Tumblr is good for fic inspiration.

The prompt: Imagine your OTP in a florist/tattoo artist AU. (My initial thoughts; Joey as a tattoo artist, Martina as a florist.)

The challenge: Take who you originally thought for each role and flip them. (That meant Martina as a tattoo artist and Joey as a florist. I liked it even more.)

I made a post about it. I got enthusiastic feedback from my (awesome) friend slenderpanda597 on their tumblr account, and they gave me a few ideas as well, so I am crediting them :)

I then borrowed the title from one of my favourite clothing brands, Hearts and Roses. I don't intend to infringe copyright by using the name!

So, without further ado, my Joetina AU, set in the present day with a kind of Goth!Martina (because I love alternative fashion, so it was irresistible) tattoo artist and her neighbour, the florist Joey Boswell. This may be an epic failure, but I am excited for it...

I don't own bread.

The scent of roses was the first thing she noticed on her way to work. It was not overpowering, being a subtle aroma, but it was still distinctly there; every time she turned her nose or breathed in a new gust of air, she was greeted with the muted sweetness of roses, so startlingly out of place on the dingy Liverpool streets, that usually smelled of spray paint, exhaust and cigarette butts. She wondered where on earth such an unusual scent was coming from- it was too distinct to be a from single bunch, and too genuine and pure to be the lingering trail of someone's perfume. There were no gardens here, not in the narrow urban slums and run down shops.

That was, until she appeared at her shop, and was met with a horrifying sight. The store beside hers, which had been under construction for months now, was finished. She had thought little of it during those days- it had been a fish and chip shop before, and she didn't expect anything different, maybe a clothing store or cafe, the tone of most of the shops down the high street. And yet, the previous night it had been finished, the wooden boards stripped away from the outside and the stock arranged inside. And it was beautiful, terrifyingly so; delicate pink exterior, with wide glass windows revealing the contents inside.

Ah. This was where the roses had come from. The flowers were explosive behind the glass, a cacophony of pastel colours arranged so that they looked as if they were blooming from the shop itself. Hydrangeas, lilies, tulips, daisies... And roses. Roses everywhere; hanging from the ceiling, wrapped in coloured cellophane, in neat little arrangements or in gigantic bouquets, ranging from the softest pink to a deep, wine colour- the only kind of flower that she liked. And above it all, an elegantly lettered sign; 'A Rose, by any other name,'.

Corny. It was a corny, cliché name. Martina wrinkled her nose.

Flowers did not exactly fit with her aesthetic. Granted, she had a secret passion for Roses (red, of course; she wouldn't accept any other colour.) But most flowers were too lurid for her taste; she was not impressed by their rings of petals and their bright colours, yellow and pink and purple, like a child's crayons in a box. And so, she was not impressed either by this vivid, romanticised store that had plonked itself beside her workplace. Though it was softly coloured, it would still attract attention amongst the other stores with its vivid displays of flowers and the noticeable scent of Roses that it was emitting, like a beacon; 'Come here, buy my flowers.' It was certainly a contrast with the shop beside it, her shop. Her mouth twisted up in a cynical smile at the irony of it, and she turned her head from the soft pink coupe of the florists to a whirl of black and red. This was familiar, this was what she knew. Not flowers and petals and arrangements with sparkly butterflies- those were not her territory. Her world was shaped by ink, graphic designs, crosses and names and grinning skulls.

Martina looked fondly at the thick black letters of the sign above her.

'Wild Hearts Tattoo Parlour.'

She unlocked the door, her thick boots clicking against the checkered black and white linoleum as she stepped inside.

Tattoo parlours, and the artists that worked within them, had quite a stigma about them. They were viewed by the public eye as dingy, low rent places- with people screaming in pain and exaggeratedly tattooed and pierced punks stabbing unsanitary needles into them. Martina scoffed at the thought, her eyes trailing around the familiar parlour. People were quick to judge tattoos, to pass them off as rebellion and cries for help, rather than seeing the art in them.

The parlour that she worked in was the polar opposite of what people expected a tattoo parlour to be. It was brightly lit and sterile, and though there was a slightly eccentric edge to it with the vintage hydraulic chairs and eclectic frames hanging around the walls, displaying tattoo designs, there was nothing remotely dirty or low rent about it.

