1.cherry wine - hozier // 2. nothing - lewis watson // 3.you - keaton henson // 4.only love - ben howard // 5.holocene- bon iver // 6. slow dancing in a burning room - john mayer // 7.bones - ben howard // 8. work song - hozier // 9. sweetheart, what have you done to us? - keaton henson // 10.stay - lewis watson // 11.from afar - vance joy // 12. first day of my life - bright eyes // 13. we all die trying to get it right - vance joy // 14. latch (acoustic) - sam smith // 15. cough syrup - young the giant // 16.for emma - bon iver // 17.we found each other in the dark - city and colour // 18.make it to me (stripped) - sam smith // 19.skinny love (cover) - ed sheeran // 20.let it go - james bay // 21.tenerife sea - ed sheeran // 22.your body is a wonderland - john mayer // 23.hold back the river - james bay
*shyly whispers* do u think u could do another Greek Mythology story~
“Your tapestries are so
fine,” the merchant says in wonder, “that you must be blessed by the goddess
Arachne tosses her
head, braided hair falling over her shoulder like an obsidian waterfall,
“What’s Athena got to do with it? My hands wove these, not hers.”
The merchant blanches
and looks to the sky, as if expecting Zeus himself to smite them for blasphemy.
Personally, she thinks the king of the gods has better thing to do with his
time. “Ah,” he says weakly, “I suppose.”
He pays her for her
wares and she leaves, almost immediately bumping into a hunched old woman with
grey eyes. “Do you not owe Athena thanks for your talent?” she croaks, gnarled
hands curled over a cane.
Arachne is not stupid,
but she is foolish. They will tell tales of it. She looks into those grey eyes
and declares, “Athena should thank me,
since my talents earn her so much praise.”
She pushes past her and
keeps walking, ignoring the goddess in humans skin as she disappears into the
They will tell tales of
her hubris. They will all be true.
The next day she bumps
into the same old woman at the market. Everything goes downhill from there.
“Know your place,
mortal,” Athena says, grey eyes narrowed. There is a crowd around them, and
Arachne could save herself, could walk away unscathed, and all she has to do is
say her weaving is inferior to that of a goddess.
She will not lie.
“I do,” she says
coolly, “and in this matter, it is above you.”
She is not honest as a
virtue, but as a vice.
Athena challengers her
to a weaving contest. She accepts.
Gods are not so hard to
find, if you know where to look.
“It’s a volcano,” the
baker repeats, looking down at her coins, as if he feels guilty for taking
money from someone who’s clearly not all there.
She grabs her bag of
sweet breads and adds it to her pack before swinging it over her shoulders,
“Yes, I know. Half a day’s walk, you said?”
“A volcano,” he insists, as if she did not hear him perfectly well the
first dozen times.
“Thank you for your
help,” she says. He’s shaking his head at her, but she knows what she’s doing.
She walks. She grows
hungry, but does not touch the bread she paid for, and walks some more. The
sun’s begun to set by the time she makes it to the base of the volcano. It’s
tall, impossibly large, and for a moment the promise of defeat threatens to
But Arachne does not
believe in defeat, in loss. They will tell tales of her hubris. Those tales
will be true.
She ties a scarf around
her braids then hikes her skirt up and ties the material so it falls only to
her thighs. She fits work roughened hands into the divots of cooled magma and
begins her slow ascent.
The muscles in her legs
and arms shake, and her hunger pains are almost as distracting. Her once white
dress is dirt smeared and torn and sweat makes her itch as it covers her body
and drips down her back.
“What are you doing?”
Arachne turns her head
and bites back a scream, looking into one giant eye. The cyclops holds easily
to the volcano’s edges, even though her hands are torn and bleeding. She
swallows and says, “I heard you like honeyed bread. Is it true?”
The creature tilts his
head to the side, baring his long fanged teeth at her. She thinks he might be
smiling. “You’ve been climbing for hours. What do you want?”
