BTS + EXO | Book of Imagines

Jungkook x Reader Smut

Jeon Jungkook. Art major in the University of Seoul. Passive-aggressive little shit and gamer extraordinaire.

That person, with his baggy pants and ruffled, black hair, was your flatmate and, more or less, his Twitter description. Saying more or less was absolutely necessary. Amidst the kitsch aesthetics of his art twitter account, he would never say something as vulgar as passive-aggressive. Jeon Jungkook? Little shit? Jamais. He perhaps would include his Overwatch rank, or a link to his baby-blue aesthetics blog, but admit he's annoying? Never.

Jungkook was, for everyone but you, a saint-a very, very attractive saint.

It's not that you hated him. No one in the entire planet hated Jeon Jungkook, he was a lovely human being, so you definitely didn't hate him. However, he had come into your life like a bulldozer of monstrous dimensions, destroying what little peace you had achieved in life with the tornado of his presence. In that case, there's only one possible alternative: to be angry, very angry, and fuck, you were.

Exactly six months before that very night, he had irrupted into your life, turning it upside down. Back then, back into that past that seemed now so distant, coming home was a pleasure.

Your apartment wasn't big. It wasn't luxurious and it was not in the perfect location, and yet it was the place you called home. You still remembered the day you had arrived, with only your backpack and a bucket of yellow paint. Not long before that very moment, your room had been painted yellow, and white curtains hung from the windows, waving dramatically with the breeze. That was the place you sought for refuge after a stressful day in the office-that hellish place in which you were not the last shit, but you were dangerously close to that spot to feel completely at ease.

In a perfect day, you would get down the bus-line C1, which is a nightmare in the rush hour- to get home, hurrying past a couple blocks and running up three stories only to be received by silence, a house that was only illuminated by the streetlights and that neon light from the ramen place crossing the street. Home was taking your shoes off at the entrance, without having to scurry past three pairs of identical Timberlands; it was ordering Thai no matter how late it was-most of days a serving of som tum and pad thai was your only dinner-and snuggling in the sofa until your eyes grew weary with sleep, and you could no longer pay attention to whatever TV show you were binge-watching that week.

It was a simple life. It wasn't the happiest or the most fulfilling, but it was quiet.

That, however, was your life before Jungkook knocked at your door, the obnoxious twenty-something college student with starry eyes and scrunch-y smile you were now stuck with. He had arrived on a terribly hot September afternoon, loaded with bags, what was probably the biggest easel he had found in the art supply shop, a bunch of canvases under his arm and a bright, innocent smile you fell for in the exactly three and a half seconds it took you to focus on his face.

He had come accompanied. His uncle loomed behind him like the ghost of the past Christmas. He was the flat owner, which was the explanation of Jungkook's presence in your apartment, the sole reason you had agreed to such an arrangement in the first place. When you first looked at his nephew, the toweringly tall art student, with tanned skin that could belong to a surfer boy, and the bunny teeth, you could only think of how easy it would be to live with him. He seemed back then-and you were still cursing your naiveté-shy and demure. Quiet. Well-mannered.

You had only fucked it up so bad once in your life. You were seven years old and you were learning how to tell the time-in both digital and analogical clocks, that's what we call a challenge. You were seven years old and you didn't pass the fucking exam, and ever since then none of your friends had allowed a year to pass by without reminding you of that highlight of your academic career.