#i hope this formats correctly ill fix it when i get home from dinner if it didnt!!!

[bubmyg]

in a rose garden of geraniums - myg

genre: flower shop!au; soulmate!au

summary:  Yoongi really wishes his soulmate would stop etching dicks all over his hands when he’s supposed to be marketing delicate flowers to potential brides, apologetic husbands, and broke college students who, for some reason, want an arrangement that passive aggressively says fuck you.

parts: one: geraniums, two: asters, three: roses

note: ahh my first full length fic!! enjoy ❤️🌸

geraniums: expected or unexpected meeting; foolishness

Yoongi hated ballpoint pins. Specifically the shitty ones from the shitty Staples store down the street that always sold him shitty paper clips and shitty folders and shitty excuses for pens. It was the cheap ones, the ones he could buy in a bulk pack of thirty-six for eight dollars that would last the store at least a couple of weeks before he was flipping the closed sign on the glass door for fifteen minutes and wandering down to retrieve more shitty pens.

He could probably afford better quality pens, maybe the assortment pack of twenty-four that included blue and red ink for just four dollars more than his current predicament. Those had the fancy hooks he could clip into his belt and whip out to scrawl on the tiny notepad tucked into his back pocket rather than scurrying back to the front desk and snatching a shitty one with a lost cap that was probably all dried out, half scratching the notes from the customer that he’d half to redo later anyway.

Maybe Yoongi resented those shitty pens because he’d mistaken the word anemone for amaryllis and made an entire wedding party boutonnieres of the lush red flowers only to be cursed out by an angry mother-in-law wielding a lavender bouquet and a lavender slash of fabric from the bridesmaid dresses that most certainly did not match his creations they paid for.

“Do you have any idea what the pictures are going to look like?” She’d screeched, wide rimmed glasses held in place by a delicate chain hooked over her ear nearly toppling to the glass covered register.

“No, ma'am,” Yoongi had answered earnestly, “Do you?”

He mostly hated the idea of big business mass producing an item in shitty quality simply because consumers would buy and buy and buy no matter if the pen lasted long enough for them to streak a single letter to the back of their hands. In a world where soulmates were connected by writing into skin, the words and characters and drawings and messages transmitted past pores and across land, boundaries, oceans. Even the unemployed beggar, after a quick stint for shoplifting, taking residence outside the nearest McDonald’s could afford to snatch up one of the very things he’d try to steal to use for an afternoon (and an evening, if he was lucky and shook the plastic body hard enough).

Supply and demand, free market economy, capitalism.

The tiniest part of Yoongi, the one swelling and taking up the most space in the throbbing frontal lobe of his conscious, hated those shitty pens because they were either the only things his soulmate seemed to have access to, or they had fallen directly into the trap he hated.

Okay, or maybe he hated those pens because you kept drawing dicks on his palms. If his soulmate was going to act like a twelve year old middle schooler who just discovered porn, the least they could do is make them good quality. Fill in the lines, add some details, or, most preferred, just stop drawing fucking dicks on his hands.

Yoongi convinced himself that his soulmate was some sort of manic masochist that enjoyed parading around with male genitalia inked into their skin. He was an idiot to assume that you would tell others that was your own doing. It angered him further than a handful of people in the world probably thought he was this raging hormonal asshole that simply wanted to coerce sexual favors in the eventual meeting of his soulmate.

In a way, it was some kind of reverse plagiarism that people thought the intricate casts of flowers vining around the knuckles and up the forearms of his soulmate were their own doing.

He considered himself a gentleman among a world of cheap, eight dollar a package, pen consumers. Yoongi used markers. Stashed in the bottom drawer of the register, protected by a reinforced plastic tub complete with clicking handles and the manual receipt book that he hadn’t touched other than to move it back and forth to access his rich ceruleans and lush greens and love stained reds.

There was something romantic about the tiny smudges of ink left over on the pads of Yoongi’s index finger and thumb that would surely bleed through to his soulmate. They were like tiny petals off the flowers he etched from memory, smudged around the edges and blurred unless you squinted, marking him to you wherever you may be, just as a fluttering droplet of velvet in a soft summer breeze still belonged to the circumference of pollen lain pistil that waved sadly from it’s rooted position in a garden box on an apartment window in the city in mourning of it’s long lost petal.

Shitty pens couldn’t do that.

But Yoongi wasn’t in mourning for you. There was a dull ache in his heart that could only be filled by you, that’s just how it was, but he wasn’t actively seeking you out. He wasn’t hiring a detective from the special task force rooted in center city like his love sick fool university roommate Seokjin had, he wasn’t quitting his job to wander aimlessly around the world with money he did not have with a lesser percentage of finding you than just staying put in his shabby little flower shop he’d purchased with his tax return check, and he certainly wasn’t going to just etch out a map of directions on the meat of his thigh for you to follow.