“Is it true?” she
repeats, refusing to flinch.
“Yes,” he says, looking
at her the same way the baker had, “it’s true.”
“There’s some sweet
bread in my pack, baked this morning,” she says, “it should still be soft.”
His hands are big
enough and strong enough that it could probably squeeze her head like a grape. Instead
he gently undoes her pack and reaches inside. The honey buns look comically
small in his large hands, and he swallows half of them in one bite. He licks
his fingers clean when he’s done, and his smile is just as terrifying the
second time around. “I am Brontes. Why are you climbing my master’s volcano?”
“I’m the weaver
Arachne,” she takes a deep breath, “I need your master’s help.”
They tell tales of
They are not true.
He’s got a broad,
angular face and short brown hair. His eyes are like amber set into his face,
and his arms are huge, and he’s rippling muscle from the waist up. He has legs
only to his knees. From there down his legs are bronze gears and golden wire,
replacements for the legs destroyed when Hera threw him from Mount Olympus.
“Had your look, girl?”
he asks, voice rough like he’s always a moment away from breaking into a
“Yes,” she says, and
doesn’t turn away, keeps looking.
His lips quirk up at
the corners, so it was the right move. The heat is even more oppressive inside
the volcano, and all around him cyclopses work, forging oddly shaped metal that
she can’t hope to understand. “You’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble to find me,
girl. What do you want?”
She slides her pack off
her shoulders and holds it out to the god, “I have a gift for your wife. I have
woven her a cloak.”
He raises an eyebrow
and doesn’t reach for the bag, “You believe something made with mortal hands
could be worthy of the goddess of beauty?”
They will tell tales of
They will all be true.
With a gust of wind the
oppressive heat of the volcano is swept away, leaving her chilled. In its place
stands a woman – more than a woman. Aphrodite has skin like the copper of her
husband’s machines and hair dark and thick and long. Her eyes are deepest,
richest brown, piercing in their intelligence. People don’t tell tales of
Aphrodite’s cleverness. That is because people are stupid.
“Let’s see it then,”
she says, reaching inside the pack and pulling the cloak from its depths.
It unrolls beautifully.
It’s made from the finest silks, and it shimmers in the light from the forges.
The hem of the cloak is sea foam, speaking of Aphrodite’s beginning, and up
along the cloak is intricate patterns it tells of her life, of her marriage and
her worshippers and escapades, all with the detail of the most experienced
artist and the reverence of her most devoted followers.
Her lips part in
surprise and she slides it on, twirling like a child. “Gorgeous,” Hephaestus
says, though Arachne knows he does not speak of the cloak. She doesn’t take
The goddess smiles and
Arachne’s heart pounds in her chest. She does her best to ignore it – Aphrodite
is the goddess of love, after all. It is only expected. “Very well,” the
goddess says, “you have my attention.”
Aphrodite’s attention is a heavy thing. “I have offended Athena,” she says,
“She has challenged me to a weaving contest.”
Their faces somber.
Hephaestus rubs the edge of a sleeve between his fingers and says, “Athena will
lose such a contest, if judged fairly. She does not take loss well.”
“I know,” she says,
“you are friendly with Hades, are you not?”
There are no tales of
their friendship. But she’s staking her life on its existence, because why
wouldn’t it exist – both of them even tempered, both shunned by Olympus, both
Gods hate being made to
feel lesser. It is why they say Persephone was kidnapped, why they say
Aphrodite cheats with Ares. It is why Athena will crush her when Arachne wins
the weaving contest.
“Clever girl,” Hephaestus
Aphrodite stares at her
reflection in a convenient piece of polished silver. Arachne assumes Hephaestus
left if lying there for that express purpose. “Very well!” the goddess says,
not looking at her, “when Athena sends you to the underworld, we will entrench
upon our uncle for your release.” She turns on her heel and points a finger at
her. Arachne blushes for no reason she can think of. “In return, you will weave
me a gown, one equal to my own beauty.”