Martina was one of the few people in the world who loved her job; she loved the satisfaction of seeing a picture take life on a person's skin, creating art that would last forever. She awaited customers eagerly, their demands usually intriguing her. And their reactions were easy to gauge; there were the tattoo regulars, who had done this before and were unfazed by the inevitable pain, then there were the first-timers who were cautious, constantly asking 'Will this hurt?' And whilst the regulars or people who were enthusiastic about body art were usually not bothered by Martina, the less experienced people would often look her up and down, as though reconsidering their goals. She could see the disapproval in their eyes as they scrutinised her- the coloured hair, the dramatic make up and the alternative clothing and the way that she towered over them, tall even without the platform boots but unnaturally high with them. Martina didn't care, however. It was not their place to approve or disapprove of her style, and if wearing boots with six inch platforms and dying her hair black and white did not bother her, then why should it bother them?

Outside, it was beginning to rain. Martina checked the clunky, vintage clock on the wall. There was still half an hour before the shop officially opened, but she liked getting to work early. It meant that she was out of her tiny apartment before the morning rush of traffic, (though she usually walked to work, the morning rush meant that she was hindered by cars crossing the road) before any early customers appeared and huffed at her for keeping them waiting (which had happened on numerous occasions) and, most importantly, before her colleagues appeared.

Martina hated her colleagues.

Well, she thought, her painted lips twisting into a frown, that wasn't entirely true. She clicked well with one of the other artists, a woman named Julie, who held a kind of sarcastic and cynical confidence that Martina respected. Two of the remaining three weren't terrible- Angela, the blonde girl with the cartoon tattoos who worked at the desk was slightly irritating, but she was young and kept out of the way of the artists themselves most of the time- she had learned from her first day that most of the others who worked in the parlour did not appreciate her inane chatter about her boyfriend and her little terrier at home, so she just went about her business, ordering ink and charging people and occasionally peeping around with large, periwinkle eyes. The other female artist who worked in the shop had never really connected with Martina, but they seemed to have a mutual respect for each other. Her name was Celia, and she was a sallow cheeked and hardened woman with several failed relationships in her past and a long list of enemies. Martina could deal with those colleagues: it was the fourth one who got under her skin, making her grit her teeth and snap at him constantly.

Shifty. She despised him; he was arrogant, extremely so. He had only been working in the parlour for a handful of months, having replaced a much more likeable man named Jay who had gone on to America to start his own tattoo parlour, and who Martina missed terribly. Shifty had been hired in his place, and Martina had taken an instant dislike for him, a scruffy Irish "rebel" with the names of previous lovers tattooed up his tanned arms, and a transparent, flirtatious nature. He had invited Martina to dinner many times, and been swiftly turned down, though her never gave up. The idea of his cocky smirk and coarse accent made her skin crawl; she could never imagine dating him. He was, to put it mildly, a snake...

At twenty to nine, when Martina was busying herself checking that all the needles were sterilised and the correct inks had been stocked, there was a loud, odd scrape against the door, and then the doorbell rang. She whirled around, expecting it to see Angela's waif like form peering tentatively around the frame, a typical sight that greeted her in the morning. Instead, the doorway seemed empty, and she was about to pass it off as a gust of wind, when a huffing sound called to her from beneath her feet. She tilted her head down, before raising an eyebrow.

A dog. A dog stood at her feet, while a muddy mark on the base of the glass door bore testimony to the fact that it must have pushed through into the shop. It was on the large end of dogs, a scruffy mongrel with fur that could have been black or brown- it was hard to tell, even in the bright overhead lights of the tattoo parlour. She could see a line of prints where it had tracked mud across the formerly pristine floor, and it's tongue lolled out sloppily as it regarded her. Martina gave it a disdainful look; she was not really a dog person, and she did not appreciate the fact that it had dirtied the floor that the employees of the tattoo parlour meticulously cleaned in order to keep the place sanitary.

"Sorry, fido," she said flatly, looking down into the wide eyes of her canine visitor. "We don't serve dogs."

The dog did not leave; it merely flopped down on its hind legs, still panting heavily at her. She folded her arms, bending down- with a slight degree of difficulty, because of the thick soles of her boots and her short skirt- to the same level as the animal and regarding it irritably.

"Look, as much as I would just love to let you run around and dirty my floor, I'm too busy. You're going to have to leave."

A painted fingernail pointed sharply at the door, and she clicked her tongue.

"Go on. Get."

The dog whimpered slightly, a pitiful, keening noise, before inching closer to her. Despite herself and her disdain for the animal, she could not help her smirk- its persistence was amusing. She shook her head, reaching forward and giving the dog a nudge.

"Out you go," she told it. "Come on, I 'aven't got time for-"

Footsteps pounded the pavement outside, and Martina's head snapped up, just in time to see a pair of smart, leather shoes (the kind of shoes she eschewed strongly) appear outside the door. The bell rang as the glass door pushed open once more, nudging the dog slightly. Martina gritted her teeth, irritated now. First a dog, and now some random man had just appeared in tge parlour before opening time, and she was not going to allow people to just barge in.

