#the flowers are from the floral design on his coat

[echoheart0324]

Wanted to take a shot at making a pin design for Paranormal after the anniversary pins.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Crewel taking care of a puppy found in the street and return it to the owner.

This interaction could have easily turned into a long fic (which I unfortunately don’t have the time for) so 😅 I’m afraid I had to cut it short! Luckily I was still able to sneak in some 101 Dalmatians and Cruella references.

If he doesn’t scare you, no evil thing will.

It happened on a rainy afternoon in the Foothill Town.

Umbrella open like a flower, Crewel made his way down the street. In his other hand was a fragrant bag full of high-quality tea leaves begging to be brewed into a nice warm cup.

Sheets of mist fell upon the rooftops, tracing shapes in a shimmering silver. It was chilly—not a concern for him, as he was outfitted in his signature fur coat. He was careful to take light steps to avoid splashing rainwater onto his well-tailored clothes.

A faint light cut through the gloom. It snagged on his periphery, drew his eyes toward it.

He came to a complete stop.

There, displayed in a boutique window, was a mannequin in a floral petticoat and a white ruffled skirt layered like a tiered cake. It was posed provocatively, legs propped up on a chair and body tilted back, hand on the hip. Scrawled on the glass pane was a shockingly scarlet message, as if scribbled by a drunken woman in her bright red lipstick: It should be fun!

“What a marvelous display,” Crewel mused. My compliments go to the designer.

The rain continued to fall like an icy shroud around him. The circle of golden light spilling from the lit interior of the boutique was his safe haven from the weather.

Surely it wouldn’t hurt to take a look—perhaps when I’m down browsing, the rain will have let up.

He headed for the door, swinging it open. His entry wad announced by the ringing of a bell, followed by soft scampering across the floorboards.

As Crewel made to close his umbrella, something quickly brushed by his pant leg.

He looked—and startled.

A Dalmatian pup had bolted in, its fur sopping wet from the outside. It skidded to a stop before him and aggressively shook itself off, sending a fine spray of water in all directions… and on Crewel’s tailored slacks. He blinked, but found himself crouching down to its level.

What do we have here, a lost pup?

The boutique owner cursed from behind the front counter. “Sir, please curb your dog!”

“It’s not my…” His voice trailed off. He couldn’t bring himself to protest.

The Dalmatian, ever so fearless, gave a friendly bark. It nuzzled against his leg, staring up at him with large chocolatey eyes.

The puppy earned a low laugh from Crewel.

“Diving into doors when the opportunity arises, drying yourself off on me… Hmph, you’re a scrappy one. I can’t say I dislike that. Come here.”

Crewel carefully scooped up the shivering creature in his arms. With a curt nod and an apology to the shopkeeper, he retreated to a quiet corner of the boutique, shielding the puppy in his coat. It pawed against his vest and tracking mud onto the fabric. Crewel sighed—he’d have to get the entire suit dry-cleaned later.

“Let’s have a proper look at you,” he muttered, bringing the Dalmation out again.

It was a small thing, dotted like every other dog of its breed. Notably, a large black spot swallowed its left eye.

Up close, he could tell it was no stray. No, this dog was far too full-bodied and muscular to be getting by on only scraps. Its fur, too shiny and trimmed.

… That, and there was a telltale crimson band around its neck. A collar, a metal tag glinting in the store’s bright lights. Patch, it read, male. When Crewel grasped it and turned it over, the tag yielded an address and phone number.

“Ah, that must be your owner,” Crewel tutted. “How naughty of you to make your escape. Shall I bring you back there?”

Patch responded with a hapless grin and a slobbery kiss. He began to go in for a second lick, but the attempt ended in a loud sneeze.

The boutique owner casted them a dirty look.

Crewel rolled his eyes but provided a polite “We’ll be on our way.

He stepped outside, umbrella out again. Crewel regarded his canine companion fondly, ruffling its head.

“Come along, you little rascal. We can’t return you to your owner in this sorry state.

“My apartment here on Sage’s Island is small, but it can temporarily accommodate one puppy. I’ll run you a bath and clean you up before then. A hot meal is also in order—this weather is awful.”

Patch yipped enthusiastically at his newfound friend. Whether he understood what was happening or not was debatable, but he seemed happy either way.

“I’ll take that as I have your permission to proceed.” Crewel draped his coat over Patch, holding him close.

They would brave the storm together, man and man’s best friend.

[peaches2217]

Peach loves showering Mario (and Luigi, but especially Mario) in gifts. He's a simple man with practical preferences, which makes spoiling him fairly easy; an entire dedicated workshop in the castle's west wing, professionally tailored denim and flannels, the best tools money can buy. If she thinks he could benefit from it for even a few fleeting seconds, it's his. He always gets red in the face and stutters in speechless gratitude, and inevitably he'll ask how he could ever repay her. And of course she tells him there's no need! You don't repay gifts. (And anyway, seeing him so flustered yet happy is all the payback she could ever ask for.)

One day she enters the workshop without knocking (as she usually does) and finds Mario sanding a shockingly ornate wooden chair, with a seat that curves upward and rounded arms and flowering branches carved into the back. To her confusion, he scrambles to cover it up and keep it out of sight, so Peach assures him it looks beautiful and comfortable; he must have poured a lot of time and effort into it! Why on earth would he be embarrassed for her to see his handiwork?

And that's when he admits, with a faint and all-too familiar blush, that he's spent months working on it in secret... because it's a gift for her.

Some months back, Peach complained in passing about the rickety old chair in her study, and he had taken the complaint as an opportunity to finally give her something in return for all she's given him, however small. The seat is designed to provide comfort for hours with or without a cushion, the arms will sit level with her desk so she doesn't have to bend over the mountains of paperwork she's often consumed by, and those floral reliefs? Those are peach blossoms.

He apologizes for letting her see it in its unfinished state but assures her it's almost ready, it just needs a few coats of varnish and then she'll be sitting pretty (literally)! And he also apologizes, with a gentle chuckle, for how underwhelming a gift it is, all things considered. But Peach is the opposite of underwhelmed. She can't help but trace her fingers over the raw wood in wonder, her heart full and her eyes stinging with the threat of tears.

Being a princess, she's of course received countless gifts throughout her life. But no one's ever made anything by hand for her. This little chair is the single most personal, most intimate gift she has ever received. Suddenly the untold fortune she's spent on him feels outright paltry in comparison.

The completed chair is brought to her study two days later, and whenever the tedium of her work or the stress of sporadic political instability gets to her, she leans into the delicate wooden peach blossoms, strokes her thumbs over the curves of the arms, and remembers that she's loved.

[urcrowley]

Floral Flame

— Florist!Touya X Reader —

(NO QUIRKS AU , I NEED TO HEAL 🤚🤚🤚)

YOGiNotes: I can’t believe I’m writing this but here we are!! We need more male reader fics guys.. I feel left out /j

(EVERYONE LITERALLY DRAGGED ME TO THE DABI BRAINROT!1!1! STOP THIS MADNESSSSSS)

Completely made this in a rush and out of boredom! I apologize for any spelling and/or grammar mistakes. It is a bit short for my liking but I do hope you still enjoy! 🙏

Warnings: some swearing ig (?) ; very unfunny author ; angst will cook soon (not in this chapter though….)

“My flower…”

Y/N muttered to himself, staring at the now-wilted flower. With a gentle touch, he reached out and tapped one of the fragile petals, watching as it detached from the wilting bloom and fell to the ground.

“I should probably ask that old hag for some advice again, huh?”

He was talking about the older yet amicable woman who ran the flower shop just a few blocks away from his apartment. He regretted not remembering her name. With a less-than-careful tug, Y/N detached his backpack from the corner where it had been gathering dust and carelessly dumped its contents onto the bed, each item making a soft thump sound as it hit the mattress. Y/N cautiously placed the flower pot into his bag once everything was out and grabbed a random coat from the rack beside the door. As he walked out, he tried to tie his shoes while keeping up with his pace.

Almost causing himself to fall.

Well, almost.

He strolled over to his locked bicycle, hopping on it shortly. He rode his bicycle to the shop. But when he arrived..

He was not greeted to the usual ‘good day’ of the kind old woman; rather, a man who didn’t look too far off his own age.

‘This guy definitely listens to mcr..’

Y/N thought to himself, as he waved at the guy. Putting up a front, smiling politely.

“Excuse me? Do you know where—“

“She’s not here today.”

…okay, rude?

“Oh.. When will she—“

“Next week.”

This guy was getting on Y/N’s nerves if he was being completely honest.

“Who are you anyways?”

Y/N was only met with silence and a cold blank stare. He stared back because— well, to be Frank, he didn’t know what else to do.

“I work here.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

He could hear the man click his tongue in annoyance.

“I don’t have to answer to you,” he rolled his eyes, “now, do you need help with anything or something?”

“Is that how you usually treat your customers?”

“…yeah? So what?”

“Nothing, just saying it’s a big.. contrast to what I’m used to.”

The man's gaze fixed on Y/N with a steely glare, his eyes narrowing as if affronted by Y/N's audacity to utter such a statement. “Whatever.. just tell me what you need so we can be done here.”

“Right.. so um..”

Y/N withdrew the flower from his backpack and gingerly placed it on the counter of the checkout. He then glanced up at the man, a sheepish smile playing on his lips.

“I don’t know what went wrong.. I did what I was told and kept managing my watering time..”

Dabi, as indicated by his nametag, meticulously examined the flower, leaning closer to get a better look. It was clear the flower was already dead, leaving him to ponder Y/N's actions beforehand. Y/N, however, contemplated if Dabi was thinking something profound like 'this plant hadn't received the precise amount of water it required,' or if it was something stupid simple and meaningless like ‘I wonder what I’ll have for dinner later.’

Jokes on him, Dabi was thinking of both.

Dabi let out a sigh and rolled up his sleeves, revealing the tattoos on his arms. Y/N was tempted to take a peek, but quickly reminded himself not to be nosy. However, despite his best efforts to focus, he couldn't help but sneak a quick glance at the intricate ink designs on Dabi's skin.

‘Shittt.. that’s sick.’

Y/N thought before quickly snapping out of it.

“Did you make sure your flower gets enough sunlight every day?”

“…what?”

“Your flower?? Gets sunlight?? Hello??”

“……”

Dabi slowly shifted his gaze towards Y/N, his face betraying a mixture of disbelief and surprise. His expression seemed to convey a silent question, as if wondering what on earth Y/N was even doing to this poor plant.

“Are you fucking with me right now?”

“…no.”

The two stared at each other…

After a moment of silence, Y/N spoke up again. “How was I supposed to know this flower needed sunlight?”

“Google exists.”

“I’m a busy man!”

“Busy doing what? Being uneducated?”

DAMN, that hurt more that it was supposed to.

“Okay.. okay, it’s a dumb mistake on my part. Can I buy another one to try again?” Y/N puts his hands on his hips, waiting for Dabi’s answer. “Well.. I don’t have a choice I guess.” Dabi said, the sound of defeat evident in his tone. He walked away to find the same flower as Y/N stood there.

Y/N found himself strangely familiar with the odd man before him. There was something about him that he couldn't quite pinpoint, and it frustrated him. Crossing his arms in annoyance, Y/N observed Dabi carefully examining the flower selection. He realized maybe he should cut the newbie some slack since he just started working here after all.

Dabi finally located the specific flower Y/N had requested and assisted in transferring it to a fresh pot. He then helped Y/N carefully tuck the potted flower into the latter's backpack, gently securing it in place.

“Thanks, I appreciated the help.”

“Ugh, please never come back.”

Y/N snorted at that, almost unable to hold his laughter. He handed his payment to Dabi, and waved goodbye.

“Unfortunately for you, new guy, I’m a regular here!”

He said as he walked out of the store.

Dabi— no, Touya exhaled a frustrated sigh once that idiot guy was gone. He hated working at the flower shop but knew he had no choice. His current situation forced him to hide, and this job was a means to keep a low profile. He longed for a better life, but for now, he was stuck here in this cramped shop, surrounded by fragrant blooms.

Welp, that’s the life of a man on the run he supposed..

YEEEE HE HAS EDGY BACKSTORY WOAHH 🫵🫵😮😮😮😮

This chapter is just me trying to get the idea out of my head, I swear I’ll cook better in the next one ☹️☹️☹️💥💥💥💥

This was supposed to be an artwork idea but I couldn’t really draw rn

Also, mind you, I’m posting this at 3AM in my timezone, PLEASE PLEASE EXCUSE THE BADWRITIGNNFNF 😭😭😭😭

(I am ashamed of myself 😞)

[nonuggetshere]

(ID start: Three portraits of the Pale King, Pure Vessel and White Lady from Hollow Knight as humans, drawn on a template labelled "Fankid Meme" with the word "fan" crossed out. The three boxes are labelled from left to right "Parent One", "Child" and "Parent Two", with the Pure Vessel in the middle between their parents. The Pale King has a sharp, lean, wrinkled, triangular face with an aquiline nose and sharp cheekbones, large, dark eyebags, long pointed ears and thin eyebrows. He has completely white sharp almond eyes with three long sharp eyelashes at the bottom of the eyes. His skin is white with blue and pink undertones, he has grey lines like veins going up the side of his face and neck to his eyes, and two moles under his right eye, with one mole smaller than the other. The white horns on his head form a crown shape, his white hair parts between his horns and is tied into a long braid. He's glancing over his shoulder at the viewer, making only the collars of his grey dress and white coat visible, he's also wearing a partly see-through frilly shawl that falls over his shoulders and a white jacket with blue wavy patterns around the collar drapped over his shoulders. The White Lady has a fuller, round, long face with subtler wrinkles, round, straight downturned nose, thick eyebrows and a double chin. Her round eyes are fully blue with lighter, almost white, pupils and and three eyelashes resembling flower petals on her upper eyelid. Her white skin has cream undertones and is speckled with lighter freckles most visible on her cheeks and nose. On her right arm, which is resting on her chest and lacks any fingernails, small ridges resembling tree bark are visible, similar to the ones present on the twisting roots and branches sprouting from her head. Her white, wavy hair is tied back in a low bun with a hair tie made of red pearls. The strands of her hair twist and turn around her branches, which are decorated with the same pearls used to tie her hair. She has a warm, toothy smile as she looks at the viewer. She's dressed in a dark blue dress, with a dark cream shirt underneath with a frilly, floral patterned collar. An off-white shawl is drapped over her shoulders, she also wears a necklace made with the same red pearls she wears on her head. The Pure Vessel has their father's face shape but with rounder features of their mother. They have gentler cheekbones and long pointed ears, eyebrows with an in-between thickness of their parents', and a nose that's slightly downturned and straight like their mother's but smaller like their father's. They have pitch black, round almond eyes, with round eyelashes on their upper eyelids in a shape of a heart, with the top eyelash rounder and bottom one sharper and thinner. Their skin is white with blueish grey undertones, littered with darker freckles and a mole under their left eye. The skin below their cheekbones, their ears and neck down is pitch black. The horns on their head are rigid and sharp like their father's but grow almost like branches with ridges at the bottom of each of the two off-shoots. Their white hair is slightly less wavy than their mother's, tied into a long fluffy ponytail with bangs falling over their right eye. They're staring straight on at the viewer with a neutral expression. They're wearing a white shirt with a popped up frilly collar, tied at the bottom with red strig, and embroidered light blue and red floral patters at the shoulders and around the collar. End ID.)

Template

Sorry for that BEHEMOTH of a description, I wanted to compare my gijinkas' designs to each other and draw attention to the family resemblance between PV and their parents for a looong time now, so writing a description that doesn't draw attention to these traits and details would feel like missing the point of the artwork

The basic rundown of this for those who don't want to read that long as hell description is under the cut

PV has the same, more triangular face shape of their father, but with rounder edges wnd soft features of their mother. Basically, PK's face if somebody took a sandpaper to it. They also inherited their mother's freckles and their father's moles, with their birthmark being practically a mirror image of his.

PK's eyes are sharp and almong shaped while WL's are round, he has a thin roman nose while hers is larger and downturned, almost like a greek nose, going straight down from her eyebrow bridge with no noticeable dip. PV's are a mix of these traits, having round almond eyes and a nose close to their mother's in shape with no bump on the ridge like their father's, but smaller and thinner, resembling more of his nose at the tip.

I imagine their horns are hard and sharp like their father's, made of the same bone-like structure as his "crown", but they grow in a way that almost resembles branches. Like roots made of bone, if you will.

And lastly, PK has straighter very slightly wavy hair (like 2a) and WL has more wavier hair, maybe more accurately described as very loose curls? Like 2c or 3a (not the best at drawing this type of curl yet so it looks straighter than it should be 😔 I'm working on it). While PV's hair is meant to be wavy, like 2b texture.

If it wasn't glaringly obvious yet, I wanted to make PV as close to a 50/50 blend of their traits as I could get.

[louisupdates]

Louis Tomlinson expands the 28 clothing universe with a football-inspired collection

The Doncaster-born singer, Louis Tomlinson, continues to expand his horizons beyond music with a sophisticated football-inspired collection.

POR: ALEJANDRO CARRILLO JULY 29, 2024

Louis Tomlinson’s clothing brand, 28 Clothing, presents a new collection under the theme “Home and Away”, featuring a captivating color palette that includes enchanting lavender hues. The brand name is a tribute to Louis’ favorite number, 28, which he also has tattooed on his hand.

Furthermore, it nods to his hometown, Doncaster, by including a flower inspired by the White Rose of York in the logo, a symbol widely used in the region, including Louis’ beloved Doncaster.

The brand stands out for its production of unisex clothing, demonstrating the versatility of each piece. The new collection includes turtlenecks, sweaters, football shirts, sweatpants, and socks.

Third round of success

This is the brand’s third collection, and like the previous ones, it is expected to sell out quickly. In fact, the Lavender Ecru sweater is already sold out. The previous collection, launched in December 2023, was also a resounding success.

The brand’s off-pitch style guide continues to evolve, featuring half-zip jerseys with digitized graphics and the characteristic “OFFICIAL PROGRAMME” inscription. Elegant short coats and checkered sportswear sets inspired by referees effortlessly transition from city to pitch, while turtlenecks with the number “28” arrive in light blue tones.

Color-blocked t-shirts, paneled skirts, and nylon pants complete the range, anticipating the next collection with floral embroidered MA1 bomber jackets arriving later this year.

Prices range from £15 to £120.

About 28

Louis Tomlinson, the former One Direction member, took a big step into the fashion world with the launch of his own clothing brand, 28. This name is not a random choice but a tribute to his squad number at Doncaster Rovers, his local football team since childhood.

Louis’ passion for football is evident in every piece of the 28 collection. The first line, inspired by vintage style, evokes the nostalgia of 70s and 80s football matches. Checkered tracksuits, t-shirts with the text “Official Programme”, and lightweight hooded sweatshirts are some of the garments that make up this summer collection.

28 is not just a clothing brand but a way to connect with a community. Louis seeks to create a space where football and fashion lovers can feel identified. The brand reflects his own personality, combining his casual and relaxed style with a touch of sophistication.

28 is a brand that represents Louis Tomlinson’s passion for football and fashion. With a design inspired by vintage style and a message of community, 28 has become one of the most popular clothing brands of the moment.

We hope you enjoyed this article about 28, If you did, please share it with others. You might also be interested in reading our article about Diesel, or browsing other reviews in our Luster English section.

[whiskehorange]

Cottagecore/Self-Reliant/Self-Sufficient S/O with a green thumb 👍 with Carrie White, Norman Bates, Candyman, Bishop, and Anton Chigurh.

Carrie

She absolutely loves this idea and lifestyle, but can't really for the life of her keep a plant alive. As much as she tries it just doesn't flourish as much as she wants and it makes her a bit sad. Just another thing to the list that she can't seem to do right

Being able to watch you light up so many rooms with so many different plants, some she's never seen or heard of before, amazes her. She loves the look and spends a lot of her days sitting and doing small chores or reading in your plant room

They make her unbelievably bright and happy and she loves to learn about each plant you have when you tend to it and will surprise you by doing her own research

She remembers just about everything you tell her about the plants and tries her best to gift you some smaller ones she finds when she's out

I believe that Carrie would absolutely be a trinket collector and would have the best days and fun going out with you to the nearby lakes and ponds for picnics or walks. Rocks and pebbles, pressed leaves and flowers, all that and more

Norman

It's good to have hobbies and interest, especially when Norman happens to be busy most of the day. Thankfully for him, however, your hobbies are ones that he can keep up with as well.