A gown as exquisite as
the goddess of beauty. An impossible task.
They will tell tales of
They will all be true.
The contest goes as
expected. Athena’s tapestry is lovely, but Arachne’s is lovelier.
The goddess’s face goes
red in rage, and her grey eyes narrow. Arachne stands tall, ready to accept the
death blow coming for her.
The blow comes.
Death does not.
She is an insect. Even if she can make it back to Hephaestus’s
volcano, even if they can help her, they will not know it is her. She has no
hope left, no course of action, she should just give up. But –
She doesn’t believe in
defeat, in loss.
It was a terribly long
journey on foot, that first time. It is even longer this time, although now she
has eight legs instead of two. She makes it to the volcano, and creeps in
between crevices, until she finds out a hollowed room, one with a sliver of
sunlight and plenty of bugs to keep her fed.
Athena’s cruel joke of
allowing her to weave will be her downfall. Her silk comes out a golden yellow
color – it will look exquisite against Aphrodite’s copper skin.
It takes seven years
for her to complete it. She hasn’t left this room in the volcano in all that
time, and as soon as it’s done she scurries out back toward the village. She’s
a large insect, but not that large.
She arrives just as the
sun begins to rise, and leaves before the first rays have even touched the
earth, her prize tied to her back with her own silk.
Arachne doesn’t return
to her room. Instead she goes to the more popular parts of the volcano, hurries
and runs around terrifying stomping feet until she finds who she’s looking for
and scurries up his leg and onto his shoulder.
“Huh,” Brontes looks
onto his shoulder and blinks. “What on earth are you?”
She cautiously skitters
down his arm, waiting. He bends closer and lightly touches her back. “Is – is that
a piece of a honey bun?”
She looks up at him,
waiting. It’s her only chance, if he doesn’t remember, if he doesn’t understand
His face slowly fills with
a cautious kind of wonder. “Arachne?” She
jumps in place, being unable to nod, and Brontes cautiously cradles her in his
massive hands, “We must find the Master immediately!”
She jumps down, landing
in front of him and running forward. “Wait!” he calls, and she makes sure he’s running
after her before skittering back to her corner of the cave. It’s almost too
small for him to enter but he squeezes inside and breathes, “Oh.” He stares for
several moments, and Arachne climbs her web and waits. Brontes shakes himself
out of his reverie and uses his powerful wings to bellow, “MISTRESS APHRODITE!”
There’s that same
breeze and she’s in the crevice with them, “What was so important, Brontes,
that you had to yell?”
Arachne sees the exact
moment that the goddess sees the gown, golden yellow and glimmering, made
entirely of spider silk. “Beautiful,” she says, reaching out a hand to brush
down the bodice. Her head then snaps up, “Brontes, where’s Arachne?”
She warms at that, that
Aphrodite knew it was her weaving even though she hasn’t been seen in seven
They’ve told tales of
They are all true.
Brontes points at the
web, and Aphrodite steps over and holds out her hands. Arachne crawls onto the
goddess’s palms. “Athena is more powerful than I am, I cannot undo her work,”
she says, “but I know someone who can.”
Then they are in front
of a river. A handsome young man stands there waiting with a boat. “Goddess
Aphrodite,” he says, “we weren’t expecting you.”
returns, “I need to see Persephone.”
The man’s face stays
cool, and for a moment Arachne fears they will be refused and she will be stuck
in this form forever. Then he smiles and says, “My lady is of course available
for her favored niece.” He holds out a hand to help her onto the boat, “Please
come with me.”
Arachne weaves a dress
for Hades’s wife as a thank you, and returns to her volcano.
“I can take you
somewhere else,” Aphrodite says, “you don’t have to hide here.”
Arachne pauses at her
loom. She has lived in this volcano for seven years. It’s her home. “Would you
like me to leave?” she asks instead.
