Warning(s): MDNI, little fluff, bittersweet, pining, mentions of sex & alcohol, language
Sometimes, when Ji-yong’s off tour, he gets this itch.
Not literal. Metaphorical. Tour ends, the lights shut off, and suddenly he’s just... still. No crew, no call times, no adrenalin. His body rests, but his brain? His brain starts looking for motion.
Sometimes, that motion looks like travel or locking himself in a studio for ten hours with nothing but the mic and his own ego.
And sometimes?
It looks like sex.
Nothing wild. Not news site-worthy orgies or some god complex fantasy. Just something familiar. People he trusts. Cities he knows. People who text back with a wink and nothing more.
Like his past hookup.
‘Still got the scratches?’
‘Healing. Thought about showing them off at dinner.’
‘Only if you don't want to get re-invited.’
Clean. Easy. Physical.
They know who he is. He knows who they are. No games. No post-coital eye contact loaded with unspoken questions. Just heat, good rhythm, maybe a laugh after. A nice arrangement for a man trying to forget he's too wired to sleep.
That was the plan tonight.
Not to sleep with them, specifically — they were in a different city — but to find something easy. Familiar. Maybe even new, if the stars aligned.
Friend of a friend was throwing this rooftop drinks thing. Low-key. Good crowd. Soft music. Warm enough to not be awkward about coats.
He almost didn't go.
And then he saw you.
Didn't even catch your name at first.
You were wearing an oversized jacket, boots, and jeans like you weren’t trying to impress a soul. No makeup obvious enough to notice, hair up like you’d been running late. And still? Still stunning.
Not in the blow-you-away, jaw-dropping model kind of way. In the... look again kind of way. Something in your mouth, or the way you held your glass like you knew what you liked.
You didn't even glance at Ji-yong.
Because he’s an easy man that got his attention real fast.
Ji-yong wandered over to the drinks, mostly to get closer.
"Is this the only wine," he asked you, "or am I about to embarrass myself by asking for red?"
You glanced at him. Not through him. At him.
He smiled. Charming but soft. The usual.
You blinked. "Think it's rosé-only tonight," you said. "Could be worse."
"Could be sangria," he offered.
"Could be boxed sangria."
Jesus. A real one.
He tipped his head and poured himself a glass. "To survival, then."
"To drinking questionable things on strangers' rooftops."
He liked that. He liked your voice, too. Low, a little raspy, like you didn't care enough to make it sweet.
"Are we strangers?" He asked.
"You tell me."
"What's your name?"
You told him. Just first. No Instagram handle, no mention of knowing who he was. He gave you his anyway.
"I'm Ji-yong."
"I know," you said, sipping your drink, not even looking at him anymore.
No smile. No fan-crazed glint. Just a fact.
Well, shit.
You both talked for over an hour.
Not just the polite kind of talking, either. Real and stupid stuff. The music. The dog someone brought ("Who the fuck brings a Frenchie to a drinks party?"). The weirdly specific type of people who only wear ramie in Korea.
You made him laugh. Properly. And not the oh-you're-so-charming-I'll-play-along kind of laugh. Genuine.
Ji-yong liked how you looked when you were amused. Tipped your chin, lifted your eyebrows, said "Jesus Christ" like it was punctuation.
You were magnetic. And you weren’t trying to be. That's the worst part. The best part.
So he leaned in.
"You always look at people like that?" He asked.
You looked up, mildly amused. "Only when I'm suspicious."
"Of me?”
"Of anyone who wears nail polish better than I do."
Touché.
"Could try complimenting me," Ji-yong says, still polite, still smooth. "I don't bite.”
Liar. He does.
You shrugged. "I don't think you have to. I bet people just lie down and offer their neck.”
Jesus.
That went straight to his spine.
He liked the way you said it — bored, like it wasn't even meant to provoke. But it did provoke.
So he pushed. Just a little.
"You flirting with me, love?"
You blinked. Twice. Looked at him properly for the first time.
Then laughed. Fucking laughed.
"Oh, wait. Are you seriously flirting with me?"
You sounded surprised. Like you thought the both of you were just riffing. Bantering. Like he wasn't dead serious about fucking you six ways from Sunday if you gave him the green light. Every position, every angle. Just to see you come apart under him.
But he kept his tone light. "Might be."
"I thought we were just being dicks to each other." You said, smirking behind your glass before adding slowly, "you're persuasive. But fictional."
That made him pause.
"Fictional?"
You gave a lopsided smile. "You're the guy people daydream about while dating someone else. Not... real."
Not real?
You didn't mean it to hurt. But it did. Not sharp. Not deep. Just... enough.
Ji-yong laughed, but it came out hollow.
"You don't think I'm serious?"
"I think you're gorgeous and curated and slightly terrifying. But I'm not your type."
The audacity.
That made him tilt his head. "And what's my type?"
You didn't flinch. "Someone who already knows they're fuckable. Who don't need convincing. Makes it easier for you."
Shit.
That was accurate.
He likes confidence. He likes ease. He doesn’t like convincing anyone they're worthy of being touched.
But now? Now he wanted to convince you.
"I'm not saying I'm not," you added. "I just don't have the energy for it tonight. And I don't do casual."
And then your phone buzzed.
You glanced at it, sighed, and looked back up. "My friend's calling me. You've been fun."
You smiled. Small. Infuriating.
"And very pretty."
Very pretty? Well, thanks, darling. Really.
That should've been enough. Flirt, smile, walk away.
But then you added, "Hope someone writes a fanfic about this someday."
And he stood there, jaw slightly slack, watching you disappear.
You didn't even look back.
Ji-yong didn't go home with anyone that night.
He talked to a girl for a bit. Cute. Nice tits. Wore perfume like she meant it. Smiled up at him the right way.
But his brain was stuck.
Replay. Rewind. Your voice in his head: "I thought we were just being dicks to each other." Your laugh. That fucking smirk.
He should've texted someone. Could've. Would've been easy. But he didn't want easy. He wanted you.
Or maybe just the version of you he didn't get to undress.
Ji-yong opened his Notes app. Typed:
Didn't even want you til you smirked like that. Didn't know I couldn't have you til you left.
Fuck.
Then closed it. Laid awake for longer than he should've. Didn't even jerk off.
Just stared at the ceiling like a teenage boy who fumbled the bag.
Two weeks later, another party. Different location. Same vibe.
He didn't expect to see you again. Definitely didn't expect to catch you watching him talk to someone else.
Someone beautiful, touchy — was leaning in, laughing too hard. The usual routine.
And across the room?
You.
Boots again. Different jacket. Same expression.
You raised your glass in a fake cheers. Smirked. Then turned away.
He fucking felt it in his chest.
He ditched the one he was talking to five minutes later.
When you both crossed paths by the bar, you didn't act surprised.
"Didn't think you'd remember me," you said.
"I remember."
"Mm. Memorable, was I?"
"Hard to forget someone who called me fictional."
You shrugged. "You've still got your main character face. It's unnerving."
"You've still got villain energy."
"God, thank you."
Ji-yong laughed. But underneath it? He was buzzing.
"Leaving soon?" He asked.
"Thinking about it."
"I owe you a drink."
"I think you owe me an apology."
"For what?"
"For not chasing me."
Fuck. You wanted him to chase you?
"You wanted me to?"
"No. I wanted you to want to."
That should've turned him off. Instead, it lit a fire.
The power. The tease.
People like you-they're complicated. Him? He doesn’t do complicated.
But he wanted you. Bad.
"You're trouble," he says, watching your mouth.
"You're late," you replied. You touched his sleeve. Barely. Then leaned in. "Looks like you still want me."
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