littlegochu

[littlegochu]

WH*RE HOUSE │ jjk 18+

at kingston university, the athletes are kings and the girls of the dollhouse (a campus sorority made to please them) — are their comfort queens. you swore you’d never be one of them — until the games turned filthy, the dares turned dangerous, and jungkook turned his obsession on you.

pairing — athlete!jungkook x college!femreader

genre — toxic romance, college au, angst, smut, psychological drama, obsession, slice of life, slow corruption arc

warnings/tags — 18+, explicit sexual content, toxic relationship dynamics, abuse, peer pressure, obsession, jealousy, possessiveness, emotional manipulation, mental health struggles, greed/power themes, substance use (alcohol, smoking, pills), public sex, party sex, dares that turn sexual, fingering, oral sex, marking, hickeys/biting, dry humping, mirror sex, rough sex, praise kink, degradation kink, choking, sex in bathrooms/bedrooms/parties, unprotected sex, creampie, manipulation, angst, betrayal, messy emotions

“at kingston university, the athletes are kings and the girls of the dollhouse are their comfort queens.”

she said.

“smile pretty, pour the drinks, don’t fall in love.”

i swore i’d never be one of them. but everyone has a price. sometimes it’s attention. sometimes it’s obsession.

🎧 now playing: sex on the beach — partynextdoor

the scent of night air and cheap weed stick heavy to my skin when i roll up my window. kingston’s campus is loud in a way my hometown never was—boys shouting from balconies, girls laughing too high-pitched in shoes they can’t walk in.

my first weeks here? boring. lectures that dragged, cafeteria food that tasted like shit, mason shadowing me everywhere i went. cass kept saying i was “wasting the kingston experience.” i kept saying she was insane. and yet—here i was, zipped into my own version of a party outfit. black mini skirt, red gloss, and a half-burnt spliff balanced between my fingers as i leaned against the window. mason hated when i smoked in his car, which made it taste even sweeter.

he's a good guy. sometimes it made me feel safe, sometimes it made me feel trapped. he isn’t coming tonight, apparently, he “needs to study.” translation: he didn’t want to watch me play dress-up in the dollhouse circus.

mason’s hand rests on the wheel, fingers tapping slow, but tight. he hasn’t said much all drive—just small things, small smiles. i know that silence though. it’s the type that waits for me to say the wrong thing.

cass is in the backseat, chewing on a straw from her iced coffee she begged him to stop for. she’s bouncing like she’s got too much sugar in her veins, eyes shining when she spots the line of girls waiting at the frat house ahead.

“this is it,” she whispers, like it’s holy. “the dollhouse.”

the way she says it makes me roll my eyes, but i don’t let her see.

“at kingston u, the athletes are kings and the girls of the dollhouse are their comfort queens.” she repeats it sometimes like a prayer, like that slogan’s already tattooed on her forehead.

i told myself i’d never be one of them. but everyone has a price. sometimes it’s attention. sometimes it’s obsession.

“imagine being a doll, y/n. everyone watches when they walk in. it’s like they run the whole damn room without even trying.” she giggles, tugging her lip gloss out of her bag.

“cass,” he says, voice sharp enough to slice. “don’t fill her head with that sorority shit.”

“it’s not sorority shit,” cass bites back, too excited to be scared of him. “it’s the dollhouse. whole different thing.”

mason snorts like he knows everything. “you sure you wanna go?” his hand flexes against my thigh.

i tilt my chin, unbothered, tapping ash out the window. “i know what i’m doing. i just wanna see if the dolls really live up to the hype.”

cass grins like she’s already crowning me. mason’s jaw ticks, caught between pride and irritation. i lean back, crossing my legs so his hand slides off, my move—my choice.

he pulls up to the curb, jaw tight when he turns to me.

“don’t stay too late,” he says. his thumb brushes the inside of my wrist when i go to pull my hand away, and it feels more like a warning.

i shift, moving him off with a laugh i don’t mean. “we won’t.”

he leans closer, lips brushing my cheek in a kiss that lingers too long. “text me,” he murmurs. “i’ll be up. waiting.”

cass shoves the door open, already halfway out, her grin flashing in the dark. “come on,” she says, tugging my arm.

i slip from the car, cool air wrapping around me, colder than i expected. mason stays there, watching, his figure framed in the glow of the dashboard lights.

cass leans in close, her breath sweet with candy and lip gloss. “forget him. it’s dollhouse night,” she whispers, pulling me toward the music.

the car door shuts behind me, and for the first time, i couldn’t tell if i was leaving him or if he was letting me go.

by the time cass and i got close enough to see the glow of the house, i already felt the beat in my ribs. but the line stretched forever—snaked around the block, people shifting impatiently, dressed like they’d been planning all week for this one shot to get in.

i stopped walking. “nah,” i muttered, pulling at cass’s sleeve. “fuck this. we’re not waiting in that.”

cass just smirked, the type of smirk that said she’d already made up her mind. she tilted her chin toward the front. “watch.”

two girls near the velvet rope were trying their luck, leaning over the gatekeeper’s podium, giggling, tossing their hair like they thought pretty could get them in for free. one had on rhinestones stuck around her eyes, the other in a backless mini dress so short it looked painful.

“c’mon, we’re here all the time,” one of them whined, tugging her skirt higher.

the gatekeeper didn’t flinch. “back of the line. don’t waste my time.”

“wannabe dolls,” i said under my breath, loud enough for cass to hear. “clapped, too. imagine thinking you can pout your way past him.”

the gatekeeper didn’t even blink. “move,” he said flat, waving them off like they were gnats. their smiles dropped quick, and the way they stomped off in their heels almost made me laugh.

cass nudged me. “you really wanna leave? after that?”

“yes?” i muttered. “line’s too long.”

i shifted my weight, ready to say bye until a deep voice carried over the crowd.

“you two. in the back—hey.”

i looked up. tall guy, clean cut but not stiff, standing just inside the ropes with his arms crossed. he had that look—the kind of sharpness that said he knew exactly what he was doing, exactly how people worked.

cass blinked at him. “us?”

he nodded once, lazy, like he was doing us a favor but also not really. “yeah. come on.”

the line groaned as he waved the rope aside. i shot cass a look—what the fuck?—but she only smirked, slipping her arm through mine as if we belonged there.

“guess we’re in,” she whispered.

i tried to breathe steady as we stepped past the rope, every pair of eyes behind us burning holes into my back. the man who pulled us through didn’t say anything else. just a glance at the gatekeeper, a nod, and suddenly the line we’d been stuck in all night didn’t matter.

the door shut behind us, perfume and smoke tangled in the air, sweet and bitter, thick enough to choke on.

cass walked like she belonged, like she’d studied this place in her sleep. i trailed after her, trying not to stare too long at jeweled masks or glittering dresses. the way the dolls floated through the room, every gaze pulling toward them, felt unreal—like they weren’t people but something untouchable.

the man who had let us in disappeared toward the back, slipping behind a partition where velvet curtains fell heavy.

we were left to weave through the haze until cass spotted a space in the lounge—a half-circle of leather seating, low table littered with crystal glasses.

i leaned closer, scanning the room—the raised stage glowed under sharp white light, girls in sheer slips weaving around like they were born there, bills floating around them like confetti.

my brows lifted. “so this is a strip club.”

cass smirked, “it’s… the dollhouse,” she corrected, like the name itself meant something different.

“a strip club,” i repeated, slower.

she rolled her eyes, biting back a laugh. “okay, technically, yeah. but it’s not the kind you’re thinking. no creepy men drooling over dollar dances.” she flicked her chin toward the stage. “these girls—most of them are models, dancers, influencers. this is… curated. luxury. the people who get in here? money. connections. you don’t just show up unless someone lets you.”

i blinked, watching one of the women holding her phone up to take a picture with one of the wannabe dolls from earlier. heels clicking, hair a glowing curtain in the lights. she moved like liquid, her smile a little too happy to be real.

“so basically…” tilted my head, a dry smile tugging at my lips. “a strip club with a better brand.”

cass leaned back, smirking into her drink. “call it what you want."

“see her? that’s mariposa. they call her posa. she’s… lethal.”

i followed her gaze. the girl glowed under the low lights, glitter scattered across her collarbones and shoulders like pollen. her dress clung like it had been painted on, black with a slit that flashed the curve of her thigh every time she shifted her weight. she walked like she owned the air around her, people made space without even realizing it.

“and over there—selene. everyone calls her glow. she’s been here the longest. knows all the ins and outs.”

selene leaned against the bar, silver fabric slipping off one shoulder like it couldn’t contain her. she was softer than posa, slower. her skin caught the light in a way that made it hard to look anywhere else.

then cass nudged me, her eyes flicking across the floor. “and him? taehyung. smooth, unpredictable. gambler.”

i found him by the way people looked at him before i even figured out who he was. a man at a card table, sharp suit unbuttoned at the collar, rings caught the dim light as he shuffled chips between his fingers. his grin slow and unreadable.

before i could ask more, cass froze, her gaze hooking on someone across the room. i turned, but she was already standing. a man brushed past, lean frame, sharp jaw, the scent of smoke and whiskey. his shirt was untucked just enough, his was the kind that didn’t need to demand attention but got it anyway.

cass muttered something i couldn’t catch and ran after him without sparring a glance at me.

watching her disappear into the crowd, i try to follow her.

i’m halfway to the door when i hear someone damn near screaming over the music. i don’t even mean to look, but the way it cuts through the bass makes my head turn.

some girl comes stumbling out of a private room, lipstick smeared all the way up to her nose, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. she’s grinning like she just won something. “told you, i gave him the nastiest head of his life,” she announces, loud as hell, like it’s something to brag about.

i blink. oh my god.

glow — from earlier fires back, voice sharp enough to slice through glass. she looks like she’s about to drag miss sloppy-lipstick straight back into that room.

before she can, another girl slides in. cooler, calmer, but the type who knows exactly how to twist the knife. “glow, stop whining,” she says, flipping her hair. “jungkook literally said he just wanted free head. everybody knows lola gives everything for free.”

the way she says it? dead.

i clap a hand over my mouth before anyone sees me laughing, because holy shit. i came here for cass, but i can’t lie — this is better than half the shit on tv.

i’m still pushing through the crowd, scanning for cass, when i catch sight of her. the girl from earlier—the one i saw stumbling out of that room, wiping her mouth like she just clocked out of a shift.

before i can even decide whether to dodge her, she’s right in front of me, grinning like we’re best friends.

“oh my god, you’re so pretty,” she gushes, voice sticky with alcohol. before i can answer, she’s already pulling me in, her phone flashing in my face.

i stand there stiff, trying not to laugh, because this shit is too funny. i literally watched her leave some dude’s room not even fifteen minutes ago, and now she’s pressed against me like i’m her prize of the night.

she starts rambling, words tripping over each other—something about how “he couldn’t get enough” and “yeah, i just had jungkook on his knees, bitch couldn’t breathe.” she says it like she’s bragging, like the whole world should stop and clap.

i keep my face blank, biting back a smile, because if she only knew how wild she sounds right now.

cass ditching me was annoying, sure, but running into this circus act? kinda makes up for it.

'new doll? someone find her @ for me.'

a grainy flash pic of me with the sloppy top girl last night, her tongue half out, eyes glazed like a happy drunk.

my stomach drops, then twists. the comments are a mess—people actually digging through the internet like bloodhounds, tagging random girls until they land on me. my face is everywhere. i’m suddenly everyone’s “who is she.”

i can’t decide if i wanna laugh or throw up.

“you’re not paying attention,” mason mumbles against my skin. he’s halfway down my stomach, kissing light, like he’s following some checklist from a youtube tutorial.

i glance down at him, hand hovering awkwardly near his shoulder. i should feel something—heat, a spark, anything—but all i feel is my phone vibrating against my palm, the glow of my face under @ dollhouse.lola’s caption burned into my brain.

mason presses another kiss, softer this time, and i stifle a sigh. it’s fine. it’s good. it’s… vanilla. like store-brand ice cream you only eat when there’s nothing else in the freezer.

my phone buzzes again. i tilt it slightly behind his head, scrolling through the chaos.

everyone’s screaming about me. everyone wants to know who i am.

and all i can think is—fuck. this is how it starts.

“at kingston university, the athletes are kings and the girls of the dollhouse are their comfort queens.”

i said.

“smile pretty, pour the drinks, don’t fall in love.”

i swore i’d never be one of them. but everyone has a price. sometimes it’s attention. sometimes it’s obsession.

and i fell for it

🎧 now playing: sorrows — bryson tiller

first night in the dollhouse and i already feel like the center of a damn circus. glow’s dragging me around like i’m her little project, whispering in my ear what to say, how to smile, how to move.

it’s not like i don’t know how to handle attention, but here it’s different. everyone’s watching.

floaters trailing the edges of the room, whispering like they’ve discovered a new toy.

“what should her nickname be?” one of them asks. they’re all circling me like vultures with smiles. i hear “doll” thrown around. “angel.” then lola, smirking, says “cat. she’s got that sharp look.” the floaters jump on it like crazy.

cat. guess that’s me now.

i keep pretending to be unbothered, but my eyes catch on glow every now and then. i’m not stupid. she’s got her eyes out for jungkook, the way she cranes her neck every time the door moves. i know she’s waiting for him.

"he's here."

the room shifts when he walks in. it’s not just the door opening, it’s the way everyone straightens, like the air got heavier. floaters go quiet, dolls flick their eyes toward him but try not to stare too long.

and me? i can’t look away.

black slacks, loose button-up rolled to his forearms, chains at his wrist catching the light. tattoos peeking out from under his cuff, crawling up his hand. his hair’s a little messy, like he didn’t even bother fixing it before stepping in—like he knows it doesn’t matter. he’s fine in that careless, dangerous way, like trouble walked into the room and decided to sit down.

he doesn’t smile. doesn’t even greet anyone. just scans the place with those sharp eyes, and when his gaze sweeps past me, my throat dries. he doesn’t stop. he doesn’t linger. but i feel it anyway—like i’ve been marked.

glow’s watching him like a prayer just got answered. but all i can think is, god, he looks even better in person than in the whispers.

“he liked her reveal post,” viv — glow's righthand says, just loud enough. she’s leaning on glow, half drunk but smiling like she knows something. “and now he’s here early? hmm. wonder why.”

my stomach flips. coincidence?

part 2 here

authors note: lmk what u guys think! i was thinking it was kinda slow at the beginning but dw, the hot stuff coming innnn PLSSS COMMENT!

[littlegochu]

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[littlegochu]

indelible index │ jjk 18+

in·del·i·ble

adjective

not able to be forgotten or removed: "i made an indelible impression on him."

"i want to watch the light drain from jeon jungkook's eyes the moment he realizes who i am."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: dark mafia romance, romantic suspense, organized crime, psychological drama, enemies-to-lovers, forbidden romance, slow burn, hidden identity, betrayal and loyalty, revenge, cold male lead, girl boss female lead that makes the male lead headover heels eeeee

rating: 18+, smut, rough sex, passionate intimacy, dominance and submission, possessive male lead, sexually charged arguments, emotionally charged sex, aftercare moments, sexual tension

synopsis: my job was simple: get close to jeon jungkook, the man at the top, and feed my father everything he needs to burn their world to the ground.

falling for him was never part of the plan. but now every lie i’ve told is starting to unravel—and i’m not sure if i’m here to destroy him… or to save myself.

part 1 │part 2 │part 3 │part 4 │part 5 │part 6 │part 7 │part 8 │part 9 │part 10 │part 11 │part 12 │part 13 │part 14 │part 15 │part 16 │part 17 │part 18 │part 19 │part 20

[littlegochu]

indelible part 11│ jjk 18+

in·del·i·ble

adjective

not able to be forgotten or removed: "i made an indelible impression on him."

"i want to watch the light drain from jeon jungkook's eyes the moment he realizes who i am."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: dark mafia romance, romantic suspense, organized crime, psychological drama, enemies-to-lovers, forbidden romance, slow burn, hidden identity, betrayal and loyalty, revenge, cold male lead, girl boss female lead that makes the male lead headover heels eeeee

rating: 18+, smut, rough sex, passionate intimacy, dominance and submission, possessive male lead, sexually charged arguments, emotionally charged sex, aftercare moments, sexual tension

synopsis: my job was simple: get close to jeon jungkook, the man at the top, and feed my father everything he needs to burn their world to the ground.

falling for him was never part of the plan. but now every lie i’ve told is starting to unravel—and i’m not sure if i’m here to destroy him… or to save myself.

Y/N POV

I pull away from the kiss, breath uneven, my hands still tangled behind his neck.

His eyes are on me — dark, unblinking, filled with something I can't name. Not yet. Not without unraveling.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

I don't know what I'm apologizing for. The kiss. The truth behind it. The way I meant it more than I should.

I turn before he can answer, step back into the low light of the apartment. I need space. I need to breathe. I need to remind myself why I'm here.

But I don't get far.

Jungkook catches my wrist — gently, but firm. His fingers curl around mine like he's trying not to hold on too tight.

"..Will you sleep with me tonight?" he asks.

The question hits harder than it should.

It's not laced with heat. Not suggestive.

It's soft.

Almost broken.

Like he needs me close. Like the silence between us has been hurting him just as much as it's been killing me.

I don't answer. Just nod.

We walk to his room like the floor might give out beneath us.

He closes the door behind us quietly. Doesn't touch me again. Just peels off his jacket, drapes it over the back of a chair, and pulls the black button-up from his body with slow, tired movements.

