name on my wrist

part 1

"It won’t hurt that much, right?" Jungkook asked, pulling back his hand and staring at the tattoo artist with wide, nervous eyes.

"No, it won’t," the man- Spike replied flatly, grabbing Jungkook’s hand again.

"Okay, then." Jungkook nodded to himself like he was preparing for battle. "Write Taehyung on my wrist."

"Alright."

"You know, that’s the name of my boyfriend."

"I didn’t ask. Give me your hand."

"My eomma and appa are so against tattoos. They don’t even know I came here."

"So… do you want a tattoo or not?"

"Of course I do! I love my boyfriend."

"Then keep your mouth shut and give me your hand."

Jungkook pouted but obediently placed his hand on the chair. The moment the buzzing machine touched his skin—

"Aaaaah!"

He yanked his hand back like it had been set on fire.

Spike threw his hands up, his chair screeching as he shoved it back. “That’s it! Out! You’re wasting my ink, my time, and my sanity!”

“It stings!” Jungkook cried, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You don’t understand! This is my first time! I’m sensitive!” His voice hit a pitch that could’ve shattered glass, and somewhere outside, a flock of pigeons took flight, startled by the sheer volume of his anguish.

"You came for a tattoo. Of course it’s going to hurt." He pointed to the door, where a neon “OPEN” sign flickered like a warning. “Go cry to your boyfriend about your delicate little wrist!”

Jungkook gasped, scandalized. “How dare you! I’m not doing this for fun! This is a sacrifice! A testament to my undying love!” He shot up from the couch, only to wince as his still-tender wrist brushed against his jacket. “Ow! See? It’s torture!”

Spike’s sigh was a hurricane of exasperation.  “Torture? You didn’t even let me finish the first letter!”

Jungkook rubbed his wrist dramatically, then slowly offered it again. "Okay… just do it."

This time, the artist didn’t take chances. He stood up, pulled out a pair of handcuffs, and locked Jungkook’s wrist to the chair arm.

"Oh my God! I’m not a criminal—are you going to call my eomma and appa?! Okay, fine, don’t make the tattoo but—AAAAAAAH!"

The moment the needle kissed his skin again, Jungkook’s scream tore through the room—a primal, earth-shattering wail that could have woken his ancestors. Birds scattered, dogs barked, and somewhere, a car alarm started wailing in sympathy.

“I’M BEING MURDERED!” Jungkook thrashed in the chair, his free hand flapping like a broken windmill. “TAEHYUNG, I’M SORRY, I CAN’T DO THIS!”

The artist—Spike—didn’t even blink. “Pipe down or I’ll tattoo ‘Taehyung’ across your forehead instead.”

The needle kept dancing, etching the first sharp curve of the “T” into Jungkook’s wrist with ruthless precision.

“It’s… for love,” Jungkook whimpered, his sobs fading into pitiful hiccups. “For Taehyung… my heart… my soul…” His head lolled dramatically to the side, as if he’d just survived a war.

“You’re lucky his name’s not Bartholomew,” Spike said dryly. “One letter down. You gonna survive the rest, or should I call an ambulance for your ego?”