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the7thcrow · 2 years

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ideal woman | k.ys

pairing: yeosang x (fem) reader.

………

wc: 10.5k

genre: romance. suggestive. angst. a tad bit of fluff if you squint. gang au. basically a romp between inherent enemies.

summary: at the only bar in town where the lines drawn between different gangs becomes blurry, you spot your intellectual rival involved in one of the biggest underground organizations the city has to offer. responsible for the recent heist on your warehouse, as well as the death of multiple of your gang’s own members, he’s understandably considered someone that you should not be talking to. you buy him a drink.

warnings: non-graphic talk of violence and death, mention of drugs, alcohol, smoking cigars, suggestive content.

a/n: look who’s finally gotten around to starting these (go me). requested by @joontied for my 1 year anniversary event. inspired by the song ideal woman by celeste.

UPDATE: currently dealing with formatting issues because tumblr sucks. if you have repeating paragraphs, feel free to read here on ao3 instead. thanks so much.

…

...

Duke’s is muddy territory.

A term for where the line’s between different gang’s and operation’s blur, the dingy old bar is a neutral breeding ground of sorts, a place where enemy’s under any other circumstances can drink alone together. That is to say at their own seat at the bar with their own drink and company, but at the same time, two feet away sits another member doing the exact same thing. Sharing a moment together in loneliness, but then again, it’s ultimately better than drinking alone.

Yet, for the amount of steady business the bar always seems to receive, Duke’s remains a bit of a dump. The lamp-post outside having been burnt out for months, which may now be years under consideration, the owner - Duke - put’s little care in keeping the establishment together. Prone to bar-fights due to the nature of the facility, as tension is ultimately unavoidable in some circumstances when a member of one gang as had a few too many drinks, and it’s the man who shot his buddy last night sitting just a few tables away, the furniture remains constantly scratched and worn from being flipped over. Glass typically coats the streets outside as nobody cares to sweep it up, and plenty of lamps hanging down from the ceiling have been cracked and shattered, and will most likely never be replaced until the bar is one day shrouded in complete darkness.

To be frank, it’s a shithole. But that’s exactly what you like about it.

Nursing a gin and tonic at the front end of the bar, you do your best to ignore the constant buzzing in your pocket, as your phone begs for attention. You don’t have to check who it is, Hongjoong is always like this in the days leading up to and of a big operation. Always asking whether that particular part of his plan is fool-proof, or whether this piece of the puzzle needs some work. It’s all underground politics, manipulation, and holding your hand close to your chest. All things that although he won’t admit it aloud, he knows you’re far better at than him.

And while you should be flattered to know that the leader of KQ values your intelligence, it would be nice for him to not endlessly bother you on what was supposed to be your night off.

Digging into your purse, you pull out your phone, screen already set alight from his latest message.

Without bothering to read it, you turn your phone on silent and stuff it back into your bag. If he doesn’t understand where to draw the line, then you’ll just have to do it for him. You don’t need his constant supervision.

Forgoing your straw, you bring the rim of the glass up to your lips, tipping your head back as you let the rest of the liquid pour down your throat. A pleasant sort of burn, one you’ve grown to appreciate after years of drinks at this very bar-stool, you flash Duke a smile and a small wave.

As the burly man - with a bushy red beard and healthy beer-gut beneath his dirtied apron - makes his way over to you, your attention is quickly pulled away as you catch sight of a man over his shoulder.

Blonde hair that hangs long in the back - although parted neatly in the front in order to frame his face - he sits with his chin cupped in his palm. Clearly lost in thought, his gaze is trained mindlessly on the display of spirits behind the bar. Sporting a white button up that is slightly too large, draping over his figure and allowing his collarbone to peek through, he almost shines like a beacon of light amidst the dreariness of the facility.

Kang Yeosang. You recognize him.

A sort of mirrored image of your own role in KQ, Yeosang is the leader of SMY’s right hand man. The intelligence behind the operation, the brains behind the brawn. He was the mind responsible for SMY's surprise heist on one of your own warehouses a few weeks ago, that left you down a dozen men, as well as the pots in your meth lab empty.

He’s dangerous. Not your typical sort, no immediate danger in sight as the two of you sit merely ten feet apart. You aren’t sure of his skill with weaponry, but you’re fairly certain the most he has on him is a knife, and is likely not an expert in using it.

When Duke takes your drink order, you ask him for another gin and tonic, as well as a glass of whatever Yeosang is currently sipping to send his way.

Duke raises a brow, the request certainly out of the ordinary in a room full of inherent enemies, but he fetches a glass nonetheless. After completing your gin and tonic, he pours an accompanying glass of whisky out in front of you - Glen Mckenna, as you can now recognize it to be - before taking it in hand as he makes his way over to Yeosang.

Setting it down in front of him, the blonde blinks out of his daze before his gaze falls down to the drink before him. Eyes fluttering upward, he casts Duke a confused - as well as slightly suspicious - glance.

Duke simply shrugs, pointing over his shoulder over to where you are sitting. Following his finger, Yeosang's eyes slowly drift over to meet yours. At first his expression is blank, but after a moment his eyes widen with a sense of familiarity. Lips parted in a small “o” shape, he seems unsure of what to make of it.

You simply smile, lifting your glass up and tilting the rim towards him in a sort of long distance “cheers”, before taking a sip yourself.

He pauses for a moment, before a small smile begins to creep onto his lips. Whether a manifestation of surprise, or simply genuine gratitude for the drink, you aren’t sure. Either way, he takes a sip of his whisky, eyes not leaving yours as he does so.

A moment passes by where neither of the two of you move, and it serves as a sort of cross-roads for the evening ahead of you. On the one hand, you could retract your gaze right now, leave the drink as simply a nice gesture and nothing more. Nurse your gin and tonic for a few more minutes, then grab your bag and leave the bar. Head home to your apartment on the other end of town before sifting through and responding to Hongjoong’s texts for the next couple hours until sleep inevitably takes you.

Or, on the other hand, you could push a little further. Smile back at him, maybe let him return the favour. Chat. Whatever normal people do on a night out in town.

You slip out of your chair and onto your feet.

