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gukcnt · 2 days ago

Text

۶ৎ EMBERS OF UNSEEN LOVE —

His lips on yours, hungry and desperate, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you, his voice a low rumble, “I need you, Y/N. I’ve always needed you.”

pairing: dom!jungkook x sub!femreader

genre: brothers bestfriend au, college au, forbidden love, slowburn, unrequited love, pining, coming of age, reserved!jungkook, friends to lovers, tattoo artist!jungkook, shy insecure!reader, romance, smut, fluff, angst

warnings: 18+, explicit smut, emotional vulnerability, mentions of body insecurity, character growth, mutual desire, slow burn sexual tension, solo masturbation, fantasy driven erotica, sexual imagery, imagined oral sex, imagined penetrative sex, body marking, making out, imagined rough sex, imagined body worship, non-physical intimacy (emotional connection in fantasies), non-consensual observation, clit play, fingering, nipple play, breast play, cock fisting, cock palming, guilt and shame after orgasm

wc: 10k

part: 01 / 02 / 03 (final)

a/n: this one is for all the girlies who feels self conscious or insecure about their bodies, you guys are absolutely perfect and sexy no matter what and don't let anyone tell you otherwise ! 🤍

masterlist

۶ৎ

The house on Maple Street was a tapestry of memories, woven from the threads of your childhood and the quiet moments that shaped you. It was a modest two-story home, its white exterior kissed by the soft gray of weathered paint, nestled in a suburban neighborhood where the hum of lawnmowers and the chatter of neighbors were the soundtrack of summer. Inside, the air carried the delicate scent of lavender, a lingering gift from your mother’s obsession with scented candles that flickered on the dining table during family dinners, casting warm, dancing shadows on the walls. The hardwood floors creaked underfoot, polished to a soft sheen by years of footsteps, and the windows—large and slightly warped from age—let in slants of golden light that painted the rooms in hues of amber and honey.

Your room, tucked at the far end of the upstairs hallway, was your sanctuary, a cocoon of comfort and solitude. The walls were a gentle pastel blue, adorned with fairy lights you’d strung up in a fit of teenage whimsy, their soft glow a balm on restless nights. Shelves sagged under the weight of novels—classics mingled with dog-eared fantasy paperbacks, their spines cracked from countless readings. A worn quilt, stitched by your grandmother, draped over your bed, its patchwork of blues and greens a reminder of her warm hugs. The window, framed by sheer white curtains, overlooked the ancient oak tree in the backyard, its branches swaying in the breeze, whispering secrets you liked to imagine were meant just for you.

You were fourteen, a freshman in high school, navigating the awkward terrain of adolescence with a quiet grace that often went unnoticed. You preferred the company of books to the clamor of your peers, your world a kaleidoscope of imagined adventures and unspoken dreams. Your body was a source of quiet discomfort—slightly overweight, with soft curves that felt like a betrayal in a world that worshipped sharp angles and slender frames. You hid behind oversized clothes, your wardrobe a fortress of baggy sweaters and loose jeans, each piece chosen to obscure the body you couldn’t bring yourself to love.

Your older brother, Minho, was your opposite in every way—a vibrant storm to your gentle breeze. Three years your senior, he was a junior in high school, his life a whirlwind of basketball practices, late-night study sessions, and friendships that seemed to bloom effortlessly. Minho was the sun, magnetic and warm, his laughter a beacon that filled the house with life. His dark hair was always slightly mussed, his eyes bright with mischief, and his grin could charm anyone, from teachers to the grumpy cashier at the corner store. He was your protector, your confidant, the one who’d sneak you extra cookies when your parents weren’t looking, but his boisterous energy sometimes overwhelmed your quieter nature, leaving you to retreat to the safety of your room.

It was Minho who brought Jungkook into your life, a moment that would carve itself into your heart with the precision of a sculptor’s chisel. It was a crisp autumn afternoon, the air thick with the scent of fallen leaves and the faint tang of woodsmoke from a neighbor’s fireplace. The sun hung low, casting long shadows across the living room, where you were curled on the couch, a dog-eared copy of a book in your lap. The book was a familiar comfort, its pages soft from countless readings. Your oversized sweater, a faded navy blue, swallowed your frame, the sleeves dangling past your wrists, your knees tucked under you as you lost yourself in the book.

The front door swung open with a familiar creak, and Minho’s voice boomed through the house, shattering the quiet. “Yo, this is Jungkook,” he announced, his tone brimming with enthusiasm, as if he were unveiling a rare treasure. “He’s on the team. Dude’s a beast on the court.”

You glanced up, your heart giving a small, involuntary lurch, and there he was—Jeon Jungkook, standing in the doorway like a figure sculpted from shadow and steel. He was sixteen, tall and lean, with broad shoulders that hinted at the strength he’d later grow into, his frame still carrying the slight awkwardness of adolescence. His dark hair was a mess of waves, falling over his forehead in a way that looked effortlessly perfect, framing eyes so deep and intense they seemed to hold a universe of secrets. Those eyes were a rich brown, almost black, with a depth that made you feel like you could fall into them and never find the bottom. His skin was smooth, a warm golden hue, with a faint flush across his cheeks from the autumn chill outside.

He wore a black hoodie, the sleeves slightly too long, the fabric worn soft at the cuffs, and jeans that hugged his legs, the denim frayed at the knees. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his posture relaxed yet guarded, exuding a quiet confidence that made the air around him feel charged. A black backpack slung over one shoulder, its straps frayed, suggested he’d come straight from school or practice. There was something about him—something magnetic, something that made your breath catch and your palms tingle, though you couldn’t name it then. He was beautiful, in a way that felt dangerous, like a storm you wanted to chase despite the risk.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. It was the first time you heard it, and it struck you like a chord, resonating deep within your chest, stirring feelings you didn’t yet understand. The word was simple, but the way he said it—soft, almost hesitant, yet weighted with an intensity that belied his reserved demeanor—made it feel like a secret meant just for you.

