big milky
Tipsy Prophet
big milky
Tipsy Prophet
SAšA FRAN HéLOïSE
- "come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly"
FACE CLAIM; amra cerkezovic
AGE; twenty-five
ROLE; the tattoo artist
sing you cinnamon rolls
Noble Warrior
DIANA CHOI
- "flowers speak. you just need to learn their language."
FACE CLAIM; tiffany hwang
AGE; twenty-five
ROLE; the florist
big milky
Tipsy Prophet
yo
yo
yo
yosaša fran héloïse
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxMY FRIENDS ALL SAY xx THAT I'M YOUR FOOL xx AND THAT YOU'RE USING ME xx LIKE A CARPENTER USES xx A TOOL xx I KNOW THEIR INTENTIONS xx ARE ALL VERY GOOD xx SOME OF THEM WOULD HELP ME xx IF THEY COULD
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxMY FRIENDS ALL SAY xx THAT I'M YOUR FOOL xx AND THAT YOU'RE USING ME xx LIKE A CARPENTER USES xx A TOOL xx I KNOW THEIR INTENTIONS xx ARE ALL VERY GOOD xx SOME OF THEM WOULD HELP ME xx IF THEY COULD
- Saša focused intently on the ink that flowed from her machine and onto her customer's arm as Jimi Hendrix sang over the speakers about wishing he was a catfish, pausing for a moment to sweep a small blue cloth over the job before dipping her machine's needles into the awaiting ink and setting to work again. And this was it, this was her peace; lost among the flow and bends of colors and inks – the Midas of tattoos as intricate pieces slowly emerged as something worthwhile. She barely noted the dull roar of her growing crowd as they waited their turns for their respective artists, or the small army of buzzing machines in the shiny new leather seats around her as her coworkers and friends focused on their own canvases (surprisingly, they could all be quiet for more than five minutes). Pausing, Saša, straightened in the plush seat, stretching her back and tugging the sleeves of the stark white sweater she wore back into their respective positions upon her elbows, exposing her own pieces as well as the folded sleeves of the plaid shirt she wore underneath. Her grin stretched, “How're we doin', baby boy?” The young man who lounged rather tensely in the seat gave her a shaky thumbs up, dark eyes wide. His father shook with laughter as he sat in a chair nearby against a tall mirror that bordered her personal workstation, feigning innocence even though he must have snapped about forty pictures on his phone by now. Saša breathed a laugh or two, “Tell you what, let's take a little break.” The gratitude on the pubescent boys face rolled from his body, sending his hefty father into another giggle fit as she stood and left her tiny booth on a mission for the desk at the front of the store, tossing her old and stained latex gloves into a trash receptacle on the way.
It had proven to be a top-choice early spring day; the air warm with the aid of the pleasant breeze that seemed to be what everyone loved most about this weather. But – while the brand new AC in the newly refurbished studio was state of the art – the air was beginning to warm as a result of the growing crowd desperate for their pieces who waited patiently in the seats that made a small lobby area. Those who looked her way, noticed her presence, straightened up, as if it were their turn already. So many to disappoint, if only for a few more moments.
“How's the kid?” Saša shuffled through idle paperwork on the counter, finding the list of names that she'd be the artist for before clucking her tongue at the elderly woman who acted as their receptionist, “Hasn't complained once. Not a single whimper – I must be losing my touch, Mads.” The woman – Mad Mads – laughed in what could be described as a bray, exposing teeth stained by the painfully red lipstick she wore; it looked nice against the deep blue sailor dress she wore, which complimented the vintage nautical tattoos that stained her weathered flesh in pale blues, faded reds, and ghosts of yellow. Vintage pin-up ladies waved from her collar bones. Her heels (she always wore the tallest heels) clicked against the tile flooring as she shifted and crossed one leg over the other, “Hopefully not, baby doll; the crumble of the dry-state area would send us to the pits.”
“Aw that's so sweet, Mads. Take your pills this morning? Sneak some drinks?”
“Maybe a little. Don't tell my dumbass husband.”
Saša pretended to zip her lips before dragging an index finger in an X over where her heart was before tucking the papers back into place, stacking a stapler over the bulk and leaning against the counter for a moment. “So my Mad Madeline, my dear, are you going to stay tonight?” Pursing her lips, the elder pretended to fuss over paper, “No, no, no.”
“Mads!! Mads, you can't just leave us behind.”
