men were capricious creatures and god; did he know it. Was touching you like this alright? He meant, it wasn’t inappropriate, right? He was just trying to gain a grip on himself to plunge him back to reality because right now it didn’t seem like he was on this planet. However, you didn’t move, just let his sweaty fingers squeeze around yours, his knuckles turning white as his balls ached further. The thought of you massaging them flashed through his mind, but he didn’t know if requests were a thing, and he was too embarrassed anyway, so he kept shtum, pressing his toes into the tiles on the floor as his whole body began to tremble.

He was so close, but something was holding him back. He could feel it, but he didn’t know what. He needed something else, not even the attention to his balls, even though it had felt nice when your fingers had glazed over them earlier—but something more, something emotional rather than physical. It wasn’t just the touch of another he’d missed, but something else…and he couldn’t think what it was, until you spoke again, your voice breathy and mellifluous—calling him, encouraging him—helping him…

“Yoongi, it’s okay—just let go for me.”

He turned his head to face you, the first time since you’d started, his eyes open wide as he continued to pant and he felt he was really seeing you for the first time, eyes darting around your face; your mouth, parted, your cheeks slightly flushed with exertion and your eyes—blown out slightly as you watched him intently, and he frowned a little in confusion—you weren’t supposed to be enjoying this, were you? He was sure pupils dilated when somebody was sexually aroused… his were surely pure black by now, but the thought was gone before it had time to manifest inside his head, too far gone to questions things that didn’t really matter anyway…

His whole body was aquiver with pleasure, trembling so deep he could feel it in his bones, and he felt your hand slide out of his grip, grabbing ahold of his instead, to squeeze comfortingly, easing him through the craziest orgasm of his life, moans and grunts leaving him as he felt a tidal wave wash over him, his toes curling, the hair on the back of his neck pricking up and his jaw turning slack, but he kept his gaze on you, focusing on not only the feeling that was flying through him, but your face and your touch—a touch that felt magical and soon enough he felt his balls constrict, a feeling that he hadn’t known in weeks and suddenly he felt a warmth run up his dick the same time you stopped moving your hand and squeezed, sending bursts of white shooting out of him like a rocket, reams of it, some landing on his hoody, some dropping on his thigh, but most caking your hand as he let out the most impossible longest gasp of relief ever, his body still shaking as the pleasure still rolled through his body, buzzed in his veins, his head spinning as he tried to let out little tiny gasps to come back down to earth, the adrenaline rush more extreme than jumping out of a plane.

He was going to need a whole week to recover from this, feeling his forehead begin to turn clammy with his dried perspiration as his heart thudded first erratically, then slower down, pounding against his ribcage, his breathing rattled—his orgasm not only physical, but mental and emotional too, and he found himself blinking away tears that had pricked at the corners of his eyes, the relief so powerful he felt boneless.

He remembered your presence was he felt you with a tissue by his thigh—your hands already clean as you wiped at him, dabbing the spots that stained his hoody too, and he wondered when you had let go of him to clean up… He was in a daze, but his dick—now flaccid, could still feel the tingle of your embrace, and the thought made something stir in his stomach, warming his chest once again.

He tried to shrug you off in embarrassment when he felt you get a clean tissue and dab at his forehead, trying to get rid of the sheen of sweat, but he gave up in the end—what was the point—you’d already seen him at his most vulnerable, and now that the deed was done, he felt himself turn bashful again, blushing deeply as you asked a question that held a strong curiosity.

“When was the last time you did this?”

He knew you meant masturbating—it was obvious. No normal guy who did it often acted like this. No normal guy had reams of come fly out of him as if he’d been storing the shit for months—well, he had, he guessed… There was no escaping your frank question so he just shook his head, chuckling breathlessly in embarrassment.

“It’s been a while… I-I… it just wouldn’t happen…” he trailed off, not making any sense at all, but you got it anyway—of course you did.

“Well, I’m glad I could be of help,’ you smiled teasingly. “They don’t call these healing hands for nothing you know,” and you flaunted your hands in front of him, outstretching your fingers.