I try not to stare.

But I do.

He's carved from sharp edges and unspoken weight — muscle beneath ink, tired strength carried in every breath. His back is tense, like he's still holding on to something he didn't say tonight.

When he turns around, his eyes find me again.

Something soft flickers there. Not fragile. Just real.

I move toward the bed, still in his hoodie, my legs bare. He walks to the other side without a word, pulling back the covers. The mattress dips under his weight. I slide in, unsure where to put my arms, unsure if this is a mistake.

But then he shifts closer.

Not all at once.

Just slow, hesitant inches.

Like he's asking for permission without saying anything.

I give it to him.

He wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me into his chest. My forehead presses beneath his jaw. I can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing — slow, careful, like he's trying not to fall apart.

He smells like smoke and cedar. Something expensive and unplaceable. Warm and familiar.

Like safety.

Like something I never meant to crave.

His hand settles lightly at my back, fingers resting just enough to let me know I'm not alone.

We don't speak.

We don't need to.

The distance is gone.

We lie there in the dark, our bodies curved toward each other like they were always meant to be. His breath ghosts the crown of my head. My fingertips rest at his collarbone.

And for the first time in days, my heart stops running.

Sleep pulls at the edge of my thoughts.

But before I drift, I hear him murmur something — too quiet to make out, but too soft to ignore.

I don't ask him to repeat it.

I just let myself believe, for a moment, that whatever this is... it's real.

Even if it can't last.

-

The morning light creeps in soft and slow.

I blink into the haze, disoriented by warmth, the weight of a blanket over my hips, the stillness of the room.

For a second, I forget where I am.

Then it all hits me.

The kiss.

His hands.

The way he held me like I was something he didn't want to let go of.

I sit up carefully, pushing the hair out of my face. The hoodie I was wearing is bunched at my waist, wrinkled from sleep. My lips feel chapped. My skin still tingles where his fingers had rested.

Jungkook isn't here.

The bed beside me is empty, sheets barely warm.

He left early again.

My stomach twists — a knot of frustration, disappointment, confusion. I don't know what I expected. For him to stay? For him to say something in the daylight he couldn't at night?

Maybe I hoped for it.

And that's the problem.

I climb out of bed and wander barefoot into the kitchen. The apartment is clean — cleaner than it was last night. There's a folded blanket on the couch. Two plates drying on the dish rack. The smell of leftover coffee lingers in the air.

He made breakfast before he left.

For me or out of habit, I don't know.

I open the fridge. There's a small note on top of a covered plate:

Eat. 

-J

I stare at it for a long time.

I shouldn't be moved by a single word written in sharp, impatient pen.

But I am.

I heat the food, sit at the island, and try to eat like everything is normal. Like I didn't fall asleep last night with his lips still burned into mine. Like this isn't the first time I've woken up in a place that feels like it's trying to become home.

Halfway through my eggs, I set the fork down and press my fingers to my temples.

You're slipping.

I haven't looked through his office in two days. Haven't searched the files in the hallway drawer. Haven't taken photos of blueprints, shipping labels, anything useful.

I've been distracted.

By him.

By how quiet he gets when he's tired.

By how safe he makes this place feel, even when he's gone.

By the version of myself I didn't expect to find here — one that forgets why she came in the first place.

Get it together.

I finish the food in silence. Wash the plate. Fold the note and stuff it in my pocket, even though I shouldn't.

Then I walk back into the bedroom.

Not to snoop. Not to spy.

I lie back down.

And I let myself rest.

Just for a little while.

Jungkook POV

By the time I walk into the warehouse, the sun's barely cracked the edge of the skyline.

The air inside smells like dust, oil, and old paper — same as it always has. Cold concrete underfoot. The sound of distant forklifts groaning outside. I roll my shoulders as I move through the space, tension already settling into the base of my neck.

Namjoon is standing at the table with a pen between his fingers, frowning at a map like it personally offended him. Yoongi's off to the side, arms crossed, staring at a blacked-out laptop screen like it owes him something.

"Three more blocks," Namjoon says as soon as I step in. "Same tactics. Quiet. Clean. Just enough to slow us down."

I drop my coat over a chair and join them at the table.

"Routes?"

"West line. Seongsu, Yongsan, Daecheon district."

Yoongi doesn't look away from the screen. "Whoever it is, they're not being messy."

"No fingerprints," Namjoon says. "Just pressure."

I scan the map. Red pins mark supply points. Blue for vendors. The black ones... those are the ones we've lost. Too many of them lately.

"Kimura?" I ask.

Namjoon shakes his head. "They're too loud for this. And too distracted with their own clean-up."

"Ulsan crew?"

"Could be. But this doesn't feel like their style. Feels smarter."

I run a hand down my jaw, trying to shake the ache behind my eyes. "So what do we know?"

"They're coordinated," Yoongi says. "They're watching our timing. They want to stay under the radar, at least for now."

Namjoon leans forward. "We need to make a move."

"Loud?" I ask.

Yoongi finally looks at me. "Loud."

I nod. "Pick a weak point. Send a message."

Yoongi already has a folder open. "That textile warehouse in Jungnang. They've been flirting with both sides. Pull them in. Make it clear who they answer to."

Namjoon adds, "And get our runners out of Daecheon. Too hot now. Reassign to Buk District."

I process fast. I always do. But everything feels heavier than usual. Like every decision costs just a little more than it used to.

My head's in the game. It has to be. This is the part I know — holding the line, fixing cracks before they become breaks. I've done it for years. For my crew. For my father's name.

And yet.

Every time there's silence in the room, my mind pulls somewhere else.

Back to that apartment.

Back to her.

Back to the way she looked last night, bare-faced and blinking up at me like I was something she didn't know how to touch without falling.

Back to the sound of her breath when she curled into me — like being close was the only thing keeping either of us from shattering.

I shut my eyes for half a second.

Get it together.

Now isn't the time.

She's not the problem. She's not pulling me under. If anything, she's the reason I've made it this far without turning feral.

But I can't afford softness right now. Not when the people I trust most are coming to me with silence and maps dotted in black.

Namjoon breaks my thoughts.

"We need to sit down with Daechang before week's end."

"Set it up."

Yoongi adds, "And Hongjoong wants to meet too. He says it's about the ports."

"He's stalling," I mutter. "He's watching."

"Then make him watch harder," Yoongi says.

He's right. We can't show weakness.

Not now.

I take a moment to breathe. Let my fingers tap once against the edge of the table.

"She still at the apartment?" Namjoon asks casually, like he's asking about the weather.

I nod.

Yoongi glances up. "You check in?"

"Not yet."

"She's probably waiting."

That makes something twist in my chest.

She probably is.

And I left her again without saying much. Without giving her anything more than a tired look and a note on the counter.

But I had to. Because if I'd stayed in that bed too long, I might not have left at all.

The thought unsettles me more than it should.

I glance down at my phone. It's been sitting in my pocket all morning like it's burning a hole through my restraint.

I unlock it.

No messages from her.

Not that I expected one.

Still.

I open our thread.

Type fast.

Take care of yourself. I'll be late.

I hit send, then lock the phone again before I can overthink it.

Back to the work. Back to war.

But part of me is still there — wrapped around her, even in the dark.

Y/N POV

My father calls in the late afternoon.

I answer on the second ring, already bracing myself.

"You've gone quiet," he says, voice sharp and cold. "Too quiet."

"I've been patient," I reply, low and even. "I've been careful."

His silence is louder than anything else.

"You were supposed to send me something three days ago."

"I haven't had a chance."

Another pause.

Then, flat: "You're making excuses."

I grip the edge of the nightstand, fingernails biting into the wood. "I'm working on it."

"No. You're stalling."

The words drop like a knife. Sharp. Unforgiving.

"We've given you time, access, control. And what have you given us?"

"I said—"

"I want something. Today. Something that counts."

My mouth goes dry.

"If you don't send it," he says, "I'll start picking apart his organization without you. Slowly. Loudly. And if that puts you in danger, so be it."

I swallow hard. "You're threatening me now?"

"I'm reminding you who you are."

There's nothing left to say. He hangs up.

The silence afterward is suffocating.

I sit on the bed, pulse heavy in my throat, the quiet hum of the apartment pressing down on me. Jimin and Taehyung are gone. Yoongi isn't here. I know I'm alone.

It's the first time all day I've had the house to myself.

It should feel like an opportunity.

Instead, it feels like a weight.

I stand slowly. Move through the hallway. Every step feels like it costs something.

I slip into Jungkook's office.

No need to rush. No need to check for cameras. I know his schedule. He won't be back for hours.

The desk is clean, organized. The drawers locked — but I've already learned how to work around that.

I open the bottom one. Quiet. Controlled.

And there it is.

An internal distribution route chart. Recent. Detailed. Sensitive.

It's not surface-level like before — this is the real thing. Movement cycles, secondary locations, dates. If I hand this over, it'll be enough to rupture the outer edge of Jungkook's empire in a single coordinated strike.

My father would burn it all down from the outside in.

I stare at the page. It flutters slightly in my hands.

I reach for my phone.

And stop.

Something in me wavers.

My fingers hover. My thoughts stutter.

This is what I came here to do.

I've handed over worse intel. I've given more.

But not like this.

Not after last night. Not after he looked at me like I mattered. Not after he touched me like I was something worth holding onto.

I lower the phone.

My hand trembles. Just slightly.

Then I shove the folder back into place, close the drawer, and step out of the room without taking a single photo.

-

Jungkook comes home just after the sun slips behind the skyline.

He walks in quietly, keys in one hand, a plastic bag hooked over the other. His expression's unreadable, but softer than it was the last few nights — like whatever weight he's been carrying didn't win today.

He lifts the bag a little. "Didn't feel like cooking."

I nod once. "Me neither."

We settle on the floor without speaking — the hardwood cool beneath us, backs against the couch, legs stretched out. He pulls out containers one by one: dumplings, fried rice, something spicy with noodles that steams up the lid.

He hands me chopsticks. Our fingers brush.

I pretend I don't notice. I'm pretty sure he does.

We eat in silence for a while — not tense, just easy. The kind of quiet that doesn't need filling. The kind that says everything's fine, even when you both know it's not.

He opens a dumpling box, pops one into his mouth, then lets out a low hum.

I smirk. "That good?"

"Very good."

I lean over, take one, and bite.

It's... not bad. Warm. Savory.

But I can't let him win this one.

"I've had better."

He turns to me, scandalized. "Excuse me?"

"They're a little soggy."

His jaw drops in mock offense. "You're sitting on my floor, in my house, wearing my hoodie, eating my dumplings—"

"—and critiquing them," I finish for him, lips twitching.

A beat passes. Then we both laugh — the kind that slips out before you can catch it.

It's quiet and small, but real.

I can feel the tension bleed out of my shoulders.

He watches me as I reach for another dumpling, his gaze softer now. Less guarded.

There's something about the way he looks at me in moments like this — not like he's reading me, not like he's trying to figure anything out. Just... watching. Like I'm something worth holding onto.

I shift, suddenly hyperaware of how close we're sitting. His leg brushes mine when he leans back again, his elbow grazing mine. He doesn't move away. Neither do I.

"Thought you'd be tired of me by now," I say lightly.

His brow arches. "Who says I'm not?"

I nudge his foot with mine under the table. "Liar."

Another laugh, quiet. But there's a pause after — just long enough to make the air feel heavier again.

He sets down his container. "You eat today?"

"Some."

He studies me for a second. I can't tell if he believes me, but he doesn't press.

"Good," he murmurs. "You look less dead."

I scoff. "Wow. Romantic."

He leans his head back against the couch cushion, closes his eyes. "I try."

The glow from the window lights the side of his face — soft orange warmth catching the angles of his jaw, the hollow of his throat. His tattoos peek out from under his sleeve, ink tracing skin I've stared at too long. He smells faintly like cologne and something deeper — smoke, maybe. Spice. The kind of scent that stays in your clothes and lingers on your skin.

I stare longer than I should.

Because in this moment, we're not enemies. I'm not a liar. He's not a target.

We're just here. Eating lukewarm food on a hardwood floor like this is something we've done a hundred times before.

And I hate how much I want it to be real.

He turns his head slightly. Meets my eyes.

I look away.

Because if I don't... I might never remember why I came here in the first place.

[littlegochu]

indelible part 10│ jjk 18+

in·del·i·ble

adjective

not able to be forgotten or removed: "i made an indelible impression on him."

"i want to watch the light drain from jeon jungkook's eyes the moment he realizes who i am."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: dark mafia romance, romantic suspense, organized crime, psychological drama, enemies-to-lovers, forbidden romance, slow burn, hidden identity, betrayal and loyalty, revenge, cold male lead, girl boss female lead that makes the male lead headover heels eeeee

rating: 18+, smut, rough sex, passionate intimacy, dominance and submission, possessive male lead, sexually charged arguments, emotionally charged sex, aftercare moments, sexual tension

synopsis: my job was simple: get close to jeon jungkook, the man at the top, and feed my father everything he needs to burn their world to the ground.

falling for him was never part of the plan. but now every lie i’ve told is starting to unravel—and i’m not sure if i’m here to destroy him… or to save myself.

Jungkook POV

The apartment's dark when I get back.

Yoongi's jacket is slung over the back of the chair. There's a faint hum from the fridge, a glow under the hallway light, but everything else is still. Quiet.

Too quiet.

I step inside, shut the door behind me, and lock it out of habit. My hand lingers on the handle longer than it should.

Don't forget who you are, Jungkook. Namjoon's voice echoes like it's stitched into the silence.

I walk into the room and spot Gia first.

She's sitting on the edge of the couch, one leg tucked under her, the sleeves of her shirt pushed up to her elbows. Her hair's pulled back, but a few strands frame her face. She doesn't move when she sees me. Doesn't smile either. Just watches.

She looks good in my shirt.

Too good.

I tear my eyes away.

Yoongi is leaned near the window, hands in his pockets, gaze tracking me like he's already seen how this plays out.

"She didn't leave," he says.

"I didn't think she would."

He tilts his head, a silent counter.

"She didn't ask questions. Stayed low," he adds. "Didn't talk much either."

I nod once.

Yoongi's quiet for a second. Then: "Jimin and Taehyung say you've been different."

I glance up at him.

He's not smiling. Not teasing.

"More... distracted," he clarifies.

I shrug. "They talk too much."

"Sometimes they're right."

I don't answer.

He shifts his weight slightly, watching me like he's waiting to see what version of me walked in the door.

"You've been off," he says. "Even Namjoon sees it."

I breathe out through my nose, jaw flexing. "I'm fine."

"You sure?"

I glance at Gia again.

She looks away.

Yoongi follows my gaze.

"I don't think she's a threat," he says, voice even. "But she's something."

I nod once. "A distraction."

He doesn't argue. Just says, "We've got real enemies coming. We can't afford to get caught up."

"I know."

"You don't have to ice her out," he adds. "Just remember who you are when things get messy."

He straightens, grabs his jacket from the chair.

"I'm heading out. You need anything?"

"No."

He walks past me, then pauses at the door. "Don't let your father's work fall apart because of something you can't name."

And then he's gone.

The lock clicks softly behind him.

I stand there for a second, pulse drumming against my ribs.

Then I turn to Gia.

She's still sitting on the couch, posture guarded now. Watching me like she's waiting for me to say something that explains everything.

I don't.

"Go to the other room," I say instead.

She blinks once. "Why?"

"I need to think."

A pause. Barely there.

Then she nods, silent, and walks past me — slow, careful, like she doesn't want to leave but knows she should.

I don't watch her go.

But I feel it.

I sit down where she was. Rest my elbows on my knees. Rub a hand over my face.

She's getting under my skin.

Too fast. Too deep.

She's quiet. Careful. Pretty in ways that make it hard to breathe when she looks at me too long.

But she's not mine. Not really. I don't know if she ever will be.

Namjoon's right.

Yoongi's right.

This is the wrong time to fall for anyone — especially someone who could be gone the second I look away.

I clench my jaw and lean back, staring at the ceiling.

I've got work to do.

And no space left for softness.

-

Y/N POV

The door clicks behind Yoongi, and the room shifts.

Still. Cold. Like something important just walked out with him.

Jungkook doesn't move right away. He just stands there, broad shoulders squared under his black coat, face blank. Sharp jaw, hands loose at his sides. He hasn't looked at me once since walking in, not really.

And I don't know why that bothers me.

He walks past me like I'm not even there.

Not cold on purpose.

Just... distant.

I turn slowly, watching him sink into the chair across the room, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he's holding something too tightly in his head. His eyes are fixed on the floor, his brows drawn low.

His expression doesn't change when he finally speaks.

"Go to the other room."

My chest tightens.

He doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't glare. Just says it flat, without emotion, like I'm a noise he needs turned down.

I stare at him for a second.

"Why?"

"I need to think."

That's all.

No softness. No trace of the man who held me on the couch like I was something to protect.

I nod once. Quiet. Controlled. Then stand and walk down the hall.

I don't look back.

But I feel it. The shift. The wall between us.

And it's stupid how much it stings.

The bedroom door closes behind me with a soft click. I stand there for a beat, hands clenched at my sides.

Does he know?

Did Yoongi catch something?

I was careful. I was so careful.

I didn't slip. I didn't leave a trace. I planned every step like I've done a thousand times before.

So why does it feel like the floor just shifted under me?

