Chapter Text
The first BTS meet and greet/fansign in years is exactly what you had expected. A lot of screaming, crying ARMY, and very tired-looking idols who nevertheless plaster smiles on their faces and give each and every attendee personal attention and the boyfriend experience.
It's fun enough -- you feel like you don't belong here, though. You don't want the boyfriend experience. You're not even sure you want an autograph. You just want to say -- hi, your music means a lot to me, thanks for sharing it with the world.
You don't have a "you changed my life" story; you don't see them and want to cry; you don't want a hug. You do feel overwhelming happiness just being in the same room with them -- these guys are amazing and they share their joy with the world. And sometimes their sorrows too. You feel connected -- but you actually aren't thrilled by that, because it's not real. You aren't judging anyone else for liking it, but it makes you feel a little uncomfortable when you think about it.
You like things to be real, even when reality sucks. Maybe especially then.
You probably wouldn't be here except your friends went all in to get you here as an early birthday present, and you love them and would never ever want to hurt them by turning down their gift.
You're toward the end of the queue; you get to the table, you say, "Your music is very important to me, thank you for sharing it," and then you're done. Other ARMY offer their hands to shake, or accept hugs from the tannies; you bow politely.
And as people filter out, you really just... need a break. A minute. And this is why you still smoke. You go up to a security guard who clearly has a pack of cigarettes in his pocket and say:
"Hey, I saw we can't smoke outside by the front -- is there a place I can go? I just need, like, one cigarette before I go home."
You show him your pack of Arirangs, and you can see him debating with himself.
"If not, it's fine, man -- I don't want you to get in trouble," you say quickly, feeling kind of bad you're asking him to break the rules. "Sorry -- actually, I'll just --"
"Listen, don't tell any of the others, okay?" he says, and unhooks the chain keeping people away from the Employees Only door. "Don't post about this on Twitter."
"Man, my cigarette habits are a secret from everyone including my doctor," you tell him. "It's just between us."
"Through this door, and to the left down the hall. Tell the guy at the door at the end that Minjae, Jay, sent you to the clubhouse." He grins at you. "Have one for me, okay?"
"Jay, thank you so much," you say, and bow politely before you slip through the door.
It helps to be older, and look trustworthy. You don't have visible tattoos or wild hair. You took your facial piercings out when you got to Japan a few years ago and never put them back in; you keep your hair basic black and pulled back into a tight braid, don't wear much makeup. You consider yourself stealth. Stealth weirdo. The only obviously weird thing about you is your all-black ensembles, but you blend into many of the city professionals here, so no one can tell it's not because you're a professional, it's because you're weird.
You're a professional weirdo, anyway.
The hallway is mostly empty, except for a few guards, none of whom stop you. You get to the last door at the end, and there's another security guy. You wave your pack of cigarettes at him and say, "Hey, Jay said to tell you he's sending me to the clubhouse," and the guy grins at you and opens the door.
"Down the stairs, out the fire door -- the alarm won't ring, and the door won't lock behind you. Come back this way to leave -- you won't have to go through the front, we'll take you around the side so no one sees."
"Thank you so much, man," you say as sincerely as you can. You have "resting sarcastic voice" so sometimes everything you say comes out like you're being snotty; you have to remember to modulate your tone so it doesn't happen.
"We've gotta stick together," he says, and you laugh together.
It's three flights of stairs down to the fire door, which takes you out to what seems like a private parking lot. There's a tall, freestanding garbage can topped with a metal ash tray -- you haven't seen one of these in years.
You lean against the side of the building and light your cigarette and shut your eyes. It's quiet, no screaming, no crying, no people pressing against you. No fluorescent lights, no too-active HVAC.
You're a slow smoker, because it's not really about the nicotine -- it's about the calm, the break, the breathing. Meditation is awful, especially because you're sitting still; cigarettes mean movement and focus.
