#florist/tattoo artist au | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hotluncheddie · 29 days

Note

omg I didn't realize you wanted chubby steddie asks 🙈

as much as we love the babygirlification of Steve Harrington..... I'm obsessed with boyish manly Steve who is chubby and Eddie is obsessed with him!!!! I'm thinking about your one fic with the sweaty tank top!!!!! do you have more thoughts on this??

yesssssss!!! anon yes yesssssssss!!!!!

not me being like 'yeah! sweaty task top fic nice nice' then realising i have like three different posts that have Steve in a sweaty tank top lol

thankfully @scoops-aboy86 came in clutch with a new tank top sciario <3 (and held my hand thru writing the end lmao ty pal)

but i just love an ex jock trope, i love bulk under muscle and i think big beefy hairy guys are hot - and Steve harrington deserves to be all of that, and more

and also, importantly, eddie munson deserves to have all of that too, in and around him, all the time, in the form of Steve Harrington.

Eddie had come to accept the wealth of things he could be into, the actual buffet of people and scenarios that could get his dick hard. He's had more than his fair share of knuckle biting orgasms over the ex chief of police Jim Hopper. Before and, maybe worse, after getting to know him.

So he knew what it was to have something of a shame wank. To enjoy a moustache or two and a paunch at a middle.

But nothing, no deep seated daddy issues or fantasy of being held down, could ever prepare him for Steve Harrington.

Post upside down, post eventual college and transition to work. Post two bed apartment with Robin, then two bed apartment with Robin and Eddie. Then actual full blow house with Eddie, and more often than not weekend guest Robin. Dating Steve for as long as has was one thing, loving Steve with everything he had was another, and being loved by Steve was something he still had nights of panic about - silent tears as fear and self doubt gripped his throat, nightmares about it all being an elaborate prank that sneak their way in even with Steves arms wrapped tight around his middle.

but Eddie had him.

Was allowed to love him, and worship Steve for all that he was worth. It was wonderful. Eddie knew that.

But it had its challenges. Nothing past Eddie could've done would help current Eddie for what he was in for.

Like how Steve had bulked up over the years, settled and filled out in a way that made those visions of Hopper, and guys from bars he really shouldn't have been at, all come surging back.

Steve was thick, and strong and still so achingly beautiful. Boyish in his actions at times but also protective and capable in a way that made Eddie swoon. Honest to god. Made him feel like a main character in one of those bodice ripper books he had seen (taken out and read) at the library.

And then Steve made it worse.

So so so much worse.

Because Steve went and got a tattoo.

Well, another tattoo. He added roses to go along with the robin and branch on his arm, adding to its greenery with red petals and thorns that Eddie knew were secretly for him. He’d said, offhandedly, that they were his favourite and he knows, because he knows Steve, that thats something he'd listen to and remember.

He’s a die hard romantic.

And now Eddie is going to die, hard.

Soon, if Steve doesn't put a proper fucking shirt on.

Steves been wearing his stupid, old, cropped, white tank top since the appointment. He's "letting the tattoo breathe", "doesn't like the feeling of the healing skin against the fabric", "wants to do it properly". "hates Eddie and wants him to die of hard dick, big-fat-ball disease."

He glares at Steve from the other end of the couch, and maybe only three of those things are something Steve's actually said, but, he thought them. All of them. Must have.

Because Steve's tank is so old it's nearly see through, the peak of his pink nipple evident and distracting. The cropped end keeps rolling up and exposing his wider bellybutton and soft sides. And, as always, with any tank top, with any tank top on Steve, hit tits are there - hairy and lovely and out.

'Steve, please.' Eddie whines, he doesn't think he can take much more.

Steve just raises his eyebrows, taking a swig of beer and not looking away from the tv. 'If I sweat too much, it'll mess with the healing.' He says.

Eddie just crosses his arms, sinks lower into the couch. ‘Can you put on a normal shirt at least? For my sanity, for that alone, please?' Not wanting to sound desperate, but he is desperate.

Steve sighs, muting the TV. 'C'mere.' He holds his arms out and Eddie crawls into his lap. Still sulking, arms still crossed. ‘Eddie, you’re the one who gave me the tattoo. I’m following your instructions.’ Steve says gently.

‘M’firing Robin for getting you to sign the info form.’ He grumbles.

Steve smiles at him, tucking some hair behind his ears. ‘You can’t fire her for doing her job baby.’

‘Maybe not’ Eddie sniffs. ‘But I’m not sharing my baby blue ink with her next time she gets one of her slutty little lady sailor pin ups booked in.’ He mumbles to himself.

Steve pulls Eddie in closer, hands on his waist as he leans in to whisper in Eddies ear. 'Aren't I being so good though? Following what you said, no strenuous activity for two days right?' His voice a little breathy, soft.

And that makes Eddie pause, makes his insides churn and his heart rate increase. 'Ye-yeah.' He rasps, eyes wide. 'So good Stevie.'

'So we have to wait until tomorrow, like you said, yeah?' Steve asks, eyes all big and sweet, lips in a little pouty.

Fuck. He's right. Eddie dug his own grave.

'Yeah.' He sighs. He can do it, for Steve.

Steve smiles sweetly at him, tapping Eddie on the ass and shifting him closer so Steve can unmute the tv and keep watching his game. 'Good boy.' Steve says, kissing Eddies temple.

…Wait. Eddie scrunches his eyebrows, half hard and confused.

But Steve just holds him closer. Eddie buries his head in Steve's neck, and whines.