Drink in hand, you walk over to meet him at his spot at the other end of the bar. Another look of surprise flashing over his features, you note how he slips his own phone off the counter and into his pocket. Out of sight.

“Hello,” you say, a simple enough opening as you slide into the chair beside him.

He raises an eyebrow, corner of his lip drawn up into a smirk. “Well, isn’t this a surprise.”

It’s not in reference to you being at Duke’s. After all, this is not the first time the two of you have seen each other here, on multiple occasions having granted eachother a small nod in greeting. Or well, perhaps greeting is a bit of a strong term, recognition more accurate. A nod that says: I know you and you know me. I know just what terrible things you’re capable of, and I have accomplished just the same.

And yet, here we both are. Drinking alone to forget another day.

Safe to say, the two of you don’t really chat beyond meetings between the higher-ups. You know his voice, you know he’s witty and a little risky with his level of sarcasm at times, but you don’t really know him.

And maybe you’re curious what lies beneath those layers.

“Long day?” You ask, taking the lime from the corner of your glass and squeezing it into your drink.

Yeosang chuckles. “Aren’t they all long days?”

“I don’t know,” you reply, a smile creeping itself along your own lips. When you speak, it’s after another sip. “I would expect it to be a real celebration for you over there, what with your recent success and all.”

At the reference to the ambush he’d orchestrated on your warehouse, Yeosang freezes. Hand stilling on his drink, he swallows, eyes quickly shifting from relaxed to poised. Analytical.

You simply chuckle, stirring your straw around in your drink. “Relax,” you say easily, lip curving upwards into a smirk. “I’m not here to jeer you about it.”

He seems to let his guard back down at this, although with a tad bit of hesitancy. His posture softens, but not so much so as to lean back in his chair. Not on guard, but ready to be should the coming minutes permit it. It’s the wise thing to do, and surely how you would be likely to respond as well.

“Hm,” he hums, taking a sip of his own drink, the fingers on his other hand tapping mindlessly against the counter. “Then why are you here?”

You know he doesn’t mean in reference to Duke’s, but you decide to play coy nonetheless. “Can’t a woman simply enjoy a good drink?”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” he replies just as quickly, tilting his head to the side as his eyes flicker up and down, observing you closely. “Why are you talking to me? We both know it’s unprecedented, even around here.”

You tilt your own head to the side, mocking the gesture. “Tired of my own company I suppose.”

Eyes narrowing - although a smile remains on his lips - he doesn’t seem to buy it.

You figure you can grant him some honesty, at least a fraction of it, anyway. “Hongjoong’s getting on my nerves,” you reply with a sigh, flickering your gaze down at the table as to not meet his own. “Guess I want a bit of my own insurgence.”

Yeosang lets out a small laugh at this, merely a light puff of air from his nose. “Well,” he begins, gaze flickering to the side as he chews on the corner of his lip. Perhaps deciding what he dares to say next, if he wants to play into the hand you’ve dealt him.

In the end, it appears that he does.

“Maybe you aren’t the only one in that boat.” He says softly, and you nod, a faint smile on your lips.

“Fine then,” you say, lifting your glass off of the counter and holding out before him. Your eyes meet his own above the rim. “Cheers to a bit of defiance.”

For a second, his gaze flickers from your offered glass, to his own sitting on the countertop. He’s hesitant, at his own crossroads it seems, just as you were earlier. A toast to a night with company that SMY’s leader would never approve of, one that he can either accept or turn away, head back home towards his own gang’s district and comradery.

He lifts up his glass, and the two knock together with a quiet “clink”.