Yoongi chucked again, but this time genuinely as he relaxed a little, but still not wanting to meet your eyes as he pulled his sweats back up, his thighs still quaking together with the aftershock. He meant, it was awkward that you’d seen him a position like that and he’d probably cringe about it when he woke up tomorrow morning, but now he was okay…mostly because he’d received what he came here for and everything was again right with the world, but another part of him just felt strangely happy… probably still down to the orgasm though—and the fact he felt about two stone lighter.

He stood up slowly, not trusting his legs and not wanting to make a fool of himself anymore if he face-planted right in front of you and he took a few practice steps, his legs like jelly but working nonetheless, and he looked at you through his fringe, a mumbled, but sincere “thank you” leaving him. He meant it, and as he left the room, a jokey warning from you about “yes, you better leave, otherwise Greta will come,” making him laugh, he said his goodbyes, truly thankful that you had helped him.

It was embarrassing and awkward and a pretty wacky night’s event, but now he truly believed he was fixed. Namjoon and Jin had both said that after one go, they were able to masturbate again, and he called a taxi to take him back to the dorms with the chirpiest voice he’d ever used, a skip in his step as he made his way down the road. He was healed all thanks to your pretty little hands, and he chuckled in disbelief as he kicked a piece of trash around on the floor, seeing his taxi pull up on the curb—who’d have thought that place would have actually worked? The sceptic in him truly believed it was a load of shit, but maybe it did have some sort of psychic powers…

Yoongi was not laughing a week later, or actually, no—scrap that—He wasn’t laughing the next morning, when he woke up with morning wood so hard he thought he was made of adamantium. He couldn’t just deal with it in bed, not with Jin asleep beside him in the bed opposite, so he got up, hobbling into the bathroom to see if he could relieve himself under the soothing warmth of the shower head, but that’s when he knew he fucked up.

He’d fucked up good and proper, because when he gripped his length in his fist, tugging experimentally to test the waters, all he saw was you… His eyes weren’t even closed and all he could see was your face, all he could do was remember the way your hand felt on his dick. He couldn’t even jerk himself off because it just felt wrong.

He couldn’t use the memory of you last night to help him out. You’d already helped him once, it just felt wrong—illegal—to use you again, not without your permission. You probably had tons of pervy men using you for their own personal wank bank, and he refused to be one of them.

But obviously, that brought problems. He didn’t know what was worse—not being able to come from his own disfunction or not being able to come because he didn’t want to imagine you—because he knew he could orgasm no problem with those visuals—your hand wrapped around him with your nails painted pink, your cheeks flushed, your eyes blown out—which now that he’d had time to think about was utterly unexplainable that it hurt his head. You should have been unaffected, repulsed even, but no, there you were, haunting him in his dreams; your pretty face teasing him—morning, noon and night. Now, he was hard 24/7 and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He was so frustrated he wanted to scream. He’d gone from one extreme to the next, and his stupid morals wouldn’t let him live.

However, somehow his morals give him a bit of leeway when he found himself back in a taxi a week later. A Sunday again—exactly a week later and more or less the same time too. He’d told the guys he was going out for a couple of drinks this time, having not even let on that he had gone to the damn hand job store anyway. They didn’t need to know—no one did, and especially now that he was going back for round two…

It just made sense. He couldn’t let himself come to the thought of you, but he could because of you. He was paying for the service anyway, so it was all okay… that’s what he kept telling himself anyway, and it was the only thing he could think of to stop his balls from aching.

So, off he went, hood up as he opened the familiar purple door, the bell chiming as he entered, Greta reading her magazine to greet him (or not so,) once again. He walked forward with a confidence, now knowing what he needed to do—the process, he could say, and he coughed to get the old bags attention. He watched her look up, a flash of recognition in her eyes as she eyed him up and down, before raising her eyebrow.

“Yes?”

“Option number 5, please,” he hummed.

