#scrape my teeth against his knuckles until they’re bleeding <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[inkykeiji]

licks all four of his fingers and his thumb, presses a gentle kiss to each fingertip then licks them all again ♡ traces the lines of his palm and the creases of his knuckles with the tip of my tongue and then coats his whole hand in sticky, shimmery saliva ♡

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Haunting, Haunted, Haunts

Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count: ~960

Warnings: Not the most explicit thing I’ve ever written, but definitely not G-rated. This is dark. Set between seasons 3 & 4, so. Demon blood Sam, with all the angst and self-destructive tendencies that that entails. Depression, suicidal ideation, rough sex. 

A/N: For the “Quote E” square on my @supernatural-jackles​​ Tell Me A Story Bingo card! My quote was “I’m here, just like I promised.” Pretty sure that was supposed to be a fluffy quote. Oops. 

This is a phase of Sam’s life that I tend to fixate on a lot; I’ve written about it before in Set Yourself On Fire and Might As Well. Check those out if you enjoy this, I guess? Title and thematic inspiration from an Against Me! song. 

Sam’s mouth still tastes like blood when she comes back. She slams the door shut and he runs his tongue over his teeth, wondering if she’ll be able to taste the coppery-sharp, rotting-fruit tang of it on his lips. 

“You’re here,” she says, and there’s an edge to her voice that Sam understands. 

Her eyes are a little unfocused, looking through him. He looks down at his hands, the dirt under his nails and the rusty stains coating his palms. The bloodstains aren’t real — or at least he doesn’t think they are. They shiver in and out of existence as he blinks away the not-quite-hallucinations that come with the high sometimes. He imagines the bloodstains fading, and his hands along with them, going translucent until he vanishes. 

Is there a word for when your entire body feels like a phantom limb?

“I’m still here.” 

(Is he?) 

He’s not sure. It’s hard to be sure of anything, these days. He skulks around at the edges of reality, haunting all these liminal spaces. He wakes up in abandoned houses where the dust swirls around him like ghostly figures in slanting rays of light. He sleeps in motels that feel like sun-bleached pastel-hued mausoleums. 

Days go by in strobes of washed-out neon and flickering fluorescent, glinting glass bottles and scraped-raw knuckles, punches from strangers that never land quite as hard as he wants them to — because even when he picks his fights staggering drunk and slurring, he can’t help but win. Dean taught him how to throw a punch and his dad taught him how to take one; if there’s anything Sam knows how to do, it’s how to keep fighting when logic would demand that he give up and die. 

Sometimes he isn’t sure whether he’s real. Sometimes he wishes he wasn’t. 

When the high kicks in and he can’t feel any pain, Sam can almost convince himself that he died when Dean did. When the comedown hits and everything aches, Sam wishes he was dead.  

Her lip is split, and she’s thumbing it absently as she comes closer. She’s still beautiful, even with the bruised-dark hollows around her eyes, the way they’re glazed-over and feverish, and the unnatural flush on her cheeks. 

She puts a hand on his chest, watching carefully as her warm palm makes contact, like she’s waiting for her fingers to go right through him, maybe. Her head lolls to one side, a little too loose. She twists her fingers in the fabric of his shirt and pulls him closer. 

He reaches out, grazes a curled knuckle over the swollen slash in her lip, and she shivers at the contact. 

“Did I hurt you?” he asks. His voice comes out low and heated, and he swears he didn’t mean it to sound so dirty. 

She kisses him desperately, throwing herself against him, and she tastes like blood. 

Sam picks her up, wrapping her legs around his waist, slamming her against the wall and rolling his hips, too much rough friction between them with their jeans, and she groans. He staggers to the couch, sits down hard and pulls her down against him with a hand tangled in her hair, sucking a bruise into the soft curve of her breast. She gives it right back: teeth sinking into his lip, nails raking his back, grinding down so hard it hurts. 

