Title: What happens in Itaewon
Fandom: Chief Kim
Rating: NC-17 rated
Length: ~2,870 words
Notes: Seo Yul/Kim Sung-Ryong PWP. Set during episode 15, when they're still antagonists, after Seo Yul saves Kim Sung-Ryong’s life and before Sung-Ryong starts kissing Yul’s cheek all the time. I meant to go in a “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you” direction, but it went here instead. Bushels of thanks to mergatrude for beta. <3
Summary: Yul doesn’t know if it’s anger or arousal, or one feeding the other.


The music is loud enough Yul can feel his sternum vibrating. He sits at the bar, sips his whisky and lets the noise soak into his skin. It’s been a good evening so far: he’s comfortably full from the dinner Yoon Ha-Kyung bought him, and she was kind too. He’s secretly starting to think of her as his noona, an actual friend. He likes that she can slam the hell out of a baseball, that he’s not the only one who doesn’t fit neatly into society’s rules.

So now he’s mellow enough that the need to touch and be touched is overriding the instinct to keep everyone at a distance. It doesn’t happen often, too much of a risk, but it’s safe here—no one he knows would step foot in the place.

He glances around, scoping out his options, and—Goddammit. That familiar hair, the insolent angle of the neck. Kim Sung-Ryong is across the bar from him. He’s ditched the cartoonish bodyguards, but he’s still dressed in garish gangster clothes, and is apparently in the process of accepting a beer from a well-dressed older man.

A cold, sick panic twists in Yul’s stomach, souring everything. His two worlds are colliding with a vengeance. He doesn’t stop to think, just shoulders his way through the dense press of bodies and jabs Kim Sung-Ryong on the shoulder. “Hey!”

Kim Sung-Ryong swats his hand away without even looking, his head bent forward to hear whatever the ajusshi is shouting to him. He’s smirking. Yul grabs his shoulder and hauls him around. “Hey! What are you doing here?”

Kim Sung-Ryong’s eyes widen. “Director Seo.”

“Did you follow me?” Yul’s so angry, he almost spits the words.

The ajusshi moves to intervene, to push Yul away, but Kim Sung-Ryong dissuades him with a pat and reassuring smile, then turns back to Yul. “Why would I follow you? I’m just here to celebrate not dying last night.”

He points to the faint red mark still visible around his neck. From the rope the Chairman’s men had used to try to hang him.

It should make Yul pause, but he can’t unclench the fear in his stomach. “This is a gay club.”

“I know that.” Somehow Kim Sung-Ryong makes the shouted words sound mild and amused. “So why are you here?”

Yul grinds his teeth, incensed to have given Kim Sung-Ryong an opening. “None of your business!”

Kim Sung-Ryong’s gaze sweeps him up and down, and Yul flinches despite his best efforts. Kim Sung-Ryong’s eyebrows lift. “Oh, you’re here to hook up.”

It’s not even a question. Yul glares at him with as much authority as he can muster. “Just don’t blab to anyone you saw me. Don’t you dare.”

He has no faith in Kim Sung-Ryong’s discretion. There’s a good chance his whole life is about to come crashing down—his career, his reputation, his first friendship in as long as he can remember, all of it. But there’s nothing he can do about it here, and the pulsing music which had seemed soothing earlier is now oppressive. His palms are sweaty, his throat sore from shouting, that delicious meal a lump in his stomach. He might actually throw up if he stays or punch someone. So he turns and heads for the door, slipping through the crowd as unobtrusively as possible.

He’s nearly reached the exit when someone grabs his elbow. No prizes for guessing who. “What now?”

“Hey, Seo Yul. What about me?”

“What?” Yul stares at him blankly.

“To hook up with. What about me?”

Yul’s jaw drops. It’s the worst idea he’s ever heard, a train wreck in the making. That Kim Sung-Ryong would even suggest it—Yul should be outraged. He’s still gaping and gathering his indignation when a group of people come in and Sung-Ryong pulls him out of their path. Sung-Ryong takes a few steps back into a dim alcove, probably an ex-coat check, and Yul follows to yell at him.

