“Woah, when did you get that?” / thanks for following!
He gestures to a particular tattoo on his forearm — the little grim reaper, cartoonish in styling — with questioning quirk of the brow. “This ‘un?” How odd of her to focus on the equivalent of childish scrawl when he was covered in the most magnificent of calligraphy? Too often had he been faced with queries in regards to his more remarkable tattoos (particularly the crow), but never had someone picked up on the smaller ones. Especially not at first glance.
Perchance he had misread her gaze; those intense eyes may have been surveying a different design and he had simply desired it to be this caricature of death. It was one he had never spoken about, one he thought little of himself but it was essentially quite a story to tell. It was a big fuck you to the past and, more importantly, to death. To create such an artwork — the only piece on the canvas of his body which refused the hyper realistic type he preferred — was to make Death a joke.
In his youth, Death had jested with him. In his adult years, Kim Jisung settled the score.
Smug with this recollection, he allows himself the pleasure of talking a little more then he may have in the usual circumstances. “It’s quite a funny one actually, isn’t it? I got this one when I was twenty, I think? A while ago.”
