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♡ Pairing: Minho x Jisung ♤ Genre: Mafia AU, Romeo x Romeo ♢ Chapter Warnings: Angst, foul language throughout, mentions of: alcohol use, poor mental health & psychological coercion / emotional abuse, allusion to murder ♧ MINORS DNI

♤ ♡ TASTE Synopsis & Chapter List ♢ ♧

<< Chapter 3 - Broken Compass ♤ ♡ ♢ ♧ Chapter 5 - Comflex >>

Inspirational Quote:

Now this is the Law of the Jungle — as old and as true as the sky; And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die. As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back — For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.

Rudyard Kipling - The Law of the Jungle

Chapter 4: The Wolf & His Pack

Jisung heaves off his boots as soon as he enters the apartment, adding them to the pile at the door. He flops onto the faded blue threadbare couch of the untidy lounge. Sighs as he watches little dustmotes dance in the sunlight.

This place is a lifestyle away from Minho’s.

Slightly cramped, stuffed with mismatched furniture and comfort. Everything exuding practicality and affordability over style. A pile of books occupies one corner, acting as a lamp stand whilst his neglected guitar leans against the other. The bamboo coffee table in front of him is littered with the previous nights take out containers. The armchair across from him is a green suede wingback affair that had been rescued from a skip. The couch he’s currently sitting on was left behind by the previous owners.

The apartment is basically a place for abandoned and unwanted things. Which is probably why he feels so at home here.

But Minho had made him feel wanted.

Even now he can’t help thinking about him.

Maybe it’s because he’s wearing his hoodie, which smells like him. It’s a clean scent, like cotton. Fresh, like a spring sea-breeze.

He idly twirls the drawstring around his finger, brings the collar up to his nose, closes his eyes and inhales. In his mind's eye, he can clearly see Minho’s slightly crooked front teeth. His full top lip curled in a dark smirk. His sparkling cat-like eyes and his too-long lashes. He can almost feel his muscular shoulders under his palms. His broad chest and how his heart beats through it. Can almost trace the tributaries of veins over his strong and gentle hands. Can recall the warmth of his lips, the scrape of his teeth, the texture of his tongue–

A rush of pleasure courses through him and he covers his face, giggling into his hands whilst his feet kicks out the giddiness he feels in his stomach.

It had all been so perfect. Minho had been so perfect.

But more than that, Jisung had been himself. Truly, properly, entirely, himself. He hadn’t intended to let himself go so completely. But something about the way Minho looked at him, touched him, held him, kissed him… it was easy to let his guard down. Give in.

All his life, he wore what he was told to wear, spoke how he’d been taught to speak and had done… horrible things in the guise of upholding the family's honour and reputation. His whole life he’d been Han ‘jag-eun kal/ Little Knife’ Jisung, obedient son of the Lobos. His whole life, he’d been a marionette. Until last night.

Last night, Minho had cut his strings.

A short sharp pain at the back of his head, brings his happiness to a full stop.

“OW!”

Changbin is standing over him wearing a black tank-top and basketball shorts, bare feet pushed into foam flip-flops. His big arms crossed over his broad chest, glaring down at him with a murderous glint in his eye.

Rubbing the spot, Jisung snaps, “What the fuck was that for?”

“Do I need to slap you again?” Changbin asks, “What the fuck do you think that was for? Where the fuck have you been?”

Jisung drops his hand, “I know I should have called,” he sighs, “mian.”

Changbin’s eyes narrow as he grabs Jisung’s chin, tilting his head to the sunlight. “You’ve been fighting again.”

Jisung pulls his head away, tucks his bruised hands into the sleeves of the hoodie. “It’s nothing.”

Changbin does not look convinced. “I’ve had Chris on my back all fucking night. Your phone’s been off. You ended at least a dozen of mine and Chris’s calls this morning before you finally told Chris you were just heading back, so explanations are needed. Where have you been?”

Jisung thinks quickly.

“And don’t tell me you were with Jon, because I will know you are fucking lying, since I already spoke to him and he wasn’t quick enough to provide you with an alibi this time.”

Damn it, Jon! Jisung stops thinking. “I went to a club, that’s all.”

“Yeah?” Changbin tugs at the collar of Jisung’s hoodie, “Official merch is it?”

“So I stayed out, for fuck’s sake, it’s no big deal. I had a night off. I am an adult. I can do adulty things!” He’s incredibly conscious of the fact that he doesn’t sound particularly adult-like when he says it.

Maybe if Changbin didn’t look like he was ready to commit fratricide, Jisung would tell his brother that he’d actually experienced one of – no, the best night of his life.

Changbin wipes a hand over his mouth. By the way his biceps tense, Jisung can tell he’s trying very hard not to throttle him. Jisung’s grateful for his effort. “Look, I have no problem with you crashing here until you get your shit together. But I do take issue with you telling me you will be back by such-and-such time then going fucking AWOL I almost started calling the fucking hospitals.”

Jisung shoves his hands into the pocket of the hoodie. He’d already said he was sorry. Changbin is just rubbing his nose in it now.

Changbin sighs, sniffs. “I hope your latest conquest was worth it, because Chris is on his way here, so I think that was your last hurrah for the foreseeable future,” he claps Jisung on the shoulder, smirks.

“For fuck’s sake,” Jisung groans. Chris is the last person he wants to see. “Why?”

“Why?” Changbin drops on the couch beside him, adding to the cloud of dust in the air. “His younger brother, who’s been acting a bit weird recently, went fucking missing.”

“I haven’t been acting weird.”

“You’ve been far from normal for a while now. Ever since you turned up to my door with a bag of clothes in one hand and a guitar in the other and asked if you could stay on my couch for a few nights,” Changbin drops his hands onto his own knees. “That was seven weeks ago, Hannie, and I still don’t know what triggered it and I have never fucking pushed it because I thought that you might tell me when you felt you were able to.”

“You want me to move out–”

Changbin groans, “No. I’m not asking you to move out. I’m glad you’re here. But you have a habit of disappearing into yourself and distancing yourself from the people that care about you when you’re struggling with stuff. But none of us know what you’re struggling with, because you aren’t telling us and we don’t know how to help. I was bloody worried about you last night. We all were.”

There’s no way to even begin to try and make them understand. “I didn’t mean to make you worry,” he chews on the thought that he hadn’t expected them to notice him not being there but Changbin is on a roll.

“You haven’t been to the office for over a month now–”

“– yeah, because I’m such a valued member of the team–”

“–I can’t remember the last time I saw you sleep–”

“–there’s no chance of me sleeping now that I know you’re watching–”

“–you’re out all hours and you’re starting fights–”

“–I didn’t start the fight! There was this girl and–”

Changbin raises a hand, ploughs on, “and you’re drinking more.”

Jisung groans now, “I don’t have an alcohol problem.”

“I didn’t say it was a problem now, but I think it’ll become one if you don’t address it soon.”

“Is this a fucking intervention?”

“Will you stop getting defensive and just listen for a second?” Changbin says, “Whatever happened between you and mum is your business and believe me, I get it. Fuck knows I get it. I know exactly what she’s like. Which is why I live in this little palace. But it’s not a valid reason to burn the bridges of the people who actually give a shit about you. I want you, we need you, to start looking after yourself for a–”

Jisung pushes himself off the couch. He’s endured enough of this.

“Where are you going now?”

He is at the door, shoving his feet into a pair of trainers. “Out.”

“You just got back! Hannie! You can’t keep running away when things get a little bit difficult–”

Little bit difficult? “You’re fucking clueless.”

“If I am, it's because you don’t talk to me!” Changbin’s voice is rising, but it’s more out of exasperation, maybe a little bit of desperation, than that of anger. “Just fucking talk to me–”

Jisung has the door open, his head turned to face Changbin, a scolding retort on his lips and his foot hovering over the threshold, when a hand seizes him by the throat, pushes him back into the hallway, slamming him against the wall, his feet kicking at the air as they search for the floor.

Chris looks fucking homicidal shouting up into his face, “Where the fuck were you? You realise how fucking stupid you are? Do you have any consideration for us at all? I’ve been driving around all fucking night looking for you!”

“Chan-hyung, let him go,” Changbin says tiredly, trying to step between them, his hands on Chris’s forearms. “He can’t breathe. Let. Him. Go.”

Coughing, his feet back on the floor, Jisung catches his breath, rubs at his throat looking over the top of Changbin’s head at Chris.

There are dark circles below his eyes, his face paler than usual. And he is Pissed. Capitalised. A tired Chris is somewhat manageable, but a tired and angry Chris is a dangerous combination anyone with common sense and a will to live, tries to avoid. If he’s this angry about him staying out without prior notice, how angry would he be if he’d known what he’d helped his mother to do? Jisung’s pleased that Changbin is between them.

Jeongin peers over Chris’s shoulder. Waves. Smiles. “You’re alive then.”

He doesn’t sound too disappointed. Which is touching.

“Jisung, go and sit on the couch,” Changbin says. “Hyung, the armchair. Innie…wherever.”

Chris and Jisung continue to exchange death glares.

“Now.”

Jisung moves first, not bothering to remove his trainers. He slouches over to the couch, drops down and crosses his arms. Chris, suited and booted and every inch representing what a perfect son should look like, steps inside, unbuttons his jacket before settling onto the armchair. Jeongin sits on the arm beside him.

In their elegant tailored suits and fine shirts and perfectly placed ties with gold clips, they look like two respectable businessmen. But Jisung can see past the outward appearance. Past the con. He knows Jeongin is wearing a knife holster on his shoulder over his grey waistcoat. He knows the black leather belt of his trousers is more than just a fashion item, holding a knuckle knife at the back. Jisung knows about the second switchblade tucked into the top of his Chelsea boot.

Chris is holstered too. Jisung can just about make out the outline of it under his jacket. He carries a silver coloured pistol, the black grip has a stylised silver wolf head on it. It had been a gift from the three younger siblings for his twenty-fifth birthday. Jisung has only ever seen the gun a handful of times when Chris has cleaned it. But Chris has never actually used it. He's never had to. His name and his reputation, has always outweighed the necessity. If Bahng ‘neugdae/The Wolf’ Christopher ‘Chan’, eldest son of the Lobos family, tells you to do something, you fucking do it. He doesn’t even have to list the consequences.

And that’s Chris’s real strength. The strength of their pack leader. The strength of their pack.

Changbin closes the front door, sniffs and sneezes into the crook of his elbow. “Fucking allergies,” he says to no-one in particular. “It’s too early for hayfever season, isn’t it?”

“You’re probably allergic to this one's bullshit,” Chris says, looking pointedly at Jisung who rolls his eyes maturely in response to the jibe.

Changbin sits on the couch beside Jisung. Sniffs.

They are sat.

They are seated.

The air around them full of dust and tension, enough that Jisung wonders if an electrical storm could form above their heads.

No one says a word, until Changbin sneezes again. Jisung, Chris and Jeongin automatically say, “Bless you,” in unison, then half smile at each other.

“For fuck’s sake,” Changbin says, rubs his nose, sniffs. “What is this?”

“What happened to your face?” Chris asks, nodding his head at Jisung.

“Sorry we don’t share the same DNA. It’s called good genes,” he doesn’t want to be facetious, it just happens naturally.

Chris half smiles at that, raises an eyebrow. “And the cut lip?”

“Really good, really rough sex. You should try it sometime. Might release some of your pent up… manliness,” he gestures at all of Chris when he says it.

Changbin nudges Jisung in the ribs, shakes his head in warning. Jeongin chuckles.

Chris drops his head to look at his clenched hands, but Jisung can tell he’s holding back a smile. As much as they hate each other, there is love there. You just have to squint, really hard. Okay, maybe not really hard. The truth is he’d do anything for his brothers. He’d had to. Mostly, he had no regrets about doing the things he’d done in order to protect them. But there was one thing he’d done that was unforgivable. One thing he couldn’t reconcile in his own heart. There is no way Chris could forgive him for what he’d had to do.

The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.

God, please. Please let that be true.

When Chris lifts his head again, the anger has almost completely dissipated, but he still looks tired, “You had us worried.”

Jisung sighs. The guilt trips keep coming. And he can’t really handle them coming from Chris. “I’m sorry. My phone broke. I didn’t realise the sim card was loose until I checked it this morning.”

“Then you didn’t answer our calls.”

“I was in the middle of something,” he lets it hang in the air about what something could mean and hopes it’s enough to move on from it. He’s still a little bitter about how he’d left things with Minho.

Chris sits back and absently scratches at the silver white scar line that cuts through his left eyebrow. It looks pretty badass, though Chris is conscious of it.

It’s been three years since Freddie gave it to him after Chris caught him stealing gear from a container at the docks. Freddie wasn’t seen after that. Rumours vary as to what happened to him. Some say he is still in the Han River. Some say he’s propping up the overpass on route to Incheon. Others say he had the common sense to flee the country. All are probable. Jisung never cared about Freddie enough to ask Chris what actually happened to him. He was pleased to see him gone. Some people are like that. Like clouds. Things are brighter when they are no longer there. Freddie was a dark cloud. Good riddance.

But anytime Chris got anxious, or concerned, he’d scratch at the scar Freddie had given him. It’s a ‘tell’ Jisung is familiar with and he’s already braced for bad news when Chris says, “Mother has called a family meeting. Today. At the Manor.”

Even this is enough for Jeongin to stop smiling. The groans from Jisung and Changbin seem to harmonise.

Changbin sneezes. “For fuck’s sake,” he pushes himself off the couch, his flip-flops slapping against his heels as he crosses to the kitchen. “What does she want now?”

Chris raises his hands level with his shoulders, “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

Jisung snorts, because that’s what Freddie had been.

Changbin opens a cupboard and pulls out a small basket where they keep medication. He finds the antihistamines, fills a glass with water. Necks a pill. Sneezes. Swears. “Which one of you bastards has been near a cat?”

Jeongin and Chris shake their heads, look at Jisung who has sunk a little lower into the couch. He’d totally forgotten about Changbin’s allergy to cats, which in his defence is understandable, since the list of things Changbin isn't allergic to is considerably shorter. Changbin glares at him.

“I’m sorry,” Jisung says, but he’s giggling. “In my defence it was a very cute cat.”

♤ ♡ ♢ ♧

Jisung wipes the palms of his hands on his trousers, puffs out his cheeks, his breath fogging the passenger window.

“Gwaenchanha?” Chris gently pats his forearm.

Jisung pulls his arm away, nods. He can’t trust himself to lie confidently. Can’t bear Chris’s kindness.

Changbin seems to be struggling too. Even sitting behind him, Jisung can see the tight lines in his shoulders and he hasn’t spoken since they left the apartment. Jeongin had given up trying to make small talk with him about ten miles ago.

The further they drive out of Seoul, the greener everything gets. It’s pretty, but unlike the many city dwellers who enjoy a visit to the country for rest and relaxation, Jisung hates it. The further they drive, the fresher the air gets, the more his muscles tighten. Returning to your family home shouldn’t feel like this.

After a few more miles, Jeongin exits the freeway, and a couple of miles after that they are climbing a winding road. The trees outside are growing larger, clumped together on the hillside, their leaves scattering the sunlight. Too soon, there it is, Wolf Manor. A large, imposing stone building that would look more at home in the English countryside than in South Korea. A monstrous grey stone building three stories high, with large south facing windows, stone steps and huge oak doors.

Even before they approach the main gates the security guard is waiting in front of them. A black fearsome looking german shepherd at his heel, its muzzle doing nothing to make it look any less threatening, or muffle its barking.

Jeongin lowers his window, then his sunglasses and the man nods at the small security hut and the gates swing open.

“You’d think they’d just look at the licence plate,” Changbin says, shoving a stick of gum in his mouth. “How many S-Class BMW’s are coming to the arse-middle of nowhere.”

“Cars can be stolen,” Jeongin says simply as he drives towards the house. “And GPS can be used to show frequently visited locations.”

“If I’m clever enough to steal a fucking luxury car, I’m not driving it to the places on the fucking GPS,” Changbin says.

“Well, we all know you’re not clever enough,” Jeongin mutters back.

“Bin,” Chris says, “Don’t take it out on the kid.”

“Don’t call me a fucking kid,” Jeongin says at the same time as Changbin says, “It’s fucking ridiculous the security she has on this place.”

Chris sighs, looks at Jisung.

Looking away, Jisung digs his nails into his palm.

None of them are happy to be here and the fact that they had been summoned without cause or notice had them all on edge.

Minders are already on the steps waiting for them as Jeongin swings the car round. Their black suits, openly displayed weapons and in-ear pieces make them look like secret service agents. From here, Jisung can see security with large dogs walking the perimeter fence.

Jeongin kills the engine and the minders are already at their doors, opening them as one, the cool air immediately flooding the car and chilling Jisung to the bone.

They step out of the car. Jeongin and Chris buttoning up their suit jackets whilst Changbin shakes his out, tugging it over his shirt. Jisung helps him fix his collar.

When Jisung had left, he didn’t bring his suits. His area of ‘expertise’ in the family, negated the necessity for him to wear them too often, but his mother liked to have her sons ‘properly dressed and befitting’ when in her presence. Now, he is wearing a soft blue jumper over a plain white t-shirt and a pair of black chinos. He’s sure mother will have something to say about his attire. But, well, tough shit.

Jisung takes a deep breath, follows his brothers up the steps.

“Sirs,” Kangdae, the head of the house and his mothers confidant and advisor, bows as they enter. He looks like an ex-marine, stuffed inside a suit, which is exactly what he is. A round face and neatly trimmed dark hair. The closest thing any of them have to a father figure.

He’d taught them everything, from self-defence, to how to make hot cocoa. He’d taught them how to ride a bike and how to pick locks. He has a noticeable white scar on his chin from when he’d been teaching Jeongin how to drive, and Jeongin had crashed the jeep into the old oak tree. Once, when he’d been drunk, he’d even shown Jisung how to roll a cigarette. He smells vaguely of shoe polish and woodsmoke and is the only nice thing about this place.

“Where is she?” Chris asks, idly scratching at his scarred eyebrow.

