"I want you," Jungkook whispered against his skin, sensually teasing the sensitive spot under Jimin's ear. "You make me wanna do things. Wanna fuck you harder, my strawberry." Jimin arched his back with a soft moan. "Wanna make you cum just from my...
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Smut ahead... he he I know I know but don't tell me I didn't give heads up.
- Mafia story but won't be too dark - Contains lot of smut - Contains murder and violence
I am not good with words. This fic was written because I was in mood to write some good smut. It was supposed to be an one-shot but then I thought why not. So here it is.
Bangtan members are the only original characters in this book. Rest are all fictional and created for the purpose of the story. I use similar names in all my fics to maintain stability and it's easy for me to follow.
Sorry guys I'm not that great with leaving notes...excuse this introvert who sucks at people skills :(
***
"They're here."
Jungkook lifted his gaze to meet Taehyung's gaze briefly before fixing it back on the dead man in front of him. "Dispose of him."
The small room was as gloomy as he felt right then. The smell of death and blood clung in the air. Not that he minded. He stood from his crouched position, taking the wet wipes Taehyung offered to wipe the blood off his hand.
He normally didn't use knives. Mostly preferred the handgun or left the dirty deeds to Taehyung or the others who worked for him. But sometimes like today... some things like this one had to be handled personally. You see...Jungkook hated when someone meddled in his business. Despised it to the extent that he ignored the party upstairs to get his hands dirty on his birthday.
"Did he talk?"
Jungkook cocked a brow with a smirk. "Cops," he said, throwing the soiled wipes carelessly on the floor. "They had reached out to someone asking him to aid them in the investigation." He walked out of the small interrogation room, entering the long corridors lined with more interrogation rooms and storage rooms. "His identity is unknown, but we might have a mole. Do a thorough check on all recruits for the past year and a half."
"Sure."
He stopped by the bathroom on the way to rinse his hands to get rid of any traces of blood that might have been left. Not that he minded a little bit of blood on him or his clothes. Hardened by a strict upbringing with rules of the underground etched into his brain, blood or gore rarely fazed him.
He stopped being afraid at the age of seven when he witnessed his father killing the man who had tried to kill his mother. It should have scared him because he was frightened to death when he saw his mother falling with a hand over her chest, crimson pooling the ground from where she fell. But it felt right to watch his father punish the man who put his mother in a hospital bed.