If the universe’s selection of soulmates was natural then so should the meeting. And in the meantime, Yoongi was going to draw you as many of the pretty flowers as he could in the span of time between a frantic looking husband and a tittering group of women screeching wedding party! through the drag of his painstaking shifts.

No one understood their soulmate markings at a young age. He assumed the blotches of crayon oil and red ink had been his own doing, something he’d accidentally swiped over his coloring page in primary school or blotched onto his thumb by accident in admiring the high marks on his spelling test. You’d had yours explained to you sooner, ten year old you starting out with squiggly Hi’s that faded into the void of existence before Yoongi could probably squint at the twinge in the middle of his forearm. His mother explained it to him because of you, finding the remnants of a cartoon flower on the back of his hand one evening when he was assisting her with the washing up.

She’d shown him the grocery list scrawled to her palm, a mix of drawings that ranged from detailed to child’s play, a way to coax his father into doing the shopping himself if he wanted those pen marks off his skin.

Straight words, greetings, attempts at addresses, even the slightest snippet of an alphabet, faded within minutes. Tattoos were the same on each person, permanent.

Drawings stayed until the original creator washed them off.

You couldn’t quite grasp that at first, trying to communicate with him in the only ways an elementary child knew how. Hi, my name is ___. How are you today? What’s your favorite color?

Yoongi’s first, and only, piece of information he knew about you came when you’d discovered a way to ask him his favorite color without articulating the sentence. You’d drawn a series of circles on his hands, all filled in with various fades of color you’d pressed crayons into. On his wrist, you’d scrawled a green check with a question mark.

What’s your favorite color?

The blue circle just under the ridge of his third knuckle contained your own tiny green checkmark.

Hoseok never knew why Yoongi kicked his shin to retrieve his green, gel pen, one that he had promptly used to scrawl a check next to the prominent red drowned in a faded opacity from the transfer of drawings across the map of your skins.

It was like you’d become bored with the prospect of having a soulmate after than day in year four. Nothing prominent came from you for years after that, nothing but smudges of ink and pencil lead on the underside of his left hand telling him that you were, at the very least, still alive.

So he knew one more piece of information about you. You were left handed.

Yoongi never tried to push the issue by reaching out to you through his own skin. He washed his hands religiously, not wanting to bother you with the smudges of ink off his books filled with music or the streaks of red pen from incessant lyric writing. He graduated, he went away to college, and he almost thought he began to get over the prospect of finding you as he lay awake staring at the tiny ceiling of his tiny dorm room one evening. With no marks to show on either of you, surely the opportunity of finding you had long since passed.

And then the dicks started appearing, somewhere in the middle of his junior year of music school when he was supposed to be evaluated by his private piano professor. He nearly died of embarrassment on his bench, failing the exam from the angry twitch of his joints as they desperately tried to cup away to hide the marks rather than properly execute the sheet music laid out before him.

But he graduated again and the dicks kept appearing. In the beginning, it was every day, the ink fresh and renewed and rippling across the lines of Yoongi’s expansive palms. The week he was to go to the bank to acquire the deed for the tiny run down shop pressed between a bakery and a clothing store became the first and only time he tried to wash away soulmate marks even if he knew they wouldn’t come off.

His hands were raw by the time he escaped from his bathroom two hours later, angry and red and smelling of the entire bottle of lavender hand soap he’d went through.

The frequency died away in the next couple of months, becoming an every other day thing until eventually it was once a week, the lines fading until Sunday’s when they were renewed again in staggered streaks of what was clearly the work of those shitty pens.

Yoongi tried fingerless gloves after a horrified elderly woman had informed him she would be reporting his perverted antics to her long list of friends on Facebook. He’d lost the business of headstone arrangements for a few months and had to apply for another loan, a meeting he was to attend the same day a tiny penis appeared on the curved edge of his thumb. Full gloves weren’t an option during the busy season of Valentine’s day and full coverage foundation became the remedy until he was shaking the hand of a disgruntled boyfriend who’d bought the first bouquet in the display case near the front door and smeared the grimy makeup all over the horrified O of the man’s face who had immediately assumed the substance was anything but foundation.

It was his second year of owning the shop when Yoongi decided to combat your antics after being dubbed the penis florist on a comedy column of his alumnus university’s monthly journal. He bought the good markers from Staples, a step above Crayola, the ones without the guarantee that they would wash off in the bath, the ink like concrete in that it would certainly be one thing.