#:)#eddie gets domed by pouty dilf Steve #he doesn't know how to feel about it - but he likes it #<3 #ask #hotlunch #steddie #chubby steve harrington #tattoo artist eddie munson #and robin #i think Steve is their part time receptionist and also works at the coffee shop across the street #or part time florist across the street - to really live the au tropes #hes hot

128 notes · View notes

canisalbus · 4 months

Note

sorry if this has already been asked, but what jobs do you imagine vasco and machete would have in modern AU? and if you can't think of anything, how would they do in a "flower shop owner dating tattoo parlor owner" fanfic situation 👀

I- I actually still haven't made up my mind about what the modern versions do for a living =v= Once I lock those choices down I have to start properly figuring out what the job entails so I want to be sure it's something I can grasp, at least passably, as an outsider. There's been many really good suggestions for Machete, I've written some down for further consideration, but I have no clue what Vasco's bread and butter could be. I wasn't serious about the coffee shop situation but it sort of got absorbed into the modern au and I think it's kind of endearing in it's mundaneness, so I've become reluctant to rethink that. But then I'd have to come up with a reason how he ended up as a barista at the time. Machete works long hours (in his nonspecified mystery job) and earns really well (the Louboutin shoe and Armani coat money has to come from somewhere). I think Vasco's parents might be some flavor of upper middle class and have supported their son monetarily through a couple of rougher patches (so maybe he'd have rich kid background but you wouldn't guess it from looking at him?) I dunno, it's all very open ended still.

#answered #anonymous #Machete #Vasco #modern au #florist + tattoo parlor owner scenario sounds terribly cute not gonna lie #I don't know any florists or tattoo artists personally so it's hard to say #I can see them hanging around in different circles so they'd have to have something in common outside of their professional environment

121 notes · View notes

pxme-granate · 2 months

Text

#morrigan crow #cadence blackburn #nevermoor #mordence #is that the ship name?#id in alt #i went back to fill in some of the mogtober prompts i didn’t do #this was supposed to be hobby but it turned into an ‘i gave them jobs <3’ au #so behold. tattoo artist cadence and florist mog #also it ended up matching with a femslash february prompt ‘dahlia’!#i take wins where i can get them #i made this because of a fic i planned to write #i’ll do it someday

130 notes · View notes

twstbookclub · 1 month

Text

Inked Blossoms

Summary: Jamil didn't think much of you when he received a flower basket. You were his new neighbor running a flower shop—nothing more, nothing less. So, why can't he stop coming by after visiting you once? POV: 2nd Person Pronouns: Gender-neutral Admin/Writer: Cressa🦋 Tags: Tattoo Artist x Florist AU, Tattoo Artist!Jamil, Florist!Reader, Fluff, Romance, Angst, No happy ending, sorry folks, Mentions of Blood and Self-harm, Use of Flower Language, Jamil's POV Word Count: 4, 025 Main Reference for Flower Meanings: Boeckmann, C. (2023, November 17). What does each flower symbolize? The Old Farmer's Almanac.

And I thought the Riddle fic I wrote is my longest one 💀 I actually had this plot in mind in the same month as I thought of the Riddle fic, which was back in April of last year. I only put in one link here, but I fact-checked every flower I used in this fic with other sources. Admittedly, when I wrote this, I received some heartbreaking news that morning and I cried my eyes out. I may or may not have projected those feelings into this and incorporated my previous experiences here. To all the Jamil stans, I'm so sorry that my first fic of this guy is long and angsty. I hope you all enjoy, though 💕

Jamil stared at the flowers on his parlor’s doorstep. Pink peonies and coral roses filled the twine basket, along with a purple flower that he didn’t know the name of. The arrangement emphasized the purple flowers, while there were a few peonies mixed in with the roses. What piqued Jamil’s curiosity were the leaves that lined the edges of the basket. He squinted, subconsciously leaning down to peer at the blooms at his feet.

“... Is that basil?” He mumbled, confused about the inclusion of a familiar herb. It was something he often used in his cooking, particularly when he was roommates with Kalim back in high school. That boy’s palate was too refined for anything bland and ready-made, so Jamil always had to cook with spices and herbs. It came to the point that the smell stuck to his clothes, even after a thorough wash in the laundry. Not just his clothes—even his hair. He already had a meticulous process with his hair care and bejeweled braids, so it was a nuisance.

He shook his head, before he took the flower basket in his hands. The blooms jostled a little, and a gentle hand pushed a peony back in place. Something nagged at Jamil to look to the left, for some reason. When he turned his head, the sign of the shop next door caught his attention.

“A flower shop, huh.” That was new. Jamil vaguely remembered this lot being sold recently, but he never thought it’d be turned into a store like that. It used to be an antique store owned by an elderly woman. She minded her own business, despite the weird and judgmental looks he received for the henna tattoos that decorated Jamil’s tan hands and arms.

Jamil’s eyes darted from the cursive letters of the sign to the flowers and plants displayed behind the glass walls. The name of the shop was painted on one of the walls in gold—above some of the artful arrangements of red roses, white carnations, and calla lilies. There was a shift of color behind them, and he narrowed his eyes again for a better look.

Someone was tending to the flowers. He could vaguely make out the color of their hair and the verdant apron over a white polo shirt. With the large bouquets in the way, Jamil couldn’t see a face. Sighing and shaking his head, he walked into his tattoo parlor with the flower basket in his arms.

If all his time in the city taught him anything, it was that nothing in this world was free.

Still, Jamil couldn’t help but wonder what the purple flowers were. They reminded him of tulips, but the petals were thinner and pointed at the tips. The stamen was visible, too. It was a stark contrast to the blooming tulips he knew: blunt-tipped and oval petals without the stamen being visible. He made a mental note to search about them once he went home.

Jamil found out that the purple blooms were called crocuses, and he wound up finding a website detailing the meanings of every flower imaginable. The flowers replaced the lamp that used to be on the table next to his bed. Every morning, he’d wake up to the colorful arrangement in a vase with his mind stuck on the meaning of each flower.

