#hobigif

read more cause my face but also cause surprise this is the funniest thing in the entire world sos goodbye

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Where you hate Jungkook’s dumb Balenciaga sneakers, there are other shoes of his you love. Plain black Vans that make him look like a Venice Beach skater boy, knotted loosely and best paired with his trademark black denim. Sleek black Italian leather dress shoes, deceptively sophisticated for someone as dorky as him. Birkenstocks that he wears with socks (but more often than not, well, not) that give him funny tan lines in the sweltering summer heat.

Your favourite pair? Intricately laced combat boots that run halfway up his calves (or maybe less, since he’s truly a giraffe with those legs of his). Solid black leather with thick soles, shoes made for stomping and squashing and stirring a stupid amount of drool from your mouth.

Because you really do drool over them - staring unabashedly any time he wears them out. (Which isn’t nearly enough for your thirsty ass.)

“What?” He asks on the Saturday he dons them, ties them tightly up over his intimidatingly long legs. He’s a sight to behold, black cat ears situated over his head and a shitty makeshift tail attached to the belt loop of his might-as-well-be-a-second-skin black jeans. It’s possibly the laziest costume he could’ve gone with, made only marginally better by the meticulously applied makeup on his face. (All thanks to yours truly, of course.)

You take too long to respond, stare trained on the black laces that creep up his calves - that rub the length your hands so desperately want to.

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But just as Jungkook’s boots are your kryptonite, your heels are his. Dangerously tall things - some sort of soft suede that hugs your heel well and makes your legs look a mile long. Delicate tassels that sit around your ankle and loop once, twice, three times. Shoes made for seducing men and women and other spooky creatures of the night.

Shoes certainly not meant for the costume you’ve chosen but that you, frankly, think are the perfect touch.

“This is so dumb,” he tells you as the two of you teeter across the sidewalk, your silk-gloved hand hooked into the crook of his elbow. “You can hardly walk - and you’re definitely gonna eat shit later.”

He’s not wrong. You might look good in heels but god, do you not have the grace for it. Two inches? Sure. Three? On a good day. But these things - these five inch tall man killers? Well, these are the shoes you buy and keep in your closet to look pretty. That you’ll maybe wear to bed in a bid to spice things up.

Not shoes for venturing out in and without a doubt not on one of the drunkest days of the year.

Still, you persist, because your No-Face outfit wouldn’t be complete without it and well, you kind of enjoy the way Jungkook’s stare lingers a little too long. Follows the fishnet that creeps up your legs and holds you tight, harsh against the softness of your thighs.

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There are some things money can’t buy (happiness, apparently being one) and there are some things that money can buy but shouldn’t. Jungkook’s ugly sneakers are one of the things that fall into the latter category.

You hate them. Think they’re a waste of money, too clunky and poorly designed to be anything close to fashionable. Every time he wears them - pairs them with some jeans that look like they might split at the seams - you complain. Practically bonk him over the head with your displeasure, mouth knitted into a little knot of disapproval, stare narrowed to an impossible point. He laughs when you scoff, gently pokes your side and grins that big dumb adorable grin of his, and - setting permitting - kicks said shoes up right beside you, glaringly ugly as they are.

“Stop it,” you hiss, batting his feet away as if they’re rotten, as if curled milk makes up the soles and green peppers - your least favourite of the peppers - offers itself to the composition of fabric. Nose wrinkles, eyes narrow somehow more, and you almost shove the chair out from beneath him.

“Why?” He croons with that pretty boy twinkle in his eyes, sunshine spilling past his teeth like yellow paint on a summer sidewalk. “Don’t you like them?”

You don’t offer a response, too focused on untying and redoing his laces while he’s too busy being insufferable. (He deserves it, truly. He does this every time, sniggers like a badger or whatever the hell kind of animal sniggers, and wiggles his neatly groomed eyebrows at you.)

When he goes to retract his unnecessarily long legs - satisfied in his weird masochistic way by your annoyance - you’re the one with the last laugh. Cackling to yourself as he twists feet that won’t come apart, knocks the chair over and then takes a tumble himself, landing his fine ass on linoleum.

“limitless sexiness”