Aphrodite scoffs, “Of
course not! How could I dress myself without you here?” She’s wearing the
spider silk dress Arachne spun for her, and she’s working on another for the
goddess now. Aphrodite runs a gentle finger down Arachne’s cheek and for a
moment she forgets to breathe. “You are the finest weaver to ever exist.”
She looks up at the
goddess, “Then as the god of crafts and goddess of beautiful things, where else
would I belong besides with you and Hephaestus?”
To declare your company
equal to that of gods is the height of arrogance and blasphemy.
They tell tales of her
“An excellent point,”
Aphrodite murmurs, and tucks a stray braid behind Arachne’s ear.
Every time I see these I miss that the images represent ‘100’ and I just think it says the National Park Service Is Turning, which is ominous and exciting, especially when paired with a giant reptilian eye.
photos by lui weber of a pink underwing moth larva (phyllodes imperialis), which, when threatened, rears its anterior body segments and curls in its actual head to reveal markings otherwise hidden in a fold skin that resemble giants eyes and teeth. a second set of markings that resemble reptilian eyes can also be seen when not in its defensive crouch.
found in the australian rainforest, where it lives in and survives on the vine carronia multisepalea, this caterpillar is listed as an endangered species, due largely to habitat loss from logging.
In which you have the first sentence your soulmate will say to you tattooed on your shoulder, Jimin’s being “Excuse you, your morning boner is poking at my thigh”.
Even though Jungkook doesn’t have as bad luck as Jimin does, he isn’t completely satisfied with his “Fuck you” tattoo either.
Jimin had been only three when his mother had told him about soulmates for the first time. He could remember it like it happened just yesterday. That was how clear the memory was.
“Jimin,” she’d said, sitting him down on his bed with an intense look in her eyes. “In your life, you will meet one person who is unlike anyone else. You’ll feel a pull towards them - the first time you lock eyes, you will feel like you’re suddenly whole again, after feeling like you’ve been missing something, no, someone your whole life.
You’ll know them when you meet, but if you ever doubt yourself, a tattoo will appear on your shoulder when you turn five. The first words they’ll ever say to you will be carved into your skin until the day your soulmate says them to you, the very day you’ll first talk to each other.”
Here, she smiled. Like she was remembering something amazing, something special. “And when you meet them, Jimin, don’t you ever let them go. If you lose them, you will feel broken again, and you will lose your will to live and die. Don’t you ever let them go.”
Jimin had thought that the first words his soulmate would say to him would be beautiful and poetic, that the words he would get would be something he could treasure.
Boy, was he wrong.
On his fifth birthday, his whole family gathered around the little boy. On the precise time he’d been born, his shoulder had started to bloom with a numbing pain, just like he’d been told multiple times before.
It took ten minutes - twenty, tops - until the feeling had finally started to fade. That was when he got the courage to glance at the tattoo resting on his collarbone.
“Mom, what’s a boner?” He had asked, as innocent as a lamb, after reading the sentence. She’d gasped harshly, as had most of his relatives, then took a look at his shoulder.
Excuse you, your morning boner is poking at my thigh.
At the time, he had no idea what a ‘morning boner’ was, but as the seasons changed and the years passed, he found out exactly what it meant.
And Jimin started to wish that soulmates didn’t exist, so badly that he almost believed it.
Because no matter how hard he tried to lie to himself, the truth was that he had the tattoo on his shoulder, and it would never change. And honestly, Jimin couldn’t help hating his soulmate just a bit for it.
Jimin pulled the oversized black and white striped shirt over his head and looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The shirt left quite a bit of shoulder exposed, and he sighed as he traced a finger over the words. The black letters looked harsh on Jimin’s tan skin, and it made him cringe.
He’d gotten used to the tattoo over the years, but his friends hadn’t. Because of his (stupid) soulmate, he’d become the butt of fifty too many jokes, and, whenever his friends laughed, he wanted to break the nose of whoever would be brash enough to say this.