Maybe he should see what the florist was like. If they were like the antique shop owner from before, then Jamil would just remain polite and ignore them whenever he could.

On a slow and quiet day in the parlor, Jamil flipped the sign and locked the door. He shoved the key in his pocket, while his eyes drifted to the flower displays and bouquets through the glass walls. A blur of white and green moved behind them, but he still couldn’t put a face to the florist.

Jamil would have to see if he was curious enough to put a name to that face, too.

A chime echoed in the store once he stepped inside, and an onslaught of fragrance hit him. He noted that it wasn’t as powerful as the smell of spices, ones that he can taste from the scent alone. Still, it was strong enough to leave him a little lightheaded.

“Ah, welcome!” A voice rang through the back, behind an open door that led to what Jamil assumed was a small greenhouse. Sacks of fertilizer and clay pots filled with flowers peeked out of the metal shelves. The sight was obscured by a green apron, stitched with the same cursive letters of the store sign.

Charcoal gray eyes met lively, cheerful ones. The gloved hands that gripped the door frame were smeared with soil, maybe even fertilizer. Dirt smudged your cheek, but his gaze drifted to your lips. Your smile—too bright to be natural—was difficult to look away from. Something churned in his chest the longer he looked at it.

“Oh,” you mumbled, which made Jamil look back into your eyes again, “you’re my next-door neighbor. Hi! I hope you like the flowers. I’m, uh…”

A sheepish chuckle left your lips, making Jamil’s heart lurch. He resisted the urge to scowl at the feeling. He just met you, and he’d rather not make a bad impression. The tattoo artist came to your store to meet you like a proper neighbor, not to antagonize you.

“I came by to say hi, and you weren’t there. I had to get the shop ready and all, so I decided to leave the basket and hope that it stays there—” You sighed, took off one of your gloves, and ran a hand through your hair— “and I’m rambling. Sorry about that.”

Jamil watched you, anxious and fidgety, and he suppressed a smile. There was something amusing about how you acted like a mouse: squeaking and retreating at any sign of danger. Although, he highly doubted that you saw him as a threat.

You were just… shy. You talked a lot, but you were shy.

“It’s fine,” Jamil raised a hand and smiled, practiced and polite, “and I appreciate the flowers. Thank you. It’s a beautiful arrangement—you have a way with bringing out their natural beauty.”

He probably laid it on too thick. It was a habit at this point: butter up people to ease them, to let their guard down. Jamil merely planned to meet this florist to satisfy his curiosity. He never considered the option of befriending this person, much less engaging in a long conversation with you.

Your face lit up, as if something dawned on you in that moment. Chuckling, you stretched out the hand without the glove and gave him your name. It was followed with a cheerful, “It’s nice to meet you! I hope we can get along, um…”

“Jamil,” he shook your hand with that same, practiced smile, “Jamil Viper. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He noticed your eyes dart towards his hand and arm, inked with the traditional motifs and patterns of his homeland. Under the sunlight that streamed through the glass, your eyes seemed to sparkle. Your mouth parted in a silent, “Oh.”

“That’s so pretty,�� you blurted out and continued to stare at the henna tattoos. Jamil simply watched you with wide eyes, but the surprise disappeared in that same instant. Your voice, loud and happy, filled the silence of the room.

“The amount of detail here is amazing, and—Oh, there’s even more tiny patterns inside another pattern. That’s so cool!”

Even though this much praise usually annoyed Jamil (it reminded him too much of Kalim), he found himself flustered. A faint warmth spread across his cheeks as he watched you marvel at the tattoos. You raised a hand, probably to trace the design with a finger, when you paused.

Your smile was frozen on your face, as if you caught yourself doing something embarrassing. Your own cheeks flushed in shame, before you pulled away with a nervous giggle. Jamil almost laughed at how ridiculous you looked at the moment.

He ignored the small voice in the back of his mind that called you cute.

It was supposed to be a one-time encounter. Jamil only visited your flower shop to see the person who opened a new business next to his tattoo parlor. He wanted to see whether this new neighbor of his was going to be tolerable or otherwise. One meeting was enough to deem you tolerable; someone that Jamil could politely wave to if you two happened to pass by each other.

So, why was he looking at a bouquet of irises and white jasmines right now? Why was he standing in your store on a Sunday morning?

“You’ve been coming a lot here lately.” Your voice rang from the back, much like how Jamil first met you. He looked over his shoulder to see you admiring the other flowers with a small smile.

“I don’t mind, really, and it’s nice to have you here. I just didn’t expect you to come here almost every day,” you clarified with a chuckle as you approached him. The telltale flush of your cheeks already told Jamil about how embarrassed you were to confess that. He watched you caress one of the petals of a hydrangea with a gentle look.

For a weekend, it was surprisingly quiet here. People flocked to your store during its first week, and Jamil observed all this in the comfort of his parlor. The window provided a clear view of what was going on, so he didn’t need to go outside. You became frazzled in a matter of moments—running around and arranging the flowers yourself—and that amused Jamil. Just a bit.

Still, you smiled throughout that hectic week.

Me neither, Jamil wanted to say. Instead, he answered, “It’s another slow day in my shop, so I decided to visit. I suppose it’s become a habit whenever I have nothing else to do.”

You chuckled, and Jamil pretended his heart didn’t skip a beat. He ignored the twitch of his lips, curling into a small smile. Oblivious to the look the tattoo artist gave you, you continued to admire the flowers.

“That’s fine with me. Besides, I like your company.”