“Hi,” you mumbled, your cheeks flaming as you ducked your head back into your book, pretending to read. The words blurred before your eyes, your heart thudding so loudly you were sure he could hear it from across the room. Your fingers tightened around the edges of the book, your nails digging into the soft cover, a lifeline to ground you as you fought the urge to flee. You felt exposed, even in your oversized sweater, as if his gaze could see through the layers of fabric to the insecurities you hid beneath.

Minho laughed, a bright, carefree sound that broke the tension, and clapped Jungkook on the shoulder, his hand lingering in a gesture of easy camaraderie. “Come on, man, let’s grab some food,” he said, leading Jungkook toward the kitchen, their footsteps fading into the hum of their conversation. You sat there, frozen, the book forgotten, your mind replaying the brief moment his eyes had met yours—a fleeting glance that felt like a spark igniting dry tinder.

You didn’t know it then, but that moment was the beginning, the first thread in a tapestry of longing that would weave itself through your life. Jungkook’s presence lingered in the air, a quiet storm that unsettled you, stirring feelings you weren’t ready to name. You tried to focus on your book, but the words danced on the page, meaningless, your thoughts consumed by the boy who’d just walked into your world.

Over the next few weeks, Jungkook became a fixture in your home, his visits a rhythm that synced with the beat of your heart. He and Minho were inseparable, their friendship forged on the basketball court and cemented in late-night gaming sessions that filled the living room with the clatter of controllers and the glow of the TV screen. Jungkook was reserved, his words sparse, his expressions carefully controlled, but his presence was undeniable, a gravitational pull that drew your attention no matter how hard you tried to ignore it.

You noticed everything about him, cataloging details with the intensity of a scientist studying a rare specimen. The way his jaw tightened when he was deep in thought, a muscle ticking faintly under his skin. The faint scar above his left eyebrow, a thin silver line you longed to trace with your fingertip, wondering how he’d gotten it. The way his fingers drummed restlessly against his thigh when he sat on the couch, his long legs stretched out before him, his sneakers scuffed from hours on the court. His laugh, rare and soft, was a sound you hoarded like a treasure, each chuckle a glimpse into a warmth he kept hidden.

You stayed in your room when he was over, too nervous to linger in his orbit, your shyness a shield that kept you safe but isolated. Your cheeks would flush at the mere thought of him, a betraying warmth that spread from your face to your chest, and you’d retreat to the safety of your books and music, where you could daydream without fear of rejection. But even from your room, you could feel him—his presence a quiet hum that vibrated through the walls, a reminder that he was there, just out of reach.

Your crush was inevitable, a seedling planted that first day and nurtured by every glance, every accidental brush of shoulders in the hallway. It was a silly thing, you told yourself, a childish infatuation you’d outgrow. Jungkook was older, cooler, his world so far removed from yours. He was Minho’s best friend, a star on the basketball team, the kind of boy who turned heads without trying. And you— you were just you, a shy girl with braces and a body you hid, a girl who felt like she’d never belong in his universe.

But that first meeting, that fleeting moment when his eyes met yours, had planted a seed you couldn’t uproot. It was a spark, small but fierce, that would smolder quietly for years, waiting for the right moment to blaze into flame. You didn’t know it then, but Jungkook had seen you too, really seen you, and that single word—“Hey”—had been the beginning of something neither of you could escape.

You were fifteen now, a sophomore still navigating the awkward terrain of high school, your shyness a steadfast companion that kept you tethered to the edges of social circles. Your smile that you rarely showed, your body still a source of quiet shame—soft and rounded, with curves you hid beneath layers of oversized clothing. Your wardrobe was a fortress of baggy sweaters and loose jeans, each piece a shield against the mirror’s judgment, a way to obscure the hips and stomach you couldn’t bring yourself to love. The sanctuary of pastel walls and fairy lights in your room a refuge from the fluttering in your chest his presence always stirred. Your cheeks would flush at the mere thought of him, a betraying warmth that spread like wildfire, and you’d bury yourself in books or music, hoping to drown out the silly crush you were certain you’d outgrow.

But there were moments—small, electric moments—that pierced the veil of your self-imposed isolation, moments that lingered like the aftertaste of something sweet and forbidden. These encounters were rare, fleeting, but they burned themselves into your memory, each one a spark that fed the quiet flame of your feelings for Jungkook.

One such moment came on a chilly autumn evening, the air outside crisp with the scent of fallen leaves and woodsmoke, the house wrapped in a cozy stillness. Minho and Jungkook were sprawled in the living room, the low drone of an action movie—explosions and gunfire—filtering through the walls. You’d been in your room, curled on your bed with a novel, but the call of clean laundry had pulled you out, a wicker basket balanced awkwardly in your arms. The basket was heavy, stuffed with folded towels and clothes, its weight making you clumsy as you navigated the narrow upstairs hallway, the hardwood floor cool against your bare feet.

You didn’t see Jungkook until it was too late. Your foot caught on the edge of the rug, a frayed runner your mother had been meaning to replace, and the basket tipped, towels spilling onto the floor as you stumbled forward. A soft gasp escaped you, your face flaming with embarrassment, but before you could hit the ground, strong hands shot out, catching you. Jungkook’s grip was firm but gentle, his fingers wrapping around your upper arms, steadying you with an ease that made your heart stutter. His touch was warm, searing through the thin fabric of your oversized sweater—a faded gray one, the sleeves dangling past your wrists, the hem brushing your thighs over loose leggings.

“Careful,” he said, his voice a low rumble, like distant thunder rolling across a stormy sky. It was deep, gravelly, with a softness that caught you off guard, and it sent a shiver down your spine, pooling heat in your stomach. His dark eyes locked onto yours, intense and unreadable, their depths holding a quiet storm you couldn’t decipher. For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of you—the faint scent of his cologne, a heady mix of sandalwood, musk, and something faintly smoky, wrapping around you like a warm blanket; the subtle flex of his fingers against your arms, strong yet careful; the way his breath hitched slightly, a barely perceptible pause that made you wonder if he felt the same electricity you did.

