opposing counsel | myg
→ pairing: yoongi x f!reader → warnings: yoongi and reader are both in their mid-thirties. mentions of divorce, abuse, restraining orders, custody arrangements, etc. reader and yoongi are both lawyers. the whole thing takes place in a bar. a reference to mandatory enlistment. jeongguk is a shithead. reader is down bad for yoongi. ambiguous ending, but i like to think they get together in the end. nothing spicy happens, but MINORS DNI. → word count: 2.8k → note: this was written for @yoongicatagenda as part of my donation drabble drive to support local orgs in the wake of the los angeles wildfires. thank you so much my love for donating to pasadena humane and sending in a request! i must apologize, i didn't quite hit every note in your request... but i hope you like it, anyway!! (the donation requests are still open until further notice, so please feel free to donate and send in requests!)
REQUEST: "Yoongi and reader are both hot shot divorce lawyers and rivals. Enemies to lovers. They have just wrapped up a case in court. Yoongi represented the husband, reader represented the wife. One of them is drinking in a bar after leaving court. The other walks in. They bicker and end up drinking together, arguing about their case and love and marriage etc and end up hooking up."
——
There's only one other person wearing a suit at this bar.
Honestly, there are only a few other people milling about as is. Wednesday isn't exactly the prime evening for a night on the town—not in this cesspool of capitalism and productivity, anyway—so there are actually empty spots at the bar and booths in the corner. You slump into one of them with your eyes closed, “dry clean only” skirt skidding against the dull vinyl seat.
The part-timer materializes tableside, pen in hand. You've never been able to tell if she's 20 or 40. "Ready to order." Not a question.
You pretend to glance over the menu. "The usual, please."
The part-timer just blinks at you.
"Tough crowd." You hand her the menu. "Toki highball and haemul pajeon. Extra crisp."
It's been years since you've smoked, having kicked the habit back in law school—the prices of cigarettes kept climbing, while your income had plummeted from an already pathetic sum to nothing outright. Still, it's nights like this one that make you itch for a cigarette, for that salty-sweet ash to blacken your lungs and flood your veins.
All in all, the day went fairly well. Cases like today's are a breeze—no abuse, no manipulation, no minor children. Both parties had submitted nearly identical dissolution forms to the court, and the proceedings had simply been a rubber stamp. In the end, your client walked away with, all things considered, a reasonable sum—half of the profits of their sold house, most of the shared belongings she wanted, a decent amount of spousal support. No restraining orders, no messy custody schedules, no last-ditch arguments over keeping the house or his grandmother's diamond-bezeled watch or her engagement ring. Save a few tears shed on the courthouse steps, your client walked away a happy customer.
And yet... cases like today's also make you wonder what the point of any of it is. It's almost too clichéd to even think about—the fact that you're a family law attorney in your mid-thirties with no spouse or children of her own, or even a long-term partner (or a partner, period). You've built a career out of breaking marriages and ripping families apart, and all of it has soured you on the concept of true love. At least in those cases that make you want to rip your hair out and castrate opposing counsel with a rusty thumbtack, you're fueled by enough indignation and injustice to feel like you're doing something right. Those sleepless nights and explosive meetings are worth it, you think, to put an end to generational trauma.
Cases where both parties simply fell out of love and didn't feel like sharing their lives anymore, though? These just made you sad. Sucked every last bit of hope and optimism out of you. If you had it your way, no one would ever get married—and you'd be out of a job. Maybe you would be doing taxes, instead. Or embalming corpses.
The part-timer comes back round, looking as lively as ever as she plunks your plate and highball glass down on the table.
And a basket of fries.
"I didn't order—"
The part-timer rolls her eyes, as if she'd been anticipating this, and jerks her head to the left. "From that guy at the bar."
You jump a little in your seat, stunned. There's only one person sitting there tonight, in a slightly rumpled black suit with dark hair curling at the nape of his neck. It takes you a minute to realize why he looks so familiar; where you've seen those knobby, pale fingers before.
Christ alive. It's the guy from court. Your OC, the attorney who had represented your client's ex-husband. He wasn't a bad guy—had no reason to be, in a cookie-cutter, beginner mode case like this. He'd even held open the courtroom door for you.
Intrigued, you turn back to the part-timer. "Hey, mind if I—"
"Yeah, yeah," she snaps, flapping her hand toward the empty row of barstools.
She doesn't have to tell you twice. You gather up your plates and drink and walk over to the bar. A perfectly respectable, one-barstool space away from your OC, who is no longer your OC but a colleague. Maybe he commiserates.
"Hi," you say, sticking out your hand. "I'm Y/N. Thanks for the fries."
He starts, like he didn't hear you approach. Takes your hand, too, a beat too late. "Hi. Min Yoongi. And, um, you're welcome."