Your shameless honesty was going to be the death of Jamil. The tips of his ears grew warm, and he tugged his hood over them. He already concluded that you were a thoughtful and considerate person after spending some time with you. You prepared tea and cookies, ones you yourself baked, every time he visited. Careful hands arranged the flowers by meaning and color, which already said enough about you. Being a florist sounded just right for someone like you.

Jamil briefly wondered what flowers you’d give him if you wanted to give him a bouquet.

He cleared his throat, mimicking a cough, before he shifted his attention to the irises and jasmines again. Ever since he searched the meanings of the flowers in that basket, he couldn’t help but be curious.

“Can you tell me what these mean in flower language?” He asked, glancing at you from behind his hood. Whether you found this action odd or not, you didn’t comment on it.

With a curious hum, you leaned over to look at what Jamil referred to and smiled wider. You replied, “Ah, irises can mean wisdom, faith, trust, valor, and hope. As for white jasmines…”

You raised an eyebrow at Jamil with a mischievous grin. He didn’t dare entertain the thought that you were being adorable from the action alone. He didn’t dare hope that the gesture actually meant something.

“They can mean sweet love, and the person who receives them is seen as friendly and pleasant.” You paused, before you suddenly left Jamil’s side and reached for the adjacent wall of flowers. Before Jamil could say anything, you already extended a white bloom under his nose.

Wide-eyed and bewildered, he stared at the flower in your hand. It somewhat resembled a rose in full bloom, but the petals were shaped differently. Another amused laugh echoed in the room. You took his hand, inked with intricate patterns that crawled his skin like vines, and placed the flower in it.

Jamil realized that it was a gardenia. This species of flora grew in some part of the botanical garden of his high school. He was only familiar with it because he used to pass by the area to relax, preferably alone.

“I think this suits you, though.” You hummed and returned to the counter with a spin of your heel. Jamil watched you wordlessly as you disappeared into the greenhouse. From where he stood, the tattoo artist saw pink and white camellias peeking through one of the shelves. He nearly jumped when your head popped out of the door frame.

“Oh, and can you help me carry some of these pots around? They’re pretty heavy, thanks!”

It was only until Jamil got home that he searched for the meaning of the gardenia. The bright laptop screen glared at him as he entered the keywords in the search bar. He clicked on the first result and—

Jamil stared at the words with darkening cheeks. His mouth became dry, and his tongue was tied into knots. His hand slammed the monitor shut, before he abruptly stood up and left for the kitchen. He needed some water. He needed to not think too much into things. You were going to be the death of him, Jamil swore to that.

Still, the words were already seared into his memory: you’re lovely.

Jamil found himself visiting you whenever he could. You always asked for his help whenever heavy labor was involved. If it was anyone else, he would’ve felt annoyed. With you, it was just an excuse for Jamil to stay longer.

Fleeting touches, subtle glances, and shy smiles—it was like your own language. Not a single word was exchanged, yet it felt like you said more than Jamil could comprehend. He didn’t miss the moments when your hands lingered too long over his. He would be a fool not to notice that a cookie jar and a box of teabags sat on the counter each time he visited.

For the past year, you’d give him a single flower every day without fail. One time, after the usual tea, it was a morning glory. Another time, when you were particularly homesick and Jamil stayed to chat, you gave him a hydrangea. When he visited your house and took care of you when you became sick, you gave him a yellow lily the next day. He always brought them home, but it came to the point that a mishmash of flowers in a vase brought color and life to his workspace. It sat under the window, where it bathed under a patch of sunlight. He even considered buying another vase due to the sheer amount.

You gave him all kinds of flowers, but he’d never forget the first gardenia he received from you.

“That looks out of place,” one customer pointed out while Jamil prepared the needle. He already knew what he was talking about, but the tattoo artist still followed his line of sight. A soft smile stretched from one ear to the other, and he didn’t bother hiding it.

Without looking away from the flowers, he answered, “They’re gifts from a friend. It’s the only place I can think of where they can be cared for.”

He ignored the sly, knowing grin on the customer’s face. Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Jamil gestured towards the chair and continued to prepare everything he needed for this job.

One sunny day, your storefront was crowded more than usual. Jamil paid no mind to the crowd as he pulled his hood over his head. Inked hands grabbed a bundle of flowers, tied with twine, from the table. They were placed far from the vases that decorated the parlor; just to avoid confusion. His eyes fell on the gardenia he drew on the back of his hand. Jamil added that some time ago, maybe around the past month. Still, it made him smile.

Jamil locked the door, then he instinctively looked at the flower shop. His heart stuttered at the sight of the flowers amongst the crowd. The vibrant and lively blossoms were like a splash of color against the dull tones of the city. What used to be gray pavement and monochrome buildings seemed to come to life with just a few flowers.

He blinked his surprise away, before he gripped the bouquet in his hands. The thrum of his heart and the sweat on his palms weren’t something foreign to Jamil. He always felt like this at the thought of you, even Kalim noticed the change in his friend when he visited once. Your smile flashed in his mind, and his own lips curled into a small one. His feet led him to where he knew you were.

Past the flower shop; past the crowd that lingered at the storefront; past the fresh flowers that gathered against the glass walls. Jamil’s feet grew heavier with each step, as if lead hit the concrete and left faint cracks behind. He stepped through the iron-wrought gates with a soft exhale. His grip on the flowers tightened. He considered going back to the tattoo parlor.

In the end, he thought he’d regret it if he backed out now. Blades of grass grazed his sneakers as he walked through rows of stones. Names were etched into each one, a reminder of who they were to the loved ones left behind. Charcoal gray eyes looked straight ahead. He didn’t bother looking at any of them.

It had been a year since that day, but he still remembered where you were.