“The office, sir,” Kangdae says, holding a hand in front of Changbin.

For a second Changbin just looks at him.

“Spit is out,” Kangdae instructs. “You know your mother hates gum chewing.”

Rolling his eyes, Changbin spits his gum into Kangdae’s palm.

As Jisung passes, Kangdae drops a heavy hand on Jisung’s shoulder. Smiles, “It’s good to see you.”

Jisung smiles, “Thanks, you too.”

“She’s missed you. She’ll be glad you’re here,” Kangdae winks, drops his hand.

Jisung wonders briefly whether she had been wholly honest to Kangdae about why Jisung had left all those weeks ago. Wonders if he knows their mother as well as Jisung thought he did. Smiling tightly, Jisung jogs to catch up with his brothers.

Their mother is sitting with her back to the open door. She only looks up when her two doberman pinschers get to their feet with a low growl. “Haemong, Yuryeong, down.”

The dogs, Nightmare and Phantom obey, though they seem to watch Jisung with hungry eyes.

Their mother swivels her chair round, laying papers on her grand oak desk. She smiles widely at them and stands. She’s wearing a cream coloured suit over an emerald green silk blouse which matches exactly the colour of her shoes. A glittering white gold and diamond encrusted wolf broach on the left lapel.

Today her silver hair is swept up into an elegant chignon. Despite her hair colour, she’s not that old. Lobos family members all got silver stripes in their hair from their early twenties. It’s a genetic thing - something that he and his brothers would never have. Though Chris does have a grey streak at the nape of his neck hidden beneath his black hair, earned from too much stress at a young age.

Their mother, though, had gone entirely silver at the age of fourteen after something that had happened. Jisung isn’t entirely sure of the truth of the story, but he’d once overheard his grandfather tell a corrupt diplomat that it had something to do with the Clowder family. Something they had done to her.

Lobos ‘the Silver Wolf’ Jade had been born the day her hair lost its ebony shine. Though these days, she went by ‘the Wolf Mother’.

“My boys!” she smiles widely, stepping round the desk, her arms outstretched to Chris. She hugs him, kisses him on each cheek. Jisung can’t watch it. She does the same for Changbin, then Jeongin, then she’s standing in front of Jisung, looking up at him. “Hannie,” she strokes the tops of his shoulders, feeling the fabric of his jumper between her fingers. He can tell she’s judging him. Assessing him. “You’ve lost weight.”

“I don’t think so,” Jisung lies.

His mother gently takes his chin in her fingers, inspecting his cut lip. “I hope you made them pay for hurting you.”

“I did,” despite himself, he can’t help feeling pleased that she said ‘them’. He’s reminded that she knows him. She knows that one-on-one the opponent would have difficulty cutting him.

She smiles, before she kisses him on his cheeks. “My good boy.” She gestures to the three cream coloured sofas at the centre of the room. “Boys, let’s take a seat.”

Jisung sits on the one nearest to the door, Jeongin at his side. Chris and Changbin sit opposite. Their mother sits in the centre of the third sofa, smiling at them.

Jisung gets a sinking feeling.

“Mum, what did you call us here for?” Chris asks.

She looks to the door they entered through. “Kangdae, could you give us some privacy?”

Their mother has a way of making orders sound like a polite question, but Kangdae has been around long enough to know the difference. He’d seen what happens when she’s misunderstood. Bowing, Kangdae retreats, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.

After a few moments, their mother speaks. “I won’t keep you long. I know you all have matters to attend to,” Jisung doesn’t miss how her eye lingers on him a beat too long when she says it. “But I want to understand why I’ve had the head of the Choi family demanding reparations after his son was separated from his index finger?”

“His little finger,” Jeongin says. “Because he was being a dick.”

“How so?”

Chris looks at Jeongin, a silent ‘don’t say another word’, before he turns to their mother, “He was caught undercutting our shipments of microchips. We lost ten containers worth of business to his fathers own shipping line.”

“Ah,” Their mother sits back. “Is that all?”

“No,” Chris says slowly. “When we went to discuss the matter with him, he became… disrespectful.”

“He called you a whore,” Jeongin says.

“Oh!” Their mother laughs in a low trill. “Oh, well now, that makes sense. Only his little finger, Yang? I thought I’d be worth more than that?”

Jeongin smiles, “You are, of course. I’ll take his balls if he says anything about you again.”

“Take his eye son,” their mother smiles. “I will look forward to my next conversation with Choi-ssi. I’m very much looking forward to it,” she is grinning devilishly. Jisung has a moment of empathy for the Choi family. They’d live to regret their son calling their mother a whore. “These older families seem to think we’ve become soft just because our business is legitimate these days. I would hate for there to be any other misunderstandings. We’re wolves. Don’t let anyone forget that we still bite.”

They all nod.

“Is that all?” Chris asks after a moment.

“No, actually. It’s not,” she rises to her feet and walks to her desk, where she lifts a black folder. She holds it out to Chris, who takes it, flips it open. Frowns at the pages contained within. She sits down again, “I want that resolved by the end of the week.”

Chris nods, “Of course,” he closes the file, “Any recommendations on how you would like this handled?”

“Personally and permanently,” their mother smiles.

Chris nods again, scratches at his scarred eyebrow. He’s not happy about whatever he’s holding.

“Have we had any more meetings with the Panthera?”

“None recently.”

“You may want to brush this past them. I don’t want any misunderstandings of our actions, especially if the need to cross lines arise,” she settles back against the cushions, “I understand Il Gatto is back from service?”

“Hmm, more than four months now, but he’s remained inconspicuous.”

Jisung has never come into direct contact with any Clowder family member. But he knows of them by reputation. None of them were to be trifled with. Clowder ‘Il Gatto d’oro’ Minho, is the most notorious son of the Clowder clan. A man who Jisung has heard described as a marble statue. The stories of the things he’d done are legendary, even to the Lobos and their associates. He’s someone you don’t want to get on the wrong side of. Him, or his brothers. Allegedly, he’d taken the eyes of a man who had looked at his brother, ��The Artist’ Hyunjin, the wrong way. Once, he’d caused the leader of a drug cartel to piss himself, merely by looking at him. Such is the power of the eldest Clowder son.

Jisung isn’t sure how many of the stories he’s heard are actual truth or myth. But, legend or not, Minho, the golden cat, is one cat he hopes never to meet.

“You’re still dealing with the other one? What’s his name again?”

“Nikko. He goes by Lynx/Seurasoni. I don’t mind dealing with him. He’s pretty reasonable, for a Clowder.”

“Nikko?…Nikko?…he’s the legitimate one isn’t he?”

“Yes. The nephew.”

“That’s it. I remember now. Terrible what happened to his mother,” but she is smiling. “So you haven’t met the others?”

“Lynx occasionally brings one of the youngers, um, Seungmin I think his name is. A really smart kid.”

“The Gambit,” Changbin supplies. “I think he’s their numbers guy. Does a lot in the background on their accounts and stuff. Nothing frontline. Bit of a rose, if you ask me.”

“Petals of a rose may bruise easily, but they still have their thorns,” their mother says. “If he’s attending some of these meetings, it means that they want and respect his opinion on matters. He may be one we need to be keeping a closer eye on.”

They all nod.

“As he’s bringing this boy with him on occasion, I would suggest that means you’re entitled to the same courtesy. I don’t like the idea of you being outnumbered.”

Jeongin smiles expectantly.

“Take Han with you, for your next meeting,” their mother says.

“Me?”

“Him?” Jeongin says.

Their mother smiles at Jisung, “It will be good for you. Just to observe,” she turns back to Chris, “That's okay with you, isn’t it, son?”

“Uh, yes, ofcourse.”

“Let’s hope Il Gatto stays out of the game for a bit longer. Things have progressed smoothly with this Lynx,” she sits forward a bit. “I think that’s all for now, unless you have anything you want to raise?”

Everyone shakes their heads. Chris tucks the folder under his arm.

“Why don’t you grab lunch before you head back?”

It sounds like an invitation, but it’s not really. They all stand.

“Hannie, you can remain for a moment.”

His brothers glance at him. Chris’s eyes asking a thousand questions. Jisung can’t bear to look at him. As they leave, Jisung sits back down, wipes his palms on his knees.

He hasn’t been alone with his mother for several weeks.

She sits where Chris had been sitting. Closer, but not too close. She smiles, “It’s so good to see you. I’ve been worried about you.”

Jisung doubts this. “What did they tell you?”

His mother smiles with something that could be mistaken for motherly affection. “That you’re out a lot, drinking. Yang says you haven’t been to the office in a while, Seo says you’re not eating or sleeping and Bahng is sure you’re avoiding him.”

Betrayers, all of them.

Jisung can’t help himself, he scoffs. “I wonder why that is?”

“We discussed this,” his mother says. “That woman–”

“That woman?” Jisung can feel a burning in his eyes. “You mean his birth mother?”

“Lower your voice,” His mother isn’t smiling now. She inhales. “That woman,” she spits out the word, “gave up the right to be considered his mother the moment she gave him to me. I am his mother, just as I am yours, and Yang’s and Seo’s. I am the one who raised you. I am the one who fed and clothed you. None of the women who gave birth to you could have provided the life that I have given you.”

He inhales deeply, his eyes stinging. “Why do you call us by our birth family names? When you adopted us, why weren’t we ever made Lobos?”

“What have I always told you? Blood is thicker than water, Hannie. You weren’t mine to begin with, but I wanted you as my son. Never forget that I chose you. It’s important to me that you know where you originally came from.”

Until a couple of months ago, he had believed her. Had believed that his own mother was a drug using prostitute who chose her next fix over her son. Had sold him for a high. A high that had led to her death. Then the woman claiming to be Chris’s birth mother had changed all that.

He can still see her. The way she had looked up at him. The way her eyes were exactly like Chris’s as Jisung brought the knife down.

“He believed she was dead,” Jisung says, trying and failing to keep his voice level. He’s held this secret too long. “He has always believed she died when he was a child!”

“And now she is dead,” his mother says emotionlessly. Her words are like a cold slap.

“And what about mine?” Jisung asks, and he doesn’t attempt to swipe the tear that falls or clear his throat. “Did she die like you said she did or did you end her life when she came looking for me too?”

His mother sighs, “I may have exaggerated the truth with Chris’s woman. And I may not have been honest with you about how your woman died. But she is dead.”

“How?” Jisung asks. “How did she die?”

“What version do you want, Han?” and his mother is finally losing her cool. “The version I gave you; that she died in her sleep after an overdose, in a warm motel room, where she was found the next morning by the cleaner, or the real version.”

“I want the fucking truth!” It is the first time he has ever sworn at his mother.

She whips her hand across his face and Nightmare and Phantom rise to their feet, low growls in their throats.

Jisung stares at his mother.

“You want the truth? She died in an alley, with a needle in her arm and the semen of several men all over her beaten and bruised body. She lay there for ten days before binmen came across her. It was seven months before they could properly identify her. She had lost most of her teeth, so there were no dental records. The DNA report returned several aliases that she’d used in an attempt to lessen her long criminal record, all to do with theft, prostitution and drugs. She was finally identified by the serial number on a pin she had in her arm which she broke when she was your age. Eleven months after she broke her arm, she had given birth to you and three months after that she sold you to me for a bag of heroin. That’s how much you meant to her. It took her less than a year after that to die. No one missed her. No one looked for her. She died and no one noticed because no one cared about her. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

The sob that escapes Jisung fills the room. He collapses forward, the heels of his hands pressing into his eyes, trying to stop his tears. For the past couple of months, he’d had a glimmer of hope that his mother, his real mother, was still out there. Was looking for him too.

“My boy,” his mother sits beside him and wraps her arms around his shaking shoulders. Holds him, squeezes him and despite everything Jisung leans into her. Wraps his arms around her sobs against her. It’s the action of a child who doesn’t know any better. It’s the action of a child who wants to be comforted by their mum. “My darling boy.”

She strokes his hair as he cries.

When his tears are finally spent, Jisung sits up. His mother gently strokes his cheeks with her thumbs. Looking at him with something that could be interpreted as love.

“You do not tell Bahng about that woman,” she tells him. “He won’t understand why you did what I asked you to do and I would hate for him to hurt you.”

Jisung nods.

“That’s my boy,” she strokes the hair from his eyes and kisses his forehead. “My very good boy. My darling, precious boy,” his mother says, hugging him tightly.

Jisung looks at Nightmare and Phantom over her shoulder. They eye him suspiciously. Noses wrinkling, baring their teeth. He wonders whether they know.

He wonders if they know that he intends to kill their mistress.

TASTE M.List & Sypnosis

Chapter 1 - Parley

Chapter 2 - The DLC

Chapter 3 - Broken Compass

Chapter 5 - Comflex

#TASTE | Minsung #skz fic #Lee Minho #Han Jisung #Christopher Bahng #Bang Chan #Changbin #Hyunjin #Felix #Seungmin #Jeongin #Soonie #Stray Kids Fan Fiction #Mafia AU #Romeo x Romeo

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somethingkindazainy · 2 months ago

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♡ Pairing: Minho x Jisung ♤ Genre: Mafia AU, Romeo x Romeo ♢ Chapter Warnings: foul language throughout, mxm sexual intercourse (suggestive language) ♧ MINORS DNI

♤ ♡ TASTE Synopsis & Chapter List ♢ ♧

<< Chapter 2 - The DLC ♤ ♡ ♢ ♧ Chapter 4 - The Wolf & His Pack >>

Chapter 3: Broken Compass

♤ ♡ ♢ ♧

Minho steps into his apartment and clicks on a lamp on the side table.

“You live here?” Jisung gawks at him. “But it’s so–”

“Careful.”

“–homey.” Jisung finishes and Minho can’t help but smile at him.

His apartment has a spacious living area, with large panoramic windows, overlooking a stone walled balcony bordered with various shrubs, herbs and flowers, and expensive and expansive views south over the Han River. In the centre of the room, there’s a black leather corner sofa facing a flat screen television on the wall and numerous bookshelves. The kitchen, all white granite and units, takes up one corner of the open planned space, separated by a breakfast bar and two chrome and black leather stools. His bedroom door, off to the side.

Minho slips off his Gucci shoes and sets them in the shoe rack. Hangs his keys on the hook behind the door. He’s about to take off his jacket when he remembers he’s wearing his knife belt on his shoulder and thinks better of it.

Jisung is crouching at his side, unlacing his boots, before he stands and steps out of them. Without them he’s probably an inch shorter than Minho and—

“What on earth are those?”

Jisung looks down to where Minho is pointing. He’s wearing bright pink socks adorned with lime green love hearts. He wiggles his toes. Smiles up at Minho. “Don’t you like them?”

Minho tries to reconcile this Jisung against the one he’d met at the club; the sexy Jisung. Who became the Jisung who fights as well as he does, who in turn wears ridiculous socks inside combat boots.

“The views from up here are insane,” Jisung walks over to the windows. He looks small and beautiful, backlit by the twinkling city skyline beyond. Minho turns on some lamps, bathing the room in warm yellow light and straightens some of the mint-coloured cushions on the couch. Lifts the legal papers he’d been reading from the glass coffee table and secretes them in a sideboard drawer. Absently touches the leaves of his bamboo plant, and reminds himself to water her tomorrow.

“You keep flowers?” Jisung says, frowning at the large container with pale pink cosmos. He arches an eyebrow at Minho. “You don’t seem like the type.”

“Judgemental,” Minho says, and he’s smirking, partly at his own wit.

“Touche,” he starts looking around the living space, head tilting back at the high ceiling, then slowly down again, settling on the bamboo at Minho’s side, “and you have house plants,” he’s moving now, head tilted as he reads the titles of the books on his bookshelves, his slender fingers caressing their spines, “you read,” he’s at the kitchen now, fingers walking over his cookbooks, “and you like to cook?”

“Stop compiling your list,” Minho pushes his hands into his pockets. He’s not used to this. Not used to being assessed in this way. Any previous acquaintances he’s had over before were in the bedroom and gone the next morning. They didn’t have time to analyse. Minho preferred it that way.

And Jisung smiles. It’s not the smile Minho has become familiar with, the flirtatious half-smile, it’s an unguarded gummy-grin and it is like sunshine. If Minho thought his smile was pretty before, then this, this is fucking gorgeous. He’s pretty impressed with himself that he hasn’t crossed the room to seize hold of that forbidden waist. You brought him here so he could get cleaned up. Nothing more. You missed that chance.

“And… you have a cat?” Jisung lifts a box of kibble, brandishing it as evidence.

“Soonie,” Minho says automatically.

“Soonie-Soonie-Soonie,” Jisung coos.

“You’re wasting your breath he doesn’t come when—” there’s a tinkle of a bell, small curious cat chirps and Soonie trots out of the bedroom. He merely glances at Minho like, ‘oh, you’re here,’ before trotting over to Jisung, tail in the air.

The traitorous little shit!

“Oh hi!” Jisung croons as he crouches down into an impossibly small shape, his knees level with his shoulders, his arse almost touching the tiled floor. Minho resolves to not think about Jisungs flexibility. In fact, he is not thinking about it at all. Is absolutely not thinking about it. And he’s definitely not tilting his head at how curvaceous Jisung’s arse is either. He is, though, wondering why someone so fucking pretty, wears ridiculous socks inside combat boots. Although the heels of them are very close to that arse–

No, no. We are not thinking about that, Minho straightens up.

Jisung holds out his right hand and allows Soonie to sniff it. “I know, I’m all dirty aren’t I?” Soonie rubs his chin against Jisung’s fingers. Purrs. Like, actually fucking purrs, for someone who is essentially a stranger. The little cat whore. In the thirteen years Minho has had him, he has never, not once, shown a modicum of interest in another human. It’s the one thing they have always had in common. Or so he thought.

Minho makes use of Jisung’s distraction and heads to his bedroom. He removes his jacket and tosses it onto the white bedspread, flicks on a bedside lamp, puts his phone on charge whilst he unbuckles his holster and drops it into the bedside draw. Retrieves the bloodied brass knuckles and drops them in there too.