Your cheeks burned, your mouth dry, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. “S-sorry,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper, your eyes dropping to the floor, where the spilled towels lay in a chaotic heap. You pulled away, the loss of his touch a small ache, and dropped to your knees, scrambling to gather the laundry, your movements frantic, as if you could outrun your embarrassment.

“S’okay,” Jungkook said, his voice softer now, a velvet caress that made your skin prickle. He crouched beside you, his movements deliberate, his long fingers brushing yours as he handed you a stray sock, the contact fleeting but electric. You froze, your breath catching, your fingers tingling where his skin had touched yours. His hands were calloused, rough from hours on the basketball court and the weight room, but his touch was gentle, almost reverent, as he helped you gather the towels, stacking them neatly back into the basket.

You dared to glance at him, and your heart skipped at the sight of his lips quirking into a rare, small smile—a subtle curve that softened the sharp lines of his face, revealing a warmth you rarely saw. His dark hair fell into his eyes, a few strands catching the hallway light, and you noticed the faint scar above his left eyebrow, a thin silver line that seemed to tell a story you longed to know. His black hoodie was slightly rumpled, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the beginnings of a tattoo on his forearm—a small, intricate design you couldn’t quite make out, its edges peeking from under the fabric. The sight of it sent a thrill through you, a glimpse into a side of him you hadn’t seen, a secret etched into his skin.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, your voice barely audible, your cheeks flaming as you clutched the basket to your chest, a makeshift shield. You stood, your legs unsteady, and fled to your room, the door clicking shut behind you. Leaning against it, your breath came in ragged gasps, the memory of his touch, his smile, his eyes searing into you like a brand. You slid to the floor, the basket forgotten beside you, your heart a wild thing in your chest, your mind replaying the moment—the way his fingers had felt, the intensity of his gaze, the quiet promise in his smile.

It was nothing, you told yourself, just an accident, a moment he’d already forgotten. But you couldn’t shake the way he’d looked at you, the intensity that made you feel seen, even if just for a second. You pressed your hands to your cheeks, feeling the heat there, and wondered if he’d felt it too—the spark, the connection, the unspoken something that hung in the air like a held breath.

Another moment came a few months later, in the dead of winter, when the house was cloaked in the stillness of a late-night snowstorm. Your body still a battleground of insecurities, your oversized T-shirt and pajama shorts doing little to hide the curves you despised. The house was dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of streetlamps filtering through the windows, casting long shadows across the walls. You’d crept downstairs for a glass of water, thinking everyone was asleep, your bare feet silent on the cold hardwood floor.

You froze when you saw Jungkook at the kitchen counter, a bottle of soda in his hand, his silhouette lit by the soft glow of the refrigerator light. He was shirtless, his basketball shorts low on his hips, revealing the lean muscles of his back, the faint outline of abs that caught the light, the sharp V of his hips disappearing into the waistband. His skin was smooth, a warm golden hue, with a faint sheen of sweat, as if he’d just come from a late-night workout or a restless bout of insomnia. A small tattoo—a crescent moon—adorned his left shoulder, its dark ink stark against his skin, a detail you’d never noticed before, one that made your breath catch, your fingers itching to trace its curves.

He looked up, and the air shifted, heavy with unspoken tension, the quiet of the house amplifying the moment. His eyes raked over you, slow and deliberate, lingering on the bare skin of your legs, the way your T-shirt clung to your chest, the soft swell of your breasts visible in the dim light. You felt exposed, your arms crossing instinctively over your body, your cheeks burning under his gaze. It was like a physical touch, warm and heavy, making your skin prickle, your heart race, your thighs press together in a futile attempt to quell the heat pooling low in your belly.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice softer than usual, a velvet caress that wrapped around you, low and intimate in the quiet. It was a voice that could unravel you, each syllable weighted with a warmth that made your knees weak. He leaned against the counter, the soda bottle dangling from his fingers, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, watching you with an intensity that made you feel like the only person in the world.

You nodded, unable to form words, your throat tight, your mouth dry. “Yeah,” you managed, your voice barely a whisper, your hands trembling as you reached for a glass from the cabinet, the clink of it against the counter loud in the silence. You filled it with water, acutely aware of his gaze on your back, the weight of it like a hand on your skin, making your movements clumsy, your breath uneven.

You turned to leave, the glass cold against your palm, but his voice stopped you, a quiet thread in the dark. “You don’t come out much,” he said, his tone casual but laced with something deeper, something that made your heart stutter. “When I’m here, I mean.”

You froze, your back to him, your fingers tightening around the glass, the cold seeping into your skin. “I… I’m just shy,” you said, your voice small, your eyes fixed on the floor, where the moonlight pooled in silver patches. It was a half-truth, a shield to hide the real reason—you were terrified of him, not because he was unkind, but because he made you feel too much, too deeply, a longing you couldn’t control.

He hummed, a low sound that vibrated in your chest, rich and warm, like the first note of a song you wanted to hear forever. “You don’t have to be,” he said, and when you dared to glance over your shoulder, his eyes were on you, dark and unreadable, a faint smile playing on his lips, soft and fleeting. “Not with me.”

The words were simple, but they landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples through you, stirring something you weren’t ready to face. His smile was a rare gift, a crack in his reserved facade, revealing a warmth that made your heart ache. His eyes held yours, steady and piercing, and for a moment, you felt seen—not just noticed, but seen, every hidden part of you laid bare under his gaze, accepted, wanted.

You mumbled something incoherent, your voice lost in the rush of blood in your ears, and fled, the water forgotten on the counter, your bare feet slapping against the floor as you hurried back to your room. You closed the door softly, your breath ragged, your heart a wild thing in your chest. You leaned against the wall, the cool plaster grounding you, and pressed your hands to your face, feeling the heat of your cheeks, the rapid thud of your pulse.