She was out of her skull at the time, and he doesn’t think she remembers telling him: Not so nice. Make it hurt. When you’re nice I can almost forget you’re not Dean. 

She almost rips his shirt getting it over his head, and then it’s a frantic scramble to get her tank top off, get her zipper open — she almost falls when he shoves her to her feet so he can push her jeans down her thighs. She sways into him, unsteady, fumbling with his belt, and when he slides a hand down between her legs she shudders, tilting forward to rest her forehead against his chest, shoulders shaking with a sob as he drags slick fingers up and down and in. 

“Sam,” she says, ragged and desperate. 

“I know. I’m right here.” 

Dean had snuck a glance at her in the rearview, reassuring himself that she was snoring, and he’d said it like a prayer: “When I can’t be here, Sammy, you gotta look out for her. Okay? Just… don’t leave her alone.” 

He’d brushed it off at the time — yeah, right, like I’d just ditch her—but when things were really bad, after — when Sam came closer to the edge than he’d like to admit — he thought of that promise: I’ll be here. 

It’s her fault he can’t just fade away. 

He shoves her face-down on the couch, feels the throb of his pulse in his cock as she strains back against him — as she struggles. He grabs her hip with one hand, fingers pressing into bruises that echo their shape, biting into where her flesh gives so nicely under the too-tight grip. 

He shoves himself down, feeling the slippery-silky-softness of her body — inside — where she’s wet and hot and undeniably alive.

They’re still here. They’re here, and this is what people do when they’re alive, right? They fuck and they struggle and they hurt each other until they bleed. 

They’re here, and Dean’s not. 

He grits his teeth, grinds into her, feels the buzzing high under his skin and the convulsive shudder of her inhale under his body. He drags his fingernails up the side of her hip. She reaches back, grabs a fistful of Sam’s hair, and the sting is enough to make his eyes water. 

I’m here, just like I promised. 

It hurts. 

.

.

.

[ashes-and-ashes]

Okay so some context:

I literally had this vision of Remus picking shattered glass out from Sirius’ palm, and the whole thing just expanded from there. I really like this whole concept of troubled youths though - maybe I’ll do something based on this later on?

(This sucks - I keep saying I’ll write longer fics and yet I can’t seem to do anything but oneshots. How annoying.)

~

“You’ve got to stop doing this.”

Sirius lets out a tiny groan, burying his head into the crook of his arm. They’re in some storage room, perched on upturned buckets, blood splashing down from the cuts on his hands.

“Stop what? Fighting? Brawling? Punching my hand through windows?”

Remus lets out a noise of fustration, roughly raking his hands through his hair. “All of them?”

“Sorry,” Sirius says. He leans against the wall, tips his head back to rest against the corner. “No can do.”

Remus sighs and bends over his hands again. The tweezers gleam in the cold light; sharp and metallic and vicious. Sirius bites down hard on his lip as Remus presses the tip into his skin, tries to ignore the stabs of pain against his skin.

“So,” he says, his voice coming out slightly strangled. “Anything else I should know?”

Remus sets the tweezers down. “Oh nothing much. Just that you’ve got another 3 weeks of therapy added onto your existing amount. And Snape is in the hospital with a broken nose and fractured rib.”

“Good,” Sirius mutters, and Remus sighs. “Jesus, Sirius. You’re not getting out of here if you don’t try to at least change.”

“Now why would I do that? Not like my parents are going to take me back. I’m stuck here till I’m 18.”

”Even longer if you don’t learn how to control your anger.”

They were all in here for a reason. Hogwarts School for Troubled Youth, the sign proudly proclaimed, erected outside of a dim, grey building. Once you went in, you often didn’t come back out.

Sirius scowls again, glaring down at his bleeding hand. He knew what his file said, had memorized every fucking letter on the paper. Officially he was in here for anger management issues, psychological trauma, violence and impulsive behavior. Unofficially he was imprisoned for being far too much for his parents to handle.