I sit on the edge of the bed, pressing my palms to my knees. The room feels too big suddenly. Like it's holding its breath. Like it knows I'm unraveling.

He looked right through me.

Not with suspicion.

With... nothing.

And somehow, that's worse.

I close my eyes. Inhale slow.

No.

This is good.

This is better.

Jungkook pulling back makes things easier. Cleaner. I won't get caught in his voice, or his warmth, or the way his hands brush my lower back like I belong to him.

If he keeps being cold, I won't hesitate when the time comes.

That's what I tell myself.

That's what I repeat, over and over, as I lie back against the bed — the same one he pulled me into, the same one that still smells faintly like him.

I stare up at the ceiling and pretend that my chest doesn't hurt.

Pretend that I'm not disappointed.

Pretend that this doesn't feel like a goodbye before anything even started.

Jungkook POV

I left the apartment at six.

Didn't sleep much. Don't think she did either.

I passed her in the hallway before heading out. She was standing by the kitchen, arms crossed, hair tied back like she'd been awake for a while. Still wearing one of my shirts — soft, oversized, hanging off one shoulder. She looked tired.

Looked... disappointed.

I said, "I'll be back later."

That was it.

No smile. No touch. Just that.

She didn't stop me. Just gave me the smallest nod, eyes unreadable.

It should've felt like control — this space I've been putting between us. But it doesn't.

It just feels cold.

I slide into the car and drive without music. City's still gray. Still waking up. Everything's quiet except my thoughts, and they won't shut up.

By the time I get to the warehouse, Namjoon's already there — pacing in front of the map table, sharp-eyed, jaw tight. Yoongi's leaning against the far wall, tapping his fingers on a black folder. No one's saying anything, but the tension's obvious.

I toss my jacket over a chair.

"What happened?"

Namjoon looks at me. "Gwanak," he says. "Seokjin-hyung ran a standard check-in with two of our logistics vendors yesterday. Nothing flagged."

Yoongi picks up. "Thirty minutes after he left, a sweep team showed up. Routine check, they said. But it wasn't random."

My jaw tightens. "He get out clean?"

"Burned all trails," Namjoon says. "Left nothing. But the timing was too perfect. Like they knew where to be before he even got there."

"Someone watching?"

Yoongi shrugs. "No tails. No chatter. Just pressure. It's not sloppy — that's what makes it worse."

I sit down, rub my palm over my knee.

This isn't the first whisper we've had lately.

Little things. Small shifts. A route blocked here, a tip off there.

No big explosion. Just a steady, calculated push.

It's not the Kimura group — they don't move this clean. It's not the Ulsan crew either. They'd be louder, messier. This? This is surgical. Precise.

"Who's got this kind of access?" I ask.

"Could be a third party. Someone trying to cut into your middlemen," Namjoon says.

"Or someone testing you before they move in," Yoongi adds.

"Then find them," I mutter.

Namjoon tosses another folder on the table. "Everything Jin-hyung touched this week is in there. I'm pulling two runners to audit the vendors. Quietly."

I nod.

Yoongi finally steps forward. "We've been steady too long. Somebody wants to see what breaks first — your people or your patience."

"They won't get either."

"Then we need to make a move soon," Namjoon says. "Prove we're still tight."

"I'll handle it," I say. "Tell Jin-hyung to stay in the background. No field work until we clear this."

Namjoon nods. "Already done."

Yoongi glances at me, arms crossed. "You look like shit."

I smirk. Barely. "Didn't sleep."

He gives me a look. "Because of her?"

I don't respond.

But they already know.

"She's still here," Namjoon says carefully. "That means something."

"She hasn't asked questions," I say. "She hasn't pushed."

"We're not questioning her," Yoongi says, firm. "We're talking about you."

"I'm not slipping."

"No," Namjoon agrees. "But you're quieter. Different. You're thinking too much."

They're not wrong.

I've been off since that night on the couch. Since the way she curled into me like she trusted I wouldn't let the world near her.

I told myself I could keep this clean.

But now I find myself looking for her in every room.

And when she's not there, I'm counting the minutes until she is.

"She's temporary," I say before I can stop myself.

Yoongi blinks, just once. Namjoon doesn't move.

"I don't want her to be," I add, quieter.

A beat of silence.

Namjoon exhales. "Then you need to decide if you're building something with her, or protecting her from what's coming."

Because I can't do both.

I lean back in the chair and stare at the map, but my head's nowhere near it.

It's back at the apartment.

Back in that moment where I looked at her and said nothing, even when everything in me wanted to reach for her.

Y/N POV

It's late.

Another day gone, and he still hasn't come home.

The apartment's too quiet. Not even the hum of the TV to fill it. There's a half-drunk glass of water on the table, a blanket folded messily at the end of the couch, and shadows crawling across the floor where the light used to be.

Jimin and Taehyung left two hours ago. They came by for a bit — loud and warm and good at pretending like nothing was off. Maybe they thought they were helping.

They weren't.

I haven't moved much since they left. Still curled up in his hoodie, still barefoot on the couch, still waiting for something I swore I didn't care about.

I didn't snoop today.

Didn't even think about it, not really. I kept telling myself it was because I didn't have the time, not with Jimin and Taehyung around.

But the truth is I haven't had the energy.

He hasn't texted. Hasn't called.

It shouldn't sting this much. But it does.

I'm not supposed to care that he's gone. I'm not supposed to feel this empty because he didn't say good morning. Or goodbye.

I wrap the hoodie tighter around me like that'll stop the cold that's not even in the air. My stomach's tight, but not from hunger. Just something hollow. A space I didn't realize was there until he started acting like I wasn't.

And I hate it.

I hate him for getting under my skin. For slipping past all the walls I built. For pulling away without explanation.

But I hate myself more.

For letting it matter.

I stand to stretch, but I don't get far. Just shift from the couch to the window, watching the street below like it might offer clarity.

It doesn't.

The hallway creaks softly with the building's weight.

Then I hear it.

The lock turns.

The door opens slow.

And there he is.

Jungkook.

Tall. Broad. Familiar in ways that make my heart lurch.

He walks in like he's carrying the world across his shoulders — posture taut, black button-up clinging to his frame in all the right places. His sleeves are rolled just past his forearms, ink tracing his veins like a map I've already memorized. His jaw is tense, shadowed with stubble, his lips a flat line. His hair is messier than usual, dark strands falling across his brow like he's run his fingers through it a dozen times.

He looks tired.

He looks so good it hurts.

And I hate that too.

He doesn't see me at first — doesn't expect me to be standing here in the dark like something waiting to break.

But I move before he can speak.

I don't think. I just walk toward him.

Each step feels like a decision I shouldn't make.

But I do anyway.

And when I reach him, I wrap my arms around his neck — slow, steady — and pull him close.

His body tenses on instinct, like I've startled him.

But I don't let go.

My voice is a whisper against his collarbone.

"Get out of my head, Jungkook."

He still doesn't speak.

"I want you out," I say.

Then I kiss him.

It's not rushed. It's not hungry.

It's full.

Like exhaling after holding my breath for days.

His mouth doesn't move at first. But then I feel it — the shift. His hands come up slowly, hesitating only for a second before settling. One against the curve of my lower back. The other gently curling behind my neck, fingers threading through the base of my hair.

His mouth opens under mine.

Soft. Careful.

Then deeper.

Like he means it.

Like he's missed me too.

I tilt my head, leaning in as his thumb brushes lightly against my spine. The world slips sideways, and I don't stop it. I fall into the kiss like it's the only solid thing left.

His lips part from mine slowly, like he doesn't want to let go.

He rests his forehead against mine, breathing hard.

His voice is low, almost a whisper.

"You're ruining me, Gia."

And then he kisses me again — slower this time, deeper. Like he needs to prove it. Like he doesn't care what breaks if he keeps going.

And I let him.

Because I already know I'm ruined too.

[littlegochu]

indelible part 9│ jjk 18+

in·del·i·ble

adjective

not able to be forgotten or removed: "i made an indelible impression on him."

"i want to watch the light drain from jeon jungkook's eyes the moment he realizes who i am."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: dark mafia romance, romantic suspense, organized crime, psychological drama, enemies-to-lovers, forbidden romance, slow burn, hidden identity, betrayal and loyalty, revenge, cold male lead, girl boss female lead that makes the male lead headover heels eeeee

rating: 18+, smut, rough sex, passionate intimacy, dominance and submission, possessive male lead, sexually charged arguments, emotionally charged sex, aftercare moments, sexual tension

synopsis: my job was simple: get close to jeon jungkook, the man at the top, and feed my father everything he needs to burn their world to the ground.

falling for him was never part of the plan. but now every lie i’ve told is starting to unravel—and i’m not sure if i’m here to destroy him… or to save myself.

Y/N POV

The scent of eggs hits me before I turn the corner.

Garlic. Something peppery. It's almost too domestic. Too real.

Jungkook is already at the table when I walk in, a fork in one hand and his phone flipped face-down beside his plate. He's wearing a plain black t-shirt now—soft, fitted. His sleeves hug his arms just enough to draw the eye. The ink on his forearms is in full view. His hair's still messy from sleep, like he didn't bother fixing it after we rolled off the couch.

His eyes flick up the moment I enter.

Not sharp. Just... aware.

Like he already knew I was coming.

He jerks his chin toward the chair across from him. "Sit."

I do.

A plate's already waiting for me. Eggs, toast, a few slices of apple on the side. Nothing fancy. But it's hot. He cooked this. For me.

My stomach knots.

I pick up the fork and take a bite I barely taste.

He doesn't say anything at first.

Just chews, slow, elbow on the table, completely relaxed in his skin.

But he's watching me.

Not in an obvious way. Just little glances between bites, like he's trying to read the space between what I'm doing and what I'm thinking.

"You always this quiet in the morning?" he asks eventually, voice low.

I shrug, chew slower. "Sometimes."

He raises an eyebrow. "Just sometimes?"

"Depends on who I'm waking up next to."

That gets the faintest twitch of a smirk.

"Guess I'm lucky then."

I don't answer that.

I just keep eating, trying not to look like I'm unraveling from the inside.

I found my family's name in his drawer less than twenty minutes ago. Now I'm eating eggs like I didn't see it.

"Where'd you learn to cook?" I ask, stabbing at the toast like it said something wrong.

Jungkook leans back, fork resting against his plate.

"Trial and error." He takes a sip from his glass. "Lot of error."

"Burn anything?"

He snorts. "Set a stove on fire once."

I blink. "Once?"

"That I'll admit to."

There's a beat of silence. But it doesn't feel awkward. Just... loose.

Surprisingly easy.

He's casual. Blunt. But not in a way that pushes. He talks like someone who knows exactly what he wants to say, and won't say more than that.

It's refreshing.

And inconvenient.

Because I catch myself wanting to hear more.

"Okay," he says, tilting his head toward me. "You ask one, I ask one."

I glance up at him. "That's a game."

He shrugs. "You started it."

I take another bite. "Fine."

He waits.

I lick the corner of my lip. "What time do you usually wake up?"

"Six."

"Even when you don't need to?"

"I always need to."

Right.

His turn.

His eyes hold mine. "What did you do before I found you?"

My fork pauses.

I swallow slow, then shrug like it's nothing.

"Receptionist."

Jungkook blinks once.

I raise a brow. "Surprised?"

"Little bit."

"Why?"

He sets his glass down. "You don't talk like one."

"What do I talk like?"

He stares at me for a second too long. "Someone who's used to control."

I swallow the lie with my toast.

"Boss was an asshole," I say smoothly. "Made me sharp."

His lips twitch again. "Guess I should say thank you to him."

"You should've seen him scream."

Jungkook laughs under his breath—low and rough. It's the first real laugh I've heard from him, and it catches me off guard.

I don't know what bothers me more.

That I like the sound of it.

Or that it's because of me.

We go quiet again. The food's half-gone now. The smell lingers in the air, warm and heavy. My plate's too full. My stomach's too tight.

He notices.

"Eat."

"I'm eating."

"You're picking."

"I'm not that hungry."

"You said that yesterday."

His voice isn't harsh. Just flat.

Like it's a fact.

Like he remembers everything I say, even when I don't.

He leans forward, arms on the table now. His elbows close to his plate. His hands inked and veined, fingers still curled slightly like he's ready for something.

"You dream last night?" he asks.

The question throws me.

I hesitate. "Not really."

He nods like he believes me.

I don't know why that makes it worse.

"Did you?" I ask.

He cuts a piece of toast with his fork. "No."

"But you slept through the night."

He meets my gaze.

The pause is sharp.

His phone buzzes.

He glances down at it once. Picks it up. "Yeah."

His tone shifts—lower, colder, but not surprised.

A few beats of silence. Then: "I'll be there in twenty. Don't move until I get there."

He ends the call and stands, pushing his chair back with a quiet scrape.

"Something wrong?" I ask, even though I already know.

"Just work." He grabs his jacket from the hook by the door. "Nothing I can't handle."

He slides his arms through the sleeves and grabs his keys.

"I'll have Yoongi come watch the place while I'm out."

I blink. "Who?"

"You haven't met him."

"Why not Jimin or Taehyung?"

He pauses at the door, his hand on the knob.

"You talk too much when they're around," he says simply.

I raise a brow. "So?"

I tilt my head. "You jealous?"

He looks at me, steady and unreadable. "No."

He doesn't wait for a response.

Just opens the door, steps out, and lets it close behind him.

Leaving me there with half-eaten toast, a thudding heart, and a thousand reasons to get back on track.

And none of them feel strong enough.

Jungkook POV

The warehouse smells like gun oil and old concrete.

It's quiet for now — too quiet for how many people are in the room. The tension lives in the stillness, thick and waiting.

Namjoon is standing near the table, arms folded, his jaw set in that way that tells me he's been awake longer than he should be. A map of the city is laid out in front of him, pins and marked-up tape dividing territories that shift by the week.

I sit back in my chair, legs spread, one arm resting over the back. I should be listening. Paying attention.

I'm not.

My mind is back at the apartment.

The way Gia curled into me last night. The shape of her breathing. How fucking quiet she got when I told her I'd never slept through the night until then.

I didn't mean to say that out loud.

Didn't mean for it to come out like a confession.

But it did. And she didn't run.

"Jungkook?" Namjoon's voice cuts in. "You with us?"

I blink. Shift slightly.

"Yeah," I mutter. "Go ahead."

Namjoon doesn't push. But he sees it — the flicker of distraction. He always does.

Jimin's already smirking across from me. "He's definitely thinking about someone."

Taehyung whistles low, flipping a knife between his fingers like it's a pen. "You're smiling too much. What happened, boss? You go soft on us?"

"I'll cut your tongue out," I say without looking at them.

Jimin laughs like I just offered him a drink. "That's a yes."

Namjoon clears his throat, cutting through the noise.

"The Gyeongsan deal's holding steady," he says, turning back to the map. "But we've had movement from a few others. Kimura's guys are pressing near our west docks. They won't make a real move unless they're desperate, but they're watching."

"And?" I ask.

"Another group's pushing near Itaewon. Smaller. Not polished. But bold."

"Name?"

"No one we care about yet."

I nod once.

"Then there's the Morettis."

That name makes my knuckles tighten just slightly.

Namjoon continues, like he didn't notice. "They've made a few low-key passes at Seoul in the last month. Quiet pressure. Nothing direct."

"They're weak," I say, before he finishes.

Namjoon's eyes flick to mine. "They're getting bold."

"Because they think they can. My father's gone."

The words taste bitter coming out.

They all know it. The people watching us now — the ones testing the fences — none of them would've dared when my father was alive.

He ruled with fire.

And he hated the Morettis enough to reduce their house to ash.

I never knew why. He never explained. Just called them rats. Threats. Said one day they'd get brave and try to rise again. He made sure they didn't.

Bombed their estate. Shot up their compound. Left nothing but smoke and headlines.

Whatever history was there — whatever happened before me — it died with him.

I never asked questions. Never needed to.

As far as I'm concerned, the Morettis are ghosts in suits. Desperate. Out of date.

Namjoon doesn't argue. But I see the thought flash in his eyes — that same warning look he gives me when I underestimate someone.

"They're not strong," I say again. "Not enough to matter."

"They're not strong," he agrees. "But they're smart. Or stubborn. Either one gets dangerous if we're not focused."

The air in the room sharpens.

I exhale through my nose and sit forward, elbows on my knees. "Anyone talk to Min's crew?"

"They're watching too," Namjoon says. "For now, it's just whispers. Territory. Trade. No blood. But something's shifting."

I nod.

Silence settles.

Taehyung flips his knife again. "You sure you're good, boss?"

I shoot him a glare. "You got something to say?"

He grins. "Just seems like you've been... elsewhere."

"You want to run point instead?"

He holds his hands up in surrender. "Hell no. You can keep the crown. I'll stick to making things bleed."

"Charming," Namjoon mutters.

But he looks back at me again — this time quieter.

"You really with us, Jungkook?"

I hold his gaze.

He's not asking to challenge me. He's asking because he cares. Because he watched my father die. Because he's been beside me since this all started. And because he knows what happens to leaders who start slipping.

"I'm here."

"Good," he says. "Because this isn't the time to get distracted."

My jaw tightens.

He doesn't say Gia's name.

But he doesn't have to.

I nod once. "I know."

Namjoon studies me another second, then turns back to the table. Jimin leans into his seat with a lazy yawn. Taehyung throws his knife at a board and misses by a hair.

But I stay quiet.

Because they're right.