You replayed his words, his smile, the way his eyes had seemed to see straight through you, peeling back the layers of your shyness, your insecurities, to find the girl beneath. It was nothing, you told yourself, just your imagination, your silly crush spinning fantasies out of thin air. But as you climbed into bed, the moonlight casting silver patterns on your quilt, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted, a quiet promise whispered in the dark, waiting for the right moment to bloom.

These moments were rare, but they were everything, each one a bead on a string you wore close to your heart. They fueled your crush, a quiet ache that grew with every glance, every word, every accidental touch. You told yourself it was foolish, that Jungkook—older, cooler, reserved—would never see you as anything more than Minho’s shy little sister. But in the shadows of the hallway, in the quiet of the night, you let yourself dream, let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, he saw you too.

The crush you harbored for Jungkook grew like a hidden vine, its roots sinking deeper into your heart with each passing day, entwining itself around your thoughts until it was as much a part of you as your own breath. It was a quiet ache, a longing that pulsed beneath your skin, nurtured by every fleeting glance, every rare word he spoke in your direction, every accidental brush of his presence that set your nerves alight. You were sixteen now, a junior in high school, still cloaked in the shyness that had defined you since childhood, your world a delicate balance of books, music, and the safety of your room. Your body remained a source of quiet shame—soft and rounded, with curves you hid beneath oversized sweaters and loose jeans, a fortress of fabric to shield you from the mirror’s judgment. Jungkook, at eighteen, was a senior, his presence in your home a constant, a rhythm that synced with the seasons, his friendship with Minho an unshakable force that filled the house with life.

Jungkook was a study in contrasts—reserved yet magnetic, his words sparse but his presence commanding, a quiet storm that drew your gaze no matter how hard you tried to look away. You noticed everything about him, your senses attuned to his every detail like a musician to a favorite melody. The way his dark hair fell into his eyes, a messy cascade of waves that he’d push back with an impatient hand, revealing the faint scar above his left eyebrow—a thin silver line you longed to trace, to learn its story. The subtle flex of his jaw when he was deep in thought, a muscle ticking faintly under his golden skin, a sign of the intensity he kept tightly leashed. The restless drum of his fingers against his thigh when he sat on the couch, his long legs stretched out, his sneakers scuffed from hours on the basketball court. His laugh, rare and soft, was a treasure you hoarded, a sound that warmed you from the inside out, a glimpse into a side of him he rarely showed.

Your shyness a barrier that kept you safe but isolated. The mere thought of him sent a flush to your cheeks, a betraying warmth that spread from your face to your chest, and you’d retreat to the sanctuary of your pastel walls, where fairy lights cast a soft glow and shelves of novels offered escape. Your crush was a secret you guarded fiercely, a silly infatuation you were certain you’d outgrow, a childish dream you told yourself was pointless. Jungkook was too old, too cool, too unattainable—Minho’s best friend, a star on the basketball team, a boy whose quiet intensity made girls at school whisper and blush. And you— you were just you, a shy girl with a body you hid and a heart you kept locked away, convinced he’d never see you as anything more than the kid sister who blushed and stammered in his presence.

But there were moments—small, electric moments—that made it hard to bury your feelings, moments that slipped through the cracks of your resolve like sunlight through a shuttered window. These encounters were rare, but they were everything, each one a bead on a string you wore close to your heart, a reminder that maybe, just maybe, there was something there, something unspoken but real.

One such moment came late one spring evening, when the air was thick with the scent of blooming lilacs and the promise of summer. Minho and Jungkook had been playing video games in the living room, their laughter and curses a familiar soundtrack that filtered through the walls of your room. You’d been curled on your bed, headphones on, lost in a playlist of soft indie songs, when hunger pulled you downstairs, a quiet craving for something sweet. The house was warm, the windows open to let in the evening breeze, the curtains swaying gently, casting dappled shadows on the hardwood floor.

You crept down the stairs, your oversized T-shirt—a faded black one with a band logo you barely recognized—falling to your thighs, your pajama shorts hidden beneath, your bare feet silent on the cool wood. The living room was a mess of chip bags and soda cans, the TV screen paused on a racing game, its neon colors casting a faint glow. Minho was nowhere in sight—likely in the bathroom or raiding the fridge—but Jungkook was there, sprawled on the couch, his head tipped back, eyes closed, his breathing slow and even. The moonlight spilled through the window, painting his features in silver, a soft halo that made him look almost ethereal.

He was beautiful, a statue carved from marble, his dark hair falling over his forehead, a few strands catching the light, his lips slightly parted, soft and full. His black tank top clung to his frame, revealing the lean muscles of his arms, the faint outline of his chest, the beginnings of a tattoo on his shoulder—a crescent moon, its ink stark against his golden skin, a detail you’d noticed before but never tired of seeing. His jeans were low on his hips, the waistband revealing a sliver of toned stomach, the sharp V of his hips a quiet temptation that made your breath catch. He looked peaceful, vulnerable in a way you rarely saw, and you stood there, frozen in the doorway, your heart aching with a want you couldn’t name, a longing to step closer, to touch, to know him in a way you never could.

You moved silently, intending to slip into the kitchen unnoticed, but the floor creaked under your weight, a sharp sound that shattered the quiet. Jungkook stirred, his eyes fluttering open, and you froze, caught in the act of staring, your cheeks flaming with embarrassment. His gaze found you, dark and piercing, a slow blink as he registered your presence, his lips curving into a faint, sleepy smile that made your knees weak.

“Y/N?” he said, his voice thick with sleep, a low rasp that sent a shiver down your spine, pooling heat in your stomach. It was a voice that could unravel you, each syllable weighted with a warmth that made your heart stutter. He sat up, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, his tank top riding up to reveal more of his stomach, the faint trail of hair disappearing into his jeans, a detail that made your mouth dry.

“S-sorry,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper, your hands twisting together, your eyes dropping to the floor, where the moonlight pooled in silver patches. “I was just… getting something. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He stretched, his muscles flexing, the tattoo on his shoulder shifting with the movement, and you tried not to stare, tried to focus on the floor, the wall, anything but him. “You didn’t wake me,” he said, his voice softer now, a velvet caress in the quiet. “I wasn’t really sleeping. Just… resting my eyes.”

