word count: just over 3k 

recommended listening: high enough - k.flay

premise:  a precarious exchange between the heir to seoul's largest organised crime conglomerate and a story hungry journalist.

pairing: mafiaboss!Jungkook x unnamed OC

inspiration: i just miss writing mafia jungkook lol. eunjangdo's are old korean knives made from silver. Yakuza are members of Japanese organised crime.

warnings: jungkook's an asshole, and so is she. enemies who are lovers (not *to* lovers lol). like a teeny tiny couple paragraphs of smut, maybe 300 words. mentions of crime/violence/drugs.

a/n: 유령 can be romanised a few different ways, but this (yulyeong) is the way that makes the most sense to my ears!! you might see yuryeong, or yureong in other places, but yeah!! (just like how i romanise holangi for demi he he)

유령
yu-lyeong
ghost

SHE HADN'T EXPECTED to find herself walking the halls of his old haunt again so soon, but like a hunter of all things supernatural, she was drawn to the spirits. 

She counted her obstacles: three men with suits that bulged awkwardly on their right-hand side. Guns, she guessed. Knives were too archaic for their boss. Far less efficient. She assumed the bulge came from the silencers screwed onto the barrels. Poor fuckers on the receiving end wouldn't know what was coming for them until the bullet had cracked through their ivory skulls, painting the walls with their brain matter.

One of them held the leash of a dog. 

A cute little pup, a Doberman whose ears had been unnecessarily clipped, tail too. She wondered if it had actually been trained to go in for the kill, or if it was just for the aesthetic. The smoky parlour, lined with degenerates and drinking problems, was no environment for a dog. 

That would be her second port of call once she was sitting at the helm of the unstable ship. Firstly, she'd patch up the holes to stop it from sinking altogether. And then secondly, she'd buy a chair specifically for the pup to curl up on in her office.

But it wasn't hers yet. She still had a way to go until she took his throne.

Unnoticed by the men in business discussions, she made her way across the room to the recreational area near the bar. Everything was carved from mahogany; the church pews which had been repurposed as bar benches, the tables, even the pillars that held the basement speakeasy up.

"You dropped this," she smiled sweetly at the man who had been waiting for his turn by the foot of the billiards table. 

Cue rested on the floor by its base, tip by his chin, she slid the ring down onto it. There was a second of confusion from both him and his opponent as they got a read on the object coming to a rest a few inches down the cue, it's jade green gemstone glaring at the whole damn room.

A signet ring; cheap imitation of the ones worn by the made men of the Yakuza who had been running riot through the streets of Seoul lately. 

Funny how a tiny little bit of green and gold could make dozens of grown men see red. The snapping of cues, wood splintering like bone, sparked them into action as she walked out of the line of fire. It was so easy to get them riled up.

Stupid fuckers would probably beat that poor 'traitor' nearly half to death until someone noticed that the ring had been a lucky find on her last shopping spree. She'd added six to her basket, just for occasions like this. 

Collateral was all he was. She told herself that she pitied him, that it was a shame that someone had to get caught up in her little scheme for the evening, but it was a lie. 

She felt good. 

Things were going exactly how she wanted as she strutted to the previously guarded black door, pushing straight through it with zero resistance as chaos erupted behind her. 

Who in their right mind puts a swing door at the end of a speakeasy with only men to guard it? Human error was the downfall of this pathetic band of brothers, and she was milking it for all it was worth. Every single time she thought that they couldn't get stupider, they did. 

The silk of her dress clung to her skin for dear life, it's structured bodice keeping her back straight and waist as narrow as her eyes. Rouched by the top of her thigh, she hated the detailing, but it served a purpose. Slipping her fingers up to the leather harness secured around her toned thigh, she unclasped the sheath that was concealing her eunjangdo. 

Sliding the blade from its scabbard, the floral engraving along its handle provided her with a little extra grip, not that she needed it. She knew this knife like the back of her hand.