“Babe, it's rummy night, and that b***h Gyndeline is not going to best me. She's been henning all around, telling the girls about how she's gonna slam me into dust tonight.” In a fit of theatrics, Saša sunk to her knees to lay her forehead against Madeline's thigh, “Oh, say it ain't so! Tell me you're not abandoning us for Twig Tunny’s apple cakes and Wendy's micro-brew again!”
“Get up, you squirming bug. I'll snatch you one of her cakes if it'll shut you up.”
In a fluid motion, Saša was back onto her feet, a look of offense plastered on her features; her hair was mussed from the movement. “To think you believe my affections can be bought off with mere snacks and desserts. I'm hurt – Mads my heart is broken.”
“What heart?”
“The one you've pledged your undying, red-hot love to every morning you've snuck away from your husband, my shriveled raisin.”
Thin fingers swat at her, though her palm only connected with Saša's shoulder once as the lithe woman dodged away, joining a few waiting customers in a rousing laughter. “Get away from me, you little s**t. Get the AC cranked – do something productive.” Avoiding another swat, the artist took light steps towards the entrance of her new parlor, walking backwards so that she could mock bow to Mads as she went, “I'm opening that door before you get all sweaty, my faithful and lovely Mags. Don't want your perspiration ruining all that pretty, pretty makeup.” The elder rolled her eyes, but smiled to herself, thumbing through a fishing magazine as she turned to her own business.
Met with a pleasant waft of fragrance from the ocean of flower petals of the floral shop next door was nice – nicer than the antiseptic and metal smell of the shop, and Saša busied herself with kicking out the doorstop against the concrete to prop the door open to eat up more time than was probably necessary. She greeted a mother and daughter who shuffled past her into the store after snapping pictures of the flowers abundant from the florist, twittering over matching tattoos of the lovely petals displayed. From inside, Brendan Benson crooned about the “hole in my heart, pretty baby,” and Saša turned to get back to work after catching the eye of the (very pretty) florist behind the thick glass of the neighboring shop, releasing a risque wink and a wicked grin before going back in. A fresh, odd wave of excitement and comfort settled itself into her bones as she viewed the bustling activity of her parlor; this was The Hive, and she was Queen Bee.
“Alright, tidbit,” she re-entered her booth, pulling a fresh pair of gloves against nimble fingers as she sat back into her seat and scooped up her machine, trying not to laugh as the boy's face paled suddenly and his eyes grew at her hold on her machine. “Let's see how that puma's turning out.”
- TIME SKIP
The roar of their collective laughter tickled alongside the intermingling alcohol, and Saša had to cover her mouth with the hand that didn't hold her beer bottle to hide the snorts that escaped. It was probably pushing two am, not that any of the artists that had congregated there really cared; Sunday's meant not having to open until two pm for tattoo parlors, which was plenty of time to nurse any stubborn hangovers, if need be. None of them were severely intoxicated in fear of not making it home when they left, though Saša was a tad more than the rest. “Perks of living where you work,” Mikey had complained before belching heftily.
They'd pulled a circle of chairs around a small stool where a cheap sheet cake rested after being mutilated, and one could barely make out the “YAY” that remained in thick icing. Way to dig deep Kyle. The music had been turned up a bit; just barely loud enough to fill the empty areas of the now-emptied studio, but the celebration and conversing of the circle of artist was enough to drown it out. Loud would perfectly describe them.
Now, friends gone, cake in hand (where had the cover gone?), and fairly drunk, Saša headed back to her apartment. Or rather, she tried to, fumbling with the doorknob where her key jut out. The door stuck, refusing to open despite her best efforts, refusing to unlock and allow her refuge from the chilling night inside. Pathetically groaning, Saša groaned, juggling what was left of the mutilated cake and taking a step back to observe the walls. “Door's freakin' stuck – haven't been moved in for two days – cake is ********' heavy s**t.” Her words slurred lazily as she abruptly saved the cake from a spill, spying a window reasonably low to the ground and setting towards it. After some careful, one armed coaxing, the window slid up against the sill enough to fit her slim body through, though without difficulty (have you ever tried to get through a window while balancing a cake and doing both while drunk? Near impossible).Grunting in the expenditure, Saša complained under her breath; “Gotta call the – door dude fix my door – gotta – oof – enter revenues – ugh -” With a rather loud thud, the fell through the free space, reaching out for the table that had somehow disappeared. Who had moved her furniture? “Uuuuuugh!” Her once-white sweater now bore a thick layer of icing and cake where she had landed on it from her stomach to even her face and cheeks, and with disdain from her seat on the floor, she eyed the mess almost pathetically in the dark of the room, lower lip jutting in a pout with a throb from where she knocked her chin against the flooring. “That was gonna be breakfast.” Her head spun with lingering alcohol, and she sat for a moment in hopes it would die down enough for her to make her way to – at least – the bathroom before bed, gears turning slowly in an attempt to figure out what she was going to do with this ruined cake (she'd still eat it, probably) and hoping the stain would come out of her sweater (it was one of her best – so soft) one day.