“Cheers,” he replies softly, and you can’t help but smile.

~~~~

Over the last two hours of talking, as well as three drinks that accompanied it, you have learned your fair amount about Kang Yeosang.

Firstly, that he is just as witty as you may have expected, sarcasm a rather active aspect of both his vocabulary and humour. Whether you are discussing your gang or his own, or any of the other smaller crews amidst the city, he always has something clever to say. With a sharp tongue and a tendency to be a tad critical, you find there isn’t a dull moment to be found in conversation.

You suppose this adds to your second point of interest, this being that the man is far more amusing than you’d anticipated. Along with that wit comes a rather dry sense of humour. Not in the sense that he is boring, but rather much of what he says is delivered with such a comedical level of seriousness that you can’t help but laugh along.

But finally, and what intrigues you the most about the man in question, is that he seems to hate SMY. Perhaps not near as much as your gang does, but enough to discuss his distaste openly, with a member of what is supposed to be his enemy number one, at that.

Interesting.

“What would you do?” He asks, the two of you having forgone all formalities. His cheek rests in his palm, his other brought up to sit on the table, fingers tapping against the cool metal. You’d originally pegged it to be a nervous tick, but perhaps it is simply a habit.

“What would I do if…?” You ask, tone slightly teasing as you are unsure of what he’s getting at.

“If it weren’t for all of this,” he says, lifting his hand from the counter to motion around him. “If it weren’t for Duke’s, for SMY and KQ, what would you do?”

You don’t even consider the question before answering. “I don’t see much of a point in imagining that. There is no life without them, we’re too wrapped up.”

Yeosang sighs, narrowing his eyes. “Come on,” he says gently, the corner of his lips tilting up into a soft smile. “There must be something.”

He leans in a little closer, and for the first time you feel nervous. Not from the close proximity, but from the question itself.

What would you do if it weren’t for all this?

A simple question, but so much more complicated than he may even realize. It’s a question you’ve never let yourself dwell on, never given much thought other than the late nights spent tossing and turning under your sheets. Where Hongjoong would be off at a late night meeting - or far more likely, with some other girl uptown - unavailable for your occasional inappropriate blur of the lines between colleague and something more… intimate.

Those nights, the one where your studio apartment in KQ’s district feels a bit more like a prison cell than a home, those are the one’s that question enters your mind.

Where would you be, if not here? Who would you be upset over, if not him? What would you do with your life, if not this?

You’ve never come up with an answer, always veering your brain in a different direction when your conscience comes too close. But as the blonde watches you intently, awaiting your answer, you feel the strange urge to muster one.

And yet, you can’t. Not just yet, anyway. The vulnerability of it all is too much for you to offer up first. Better to make it like a business transaction, something you’re more familiar with. I will only offer something to you if you grant it to me prior.

“What would you do?” You ask him, voice barely above a whisper. You almost expect him to deflect the question, to say that he asked you first, and thus should receive an answer before he gives his own..

Instead, he sighs. Eyes drifting upwards, and focusing on the dim hanging lantern above you, he seems to consider it for a moment. “I would go to the mountains,” he says finally, and you can’t help the surprised laugh you let out.

“The mountains?” You ask, and his gaze falls back down to yours, eyes wide with surprise at your laughter.

“Yes?” He says, and when you continue to laugh he smiles, tone a tad affronted. “Why is that so funny?”

“I’m sorry,” you say genuinely, feeling a little bad due to the affronted look on his face. Motioning outwards with your hand, you gesture up and down, in reference to his head to toe appearance. His designer loafers, pristine white button up. Custom-tailor fitted pants and bleached blonde hair that you're certain he gets done at least every few weeks to remain so flawless. “I just never would have guessed.”

He sighs at this, rolling his eyes, albeit playfully. The smile remains on his lips as he speaks, but you can’t help but notice his drop in tone, words holding a tad more somber of an edge than previously.

“I know it’s a bit strange,” he says, voice lowered as he leans in a little closer. Maybe he just doesn’t want anyone else to hear, but the proximity undeniably makes the moment feel more intimate. “But I just think it’s the exact opposite of this city.”

“Is that what you would want?” You ask, curious. “The exact opposite?”

Yeosang pauses a moment before answering. “I would want somewhere quiet. With no violence or underground politics. Where I can walk wherever I want at night without the risk of getting mugged or kidnapped for ransome or murdered. Where I could have someone over to my place without it being seen as taboo, but also secluded enough to not have everyone involved in my business.”

“And the air doesn’t smell like shit,” you add, and he chuckles.

“That too,” he says. As the laughter between the two of you dies out, he speaks again. “So yeah, the exact opposite.”

“Still, I think you could find somewhere better than the mountains,” you add, doing your best to keep the lightness to the conversation alive, not wanting to know where it might go if you let the heaviness dwell too long.

“Oh, really?” He laughs, taking the bait with ease. Perhaps heaviness isn’t something he desires either. “And where would you go?”

You know it’s another attempt at breaking down the wall you’ve put up, another shot at hearing your answer.

However, he gave his own, and perhaps you owe him that much.

“A beach,” you say softly, and the answer comes as a surprise even to yourself. You’ve never dreamed of a beach, even within the brief fantasies you’ve never permitted yourself to have. But as you say the words, they feel right.

“A beach?” He says, eyebrows raising his surprise, as well as delight. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” you rush out quickly, feeling flustered all of a sudden, embarrassed. “Sand, warm weather, ocean breeze. It might be nice.”

You feel stupid for admitting it, telling this man who’s practically a stranger - or better, an enemy - an unspoken weakness. After all, it’s a vulnerable piece of information that a higher up within one of the major gang’s within the city dreams of being someplace else.

But Yeosang doesn’t seem to treat it as such. Instead, he smiles.

“It does sound nice,” he offers gently, and his hand falls onto yours on the table. Maybe it’s the alcohol buzzing around your system, but the action sends an unexpected jolt through you, a rush of warmth to your cheeks. He laughs quietly. “Better than the mountains, anyway.”

You chuckle, agreeing with the sentiment, although you can’t help the strange feeling that passes through you, almost like a tingle beneath your skin. An itch of sorts, one that tells you that this is wrong. You shouldn’t be discussing these sorts of things with him, it’s too dangerous. Not only that, but too vulnerable.

You should change the subject.

Fortunately, this comes almost naturally, as a loud clunking noise echoes from the other side of the bar. Craning your neck around, you watch as a burly man - one from a lesser gang you assume, based on how you don’t recognize him in the slightest - stands up from his chair. A puddle of beer coats the table in front of him, dripping down the rim of his glass, and you assume the noise had been him smashing it down on the table top.

While you don’t know why he’s angry, you can at least tell who his outburst is being directed at. A short stout man, with ginger hair and a scar that runs along his eyes sits in the chair before him. If he feels any sense of fear or intimidation he doesn’t show it, leaning back into his chair with his arms crossed and a bored expression across his face.

The lackadaisical attitude only seems to agitate the burly man further, and as he begins to shout something about a bet and how the man owes him his due, you know that Dukes’ weekly brawl is most likely about to commence.

Yeosang appears to recognize this as well, as he rolls his eyes. Letting out a deep sigh, his hand finally drifts away from your own, and the absence of it feels cool over your knuckles.

He most likely thinks that the night is over, neither of you are the type to participate in needless and mindless violence, at least not on the brawn side of things.

Besides, beyond Duke’s there’s really nowhere for the two of you to go. At least nowhere safe, where the ground remains neutral. For the night to go any further, one of you would have to take a rather significant risk, walking onto enemy turf with no defence nor back-up waiting for you.

Which is perhaps why Yeosang is so surprised by what you say next.

“So,” you start, eyes wandering from the escalating situation, over to meet his own. Your hand drifts to rest on top of his knuckles, mirroring his own boldness earlier. A small grin laces your lips as you manage to catch how his eyes widen slightly with surprise, although he does well to hide it.

“Your place?” You ask, and this time he doesn’t do well to hide it at all.

Mouth parting open slightly, his gaze darts from your face to the door, eyebrows furrowing. “Are you…okay with that?” He settles on finally, tone laced with genuine concern. By the sounds of it, it’s a risk he wouldn’t take himself if the offer had been reversed.

But you’ve always been a little more daring in your plans. Willing to play a tad more dirty, with a level of risk that some would cower at.

Now is no different.

“Of course,” you reply with a level of nonchalance, slipping off your chair and pulling your purse back up and over your shoulder. Heels clicking beneath you as you make a few steps towards the door, you glance over your shoulder to find he’s already watching you intently.

You nod towards the jacket covering the back of his chair. “Grab your coat,” you say. With a grin, he follows.

~~~~

The walk to Yeosang’s apartment didn’t feel near as dangerous as it may have been in reality. Wearing a simple black mask in order to cover your face and preserve your identity, it almost didn’t feel needed, the two of you only passing by a fellow or two along the way. Making quiet conversation the entire length of the walk, the journey was practically over before you’d even processed that it had started.