“Sorry,” he mutters. Remus flicks his eyebrows up in surprise. “Sorry for what?”

“Sorry for...you know. Beating up Snape and Malfoy. Putting my hand through the window.”

The corner of Remus’ mouth turns up. “And?”

“And for being a jackass.”

“Apology accepted.” Remus picks up the tweezers again; he smiles, his eyes wide and guileless. With a flick of his wrist the tweezer disappears, vanishing from between his fingers in the space of a breath. He winks and reaches forward; Sirius rolls his eyes as Remus pulls the tweezers from the mass of dark curls piled on top of his head. “Would you quit doing that?”

“Doing what?” Remus repeats innocently. He twirls the tweezers again; they snap in half between his hands. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, Yes. We know you’re an incredible thief. And a pickpocket. And a magician.”

“Damn straight,” Remus mutters. He makes a fist around the broken shards of the tweezers and gently blows. When he opens his hands again the tweezers are whole. “I’m incredible.”

Sirius resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Can you get the glass out of my hand?”

Remus smirks. “Right.” He bends over, presses the tweezers into Sirius’ hand again, underneath the skin to where the glass shards were embedded into flesh. Sirius stifles a groan, bites down hard on his lip and lets his mind wander.

His gaze swoops down, towards Remus’ hands. He’s studied them, a lot, the long, slender fingers and the ropes of scar tissue that snaked their way along the skin. One of his fingers are crooked, bent in two different places, the only hint toward the scars that coated the rest of his body.

How many hours has he studied Remus, his laughs and his moods, the quiet, watchful way he observed the world? Always moving; his hands reaching up to brush against his hair, fingers tapping on his knees, the flashes of light as he flicked objects between his fingers, dropped coins into his pockets. He was sent here for stealing, hustling people on the street to scrape together enough money to save his dying mother. It all fell to shit when he stole from the wrong person, got his ass sent to Hogwarts.

Sirius bites back a moan as Remus probes too deep into the broken skin. He jerks slightly; the metal presses deeper into the bleeding skin, making him clench his jaw. Remus pulls back. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Sirius takes a deep breath, gaze dropping towards the floor. Shards of blood-soaked glass litter the ground, countless others burried in his hands. “It’s okay. I can handle a lot.”

Remus meets his gaze. Sirius always loved Remus’ eyes; brown, flecked with bits of hazel and gold and bronze. There’s a ripple in one eye, a jagged chasm of black; Remus had just shrugged when Sirius asked him about it. “I got my head slammed into a lot of corners,” he muttered, then refused to say anymore on the subject.

He realizes he’s staring, eyes locked on Remus’. Remus flushes, blood rising to his cheeks; he tears his gaze away, looking down at Sirius’ hand. “I better,” he starts, then trails off. “I don’t want the wound healing over the glass. I better get this out.”

“Sure,” Sirius says, then stifles a moan as Remus shoved he tweezers back into his hand. He leans his head against the wall, teeth bared, forcing himself to stay still even as the pain snaked its way up his arm. “Where’s James?”

“Probably lighting things on fire behind the dumpster,” Remus mutters. Sirius loves it when Remus concentrates, all pursed lips and lowered lashes. “They found his lighter, though, and the can of gasoline under his bed. He’s pretty pissed about it.”

Sirius huffs a laugh, then winces as Remus slowly pulls out another piece of glass. The skin splits, blood trickling down his wrist in vibrant ruby ropes. He closes his eyes, heart pounding.

He’s always known, known the feeling inside of him. It was what started the fire, the raging inferno inside of him, the endless pit of fury that nothing could put out. He’s burning, burning and burning and burning and there’s not a damn thing that anyone could do about it.

God, he’s wrecked. He hasn’t spoken to anyone, hasn’t even seen Reg for 7 years. He wonders what happened to him how, if he was still the sweet-faced, innocent child that Sirius left behind.