"Excuse me, there's still fifteen bloody minutes before we open!" she snapped, rising to her feet. "If you could just wait, I 'ave enough to deal with without..."

"Just collecting me dog, sunshine."

The man's voice was chipper, with a thick Liverpool accent. A pair of hands scooped the mutt from the floor, scuffing the animal's fur slightly.

"There you are, Mongy," he crooned, his voice affectionate. "I've been looking everywhere for you!"

Martina cocked an eyebrow, her eyes swivelling up to the man's face. She instantly recoiled; this was NOT the type of man she would usually associate with. Everything about him created the aura of a man who was trying a little too hard; he was adorned in a tight shirt that clung to a toned chest and even tighter black jeans, a flashy gold chain hanging from his neck. His blonde hair, obviously dyed, swooped back in a long and exaggerated pompadour style, and his face, though focused on his dog, was split into a very obvious grin. Martina scowled at him; he was the kind of person, she thought, that she could instantly dislike.

"Okay, you've got your dog," she announced. "Would you mind leavin' now?"

But the man was obviously just as persistent as his pet; instead of nodding and vacating her shop so Martina could clean up and prepare, as she would have preferred him to do, he merely looked up at her, his eyes sparkling. She braced herself, expecting the smile to fall from his face as he took in the piercings, tattoos and hair dye; he seemed just the type, with his designer jeans and overstyled hair. Instead,his smile only seemed to widen as he drank in Martina's unconventional look and then, to her extreme embarrassment and confusion, he flung his arms wide.

"Greetings!"

Joey Boswell was suave. Joey Boswell was intelligent. Joey Boswell was talented.

But right now, Joey Boswell was sort of an idiot.

He should have known that bringing Mongy to work was a bad idea. And yet, he could not resist the appeal of it; the opening of a new shop was usually intriguing, but add a dog in the window and he could almost see the customers as they flocked inside. Children would stop at the window, pointing out the "pretty puppy" excitedly to their parents, dragging them inside. People with a soft spot for dogs would be drawn in my Mongy's wise dark face and soulful eyes. And while they were in there, he had thought, it would be a piece of cake. Turn on the old Boswell charm, laugh and show them what flowers they represented... He had been so sure that with a little help from Mongy, his shop would be a hit. A florists' was an unusual place, not exactly the kind of shop people tended to haunt like they would a clothing store or cafe, and so he was desperate- though he would never have admitted it- to make his new business work. He brushed Mongy's fur, put a smart new collar on him, and brought him in that morning, envisioning an obedient dog sitting in the window wagging his tail and enchanting pedestrians.

He hadn't counted on the fact that Mongy would get bored within five minutes of him getting to work, before the shop had even opened. He also hadn't bothered to close the door, hoping instead that leaving it open would further spread the smell of flowers- though he had already managed to make it noticeable on the street, which he was happy about- and lure in potential customers. So naturally Mongy did not want to merely sit in the window all day, and the minute Joey had turned his back to straighten up a floral arrangement the dog was off, bounding out into the street. Joey turned just in time to see a shaggy tail swish past the doorway, and groaned.

"Mongy! 'Ey, come back son!"

He followed Mongy into the street briskly, stopping to make sure he closed his shop door- not that it seemed likely for anyone to steal flowers, and he had not put any money in the till yet, but Joey wanted to be careful nontheless- before charging after Mongy. Again, Joey's instincts had not been correct; he had imagined Mongy to be off, running down the street after a pigeon. And yet, the dog had disappeared from sight. Joey ran a hand through his hair, frowning.

"Mongy," he muttered with a sigh. If he had lost the dog, then there was no doubt that his Mam would kill him. She had, after all, chided him nonstop at the breakfast table about taking the family dog to work, and yet he had just grinned smoothly and persuaded her, using the fact that he was her favourite child to his advantage.

"'E needs a breath of fresh air, Mam. It's boring for 'im being locked up inside!"

Yet now, though he rarely admitted he was wrong, he was starting to regret his decision.

His shoes, expensive leather pieces that he should never have been able to afford but somehow did, pounded the pavement as he hurried down the street, slightly put out that his urgency stopped him from walking in a more sophisticated manner. Around him, cars were pulling up at the side of the road and shops were beginning to open; Joey hoped that he would find the bloody dog soon, or else he would be late opening his shop, which was not exactly a perfect impression for his first day.