You nodded, your throat tight, your fingers itching to reach for something, anything, to ground you. “Okay,” you mumbled, taking a step toward the kitchen, but his voice stopped you, a quiet thread in the dark.

“You’re always sneaking around,” he said, a teasing edge to his tone, his lips quirking into that rare smile, the one that felt like a gift. “Like a ghost. I barely see you when I’m here.”

You froze, your back to him, your heart pounding, the words landing like a stone in still water, sending ripples through you. “I’m not sneaking,” you protested weakly, turning slightly to face him, your eyes flickering to his, then away, too nervous to hold his gaze. “I just… don’t like bothering people.”

His smile widened, a soft chuckle escaping him, a sound so warm and rare it felt like a secret shared just with you. “You don’t bother me,” he said, his voice low, his eyes softening, holding yours for a moment too long. “You never could.”

The words were simple, but they struck you like a chord, resonating deep within your chest, stirring a hope you weren’t ready to face. His eyes were steady, piercing, a quiet intensity that made you feel seen—not just noticed, but seen, every hidden part of you laid bare, accepted, wanted. The moonlight caught the planes of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the faint stubble that dusted his chin, and you felt a pull, a longing to step closer, to bridge the distance between you.

You mumbled something incoherent, your voice lost in the rush of blood in your ears, and fled to the kitchen, your bare feet slapping against the floor. You grabbed a bag of cookies from the pantry, your hands trembling, the plastic crinkling loudly in the silence. You stood there, leaning against the counter, your heart a wild thing in your chest, the cookies forgotten as you replayed his words, his smile, the way his eyes had seemed to see straight through you.

When you finally returned to your room, the bag unopened, you closed the door softly, your breath ragged, your mind a whirlwind of what-ifs. You climbed into bed, the moonlight casting silver patterns on your quilt, and let yourself dream, let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, he meant it—that you didn’t bother him, that you could be more than a ghost in his world.

Another moment came a few weeks later, during a rare quiet afternoon when Minho was out running errands and Jungkook had stayed behind, waiting for him to return. You’d been in your room, sketching in a notebook, your pencil scratching softly against the paper, when you heard the faint creak of the floorboards outside your door. You glanced up, your heart skipping, and saw Jungkook in the hallway, leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, watching you through the open door.

You froze, your pencil hovering over the page, your cheeks flushing as you realized he’d been standing there, silent, for who knew how long. He was wearing a black T-shirt, the fabric clinging to his frame, his jeans ripped at the knees, his hair tied back in a loose bun, a few strands escaping to frame his face. The tattoo on his shoulder was visible, the crescent moon a stark contrast against his skin, and you wondered, not for the first time, what it meant, what stories it held.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, his voice low, a quiet rumble that sent a shiver through you. His lips quirked into a small smile, his eyes flickering over your notebook, the half-finished sketch of a tree, its branches sprawling across the page. “You draw?”

You nodded, your throat tight, your hands clutching the notebook, a shield against his gaze. “Yeah,” you said, your voice small, your eyes dropping to the page, where the pencil lines seemed suddenly inadequate under his scrutiny. “It’s just… something I do.”

He pushed off the wall, taking a step closer, his boots scuffing softly against the floor. “Can I see?” he asked, his tone curious, not demanding, a softness that made your heart stutter.

You hesitated, your insecurities flaring, but his eyes were steady, encouraging, and you slowly handed him the notebook, your fingers brushing his as you did, the contact sending a jolt through you. His hands were warm, calloused, the roughness of them a contrast to the gentle way he held the notebook, his fingers tracing the edges of the page with care.

“It’s good,” he said, his voice genuine, his eyes lingering on the sketch, taking in the details—the gnarled branches, the delicate leaves, the shadows you’d shaded in with care. “Really good. You’ve got talent.”

You blushed, your cheeks burning, your hands twisting together in your lap. “Thanks,” you mumbled, your voice barely audible, your eyes fixed on the floor, where the sunlight spilled in golden patches. “It’s not… I mean, it’s just for fun.”

He handed the notebook back, his fingers brushing yours again, a deliberate slowness that made your breath catch. “You should show it off more,” he said, his voice low, his eyes meeting yours, holding them with a quiet intensity. “You’re good at this, Y/N. Don’t hide it.”

You nodded, unable to speak, your heart pounding, the weight of his words settling over you like a warm blanket. He lingered for a moment, his eyes flickering over your face, as if memorizing you, then turned and left, his footsteps fading down the hall. You sat there, the notebook open in your lap, your hands trembling, his words echoing in your mind—Don’t hide it. It felt like more than a comment on your drawing, a quiet plea that reached deeper, touching the parts of you you kept locked away.

You overheard Minho one night, late, when you were supposed to be asleep, his voice carrying through the thin walls of your house. He was on the phone, his tone casual, talking to a friend. “Jungkook’s never been into relationships,” he said, a laugh in his voice. “Girls are all over him, but he’s too cold, scares them off. I think he’s been into someone for a while, though. No clue who.”

The words were a knife, sharp and bittersweet, lodging in your heart. You wanted to believe it could be you, that the moments you shared—the glances, the smiles, the quiet words—meant something. But the mirror told a different story, reflecting back a girl who felt too big, too soft, too invisible. You weren’t the kind of girl Jungkook would want, not when he could have anyone—slender, confident girls who moved through the world with ease, who didn’t hide behind baggy clothes and closed doors.

So you buried your feelings, locked them away in a box you swore you’d never open, convinced they were a childish fantasy, a dream you’d outgrow. But in the quiet of your room, when the fairy lights glowed and the world was still, you let yourself imagine—a world where Jungkook saw you, really saw you, and wanted you just as fiercely as you wanted him. Those moments, those whispers of want, were enough to keep the flame alive, a quiet hope that refused to die, waiting for the day it might burn bright.