“Sirius,” Remus says, and he’s jolted out of his thoughts, back into the storage cupboard with blood down his arm and Remus too close at his side. “Sirius, you’re doing it again.”

“Sorry,” Sirius breathes. “Flashbacks.”

Remus’ eyes go dark; he has his own demons to battle with. He still didn’t know what exactly plagues Remus, but he had a general idea. There were too many nights spent tossing and turning, listening to Remus’ pleads; Greyback! Please, not her, take me instead -

He wondered who Greyback was. He was going to rip him apart.

Sirius takes a shuddering breath as Remus removes another piece from his skin, feels the skin catch and tear. He bites his lip, embraces the feeling, the cold agony that helped cut through the whirling in his head.

He used to, when he was younger, used to trace bits of metal across his skin until he bled. The scars were still visible, though they easily blended with the scars that his mother carved on him.

And even those paled to Remus’ scars. He still didn’t know what caused them, all the rips and shredding. Patches that looked like burns, places where the skin hadn’t smoothed over. He dreamt of tracing them, sometimes, with his fingers and teeth and tongue.

He shudders as more glass comes out from under his skin, filling his veins with shattering lines. He’s burning, he knows this, burning up with all that rage and he’s in love with his best friend.

“So,” Remus says, his voice soft. “Why did you beat them up?”

“Who?”

“Snape and Malfoy.”

Sirius forces a laugh. To be honest, he didn’t know. The day had already been tough, pressing on top of him like a goddamn pressure cooker and all it had taken was one comment (“Hey Black! On your way to fuck the whore?”) and he was on top of them, swinging punches left and right, feeling things cracking underneath his hand.

Later, locked in the office, he had began shaking. Hard and fast, until the room spun around him in foggy waves and he needed to think, to breathe, to prove that something in this fucked up life was in his control -

He didn’t recognize the pain at first - that came after. All he could hear was the shattering of glass, the pounding of his heart, Remus’ low curses as he found him on the ground curled over his bleeding hand.

They weren’t allowed tweezers - apparently they were a suicide risk. But there was nothing Remus couldn’t steal, no lock he couldn’t pick and there was a pair in Remus’ hands a mere 5 minutes later.

And now...Sirius bites back a groan.

His hands hurt. His back hurt. His ribs and his legs and his raw, bloodied knuckles but nothing hurt as badly as being in love with Remus. Of staring out into the sea and knowing that you’ll never find land.

Sirius grits his teeth, so hard he thinks he might pop a vein. He swallows, tasting blood, watching the tweezers press into his hand again.

“Sirius,” Remus says, his eyes shadows and mist and dust. “Sirius, are you alright?”

Sirius takes a deep, rattling breath. “Never been better.”

Another shard of glass comes out, clattering onto the floor.

[little-sundays]

Matcha

Street racers!AU

warnings: the beginning of the end.

playlist: 1, 2, 3, 4

I watched the rain continue to pour heavily around my area, so I decided to run towards the nearest convenience store and wait for the downpour to stop. It was a Saturday afternoon when I entered that specific store and met him.

Walking through the aisles, I checked my area before placing the chips inside the bag. However, someone held my wrist which prevented me from putting any more in the bloated material. Thus, I shrugged the person’s hand off my wrist, only for him to snatch the bag away from me. I finally faced the man and blurted rather bluntly, “What do you want?”

The male didn’t respond, he barely spoke a word. Instead, he brought my bag to the counter while I expected him to report me to the store’s manager. Except he didn’t, rather he paid for the stolen goods.

I filed out the convenience store and waited outside. The man pushed the main door and handed the bag back to me before standing beside me. The rain had eventually stopped after a few minutes.

I was about to leave when he questioned, “Are your parents at home?”

“They’re away for vacation,” I said. When I tilted my head to the side, there I noticed the continuous bleeding in his hand--there was a small hole under his knuckles. In effect, I muttered, “Holy shit.” 