Grass crunched under his feet as he stopped in front of an unassuming headstone. Engraved in the stone was your name—funny how he never knew your surname until the funeral. You never told him when you introduced yourself, and he didn’t pry. He even imagined you with his surname at some point, but…

Jamil swallowed the lump in his throat. He crouched on one knee and laid the bundle of flowers on your grave. The tattoo artist made the effort of arranging the colorful blooms in a way that you would. At least, how he remembered that you would.

He stood with his hands in his pockets, and he stared at your gravestone with that same lump in his throat. A sigh rang in the empty cemetery. A cool breeze carried the hustle and bustle of the city. The laugh that used to plague Jamil’s everyday life here was missing. It was gone for months now, but he could still hear it clearly in his head.

“Hey,” Jamil mumbled, clenching his hands into fists, “it’s been a while. I’m sorry I only visited today. It… took me some time to come to terms with what happened. Regardless, you deserved an earlier visit.”

No answer, Of course, there was no answer. You’ve been dead for quite some time now. That was an understatement, considering that a year has already passed.

Jamil’s stomach churned, and an insufferable heat filled his chest. His eyes stung. His nails pierced into the skin of his palms. The lump in his throat seemed to grow bigger, and he found it hard to breathe. Memories of your smile, your laugh, and the time he spent with you and your flowers overlapped in his mind.

He dug his heels into the dirt as he gritted his teeth. The sting behind his eyes grew worse. It was hard to breathe, and he found it harder to speak. He somehow forced the words out with a broken heart, pieces scattered along the ashes of what was left of you.

“You idiot,” Jamil choked out as his vision blurred with tears, “you could’ve called me to help you. How was I supposed to know you were still sick? How was I supposed to know you needed to carry that ridiculously huge flower display across the street? How was I supposed to know that car would lose control and—”

Jamil looked up to the sky with a clenched jaw, teeth clacking and shaking his skull from the force. He wanted to scream. He wanted to curse whatever deity existed in this world. He wanted to forget how you looked, pale and bleeding on the street, that day. He wanted to erase that memory of you until his heart bled out and his voice croaked its last scream.

“—they haven’t found the driver. Everyone who knew you petitioned to keep the shop in your memory. Someone else took over, too. You don’t have to worry about your flowers anymore.”

Since that day, whenever Jamil looked at the ink that adorned his hands and arms, all he remembered was your loud voice and bright smile. Your praise and astonishment echoed in his head like a broken record player. He couldn’t count the amount of times he tried to scrub them clean from his skin. If that didn’t work, he scratched at them until he bled and the patterns were hidden under that shade of red.

In hindsight, Jamil thought that was idiotic of him. Love turned anyone into idiots, anyway.

Sighing, Jamil forced the tears back and looked down at your gravestone. If he tried hard enough, he could imagine you smiling and laughing again. The image of you, lifeless and still on the road, would become a scar that faded with time. He hoped it would be.

“I thought of giving you baby’s breath,” Jamil began as the lump in his throat returned, “along with forget-me-nots, and blue salvia. It would be a horrible contrast, but I also thought of adding pink carnations.”

He paused, before bitterly chuckling to himself. “I don’t have your skills, though. You were always amazing with flower arrangements. I couldn’t hold a candle to you, and I rarely tell anyone that. I didn’t want to give you something that was less than perfect—you deserve more than that, so I settled with sweet peas.”

Jamil knew he was talking to himself. He always found it ridiculous how anyone talked to the dead, even if he understood the necessity to respect the ones who passed. This one time, he understood why people did this. Jamil just couldn’t bring himself to accept the circumstances that led to that revelation.

“They mean goodbye in flower language, but I prefer the other meaning. Maybe, in another life, I would’ve bought you flowers for a date. I was thinking of asking you on a date before. Did you know that?”

Another bitter chuckle. Another shaky breath.

“I was supposed to ask you that day. I finally found the courage to try, and what did I see? You…” The words were stuck in Jamil’s throat. He couldn’t force the words out this time. The clamor outside and the harsh slam of his parlor door echoed in his memories. He didn’t want his last memory of you to be your dying breath. He’d rather not remember that at all.

Jamil shook his head and continued, “I apologize for that. What you need to know is that I like you. I may even go so far as to say I love you, and I’m sorry I never told you earlier. I hope you can forgive me for that.”

The tattoo artist sat down in front of your headstone. He didn’t care if dirt and grass stained his jeans this time. He reached out to trace the name etched into the stone, with the same hand where the inked gardenia peeked out of his sleeve.

“I like your flowers. I like all of them. I still keep them with me. I wish I told you that sooner,” Jamil mumbled, voice cracking at the end. A tear rolled down his left cheek and dripped into the soil. His shoulders shook in a silent sob as he breathed his last words to you.

“Thank you for a lovely time. I’ll never forget you.”

90 notes · View notes

willsimpforanyone · 1 year

Note

hey !! i absolutely adore your account. your writing is just amazing!!! i was wondering if you could do more leo valdez smuts!?

ahhhh thank you so much i'm glad you like my writing!!

this will have obligatory spanish pet names in it because i am cringe and proud k thanks also it's a flower shop/tattoo shop au because that's the best trope i don't make the rules

-----------------------------------

There was a tap on my shop door.

"Knock knock, chica, where you at?"

I rolled my eyes but grinned. "In the back," I yelled back. "Gimme a sec."

The door opened and closed, the little bell dinging, and I stripped off my black gloves. "Okay, all done! How'd you like it?"

Nico nodded approvingly at his new tarot card tattoo - Death, of course. "Looks awesome, how much do I owe you?"

"£180, because you're my favourite." I winked at him as I led him out the room.

He shook his head. "You know that's not the right price." Nico took out an envelope of cash and slid it across the counter. "£200, plus tip, don't even think about it."