Time had woven its subtle threads through your life, reshaping the shy girl of your adolescence into a young woman navigating the complexities of adulthood. At twenty, you were a college student, your days a vibrant mosaic of literature lectures, coffee-fueled study sessions in dimly lit campus libraries, and tentative steps toward carving out a life beyond the shadows of your insecurities. The house, with its familiar creak of hardwood floors and the lingering scent of lavender from your mother’s beloved candles, remained your anchor, a haven you returned to on weekends. But your world had expanded—your dorm room, a small sanctuary on campus, was now your primary refuge, filled with the hum of city life and the quiet rhythm of your own growth. Your smile a little more confident, though still guarded, your chestnut hair now cascading in long, soft waves that shimmered in the sunlight, framing your face like a gentle halo. Yet your shyness persisted, a soft undercurrent that kept you on the periphery, and your body—still soft, still rounded with curves you couldn’t fully embrace—remained a quiet battleground of self-doubt. You clung to oversized clothes, hoodies and loose jeans your armor, a shield against the mirror’s relentless scrutiny and the world’s unspoken standards.

Your crush on Jungkook had not faded, despite your best efforts to bury it, to dismiss it as a childish infatuation you’d outgrow. It was a persistent ache, a ghost that haunted the quiet corners of your heart, stirred by the memory of his piercing dark eyes, the rare curve of his lips, the low, gravelly timbre of his voice that seemed to resonate in your bones. You’d tried to move on, dipping your toes into the shallow waters of dating—brief, fleeting connections with boys who were kind but unremarkable, their touches soft but uninspiring, their words fading like echoes in a vast emptiness. None of them were Jungkook. None carried the weight of his presence, the intensity that made your breath hitch, your pulse race, your body hum with a longing you couldn’t name. You poured yourself into your studies, your friendships, your small victories—a well-received essay, a shared laugh over coffee, a moment of feeling enough—but Jungkook remained, a quiet melody woven into the fabric of your thoughts, a yearning that refused to be silenced.

Jungkook, now twenty-three, had forged a path that seemed to exist in a different universe from yours. He was a tattoo artist, his talent a whispered legend in the local underground scene, his name synonymous with artistry and precision. His arms were a living canvas, adorned with intricate ink—swirling constellations of stars, a fierce wolf baring its teeth, abstract patterns that flowed like water, each design a story etched into his golden skin. His body was a testament to years of discipline, lean and muscular, every movement deliberate, exuding a quiet strength that made the air around him feel charged. His dark hair, often pulled back in a loose bun, revealed the sharp planes of his face—the chiseled jaw, the faint stubble that dusted his chin, the silver piercing in his eyebrow that caught the light like a star. He was still reserved, a man of few words, but his presence was a force, his dark eyes capable of unraveling you with a single glance, their intensity a storm that left you breathless, your heart a captive to their depth.

You saw him less now, your schedules a tangled web of mismatched hours, your lives diverging like rivers seeking different seas. When you did cross paths, it was fleeting—a nod in the hallway of your family home, a small smile that felt like a rare gift, a moment that lingered in your mind long after he was gone. These encounters were scarce, but they were enough to keep the flame of your feelings alive, a spark that flared with every glimpse of him. You’d catch him at the house occasionally, dropping by to see Minho, his leather jacket slung over his shoulder, his boots scuffed from city streets, his cologne—a rich blend of sandalwood, musk, and a faint smoky undertone—lingering in the air like a promise. Each time, you’d retreat to your room, your cheeks flushed, your heart pounding, convincing yourself it was nothing, that he was just Minho’s friend, that he’d never see you the way you saw him. But the distance only sharpened your longing, the absence of him a weight that pressed against your chest, a quiet ache that followed you through your days.

One spring evening, the air cool and fragrant with the scent of budding jasmine, you returned to your dorm after a grueling day of classes. Your backpack, heavy with textbooks and notes, thudded to the floor as you kicked off your sneakers, the soles worn from countless treks across campus. Your dorm room was a small, intimate space, a cocoon of comfort amidst the chaos of college life. The walls were adorned with Polaroid photos—snapshots of friends, sunsets, and quiet moments—pinned alongside strings of fairy lights that cast a warm, golden glow, their soft hum a soothing backdrop. The bed was a nest of pillows and a quilt in shades of blue and green, its patchwork pattern a gift from your grandmother, carrying the faint scent of her rosewater perfume. A small desk by the window was cluttered with notebooks, pens, and a ceramic mug stained with coffee rings, the city lights twinkling beyond the glass, a constellation of life moving on outside.

You sank onto the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight, your body heavy with exhaustion but your mind restless, a familiar restlessness that always seemed to lead to him—Jungkook. You hadn’t seen him in weeks, not since a brief encounter at the house when he’d stopped by to see Minho, his leather jacket slung over his shoulder, his hair tied back in a messy bun, a few strands falling into his eyes. His gaze had caught yours for a heartbeat, a fleeting moment that felt like a spark igniting dry tinder, before you’d mumbled an excuse and fled to your room, your heart racing. That moment had lingered, his eyes a flame that hadn’t faded, a heat that coiled low in your belly, persistent and unyielding.

You lay back, the quilt soft beneath you, its texture a gentle caress against your skin, the fairy lights casting intricate patterns on the ceiling, like stars scattered across a twilight sky. Your hoodie—a faded gray one, oversized and worn to softness—swallowed your frame, the sleeves dangling past your wrists, your leggings loose and comfortable, clinging to the curves you hid. You closed your eyes, letting your thoughts drift to Jungkook, his image vivid and consuming. You pictured his face—the sharp line of his jaw, the faint stubble that roughened his chin, the silver piercing in his eyebrow glinting under the light. You imagined his eyes, dark and piercing, their intensity a quiet storm that saw through you, stripping away your insecurities to find the woman beneath. His voice, that low, gravelly rumble, echoed in your mind, saying your name with a softness that made your breath hitch, a promise woven into each syllable.