He stated, “I need to crash in your place.”

“No,” I said, “you might kill me.”

“I can actually, but I’ll have to delay it for another time.” He admitted before shrugging his arms. I watched him in dismay whilst held his hand after dropping the bag on the wet pavement. I fished out a pocket knife from my bag and ripped a strip of cloth from my shirt to wrap around his hand. Thereafter, I raised my head to look up at him, only to meet his gaze. He clenched his fist before releasing the pressure, thus he said, “Thought you would be afraid of me after what I have said.”

I replied after placing the knife back in its original compartment, “I could’ve killed you if I wanted to either.”

The male’s lips curled into a wide grin as he stared at the ground, “Your bag’s wet.”

“I’m very aware of that,” I answered. I picked the bag up from the ground and wore it until he pulled the rucksack away from me. He then grasped my wrist and dragged me along with him towards his car. I blurted, “I’m not trying to sell my body nor do I want to die a virgin.”

“A virgin?” He questioned, “How old are you?”

“Who are you?” I retorted. The male only cocked a brow at me before a laugh escaped his throat, “Kim Jonghyun.”

I tried to reach for my bag when he pulled me towards his chest by the waist. Hence, he repeated his question from before, “How old are you?”

Averting my eyes from his face, that was only a breath away, to the road before me, I uttered, “I’m seventeen.”

He smiled once again when I slowly turned to him, “Your name then?”

“Kim Matcha,” I said. Jonghyun’s ears perked at my response after which his grip on my waist became loose. He mumbled something under his breath rather inaudibly making sure I don’t get to hear the faint words.

I placed my hands on his chest about to move him back when he uttered, “Let me crash into your place just once.”

“Fine. Just once,” I answered. Jonghyun smirked after I finished my answer, but there was something else hidden behind his smirk; something melancholic and oppressive. His eyes seemed to betray him even more, I thought, they were masked on the surface. But I never knew him, maybe not even myself after I met him.

It was the middle of September and the trees were already shedding its leaves. From my literature class, I remembered autumn being a tragic month in most texts; however, I chose to not believe in it mostly. Haply—I thought—just maybe, that’s the reality and perhaps my reality was Kim Jonghyun.

Jonghyun dropped the bag at the backseat before helping me in his own vehicle. He faced me to question, “Where do you live?”

He reverted his gaze back on the parking lot as I replied, “It’s at Pierre Street, just beside the Building—“

However, I wasn’t able to finish my sentence when he pushed my head down till it was hiding under the glove compartment. Once more, I wanted to ask him, but he pleaded with his eyes. Thus, another male exclaimed, “He isn’t here.”

I peered at Jonghyun and whispered, “You?”

Jonghyun moved a little closer and said before peeking at the front, “They’ll kill us both if you call out to them.”

He finally sat back on the seat; hence, I followed. Jonghyun started the engine before driving to my apartment. Once we were in Pierre, I pointed to him the small complex beside the Building of Pierre. His brows furrowed when he looked at the buildings, thus he parked the car nearby.

I settled my bag down on my room, then turned the faucet in the sink to clean the blood stain from Jonghyun’s hand. I order him to stand in front of the sink while I search for an aid kit. Afterwards, I went back to the kitchen and cleaned up his injury before patching it up with iodopovidone and bandage.

I asked, “How did you get this?”

“That’s an invalid question,” he said. However, I pressed on the topic further, “My house, my rules.”

Jonghyun licked his lips before replying to my question, “Remember the gang that was after me, they’re after me, because I’m part of Kang Daniel’s mafia—the 101.” 

I threw away the bloody cloth and cotton before shifting my attention back to him. The male was leaning against the edge of the counter while his eyes were on me. I stated my observation, “You like to stare, don’t you?”

“You seem interesting for a seventeen year old girl.” He admitted when I shoved the newly washed clothes. I stood in front of him and for the first time I took in his the features of his face. He smiled once more and in result his nose widened making me laugh softly.