But there’s a couple making out in one corner of the alcove, oblivious to their presence, and the sight of them, passionate and absorbed in each other, sets a spark burning low in Yul’s belly. He averts his eyes, back to Sung-Ryong.

No, he thinks. Are you kidding me? But his mouth says, “What about your date, that ajusshi?”

“He’s not my date. He’s just a nice gentleman who bought me a drink.” It’s fractionally quieter here, so Sung-Ryong doesn’t have to shout when he adds to his offer, “Promise I won’t tell anyone.”

He quirks his eyebrows suggestively and licks his lower lip, leaving it red and shiny.

Yul flushes in response, and he doesn’t know if it’s anger or arousal, or one feeding the other. He shoves Sung-Ryong against the wall with a hollow thud and holds him there, his hand splayed on that tacky polyester shirt. “I don’t like you.”

When Sung-Ryong shrugs, the firm muscles of his chest move under Yul’s fingers. “I know. Want to fuck me anyway?”

And Yul loses his mind. He dives forward and takes Sung-Ryong’s mouth to shut him up, and it’s dirty and dangerous doing this with someone he knows, someone who drives him so crazy, but he can’t help himself. He sucks at that wet lower lip and forces Sung-Ryong’s mouth open wide, punishing him. Sung-Ryong doesn’t resist at all, meets him measure for measure, arms snaking around Yul’s waist to pull him closer, dragging their hips together. Sung-Ryong even widens his stance to make room for Yul, the move both an invitation and a taunt. It’s like every argument they’ve ever had, every battle of wills, and it should be disgusting, Yul should hate it, but he doesn’t.

His hand is still trapped between them, so he drags it sideways and pinches Sung-Ryong’s nipple through his shirt, and Sung-Ryong gives a full-body shudder that Yul feels everywhere, and makes a guttural sound into Yul’s mouth. He starts scrabbling at the wall behind him. Yul grabs him by the hips to steady him, Sung-Ryong’s hipbones pressing into his palms through those cheap pants, but Sung-Ryong keeps groping wildly at the wall. His arm sweeps out wide to the right.

Yul tears his mouth away. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Sung-Ryong leans away, sideways, and Yul stiffens. Maybe this whole thing was a joke. But oh, Sung-Ryong’s found a door handle, that’s why. He opens it to reveal an even darker space, a cupboard or a hallway, cool and dank but private, and they slip inside without speaking.

With the door closed, it’s pitch dark. Yul thinks about searching for a light switch, if only to make sure they’re alone, but then Sung-Ryong is on him, groping Yul’s erection through his pants and pushing him back this time, until there are bars at Yul’s back, maybe a set of shelves. The faint clink of bottles behind him. Yul doesn’t care about their surroundings or even the discomfort, but he swiftly reverses their positions. He can’t let Sung-Ryong take charge, not for a second.

He drags his hands down the length of Sung-Ryong’s torso and hesitates at the waist of his pants. “Okay?”

Sung-Ryong answers with a sound that might be a laugh or a desperate huh, but either way isn’t a no, and Yul forgets the niceties and all but tears Sung-Ryong’s pants open, yanks them and his boxers down and grabs Sung-Ryong’s cock. It’s hard and heavy, the skin hot, and Yul’s breath catches at the sensuality of it, a man’s cock in his hand, the velvet dark, the shamelessness and need. It doesn’t matter who it belongs to. He has dreams like this sometimes, of touching men, stroking them, coming against their bellies or in their asses.

He slides his free hand under the hem of the shirt to the flat belly, leans in and finds the angle of a neck and inhales deep, letting warm, musky bodyscent fill his lungs. Then he licks up the side of the neck and instinctively nips down.

“Ah, that hurts!” hisses Sung-Ryong, too sharply, pulling away. “What are you, a vampire?”

Yul abruptly remembers the raw mark of the rope, that Sung-Ryong nearly died.

