Ok. Here we go...

This is my first. And the result of breaking through a bout of writer's block that has lasted way too long. (Like years...)

You know the drill by now. The recognizable names are not mine. The story is...

Thank you to my friend who sometimes goes by RillaotValley. Look what you've done! And to Zaza724. Look what I did! They beta'd and held my hand as they led me down the primrose path.

And thank you to winterstale, who showed me the awesomeness of Emmett. Here is my ode... InkEmm

Chapter One::Lilac::Memory

The bell on the door jingled just as Rosalie approached. A rhythmic hum drifted out, followed by the lithe and tattooed body of a woman and the raucous laughter of men. The woman's hand slid slowly along the length of the door handle as she leaned out of the shop, while her feet remained balanced on the edge of the concrete step. A riot of color twisted its way up her arm and under the sleeve of her t-shirt. When she turned her head to look back into the shop, Rosalie could see tendrils of ink creeping out of the collar of her shirt and up the back of her neck, right to the edge of her short hair.

She passed Miss Pixie's a few times a week, as she made her way to the market after work. I was a laughable name for a tattoo shop, but she guessed that was probably the point. The word Pixie made most people think of tiny woodland creatures; at least it did her. And the honorific Miss? None of it matched up with the people she saw coming in and out of the shop. And though she was sure the slight dark-haired girl that had just tumbled out of the door had likely been called a pixie in her lifetime—when she was younger, before her first tattoo—she doubted anyone would call her one now.

"That's what she said!" rumbled a deep voice from inside, followed by more laughter.

"That just doesn't get old, does it Emmett?" she called back, in feigned annoyance.

"Nope," answered a chorus of male voices.

"No. I guess not."

"Woah-whoop..." she snorted as she skidded off the step and onto the sidewalk.

Rosalie smiled. She had actually snorted.

The buzzing stopped for a second and more chuckles followed. "Watch yourself there, Alice," called another male voice.

"Whatever," she giggled as the buzz started up again. "See ya Monday."

All this transpired as Rosalie walked by. And even though she felt a curious pull to turn and put faces to the voices, she didn't look back. She tipped her chin up a bit and continued to walk with purpose down the block.

-:-

"You work at Floriography, don't you? The flower shop down a few blocks?"

Rosalie looked behind her in line and found the girl she now knew was Alice, looking up at her. She was a full head shorter with dark hair ironically styled into what Rosalie thought was called a pixie cut.

"Uhhh..."

"I work at Miss Pixie's. I'm apprenticing, but, you know, I work the desk there for now. Scheduling and stuff."

"Yes," Rosalie mumbled, digging into her purse for the change she needed. "I've seen you there. With the tattoo guy. The owner, I think."

"Oh?" Alice asked, raising one of her carefully groomed eyebrows as she gave Rosalie a quick once over looking for tattoos.

Rosalie stared back at her in quiet shock. "Well, no," she stumbled, having a hard time tearing her eyes away from the delicate black outlines of tiny hearts that dusted over the peak of Alice's pierced eyebrow. "Not as a customer. I mean... I mean that I walk by there a few times a week. "

"Ahhh," Alice said, nodding. "Tattoo guy, eh? The owner. Emmett, you mean. Big guy?"

Rosalie half shrugged, half nodded. Emmett.

"Do you have any tats?" Alice giggled and then not pausing for an answer, she added conspiratorially, "The boys hate it when I call them that."

"Ummm..."

"No? I thought you might. Hmph." She tilted her head back and to the side and looked Rosalie up and down again. "But you've thought about it. Haven't you?"

Rosalie took the canvas shopping bag that Esme, the cashier, was handing back to her and pursed her lips. Who is this girl?

Alice dumped a cucumber and a bottle of ranch dressing onto the conveyor belt, never taking her eyes off Rosalie. She grabbed a bag of peanut M&Ms and threw them down, too. "I'm not being weird," she stated, matter of factly. "But I can usually tell. Tattoos are something that just get under some people's skin, so to speak," she said, rolling her eyes at her own pun. "And I've got a sense for it."

"I..."

"She's got one, for example," Alice said, leveling her eyes at Esme.

Rosalie turned, looking incredulously at the cashier, who had to be pushing 60 years old. She had been shopping at Cullen's Corner Market for nearly six years, and nothing she had observed about Esme would ever make Rosalie think she might have a tattoo.

