Aug 26, 2016
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Searching my blog
(Source: x)
Yes, I did write an AU for BoM
who has any really good mcbladeley fic recs. and not ones where steve becomes an asshole. i need som A+ nice steve blade mcbladeley here.
A Florist AU McBladely Fic for @chabouillet
It was like something out of a movie- a darkly colored, dimly lit tattoo parlor right next to a sunny pastel florist’s shop. The contrast between the two establishments was such that it seemed as if there was a line drawn to separate them, like in a cartoon. The doors into each shop sat right beside each other, and it wasn’t unusual to see a housewife turn her nose up at the sight of someone enjoying a new tattoo, or a heavily pierced boy roll his eyes upon seeing someone purchase a bouquet of white roses. Whether or not flowers and tattoos were truly at odds was debatable, but there was something about having the two right next to each other that seemed to bring out the worst in their customers.
The men who owned each shop mimicked the appearance of their buildings. The florist was a small, lithe man with pale skin and red hair whose every movement was saturated in grace. The tattoo artist was tall and muscular man with tanned skin and blonde hair, whose movements were calculated and seemed more robotic than graceful.
The two rarely interacted. In fact, the only interaction the tattoo artist-Steve- could recall was bumping into the florist at the doors, having the florist apologize without looking up, muttering something to the tiny rose bush in his arms before rushing into his shop.
Steve thought the other man seemed scared of him, though he couldn’t figure out why. He didn’t think he looked particularly frightening. His few tattoos were either hidden or unnoticeable- there was one for his mother on his left ankle (because he really was a mama’s boy at heart, though no one who said so had ever lived to tell the tale), and one on his wrist for his little sister, though that one was technically wrong now because she’d gotten married and changed her name to Price (his little sister, who swore her whole life she’d never be a wife, had gone a married some Mormon tool!). He didn’t have any piercings, not because he didn’t want them, but because needles scared him terribly.
He supposed that, in comparison, he did appear much scarier than the florist. He was at least a foot taller, and probably a good foot wider, than the other man. His features were hard and angular, his eyes were dark, and his hair was shaggy, in desperate need of a trim, and barely combed.
But then, he supposed, almost anyone would appear much scarier than the florist; he seemed to be made of sunshine and rose petals.
— Steve was not sure he could pinpoint the exact moment he decided that he wanted something to do with the florist. However, he could pinpoint what he considered to be that moment.
It was late afternoon on a sunny day in April; the sun was casting a lazy orange glow over everything. It was a slow day for both his and the florist’s shops, but he didn’t mind; he was content to sit with his feet up on the counter, watching passers-by through the big picture window.
The florist was outside, watering the plants that sat in picturesque window boxes all along the window of his shop. Steve could see him through the window, and he couldn’t help but watch.
The florist hopped up on a little step stool to water the hanging plant between their doors, and as he got down once again, that was when it happened- he turned just right, so that the sunlight radiated in a halo around his head.
Steve thought he looked like a perfect angel.
— It was another week or so after that before Steve worked up the courage to go into the florist’s shop. The inside was just as pastel and perfect as the outside, and Steve had to admit he felt a little out of his element.
“Just a minute!” called a voice from the back. Steve just lifted his hand and gave half a nod in acknowledgement (later that evening, he would replay this moment in his head, and think to himself how stupid that action was, given how unlikely it was that the owner of the voice could have seen him).
He looked around, his hands shoved in his pocket, rocking back and forth on his heels. There were flowers lining every wall, and even though he knew they were just flowers, there was something vaguely threatening about it all.
“Sorry about the wait,” the florist said, coming out from the back and wiping his hands on his apron. “How can I help yo- oh, hello…” He trailed off uncertainly.
“Steve.” Steve supplied.
“Connor.” The florist said, returning the sentiment. “How funny we’ve been next to each other all this time, and never even knew each other’s names.”
“Yeah, hilarious.” Steve nodded, glancing around.
“So, what can I do for you, Steve?” Connor asked. Steve loved the way his name sounded in Connor’s voice.
“Can I buy a flower?” Steve asked.
“Which one?” Connor asked, tilting his head to the side.
“Uhhh,” Steve said. “That one.” He pointed at a daisy in a vase on the counter.
“Okay,” Connor nodded, picking the flower up and holding it gingerly between his thumb and forefinger. “Well, this is Patricia. She loves oboe music and you have to stroke her leaves every Friday, otherwise she feels unloved and starts to wilt.”
“I-what?” Steve shook his head. “I just want a flower, not a part-time job.”
“It’s a lot of work to be a responsible flower owner,” Connor said without a hint of irony in his voice.
“I, okay, nevermind.”
— Steve returned to the flower shop two days later.
“Hello, Steve,” Connor smiled from behind the counter, adjusting a few lilies in a vase. “How may I help you?”
“I came back for…Petunia?” Steve guessed.
“Patricia,” Connor corrected. “And before you ask, she’s a daisy, not a petunia.”
“Right,” Steve nodded. “Can I buy Patricia?” Connor nodded, and crossed over to the daisy in question. He brought it back to the counter, where he carefully wrapped it in tissue paper and cellophane.
“Is this all?” He asked, handing the wrapped flower to Steve.
“Uh…” Steve thought about his next words carefully. “No, actually. Will you get dinner with me tonight?”
“Oh!” Connor blushed. Steve had never seen a person turn so red in all his life.
“Is that a yes?” Steve asked.
“Um, yes.” Connor said quietly. “I would love to.”
“Great,” Steve smiled. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
He turned and left with his flower, and while he wasn’t sure, he could have sworn he heard Connor start squealing to his flowers.
Another casual blog search
Casually gonna search my blog
Morning Routine
Every morning since he was 11 started the same way for Connor McKinley. He would wake up an hour before he had to go to school, look in the mirror and whisper that “I don’t like boys” before getting dressed. Once he was in his outfit for the day—a task that was much easier while on his mission since he really only had to pick a tie— he would reaffirm the statement. He would eat breakfast, then brush his teeth and, while making intense eye contact with his reflection, remind himself once more that he does not like boys. He repeated it as many times as he felt necessary, convincing the redhead in the glass of his heterosexuality.
It wasn’t technically a lie since every repetition made it a little bit more true, right?
He would have to reaffirm the thought a little later when a boy with warm brown eyes and a heart of gold gave him a greeting smile.
I don’t like boys.
“Hi, Steve.” “Good morning, Elder Price.”
does anyone have any mcbladeley fic recs?