Now you are in his apartment. His home.

He lives here, and you aren’t quite sure why, but the thought jares you.

“Feel free to make yourself comfortable” Yeosang says, neatly hanging up his jacket on the coat rack by the door before taking yours in turn.

The first thing you notice about his apartment is that it’s much cleaner than your own. With a minimalistic style, the counters and tables seem almost barren. Everything a classic black and white hugh, it casts a refined atmosphere over the entire apartment, classy. The only real decorations being a few dark paintings that hang on the walls - an abstract sort of style so that you can’t pick out what exactly they are - and an empty vase sitting on the coffee table in his living room.

Feeling a little shy all of a sudden, you take a slow walk around to simply observe. It feels weird to see his place, all of his belongings. Intimate almost, as it’s where he cooks and eats and watches tv, such mundane tasks you rarely imagine a person doing until you get to know them better.

“Can I get you something to drink? Or eat, if you’re hungry?” He asks, moving past you in order to open the fridge.

Taking a seat at his kitchen island, you lay your hands atop the marble counter, not quite sure of what to do with yourself. “A drink will be fine.”

“What would you like?” He asks, closing the refrigerator and moving towards a cupboard, where you assume he keeps his alcohol. “Someone recently gifted me a bottle of bourbon. It’s a bit of a fancy one, if that’s up your alley.”

You wonder if it’s a gift from someone in SMY, perhaps for the success of the heist he planned.

“Bourbon is good with me.”

After pouring two glasses, he slides one across the counter and over to you. Raising it to your lips and taking a sip, he does the same.

It’s so… quiet. The bustle of Duke’s no longer there to provide an ambiance of busy background noise, the entire atmosphere has changed. When you place your glass back down at the counter, it practically rings throughout the entire apartment. Like a drop rippling through still water, it breaks the silence.

You’re far more nervous than you expected yourself to be, and you have yet to decide whether or not that’s a good thing.

“So,” you start after swallowing, taking another moment to glance around. “You live here.”

He chuckles. “I do,” he offers, a small smile painting his lips. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet, and you wonder if he feels the shift in mood as well. “Do you like it?”

“It’s very clean,” you offer, and after realizing that might come off a bit backhanded, you amend: “Classy. Much nicer than my place.”

“I think it’s boring,” he says, walking over from his place across the counter, and sitting at the stool right beside your own. It’s practically the exact same position the two of you had shared at Duke’s, but as he sits down, it feels so utterly different. So much closer, and when his hand falls on top of yours just as it had before, you feel your breath catch in your throat.

He doesn’t seem to notice, but you certainly do. Why are you so nervous? You’ve been at death's door multiple times, had meetings with men who would have you killed in an instant if they had the chance, lied to an entire breakroom of criminals without breaking a sweat.

And yet this - no, he - is the thing that seema to have you losing your cool? Under different circumstances, you’d laugh at the irony.

But for now you just look upwards, gently meeting his dark eyes. “Why not change it then?”

He sighs. “I don’t know,” he starts, but the way his voice trails tells you that he does. “Maybe it’s just that if I really put my heart into the place, it’ll start feeling like a home.”

It’s a strange answer, and the look on your face must make that apparent, as he elaborates.

“If this place starts feeling like a home, I’ll feel even more trapped here than I already do,” he murmurs. His gaze falls, and the mindless tapping of his fingers fills the silence of the apartment, as you struggle to think of what to say in return.

It’s one of the many times tonight that Yeosang has mentioned his discontent. Having stated that you weren’t the only one craving rebellion as well as having it planned where he might be if it weren’t for SMY, it’s interesting. As well as serious.

You also have had your struggles with KQ. With Hongjoong. With this life and routine and the way it all weighs down on your shoulders.

Yet, you have never discussed such things, and you aren’t sure if that’s because you don’t believe them as strongly as Yeosang seems to, or if you are simply too terrified to try. Perhaps a fair mixture of both.

“You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden,” he whispers, breaking you from your thoughts. Running his fingers along your knuckles, they just barely graze your skin. His tone is gentle, but also a tad playful. “Too heavy?”

“No,” you say, extending a hand forward to smooth out the fabric on the shoulder of his button up. You wonder if the light touch affects him the same way it has you. “I’m used to it. But I also wouldn’t mind something a little lighter.”

“Hm,” he hums, the corner of his lip curving upwards. “Have something in mind?”

Gaze drifting across the room, you notice a set of curtains at the end of the living room. Long and draping, as well as covering most of the wall, it’s an odd placement. “Do you have a balcony?”

“I do,” he replies, that little curve to his lips growing far wider. “I also have some Cuban’s, if you’re interested?”

“Speaking my language, I see” you say, leaving your purse on the counter as you make a move to get up. Yeosang follows suit, although instead of following you into the living room, he opens one of the drawers within the kitchen. After sifting through some papers, from beneath them he pulls out a box - more precisely a humidor - setting it down on the counter as he pulls out two cigars.

Pulling back the curtain, followed by the sliding door, the night air feels cool against your skin. The breeze that blows by is especially strong due to your sheer height above the ground, Yeosang’s apartment located near the top floor of one of the tallest sky-scrapers in the city.

Stepping out to place your hands on the metal railing in front of you, you grip it tightly as you lean forward in order to get a better look at the city below. The few people out and about at this hour are like little ants making their way through tunnels rather than street’s, the once towering lamp posts now reduced to mini beads of light, equal distance apart as if strung about on a wire.

You hear the door slide closed behind you, Yeosang following suit by your side. Handing one of the cigars over to you, you slip it between his lips, and he does the service of lighting it.

The smoke is almost dizzying, the pleasant aroma of the Cuban’s hanging potent in the air even with the blowing wind. The rich scent of spices and leather fill your nose, a brilliant concoction of tobacco and plenty else, somehow smelling purely of the earth and the city all at once.

Both of you twisting to face outwards to view the city rather than each other, you blow another puff of smoke into the air before speaking once more. “I’ve never seen the city like this before.”

“Don’t live in the sky?” He asks, and you shake your head, lip curling upwards.