Permanent.

He had half the mind to photocopy something gruesome onto his skin, like those flimsy tattoos handed out in elementary school on Halloween, depicted their favorite superhero or Disney cartoon of the decade. Instead his would be a graphic depiction of a broken arm, maybe a cockroach gnawing on someone’s ear in their sleep, a crying dog.

It was the same voice that had pricked tears into the back of his eyes that one evening in his dorm room at the prospect of never meeting you that stopped him midway to the printer in the backroom of the flower shop. There was still a chance, a small chance, but odds to bet on, nonetheless, that he would meet you someday.

And when that day came, he didn’t want you to hate him. He didn’t hold a grudge for the dicks, but he couldn’t even begin to fathom your tolerance for bullshit.

Okay, Yoongi didn’t hold a big grudge.

He drew the first thing that came to his mind, the thing he was surrounded in, the thing that reminded him and propelled his prospective career in music forward. He began to draw flowers, intricate vines up the canvas of his appendages. It started first as a tiny picture on the back of his hand that eventually grew up the expanse of his forearm to die away into the crook of his elbow. He overdid it with the curved edges of tulips, the expanding ends of roses, the sweet circles of daisies. He drew you an entire garden, one that professed and promised his eventual love if you were ever to find him.

He wasn’t a complete cynist.

It became a game, the more prominence of the childish drawing on his palm, the more flowers he added around his arm. It was good business too, advertisement for the shop, a way to distract from the male body parts coating his open palms when he gestured for cash or check or credit cards in exchange for one of his creations that likely mirrored a piece on his arms.

Yoongi began to add what he created, placing in the mistaken boutineers for the wedding just on the underside of his wrist, matching the prom bouquet he’d made for a starry eyed teenager and his tight lipped mother in April just under his elbow, stretching the lines of an anniversary gift he’d made complete with a pastel pink bow to waiver just on the freckled skin of his bicep. They were beautiful, they were art, and they were a connection to you. That was enough for him to continue his drawings.

A bouquet of roses was awaiting pickup, a voice Yoongi had guessed was either an expensive businessman in coattails in need to apologize to his secretary who might also be his mistress, or maybe just a concerned father retrieving a last minute mother’s day gift for his daughter to give to his ex-wife.

Quite frankly, no, there was no inbetween.

Yoongi twirled his red marker in his fingers, eyeing the outline of thick black. He hadn’t drawn the roses as a bouquet but rather a beautiful flowing vine, casting up the edges of his wrists. It wasn’t a day he needed to add to his drawings, in fact, the drawings that were the bane of his existence had faded considerably in the last two weeks. But he wanted to as the creation of flush roses under his nose he’d just received in a shipment were so exquisite that he almost didn’t want to pass them off to a cheating husband or a wistful ex husband.

He hummed, following the tune of the delicate crescendo of a piano filtering from his laptop tucked behind a display of “Freshly Picked!” daisies. Stark red stained against his skin as he lazily began to color, almost as if a sleepy toddler back in the days of primary school. He smacked his lips together, pursed  in the concentration of his furled eyebrows over his newest creation on his arm.

An angry red mark appeared across Yoongi’s skin as he startled, yet he barely had time to curse himself or the entering customer for slamming his door against a stand of metal yard caterpillars waving to the streets outside as said customer was suddenly in front of him.

A wad of crumbled bills was thrown in front of him, one of the largest catching on a stem of the rose bouquet. His pouted mouthed rimmed into a large circle, eyes connected the dots of the scattered currency before lifting to find an extremely beautiful and an extremely angry girl looming over him.

Yoongi watched as she sifted stray strands of sweaty hair behind her ears, allowing him full access to gaze dumbly into the beaded fury rolling off the entirety of her aura.

“Hi,” He stuttered, startled again when clammy palms caused his red mark to slip from his grasp and clatter against the glass. “How can I help-”

“Hello,” She seethed coolly, cutting him off with a bored flick of her wrist. Her elbows knocked into the counter, face in her palms as she leaned forward, a wickedly evil smile stretching joylessly over cracked lips. “How does one, for the sake of the conversation, say fuck you with flowers?”

#min yoongi #bts #bts reactions #bts scenarios #yoongi scenario #yoongi scenarios #min yoongi scenarios #bts imagine #bts fic #yoongi imagine #min yoongi imagine #yoongi fic #bts x reader #yoongi x reader #min yoongi fic #i have zero idea what else to tag this ancndn #i hope this formats correctly ill fix it when i get home from dinner if it didnt!!!