He caught me before I could protest, and made to leave. "Hey Valdez."

From the sofa, Leo grinned up at him. "Hey dude, whatcha get?"

Nico pulled up his shirt sleeve to show off his new tattoo. Leo nodded approvingly. "Looks sick, Will's gonna love it." Nico coloured slightly but gave a small smile, nodded and left.

I leaned forward on the counter. "So, Valdez, what brings you to my dark corner of the world?"

He brandished the small collection of blooms he held. "Thought I'd bring it a little bit of colour." Beelining to where I had a wilting bunch of flowers in a vase, Leo swapped them out. I leant on my hand and smiled- he was right, the studio could use a little colour now and then.

"Is today the day I get to ink you?" I tapped my fingers on the wooden surface, fingers buzzing slightly from the tattoo gun.

Leo grinned. "Oh, you wish you could make your mark on this." He gestured down to himself, and I allowed myself to rake my eyes over him. His loose grey shirt was faintly patterned with roses, and his jeans clung to his legs appealingly.

"You have no idea, honey." I winked at him and got the pleasure of seeing his tan skin tinge with red.

He coughed lightly. "I don't think I'd suit tattoos, anyway." He shrugged. "Probably not, anyway."

I slipped out from behind the counter to face him. "Oh, I don't know, I wouldn't say that." I considered him carefully, as an art piece rather than a person. "Tattoos are for everyone, as long as they get something they love."

Leo shifted slightly and I reached out for his arm. He let me take it. "See, I'd do a flowering vine-" I ran my fingers down his left forearm. "-along here, delicate but thick enough not to get lost in your skin."

"Oh yeah?"

I nodded, reaching up to his shoulder. "Perhaps your favourite flower, or a flower of significance, resting on your shoulder." Carefully, carefully coming to rest a finger on his chest. "A little something here, anything you'd like, just for you."

Leo had frozen, deep brown eyes fixed on my face. I took a step back, not missing where Leo swayed towards me just slightly.

"Of course, it's up to you." Just for the hell of it, I decided to push my luck. "I have a few other ideas of how I could mark you, should you be interested."

I heard him let out a shaky breath and push dark curls behind his ears. Silently, I prayed that I didn't push it too far and scare him off. The crush I'd been harbouring for the past two months squeezed my heart.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, god I hope I'm not wrong, but we're very much not talking about tattoos anymore, are we?"

I turned round to see Leo with his hands clenched by his side and his lip being worried between his teeth. Slowly, I shook my head.

"No, not tattoos. Or rather, the kind that would fade in a couple days and are made with my mouth against your neck."

"Oh thank fuck." Leo relaxed and reached out, pulling me close and pressing his lips to mine.

Instantly my arms were wrapped around his neck and I was grinning like an idiot. For a brief moment I wondered if I had any more clients today but a quick glance at the clock told me it was past 6pm, closing time. Regretfully I pulled away from Leo and he pouted.

"What's wrong?"

I disentangled myself from his arms, racing to the door to lock it and turn the 'open' sign to 'closed' before returning to pull Leo's face down to mine. "Absolutely nothing, hermoso, nothing at all."

Leo let out a throaty groan and looped his fingers in my belt loops to pull me closer. "Woman, you are driving me insane." He kissed me hard, hips pressing againt mine and I felt heat flame in my stomach, looping and curling.

"Hey-" In between kisses, I tried to talk. "-I live-" Kiss. "-literally right upstairs-" Kiss. "-if you want to-" Kiss. "-take this further."

Leo pulled back this time, massive grin on his flushed face, already looking a mess. "Oh hell yeah, lead the way."

It took only moments to take his hand and lead him through my studio, up the stairs and into the flat I owned above my shop. I shut the door behind us and pinned Leo to it, fingers twisting and gently tugging at his hair. He whined and slipped his hands under my shirt, smoothing them along my stomach. "Do I get to see your tattoos?" He panted, eyes dark with want.

"Maybe, if you ask nicely." I winked at him. "But I believe I was going to give you a few."

"As many as you want, mi amor, whatever you want." Oh, this was going to be fun.

I pulled him away from the door and practically dragged him to my bedroom. I pointed to the pillows. "Sit."

He did it without question and I got a thrill of satisfaction. I crawled over to him, throwing a thigh over his lap and settling into his lap. Serious time for a moment. "If you want to stop at any point, let me know, okay?"

Leo nodded. "Same goes for you."

Cute. I pressed my lips to his gently, softly, a small thank you for being receptive. I shifted myself forward a little, until my hips were almost against his. My lips ghosted over his lips one last time before I swept along his jawline. I felt his hands hovering over my waist, my hips, my thighs, before I took his wrists and settled him on the tops of my thighs. "I'm not fragile, baby."

"Oh, I'm sure you're not, but if we keep going like this, I might be."

I rested my hands on his chest. "I'll try not to break you." Leaning in closer, I kissed just below his ear. "At least, not this time."

He whimpered, fingers digging into my flesh beneath my jeans.

I dragged my mouth along the planes of his neck, skin warm and heartbeat pounding beneath it. Finding his pulse point, I gave it a gentle suck, feeling Leo inhale sharply. "Good?"

He let out a shuddery breath. "Very good."

That was all the encouragement I needed. I nipped hard up and down his neck, leaving a trail of blossoming red in my wake. I bit purple roses and violets, tattooing the little moans and gasps from him into his skin. His collarbone was decorated with faint teeth marks, each one marked with the memory of a twist of his hips.

I pulled back briefly to tug at his button-down and he nodded emphatically, practically ripping it off so I could continue to kiss and bite and suck at his overheated skin.