"Mongy! Come on!" He called down the street, and yet there was neither hide nor hair of his pet. Joey sighed and turned back when a flash of brown fur caught his eye in the window of a store a few shops down.

As he made his way towards the shop where he had caught a glimpse of Mongy, he realised with irritation that it was the shop beside his, meaning that Mongy had probably been there the entire time. He shook his head slightly, speeding up his pace as he returned to where he had started. A strange thrill ran through him when he saw the name of the shop that Mongy had run in; so fixated with opening his own florist's, he had barely paid attention to the other businesses present on the road, only really checking for competition before he bought the space. Now, however, he noted that it was the exact opposite of his business, ironically placed beside it. With an exterior painted in an angry splattering of red and black and a collage of bizarre images on the windows, it was obvious what this place was even before he looked up at the sign.

"Wild hearts tattoo parlour?" He smiled slightly. His mother would have been screaming about how people who got tattoos were tarts and not to be trusted, but there was something Joey liked about tattoos, though he had never actually got one done himself; they didn't exactly fit in with his "suave, classy style", as he liked to call it. He peered through the glass door and was relieved to see a familiar tangle of brown fur sprawled out on the floor, along with the figure of a woman. Hmm. The idea of meeting a woman appealed to Joey; they could bond, perhaps, over her returning the dog to him, and then he could invite her over to see his florists...

He pushed open the door, and a strange, strangled bell that sounded unlike anything he had ever heard before rang above it. The frame of the door nudged Mongy slightly, whose furry head whipped around to see him. As he bent down to retrieve his dog, a voice exploded above him.

"Excuse me, there's still fifteen bloody minutes before we open!" the woman snapped, taking Joey aback. Her voice was rich and strong, and the dog whimpered slightly in his grip. "If you could just wait, I 'ave enough to deal with without..."

"Just collecting me dog, sunshine," he soothed her, reaching and swiping Mongy from the floor, ruffling the dog's hair.

"There you are, Mongy," he chided his pet slightly. "I've been looking everywhere for you!"

He could feel the woman's eyes on her, and see a jumble of black and white out the corner of his eye where she was standing.

"Okay, you've got your dog," her voice was fierce, yet slightly condescending. "Would you mind leavin' now?"

He turned to look at the woman properly for the first time since he had entered the shop, and was stunned into silence by her appearance.

She was different to anyone else he had ever seen. Of course, it made sense that someone who worked in a tattoo parlour might be a little edgier than the average person on the street, but she was stunning- in an unusual, unconventional way. She looked in her thirties, around the same age he was, though it was hard to tell; her face looked youthful and exotic under dramatic makeup, her strikingly blue eyes surrounded by thick wings of black under thin, tattooed black lines that served as eyebrows. Her lips were blood red and painted perfectly, curled into a cynical half-smile. Her clothes were just as dramatic; a wide skirted dress that reminded Joey of the kind of vintage dresses he saw in black and white photos of his grandmother when she was young, though this one was black and patterned with skulls, worn with a thick black corset that made her body startlingly curvaceous. Her boots were thick and standing on extremely high platforms, making her tower over him despite his own tall height, and her hair- it was dyed black, yet streaked with thick chunks of white, styled around her face making it face look ghostly pale.

But it was the tattoos and piercings, though they did not exactly surprise Joey, that were the most intriguing about her; her arms were gloved from the shoulder to the wrist in intricate patterns. A whorl of clocks, cogs and keys spiralled up her left, while a full and detailed vine twisted around almost every inch of her right, some trailing down to brush her fingertips. Joey could see the whisper of something red, possibly a heart, nestled below her collarbone, and there were her eyebrows, which he could not determine whether or not they were drawn on with liner, or tattooed. And then there were her piercings; several rings clinked against each other in the cartilage of each ear, a thick black spike driven through each earlobe and a small end stud glinted in her nose. She was unlike any other woman he had ever seen; there was a sense of elegance, though far from conventional, about her.

The polar opposite of Roxy. Roxy, with her bargain jumpers and worn jeans and sensible haircut. He found himself grinning, despite himself.

"Greetings!"

He opted for his traditional introduction, thrusting his arms wide as an exaggerated gesture. Most people seemed to appreciate his charm, perhaps laughing at the odd expression he used or smiling at him. This, however, did not impress the woman; a thin, black eyebrow raised disdainfully.

"Greetings?" She seemed almost amused by this. "What kind of daft person goes around saying 'Greetings'?"

Joey's smile faltered out of shock- no one had ever criticised his stylish catchphrase before- but it returned, and he laughed.