Five and a half inches, tip sharper than the wit of any gang member she had come across. A pair of tiny chopsticks that were barely usable remained snug in the scabbard, not that she ever used them much; just to play with her food a little before eating, to check that they didn't tarnish.

Arsenic had a terrible habit of discolouring the silver, but that was always more favourable than it ravaging her insides. 

The man on the opposite side of the door always found her little habit amusing. He almost always made sure to feed her just so that he could witness it with his own eyes, her archaic superstitions. 

Regardless, if he wanted to poison her, he'd have just used his own signet ring: silver, embossed with the family crest on top of the bezel, which hid a hollow space that was often filled with white powder. It was a lot of effort though, having to make sure it was fully rid of poison before he filled it up with coke again.

His father would have been furious if his only heir accidentally offed himself, all because he'd tried to get fancy when it came to murder. 

A bullet through the temple was enough for The Heir. He didn't care for torture. He left that to the ones with something to prove.

"You coming in or what?" his hoarse growl sounded through the door, knowing she was stood their tentatively, listening for any signs of a meeting behind the door. She could hear the smirk on his thin lips, his dimple etched so deep in her retinas that she almost saw it every time she closed her god damn eyes.

He didn't wait for a response, hastily opening the door.

Dragging her in, he slammed it shut again, trapping her. Unhooking his black suspender braces, which had been held taut over the shoulders of his crisp white shirt with his thumbs, he was hungry.

And she? She was fucking delicious.

Her back was pinned to the door, his lips hot and heavy on hers, tongue violating her mouth. Hands grappling her body, he didn't care for formalities, not when the time they always had together was fleeting.

"You caused a real mess out there, Angel," his teeth grazed her neck, biting down on her skin before sucking it into his mouth. He wasn't gentle in the slightest, and it almost hurt, but it just made her moan even deeper. The more she moaned, the harder he sucked. Limits weren't something they really had many of. "If you wanted my attention, all you had to do was call."

The tip of her knife rested beneath his chin, the blade dimpling his freshly shaven skin.

"You gonna put that thing away?"

"I'm just excited to see you," she flirted, wedging it a little bit harder as his hips pressed against her stomach. He was excited to see her, too. "Where's the fun in fucking if it's not near-fatal?"

His fingers tiptoe up her wrist, and then he slams it back against the door, her muscles giving out as her knuckles crack against it. The blade drops to the floor, heat pricking at her eyes from the impact.

"Fair enough," she hides her wince well, knowing that she'll be bruised in the morning. Her neck already was. He liked doing this; claiming her, leaving his mark anonymously all over her skin. It kept other people away. 

He doesn't like sharing, and he doesn't like wasting time either. His belt is unbuckled before she's even tensed her hand to make sure nothing's broken; and then he's breaking her tight entrance, his crown becoming her thrown.

It only takes a few minutes until they're both cursing each other out, his sloppy thrusts deepening as he loses sense of who they are in the ecstasy of her body.

There's a knock at the door, muffled by her moans, and a curt "fuck off" is delivered to whichever one of his goons was going to tell him that there was a fight in the bar. He knew there was a fucking fight in the bar. He was fucking the bitch who had started it. 

His hand wrapped around her throat like a diamond necklace. Drinking in the blush of her pink cheeks, swollen rosy lips and wide ebony eyes, he delivered the final disastrous blows to her pussy. His back arched as the pleasure surged through him, crushing his torso against her chest as her muscles stuttered around him.

Sucking on her bottom lip, his pull away is slow, in tandem with his cock. The hand that had left nail marks on her throat cupped her sex, keeping her locked in place as he reached round to grab her something to clean herself up with.

Sometimes he had a towel ready, occasionally she had to make do with his tie, but today he had a stack of black cocktail napkins by his private bar table. 

"Gentleman as always," she smirked, pretending as if she could stand straight without it feeling as if her knees would buckle. Swiping the blade that had been left on the floor, she noticed that her hand was already bruising. Asshole. If he wasn't such a good fuck, she'd have let it pierce his skin.