"Come on, Esme," Alice coaxed. "You do, don't you?"

Rosalie bit her lip in embarrassment as Esme dipped her chin at Alice, looking at her over her glasses. Alice flicked her eyebrows, smiling and nodding as she leaned over the conveyor belt. Rosalie was just opening her mouth to say something when Esme sighed and reached for the sleeve of her worn grey cardigan. She paused, looking back at Alice, whose whole body at this point was bobbing up and down with glee. Then turning her lips up in a pursed smile as she pulled her sleeve back to reveal a tattoo of swirling script on the inside of her forearm.

"See!" Alice squealed. "I knew it!"

Rosalie stepped forward, unable to hide her astonishment. Her eyes shifted in rapid succession from Esme's warm but wrinkled face to her even more wrinkled arm. Yes. She felt surprised. And something else. Excitement?

Alice reached over and gently tugged Esme's arm toward her. Rosalie moved in closer, as well, looking up and around the market. Where was everyone? It should have been buzzing with the after-work crowd, but aside from the shifting of boxes and low grunts coming from the back of the store she saw and heard no one.

"When did you get it?" Alice breathed as she traced the tips of her fingers over the text. Rosalie couldn't see what it said, but she could tell, even though Esme had clearly had it for a while, it was beautiful.

"1991," she said. Rosalie looked up and saw the older woman's face soften in sadness. Alice pulled her hand back revealing the whole tattoo: Alistair. It was simple. Just script in black ink. The edges were feathering a bit, but the workmanship was fine and holding up well after almost 20 years.

"Alistair," Rosalie whispered and the eyes of the other two women shot up to her face. "Um... I'm sorry," she mumbled looking back down at her grocery bag.

"No, no, it's alright," Esme said, pulling her arm back from Alice. She lightly tapped her three middle fingers over the tattoo before sliding her sleeve back down. "My younger brother," she said quietly. "He died in the war." And with that she turned back to the register and started adding up Alice's purchases.

Alice quickly handed over a twenty to pay for her items and then threw them into her messenger bag. "Thanks, Esme. And, thanks for sharing your ink."

Esme nodded kindly and step out from behind the counter heading to the back of the store. "Carlisle," she called. "Don't tell me you're moving those boxes. Edward can do it in the morning." She was answered by an irritated grunt.

After watching her go, Alice turned back to Rosalie and smiled impishly. "I didn't mean to dig into anything too painful... but I could tell she was marked," she added in a rush.

Rosalie stared at her, shifting her grocery bag to her shoulder. "But how?"

"Dunno," Alice shrugged. "It just comes to me. It's one of the reasons that the boys like me working the counter at Miss Ps. I'm great at pulling in customers. I can sniff out people that already have the taste for it, even if they're hiding it. And I've got a special talent for finding newbies," she said waggling her eyebrows pointedly at Rosalie. "The ones that are curious and just waiting to pop their cherries." She giggled, walking toward the door.

Rosalie followed her dumbly. Who is this girl?

-:::::-

Oleander::Beware

Oak Leaves::Brave

Yellow Acacia::Secret Love

Mustard Seed::Indifference

Moonwort::Forgetfulness

Aspen Tree::Lamentation

Aloe::Sorrow

Harebell::Grief

Adonis::Sorrowful Remembrance

-:-

Floriography was Rosalie's birthright. A small florist's shop in what was now one of the more trendy neighborhoods in town.

It hadn't always been that way. When her parents opened the shop just after they married the block was on the very edge of an area that was considered "acceptable". Two blocks further and it was too gritty Rosalie's grandparents had told them. Polite society won't venture to buy from you when they could go elsewhere, somewhere safer, they warned.But it was the rent they could afford. And when Adelaide Hale looked at the brightly lit corner building with big plate glass windows and dark blue awnings all she could see was the perfect place to start her life with her new husband. So that's exactly what they did.

Over the years the character of the city shifted and changed. People moved into the urban areas to be closer to work and forward-thinking developers bought up the gritty, abandoned industrial buildings and turned them into lofts. Small restaurants and markets opened and more and more businesses moved into the neighborhood to support the tastes of the new, upwardly mobile residents. Hale's Flowers benefited from the gentrification and soon Adelaide and Robert were able to buy the building that they had been renting in for years. They expanded their retail space and storage and moved themselves and their young daughter into the apartment above the shop. Life was good.