I've been distracted.

I'm thinking about soft skin and sharp eyes. About the way Gia looked at me across the table this morning. About how she flinched when I said someone else would be watching her.

I don't get attached.

Never had the time. Never saw the point.

But now?

She's in my apartment. In my space. Wrapped in my sheets and eating my food. And it feels like something that shouldn't feel like anything at all.

I stand up and stretch, my spine cracking loud in the stillness.

"I'll check in later," I say, grabbing my coat from the back of the chair.

Namjoon doesn't stop me.

But his voice follows behind.

"Don't forget who you are, Jungkook."

I pause. Glance back.

He's not looking at me anymore — just the map.

But the words stick.

I nod once.

Then leave.

Y/N POV

The knock comes soft, just after noon.

I glance at the door, then the clock, then back again. It's not Jungkook. He doesn't knock.

I open it carefully.

Yoongi stands there, black coat draped over his shoulders, hands tucked into his pockets. He doesn't smile. Doesn't tilt his head or raise a brow like Jimin might've. He just nods once.

"Jungkook sent me."

His voice is quiet. Low. Not harsh — just muted, like everything else about him. Controlled. Like he's used to saying things once and being heard the first time.

I step aside.

He walks in slow, eyes scanning the space like it's second nature. His gaze doesn't linger on anything, but I can feel it checking. Noticing. Registering.

When he finally speaks again, it's while dropping into the chair near the far window.

"I'll be here till he's back."

That's it.

He doesn't ask where I was. Doesn't try to talk. Just leans back and stares outside like he has nothing to say and doesn't want to hear anything either.

I sit across from him, the silence stretching like wire between us.

Jimin would've made some joke by now. Taehyung would've picked up a controller and challenged me to something dumb. But Yoongi?

He just watches the window.

I fold my hands in my lap. Try not to fidget.

Minutes pass. He takes a call — short, quiet, clipped. Something about a route and a number. Then he gets up, mutters something about checking the hallway.

As soon as the door clicks behind him, I move.

I don't rush. I just stand, smooth down the hem of my shirt, and walk down the hall like I'm stretching my legs.

Jungkook's room is still neat. Still cold. Still him.

I slip inside and close the door softly behind me.

There's a narrow cabinet near the closet — one I hadn't checked yet. I try the handle.

Locked.

I crouch, sliding my fingernail along the edge.

Not a full lock. Just a latch.

I pop it open with the tip of a nail file.

Inside, thin black folders stacked vertically. Tabs marked with dates. Some recent. Some older.

I pull the newest one.

It's not about the Morettis. No names I recognize from my family.

But there's enough.

A list of distribution stops. Three code names for drop sites. A pending contact to a Russian import rep. A mapped-out plan for rerouting weapon shipments through Busan — subtle, clean, no blood attached.

It's not explosive. But it's something.

My father could take this. Twist it. Leak it. Push in and unravel it piece by piece.

That's how he works. Quiet ruin.

I snap a photo of each page, then slide everything back the way I found it.

My heart is pounding — not from fear. From how easy it is.

Too easy.

I straighten, smooth my shirt again, and slip back into the hallway.

Yoongi is just walking back in. He gives me a look — unreadable, as always.

"Bathroom," I lie.

He nods once. Says nothing.

The silence returns.

I pour myself water, sit on the far side of the couch, and scroll my phone like I'm just bored.

It doesn't take long.

The call lights up the screen under a private line.

I don't answer right away. Just get up, walk to the bathroom, and close the door quietly behind me.

I sit on the edge of the tub, phone dimmed to its lowest brightness.

Then I answer.

His voice is low, casual. Too casual.

"I heard Jungkook stepped out."

I say nothing for a second. "He went to a meeting. I don't know where."

There's a pause.

Then the smile behind the voice turns sharp.

"Good," my father says. "I decided to make a few small moves. Now that we've got you in place."

My stomach twists.

"What kind of moves?"

"Just a little pressure. Cut a few supply lines. Disrupt a few shipments. Quiet enough not to be traced, but loud enough to shake something."

I stay still.

He continues, voice even.

"You've done well, Y/N. Keep watching. Keep gathering. We'll take him apart slowly."

I press my thumb against my knee, trying to ground myself. My heart feels like it's beating in the wrong place — up near my throat.

He adds, almost offhand:

"And when the time comes... be ready."

I don't breathe.

"To kill him," he finishes.

The line goes quiet.

"I don't think—" I start.

"No hesitations."

His tone sharpens — just a notch.

"You knew what this was."

I stare at the wall, the words caught in my throat.

"I know," I say finally. Quiet. Empty.

"I'll be in touch."

He hangs up.

I sit there for a long time after, the silence loud in my ears.

Because I knew this was coming.

I just didn't think it would feel like this.

[littlegochu]

indelible part 8│ jjk 18+

in·del·i·ble

adjective

not able to be forgotten or removed: "i made an indelible impression on him."

"i want to watch the light drain from jeon jungkook's eyes the moment he realizes who i am."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: dark mafia romance, romantic suspense, organized crime, psychological drama, enemies-to-lovers, forbidden romance, slow burn, hidden identity, betrayal and loyalty, revenge, cold male lead, girl boss female lead that makes the male lead headover heels eeeee

rating: 18+, smut, rough sex, passionate intimacy, dominance and submission, possessive male lead, sexually charged arguments, emotionally charged sex, aftercare moments, sexual tension

synopsis: my job was simple: get close to jeon jungkook, the man at the top, and feed my father everything he needs to burn their world to the ground.

falling for him was never part of the plan. but now every lie i’ve told is starting to unravel—and i’m not sure if i’m here to destroy him… or to save myself.

Y/N POV

The apartment is quiet when I wake up.

But my chest is already tight. My hands curled into fists against the blanket.

I barely slept.

The nightmare hasn't let go. I can still feel the blood on my hands. Luca's lifeless eyes. Jungkook's shadow standing over him like some twisted god.

And now I'm here—in his home. In his clothes. In his world.

I sit up slowly, jaw clenched, the memory pressing against my ribs like it wants to break through. This place is too warm. Too calm. Too easy to forget.

I slide out of bed and open the door, barefoot, heartbeat steady. The hallway is quiet. The kitchen untouched. No jacket by the door. No footsteps. No movement.

Gone.

Then I see it.

A folded note on the counter, written in his careful, steady handwriting.

Had some business to handle. Back soon. Don't open the door. Call if you need anything.— J010-XXXX-XXXX

I read the number twice. Three times. I don't save it. But I won't forget it either.

He trusts me.

That's his mistake.

The nightmare sharpens behind my eyes again, vivid and unshakable. My brother's blood. My family's silence. The weight of everything they lost. It stiffens my spine. Clears the fog, Jungkook's softness keeps trying to pull me in.

I check the apartment, methodically now. Clean. Empty. Still no cameras—at least not visible ones. But this time I don't hesitate.

I walk straight to the office and test the knob.

Unlocked.

He left it open again.

I open it slowly. Light pours in through the blinds, slicing across the desk in clean, gold lines. His chair is tucked in. Drawers closed. Nothing obvious.

I check the lower drawer first this time.

Files. Stamped. Neat.

MTR Logistics.

I open the folder and snap a photo of the latest transaction page. No more hesitation. No more waiting.

I dig through the second drawer.

A black notebook, heavy. Tucked beneath spare chargers and pens.

I flip to the middle—names. Initials. Some circled. Some crossed out.

It's a list.

And something about it makes my stomach clench.

I lift my phone.

The door slams open.

"Yo—!"

I snap the book shut and spin around, drawer halfway closed, phone half-hidden behind my back.

Taehyung freezes in the doorway, brows lifting like he wasn't expecting to walk in on anything.

He's in sweats, hair a mess, wearing socks that don't match. He blinks at me, then at the desk, then back at me again.

"Do you knock?" I ask flatly.

"Do I live here?" he shoots back. "Relax. Jungkook told me to check on you."

I lift a brow. "I'm fine."

"You look like you just deleted evidence."

I close the drawer. "Was looking for coffee."

He snorts. "Sure. Come on. I need a rematch."

"For what?"

"Video games. You cheated last time."

"I've never played you."

He grins. "Exactly."

He's chaos, loud and off-balance and weirdly good at defusing tension. Maybe he knows what I was doing. Maybe he doesn't. But he doesn't press. Just turns and heads for the living room like it's his house.

I follow.

Not because I want to. Because it keeps suspicion off me.

The game is simple. Competitive. Taehyung curses a lot and accuses me of war crimes for throwing knives too much. I win twice. He accuses me of hacking the system.

But the whole time, my brain stays sharp. Focused. Not on the screen. On the list in that notebook. On the photo I just took. On Jungkook.

This is what I needed.

The nightmare cleared the haze. And no matter how soft this place feels, or how kind his silence is—

It doesn't erase what he's tied to.

That blood is still on his hands.

And I'm going to make sure he remembers that.

Taehyung is half-lounged across the couch, controller in hand, mumbling something about hitboxes and how I must be cheating.

"You're stabbing me in the face," he mutters.

"You're still breathing."

"I'm not."

"You were before I threw the knife."

He groans dramatically as his character drops with a crunch. "I swear this game is rigged. Or you're cursed."

I smile faintly, shrugging without looking at him. "Get better."

Taehyung opens his mouth to argue again, but the sound of the front door unlocking cuts him off.

We both go still.

The energy in the room shifts in a second—soft to sharp, easy to alert.

The door swings open, and Jungkook steps inside.

And I understand the shift immediately.

He's wearing a suit.

Black. Clean. Tailored like it was made for him. The jacket hugs his broad shoulders, the white shirt underneath crisp and open at the collar, his black tie loosened just enough to show how tight his throat must feel. His slacks stretch clean over long legs, and his hair is messy—pushed back, a few strands falling forward, like he's run his hand through it too many times.

He's gorgeous.

And cold.

His expression is all stone—jaw locked, mouth drawn tight, eyes dark and unreadable.

He looks at Taehyung first. Then me.

Nothing softens.

"Go home," Jungkook says, voice low.

Taehyung pauses. "What?"

Jungkook doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't need to. "Now."

Taehyung shoots me a glance but doesn't argue. "Alright, alright."

He grabs his hoodie, controller abandoned, and heads to the door. "See you later," he mutters on the way out.

The door clicks closed behind him.

Silence.

Jungkook walks into the kitchen and shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair. He moves like he's still fighting something—shoulders tense, every motion sharp and silent. He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, twists the cap too hard, and drinks half of it in one go.

I watch from the couch.

He sets the bottle down with a dull thud and leans forward, bracing his hands on the counter.

His back rises and falls slowly.

"You okay?" I ask.

He doesn't look at me.

"It was a shit day," he says quietly.

My voice softens. "Want to talk about it?"

He exhales, finally turning to face me.

"They followed one of my guys. Waited until he was alone. Left a message in his car. Knife in the door. My name carved into the handle."

I blink.

That's not a warning. That's a threat.

He leans back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, shirt stretched tight across his torso. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow now—tattoos exposed, veins raised, hands curled like he's still holding the tension from hours ago.

"They didn't kill him," he adds. "Just roughed him up. But they could've. And they wanted me to know it."

I stay still.

He drops his arms. Rubs a hand down his face. "I shouldn't have let him leave alone."

"You blame yourself," I murmur.

Silence.

He doesn't deny it.

And something in me shifts.

I should be cold. Detached. I should take this vulnerability and use it. He's exposed. Distracted. This is the time to ask more, dig deeper. But I don't.

Because he's not yelling. He's not cruel. He's just... tired.

Tired and trying.

And I hate how much that gets to me.

I scoot over on the couch, just slightly, and pat the cushion beside me. "Sit."

He doesn't move at first.

Then he does.

He walks over, slow, eyes unreadable, and sinks down next to me. Close. Warm. Solid.

We sit in silence for a beat.

"You know it's not your fault, right?" I ask quietly.

"It is," he replies without missing a beat. "That's the price of being in charge. When something happens, it's on me."

His voice is hoarse. He leans forward, forearms braced on his knees. I watch the way his fingers flex—inked, strong, twitching like he's holding something invisible just to keep from shaking.

"You act like you're the only one allowed to carry things," I say.

He doesn't look at me.

But something in him reacts.

I don't mean to move closer.

But I do.

Slowly, I shift beside him, heart thudding as I reach out and wrap my arms around his neck.

He freezes.

His entire body stiffens like I've caught him off guard.

I almost pull back.

But then he exhales—slow, uneven—and leans into it.

His arm lifts, hesitates, then settles across my back.

And just like that, we breathe.

We stay like that—wrapped up in each other's silence. I don't press. I don't speak. I just stay close, cheek against his shoulder, the fabric of his dress shirt cool under my skin.

I feel the way his body begins to relax. His heartbeat slows. His grip at my waist softens.

We shift a little, wordless, until I'm curled into his side, and he leans back against the couch, one arm around me, chin resting gently against the top of my head.

We don't plan to fall asleep.

But we do.

And for the first time in weeks, I forget I'm lying next to the man I came here to betray.

Because in this moment, I don't feel like a spy or a weapon.

I just feel... safe.

And that scares me more than anything else.

I wake up to the sound of breathing.

Soft. Slow. Just behind me.

There's weight across my waist, a palm resting flat against my stomach. The heat of it seeps through the thin fabric of my shirt like it belongs there.

Jungkook.

For a second, I don't move.

The morning light is barely creeping in through the curtains, just enough to silver the edges of the room. The apartment is quiet. Still.

And I'm in his arms.

We're on the couch—twisted under a thin throw blanket, our legs tangled, my back tucked against his chest. One of his knees is hooked under mine. His body is warm and solid and too close.

His breathing stays steady, calm. Like this is just... normal.

Like he's done this a hundred times.

I shift slowly, just enough to glance up at him.

He's still asleep.

Hair messy, falling over his forehead. His jaw is sharp even relaxed, mouth slightly parted. There's a faint crease between his brows, like something under the surface is still alert even in rest.

He looks younger like this.

But not softer.

Just... unguarded.

I should move.

Untangle myself, get some space, remember why I'm here.

But I don't.

Because there's something dangerous about how easy it is to stay. Something selfish. Something warm.

My phone buzzes.

The vibration is soft, muffled by the cushion, but it cuts through the haze like icewater.

I ease out of his hold and reach for it.

One message.

No name.

Just a number I know by heart.

Progress?

I stare at it.

My thumb hovers for a beat before I delete it.

No hesitation.

But it still presses against my ribs like a bruise.

Behind me, Jungkook stirs.

His voice comes out low, rough. Barely above a whisper.

"...I've never slept through the night before."

I freeze.

I don't look at him.

And he doesn't offer anything else.

No explanation. No follow-up.

Just those quiet, simple words that land heavier than they should.

He sits up behind me. I feel the couch shift under his weight, hear the low breath he drags in as he stretches. When I turn to glance over my shoulder, he's rubbing a hand down his face, hair falling in his eyes.

His shirt is wrinkled, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He looks wrecked.

He looks good.

"Breakfast," he mutters. "Ten minutes."

I nod once.

He stands, steps toward the kitchen like he's been doing this his whole life. No second thoughts. No glances back.

The normalcy is what ruins me.

Not the cooking.

The routine.

The way he moves like he's done this before. Like feeding me is just something that comes with the territory.

Like I'm something he wants to take care of.

It's not new.

But it's dangerous.

Because it's starting to feel like comfort.

And comfort gets people killed.

"I'm gonna shower," I say, already walking toward the hallway.

"Mm." His back is to me, focused on the stove. "You know where it is."

I don't go to the bathroom.

Not yet.

The moment I turn the corner, I head for his room.

The door creaks softly as I ease it open.

The space is cold. Precise. Everything in its place. Dark walls. Clean sheets. No clutter. It looks untouched, lived-in but controlled. Like him.

I scan quickly.

Top drawer—empty.

Second—clothes.

Third—papers.

I ease it open, careful not to make a sound.

There's a slim folder tucked at the back.

I open it.

Photos. Notes.

Faces I don't recognize. Men. Locations. Numbers.

Then one word.

Moretti.

My blood goes cold.

Next to it: Status: unknown. Last contact redacted. Monitor all possible ties.

My heart punches the inside of my chest. I snap a photo, two, then slide the folder exactly where I found it.

Close the drawer. Exhale slow.

And fix my face before I step into the hall.

"Gia."

His voice carries from the kitchen. Firm. Rough around the edges. Not suspicious. Just his usual tone—commanding without trying.

"Food's done. Don't make me call you again."

I swallow and straighten.

My feet move before I'm ready.

I walk toward the kitchen, pulse thudding behind my ribs like a warning.

Because I came here to betray him.

But he keeps making it feel like home.

[littlegochu]

indelible part 7│ jjk 18+

in·del·i·ble

adjective

not able to be forgotten or removed: "i made an indelible impression on him."

"i want to watch the light drain from jeon jungkook's eyes the moment he realizes who i am."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: dark mafia romance, romantic suspense, organized crime, psychological drama, enemies-to-lovers, forbidden romance, slow burn, hidden identity, betrayal and loyalty, revenge, cold male lead, girl boss female lead that makes the male lead headover heels eeeee

rating: 18+, smut, rough sex, passionate intimacy, dominance and submission, possessive male lead, sexually charged arguments, emotionally charged sex, aftercare moments, sexual tension

synopsis: my job was simple: get close to jeon jungkook, the man at the top, and feed my father everything he needs to burn their world to the ground.

falling for him was never part of the plan. but now every lie i’ve told is starting to unravel—and i’m not sure if i’m here to destroy him… or to save myself.