Jimin had sworn, when he’d been seventeen and incredibly annoyed after a particularly harsh (but slightly funny) joke, that the first thing he’d say to his soulmate when he met them, no matter who they were, would be a big “fuck you”.
That was what he thought about as he squeezed a generous amount of thick foundation on his fingers and started to spread it on his tattoo. His friends were bad enough; he didn’t need any strangers seeing it at today’s party, which was being hosted but the richest and most arrogant brat on the whole campus. Probably the whole freaking world.
Jimin didn’t know the guy - hell, he hadn’t even talked to him - but he already didn’t like him. He was handsome and rich, and he definitely knew it. Jimin only had agreed to go to the stupid thing because his best friend, Hoseok, had convinced him to. In fact, Hoseok wanted Jimin to go with him so he could hook him up with Yoongi, Jimin’s other best friend. Not an exciting prospect, honestly.
“Jimin, come on! We’re going to be late!” Hoseok yelled through the bathroom door, banging on the wood with heavy fists. It was ten o’clock in the evening, and Hoseok was eager to meet with Yoongi, who would (hopefully) be his date for the night.
“Shut up, I’m coming,” Jimin mumbled, putting the foundation away when his tattoo was covered up the way it was supposed to be. He unlocked the door and pulled it open, glaring. Hoseok knew he hated being rushed, and his roommate gave him an innocent smile.
Hoseok was dressed in black skinny jeans and a plain white top, a blazer and sneakers thrown on for good measure. Very billionaire-playboy-chilling-with-a-glass-of-scotch.
“Woah, you look good”, he complimented him, and Jimin’s glare turned into a smile. He’d parted his hair to reveal his forehead, and even though he wasn’t the most confident person, he felt good about the way he looked for once.
“Now, can we go?” Hoseok pleaded, with big doe eyes for effect, and Jimin sighed.
“Fine, let’s get this over with,” he mumbled, grabbing a pair of black boots. Hoseok watched him pull them on, and Jimin muttered, “Calm down,” just when he was pulled out the door.
“Oh my God, I’m so nervous, I think I’m going to puke. I think I look green, do I look green?”
Jimin rolled his eyes, smiling fondly. Hoseok had been rambling for the past half hour, while they walked to the mansion where the party was supposed to be.
“You’ll be just fine, don’t worry. He might seem a bit cold, but I swear he’s all rainbows and unicorns inside,” Jimin said, doing his best to pry his best friend’s claws off his shirt (it was a gift, after all). He snickered when Hoseok kept muttering, ‘oh my God,’ as they arrived. The house was a mansion, almost as grand as Gatsby’s. What else would you expect from a rich brat?
As they made their way to the front door, Jimin started to look around. Yoongi had promised to be here; he owed Jimin a favor, which was why he had agreed to be Hoseok’s date for tonight. Otherwise he probably would’ve just stayed home, writing music in the almost-dark as usual (Yoongi’s dream was to be a famous rapper).
When Jimin finally spotted him, lounging near a wall with a stereotypical red solo cup in his hand, he grabbed Hoseok’s hand and started making his way towards the dark-haired man. Hopefully, he wouldn’t move before they got there.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, that’s Yoongi right there, oh my God, he looks so good”, Hoseok repeated the words like they were the only thing keeping him alive. It was a good thing the music was so loud, otherwise Yoongi would’ve heard. Hoseok was right, Jimin admitted to himself. Yoongi was dressed in all black, with a snapback pulled over his eyes, like in all of his rap videos.
Jimin pushed Hoseok towards Yoongi, who had noticed them and was now standing up straight. Jimin winked and gave Hoseok a thumbs up before he melted into the crowd.
He didn’t need to be a third wheel for the whole night. No, he’d much rather spend his time with some good ol’ shots of strong, liver-killing alcohol. Jimin wasn’t someone who drank often, but his choices were a) be sober and painfully alone or b) be alone and roaring drunk.
