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dwaekkilinos · 1 month

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savior complex (pt. 1) | bang chan

summary: Your father had wielded you to become a machine; a weapon. And a machine you would become. Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Repeat. He taught you how to protect; specifically how to protect your family. But he never taught you how to survive with other groups, especially when their leader seems to have it out for you.

pairing: bang chan x fem!reader rating/genre: 18+ Minors DNI | strangers/enemies to lovers + zombie apocalypse au, angst, fluff, smut word count: 19.9K chapter summary: you'd always known the end, and it had always known you. you just didn't know the beginning would be waiting for you when your time finally came. warnings/notes: zombie apocalypse au so . . . blood, guts, gore, sad, sad, sad. beware. lots of inspo from every zombie thing i've literally ever seen (twd, tlou, train to busan, etc.), typos probably, parental death, actions of violence and murder, religious TRAUMA, religious undertones, reader does not believe in god but she's deeply influence by it bc of her childhood and it haunts her, reader comes from a small toen and it's not explicitly stated where she's from but hollows are mentioned, hunting, reader wishes for death multiple times, chan goes by chris, no smut in this chapter but there will be in every chapter after, i think that's it but let me know if i missed anything, and enjoy! <3

chapter one: i know the end (and it knows me) ( series masterlist | next → )

Sometimes you felt like a ghost. It happened when the world was so silent that you could almost hear the beat of your unsteady heart pounding in your chest; when everyone else was asleep and you stayed up, eyes watchful and searching for threats. That was when you felt like the lost faces that haunted you.

It hadn't always been this way, at least not until the world ended. Most of the time you tried not to think about it. You tried not to think about much except survival these days.

Because that was smart. Surviving was smart. Anything else was stupid; anything else would get you killed.

Ironic, how you used to fear that very thing. Death. Now it was all you knew.

The apocalypse had come.

You knew how it sounded. Honestly, you didn't believe it when it first happened. You had been too afraid to admit it; too scared that if you did, you could never go back. There was no going back anyway. That was something you wished you had known back then. And as you sat on a log in the middle of those dark woods, overlooking your group who all slept silently while you stayed up, bloody knife in hand, and eyes watching for threats, it was hard to ignore the fact that this was your cruel reality.

Because the reality of it all was: you were living on borrowed time, trying your best to do right by your father and keep your family alive. You'd faltered that night, dotting the line between protection and predation.

And now . . . now you couldn't help but think about the beginning. How you would've never ended up like this if things had been different. But things hadn't been different. Things had happened exactly the way they had, and it'd left you with rot in your bloodstream and hate in your heart.

That was what made you clutch the knife closer, nearly cutting your own flesh. Because things hadn’t been different, but they also hadn’t always been this way. You hadn’t always been like . . . this.

You supposed it was because it was easy to kneel when you were just a girl. It was easy to ignore the ever-present scabs on your knees when you didn’t know any better. It was easy to tear yourself down the middle, pulling stitches from the back of your legs when you knew it’d all be re-sewn by morning. It was easy back then when the world hadn’t died.

From the moment you were brought into the world, barely kicking and silently screaming like it was a sin to voice your pain, you had been taught to be that girl; that easy, complacent girl with not so much as a rotten thought. From the moment you were born, you had been taught the foundation of the Church and its vocation, and it had carved its way into your rotten flesh even when the world was no more.

At age four, you were in the pews, listening to the words of God while creating imaginary friends in the statues. At age seven, communion. Then at age eight, you had begun to become an altar girl, fetching and carrying, ringing the altar bell, bringing up the gifts and the book, among other things—essentially being a servant to God. At age fourteen, confirmation. At fifteen, your mother doused you in holy water before your first date with a boy from school. Sixteen, heartbreak, praying to God and begging for him to help ease it all, only to be left with no response . . . even after all you had done for him.

Seventeen and the stitches down your legs remained undone, the scriptures now more of a question than a statement. Then . . . eighteen, the timer clicked into place, and you felt yourself begin to rot along with the world, forcing you to realize your entire life was just a cycle of kneeling before God, praying, and asking for forgiveness for your sins.

It had been easy to kneel when you were just a girl; when you didn’t know any better. And then it happened.

It.

Armageddon.

The Rapture.

The fucking apocalypse.

It didn’t matter what you called it. Doomsday was still doomsday even dressed up with fancy scriptures and sacred wine.

The apocalypse had come. Humans were deemed horrible creatures by some almighty who you didn't give a fuck to acknowledge. It didn't matter. Someone or something had deemed the human race unworthy.

The apocalypse had come, and you were deemed worthless. You were made to die. It was inevitable.

The apocalypse had come. There was talk that it had begun in the North. But much wasn’t known in your town. Now you realized they tried to keep it a secret. It was a way of controlling everyone, you supposed, but not like it mattered much now.

That was just how things were. Your mother refused to let you and your younger sister watch the news, refused to let you search anything about what was going on in the world, adamant that everything was lies and those lies would cloud your mind. A religious town bordering on a commune that resembled a cult perhaps just a tad too much. You realized all this now, of course, but back then your knees were still covered in scabs from kneeling before a God who would never come. Back then your mother kept you kneeling until the final bell tolled, her hand firmly clutching your shoulder to keep you in place.

You were only eighteen then. And while the outside world was torn apart month by month, its people haunted by death piled upon death, your town continued on as it always had. The whispers of a war that would end the world were just whispers, covered up by scriptures that the local preacher would sight every Sunday morning just after you’d collected the eggs from the chicken coop and put on your best dress like your mother had always taught you.