Jungkook POV

The mall's quieter at night.

Shops are still open, but the crowd's thinned. There's a calmness to it now—warm gold lighting spilling from storefronts, polished tile floors glowing in soft reflection, the echo of footsteps instead of shouting kids and blaring speakers.

It's not peace, exactly. But it's close.

She walks beside me, silent. Not tense, not guarded. Just... alert. Like she's trying to figure out what this is. Like she's still on the edge of something and waiting to see which way it tilts.

I get it. I'm doing the same.

She stops near a window display—some minimal, overpriced clothing brand. Neutral colors. Folded stacks. Nothing special. But she looks at it like it's a choice she doesn't know how to make.

I study her.

She's dressed casual—hoodie, sneakers, her hair pulled back just enough to show the curve of her jaw. Her face is calm, but there's a crease between her brows she probably doesn't know is there. She's thinking too hard about something she won't say out loud.

I say it before I can stop myself. "You can grab what you want."

She blinks, like the suggestion surprises her.

"I'm good," she says.

I tilt my head. "Doesn't mean you don't need something."

"I didn't say I needed anything."

"You didn't have to."

Her eyes narrow slightly. Not angry. Just cautious. Like she's trying to figure out why I care.

"Are you always this generous with your hostages?" she asks dryly.

"If you were a hostage," I mutter, "you wouldn't be at the mall."

That gets a flicker of a smile. Just for a second.

And suddenly—it hits me.

Is this a date?

I glance over at her again, and everything around us slows for a moment. The way she walks beside me. The silence. The way I notice too much—the soft swing of her ponytail, the curve of her knuckles inside her sleeves, the way she reads store windows like she's trying to understand a language she used to know but forgot.

I've never been on a date.

Not really.

Never been one for relationships. Not like I had the time. Not in this life.

And this? This shouldn't feel like one.

But it does.

And I shouldn't like it.

I snap myself out of it as she steps into the store without a word. I follow a few beats later, jaw tight, hands in my pockets, pretending I'm not still thinking about the way her smile looked under the store lights.

Ten minutes later, I'm dropping my card at the register before she can argue. She watches me with that same unreadable look, like she's trying to catch me slipping. Like she wants to know what the hell this is.

I don't explain.

She doesn't ask.

-

The drive back is quiet.

The city blurs past the windshield—taillights glowing red in the dark, buildings stacked in layers, neon signs still buzzing even as the streets begin to thin. The air between us hums, not awkward but not comfortable either. It's just there.

When we reach the apartment, she pauses just inside the doorway, her eyes scanning the space like she's stepping into a trap.

Dark wood floors. Clean lines. Black steel and glass. Minimalist furniture. Subtle lighting. It's neat, orderly—built to feel controlled.

But somehow, she makes it feel... different. Just by being in it.

"This doesn't feel like you," she says softly.

I lean against the wall, watching her as she wanders further in. "No?"

She shakes her head. "It's too calm."

"That's the point."

She doesn't argue. Just drifts around the room, fingertips grazing the edge of the counter, the back of the couch, the windowpane.

She looks like she belongs here. Not because she fits—she doesn't. Because she's not trying to.

My phone buzzes.

I check the screen. A name I can't ignore.

I glance back at her—still standing at the window, silhouetted by the glow of the city skyline.

"Wind down," I say. "Do whatever you need."

She turns slightly, eyes meeting mine. "And you?"

"Call. I won't be long."

She nods, and I head for my office, phone already pressed to my ear.

But as I close the door behind me, I glance back one last time.

She's still standing there, unmoving. Still quiet.

Like she's not sure if this place is a safe house or a cage. And I don't know which I'm offering her yet.

Y/N POV

The bathroom is quiet, thick with steam. The mirror's fogged, the air still warm against my skin. The clothes Jungkook bought me are folded on the counter, simple and soft. A black shirt. Cotton shorts. Nothing flashy. Comfortable. Thoughtful.

I hesitate before touching them.

I shouldn't wear them. I should put my own hoodie back on, keep the line between us sharp. But instead, I dry off and slip into what he gave me. The shirt drapes over me, the shorts hug my hips gently. They fit too well. He pays attention. 

Dangerous.

The hallway's dim as I step out, barefoot and quiet. The air feels cooler out here, and the faint scent of garlic and soy sauce pulls me toward the kitchen before I even register it.

Jungkook is standing at the stove.

His back is to me, sleeves pushed up, tattoos stark against his skin. He's plating something onto two dishes, the motion slow, deliberate. He moves like everything he does matters — precise, clean, quiet confidence built into his bones.

He doesn't notice me right away. His head is tilted slightly down, hair falling forward as he works. There's a small furrow in his brow, like he's focused, like this is serious to him.

Dinner. For both of us.

I feel something twist in my chest.

This was supposed to be simple. Get close. Find his weakness. Do what I came here to do.

But he's making it hard. Not with words. Not with promises. Just with things like this — a folded shirt. A warm plate. A quiet kitchen that smells like home.

He turns slightly, catching me in the corner of his eye. His gaze flicks to what I'm wearing. Just for a second. Something in his expression softens, but he doesn't comment on it.

"Food's ready," he says. His voice is low, quiet like the room around us.

I nod and move toward him, sitting down at the small table without a word. He sets the plate in front of me, then his own, and sits across from me like it's nothing.

The food's simple ��� rice, stir-fried vegetables, some kind of glazed chicken. But it smells amazing, and I realize how hungry I am only after the first bite.

We eat in silence. No questions. No small talk. Just two people sitting across from each other, pretending this isn't strange.

He eats slowly, his sleeves still rolled, the muscles in his forearms flexing every now and then. His jaw shifts when he chews, sharp and clean in the low light. His eyes flick to me sometimes, never long, just enough to check that I'm okay.

And I hate that it makes me feel safe.

I was supposed to stay detached. Focused. But every minute in this apartment, every word he doesn't say, every quiet thing he does — it's softening something I swore I'd keep sharp.

"You good?" he asks after a while, voice low.

"Yeah," I say. "Full."

He nods once and starts clearing the plates. I go to help, but he stops me with a glance. "You can sleep. I'll handle this."

I hesitate, but I don't argue. My chest feels heavy. My limbs slower. Warm food and warm lighting and a man who should be harder to read than this.

I step into the guest room, still wearing the clothes he picked. I lie down without turning on the light, pulling the blanket over me, heart thudding softly beneath it.

I have to stop this.

I have to remember why I came.

But for the first time since this started, I don't want to sleep like I'm waiting for the end.

I just want to rest.

And forget — just for a little while — that I'm the one holding the knife.

Y/N POV

The dream starts soft.

Warm light. Gentle voices. My brother's laugh. Luca's hand brushing mine as he walks ahead of me, too fast like always. We're in the old courtyard, the one near my mother's shop. It smells like summer — concrete dust and jasmine.

He turns to look at me, says something I can't hear.

Then he's gone.

Just gone.

And I'm running.

The world tilts. The light snaps to red. Sirens scream in the distance, and I know what this is. I know where it's going. But I can't stop it.

I see the car.

Glass scattered. Metal bent. His hand still twitching, blood slipping between his fingers.

I scream, but no one hears it.

I kneel next to his body. Try to hold him together. Try to call his name. But the sound sticks in my throat like broken glass.

Then someone pulls me back.

Hands on my shoulders. Tight. Cold.

And I look up—

Jungkook.

Standing over me, face calm, hands covered in blood.

He doesn't say a word.

Just watches me fall apart.

And smiles.

-

I wake up choking on my own breath.

My shirt's soaked through with sweat, fingers curled tight into the blanket like I was gripping the edge of a cliff. My heart races so fast I can't tell if it's still beating or just breaking.

The room is dark. Quiet. Safe.

But I'm not.

I push the blanket off. Sit up too fast. My legs are weak, but I swing them to the floor anyway. My whole body feels like it's vibrating — too hot, too cold, like my skin doesn't fit right.

That dream wasn't new.

I've had it before. The car. The blood. Luca.

But this time, it was worse.

This time, Jungkook was in it.

He didn't kill my brother. I know that. Not directly. Not with his hands.

But he's part of it.

He belongs to the world that took everything from me. And I'm standing here in his clothes, in his apartment, eating his food, letting myself feel things I swore I'd buried.

No.

I breathe in sharp. I need to remember what he is.

He is the reason I lost my brother.

He is the target. No matter how kind his silence is. No matter how careful his hands are. No matter how safe he makes me feel.

I can't fall into this.

I won't.

I force myself to stand. My legs shake. My hands ache. But the fire in my chest is back. Burned clean.

This isn't my home.

And he's not someone I'm allowed to want.

He's the one I came here to destroy.

And I need to remember that before it's too late.

-

I sit on the edge of the tub in the dark, the bathroom door closed behind me, my phone dimmed to its lowest brightness. My thumb hovers over the contact I wasn't supposed to use unless things shifted—unless I was in too deep.

They don't know where I am.

Not yet.

The call connects on the third ring.

"Y/N?" My mother's voice is tight, low. Not relieved. Just bracing.

"I don't have long," I whisper. "And you're not going to like this."

A pause. "Where are you?"

"In his apartment."

Silence.

Then sharper. "You mean—"

"Yes. Him."

The other end of the line goes deathly still. I imagine the two of them standing over one of their burners, staring at each other in stunned silence. I've never caught them off guard before. I'm the reliable one. Controlled. But this was the fastest way in, and I took it.

"You weren't supposed to move this fast," my mother says carefully.

"I didn't plan to," I admit. "But I had the opening. He let me in."

"Let you?" my father cuts in now, his voice rough and low. "What does that mean?"

"I'm staying in his apartment. Sleeping in his guest bed. Wearing clothes he picked for me. He thinks I'm someone else—he doesn't know my name, or where I'm from. But he trusts me."

There's another pause. Long. Heavy.

"Good," my father finally says. "Then we start."

"I've seen things," I continue, keeping my voice quiet. "Not hard evidence yet. But I know how it runs. There's a man named Taehyung—he handles movement, logistics, front-facing work. Another one, Jimin, runs protection. They're close to Jungkook but not deep. He holds control tight."

"He would," my father says. "That's how it lasts. But no empire stands without weight at the bottom."

"He's clean," I say. "Too clean. No loose documents. No emails. Nothing obvious. It's all stored or hidden. Or maybe it's not here at all."

"But he's still human," my father mutters. "He has tells. Routines. People. If we can't access his mind, we dismantle his structure. Quietly. From underneath."

I press the phone tighter to my ear. "You want to bring it down before touching him."

"I want him to watch it burn. His people abandon him. His money vanish. His network collapse. And when all that's left is him—then you finish it."

I blink. "You want me to kill him."

He doesn't hesitate. "Yes."

A silence grows between us. Not shock. Not fear. Just... stillness.

"You've killed before," he says. "This will be no different."

"It's different," I say quietly. "He's—"

"Don't finish that sentence," my mother cuts in. "You're not there to feel anything."

I clench my jaw. My voice drops even lower. "I haven't lost focus."

"You got close."

"I had to."

"Don't let it twist you."

"I won't."

There's another pause, the kind that feels like a warning.

"You contact us again when you have something real," my father says. "Until then, you're invisible."

I nod, even though they can't see me. "Copy that."

The call ends.

I hold the phone for a second longer, my fingers tightening around it. My breath is too loud in the silence. My heartbeat won't slow.

When I finally set it down, I don't feel better. I feel awake. Like I've stepped back from a cliff I didn't know I was standing on.

I walk back to the guest room. The apartment is still dark. Still quiet. Still warm from the dinner he made.

I crawl under the blanket, his shirt still clinging to my skin, and stare at the ceiling.

Burn it down. Then kill him.

That's the plan.

And tonight, I remember it.

[littlegochu]

indelible part 6│ jjk 18+

in·del·i·ble

adjective

not able to be forgotten or removed: "i made an indelible impression on him."

"i want to watch the light drain from jeon jungkook's eyes the moment he realizes who i am."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: dark mafia romance, romantic suspense, organized crime, psychological drama, enemies-to-lovers, forbidden romance, slow burn, hidden identity, betrayal and loyalty, revenge, cold male lead, girl boss female lead that makes the male lead headover heels eeeee

rating: 18+, smut, rough sex, passionate intimacy, dominance and submission, possessive male lead, sexually charged arguments, emotionally charged sex, aftercare moments, sexual tension

synopsis: my job was simple: get close to jeon jungkook, the man at the top, and feed my father everything he needs to burn their world to the ground.

falling for him was never part of the plan. but now every lie i’ve told is starting to unravel—and i’m not sure if i’m here to destroy him… or to save myself.

Y/N POV

Taehyung's been watching me from the corner of the room for the last five minutes.

He's pretending to scroll through his phone, slouched back in a steel chair like he's the least threatening man alive. But I can feel it—his eyes flicking up every now and then, subtle, but not subtle enough.

"Do you want a photo?" I ask, not bothering to look at him.

He snorts. "Nah, I already memorized your good side."

I glance at him, deadpan. "Too bad you don't have one."

"Ouch." He presses a hand to his chest, mock wounded. "You know, for someone who got chauffeured here for her own safety, you're not very grateful."

"I didn't ask to be chauffeured. I was ambushed."

"With manners."

I roll my eyes and lean back into the couch, stretching just enough to casually glance around the room again.

We're in a secondary meeting space now—quieter, less guarded. A whiteboard rests against one wall, half-erased scribbles about recent shipments still visible. Someone's handwriting is sharp and fast, like they were trying to get the details out before they disappeared. Acronyms I recognize are circled in red. A series of dates stacked vertically. Patterns forming, if you know where to look.

A few open folders lie on the table near Taehyung. He doesn't notice when my eyes catch on a manifest peeking out: shipping codes, port locations, transaction initials. Just a glimpse, but enough to store.

Another shell label: MTR Logistics.

That's the second time I've seen that name. First in a bank transfer linked to an old Moretti account. Now here.

I file it away. Smile to myself.

There's more: a mug with dried coffee stains beside the whiteboard, still warm enough to suggest someone was just here—someone who left in a hurry. A map tacked to the far wall, pushpins clustered around two cities I know too well.

They've been planning something. Or covering something up.

"You're awfully nosy for someone pretending to be bored," Taehyung mutters, not looking up.

I don't flinch. "You're awfully observant for someone pretending to be relaxed."

He grins. "I like you."

"Good. Now leave."

He laughs again, but the tension between us fades. Almost like it was never there.

"You always this nice?" he asks.

"Only to people I like," I reply.

He raises a brow. "So I'm special?"

"You're temporary."

He lets out a low whistle. "Harsh."

I shrug. "Don't take it personally. I'm like this with everyone."

"Well," he says, dropping the chair legs back to the ground with a thud. "Good to know you're consistent."

There's something in his smile that makes it impossible to fully hate him. Maybe it's because he doesn't try too hard. Or maybe it's because he doesn't seem to be trying at all. He just exists with this easy confidence that makes everything feel less sharp.

Still, I stay guarded.

Even when he offers me a drink. Even when he leans back and rambles about how boring the warehouse gets.

Even when I catch myself almost—almost—smiling.

That's when I know I need to stop.

Because that's how it starts. That's how people get comfortable. And comfort is a liability I can't afford.

The door opens before he can come up with another smart reply.

A man I don't recognize walks in first—broad shoulders, dark hair, a casual confidence in the way he moves. He tosses a file onto the desk like he owns the place. Jungkook follows behind him, sharp, clean, focused as ever. His eyes scan the room once before landing on me.

His shoulders ease just slightly.

He walks closer, nodding toward Taehyung. "She giving you hell?"

"She's holding her own," Taehyung says with a grin, standing. "Might even like her."

"Don't," I say flatly.

Jungkook's lips twitch.

The unfamiliar guy lets out a low whistle, glancing between us. "Okay, so this is what tension looks like."

"I'm not tense," I say.

"Exactly what a tense person would say," Taehyung fires back.

Jungkook finally moves to my side. He doesn't sit, just stands close enough for his presence to feel intentional.

"You doing okay?" he asks, voice low.

I nod. "Still breathing."

He exhales slowly, then looks at the other two. "Give us a minute."

Taehyung and the other guy leave without argument, though Taehyung throws one last smirk my way.

The door clicks shut.

Jungkook's gaze lingers on me for a second longer before he speaks.

"They were watching your building again this morning."

I blink. "Again?"

He nods. "I don't want you there. Not right now."

"I'm fine—"

"It's not about what you think you are. It's about what they think you are."

I go quiet.

He doesn't soften his tone. Doesn't beg. Just looks at me like the decision's already made.

"I want you to stay with me."

I blink.

It's not the words that throw me. It's how easily he says them.

"I want you to stay with me."

Like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like it isn't completely insane.

He says it calmly—too calmly. He's standing across from me, one hand resting loosely at his side, the other tucked into the pocket of his jacket. His shoulders are squared, posture solid and still. Not tense. Not guarded. Just... present.

His black shirt clings to him in places—broad chest, lean frame—and the edge of a tattoo peeks out from beneath the collar, curling up his neck like a quiet warning. But his eyes—dark, steady—don't match the threat his body suggests. They're focused. Clear.

Like I'm the only thing in the room that matters.

Like he's already decided something, and all that's left is for me to catch up.

I look at him for a long second.

He doesn't fidget. Doesn't look away. Just stands there, grounded and unreadable, like he has nothing to prove.

