harley westward

No black magic can control me and no curse can let you own me

Harley was not one to meditate, it just was not her thing. The closest to it could be found in the familiar buzz of the tattoo gun while she worked. But this man would not allow it. Not that she minded the chit chat... but this.. this was too much. He blathered on and on about his routine at the gym. Spoke of all the ways he could get 'swole'. Any more swole and this man would not fit in normal t-shirts, even his arms strained against the shirt he currently. Talk about body dysmorphia at its finest. His proportions seemed odd to her, a little top heavy, like even she the petite woman could easily send the man off his balance. The man's intense hubris could easily surpass the size of his muscles and that said everything that needed to be said. Any more talk about how much he could bench and Harley was certain that her mind might bust out of her own skull and flee so far that even she might not be able to catch it. To make matters worse, he was the squirmiest client she ever had, having to remind him every five minutes to sit still. It was only session two on his detailed sleeve of his right muscular arm. He had wanted his entire arm to be covered in an intricate tribal pattern, which would have been cool and all.. but the guy had to chill. For someone that looked like he could have taken out most men in battle, he didn't mirror it when he felt a little bit of pain. His sessions were shorter than most and required far more breaks than Harley was even used to. It didn't take long before the complaining began and they hadn't even gotten close to the bone. Oh boy.

The session had once more been cut short, which meant Harley had a moment to slip away. Hell, she needed it. She loved her work. Loved the escape it provided from the hellish reality she now faced. But she could feel that urge, that familiar twitch inside of her that overpowered her with the need to run. As if her inner animal demanded it. Harley did just that, as she snuck off to her home to take Ace for a run. Maybe she should have checked the time. Shit. There had been hours on the clock when she left and now it was almost 3. She would be late if she didn't hurry.

Swiftly, she cleaned up, taking Ace with her to the shop. Hopefully her appointment didn't mind dogs. The large black german shepherd variety to be precise. He seemed to enjoy spending time on his large plush bed in that studio, content to watch over his human as she worked. It was by some stroke of luck and perhaps driving well over the speed limit that she had made to that shop with a few minutes to spare. Not bad. Not bad at all. She walked in through the back entrance with a confident step with Ace in tow to her work room.

She eyed her work room, making sure it was meticulously clean before her next appointment. Ace knew the drill and flopped gracelessly upon that bed, with a satisfied groan. Fuck, she was out of black ink. How? She had ordered more than enough. The raven-haired woman searched high and low through the cabinets within her work area. It just was not in the usual place. Of course, it didn't merely sprout limbs and moved.

"Harley, your three o'clock is here." Fuck. That voice made her think of a nagging parent. They didn't always have a receptionist, this one was new and it still felt strange to her.

"Send three o'clock in.. in a minute.. I am just searching for my black ink.. I knew I had some." Someone had taken it. She had personally ordered more than enough of each colour. Black was a must have for every artist.

It suddenly dawned on her. "That little slimy handed weasel." She growled under her beath. He didn't even use her brand of ink, the jackass. It had to be him. Harley abruptly rose to her feet before storming the enemy lines of the culprit. He wasn't even there, which made it all the more curious how he managed it in the mere hours she was gone. But he didn't even TRY to hide it. She saw her ink, sitting brazenly upon his own table. He took them all, not even just what he needed with the promise to replace it. She would deal with him later... for now, she had to push beyond her own frustration and deal with three o'clock.

Harley strut right back to her workspace, victoriously, clutching her rescued bottles with her client already within her room. Ace remained upon his large cushion at the back, her violet gaze shot to make sure her canine companion was behaving as the words slipped free. "Three o'clock, that can't be you're your real name. Or maybe..." Her words died. Sarcasm found her tongue like it was as natural as breathing, arguably, to her it was. Her first language. Her vivid violet eyes swiftly darted to her client only to find a vaguely familiar face.

It took a second later before the flash of recognition struck her with force. She was a were.. but worse.. she was part of Tetradore's merry little pack. That gaze soon narrowed, sure that her last impression of someone from that pack had been convincing enough that no one would ever try again. Mira being her last victim. The golden eyed she-wolf had many launched items thrown at her until the woman got the picture and left her alone. Just as she wanted.

Just because Tetradore turned her, it did not mean she had to get along with his little pack. It was a colossal surprise that someone decided to show up now, at her place of work that she did not advertise with the exception to those closest to her. After that last commotion filled night when the Ark sank to the bottom of Sacrosanct's western harbour, she thought that was to be the end of it. Apparently not. Hm. Could it have been a coincidence that the fox was here now? Yeah, right. When was it ever a coincidence? If anything in her life had taught her, it was that nothing was. Wonder-fucking-ful.

The raven-haired spitfire knew the were-foxes name, yet she simply chose not to use it as she moved further into that modest room to place black ink where it truly belonged. Any sense of victory at having successfully retrieved her pilfered goods was short lived.

Her gaze then shot to the woman. Better find out what she wanted. "Fox girl." Was all she said, the most of a greeting that she would get out of the feisty were. Now Alexis didn't do anything to truly earn her ire... and yet it was her presence that made the defiant woman all too suspicious of those motives. She didn't quite seem like the tattoo type and yet no one had to be the type to get one.

"Are you actually getting a tattoo? Or did Tetradore want to torment me for the hell of it?" Now the true question lingered unspoken and yet blatantly obvious. Her black canine monster of a dog eyed Alexis with a pensive head tilt as if he too were trying to understand. Harley leaned against the hip height table that held her supplies that gaze not wavering an inch as slender arms folded just below her chest. What the hell was Alexis doing here?