Rosalie literally blossomed in the creative environment she was raised in. Always quiet and artistic she started to help her father build arrangements after school when she was just 14. Though Adelaide's major contribution to the shop was her keen negotiating sense and gift for numbers, her knowledge of the Victorian art of floriography provided endless hours of entertainment as she interpreted the hidden meanings behind the bouquets that customers ordered.

"He must be having an affair," she would titter. Or, "Ohhh, she'd better watch her back," when a woman sent an arrangement with basil and birdsfoot trefoil to a friend. "Revenge is on that one's mind."

Robert would chuckle at his wife, but Rosalie, though smiling on the outside began to watch more carefully which blooms went with others. She read her mother's floriography books at night and started suggesting combinations to her father that she thought might change people's fortunes, or send less hostile messages.

"No yellow carnations with red roses, Papa," she said one afternoon. "They mean, 'No!' And, well, that just looks bad." Robert always obeyed with a smile, enjoying any moment when his shy daughter would chose to speak her mind.

By the time Rosalie was leaving to attend Savannah College of Art and Design she was as well versed in the language of flowers as her mother—maybe more—and her own art was full of secret messages. Every joy and hurt found its way into her paintings and sketches in the form of a bloom. And every sentiment that went unsaid in the face of her overwhelming shyness she communicated clearly enough with a flower.

She had pinned oleander and oak leaves in her hair when the girls in high school had bullied her for her "art geekiness" and what was likely jealously over her quiet beauty. Back off! I'm brave enough to handle you,it screamed. Just as the tiny wreath of yellow acacia told her freshman-year Drawing I professor that she was secretly in love with him. Professor Varner clearly didn't understand that when he picked it up and dropped it in the trashcan beside the door, distaste showing plain on his face. "Don't bring flowers into this studio," he sneezed broadly to the students filing into the room. "I'm allergic."

It was likely that if he had known it was Rosalie who had left the little token on his blackboard, he might have acted differently. Freshman year cafeteria food and hormones had filled out her curves. Gone was the skinny flat-chested girl that the high school bullies had made fun of. In her place, Rosalie was sporting more boobs and hips than a Vargas pinup girl. Though not quite stylish, she was attractive, and he had already thought more than once about offering her a private critique session. But his public rebuff, oblivious as he was, had her drawing mustard seed blooms of indifference the rest of the semester, ending any chance that she would take him up on an offer like that.

The first three years at SCAD went quickly. Rosalie settled on illustration as her major, toying fleetingly with the idea of becoming a scientific botany illustrator. And though floriography continued to dominate her work, she used it less and less as a screen to hide behind. By sophomore year the friends she had made settled into a nice tight-knit group. They traveled in a pack and she felt comfortable enough that she could tell them things directly, no longer communicating cryptically with flowers. She trusted them.

Vera, a brash, strawberry-blond, film major she met in that first drawing class, attached herself to Rosalie and didn't let go. By keeping her giggling with her parade of ironic t-shirts and a running commentary on whodoingwhom, Vera didn't allow her to sink too deep within herself. Rosalie found it easy to coast in Vera's wake and there was no expectation that she had to do more than that. It was comfortable and certainly not competitive.

They enjoyed the same books and many of the same movies, but found their true kinship in the dressing rooms of Savannah's thrift stores. Midterm shopping therapy bonded them in a way that nothing else had. And Rosalie learned something, too. Under Vera's tutelage she found that clothes made her bold. That pencil skirts and form-fitting scoop-necked sweaters were made exactly for her new, art school body. Red lipstick made her stand up taller. And when she slipped on a pair of spectator pumps, there was nothing she couldn't face down.

When registration for junior year came around there was no question that they would be roommates. Rosalie returned home to work at Hale's Flowers for the summer already looking forward to getting back to school. Her parents marveled at her newfound confidence and raised their eyebrows at her wardrobe. But, more than anything, they were happy to see their daughter had found her voice, so they kept the comments to a minimum. Rosalie started to learn how to help her mother keep inventory and manage the books. She conducted animated brainstorming sessions with her father about how he might integrate the theories of ikebana into his arrangements. Life was good.