And I can't figure out why.

"You're okay with me?" I ask slowly. "You don't even know me. I'm a stranger."

His gaze doesn't falter. "Your house isn't safe because of me."

I don't say anything. But something sharp twists low in my stomach.

"I brought you into this," he continues. "So I'm going to keep you safe now."

There's no force in his voice. No demand. Just that same quiet certainty, like it's already settled.

Then, softer—barely audible—he says something in Korean.

"네 거야."

Translation: "You're mine."

I don't know what it means. But the way it leaves his mouth—low, like a secret—it lands anyway.

Heavy. Warm. Dangerous.

I shrug it off. Pretend it doesn't matter that he said it like a promise. Like it meant something.

But I don't answer. Not yet.

Because now I'm thinking: if I agree too quickly, will it make me look eager? Suspicious? Like I've got a motive?

I do have a motive.

But I can't afford for him to see that. Not yet.

So I pause. Let the silence settle between us like smoke.

Jungkook shifts slightly, his voice quieter now. "I don't trust easily."

That surprises me.

He steps forward—not fast, not aggressive. Just one smooth, intentional movement that closes the space between us a little.

Up close, he's all contrast. Calm expression, storm beneath the surface. Sharp jaw, faint stubble along his throat, hair falling just enough over his brow to soften everything else.

"But I trust what I see," he says. "And I see someone who hasn't run, even when she should have."

My pulse kicks up.

He's not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel—his warmth, his presence, the weight of his attention. It's steadying. And it unsettles me more than I care to admit.

He doesn't smile. Doesn't push.

Just says, "I want you safe. That's it."

And somehow, it's not the offer that makes me cave.

It's the fact that he means it.

I exhale slowly, weighing everything. The risk. The reward. The fact that I can't figure him out, no matter how hard I try.

He doesn't know who I am.

But he wants me close.

And that's dangerous... because I want to say yes.

"Alright," I say at last. Quiet. Careful. Like the word might bite me if I let it settle too fast. "Just for now."

His shoulders ease just slightly—barely a shift, but enough. Like this matters more than he's letting on.

I follow him out of the room a few seconds later, still caught in my own head.

Because none of this makes sense.

He doesn't know what I've done. What I'm here for.

But he's still looking at me like I'm something he wants to protect.

And I can't decide if that makes him naive—

"FUCK!"

The door crashes open, and Taehyung hits the floor like dead weight, limbs flailing, and one knee banging hard against the tile. He groans, face twisted in regret, already halfway to regretting every decision that led him to this moment.

The other man topples right behind him, slipping on the edge of the door frame, barely catching himself before crashing completely. His white dress shirt rides up as he stumbles, one hand still clutching a half-empty coffee cup, the other bracing his fall on Taehyung's back.

They freeze.

It's silent for a full second—then two.

Jungkook doesn't flinch.

I blink once.

Taehyung clears his throat from the floor. "It was Jimin's idea."

"We were just checking in," Jimin says casually, still crouched and adjusting his sleeves like he meant to be on the floor. "Didn't want to interrupt if you two were... strategizing."

I stare.

"You were pressed against the door," I deadpan.

"Semantics," Taehyung says, pushing himself upright. His black hair is slightly tousled, one side of his face pink from the fall. He's in a dark button-down with the sleeves rolled, the kind of guy who always looks both rumpled and expensive. "We were showing support. Through the wall."

Jimin nods like this makes perfect sense. 

"Support," I repeat, flat.

"Exactly," Taehyung says. "We're planning your welcome party, actually. Very exclusive. Invite-only."

Jimin perks up. "Thinking balloons, maybe a cake. Or a banner that says 'Please don't stab us in our sleep.'"

"Or 'Welcome to the chaos,'" Taehyung adds. "We're still workshopping it."

I just blink at them.

Behind me, Jungkook exhales slowly, then steps around them without a word. His expression hasn't changed — sharp jaw tight, shoulders squared, gaze forward. Black shirt, black slacks, dark jacket. Unbothered. Dangerous in a quiet way.

I turn to follow, but not before asking, "You guys good?"

"We're thriving," Jimin says, sprawled halfway on the ground again like gravity owes him something.

Taehyung throws me a wink. "Let us know if you want karaoke."

Jungkook doesn't stop walking. "We're leaving."

"Leaving?" Jimin asks, confused. "Like... now?"

He doesn't answer.

I catch up to him, keeping pace. "Where are we going?"

"To get your stuff."

[littlegochu]

indelible part 5│ jjk 18+

in·del·i·ble

adjective

not able to be forgotten or removed: "i made an indelible impression on him."

"i want to watch the light drain from jeon jungkook's eyes the moment he realizes who i am."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: dark mafia romance, romantic suspense, organized crime, psychological drama, enemies-to-lovers, forbidden romance, slow burn, hidden identity, betrayal and loyalty, revenge, cold male lead, girl boss female lead that makes the male lead headover heels eeeee

rating: 18+, smut, rough sex, passionate intimacy, dominance and submission, possessive male lead, sexually charged arguments, emotionally charged sex, aftercare moments, sexual tension

synopsis: my job was simple: get close to jeon jungkook, the man at the top, and feed my father everything he needs to burn their world to the ground.

falling for him was never part of the plan. but now every lie i’ve told is starting to unravel—and i’m not sure if i’m here to destroy him… or to save myself.

Jungkook POV

"Oh, look who finally shows his face," Jimin calls, voice laced with fake betrayal.

Taehyung leans against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, grinning like he's been waiting all morning for this. "Must be nice," he says. "Getting to play chauffeur while your brothers get shoved into separate cars like divorced parents."

I toss my keys onto the table without looking at either of them. "You made it home, didn't you?"

"Barely," Jimin says, clutching his chest like he's been wounded. "Do you know how humiliating it is to be picked up by your own men? In front of club staff?"

Taehyung pushes off the desk. "I had to sit in the backseat like a damn child."

I shake my head and start flipping through the morning's reports, pretending I'm not entertained.

They don't stop.

"Was it worth it?" Taehyung presses. "All that just to drop off a pretty girl?"

"She's not just pretty," Jimin adds with a sly grin. "You didn't even hesitate. We blinked and you were gone."

"She needed a ride," I say simply.

Jimin raises an eyebrow. "So you volunteered your own time. That's new."

I don't answer.

Because I did.

And because it didn't feel like volunteering.

It felt necessary.

The memory creeps in—her quiet voice in the car, the way she avoided my stare and looked back when she thought I wasn't watching. The way she said "whenever" like she didn't want me to disappear, even if she'd never admit it.

"She said yes?" Taehyung asks, cutting into the silence.

"To what?"

"Letting you drop her off."

I give him a look. "Clearly."

He laughs. "Damn. Okay."

"She must be something," Jimin says, pulling out his phone and spinning it on the table. "You haven't chased anyone like that in... ever."

"She's different."

It slips out before I can stop it.

They both freeze for a second.

Jimin lifts a brow. "Different how?"

I glance at him, then away.

Taehyung whistles low. "Oof."

I let them talk. Let them throw their usual jabs.

But all I can think about is how she looked at me last night—like she saw straight through everything. Like she wasn't scared. Like I didn't have to play the part for her.

That... doesn't happen.

"She gave you her real address?" Jimin asks.

"Yeah."

That surprises both of them.

"You didn't ask twice?" Taehyung says.

"Nope."

Jimin leans forward. "You don't think it's weird? A girl like her being that open?"

I shoot him a sharp look. "She's not stupid."

"No," he agrees quickly. "Just saying. Most women would fake a number, let alone an address."

"Maybe she didn't want to lie."

Taehyung hums. "Or maybe she's already got you wrapped around her finger."

I let the corner of my mouth twitch. "Wouldn't be the worst thing."

That makes them both pause again.

And that silence?

That's the part that tells me everything.

They've seen me violent. Ruthless. I've ordered hits without blinking. I've watched empires burn and didn't flinch. But now I'm sitting here half-smiling like some idiot who got her number at a coffee shop.

They don't get it.

They don't need to get it.

Because I do.

I saw something in her eyes that I can't explain.

Not fear. Not awe. Just... understanding.

And it's messing with me.

Jimin finally breaks the moment with a laugh. "Damn. You really like her."

I don't answer.

Because maybe I do.

Because maybe I can't stop thinking about how still she sat beside me, how her silence didn't feel like distance—it felt like control. The kind I recognize. The kind I've lived.

She didn't ask for anything.

Didn't try to impress me. Didn't flirt. Didn't fake it.

She just was.

And somehow, that was more dangerous than anything else.

Taehyung pulls open the mini fridge and tosses me a bottle of water. "So what's next, lover boy? You planning to send her flowers? Write a poem? Move in?"

"She has work today," I say simply, catching the bottle.

"Oh god," Jimin groans. "You're tracking her schedule?"

I glance at the clock. "I told her I'd pick her up."

Jimin stares. "You what?"

"She didn't ask you to, right?" Taehyung adds, clearly entertained.

"No."

"...And you're still doing it?"

"Yeah."

They both look at me like I've grown a second head.

Then Jimin leans back in his chair, sighs dramatically. "Well, that's it. He's gone."

"Don't say it," I warn.

"Jeon Jungkook has fallen."

"I will shoot you."

Taehyung grins. "Better call your tailor. You'll need a suit for the wedding."

I flip them off and grab the reports from the table.

But my mind's not on work.

It's on her.

And the fact that I already know what she's going to look like when she opens that door.

Like I've been waiting to see her again since the second she left.

Y/N POV

He said he'd pick me up.

I held onto that sentence all day like it meant nothing. Like I didn't care.

But when the clock struck six, I still packed up slower than usual. Still paused in front of the mirror to adjust my coat. Still checked the sidewalk from the window as I came downstairs.

And he wasn't there.

Instead, a black car I didn't recognize idled at the curb.

Not him.

The passenger window rolled down. A man I'd never seen before leaned his elbow on the door with a grin that was far too familiar for a stranger.

Tousled black hair, cheekbones that could cut glass, dark eyes that sparkled with mischief. He looked like the kind of guy who got away with everything because he knew exactly how to walk the line between charming and reckless.

"Gia?"

I stopped dead.

He wasn't dressed like a threat—casual black jacket, loose white tee, silver chains layered at his neck. But that smirk? That tone? It screamed danger wrapped in a joke.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" I asked, cold.

He raised both hands in mock surrender. "Whoa, easy. Jungkook sent me."

Wrong move.

I stepped back without hesitation. "You come closer, I call the cops."

He blinked, then laughed under his breath like I'd just told him the best joke of the day. "Alright, didn't expect a welcome party."

I was already unlocking my phone when he sighed, muttering, "Feisty."

He pulled out his own phone, thumbed the screen. "Hang on. Don't shoot me yet."

I glared.

Two rings. Then a click. He held the phone out toward me, speaker on.

"Hyung?" Jungkook's voice came through in a language I didn't understand—low, calm, a little rougher than usual.

"Yeah," the stranger replied, tossing me a look. "She's about to pepper spray me. You might wanna say something."

There was a pause.

Then his voice again—clear, certain.

"Gia."

My fingers froze against my phone.

"I meant to come," he said. "Something came up. One of our territories got hit—I had to deal with it. I didn't want to leave you waiting. So I sent Taehyung. He's family."

I didn't speak.

But the second I heard him, something inside me wavered. Not all the way. Just enough.

His voice carried that weight again—steady, grounded, like he meant every word. And I hated that it worked on me.

I hated how it made my chest tighten.

He sounded like he cared.

"I didn't forget," he added. "I just couldn't be in two places at once."

It shouldn't matter.

But it did.

"Fine," I muttered, more to myself than to him.

I got in the car.

Taehyung glanced at me. "She's in."

The leather seats were warm. The silence stretched.

I ended the call.

Taehyung didn't say anything for a while. Just drove. Calm, like this wasn't strange at all.

It wasn't until ten minutes in that he finally spoke.

"You're not going home."

I turned to look at him. "Excuse me?"

"It's not safe," he said, eyes still on the road. "Word got out that Jungkook was seen with someone last night. A few of our guys caught someone tailing your place an hour ago."

My pulse skipped. My hands curled against my thighs.

"How did they even know where I live?"

"They didn't. Not until they started digging. Once your face showed up at the club with Jungkook, it didn't take long."

A chill rippled down my spine.

"They think I'm important to him?"

Taehyung gave a short nod. "Yeah."

He didn't say it like a compliment. Didn't smile when he said it. He was just stating facts.

But they hit harder than I expected.

If I wasn't playing this game so well, they wouldn't be looking for me. If Jungkook didn't care, they wouldn't think I mattered.

The plan was working.

But it was also unraveling at the edges.

"We're going to the warehouse," he said. "Jungkook's on his way there. It's locked down. You'll be safe."

I didn't answer.

Because I wasn't scared of their enemies.

I was scared of the way his voice made me soften. The way I hesitated when I should've walked away. The way I stepped willingly into the car—again.

Because this wasn't about safety.

This was about proximity. Trust. Access.

I wasn't just being brought closer.

I was being let in.

[littlegochu]

spoiled │ jjk 18+

authors note: drunk drabble lmao

the box is sitting on your bed when you get home.

long, black, tied up with ribbon. no card. no text. you don’t need one to know who it’s from.

you untie it slow. the tissue paper is dark, crinkling under your hands. underneath is silk—midnight, heavy, smooth enough to make your fingers twitch. you hold it up. the straps are thin, the neckline low, the fabric falling in a clean line that’ll hit mid-thigh. he’s got it in your exact size, like he’s been planning this for weeks.

a small folded note falls out when you lift it.

dinner at 8. wear this.

no name. no heart. no anything. just him.

you toss the note on the dresser and check the time. an hour and a half. enough to shower, shave, do your makeup. enough to pretend your hands aren’t a little shaky.

by the time you’re done, the dress fits like it was sewn on you. your perfume hangs light in the air. you’re fixing an earring when you hear the low rumble of his car pulling up.

he’s not the type to wait on the curb.

when you open the door, he’s leaning against the hood—black trousers, black shirt, sleeves pushed up, rings catching the light. hair neat but not overdone. that look in his eyes that feels like it’s already touching you.

“get in,” he says.

you raise an eyebrow. “that’s it? no hello?”

“hello baby,” he says, smirk breaking through. “now get in before i change my mind and keep you in the car all night.”

inside, it smells like leather and him—warm, sharp, familiar. one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh, thumb brushing the hem of your dress without looking down.

he doesn’t bother answering when you ask where you’re going. just glances over once, long enough for your stomach to flip, before looking back at the road.

he pulls up to a building lit gold against the dark. private entrance, no crowd. inside, the table’s set by the window, the whole city glowing beneath it.

“you really booked the best table?” you ask.

he gives you that look—half amused, half insulted. “you think i’d put you anywhere else?”

he orders without asking. knows exactly what you like, says it to the server like he’s done it a hundred times. when the wine comes, he pours yours first, fills it just enough, sets it down right in front of you.

you catch him watching you more than the view. “what?”

he leans back in his chair. “nothing. just making sure this was worth pulling you out of the house for.”

the food’s perfect, but dessert comes with a small box slid across the table.

you open it—thin gold bracelet. “what’s this?”

“you’ll wear it,” he says, simple.

he fastens it himself, thumb brushing over your pulse. doesn’t let go right away.

the ride back is quiet except for the music. his hand stays on your thigh the whole time, fingers drumming against your skin like he’s keeping count of something.

his place is warm, lights low, music playing somewhere in the background. there’s a bath steaming in the corner of the bathroom, champagne and fruit set out.

you sink into the water. he sits on the edge, one hand tracing lazy circles on your knee, eyes never really leaving your face. feeds you strawberries, tips the champagne glass to your lips like it’s just another part of the plan.

when you’re done, he wraps you in a towel, dries you off slow, kissing your shoulder in between.

the night’s unhurried. he keeps you close, kissing you like he’s not going anywhere, hands moving over you like he’s memorizing all of it.

later, you’re in bed, his arm locked around your waist, his chain cool against your back, bracelet still on.

he presses his mouth to your shoulder, voice low. “don’t make plans tomorrow.”

“why?” you mumble.

his thumb strokes over your side. “because you’re mine for the whole day.”

[littlegochu]

indelible part 4│ jjk 18+

in·del·i·ble

adjective

not able to be forgotten or removed: "i made an indelible impression on him."

"i want to watch the light drain from jeon jungkook's eyes the moment he realizes who i am."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: dark mafia romance, romantic suspense, organized crime, psychological drama, enemies-to-lovers, forbidden romance, slow burn, hidden identity, betrayal and loyalty, revenge, cold male lead, girl boss female lead that makes the male lead headover heels eeeee

rating: 18+, smut, rough sex, passionate intimacy, dominance and submission, possessive male lead, sexually charged arguments, emotionally charged sex, aftercare moments, sexual tension

synopsis: my job was simple: get close to jeon jungkook, the man at the top, and feed my father everything he needs to burn their world to the ground.

falling for him was never part of the plan. but now every lie i’ve told is starting to unravel—and i’m not sure if i’m here to destroy him… or to save myself.

Y/N POV

He found me.

The second I looked up and saw him walking through the diner door, my stomach dropped like a stone.

Jeon Jungkook.

Cold. Composed. Casual like this was coincidence—like he just happened to find the same late-night corner of Los Angeles I'd slipped into after work.

There's no way this is just a visit.