He said afterwards, “I should really wash up and change.”

I watched him walk towards the washroom before all I could only see was his silhouette reflecting on the translucent glass door. I said rather rhetorically, “I’m not interesting, I’m just like any other person—ordinary.”

After the night passed, I woke up to the sound of feet tapping on the wooden floor. Quickly, I dragged myself towards the sound only to see Jonghyun sipping from a mug. The male looked at me and said, “Hey.”

I ignored him as I pulled out the butter from the refrigerator and the loaf of bread from the basket on top of the kitchen counter. Settling the plate on the table, I dropped the loaf on the plate as well as the butter before sitting across him. I finally greeted, “Morning.”

He immediately took a piece of bread from my plate before throwing me another question, “What time does your class start?”

“Around nine, usually the teacher’s late, so it doesn’t really matter.”

“I’ll drive you to school, it’s the least I can do.” Jonghyun said as he reached for the butter. I also munched on my own bread whilst he conversed with me.

“For a high school student, you’re still able to change both the present and future. I envy that,” he uttered. I threw a small bit of my bread at him and responded, “For an adult, you think so lowly of yourself.”

He shrugged his shoulder and muttered, “I’d like to live a happier life, but I chose to side with the mafia, because I needed money. Wouldn’t you do the same if you were insatiable?”

I said before changing into my uniform and grabbing my bag, “But I’m not, and that’s our difference.”

I remembered that Thursday afternoon when Jonghyun stared at me while I tugged my shirt off of my body. When all he could do was stare painfully at the exposed skin displayed in front of him. The way he sauntered towards me, but still kept a distance. He muttered in fear of anyone hearing him, although it was only we inside the apartment, “You’re painfully beautiful.”

Turning around to meet his gaze, I tried to reply when he pressed his own lips to mine. It wasn’t at all gentle nor was it too rough, he just applied the right amount of pressure. Finally resting his hands on my hips, he led us towards my bed before settling me onto his lap. The older male pulled away slowly to scrape his teeth against the skin of my neck and take pleasure from my breathless sigh.

“Jonghyun,” I said. He let out a soft hum before reaching down to brush his calloused palms against my thighs. He bit down lightly on the juncture of my shoulder blade enough to create a bruise. I continued where I left off, “Are we seriously going to have sex with you fully clothed?”

Jonghyun, however, yanked his remaining clothing off. He teased, “Didn’t you say you were a virgin?”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t know how to seduce a man, I’m not that naïve.” I returned. He only raised both of his hands in surrender before shifting my hips on his lap. He found every single detail of my body amusing as his nails dug into the flesh of my back.

“Are you certain about this?” He asked rather out of character from before. I could feel his nervousness and longing radiating from him. It made my whole body burn in the process, because he was trying to consider the disadvantages of this relationship. The other emotion I noticed from him was fear, I believed.

I promised, “Jonghyun, forget the world for now.”

I clearly remembered how he swore under his breath that afternoon, the way he smiled against my skin or stared into my eyes. He was greedy, selfish, and insatiable—he was trying to seize that moment in his grasp before it all faded away. I felt that from him when he whispered my name in a reverence. I believed it was.

The next day, I got an invitation from my doormat; it was from my second cousin, Agent Seo. I was about the read the letter when my telephone rang, so I abandoned the paper before picking up the call.

“Morning?” I questioned and was immediately cut off by the agent’s voice, “Matcha, did you receive the invitation?”

“Yes, I did.” I added, “Just a minute ago, actually.”

“On Saturday evening, there’s an event arranged for President Seo. He’s going to have his presidential speech, and the president wanted you to be there since you don’t visit frequently.” The agent deadpanned making me laugh. I answered, “Trust me, I’m going to the party.”