Yes—he was going for a full 45 minutes. He didn’t know why—he couldn’t explain it and he didn’t want to. He didn’t owe anything to anybody, so he took a deep breath and pulled out his wallet from his back pocket. It was his money—money he’d worked hard for, and he’d spend it as he saw fit.

He ignored Greta’s look of meek judgement before she spoke, a monotoned “$80” leaving her as he fished out the cash, and he took another deep breath, gearing up for the question he needed to ask, feeling his pulse quicken.

“Is Aurora here tonight?”

He wanted to cringe. He wanted to curl up into a ball and die, but he needed it to be you—Otherwise what was the point?

Greta nodded slowly, “if you want a request, it’s an extra twenty bucks,” and Yoongi stifled a grimace, willing himself not to feel humiliated as he pulled another note out and placed it on the desk. It was his money… He’d spend it on what he wanted…

“Thank you,” she smiled, creepily gleeful as she placed it in the register, making Yoongi shift under her gaze. “Take a seat, she’s busy right now. You’re gonna have to wait your turn,” and Yoongi felt his heart dip in his chest, the thought of you with another guy—something he’d tried not to think about… doing to them what you’d done to him just through the door to his right as he sat down on a rickety chair.

You didn’t owe him anything. He was doing this for him… No one else… He needed this, and he shifted in his seat, pulling at his sweats awkwardly as he tried to hide the boner that was already forming in sheer anticipation. He’d waited a week. He needed this… and then the door opened and out walked a guy in his late thirties—dirty bastard, Yoongi thought, shooting him a disgusted glance as the stranger walked out, not realising how hypocritical he was being right now—but before he could think straight, he heard your voice calling out a ‘next, please’ and he looked up to see you, excitement in his eyes just as surprise washed over yours…

Yes, he was back…he was just as surprised too.

[floralseokjin]

aquiver | teaser (m)

• pairing: min yoongi x reader

• genre/warnings: mature themes, talk of masturbation and sexual themes

→ summary: Yoongi can’t remember the last time he was able to successfully bring himself to the point of orgasm, then Namjoon gives him a business card advertising ‘Healing Hands’, and that’s where he meets you; pretty and innocent looking, who gets paid to provide hand jobs for a living…

• note. inspired by the novella ‘The Grownup’ by Gillian Flynn, literally just the character’s past occupation haha

aquiver (adj.) [uh-kwiv-er]  in a state of trepidation or vibrant agitation; trembling; quivering

“You busy?” Namjoon asked, popping his head around the corner of Yoongi’s bedroom. It was just him tonight; Jin was still at the dance room practicing for what felt like all day – Hoseok with him, teaching him – the patience of a god, but Yoongi knew his attempts were futile to say the least. Yoongi shook his head in reply, not bothering to use actual words as he stiffened his back against his desk chair. He was still embarrassed about the other day.

Namjoon had caught him in a not so flattering position at his studio. By unflattering, he meant sweats slung down his hips, dick in hand, headphones on and porn on full blast. He’d had the fright of his life when he’d heard an uncomfortable cough behind him after the video had stopped  and turned to find Namjoon there, his eyes open wide, but not hiding the amused grin that threatened to spill into full on belly rolling laughter.

Somehow he’d found himself admitting that he hadn’t been able to jerk one out in what seemed like months — hell, it could have even been months for all he knew — He stopped counting the days after a while. What were friends for if you couldn’t tell them your deepest, darkest secrets…? Well it wasn’t that dark, but Namjoon got the message. He probably could have gotten the message anyway, the fact that the porno had just ended and he still hadn’t come yet give the game away.

It’s not like he hadn’t tried. There was no problem getting it up, so to speak, but maintaining his erection long enough was the problem, especially when there was no sign of coming any time soon. He’d watched every porn imaginable: threesomes, gangbangs, orgies, lesbian, hentai… The list went on and most of the time his dick just fell limp, leaving him more sexually frustrated than ever.