Rosalie returned to SCAD in September to her first off-campus apartment and a part-time job with Vera at their favorite thrift store. They fell into a comfortable routine of class, work and parties. Vera had discovered over the summer that she was desperately in love with her best friend from high school, which made Rosalie wonder in a very practical way if she should fall in love, too.

She had always been baffled by them: boys. High school hadn't helped with that. Most guys she knew had always been nice to her one-on-one. She might have even experienced a time or two when a cool chill slipped up the middle of her ribcage when one of them smiled at her just right. But those smiles never showed themselves when packs of mean girls were nearby and eventually it became easier to just to ignore all of them, lifting her chin up and counting the hours of each day down so she could get home to her sketchbooks and the flowers in her father's workroom.

But SCAD was different. And so was Rosalie. There were certainly a fair crop of good-looking guys with the added benefit that most of them were art geeks, too; technically at least. In many ways, that technicality helped her get beyond some of the apprehension she had about the opposite sex. That and the fact that Vera was so attached to her boyfriend, who was attending nearby AASU. Her third wheel status was getting overly tiresome, so she decided to give it a chance for all of their sakes.

She met Roy King at a party the last week of junior year. He was a senior, getting ready to graduate from the sculpture program. He and his friends arrived at the same time she and Vera did. Very smoothly, he held his friends back and the door open so the two of them could enter first. "Ladies," he said with a sweep of his arm as he took in the full length of Rosalie's body. Then directly to her, "Hey," with an expression that was meant to send shivers up her spine and make her swoon.

Vera giggled and elbowed Rosalie hard in the ribs after they made their way to the keg. "Did you see that sexy smirk he just gave you? Gi-irrrl..." Rosalie had and wasn't quite sure what to make of it. He was cute for sure. Taller than her in her heels, with dark-brown hair and looks that had most of the girls at the party panting. But she hadn't felt anything in her ribcage, except maybe a little queasiness when he was checking her out. Certainly no zipping chill.

She felt his eyes on her most of the evening and the few times they had made eye contact he grinned broadly at her, his friends chuckling around him. Rosalie smiled politely back, but made no move to talk to him or encourage him to talk to her.

Late in the evening she stood on the deck alone refilling Vera's Solo cup at the keg. When she turned to go back inside Roy was standing in the sliding glass door casually leaning on his forearm. "Hey again," he smirked. The same cool look he had given her at the front door dancing across his face, this time steeped in alcohol.

"Hi," Rosalie said quickly, dropping her eyes to her shoes and back up again. Something felt off. The room behind him was empty, even though she could still hear the party carrying on inside the apartment.

"I like your shoes," Roy said, strolling forward.

"Um, thanks?" she said, taking a step back but widening her stance.

"In fact, I like this whole outfit," he said, emphasizing the T at the end. "Jeans and heels. Nice."

Rosalie forced a smile, but went immediately cold when he reached up and dragged his finger across the top of her collar bone and down her arm. Her mouth dropped open in shock as he whispered, "This top does great things for your tits."

Before she could breathe, step away, do anything, he moved his fingers from her wrist to low on her waist, then quickly slipped the flat of his hand around to grab her ass and pull her roughly toward him. The beer in the Solo cup sloshed messily over the front of her top as Roy pressed himself up against her. Cold beer slipped down over her stomach, soaking into the top of her jeans and underwear.

All of the air in her lungs pushed up in her chest and the beer and pizza she had consumed throughout the night dropped low and heavy in her stomach. She felt immobilized, sure that any second another party goer would walk out onto the deck and this would stop. But when instead, seconds later, Roy was digging his fingers into the top of her sleeveless halter and rubbing his hard-on against her pelvis, she realized that that was not going to happen.

"Stop," she croaked, dropping the Solo cup and pushing at his chest.

"Ohh, don't be like that," he drunkenly hummed into her neck as he nipped at her and pushed her up against the deck rail. "We're just having fun."

He skimmed his hand further—between her legs—pushing his fingers up against her sex. God, she screamed inside. Oh my God.But on the outside no words came; just a high-pitched hum and heavy ragged breaths as she squirmed, trying to get away.

He pulled sharply down on the edge of her top and she heard the fabric tear. "Ohhh, I knew they'd be beautiful," he sighed, grabbing harshly at her breast, pinching and tugging at it. He pulled back and looked at her with cold, dark eyes. "You don't disappoint, do you?" he asked, crashing hard against her mouth, biting at her lips and forcing his tongue inside.