I'm certain Norman is a bit of a green thumb as well, he has to keep up with the property somehow. He'll be forever grateful if you ever want to pitch in for him to get some work throughout the day out so he has more time to spend with you, even if that time is gardening

It's good for you to be keeping him up to date as well. While your interesting aesthetic isn't something he's used to seeing it certainly does liven up anywhere you go. Norman doesn't change things up too often, so he really needs a wardrobe change

When he isn't bugging you too often though, he does spend his time making delicate and floral based taxidermy for you of various small animals. A lot of the design choices come from flowers and plants he's heard that you're fond of or some he's plucked behind your back

Candyman

Daniel thinks it's a beautiful thing that you're able to be enough for yourself, especially when he can't be there constantly. Not like he could do much for you anyways, but you're still well off.

He's a man of taste and is pretty well versed in your plants and how to help you tend to them, but occasionally loves to hear your input and advice on doing so. It's one of his favorite pass times with you, making him feel at peace for the first time in a very, very long time

It does happen to make his chest rumble a little bit, seeing as his bees desperately want to get out and smell some fresh flowers for once. Within a certain distance from you you'll be able to hear the anxious humming and buzzing of all of them underneath his coat

As if he didn't do this often anyways, he almost always brings you home flowers as often as he can, but mainly the types you can replant/pot if you'd like to keep them and frequently will take you on dates that rely on the weather. Walks and picnics secluded in the forest are his preferred places. If you thrive, he thrives

Of course, he's also always looking forward to your homemade, organic treats and goodies on the way there

Bishop

The amount of relief that Bishop has taken off of his shoulders is immeasurable. You'd be surprised, or not, to learn that not a lot of Earth plants can survive on the ship, even with 24/7 monitoring and care. Most of the plants you see in the corridors and offices of the ships are either fake to easy the homesick epidemic floating around or plants from various other planets

Bishop himself is decently knowledgeable on the various plant and vegetation on the ship and he's more than happy to sit and teach you the ups and downs of space greens. It's most important on this ship to know how to be self reliant, especially when it's such a dangerous area to be stuffed into. A lot of the things in and around this ship can kill you, so his teachings are mandatory

There happens to be a lack of botanists on the ship that Bishop would be more than happy to train right next to him; even more so with it being you. And as much as he appreciates your comfy style and personality, he does have to hand you a typical lab uniform with a pitiful smile

Your work ethic is something that he swoons over the moment you do decide to work next to him. Bishop may seem like he's got a stick stuck up his ass, but no one gives him the time of day to figure out that she shows love and appreciation differently, especially when it comes to talking data and interests with you. You'll notice one of his small gestures is giving you itty bitty foreign plants that the two of you have been studying to see if you can keep it alive

Anton

Well you certainly look... interesting. You're an odd one, but it's a bit refreshing to come back home to after however long he's been away. There is never typically an element of surprise that will be able to catch him off guard, but seeing what new project you're up to every time he sees you if a close contender

He's more than relieved for you to be so self-reliant and be able to keep such thriving gardens and structure, it gives him less to worry about. You'd think he wouldn't have any cares in the world, but you'd be surprised

You constantly send him on his way with treats and small foods that you swear he needs; when was the last time you say him eat with your own eyes? Exactly, and it's hard to have him for long enough to enjoy a nice warm dinner

Anton doesn't speak much on his work life or about home life in general, but doesn't mind your talk. He appreciates your lack of small talk and tendency to jump right into filling him in on what's been going on since he's been gone, what you've been growing, clothes you've made, and small new additions to the home you've made. He'll blankly smile down at you in the garden as you crouch down and show him the growth and greens, inching to the left every so often to look at the other patches down the line

[penumbrathoughts]

The lady! Drew this a while ago, but reposted because that blog got deleted. XD It's water-colour and pen. I made the water-colours from flowers and plants and stuff. And the pens are just regular art pens.

[ ID:

A traditional pen and watercolour drawing of Juno Steel. He is black, with short curly hair that is shaved on one side. One eye is covered in an eye-patch with a floral design. He has a large scar across the bridge of his nose, and two smaller ones coming up from his jawline. He is wearing a brown trench-coat and a dark pruple turtleneck. He is standing head-on against a background of a city skyline. //END ID

]

[sunflowervolvimp3]

from eden: I

A/N: alright SO!! if you were around in summer 2020, then you know I started planning and writing a witchrry au that got pushed to the back burner when drea and I began collabing on you're someone I just want around. that fic quickly took over our entire lives, and every other story got put on pause, including this one. flash forward to present day, where after finishing one degree, moving, finishing ANOTHER degree, and beginning a career in my profession, I finally have a bit of time to write again!! I'm so excited to FINALLY be able to share witchrry with you, as well as my first OC on here. I haven't officially written in...a long time, so I apologize if I'm a bit rusty. but any and all feedback is greatly appreciated!! letting content creators know that you're enjoying their content helps motivate us to create more 💌 I really hope you enjoy this story and these characters, because I have a lot planned for them!! someone asked me yesterday if this story was going to be fluff or if it was going to get twisty, and the answer is always, ALWAYS twisty, so I hope you stick around to see it 💌 also!! i would like to give a big thank you to drea for creating this beautiful banner and story dividers (graphic design is not my passion)!! go give her a follow @adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy if you haven't already!!

masterlist : askbox : read on wattpad

word count: 15.7k

content/warnings: YOU get mommy issues!! and YOU get mommy issues!!! EVERYONE GETS MOMMY ISSUES!!!!, an overwhelming use of hand imagery, the normalization of talking to pets as if they can respond, Harry doesn't understand how to use figures of speech, drugs: just say no, time to meet the man of your dreams (literally), Rowan "well mark me down as scared AND horny!" Frances, and the beginning of a journey to see how many references to Practical Magic (1998) can be made in each chapter.

When Harry first stumbles through the door of the shop, the rain pounding on the roof is reaching biblical proportions, and Rowan is convinced that the universe is playing some sort of cosmic practical joke on her.

If the day, which had just entered it’s thirteenth hour, hadn’t already been bad enough—if she hadn’t already spilled coffee down her front, staining her favourite ivory shirt and forcing her to change; if she hadn’t already misplaced her favourite pen, the one with violet ink that glides so delightfully over the countless inventory forms she has to fill out; if she hadn’t already knocked over a flower arrangement that had taken two hours to construct and two seconds to destroy, shattering the sea-glass green vase that she had waited three weeks for in the mail; if none of that was enough—she had forgotten to flip the sign on the door to say that her floral shop was closed for lunch (which, because of her rush this morning, would be her first actual meal of the day), and now there is a soaking wet stranger standing in her doorway, who is shaking out his sopping hair with an urgent glance around the store, and his eyes settling on Rowan with unspoken need.

The moment she heard the bell of the door tinkle from his disturbance, Rowan had turned toward the entryway, a strained smile pasted to her face before she even made eye contact with the stranger. “I’m sorry, sir,” She says, her voice barely meeting sorry, and edging more on irritation with every passing moment. “But we’re actually closed for lunch. You can come back at two, if you’d like.”

The man—who is dripping all over her freshly cleaned hardwood floors, she notes wryly—looks up at her with a raised brow, as if he’s surprised to find that there’s someone inside the small shop. Perhaps he’s just flustered from being caught in the storm, Rowan thinks, because it’s clear that the rain has soaked straight through his thin army jacket and maroon knit sweater, and is coating his entire being in ice, right down to his bones. The rain had come on rather quickly; Rowan recalls hearing the sudden thundering outside just after she had shattered the beautiful vase. It makes sense that the man looks like he hadn’t been expecting it. In fact, he still looks rather unmoored as he runs his ring-covered hand through his sopping wet chestnut ringlets once more, his hunter eyes darting another round over the store before refocusing on Rowan.

“I’m very sorry to disturb,” Rowan is surprised to hear the silky British accent that slips from his raspberry mouth, the hue matching the ruddiness of his cheeks—a sure side-effect of the freezing weather in which he’d found himself caught. “But I’m in a bit of a hurry, and I was wondering if you had any yarrow flowers.”

Despite her mouth already open to inform the man that, once again, her shop is currently closed, his incredibly specific request makes Rowan pause. Yarrow flowers are hardly a popular arrangement choice for someone who’s annoyed their partner—which she assumes this man has, given the hurry that he says he’s in. Normally, when men show up in her shop with a desperate look on their faces and urgency in their voices, they’re searching for flowers such as roses, calla lilies, daisies—things known to bloom for love. Yarrow flowers, with their small clumps of pastel petals offset by long, wiry stems, hardly match that description. 

The curiosity peaking inside her chest, more than anything else, is what prompts Rowan to change the response that’s resting on the tip of her tongue. “I, um, may have some in the back,” She says slowly, as if feeling out the words as she utters them. “I use them as fillers, sometimes, in arrangements. I can…check for you, if you’d like.”

The man visibly breathes a sigh of relief, his face relaxing just the slightest bit as his shoulders slump beneath his soaked clothing. “That would be lovely, thank you. I’d really appreciate it.”

Rowan nods again, giving the man one last look of pensive confusion before stepping out from behind her (messy as usual) desk to make her way to the back of the store to the workshop. As her shoes echo against the wooden floor, she wonders if this is a smart idea; should she be leaving a strange man with even stranger requests unattended in her shop? Should she be turning her back on him while walking towards a private back room that contains multiple objects of the heavy and sharp variety? Objects that she’d hate to see catalogued by a forensics team when her body is eventually discovered with a pair of gardening shears protruding from her chest? 

Reaching the half-opened door of her workshop, Rowan pauses in the frame just long enough to glance back over her shoulder at the man. With her promise to check her inventory for his requested flowers, he’s allowed some of the tension to slip from his body, and is busying himself by extracting a leather journal from an inner pocket of his jacket to thumb through. No, Rowan decides as she studies his furrowed brow and focused gaze. The man, albeit a little strange, isn’t a potential 48 Hours suspect; he’s just a little frazzled by the unexpected events of the day, a feeling to which Rowan can relate. And perhaps, if she wasn’t as frazzled as she is, she would have noticed the peculiarity of the man’s entire person being soaked while the yellowed pages of his leather-bound journal remain completely dry. 

Or maybe she wouldn’t have. After all, she’d spent her entire life ignoring the irregularities around her. What’s one more anomaly to turn a blind eye to?

Rowan doesn’t bother to close the door behind her, knowing that she’ll only be spending a few minutes inside her slightly chaotic workshop. The long wooden table and decorating stations are just as she left them an hour ago—meaning they’re covered in tissue wrappings and loose, wilted petals, with clipped leaves and discarded stems littering the floor below her—and she bypasses the mess to pull open the heavy insulated door that leads to her freezer.

She shivers as she steps into the refrigerated room, pulling her cable-knit cardigan tighter around her shoulders as she begins to scan the alphabetized shelves. Rowan’s eyes quickly scan one label to the next until she finds the little label that says “yarrow” in her neat writing on the lower half of the second metal shelf, nestled neatly beside a pile of violets. There are only a few of the little white flowers left in her stock, enough for about two small bunches, so Rowan removes both from the shelf before stepping out of the freezer and shutting the door tightly behind her to preserve the other flowers that are stocked away.

Clutching the two miniature bouquets in her hands, Rowan nudges the door of her workshop open a bit more as she passes back under the frame, picking off a few browning petals from the blossoms. She wishes the blooms were fresher—it wouldn’t be easy for the man to make amends for whatever he had done if he showed up with wilted flowers. Still, Rowan thinks as she flicks the dried petals to the ground, it’s better than nothing, and hopes that the small bouquets will be enough to appease whoever the soaked stranger had managed to piss off. 

“I found a couple bunches, and I wasn’t sure how many you needed, so I brought both—” Rowan stops short as she enters the front of the shop again, expecting to find the man near the door where she had left him, but finds only a damp spot on the wood where he’d dripped after his entrance. “Hello?” Confusion settles into her voice as she tentatively steps forward again, her gaze sweeping the perimeter of her shop.

“Oh, thank you,” The voice emerges from around the corner and behind a shelf of succulents, making Rowan half jump in surprise, and a small and shocked gasp leaves her mouth as the curly haired man steps out from behind the greenery.

“Oh—!” She clutches the flowers to her chest, taking a deep breath and releasing a strained laugh at her own over the top reaction, the sound both an apology and a nervous tic that’s lingered from childhood. “You scared me.”

With his emerald eyes tinged with regret, the man offers a peacemaking smile that borders on a grimace as he peers at her from the aisle. “I’m sorry,” He says slowly, his voice accented with sincerity as he presses a tattooed hand to his soaked chest, as if needing to catch his own breath as well. While it’s the movement that originally catches Rowan’s eye, it’s the tattoo inked into his skin that keeps her attention—it’s a strange symbol, resembling nothing she’s ever seen before, and yet…something about the crossing of lines and gentle curves of ink seems familiar. 

Shaking herself out of her thoughts with a quick jerk of her head, Rowan offers a smile to the man in return for his apology. “It’s fine,” She eases her tone to match the tilt of her lips, holding out the previously requested flowers to him. “Will these be enough for you?”

The man’s strawberry lips rise to mirror Rowan’s smile as he gives a gentle nod, relief and gratitude dancing through his sea glass irises. “Yes, thank you. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Oh, it’s no problem,” Rowan waves off the praise with a casual flick of her hand before beckoning him back towards the counter, doing her best to ignore the strange spark of pleasure in her belly upon hearing the stranger’s praise. “C’mon, I’ll just ring you up at the front.”

The man follows her to the front of the store, his polished shoes squeaking against the floor with every step and keeping his presence in her peripheral thoughts—as if Rowan could forget it. Reaching the counter, however, provides her with a familiar sense of comfort that she didn’t realize she’d been craving until the mahogany bench is between their two bodies. It’s strange, though, she thinks as she curls her fingers around the edge of the counter, drumming them once against the wood before beginning to ring in the flowers on her tablet that’s housed on the front counter. Despite the distance bringing her comfort, there’s a distinct sense of lack that comes with the separation; her eyes flicker to the stranger in front of her once again as she sets the bouquet of flowers onto the tissue paper lying in front of her. The brunette man is searching for his wallet in his rain drenched pockets, extracting a misted phone and the surprisingly dry journal from his jacket in his vain efforts. His eyes flicker to hers in apology, his smile growing back into a sheepish lilt as he clutches the objects within one hand while still searching with the other.

“I know I have it—somewhere—” He mutters, his drenched locks curling into his eyes as his head drops back down to examine his clothing. “Sorry, I’m usually—a little more organized than this, I swear—”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Rowan offers the usual method of banter she employs with customers, in which she just agrees and relates to anything they say to put them at ease. It’s a little fake, to be sure, but what isn’t fake about customer service? It’s not like she can roll her eyes each time someone makes the “it must be free!” joke when her debit machine takes a moment to boot up. “It’s been a strange day for everyone, I think. I spilled coffee all over myself, knocked over arrangements…and then to top it all off, the weather began to act up, when it had been so nice for the last few days.”

Cocking his head to the side, the stranger considers her small talk for a moment—which is more than most customers have ever considered her in her life. The curiosity of his gaze ignites that unfamiliar feeling again, once more making her contrastingly thankful and remorseful for the mahogany barrier between them. “Yes, it has been strange,” Despite the lightness of his tone, Rowan doesn’t miss the way his eyes shift a hue darker as he speaks. “Certainly seemed to come out of no—got it!”

The florist watches as he triumphantly extracts a brown wallet embossed with a marking she doesn’t recognize (a brand logo, perhaps? For a company more luxurious than she’s used to?), tucking the rest of his items back into his jacket with one swift motion. 

“Wonderful,” Rowan means every syllable of the word as she begins to key in the purchase on her tablet, her expert fingers tapping away as relief flows through her body, both from having a new center of attention, and knowing that she’ll be able to really take her lunch break soon. “I’ll ring those in for you—” 

 “That’s an interesting marking,” The man interrupts her focus with the offhand comment, and when her gaze snaps up to him once more, she finds him nodding to the door of the shop as his ringed fingers open his wallet. “Do you know what it means?”

Rowan tears her eyes from his flushed skin to where his own gaze rests, settling her sights on the top of the door frame, where a black hand painted symbol sits in stark contrast with the white of the walls. “Oh, it’s just something my mom used to draw all the time,” She explains with a shrug, dismissing the symbol as her eyes turn back from the familiar six petal flower wrapped in a circle to the questioning man in front of her. “She used to say it was for protection of homes, so when I opened the shop, I figured…well,” Rowan offers a sheepish smile in return for her superstitious explanation. “New York can be a dangerous place. It can’t hurt to have extra protection, right?”

Not for the first time, an undecipherable response flits through the man’s hunter eyes, but it disappears just as quickly as it appears, before Rowan can make anything of it. “Right,” He agrees quickly, his nod more serious than it had been a moment before. “You can never have too much protection.”

Although his words echo the very phrase Rowan just spoke, something about his cadence of voice gives the simple saying a double meaning. The florist ponders it for a moment, her eyes searching the stranger’s as much as she dares, but decides it’s best not to pry. It’s not her place, really. She doesn’t know this man, and she doubts he’d bother to recommend her shop to anyone he knows if she tries to interrogate him over his expressions.

Clearing her throat, Rowan decides it’s time to change the subject, and refocuses her attention to the task at hand. “So, um—” She glances back down at her tablet, forcing herself to remember her usual spiel with her customers. “I’ll just need your name for records—your first name, if you don’t mind. It just helps me with counting and keeping track of stock.”

“That’s no problem,” The tone of his voice flips back to something more casual with ease as he rakes a hand through his damp curls once more. “My name is Harry.”

“Harry…” Rowan quickly types the simple name into her inventory logs before setting her tablet down on the counter. With nimble and practiced fingers, she begins to wrap the yarrow flowers in tissue, but Harry interrupts her with a shake of his head.

“Actually,” He gives an apologetic smile—something he seems to do a lot, she’s noticed (not that she’s noticed much about him, she tells herself). “I don’t need any wrapping for them; I’ll be using them right away, and I’d hate to waste the tissue.”

“Oh,” Rowan’s movements pause at his request, and she removes the flowers from the wrapping carefully before handing the bouquet to Harry. “Are you sure? It’s still pouring, and the rain will ruin them…”

The stranger—Harry, she reminds herself—waves away her concern with an unbothered flick of his hand. “Yeah, it’s alright. I’m going to be pulling apart the blossoms anyway.”

“You’re—” Despite the majority of this interaction being the strangest she’s had in a long time, this is the first comment of the man that’s made Rowan pause completely. Were these flowers not a gift for someone, like she’d originally assumed? “What?”

“I needed yarrow blossoms for a little…project of mine,” The molasses-like speed at which Harry utters the words gives Rowan the impression that he’s choosing them very carefully, and the florist can’t help but wonder what explanation pertaining to flowers would ever need to be so carefully considered. “Normally I keep a stock of them, but I ran out last month and forgot to order more, and I was in the middle of my project by the time I realized…” As if realizing he’s beginning to ramble, Harry offers another shy tilt of his lips before laughing lightly at his own antics. “Well, anyways, I don’t need the wrapper. But I really appreciate the help; I know I kept you open past your usual hours.”

The strange—albeit rambling—explanation leaves Rowan speechless for a moment as she debates whether or not it’s worth questioning Harry more about his project—what kind of project would so urgently need yarrow flowers? What kind of project would be worth running out into this increasingly raging storm, soaking oneself clean to the bone just to retrieve the small bouquet currently clenched in Harry’s hand?

A project that’s none of your business, Rowan tells herself firmly. None of your business. “It’s—don’t worry about it,” She straightens her spine in resolution, mimicking his earlier action of waving off concern as he sets a twenty dollar bill down on the counter. “Oh—no, it was only twelve dollars, actually—”

“Keep the change. As a thank you.” Harry tucks his wallet back into his pocket, as if his soaked jacket could do much to protect the object from the rain. “Oh, by the way—” His jade irises brighten once more as he extracts his tattooed hand from his pocket, holding out an object to Rowan in offering. “I found this on the floor—meant to give it to you…”

Grasped between his long, lithe fingers (that she is not staring at. Not in the slightest.) is Rowan’s favourite pen—the one with violet ink that glides so delightfully over the countless information forms she has to fill out. Her mouth drops open as realization lights up her face, and she retrieves the pen from him with a new and genuine smile painted on her lips. “Oh, I’ve been looking for this! It’s my favourite.” Clicking it once as if to test if it’s working, Rowan regards the soaked man with newly warmed eyes. “Thank you, Harry.”