In the adjoining bathroom, he washes his bloodied hands and face. Grabs an armful of soft white towels from the linen cupboard and sets them on a stool beside the shower.

Back in the bedroom he pulls a black t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants from his wardrobe and sets them on the bed. He drops a pair of boring white ankle socks on top of them. Considers offering up a pair of boxers, but thinks that could be viewed as a bit weird, or is it weirder not offering underwear? Isn’t it weirder to expect him to freeball in a pair of your sweats?

He is still debating when Jisung appears at the bedroom door, Soonie curled in his arms, tail swishing lazily. “You okay?”

Minho blinks. Whether he’s blinking at Soonie contentedly letting a stranger hold him, or at how lovely he looks in Jisung’s arms, or how lovely Jisung looks holding him, he’s not entirely sure. But there’s something… like a déjà vu level of familiarity. He blinks several times. “Uh, yeah. I think these might be a bit big for you, but they’re clean,” he gestures to the small pile of clothes at the foot of his bed. “There’s fresh towels in the bathroom too, if you want to take a shower?”

Jisung smiles warmly, allowing Soonie to jump from his arms onto the bed. Strokes the length of him, from the top of his head to the tip of his tail, Soonie arching into his touch. “Thank you,” Jisung says as he lifts the clothes.

“No problem,” Minho says, returning to his wardrobe to find a change for himself, or to shield himself from Jisung. He unclasps his cufflinks, sets them in his jewellery tray. He hears Jisung step into the bathroom and lock the door. Until this moment, Minho didn’t know his bathroom door had a lock. He’d never had cause to lock it himself and certainly never had anyone here long enough, let alone use his shower…

He’s still fumbling with the buttons of his shirt when he hears the shower running and tries very hard not to think about Jisung in there. Naked. The water trailing over is skin, down his back, that waist, that arse–

Giving up on the remaining buttons, he wrenches his blood-spattered shirt over his head, drops it into the wash basket and rounds on Soonie, “Explain yourself.”

Soonie sits on the bed, looks up at him and tilts his head, like, ‘What?’

“You know what I’m on about,” Minho hisses at him.

Soonie chirps in a manner that suggests that he doesn’t know and his actions have been nothing but ordinary. He licks his paw as though he’s making a point.

“You’re a traitor,” Minho says but scritches him under the chin because he’s too fucking cute, even when he’s behaving like a twat.

Minho changes quickly into a pair of navy sweats and a black tank top. Shoves his jacket and trousers into a separate basket he uses for dry cleaning. Gently squeezes Soonie’s ear as he passes.

Barefooted, he pads out into the kitchen, inspects his cupboards and the fridge. Realises that he’s woefully understocked, decides that omelettes will have to do.

He’s dishing up when Jisung reappears, looking completely alien and incredibly attractive. Minho’s t-shirt looks oversized on him, the baggy sleeves reaching past his elbows. All the makeup he’d been wearing is gone, revealing a beauty mark on his left cheek and softening the roundness of his dark brown eyes. His damp hair is curling at the ends. If it wasn’t for the cut lip, Minho would think this was an entirely different person. Mentally, he ticks off the Jisungs he’s met this evening. Sexy Jisung. Fighter Jisung. Effortlessly attractive Jisung.

Look at you, making a list. Seungmo would be proud.

Jisung’s holding a bundle of clothes in his arms, “Do you have a shopping or trash bag I can put these in?”

Minho sets the frying pan down, sucks some sauce off his thumb, “Give them here,” he takes them from Jisung, stoops down, shoves the jeans, tank top, boxers (tries not to think about Jisung going commando) and offensive socks into the washer-dryer, and inspects the shirt. Pure silk. He takes it to the sink, drops it in the basin, and starts running cold water. Returns to the machine, adds detergent, kicks the door closed, sets the cycle. Adds some detergent to the basin, turns off the water. Lifts the frying pan and finishes plating his own dinner, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Jisung is sitting at the breakfast counter, chin resting on one palm, his smile very warm, or, at least, making Minho’s ears very warm. “You’re very domesticated.”

Minho scoffs, pushes a plate towards him, “Eat up before it gets cold.”

He pours them each a glass of grape soda, and they eat in silence, forks clinking against plates. Minho, leaning on the counter across from Jisung, can't help glancing at him every so often. He looks like a squirrel eating sunflower seeds. It’s really cute.

Cute. Where did the hot and sexy Jisung from only a few hours ago disappear to? When had he ever considered anyone or anything, other than his cat, as cute?

How many Jisungs is that, now?

“That was amazing,” Jisung says, pushing his plate away.

“It’s only an omelette,” Minho says, but he’s pleased.

“It was a brilliant omelette. I could eat that everyday. And the ham and cheese in it,” he kisses his fingers. “Perfect.”

“You want more?”

“No, thank you, I’m full,” he pulls his phone out of his pocket. The screen is spider webbed with cracks, but the screen is on and it looks, in part, functional. Minho can’t believe it’s already nearly three in the morning.

“Do you need to call someone?” Minho asks, as he pushes his own plate to the side, “Let them know you're okay or…”

Jisung laughs heartlessly, “They wouldn’t notice if I went missing for a week, let alone one night,” he pushes his phone back into his pocket. “Thanks for the offer though.”

Minho watches him for a moment. He wants to ask a question. But he doesn’t ask questions… he doesn’t have interest in people outside of his very small, very private circle… and yet, “Why wouldn’t they notice?”

“I’m probably being unfair,” he shrugs with one shoulder, “my brothers would probably notice that I wasn’t about, but my mum,” he shakes his head, “I don’t think she’d miss me unless my absence was an inconvenience to her.”

“Same, with my old man,” Minho says absently. “As for my brothers, they’d probably be glad to see the back of me for a week.”

Jisung grins that wide, dorky, gummy-grin and the room brightens tenfold. “How many brothers do you have?”

Minho thinks about this. The honest answer is none, his father would say Minho is one of twelve. The real answer is, “Three. That I count.”

“Huh, same,” Jisung giggles. “Older?”

“No, I’m the eldest.”

“Ah, that explains it.” Jisung leans back on the bar stool, arms folded across his chest, the action causes the collar of the t-shirt to drop a little lower and Minho can see the hollow at the base of his throat. The suggestion of a collar bone.

“Explains what?”

“Why you are so domesticated.”

Minho chuckles, “Based on that assessment, I’m guessing you’re a middle child.”

“Fuck you.”

“Am I wrong?” he arches an eyebrow.

“No. But still, fuck you.”

Grinning smugly, Minho stacks the plates and brings them to the sink. Sets them down and lifts the shirt from the cold water, “I think this might be ruin—” his sentence is cut off by a pair of arms encircling his waist and the warmth of lips pressing against the back of his neck.

His breath hitches, because it feels… familiar. He wants to sink into it. Sigh against it. Savour it.

Why does this feel so good? Is it because Minho has been resisting for so long? How long has it been? An hour? Two? A fucking lifetime.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” Jisung says, lips still hovering over his skin, arms still wrapped around his waist, the tips of his fingers stroking the fabric of his tank top. “Just tell me to stop.”

Are you really going to ask him to stop when you’ve waited so long?

Minho lets the shirt fall back into the basin. Twisting round in his arms, Minho pushes his fingers through Jisung’s damp curls. His hair is exactly how Minho had fantasised it would feel: soft and lush and thick. And his eyes, fuck. There’s a whole world in those large and beautiful brown eyes of his.

He tips his head, meeting Jisung’s lips with his own, feather soft as to not aggravate Jisung’s cut lip, and Jisung is kissing him back, soft and long and slow and lazily. It’s like a walk in the park on a sunny Sunday afternoon, and polar opposite to how he’d imagined this would be all those nights he’d laid in his bed imagining it. A month of nights…

“Hmm,” Jisung smiles against his lips. “You’re restraining yourself.”

Unbidden, Minho barks out a laugh because it’s too fucking true. Jisung’s fully grinning now, that silly, dorky grin. Minho’s new favourite.

“You’re hurt,” Minho let’s his thumb trace the outline of Jisung’s bottom lip.

“I meant what I said before,” Jisung’s breath ghosts Minho’s lips. “Anything,” he says and the word travels down and down and Jisung’s hands are chasing the word, seizing hold of Minho’s hips, pulling his pelvis to his. Grinning again when he can very obviously feel Minho’s desire, and Minho’s smiling back, because he can feel Jisung’s. “Anything.” Jisung says again and his lips are on Minho’s and it’s deep and uncontrolled, their lips sliding and scraping against the other and it’s messy and it’s different from Minho’s fantasies, because this is everything and so much more than his mind could conjure. Jisung pulls against Minho’s push until he is pinned against the breakfast bar, caged between Minho’s arms, and his hands are in Minho’s hair and on his back and his hips and seemingly everywhere and he’s kissing that magical spot below Minho’s ear.

“I’ll… break you,” Minho hisses, gripping the counter as Jisung scrapes his teeth in the same spot.

“I’m stronger than I look,” Minho can feel the smile against his neck. “I fought six guys at once.”

New turn-on: unlocked.

“Yeah you fucking did,” Minho says, grabbing a fistful of Jisung’s hair, pulling his head back, exposing his neck. He can feel Jisung's pulse hammering against his tongue and Jisung groans, stretching his head back further, allowing Minho to taste him and inhale that earthy scent of his. Minho’s hands slide down his ribs, to his waist, that forbidden, grabbable waist and it fits perfectly between his thumb and fingers. Minho pulls back to admire his hands gripping it, his thumbs and fingers caressing. He momentarily considers that it’s Jisung who will do the breaking. Because this, all this, is fucking killing him.

“Take me to bed,” Jisung says and his voice is like velvet, smooth forwards and rough back and Minho slides his hands down over the curve of Jisung's arse to the back of his thighs, pulls him up into his arms. He’s not exactly light, but he’s far from heavy and when Jisung wraps his legs around his waist, grips his shoulders, it only makes it easier. They kiss as Minho carries him to the bedroom, lays him back on the bed, hands sliding over fabric, then under it and Jisung’s skin is smooth, and hard, and soft and warm and Jisung is arching up and into him, making pretty little whimpers—then his eyes fly open and he seizes hold of Minho’s wandering hands. “Wait!”

Minho stops immediately, “I’m sorry, are you— what’s wrong?”

“Where’s Soonie?”

“Soonie?” Minho repeats, the blood supply needed to comprehend what Jisung is saying is directed decisively elsewhere. “My cat?”

“Yes,” and Jisung’s cheeks are reddening. “I can’t — I can’t do this with Soonie in here.”

Minho can’t control the smile that leaps to his face. It’s the cutest thing he’s ever fucking heard.

Sexy. Fighter. Attractive. Cute. Adorable.

Chuckling, he rolls off the bed, “Soonie?”

A gravelly purr emanates from the wash basket, and Soonie blinks at him in a manner that says, ‘Who dares disturb my slumber.’

Minho pets him, scoops him up and carries him out to the living room. Sets him on a blanket on the couch, pats his head, “Sorry pal.”

The responding cat chirp sounds a lot like, ‘fuck you’, which is perfectly justifiable.

Still chuckling quietly to himself at the absurdity, Minho returns to the bedroom, closes the bedroom door, turns and hesitates. Jisung smiles warmly up at him from the centre of his bed. His cheeks are flushed, his lips red and swollen, his golden skin seeming to glow against the white of the sheets. He looks so small and so fucking beautiful. Minho crawls up onto the bed to lie beside him and Jisung rolls onto his side to face him and for a minute, Minho allows himself to just look.

Look at how, his curls fall lazily and elegantly over his brow and into his eyes. How his brown eyes appear almost black and still emanate light. How his soft round cheeks blend into the sharp edge of his jawline. How his narrow top lip is all angles, whilst his bottom lip is a curvaceous invitation. Jisung’s face is all juxtapositions. None of it should work together, but it’s truly beautiful.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jisung whines, bringing his hand up to cover his face.

Minho smiles, gently pulls his hand away, “You said, ‘anything’.”

Something in Jisung’s eyes soften and his hand slots around the nape of Minho’s neck and he kisses him.

Minho allows himself to be kissed whatever way Jisung wants it, which just so happens to be how Minho wants it. It’s a sunset kiss. A twilight kiss. Deep and longing. Their hands move slowly, pressing and pulling. After seconds or a lifetime, but too short, Jisung pulls away, tugging at the hem of Minho’s tank top, pulling it over his head. Minho makes light work of Jisung’s own t-shirt, and Jisung has a fucking chest tattoo on the right side, and his pecs and abdominal muscles look like you could skip stones off them and… he’s bruised. There are noticeable red and blue marks, the size of fists down the left side of his chest and Minho’s breath catches. God help me if I ever see those men again…

“I’m okay,” Jisung says gently, taking Minho’s hand and holding his palm against his bruised ribs. Minho can feel the heat of his skin, the texture of his ribs moving beneath his hand. “Really, it doesn’t hurt all that much.”

Still holding his hand against him, Jisung kisses him into the pillows and Minho pulls him down with him. He traces the red and black tattoo with his fingers, then with his tongue, Jisung humming appreciation at his ear before biting gently on his earlobe. “More,” he says, as his hand slides beneath the waistband of Minho’s sweatpants and the elastic of his boxers, fingers digging into the flesh of Minho’s arse. Minho returns the action in kind, smiling against Jisung’s groaning mouth.

Now Jisung is sliding Minho’s joggers and boxers down, tossing them off to the side, then his sweats and the socks and they are both naked, their legs scissoring, hands and feet caressing. Minho lets his hands trace Jisung’s outlines, carving the shape of him into his mind, memorising how the curve of Jisung's waist fits under his palm. How his dark hair falls forward over his face. How his full bottom lip curls and his top lip dips.

Jisung’s hand slides down over Minho’s abdominal muscles and lower—

“Fuck,” Minho hisses through his teeth, as Jisung’s fingers encircle him. Every muscle and tendon in his body tightens, his fingers pressing into Jisung’s waist. Jisung hums, his lips are at that spot beneath Minho’s ear, melting his insides.

He reaches for Jisung, but Jisung pins his hand against the bed, their fingers interlacing. “Not yet,” Jisung’s voice has a dangerous edge. And again Minho’s mind reels: Sexy. Fighter. Attractive. Adorable. Dangerous Jisung. “I said I would make you beg.”

Yes. Yes you did. And…fuck… I might. Minho fights to stay here. He shuts his eyes, gripping Jisung’s hand and fisting at the sheets with the other.

“Look at me,” Jisung says and Minho obeys and it’s a big fucking mistake. Jisung is a pleasurable assault on his senses. His lip curled in a smirk. His dark eyes sparkling. His hand doing…fucking incredible things and if he doesn’t stop it now, he’s going to have to beg. With a roll of his hips, he flips Jisung onto his back, pinning Jisung’s legs down with his own, capturing Jisung’s wrists with one hand. Jisung’s eyes are round and wide at the sudden reversal, but he’s smiling, his pink tongue at the corner of his lips. Minho smiles darkly down at him, makes use of his advantage (and his ambidexterity), his free hand sliding down… Jisung arches off the bed, a red lip caught between white teeth. Slowly, Minho releases his wrists, kisses him into the mattress whilst Jisung’s fingers dig into his shoulders.

Slowly, Minho backs off from him, retreating towards the foot of the bed, lips and tongue tracing his jawline, his neck, his chest, his belly button and Jisung’s fingers are in his hair, watching Minho who is retreating further and lower, tracing kisses inside his thighs. And he looks up the length of Jisung, their eyes locking, tongue and lips teasing–

“Those fucking eyelashes,” Jisung swears throwing his head back when Minho takes him in. Jisung groans softly, chewing his lip as he watches Minho. His thighs trembling under Minho’s fingers whilst his own knot in Minho’s hair and the litany of curses that spill from Jisung are enough to consecrate the room. “Holy mother of–” Jisung’s fingers are pulling Minho’s hair, and he’s sitting up and bringing Minho’s lips back to his, in a crushing kiss that must be painful on his cut lip, “Irino, I need you.”

Irino. Something about the way Jisung contracts his name makes Minho momentarily giddy. I need you. Drives him wild. “Are you begging?”

“Stop being a fucking tease!”

Minho arches an eyebrow at him. Biting Jisung’s lip and dragging it through his teeth. And the sound that escapes Jisung’s mouth is particularly pleasurable.

“Irino, please,” Jisung says, pressing his lips against Minho’s. Kissing him deeply, hungrily, desperately.

Are you really going to prolong your own suffering? Blindly, Minho fumbles in the bedside drawer amongst his leather holster. He pulls back from Jisung to tear the foil open with his teeth. Jisung, huffing impatiently, snatches it from him, rolls the condom on him, and even that action makes Minho moan.

Jisung lies back against the pillows, lifting his knees as Minho lines himself up and slowly pushes into him and he’s hissing through his teeth because Jisung is so fucking perfect and arching off the bed, groaning pleasurably and again he’s fighting to maintain himself. Resist a little longer. Give Jisung time to adjust. Inch by blissful inch.

Slowly, they move together, their bodies seemingly, instinctively knowing what the other wants, what the other needs, as though they had done this before in a past life, on another timeline, in an alternate universe. Soon, Jisung digs his fingers into Minho’s hips, encouraging him to move, pulling him deeper and he looks so fucking pretty beneath him, lips parted, his eyes burning darkly up at him, sweat beading around his temples, “You’re not–going to–break me,” Jisung pants, and for a fleeting moment, Minho believes him, believes that he’s unbreakable and his entire body rolls at the words and Jisung gasps, fingers knotting in Minho’s hair, a sound like a growl escapes his own lips when Jisung pushes against his thrust. “Oh! Uh-huh–yes, like that–just–like–that–”

Oh he can fucking take it. Minho stretches forward, kisses him with teeth, swallowing Jisung’s groans which are growing louder with every thrust. Minho kisses over his jawline, down his neck, to his collarbone and back up to his ear, “Let me hear you.”

“Irino.”

Fuck, just the sound of his name is undoing him. Driving him.

