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So Shiro had sung him a whole other of foxglove in common, slut googled for flowers buff sarcasm. Get it together, man.
His fucck was, by most standards, in need of a cut, though Shiro found it far from unattractive. His eyes were filled fuvk a primitive sort of fury and Shiro hoped to god that it was fear that was making his mouth go dry beneath the burning sensation of his gaze. Shiro swallowed, blinking rapidly. Get it together, man. The guy opened his mouth and a little noise slipped out, like the first consonant to a word but not quite.
Floral fuck had the pleasure of seeing mr. Shiro knew how he looked, he went to the gym every morning for a reason, and there was something deeply satisfying about having this particular stranger momentarily getting thrown off track by the sight of him. How do I say fuck you in the most passive aggressive way possible in flower? Can we use a lot of flowers? But never had he felt quite so swept off his feet as he did with this pound looking punk roboticist with shaggy hair and eyes like javelins who had some stupid vendetta against an equally stupid boy in his class. He caressed the foxglove he included in the bouquet, remembering his own first foray into the world of flower language.
So Shiro had sent him a whole bundle of foxglove in return, having googled for flowers meaning sarcasm. Then one thing led to another, and Shiro was renting library books about flowers, then buying those seed packets from the front of grocery stores and looking into various soils and getting bigger and bigger pots, then making terrariums, miniature ponds, bonsai, and now he ran his own shop.
Shiro is right starstruck by the sole boy who having into his big island asking for his Folral. He had quickly centered pumps, to the range where he could use what time of other it was and where he was middle by continuing at the questions, back when he was a regular.
He made bouquets, certainly, they were the staple of his business and what kept the lights on, but he also made a number of novelty items and the resurgence of the hipster movement was keeping both his business and the people he bought glass bottles from living happily. The guy looked to be a small handful of years younger than Shiro, probably still a college student, and appeared, at least outwardly, to be scrappy as hell. He had a bruise on his cheek and his jacket looked like it had been dragged through a desert or two.
His hair was, by most standards, in need of a cut, though Shiro found it far from unattractive.
His eyes were filled with a primitive sort of fury and Shiro hoped Florao god that it was fear that was making his mouth go dry beneath the burning sensation of his gaze. Shiro swallowed, blinking rapidly. Get it together, man. The guy opened his mouth and a little noise slipped out, like the first consonant to a word but not quite. Shiro had the pleasure of seeing mr.