Harry’s expression molds to match her own the moment their eyes meet, and he tucks the flowers under his arm before sheathing his hands within his pockets. “No need to thank me, Rowan. I’ll be seeing you soon.” His shoes click against the ground as he retreats back to the front door, casting one last glance at the floral symbol painted over his head before pushing the barrier open. “Stay dry, alright?”

Rowan nods automatically, repeating the phrase back to him as she waves goodbye with her pen still grasped between her fingers. The moment the door closes behind him, her previous hunger returns with more insistence than before, turning her stomach and effectively erasing all aspects of the strange meeting with the reminder that she needs to walk upstairs to her apartment to find something to eat.

It’s not until she’s sitting at her kitchen table, her cat sprawled languidly across her lap as she takes a bite of her cobb salad, that she realizes she had never told Harry her name.

…

“Oh, Christ—Butternut!”

The ginger cat scatters from underneath Rowan’s feet as the girl manages to catch herself on the edge of the kitchen counter, using the fern green cabinets to support her weight as she regains her balance. With one hand still holding the cat’s plastic food dish, Rowan uses the other to push herself away from the counter with a roll of her eyes, and resumes walking to the corner of the small kitchen to set the food dish down in its regular spot as Butternut watches from beneath a kitchen chair

“There you go,” Rowan sighs in exasperation as Butternut scurries from his hiding spot to the dish she’s just set down, and begins to feast on his wet and dry mix while Rowan brushes her fingers over his soft auburn fur. “You have to learn how to be patient, you know that?” She murmurs with a quirk of her brow. “You’d think after ten years, you’d have figured that out.”

The cat meows in response at her between bites of his food, and Rowan smiles softly as she gives one last stroke to his plush fur before straightening herself up and grabbing her mug of tea from the kitchen counter. It takes her the usual three steps to reach the small living room of her apartment, and she sets her mug on its usual spot on the coffee table as she grabs her journal from the couch, where she’d left it that morning, just as she always does when she realizes she’s running late for work. She’d hoped that owning her own flower shop would have cured her of her perpetual lateness that had plagued her childhood, but it seems that her lack of punctuality is just one of the many traits she’d inherited from her mother, in addition to being one of her least favourite traits she’d inherited from her mother.

“What did you get up to while I was at work today, Butternut? Anything interesting?” Rowan asks, only half-rhetorically as she picks up her mug again once settled into the couch. “Any important business I should know about?”

Rowan receives the usual meow in reply, and she hums thoughtfully in the back of her throat as she takes a small sip of tea. The boiling liquid scalds her tongue just the way she’s grown accustomed to—another trait she picked up from her mother, who had had a habit of setting down her teacups and promptly forgetting their existence for the better part of an hour. Drinking the piping hot liquid immediately, Rowan had learned the hard way, saves her the disgruntlement that comes with discovering ice-cold tea three hours after she’s made it. 

Blowing over the steaming mug, Rowan watches as Butternut continues to munch on his food. “I thought as much,” She replies to the cat seriously, giving Butternut a stern look as he continues to eat his food and pay her little regard. “I told you to stay away from Mrs. Piper’s cat, didn’t I? We both know Zipper is a bit of a heart breaker, and I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

Butternut squeaks out another meow, this one sounding more indignant than the last, which Rowan greatly appreciates. It’s easier to talk to the cat without sounding crazy, she rationalizes (as she has hundreds of times before), when the cat’s responses vary in tone, as if he can actually understand her.

“You’re a glutton for punishment, you know that?” Rowan clicks her tongue as she opens her journal, reading over her messily scrawled entry from that morning that she had barely managed to finish. “I’m just trying to look out for your best interests, and—”

A tapping sound from outside the living room window interrupts Rowan’s one-sided conversation, and she twists her head towards the source of noise with curiosity sparking across her face. When the tapping occurs again, sharper and more insistent this time around, Rowan stands up urgently, nearly spilling her tea in her haste to set down the mug and walk the short distance to the window. Although she can’t see anything that could have caused the noise when she arrives in front of the pane, Rowan’s curiosity is still unsatisfyingly unsatiated, and she quickly flips the latch on the window in order to push it open, the half-rusted mechanics squeaking in protest as they always do before she leans out towards her fire escape. 

With half her body now hanging out of her living room window, Rowan swiftly scans over the familiar view of Greenwich Village. Having lived in the Village her entire life, Rowan has to admit that there’s a satisfying, pleasurable comfort in her stomach every time she looks at the skyline of the neighbourhood. It’s a feeling of home, she thinks, as well as belonging, and she knows that she could never find anywhere else quite like it. There was a reason that her mother chose this as the place to settle down after moving from London; she had always told Rowan that the city called to her, even from across the Atlantic Ocean, like a siren stringing her towards her deepest desires. And when Rowan has the honour of watching the orange autumn sun sink down in the sky, staining the tops of buildings in a burnt glaze, she feels the same call. And, in a perhaps more easily explainable way, the Village reminds her of her mother. She’d never be able to leave it, even if she wanted to.

A now familiar tapping pulls Rowan from her admiration of the city she’s called home for her entire life, and the young woman cranes her neck to the left just in time to settle her eyes on the source of the sound, her brows creasing together in bemusement as she does so.

The crow perched on the edge of her fire escape has to have the blackest and shiniest feathers that Rowan has ever seen. The onyx tone of its wings is accented by the golden light of the setting sun, which sparkles in the creature’s knowledgeable eyes. Knowledgeable, Rowan observes, because the crows eyes seem to meet her own, both with purpose and some sort of recognition. 

Rowan cocks her head to the side as she engages in the staring contest with the bird, her state of mind growing more and more confused and unsettled with every passing moment. Were crows known to be the kind of bird that stared back at you? She wondered, her mouth opening and closing as she pondered the question without speaking it aloud. And were they not skittish? Rowan had made enough ruckus as she opened her window that she would have thought the bird would have long flown away by now, and yet, its piercing black eyes continue to stare back at her own. It’s ridiculous, and she knows this, but Rowan can’t make herself look away. Who loses a staring contest to a crow? She scoffs internally, leaning a little further over the ledge of her window. She refuses to be the first to blink. Surely it’s not that hard to outlast a bird; after all, she’s the one with a brain bigger than a ping bong ball. She can outlast a bird in a staring contest. Not that any sane person would ever actually challenge a bird to a staring contest, of course, but Rowan is sure stranger things have happened. And, furthermore, she’s not the one who started this. If anything, the bird challenged her—winning the imagined contest is a matter of honour.

And then Butternut jumps out the window, effectively breaking her perfect concentration, and sets all hell loose.

If Rowan hadn’t been so distracted by the crow’s strange behaviour, she would have remembered the dangers that come with leaving her window wide open as she had. Part of the reason the old mechanisms had squeaked so much when she yanked the fixture open was that she—save the few times she’d burned something while cooking and had to air out her apartment from the smoke of her failed dinner endeavors—very rarely opened the window more than a crack. Just as Rowan has a long list of troubling habits, so does Butternut, and one of those habits includes jumping out of open windows and giving Rowan a heart attack. 

The young florist had discovered this habit the first day she met him when she was twelve years old and found him wandering the streets of New York. His burnt orange coat had been speckled with mud and dirt, grown long from what seemed to be months of a lack of attention, but that hadn’t stopped her from scooping the surprisingly pliant cat into her arms and carrying him home to her mother. She’d been prepared to beg and plead on behalf of the animal and her right to keep him, but as it turned out, that hadn’t been necessary; all it took was one look at the poor creature, and Winnifred began to fill the copper sink with hot water and soap to bathe him. Rowan had been delighted at her mother’s acceptance of the new pet—until said pet jumped from the counter and out their kitchen window, which had been open to release steam from the soup Winnifred had been making. To this day, Rowan remembers peering out the window with horror as Butternut scurried along the ledge outside of their sixth floor apartment, and how she’d had to coax him back to safety with strings of shredded cheese. As terrifying as it had been, however, Rowan had learned her lesson—if Butternut is in the room, windows have to be closed. There had been a few close calls over the years, but never anything as bad as that first day, when she thought she would lose her new friend before she’d even had the chance to truly befriend him.

Until now.

The moment Butternut’s paws meet the rusted metal of the fire escape, he bounds after the crow, leaping for the ledge of the fire escape before Rowan can even absorb what’s happening. The crow, however, doesn’t have the same processing delay that she does, and flies away before the cat can sink a claw into his shiny feathers. Unfortunately, Butternut has always been determined, and by the time Rowan has scurried out through the window and onto the fire escape, Butternut has already begun bounding down the rusted metal steps and onto the street below.

“Fuck—” Rowan curses loudly, nearly tripping over herself in her hurry to clamber back from the window ledge and into her apartment. Grabbing only her keys from the catch-all table by her door, Rowan throws open the door of her apartment and slams it behind her, not bothering to check if it’s locked before hurling herself towards the stairwell of her building. 

Brushing her chestnut hair out of her eyes as she rounds the corner of the stairwell, Rowan has to give credit where credit is due; for a cat that’s over a decade old, Butternut moves fast, and that knowledge only incites more intensity in the girl as she tears through the stairwell and onto the street. Rowan pants as she surveys the bustling crowds, scouring the bottom of every black and grey raincoat until she just barely catches the yellowish hue of Butternut’s tail disappearing around the corner.

“Butternut!” She yells loudly, receiving a scoff and a dirty look from an old lady whose ear she’d just accidentally yelled in. “Sorry, ma’am, I just—sorry!” Rowan offers one more quick apology before dashing down the street towards Butternut. “Come back!”

Although she does her best to avoid pedestrians around her in her pursuit of her pet, Rowan still manages to ram her shoulders into four different people as she runs through the crowded Greenwich Village street. She spits out speedy apologies whenever she does so, her hickory eyes flashing with what she hopes is sincerity and not annoyance, but she doesn’t stop to say anything more; already, Butternut is disappearing in a sea of New Yorker ankles, and she’s worried that if she doesn’t grab him soon, someone else will.

After five blocks of pursuit—how does an aging cat have better stamina than she does?—Butternut seems to disappear completely, his fluffy tail nowhere in sight amongst the throngs of people. Rowan slows her pace to a light jog, her legs aching and lungs burning in protest as she pants so loud that passersby keep giving her concerned stares. There’s a feeling of dread beginning to coil itself around Rowan’s intestines, and she’s not sure if it’s the fear of losing Butternut, or the oncoming asthma attack, but it nearly doubles Rowan over as she struggles to move breath in and out of her lungs.

“I need—to work—out more—” Rowan puffs to herself, folding one hand over her stomach as she continues to push her way through the crowded sidewalk at a reduced pace. “I—” Her eyes widen as she spies an amber tail among the crowds. “Butternut!”

Although her loud exclamation once again startles an old lady (seriously, just how many old ladies are wandering around the village right now?), Rowan doesn’t stop to apologize this time, and instead simply offers a flash of an apologetic grimace before jogging after the fluff of golden fur that she just caught ducking into the open door of a shop.

Still wheezing loudly when she reaches the storefront, Rowan manages to crane her neck up to catch sight of the sign above her. The white washed wood plank with dark green letters reads Verbena & Birch Apothecary, and Rowan only takes a moment to admire the craftsmanship that must have gone into carving the plant sprigs next to the logo before she remembers the reason she’s here, and yanks the wooden door open to run inside.

“Butternut?” She calls out, still breathless from her impromptu marathon down the streets of Greenwich Village. “C’mon, stinky—” Her eyes scan over the countless shelves lined with delicate-looking glass bottles, and a feeling of dread grows in her stomach as she tucks her wild locks behind her ears. All it would take is one pounce from Butternut to destroy everything on these shelves, something she wouldn’t put past the mischievous cat that just scampered down five city blocks. “You can’t be in here! Let’s go!”

Rowan pauses for a moment and listens closely for the sound of familiar paws against the wooden floor, or the usual indignant meowed response when she calls Butternut stinky, or any sign that the cat is wandering the breakable-filled store, but hears nothing save for her own laboured breathing. Bracing her hand against her heaving stomach again, Rowan lets out a groan, hanging her head and letting her hair fall into her face as she bends over, submitting to another cramp that’s working its way through her insides.

“Does he belong to you?”

The lilting British accent that rings through the quiet shop pricks Rowan’s ears with familiarity as she snaps herself back into more appropriate posture, her palm still massaging her belly over her shirt. “What—?” Rowan whips her head around, searching for the source of the voice behind the towering shelves surrounding her. A flicker of movement from the corner of her eye catches her attention, and Rowan turns slowly towards a tower of white candles organized in glass jars as the owner of the disembodied voice emerges from behind it.

The first thing Rowan notices—to her immense relief—is Butternut happily situated in the man’s arms, purring contentedly as he stretches out languidly, seemingly pleased by the stranger’s body heat. This odd response is the second thing Rowan notes, as Butternut has never had an affinity for those he doesn’t know, and usually prefers to claw at strangers rather than flop over within their grasps. The third thing that Rowan notices, however, might be the oddest thing of all; the stranger in front of her is, in fact, no stranger at all.

Or, at the very least, she’s met him before.  Although his clothing isn’t soaked to the bone from a surprise thunder storm, his curls a bit lighter in colour and bouncier than ever when dry, and his cheeks displaying a tint of rosiness to them in the heat of the shop, Rowan recognizes Harry the moment she’s able to get a good look at him, even before noting the forest green apron with his name embroidered in the corner over his white t-shirt and tan cardigan. It’s his eyes, she thinks, cocking her head to the side as she appraises the familiar young man in front of her. The way his jade irises appear to swirl and shift in the light filtering through the storefront windows is so unmistakable that it’s branded into Rowan’s head from just their one brief meeting. And if the way those eyes are crinkling in the corners as his expression twists into a grin, Rowan can tell that Harry recognizes her, as well.

“Yes,” The florist finally replies to him, breathing a sigh of relief as she steps towards him. “Yes, that’s my cat. I’m so sorry, he just escaped from my apartment and ran all the way here, and I couldn’t stop him before he got inside—”

“It’s alright,” Harry assures her with a small smile that tugs at the corner of his reddened lips as he scratches Butternut behind his ears. “Worse things have stepped into this shop, I can assure you. And given how cute this particular intruder is, I can’t bring myself to mind it.”

Rowan’s upturned lips, while tentative, slowly lift to match the grin on his face as the full relief of knowing that Butternut is safe washes over her. “Thank you, really,” She reaches out and scoops Butternut into her arms, pressing the cat into her chest protectively while ignoring the burning feeling of Harry’s fingertips brushing over her own. “He didn’t break anything?”

“Oh, no, everything’s fine,” Harry says easily, waving one nail polished hand without an air of concern or notice of the contact. “No harm, no foul, and all that.”

“That’s a relief,” Rowan bounces Butternut in her arms absentmindedly as she glances around the shop, appraising the fragile wares more thoroughly than she had when she first entered. “His second worst habit after jumping out of windows is breaking things, and a lot of things here seem breakable.”

Rowan isn’t exaggerating for effect. Now that the relief of finding Butternut has uncoiled her stomach and she can take a moment to really look around the shop, she’s amazed that she managed to collect him without paying a small fortune for items destroyed in his wake. Every wall of the store is lined with a wooden built-in shelf, each one filled with an assortment of products, with the types of products varying from each wall. It’s much more organized than she’d thought at her first glance, and she allows herself a moment to sweep over each product with errant curiosity.

The wall to her left has shelves labeled with what she assumes are different kinds of teas, sorted by their uses, such as “awake and alive,” “blood pressure support,” and “happy tummy,” as well as sorted by flavour and blend. Another shelf is lined with small dropper bottles labeled with various types of oils, and the shelf to the right of that one is lined with small brown bottles labeled as various tinctures. The opposite wall to her right hosts a wide variety of salves and balms, also sorted by uses such as “super healing,” “anti-anxiety,” and “mood boost.” Along the back wall are rows of bulk bins usually found in the grocery store, except these bins are filled with large amounts of ground dried herbs, all labeled neatly to match everything else in the store. Despite the great quantities, however, there are also jars filled with unground herbs still attached to their host plants sitting neatly above the bins. The last wall, however, has the greatest variety of anything else in the store, and stocks row upon row of various crystals, stones, and minerals, all hosting neat labels with their properties and meanings underneath the names. And if all that product wasn’t enough—enough to pique her interest as well as her anxiety at the thought of Butternut roaming free in here—there’s stand-alone shelves throughout the store, displaying more tinctures, oils, and products, as well as candles, incense, and things that Rowan can’t even put a name to.

If Harry’s tone when he interrupts her observations is any indication, then her curiosity about the products is written clear across her face. “See anything interesting?” He asks conversationally, tucking his ringed hands into the pockets of his apron.

“I’d think it’s all interesting,” Rowan murmurs in reply, keeping a firm grasp on Butternut as she steps closer to a shelf of incense, squinting her eyes to read the—quite messy—handwritten labels. “What is all this stuff?”

“Well, they’re a wide variety of things, but to put it simply…they’re natural and organic products. I make them all here, in the back of my shop,” Harry untucks one hand to motion his thumb over his shoulder as he watches Rowan lean down to smell the incense, Buttercup meowing indignantly in her arms as she tightens her grip once more. “Well, except for the incense and candles. I have a supplier in Brooklyn that provides those for me, as well as some of the herbs. But all the oils and balms…I make those in house.”

Rowan doesn’t miss the hint of pride that lingers in the back of Harry’s voice, nor can she blame him for it. If she’d concocted all of this, she’d have more than just a hint of pride. “You make these?” Rowan repeats back in amazement, walking slowly to another shelf, this one housing a variety of creams and balms. Each row has a neatly labeled tester pot, and she runs her finger over the cool glass of the jars as she reads the labels out loud. 

“‘Patience’… ‘prosperity’… ‘protection’…” Rowan tilts her head towards Harry and raises a brow as the alphabetized names fall from her tongue. “How does a cream offer protection? Protection from what? Dry skin?”

The corner of Harry’s lips twitch. “Well, yes. Among other things,” He strides over to stand next to her, picking up the tester jar labeled “protection,” and dips a jewelled finger into the surface of the light cream. “May I?” He requests, extending his other hand to her.

“Oh, uh…” Rowan shifts Butternut’s weight to her left arm, freeing up her right arm for Harry to take between his fingers. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

Harry’s left hand grips her wrist with a warm and gentle touch, the curves of his fingers molding into the shape of her body easily. Despite feeling it a few moments earlier, Rowan isn’t prepared for the strange feeling that hums up and down her arm when Harry’s skin meets her own. Her walnut irises capture his own hunter pair, and the question that flashes through them quickly tells her that she’s not the only one noticing the buzz.

Harry, however, seems to be better at keeping his expression unreadable, because as soon as the question appears in his own eyes, it disappears again, his gaze returning to her hand. His fingers begin to dance over her wrist as he carefully rubs the cool balm into her skin, and Rowan watches the practiced motion for a moment before her attention slips to the strange tattoo that occupies the back of his hand, the one that she’d noticed in her own shop a few days before. It almost seems to dance over his skin, flexing and flowing with the movement of his muscles as he works the cream into her own palm. 

If the smell of sage and sandalwood filling the air hadn’t distracted her, Rowan might have begun to center her attention on the lithe movements of Harry’s calloused fingers over her hand, and how warm and welcoming his touch felt along her body, which would have led to her thinking about his hands traveling up her arm, following the natural line of her body to her collar bones, and then—  

 “That smells so good,” She says quickly, struggling to keep her voice balanced and even as she allows the fragrance to fill her senses, rather than her thoughts, which seem to be getting away from her at the moment. “Is that sage?”

Admittedly, the smell is quite distracting all on its own, even without Harry’s tantalizing touch working the scented balm into her skin, but Rowan can’t help but think that the relaxed and tranquil feeling flowing through her body has less to do with aromatherapy and more to do with the way Harry’s fingertips are pressing between her knuckles. Despite her brief encounters with him, there’s a familiar feeling in the way they interact; when he touches her, it doesn’t feel uncomfortable or unfamiliar, like the touch of a stranger should feel. Instead, the sensation that hums over her skin and settles inside her chest reminds her of the warm burn of a hearth, as if her body were a home that has been waiting for him to arrive and light the fire for the night that will keep the dark and damp away.

“I’m glad you think so,” Harry’s low and lilting voice cuts through Rowan’s trance as he rubs the last of the cream into her skin. Although his fingers cease their gentle massage, he still keeps her wrist clasped within his hand, the pad of his thumb brushing over her knuckles absentmindedly. 

