Jongin's used to the raging powers beneath his skin. Even as a child, he'd cross his arms over himself and clutch his shirt, just to keep his magic from breaking free of his body. In this little parlor, however, seated before a stranger barely older than he is, he thinks he feels calm for the first time in his life. Rather than screaming, his magic seems to be singing.

He was meandering the streets, trying to remember the parlor his friend recommended, because he’s lost his phone again, when he comes upon a young man smoking before an unmarked door at the bottom of a short flight of cement steps.

“Can I help you?”

Jongin’s back heats up at the soft voice, trying to push him forward, but he pushes back and stands firm, letting his head fall back a little. “Maybe.”

The man looks at his neck, then his eyes, and finally drops his cigarette, crushing it beneath the toe of his boot. Without an invitation or rejection, he enters the shop, leaving Jongin the open option to follow or not.

They pass a few other employees working over sketchpads or sitting with clients. A girl’s trying not to squirm as her lip is pierced, although her fingernails are digging into the knees of her tights.

His silent companion leads him to a closed off studio and sits at the desk. Jongin takes a seat on the chair and leans back with its recline, holding himself up on his elbows. There’s something about this man that makes Jongin want to play a little.

“I need an agility tattoo,” he says, “and I’ve heard you’re the best.”

“I am.” The man leans forward, a bit less closed off. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Jongin isn’t shy about his body or his tattoos and immediately pulls his shirt over his head to wrap it around his hand, turning around to straddle the chair. It’s warm in the studio, even with the door open, but it’s not uncomfortable. He crosses his arms and holds his chin in his palm.

“You might be able to see that my magic takes to ink well,” he comments. A lot of people have complimented the extensive, intricate designs inked into his skin. They vary from Celtic knots to Maori designs—including one that snaps protectively at the artist, like it usually does to strangers—to Germanic runes and the occasional script.

His muscles shiver when the artist’s hand fans over his shoulder blades. “I suppose this is where you want mine?” Jongin shrugs. It’s obviously the clearest area, but he can’t pick where the tattoo is drawn or what it’ll look like. The reaction of their magics to one another will have to guide the artist, and he must feel the happy buzz of Jongin’s magic, because he’s got a pen in hand and wheeled stool hooked by his foot within seconds. Jongin’s always fascinated when tattoo artists begin to work; this man seems to lose himself entirely and lets his magic puppet his movements.

Jongin's still throughout the artist's planning. He's had tattooists who spent a fair bit of time contemplating the best design, taking size and meaning into account, but this man has his pen in hand and against Jongin's skin within moments of them both sitting down. It's effortless and hypnotising, and with the excited serenity of their combined magic dancing between them, Jongin almost feels sleepy.

Maybe he does fall asleep for a bit, because he's brought back to the moment by warm fingertips tracing over his left shoulder. The pen is set aside, missing the indentation of the angled drawing board and rolling to the lip at the bottom edge. Those fingertips fan out to rest the palm against Jongin's skin, and his magic surges against the new ink like a dog eager to be petted.

Jongin turns on the stool, glittery plastic squeaking beneath the seat of his jeans. The tattooist's eyes are large and nervous, like a kid wondering if they've done something they shouldn't have and will be in trouble for it. Jongin feels a bit the same, but his magic is purring. “Why do I feel like we just started something big?”

“Glad I’m not the only one.”

Jongin smiles at the ceiling and looks over his shoulder. His back is covered in black ink that stands out starkly against his coppery skin, and he sees some of it, but it extends farther down. “No going back now, Master Tattooer.” He slides off the stool and twists before the mirror to take in the finished product.

Large wings spread across his skin, vanes and barbs of the feathers delicately added to add a quality so lifelike that Jongin almost expects them to spread from his back into reality. They fit perfectly with his other tattoos, stretching over his shoulder blades and down the backs of his arms in an embrace that's subtle yet undeniably obvious among the rest of the ink around his waist and forearms. It fits perfectly, like it belongs there and couldn't have been anything else.

"Kai." Names hold power; he’s been very careful with his own. He had an idea, though, while the tattooist was still working and their magic mingled and tangled together that he could put his trust in this artist and his abilities. "My name is Kai."

"How do you feel about full color, Kai?" Such a large piece will take hours just to outline, adding color means more sessions. More time together.

Jongin grins. "Whatever you want."

 

Their first inking session lasts a few hours, and Jongin does sleep through most of it. His magic simmers beneath his skin and basks in each touch of skin, like a cat lying in a sunbeam.

And with each pass of the needle, the seams of his flesh are stitched together. His magic is contained and contented, reaching only to the man entranced by his own work spreading across Jongin's back and shoulders. It's his biggest piece, he tells Jongin, as well as the most powerful. Jongin has smaller tattoos on the tops of his feet, to anchor him to the ground, and up his calves and thighs, to keep him moving, even when his magic wants him to stop and combust.

They take brief breaks, Jongin to stretch and the artist—“Taemin,” he introduces with a smile—to shake out his wrists. By the afternoon, Jongin feels the seal of ink on his magic and breathes a little easier.

“Alright. Check it out.” Taemin pushes his chair back and gestures to the trio of body-length mirrors in the corner of his studio. Jongin pushes himself upright and slips off the chair, twisting left and right to look at the work on his back.

The lines are raised and pink and a little sore, but not painful. They feel familiar and appropriate on his back, like they were always there but hidden and waiting for someone to bring them out for him.

There are pencil sketches on Taemin’s desk, notes and ideas for Jongin’s back piece. Jongin lifts a page with his finger, admiring the colored sketches beneath. "What wings are these?" Jongin asks. They're pretty, although plain, entirely brown but in shades from lighter russet to darker bister.

"A Golden Eagle's," Taemin says. "It just...came to me, and I did some research.” He shrugs. “I guess it suits you."

Jongin looks at him over his shoulder. "Better than pure white angel wings?"

"Definitely. Eagles are birds of prey. Golden Eagles are very strong and capable of taking down full-grown wolves."

"So you think I'm dangerous."

"I think you can be." Taemin smiles. He smiles a lot; it’s a nice smile. "I've felt your magic. I thought it was going to take me in completely."

Jongin straddles the chair again, crossing his arms over the back and mirroring the smile. "It likes you. Can you blame it?" He eyes Taemin’s hands and inclines his head. "Are those your only tattoos?"

Taemin looks at his hands, although the ink encircling his fingers and wrists are surely as familiar as his own face. He has simple, thin lines branching out from the rings around his wrists up along the underside of either forearm to trace over the brachial arteries in his upper arms. They resemble roots to Jongin.

“No.”

"Will you show me?" Jongin watches Taemin from his perch as the artist picks up bandages and ointment.

Taemin shakes the ointment at him. "You have to earn the privilege."

Jongin shrugs. "Alright." He’s up for a challenge, and he wants to see more of Taemin, not just because of their cohesive magic.

---

a/n: Written for kpop-ficmix. I remixed baexil's Marked. As much as I wanted to take off with this, I didn't have the time or drive. It's Jongin's POV of their first meeting, with some dialogue taken right from the original. My title comes from Pilot's very catchy song, Magic.