"Hey," he breathed, tapping my thigh. "I made a questioning noise, still buried in his neck. "Hey, if you don't stop we're gonna have a problem that can only be solved with doing laundry and I don't think you have jeans my size."

"So what? I think that's sexy as fuck." I continued to work on the large brand I was sucking into his skin.

"My point still stands." He ran his hand up my back and into my hair, gently tugging to pull me away. I let a moan slip before I could catch it and Leo raised an eyebrow.

"Shut up," I poked at a hickey and he hissed. "You look like you got too enthusiastic with watercolour paints."

He rolled his eyes and before I could register the action, he flipped us round so he was hovering above me, elbows supporting him. "You've had your fun, reducing me to a whimpery mess, now it's my turn."

I bit my lip at the look in his eyes, suddenly feeling that I was wearing far too many clothes.

Waiting for any indication that he should stop, Leo dragged my shirt over my head as best he could, leaving me in a bra and my jeans. He caught his breath as he saw my tattoos. I was covered in them, an art gallery of my favourite things done by some of my favourite people. Reverently, he traced a finger over the lines and I shivered, goosebumps mottling my skin.

"Holy shit, you're gorgeous."

I gave a breathy laugh. "What, only just noticed?"

Leo shook his head, deadly serious. "No, you're always gorgeous, this is just... a new part of the gorgeous that I've never seen before."

My cheeks felt hot and I wriggled under him at the compliments. "You gonna do something about it, or?"

His eyes flicked up to mine. "What, you don't think I'd fuck you into next week if I had the chance?"

I didn't have a chance to formulate a retort. He deftly undid the fastening on my jeans and dipped his hand into them. I arched my back at the contact and Leo swore. "God, you're soaked, hermosa, glad to see I'm not the only one on the edge."

My hand made weak contact with his arm and he laughed. "Very much not a bad thing, very much a 'sexy as fuck' thing."

"Just fuckin' touch me, Valdez."

"As you wish."

He slipped a finger inside my pussy, and my eyes rolled back. Marking him up may have affected me more than I let on. "M-more, Leo, I need more."

Obediently, he added another finger, and another, curling all three so deliciously inside me. My hands were clutching at his shoulders, at the pillows, the bedspread, I was sure I looked a mess but Leo looked at me like I'd hung the stars in the damn sky.

"So fucking pretty, so beautiful, I'm gonna take you out on a proper date tomorrow, I swear." He muttered promises and affections and it was all I could do to not come right there, impaled on his fingers and whining desperately.

When his hand pulled away I nearly sobbed before he was kissing my face, murmuring reassurances. "I know, I know, but I gotta get your jeans and panties off, okay? You want me to fuck you, right?"

That gave me a little clarity, and I allowed him to tug off the rough demin both from me and from him. I threw myself to the side, rummaging around in my bedside table before triumphantly producing a foil packet.

Leo accepted the gift and I got to see him slip on the condom and bite his lip to not come from the contact.

"Leo." He looked up at me, curls a mess, lips slightly swollen.

"Fuck me into next week."

He pounced on me, hands grasping at my hips to pull me flush against him. The pads of his fingers tightened and I allowed myself a moment to imagine the bruises they would leave after this.

He guided his cock in between my thighs, pausing right at the entrance. "You all good?"

I smiled. "So very good."

He pushed into me with one swift motion and I cried out, feeling so full and so good. Leo pounded into me, looking as desperate as I felt. He buried his face into my neck. "Okay, super lame but I am not gonna last long."

"Super not lame." My voice sounded wrecked. "Super fucking hot that I got you that worked up. You are super welcome to come whenever you want."

I felt him smile against my skin. "You first."

His hand reached down in a feat of strength with how hard he was thrusting into me, and he began pushing circles into my clit. My head tilted back and Leo pressed sharp kisses into the exposed flesh.

The sensations were too much and would never ever be enough and I tilted my hips just right so he was hitting just right inside me and the thin line keeping me tethered snapped.

My nails dug into his shoulders and I came hard, feeling overwhelmed with pleasure and excitement and with just enough clarity I felt Leo's hips stutter as my pussy clamped down on his dick as I came. His swearing was muffled into my skin but he pushed into me as much as he could, coming with almost a shout.

There was a moment of quiet, the two of us remembering how to breathe and enjoying the feeling of being connected. It was with simultaneous groans that Leo pulled out of me, flopping to my side and pressing absent kisses to my shoulder.

"Well," he breathed. "How do my new tattoos looks?"

I ran my fingers over my masterpiece. "I'd say they look pretty good, if I do say so myself."

-----------------------------

yes i did get carried away lol hope you enjoyed and thank you for requesting!

#leo valdez #leo x reader #leo valdez x reader #leo valdez imagine #leo imagine #leo valdez smut #leo valdez x reader smut #florist!leo #tattoo artist!reader #tattoo shop au #flower shop au

687 notes · View notes

possibilistfanfiction · 8 months

Note

Delicate

it's been a weird day already.

but not, like, bad: the sky is clear and it's not windy, which is such a welcome break from the weeks and weeks of rain you kind of want to dance down the sidewalk or something (you don't, but only because you have on this cool new pair of pants you thrifted last week and one over-exuberant roll through a puddle and they'd be wet for the day); there wasn't a long line at camila's coffee shop, so you were early to work; none of your appointments, even, have been late. good-weird sometimes feels way more unsettling than bad-weird, though, or at least that's what you've told your therapist who nodded — trauma responses, this and that, or so she says.

your first two clients are easy — small, simple stuff, which is always nice to start off with. chanel is finishing her last session on a wicked cool back piece with a chill client, and it's all pretty vibey until you're outside on the little front patio of the studio eating the pizza you'd grabbed from down the street for a late lunch, casually people watching. it all happens so fast: you're taking a bite and then, bam, there’s someone on a bike skidding out of control and then falling with a thump, tangled up in the metal frame and pedals spinning.

