#* harley

Harley Olsen - Ozdemir Halloween Bloc Party.

WHERE: Destination Ink

          The bright, neon lights outside of Destination Ink offer a familiar glow that lures Rhys in like a moth to a flame. It’d be hard to tell at first glance, but he’s spent countless hours in the chair at the shop, and most of his torso is littered in ink from the artists under Harley’s hired hand. It’s well-hidden, though — more professional, Rhys thinks, even if he is more than aware it’s a rather old-fashioned way of thinking. He’ll blame it on being sixteen and winning out a job over a guy at least four years older and more experienced than him — when the man doing his interview informed him he’d got the job, he made it clear to mention that the only thing he had over the other potential candidate was that his neck and hands ‘didn’t look like a goddamn scratch pad.’ For whatever reason, he’d taken the words to heart, but not enough to keep out of the tattoo parlor entirely. He just kept his own ink under wraps, for the most part. And that was fine. It’s for him, anyway, more than anyone else.

         Pushing the door open and glancing up as the bell chimes overhead, Rhys ducks inside and glances around. He knows the likelihood of a walk-in is pretty low, but at very least, he thinks he might be able to schedule another appointment to get more work done on his half-sleeve. “Hello?” he calls, shoving hands into his pockets as he strolls into the shop. It’s late, but he’s pretty sure he still knows their hours. They should be open at least another hour or two, right? “You in here, Harley?”

Harley Olsen Campbell - Style

At first, he saw nothing but white light, blinding and otherworldly. It wasn’t until the wind was knocked from his lungs that Harley took note of much else. Heat stung at his cheeks and the way his body slumped forward in agony told him far more than his sight did. Lightning had struck and something in the building had ignited, quickly and with enough force to knock him from his feet. “Move,” a rough hand fell to the back of another, pushing them to their feet and away from the building - though lightning wasn’t known to strike in the same place twice, he wasn’t about to risk it, “-- away from the building, c’mon.”

Generally speaking, he might have taken a far more lowkey approach attending the ritual but given the fact that the one person he was concealing himself from was now very much privy to his very alive existence, he almost didn’t see the point anymore. Maybe it would lead to some kind of bounty on his head, but what was one more death to add to the metaphorical pile? It was perhaps such a careless attitude that left him rooted to the spot, lent back against a large oak tree a short way from the lighthouse as the brunette caught his eye. Familiarity that burnt something far more than distaste - something far more complicated, as Grace tainted his view. “You mind, Gracie? Between your head and ego... you’re gonna’ need to take twenty steps to the left.”