As Roy writhed against her, Rosalie heard nothing. Nothing but rushing silence and his sloppy grunting movements against her mouth. Her breast burned against his hand—chapped and scratchy from his sculpture work—and pinching pain radiated from the delicate skin over her pubic bone as he rubbed his length roughly against her. Then... then she heard quiet snickering. Her eyes snapped open and she saw two of his friends standing in the doorway watching as Roy assaulted her.

"Oh yeah, baby. You know you want it," rang in her ears like every bad made-for-TV movie she had ever seen and she suddenly felt all the air return to her chest. No! she screamed inside. No! This is not going to happen to me. She bit down angrily on Roy's tongue, bringing her knee up hard between his legs at the same time.

He dropped like a stone. He actually did.

"Fuck!" he groaned. "You fucking bitch." She looked down at him rocking from side-to-side in a puddle of beer on the deck below her, one hand at his bleeding mouth, the other cupping his balls. His handsome face was twisted in pain and anger. Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes.

"No," she hissed. "You're the fucking bitch." And she stepped over him, pulling her ripped shirt up to cover her chest.

His shocked friends backed quickly into the apartment and away from her as she came toward them, wiping Roy's blood from her mouth. The two other friends that had clearly been keeping people from coming into the room gaped as she pushed past them.

The whole party went silent when she stepped back into the living room.

"Rosalie!" Vera screamed frantically. "What the hell?"

-:-

The last week of school went by in a blur. Interviews and physical exams. Her parents and Vera buzzing around her like insects. They packed her up in her car and her father drove her home while her mother followed. He only spoke to her about logistical details during the drive. "Are you hungry? Are you thirsty? Do you need to stop and use the restroom?" Rosalie dozed or stared out the window the entire ride, only answering with yeses or nos.

Once home again, she spent most days of that first month above the shop, not in it. Her room littered with sketches of moonwort, for forgetfulness. But by the end of the summer she was more like the old Rosalie again. At least on the outside. Her clothes and makeup were back in place and she even laughed sometimes. She worked the register for her mother and trimmed thorns off of roses for her father. But she made no arrangements and offered no advice on the floral combinations he made.

When she returned to the apartment with Vera in the fall she did her best to keep up the appearance of normality. Vera quickly caught on though and didn't push her to go to bars or parties. They sometimes spent quiet evenings at home with their friends, but mostly Rosalie threw herself into work, classes and academic activities. Her floriography book stayed on her nightstand and her sketch book was filled with Aspen trees.

When the dean of SCAD came to pull her out of Professor Varner's last Children's Book Illustration class at the end of her senior year, she had no idea that aloe, harebell and adonis would dominate her sketchbooks for years to come.

Standing in the hallway with one of the school's mental health counselors, he told her. In the fucking hall.

"Your parents' car... "
"I'm so unbelievably sorry..."
"Coastal fog, they said..."
"I'm so, so sorry..."
"I've looked at your grades..."
"You, of course, won't need to take exams..."

Rosalie stared down at her spectator pumps, while their words washed over her.

They had been driving to Savannah for graduation. To help pack up her apartment. To celebrate. To caravan home together.

Now, she would be going home alone.

-:::::-

"So, you've thought about it right?" Alice blinked at Rosalie intently as they stood outside Cullen's Corner Market.

Rosalie regarded her openly; surprised how beguiling this little, tattooed girl was. She felt something crackle within her carefully maintained reserve and sighed.

"Yes... A lot actually."

"I knew I was right!"

"You seem to be right a lot," Rosalie smiled.

"Well... about some things," Alice said with more of a serious tone than Rosalie had expected. They both drifted off for a breath before she added, "So, why haven't you?"

Rosalie drew in a deep breath through her nose only to let it out immediately. It vibrated noisily over her lips. It was very un-Rosalie and it made her smile. "So many reasons."

"You could start with something small."

Alice had no idea how right she was. "That might be the way to do it."

So, the plan for now is once a week. I'm a bit ahead already so I'm hoping I can stick to that. I've got a pretty stressful job and a whole other life with a husband and kid, so I won't promise there won't ever be delays. I'll do my best to avoid them.

If you remember writing your first fic you can remember how nerve wracking this is. Thanks for reading! Reviews would be awesome, but I won't hold my breath.