Your hand drifted to your stomach, your fingers tracing the soft curve beneath your hoodie, the fabric warm from your body, its texture a faint comfort against the rising heat. The thought of Jungkook was a spark, igniting a fire that spread through your limbs, making your skin prickle, your breath quicken. You imagined his hands—strong, calloused from hours wielding a tattoo needle, the fingers long and deft, marked by faint ink stains, the ones that had steadied you in a hallway years ago. You pictured those hands on you, peeling away your hoodie, your leggings, revealing the body you hid, worshipping it with a reverence that silenced your doubts. The fantasy was vivid, sensory—his cologne, rich and smoky, filling your lungs, the roughness of his stubble grazing your cheek, the warmth of his breath against your neck.

Your hand slipped lower, beneath the waistband of your leggings, your fingers brushing the soft cotton of your underwear, already damp with the evidence of your desire. The fabric was warm, clinging to your skin, the sensation sending a shiver through you, a quiet gasp escaping your lips, swallowed by the stillness of the room. You traced the edge of your folds through the cotton, teasingly slow, your fingers trembling with anticipation, the heat pooling low in your belly, a slow burn that made your thighs press together. You pushed the underwear aside, your fingers finding your slick heat, the texture soft and wet, a delicate sensitivity that made your breath hitch, your hips shift against the quilt, its patchwork pattern a faint friction against your skin.

You circled your clit slowly, the pressure light but deliberate, each stroke sending sparks of pleasure through you, your body responding with a quiet hum. The room was warm, the air thick with the scent of your lavender candle, its flame flickering on the desk, casting dancing shadows on the walls, their movement a soft counterpoint to the rhythm of your fingers. Your breath came in soft pants, your lips parting, a quiet moan slipping free as you imagined Jungkook’s lips on your neck, his tongue tracing the curve of your collarbone, his teeth grazing lightly, a delicious sting that made you arch into him. You pictured his eyes, locked on yours, dark and hungry, seeing you, wanting you, his voice a low growl, “You’re so fucking beautiful, Y/N. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

Your fingers moved faster, the pressure building, your hips rocking against your hand, the quilt’s texture a gentle abrasion against your thighs, the fairy lights blurring into a golden haze. You imagined Jungkook’s hands on your hips, pulling you closer, his body pressing against yours, the hard length of him evident through his jeans, a promise of what could be. You pictured the tattoo on his shoulder, the crescent moon stark against his golden skin, your fingers tracing its curves, feeling the warmth of him, the flex of his muscles as he moved. The fantasy deepened, his lips trailing lower, kissing the soft swell of your breasts, his tongue circling your nipple, the sensation sharp and electric, making you gasp, your fingers dipping lower, slipping inside your wet heat, the stretch a delicious ache.

The air was heavy with the scent of lavender and the faint musk of your arousal, a quiet intimacy that enveloped you, grounding you in the moment. Your moans grew louder, soft and breathy, filling the small room, your body trembling as the pleasure built, a wave cresting higher with every stroke, every imagined touch. You pictured Jungkook’s hands roaming lower, cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing your nipples, making you arch into him, your body a live wire under his touch. You imagined his lips on yours, hungry and desperate, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you, his voice a low rumble, “I need you, Y/N. I’ve always needed you.”

Your fingers worked in rhythm, circling your clit, dipping inside, the slick heat of your pussy a soft, pulsing warmth that made your head spin, your thighs tremble. The quilt was warm beneath you, its fabric a gentle anchor, the fairy lights casting a golden glow that felt like a lover’s touch. Your orgasm came suddenly, a white-hot wave that crashed over you, leaving you trembling, your breath ragged, your fingers slick as you rode out the aftershocks, your moans softening into quiet whimpers. Your body shuddered, your hips slowing, the pleasure lingering like the afterglow of a sunset, warm and golden.

You lay there, panting, your heart pounding, the room spinning slightly, the fairy lights a soft blur above you. The quilt was damp beneath you, the air heavy with the scent of your release, the lavender candle’s flame a steady flicker in the corner of your vision. Guilt crept in, a familiar shadow, but you pushed it away, letting yourself linger in the fantasy, in the imagined warmth of Jungkook’s arms, his voice, his love. You withdrew your hand, wiping it on a tissue from the bedside table, the paper soft but cool against your heated skin, and curled onto your side, pulling the quilt over you, its weight a comforting embrace. The city lights twinkled beyond the window, a reminder of the world moving on, and you closed your eyes, Jungkook’s face the last thing you saw before sleep claimed you.

Weeks later, a different night brought a new layer to the quiet longing that bound you to Jungkook, a moment that would sear itself into his memory with a ferocity he couldn’t shake. It was a rare weekend when you’d returned to the house on Maple Street, the familiar creak of the floors and the lavender-scented air a balm after a hectic week of exams. Minho had invited Jungkook over, their plan a late-night gaming session, but you’d retreated to your room early, exhausted, your body heavy with the weight of deadlines and unspoken desires. Your room was as it always was—a sanctuary of pastel blues, fairy lights strung along the walls, shelves groaning under the weight of novels, the quilt on your bed a patchwork of memories.

You’d fallen asleep without meaning to, your body sinking into the mattress, the quilt tangled around your legs, your oversized T-shirt—a soft, faded gray one—riding up to reveal the soft curve of your waist, the swell of one breast spilling free, its nipple hardened by the cool night air. The window was cracked open, letting in a gentle breeze that stirred the curtains, their sheer fabric swaying like ghosts in the moonlight. The fairy lights cast a soft glow, bathing you in a golden halo, your chestnut hair fanned across the pillow, a few strands clinging to your cheek, your lips slightly parted, a quiet sigh escaping in your sleep.

Jungkook, restless after Minho had crashed on the couch, had wandered upstairs, intending to grab a glass of water from the kitchen but drawn inexplicably to the hallway outside your room. Your door was ajar, a sliver of light spilling into the dark corridor, and he paused, his breath catching as he saw you—sprawled across the bed, vulnerable and breathtaking, your body a quiet offering to the night. His eyes locked on the exposed curve of your breast, the soft, creamy skin glowing in the fairy light, the nipple a dark, tempting peak that made his mouth water, his throat tighten. The sight was a punch to the gut, a surge of desire so fierce it nearly brought him to his knees, his cock stirring in his jeans, a heavy, insistent ache that demanded release.