“Irino,” Jisung groans and he’s calling to some part deep inside Minho. Some part of his soul. Calling to another Minho in a past life, on a different timeline, in that alternate universe. “My Irino.”

My. “Ji—fuck—” Minho grinds out as Jisung wraps his legs around Minho’s thighs, pulling him closer, urging him deeper, moving him faster, his hands slipping over Minho’s back, fingers digging, breath quickening.

“Irino!”

“Ji— I’m going to—”

“Look at me,” Jisung cups Minho’s head in his hands, fingers digging into his hair, arching up, his mouth parting and eyes watering and he looks like fucking heaven and Minho is trembling and groaning back and seeing stars but they aren’t stars, it’s the whole fucking universe, past, different and fucking alternate in Jisung’s eyes before they coalesce and become a single point of blinding light.

Boneless, Minho collapses forward against Jisung's sticky chest. He listens to the sound of Jisung’s breath, his too quick heart beat.

His giggling.

“What’s funny?” Minho asks, utilising his remaining strength to push himself up and look down at Jisung.

“Nothing,” Jisung kisses him again and again.

Sexy. Fighter. Attractive. Adorable. Dangerous. Great in bed. Minho thinks, giggling against Jisung's hair.

♤ ♡ ♢ ♧

They shower together.

It’s not sexual, but very sensual. And it’s new. Minho has never done anything like this with anyone before. Has never wanted to until Jisung had made the suggestion. He takes his time lathering shower gel into Jisung’s skin. He’s being particularly gentle over his ribs, which are more purple than red now. Smiles when Jisung giggles, “Not there! I’m ticklish.”

Jisung gently massages shampoo into Minho’s hair in between kisses and giggles. It’s odd, just how much Minho is enjoying this. Enjoying the closeness. Enjoying Jisung.

When they step out of the bathroom, hair dripping, towels around their waists, Minho pulls the top sheet off the bed, drops it into the wash basket and Jisung crosses the room to the bedroom door, pulls it open, “Where’s the beautiful boy?”

‘That’s me,’ Soonie chirps as he trots to Jisung, arching against his legs, bell tinkling. ‘I’m here.’

What the fuck is wrong with my cat?

Jisung scoops him up, carries him over to the bed. “I’m so sorry we kicked you out.” Jisung croons, “I know. We’re mean, aren’t we? Yes.”

“You’re mean,” Minho corrects, lying on the bed and scratching Soonie under the chin. Mimicking Jisung’s condescending tone, “You were all cosy before you got evicted.”

Jisung narrows his eyes down at Minho, “I’m certain that everything that just happened would have been traumatic for the poor boy.”

Minho chews his smile, “He still heard us, Ji.”

And there it is, that pleasant shade of pink spreading up Jisung’s neck and settling around his cheeks.

Jisung kneels up onto the bed, lays down with Soonie between them. Soonie languishes in the attention he’s receiving from them both. Jisung’s fingers buried in the softness of his orange and white fur, his knuckles purpling and swollen. Minho traces them with his thumb, “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“I just kind of had to,” Jisung shrugs. “I’ve always been sort of scrappy. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that, to survive, you have to fight.”

If you want something. Fight for it. Fight for it and win. It’s a lesson his Father had beaten into him from an early age.

“I hope the girl is okay,” Jisung says. A small furrow forming on his brow.

Minho cups his head, leans forward, kisses it gently. “I’m sure she’s being well looked after.”

The furrow melts away.

“You can fight too,” Jisung says. “Boxing?”

“Hmm, and mixed martial arts.”

Jisung’s fingers trace the ragged line on his bicep, “You have a lot of scars,” he says. “Who hurt you?”

“That’s from a broken bottle,” he tells him. “I was trying to break up a fight.” He chooses to leave out the part where he’d started and finished it.

“And this?” Jisung caresses the pink scar beneath his left collar bone that his brother Felix gave him after a particularly rowdy night and an honest to goodness misunderstanding.

“Broken pool cue.”

“And this?” Jisung’s knuckles brush the long thin scar below his diaphragm.

“I don’t actually know about that one. I’ve had it for as long as I can remember.”

“Hasn’t your father told you?”

“He doesn’t know either. I, um… I’m adopted,” he surprises himself by saying this out loud. He’s not ashamed of it. It’s just something he chooses not to tell people. “So my medical history from before is a little vague.”

Something flickers over Jisung’s eyes, but it’s gone and he’s speaking before Minho gets the opportunity to try and understand the look. “Your brothers?”

“We’re all adopted, but I love them as if they are brothers,” he smirks, knowing that whilst this is true, his brothers would vehemently deny that Minho is capable of such affection. “Blood is thicker than water, after all.”

Jisung grins widely at him, “You are probably the first person I’ve heard use that in the correct way,” his eyes burn, and he leans forward, kisses Minho who kisses back and their hands are quickening, fingers digging, towels slipping and—

Meow.

Jisung pulls away giggling. Minho is less than amused.

“I’m sorry!” Jisung says, leaning back and petting Soonie, “Are you feeling left out?” he plants a kiss on the top of Soonie’s head. Soonie purrs happily. Little cat cock blocker.

Minho settles down against the pillows. Outside, the sun is rising and the morning twilight plays with Jisung’s soft features. Minho thinks he’s probably the most beautiful man in this, or any other world, past, present or alternate.

Jisung glances at him, smiles, “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” it comes out like a sigh. Minho traces the black and red circle with a white star radiating from the centre. “Tell me about this.”

Jisung smiles, “My broken compass?”

And now Minho can see it, the points for north, east, south and west, but the letters at these points are different; S-T-A-Y. “Why’s it broken?”

“Have you seen Pirates of the Caribbean?”

“No,” Minho says.

“Well, shame on you. You should watch it. It’s a whole thing,” his smile is teasingly beautiful. “But my broken compass is a reminder. A reminder that I’m never really lost. That I’m not really astray. That I can always find myself, if I rely on what my heart is telling me.”

Whatever Minho had envisioned the answer to be, this was not it. He feels a bubble rise in his chest, and poking curiously at it, realises that it’s sadness. He feels sad that Jisung has ever felt astray. He cups Jisung's face, lets his thumb caress his cheek, “Stay with me a little longer?”

Smiling, Jisung cups Minho’s hand with his own, and lays down. “Okay.”

♤ ♡ ♢ ♧

Minho wakes to sunlight blinding him. South facing windows are great and all, except at midday when you’ve had less than four hours sleep. He flinches back from it, rolls away, hand reaching across the bed finding it empty. Usually, finding that his previous nights fuck toy has scarpered fills him with relief. So he’s a little surprised and wary of the hollowness sitting in his chest at Jisung’s absence. Or is it the absence of Jisung? Whichever it is, he’s not particularly fond of the feeling.

Distantly, in the fog of his sleepy brain, he’s aware that Soonie isn’t glaring at him from the bedside table or neighbouring pillow, bopping his nose with an angry paw demanding breakfast, which is his usual morning alarm. He rolls onto his back and drops his forearm over his eyes, listens to the sound of the hum of the traffic and a television. No, not a television. He removes his arm, sits up on his elbows, stares at his open bedroom door. It’s definitely his television.

He rolls out of bed, pulling on last night's sweatpants and pads barefooted and bare chested into his living room.

Jisung is sitting cross legged on the couch, wearing his laundered tank top and jeans and hideous socks and eating a triangle of jammy toast. Soonie is curled into a ball on his lap and they are both staring at the television. On the screen, a pretty woman is talking to a prettier man and after only thirty seconds of listening to them, horror settles into his stomach, it’s one of those fucking dating shows. “You’ve got to be kidding me? You watch this shit?”

“Shush,” Jisung says, waving his toast at him in a gesture to be quiet. Which is fucking cheeky since he’s sitting in Minho’s home. Or fucking cute. By the way Jisung nibbles on his toast, his eyes large and fixed on the screen, Minho leans towards cute, but he’s adding cheeky to his list. “I’ve been waiting for three weeks for him to finally confess to her.”

“Confess what?” Minho folds his arms across his chest, “That it’s a terrible idea to talk about their love life on national television?”

“Shush!” Jisung hisses.

Feeling scolded and chuckling quietly to himself, Minho ruffles Jisung’s hair as he pads over to the kitchen, or what had been his kitchen. The carnage remaining from Jisung making toast is a wonder to behold. It’s amazing there’s any jam on his toast, since a large quantity of it seems to be everywhere else. He’d clearly tried to wash the previous night’s dishes, but didn’t know where to put anything so had them teetering dangerously on the sink. But there’s coffee brewing in the pot, so that’s something. He steps on something hard, curses as he hops on one foot, inspects the other to find a cat biscuit there. Glances down at Soonie’s overflowing bowl.

“YES!” Jisung says. “Tell her! Tell her!”

Meoooow, Soonie agrees.

‘The thing is…’ the handsome man on screen is saying. ‘I never stopped loving you.’

Minho rolls his eyes, pours himself a mug of coffee.

“YES!” Jisung bounces on the couch, hands in the air. Soonie leaps away from him and scampers into the bedroom as Jisung claps his hands. “Finally!”

Music is playing now, the dramatic-romantic type as the camera focuses on the pretty woman’s disbelieving face and then the credits roll. Jisung vaults over the back of the couch, his smile wide and fucking adorable. He does a little happy skip, his fists like paws at his side. “He finally told her.”

“I gathered,” Minho can’t help smiling at him around his coffee mug.

Jisung plants a kiss on his cheek, “Good afternoon.”

“Afternoon,” Minho replies, setting his mug down so he can wrap his arms around Jisung’s waist. Honestly, his arms are made for this. “Hmm.”

Jisung grins at him, but pulls away and covers his mouth when Minho leans forward for a kiss. “I haven’t brushed my teeth.”

“Neither have I,” Minho says, pulling Jisung closer, breathing on him.

“Oh my lord,” Jisung whines, nose wrinkling as he tries to wriggle free.

Minho plants a quick chaste kiss against Jisung’s lips and at once he stops wriggling, begins melting in Minho’s arms, his hands encircling Minho’s neck, pulling him down, kissing him deeply, and he tastes like strawberries, moaning against Minho’s lips. After seconds that might have been hours, Jisung pulls away. His cheeks are that pretty shade of pink, “Well, that was disgusting.”

“Uh-huh,” Minho says, kissing him once more before letting him go.

Jisung leans back against the breakfast bar, “I fed Soonie.”

“I see that.”

“I wasn’t sure how much to give him.”

“I see that too,” Minho tickles Jisung under his chin. “Good effort.”

Giggling, Jisung rabbit punches his shoulder. Hugs himself. “I don’t suppose you have a jumper or something I could borrow? My shirt’s outside, but it’s still damp.”

“Of course, are you cold?”

“No, not cold, I just, I er, don’t really like my arms out, on show.”

Minho arches an eyebrow at him, “You don’t like your arms?”

“I just don’t feel comfortable.”

Sexy. Fighter. Attractive. Adorable. Dangerous. Great in bed. Cheeky. Shy.

Minho kisses the top of his head, “For the record, you have very sexy arms,” he says, stepping round Jisung and heading to his room. At the very top of his wardrobe he finds an old, hooded jumper in dark grey, with two white wings on the back. “Is this okay? It’ll be massive on you.”

“It’s cute, thanks,” Jisung says, pulling it over his head, the sleeves hanging low over his hands. And Minho sees the way Jisung’s shoulders relax under the fabric.

“Better?”

“Much,” Jisung smiles at him.

There is the sound of a phone vibrating. Minho automatically glances at his bedside table where his phone is on charge, but it’s still and silent.

Jisung pulls his own from the front pocket of his jeans, his face hardens as he scowls at the broken screen, and ends the call.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m—for fuck’s sake,” he ends the second call. “I have to go.”

“Do you need a lift? I could drive—”

“No. No, that’s not necessary.”

His phone rings for a third time and Minho’s seeing the tightness in his shoulders return. “Do you need to get that? I can leave—”

“No. They can wait,” Jisung steps forward, cups Minho’s head and pulls him down for a kiss and the kiss is going places when his fucking phone starts ringing again. “Fuck, I’m sorry.” Jisung ends the call again. “I had a wonderful time last night.” He looks Minho in the eye, pushing strands of hair away from Minho’s forehead. “A really wonderful time.”

“Me too,” Minho says, allowing his hands to rub circles over Jisung's back. Feels his muscles tense when his phone rings again.

“I really have to go,” he steps back, pets Soonie on the head and stoops down to kiss the spot between his ears. “Be good, beautiful boy.”

Soonie chirps, ‘I will’.

Why are you lying? Minho thinks.

“Ji?” Minho follows him out of the bedroom, Jisung is already at the main door, pulling on his boots, not bothering to tie his laces, just shoving the loose ends inside them. Groaning loudly when his phone starts ringing again. “Ji?”

Jisung shakes his head, unlatches the door, but Minho slaps his palm against it, slamming it shut.

“Ji, look at me.”

Jisung takes a shaky breath, looks. His eyes are damp. Any joy he’d had only five minutes ago has been expunged by the person trying to call him. Minho feels a visceral loathing of the person on the other end of those calls. He thumbs a tear from Jisung's cheek, “Who’s trying to call you?”

“It’s no-one,” Jisung lies terribly, which isn’t necessarily a bad trait.

“Your boyfriend?” It makes sense, in the moment, though the word burns in his chest. “Girlfriend?” he hedges, remembering the red and blue girls from the club.

“No,” Jisung smiles tiredly at him, “Nothing like that, it’s,” he sighs, “it’s my brother.”

“Oh, okay,” Minho hears the sound of relief in his own voice. “Are you okay?”

His nose wrinkles as he shakes his head.

Minho’s unsure who kisses who first but they are kissing, Jisung pinned against the door, his leg around the back of Minho’s thigh, pulling him in, and closer, his hands flattening over Minho’s chest, up and over his shoulders, into his hair and his fucking phone starts ringing again.

“Tell him to fuck off,” Minho growls against Jisungs mouth.

Jisung giggles, dropping his foot back to the floor and gently detaching Minho’s hands from his waist. “I have to go,” he says as he wrenches the door open. Hesitates on the threshold. “Can I call you?”

“You fucking better,” Minho says and Jisung kisses his cheek quickly before he flees out of the door, jogs towards the elevator, takes the stairs.

Minho closes the door, walks to his windows, heaves one open and steps out onto the narrow balcony. The sun is heating his skin, but his feet are cold on the concrete. He watches and he waits, and finally he sees Jisung, hood over his head, phone pressed to his ear, jogging lightly across the street, flagging down a taxi and scrambling into the back of it. Minho watches as the taxi rolls down the road and disappears around a corner.

Palming the back of his neck, Minho turns to head back inside when he spots Jisung’s shirt, draped over the back of a chair. He lifts it, carries it inside.

Purr? Soonie is pacing in front of the door, sniffing the spot where Jisung’s boots had been.

“He’s away,” Minho tells him. “Don’t look at me in that tone.”

Soonie sits down and continues to scowl at Minho as if he was the one who made him leave.

Minho flops onto the couch, idly feeling the smooth silk of Jisung’s shirt between his fingers. He glances up at the television showing icons of several shows of happy, smiling, pretty heterosexuals and the words: Because you watched Exchange: you might also like…

“No I fucking wouldn’t,” Minho says reaching for the remote and turning the television off.

Jisung: Sexy. Fighter. Attractive. Adorable. Dangerous. Great in bed. Cheeky. Shy. Algorithm wrecker.

“Fuck,” Minho sighs dropping his head back. He’d slept with a lot of people in his time… could remember (maybe) some of their names. Could just about recall what they looked like… but here he was able to recite his list of Jisung’s without any issue.

Meow? Soonie says for no reason.

Another Jisung: Cat heart stealer.

“Fuck.”

TASTE M.List & Sypnosis

Chapter 1 - Parley

Chapter 2 - The DLC

Chapter 4 - The Wolf & His Pack

#TASTE | Minsung #skz fic #Lee Minho #Han Jisung #Christopher Bahng #Bang Chan #Changbin #Seungmin #Hyunjin #Felix #Jeongin #Soonie #Stray Kids Fan Fiction #Mafia AU #Romeo x Romeo

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somethingkindazainy · 2 months ago

Text

♡ Pairing: Minho x Jisung ♤ Genre: Mafia AU, Romeo x Romeo ♢ Chapter Warnings: Graphic descriptions of Violence, foul language throughout, alcohol use, non-con(mxf) ♧ MINORS DNI

♤ ♡ TASTE Synopsis & Chapter List ♢ ♧

<< Chapter 1 - Parley ♤ ♡ ♢ ♧ Chapter 3 - Broken Compass >>

Chapter 2: The DLC

♢ ♧January - 2024♤ ♡

Minho leans against the bar, sips his water, and studies his surroundings.

The club he’s in, The DLC, has recently come up for auction, and Minho is here to assess it for potential investment. Unlike other buyers, he didn’t come here when the place was empty. It’s a nightclub, in his opinion, nightclubs are best viewed at night when it’s filled with customers.

Assessing property is usually Seungmin's niche. Seungmin can look at things, know in his mind what it will cost to put things right, and whether it could become a viable, profitable enterprise. Seungmin would’ve visited when it was empty, a tape measure and calculator in hand and asked smart questions about turnover, footfall and margins. But Seungmin is very much a thinker, a planner, a to-do list maker. Minho is a move first, ask for forgiveness later kind of guy and doesn’t have anything except an instinctual gut feeling.

Instinctively, he feels it has potential. So far, Minho likes the location. It’s in a good area of Seoul, just south of the river and the place is heaving. The security is a little lacking, he is currently sitting at the bar with a knuckle duster in one pocket and his knife in a shoulder holster. Security would definitely need improving, but Hyunjin could easily see to that. The DJ is good, adapting his noisy music to suit the crowd. Minho would keep him on if their bid is successful, perhaps see if he’d split his time between venues. There are male and female dancers on podiums high above the dance floor, wearing little more than glitter and body paint, their gyrations keeping the crowds entertained and invigorated. He wants to keep them too. His Father will hate it. Which is another reason Minho wants it.