'shit,' you say, even though the person is already struggling their way out from under the bike — a good sign, overall. but still, you put your pizza down on the table chanel insisted you buy and wheel down the ramp until you're on the sidewalk, close enough to be able to ask, 'are you okay?'

the person — a very, very hot person, in carhartt overalls, a pristine white t-shirt, and blundstones — groans but then nods, stands up fully from the street and hefts the bike back upright by the handlebars. 'yes. i'll be fine. a minor fall.'

there's an embarrassed blush rising behind freckles and, 'you're bleeding.' it's roadrash, nothing serious, along an elbow, both palms, but still — 'my shop is right here.' you point behind you. 'let me patch you up, we have all the sterile stuff and everything.'

'i — okay.'

you smile, then smile even bigger when this very hot bike-falling blushing stranger takes her helmet off and her short hair — slightly sweaty — is tousled, a little messy on the top, even messier after she tries to brush it back with her fingers. 'sweet.' you offer your hand, even though she's dragging her bike alongside her. 'i'm ava.'

she leans the bike against her hip, grants you a small smile, and meets your eyes, even though her blush gets worse. 'beatrice.'

her hand is calloused and warm and she locks her bike against your railing, then follows you up the ramp.

'so you're who moved in,' she says, not unkindly, and you nod. it's a beautiful studio — you'll claim it was 50/50 design choices all day long, but it really was mostly chanel who chose the perfect shelving, the easy colors, the furniture that was simple and comfortable and cool as fucking hell, all at once. 'me and chanel, the other artist and owner,' you say. chanel's gun is very quietly buzzing behind the partition that separates her station from the front desk, and you lead beatrice back to your station.

the scrape along her elbow — delicate, one of the most difficult places to tattoo properly, all small, sharp bones and live-wire nerves — isn't deep or particularly dirty, so you clean it quickly and without too much discomfort, if her comfortable quiet and measured breathing is anything to go by.

'you're an expert on this, i suppose,' she says, as you get out your second skin once everything is clean and dry.

you laugh. 'tattoos aren't too dissimilar.' you allow yourself to look — after a lot of restraint, thank you very much — at her nearly-finished sleeve: fine lines and tender greyscale of flowers and plants, a few bugs, woven together. there's space on the underside of her wrist, still, a little unexpected. 'this is beautiful.'

beatrice smiles softly, a little sad. 'thank you.'

'no, like, genuinely.' you take your gloves off once the second skin is on perfectly and roll back in your chair to see it a little clearer. 'it really is.'

that blush again. 'i'm a gardener,' beatrice says, as if that explains everything. you have a few silly tattoos along your thighs — some are from you practicing along your own skin, a perk of not feeling anything below your waist — and your favorite along the top of your right hand. it's the first chanel did for you, the start of how you became friends — and business partners, eventually — and it's not hard, really, to remember the control you felt when you got to choose to make your body in your own image, when you had someone you trusted to help.

'that's awesome.'

she nods, once, like it's a finite truth. 'along with my sister, i run the florist shop on the other side of camila's. we farm all of our own flowers, only local pollinators.'

'permaculture,' you say, 'sick.'

it gets a laugh out of her — fucking delightful, and, whew, you want to keep making that happen — 'it is.' she stands, looking almost — dare you say it — regretful. 'unfortunately, i do have to get back to said shop for the afternoon. but maybe i can buy you a coffee?'

'camila gives me my coffee for free.'

she blanches and it takes a few seconds before you reach out and pat her hand with a laugh. 'i'm sorry, i was just messing with you. i'd love to get coffee with you.'

'yeah?'

'dude, are you kidding? i want to know all about your plants.'

she's got the most proper accent of all time, and you're kind of wishing for her to say something like, and i, your art, but instead she just nods, a little tongue-tied, you think, which is endearing in its own way too. 'thank you again, ava.'

'anytime.' you pause. 'well, not the exact same circumstances. don't need you flinging yourself off of your bike just to say hi to me again —'

'i didn't fall because of you —'

'i know i'm, like, cool and stunning, but you really should be more careful.'

she rolls her eyes, but there's still a smile on her face. you know you're, as chanel puts it, dangerously charming, so you'll take it.

you watch her walk down the ramp and unlock her bike, then walk it two doors down to the florist that always had swathes of wildflowers in the windows. you've only been here a few weeks, and you'd been very busy setting everything up and getting your clients in asap, but you'd planned to check it out eventually. now, you have even more of a reason to.

and, like, maybe it's a little gay, whatever, but you transfer out of your chair to sit more comfortably at your station while you wait for your next client and start to sketch some wildflowers and their pollinators. bees, your favorites, and maybe it doesn't mean anything or maybe it means something. you don't really believe in everything but you do think that people can be kind and that the earth itself is overwhelmingly good. that's enough, most days, really.

chanel finishes with her client and it's a good-good-weird day because she offers to order dinner without you even having to whine. you fall asleep later at home thinking abt how warm beatrice's skin had been, how it had been easy to make sure she would heal well, all the flowers there, blooming; her freckles and her blush. maybe, if you're lucky, she's thought of you too.

#wn fic #avatrice fic #prompts #idk where this is going probably just little snippets bc there's not a lot of plot involved #but i'm so weak always for florist/tattoo artist au #the homoeroticism of hands. of flowers. of hands AND flowers #yes bea DID fall off her bike bc she was staring at ava #will she admit that immediately? of course not!#flowers au #is this fun do u like this lmk #also this is in portland just so everyone knows. it IS in my head lmao

172 notes · View notes