He’d even gone as far as to imagine past real life experiences — like that time when he was eighteen and the girl who broke his heart not long after had sucked his dick for the first time. He’d never quite lost control like that before. His whole body had shook with pleasure to the extent that at one moment in time he thought his skin would just fall of his bones. In hindsight she was a cheater who got around a lot, but nothing had been hotter than watching her suck his dick that night — nothing, but alas, not even the thought of that could make him come. Maybe there was something wrong with him? It sure felt like it…

Namjoon had surprisingly not been that bothered by Yoongi’s little confession. In fact, he said it happened to him all the time. Nothing compared to a women’s touch he had said, and sometimes that’s just what men needed…

“I have this place I, er… go to,” he insinuated and Yoongi watched him for a moment confused until his eyes widened in shock, realisation hitting him.

“What?? Like a brothel?” He half shouted in disbelief.  

What a fucking pervert. If he though Yoongi was just going to one, he needed to reevaluate their friendship.

“No! Not a brothel per say… More like a softcore one, but like, it’s not a brothel, more like a shop — They don’t have sex with you or anything, just give out hand jobs for money.” Namjoon watched Yoongi eyeball him some more, before carrying on, trying to make it better, but essentially making it worse.

“Like, they’re all pretty girls! No old women — honest.”

Yoongi scoffed in disbelief. As if that would change his mind! He wasn’t going to go to any sex shop to pay for a hand job. He’d rather die an old, stubborn git with about ten gallons of come still left inside of him, that was for sure.

However, here was Namjoon again… two days later, walking into his room with a small rectangular card in his hand. Healing Hands, Yoongi read silently, as he placed it down on his desk.

He scoffed, ignoring the feeling of his cheeks burning red raw. Was this guy serious?

“What the hell does that mean?” He asked, nodding his head in the direction of the card.

“It’s the shop I was on about.” Namjoon answered, sitting down on Yoongi’s bed, making himself comfy. “It’s called that because it’s a psychic house – You know, they do tarot readings and they have mystic balls and shit. Only thing is they have a place out back where they dole out hand jobs for like fifty bucks.”

Yoongi couldn’t believe his ears. He knew the words were coming out of Namjoon’s mouth, but they didn’t make sense. Psychic shops, mystic balls and hand jobs. This was something out of a book – it had to be, and Namjoon had been there!

“Did you ever think about using that mystic ball so it could tell you how wack your being right now?!” He yelled out frustrated. “I’m not going to any dirty old sex shop which is probably riddled with disease.”

Namjoon sighed out loud, his eyes rolling so far back into his head that all Yoongi could see was white. “Well, you better do something soon, because you’ve been an intolerable idiot lately — to everyone!  It’s not our fault you can’t make yourself cum!” Namjoon shot, standing up and making his way to the door.

Yoongi sat gobsmacked at his outburst, unable to form words, the awkwardness of the situation finally getting to him and rendering him speechless. Was this actually happening right now…?

“All I’m saying is – just try it. You’ll be surprised. It’s not what you expect — honest,” Namjoon tried again, his voice softer this time, before he left.

His parting words rang inside Yoongi’s head as he sighed in frustration, running his fingers through his dark hair. This was ridiculous. He could make himself come if he wanted. He knew he could, and  he found himself pulling his dick out of his sweats, fondling himself, trying to make himself hard — but it was to no avail. He was still as limp as a rag. This was useless.

He tried to imagine anything – a girl doing it, or maybe using her mouth; the wet, warmth of her tongue, or maybe the wet and warmth of some other body part as she bounced up and down on him. However, nothing worked. It was like trying to get blood from a stone,  and he practically screamed in exasperation as he stuffed his dick back in his underwear. He couldn’t even get hard now? Why was the world punishing him like this?

He looked over at the card on his desk. He doubted the hands were as ‘healing’ as they said they were, probably calloused and dry, but the more he stared at the card the more he found himself caving…

He shook his head, as if waking himself out from under a spell and picked the rectangle up, throwing it in the trashcan — just to be on the safe side. It hit the bottom next to some snack wrappers and he kicked the bin away with a huff.

He needed to avoid temptation. He wasn’t giving in…