“Sammy! Scotch on the rocks,” a panting voice to his right says to the barman.

Minho glances at him, only a second, but within that he captures the honey colour of the young mans skin, adorned with silver jewellery, the beads of sweat on his forehead. Black hair pasted to the nape of his neck and a black silk shirt. He sees all that in one brief glance.

“Oh, hello new face,” the young man says now. A hand with several silver rings, fingers Minho’s tie. “Not the usual dress code for a night on the town.”

Minho slews his gaze over to him. The young man is facing him now, his face is sort of round, his eyes large and dark, in part because he’s wearing heavy eyeliner. Minho quite likes his smile. It’s wide and bright.

“I’m working,” Minho says coolly.

“Oh,” the young man lets go of his tie. “So this is very much a business not pleasure visitation? Or are you mixing the two?”

Minho sips his water, averts his gaze, “Very much business.”

The young man hums, “Well that’s a little disappointing.” He leans back against the bar, his elbow only a hair width from Minho’s own. “Now, what line of business could you possibly be in, wearing a suit to a nightclub? Don’t tell me—” he theatrically purses his lips. “Maybe you’re a talent scout for one of those big companies, out here looking for the next big thing in k-pop?” he steps in front of Minho’s eye line, and now Minho can see him in his entirety. He’s wearing a black silk shirt, tucked into black torn jeans which are in turn tucked into black almost knee high combat boots. His legs are slightly bowed and his waist is grabbable. “I could be him!”

Minho snorts.

“Judgemental,” the young man says, but he’s still smiling that smile. “I’d be an ace, just so you know.”

“Your drink, sir,” says the barman from behind Minho.

“Thanks Sammy,” the young man steps forward, steps between Minho’s legs, his hand flat against Minho’s chest and Minho is fighting to keep his breath even, but knows that his heart rate is betraying him. The young man smells of whisky and sweat and something else, not aftershave, but something that is very warm and pleasant, almost earthy.

“I’m not buying what you’re trying to sell,” Minho says into his ear and he sees the young man’s lip quirk. Probably because he knows Minho is lying. Perhaps he can sense that Minho wants him to.

“Oh, sweetheart, you couldn’t afford me if I were selling,” he pushes himself away, Minho’s tie slipping through his fingers as he drinks from his whisky glass, his throat bobbing. “And I don’t give it away either,” and he winks as he turns away, disappearing down the stairs back to the dance floor.

Minho swallows, takes a breath. Clears his throat. He feels like he’s done five rounds in the ring with Nikko. Part of him is annoyed that the young man had the audacity to touch him. The other, slightly larger part, is annoyed that he had enjoyed it. He raises his bottle to his lips, but the bottle is empty.

“Another, sir?” The barman is good. Minho decides he’ll keep him on too.

“No thanks,” Minho stands, pulls out his wallet. “Sammy, is it?”

“Sam, sir,” the barman is close to Minho’s age. He has intricate tattoos on his forearms, a warm smile and soft brown eyes. He’s well built, muscles pulling at the seams of his shirt and a whole head taller than Minho.

“You know the gentleman that just ordered the scotch on the rocks?”

“Jisung? Yes, he’s a regular, sir. He comes here every Friday.”

“Why Friday?”

Sam shrugs, “Probably the DJ, sir. His set is Friday. Friday’s are our most popular night.”

Minho absorbs this little tit-bit. “Would your manager be available to speak with?”

“Uh, we don’t currently have a manager, sir. Is there a problem? Perhaps I can assist?”

“No, no problem,” Minho hands Sam his business card, “I’m thinking of buying this place. I’m just wondering if there’s a reason I shouldn’t.”

Sam considers his business card for a moment. Eyes him warily.

“All confidential,” Minho assures him.

“You seem like a decent fella, so I’ll tell you why you probably want to look elsewhere,” Sam tucks the card into his pocket, leans forward on the bar. “We’ve had some trouble with the Park family. Have you heard of them?”

“I’m familiar.” There’s always a fucking catch. “What kind of trouble?”

“Drugs, mostly. They’ve been in here pushing, claiming whatever pill they have is something it’s not. We had a few OD’s last year. The owner put things in place to help prevent harm to the punters. The dancers are linked to security through ear pieces, they have a good vantage point of the surroundings, see. We have staff in the toilets now. We’re doing what we can, but I think the owner received some threats, and that’s why he’s dipping out. I don’t really know more than that.”

“Where is the current owner?”

“Last I heard, he ran off to Jeju with his family. Then this place went on the market the very next day. Wasn’t a nice way to hear you’re about to lose your job.”

“But you all stayed?”

“A few cut and run, including the managers, but I’ve been here six years. Many of the dancers too. I care about this place, and the staff. It seems unreasonable just to leave because there’s some asshats trying to ruin things. And…” he hesitates. “We’re LGBTQ+ friendly, sir.” Minho keeps his expression neutral. “There aren’t many places like this in Seoul. I don’t think many new buyers will be okay with that. The people that stayed, stayed because there isn’t anywhere safe for them to go. There isn’t anywhere else where they can be themselves.”

Minho decides he really likes Sam. It’s a gut feeling. “Thank you, Sam,” he drops some money on the bar. “Get yourself a drink.”

“Thank you, sir, but I don’t–”

“Give it to charity, if you’d feel more comfortable.”

Sam nods.

“And,” Minho drops more money on the counter. “Get a drink for Jisung.”

“Of course, sir. Shall I say it came from you?”

Discreet too. If Minho’s bid is unsuccessful, he’s finding somewhere for Sam. He’d find somewhere for all of them. “Tell him it’s from the talent scout.”

“’Talent scout’, yes, sir.”

“And Sam, if the Parks start trouble, don’t waste your time calling the police, you reach me on the number on that card.”

Sam smiles, reaches behind the bar and pulls out a baseball bat studded with nails, holds it on the counter. “I think I can handle a few thugs, but sure, if something crops up that I think we can’t handle, I’ll give you a call.”

♤ ♡ ♢ ♧

“You bought this place?” Seungmin is massaging his temple with his fingers.

It's been a month since his first visit. A week since the paperwork was signed and sealed and now The DLC is officially Clowder owned. There was no auction. Minho just made an offer too good to refuse. After that, everything happened swiftly. He’s feeling really rather proud of himself. “Yes.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Seungmin sighs and it’s quite amazing that his sigh is audible above the bass of the electronic music.

Minho chuckles, “It’s not that bad.”

“It’s not viable,” Seungmin says. “Cosmetics alone will put this place in the red.”

“We’ll make it back,” Minho says. “Look at it! It’s popular.”

“It’s south of the river.”

“So? We’re expanding.”

“Father will hate it,” Seungmin pointedly nods at a tall male dancer with chocolate coloured skin, on a podium wearing metallic silver short shorts and angel wings. Nothing more. His female counterpart is wearing devil horns, a red thong and platform heels. Seungmin has gone a pretty shade of pink.

“He doesn’t like any of our places. And the fact this is south of the river means he’s unlikely to stop by for a visit. And there’s ten flats above this that I now own as well.”

“Well,” Seungmin considers this. “That’s good. The rent from them will keep this place afloat. What’s the return on each?”

“Nothing, the tenants all work here. Their last landlord stiffed them, so I’ve said they only have to pay their electric, water and rates. In exchange they keep this place clean and going. It’s a win-win.”

Seungmin’s side eye is next level. “I am running out of fucks. You literally have no business sense.” Seungmin pinches the bridge of his nose. “Well, I suppose you’ve gone and done it now, so I have to come in and sort out the mess you’ve made.”

“That’s our dynamic isn’t it?” Minho signals at Sam who is hovering at the far end of the bar. “Seungmin, this is the manager, Sam. Sam, this is my brother Seungmin.”

Sam bows courteously, “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“Hello,” Seungmin says soullessly.

“Sam, will you show Seungmin the books? He’ll want to see everything you have, so I’d prepare some coffee. And be candid with him. There’s no secrets when it comes to my brother. He’s like a dog with a bone when it comes to getting to the truth of things.”

Seungmin rolls his eyes.

“Of course, sir. If it’s okay with you, I will arrange some cover for the bar and we can go to the office?”

Seungmin nods and Sam walks to the far end of the bar.

“Why’s the manager working the bar?”

“He doesn’t like being idle and he was the barman when I took over. I’m not about to argue with him.”

“You kept the original staff?”

“Yes and made Sam manager. The staff like him, and they trust him and so do I. He seems like a good man. And I’ve bought the exclusivity of the DJ. He’ll only perform at our clubs going forward. Hyunjin's coming in over the weekend to work on tightening the security.”

“This is getting worse,” Seungmin sighs and stands. “I should have brought two red pens.”

“You love it,” Minho winks at him. “I bet your nerdy little soul is getting hard just thinking about all those receipts out of order and dusty account books and—”

“I can not emphasise this enough: fuck you,” but he’s smiling.

“—spreadsheets,” Minho groans, then laughs when Seungmin thwacks him on the shoulder.

Sam returns, he’s found a female member to cover the bar for him. “Shall we, sir?”

“Sam, every time you call me ‘sir’, I get heartburn and turn around looking for my old man. You can call me Seungmin.”

Sam smiles, “Of course. If you’d like to follow me?”

“I’ll speak to you tomorrow,” Seungmin says with the air of someone threatening one’s life. As he passes, he very deliberately hits Minho’s knee with his briefcase. Smirks.

Minho flips him off.

“That’s not very demure,” a familiar voice says now.

Minho is smiling before he turns to look at him. Tonight Jisung is wearing a silk leopard print shirt over a tight black top. His waist pinched in black trousers. He’s wearing his usual combat boots. “Have you been lurking?”

“Me? No, I’ve been on the dance floor.” He looks Minho up and down, “Oh, dear, you’re still working. Do you ever get a night off?”

“I literally just clocked off for the night.”

“Hmm,” Jisung reaches over and loosens Minho’s tie. Undoes the top button of his shirt, his fingers feel warm as they brush Minho’s skin. “That’s a bit better. Now you look like someone who’s just clocked off.” He leans against the bar on one elbow. It accentuates the curve of his waist, his hip jutting out just so. He knows exactly what he’s doing and it takes an incredible amount of effort for Minho not to look. “Who was the cutey you were with?”

“Have you been watching me?”

“Maybe,” Jisung smiles, nods to the lady behind the bar, who immediately starts preparing his drink. “Are you going to drink tonight?”

“I’m driving.”

“I’m starting to think you don’t know how to have fun. And you haven’t answered my question about your handsome male friend.”

“He’s my brother,” Minho says simply. “And you sound like someone who doesn’t know how to have fun without alcohol.”

“Sometimes, alcohol just makes things feel better.” Jisung looks at the glass of whisky that the bar staff has just placed in front of him. His smile has cooled, his eyes taking on a far off look. He looks kind of… sad, which doesn’t suit him. “Can I tell you a secret?” His fingers are touching Minho’s now, feather soft, ticklish touches. His finger tips are calloused, but still softer than Minho’s

Minho watches Jisung's thumb trace his scarred knuckles. Waits.

“I’m actually a very shy person in the real world.”

“I don’t believe that for one second,” Minho says, allowing his fingers to trace the creases on Jisung’s palm.

Jisung smiles at him, let’s go, starts to walk backwards, “Maybe I’ll see you on the dance floor?” and too soon he’s gone, lost in the throng of the revellers.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” the girl behind the bar says. “He didn’t take his drink.”

Minho unknots his tie, wraps it around his hand and drops it into his coat pocket. He’s warm, and he knows it has very little, if anything, to do with the temperature of the club. He walks over to the railings overlooking the dance floor. It doesn’t take him long to find Jisung in the centre, dancing with two female companions. A girl wearing a scarlet mini dress is at his front, a girl in a royal blue bodysuit is behind him, both grinding up on him. Jisung’s hands are on the girl-in-red’s thighs, the girl-in-blue is kissing his neck and he is biting his lip. As Minho watches, the girls alternate between kissing each other and kissing Jisung’s neck, their pretty little hands smoothing over Jisung's chest, his waist, his thighs. Minho feels heat rising in his chest. His knuckles whiten against the railings. And now Jisung opens his eyes and he looks directly at Minho. No, not at him, into him. Even from here, he must be able to sense Minho’s desire. Minho’s jealousy.

Feeling hot and going dumb, Minho pushes away from the railing, walks to the exit onto the rain slicked street. Grateful for the coolness of the late night air. He turns right into the alley running alongside the club, to cut through to his car, parked a block away. It’s a habit he hasn’t broken out of since one of his brother's cars was firebombed a few years back.

“Didn’t you enjoy the show?”

Minho pauses, glances over his shoulder at Jisung who is walking towards him, looking fine despite the lip gloss staining his throat. Minho pushes his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Not really my thing.”

“The girls, or me, or the combination?” Jisung asks teasingly.

Minho knows he already knows the answer to that, but still makes sure to smirk at him, “All of the above.”

Jisung is very close now, he smells of warm whisky, sweat, perfume and that other smell that underlies all that. That intoxicating one. A heady, earthy smell. “Hmm, he lies too,” Jisung says, his fingers and thumb rubbing the fabric of Minho’s coat collar. “So why don’t you tell me what it is you do like?”

“I think you’re drunk,” Minho tells him.

“I assure you I’m not as drunk as I should be,” Jisung's fingers brush Minho’s belt and Minho seizes hold of his wrist, wrenches it away, which takes a lot of effort and willpower on his part. Jisung pouts and something about the look suggests to Minho that he’s someone who is used to getting what he wants. It’s wrong of him to show that. In part, because Minho finds the look a bit of a turn on, “What are you scared of?”

“I think you have that the wrong way round,” Minho leans forward, his breath warm against Jisung’s ear. “I don’t think you’d be able to handle me even on your best day.”

“You quite sure about that?” Jisung says and his lips brush the spot below Minho’s ear which is somehow directly connected to a spot behind Minho’s belly button. He’s grateful Jisung can’t see his face at this moment.

He releases Jisung, steps back, reaches into his pocket for a business card and pen. Scribbles his personal number on the back. Holds it out.

Jisung snatches the card from him, looks at it. “Lee Minho.”

“Call me when you’re not pissed, Jisung.”

He takes a moment to marvel at the look of confusion on Jisung’s face that he already knows his name, turns on his heel and walks up the alley.

♤ ♡ ♢ ♧

At his car, he pulls off his coat, lays it in the back seat. Slides in, starts the engine and sits there. Hands tight on the steering wheel as he tries not to think about his dick, which is very much still contemplating Jisung.

His head is filled with Jisung’s scent. His skin still tingles where Jisung had touched him. Jisung had been willing, and Minho had wanted so badly to do unspeakable things to him in that alley. Why the fuck didn’t you do anything about it?

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he taps the touch screen on the centre console to read the message.

Unknown Number: I am pissed, as in angry. Hence the text. J.

“Who the fuck says hence anymore?” Minho wonders aloud as he saves the number into his personal contacts under the pseudonym, Ace. He taps a quick reply.

LM: Yeah? Why’s that?

His phone rings, he answers on the car's bluetooth handsfree. “Hey Seungmin. Are you done already?”

“Hardly. I’m taking some books and a hard drive home with me.”

“You dirty boy.”

“Fuck you,” Seungmin says, but Minho can hear the amusement in his voice. Through the line he can hear the bass of the music. Can imagine he’s still sitting in the back office of the club, arms deep in a bag of receipts.

“How’d you get on?”

“We might have a bit of a problem.”

“With Sam?”

“No, you’re right about him, decent bloke. I met a few of the staff and they all respect him. Sam already had the books and all that organised after you made him manager. Took him a week to sort through. Apparently the other managers were a bit nonchalant about bookkeeping. But Sam seems to know what he’s doing.”

“Oh, lord, did I find your ideal? Can I be the best man at your wedding?”

“If I ever get married, you won’t be invited.”

“But I already have the perfect calculator picked out.”

“Min, can you stop pissing about and listen to me for a second? The problem is the Parks.”

“Yeah, Sam mentioned the drug problem last year, but it seems like that’s died off since they put new measures in place.”

“Yeah, well, there might be a reason for that. It looks like the previous owner was syphoning off some of the profits and paying them off.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Minho slaps the steering wheel. “You are kidding me?”

His phone buzzes and a new message flashes on the console.

Ace: you got me all horny and left me.

“No. It’s the only thing Sam and I can come up with. Every week, until the place went up for auction, there’s been a cash payment. No name, no reference, just a circle. It’s not a small number either. Sam reckons it’s started at about fifteen percent of the weekly intake, but it’s been steadily increasing. I haven’t looked at the numbers too closely, but from what I’ve seen, I don’t think Sam’s wrong. The most recent payments sit at about forty percent. The only time it differentiates is if there’s a missed payment. The following payment almost triples.”

“Late payment fee,” Minho is staring at the ceiling of his car, cursing the Parks, the higher powers and himself.

“Looks like it. And that’s before rates and wages and stock— ”

“— fuck.”

“Yeah,” Seungmin sighs. Minho realises that Seungmin sighs a lot when Minho’s involved. “It’s not good.”

“Protection money?” no wonder why the previous owner practically bit his hand off on the first offer. Minho considers ways he can find him, maybe make him see the errors of his ways…

Ace: I’m adding tease to the list of your qualities.

“That’s what we think. Sam reckons the start of the payments tally about the time the problems with the violence and the drugs seemed to have faded out. Which he’d always thought was a bit odd, but he didn’t know what was going on behind the scenes and whenever he asked about it, he was fobbed off. It’s one of the first things he spotted when he was trying to get the books in order for you. Apparently he tried to talk to you about it, but you said something along the lines of ‘I’m not interested in the accounting side of things’.”

“He told you that, huh?”

“No. He didn’t say a thing. I filled in his discreet silence with words I can hear you saying.”

Seungmin; forever the smartest. What a pain in the arse.

“I think that’s a form of entrapment.”