ooc ;;;
click the first gif for an outfit
oKAY so i got a little carried away ahah ;v;
sing you cinnamon rolls
Noble Warrior
xxx
xxx
xxxxxxxi know life is a mysteryxx i know life is a mystery xx i know life is a mystery
███████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████
- xxx◢ : ❛ THE FLORIST ⇣ DIANA CHOI — ❊ ⎤
xxxxI'M GONNA MAKE HISTORY x I'M GONNA MAKE HISTORY x I'M GONNA MAKE HISTORY
XXXI'M TAKING IT FROM THE START × I'M GONNA FLY HIGH
Diana Choi had started Flower Power right out of high school (which was why it had such a tacky name, but she kind of liked it so it had stuck). Before that, she had worked at a florist shop in her hometown of Miami, Florida, before moving into this town and setting up her own little shop away from where people knew who she was, building her own reputation based around her personality, not the lesbian daughter who everyone knew who was but nobody wanted to talk about.
The shop was her life, having worked to keep it running for the past six years, having had quite the time originally finding a place that had the right lighting, right layout, right everything. She had hunted high and low for the place, and when she found it, she had set busily about building it up to be just as she had always dreamed. She was one of those girls who was probably more ambitious than one would guess. People who came into her store thought that she was just a sweet, go with the flow person, but that wasn’t always the case. She was a business woman, even if she wore jeans and a T-shirt, or some kind of flowery dress, instead of a power suit. Her business was her baby, a baby that she loved dearly, even if it was a small business that she ran entirely on her own.
Needless to say, since the place was her baby, when the tattoo shop opened up next door and people started coming in to look at her flowers, but rarely actually bought the flowers (often manhandling them so badly that they became very hard to work with, or outright impossible to work with) she was more than a little irked. Never before had her business been so busy… the only issue being that everyone wanted her to answer questions about flowers, how they would look best, but nobody actually bought the flowers, instead taking pictures before fleeing into the tattoo parlor next door.
“Do you think that it’d be bad of me to start charging them for taking pictures of my flowers and for advice on how they’d look good?” Diana asked Georgia, one of her most frequent customers, as yet another “customer” went out the door, tattoo design in hand.
“Probably.” Georgia said, her bangles shaking as she put her hands on her boney hips. “I thought it was the tattoo artist’s job to help them design a tattoo? I do think you should be getting a commission, child.”
“I wish.” Diana sighed, leaning across the counter and propping her chin up on her wrist. “I doubt that the tattoo artists over yonder would go for it, though.”
“Is business at least a little bit up, with them there?”
“Not yet.” Diana said. “Everyone wants advice on flowers, to look at flowers, but they want ink flowers, not real flowers that smell nice and just add something to anything.” She said, making a vague gesture with her free hand. “This is the perfect little place for my shop, but I swear to god, if this tattoo place runs me out of business, I will scream. Internally. Maybe externally. Depends on how painful it is.”
While Georgia assured her that it would get better as the day went on, business didn’t pick up. Sure, she got a bunch of compliments on her flower arrangements, but compliments didn’t pay the bills. Nor did promises that if they ever got married, they’d come to her for the flowers. Promises didn’t pay the bills. Actual paying customers paid the bills, and with her shop filled with people with tons of tattoos, piercings, and leather, most of her usual clientele had slipped out the door, wide eyed without a word.
By the time it was time to close up shop, her sales were down, and so was her mood. She even kept the shop open an hour later than usual in hopes of coaxing in some paying customers, but to no avail. As such, she was rather grumpy when she headed up to her flat upstairs, settling herself into bed after a good shower, with a cup of hot chocolate and a cheesey romance novel in hand.
She fell asleep like that, though she didn’t sleep for long, since she was woken up by the sound of something moving in her apartment. Silently slipping out of her bed, she flicked on the light, assuming that the noise was her cat, Buffy. Buffy was always knocking things over. “Buffy? What’d you knock over this time?” She yawned, stepping into the hallway to find a stranger in her hallway, looking very drunk and covered in cake.
She screamed.
And grabbed the broom that was leaning against the wall and started jabbing it at the perpetrator. “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” She shrieked, surprised that her voice could get that loud. In her defence, she was very much freaked out.