#;ivory

the appointment had been penciled into his pocket planner for a few days. never did he write any of them down in ink, even if there were no chance of a cancellation on the behalf of the other party. hongbin had both a deep love towards tattooing his clients as well as an impending dread; tattooing was his only release, the only way to relieve an aching pressure in his brain that could only be alleviated by the sound of the mechanical needle gun echoing in the shop. 

hongbin’s only duty at mount phoenix -- something he preferred to call his own personal little [hell] -- was to tattoo people. he’d sit in the shop for hours a day, idly tapping the eraser of his pencil against the finished surface of the oak wood table as he simply waited. he’d wait for the moment he both longed for and wished would never come. he couldn’t quite describe it; his finger couldn’t touch the reason he felt so encased in whatever was going on, but he knew he was prisoner to something higher -- despite being surrounded by the [highest] 

every damn day.

when the tinkle of the bell above the door rang in its unbearably high pitch, hongbin’s head hardly raised his head to acknowledge who came in. he knew who it was, at least by name. instead of looking at her, he simply raised his hand, fingers wiggling idly; a form of greeting: [lazy].

‘welcome to taste of ink. i’m hongbin and i’ll be your artist, uh... krystal? if you’re not krystal, i’m sorry but you’re gonna have to go, someone already stole my day away so you’re outta luck.’