“I think you need to look before you leap next time,” Seungmin says. “So far there are five weeks unpaid, so there’s trouble round the corner. At least you bought it under the family name, it might make them hesitate to do anything stupid.”

“Ah, well… the thing about that is—”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“It was quicker doing it directly, through my own solicitor. I figured I’d transfer it to the family once things were up and running—”

“So the club isn’t even under the protection of the family banner? You do know you’ve fucked up, don’t you? That you’ve made a big fucking mistake?”

“Yeah, Seungmo, you don’t need to tell me—”

“—huge, colossal, major–”

“– I said you don’t need to tell me,” Minho sighs. When the fuck did he start making mistakes like this? He’d always trusted his gut, and now… “Well this is fucking great. Make sure Hyunjin gets there first thing tomorrow. I really want the security on that place reviewed.”

“I already messaged him and gave his number to Sam. He’ll be there before ten tomorrow. I’ll see if we can speed up the transfer to the family. Which means Father will have to get involved.”

“Great. I’ll look forward to that bollocking.”

“Sucks to be you. And somewhere in between all that I’ll dig into the rest of the accounts over the weekend, see if there's an indication of where the payments went.”

“Yeah, well, use protection.”

“Fuck you,” Seungmin says and ends the call.

Minho stares at the hood of his car for several moments. Lifts his phone from his pocket, rereads the messages from Jisung, taps out his own.

LM: You’re making a list? What you got so far?

The response swoops back almost instantly.

Ace: It’s a work in progress. So far, you’re Trouble. Capitalised.

Great, even a stranger knows what a fucking liability I am.

Ace: I want to do terribly explicit things to you. LM: I told you, not even on your best day…

“I’d make you beg,” Jisung says as soon as Minho answers. There is the sound of traffic and voices on the other end of the line.

“Well, ‘hello’ to you too,” Minho says in response.

Jisung hums down the phone, “I’m really not that drunk, you know.”

“Ah, but you’ve been drinking and I’d prefer you to be fully aware of what I’m doing to you in the moment.”

“I'm totally compos mentis, if that’s what you’re worried about. You could do anything you want to me without any guilt.” The traffic noise has quietened significantly, replaced by the sound of footsteps echoing off walls. The sound of raised voices in the distance. “I’d let you do anything.”

Minho leans his head back, adjusts his trousers.

“You still there?”

“Hmm. Keep talking.”

Even through the phone, Minho can hear the smile in his voice. Can picture it. His pretty lips. “Is it the sound of my voice you want to hear, or certain words and phrases?”

“I like the sound of your voice, but I like the things you’re saying.”

Jisung chuckles and the sound travels straight down between Minho’s thighs. “What are you doing now?”

“Sitting in my car.” Trying not to think about my dick.

“Just sitting? Don’t you have anywhere to go?” the shouts on the other end of the line are growing louder.

“I’m debating whether to come and get you.”

“Why the debate? Come and get me,” Jisung says.

Fuck. “I’ll ruin you.”

“Is that a promise?”

Fuck. “Tell me where you are.”

“I’m east of— hang on— OI!” Jisung's sudden shout is jarring. “What the fuck? Get the fuck away—”

There’s a male voice, “Fuck off!”

A different male voice, “Mind your business!”

A female scream, which sends a cold chill down Minho’s spine. “Jisung? What the fuck’s going on? Where the fuck are you?”

“I said get the fuck away from her!” there are more shouts, the sound of scuffling, a hard crack and the line goes dead.

Minho jams the car into drive, tyres screeching as he speeds eastwards in the direction of the club, scanning alleyways and side streets as he passes, looking for any sign of Jisung and no clue about where he was or where he was headed. He stabs at the console, trying to call Jisung back, but a feminine robotic voice says: I’m sorry, but the person you are trying to call is unavailable right now. Please try again later.

“FUCK!” Minho slaps the steering wheel, and catches sight of a young woman wearing a black dress sprinting into the road in bare feet. His tyres screech and smoke as he comes to a stop, the girl’s hands flat on the bonnet of his car. Her face stained with mascara, her lip bleeding, her left eye swelling. Minho reaches over to the passenger door, pushes it open. “Get in the car!” he yells at her.

She hesitates for only a second or two, looking over her shoulder before scrambling into the passenger seat. As soon as she is in, the door barely closed, Minho is jerking the car in the direction she appeared from, his lights illuminating a long alley too narrow for his car, and towards the back, he can see the silhouettes of five figures.

Minho drops his phone in the woman's lap, “Call the police!” he tells her as he leaps out of the car, his left hand in his pocket finds the birthday present Felix had gifted him last year; his brass knuckle duster.

He knocks the first guy out with a teeth shattering, blood splattering left hook, before the others realise he’s even there. He disarms the second one by dislocating his shoulder, then his knee for good measure. And now he sees Jisung, wide eyed and fucking furious, his lip is split and his teeth red. He’s standing on the neck of a third man, whilst punching the shit out of the fourth. Minho grabs the fourth into a headlock, digs his knee into his spine and Jisung punches him so hard Minho feels the impact in his chest as the man slumps and falls unconscious to the ground.

Minho bends forward, hands on his knees, the adrenaline firing through his blood. Jisung walks over to the right wall, where the fifth man is cowering, face bruised and bloodied. Judging by the unnatural angle of his hand, he has a broken arm. Bracing a hand on the wall, Jisung draws his foot back like an American football player and kicks the man full in the groin. It makes Minho wince. The cowering man slides sideways and curls in on himself and Jisung lines up another kick, but Minho steps forward, drops a hand on his shoulder.

Jisung, fist clenched, whirls on him, but Minho expects it, his forearm blocking Jisung’s. “That’s enough,” Minho says.

Jisung doesn’t look convinced, but his shoulders relax. He backs off from the man and starts scanning the floor of the alley, nudging arms and legs with the toe of his boot.

Minho looks at the carnage, “You tried to fight—” he counts quickly, “—six men? On your own?”

“I wasn’t trying, I was doing a bloody brilliant job. Ah-ha, found it,” he crouches down, lifts an object from the floor. It’s a mobile phone, he shows it to Minho, the screen is cracked. “Cunts.”

And Minho can’t help it, he laughs.

“We should find the girl, make sure she’s okay.”

“She’s in my car, calling the police.”

“Hyung,” Jisung whines, his lips pouting, as he gestures to the bruised, bloodied and broken men at his feet. “The police? Seriously?”

Minho sees his point.

Jisung rolls his eyes, starts walking towards the car at the top of the alley, the headlights shining through his silk shirt, so from here Minho can see the silhouette of his tiny waist. Jisung raises his hands level with his shoulders, approaches the car like you would approach an injured animal. He stoops down near the passenger door, “Hi my dear, are you okay? You’re safe now.”

Her wailing is too high pitched for Minho to understand her.

Minho pulls off his knuckle duster, drops it into his trouser pocket, and starts to walk back towards the car when he almost trips over a silver shoe. He figures it belongs to the woman in the car, looks for the other one, finds it a few feet away and a small black purse with a chain link handle. When he reaches the car, the passenger door is open and the girl is leaning against Jisung sobbing against his shoulder as Jisung strokes her long black hair and makes soft soothing noises against the top of her head. Minho passes Jisung the shoes and the bag, reaches into his back seat and pulls out his coat, “Here,” he says, as he drapes it over her shoulders.

“Thank you,” her tiny voice says, as she sniffles. The entirety of the left side of her face is purpling and swollen. Her tiny legs are cut and bruised and there are notable bruises on her arms that look like hand marks. Minho feels sick and angry and he really hopes that he and Jisung have succeeded in killing one or two of those cunts. His urge to go back down into the alley to ensure they had been successful is cut off by the sound of sirens in the distance.

“My dear,” Jisung says gently. Cupping the girls head and looking her in the eye that hasn’t swollen shut. “I am so so sorry, but we can’t be here when the police come. You understand that, don’t you?”

The girl sniffs, takes a shaky breath and nods. She steps out of the car and Jisung supports her and helps her sit on the pavement. She tries to take the coat off her shoulders, “No,” Minho says as gently as he can. “You keep hold of that.”

Her smile is wan as she nods and pulls his coat tighter around her shoulders.

Minho scans the area, the sirens drawing closer. “See that broken lamppost over there?” he points at a side street across the road. “We’ll be right there. We won’t go anywhere until we know you’re safe.”

The girl nods again and Jisung smiles warmly up at Minho.

Minho gets into the car, reverses it a few feet with the passenger door still open, lifts his phone off the passenger seat and waits for Jisung who is still speaking to the girl. Stroking her hair gently. The sirens are uncomfortably close now, Minho can make out the lights reflecting off buildings in the distance.

Finally, Jisung jogs over to the car, slips in and pulls the door closed. His eyes never leave the girl as Minho pulls alongside the side street, reverses into it to stop under the broken streetlight, just as he promised her. He kills the engine, blanketing them in darkness.

A police car arrives first, a female officer sits on the pavement with the girl and holds her as she sobs and her colleague, flashlight and gun drawn, enters the alley. He returns a minute later, speaking into his radio and they are clearly asking the girl what happened and she is pointing the opposite direction to where Minho’s car is sitting.

“Good girl,” Jisung says quietly.

Another police car arrives and the male colleague of the female officer points in the direction the girl had. Sirens wailing, the second car tears off in that direction. Now, an ambulance arrives, and the female officer, with support from a paramedic, help her into the back of it, and now the girl looks at them, smiles feebly and waves and Minho can breathe again, knowing that she is now safe.

“Did they…” he can’t bring himself to finish the question.

“No, I came across them before they…” Jisung can’t bring himself to finish the answer.

They remain in the car, watching from a comfortable distance as more police cars and ambulances arrive. They can hear the groans and moans of the men as they are loaded onto stretchers. It appears to Minho that the paramedics, especially the female ones, aren’t too worried about giving them pain meds or being gentle with them. Each ambulance departs carrying one patient and one police officer.

Jisung looks down at his hands. Blood is crusted on his skin, his knuckles torn to shreds. He looks at his shirt, blood spatter joining the leopard print spots. “I really liked this shirt,” he sighs.

Smiling, Minho starts the engine, pulls out of the side street slowly, wary that there may be officers still in the vicinity.

“Where are we going?”

“My place.”

“I’m really not in the mood.”

“Neither am I. But you look like you could do with something to eat. Maybe a shower?”

“Hmm,” Jisung leans his head against the passenger window. “I am hungry.”

“Put your seatbelt on.”

TASTE M.List & Sypnosis

Chapter 1 - Parley

Chapter 3 - Broken Compass

#TASTE | Minsung #skz fic #Lee Minho #Han Jisung #Christopher Bahng #Bang Chan #Changbin #Seungmin #Hyunjin #Felix #Jeongin #Soonie #Stray Kids Fan Fiction #Mafia AU #Romeo x Romeo

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somethingkindazainy · 2 months ago

Text

Synopsis:

The two most influential and feared Korean Crime families, the Lobos and the Clowder's, hate each other. They have always been, and always will be, enemies. So when two of them meet by chance outside of the confines of their families, how can they reconcile a lifelong distrust, with their new found love?

-or-

"We're enemies." "I'm not your enemy, Ji."

My bounty is as boundless as the sea,

My love as deep; the more I give to thee,

The more I have, for both are infinite.

William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

♤ ♡ · · 𖤓 · ✧ · ⌖ · ➣ · ✶ · .𖥔 ݁ ˖.♢ ♧

My worries and your worries intersect,

Our chemistry is like a fantasy.

Every moment is so perfect when we're together.

Stray Kids, I am YOU

♤ ♡ ♢ ♧

MINORS DNI ♡ Pairing: Minho x Jisung ♤ Genre: Mafia AU, Romeo x Romeo ♢ Warnings: Violence, foul language throughout, angst, mxm NOTE: each chapter will contain specific TW's ♧ Authors Note: this is my first ever fan fiction! Feedback welcome.

♤ ♡ ♢ ♧ IN PROGRESS ♤ ♡ ♢ ♧ ♤ ♡ Lads, it's basically a novel...♢ ♧

♤ ♡ ♢ ♧ CHAPTERS ♤ ♡ ♢ ♧

♤ Chapter 1 - Parley word count <8k

♧ Chapter 2 - The DLC word count >6k

♢ Chapter 3 - Broken Compass word count <7k

♡ Chapter 4 - The Wolf & His Pack word count >6k

♤ Chapter 5 - Comflex (in progress)

Want to be tagged in updates? Drop me a message!

#TASTE | Minsung #skz fic #Lee Minho #Han Jisung #Christopher Bahng #Bang Chan #Changbin #Seungmin #Hyunjin #Felix #Jeongin #Soonie #Stray Kids Fan Fiction #Mafia AU #Romeo x Romeo

29 notes · View notes

somethingkindazainy · 2 months ago

Text

♡ Pairing: Minho x Jisung ♤ Genre: Mafia AU, Romeo x Romeo ♢ Chapter Warnings: Violence, foul language throughout ♧ MINORS DNI

♤ ♡ TASTE Synopsis & Chapter List ♢ ♧

♤ ♡ ♢ ♧ Chapter 2 - The DLC >>

Chapter 1: Parley

♤ ♡September 2024♢ ♧

Jisung rolls the ice in his crystal glass.

He’s never had patience. Waiting doesn’t suit him.

Nothing about this suits him.

He is sat at the head of a long, mirror-polished, oak table, staring absently at the oil painting above the ornate fireplace. It’s an old piece, all cracked, yellow varnish and soot stains. It depicts a river surrounded by Italian architecture of some place called Verona. It’s bleak and boring and Jisung hates it.

He hates everything about this room. From the long, elegant cream curtains draped over tall windows, the marble busts and antique vases on plinths, to the smell of wood polish and leather. Everything carefully chosen and displayed to say; see what we can afford? See how powerful we have become?

Mostly though, he hates the dark and dingy painting above the horrible marble fireplace. That, and the collar of his shirt.

“Leave it,” Chris says now as Jisung hooks his finger into the collar, trying to make room for his airway.

“I hate this,” Jisung whines, his shirt as soft as cardboard. How do Chris and Jeongin dress like this everyday? “Are they late yet?”

“They still have fifteen minutes,” Changbin says from the bar at the corner as he necks a shot of soju. He’s uncomfortable too, though Jisung knows that it’s not because of his suit. It’s being here, in this place. “They’ll be on time. Perfectly punctual.”

“I said leave it,” Chris smacks the back of Jisung's hand. Jisung sticks his tongue out at him but complies. Dropping his hand on the table. Chris sighs, “And can you cool it with the alcohol? I need you on your toes.”

“We’re meeting with the Clowder's,” Changbin says, “I’m gonna drink.”

The Clowder's are the only family his family, the Lobos, have ever considered a real threat. They shared a visceral loathing of one another. Decades ago, with some ancestor or other, in a bid to end bloodshed, the families agreed to stay away from each other. They divided up Seoul city into theirs and ours and that’s all Jisung has ever known. Which streets he could walk and which ones to steer clear of.

Arranging parley with any opposing family or faction has never been easy, and they were almost never pleasant. But the parley’s Jisung had sat in on before always had the same advantages; they are the most powerful. They are the most influential. They hold sway. Those meetings went the way they wanted them to go because, ultimately, the Lobos are better. But with the Clowder’s…well, it’s like looking through muddy water. They’re pretty evenly matched, financially and influentially.

Parley’s between the two families have always been a blue moon event, but even Jisung knows that blue moons happen more frequently. Aside from that awful night almost exactly one month ago, the previous parley between the two families had happened when their mother was fourteen years old. Which, to Jisung's mind, means anywhere between 30 and a thousand years ago.

That didn’t mean that the families didn’t communicate. Occasionally, a matter would occur where representatives from each house would have to liaise about potential issues. For example, if a gang member was getting lippy, you’d want to check whether they had affiliation with the other family before dealing out a bit of ‘justice’. It’s the honourable, gentlemanly, thing to do after all.

Cool, calm, level-headed Chris has always been the representative, or official go-between. Working in the background, keeping things peaceful. Apparently, keeping peace between opposing families is easier than between his own brothers as Changbin and Jeongin exchange expletives.

“Give me strength,” Chris directs his plea to the gold leaf rose on the high ceiling, “it’s a parley. We’ve had them before.”

“Not with that family,” Changbin says, as he necks his third shot in as many minutes. “It’s a big fucking mistake. Especially after the fucking…” he waves a hand above his head trying to capture the word, “—kerfuffle we had the other month.”

“Kerfuffle?” Jeongin chuckles. He’s leaning back in his chair, idly spinning his switchblade on his palm, flipping it around his long fingers. He tips his head back to look at Changbin upside down, pointing lazily at Jisung, “It’s this mi-chin nom’s fault that it became a ‘kerfuffle’.”

Jisung groans. Chris reaches over to fix Jisung’s tie.

“Don’t listen to them, Hannie,” Chris says, and his tone could be mistaken for that of sincere brotherly affection, if he wasn’t currently garroting Jisung with his own fucking tie. “It’s because of your actions that today is possible.”

Jisung groans again.

“You’ve got this. Just stick to the margins Mother agreed and you’ll be fine.” He straightens Jisung's (borrowed) gold tie clip, pats his chest.

“What if I fuck up?”

“Then we’ll laugh,” Jeongin says, giggling.

“No we fucking won’t,” Changbin says, “Don’t you fucking laugh, Innie.”

Jeongin grins at him.

“You won’t fuck up,” Chris says. “Just stick to what we rehearsed. Stick to the margins Mother set out—”

“She’s punishing me,” Jisung is thinking more about her forcing him to wear a suit and cuff links when he says it. Which makes him seem vain, and he decides he probably is.

“She’s… refocusing you. She wants you to be more… inclined to the family business,” Chris, ever the diplomat, chooses his words carefully, but he doesn’t look at all happy about it.

“She, she, she,” Changbin says bitterly from behind them. “You’d jump off the Han River bridge if that woman—”

Chris throws Changbin a look that instantly silences him.

Jeongin snorts, “Want me to share with her that you called her ‘that woman’? You won’t be jumping off any bridge, but pushed, wearing concrete shoes.” He raises a hand, his grin wide and his eyes mere slits, “I volunteer to do the pushing.”