“I don’t, but that’s not what I meant,” you say, gaze fluttering across the quiet streets. The different shops you can just barely make out down below, the other towering apartment buildings with only a few windows still glowing, letting you know you aren’t the only other people with waking lives. “I’ve never been to this side of town. Maybe for a couple meetings, but I’ve never really looked at it, you know?”

Yeosang considers this for a moment. “And how does it compare?”

“It’s…” you start, mulling over the question. In the end, only one answer comes to mind. The truth. “It’s exactly the same.”

He pulls the cigar from his lips before raising an eyebrow, beckoning you to elaborate.

“Same tall skyscrapers with little to differentiate them. Same narrow streets and accompanying lamp posts. Same taxis, same dingy corner stores, same cool wind and foul smell in the air. It’s just all the same,” you say, eyebrows furrowed as you try to wrap your mind around it.

You sigh, and while you know you shouldn’t say the next few words, they tumble from your lips all the same. “Makes you wonder why we all fight so hard for more of it, when it’s all the same shit anyway.”

Yeosang doesn’t say anything to this, but you can hear as his head turns away from the city skyline in order to face you. And yet, you hold yourself back from doing the same, and you aren’t quite sure why. Scared to see his expression, perhaps. What might his eyes say to the briefest vulnerability you’ve granted him? Will they gleam with more than you’re willing to grant?

His free hand drifts to rest on top of yours along the barrier of the balcony, and beckons for you to look at him. With a steadying breath, you do, and he smiles. The look in his eyes is warm - genuine - and you try to match it, although your chest feels tight.

You might be taking this too far, you shouldn’t be talking about this with him. Let him display his own weak discontent, sure, but your own cracks are something you should never let shine through. Not to him, not to Hongjoong, not to any of these men who are far more dangerous than they often appear to be.

Because Yeosang does not appear to be dangerous, especially now, with his expression so soft. Eyes tender and thumb dragging back and forth over your knuckles.

“I think we fight because that’s what we’ve always done,” Yeosang says, tone somber as a quiet sadness creeps its way across his face, settling into a sad sort of smile. “Maybe years ago there was a reason, but now it’s just what we do. Hatred bred and born rather than earned.”

He’s right, and you wonder what Hongjoong might think if you told him that. If you told him your rivalry is pointless, that everything you all do is unjustified. Who cares about power, about warehouses and blood-feuds and meth-labs when it’s a never-ending game? KQ will never win, just as SMY never will. Like a hamster-wheel constantly turning, you chase after a dream that’s impossible to reach. A journey with no end.

It’s a depressing thought, as well as one that surprises you. It’s not the first time such syncism has touched your conscience, but it’s certainly the first time you haven’t brushed it away. Haven’t shoved it down, put a cork in it and bottled it away.

It scares you.

Taking one last drag of your cigar, you let the smoke hang in the back of your throat for a moment, before stubbing it out on the ashtray embedded in the wall next to you.

“Had enough?” Yeosang asks, and you shake your head, blowing out the smoke.

“Not quite,” you reply, trying to bring some lightness back into the conversation, although the weight doesn’t lift completely from your shoulders. “I just can’t finish a full one. I’ll share yours.”

Granting a nod in response, he takes a drag himself before handing it over to you in turn. It’s not as quiet as it was back within his apartment, the background noise of the city far more similar to how it had been in Duke’s. The horns of taxis still blaring even within the quiet of the night, traffic never fully stopping, the city never truly asleep. The wind whistles throughout the tall buildings, and within the distance you can hear laughter of a drunk and wild sort, from a girl you're certain is having more fun than the rest of the town combined.

When was the last time you laughed like that? You aren’t certain you ever have.

Yet, you can’t deny it grants you a bit of comfort. To be accompanied by not only Yeosang, but the city itself. Something unfamiliar, settled by another in which you’re entirely comfortable. A perfect balance.

The smoke in the air is slowly becoming dizzying, the scent incredibly potent, and as he blows out another puff you take in a deep breath. The two of you are close, perhaps even more so now than before as you pass the cigar between you.

“Have you ever thought about this?” He asks suddenly, reaching past you to place the bud of the cigar down on the ashtray.

“Me and you?” You ask, the corner of your lip curved upwards. “No.”

He chuckles at the bluntness of your words, teeth now visible as his grin widens. “Me neither,” he replies, tone drifting towards soft. “Strange, isn’t it?”

“Which part?”

“How neither of us ever even considered it a possibility,” he begins, eyes flickering away from yours and back towards the skyline, almost shy. “We’ve seen each other at meetings countless times, and plotted against one another twice as many.”

He taps his fingers along the railing.

“And yet, now you’re here on my balcony, sharing a drink and a cigar, and it’s like it doesn’t matter. I don’t hate you, not how SMY wants me to. Not the way I pretend to, as if it’s just a part of the job description.”

The statement sends a jolt of surprise that rattles through you, causing you to still.

You don’t hate him, and frankly, you’ve never hated him. But it’s not this fact that surprises you, but rather in trying to recall anyone in SMY that you despise, you seem to draw a blank.

You plot against them not because of passion, but because it’s your role. You hijack their transport routes and send scouts towards their warehouses not because you want nothing more than to see SMY burn, but because it’s just that: your job.

Hongjoong hates SMY. He spends nights laying awake dreaming of his next move. Harbouring resentment over people lost, over past failures and battles. It’s war for him, nestled deep within his soul.

What’s animosity for Hongjoong is mere duty for you, and it’s not until Yeosang points this out that you realize how divisive that is.

What you’re doing right now, a casual drink with a sworn enemy that doesn’t feel like so, Hongjoong could never. Does that make you worse than him? Better? Does it matter at all? Or is it just part of the never-ending cycle, the hamster wheel turning and turning with no end. Wherever your motives fall, you run it all the same, just as you all die equals.

Yeosang doesn’t seem to notice the weight his words have on you. Or if he does, he refrains from acknowledging it. Instead he continues to move his thumb back and forth, palm of his hand moving upwards to more fully rest atop your own.

“But I’ve enjoyed our little insurgence,” he says, giving your hand a soft squeeze. “Haven’t you?”

“More than I could have ever expected to,” is the first thing that comes to mind, but it feels a little too much, so instead you simply say: “I have.”