You stub out your first one and debate a second. The sun is shining brightly, you still have the whole afternoon and evening, and you're in a part of the city you don't usually come to. Maybe there's a nice cafe you can try, or a park you can sit in, or a bookstore.
You light a second cigarette just as the door opens and someone comes out.
"Do you have a light?" the person asks, and you hold out your lighter. Long pale fingers take it from you and when you glance up to the person's face, you freeze.
Oh.
"Thanks," he says, and hands back the lighter.
"Any time, man," you say, and go back to leaning against the wall with your eyes closed. But instead of focusing on the cigarette calming you down, you're trying to keep your composure, something you don't usually struggle with anymore.
"You were at the meet, right?" says Min fucking Yoongi.
"Yeah." You open your eyes again to look at him. "It was nice to meet you."
"Was it?" He grins a little crookedly, mouth closed.
"Sure, of course." You repeat what you said before, "Your music is very important to me."
"Yeah, I remember you said that." He takes a long drag of his cigarette. "You sound like maybe that's not true."
You sigh. "Yeah, I always sound sarcastic, I can't help it. Even when I try to, like, adjust my tone, I sometimes just sound sarcastic. Life is hard, what are you gonna do."
"Mn," he says, blowing out a long stream of smoke. "Sounds tough."
"Who sounds sarcastic now?" You raise your eyebrow at him and he laughs.
"Guilty." He grins a big grin this time. "Do you work here?"
"Huh? No -- I'm a tattoo artist, sometimes piercings." You realize what he's asking. "Security let me back here because... you know. We're smokers in a non-smoking world."
"Nice, nice," he says, nodding. "I thought maybe you snuck back to... whatever, right?"
"Ha, yes, I snuck all the way back here, to this out of the way parking lot, where I'm smoking a cigarette, in hopes of... what? Meeting Taehyung to secretly to start a torrid affair?" You laugh. "I'm not sure what the narrative is supposed to be here."
"Tae?" He reaches for another cigarette and lights it from the first one. You take out a third and light it with your lighter -- you promised yourself long ago you'd never be a chain smoker. You wouldn't even have three today, except... augh... how can you walk away from a Min Yoongi who is having a real conversation with you?
You shrug once your cigarette is lit. "Insert your own bias, I guess."
"Hm... What if my bias is me?" He raises his eyebrows. "Torrid affair with me?"
"Don't you guys fuck a lot of your dancers and stuff? You need a BJ from an ARMY?" As soon as you've said it, you wince. Wow, that's a lot of none of your business all at once. You can't help it though -- somehow you always end up being yourself.
He doesn't seem to take offense, just shrugs. "I'm not really into getting my dick sucked, actually..."
His eyes flick up and down you, your black cargo pants, your black t-shirt, your black jacket. You know what he's seeing, it's just weird that he's looking.
"I'm a giver," he smirks.
Okay, that's... hot.
"Are you?" you ask, and put your cigarette out without even taking more than the puff to light it. "Did you want to demonstrate that, or are we just having a fun adult conversation?"
He looks around the parking lot, then around the door.
"No cameras," he murmurs, and stubs his cigarette out too.
"I like to be full," you tell him, "so if you like to use your fingers, just remember that. I'll come fast if there's a lot of pressure."
"I really like to use my fingers," he says, and leans against you. "Do you kiss?"
"I do," you say, and put your hand between you, opening the button of your pants. You have never had sex outdoors, but there's a first time for everything. Min Yoongi wants to demonstrate his tongue technology? You're not saying no.
He kisses you and his fingers join yours unzipping your pants and tugging them down with your panties; you've never been so grateful to wear baggy pants, because it means they go down to your boots easily, and you can spread your legs. You kind of lose track of what your own fingers are doing as he gets to your clit and starts rubbing, plus his mouth -- his mouth, god, his tongue is strong and pushes at yours, his mouth is so soft and so pink as he leans in, even with the makeup rubbing off. He tastes like cigarettes and something bitter and lipstick, and you wonder wildly if he's going to rub his lipstick off on your mouth, smear it around. You'd be okay with that, you think. Maybe.