Changbin grins sweetly at him, casually pulls his suit jacket aside, revealing his shoulder holster and an ominous glint of silver.

“Try it,” Jeongin is still smiling, flipping his switchblade to point in Changbin's direction.

“Shut the fuck up, both of you,” Chris snaps. He scratches absently at his scarred eyebrow. His cheeks puff out as he exhales. “You,” he points at Changbin, stop drinking. “And you,” he directs his finger to Jeongin, “Put that away before I find somewhere to put it,” he enunciates the last two words, arching his eyebrow, the threat silent but very loud of where the knife may be put.

Jeongin closes the blade, slips it into the shoulder holster he wears under his waistcoat. Whilst Chris is distracted, Changbin necks another shot.

Distantly, there is the sound of barking. Jisung stiffens.

“Okay,” Chris rises to his feet, buttoning up his jacket before he adjusts his own tie. “Remember, stick to the margins. You’ll be fine. You won’t have any trouble with Nikko. He’s a pussy cat.”

“They’re all pussies,” Jeongin says as he stands, pulling his jacket from the back of his chair and shaking it out before he pulls it on. Changbin comes to stand on Jisung's right, silently fixes Jeongin’s suit collar.

Taking their lead, Jisung starts to rise, but Chris claps a hand on his shoulder. “No, you’re tabling, so you stay seated. We sit after the guests do.”

“Don’t call them guests,” Changbin says as he rolls his shoulders. “Fuck me. Calling them ‘guests’ suggests that we are about to have a fucking tea party.”

“Intruders?” Jeongin offers, dropping a hand into one of his trouser pockets. He’s all legs and perfect skin and glossy hair and elegance. It’s so fucking unfair. How the fuck did his parents let this kid go?

“No, ‘intruders’ suggests that I’m allowed to dispatch them. Don’t put that idea in my head.”

They smile wryly at each other. Chris clears his throat. It’s a final warning.

Jisung tries to straighten up in the uncomfortable leather of the hard chair. Maybe this is why his shirt is overly starched? As he squares his shoulders, raises his head, he can breathe a little easier. Funny thing that.

Distantly, he hears car doors, footsteps on gravel, stone steps, then the marble tiles of the entrance hall. He interlaces his hands together on the table in front of him. In part, to try and give him an air of authority, but mostly to try and stop his hands shaking.

“Show time,” Chris says, folding his hands in front of his belt. From down here, Chris cuts an impressive figure with his broad shoulders and squared jaw. And again, Jisung wonders why the hell he is standing, when he should be sat here, at the head of the table.

The large oak double doors swing in and open, held there by two minders, all dark suits and intimidation their guns openly displayed. Then enter the ‘guests’.

Jisung knows them, mostly by reputation.

Hwang “The Artist” Hyunjin, swift and lethal, who, like Jisung and Jeongin, favours bladed weapons. In the daylight, he’s taller than Jisung remembers. All lithe and elegant, with long blonde hair and serious eyes.

Lee “Bright Smile” Yongbokki, who prefers to be called Felix, which is fitting, since he’s a cat. Hand-to-hand combat specialist, with black belts in various martial arts. A pocket sized pain in the hole. Unfairly pretty, with freckles dusting his nose. His hair is blonde too, but the shade takes on a cooler tone than that of his older brother.

Kim “The Gambit” Seungmin, the youngest of the Clowder clan and probably the most dangerous man in this room, if words could kill. Always five steps ahead of everyone else, a mathematical and tactical genius with a sharp tongue. He’s carrying a briefcase, his short black hair swept away from his face. His black rimmed glasses perched high on the bridge of his nose. And—

“Lee—Lee Minho,” Jisung stands, flattening his tie. “I didn’t—we weren’t expecting you—”

Beside him, Chris cracks his neck.

“Han Jisung,” Minho smiles coolly as his eyes briefly scan the marble statues and paintings and overall grandeur of the room, before returning his focus to Chris, then to Jisung. “Are you tabling the parley this afternoon?”

“Er—” Jisung says very intelligently, “Yes.”

Minho nods, “I apologise, but my brother Nikko is caught up in a bit of business elsewhere. I hope you don’t mind that I’m standing in for him.”

Jisung minds very much. Everything he had done in preparation for the meeting had been with Nikko in mind. Chris knew Nikko, was able to run through various scenarios that might come up. The practice had been helpful, but it had been for the wrong cat. Jisung doesn’t know what the fuck to say or do or think. He looks beyond Minho to the minders still posted at the doors, “You can leave us.”

The minders bow, close the doors with a decisive click.

“Please take a seat,” Jisung gestures to the opposite end of the long table and the four seats arranged there.

Minho's smile is crooked, “After you.”

And Jisung feels a knot in his stomach. He now understands why Chris had told him to stay seated. Knows why Chris had cracked his neck when Jisung had been foolish enough to stand. He’d given Minho the upper hand and they weren’t even seated yet. For a second, Jisung hesitates, wishing (not for the first time) that he could hear what Chris is thinking. Ultimately, he decides to try and take it graciously, and sits.

Then Minho does, wincing slightly as he pulls the chair closer to the table. Seungmin and Hyunjin sit on his right, Felix on his left.

Then his brothers sit, Chris on Jisung’s left, Changbin and Jeongin on his right.

Now they are sitting, Jisung understands the arrangements. The best fighters are sitting on the side of the table with the most seats occupied by the opposing side. Chris is seated on the same side as Seungmin and Hyunjin. Felix is on the same side as Changbin and Jeongin. Jisung and Minho, the representative heads, are at opposite sides of the very long table. It is a subtle balance. If things went wrong, they could go wrong very quickly. And, (not taking into account the minders posted outside with their weapons), the seating arrangements gave both sides the best chances of getting out alive. Which, Jisung supposes, is the whole point of a parley.

There are several seconds of silence. The ornate clock on the mantel chimes, signalling the top of the hour. As Changbin had predicted, they are exactly on time.

“Are you healing well?” Jisung says, in part to fill the silence. In part because he’d seen Minho wince. Noticed the slight awkwardness in his gait as he entered.

“Almost completely,” Minho says but his smile isn’t quite reaching his eyes and Jisung knows he is lying.

“Drinks?” Jisung offers and he can almost feel the rage emanating off of Chris. This is not a social visit. But Jisung can’t help it. All the preparations he had done with Chris was for Nikko. Methodical, logical, Nikko. He doesn’t know how to behave with Minho in this setting.

“I’ll abstain,” Minho says, glancing at his brothers, giving them the opportunity to make a request. They shake their heads no. They’re well behaved, for cats.

“So,” Jisung says and the word feels heavy in his mouth. He decides to try his Nikko based script on Minho. “I understand you called this parley to—”

“Correction,” Minho interjects. “My Father called the parley.”

Seriously?

Jisung’s smile feels forced, “Of course, when I say ‘you’, I am referring to your family as a whole. Not individual members.”

He hears Chris exhale softly and takes this as a sign that he is doing well.

“Ah, semantics,” Minho says, smiling annoyingly. “I apologise. Please continue.”

Out of pure pettiness, Jisung considers simply not continuing. But he ploughs on, “I understand that you,” he enunciates it, but still chooses to clarify, “as in the Clowder family, have an offer in exchange for amnesty for—”

“Correction,” Minho interrupts again, “we, as in, the Clowder family, are here merely to share some information that has come into our possession.”

Well, this isn’t fucking going to plan is it?

Jisung glances at Chris. Is pleased to see the narrowness in his eyes. He’s confused as fuck too.

Minho nods at Seungmin who lifts his briefcase and sets it on the table, clicks it open, withdraws an envelope and slides it up the table, not to Jisung, but to Chris. It’s disrespectful, blatantly so, and Jisung’s annoyance must show on his face, because Jeongin is pressing on his foot the way one presses down on a brake pedal.

Without looking down, Chris palms the envelope and slides it in front of Jisung.

Jisung has decided he doesn’t want it. He’s been watching Minho, watching him. “What do you want for this?”

“I’d open the envelope and look at its contents before you ask that question.”

Jisung is tempted, but he knows he has to make Minho do the work. He makes sure to smirk at him, “Humour me.”

“Open the envelope and I will tell you.”

Jeongin is pressing harder on his foot now, which is doing nothing to quell his annoyance at Minho and only succeeding in greatly increasing it towards Jeongin.

This is exactly why the Lobos didn’t parley with the Clowder's. They are as stubborn as they are vicious. From the age of four years old, Mother had taught him, ‘mai fidarsi di un gatto’. And now, Lee ‘Il Gatto’ Minho is sitting opposite him, the eldest son of his family's most hated enemy. And the fucker is still smiling.

“Tell me what it pertains to and I might consider opening it.”

Seeing Minho’s tongue lick his teeth in frustration is oddly satisfying, “It refers to the Park problem.”

The Parks are a problem, because they are messy and they are greedy. Nothing is too underhand, too shady or too immoral. There is nothing that they won’t buy or sell. Drugs, sex, lives… nothing. If there was a commonality the Lobos family shared with the Clowder family, it is the mutual detest they share for the Parks. These days, both the Lobos and Clowder's have rules about what is acceptable in business. Their franchises are both almost completely legal, except the parts that aren’t.

For the Lobos, their shipping line is doing well with international trade, importing and exporting globally. Occasionally, if the money is good enough and it’s a risk worth taking they could make some paperwork go missing for ‘specialised’ shipments. Car parts are their main export, but their origin is sometimes dubious. The Lobos just makes the dubiousness less so. Overall, though, ethically, they are clean.

The Clowder's own the vast majority of pubs and clubs in and around Seoul, and are predominantly on the right side of the law, apart from their casinos which they pay higher-ups to conveniently ignore with a seat at exclusive tables. Some of their clubs also provide adult services to patrons, but it’s all very ethical too with very strict rules and regulations and punishments for anyone breaching those rules.

And that’s the problem with the Parks. They aren’t ethical. They are vermin.

Jisung continues to wait. It feels like minutes, or days. Everything inside of Jisung is telling him to fill the silence. But he sits with it. Hating it. Listening to the clock on the mantle, listening to the seconds tick by, painfully… slowly.

“Alright,” Minho leans back. His smile is really fucking annoying. “We propose twelve weeks amnesty, pooling our resources to assist you, in eliminating the Parks.”

Jeongin's foot is off Jisung's now. Whether he is releasing the brakes, has simply decided that they don’t work, or is just as surprised as Jisung feels, Jisung doesn’t know.

“We have no need to eliminate the Parks,” Jisung says, “They aren’t that big of an issue, just fools playing gangsters.” Minho arches an eyebrow pointedly in his direction and Jisung feels heat rising up his neck. It’s more than just anger. “I think we can all agree they are rats. But the city is full of vermin. I’m sure you have all the resources you need to eliminate them yourselves,” Jisung adds. “There’s really no need for us to get involved.”

Out of his periphery, he sees Chris raise his head slightly and Jisung thinks that maybe, he’s not doing too bad after all.

“Open the envelope,” Minho says.

“No,” Jisung says. “You said it’s about the Parks and I’ve told you that we will not assist you in any personal vendetta you have against them. We’re done here.”

Minho thumbs his nose, looks pointedly at Chris, “Chan, I would seriously, look in the envelope.”

Chris opens his mouth, and Jisung is actually furious now, “What part of ‘we’re done here’, are you not understanding? We will not help you.”

“I will accept that you don’t want our assistance, when you actually look in the envelope,” Minho’s voice is still level, but there’s a notable edge to it. And this is where Nikko and Minho differentiate. Nikko is always cool, always level, almost robotic. Predictable. A house cat. But Minho, he’s a stray. One with sharp teeth and claws and an untamed wildness. “And we’re not asking you to help us, we are offering to help you for a period of twelve weeks for—”

“Twelve weeks is fucking extortionate for whatever is contained in this.”

Minho slams his palm on the table, making his own brothers jump in their seats, Jeongin reflexively reach for his knife and causes the ice in Jisung's glass to tinkle.

The room falls quiet. The clock on the mantle quietly ticks. Jisung is holding his breath. When Minho speaks, his voice is still perfectly level, “First rule of parley, you do not swear at the opposing members.”

Jisung knows the fucking rules. Chris had recited them at him. Though, now, Jisung can’t quite recall if swearing is first or second. He thinks that ‘do not kill the opposing members’ is pretty high up. Higher than fucking swearing and he might break the ‘no killing’ rule before this meeting is concluded. He tries to match Minho’s coolness, “I was not swearing at you, I was swearing at twelve weeks,” Jisung says flatly, before meeting Minho’s eye and adding, “Syntax.”

Jeongin snorts through his nose, presses his lips together and looks down at the table. Chris throws him a look of admonishment. Changbin chews on his lip. At least two of his brothers have a sense of humour.

And, apparently, so does Minho. He’s smiling more warmly than he has since his arrival. It lasts only a few seconds, disappearing between blinks, but it’s degrees different, so Jisung feels it.

“Han-ssi,” Minho says, “please look in the envelope.”

Wanting nothing else but this meeting to end, Jisung snatches up the envelope, pulls out a few papers, and inspects them. He reads the top-lines, sees various black and white photos attached to several of the pages. Very big prices in red. Feels a weight press on his stomach, a chill like icy fingernails trace down his spine. Minho is not wrong, the Parks are most definitely a problem. They need to be gone.

“Source?”

“An informant. Reliable.”

“Park payroll?”

“And ours,” Minho says. “They were inserted, by me, after one of our clubs was robbed last year. I guarantee the source is reliable.”

Jisung chews this over for a few seconds, replacing the papers in the envelope. “Six weeks.”

He feels, rather than sees, all his brothers heads snap over to him in surprise. Chris’s hands tense on the table, his knuckles whitening. Reflexively, Jisung draws his feet back out of reach of Jeongin.

“Ten,” Minho counters.

“Ten,” Jisung agrees instantly as he slides the envelope and papers to Chris in a bid to justify his reasoning. Chris doesn’t look at them long before he visibly pales. Jisung takes the opportunity to secure the deal, “12 percent of our exports against 25 percent of your profits for the entirety of the period.”

“In this instance, profit sharing isn’t necessary.”

Everyone, including his own brothers, look at him, openly incredulous. No one walks into an amnesty on faith alone. There has to be some sort of exchange to show a willingness to comply. For centuries parleys exchanged something for something else; a prisoner swap, bags of gold, pieces of land, whole fucking cities. And here’s this…this cat of a man, offering to help them eliminate the Parks, for nothing?

Seungmin, the smart one, speaks. He’s not supposed to, but honestly, none of this is going how it’s supposed to, so it’s logical, that he inserts himself now, “You have to exchange something.”

“I don’t think it’s necessary,” Minho’s hand drops to his stomach.

“There are rules. An exchange has to be made for a deal to pass,” Seungmin says with the tone of someone talking to a brick wall. If Jisung finds Minho annoying during this meeting, he has empathy for his brothers who had actually grown up with him. “It’s a show of good faith. To prove a willingness of mutual cooperation.”

Minho sighs through his nose, “Fine,” he waves a hand in Jisung's direction impatiently, “I agree to what you just said.”

Seungmin's mouth is a tight white line.

“Okay,” Jisung says slowly, because Minho is supposed to haggle for a better deal and once again none of this is going how it’s supposed to. “And we need to ascertain what will happen if either side breaches any part of the agreement.”

Now Minho rolls his eyes, “Seungmin.”

Seungmin clears his throat, “Monetary reparations would be preferable, as any form of violence to or from either party could result in exacerbating residual bad blood between the two families and extended counterparts. With regards to the extended counterparts, we will not be held responsible for their actions unless they directly affect members of the Lobos family. In that instance, those parties will be excommunicated and will no longer receive the protection of the Clowder Clan.”

To Jisung it sounds like legal bullshit, meaning he doesn’t have a clue what Seungmin is saying. But since Minho has opened the floor to his brother, Jisung turns to his own, “Chris.”

“Agreed. Likewise, extended counterparts of Lobos will not receive protection should they directly impact on the Clowder family. Monetary reparations between the two families to be paid in full within one week of any breach of the principles of parley. I propose thirty percent of current standings.”

Seungmin nods, pulls a calculator from his briefcase, taps on it. Scribbles a figure onto a piece of notepaper, folds it in half.

Chris, meanwhile, is doing the exact same thing using the calculator on his phone before writing a long number onto the rear of a business card. The pair stand, move to the middle of the table and exchange the numbers. They look at them briefly.

“Agreed,” Chris says, “Thirty percent.”

“Accepted, thirty percent.”

“I think that concludes our business,” Minho stands, wincing as he straightens up. Everyone else stands, including Jisung. Minho says, “I’ll have Seungmin draft the proposals in writing. Who should he liaise with? Chris?”

“No, Jeongin,” Jisung indicates him, not that it is really necessary. Seungmin has already placed his business card on the table in front of him. Clicking his briefcase closed. Truly, he’s annoyingly smart and aptly named.

“Cheers,” Jeongin smiles at Seungmin. Seungmin doesn’t return it.

Jisung says, “I think our security leads should also meet to discuss how best to merge our assets.”

“Hyunjin, you’re up,” Minho nods at him as he buttons his jacket.

“That’ll be fine,” Hyunjin bows.

Wow, Jisung thinks, finally, someone with some fucking manners.

“Leave your contact details,” Changbin says, “I’ll be in touch.”

Hyunjin places a card on the table. Bows again.

“The collaboration between our extended members may be more problematic,” Minho says. “I’d prefer it if they were brought on board as part of the solution to the Park problem.”

“I’ll speak to my guys,” Chris says. “They might take some convincing, but I’ll work on them.”

“Felix,” Minho says, “you be sure to tell our members they will lose all standing with our family if they breach the terms reached today. Tell them I’ll personally see to their downfall if they fuck this up.”

