A Touch Of Love, 2.
Genre | Romance / Valentine’s Day drabbles.
Pairing | Min Yoongi / Reader.
Words | 645 words.
A storm, brewing with slow might and destructing with vicious convict. It sits in quicksand at the base of their bellies, a heavy weight of dread, meteoric to swallow up any other sensation that dares to dwell nearby. Yet they let it fester, allow it to torment from the inside out until, they too, are consumed by the tsunami that holds them just below the surface, become wedged into the fault lines of the earthquake where their bones obliterate.
It can begin with the smallest of incidences. A minuscule mistake of not bothering to wipe up the splash of spilled coffee on the breakfast bar, or eating with their mouth open at the volume of a mammoth chewing its food, even flicking toothpaste onto the mirror that was cleaned no less than a day ago. It escalates when texts honing important questions that require instant answers are left unseen for hours, if the laundry or the dishes are abandoned to pile up in grot by the scheduled leader of chores for that day, and most especially when date night plans are dismissed by one instead attending a gaming night with the guys, or the other deciding upon wine with the girls as a better method to relax after a long day.
“Sweetheart,” Yoongi will gradually seethe, blood rising high in his cheeks, about to be discovered in the fissures of his teeth once he tears at her throat like a lion on a gazelle with the accusations he is loosening the reigns on in order to unleash, “Darling– Y/N. You’re really beginning to test my fucking patience here.”
And just like that, all hell breaks loose. The fight is vicious and bloody, dripping in empty malice that only sparks in the sheer rage of the moment. They tear into iron skin that is always left unscathed because their nails are too tender to truly implement any permanent damage, not sharp enough to streak scars in their wake that they will inspect, avoid later in the day, the week, the month, with utter shame. Rage rushes in a flood between them and only once the water has reached the rooftop does it begin to drain out of the room, retreating beneath the doorways, tucking in a dewy residue within the cracked plaster of the walls while they both stand spent, gasping for fresh air after being submerged in the chaos for so long.
She, straightening her spine, will snatch a set of keys from coffee table, a coat that belongs to him from the hanger by the door. “Fuck this, I’m going for a drive,” she will announce while he trails behind her progression to leaving like a persistent ghost, catching her wrist right before she unlatches the locked front door.
“You can’t leave without letting me hug you first,” Yoongi huffs with a bitter taste remaining to lay thick on the back of his tongue, and she is pliant when he firmly tugs her against his torso, a nearly forgiving tangle of arms curling around waists and shoulders.
Yoongi kisses her, hard enough that it hurts just right. He can taste the apologies in their mouths already. “Be safe, okay? Go cool the fuck down.”
“Whatever, I love you,” is all that she responds with, biting his lower lip in a reminder that she is still mildly aggravated, though the edges are softening and she will be liquid gold in his palms by the time she returns home.
“I love you too,” he reassures, and will make sure to murmur against every inch of her skin once she arrives with the anger expired from her pores, ready to be cleansed with his sempiternal devotion to her all over again.
Because, if anything, the aftermath of their arguments are but a genuine reminder of why they so earnestly love each other in the first place.