His other hand curves around a sweating glass of whiskey. In front of him is an open manila folder, stuffed with photocopied filings and photographs and letters with "CONFIDENTIAL" stamped across the top. A familiar sight. You glance back up at him. He's plainly exhausted, both of you are, but it still sinks in that he's got a nice face. A bit closed-off, perhaps, but kind. You pride yourself on your ability to read people, and you can tell that he's a good one. Free french fries aside.
Speaking of which—
"How did you know I like fries?" you ask.
He blinks back at you, before a tiny smile quirks up one side of his mouth. "Doesn't everyone?"
"Fair point." You slide your haemul pajeon between you and pick an extra pair of chopsticks out of the metal container. "Here. I can never finish all of this."
"Oh, no, I'm—"
"Come on." You set the chopsticks in front of him. "You bought me fries, and you made my job easy today. And you're still working. It's the least I could do."
He smiles at that. A genuine one, a flash of gum and teeth. "Thanks."
"I thought I'd met all of the divorce attorneys in Seongnam," you remark, spearing a piece of pajeon for yourself. It's true—Seongnam isn't huge, as far as cities go, and within the tiny legal community, the family law community is even smaller. In a country infamous for its social taboos, there isn't a ton of family law business to go around. You run into the same faces over and over, usually in Judge Han's courtroom. Have practically memorized everyone's mailing addresses, their assistants' names.
Yoongi closes his case file. "I'm actually a finance attorney. Credit agreements, acquisition financings. That kind of stuff."
"Huh." You consider this. "What brings you to divorce court, then?"
"Stepping in. Favor for a friend."
"Ah." You bump your glass against his before taking a long gulp. "Well, you could have fooled me. You did great in there."
"Well, the case was pretty straightforward," Yoongi answers modestly. You do your level best to focus on what he's saying. Not on his milky skin, or the fine threads of silver in his hair, or the notable absence of a ring on his left hand. "No squabbling over assets and liabilities, no kids to traumatize for life. You did a nice job, too."
You nod, blushing. "Oh. Well, thanks. Kind of depressing though, don't you think?"
He tilts his head. "What do you mean?"
You start dissecting the piece of pajeon on your plate, suddenly afraid to make eye contact. "You know. Ending a marriage. Two people fall in love, they decide to make a lifelong commitment in front of their friends and family, they move in together, build a life together... and then, one day, they decide they're not in love anymore. They decide to stop trying." You shrug, cupping your hands around your drink. "It's a bit of a downer, being in the business of breaking people up."
Kwon Sujin and Baek Hancheol had been married for thirty years when they called it quits. It wasn't your business to know why—whether she cheated or he did, your job was to wade into the legal complexities and make sense of it all. Unless it involved fighting for custody or alimony, the sordid details were none of your business.
And yet, the whole thing had been terribly clean cut. Ms. Kwon, your client, had an extremely short list of must-haves: She wanted to keep the art she'd collected over the course of their marriage, the Hyundai Palisade she drove, and little else. Mr. Baek consented, in exchange for sixty percent of their hefty retirement savings and Hyundai Genesis. Neither of their faces betrayed emotion as they signed and sealed the papers. They even shared a quick embrace outside of the courthouse, once all was said and done.
Thirty years of marriage. Thirty years of living with someone, grocery shopping with them, raising a child with them. Watching them cry, watching them laugh, watching their hair gray and their skin soften, knowing them inside-out and outside-in, knowing them better than they know themselves—all of it over in what felt like an instant. The person you once thought you'd die with gradually becoming a stranger, until the final decision from the court snipped whatever threads kept you tethered together. Slowly, and then all at once.
Yoongi nods, slotting his chin between his thumb and index finger. "That's true. But it's freeing, too. People change all the time. There's really no use in two people staying committed to one another when they feel like they'd be better off alone."
"That's so sad, though," you sigh. "What drives someone to that point? At what point do you start thinking that the companionship isn't worth it, that even co-existing is too much? They didn't seem like they hated each other, right?"
Yoongi hums in understanding. The sound is deep, rough—and so, so hot. You turn away, hoping he doesn't catch the blush working its way up your neck. You might be jaded, but you're unfortunately not immune to whatever effect men still have on you. God help you.
After a while, he speaks again. "I guess it's the possibility of... more. They could have gone on like that until they were holding hands in a nursing home, sure. But they were only 58—not too old to start over. Not too old to imagine something greater. It's an act of hope, really, to get a divorce at that age. They're not giving up—not on themselves, anyway." He drops his eyes to his closed case file, suddenly shy. "At least... that's why I did it."
It takes a second for it to click. When it does, all your brilliant, educated mind can come up with is, "Oh."
The two of you sit in embarrassed silence for a bit, taking tandem sips of your drinks. He seems a bit embarrassed to have shared so much of himself at once; you feel like you've pried too deep, even though he offered that information voluntarily. For a man who seemed so taciturn in court, he seems much more open now—almost like a friend, instead of someone you've just met.
You decide not to be awkward about it. "Want to tell me about it?"
