GENERAL OPEN POST/IC INBOX/WHATEVER IDK

[burnination]

"Busy. Send a text."

[ that's right. it's been a decade and he still hasn't changed his voicemail message. ]

Comments

[cleansing]

[When Dafydd had moved to Los Angeles to start a tattoo apprenticeship, he hadn't been expecting quite so much... everything. There are parts of the city that remind him of Cardiff—the drunks and the clubs and the pants sagged around blokes' asses—but the fast pace is far more similar to Johannesburg. The country boy in him kind of longs for uninterrupted stretches of grass and trees, but the rest of him lives for the people all swarming about and living their lives. It's fascinating to watch and pleasantly overwhelming to be a part of.

And the tattoo parlor where he's working is the perfect intersection of all of this. They get everyone from thin women in designer yoga pants to drunk men in Ed Hardy shirts. He knows his shit by now, is the best in he shop when it comes to anything symmetrical or geometric in design thanks to his training in spellcast ink. He's also got a reputation for being the most gentle of the artists, and his work never bleeds. But he's here to get a more comprehensive experience of normal tattooing, not to mention practice his ability to design more organic art.

Usually, when someone stumbles in drunk, he gives them the usual lecture about not making decisions while inebriated. But tonight, after a rather slow day, he's the only one in the shop when two male models come in. At least, he thinks they must be male models. They're both stunning and chiseled and covered in ink already. He holds his tongue, curious enough to see what design they might want before automatically shooing them back out the door to try and find a less respectable establishment that would be willing to tattoo them, no questions asked.]

Can I help you lads?

[burnination]

[ his first mistake was crossing tristan clark. among many others, the high point of which being luci the cat's exciting flight through the sky, and there's sure to be many more to follow in max's life time. this isn't the first time max has met retribution, but it'll at least be one of the funnier ones. as the tattoo he's been convinced to add to the side of his ass will serve as a good conversation starter in booty calls to come. stumbling into the LA tattoo shop, max is the "i need someone to remind me not to take off my pants in public" kind of drunk (possibly high, who knows, really), though thankfully still looking male model levels of acceptable, thanks to tris, who is less wasted. either way, it's max that comes forward, holding out a scarp of torn notebook paper, with a crude sketch of a black cat clinging to a wall, with comically huge eyes. something max spent a good ten straight minutes snickering at on tristan's living floor not long before showing up here. ]

I need this. [ he's announcing once the guy manning the shop greets them, before pulling his hands back (despite not having handed over the sketch yet) to tug at one side of his jeans, pulling them down a few inches at the ass (well, side-ass). no, no, not that one he mutters under his breath, seeing the large mandala tattoo on that hip, before shuffling over to the other side of his ass and doing the same. ah yes. this one is unmarked. that's where he slaps the paper, with index finger pointing down at it, as he looks back up to the artist, with a cheeky grin. ] Right here. Is that cool?

[ glancing back over his shoulder, towards tris, max lifts his brows, looking sort of childishly lost for a second. ] Right?