Summary: (inspired by types of people) cracked spines of leather bound classics, ink smudged against the side of their hand, pastel stationary, silk pillows, rosewater.
Tattooist Jeon Jungkook and Reader (Y/N).
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As the sun lit up the night sky, its rays of pure liquid gold streamed into the bedroom, illuminating the sleeping girl he had come to love so much in pure golden rays.
There you laid, hair splayed out over the silk pillow case, the golden rays illuminating the natural shades of brown held within your hair.
He sat at the desk across the room, watching the girl he loved in admiration.
His eyes trace her sleeping form, a smile weaving its way onto his lips.
You two were a perfect fit for each other. You liked the same type of things, we’re equally shy and extremely introverted. Classic reads lined the bookshelf, accompanied by the leather-bound sketchbooks he had filled.
You often marvelled at his sketches, their precision and realism in capturing a single moment making you eyes wide. When he drew, he often liked to watch her reactions, how her eyes grew bigger and a smile would grace her lips in an upturned grin.
“Jungkook” she’d say, “How the hell do you do this so perfectly?”
He often shrugged in reply, twirling the pencil between his fingers.
Despite his talent in drawing, it was you who often annotated for him. Your loopy, cursive primary school handwriting made him smile in wonder. He was curious as to how you could turn simple printed letters into a word, a sentence, even paragraphs that just simply looked gorgeous.
Perhaps his tattooing had gotten better because of you, because of the sense of inspiration he collected from you. Or maybe it was the way he took inspiration from little things you did - quirky to him, but repetitive for you.
The black ink that swirled around his biceps and down to his wrist was something you loved about him. Each own artwork had its backstory, a journey that truely captured his personality.
You loved to see him sketch up his own designs for another tattoo, the rhythmic sound of pencil on paper filling you with the same emotions of those receiving the tattoo. Excitement, adrenaline, nervousness, anxiousness.
And it was the same on this very morning.
He often drew you in a pastel light. It had sprung to his mind when he’d seen you in the park, laughing as the pastel pink buds of cherry blossom encased you both.
Even now, after all these years, he would still draw you in the same pastel pink. There was just something about the way the black grey colours meddled with the shade.
Hand smudged in graphite, he looked up at you again.
The sunlight held its rosy rays upon your face, framing just how delicate you were in a spontaneous vunerable moment.
He tried to capture it. From the bridge of your nose, to the flutter of your eyelashes. But even his memory could not capture how you looked right now, nor could it capture his stirring emotions of love and adoration.
Her voice was soft from behind him, laced with sleep.
The patting of feet on hard wooden floors told him he would soon be encased by her scent. The sensation of hair on skin as she pressed her face to his neck was warm and welcoming, fingers on tattooed skin filling him with a sense of relaxation.
She had only one tattoo, done by the boy himself. Months of drafting and putting off had gone by before you finally let him do it.
He could remember that day as if it was yesterday - she was so nervous as he placed the stencil onto her inner bicep. He had checked to make sure she’d definitely wanted to go through with it, kneeling down infont of her with a hand on your shoulder. But she never backed out. Nodding, eyes shut, she was reluctant to let go of her hold on his wrist.
“Sweetheart, you’re going to have to let go of my wrist.”
She immediately jerked her hand back, eyes wide as she looked up at him. “Shit,” She swore. “I’m sorry.”
As the needle went to skin, he made jokes to calm her.
From the classic “Why did the chicken cross the road?” To the creative “knock knock”, she grew unaware of the needles pressing into her skin, and instead found humor in the pain.
“Come back to bed.” she whispered.
And as easily as that, he allowed himself to bed guided back to the bed, which now encased the two of them in a glow. His graphite stained fingers found your tattoo, tracing the simple quote that you had written out countless amount of times. But in the end, it was his simple printed letters that made your tattoo so much more special.
It served as a reminder for the both of you to just stop and simply take a breath every once in a while. Keep on breathing.
But once again, she was encased in his tattooed arms - safe, warm. The bright beginnings of the day trapped you both in a peaceful state, unaware of the day to day troubles you would soon face in the next unfolding hours.
The beginnings that were so rare, they almost preserved your relationship in what it was - liquid gold.
Special, unique and even more vunerable then ever.