“I make the oils for these myself. This one has some sage, angelica, clove, and sandalwood. I mix it with organic cocoa butter, organic coconut oil, and beeswax from my supplier in Brooklyn, and melt it all together while—” Harry stops talking abruptly, his poetry-like tone cutting off with a nervous glance and a sheepish smile. “Actually, I shouldn’t be telling you all this. S’a trade secret, you know. If I tell you, then you might tell someone else, and soon I’ll be boarding up my windows because everyone is cooking up their own balms in their kitchens. Won’t have any need for me anymore.”

Rowan, who had been more focused on the hypnotic cadence of Harry’s voice to process exactly what he’d been saying, offers a half-hearted laugh as she shifts Buttercup within her arm. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” She does her best to reassure him, but it’s hard to sound convincing when Harry squeezes her hand within his own, because for some reason, Harry is still cradling her wrist, which only stokes the hearth within her chest. “I don’t really understand it, anyways. You said it…offers protection?” Rowan blinks at his simple nod of explanation. “Um…protection from what?” 

Harry loosely lifts his shoulders into a noncommittal shrug. “Anything, really. Whatever the wearer feels like they need protection from.”

“Okay, but…if I felt like I needed protection from…I don’t know, a robber…” Rowan spins an imaginary scenario as she speaks, shifting Butternut in her arm once more as the cat begins to fuss (she should extract her hand from Harry’s. It would make holding him a lot easier). “How would a cream protect me from that?”

“It’s not so much the cream as what it’s made from,” Picking up the jar again with his free hand (despite his eyes flickering to the increasingly annoyed cat within her grasp, he still hasn’t relented his own grasp on her), Harry twists the container so that the ingredient list faces Rowan, leaving him to speak from memory as he recites it. “Sage, angelica, clove, sandalwood…all of those things have protective properties. Their aromas bring comfort and tranquility to those who smell them. Using them in a cream allows their fragrance to go anywhere with the wearer, so it can bring continual comfort. Think about that symbol above your door, the one you said your mum used to draw. That was for protection, wasn’t it? It’s the same idea.”

“Oh…” Realization sparks in Rowan’s mind as she glances around the shop again, taking in every item with newly opened eyes. “Oh. Like in a metaphysical sense, right? Like how lavender is meant to bring luck?”

Harry’s brows arch up in surprise at the connection as he sets the jar back on the shelf. “Exactly like that, yes,” He says slowly, his emerald eyes watching Rowan’s renewed examination carefully as he finally relinquishes her wrist. “How did you know that?”

Rowan clutches Buttercup tighter to her chest, and while the movement is easier with both arms at her disposal, she can’t deny that she misses the sensations Harry’s touch provided her. “It’s another thing my mom told me when I was a kid. She always kept a little lavender plant in a window box.” Her eyes settle on the glass bottle filled with lavender sprigs on the shelf nearest to her, the sight jogging memories she hadn’t played in her mind in quite some time. “She used to make me lavender and chamomile tea when I was a kid, because I had trouble sleeping sometimes. It always knocked me right out,” The florist shrugs lightly. “You know, looking back, she probably mixed in some Nyquil too, but…”

Although Harry offers a small chuckle at her joke, the sound that falls from his mouth is strained, and when Rowan turns her attention back to the man again, his face has shifted into an expression she can’t read. His previously relaxed brow has furrowed and creased, and his cherry lips have transformed from an easygoing grin to a thin pursed line. The dimples that had adorned his rosy cheeks have all but disappeared, and without them, Harry looks ten years older, and ten times more intimidating.

Rowan clears her throat in an attempt to ease the newfound tension. “That—that was a joke,” She mumbles with a weak laugh, stroking the amber fur of Butternut’s back as he fusses once more. “She, uh, she didn’t do that.” Turning back to the shelf of teas, Rowan scans over the labels swiftly to find one like she’d described. “You sell one too, huh? A bedtime tea?”

Harry gives a terse nod of his head as his eyes follow the gesture of Rowan’s chin, his gaze seemingly glued to every one of her actions. “I do, yeah. Would you—?” Although he cuts off the question before he can even ask it, he only pauses to run his tongue over his darkened lips once before beginning again. “Would you like to try some? I can make a little sample tin for you. Or…” When his irises meet her own, Rowan finds they’ve shifted once more, moving further and further from the brightness she’d first seen upon their initial meeting. “If there’s nothing here you’d like to try…I live above the shop, in the flat upstairs,” He jerks his chin upwards, as if the motion is supposed to convince her he’s telling the truth. “I’ve been testing out some new blends that you might like, if you want to try them…?”

The sudden invitation to come up to his apartment isn’t exactly unwanted, but still leaves Rowan taken aback nevertheless. It’s not so much the invitation itself, Rowan reasons, her fingers massaging down Butternut’s back lightly, but the way it was delivered. Every interaction she’s had with Harry so far has felt organic, as natural and easy as breathing. This, however…this request feels anything but. “Oh. Uh—”

“You’re under no obligation, of course,” Harry clarifies, straightening the jars on the shelf while his cheeks stain a darker shade of crimson. “I just thought—you may like to see more of—of some things I’ve made, or—”

“No, I would!” Rowan’s heart hammers in her chest as Harry stumbles over his words, the apparent anxiety in his strained explanation endearing him in a way she hadn’t expected. “I would, and it sounds wonderful, but…” She raises Butternut in her arms in lieu of an explanation. She’s not exactly sure what’s bothering him, but from the way he’s been fussing throughout their entire conversation—especially when he’d behaved so well while in Harry’s arms—it’s clear that there’s somewhere he wants to run to. Or something he wants to run from. “I should be getting this guy home.”

A sheepish look paints itself onto Harry’s features, dragging down his eyes and creased brow, and before Rowan can say anything else, an apology tumbles from his downturned lips. “Right, of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—to make you uncomfortable—”

“I’m not uncomfortable!” Rowan assures him just as quickly, giving a firm shake of her head as reinforcement. “I—actually, I’m very comfortable with you, which is strange, given we just met—” Her own cheeks flush at the candid admission, growing to match Harry’s in hue. “But I just—I have to get Butternut home, but—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation, it’s fine—”

“But if you’re free tomorrow afternoon, I’d love to come over for tea.”

Harry’s hasty apologies cut off before they can echo out of his throat, the unspoken words practically visible as they hang on the tip of his tongue. “You would?”

“I would,” Rowan confirms, the corners of her lips tugging up at the endearingly dumbfounded expression that sweeps over Harry’s entire face. “Maybe 2 o’clock, if that works for you?”

Tugging on his chestnut curls as his grin begins to grow once more, Harry gives a sharp nod of agreement. “That would be wonderful, yeah. I’ll see you here at 2 o’clock.”

…

At 1:59PM the next day, Rowan stands beneath the cream and hunter sign reading Verbena and Birch Apothecary, and re-evaluates her life choices. 

She’d like to consider herself a smart girl. Her mother had raised her to be thoughtful, introspective, and aware of her surroundings, as well as the people in them. If she had a bad vibe from Harry, or believed him to be dangerous in any way, she would turn on her heel and march back down the streets of the Village until she reached her own apartment. Or, even more, she probably wouldn’t have left her apartment in the first place, and would have let 2 o’clock come and go without a second guess. But Harry hasn’t given her any reason to think that he could hurt her; if he’d wanted to hurt her, it would’ve been much easier to have dragged her upstairs the day before. No one had seen her quickly ducking into his shop, and she’d been so busy chasing Butternut that she hadn’t told anyone where she was going. Their meeting today, however, has been pre-planned, meaning that Harry could assume that she’s told someone where she’s gone, or at the very least, left a note in her apartment in case police search it after she goes missing. There’s no reason for her to be concerned.

Then again, Rowan remembers the stranger danger lessons given to her in elementary school by New York police officers, and is reminded once more that the decision she’s making is probably a stupid one.

It’s just… Rowan touches the stone pendant hanging around her neck. The shining tiger’s eye had belonged to her mother before she passed, and Rowan could remember her rubbing a worried thumb over the smooth surface any time something was troubling her. Rowan herself thumbs over the honey-streaked stone, her own brow furrowing. Just.

It’s just Harry. It’s just something about him, something coded within his emerald eyes that makes her question everything she’d been taught. Of course she shouldn’t be having tea with a strange man she’s spoken to for barely fifteen minutes over the course of two encounters. Of course she shouldn’t accept an invitation into his home as if she was a lamb volunteering for her own slaughter. But Harry doesn’t feel like a stranger. At least, he feels unlike any stranger she’s ever encountered before.

The minute hand of the watch on her wrist slips past the twelve, leaving Rowan with no more time to dwell on the matter. Taking a deep breath as she tucks her shoulder length waves behind her ears, she pulls open the front door of the shop and steps inside.

Harry is standing behind the counter, writing in the leatherbound journal she’d noticed on his person the day he stumbled into her own shop. Upon hearing the tinkle of the chime above the door, his head turns up, and his emerald gaze meets her own.

“Rowan, hi,” Harry smiles easily at her as he shuts the journal, looping the leather tie around the bindings with practiced ease. “Right on time.”

“For once in my life,” Rowan jokes in an attempt to hide her nerves. She slips her hands into the pockets of the worn trench coat she’d found at an estate sale the previous year, trying to curb her habit of twisting her rings around her fingers when she’s nervous. “Sorry, am I interrupting your work?”

Tucking the leather bound journal underneath the counter in one smooth motion, Harry shakes his head. “No, not at all. It’s been a fairly slow afternoon. Not much to interrupt.”

“Really? No stray cats have run into your shop today?”

The small laugh that falls from Harry’s lips is light and easy, and lodges itself somewhere deep within Rowan’s chest in a way she doesn’t quite understand. “No, but the day is still young.”

Harry steps out from behind the counter, and for the first time, Rowan notices that his outfit is devoid of the hunter apron he’d worn the day before. Instead, Harry is dressed in a chunky knit chestnut coloured sweater with green detailing around the cuffs and hem. His pants are olive toned, baggy in their fit, and pool just above his black vans. He looks comfy. Cozy, Rowan thinks. Like he could laze back on a couch in the evening, his hands a bit sooty from stoking the fire, but that doesn’t matter, because he’ll laugh and try to swipe a charcoal covered finger over her cheek, and leave fingerprints along her skin when he—

“So you said you live upstairs?” Rowan’s voice is breathless when she pulls herself from her daydream, and she fidgets with the tiger’s eye around her neck in an attempt to calm herself with the familiar motion.

“Uh, yeah, I do. I—sorry, is that…” Harry’s gaze drops from her eyes to her fingers, watching as she twists the pendant up and down the old chain. “Is that tiger’s eye?”

Rowan glances down at the pendant caught between her fingers. The honey-streaked stone is cut in the shape of an oval and set into a metal backing, worn smooth from two generations of Frances women habitually rubbing it. It’s pretty, to be sure, but it’s never drawn anyone’s attention so quickly. But then again, Rowan’s sure the stone is stocked on the shelves behind her; it’s no wonder Harry’s noticed it.

“It is, yeah. My mom gave it to me,” Rowan says, letting the pendant fall back against her navy turtleneck. Technically, her mother didn’t give it to her. In all actuality, Rowan had claimed it after her mother passed away five years ago. However, now didn’t seem the time to dump all her mommy issues onto a virtual stranger, no matter how familiar he felt. The death of your only parental figure is more of a second date conversation, she thinks.

Not that they’ve had a first date. This is tea. She’s just here to try tea that Harry’s made. This rendezvous probably falls more under the category of a sales pitch than a date, and Rowan’s not sure why that fact makes her stomach churn in discontent, but she’s determined to ignore it.

“It’s lovely,” Harry says, seemingly unaware of the debate that’s playing out in Rowan’s mind. “May I?”

He reaches his right hand towards her, and Rowan’s eyes once again focus on the strange symbol inked into his smooth skin. A shiver runs up her spine as the uncomfortably familiar feeling of deja vu settles over her. His words are identical to yesterday, when he offered her a sample of the protection balm he made. But underneath that memory, there’s something else, something that settles at the very edge of her mind’s eye, just out of reach of clarity. That same phrase— “May I?”— echoed in a lilting British accent, a flash of a ringed, tattooed hand tugging at blush coloured sheets, the dangle of her tiger’s eye pendant over a flushed chest that’s inked with tattoos she can’t quite place…

The hand in front of her pauses, and its owner’s eyes find her own. Harry flicks his eyebrows up as if to repeat his question, and Rowan realizes he’s waiting for her to give him permission to examine her necklace.

“Yeah, sorry—” She hastily reaches behind her neck to undo the clasp, brushing her bobbed hair out of her way. “Let me just—”

She cuts off her speech with a stuttered gasp as Harry’s nimble fingers find the pendant that hangs over her turtleneck, carefully securing the stone between his digits without touching her.

It’s not until this moment that Rowan realizes that Harry is standing close enough to her that she can see the flecks of gold in his emerald eyes, which are trained on the pendant in a focused manner. The tip of his nose is flushed the same shade as the strawberry of his mouth, and the hue also skirts along the apples of his cheeks, barely visible with the concentrated expression that’s painted on his face.

Rowan doesn’t know much about Harry, but she stocks this new knowledge—how he’s careful to ask for her permission to move towards her, but merges his personal space bubble with her own once that permission is given—in the back of her mind. It’s so familiar that it produces an ache deep within her chest that confounds her.

“It’s a beautiful necklace,” Harry keeps his eyes on the pendant as he twists it between his fingers. “You said it was your mother’s?”

Rowan forces herself to sound calm and collected when she answers. “I did, yeah. She used to call it her lucky charm.”

“Tiger’s eye provides protection,” Harry murmurs the words quietly as he lets go of the necklace. It falls lightly back onto Rowan’s chest. “It’s a lovely piece. She was very kind to give it to you.”

“She was, yes,” Rowan fidgets with the necklace, fixing its position around her neck. “She’s—she’s a very kind person.”

Rowan’s not exactly sure why she slips into the present tense to describe her mother. Sure, she’s already decided that the death of a parent is a second date topic, but she’s also already decided that this isn’t a date. From past experience, she knows it’s better to rip off the “my mother passed unexpectedly when I was twenty years old and it tore apart my life” bandaid sooner rather than later, but she also knows that most men tend to stray away from the topic of mothers when they invite women up to their apartments for tea.

Then again, Rowan thinks ruefully as she follows Harry behind the counter a moment later at his request, Harry hasn’t acted like most men she’s ever met before.

The small corridor that leads towards the back of the shop is dark, lacking the sunlight that illuminates the front of the store. Instead, the floor creaks under Rowan’s feet, accented by the click of the heeled boots she may or may not have worn to bring herself closer to Harry’s height.

Harry pauses before an open doorway, and Rowan can smell the room before she sees it— lavender and sage, lemon and cloves, cinnamon and rosehips, and a thousand other scent combinations that Rowan can’t name. She peers over Harry’s shoulder to see a cluttered workbench, not unlike her own, covered in little glass bottles, bunches of greenery, and the familiar petals of yarrow flowers that she’d sold to Harry previously. Along the back wall, under a small window, is a row of bottles with different oils inside, and to the left is a gas range with two separate pots set on top. One of the pots is still steaming, the vapor coiling lazily above its contents, despite the range being off (Rowan checks with a flick of her eyes).

“This is where I make most of my inventory,” Harry says with a motion of his hand. “I had to add the range myself when I bought the place, but the butcher’s block and the work spaces were already here. I got pretty lucky.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Rowan replies, and she pauses a moment, waiting for the invitation to step inside and explore. When the invitation doesn’t come, and Harry turns his attention to the door to the left of the corridor, just before the entrance to the back room, Rowan can’t deny that she’s disappointed. However, part of her understands; she hates when anyone steps into her backroom. The organized chaos is always just one stray hand away from descending into madness, and what she stores in her workroom isn’t nearly as breakable as what’s inside Harry’s.

Instead, Rowan turns her gaze to the door that Harry’s unlocking with a key from his pocket. The key itself is small and brass, with a tarnished, well-worn handle and a detailed head. The object resembles something Rowan would expect to see in a movie set in the early 1900s rather than on the keyring of someone around her age, but it fits perfectly into the lock on the inconspicuous door. As Harry slips the weathered key back into his pocket, Rowan notes that it’s the only key on the keyring. She can’t say she’s surprised that there’s no car key present— hardly anyone she knows in New York has a car, much less their license. She’s one of the few of her friends that does, and that’s only because her mother had insisted she learn when she was eighteen. However, she is surprised to see no key to the shop on the ring. Rowan has three separate locks on the door to her own store, and keeps all the keys jumbled together with her apartment set.

“Like I mentioned, I live just above the shop,” Harry interrupts her pondering as he nods up the steep set of dark stairs. “Follow me, and try to watch your step. These stairs tend to trip people the first time they climb them.”

“Right, okay,” Rowan does as Harry says, following his practiced steps at the pace he sets. She lasts about three stairs before stumbling, and grabs hold of the worn railing to catch herself before she falls forward.

Harry turns around as much as the small space lets him, and the look on his face is concerned, but not surprised. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just regretting my choice of shoes right now,” Rowan laughs airily, hoping the darkness of the stairwell hides the blush she’s sure is working its way over her cheeks. “You really weren’t kidding, huh?”

“No, I wasn’t,” A set of fingers brushes over her hand that clings to the railing, and there’s a moment of hesitation before Harry tugs her hand away from the railing and grasps it gently within his own. “Here, just go a little slower. I’ll help you.”

It’s clear that Harry’s dashed up and down these stairs hundreds of times, because he has no trouble navigating the steep flight with his body turned sideways to guide Rowan to the top. His hand stays locked around hers, comforting without being controlling, until he pulls her onto the cramped landing at the top of the stairs.

“There we go,” He grins at her, his dimples barely visible in the dim light as he releases her hand. “You made it.”

“I did,” Rowan hopes the embarrassment isn’t detectable in her voice. “Only almost died once.”

Harry laughs, low and melodic, as he fishes in his pocket for something, and pulls his ringed hand back out with the same key he used to unlock the door to the stairwell. He presses the key into the silver lock on the door, and Rowan is surprised to hear the click of the lock two seconds later.

With a quick twist of the squeaky doorknob, Harry pushes open the door and leads Rowan into his apartment.

Although she’s only known Harry for a short time, she can’t really say she’s surprised by anything she sees in front of her. Harry’s apartment is big by New York standards, with exposed brick walls and greenery draped along every shelf. There’s a large set of windows along the far wall that sends a spark of jealousy down Rowan’s spine, and a velvet emerald-coloured couch that turns the spark into a flame. The scent of incense floats through the air, evidenced by the multiple holders she sees scattered along the living room, and pressed against the left wall is a bookshelf that holds multiple aged books set in leather and embossed with gold.

Harry’s apartment is earthy, and centered, and quite possibly the most beautiful space Rowan has ever seen.

“This is gorgeous, Harry,” She says breathlessly, her hand rising of its own accord to touch the frame of a print hung in the hallway by the door. “How long have you lived here?”

“God, about…eight years now, maybe? To tell you the truth, I think I’ve lost count,” Harry toes off his vans, and Rowan follows suit, tugging off her own boots and thanking her past self for deciding to spend the extra time to find matching socks this morning. “Can I take your coat?”

“Sure, thank you,” Rowan begins to slip the trench coat over her shoulders, unsurprised when she feels a second set of hands help slide the fabric down her arms. She’s adjusting to Harry’s easy way with touch— revels in it, actually, which is new for her.

Harry hangs her coat on the stand just beside the door, and that same dimpled smile is on his face when he turns back around. “The kitchen is just through here, I’ll show— Jesus—”

Rowan nearly slams into Harry’s back as he comes to a quick stop in front of her, his arms braced against either wall in the small front hallway. Before she can stumble more from the sudden pause, his hand reaches behind him, finding her waist and steadying her.

“Harry?” Rowan’s skin feels as if it’s burning underneath her sweater, the sensation warmest at her core where Harry is touching her. “Is everything—?”

“Yes, sorry, it’s just—” Harry lets go of her with a sigh, stepping over what appears to be a large smoke coloured furry pillow in the middle of the hallway. “It’s just Clint.”

Rowan regards him with confusion, her chestnut eyes searching his own emerald for an explanation. “Clint? Who’s Clint?”

“That’s Clint,” He nods down to the furry pillow and nudges it with his sock covered foot. The pillow twitches, stretches when provoked, and Rowan suddenly realizes it’s not a pillow at all, but in fact—

“You have a rabbit named Clint?”

Harry’s already walking towards the kitchen, unconcerned about Clint’s nap spot that blocks the entryway of his apartment. “I do.”

A million questions flood through Rowan’s head, a million different things she could say about this new tidbit of Harry trivia. But instead of asking how owning a rabbit works in a New York City apartment, why said rabbit seems to have an infinity for inconvenient nap locations, or if tripping over him is an everyday occurrence (which, based on Harry’s exasperated sighs, she thinks it might be), the comment that leaves her mouth is, “Clint is kind of a weird name for a rabbit.”

