she’d passed the place one night on her way home, and london’s not sure which one caught her eye more: the bright neon lights, or the one inside, tattoo gun in hand with a crazy amount of focus in his eyes it was borderline admirable. it’s silly, she knows, but it takes her almost a week and a half to muster up the courage to walk past again, and she tells herself it’s because she was taking her time in deciding where she wanted her next tattoo.
when london walks into skin deep, she’s immediately hit with the familiar sound of monotonous buzzing, and for a moment she stands by the door, shrugging off her coat as her eyes wander around the room, gaze focused on the art on the walls. she does, eventually, walk up the receptionist, her coat draped over her arm as she leans up against the desk.
“hi. i was looking to get a tattoo.” obviously, london. “any of the artists free tonight? i’m not really looking for a big piece.”
it must be busy for a wednesday night, and london would’ve come earlier if she hadn’t been asked to stay back at the orphanage to help clean up a little mishap some of the younger kids had had. she’s directed over to a cluster of seats that feel more comfortable than they look, and she digs into her coat pocket to pull out another caramel, waiting to be called up.