"Not much to tell." He flags down the bartender, who refills his whiskey without a word. Huh. You wonder if he's a regular here—if you've seen him around before, and you just never noticed. "We married young, really young. I was 21 and scared shitless of losing her and didn't know any better. But we were 21, and by the time I came back from my mandatory enlistment I realized we'd grown into different people. The 25-year-old version of her was unrecognizable to me, just as I'm sure the 26-year-old version of me was unrecognizable to her. So we called it quits."
"Hmm." You don't know what to say. I'm sorry doesn't feel appropriate, but neither does I'm happy for you.
"Tell me more about you, byeonhosanim." He grins again. You wonder if he knows the effect it has on people—on you, specifically. "If this work depresses you so much, why do it?"
Great question. You murmur a thanks when the bartender drops off another basket of fries that you hadn't ordered, and wonder if he's just feeling generous tonight. "I don't know. I was 25 and fresh out of law school, and the first thing I did was commercial lit in Seoul. You know—mass torts, employment, white collar stuff. I was young and stupid and nothing mattered to me except that shiny paycheck, so I sold my soul off to a massive firm and worked there for a few years. Then I was 28, and one day I was at the office at midnight, writing a brief so that a gigantic, filthy rich conglomerate could keep twenty billion won instead of just paying it to a bunch of employees. As compensation for unfair working conditions, no less."
You bite down on the inside of your cheek, tension seizing your muscles at the memory alone.
"And... I don't know. I didn't have it in me. I quit the next morning, and I was wandering around Seongnam wondering how I'd break the news to my mother when I saw this fucking bus stop ad for a local family law office. I called and asked for a job on a whim, but... here I am, six years later.
"I don't hate the work, you know? It's a bit depressing when I really think about it, but I work with a ton of women. And mothers. I help get them out of tough situations, help kids grow up in happier households. And in those moments, I feel like the work is really worthwhile. It's just... days like today." You huff out a laugh, embarrassed. "Just too much time to think when I'm not drilling opposing counsel, I guess."
He nods. "No, I get it." His voice drops much lower, so low that you almost miss it, when he says, "I think the work you're doing is amazing, for what it's worth."
You blush again, suddenly hyperaware of everything. How good he looks in a suit, the faint scent of his cologne, the way his tongue rolls over his lower lip. How, at some point, the two of you started leaning closer, and closer, until the barstool separating the two of you is practically nonexistent.
"You have, um." He brings a hand up to the corner of your mouth and brushes your lower lip with his thumb. Entirely too casual. Like the two of you haven't just properly met. "Crumb, or something."
"Thanks," you breathe, your eyes dropping to his lips. For one insane, fleeting second, you think that he might kiss you. "I, uh, appreciate it."
"Yeah." He swallows, dropping his hand, then glances at his watch. "Shit, I hate to do this, but I actually have to get going. Have an early meeting tomorrow."
You try not to visibly deflate as you pull back, fixing your face with your best client-service smile. "Oh, yeah, of course," you say, watching him stand up and tuck his case file back into a messenger bag. "Don't let me keep you."
Because of course. You haven't been looked at twice—much less kissed—in the last five years. Why on earth would that dry spell be broken on one of the most emotionally draining work days of your life, in a rundown pub just blocks from the local courthouse, by one of the most beautiful men you've ever seen? Delusional, you scold yourself, turning back to your half-eaten pajeon.
A scoff from behind the bar shakes you out of your reverie.
"Yoongi hyung," the bartender says. Reproachfully, but with the poorly concealed amusement of an owner scolding his puppy. “Are you being serious?”
Ah. So they know each other.
Yoongi clicks his tongue, like a snappy grandmother. “What?”
The bartender huffs a laugh, nodding toward you. “She’s pretty, and obviously smart, and both of you were having a good time. Are you really just going to—“
“That’s enough, Jeongguk,” Yoongi snaps.
“What?” Jeongguk whines back, chin lifting up. He seemed intimidating before, all muscles and tattoos, but now he just looks remarkably like a child throwing a tantrum. “Am I wrong?”
Yoongi rolls his eyes. “For fuck’s sake.” He then turns to you and sighs, lowering his voice. “Sorry about that. He’s a pain in the ass.”
“Hey!”
You press your lips together to keep from laughing. “No worries.”
He smiles, then twists his lips ruefully. “I really do have to run tonight. But, uh….”
He slides something onto the bar, and when he lifts his hand you see that it’s a business card.
Min Yoongi. Law Offices of Min, Chang & Rhee, it reads, right above a mobile phone number. You pick it up. It feels thick. Expensive.
“Call me sometime, yeah?” he says. It's adorable, the way he can’t meet your eyes. “Jeongguk may be a bastard, but he wasn’t wrong.”
“Sure,” you murmur, holding the card like it’s something precious. “Will do.”
Maybe there is some hope for you, after all.
——