He's a good kisser, he makes you feel like you're the center of the world, and his fingers on your clit are... it's so good. You wish you could spread your legs more, you wish he'd put them inside you, you --
"Fuck," he moans into your mouth. "You're so wet already, what the fuck." You bite his lip and he groans, and then pulls away to sink to his knees.
His face goes right to your pussy, his tongue right to your clit. He pulls on your thigh to help push your knee to the side, get you more open for his fingers, rub them on your slit, get them inside you -- but he does it, and he goes in fast, multiple fingers, how many?
You tilt your head back against the wall and bury your hands in his hair. It's not as soft as it looks -- it's kind of crunchy, actually -- but you can get your fingers into it against his scalp, and when he makes some kind of noise, and uses his free hand to grab your ass, you pull a little.
His tongue is... wow, wow, wow, you're going to come so fast. Tongue technology is not a joke, and he's had so many years since he bragged about it to refine his technique. He tries a few different things before your legs start shaking, and then he sticks with it, like he is really paying attention and noticing what's happening in your whole body, like he realized when you clenched down on him what that meant, just like you realized what his noises meant when you touched his hair.
You're almost there, you just -- you need to spread your legs more, and you can't, so it's going to take longer, but he's so good, his mouth is so amazing, his fingers are so long --
The door creaks open, someone saying, "Hyung, do you have -- oh, for fuck's sake, Yoongi!"
You keep your eyes shut and flap your hand at the door. "Five minutes, five minutes," you gasp out, and the door bangs shut.
Yoongi's shoulders shake and he vibrates a little -- laughing, you think, but you can't laugh, you --
"Please, please," you beg, "more, please more --"
And he knows what you mean, you can tell, because he starts working another finger into you, and curls his fingers so they're hooking you, pulling forward, rubbing your g-spot, and that's it.
"Yes, god, yes, thank you, oh my god," you babble, and come on his face, legs shaking and stomach flipping, heart beating wildly.
He keeps his fingers inside you, leans his head on your leg. You can hear him sucking in deep gusts of air, even over your own panting, but he doesn't seem to be... moving. He's not jerking himself off, he's not doing anything, just has his mouth open against your thigh, nose at your clit, fingers still inside you, and... breathing.
You keep your hand in his hair.
Finally he lifts his head and says, "Okay?" and you sigh and say, "Yeah, yes..."
He slides his hand out of you and looks up at you from where he's crouched and... licks it off. Sucks his own fingers, licks between them, groans. "You taste so good."
"I eat a lot of fruit and don't drink any coffee," you tell him, and take your hand from his hair. "Are you sure you don't want... like... anything?"
"That was so good for me," he tells you, and leans in to kiss you on the mouth. He lets himself sag against you, pushing you up against the wall, and his fingers come back down to touch your clit.
"Ah --" you say into the kiss, and shiver.
"Too much?"
"No, no, it's good. I could go again if we had time." You huff a laugh and so does he, finally pulling back.
He licks his lips and makes a clicking noise with his tongue. "Sorry about Joonie."
"He probably just wanted a cigarette, poor guy," you say, pulling up your pants and zipping them. "I can't tell you how many times I've left a club for a cigarette and ran into people fucking in an alley or whatever."
"Really?"
"That cannot possibly surprise you," you say dryly, double checking your pants, and feeling in your pockets for your phone and your cigs. Then you look up at him and really look and... oh. "Um, your makeup."
"Oh!" He touches his face where his lipstick is smeared and his foundation and... whatever else is there... is wearing off around his mouth. "Shit."
"I don't have any makeup wipes or anything, but you might want to stop in the bathroom? Wow. I would apologize but I'm really not sorry."
He smirks. "Me either. See you around."
You laugh. "Yeah, catch you later."
He opens the door, but then leans over and kisses you again. Then he goes.
You smoke another cigarette before you leave. You stop in the bathroom to rub his makeup off your face. What a weird fucking day.