❝UNRAVEL❞
warning: arguing, smut
note: based on a dream I had, written in first pov.
hell hole for my lbh oneshots —> wattpad acc
"You're unbelievable."
My voice cracked more than I wanted it to, sharp and tired as I shoved my shoes off by the door. The house felt too still. Like even the walls were holding their breath.
He didn't answer at first.
Just followed me in a few seconds later, his keys landing too hard on the console behind me. The sound echoed, final, sharp.
"Don't do that," he muttered. "Don't act like I'm the only one at fault."
I didn't look at him. I didn't want to see that infuriating calm he wore when he thought he was being reasonable.
"That's not what I said."
"You didn't have to."
That was hours ago. Or maybe minutes. It felt longer than it was, like time had stretched itself just to make the silence heavier. I was curled up now on the far end of the leather couch, knees hugged to my chest, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows. The rain had started sometime after the yelling stopped. At first distant, now persistent and loud, beating against the glass like a warning.
I hadn't cried, but I had thought about it.
The fight itself wasn't earth-shattering. Something dumb. A comment he made. The look on his face when I mentioned the script — the one with the scene. The one he said he was okay with. The one he had technically approved when I asked. It wasn't about jealousy, he claimed. It was about how I told him. When. Why now, when things were already complicated?
It wasn't the first time we'd argued. But something about this one felt stickier. Meaner, in the quiet way — in the space between the words.
I thought he'd let me walk out.
But he didn't.
"Don't walk out. Not like that," he had said earlier.
Not loud. Not angry. Just certain.
And I'd stopped. Mid-step. Because even when I was mad and even when I was done, he had this hold on me.
So I stayed.
But I didn't speak.
And neither did he.
Until now.
"You always shut down like this when you're upset," he said quietly. "Like I don't want to fix it."
I didn't move. "You always think fixing it means talking me out of how I feel!" you didn't mean to yell.
It was met with silence again. This time, it thickened the room.
I heard his footsteps cross the floor.
Slow. Deliberate.
I didn't look until he was in front of me, until his shadow dimmed the lamplight and I had no choice but to meet his eyes — dark, tired, burning.
"Come here," he said. no, he demanded
My stomach flipped.
His voice was lower now. Not frustrated but strained. Like something in him had cracked open. I didn't expect the softness in his touch when his fingers grazed my jaw. Just the brush of skin. A check-in. A question. Asking if I was still angry.
I was.
And not.
I let him pull me up. Carefully. Like we were trying not to spook the moment.
He kissed me — passionately like he's setting my standard, so I wouldn't forget.
I kissed him harder.
Because I needed to stop thinking.
My hands found his chest, then his shirt, then his neck. His arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me against him like he needed the contact to breathe right.
It wasn't soft anymore, wasn't soft to begin with.
It was urgent. Eager.
His mouth found my jaw, then my throat, tracing a line with the kind of pressure that made my breath hitch. Licking and marking my neck. I held onto his shoulders like the room was spinning — like I was being broken down and pieced back together in the space of seconds.
"You drive me fucking insane," he murmured into my neck.
"You deserve it," I whispered back, my fingers tightening in his shirt.
He exhaled a sharp laugh, half-hoarse.
Then he kissed me again, deeper this time, like something between us had snapped loose and we were finally free to lose ourselves in it.
He turned me toward the hallway, guiding me backward while never breaking contact. Our steps were clumsy — impatient. We bumped into the wall, but neither of us cared.
"I'm still mad," I said against his mouth.
"Good," he breathed. "Then take it out on me."
The hallway lights flickered low behind us. My back hit the wall and his hands were already under my shirt, fingers sliding up my ribs with an aching slowness, as if memorizing every inch.
I gasped when his mouth returned to my collarbone, biting softly, pulling a low moan from my throat.
"You don't get to leave like that," he said, barely above a whisper.
I hooked my leg around his hip. "Then make me stay."
He lifted me effortlessly, my thighs wrapping around him instinctively, and we stumbled toward the bedroom door.
We didn't make it to the bed.
The hallway wall caught us again, and this time, he grinded against me — slow, firm — just enough to draw a strangled sound from both of us.
Clothes came off in pieces. His shirt somewhere on the stairs. Mine tossed into the kitchen doorframe. The lamp crashed off the hallway table when we knocked into it — neither of us flinched.
By the time we hit the bed, we were breathless. Panting into the thin space between us.
My body ached with every touch. His hands mapped over me with purpose, kneading, exploring, owning, like he was chasing every place I tried to hide from him.
He trailed kisses down my breasts, my stomach, lower and I gasped his name as he reaches my clit, fingers tightening in the sheets.
"Say it again," he murmured.
"Byunghun—"
"Louder."
His mouth followed the plea, tongue circling against my clit, then pressing, and the sound that left me was nothing like a word. It was raw. Pulled from some place deep.
I tugged him up to me, tasting myself on his lips as we kissed again — rough, hungry, messy.
His fingers slid inside me at the same moment his mouth claimed mine, and the heat that rushed through me was blinding.
"You're mine," he breathed against my skin, dragging his mouth down the shell of my ear. "Even when you're mad at me."
My hips lifted to meet his rhythm. "Especially then."
He growled something low, incoherent, and then he was inside me — slow, steady, deep.
I gasped, not just at the stretch, but the weight of it all. The way he held me like I might slip away even now. Like he needed every inch of me to believe I wasn't leaving.
His thrusts were unrelenting. Grounded. The kind that said I love you, even when I hate this part of us. The kind that made my entire body tighten around him with a high-pitched cry I couldn't muffle.
I clung to him like he was the only thing keeping me from breaking. And maybe he was.
When I came, it was sharp. Sudden. My legs trembling, breath shallow, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. I barely had time to recover before he followed, burying his face in my neck with a groan so guttural I felt it in my spine.
We stayed like that. Entangled. Hearts pounding.
He didn't pull away. Not immediately.
His hand found mine, fingers intertwining.
"I hate fighting with you," I said finally, voice quiet and wrecked.
He kissed my temple. "Then stop being so hard to love."
I turned my head and kissed his jaw. "I'm not."
His smile was tired. "No. You're not."
The rain was still falling, softer now. Distant thunder rumbled.
And in that stillness, with nothing between us but breath and skin and the warm weight of his body, I realized — the fight had never been about winning.
It was about staying.
And we still were.
𝘺𝘦𝘴, 𝘪 𝘸𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘶𝘱 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸
