Bad Intentions // YOONKOOK fanfic.

I

The sound of a camera shuttering could be heard throughout the room brandished in expensive decor, illegal weaponry, and one body that stood rather idly in front of a bay window. Eyes could be seen, sweeping over the scenery outside of the clear glass and if people were to see him, they were meant to believe that the male at the twelfth floor was no one but a tourist. It would have been nothing but a stretch to assume that the calloused fingers that slid against the camera's frame almost experimentally has also been covered in such a rich, crimson color that smelled of metallic fumes—a scent that he was addicted to.

The male's hands had motioned themselves at his side, the camera only adding a tempting weight as his eyes seem to darken. His ample lips pulled into a small smirk as he tilted his head to the side as thoughts rambled his mind.

He began walking backwards, his eyes still on the person he had been taking candid photos of. He slowly turned on his heel, setting the camera down onto a glass table that had a piece of art—specifically Claude Monet—in between the two glass pieces. The male was in France.

Marseille, France, to be exact.

His hooded eyes scanned the matte black weaponry that graced the table's vertical existence. It varied from pocket knives, grenades, SMGs, rifles, shotguns, and pistols. Though he specialized in hand-to-hand combat, there was no better feeling than not missing a mark.

He sat down onto the couch that sat horizontally in front of the mass glass table, showered in a color that reminded him of the forest greens he was forced into during his seven year training period. His nimble fingers picked up a manila folder. That said folder was filled to the brim with simple notes, facts, and a photo. He eyed the photo rather carelessly, leaning back into the seat as he cracked the knuckles of his empty hand.

⌖

Black hair was placed aimlessly against the male's face, the rather long strands coming into focus through the base of a black hood. Though, the hair was slightly parted, giving the view of a rather strong and tantalizing left brow before hands were fishing through the bangs, causing it to shift together and close like a velvet curtain at the end of a heart wrenching performance. The male was in a car, eyeing someone across from him, his dark eyes shifting through the bustling crowds, yet never leaving his target.

Tranquil eyes watched his target ease their way into a building, a nightclub to be exact. A leer look was casted upon his face as he swiped the hood from over his head before completely taking off the hoodie altogether. He started his ignition, pulling the car around towards the entrance of the club, soon throwing the car keys of his matte black 1969 Ford Mustang—he had a thing for black—to a nearby valet, who caught the keys with wobbly hands.

The club was known for the venereal ambiance and it was a club that his target seemed to frequent quite a lot on the weekends, drinking his life away and feeling up both men and women who wanted to take advantage of his lavish V.I.P area. This said club was also a place where illegal dealings were dealt with, however, he could care less regarding the unlicensed auctions these people would crowd to, underground its surface. He only came for one thing; one person, to be exact.

Needless to say, he dressed for the occasion. His muscular form was adhered by a black dress shirt that had its first button undone temptingly, along with a a purple studded harness that accentuated the curve of his frame, especially his small waist. Attached to his waist was a simple black belt that held up a pair of tight, black jeans that hugged the shape of his sturdy thighs almost seductively.

His veiny fingers reaches for his hair again, parting it in place as most of his hair fell naturally to its left side, exposing the right side of his brow, this time around. His ears were adorned in various silver piercings as the right side of his neck was covered in makeup, hiding a meticulous tattoo.