"Why are you really here?" 

He always hated her after he had had his way with her; hated how hot under the collar she got him, hated the way she moaned his name, hated the piercing stare that bore into him as he told her lies that she could see straight through. The feeling was mutual. 

Stood behind his desk, he didn't sit, keeping his belt unbuckled and the button of his trousers undone. He wasn't expecting round two, but he knew on occasion it was enough to keep her distracted enough to give him an advantage. 

"Shipment down in the East Village," she reclined back into the leather chesterfield opposite his desk, swinging her feet over the rolled arm ledge. He hated that too, how at home she made herself. 

"Get your feet down."

"We know the transport arrangements," she ignored his demands, flicking through his little notebook with the tip of her knife. It was empty, just haphazard notes that didn't mean anything - not that she was looking for information. She just didn't like to look at him during this part of their rendezvous. "It's getting intercepted before it reaches the city."

She'd piqued his attention. The deal had only been set up a few days ago. 

"Intercepted by who?"

"Who do you think, genius?"

Another thing he hated: the way she made him read between the fucking lines all the time. A straight answer wasn't part of her vocabulary. 

"Can't be Yakuza," he mused, knowing that they didn't have the manpower in the city to take on a shipment so large. Twelve containers were heading to the city tomorrow night, filled to the brim with new assets as part of a deal with the Russians who had been trying to stake claim on Korean soil. Fucking idiots. Jeon Sr had got their balls in a vice, and now what was theirs, was his. "And the Russians wouldn't be stupid enough to pull shit like that again."

"Not just a pretty face," her dry tone tickled his ears and he half thought about reconsidering his stance on torture. He'd have quite liked to have sewn her mouth shut - though if he did that, he'd lose his best informant.

That's what he hated the most: the fact that he needed her.

He didn't need anyone in the Goddamn city. His money was enough to get him what he wanted without having to spend a single dime. Men fell at his feet to offer protection just in a bid to get some of their own. This was his city.  He even had the Mayor kissing his feet, lapping the shit off his shoes like a dog.

He ran the show, but if it wasn't for her managing the stage behind the scenes, then it would have been a pantomime. He'd have been a laughing stock. The knowledge was enough to make his jaw tense just the way she liked it.

"Tell you what the Russians would be stupid enough to do, though," she glanced over to him, tossing his notebook down, swinging her legs around the to floor as she did so. In one swift movement, the tip of her blade had stabbed through the leatherbound book, gorging on the pages which held it in place. "Give Seoul's finest a little tip-off."

"Feds? Fucking feds?" He laughed a little in disbelief, until he saw that she wasn't joking. His poised back slapped against the leather of his chair, stress prevailing over his body. A hand ran through his ebony hair, fingers momentarily lost in the long strands that she had made a mess off. 

Such a Drama Queen, she rolled her eyes. He did this every single time, acted like it was the end of the world, smoke and flames setting his empire up to be ravaged by dragons. Then, at the last minute, he'd show up with a jewel-encrusted sword and slay the beast that had threatened his livelihood like the hero he was.

No one knew how he did it; how he was one step ahead of quite literally everyone.

The police were at a loss every single time they showed up to an empty warehouse, and the small street gangs who were trying to double-cross him always ended up hung out on crosses, instead.

"Where are they planning on intercepting? Within country borders or before it gets here?"

"No, no, no," she shook her head. Clearly he'd forgotten their agreement. Back straight, chin raised, she was reminding him that he wasn't the one who got to ask questions, not now.  "You know the drill, Jungkook."

The disrespect that came with addressing him by his given name was enough for him to get the Doberman pup she always whined about in there, and show her just how vicious he could really be. It'd wipe that shit-eating grin straight off her ruby lips - though his lips had taken most of her lipstick with them already. 

He stared her out for a second, before relenting and pulling open the top door of his dark wood desk. He didn't need to rummage around, for he had been expecting her all afternoon. She really could have just knocked. Part of him thought that she just liked causing him problems. If she didn't, then she sure did seem to have a knack for it.