Not a hard choice, really.
He found his way to the alcohol and poured himself six shots with a smile on his face. Now that’s what we are talking about. He downed his first shot after he found himself a place to sit (he wasn’t planning on being in any condition to stand for much longer). From his spot, he could see almost everyone in the giant room. His eyes skipped over people until he saw someone he really didn’t want to.
The host of the party. None other than Jeon Jungkook himself.
Jimin scoffed. He was leaning back on the couch, girls and guys surrounding him with a girl in a silvery-blue dress on his lap. Jeon threw his head back in laughter.
He downed the second shot the moment he saw that stupid rich brat sucking faces with another student (wasn’t he Namjoon?). He was nowhere near drunk enough to see that. Another shot disappeared, burning its way down his throat.
A weird feeling bubbled in his chest as he watched the two suck each other’s souls out. He couldn’t quite give the emotion a name, but it felt a lot like… jealousy? No fucking way. Jimin almost laughed out loud at his thoughts, downing a fourth shot. They didn’t even know each other.
The rest of the night was a blur, but he was fairly certain he had ended up drinking way more than six shots. It resulted in some awkward interactions with other students, who were nearly as drunk as him, and of course, he had blacked out on the mansion’s floor before the party had even finished. He could’ve sworn he had seen Yoongi and Hoseok get along well. Of course, if your definition of getting along was kissing rather shyly in a secret corner.
Jungkook saw the boy in the striped shirt the moment he’d walked in.
His silver hair that reflected the light perfectly, his plump lips that he bit when he tried not to laugh - every single thing about him seemed to draw him in. He’d come with someone who looked incredibly nervous, was that his boyfriend? His eyebrows furrowed, ever so slightly, and he shook his head. Why did he care? It was none of his business.
Still, his gaze followed him (wasn’t his name Park Jimin, or something?) intently as he navigated his way through the people in the party, until they reached a guy who looked like he’d rather be anywhere than here. The silver-haired male pushed his friend - something Jungkook had just realized - towards the guy who had been leaning on the wall. He was short, like Jimin.
Jungkook watched Jimin slip into the crowd, the two boys left looking awkwardly at each other. He rolled his eyes. The two clearly liked each other; what was so hard about talking to each other and actually sharing a conversation instead of awkward, yearning glances?
Jungkook tried to find Jimin, but it was like he’d disappeared into thin air. Had he left? A weird feeling of desperation flushed through the Jungkook as he moved to sit on the couch, people crowding to sit around him. He spotted Jimin a few minutes after, sitting alone with a tray of shots in front of him. Jungkook watched him drink shot after shot, and grinned at the cute way he scrunched up his nose after every single one.
Time to move on.
Jungkook turned towards the group he was sitting with, mostly to Namjoon, who sat right next to him. Namjoon was good-looking, he couldn’t deny that, but why didn’t his dimples make him feel all warm and fuzzy inside? Why didn’t his smile make his stomach flip like Jimin’s smile did? Would Namjoon’s lips make Jungkook feel the way he felt when he saw Jimin?
That was what went through his mind as he leaned towards the platinum-haired male and captured their lips in a kiss that Jungkook found anything but passionate. He could taste alcohol in Namjoon’s mouth, and it most definitely didn’t make butterflies fly around his insides.
He felt like throwing up when he finally pulled away. That was their first and last kiss, Jungkook decided right then and there.
He bolted up from his seat and headed towards the bar - because alcohol was exactly what he needed to drown his feelings.
All Jungkook could remember after that was downing way too much whiskey, keeping his hands to himself way too little, and getting way, way too drunk.
Jimin let out a groan as he forced his eyes open, then let out another when he screwed them shut again. The sun was high up already, and the room was annoyingly, incredibly bright.