“I think I’ve heard enough of the ‘trust me’ line.” She said before dropping the call. I picked up the letter again, and it read, ‘Wear a gown for once, would you. I’d like to see you sweep a boy of their feet once they check you out. — Agent Seo.’

I walked back to the bedroom to check on the sleeping male. I strolled towards his side, thus sat on the empty spot next to him. Running my finger down his arm, he let out a low groan before turning around. Jonghyun smirked, “You in for round two?”

“Do you have anything better to do?” I asked as I hung my head back to look at the ceiling atop us. He finally sat up and said, “Probably comply with Kang’s orders.”

I questioned, “Are you ever going to leave the mafia?”

I tilted my head to the side and noticed his pained expression like he was contemplating. As nonchalant as I seemed, it made my heart drop. I wasn’t scared, rather I was frustrated over the fact that this was how broken our relationship was.

“You’re so selfish,” I snapped, “you’re insatiable. You can’t take a risk, because you’re afraid. What are you even afraid of?”

I paused to emphasize my last statement, “I’m taking a risk for the both of us, because I’m not terrified. I know why I’m here and why I’m in love with you.”

We sat there in silence almost as if my own tears could be heard. I wanted to know Jonghyun’s thoughts; why he kept himself at bay.

I remembered how far he was from me, and made me realize that maybe only I was in love with the person he is while he loved having someone love the broken image he wears.

“Matcha, could you watch over the guests for a while.” Agent Seo ordered before strolling to the side. I placed the earpiece inside my ear, and observed each of the people. I noticed a male at the centre of the room; he was speaking to no one in particular, so I directed this to the agent through the earpiece.

“Northward of me, centre of the room is a male dressed in a navy blue suit. He’s communicating to someone, but he’s not holding a phone—it’s an earpiece for sure.” I described as I looked at the agent. She only nodded her head at me before eyeing the target; however, a sudden shout averted our attention, “Everybody evacuate!”

After a minute, I noticed the smoke coming from the second floor. Quickly, I rushed towards the president and directed him to Agent Seo. I told her, “Leave, I’ll try to search for Seonghyuk.”

She gave me a last glance before ushering her father out of the building. By that time, the room was already filled with smoke and it became even more difficult to see anything clearly. My lungs were burning, desperate for clean air. Yet, I still continued to search for Seonghyuk until someone pulled me back by the waist.

I elbowed the person from behind before turning to him and jabbing him across the face, only to realize the person was Jonghyun. He was badly injured, yet he managed to choke out, “We need to leave now. The place is going to explode after eight minutes.”

Wrapping his arm around my shoulder, I dragged him out the building before it blew up. Although, his arm was bleeding he forced himself to shield me from the blast. Afterwards, I touched his forehead to inspect if there was any gash or cut. But what really caught my attention was the open wound on his left arm along with the pool of blood on his left hip.

I took in rapid breaths when I turned to Agent Seo, she was crying harshly whilst she held onto her father. I wavered my eyes everywhere to try and find Seonghyuk, but his presence wasn’t there. The agent looked at me with a sad look, she mouthed, “It’s not your fault.”

This time, I called for the nurses to help Jonghyun.

After the procedure in the hospital, Jonghyun sat on the chairs positioned in the corridors. He said, “Forgive me.”

“Forgive me,” Jonghyun said in almost a whisper, “I became greedy over you.”

He added, “I wanted you all to myself, then I remembered you aren’t my property.”

“I needed you most,” he said while sobbing silently, “I ruined both of us, didn’t I?”

Now, I was shedding my own tears as I listened to him hit himself. I wanted him to feel right about himself, I wanted him to realize that it was all right. I wanted to reassure him that I wouldn’t break once he holds me tightly. I needed him to know how much I loved him, I do. I knew that.

“I love you,” he said so suddenly. He repeated it again in a melancholic way, and it made me cry even more. I held him in my arms in the deafening silence, where he got to hear the slow rhythm of my heart. He found respite in the beat as he held onto me tightly.