Harry pauses his movements in the kitchen, one hand frozen on a mahogany cabinet while the other holds a jar of a dried tea blend. “You think so?”

Rowan flinches inwardly, still stuck frozen behind the rabbit in the hallway. “I— shit, sorry, that was rude. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay. It is weird, I know,” Harry laughs, and the sound immediately drains the tension that had seized Rowan’s entire body. “But he likes it, and refuses to change it, so…yeah. Clint the rabbit. You can just step over him, by the way,” Harry says as he notices Rowan has yet to leave the entryway. “He’s pretty used to it, because he’s also stubborn about where he takes his fifteen daily naps, the lazy bugger…”

Stepping carefully over the rabbit as instructed, a smile plays on Rowan’s lips as she makes her way to the kitchen. “Damn. Sounds like Clint really needs to start pulling his weight around here.”

Harry snorts as he picks up the copper kettle located on his stovetop and fills it with water. “Try telling him that,” He says, flicking the gas range onto high and setting the kettle on the burner. “Even Atticus contributes more to the household, and I hardly have to feed him.”

Rowan leans over the stonetop counter, her eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Who’s Atticus? Another pet?”

“No, not a pet. More like a…friend…” Harry’s voice is barely above a murmur as he looks between the jar of tea in his hand, and the multiple jars lined up in his open cupboard. “Sorry, just…trying to choose what blend to give you.”

Tapping her index finger against the knuckle of her other hand, Rowan watches as a crease of concentration forms between Harry’s stern brow. “I can try any blend,” She offers, hoping to help with the indecision that seems to be plaguing him. “I’m really not picky.”

“No, but I am. I don’t want to give you the wrong one.”

“The wrong…?” Rowan tilts her head to the side, her own forehead creasing identical to Harry’s. “How can a tea blend be—?”

“This one,” Harry says triumphantly, swapping the jar in his hand with another stored at the very back of the cabinet. “I’ve been tweaking this recipe lately. I think you’ll like it.”

Harry opens another cabinet full of dishware, and grabs a midnight blue teapot with white detailing along the sides. After he sets the teapot on the counter, he pulls out two teacups with the same white detailing over midnight paint. 

It’s fascinating to watch the practiced ease with which Harry brews the tea. He’s added a few scoops of the blend into the diffuser that’s set inside the teapot by the time the kettle starts to whistle, and once he’s taken the kettle off the heat and poured the boiling water into the teapot to steep, he immediately reaches for a glass container that’s set on the counter. From her vantage point, Rowan can tell that it’s filled with honey.

Harry doesn’t ask her if she takes cream or sugar in her tea, and Rowan doesn’t interject to say she prefers one scoop of sugar and a dash of milk. Instead, she lets Harry dictate exactly how she’ll test out his own blend, observes carefully how he fills each teacup almost to the brim, but leaves enough room to add a few drops of honey with the glass wand that he keeps inside the matching jar. It’s clear that all of this is a science to him, from the amount of golden liquid added, all the way down to how he carefully stirs each cup before setting the drink down in front of her with a shy smile.

“Keeping with yesterday’s theme…” He says quietly, turning the cup so the handle faces Rowan for an easy grip. “Tea for protection.”

Rowan slowly lifts the delicate china to her mouth, blowing over the boiling liquid before inhaling the steam. “I smell…cinnamon, I think? And a little bit of lemon?”

Harry’s smile grows until his dimples flash at her. He’s still leaning over the countertop, mimicking Rowan’s curved posture. When she inhales again, she can smell the light scent of Harry’s cologne mixing in with the vapours of the tea.

“Good catch,” Harry praises her easily, tapping his ringed fingers against the countertop. “The base of the tea is a black tea blend, but there’s cinnamon and lemon balm in it, along with a few other things. A little cardamom, clove, nutmeg, ginger…a couple other spices. But they all do a really good job of keeping away things that could hurt you.”

Rowan doesn’t bother to inquire about how lemon balm can keep away something that could hurt her again; she doubts she’d get an answer that she really understands. Instead, she just blows over the surface of the tea one more time before taking a small sip. The flavours Harry listed rush over her tongue at a just below scalding temperature, swirling in her mouth before running down her throat and leaving a pleasant warmth behind.

Harry watches intently, his body still leaning across the countertop towards her. “What do you think?”

Rowan takes another small gulp of tea, more mindful of the heat this time. “It’s really good, Harry. The honey in it, too…adds just the right amount of sweetness.”

Rowan hadn’t realized the amount of tension that had strung itself between Harry’s shoulders until she watches it roll out of him. “Thank you. I’m glad you like it,” He says, straightening up before grasping his own teacup to take a sip. 

“Were you nervous I wouldn’t?”

Harry’s answering shrug is just on the edge of sheepish. “Maybe a little. I’m always a bit nervous when someone tries one of my products for the first time. I want them to like it, you know?”

“I get the same way when I design custom arrangements for clients,” Rowan confesses, swirling the tea in her cup. “There’s this moment, right before I show them their arrangements, when I swear I can feel my heart in my throat. I used to get so nervous that I felt like I was going to pass out.”

“Really?” Harry raises an inquisitive brow. “How did you stop it?”

“I started using this trick my mom taught me. Right before I show the arrangement to a client, like right before, when I’m getting it from the fridge, I picture what I hope their reaction will be. Excitement, surprise, happiness, things like that. More often than not, clients usually react the way I imagine they will. It helps keep me calm.”

That crease appears between Harry’s brow again, but smooths out a moment after Rowan takes notice of it. “Your mother is a smart lady.”

“She…yeah,” Rowan clears her throat and takes another sip of tea, the temperature more comfortable now. “And she keeps coming up in conversation, which is probably pretty annoying. Sorry.”

It takes all of Rowan’s self control to stop herself from pressing her thumb between Harry’s brows as that damn crease comes back. “Why are you sorry? I like hearing about your past. It makes it easier to understand you in the present.”

The sincerity in his tone brings a flush to Rowan’s cheeks. “Is that something you’re having difficulty with? Understanding me?”

Harry hums in consideration as he brings his teacup to his lips. One of his rings, the one set with a red stone— a garnet?— flashes under the light. “It’s becoming progressively easier the more I’m around you. But there’s still so much that seems…clouded.”

Rowan can’t suppress the shiver that runs down her spine at his words, but tries to disguise it under a humorous tone. “Well, we only just met. I’d be a bit concerned if you knew everything about me.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to know everything about you; I said I wanted to understand. You don’t have to know every facet of someone’s life to understand who they are,” Harry argues in a tone that borders on defensive. 

“And is…understanding people something you’re good at?” Rowan asks after a moment, fighting to keep her own tone light.

“Usually. It’s easier to understand some people than others.”

“Where do I place on that scale?”  Rowan pitches her voice lower than she means it to be, as if she’s whispering something in the dead of night. As if she’s afraid to be heard. “In, like, terms of difficulty…if one was the least difficult person to understand, and ten was the most difficult. Where do I sit?”

“The difficulty of understanding you…” Harry trails off, and for the first time, Rowan realizes that understanding is a placeholder word for Harry. It’s a word that’s almost synonymous with what he means, but doesn’t carry the same intention. It’s a verbal facade, disguising what he’s really trying to say behind a half truth.

But the thing about half truths? They’re always half lies, as well.

“I don’t know,” Harry says after a weighty moment, his tongue swiping over his lips. “I can’t quite place you yet.”

This time, Rowan detects the half lie right away. But she doesn’t push it. In all honesty, she’s a little afraid of the answer. There’s something in the way Harry’s jade eyes regard her, the way he leans into her space, both mentally and physically…she’s almost convinced that if Harry were to tell a whole truth instead of a half, the answer may break her.

Which is dramatic, and unfathomable, and even as Rowan repeats that to herself over and over internally, she knows that only half of what she’s repeating is true. A half lie, born of her own mind.

“Well,” Rowan drops her eyes to the contents of her teacup as she lifts the drink to her lips. “Let me know when you do.”

If Harry’s aware of the charged nature of her words, he doesn’t say anything. The two of them finish their tea with casual small talk, rather than more evaluations of the other’s character. Rowan reveals that she’s a born and raised New Yorker, while Harry tells her about growing up in London (Rowan mentally pats herself on the back for restraining her instinct to tell Harry that’s where her mother grew up). Harry talks little about his family, mentioning an older sister who’s married, a mother who passed away when he was a boy, and a father who still lives in his childhood home. When Rowan asks when Harry last visited the country of his birth, his eyes drift a shade darker, and his tattooed hand drifts upwards to his chest, rubbing the area with the same subconscious movement that drives Rowan to fidget with her necklace. The tone of his voice when he says that he hasn’t been back since his move brings her to drop the subject altogether. 

The two of them learn that they both share the same love of the first snowfall of the season, and a sense of melancholy when it rains. Both Harry and Rowan experience deja vu frequently, as well as knock on wood to prevent themselves from indirectly jinxing things they say. They both record their dreams in a journal, both sleep better with the sounds of the city as a lullaby. And by the time Rowan stands up to leave, they’ve both agreed to see each other again.

 As per Harry’s request, Rowan types her number into Harry’s cell phone as he carries their used teacups to the sink. When she hands him back his phone (her number is saved under the name Flower Shop Girl, which Harry had confessed he thought of her as before he knew her name, and the admittance brings so much warmth to her chest that Rowan forgets again to ask how he knew her name during their first meeting), Harry has a small satchel in his hands, which he gives to her in exchange.

“This is another new blend I’m working on,” Harry’s fingers just barely brush over hers as he slips the satchel into her hands. “It has chamomile and lavender in it, so I recommend drinking it before bed.”

Rowan brings the satchel to her nose, inhaling deeply at the pleasant scent. “I can smell the lavender, and…cinnamon?”

A small smile plays on the corners of Harry’s lips as he walks her to the door (he takes Rowan’s hand to help her step over Clint, who’s still asleep in the entryway). “You’re good at that.”

“Thanks. I guess spending pretty much all my time around flowers is useful for…scent identification,” Rowan flinches internally as she slips her boots back onto her feet. Who the hell says shit like scent identification? She switches the topic back to the satchel in her hand, hoping she doesn’t sound as awkward as she feels. “Is it meant to help with sleep? The tea, I mean.”

“It can, yeah. It’s, uh…well, it’s meant to help with clairvoyance,” Harry slides Rowan’s trench coat off the coat rack and holds it open for her to slip on.

Goosebumps prick up along Rowan’s skin as she slides on her jacket. “Clairvoyance? What do you mean?”

“Just…someone’s perception of things,” Harry shrugs nonchalantly, tucking his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “It helps clear the mind, keep it open, that sort of thing.”

Rowan looks down at the unassuming satchel still clutched in her hand. “There’s not, like, magic mushrooms in here, is there? Because I had a really bad experience once in university, and I’d rather not—”

Harry’s laugh is loud and rolling, echoing enough through the entryway that Clint’s ears prick up. “No, no psychedelics. Not in this blend, anyways. But I’d love to hear about your experience with shrooms, if you’d like to share.”

“Maybe some other time,” Rowan rolls her eyes as she tucks the satchel into her pocket. “We can swap embarrassing intoxication stories another day.”

“We could, yeah. Maybe over dinner?”

There’s a note of hopefulness in Harry’s voice that fans that flame inside her chest. “Yeah. Maybe over dinner.”

Harry’s shoulder brushes against hers as he reaches past her to open the door. “It’s a date.”

…

In her dreams, Rowan is in Central Park.

At least, she thinks it’s Central Park. It’s pitch black, with the only light to illuminate her path being the shine of the full moon above her head. Rowan knows the trail through the park like the back of her hand, having walked them most of her life. However, she’s never traversed through the park in the dead of night, let alone by herself, and there’s a sense of uneasiness resting over her.

She wants to turn around. She wants to find her way back to the busy streets, and hail a taxi that’s surely still cruising through the city that never sleeps. She wants to make her way out of the freezing cold of the night, and retreat back into the comfort of her tiny apartment. She wants to be anywhere but here.

And yet, her feet keep taking measured steps forward, further and further into the only forest in the middle of a suburban sprawl. When she was a child, she’d been fascinated with photos of the park from above, by the stark contrast of nature and industrialization. She’d often dreamt of being a bird, and flying over the city so she could make the comparison for herself.

Dream, Rowan thinks, and her steps pause. This is a dream. She doesn’t need a taxi; all she needs to do is close her eyes, and think about being back home, and then—

A hand wraps around her waist from behind, and before Rowan can scream out in surprise, another clasps itself over her mouth. Fear courses through her body, freezing her limbs more than the bitter winter air ever could, and she shudders as a pair of lips brush over her ear.

“It’s okay,” A voice says in her ear, and the low British lilt is familiar to her now, as easy to place as her own. “It’s alright, love. S’just me.”

Rowan relaxes in Harry’s arms, but only by a fraction. She tries to mumble against his hand, but he keeps it pressed tight over her mouth, careful not to obstruct her nose as well.

“You need to listen to me, okay?” Harry’s breath is hot on her neck. While Rowan typically finds sensations to be dampened during dreams, the feeling of his breath rolling over her skin is so pleasurable that her knees almost buckle. “Nod if you’re listening.”

Rowan nods, the urgency in Harry’s words being just enough to keep her from succumbing to the newfound desperation supplied by his proximity.

“Good, that’s good. I don’t have long, so you need to listen carefully.”

Humming against his hand, Rowan knows that Harry senses her meaning: get on with it. 

“When you get to this night— this night, this specific night— you need to pause when you reach the fork in the path, alright?” Harry’s thumb strokes over her cheek as he murmurs the instructions in her ear. “Look up to the sky. Do you see the moon?”

Rowan’s chocolate eyes tilt up to the sky as she hums her understanding. It would be so much easier to communicate if he would uncover her mouth. Why won’t he uncover her mouth? She could talk to him if he did, tell him she understands, tell him what the feeling of him pressed so tightly against her back is doing to her, tell him to bring his lips just a bit closer to her skin…

“It’s a full moon. Memorize what the cold feels like against your skin,” Harry’s voice reaches hypnotic levels as he commands her. “The smell of pine in the air. You need to remember this moment, okay? Remember this night, remember this dream, and remember to pause when you get to the fork in the path.”

“Harry…” Rowan tries to whisper his name from underneath his hand, but the plea comes out muffled, barely audible over the whistling of wind through the trees. 

The hand over her mouth tightens reflexively, rings pressing so hard into her skin that Rowan thinks it’ll leave an imprint of the metal band once she’s released. The thought sends a ripple through her body.

“You need to be quiet, love. It’s almost time, and it’ll hear you,” Harry squeezes her body tighter against his, almost like an apology. “I have to go in a moment, before it knows I’m here.”

The sound that falls from Rowan’s lips is involuntary, and strays so close to being considered a whine that she’s glad Harry’s grasp on her is muffling her words.

“I’m sorry,” There’s a new note in Harry’s voice, a tone of distress just barely straining his normally soothing speech. “I wish I could tell you more. I wish I could explain, but I can’t. Not yet. Just— just remember what I said. Pause when you reach the fork in the path. Promise me you’ll do that.”

Rather than try to speak incoherent words behind Harry’s hand, Rowan raises her own and brings it to her mouth. With her index finger, she draws two lines over the back of his hand, hoping he gets the message. 

Cross my heart.

The sigh that Harry heaves blows the hair around her neck in separate directions, and Rowan’s eyes flutter closed for a moment as the sensation rolls over her.

“Good girl,” Harry breathes the words into her ear, and the breath that Rowan pulls into her chest is shakier than ever. “I have to go. And you need to wake up.”

Rowan shakes her head as her hand settles on top of Harry’s, keeping his palm pressed over her mouth. It feels so good, so much better than she ever could have imagined. It’s been so long since someone’s touch has made her feel like this, like she’s falling into their heat without a second thought. She doesn’t want to leave this moment. 

“You need to wake up, Rowan,” Harry’s voice grows more persistent in her ear, more urgent. The wind picks up around them, whipping her hair around her face as she leans into him more. “Wake up!”

…

It’s still dark outside when Rowan jolts upright in her bed.

For a moment, she thinks she’s still in her dream. She reaches behind her for Harry, but instead of finding the warmth of his body, she encounters the smooth cotton of her pillow. There’s a movement to her left, and she whips her head around, almost expecting to see Harry there, his emerald eyes intent on her. Instead of emerald, she finds ochre, and sees that Buttercup is watching her, clearly awoken by her own abrupt start.

Finally accepting that she’s in her bedroom, Rowan flops back into her pillows, ignoring Buttercup’s meow of indignation at being jostled. She pulls the cat into her arms, and the familiarity of his fur against her skin calms her racing heart. 

It was a dream, she tells herself. It was an incredibly vivid dream, one that brought to life desires that she didn’t even know she had, but a dream nonetheless. With a sigh, Rowan glances at the mug of tea on her bedside table, still containing liquid that’s turned icy cold while she’s slumbered. She hadn’t even finished half of the brew before it knocked her out. Rowan wonders if it’s possible to ask Harry if the tea contains anything that could cause strangely vivid and…Christ, she can’t deny it— arousing— dreams without giving away the fact that he was the star of them.

Buttercup purrs against her chest, and Rowan sighs again, gently moving him back to his preferred spot next to her before curling onto her side. She can worry about her weirdly touch-centered dreams in the morning, she decides, when she’s more fully awake to process them. It’s been a long day, and Rowan is tired. She needs some rest, proper rest. She’s too exhausted to think right now.

And too exhausted to notice the imprint on her lip that resembles the band of a ring.

[dyrewrites]

Friday Kiss Tag - on a Saturday

@the-golden-comet shared this thing over here and left it open so I am doing this again.

Leaving this one OPEN, for anyone else to add their smooches--or just share their writing.

Rules: From your Story/WIP, share a kiss. It can be any kiss—from familial pecks on the cheek, forehead kisses, platonic smooches, to full-blown makeouts. Spread the love! ❤️

Rules: Share a snippet of your writing!

From "Before Deluca" wherein someone makes a scene.

--

Sea spray, he smelled of saltwater and something else...dirt, flowers? It mesmerized whatever it was—I would reconsider when I learned—and he caught me sniffing him. Face flushing with the grin he gave, and more times in an hour than it had all that year; I hurried to my room for my bag.

He insisted on taking it as I returned, though he waited for me to open the door, and smiled at my confusion when he grabbed the parasol hung beside it. Powder blue—like his jacket, coat and breeches, all embroidered in white floral designs too familiar—it was opened and held firm above him as we left my home.

No rain, or clouds, greeted us outside the door and I smiled with the warmth of the day...and the realization—or so I thought.

“Worried of your complexion, Lucient?” I asked him.

He swooned before answering, “Say it again and I will make certain everyone here knows your secret.” Confusion must have twisted my face again as when he looked at me, he scoffed and set my bag down, “The parasol is for my skin, yes, but those delicious lips of yours speak my name too sweetly,” stepping closer, head titled up too near my face, he drew a few eyes from the morning crowds and kept his voice low, “say it again and I will make a scene.”

What did I care? He already made a scene with my parents, and most of whom busied about then likely knew before they did. Beside that he was so close already, with those bright eyes and soft lips, that I couldn’t help myself.

“Is that a promise, Lucient,” The name barely left my lips before his replaced it.

There were gasps from the people around us, a few muttered curses as well, but also a rather boisterous shout of, “Benissimo, Vicki!” that I appreciated.

No one stopped us, or bothered us, as we lost ourselves. I took his chill face in my hands, sinking deeper into his kiss as he swooned for my warmth, his free hand grasping at my belt. Then his parasol drooped, blinding me with a sudden beam of sunlight, but it did more to him. He gasped, fearful and sharp, and pulled away from me.

His face smoothed quickly after, creasing only to smirk and scold me, “Chose coquine,” and as he continued toward the docks, he shot back, “For that, you can carry your own bag.”

Not entirely certain of what I had done, my bag was an easy thing to carry and I chased him with it slung over my shoulder...wondering what the sunlight had done.

--

Full Chapters Here (until the end of the month)

→Before Deluca Taglist<-

// feel free to ask to be added or removed ^.- //

@watermeezer @starbuds-and-rosedust @thespacelizard

@your-absent-father @mr-orion @cowboybrunch @olliexwrites

@rowanmgrey-author @the-golden-comet @wyked-ao3 @leahnardo-da-veggie

@lychhiker-writes @aziz-reads @mthollowell-writes

[mahiiimahiiii]

A/n: Hi folks! This is from my late night writing folder- I wanted an excuse to write nobility durgetash. May I present:

Our Lady Of Debauchery...(and other things)

(Durgetash)| DUrge x Lord Enver Gortash | named durge

Our music choice:

+*+

Tyrants palace, known to the locals as a den of debauchery was filled. Carriages of all colors and sizes flocked to the grand staircase, each holding its precious cargo- nobles.