"Son of the Education Minister," he spoke through gritted teeth, tossing a black flash drive across the desk and right into her hands. Mindlessly slipping the USB out of its casing, she studied it carefully before slipping it into her bra. "He's been colluding with Hagwon owners; falsifying reports, fucking with admissions to SKY. Run of the mill stuff. Probably working on his fathers orders."

"Sources?" She pressed, not willing to put her neck on the line for something that could fall through.

"Wiretap between him and one of the Hagwons we finance. Directory of numbers, transaction history between the academy's administrative office which can be linked to an offshore account in his name. I'm giving you a three-course meal on a silver platter, here."

"Why give up one of your investments?" She questioned, a crease forming between her brows. There was a pile of flash drives in his desk, and yet he'd chosen to give her one that would cause him issues. Normally he'd just give her the names of public figures spending too much time in strip joints, or occasionally celebrities who had been caught getting too close in one of his bars. She dealt with politics on occasion, but this was gold dust. This was a cover story. 

What was he trying to hide? What did he want kept out of the press over the next few weeks?

"No, no, no," he mocked her, with a grin, pleased to have regained the upper hand. "You know the drill, Lois Lane."

Her eyes narrowed at the nickname he had coined her with. Sometimes he liked to call her it mid-fuck just to get her rilled up. He'd almost conditioned her to now get excited when the syllables slipped off his tongue and into her ear. Almost.

It was a dangerous dance they liked to indulge in; him the heir to The Syndicate, the largest organised crime empire in Seoul, and her the investigative journalist, who had tabs on just about every nefarious fucker in the city. 

He gave her stories to run that would get her the by-lines she so desperately sought, and she'd give him the leaks she'd picked up on from her sources. They bartered protection; her from the streets, him from the wrath of a media scandal. 

It was a mutually propitious settlement - the sex, too. He blamed her for that one; for getting him hooked on her like she was crack cocaine, conveniently choosing to forget that he had been the one to seduce her first. He just hadn't expected her to care so little. 

So as much as he did despise her, he kept her around for good reason.

And for everything that he hated about her, there was one thing that he did love: watching her ass as she walked away.

"Give your mother my love," he called after her with a smirk that rivalled that of a Hollywood heartthrob. 

"I always do."

Slipping back into the smoke laced bar, she had to stifle a laugh. The atmosphere was tense, men bloody and bruised. Half a dozen cues had been snapped, and shattered glass had been swept into piles and piles of tiny shards. She had done this, and hadn't even been able to enjoy the show. Shame. Maybe next time.

Eyes were on her, watching her with tense curiosity as she waltzed through the swing door and immediately went to pet the puppy. It snarled quietly, the noise from its throat humming against her, but it didn't snap. To everyone's surprise, it began to lean into the scratch she was administering behind its ear. 

A few of the men got to their feet, ready to make her pay for her meddling. They didn't care about gender conformity; a fight was a fight. She knew this. She had expected this. 

Which is why she was waiting - because she knew he was watching the CTTV.

"No-one fucking touches her," Jungkook's voice bellowed from the door she had just swung through. With a large burly man either side of him, she couldn't help but think he looked exactly as he wanted to be seen; important, powerful, God-like. He'd done well, cultivating the image for himself. His daddy must be proud. Addressing the room, he didn't take his eyes off hers. Her life rested in his hands, just as his lifestyle rested in hers. "They'll have me to answer to if they do. Don't even fucking look at her."

His eyes prowled the room now, making sure that everyone was paying attention - as if they wouldn't be. He knew how to command a room.

She smiled, though it wasn't really a smile -it was a victory lap that she was running around him, and she'd keep going until he got dizzy, just for the fun of it. 

Pursing her lips, she puckered and kissed the air towards him, turning on her heel and out of his shit hole of a speakeasy.

His scowl prevailed, and then he was gone again, heading back to his office to figure out what the fuck his next step was.