He almost apologises, though none of it was his fault, he was the one who saved him, but Sung-Ryong doesn’t give him a chance anyway. He grabs Yul’s head and drags him back into a sloppy kiss, holds him there as Yul jerks him off, letting the memory—and the guilt—go. Free-falling back into the here and now.

For a while, they stay like that, in the dark with Sung-Ryong’s tongue in Yul’s mouth, and the frantic rustle of clothes and skin on skin and Sung-Ryong’s low groans, with the bar music pulsing through the thin walls. Sung-Ryong tenses, and Yul speeds up, vicariously impatient and ready for his own turn, but then Sung-Ryong catches his wrist and stops him. “Wait, wait, I was—I really want to get fucked tonight. Do you fuck?”

Yul’s pulse leaps. He’s only done it twice before—and been fucked once—but he’s not going to admit that. He unfastens his pants. “Turn around.”

“Just a sec.” And then it sounds like Sung-Ryong is sliding down the wall.

What the hell? Does he want to do it on the floor? They can’t even see what’s down there! “What are you doing?”

“Just wait.” There’s rustling and some cursing, and then he’s back, groping in the dark for Yul and pressing a foil packet and a plastic tube into his hand.

Oh. Right.

“Or, do you want me to help you with that?”

Yul’s already hard. He doesn’t need help. “I said turn around.”

“So bossy.” Sung-Ryong shuffles around, presumably his pants are around his ankles by now, caught on his stupid yellow sneakers. “Make it good,” he says over his shoulder.

Yul snorts and rolls on the condom, nearly dropping the lube in the process. By the time he’s ready, he’s lost his bearings. “Where are you?”

“Right here.”

Arms outstretched, Yul follows his voice and finds himself groping a naked back. “Are you crazy? What happened to your shirt?”

“Stop stalling.”

“I’m not.” But the smooth expanse of hot skin is distracting. He shakes himself and finds Sung-Ryong’s ass, his crack. Rubs slick fingers down to his hole and works him open carefully. Sung-Ryong might be the most infuriating man alive, but Yul does want it to be good for him, if only for pride’s sake. Never let it be said Seo Yul is a bad lay.

“While I’m still young,” mutters Sung-Ryong, and Yul suppresses a growl.

“Do you want me to fuck you or not?” But he pulls his fingers free and then, almost before he’s ready, he’s pushing in. It’s surprisingly easy, the slide of his cock deep into Sung-Ryong’s ass until they’re locked together, and God, it’s so hot, so literal that he breaks into a sweat in the cool dark. He presses his forehead to the back of Sung-Ryong’s neck and bites his own lip, concentrating like a drunk trying to walk a straight line, and thrusts in again.

Sung-Ryong tilts to give Yul better access. Yul is hanging onto finesse by a hair’s breadth. He tries to find a rhythm, and swears when Sung-Ryong rocks back too fast to meet him, nearly throwing him off balance. And then it devolves into a mess, Sung-Ryong retreating when Yul pushes in, following when he withdraws, all of it graceless and frustrating. The bottles on the shelves clinking like distant mocking laughter.

“Would you hold still!” Yul growls, and for a brief moment Sung-Ryong freezes, but of course he doesn’t comply for long.

Yul should have known this wouldn’t work, that he and Kim Sung-Ryong are incompatible on every level, even for something as basic and rote as a casual fuck. Especially for something this basic. In the end, this is just one more instance of Sung-Ryong making a fool of him, and the smart thing would be to finish up, extricate himself and walk away without looking back—like he did last night when he left Sung-Ryong on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere and drove home without allowing himself a second thought. He doesn’t regret that. He refuses to. He won’t regret this either.

So, okay, he just needs to grit his teeth and get through the indignity of it as quickly as possible. But just as he thinks that, something changes, their rhythms align somehow, and then it’s like nothing Yul’s felt before. Suddenly they’re doing the same dance, their bodies two halves of a whole, nothing mechanical or awkward at all. Yul flushes head to foot, his nerves going off like fireworks. He doesn’t care that his pants have slipped to his knees or anything else.