The tyrants right hand wasn't used to this.

Wynne, child of bhaal sat on a dressing room chair attended too excitable human staff attempting to style her recently washed and un-pressed hair.

As a drow, her hair had two settings- unruly and wildly beautiful curls, or silky and pin straight hair (often times recently pressed with a steel comb). She held back tears as they continued to pull her hair into an updo, lining it with pins and sweeping her bangs into waves. She looked like the ads of women she so envied as a child, whatever that was to a drow. They set curls next to her eyes spinning her around to apply makeup... It would've been simpler to using a transforming scroll at this point

Her study as she liked to call it was colored a deep green, the walls embelised with a golden flower pattern, and dark wood paneling. Instead of a bed it held a shelved nook coated in lavender sheets and pillows. A hearth and a lavish blue rug lay to the other side of the bed with a dark wood desk with matching chair, a large plus armchair sat next to the hearth and sat at her vanity, decorated with bottles of cremes and combs.

The girls whispered about the guests, a young elven magistrate with long silver hair was found out to be a bachelor, he gave lord gortash a run for his money. Orin would be making appearance was well as another famous lord from across ferun, sent an invite for the temptations he would bring. She only had one plan and one target, the next in lead for the flaming fist. The dread fours mole has been chosen, a lord named Ravenguard.

This would be the first step in their plan, it should and it must go well.

The dress fit over her shoulders and was pulled down, corset pulled taught by two other women. This was abnormal, she felt uncomfortable in all the layers. .

She had forgone the heels deciding that a nice pair of embroidered flats should suffice.

She must admit this dress was lovely, and she would be it's first tester. The sage green complemented her soft brown skin and silky silver hair, pink florals decorated the base and hems, a delicate embroidery.

Gortash had chosen this dress for her, as often the lording would prefer for the future lady gortash to be at least fashionably adept.

She would just prefer to wear a button down and loose slacks

She sighed clipping in her singular pearl earring, a heavy teardrop shape, another gift from her lover. She made the final adjustments, dusting rouge onto her nose and oiled charcoal onto her lids, her eyes darkened by the deep colors. The assassin sighed with contempt taking a final look in the mirror. She looked decent enough to perhaps pass as a noble.

Wynne cleaned her hands off, the trail of the dress lagging behind. "Is master gortash ready? Our appearance is within ten to twenty minutes."

"He's been ready ma'am, waiting for you in the parlor for a bit now"

She chuffed, lifting up the train of her gown greatly disturbed by the lack of movement. How she hated this, Enver Gortash will never hear the end of this. He was no lord to her, simply an officer of the law seeking out the greater ideal of grand design, something she sought out for purpose. It was lucky- when she suggested to her long time lover about it. It was even luckier when the szarr family had allowed her to use the Library without incident. Or it could be the blessings her father continually blessed her with as the more successful child.

And now, one little dance, one small appearance, one night of suffering- and then it will be back to pants.

"Enver? Darling? Are you ready?"

She called out.

A confirming hum sounded from down the hall, his eyes lit up when he saw her. their warm and rich depths drinking her in . His hair was slicked back, this was not a good look for him.

"You look gorgeous! My beautiful huntress..." He cupped her chin kissing the bridge of her nose and her cheeks. "You look delicious...ugh, what a shame we have an event to attend." His eyes glittered.

"I hate this." She frowned "I hate your hair that way. I hate heels, I hate dresses, I hate people, I want to go lay under my blanket and have a large glass of wine and dwarf meat pies."

"Come now, don't be a downer. Does your blade not hunger for a cull? You'll be getting a sweet bloody treat later on- I'll let you keep the flesh."

She paused, thoughtful. "I do like flesh....."

"That's the spirit darling. Come now, we should be announced soon." He shook out his hair, no longer slicked back but slightly long and unruly. She liked it that way- as wild as his dark eyes.

From the parlor the manor house changed, dark flooring to beautiful creme tile, matching creme walls and chestnut panneling. Gold, and blue accents and paintings of nymphs and sleepy goats lined the walls.

One portrait was new, a woman with brown skin, deep burgundy eyes with a sad expression, her lips held a solum pout. Her hair was silvery blue, almost ethereal- she wore a simple blue dress and held items of selune.

"My heart- is that portrait new?" she admired the details as they passed. They walked arm in arm one of his hand petting her hand attached.

"It is indeed" he rumbled "I asked for your likeness- is it to your expectations?"

"Do I always look that sad then." She tilted her head, attempting to force a smile. Her lips found it hard to mold around.

He shrugged "I suppose, perhaps that's what the artist saw in your face. Asked them to use the portrait you gave me."

"ha! My father's portrait of me hm? I do look sad in that photo, mainly because I was hungry ."

"Perhaps we shall take more photos. Maybe we will capture your beautiful smile-" he plants a gentle kiss on her lips, his stubble gently scratching against her smooth skin.

They exhaled, contented, and anticipated the rush of noise following their announcement

"Enver, I am never doing this again. "

"I don't expect you too my darling"

The doors opened up and their names were announced

*Lady Wynne, paladin of selune and Lord Gortash of Wyrmere*

She shifted, uncomfortable at the attention. "I would much rather a discreet entrance but if this is the... Tradition. I shall do it."

She waved to the eyes and turned her way a cheesed smile plastered on her face.

"Think of it as any other scenario where I ask you to blend, remember you can be out of the dress after the first dance. Then our goal is to take out the target." He hummed, one hand on her waist. "Now because we are hosting this gala we must sit at the head of the table.

"Ugh just say I'm sick for that- Ill with the plague or some shit."

"Of course my darling." He helped her down the grand staircase, wary of her footing in the dress. She managed to look like she was floating down the stairs, she had an impression to make, this was her first noble circle appearance after all

The hall was loud, filled with a symphony voices each as distinct as a snowflake. Temples and churches sent their representatives, a contented looking, tall teifling escorted you to your seats. Her smile bright and her hands warm. Karlach her name was. One of Gortash's best.

Karlach was it? Beautiful creature she was. Would be a joy to see her innards.

Unfortunately within the realms of polite company such actions or thoughts are shamed.

Wynne smiled and introduced herself to the swarming hive of chatter, hands shook, flesh on flesh. Her ears rang with sound much louder than before: string instruments.

A dance had begun a good sign to keep her eyes peeled. A slight ping from her earring sent her catching Envers eye, he nodded toward the floor, before stopped by a shorter man dressed in a brilliant green frock.

They shook hands and fondly discussed things like old friends. The tyrant waved her over a tired "hold-it-together" smile on his face.

"Here's the lady of the hour!" He hummed taking her hand "lady Wynne, this is ... Lord? Astarion"

"Please - it's just Astarion, Astarion Anuncinn. At you and the lord's service." He paused "I am.. unfamiliar with the custom of meeting drow - is there a specific greeting?"

Her ears wiggled in odd excitement, "while I find it imensly charmed that you would ask, a handshake is fine. Our culture is no different than the norm."

The magistrate paused for a second, his eyes were gentle and thoughtful. "I'm sorry I hadn't meant to offend you" curls framed his face, silvery like spider silk, or a fine Iron. His milky white face bloomed with a faint pink in his cheeks, beautiful streaks of watercolor. How he'd make a pretty corpse.

"I can assure you none was taken. Now, astarion was it? What do you do for work?"

She hadn't expected to become this social. Hadn't expected someone charming such as the magistrate. His voice sung of an un-quenchable desire for something. Knowledge? Hunger? Power? Men and their secrets.

"hm? Me?" His hand was gloved "my lady, we have been hardly introduced- and you're already prying! How naughty." He took her hand and kissed her knuckles delicately. "Charmed. would you like to go somewhere quiet to discuss then?"

"Oh no!" She hummed "I'd like to leave period."

He raised his brow, something sparkling in his eye. "why does a sweet treat like you want to leave? I'm sure you'd be the belle of the ball"

"That's the point- I do not like the attention." His hand covered hers in a comforting way, his hands were cool, a low thrumming pulse emminating from them, though not sure from whom it was.

He hummed slowly, almost quizzical. His long lashes lowered and looking through them, "then why are you here."

She had never expected a question so personal. "I suppose.. it is my duty ultimately, as is every noble. Though I do not consider myself amongst their *ilk*"

He adjusted his ruffle collar "neither do I, I appear for my father often. He's less inclined to show up to parties like this." He paused for a moment "would you like to dance? Or perhaps we can find another quiet area to experience each other's company... Completely."

She hummed rocking back on her heels. "I am unsure how these parties work. Would you be willing to teach me?"

His smile was wide, cupids lip pulled taught and ready to fire. "I would quite like too."

*Don't get too carried away love. Remember to have a job to do*

He held out his hand, the smile not quite reaching his eyes. Wynne gingerly set her hand in his.

A string quartet played a slow and alluring rhythm as he spun her about. Careful and mindful of her feet- soft padded heels clicking against the floor

Perhaps this was the last time in her life she would have fun. Perhaps she should savor it.

Who knew.

[theroyalsims]

THE BATTLE OF THE COATS: QUEEN, ANYA, STUN DURING LATEST JOINT ENGAGEMENT

Clearly, Anya got her winning sense of style from her mum!

Earlier this morning, Her Majesty The Queen was accompanied by Prince Jacques and The Crown Princess for a visit to St. Balthazar Chapel, located in a small village up north in Brindlebury.

Dubbed one of the oldest religious sites in Brindleton, the chapel will be celebrating its 900th anniversary next month, and a special service will be held to mark the occasion. Members of the Royal Family are expected to attend.

The chapel has survived wars, fires, and disasters, but its history can be traced back to almost a thousand years ago when monks first built a simple structure that would serve as a place of worship for the small community.

Throughout the centuries, the chapel has been destroyed and rebuilt numerous times, and even changed congregations, but it has maintained its status as a sacred space where the community can come as one.

For the royal trio's visit, it looked like the entire village showed up to see their favourite royals! Local royal fans were delighted when Her Majesty and Their Royal Highnesses took time to chat with them during the walkabout.

For their visit to the church, all three donned formal outfits, with Prince Jacques looking dapper in his suit, while the ladies looked lovely in their coats and hats.

The Queen opted for a forest green military-inspired coat, which she paired with a matching wide-brimmed hat. Her Majesty accessorised with black court shoes and her trusty classic purse.

The Crown Princess, meanwhile, dressed to impress in a brand new coat dress in a lovely cornflower blue shade. The designer coat is from Katharine Sitt's upcoming collection, and is priced at  §1,900, although The Crown Princess is wearing a slightly altered version.

HRH's bespoke coat includes floral embroidery from the neckline all the way to the hem. The small flowers are actually Brindleton Blossoms, Brindleton's national flower, making the addition a patriotic and sentimental nod, perfect for a future Queen. Her Royal Highness wrapped up her look with matching blue pumps and a floral headpiece.

It's always lovely to see these three out and about! Here's to more (fashionable) joint outings in the near future!

[doodlinge]

hi! for the aubrey angst enjoyers, heres a little nightmare sequence i wrote for her. for a more angsty experience, listen to “a pearl” by mitski and think long and hard about how aubrey gets out her aggression and rage by bullying basil, and basil lets himself be bullied because it’s partially what he believes he deserves. if you want to read more of this…stay tuned for a kelbrey fic in the future that is aubrey-focused!

aubrey has a bad dream.

It had been a normal day so far. Aubrey had woken up, the dream from last night still fresh in her mind.

Everything was fine. Kel, Aubrey, Basil and Sunny had all taken out their umbrellas of designated colors as they watched the rain shower down onto the darkening pavement. Aubrey’s eyes shined with anticipation as she breathed in, allowing the scent of moisture to fill her nose and the taste of salt water to coat her tongue. She favored this time of year—spring, when her birthday was just around the corner and all of Basil’s flowers started to sprout.

She smiled to herself, imagining the sweet florals of Basil’s garden, the way that the soft petals of a lily of the valley would slide under her fingertips when she held it a bit closer to the sun.

A lily of the valley! That’s right—she had something she was going to do with Mari!

Aubrey beamed to herself, turning to face Sunny, who stared back with shining, so-brown-that-they’re-practically-black eyes. If you didn’t know him well, you might think that Sunny was judgemental or apathetic, but Aubrey knew in her heart that wasn’t the case at all!

Even the smallest flickers of emotions displayed great emotion in Sunny…when his eyes gleamed with a newfound curiosity, when a smallest bit of a smile broke from his lips…Aubrey could tell he was just as emotional as everyone else! She knew he’d have something interesting to say about her idea!

“Oh, Sunny, that reminds me! Mari and I were talking about dying our hair together. Mari says she’s gonna dye her hair purple.” Aubrey talked quickly, her enthusiasm spilling into her voice as she fidgeted with a strand of her hair, trying to stop the frizz from the rain from messing up her thick brunette locks.

Hehe…soon they’d be locks of a different color, she smiled to herself.

A voice sounded from beside her—an annoying, raspy, boyish one at that, that happened to make her feel all nervous and irritated and smiley at the same time. She turned, facing Kel with a quirked brow and a small frown.

“P-P-Purple?!” Kel barked, his eyes wide with surprise and comedic disgust. As if he couldn’t see how great of a color purple was.

Aubrey smirked sneakily, lingering closer to him to look at Kel face-to-face, as her voice drew lower and teasing. Kel stiffened a bit, drawing in a quick, scared breath. Sometimes she just loved a stir a reaction out of him! “…You wanna know what color I chose?”

He stepped back, whipping his head around to stare at Basil and Sunny in immature annoyance, as if he wanted them to be on his side. “Wait… are you saying you wanna dye your hair…PINK?!”

“Ewww… that’s weird…” He stuck out his tongue, his small frown exaggerating into a clear grossed-out-face. “Why would you ever do that?”

Aubrey sighed lightly, shrugging as she looked at the strand of hair she was playing with. If even the tips were pink, it would be even prettier than it was now. Mari always complimented her on her well-kept hair, and if she could turn it into her favorite color by next year, she just knew she’d be the coolest girl in seventh grade.

“I don’t know… I just thought it would be cute! Mari thinks so, too!” She responded, giggling a bit at the end. Kel flushed a bit, in either embarrassment or anger, she guessed. She didn’t care either way.

“Hmph…I’ll never understand you two and your crazy ideas,” he said, shaking his head. Of course he would never get it. He was a boy, and boys were gross…especially Kel! Aubrey hmmphed.

“I think pink would look good on you, Aubrey,” Basil offered, his light smile reliable and steady. There was something a bit off about him though, but she just couldn’t place her finger on it. She squinted a bit.

As she did, though, it looked like a few photographs seemed to flurry around him. A few at first, and then a lot, and then tons… all scattering the darkening surroundings and turning everything black, as they quickly started to fade and fizzle into the black floors. Aubrey gasped, but it caught in her throat, suffocating her with a pressure around her neck and chest that she couldn’t get rid of.

Fear wrenched her out of her safe, comfortable demeanor, as she threw herself to the ground, trying to save the photographs vanishing into the floor below her. She grabbed one, clutching it shakily in her palm as she looked at it desperately, but it was scribbled out in black marker. Even in her hands, as if put to a flame, it cindered and ebbed away, a memory now gone to nothingness.

“No,” Aubrey gasped for air, but her voice wasn’t young anymore. She wasn’t the girl she once was, those memories were all dead and gone and buried because of her. When she changed, she tore her way out of that hell, but she knew she also tore her way out of any chance at happiness.

Time was escaping her. It was all her fault, and only her fault, and that was why everyone left, and left, and left, and left—

“Aubrey… look at me.” A hand reached out, cupping her chin and tilting it sweetly to look up at the figure in front of her. For a moment, everything turned white.

Mari’s face. Gentle. Kind. Perfect. She was perfection itself, everything that Aubrey worshipped and prayed for and loved as a sister deeper than any other bond she had, and Aubrey hated her just as much. She told herself that, anyway. That she hated Mari.

She felt sick. Sick and horrible and cruel. Unworthy, undeserving of this person she never got to have for very long. And angry. So, so, immature and stupid and angry.

“Mari,” she breathed, on the verge of an apology she’d never let herself spit out.

“Listen, Aubrey. I have something important to tell you, that you should always keep in mind, okay?” Mari shook her head with a small giggle, ignoring her friend’s beg of a whisper to just be in her presence a little longer.

Just for a minute. One more minute.

She wanted safety, comfort for just another minute.

“Are you listening, Aubrey?”

Aubrey nodded, sniffling. She leaned into the older girl’s touch, before feeling it grow cold as it seemed to pierce her skin in a matter of seconds like thousands of pieces of broken glass. She winced, but didn’t say a single thing.

“You should feel ashamed for everything you’ve done.” Mari said with a blank, perfect smile. Her eyes were closed, but her eyelids didn’t crinkle like they used to. Her lips curved upwards, but it wasn’t real, it wasn’t real.

“This is all your fault.”

Aubrey choked out a sob, her tears rushing from her eyes like a stupid, small kid. She whimpered, clenching her hair and trying to wrench it out desperately, because she knew Mari was right, she knew she was a bully—

Mari distorted and changed from form to form; her hair becoming thin, dark tendrils that wrapped down and engulfed her face until only a single white eye stared into Aubrey’s own.

She remembered that face. She hated that face. She almost heaved at the sight of it.

She willed it to change, and it did.

Sunny, an empty, black stare boring into her own eyes.

Hero, only a silhouette, only a glimpse of happiness.

Kel.

She didn’t know why, but she felt furious and lonely for him at the same time. She grabbed onto him, and tried to pull him into a touch-starved embrace, craving for anything that wasn’t horrible imagery already inked on paper in her mind’s thoughts.

Kel didn’t hug her back, not one bit. Just left her, alone, like at that party. Like after Mari’s death. Like whenever she needed him.

She felt her breaths get ragged, uncontrollable just like everyone said she was. And maybe she was. She laughed a little, startling herself as she tried to dig her nails into his back and make herself have some sort of lasting presence in SOMEONE, ANYONE’S LIFE—

“Sunny says that he thinks pink is a great color!” A soft, breathy voice sounded behind them. Aubrey stumbled back, staring wide eyed at a younger Basil in his rain soaked green coat. When he smiled wide like that, his lips thinned out and he looked like he had barely any at all.

The body she was once clutching was a brunette, 12 year old girl in a pink raincoat and an even pinker umbrella. She walked up to Basil, and squeezed his hand with a joyous, innocent smile—one that was like if youth, glitter and everything kind in the world was shaken up and blended into a little girl.

“I’m so glad that you’re my friend,” she whispered, craning her head to stare directly up at Aubrey as she said so. Then, she turned back to Basil, giggled softly, and disappeared without a trace.

She was gone.

Aubrey stared silently back at the only remaining person in the room, and fell to her knees, weeping silently.

Why did he have to do this? Why did he destroy everything?

Why did she have to go?

She couldn’t comprehend the flood of emotions ebbing through her all at once, like a tidal wave of sorrow and fury and pain. It was too much.

She needed to turn to something reliable, and as she looked through the openings between her fingers at her childhood best friend, she knew just what it could be.

Something that she tried to push down, tried to reason with but just couldn’t hold. She felt like a vicious, untouchable predator, so full of hurt and hatred that had formed after years of tears, and divorces and deaths and backstabs from best friends.

That little girl was her. Sweet, innocent Aubrey, who had pet stray cats and who had kissed cheeks and who had a soft spot for every person she came across.

And Basil took that away, took everything away with a black marker. He had blacked out Kel, and Mari, and Sunny and Hero and the little girl that Aubrey once was. The choking suffocation of her horror faded, as this new intense agony fueled her to step closer, and closer…

She summoned her bat, as it glitched and tore itself into her palm like a trusted friend. She didn’t have to watch it do as she wanted, she had gone through enough and she knew that whatever she wanted was her’s.

This world had no choice but to obey. Life had no choice but to obey. Basil had no choice but to take it, because he deserved it and because she deserved to get her way.

Aubrey knew she didn’t care if it was wrong. Aubrey knew it wasn’t pertinent, wasn’t serving her any good to sit and waste time on tears no one would have any pity for. And, God, she was so angry. More than anything.

But Aubrey thought of Mari’s smile as she wound up her bat, as if preserved in slow motion. Would Mari have wanted this?