He stood frozen, his heart pounding, his breath shallow, the air thick with the scent of lavender and the faint musk of your sleeping form. He knew he should leave, should turn away, but his feet were rooted to the floor, his eyes drinking you in, memorizing every detail—the soft rise and fall of your chest, the delicate curve of your neck, the way your fingers curled loosely against the quilt, as if reaching for something in your dreams. His hand twitched at his side, itching to touch, to trace the lines of you, to feel the warmth of your skin under his fingers, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. You were Minho’s sister, a line he’d sworn never to cross, but the sight of you—open, unguarded, beautiful—shattered his resolve, leaving him raw and wanting.

He retreated to the bathroom down the hall, locking the door with a soft click, his breath ragged, his body humming with need. The small space was dim, lit only by the faint glow of a nightlight, the air cool against his heated skin, the tiles cold under his bare feet. He leaned against the sink, his hands gripping the edge, the porcelain smooth and unyielding, his reflection in the mirror a shadowed figure, eyes dark with desire, jaw clenched with restraint. His leather jacket was slung over the towel rack, his black T-shirt clinging to his muscled frame, his jeans tight against the growing bulge of his cock, the denim a painful constraint.

He palmed himself through the fabric, a low groan escaping his lips, the sound swallowed by the quiet of the house. The pressure was immediate, a spark of pleasure that made his hips buck, his breath hitch, the denim rough against his sensitive skin. He unbuttoned his jeans, the zipper loud in the silence, and shoved them down, his boxers following, his cock springing free—thick, hard, the tip glistening with precum, a bead that caught the faint light. He wrapped his hand around himself, his grip firm, the callouses on his palm a rough contrast to the silken heat of his shaft, and began to stroke, slow and deliberate, his eyes closing as he let the fantasy take hold.

He pictured you, still sprawled on that bed, your breast exposed, your body soft and inviting, your lips parted in a quiet moan as he touched you. He imagined crawling onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, the quilt soft beneath his knees, your skin warm under his hands as he traced the curve of your waist, the swell of your breast, his thumb brushing your nipple, feeling it harden further under his touch. He pictured your eyes fluttering open, dark and heavy with desire, your voice a soft whimper, “Jungkook,” as he leaned down, his lips capturing yours, the kiss hungry and desperate, his tongue tasting the sweetness of you.

His strokes quickened, his hand slick with precum, the wet sound of his movements filling the small space, a quiet rhythm that matched the pounding of his heart. He imagined spreading your thighs, the quilt falling away, revealing the glistening heat of your pussy, soft and wet, pulsing with need. He pictured his fingers slipping inside you, the warmth of your walls clenching around him, your moans loud and desperate, your hips rocking against his hand, your voice a broken plea, “Please, Jungkook, I need you.” He imagined taking you, his cock sliding into your wet heat, the stretch a delicious ache, your body arching beneath him, your nails digging into his back, leaving marks, your moans filling the room, a symphony of want.

The air was heavy with the scent of his arousal, the faint musk of his sweat, the cool tiles a stark contrast to the heat of his skin, the mirror reflecting his shadowed form, his muscles flexing with each stroke. His breath came in ragged pants, his lips parting, a low groan escaping as he pictured your body trembling beneath him, your pussy clenching around his cock, your voice a desperate cry, “Jungkook, I’m coming,” as you shattered, your orgasm pulling him over the edge, his release hot and thick, spilling over his hand, his hips bucking, his moans soft but fervent.

He leaned against the sink, his breath ragged, his body trembling, the aftershocks of his orgasm lingering like a fading echo. The tiles were cold under his feet, the air cool against his flushed skin, the mirror showing a man undone, his eyes heavy with desire and guilt, his chest heaving with the weight of what he’d done. He cleaned himself with a tissue, the paper soft but cold, and pulled his jeans back up, the denim rough against his sensitive skin. He stood there, his hands gripping the sink, his reflection a reminder of the line he’d crossed, the desire he couldn’t bury, the love he couldn’t voice.

He slipped out of the bathroom, the hallway dark and silent, your door still ajar, your sleeping form a quiet temptation he forced himself to ignore. He returned to the living room, sinking onto the couch beside a snoring Minho, his heart heavy, his body sated but his soul restless. He didn’t know it then, but that stolen glimpse, that moment of surrender, had bound him to you even tighter, a thread in a tapestry of longing that would soon pull you both into its embrace.

The weeks stretched on, and Jungkook remained a distant presence, a shadow you glimpsed in passing but never held. You saw him at the house sometimes, brief moments that felt like both a gift and a wound—him leaning against the kitchen counter, a bottle of water in hand, his eyes catching yours for a heartbeat before you looked away; him sprawled on the couch, his leather jacket draped over the armrest, his laugh a rare sound that warmed you from the inside out. Each encounter was a spark, a reminder of the feelings you’d tried to bury, the crush that refused to fade.

You threw yourself into your studies, your literature classes a refuge, the words a balm for your restless heart. You spent hours in the library, the scent of old books and coffee grounding you, your laptop open to essays and notes, your friends a quiet comfort with their shared laughter and late-night study sessions. You tried to build a life where you felt enough, where your body wasn’t a source of shame, where your shyness didn’t feel like a chain. But Jungkook was always there, a quiet ache in the background, a longing that followed you through the campus, the coffee shops, the quiet of your dorm.

You didn’t know it then, but he was watching you too, his own feelings a secret he kept locked away, a quiet storm brewing in his chest. The distance between you was a chasm, but it was one you’d soon cross, the weight of absence giving way to a collision neither of you could avoid. For now, you carried him in your heart, a ghost you couldn’t shake, a dream you couldn’t wake from, and in the quiet of your room, you let yourself want him, let yourself believe that maybe, one day, he’d want you too.

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