There was an ogre in his head, kicking his brain and making everything tremble as revenge for last night. He almost wished he’d stayed at the dorms, cuddling into a fuzzy blanket while reading a good book. But the feeling of being carefree, being completely weightless, was worth the headache. And the nausea.
Jimin shifted to his side. There was something warm and soft, and he burrowed into that soft something, letting out a content sigh. That soft something smelled really nice, pine and cologne and something else, and he breathed in deeply. After a few minutes of being comfortable, he heard a rumbly voice rasp entirely too close to his ear.
“Excuse you, your morning boner is poking at my thigh,” the person groaned. The way his voice scraped around the edges made heat flood in his chest, like slipping into a warm blanket.
Jimin whined and nuzzled his face into the soft material, mumbling a small “fuck you,” as he did. A few seconds later, the soft something, or someone disappeared, and he hit his head on the cold, hard floor.
His headache split his head in half.
“Ow! What the fuck?” He yelped, sitting up and rubbing his eyes with the tiniest hint of a pout on his lips. When he finally managed to open his eyes, he jumped, nearly six feet in the air.
Jeon Jungkook was sitting in front of him, all messy dark hair and eyes that sparkled in the sun. Jimin’s heart jumped into overdrive.
“What did you just say to me?” Jungkook questioned, leaning forward ever so slightly, which made Jimin lean backward ever so slightly.
“Um, ‘fuck you’?” Jimin suggested carefully, playing with his hands and looking at his lap.
“Oh my God,” Jungkook mumbled. Jimin’s eyes turned into saucers when he started to take his shirt off.
“W-What do you think you’re doing?” he stuttered, failing miserably at trying to sound annoyed. Moments later, a sigh slipped past his lips at the image of Jungkook shirtless, the sun hitting his skin like he was a god.
And no, it wasn’t because of Jungkook’s toned chest or abs, not even his arms or beautiful golden skin, but because of the tattoo on his shoulder. Exactly where Jimin’s was. Exactly where the soulmate tattoo was supposed to be.
“Are you kidding me?” Jimin snickered, his nervousness vanishing. He traced a finger over the words, curling black on golden skin, and nearly smiled when he felt Jungkook shiver. “Does that mean you actually just said ‘excuse you, your morning boner is poking at my thigh’?”
Jungkook’s cheeks turned rosy, the prettiest shade of pink Jimin had ever seen, and he looked down on his lap when he nodded. For once, not the arrogant, spoilt brat. “Sorry about that,” he said, “it must’ve not been a very nice thing to have on your shoulder.”
But Jimin didn’t care about that. He didn’t care about any of that, anymore.
He had finally found his soulmate, his missing piece, and my God, was he beautiful.
“You stupid, rich brat,” Jimin smiled, carefully leaning towards Jungkook. His lips curved into a soft smile, headache long forgotten.
“You stupid shortie,” Jungkook muttered just before their lips met. It was like Sunday afternoons, warm and comforting, but there was a layer of passion, just underneath.
And Jimin felt a hole he never knew he had disappear.
(A/N) Ahhhhh the end! Such a fluffy oneshot i LOVE JIKOOK OK
ALSO special thanks to my babe @yoongsigh for the amazing writing prompt and to the lovely bb @quill-ink for editing this and making it 2356293859857 times better <333 ily guys <3 <3
it was another long boring cheer practice and the squad had been kicked out of our gym and thrown out onto the football field to train with the football team.
it was one of the hottest days of the year and you had to spend the past hour dodging footballs and doing a bunch of different flips and learning cheryls impossible choreography.
you feel breathless doubling over trying to suck in a breathe feeling all types of heat stroke. you bring your head up waving down your red headed captain
“can we like take a break for 5 minutes?” you huff shielding your eyes from the sun.