“Ah, like that?” Sung-Ryong murmurs. “Mm, just like that, don’t stop.”

Yul doesn’t even have the breath, the presence of mind to tell him to shut up. He doesn’t have words for anything, just wants to sink into this feeling for hours, this breathless pleasure and the grinding exertion, and that somehow they seem to be in synch. He cups the sides of Sung-Ryong’s ass and fucks in long luscious strokes, taking control, and miracle of miracles, Sung-Ryong lets him.

And of course, of course, because his body is perverse and Sung-Ryong doubly so, the fact that it’s so perfect and Yul actually wants it to last means that it can’t. His orgasm hits suddenly, tearing through him, lighting him up like a firework. And then, inevitably, the sense of physical harmony dissipates like a dream, until it’s just him and a man he doesn’t like or trust, half-naked and spent in the tawdry secret corner of a nightclub.

It’s such a loss, that amazing feeling, that immersion and intimacy—even if it had been purely physical—that it feels like an ache. Yul is still adjusting when he realises Sung-Ryong is finishing himself off, apparently having given up on any assistance.

“Asshole,” he says, tiredly. “You’re so impatient.”

“Mm, but you like assholes.” Sung-Ryong’s voice sounds gritted out, between his teeth. “We just established that—oh. Oh, fuck.” He gasps raggedly, and Yul almost wishes he could see, wonders how he looks when he comes.

Then he remembers he doesn’t care and busies himself taking off the condom and tying it off, fastening and straightening his clothes as well as he can in the dark. He’s nearly finished when blinding fluorescent light fills the space, and after a few seconds of pained blinking and swearing, he can see how dingy the space really is: a service corridor, shelves stacked with liquor on one side, a mop propped against a scuffed flaking grey wall on the other.

“Sort of ruins the romance, doesn’t it,” says Sung-Ryong, mockingly. “Come on. Unless you want to go back in for a drink?”

“No.” Yul doesn’t look at Sung-Ryong. The only thing he wants now is a shower, cleansing and alone.

“That’s what I thought. This way.” He starts down the corridor, away from the door where they’d entered, and after a couple of turns they find a fire exit and slip out into an alley.

Yul realises he’s still carrying the condom and flicks it into a dumpster, wipes his hands on his pants. “How do you know your way around?”

“I’ve been here before, once or twice.” Sung-Ryong shrugs. His hair is sticking up everywhere, his lips red and used, his clothing blotted with sweat, but he still seems wholly himself. And of course he still has that rope mark on his neck.

Yul decides not to think about his answer. He doesn’t need anything about this to be special. He meets Sung-Ryong’s eye, meaning to say, This doesn’t mean anything. Don’t forget that. But the words won’t form.

Sung-Ryong tilts his chin knowingly. “Don’t worry, I’m not under any illusion you’ll fall for my charms and start being nice to me.”

This apparent axiom doesn’t seem to bother him.

And he’s right. Nothing’s changed between them. Nothing can change, and this can never, ever happen again. Yul has plans for his life, and the unpredictable Kim Sung-Ryong would inevitably get in the way. He steps back. “Good, because that’s never gonna happen.”

They walk to the main road in silence, shoulder to shoulder, Sung-Ryong brushing at a stain on his shirt. “Well, then—”

“What happened here, stays here.” But Yul isn’t really worried anymore. He takes out his car keys and hesitates. Against his better judgement, he adds, “You need a ride anywhere?”

It’s a relief when Sung-Ryong declines with a casual wave of his hand. “I’m fine. I can get a taxi from here.”

The reproach is subtle for once, and Yul chooses to ignore it. He gets in his car and, for the second night in a row, leaves Sung-Ryong on the side of the road and drives off.

He slows at the corner, waiting for a gap in the traffic. In the rear-view mirror, he sees Sung-Ryong shove his hands in his pockets with a bemused smile, turn and walk away.


END