“Sure thing,” Felix says and his voice is considerably deeper than his frame or face suggests it ought to be. It is disarming. He smiles at Chris all sunshine and freckles, “We should probably meet to discuss how best to manage that and outline suitable reparations for even minor misdemeanours so there is no room for doubt.” He pulls a card from his inside pocket, places it on the table. “Give me a call.”

“Yeah, er, sure,” Chris says and he’s blinking. Jisung thinks that maybe Felix’s voice just does that to people. Maybe that was the Felix effect he’d heard so much about. Chris seems to come back to himself, shaking his head as he walks over to the fireplace to press the button secreted on a panel beside it. Somewhere outside the room a bell tinkles, and the doors swing inwards, the two minders holding them open, their hands folded in front of their belts.

“Fancy,” Minho comments as he turns on his heel and strides away, his shoes clicking on the marble tiles.

The Lobos brothers stand until the doors are closed. Remain standing until they hear the front doors at the end of the long hall open and close. And then—

“Mother is going to fucking murder you!” Changbin explodes as Jisung falls back into his chair, wrenching his tie loose and pulling it over his head, throwing it onto the table and undoing the top two buttons of his straight-jacket-come-shirt. “Ten weeks, ten fucking weeks?”

Jisung holds his glass up. Jeongin takes it with a shake of his head and a smile and takes it to the bar. He pours a generous amount of scotch over the melting ice.

“It’s not that bad of an arrangement,” Chris slides the papers over to Changbin.

Changbin snatches them up, glares at them. His expression melts from anger to anger, but this time it isn’t directed at Jisung, so Jisung prefers it. “Fucking hell!”

Jeongin returns, places a hand on Jisung's shoulder and Jisung takes the glass from him. Downs the whisky, hisses at the burn in his throat. Jeongin is looking over Changbin's shoulder, reaches forward and picks up a page, “Oh, I get it now.”

Changbin is raging, “They have pictures of me in the gym. In the fucking gym!”

Jeongin looks closer at the page Changbin is holding, “They didn’t get your good side hyung.”

“No they— fuck off,” Changbin flicks through the pages, pulls one out and brandishes it at Jeongin. “Think you’re so fucking beautiful?”

Jeongin considers his surveilled photo a moment, his bottom lip scrunched with thought. He’s sitting on a park bench sipping on coffee. It resembles a magazine fashion shoot. There’s even a strategically placed crow in the foreground. “I think I look kind of cute.”

Changbin looks at it, slams it on the table, “Yeah well, that’s just you all over isn’t it. Fucking cute. They could have snapped a picture of you sitting on a toilet and you’d look fucking cute.” Jeongin ruffles Changbin's hair, which ruffles Changbin's anger higher as he pulls away from it. “And I hardly recognise you,” he says to Jisung now, “When the fuck was this taken?”

The photo of Jisung is grainy, taken from a distance. It shows him sitting in the window of a cafe, laughing and smiling.

“About six weeks ago,” Jisung says numbly. Six weeks and four days ago.

“So before the kerfuffle?” Jeongin says, “How do we know that the Clowder’s haven’t just been sitting on this.”

“Can we stop calling what happened the ‘kerfuffle’,” Chris snaps. “And there are date stamps on the attached emails. This is new information and they brought it straight to us. Forty-eight hours. Only enough time to arrange a parley.”

“Barely enough time,” Changbin says. “I wondered why it was arranged so hastily. These things usually take months.”

“See! It makes no sense,” Jeongin leans against the wall, every inch a model for W Korea. “The only, realistic, threat to us is the Clowder's. And yet, we let them into our home only forty-eight hours after they request a meeting? Before we even knew what was in the envelope. When has that ever happened? We have never let another family or faction into our home. Never.”

Jisung wipes the palms of his hands on his thighs.

“And can we honestly say, if information like this landed on our lap, about them, we’d do the same?” he waits a moment, looking at them each in turn. “No. I didn’t think so. If Mother received this, she’d laugh, sit back and order popcorn whilst the Clowder’s were picked off one by one. And Il Gatto was going to trade this for nothing and why? Because of the ker—” Chris throws him a look of warning. Jeongin rephrases it, “—the incident? It makes no sense. I don’t understand it at all.”

“It does make sense,” Changbin says, “If they’re trying to play us. Lower our guard so they can infiltrate—”

“It looks legit,” Jisung interrupts haphazardly. There’s a reason he believes the information they’ve been handed, but he can barely think about it, let alone explain it to his brothers. It’s because of the photo taken of him. “I mean—I do believe that this is from the Parks. I don’t think it’s from the Clowder's.”

“I agree,” Chris says. “I don’t know of Minho as well as I think I understand Nikko, but I’ve heard about him. I know that he spent time in special ops during his serving period. He could've risen through the ranks if he’d stayed on. He doesn’t like injustice, it’s the one thing that separates him from his family. I don’t think playing with us is his style.”

“No,” Jisung quickly agrees. “No, I don’t think it is either.”

“He was here because of his father. He didn’t come off his own back.” Changbin says, “I don’t trust them.”

“Neither do I,” says Jeongin, “mai fidarsi di un gatto."

“I didn’t say I trust them,” Chris says with barely concealed exasperation, “I’m just saying from what I’ve heard of Minho he’s not the type to—where are you going?”

“Out,” Jisung is already halfway across the room.

“No you fucking don’t!” Changbin calls, “Not until the agreements are formalised.”

Chris reaches the doors a second after Jisung does. He moves that way, quickly. “I have to agree, we need to figure this out before we do anything.”

“We’ve been separated a lot since any of those pictures were taken, I’m sure I’ll be fine in broad daylight for a couple of hours.” Jisung heaves the right side door open, starts at a minder who is standing there, like he’s supposed to, but still. “Car. Jon.”

The minder nods, walks towards the main entrance speaking into his sleeve, a finger on his ear piece. You’d think they were living in the fucking white house. It’s ridiculous.

“Hannie,” Chris says, gently laying a hand on his shoulder, “Changbin and Innie kind of have a point. We need to understand why they want to help us. Why Minho offered to do it for nothing.”

“Well,” Jisung pulls free of Chris’s grip and steps into the hall. “You lot get started on that. Have fun.”

A minder at the entrance opens the door as Jisung approaches, a black BMW swinging into view, tyres grinding on the gravel of the sweeping driveway. Jisung trots down the stone steps, slides into the back of the car, pulls his phone from inside his suit jacket, taps out a quick message.

“Usual place?” Jon is already steering the car down the drive.

“Yes.”

“Is this a good idea?”

“No,” Jisung admits. This is not a good idea.

♤ ♡ ♢ ♧

“Get it over with, Seungmo,” Minho sighs as he loosens his tie.

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

Minho removes his cuff links, drops them into his jacket pocket, pushes his sleeves up to his elbows. The veins on his arms and hands look more pronounced than usual. Probably the stress. Probably the pain radiating from his left side. He nudges Seungmin, who glances at his open palm for a second before he opens his briefcase with two clicks and pulls out a packet of pain killers. Wordlessly, he pops one into Minho’s hand. Minho slaps it into his mouth. Swallows it dry. Stretches his left leg out to try and take the pressure off his stomach.

“It’s not that bad of a deal,” Minho leans against the cool window of the passenger door.

“‘Not that bad of a deal?’ Do you even know what you agreed to?” Seungmin asks. Minho waits. Seungmin tells him. “25 percent of our profits against 12 percent of their exports for ten weeks.” He’s looking at Minho as though he has asked him what two plus two is and is waiting for an answer.

Minho shrugs.

“For fuck’s sake,” Seungmin wrenches his glasses off, starts cleaning the lenses angrily with his shirt. “You’re giving away 25 percent of our profits for ten weeks. To the fucking Lobos.”

“Yeah,” Felix says from the front passenger seat, “but we’re getting 12 percent from their exports—so…”

Seungmin blinks at them and Minho thinks it must be awful being the most intelligent person in a car full of pabos. “Do none of you know what’s happening in the real world?” he doesn’t wait for an answer. “In simple terms, there’s a bit of bother in the Red Sea, which is putting it mildly. Most exports and imports to and from Europe and the East Coast of the US are rerouting. It also happens that eighty-five percent of all of the Lobos Line export eastward. And because of the rerouting, it’s taking ships a long fucking time to get to where they need to go. Meaning ten weeks is not long enough to see a fair return. If any.”

“So, Minho gave them something for nothing?” Hyunjin concludes.

“Ex-fucking-actly! For ten weeks!” Seungmin shouts it. Shoves his glasses back on. Rounds on Minho. “You didn’t even try for a better deal. You just accepted the first worst offer. None of that went as we rehearsed it on the drive over.”

“Well, I shouldn’t have been there, should I? Which is another point, has anyone heard from Nikko yet?”

“No, still MIA,” Felix says. He’s looking down at his phone tapping away. Minho hopes he’s doing business over text and not playing one of his stupid kids games. “I’ve got my boys out looking for him. Can I give them permission to give him a slap when they find him?”

“They can give him two. Do we know when he was last seen?”

“Last I know of is fourteen hours ago, leaving club Easy,” Hyunjin says. “I’ve got the security team tracing CCTV, see if we can track his movements after that.”

“I have a contact in the police department that might be able to help with that,” Seungmin says, which is unsurprising because Seungmin has a lot of contacts. He collects them. “I’ll text the details.”

Hyunjin nods.

Minho cracks his knuckles. Nikko knows how important today's meeting was. It’s not like him to disappear like this. Minho is uneasy about it, and the fact his brothers are busily searching means that they are too.

He feels his phone vibrate in his inside jacket pocket, reaches for it, thinking it’ll be Nikko with some lame excuse. He’s already considering how much he can reasonably torture Nikko when he reads the message.

Unknown Number: The weather is nice today.

He stares at it for several seconds. ‘ I like the view right now, the weather is nice today.’ He makes a bad decision, “Jin, drop me off at Han River park.”

“You are kidding me?” Seungmin says. “You cannot be fucking serious.”

“Start drawing up the proposals. I want them finalised before the end of play tomorrow. Tell Father what was agreed. Tell him, I don’t know… tell him, it’s for the greater good or something.”

“The greater fucking good?” Seungmin is getting very red in the face. “How about I tell him that you tried to seal the deal without making any form of exchange.”

“We would have been better off,” Minho drops his phone into his inside pocket, arches an eyebrow at Seungmin. “If you hadn't made me make an exchange we wouldn’t have lost twenty five percent of profit for ten weeks.” Minho knows he’s being a dickhead since he was the one who hadn’t bothered to argue over the numbers. But his wound is bothering him, although not as much as the text is.

Seungmin opens his mouth, closes it. Tries again. Fails.

Minho leans forward, “You two keep looking for Nikko. You’d better find him before I do, otherwise we’ll be holding a family reunion at his wake.” He sits back, “Actually, when you do find him, tell him he better stay out of my sight for ten days or I’ll bury him in the family plot.”

♤ ♡ ♢ ♧

The weather is not nice today.

It’s dry, but there is a strong breeze coming off the Han River, whipping his hair and jacket and chilling Minho to the bone. He’s leaning forward on his elbows, on the metal railings bordering the path and the river. The sun is quite low now, and the sky is transitioning from blue to purple, pink and orange. Already, Seoul is twinkling as lights flick on in the glass towers across the river. Really, it’s kind of beautiful.

Maybe it’s because of the cold that he feels the warmth of a body come to stand beside him. Not too close, but still degrees warmer than the air around him. Or maybe it’s their scent. So familiar. Still intoxicating.

“You’re late,” he says without glancing at them.

“Jon thought it best to take a circuitous route.”

Minho smiles. He always speaks so lyrically. Minho tilts his head to look up at him now, to properly look, the way he hadn’t been able to back at Lobos Mansion.

His hair is longer than it had been a month ago, the curls more defined, the breeze pushing them back from his face. There’s a papery, translucent quality to the skin just beneath his large brown eyes which are pinched in the corners. His mouth is all tight lines. There is a scratch at his neck, as though he had been pulling at his shirt collar. And, because the universe is a bitch, Minho still views him as the most beautiful man in this world.

Jisung is still looking at some point across the river when he says, “Don’t look at me like that.”

Minho turns his attention back to the water. “You did well this afternoon. I was impressed.”

“You were an arsehole.”

“Yes,” there’s no point denying it. “I thought I’d be dealing with Chris. You caught me off guard.”

There’s a few seconds of silence.

“Why were you even there?”

“Believe me, it was not by choice. I was sent because Nikko couldn’t make it,” Minho says.

“You got a bad deal,” Jisung's voice is kind of low.

“So I’ve been told. But I wasn’t there to make a deal,” Minho pushes himself up, feeling the wound on his stomach tighten and complain against the movement. His hand automatically covers the area. When he looks up, Jisung is looking at where his hand is. He looks pale. “I’m okay.”

Jisung tears his eyes away from Minho’s hand, to look at Minho’s face and he’s looking properly too. Minho wonders what changes in his own features Jisung sees. Does he look as tired and lost as he feels?

“Why did you message me?” Minho asks, it’s been going around in his head since he saw the text.

Jisung opens his mouth, closes it, tries again, “My brothers think there’s some bigger plan in place. They don’t understand why you’re trying so hard to help. They think you’re playing games.”

Minho sighs through his nose, because, of course there’s a bigger plan in place. But it’s coming from his Father, it’s not coming from Minho. Minho has plans of his own, but now’s not the time to try and explain all that. “We want to help.”

“Uh-huh,” Jisung says, unconvinced. “You think we’d do the same for you?”

“I know your family wouldn’t,” Minho’s not so naive to think otherwise, “but I hope you know why I’m doing this.” When the information landed on his lap, (literally), he’d done everything to convince his family that they had to do something. It had not gone smoothly. If Jisung, if his brothers, only knew how much he is actually risking to help them. If only they knew. “I don’t really give a shit about your family, Ji.”

The choice of words aren’t favourable and Jisung’s eyes take on a far off look. “You don’t give a shit…”

“We’ve got bigger problems than the ones in that envelope,” Minho says now, fishing inside his jacket pocket, he pulls out his phone, scrolls to an image he’s saved in a separate folder that he’s called ‘instructions’ and shows it to Jisung. Jisung takes the phone from him, and Minho tries to ignore the electricity that courses through him when Jisung’s fingers lightly brush his. Jisung squints down at the screen, uses his finger and thumb to enlarge it.

By itself, the photo is nothing special. A grainy black and white image of two men sitting opposite each other in a cafe. Laughing. Smiling. It was taken about six weeks ago. Minho remembers that, because that was the last time he’d felt truly happy.

Jisung's squint turns to a frown, which in turn changes to a look of fear.

“Fuck!” Jisung says, “Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!”

Minho drops his head. He’d reacted the exact same way when he’d taken it out of the envelope.

“Sir?” it’s Jon, sprinting from whatever discreet observation point he’d been posted to. His gun is drawn, in broad fucking daylight. Minho decides he kind of likes him. He’s a decent man, for a dog.

“I’m—I’m fine, Jon,” Jisung has never lied well. “It’s fine.”

Jon diligently hesitates.

“I said I’m fine.”

Jon nods, uncocks his gun, slips it back into his holster under his jacket. Walks backwards to a fair distance, but still within sight. Minho knows he’s here now, no point pretending otherwise.

“Where did you get this?”

“It was in the envelope with the others, it’s now in a safety deposit box.”

“You’ve kept it?”

“For the time being. But it’s safe.”

“Did your brothers—your father—?”

“No one else has seen it.”

“That’s…good…” Jisung hands the phone back. Inexplicably, Minho is annoyed by the remark, drops the phone back into his pocket, pushes his hands into his trouser pockets and Jisung asks, “Are there more?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“What about your informant?”

“I sent her away. Paid her off with enough money to start a new life in the US. Put her on a plane to Chicago the same afternoon she gave me the envelope.”

“If this gets out—”

“The Parks know, Ji.” Minho can’t sugarcoat it. Can’t protect Jisung from the truth. “It’s only a matter of time before—”

“But—we’re not meant to—we’re…”

Minho raises an eyebrow, “Go on, say it.” Jisung looks away. Apparently the river is very interesting all of a sudden. Minho grabs his wrist and Jisung looks down at it, “Say what you were going to say.”

When Jisung speaks, he looks Minho in the eye, “We’re enemies.”

Minho let’s go, “I’m not your enemy, Ji.”

“I don’t see how this—” Jisung points from himself to Minho and back several times in quick succession, “—this can work.”

Minho drags a hand over his mouth, “Okay.”

Jisung blinks. “That’s it? ‘Okay’. That’s all you have to say?”

Minho is seriously pissed off now. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t fucking know!” Jisung snaps back at him. “Something more substantial than ‘okay’. You had no problem talking back at the house—”

“You want more? How’s this; I turned up to your fucking home, unarmed, with an envelope full of evidence that the Parks have placed bounties on your brothers heads, on your fucking head, offered to help you eliminate the Parks, asked for nothing in exchange and you still see me as an enemy?”

“You said you were sent,” Jisung points out and his voice is rising too. “You didn’t come off your own back. You could've told me ahead of today, but you didn’t.”

“How? How was I meant to tell you? Fucking carrier pigeon? You changed your number, and before that you ghosted me. How the fuck was I going to message you? But I see you kept my number, so you could've reached out to me if you wanted to, but you didn’t, did you? You didn’t even ask if I was recovering until today.”

“You really don’t rememb…” Jisung bites his bottom lip, “This was a mistake.”

“Too fucking right it was. The whole fucking thing, start to fucking end!” the words fly from Minho’s mouth too fast for him to amend them. He sees something flicker across Jisung’s eyes. Tries not to understand it. “Go home.”

“What?”

“Go home to your brothers, Ji,” he turns away before he’ll say something unforgivable, though he suspects he already did when he said ‘okay’. Because it’s not okay.

It’s far from fucking okay.

TASTE M.List & Sypnosis

Chapter 2 - The DLC

#TASTE | Minsung #skz fic #Lee Minho #Han Jisung #Christopher Bahng #Bang Chan #Changbin #Seungmin #Hyunjin #Felix #Jeongin #Soonie #Stray Kids Fan Fiction #Mafia AU #Romeo x Romeo

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