Ok so your little soulmate drabble was so cute and I just can't with your writing bc I love it so much! Also, if your inbox isn't too full, could I ask you for a Bellarke + florist and tattoo artist AU? Thanks so much!!
Thank you so much!
also on ao3
“I don’t want those people in my neighborhood.”
Octavia stares her brother down and lifts her index finger. “First of all, it’s not your neighborhood. And second - those people? You want a tattoo, Bell!”
Bellamy Blake is twenty eight, fresh out of college with a Classics degree he now can’t use because his mother’s flower shop became his responsibility, and he’s pretty much done with everything.
Yeah, he does like flowers - it’s hard not to since the first thing he remembers saying is “orchids should never go with peonies” and the scent of flowers, deeply ingrained into his nostrils, since the age of six, didn’t even leave him in college.
(Even Roma, his junior year girlfriend, laughed as she said. “Damn, Bellamy, you smell like roses.”)
So now that he’s saddled with Aurora’s - he doesn’t need a tattoo artist down the street. Nope. This is a nice neighborhood. None of that millennial fuckery.
“It is our neighborhood and yes, I want a tattoo, but not a tattoo parlor. There are children here, O!”
His sister rolls her eyes, her boots slamming against the linoleum and rattling a couple of vases overflowing with sunflowers. “I see only one kid here and it’s you.”
It doesn’t help that his baby sister is friends with the pair of tattoo artists working in the Grounders parlor. In fact, if the flirty exchanges are anything to go by, she might even be dating Lincoln Woods.
“Also, your crush on Clarke is ridiculous,” she adds before throwing her hair over her shoulder haughtily and skipping off towards her bike. Bellamy groans, even though no one can hear him, but the cactus on his desk is silently judging him.
As per usual, Clarke - the other tattoo artist - shows in his shop around noon. They have this thing going on where they eat lunch together and bicker. It all started when they were in another one of their moods and Lincoln just dumped Clarke’s lunch because - “If this is gonna take a while, you should at least eat.”
So now they eat together.
But Bellamy still doesn’t support her parlor.
“You’d change your mind if you just came over,” Clarke says in a sing-song voice as she bites into her turkey and cheese sandwich. Bits of bread get caught in her chin and Bellamy pointedly looks away as to not brush it off.
She’s - gorgeous, makes fun of him, her jokes are terrible and she once argued with him about The Odyssey. So yeah, pretty much a dream girl. But she’s a tattoo artist and Bellamy will not support that lifestyle, not when Octavia is dead set on getting a tattoo.
“Nope, never.”
“God, you’re such a dick, Blake.”
He sticks his tongue at her and Clarke punches him playfully. He tells her about a ridiculous wedding order that has him painting sunflowers pink, for whatever reason the groom wants them to be, and she talks to him about her best friend visiting soon.
It’s all well until he actually has to go into Grounders one day because Clarke doesn’t show up for lunch. He doesn’t want to make it seem like he cares so he brings orchids as a gift. The place probably smells of weed, they could use it.
But when he enters the parlor, it’s - clean. Pristine, even. White walls adorned with paintings of flowers and dragons, something for everyone. The couches look incredibly comfortable and a faint scent of vanilla washes over Bellamy.
“Vanilla bun?”
He flinches and realizes that Lincoln is offering him a platter.
“Uh - no?”
“They’re not poisoned.”
Bellamy narrows his eyes at the other man, who just laughs and rounds the front desk. “Clarke is in the back with a client.”
Suddenly, he feels clumsy and awkward. He shouldn’t have come. It’s not - they’ve never done this and she probably doesn’t need his meddling. But just as he’s about to turn around and get the hell out of there, Clarke appears.
She’s leaning on the doorway, the tasseled curtain chiming as if to announce her presence, and her gaze is all softness and humor, enveloped in a halo of wavy blonde hair.
Her arms are bare, too, and that’s when Bellamy sees them. The flowers.
There must be hundreds of them, intricate patterns, from orchids to daisies to roses to sorts that can only exist in imagination. There’s a sparrow circling around her wrist, pink, and a rose blooms on her neck.