"A person with class," he purred. Mongy wriggled slightly in his arms, and he tightened his hold around the dog. Surely, he thought, once she had seen how stylish and confident he was, she would crack...

She didn't. Instead, her painted eyebrow raised higher.

"Class," she deadpanned. "Almost as classy as your gold chains and stupid 'aircut?"

Joey fought the urge to drop Mongy and run a hand through his pompadour style self consciously; instead, he just continued to grin at her.

"I like a woman with a sense of humour." And really, he thought, she must have a good sense of humour- no one could seriously criticise him, Joey Boswell, and actually mean it. Besides, flattery always got him somewhere, and he was now stubbornly trying to prove to himself that he could charm any woman, even this one that seemed wholly unimpressed by the things that made other girls swoon. Well, with the exception of one particular girl... But no. Joey shook his head; now was not the time to think about R-

"Yes, well a woman would 'ave to 'ave a sense of humour to like you back," the woman was smirking slightly now. A lot of men would have crawled away with their tail tucked between their legs, sensing defeat, but Joey Boswell was no ordinary man (or, at least he didn't like to think he was.)

"Well, you seem to have a sense of humour, so am I right in thinking that you are the kind of woman who likes me back?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Wow, you are so perceptive," The woman's voice was, once again, dripping with sarcasm. Joey could not help but be amused by it. "I mean, you barged into my shop not two minutes ago, your mutt 'as been leaving mud all over my clean floor, you've been arrogant and irritating... why wouldn't I like you?"

Joey merely winked at her, leaning casually against the door of the tattoo parlour. "Well, it's wonderful to see how friendly my fellow shopkeepers are!" he laughed. "I'm already looking forward to being next door to you..."

The woman raised an eyebrow once again, something Joey had noticed seemed to be her trademarked expression.

"Oh, yeah?" She prompted drily. Joey, shifting Mongy to one arm, reached out a hand towards the woman's tattooed ones.

"Forgive me for not introducing myself! I am Joey, Joey Boswell, the stylish, classy, fabulous florist who has just moved in next door to you! Aren't you lucky!"

His hand remained extended, though the woman's eyes dropped down to it, their shrewd blue gaze fixating on it as if he was offering her a rotten slab of meat.

"If you're expecting me to shake that, you're dafter than I thought," she scoffed, looking back up at him. "So, you're the new florist who moved in next door?" her eyes flicked over him once, and Joey could tell she was a little surprised, though her voice did not bely it. It was, he reasoned, rather unexpected; florists were stereotyped as being quiet, peaceful women as opposed to charming, stylish and devillishly handsome men (as he thought, anyway.)

"Indeed I am, sunshine," he grinned wider, showing off several teeth. "And may I say, you are welcome to come in and have a look at my lovely flowers any time you like! I'm sure that a beautiful woman like you loves her flowers, am I right?"

The woman was silent for a moment, then a comically large smile split across her face, her eyes crinkled.

"Yeeees!" she drew out, tossing her head girlishly. "I just love flowers!"

For a moment, Joey thought he had finally cracked through her harsh facade, and laughed loudly.

"Really?"

"No."

Dammit. This woman was definitely a tricky one- Joey had never met a woman who so immune to his char,s, and yet he rather liked that about her; it was new and intriguing, and the more she acted frosty towards him, the more he found himself wanting to get to know her.

"Well, just in case you do fancy popping round..."

"I highly doubt that will happen," The woman smiled mockingly at him. "Now, on yer bike."

Joey turned for the door, but quickly whirled back around.

"And what might be your name, princess?" he asked curiously. The woman merely stared at him.

"My name is no concern of yours."

He should have expected an answer like that, but instead he threw his head back and laughed once more.

"Ah, but, I told you my name," he wagged a finger teasingly at her, though it was clear from her face that she did not appreciate the gesture. "It's your turn, sweetheart,"

"Fine, but only since you calling me 'sweetheart' is really getting on my nerves," she snapped. "It's Martina."

"Martina." Joey sighed dramatically, shaking his head. "A lovely name for a lovely girl..."

"Get out."

"If you say so," The man took a sweeping bow, just to push Martina's buttons a little more, then burst out the shop, striding across to his own store. As he let himself in, he glanced back at the tattoo parlour, where he could see through the glass door that Martina had begun to mop the paw prints from the floor, her lips pressed into a thin, irritated line as she did. He chuckled slightly to himself.

She was definitely going to be fun to work beside.

Aaaaand it's done! Well, actually it was done last night, but I was too tired to bother posting it lol. What did you think? Do you like Goth!Martina and Florist!Joey?