My mind moved faster than my pulse. He knows. He knows. The name, the face, the truth I've spent two years burying. My parents scrubbed every trail, paid off every ghost, built me a life so clean it sparkled under a microscope—and still, here he was.

Across from me.

Staring.

And all I could think was—it's over.

Until he opened his mouth.

"Hi Gia,"

Just that. Soft. Neutral. Like we were picking up from the last time we spoke.

Not a hint of suspicion. Not an accusation. No name hanging between us that wasn't mine.

I didn't respond right away. I couldn't.

I was waiting for the real reason to surface—for him to drop the mask and pull out the truth.

But it didn't come.

Instead, he stared like he had a right to. Like he'd been thinking about me as much as I'd tried not to think about him.

And I realized...

He has no idea.

My name—Gia Salvador—was the only one he knew. No trace of Y/N Moretti, no crack in the alias, no exposed threads.

He wasn't here to threaten me.

He was here because he wanted me.

Just like that, the panic in my chest slid into something else—something slower.

I took a sip of my coffee to buy time. My hand didn't even shake.

He came to me. Not because I slipped up. But because I slipped under his skin.

And he doesn't even realize... He just stepped right into the palm of my hand.

He hasn't stopped looking at me since he sat down.

I keep my expression neutral, just the right amount of curious. Not flattered. Not distant. Interested—but not impressed.

But inside? My nerves are fraying. Not from fear.

From him.

It's unsettling—the pull. The quiet authority in his voice. The way he takes up space without asking for it. He's not trying to be charming. He just is. Confident in a way you can't fake. Dangerous in a way that's almost... elegant.

I hate that I notice.

But I do.

The way his eyes follow every movement like they've memorized me. The slow cadence of his voice. His silence—how comfortable he is in it.

I expected arrogance. Cold calculation.

What I didn't expect... was this low hum beneath my skin whenever he looks at me.

"You always eat alone?" he asks.

"You always follow people?"

He smirks. "I already told you. I found you."

"Right. Totally normal thing to say after four days of silence."

"I didn't think you'd disappear."

"I didn't think I needed to say goodbye."

He leans forward just slightly. Enough to feel it.

"You left before I could ask for more."

My heart doesn't flinch. But I feel it—low and slow, like the ground underneath me just shifted.

"You don't strike me as someone who asks for things," I say.

"I don't. Not unless I want them."

I pick up my sandwich, take a small bite, keep my eyes down for the first time since he sat. He's pushing—gently, but deliberately. And I let him. Because this is where I learn the most. When men want you, they forget to be careful.

I glance back up. "So what is it you want, Jungkook?"

His eyes narrow slightly. Not angry. Just focused.

"You."

He says it so calmly, so sure, that for a split second I forget to breathe.

He doesn't mean it like a line. There's no act. No smirk. No pretense.

He's just stating a fact.

And somehow, that's worse.

I set my sandwich down. "You don't even know me."

"I want to," he says. Then, after a pause, "And I don't usually want things like this."

It hits harder than I expect.

Not because I believe him.

But because I do.

And that's dangerous.

Because wanting him back would be easy.

He's powerful, composed, devastatingly attractive—he's the son of the man who destroyed my brother, and yet somehow, in this moment, I don't see a weapon across from me.

I see a man.

And that makes all of this harder.

I finish the last sip of my coffee, slow and deliberate.

"I should head home," I say, pulling my tote strap over my shoulder.

He stands almost instantly.

"I'll take you."

I blink once. "You don't even know where I live."

He shrugs. "You'll tell me."

I pretend to hesitate, keeping my movements measured. I keep the mask on.

"Sure," I say. "Why not?"

He holds the door open as we walk out, like it's second nature.

And as I step into the night beside him, all I can think is—

You have no idea what you just invited into your life.

The air outside is cool—quiet in that evening, city-almost-sleeping kind of way.

Jungkook leads me straight to his car, no words, no small talk.

But we've barely taken three steps when it happens.

A shout cuts across the sidewalk. Small. Panicked.

A little boy—maybe six or seven—tears out from a convenience store down the block, crying, eyes wide. He's alone, stumbling onto the sidewalk, heading toward the street.

I freeze.

Jungkook moves.

Fast.

He reaches the kid just as a car turns the corner. One hand grabs the boy by the arm, the other lifts and waves at the driver—sharp, commanding. The car brakes hard, tires screeching. The kid gasps. Bursts into sobs.

And then—Jungkook turns.

The driver rolls his window down, clearly about to argue, but Jungkook's voice cuts across the air before he can open his mouth.

"Watch where the fuck you're driving."

The man opens his mouth, then stops. Maybe it's the tone. Maybe it's the look in Jungkook's eyes. Either way, he nods quickly and drives off.

Jungkook turns back, crouches to the boy's level—steady, controlled again, like he didn't just shift into fury seconds earlier.

"Hey. You okay?"

The boy hiccups something about his mom being inside.

Jungkook nods, voice calm now. "Let's wait right here, yeah?"

I watch it all unfold—this man I painted as cold, dangerous, detached—spitting fury at a reckless driver one second, kneeling to comfort a kid the next. No mask. No hesitation.

The mother rushes out seconds later, breathless and panicked, thanking him as she pulls her son in. Jungkook nods once, says nothing.

And when he turns back toward me, I have no words.

We walk in silence after that.

But everything feels different.

He didn't just react. He didn't do it for show. He saw someone vulnerable and moved like it was instinct.

I shouldn't care.

But I do.

His car is sleek and quiet, windows tinted dark. He opens the passenger door for me without a word.

I slide in, grip my bag too tightly in my lap. The doors shut.

Silence stretches between us.

Not awkward quiet. Aware quiet.

I can feel him beside me—close, steady, not saying anything. Just there. And for some reason, the silence feels louder than any question he could ask.

The engine hums as he pulls into the street.

He doesn't ask for directions until we've cleared the block.

"Where to?"

I hesitate only a moment.

"3410 Silver Avenue."

He drives like he moves—deliberate, smooth, never in a rush. The city rolls past in quiet flashes of neon and traffic signals, but I'm only half watching. The other half of me is too aware of the man behind the wheel.

I wonder what he's thinking. He hasn't said anything since the car pulled away. His hand rests easily on the wheel, thumb tapping once in a while like he's keeping time with a song only he can hear. It should feel tense. But it doesn't.

It feels... still.

And I hate how much I'm drawn to that. To him. To the fact that he hasn't demanded anything from me. No questions. No assumptions. Just presence. Weighty and warm and too close.

I risk a glance.

His jaw's set, but not tight. Eyes steady on the road. The glow of the dash paints the curve of his face in soft shadows. His features are sharp, all angles and tension, but there's a strange softness in the way he watches the road. Almost... thoughtful. There's something boyish in the shape of his mouth when it's relaxed—but nothing about him is soft. He looks like a man who's seen too much and speaks too little.

And when he catches me looking, it's like he already knew I would.

He just looks back. Calm. Steady.

Like he's reading a page I didn't mean to open.

I look away first.

He speaks, finally, voice low. "You don't talk much."

"I said yes to the ride, didn't I?"

A pause. Then, "Doesn't mean you're comfortable."

I'm not. But not for the reasons he thinks.

"You don't strike me as someone who cares about comfort," I say.

Another pause. I can feel his glance even without looking. "I do. When it matters."

The words land heavier than they should.

I press my fingers into the strap of my bag, grounding myself. Focus. Remember who he is. Who I am. What I'm doing here. This isn't about feelings. This isn't about how safe his car feels or how steady his voice sounds in the dark.

This is about revenge.

And yet, for one stupid second, all I want to do is ask what matters to him.

But I don't.

I let the silence fall again and pretend it doesn't feel different now.

Like it's holding something in its teeth.

We reach my street before I realize I've been holding my breath.

Jungkook pulls up to the curb like he's done it a hundred times. The headlights sweep over the sidewalk and stop at the front of my building.

He doesn't turn off the engine. Just shifts into park and glances over at me—slow, direct, unreadable.

That look again. The one that feels like he's peeling layers off me without touching a single thread. It should make me defensive. Instead, it leaves something unsettled in my chest.

He looks at me like he already knows I'll let him in.

I unbuckle slowly, not ready to get out, not sure why. "Uh... I'll see you... whenever?" I say, already hating how unsure it sounds.

His voice comes right after. Steady. Controlled. "Do you have work tomorrow?"

I nod once, fingers tightening on the strap of my bag.

"I'll pick you up."

I blink. "That's—really not necessary."

He doesn't even blink. "I wasn't asking."

There's no edge to it. No demand. Just quiet certainty. Like the decision was already made the second I said yes to this ride.

And for some reason, I let him have that.

I nod again—barely.

Then I slip out of the car, close the door behind me, and walk into the building without looking back.

But I feel him watching.

And I hate how much I like it.

[littlegochu]

indelible part 3│ jjk 18+

in·del·i·ble

adjective

not able to be forgotten or removed: "i made an indelible impression on him."

"i want to watch the light drain from jeon jungkook's eyes the moment he realizes who i am."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: dark mafia romance, romantic suspense, organized crime, psychological drama, enemies-to-lovers, forbidden romance, slow burn, hidden identity, betrayal and loyalty, revenge, cold male lead, girl boss female lead that makes the male lead headover heels eeeee

rating: 18+, smut, rough sex, passionate intimacy, dominance and submission, possessive male lead, sexually charged arguments, emotionally charged sex, aftercare moments, sexual tension

synopsis: my job was simple: get close to jeon jungkook, the man at the top, and feed my father everything he needs to burn their world to the ground.

falling for him was never part of the plan. but now every lie i’ve told is starting to unravel—and i’m not sure if i’m here to destroy him… or to save myself.

Y/N POV

His voice doesn't match the way I thought it would sound.

It's softer. restrained. Not the cold edge I expected from a man with blood on his name. His presence is heavy—yes—but not forceful. He doesn't try to impress me. Doesn't ask intrusive questions or throw power around to prove a point.

That makes him more dangerous.

Jungkook stands just far enough not to invade my space, but close enough to make his attention obvious. His eyes skim across the club behind me every few seconds, watching everything, but they always come back to me.

He's trying not to stare.

But he does.

Quick glances that linger half a second longer than they should. A flicker to my lips when I speak. The subtle pause when I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. His restraint is impressive—but not impenetrable.

He's looking.

And so am I.

I notice the way the light hits his features—jaw sharp, cheekbones high, lashes long enough to be criminal. There's a stillness to him that doesn't feel passive, but coiled. He's carved from silence, and yet I can tell he's the kind of man who speaks with purpose when he does speak.

Calculated. Controlled. But undeniably magnetic.

I hate that part of me notices.

But I let it.

Because attraction is a weapon, and right now, we're both holding the blade.

"You always talk to strangers in your own club?" I ask.

He huffs once—almost a laugh, more breath than sound. "No. I usually let them talk to me."

"Do I look like someone who does that?"

"Not even a little."

A beat passes.

He leans on the railing beside me, eyes flicking across the crowd as if it's second nature. He doesn't move much, but when he does, it's purposeful—every shift precise, like he's used to holding a room without saying a word.

"You said you own this club?"

"I inherited it," he says after a pause. "Same as everything else."

There's something dark beneath his tone. Not pity. Something heavier.

"And is it everything you wanted?"

"No. But that stopped mattering a long time ago."

He says it like a man who didn't get to choose what he became.

I finish my drink and set it on the ledge beside me. My fingers linger on the rim, and I catch his eyes flick to them—just briefly. Observant, focused, but not unaffected.

"You're not afraid of me," he says.

It's not a question.

"Should I be?"

His gaze holds mine a beat too long.

"No. But most people are."

"Maybe they don't know the difference between fear and fascination."

The corner of his mouth twitches. A near-smile. It's gone as quickly as it appears.

He opens his mouth again, and that's when I feel it.

Not from him.

From behind him.

I glance over his shoulder, letting my expression stay cool, but my pulse thunders.

One of his guards is walking along the edge of the upper floor, responding to a subtle nod from one of the other men below. He moves with purpose. Height, frame, scar under his right eye.

That scar.

My stomach knots.

It's him.

He was there. In my house. That night. One of the men who helped tear it apart. I remember him stepping over my brother's body. Holding the rifle like it was a natural extension of his arm.

He's older now, but I know him. I'd know that face even if the world went dark.

Jungkook shifts beside me. "Excuse me," he murmurs. "I'll be right back."

I nod. Calm. Still. Controlled.

He turns and heads for the stairs.

And I disappear.

Not through the main floor. I slip around the curve of the balcony, take the opposite staircase, and vanish into the crowd below.

Just as I reach the back of the club, I hear it.

A single gunshot.

Then screaming.

Glass shattering.

I press against a column, eyes scanning for the threat. Chaos swells. Jungkook's men move like clockwork—fast, silent, lethal.

And there he is—the man with the scar. Blood blooming across his side. He stumbles, raises a weapon.

Another shot.

He drops.

Just like that, the last man from that night—the last loose thread—bleeds out onto the floor of Jungkook's club.

I don't wait for the dust to settle.

I slip out the side exit and walk three blocks before I let myself breathe.

Not from fear.

From focus.

It worked.

He noticed me. Saw me.

More than that—he looked.

And now, he'll wonder why the woman who wasn't afraid of him vanished without a trace.

Let him wonder.

Let him remember.

This was just the beginning.

Jungkook POV

It's been four days since the club.

Four days since she vanished.

And I haven't stopped thinking about her since.

I've seen countless faces—beautiful, bold, manipulative. But hers? Hers left something behind. Something I can't name. Something I don't want to.

Gia.

Even her name plays on a loop in my head.

I remember how she looked at me—steady, unflinching. Her body language told me she didn't care who I was, but her eyes said she already knew. Most people flinch under that kind of pressure. She stood taller.

She was unforgettable.

And then she was gone.

The fucking shootout. She slipped away from the club like she'd never been there.

She didn't owe me anything. But it didn't stop me from wanting more.

Now I sit in my warehouse office, cold steel and concrete surrounding me, paperwork scattered across my desk—but untouched. I can't focus.

"Anything yet?" I ask without looking up.

Taehyung slouches in the leather chair across from me, boots on the edge of my desk like he owns the place. His coat's half off, phone in one hand, a toothpick in the other. "She logged into her work account two hours ago. Shared workspace in West Hollywood."

I glance up. "That's it?"

"She paid for the desk under the same name—Gia Salvador," Taehyung adds.

"She didn't even bother to cover her tracks, found her ID at the exit." Jimin says as he walks in, a grin tugging at his mouth. "Kinda bold for someone who ghosted you like Cinderella at midnight."

"She didn't ghost me," I say.

Taehyung snorts.

"Not everyone needs to be impressed by your pretty face, Kook," Jimin adds, slapping my shoulder as he passes. "Though I gotta admit, it's kinda cute watching you sulk."

I give him a look that would make most men back off. He just grins wider.

They're the only ones I let speak to me like this.

They've earned it.

Taehyung's like the older brother who never grew up. Calm until he isn't. Jimin's sharper—always has a joke, always watching. Both of them older than me. Both have saved my life more than once. Both know when to push.

And when not to.

"She's still there?" I ask.

Taehyung checks his phone. "Head down. Working."

"Then I'm going."

There's a beat of silence.

"Seriously?" Jimin raises a brow. "You're really getting in a car to go see a girl who didn't give you her number?"

"She gave me her name," I reply smoothly. "That's enough."

"Oh, he's serious," Taehyung mutters, standing and cracking his neck. "Look at him. That's the 'I'm about to risk it all' face."

Jimin whistles low. "Shit. Should we dress him in something nice? Bring flowers? Write her a poem?"

I'm already grabbing my coat.

They follow without another word.

Because they know me.

And they know when I want something, I don't stop until I have it.

-

She walks out of the building like nothing happened.

Like she didn't spend four days living rent-free in my head.

Gia.

Hair pulled back, oversized sweater, a tote bag hanging from one shoulder. No heels, no red lips this time. Just soft, natural, and still the most captivating thing I've seen in years.

I'm parked across the street, windows tinted. Taehyung's behind the wheel, Jimin in the passenger seat. Neither of them says a word—but the air is already heavy with the smirk they're both trying to hold back.

"She looks different," Jimin mutters, watching her through the windshield. "Still hot though."

"She does have that 'ruin-your-life' kind of pretty," Taehyung adds, tapping the wheel. "You sure you're ready for that?"

I say nothing.

"Not even gonna deny it?" Jimin laughs. "Damn. You've got it bad."

I adjust my sleeve, slow and silent.

Taehyung whistles. "He's trying not to smile. Look at him—serious face, clenched jaw, 'I'm just observing' bullshit."

"She's just getting food," I mutter, eyes locked on her.

Jimin grins. "Yeah, but if some guy even breathes in her direction—"

"She's mine," I say quietly.

That shuts them up.

Not because I snapped.

But because they know I mean it.

I step out of the car.

Cross the street.

The diner's tucked into a quiet corner of the block—small, dated, warm light spilling out from the windows. Gia steps inside. I follow, calm and clean.

The bell above the door jingles.

I see her instantly.

Back booth. Waiting for her food.

And I see him, too.

Some guy—twenties, gym-built, loud cologne energy—leaning on the edge of her table. Smiling too wide. Talking too close.

She's not interested.

But she's being polite.

That's enough to piss me off.

I move.

Her eyes find me halfway across the diner.

She stills.

That's when I know she recognizes me.

Good.

I reach the booth and don't hesitate.