Eyes igniting with what appears to be confidence, he moves in a little closer, faces still remaining a few inches apart, although the new proximity is daunting. His breath blows against your face, the scent a mixture between the leather and tobacco of the cigars and the bourbon from earlier. It’s a rich combination, warm against your skin in contrast to the cool night air.

His eyes flicker down to your lips, gaze lingering there in a way you know he doesn’t wish to go unseen. He seeks permission, a sign of acceptance before going any further.

As you lean in, it’s slow. His breath grows warmer, and your heart beats within your chest a little faster. His sunken eyes fall shut, and it’s only once your lips connect with his own that you let your own follow suit.

The kiss is melancholic, lazy. Lips dragging slowly against his own, there is no rush as your hand drifts to rest upon his shoulder. His own hand - the one that is not placed against your own on the balcony railing - settles onto your waist. Grip gentle, he pulls you in a little tighter, closing the remaining space between the two of you.

For the first time, it crosses your mind that someone may see you. There are building’s equally as high, the two of you not out of sight from plenty surrounding apartments. You’re in SMY territory, scouts surely something they have strone about the streets, just as you have set up for KQ.

What might SMY’s leader think, if he were to see the two of you now? And why does that prospect excite you more than it scares you?

Other hand finally drifting away from Yeosang’s own, it settles along his jawline, cupping his face as you pull him further into you. He lets you, hand sliding back along the railing as he is pulled closer.

He lets out a groan as your teeth nip at his lower lip, hand gripping your waist a little tighter. The smell of cigar smoke fading as the wind continues to blow it away, the bourbon becomes even more pronounced on his tongue. Flooding your senses, it’s sickeningly sweet, like vanilla and caramel.

Mouth pulling away for a moment, his gaze darts from your own to the skyline, then to the door. “Should we take this inside?” He asks, and you almost want to say no.

“Let them see,” your mind whispers. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”

Perhaps Yeosang’s own cynicism really is rubbing off on you.

Instead, you nod. “Yes,” you murmur, accompanied by a smile that matches his own as his grip remains on your waist, pulling you beside him as you head over towards the door.

Sliding it backwards, it’s only a moment after you hear it click shut behind you that you feel him spin you around towards him, lips crashing back into your own.

What was once lazy becomes messy, as the two of you tumble your way through the narrow hallway. Not bothering to break apart, the two of you become one shared force, a tangled mess of ragged breath and loose limbs that makes its way to what you assume to be his bedroom. It's fortunate now that Yeosang’s apartment is lacking in decorations, as you’d surely be breaking a few of them.

However, despite the lack of decoration, upon entering his bedroom you still manage to crash into something. Knee striking into an object next to the door, it falls heavily as it tumbles to the ground with a loud bang.

Pulling away from him briefly, your gaze scans the floor to see what may have fallen. His grip on your waist remains tight, as he attempts to lean in and kiss you once more, but you don’t let him. When you see what lays on the floor, you pull away entirely.

A suitcase.

But not just the one suitcase that has burst open onto the floor, packed almost entirely full with a mountain of clothes that have begun to spill out upon the hardwood. But rather four suitcases, the other three sitting next to the doorframe, all equally as large. Stuffed to the brim, the zippers appear almost ready to burst.

“Yeosang…” You trail off, gaze narrowing as you stare at the surplus of luggage. You’re certain that those four bags contain more supplies and accessories than his entire apartment. “Are you going somewhere?”

When the only answer you’re met with is his silence, you twist your neck around to face him. You can’t make out his expression, as the room is far too dark and the only light source remains down the hallway, the hanging lamp from within the kitchen. However, you can tell that he’s moved backwards, now a solid few feet away from you, face downcast as his own gaze remains fixated on the floor. He says nothing.

But the silence is more of an answer than any words.

“Are you…” You begin, tone remaining accusatory, even if you try your hardest to keep it soft. “Are you running away?”

Over the course of the night, you have taken Yeosang for many things: A good man discontent with the hand he’s been dealt, someone in need of a change of pace, as well as a new outlook.

But even as all those things, you never took him to be a deserter.

Few who are a part of this life are in love with it. It’s difficult, messy. Full of greed, hurt, and so, so much worse.

But you never, ever leave. It’s not an option, and only a fool would consider it to be.

You never considered Yeosang to be a fool, either.

Once again, you are greeted with silence. Yeosang takes another step back, and as his head shifts upwards, you can tell his gaze has shifted to the suitcases, both hands coming up to run through his long hair. He seems stressed, nervous. Panicked and afraid.

And yet, amongst all that fear, he also seems tired. Defeated, as he lets out a long sigh.

Then he finally speaks.

It’s nothing more than a mumble, and you take a step closer. “What?” You ask, and he finally turns to face you, eyes meeting yours even within the bedroom’s darkness.

“Come with me,” he states, and you choke on nothing but the air in your throat.

“What?” You ask, this time with far more incredulity in your tone, not even attempting to mask the utter shock at the suggestion, or better, plea.

“We’ll go to the mountains,” he says, moving closer to you, and this time it is you who takes a step back. He doesn’t seem to notice, as he instead begins to ramble. “Or the beach. Hell, I’m sure there’s a place with both. We’ll find it, and we’ll go there.”

There’s a desperation to his voice, one that you do not recognize. Never before seen in previous meetings, nor throughout the night, it’s as if you managed to flip some sort of switch. Like a dam breaking, the walls he put up have suddenly come crashing down, and now the flood has come rushing through. All the harboured discontent you’ve noticed far deeper than you ever could have realized.

“Are you crazy?” You ask, and if he takes any offence to the statement, he doesn’t show it. Instead he groans in frustration, turning away from you and walking further into the room. Once again raising his hands to his head, this time he pulls at his hair instead of running them through it.

“No,” he whispers as you move over to his nightstand, switching on the lamp in order to cast even the slightest hint of light into the room. However, now that you’re able to see his expression, you almost wish you hadn’t switched on the light at all, as he just appears so… broken.

Eyes dull, he simply stares at you, shaking his head. “No, I’m not crazy,” he whispers, and although it’s in response to your question, it seems to be more of a reassurance to himself. “I’m not crazy for wanting out, and I’m tired of people acting like I am.”