she glances around at her team half the girls were already sitting on the ground trying to shield themselves from the scorching hot sun
“5 minutes and thats it” she yells out to the whole squad before walking all the way over to me extending a bottle to me “thanks red” i mumble taking a long swig
the siren rings loud indicating an end of a period and cheryl huffs sighing “lets go ladies practice is over” she yells turning and scowling at me
“oh c'mon your not mad at me right?” i ask jogging behind my best friend as she struts off the field whistling from the hormonal teenage boys behind us filling the field
“im not” she replies keeps her focus in front of her “cheryl?” i question stopping in my place only for her to walk off without me.
i groan rolling my eyes taking another long sip out of the icy water bottle when i feel a strong pair of arms wrap around my waist pulling me up
I squeal as the water squirts out of the bottle my feet leaving the grass. i trash around in the strangers arms until im put down familiar giggles filling the air
“reggie you jerk you made me wet” i complain trying to wipe of the water that had spilt on my uniform as i walk next to my boyfriend
archie and chuck snicker a smile growing on my raven haired boyfriends face “baby girl i know i do, maybe you should really be telling everyone” he teases
i roll my eyes pushing his chest “your such a child” i laugh glancing at the three boys sticking my tongue out and spraying them with my water bottle
they yell covering their faces chasing me across he field, i squeal running as fast as my feet carry me until I’m lifted up into the air more and more water pouring on top of me
“STOP!” i yell after they put me down i rush to reggie bury myself into his chest trying to protect myself reggie getting soaked in the process
“ANDREWS! CLAYTON!” i hear coach clayton yell gainging the attention of the three jocks
they drop their bottles looking up at the older man “yes coach?” archie calls back guilt on his face
“maybe we should leave miss (y/l/n) alone so she can get to class, we’ll need her on the field cheering and not in detention”
i find myself giggling pushing my wet hair off my face “lets go” i laugh linking my hands with revives and pulling him toward the locker rooms
i remove my ponytail and let me hair run down my back before facing reggie as he strips off his uniform and changed back into regular clothes
“this was all i had to wear today” i sulk
he turns to me licking his lips as he stares at me “remind me to wet you wore when your in your uniform?” he chuckles
furrowing my brows i look down to se what you can clearly see my black lace bra now that’s the white cotton was drenched.
i playfully smack my boyfriends chest “can you give me something to wear?” i beg pouting, slipping on a pair of denim shorts and removing my white shirt
his eyes dart around the room pulling me into him by my waist “god (y/n) you can’t just strip off what is someone came in” he glances around the room eyes wide panic on his expression
i laugh standing up on my tippy toes and pulling reggie down to connect our lips “you worry too much mantle” he kisses back slipping his hands under my thighs to lift me up on his waist
we continue to kiss gradually getting heated until the should of a locker shutting brings us back to reality
reggie almost drops me still managing to keep my chest out of sight
“wow- andrews what are you doing in here” reggie starts pulling me behind him pulling a shirt over his head
“it’s the locker room reg- im just grabbing my stuff” he chuckles grabbing a fresh shirt before walking away for us laughing at the encounter
reggie turns around digging through his locker, you giggle your hands sliding up his chest “here” he mumbles handing me one of his shirts before dipping down and joining our lips
“reggie this is massive on me” i sulk letting the white t hang just above my knees, he turns and giggles at the sight of me.
i pout crossing my arms in front of my chest “regggg” i sulk dropping my bottom lip.
“im sorry baby girl” he pauses trying to hold back laughter “you are just so tiny compared to me”
he walks back over to you kissing the top of your head “maybe see if the girls have something for you? or you could tie it?” he wraps his arms around your shoulders.
“okay bfg” you poke fun tucking the shirt into your high waisted shorts the raven haired boy puzzled at your statement.
“im a what now?” “a big friendly giant” he narrows his eyes before punching lifting me up into the air swinging me around
“thats it you asked for it”
and after what seemed like the longest tickle fight of your life you both emerge from the locker room hand in hand smiles evident on your faces as you look up to your boyfriend pulling his jacket closer around me body
you were reggies girl
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