Your Vanilla Scent (Junhao)

Jun

They chose one of the fancier, quieter bars in town for the meeting with Soonyoung.

Jun wasn't quite sure why Myungho was so convinced his psychopathic intended wouldn't start a fight with humans around—it wasn't like Soonyoung had been the picture of restraint so far—but Myungho had told him assuredly that Soonyoung was practical, avoidant of "scenes," and incredibly wary of being outed for what they were by the human population.

So a quiet yet populated bar. One with leather-clad booths, dim lighting, and cocktail prices more suited for a big city than an outdoorsy tourist town.

One where Jun could smell the overwhelming scent of human blood, pulsing away beneath each patron's skin. It was his first time out in public since turning, and there had been brief concern from the others he wouldn't be able to focus. And yes, his "beastie" was on high alert, but its focus was—as Jun's had been from the very first moment in the café—zeroed in on Myungho. On his scent (which, now that Jun had turned, he could tell had a strange metallic edge under the peppermint); on his mood (an intoxicating blend of nerves, anger, and residual lust); on trying to figure out the quickest viable way to be touching him again (skin on skin, cock to cock, filling him up and making him keen). Its mantra at all times was to touch Myungho, taste Myungho, claim Myungho, love Myungho.

It made Jun almost wonder if that obsessive pull to Myungho from the very beginning had always been his beastie, lying dormant, waiting only to be awoken.

The human blood in this bar, in contrast, was only the most minor distraction. Jun had fed on blood bags just an hour before; he wasn't hungry.

But he was realizing that counting on Soonyoung not to resort to violence might have only been half the equation. What would this new beast in Jun not do, when it came to Myungho? What did it care for witnesses, innocent bystanders, destruction of property?

Behave, he chastised preemptively. It rumbled its pained disapproval in return.

Soonyoung was already waiting for them, an open bottle of wine on the table, when Myungho and Jun walked in, Jeonghan and Seungcheol right behind them. Myungho had told the others to stay behind ("we don't want it to feel like an ambush").

"Jun," Soonyoung purred once they reached the table, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "You're looking quite well."

Myungho frowned, halting their little group's forward momentum with one hand, a surprisingly imperious gesture. "Before we sit," he said primly. "Soonyoung, what you did was very rude."

Soonyoung swirled his glass of red wine without lifting it from the table, in that way old-money people sometimes did. "Some might say I did you a favor, Myungho."

Myungho folded his arms across his chest. "Some might, but I don't." He raised his chin. "I request a formal apology."

There was a brief stare-down between the two, Jun's beast ready to do violence at the smallest sign Myungho wasn't appeased, and then Soonyoung tipped his own chin in conciliation. "I apologize, Myungho. For taking something from you I cannot return."

"Thank you," Myungho answered solemnly.

And just like that, Jun felt some of the uncharacteristic anger that had been simmering in his mate, palpable through their bond, recede. And that seemed to be it, for Myungho. He took a seat next to Soonyoung, reaching for the drink menu with enthusiasm, as if they were at the bar solely for cocktails rather than a strategy meeting. "I've never had a daiquiri," he said brightly. "Do you think they'd make me one here?"

"Not that kind of place, Myunghobird," Jeonghan answered, taking his own seat and pulling Seungcheol down next to him. "Maybe try a White Russian." A wink to Jun with that little comment. "I think that would suit your tastes."