“Yeosang-” You start, wanting to stop this before it even truly begins, but he interrupts you before you get the chance. His hands loosen their grip on his scalp, and with one of his hands he reaches out, pointing towards you. When he speaks his voice is surprisingly firm.

“You feel the same way I do, don’t lie,” he says, accusatory. “The shit about the city all being the same, fighting being pointless, wanting a bit of insurgence? The beach?”

You shake your head, denying the statement, but he presses further. “That was all you, not me.”

You open your mouth to say something, but no words come out. Not because you are interrupted, but simply because you don’t know what to say.

Because really, he’s right.

Caught up in the moment, his own vigilance and outspoken behaviour seemed to rub off on your own conscience, because those were your ideas. And as much as you want to, you can’t blame them fully on him.

And yet, it doesn’t matter. You will never desert. This is your life, even if there’s a little part of you that wishes it wasn’t. It’s like you told him from the very beginning, there is no point in imagining a life without this - without Duke’s, KQ or SMY - you are simply too wrapped up. He is also too wrapped up, even he’s pretending that he isn’t.

“They’ll find you Yeosang,” you say quietly, shaking your head. “You know that.”

“And so what if they do?” He says, although the anger is slowly dissipating from his voice, as if he’s remembering it’s not you he’s upset with. “At least then I’ll die knowing that I tried.”

A moment of silence passes, and he let’s out a sigh. Shoulder’s sagging slightly, it’s as if you can see the defeat in his posture. His mouth drawn into a thin line, he takes a few steps towards you, hesitant. This time, when he reaches out for your hand, you don’t pull away.

“Come with me,” he asks again, although this time it is not as desperate, as he already knows the answer. “We’re smart, we could make it.”

But you both know that you couldn’t.

Maybe that is why his packed bags have been sitting by his bedroom door for what you imagine have been weeks, the dust collecting beneath them now visible in the lamp-light.

Maybe that is why he let you approach him at Duke’s, brought you here tonight. Knowing he couldn’t stew in this alone, hoping to find someone who shared in his own struggles. Desperate to not be lonesome in this feeling any longer.

But the woman he searches for is not you. He is willing to abandon it all, a brave enough coward. You are neither of those things.

“No,” you say softly, giving his hand a soft squeeze. His lips purse together, clearly disappointed, but he nods in acceptance all the same.

“I’m not the person you want me to be,” you say, looking up to meet his eyes. “I’m not your ideal woman who’s going to come save you from all your discontent. That’s just not me.”

He swallows at this, beginning to pull his hand away, when you stop him. “But,” you begin, your free hand reaching up from your side and settling on the collar of his shirt, fingers resting upon the first button. He stiffens at this. “If you’re looking to lose yourself in something…”

You pull the button through it’s loop, allowing the shirt to fall open slightly, so that the bare of his chest is visible. “Even if only for one night,” you continue, leaning in closer so that you’re only a few inches apart now. His gaze falls down to your lips, and even though he doesn’t move closer, his own fall open in turn.

You let your hand trail down to the next button. You can feel his breath on your face, and it still smells of the cigar smoke. Of the bourbon, of the whisky from back at Duke’s, of the series of poor decisions that brought the two of you to where you are now.

“I can do that for you,” you murmur, voice just barely audible.

Instead of speaking, he leans forward, connecting his lips with your own. And that is answer enough.

It is not slow this time, nor is it not lazy. It’s passionate, furious. He lips seeking yours with a sense of vengeance, a desire to forget himself. Forget KQ and SMY, live a life where they don’t matter.

And for tonight, you can pretend the same.

Hand gripping around the small of your back, he pulls you with him as he makes his way backwards, towards the bed that lays behind him.

He moves to turn the two of you around, so that he can lay you down under him, but you don’t give him the chance. Instead, you take the opportunity to push him backwards, so that it is his own back that presses against the mattress.

Elbows still holding him upwards, his eyes widen in surprise, mouth parting open although no words come out. Seating yourself over top of him, you let you lips drift to his jawbone, sucking gently on the skin. Mouth slowly drifting closed, he let’s out a sharp inhale of air.

He swallows, hard.

You feel as his own hand drifts to slide up beneath your shirt, reaching backwards as to fiddle with the back of your bra strip.

It strikes you now just how wrong this is, how fundamentally taboo it is for you - a higher of KQ - to be fooling around with someone equally as important under SMY. It’s truly unheard of, mostly due to the fact nobody would ever dare to try it.

Yet, here you are, daring.

But right now, you don’t feel daring. You feel tired, frustrated, and desperate. Tired of having these thoughts plague your mind. Frustrated with yourself for letting Yeosang’s own discontent rouse the harboured resentment within you. Desperate to lose yourself in something.

For all of your talk of it being Yeosang who wishes to pretend that reality doesn’t exist for a moment, with the way you press yourself against him with such fervour, it may truly be you who desires to forget it all for one night.

A bit of insurgence.

Closing your eyes, desire burns hotly from within your core. Like smoke from a burning wildfire, it spreads quickly as a haze over your mind, and it’s exactly what you’ve wanted.