Her grip loosened, and she shook a little.

Aubrey thought of Sunny, closing his knees to his chest comfortably as he listened to Basil talk about a new comic book, and she noticed as Basil’s kind smile flickered into fear in front of her.

Would Sunny want this?

Hero, the light in her life who always lended an ear and a comforting hand. Aubrey always tried to do a little better every day, just for him. She knew he liked to worry, and hesitated, even for half a second.

Would he want this?

Would Kel want this?

His smile, the brush of his fingers, the back and forth banter of their relationship, his boyish grin, his frustrating obliviousness, his horrible likability, his strong sense of good.

But Kel had left her. They all had.

She wouldn’t make the same mistakes this time. Aubrey wasn’t going to let that child be hurt again.

She wrenched free of her morality, prepared to hit, and the clock struck twelve.

Aubrey woke up the next morning in a cold sweat.

———“————-

ok so heres some lines that didnt make it into this nightmare sequence:

He was scared of her.

Was it nice? Was it sickening?

Was it twisted? Was it wrong?

Or, was it justice?

Her head hurt.

(i just thought that was funny. morally grey characters my beloved!!! i love you morally grey characters i love you!!)

[enchanted-lightning-aes]

Refined Craft

A/N: just a tale of tdrc featuring krispin, who’s musing on the way his painting skill blossomed.^^

Word Count: 553

TW: None

***

Through a window, a breeze slips into a room where a delicate fragrance fills it. It deepens the warmth with it's presence. It sways some floral curtains, rushing in a path.

Some paint supplies clutter across a long table, where paintbrushes and pencils rest upon each other, and dried acrylic smears edges of a palette. A canvas sits on an easel, coated in small traces of colors.

On a corner, he steps to where a crystal case shelters a batch of random flowers reclines.

Breathing in it's scent, Krispin draws it into his lungs. He trails the lines of a leaf, examining it's pattern. He slides a finger across it's stem, grazing his thumb beneath it's petals. He lowers his head and inhales it while his eyes close briefly.

After a long day, he sought for solitude in his art room. To get a paintbrush and streak a canvas with hues of colors. To paint an illustration of intricate scenery.

However, his mind didn't cooperate and he resolved to sitting on a chair. Glancing at a window, searching for anything to evoke his imagination.

Yet he keeps looking at a batch of random flowers from a crystal vase. Containing different colors of several hues. A part of him wants to create an arrangement of sorts, just to keep it in home.

Unfortunately, he doesn't have much floral arrangement equipment. He had gotten this house a while ago and he's yet to have it completely organized.

It's something that he didn't think he'd ever be doing while he worked in the manor before. Back then, he only cleaned up fireplaces and complied to orders. If he hadn't escaped, he probably wouldn't have gotten any freedom.

He gets surprised at how much art he can find while arranging flowers into a bouquet. Searching for what colors can be complements and contrasts of each other. Trimming some parts of them to gain room for other blooms to be included. Taking care of plants that needs to grow into complete blossom.

Maybe Krispin can have a garden of his own. A place where flowers and other plants can thrive. It can also be a spot, where he can paint in. Surrounded by serenity he can bask in.

Being a floral designer has helped him to grow his artistic skills. Figuring out how to gather flowers together, pick on what might provide ease for a customer. He draws sketches or paintings based on arrangements that he worked on.

When he paints or does a floral arrangement, he's filled with clarity. Pouring those ideas from his imagination, bringing his creativity to what he enjoys doing. In a way, it's an enchantment he can drift into. Exploring the beauty of nature, expressing his admiration for it.

He sets the flower down, riveting his gaze on a pink rose. With a deep tint over it's petals.

With a constriction in his chest, he reaches for it. He inhales and his heart twinges between an ease and an ache.

There's comfort in stroking flower petals. It's soft texture soothing his nerves, clearing his mind when things get difficult.

Even if he struggles on handling his devastation about his best friend, he still tries holding on. It's how he won't be drained from it.

Remaining close to the rose, he finds relief in it's softness and sighs.

***

[coffyao]

imprint me chapter 2

Chapter 2: the meeting

__ 

“Ah konan! come, I need you here right now.” 

After organizing her trolley, she readjusted the bottom of her sleeveless turtleneck, and sat up from her stool, indignant from his interruption but nonetheless, ready for her next client. 

“...yeah, what is it?” she asked, and deidara used his thumb to point at a man who looked out of place to be in a tattoo parlour. A tucked in shirt, wide framed glasses and an oversized backpack. Most likely was a white-collar worker and wanted a change of pace after slaving away at a desk completing administrative work. She had a few of those already, but they were uncommon. 

“He wants a tattoo, but he isn’t sure what he wants...” 

That was also expected. They would usually come in, but because they hadn’t put too much thought into the actual tattoo but the idea of it instead, they would be at a loss at what to put on their skin. 

“Did you show him our pre-made tattoo catalogue...” Konan mumbled, opening the drawer next to her side to retrieve it. 

“I already did. He said that’s not what he wants...” 

Right. It was time to put on her best customer service voice. Ambiguous requests were a pain to deal with. 

She politely stepped in front of deidara, and with one hand in her baggy jeans to pull out her business card and another to rest on the desk, she says, “Hello sir. is there a specific idea that you have in mind?” 

“...im not too sure, yet.” he replied drowsily, his tired and lost disposition reminding konan of a past relationship, that she would rather leave behind. 

“...or rather an idea, do you have an adjective or...emotion, you would like to capture?” 

If a customer wanted something inspirational, quotations or scriptures were the likely way to go. If a customer wanted something colourful, water-colour was sure to be right up their alley. If a customer wanted something pretty, she believed a type of flower would do the trick, since she was confident she could draw floral tattoo designs well. 

“it’s complicated.” 

Complicated?  

‘complicated’ was too intangible of a word that she couldn’t fathom working with.

“...as in the concept itself? Or is it difficult to explain what you want into simpler words...” 

“Might be both,” he said, serious in his expression, and his eyes moved towards the card that she still had between her stagnant fingertips.  

Deidara nudged her shoulder, taking quick notice of this. 

“Might as well give it to him...” 

As vague as his request was, if she managed to pull this off right, she could potentially make a hefty buck out of him, as his empty canvas of an idea meant many, many possibilities of what he could want as a tattoo. 

She pulled out her business card, the design being covered in purple chrysanthemums, whilst the background was black, and the lettering was in white. In the middle, it contained her full name, and it was followed by her social media page and her portfolio at the bottom. Then finally, at the top, it said, ‘fraGILE tattoo studio,’ presented in bold, and tall font.  

She handed it to him, and said, “...if you think of ideas, let me know. Otherwise, message me on there and we can discuss what we could do moving forward.”  

If he was only here for the purposes of hitting on her later, he would just be another male customer she would have to add to her ban list. Despite deidara’s skinny stature, he surprisingly had quite the extensive skills in martial arts, and Hidan was in most shifts anyway, his built stature being a deterrent enough for problematic customers.  

“...thank you,” he replied, his expression softening, and the tone in his voice, a little warmer than when he first arrived. she wondered what he would like if he actually smiled.

__ 

“Despite the comically huge glasses, he’s a bit of a looker, isn’t he?” deidara teased, flipping the closed sign on the door. 

“He’s fine,” konan dismissed, slipping on her cream-colored trench coat, her focus much rather intended on closing the shop as soon as humanly possible. 

“just fine? You mean sort of sexy? hmm?” he badgered on, continuing to praise his looks even while they had left the shop, up until they reached the bus stop. 

“he’s not only dark and handsome, but he’s got that mysterious intrigue, especially in those dreamy eyes of his...” 

“Yes, I'm sure you would think so...” she said, and went into her pocket, pulling out her vape pen.

"...you finally quitting cigarettes?"

"I'm trying to."

She never used to be a smoker, at least, up until a year ago. chaining several cigarettes a week gave her a terrible health scare, and she didn't want to go back to that pitiful stage of her life.

She took a few inhales and passed it to deidara, who took a couple himself, and attempted to copy the vape tricks that he saw in a video. he of course, failed miserably in typical deidara fashion.

The bus shortly arrives after, and as he tries giving it back to her, she refused, and pushed it into his hand.

"...keep it. I'm not going to need it anymore."

instead of incessantly asking her questions like he always did, he decided to put in the black satchel he would always bring whenever he came to work. it was covered in patches of dry paint that he never bothered to clean, but he called it his baby, so she didn't bother to ask.

"enjoy your weekend, okay? and try not to oversleep like you usually do."

"...I'll try my best."

--

after deidara's bus left, and hers hadn't yet came, she thought about calling a taxi instead. Unlike what most thought about her, she wasn't at all patient, despite the calm expression that she always had on her face. 

Hidan dubbed it, 'resting cold face.' He said it was better than saying she had a 'resting bitch face instead' but she always disagreed.

she didn't like being told that she was emotionless.

going on her phone, she thought about the spiky-haired stranger that came earlier today, and how everything about him was unreadable. Like a continuous drawn line that wasn't going anywhere, His attire didn't suit him, and there seemed to be a deep sadness that resigned deep, like he already accepted it, a long time ago.

-

a notification came.

-

obito1115 is typing...

she waited, fingers still in shaky anticipation.

-

is it okay if we discuss things now? I'm aware this is bad timing...

-

if you don't mind.

-

it was best if she stopped him moving, herself.

___________________________________________________

[lackyghost]

Todoroki Touya was six years old when his school first held a mandatory soulmate course, that went over the history of soulmates as they had suddenly appeared hundreds of years ago. The origin of them is something no one could fully understand.

Soulmates are identified by matching marks on their bodies, something that shows up during one's teen years, like a tattoo that will simply fade into existence on one’s body. Sometimes it’s large, other times it’s so small that a person needs help finding it.

Less than 1% of the planet’s population is markless.

Everyone was excited to get their soulmark, to use it to track down their ‘other half’ so they could figure out how their lives were meant to meld together.

Because everyone has a soulmate.

—

Twenty-seven-year-old Touya enters Eraser Head Ink as he does every Monday through Saturday.

Touya is average height at 180cm, lightly muscular and toned. His ears are lined in black studs, an industrial on his right ear, and 10mm gauges in either side with large red fangs through them. He has three piercings in his lower lip, dimple studs, and three studs in his left nostril.

He is, of course, covered in quite a bit of ink, almost entirely done by his mentor and boss, Aizawa Shouta, every piece custom designed by Touya himself.

His left arm is coated in blue flames from his bicep down to the back of his hand, wrapping all the way around.

His right shoulder sports a large green and gray grenade surrounded by pink Sakura flowers that wrap his entire bicep.

He has ‘FUCK OFF’ tattooed across his knuckles in bold black English letters, outlined in bright orange.

His spine from the back of his neck down to his tailbone is covered in a traditional Japanese floral design with bursts of red flowers throughout.

On his left outer thigh is a quote surrounded by vines and bleeding red roses, ‘A soulmate is someone who understands you like no other, loves you like no other, will be there with you forever, no matter what,’ meant as a reminder of the importance of soulmates.

Aizawa is already inside, so Touya shoves the door open with his shoulder, careful not to jostle the hot travel mug of coffee in his hand.

“Morning,” Aizawa says in his usual monotone.

The man has long, curly black hair done up in a loose bun at the nape of his neck. His eyes are black, lined with heavy eyebags that clearly showcase his need for something stronger than coffee. Like Touya, he’s also covered in a significant amount of ink, though he only has piercings in his ears.

“Morning,” Touya grumbles back.

Touya always leaves his small office/station room in perfect order, but he still wipes his table down again before his first client shows up.

This day is pretty slow, he has one client coming in for a soulmark enhancing tattoo—something many people do.

Tattooing over a soulmark is a taboo that many people refuse to do, Touya included, but enhancers are designs added around the soulmark, but never over it.

Touya sighs and sets his coffee down as he pulls out the designs he’s been working on for his client. The man had supplied only that his mark is a circular shape and approximately 18cm in diameter on his back. He wants simple black flowers and vines around the design, so Touya has been working up a few things for the guy to compare.

At 11am on the dot, the doorbell jingles and Touya walks out of his office to greet the man.

“Midoriya Izuku?” Touya questions as he steps closer to the front counter.

“Yeah, that’s me,” the man confirms, nodding his head of wild curly green hair. His wide, bright green eyes are full of excitement as he looks at Touya. “Do I pay now or after?”

“Half now, half when it’s done,” Touya says.

The man nods enthusiastically and pulls out his wallet, flipping through some bills before handing Touya half of their previously agreed upon price.

“This way,” Touya says as he turns and leads the way to his room. “I’ve worked out three different ideas of what you might like.”

He spreads the three works across his desk for the other man to inspect.

“These are amazing,” Midoriya says, smiling excitedly as he leans closer.

Touya hums his agreement, fully aware of his own skill.

“I like this one best,” the man says, pointing to the more traditional design.

“Okay,” Touya says, picking up the sheet. “I’ll get this printed out in a transfer sheet. Take your shirt off. I’ll be right back.”

The man nods and Touya makes his way across the shop to the main office and printer. He hums along with the rock music playing overhead. Something he’d quickly learned about Aizawa when he’d started working here nearly ten years earlier is that his perpetually exhausted mentor has surprisingly good taste in music.

The printer finishes and Touya makes his way back with the original in hand. Midoriya is shirtless as instructed, but he’s seated on the edge of the padded table and Touya cocks a brow at the man.

“You’ve gotta lie down on your stomach for me to put this on,” Touya explains.

“Oh, right,” Midoriya says. “Sorry, this is my first tattoo, I’m nervous.”

“It’s fine,” Touya says with a huff, fighting against his instinctive response to roll his eyes.

He grabs his wipes and pulls his stool up to the side of the table before looking down at the soulmark and freezing.

Midoriya Izuku’s mark is a half-red, half-white fire and ice ying-yang wrapped in green vines on the center of his upper back.

“Holy shit,” Touya says.

“Is something wrong?” Midoriya asks, craning his neck to try to see his own back.

“Have you met your soulmate?” Touya asks, still staring down at the mark.

“No,” Midoriya says.

“I know who they are,” Touya says, moving his eyes to catch the man’s gaze. “I have his phone number. I know where he lives.”

Midoriya’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“I wouldn’t fucking lie about this shit,” Touya says seriously. “I can call him right fuckin’ now.”

Midoriya licks his lips as he considers. “After the tattoo.”

Touya nods and gets to work, wondering exactly what to say to his baby brother.

—

Six months after Touya introduces Shouto and Midoriya, the two move into an apartment together.

Turns out, they both attend UA University and actually shared a couple courses, but they’d never discussed soulmarks, which is shocking in a society that practically begs people to ask about them.

Touya is happy for them, really.

He shows that happiness by spending more time working to push his limits at the gym and ignoring family gatherings.

His professional social media account that doubles as his portfolio had gained hundreds of thousands of followers after Midoriya and Shouto had shared the enhancement to Midoriya’s tattoo, as well as the story of leading the two together.

Midoriya is apparently already famous online as the stepson of a film star, Yagi Toshinori.

It's been excellent for business. He now has appointments scheduled out for months.

Although under Aizawa’s strict rules, he’s required to give himself two full days off every week. He works those out around the schedules of his co-workers, Shinsou Hitoshi and Jirou Kyouka.

So, Touya’s life has changed a bit with his increased popularity.

—

Yesterday, he finished moving into his new apartment. It’s a ten-minute walk to Eraser Head’s, much better than the previous twenty-minute train ride and fifteen-minute walk from his cheap studio apartment.

His new place is modern with wooden floors and granite countertops in the kitchen. It’s a one-bedroom, but the room is large enough for him to have a desk so he can sketch at home instead of camping out overnight at the shop.

The apartment has a large bathroom with a square tub and an open shower, all tiled in grays and whites. The living room looks a bit less pleasing than he’d like, but he isn’t about to replace his old, super comfortable faded leather sofa.

He is much more excited to have a bigger bed after years of sleeping on a twin. Although admittedly, bringing the Queen mattress and bunkie boards up five flights of stairs because it wouldn’t fit in the elevator had not been a pleasant experience.

But, as Touya leaves for work after a night in his new place, he is damn proud of it.

He locks up and makes his way down the street, silently thankful for the warmth of the early fall air.

His ripped jeans tease at his thigh tattoo, and his white t-shirt shows off his hard-earned body as well as his ink.

The only coffee shop on the short walk to the parlor is a smaller place with ‘Plus Ultra Café’ written in white letters across the navy-blue awning.

Touya pushes the door open, jingling a little bell that sounds much cheerier than the one at Eraser Head’s. He steps up to the small counter, next to a glass display case that shows off various pastries.

“One second!” A deep, gruff voice yells out from the room behind the counter, no doubt leading to the kitchen that is the source of the sweet aromas filling the café.

Touya doesn’t respond, instead focusing on the black chalkboard menu behind the counter. He chews at his lower lip rings absently as he reads the coffee options. They have one drink that immediately has Touya’s attention.

“What the hell is a ‘Mexican Spiced Mocha?’” Touya calls out to whoever is in the back.

“It’s literally got a description on the fucking board, genius!” The person shouts out, their heavy footfalls storming closer as they make their way toward the front. “It’s hot chocolate with cayenne and cinnamon mixed with coffee!”

The person rounds the corner, Touya is still looking up at the board, barely noticing the flash of blonde in his periphery. The footsteps fall short and Touya turns his eyes to look at the person.

The man is a bit shorter than Touya, with pale blonde hair that fans out around his head in wild spikes. He has a sharp jaw and angular eyes, the irises a bright scarlet.

Touya turns more fully to face the guy, cocking an eyebrow at the other man’s stunned expression.

“What?” Touya snaps, not caffeinated enough for this shit.

“Nothing,” the man says, scowling as he walks the rest of the way to the cash register behind the counter. “So, you wanna try a Mexican Spiced Mocha?”

“Sure,” Touya grumbles as he pulls his wallet out.

“That’ll be 450¥,” the blonde says.

“Whatever,” Touya says, sighing as he pulls the bills out of his wallet and hands them over.

His eyes lock on the other man’s and he feels a bizarre urge to scratch his left eye. The other man blinks a few times and turns to grab a paper cup.

“Name?” The blonde grouses, holding up the cup and a marker.

Touya frowns. “The hell do you need that for?”

“I’m supposed to write the name on the cup,” the man says flatly.

“I’m the only person in here,” Touya says, narrowing his eyes at the other man.

The blonde rolls his eyes and puts the marker down. “Whatever, Patchwork.”

When he turns his back to start brewing the coffee and hot chocolate, Touya takes a moment to really take in the man. Even with the loose blue and white uniform, the man is clearly well-built.

Touya can appreciate an attractive person when he sees them, and this guy is certainly that.

“One Mexican Spiced Mocha for nameless cranky dude,” the man says as he turns around while capping the drink.

Touya takes the cup from him and sniffs it apprehensively. He takes a small sip and gives a small, surprised hum.

“Not bad, Doll Face,” Touya says.

“What the fuck did you just call me?” The barista snarls. “My name is Bakugou, asshole!”

“Says the guy who's calling me Patchwork,” Touya says, cocking a brow at the blonde.

Bakugou scowls. “Asshole.”

“Takes one to know one,” Touya says, unimpressed. “But the drink isn’t bad.”

“Whatever,” Bakugou says.

Touya rolls his eyes and makes his way to the door.

—

The next day, Touya goes to Plus Ultra again. He’d fallen behind on laundry, so he’d had to pull out an older pair of jeans that are a little too tight and he’s feeling more agitated than usual.

He shoves open the café door with a bit more force than is strictly necessary, and the bell over the door falls to the floor with a loud clatter.

“Ah, shit,” Touya says as he turns and bends over to pick it up.

“What the fu—oh,” the familiar voice behind him ends on a stunted, surprised note.

Touya straightens up and carries the bell up to the counter, a grimace on his face.

“I’ll replace it,” Touya says.

“It’s fine, I’ll hang it back up,” Bakugou says, and then he clears his throat. Touya looks up at the man, whose face is a vivid shade of red.

“You good, Doll Face?” Touya asks, eyes trailing around the flushed hue.

“Fuck off,” Bakugou snaps. “What d’you want?”

“Mexican Spiced Mocha,” Touya says as he places the exact change on the counter.

Bakugou’s face is starting to return to its usual color. “Right.”

Bakugou grabs the cup and immediately turns around to start making the drink, grumbling agitatedly under his breath. Touya eyes the man curiously. He seems almost embarrassed about something.

Touya opts to just shrug it off. He doesn’t particularly care and isn’t interested in finding out.