"Move," I say to the guy, cool and clipped.

He blinks. "Sorry, man, we're just talking—"

"I wasn't asking."

My tone doesn't rise. It doesn't need to.

The guy stares at me for a beat. Decides he likes his bones unbroken. Walks away without another word.

I slide into the booth across from her.

Silence.

She looks at me, guarded but composed. Her lips part slightly, eyes sharp beneath the softness.

"Hi, Gia."

She doesn't respond right away.

Then—calm, even—"Did you follow me?"

"No. I found you."

She raises a brow. "And you came all this way just to scare off a guy asking me about the pie?"

"I came because you disappeared."

"And?"

"And I don't like unfinished things."

She huffs, almost a laugh. "So I'm an unfinished thing now?"

"Something like that."

The server drops off her coffee and sandwich. She says thank you. I don't look away.

"You left the club before I could say what I wanted to say."

"What would that have been?"

"That I want to see you again."

She blinks—just once—but I catch it.

A crack in the surface.

And I know right then... She didn't expect me to come for her.

But I did.

And I'm not leaving without making sure she understands exactly what that means.

[littlegochu]

Hey love, idk if I’m going crazy or smth but I could have sworn I saw 'Tempted Part 1, Act 1,' but it's not there anymore(?) did you delete it or is this me going insane

hey! unfortunately i deleted tempted since i want to focus on 'just breathe' right now, it also didnt get much attention so i was thinking ill tweak the storyline a bit and bring it back in the future!

[littlegochu]

indelible part 2│ jjk 18+

in·del·i·ble

adjective

not able to be forgotten or removed: "i made an indelible impression on him."

"i want to watch the light drain from jeon jungkook's eyes the moment he realizes who i am."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: dark mafia romance, romantic suspense, organized crime, psychological drama, enemies-to-lovers, forbidden romance, slow burn, hidden identity, betrayal and loyalty, revenge, cold male lead, girl boss female lead that makes the male lead headover heels eeeee

rating: 18+, smut, rough sex, passionate intimacy, dominance and submission, possessive male lead, sexually charged arguments, emotionally charged sex, aftercare moments, sexual tension

synopsis: my job was simple: get close to jeon jungkook, the man at the top, and feed my father everything he needs to burn their world to the ground.

falling for him was never part of the plan. but now every lie i’ve told is starting to unravel—and i’m not sure if i’m here to destroy him… or to save myself.

Y/N POV

The first rule of stepping into a place owned by the man you plan to destroy: Don't look like prey.

Walk in like you belong. Like your face isn't a ghost he thought was buried six feet underground. Like your pulse isn't ticking just a little too fast beneath your skin.

I walked through the doors of Le Morte—a name far too on the nose for a place owned by a mafia heir—and let the thrum of bass roll beneath my ribs. No one stopped me. No one questioned me. No guest list or backroom code required. The club was open to the public—just not the kind that waited in lines.

It was polished luxury soaked in shadow. Black marble floors. Dim gold light. Velvet booths. Everything gleamed like it had something to prove. And the people? They looked like secrets wrapped in silk.

I kept my stride deliberate, my chin high, dress hugging my body just right. Eyes watched me as I passed—men, women, a mix of both—but I didn't flinch. I let them look.

I headed for the upper balcony. It wasn't roped off, just... unspoken. You had to have the right kind of confidence to climb those steps. I had enough to get me through the door—and enough rage beneath my skin to keep me standing.

The second level gave a sweeping view of the club. From here, you could see everything: who arrived, who whispered to who, who disappeared behind velvet curtains and never came back.

I ordered a drink I wouldn't finish. Something clear. Strong. I wasn't here to get drunk—I was here to see him.

And then I did.

Jeon Jungkook.

He stood near the far end of the lounge, half-shadowed by the soft golden light, his posture quiet and watchful as a man beside him spoke. He wasn't nodding. Wasn't reacting. Just listening—or pretending to.

He didn't have to do much. The room shifted around him naturally.

My eyes trailed over him, slow, clinical.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Sharp jaw. Dark hair that looked like it had been touched and immediately rebelled. His suit was clean, perfectly tailored, but not flashy. There was no gold. No show. Just power, resting easy on his frame.

He had that look—young, but not inexperienced. My age, maybe a year older, but his eyes had the kind of weight that came from watching men bleed. His father's death hadn't softened him. If anything, it carved something colder beneath his skin.

He didn't fidget. Didn't shift. Just stood still, calm and observant.

I hated how easily my gaze held on him.

He wasn't just attractive. He was... dangerous in a way you almost wanted to touch. That kind of danger that makes you curious before it kills you.

I shouldn't have noticed. Not the way his mouth moved when he spoke. Not the way his fingers curled around the rim of the glass in his hand. Not the way he stood like he owned the air between us.

But I did notice.

And for one second—one slow, pulse-thick second—I thought he saw me.

I froze.

Then he blinked, and his gaze slid away.

No recognition. No flicker of suspicion.

He didn't know me.

Not yet.

I forced myself to lean back against the railing, lips soft, posture relaxed. My drink was still full, the condensation sliding down the side of the glass, untouched.

Two years. That's how long I've waited for this.

Two years of silence. Two years of building Gia Salvador out of Y/N Moretti's ashes. Two years of grief weaponized into obsession.

He didn't know who I was, but I remembered him. I remembered the Jeon crest stamped into crates of ammunition. I remembered the whispers in the aftermath—how Jeon Jungwoo had ordered the hit, and how his son had already started carrying out executions by the time he was nineteen.

The world called him the Ghost Prince. Cold. Unshakable. Untouchable.

Now his father was gone.

And he was king.

It was the perfect time to bleed him.

I didn't know yet if he had pulled the trigger that night. Maybe he hadn't. Maybe he'd just watched. But it didn't matter.

He carried the legacy. The bloodline. The weight of the life he helped erase.

And soon, he would carry the consequences.

I let my gaze drift back to him. He was still listening to that man—no, not listening. Studying. Measuring every word like he was trying to predict where the next knife would come from.

Good.

Let him look for enemies.

Let him brace for betrayal.

But he won't see me coming.

Not yet.

Jungkook POV

Most people assume I'm distracted in places like this. Clubs, lounges—rooms filled with noise and liquor and lies.

But I see everything.

Even when I'm quiet. Especially then.

I let the older man beside me talk—another investor, another strategic partner trying to prove he's still relevant now that my father's dead. He talks about shifting routes, new ports, market reach. I nod when I need to, swirl the amber in my glass like I'm listening.

My eyes stay on the room.

People move differently when they think no one's watching. I read body language better than I read ledgers. Who's faking a laugh. Who's looking for an out. Who's carrying a weapon under their suit.

It keeps me alive.

Tonight is no different—until it is.

She appears like smoke. Subtle. Effortless. Too precise to be accidental.

Black dress. Red lips. Shoulders held with the kind of control that comes from knowing you're being watched and not caring.

I notice her immediately. Everyone does. But while the others look once and move on, I keep watching.

There's something about her—something that doesn't belong in this room, even though she fits too well. She doesn't drink her cocktail. Doesn't cling to company. Doesn't move like a woman trying to be seen.

She moves like she's already decided who's worth noticing.

And somehow, that makes her more dangerous than anyone else here.

She leans against the railing upstairs, surveying the club like it's hers to judge. Her eyes flick past mine and linger—half a second too long.

Something flickers.

Familiarity.

Recognition?

No. That doesn't make sense.

I've seen thousands of faces. Remember the ones that matter. I'd remember a woman like her.

Wouldn't I?

My jaw tightens. I glance away, but I feel her gaze still, like a warm press at the base of my neck.

She's beautiful.

Undeniably. But it's not just that. It's the stillness. The self-possession. The way she looks like she belongs in power without needing anyone to give it to her.

My father used to say the most dangerous woman in the room is the one who doesn't smile.

She isn't smiling.

I finish my drink and shift my weight. The conversation next to me drags on. I stop pretending to care.

"Excuse me," I murmur.

The man barely notices when I walk away.

I don't usually do this. I don't chase women. I don't approach strangers.

There's never been time for that. Not in this world. Not when my bloodline has a body count and my name alone keeps most people at arm's length.

But tonight, I cross the room like I already know what I'm going to find.

She sees me coming.

She doesn't flinch. Doesn't look surprised. Just watches.

Cool. Curious. Patient.

I stop a respectful distance away, close enough to speak without raising my voice.

"You've been up here a while," I say. My voice comes out smoother than I expect.

She tilts her head. "You've been watching me a while."

I almost smile.

I study her face now, up close. Perfectly structured features. Eyes that hold something older than her skin. There's something there—some shadow of a memory I can't place, hovering just beneath the surface.

I push it down.

"You don't look like someone who comes here often," I say.

"You do?" she counters.

I shrug. "I own it."

Her lips twitch. "That explains the arrogance."

My smile almost breaks through then. Almost.

"Would it be alright if I asked your name?" I ask.

She lifts her drink, sips slowly, then meets my gaze without hesitation. "Gia."

Not familiar. Doesn't help. The recognition still claws at the back of my mind, but I tell myself it's nothing. Just her beauty. Her presence. Maybe she reminds me of someone I knew once, years ago.

"I'm Jungkook," I offer. She doesn't blink.

She doesn't look impressed. She doesn't look intimidated, either. And that's... rare.

I glance over her shoulder briefly, scanning the room the way I always do. When I return my attention to her, she hasn't moved.

"You're not here for the drinks," I say.

"Neither are you."

Silence folds between us. Not awkward. Not tense. Just... thick with something neither of us names.

She doesn't ask why I came over.

I don't ask why she's really here.

And I don't leave.

Not yet.

Because something in me wants to stay.

[littlegochu]

indelible part 1│ jjk 18+

in·del·i·ble

adjective

not able to be forgotten or removed: "i made an indelible impression on him."

"i want to watch the light drain from jeon jungkook's eyes the moment he realizes who i am."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: dark mafia romance, romantic suspense, organized crime, psychological drama, enemies-to-lovers, forbidden romance, slow burn, hidden identity, betrayal and loyalty, revenge, cold male lead, girl boss female lead that makes the male lead headover heels eeeee

rating: 18+, smut, rough sex, passionate intimacy, dominance and submission, possessive male lead, sexually charged arguments, emotionally charged sex, aftercare moments, sexual tension

synopsis: my job was simple: get close to jeon jungkook, the man at the top, and feed my father everything he needs to burn their world to the ground.

falling for him was never part of the plan. but now every lie i’ve told is starting to unravel—and i’m not sure if i’m here to destroy him… or to save myself.

decided to bring indelible here, i rlly love this story (not one of my best works but it was a start to this whole journey) and it hasnt been getting enough love on wattpad so i hope u guys like it! the series has 58 parts on wattpad but ill probably merge them into parts on here.

Two years ago.

They said I died in the attack.

My name, my face, my life—wiped out in one night of fire and gunfire, wrapped in the same headline that buried my brother: "Coordinated assault on Moretti estate leaves heir and daughter dead."

That's what the public saw. A bloody hit. A warning to the underworld. Proof that even the most feared families could bleed.

But they didn't see what really happened. They didn't see the way the walls shook when the explosives went off. They didn't see Luca take three bullets before he hit the ground. They didn't see me survive.

I did. Barely.

The Moretti's didn't fall that night. We weren't erased—we were challenged.

Our empire stood. My parents lived. But Seokjin didn't. And neither did the girl I used to be.

I was in the music room when it started. One second I was playing—just a soft melody to calm my nerves—and the next, the east wing erupted in flame. Smoke poured in. Sirens wailed. Gunshots followed, fast and sharp, echoing down the marble halls like war drums.

I heard shouting. Running. Then I heard him.

"Y/N, down!"

Luca's voice. Fierce. Breathless. Bloody.

I opened the door just in time to see him fire at the men closing in—black masks, tactical gear, rifles raised. Our soldiers were already dropping. They'd come prepared. They knew the layout. The blind spots. The rotation schedules.

It was an inside job.

"Go!" Luca shouted, shoving me toward the corridor. "Get to the tunnels!"

I didn't run fast enough.

I turned back once—just for a second.

Long enough to see the bullet punch into his chest.

Long enough to watch my brother fall.

Rosa pulled me away before I could scream. She dragged me into the hidden servant corridors and pushed me through the entrance to the east wing tunnels—back when the fires hadn't reached it yet.

"Don't come out," she whispered. "Don't speak. Don't breathe unless it's to survive."

I stayed hidden for hours.

By the time I emerged, smoke curled through the halls and blood painted the walls. The estate was a wreck—but not a grave.

We lived. Not all of us. But enough.

The family told the world I was gone.

Let them believe it. Let our enemies think they'd wiped out the heir and the daughter.

Let them feel powerful.

It gave me space to disappear. To bury my name. To become someone new.

Now, I am Gia.

Not Y/N Moretti. Not the girl who wore silk gowns and smiled at dinner parties.

Now I am silence, sharpened to a blade.

I don't know who gave the order that night. Not yet. But I know who carried it out. His face is still a shadow. His name, just a whisper.

But when I find him, he'll remember me.

And he'll wish I stayed dead.

-

Present day.

I still catch people staring at me sometimes.

Too long. Too curious. Like they're trying to place a memory that never fully formed. Like they've seen me before, but only in whispers or in the corner of a blurred photo.

It's the face.

My parents wanted me to change it—cheekbones shaved, nose altered, lips reshaped—but I couldn't do it. Couldn't stand the idea of looking in the mirror and not seeing Luca's sister.

So instead, I changed everything else.

My name. My voice. The way I walk. The way I look at people—never too long. Never like I'm watching, even when I am.

Now I'm Gia Moretti. Legally clean. Quiet life. Dull on purpose.

My apartment is small—top floor, no neighbors on either side, fire escape always clear. The kind of place no one looks twice at. I keep the fridge stocked with just enough to get by. Almond milk, pre-cut fruit, cold leftover pasta I don't remember making.

This morning, I make coffee like always—black, bitter, hot enough to scald my throat if I drink too fast. I wrap my sweater tighter around my waist as I sip it from the chipped mug I got at a secondhand store. Pale blue with a crackled glaze. No sentimental value, which is why I chose it. I don't keep things I'd miss.

At 8:00, I water the plants on my windowsill—three succulents and one drooping orchid I haven't had the heart to throw out. I like watching things grow. They don't know the kind of world they're in. They just reach for the light.

At 9:00, I sit down at my desk. I open my laptop and respond to three client emails. One wants revisions on a logo. Another needs social media banners. It's all fake branding, filtered through a shell company my father built for me after I "died." I do the work, but it's not about money. It's about covering my tracks.

From the outside, I'm just another digital ghost.

By noon, I'm at the corner market. I scan the shelves with autopilot precision—eggs, oats, tea. The same man behind the counter nods at me like he always does, a flicker of vague recognition in his eyes. I give him a tight smile.

I pay in cash.

Walk home slowly.

Count the steps.

I live like a ghost, but I'm not hiding.

I'm waiting.

The man who killed my brother died two weeks ago. Jeon Jungwoo—also known as "The Judge"—the head of the Jeon syndicate, one of the most brutal men to ever breathe in Seoul's underworld. Ruthless. Tactical. My father's worst enemy. My brother's killer.

He's dead now. Liver failure. The coward rotted from the inside out, and still managed to escape without consequence. Without ever seeing my face.

But his son—the new king in his father's shadow—just took the throne.

Jeon Jungkook.

I've watched him.

Late nights with a glass of wine in hand, blue light flickering off my screen as I comb through everything I can find. News articles. Surveillance footage. Security briefings. Undercover photos passed quietly from allies still loyal to the Morettis.

He's colder than his father. More calculated. Clean-cut, but deadly. No sloppiness. No theatrics. If Jeon Jungwoo ruled like a judge, then Jungkook is the executioner. Efficient. Silent. Fast. And the terrifying part?

He's my age.

He grew up in the same underworld I did, learned to kill and command with the same bloodied hands we were both born into. We were raised on opposite ends of the chessboard, shaped by enemies we inherited. And now, he wears the title that should have died with his father.

Some say he never wanted the title.

Some say he was born for it.

He's untouchable. For now.

But I know men like him. I know their rhythm. Their pride. Their need to prove they deserve the weight of their last name. Jungkook's father carved that empire with blood and fire, and now the son has inherited every grudge that came with it.

He's vulnerable.

New leadership always leaves cracks. He has enemies circling. Loyalists testing him. Blood still wet beneath his polished shoes.

And I'm going to be the storm that slips through the crack in the door.

I don't know yet if he pulled the trigger himself that night or if he was just the prince watching from the balcony, but it doesn't matter. He carries the name. The title. The legacy of what happened in my home. What happened to Luca.

And soon, he'll carry the weight of that choice.

My parents don't know exactly what I'm planning. We meet rarely, and when we do, it's brief. Shadowed conversations. Eyes that never rest. My mother watches me like she's counting the bruises I never show. My father says nothing, but he knows. I see it in the way his jaw tightens whenever Jungkook's name comes up on the news.

They want me safe. I want them silent.

I chose this path the night Luca bled out in front of me. The night the walls burned and our name was whispered like a threat.

Grief taught me patience.

But revenge taught me clarity.

I don't want mercy. I don't want to send a message.

I want to watch the light drain from Jeon Jungkook's eyes the moment he realizes who I am.

I want to see him look at me and remember.

Because I haven't forgotten a damn thing.

authors note: someone asked if i would put indelible on here so here it is!