And for one night, the two of you pretend.

~~~~

When you wake up, it’s in darkness.

Sweat beeding against your forehead, you blink a few times, eyelids sticky as you attempt to remember where you are. Shifting upwards, you realize that an arm hangs over the back of your figure, fingertips brushing against your naked stomach.

Right.

Yeosang’s chest is pressed up against your back, breathing slow and melodic as he sleeps soundly. Lips brushing against you shoulder, the contact makes you still, as if the weight of what you’ve just done finally settles into reality.

You don’t regret it, the night truly being everything you needed, but an inkling of guilt creeps into your mind all the same. Chewing on the bottom of your lip, you slide one of your ankles out from beneath the sheets, and are immediately shocked by the coolness of the bedroom air.

Slipping it back under, you give yourself a moment to prepare. Yeosang is warm, the bed cozy, and you know you’d be far more comfortable letting yourself fall back into sleep.

But that was never the plan.

Gently pulling his hand from it’s place over your waist, you are careful not to rouse him awake as you slide out from beside him. Shivering slightly, you search around the room for your top, your eyes not having adjusted to the dim light.

You find it, along with your jeans, on Yeosang’s side of the bed. Slipping them on as quietly as possible, before tiptoeing your way out of the bedroom, you do not allow yourself a spare glance backwards.

Making your way down the hallway and into the kitchen, you make quick work as you immediately head towards the drawer where he’d kept his cigars. Or more specifically in your interest, was stuffed full of documents.

Sifting through them, your eyes scan over the headlines. There are orders describing the details of past and future shipments, profile’s for different SMY members, printed out emails that surely may hold a level of importance.

But they aren’t what you came here for tonight.

You find it near the very bottom, sliding it out from it’s place beneath the pile and holding it before you. The document reads: “Northern Warehouse: Floorplan and Security”.

Jackpot.

It’s what you need for retaliation. SMY took out one of your warehouses, so the only appropriate response would be to take down one of their own, specifically the one known to have the most prevalent meth lab inside, as well as most populated security.

Fight fire with fire, as Hongjoong had put it. If they bring you a battle, counter them with a war.

Taking the document, you fold it in half before reaching for your purse that still sits on the kitchen countertop, slipping it inside. Your phone screen is already alight from within the pocket you’d stuffed it in, buzzing only slightly since you’d left it on silent mode.

Pulling it out, you finally check the notifications you’d purposely ignored, and the screen is flooded with messages from Hongjoong.

Hongjoong (9:24pm): You at Duke’s yet?

Missed call from Hongjoong.

Hongjoong (9:48pm): Hello?

Hongjoong (10:10pm): Fine. Just let me know when you’re on your way to his place.

Hongjoong (12:13am): You on your way there?

Hongjoong (12:28am): Listen, I know you were iffy on this. Be mad at me, whatever. But don’t leave me in the dark.

You roll your eyes.

Hongjoong (12:56am): I’m assuming you found it?

Hongjoong (1:15am): Is he out?

At this your hand mindlessly drifts into your bag, settling on a small linear bottle hidden within one of the side-pockets. Pulling it out, you twist the bottle within your hand, the white powder within falling from side to side as you do so, like sand within an hour glass.

This had been the original plan for when you got to his place. Slip it in his drink, knock him out, find the papers and leave.

But you knew you were never going to do that from the minute you sat down next at him at Duke’s

Hongjoong (2:13am): You’re starting to worry me, this is seriously fucking petty.

Hongjoong (2:45am): You got an hour to text me back or I’m sending someone out there.

However, what starts as a worried concern quickly shifts, and you can’t help but snort.

Hongjoong (3:17am): You’re fucking him, aren’t you?

It’s almost humorous. He speaks with anger, as if you owe him any sort of loyalty. He slept with a waitress at Duke’s just last week, and a girl from your Southern District a month earlier. You don’t really remember the one before that, but you’re pretty sure she had a tattoo of a crane on the back of her shoulder, at least that’s what you saw when she was leaving his office.

The two of you aren’t together, so if he wants to be mad at you for fucking someone else, he needs to reflect on his own history first.

And maybe he is starting to, as he seems to think better of it.

Hongjoong (3:22am): Don’t answer that.

Missed Call from Hongjoong.

Hongjoong (3:26am): Please call me back. I just need to know you’re alive.

Letting out a sigh, you know you can’t keep him in radio silence any longer. You can tell that even with his jealousy, he’s genuinely worried, and if the roles were reversed you would want a response just the same.

You (3:36am): I got it. On my way back.

You’re about to leave, slipping your jacket on and heading towards the door, when something stops you. You sigh, knowing it’s stupid, but you find yourself lightly tredding back down the hallway, towards Yeosang’s bedroom.

Peaking inside, you hang in the doorframe for a moment. Feeling a ghost of the person you were just a few hours ago, you can’t bring yourself to leave, like an apparition tied to the room.

Despite yourself, his offers hangs within your mind.

“Come with me,” he asks again, although this time it is not as desperate, as he already knows the answer. “We’re smart, we could make it.”

It’s dumb, and you’re well aware of that, but you can’t help but imagine what might happen if you said yes. If you shook him awake right now, stuffed the items back into his suitcase and left everything behind.

Desert it all, escape the hamster wheel. No more immoral shit like this, no more planning the murder of the SMY members during operations, no more of this toxic endless cycle of an almost-relationship you’ve gotten yourself wrapped up in with your boss.

But even if you managed to leave it all, would it ever really leave you?

You’ve done too much to turn your back on this life now. You’re too tainted. This is your job. It’s what you’re good at, because really, it’s all you’ve ever done. Unlike Yeosang, you aren’t someone brave enough to dream of anything else, to chase after what may lay beyond the boundaries of this city.

You swallow deeply, trying to shake off both the pain and guilt that rests upon your shoulders. Smoothing out your jacket, you watch him for only a moment longer, how his arm drapes over the spot where your figure had just been. He smiles when he sleeps.

Turning around, you make your way back down the hallway and towards the door. Slipping on your heels, you don’t close the door completely when you leave, as not to wake him.

Making your way down the apartment complex hallway, you still smell of the cigar smoke. The bourbon and the whisky. Like sex and longing. Like regret.

You’re afraid a shower won’t be enough to wash that away.

Sending a quick text to Hongjoong, you ask him to send you a car, this area of the city still entirely foreign to you.

When you make it out of the apartment building, it has begun to snow. The first of the season. You pay no mind, you feel cold enough already. And even as you stare down the street, waiting for the car to pick you up to take you back to your real life, your mind does not leave Yeosang.

You blink, and your eyes water for the first time in as long as you can recall. Funny, you thought you were immune to the trials of the job at this point, your plots no longer containing the power to phase you. Apparently, there is a line to this however, and you have managed to cross it.

Eventually, the car comes, a long and jet-black vehicle with tinted windows. When you settle into the back seat, the driver immediately sets the car in motion. You stare out your own window, eyes drifting up towards the top of the building, knowing that in one of those rooms Yeosang sleeps. Unaware.

You sigh.

You can only hope SMY doesn’t kill him when they discover where KQ found the floorplan.

~~~~~

thanks for reading!!

here are my ateez and skz masterlists for your convenience, and feel free to come chat with me about any of your thoughts if you enjoyed. i hope to see you around :3

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