The door opens behind them, weirdly silent without the cheerful little jingle.

“Whoa, where’s the bell, Blasty?” A familiar voice questions.

Touya turns around to see one of his coworkers, Jirou Kyouka. She’s short and petite, with angular purple hair and black eyes.

“Oh, hey, Touya,” she says, slightly surprised.

“Kyouka,” Touya says with a nod.

“I’ve never seen you in here,” Jirou says. “This place is closer to your new apartment, huh?”

“A startling revelation,” Touya drawls.

“’Sup, Earjacks?” Bakugou says when he turns around. He sets Touya’s coffee on the counter and smirks at the purple-haired woman. “Iced Caramel Macchiato to further stunt your growth?”

“I have nothing else to lose,” Jirou says, shrugging.

Touya grabs his coffee and starts walking to the door, but Jirou stops him with a hand on his shoulder. Touya shrugs it off and turns to glare at her and she winces, having forgotten that the man doesn’t like to be touched.

“Shit, sorry,” she says, taking a step back. “I’ve got this client who wants flowers on her enhancement.”

Touya cocks a brow. “Okay.”

“Well, she wants this specific arrangement of peonies and dahlias…” Jirou trails off.

Touya nods his understanding. “Alright, give me whatever you’ve got so far when you get in and I’ll fix it.”

She gives him a smile. “Thanks, man.”

Touya just shrugs and nods on his way out.

—

Touya has to skip Plus Ultra for a few days while he helps Jirou with her redesign on top of his usual work, but the purple-haired woman brings him his Mexican Spiced Mocha every morning.

“Bakugou sends his regards,” Jirou says on the third day of no Plus Ultra as she sets his cup down on his desk.

Touya cocks his head at her. “Who?”

“The… barista?” Jirou says.

“Oh, Doll Face,” Touya says with a nod as he grabs the cup. “He called me Patchwork.”

Jirou cracks up laughing. “That’s so mean!”

“He seems like a dick,” Touya says.

“Oh, he is,” Jirou says, sniffling as she calms her mirth. “Shinsou and I went to high school with him. You get a nicer nickname over time. That’s where Shinsou’s came from.”

“What was his original Bakugou nickname?” Touya asks curiously.

“Eyebags,” Shinsou says as he walks past Touya’s door.

“Yikes,” Touya says, cringing. The man still has intense eyebags. “How’d he become Mindfuck, then?”

“Tattoos!” Shinsou yells out from the front room and Touya nods his understanding.

“Makes sense,” Touya says with a shrug.

Jirou walks out the door as she talks, “Hey, Hitoshi, do you do drugs while you do your tattoos?”

“Only the sketches,” Shinsou says. Aizawa levels him with a glare and Shinsou grins unrepentantly.

—

When Touya next goes back to Plus Ultra, the doorbell is back in its usual place. The day is warmer than usual, so Touya had opted for a black tank top and dark wash jeans for the day.

“Patchwork,” Bakugou says boredly from his spot behind the counter.

“Are you the only fucking person who works here?” Touya blurts out.

“No,” Bakugou says flatly. “Sparky works the afternoon shifts. Satou works the bakery part, but he’s always in the kitchens.”

“Using someone’s actual name, huh?” Touya cocks a brow as he sets the 450¥ on the counter. “Mexican Spiced Mocha.”

“He’s not a fucking idiot,” Bakugou says flatly.

“That must be a major compliment from you,” Touya says with a huff.

“It is,” the blonde says simply, reaching for one of the paper cups. He clears his throat, cheeks pinkening lightly. “Your tattoos are fucking cool.”

“I know,” Touya says dryly.

“Ah, fuck,” Bakugou says, scrunching his nose up. “Sorry if any are fuckin’ soulmarks.”

Touya grimaces. “Don’t have a soulmark. They’re all tattoos.”

Bakugou makes a small, surprised sound. “Huh. Never met another markless person before.”

“It’s a thrilling demographic,” Touya deadpans.

Bakugou snorts as he starts making the drink. “Right? I used to draw on myself with markers and pretend it was one.”

“That’s stupid,” Touya says. Although he had absolutely done the same thing when he was younger. “Bet your art is shit, anyway.”

“It is,” Bakugou says with a chuckle. “Were yours any good?”

“My art is always good,” Touya says defensively.

“Oh?” Bakugou drawls, smirking over his shoulder. Touya blushes, realizing his admission too late.

“Shut up,” Touya grumbles.

Bakugou huffs, amused. “Whatever. Did you draw your tattoos, then?”

“Doll Face, the only thing I didn’t do is stick the needle in my skin,” Touya says.

“Damn,” Bakugou says as he turns and puts the lid on Touya’s coffee. “Not bad, Patches.”

“I know,” Touya says, cocking a brow, like he dares the blonde to challenge him. “I did all the art on myself and only tattoo my own art on others. None of the generic bullshit people ask for. Not worth my fucking time.”

“You’re a tattoo artist?” Bakugou asks. Touya nods and the blonde takes a deep breath and exhales. “Holy shit. Anyway—you got social media or something? I’ve always wanted a tattoo.”

Touya contemplates that for a moment before nodding. “Dabi.”

Bakugou’s eyes blow wide. “Fucking seriously?”

Touya cringes and grabs his cup from the blonde’s hand before the man can accidentally crush the cup during his small existential crisis.

“You? You’re the fuckin’ soulmark artist who worked with Deku?” Bakugou asks, staring wide-eyed at the white-haired man.

Touya blinks and takes a sip of the coffee. “Shit, this is good. If I have to find a new place to get coffee because you freak the fuck out, I’mma be pissed.”

“Shut up,” Bakugou says, scrunching his nose up. “I don’t give a shit. Just can’t believe you worked with shitty Deku. Nerd’s been insufferable since meeting Half-n-Half.”

“Right,” Touya says dryly. “I’m leaving.”

“Door’s right fuckin’ there,” Bakugou says, frowning.

Touya observes his expression for a moment; the dejection and pain he understands all too well. With a sharp nod, he turns and walks out.

—

Touya doesn’t go to Plus Ultra the next day, Sunday. Partly because he doesn't have to go to Eraser Head’s, and partly because he has no idea if the café is even open on Sundays.

But on Monday, Touya pulls on a pair of black slacks and a long-sleeved, deep blue button-up. He’s supposed to be meeting his family for dinner after his shift and doesn’t want to waste time going home after work to change.

He pulls on his black sneakers because fuck formal shoes, and he makes his way out, ensuring that his door is locked behind himself.

The bell jingles when he steps into Plus Ultra, and Bakugou pops up from under the counter as he approaches, wild blonde spikes as untamed as ever.

“Patchwork,” Bakugou nods to him.

“Doll Face,” Touya says, cocking a brow as he drops his usual cash on the counter. He and Bakugou exchange equally unimpressed looks before the blonde turns and starts making the drink.

“You’re fucking busy,” the blonde grouses. “I called Eraser Head’s and got put on the list for when you start taking clients on again.”

“That’s what happens when you’re good at your job,” Touya says, his pride puffing his chest lightly.

“Right,” Bakugou says, shrugging as he turns.

He leans lightly over the counter to pass Touya his drink and the light catches the man’s scarlet eyes at a new angle.

Touya swiftly moves the coffee out of the way and grabs the blonde’s sharp chin, tugging him closer as the man gasps lightly in surprise. Touya narrows his eyes, glaring at the man as he observes his irises.

There, inside the man’s left iris, is a barely noticeable pale white circlet around his pupil. Touya clicks his tongue and shoves the guy’s face away. Bakugou is bright red and for once in his life, he’s at a loss for words.

Touya grabs his coffee and takes a sip.

“Your soulmark is in your left iris,” Touya says flatly before turning and leaving the café.

—

Once again swamped with large pieces needing to be done, Touya doesn’t go into Plus Ultra the next day. But at 9:00am sharp, Jirou rolls into Eraser Head’s with two cups of coffee and a massive grin on her face.

“You changed his life, Touya!” Jirou practically screams.

Touya drops his pencil and flexes his hands, willing himself to not smack the excessive volume from her face.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Touya snaps.

Jirou hands him his coffee, carefully avoiding the papers on his desk.

He places a protective plastic sheet over them and leans over it while he sips his drink with two hands.

“Bakugou,” Jirou clarifies. “You noticed the soulmark in his iris. I spent, like, half of my night in his apartment taking pictures of his eye so he could see it.”

“Got ‘em with you?” Touya asks.

It’s no secret to anyone that he enjoys looking at soulmarks. He’s one of the few people in the area who can rapidly identify the difference between a soulmark and a tattoo without needing special instruments.

“You know it,” Jirou says as she pulls her phone out.

She scrolls through her pictures and clicks one before handing the phone over. Touya looks closely, zooming in as far as the phone will allow.

The shape is fascinating—the ring itself has jagged edges that mimic an explosion, but it has small cracks with what looks like flames and smoke rolling out.

“Badass,” Touya says as he hands the phone back.

“Think you could draw up a larger version if I sent the images to you?” Jirou asks.

“He wants the design tattooed somewhere else,” Touya says, it isn’t a question.

“Yup,” Jirou says, tapping away at her phone. “There, I emailed all the pictures to you.”

“You owe me,” Touya says, leveling her with a glare. “It’s hard to see. It’ll take a while with all the other shit I’ve gotta do.”

“That’s fine,” Jirou says, waving him off. “You’re booked out for months and he’s already on your list. He’ll never admit it, but he’s about ready to pay anything to get your tattoo on him.”

“Whatever,” Touya grumbles before chugging the last half of his drink.

“No, really,” Jirou says, voice much softer. “I’ve known him for years. He was a bigger asshole in high school, and eventually I found out it was because he thought not having a mark meant he wasn’t wanted or something.”

Touya takes a breath to attempt to calm himself before glaring at her. “Yeah, I’m perfectly fucking aware of how shitty it is to not have a soulmark. Your doll faced friend is lucky that someone finally noticed it.”

Jirou gives him a measured look. “Maybe—”

“No,” Touya cuts her off. “Whatever you’re gonna say, I’ve looked. There’s nothing. Fuck off, Kyouka.”

—

Touya has the next day off work, so he stays in and pulls the images of Bakugou’s soulmark up on his computer, adjusting the size and altering the image to make the mark more clearly visible.

With the alterations, it’s easier to see that the mark covers nearly the entire iris.

Touya diligently drafts the stunningly intricate mark out onto his sketchpad.

It’s a circular pattern in a pale white, only just visible inside the scarlet orb it resides in. It wraps in a circle around the pupil, a little ring with jagged edges, flames and smoke curling around the entire thing.

—

Touya pushes open the door to Plus Ultra with his sketchpad tucked under his arm, the bell once again jingling merrily above him.

“One second!” Bakugou’s voice calls out from the back room.

“Whatever,” Touya says, voice still gravelly with sleep as he approaches the counter. He sets the sketch pad down and rubs at his eyes as he yawns.

“Whoa, you look like shit today,” Bakugou says as he makes his way to the counter.

“Thanks, Doll Face,” Touya deadpans.

“I ain’t gonna lie,” Bakugou says boredly, crossing his arms.

“Fair enough,” Touya says, shrugging and dropping 450¥ on the counter.

Bakugou grunts and turns to make his Mexican Spiced Mocha. Touya picks his sketchbook back up and flips through the pages until he reaches the one with Bakugou’s soulmark.

He stares at it blankly as the blonde makes his drink. Looking at the design brings a weird pang to his heart that he can’t properly discern.

“The fuck’s that?” Bakugou asks as he places Touya’s cup on the counter.

Touya picks up his coffee and holds the sketchpad out. “Your soulmark.”

“Oh,” Bakugou breathes out.

He reaches out and takes the pad with slightly shaky hands. He stares at it with an awed expression in his ruby eyes.

After a solid minute of silence, Touya clears his throat. “I can email the design to you. I don’t give away my sketches.”

“Okay,” Bakugou says, still entranced by the drawing. “This is fucking insane. I still can’t believe I have a mark.”

Touya snorts. “Congrats on the new demographic.”

Bakugou huffs and carefully closes the sketchpad before handing it back to Touya. “Thanks. This… means a lot to me.”

The blonde gives Touya a genuine smile that makes his heart clench painfully.

Naturally, Touya reacts to his body’s attempt at emotions by scoffing and taking the sketchpad back, tucking it under his arm.

“Whatever,” Touya says before sipping his coffee. “Do you know where you want it?”

“I was thinking around my wrist,” Bakugou says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t want any enhancements on it, and it’d be easy for me to see it there.”

Touya shrugs. “Makes sense.”

He stares at the blonde for a few moments, feeling his heart swell with more feeling than it has any right to for a man with a soulmark.

Touya sighs. “Be at Eraser Head’s on Friday at 6pm.”

Bakugou blinks. “Huh?”

“For your tattoo,” Touya explains. He rolls his eyes at Bakugou’s surprised expression. “Just be there, Doll Face.”

Touya turns and walks out the door, not sparing a glance back at the stunned blonde.

He makes his way to Eraser Head’s, finishing his coffee before he steps inside. He tosses the empty cup in the bin and goes straight to the primary printer/scanner to digitize Bakugou’s soulmark.

As the mark is scanned in, showing up on his phone as it’s automatically saved to his entire online storage system, Touya wonders why looking at it makes him hurt.

—

Friday at 6:00pm, Touya sits at the front desk at Eraser Head’s, relaxing on the office chair, head tilted back as he lightly bobs his head and sings under his breath to the music. He’s the last person left in the shop, just waiting on Bakugou.

Touya cracks his eyes open after a couple songs finish and glances at the clock on the far wall. 6:09pm. Touya cracks his neck and stands up.

If Bakugou isn’t going to show, Touya will just deep clean the shop while he has the chance.

He stands up and suddenly feels like eyes are on him. He glances around the shop, even with the overhead lights on, the slowly darkening sky makes him feel like shadows are closing in. He can feel his breathing increase as his heart starts pounding.

“Fuck,” Touya wheezes. He pulls out his phone and dials Shouto’s number, barely holding the phone up with his shaking hands.

“Hello,” his youngest brother says in his usual monotone.

“Shou, I can’t fucking breathe,” Touya says, voice tight with panic.

“Oh, shit,” Shouto says, rustling sounding over the phone. “Where are you? Do you have your anxiety medication with you?”

Touya speaks through gritted teeth. “I haven’t had a panic attack in over a year. I don’t have a single fucking thing with me.”

“Are you at home or Eraser Head’s?” Shouto asks, and Touya can hear a door closing.

“Eraser’s,” Touya wheezes, his chest feels dangerously tight.

“I’ll be there in ten,” Shouto says. “I’m gonna drive, so I’m going to hang up now.”

“Fuck,” Touya says as he hangs up, panting heavily.

He drops his phone and leans across the countertop, gripping the edge tightly and pressing his forehead to the cool marble.

He tries to focus on his breathing—in for five, hold for five, out for five. Repeat.

He doesn’t look up when the door swings open. He doesn’t know how much time has passed, but he feels completely drained. His knuckles are white-tight on the counter and his legs feel useless.

The voice that speaks is decidedly not Shouto, however.

“Fuck, what’s going on, Patches?” Bakugou asks as he steps up to the counter.

“Fuck off,” Touya says weakly.

“Should I call an ambulance or something?” Bakugou asks, reaching out to touch Touya’s hands.

“Touya!” Shouto yells before he even opens the door. The bell jingles and the half-white, half-red haired man is at Touya’s side before the door finishes closing, rubbing small circles on his upper back. “What happened?”

“Eyes,” Touya breathes.

“Okay,” Shouto says calmly. “It’s just me and… wait, Bakugou?”

“Fucking Half-n-Half,” the blonde says, scowling. “He’s having a panic attack?”

“Yeah,” Shouto confirms. “Touya, I called Natsuo, he’s on his way.”

“Great,” Touya grumbles, breathing still shaky.

“Okay, we need a distraction,” Shouto mumbles as he runs through ideas in his head.

“A grenade, huh?” Bakugou grouses, reaching out to trace the tattoo visible through the cutoff sleeve on Touya’s right shoulder. “I’m on the UA boxing team, and my stage name is Dynamight.”

“Oh, right,” Shouto says, nodding to Bakugou. “Izuku talks about that a lot.”

Bakugou scowls. “Whatever. How the fuck d’you know Patchwork?”

“He’s my elder brother,” Shouto says and Bakugou’s eye twitches.

“Jesus, shut up,” Touya groans.

Shouto smiles and Bakugou snickers softly, the distraction is clearly working.

“Are you one of Touya’s clients?” Shouto asks curiously.

“I’m late, but that's why I was coming here,” Bakugou says, grimacing at his own tardiness. “I got held up at the fuckin’ gym with Shitty Hair. Shoulda been here at 6:00.”

The doorbell jingles and Touya doesn’t even register the tall, broad-shouldered white-haired man that enters the shop until he’s tugging Touya away from the counter and pushing him back down into the office chair.

“What the fuck, Natsu?” Touya snaps as fiercely as possible.

“None of that,” Natsuo says as he grabs Touya’s wrist to take his pulse. “I’m your friendly neighborhood paramedic, and I’m not gonna take your shit, Touy.”

“Friendly my ass,” Touya grumbles.

Natsuo ignores him and clicks on his penlight, “Look straight ahead.”

Touya blinks and squints at the brightness.

“Knock it off, asshole,” Natsuo chides. Touya forces his eyes wider and Natsuo moves closer, tilting his head curiously. “Hey… um, Shou, do you see that?”

Shouto steps closer to look at Touya’s face and his eyes widen slightly in surprise. Natsuo hums and clicks his light off.

“The fuck are you assholes looking at?” Touya asks, blinking away the new spots in his vision.

“Shut up,” Natsuo says as he pulls his phone out. “Hold still.”

“Fuck you,” Touya snaps.

Natsuo levels him with a glare. “I will knock your ass out if you try to fight me on this, Touya.”

Touya snaps his jaw shut and scowls. Natsuo nods and hands his penlight to Shouto, instructing him to turn it on and angle it a specific way. The paramedic then pulls out his phone and takes a series of pictures with the flash on.

“Get him some water while I look at this,” Natsuo says as he reclaims his pen light.

Shouto hurries off to the small break room while the middle Todoroki brother looks intently at the images on his phone.

“Here, it’s super faint and hard to see,” Natsuo says, holding his phone out.

Touya takes the offered device and blinks at the picture of his left eye. He furrows his brow and opens the image up in the phone’s editing app.

He zooms in, adjusts the saturation and brightness, and stares blank-faced at the very, very familiar soulmark.

“Here’s some water,” Shouto says, holding out a water bottle. Touya nods, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the image. “Do you recognize it?”

Natsuo makes a sound of surprise. “Whoa, do you?”

“You good there, Patches?” Bakugou asks, still standing at the other side of the counter.

Touya’s eyes snap up to meet the other man’s concerned expression. Touya bites his lower lip and leans forward to place Natsuo’s phone on the counter.

Bakugou looks at it and blinks once; twice. He turns his gaze back up to meet Touya's.

Both men have wide eyes as they stare at each other in awe.

“That’s your soulmark,” Bakugou says; Touya nods once.

“Holy shit,” Natsuo whispers. “Shouto, we should leave. Grab my phone and send him the picture.”

“Right,” Shouto whispers back.

The two not-so-quietly leave the shop and Bakugou and Touya continue to stare at each other.

Bakugou makes the first move, rounding the counter and stepping up to Touya. He leans down over the seated man and gently cups the tattooed man’s lax jaw in one hand as he angles his face up and looks into his turquoise eyes.

The blonde pouts, unable to see it. He moves closer, until his breath tickles Touya’s lips.

Overwhelmed by the sudden proximity of the man he’s been crushing on for the past couple of weeks and the knowledge that the man also happens to be his soulmate, the one person who will be his perfect half…

Touya tilts his head slightly and presses his lips to Bakugou’s.

Bakugou stiffens for a fraction of a second and then kisses him back. Their eyes flutter shut as their hands move up to pull each other closer.

The kisses are chaste and soft, tentative first kisses from two people who have spent years believing they would never have a moment like this.

When they break apart for air, they stay close. Bakugou opens his eyes first, Touya a moment later, and they both gasp lightly.

Their soul marks have changed—not all that unusual, but for two people like themselves, it’s stunning to see.

The once faint, barely visible mark is now an explosion of color—orange twisting with pale blue, speckles of red and white all along it.

“Holy fuck,” Bakugou breathes.

“It’s beautiful,” Touya says.

“Guess this means you’ll let me take you on a date, hah?” The blonde says, laughing a little breathlessly.

Touya hums and kisses him again. “Maybe.”