But it was different for you, even back then. Because while it had been easy to kneel when you were a girl, you had begun to grow. Eighteen then, but you had begun to see the flaws within the Church when you were sixteen. And by eighteen, you knew better.

By eighteen, you could see the sweat beading along the preacher’s forehead. By eighteen, you could hear wavering in your mother’s voice when she proclaimed that this was just a test. That this was meant to happen. That the Bible had always predicted this, and if you remained faithful, then you would be saved . . . spared.

But by eighteen, you knew better.

It took one quiet night and a hammering heart for you to sneak into your father’s study and head straight for this desktop. It took even less time to discover what had become of the world. One. Two. Three clicks and then . . .

You remembered the choking feeling bubbling up your chest as your eyes scanned the news articles. A virus. One so horrible and unforgiving that it could take a healthy vessel, and within twenty-four hours, the body would succumb to death. But, you’d seen stuff like this before, right? You knew there had been plenty of diseases and viruses and they all had cures. They all had to have cures. They had to.

That was just the thing: no matter how hard you looked, you couldn’t find any article that explained how this virus came about. It was unknown, deadly, spreading rapidly, and there was no way of telling when it’d reach your town. It was just . . . just . . . (It was the first time you truly felt helpless.)

You remembered staying up with the sun, looking for answers, only to come out empty-handed. And when your father discovered you in his study that morning, you nearly confessed right away, sobbing into his arms. But no shame was brought upon you that day.

Your father had been a good man. He had loved you so. He had loved his family, no matter the consequences or conditions.

This town, your town, was small. It consisted of around only three thousand people give or take, all of which were either Christian, secluded, or . . . your father. In all the years you had been alive, not once had your father stepped into the Church. You never asked. You never worried. Your mother just always told you your father was busy every single time, and you believed her because back then, you’d trusted her with all of you.

As you grew, your suspicions of him did, too, but you remained silent as you always had in life. And it was only until that morning when he wrapped you in his arms and let you cry into his shoulder, did you realize why he never entered the Church, why he never spoke the prayers your mother praised, why neighbors would talk of his name only in hushed conversations.

He didn’t believe.

No, he believed in something just not . . . this sacred word your town so desperately worshipped. And that morning, he told you the truth. From his childhood to how he ended up in a town like this. He told you it all, and then he told you the truth. He told you how your mother was scared (how she always had been) and how one day he hoped with enough trying, she’d see the world for what it was ( . . . she never did). And then he told you about the virus, and everything was so much clearer.

The town had everyone convinced this was some kind of test. There was no virus to them. This was the reaping. The scriptures were true to them. And so every Sunday, you were forced to acknowledge that Pestilence, War, Famine, and Death—the Four Horsemen of the apocalypse had come to earth with the power to destroy humanity.

That was how it had been explained to your town, and all its people believed. A sickness had struck the world, yes, they told that much truth, but they chalked it all up to being some kind of plot point in God’s plan. To top it off, it was said that if the townspeople all repented and did right by his name, then salvation would be given.

That was what was told, and that was what was believed.

You remembered the preacher’s voice even now.

Then I saw when the Lamb broke one of the seven seals, and I heard one of the four living creatures saying as with a voice of thunder, "Come." I looked, and behold, a white horse, and he who sat on it had a bow; and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer.

— Revelation 6:1–2

That scripture haunted you just as your father’s face did, but back then you hadn’t realized the detriment it would have on you. Back then, you played your part. Back then, you dressed as your mother advised, went to church, and listened, and then, when all was said and done and your mother had gone to her room, you snuck off to accompany your father on his hunts. And during those times, you’d learn the truth.

While the two of you hunkered down, waiting for deer to pass through your side of the woods, he told you about what was going on with the rest of the world. He explained how the CDC had claimed this thing; Pestilence (as your town believed) was some kind of virus, yes, only they wouldn't release the survival rate except for a few things that stated it was deadly, spread rapidly, and anyone could have it, but by the time symptoms had started to kick in, it would be too late.

As the weeks went by, as the more hunting extravaganzas you went on with your father piled up, his news became more worrisome. At first, the virus was contained in the North of the world, but as it took more lives and less information about it was being provided to the public . . . people began to panic. Hysteria spread throughout the world. Cases of this unknown virus peaked, and the government released statement after statement informing the public that face masks would be required to prevent the virus from spreading and travel restrictions would soon be put into place.

Only by that time, it was too late.

Carriers of this unknown virus had already traveled far and near, spreading the disease throughout the world. This so-called Pestilence might have only been given reign to a quarter of the world, but his disease had spread farther than his radius.

And while you had been young, you realized that this virus had only one purpose: to kill. There was no survival rate. No hope.

The world shut down soon after more and more people started dropping like flies, succumbing to the miserable disease that left them with boils and blisters covering their skin. Hospitals became overrun. Schools were wiped out with kids coming home with this deadly virus. Workplaces were abandoned, the people wishing to stay at home with their families, too afraid to step outside without any real knowledge of how this virus worked.

Your town remained oblivious, too, as the region shut down, gates being made so no one could enter or leave. It was safer that way they claimed. All of those who could be saved would be saved and helping those seeking a refuge was against the rules. It all felt like some kind of sick plan if you had anything to say about it.

By the time your father had taught you how to shoot your first deer without you sniffling in fear, Vaccines were finally attempted, but nothing worked; the disease only spread, and more people died.

Then . . . it all just stopped.

But your town continued to spread its lies.

The story remained the same even all these years later. You remembered how while you had learned the virus was supposedly coming to an end, your town still painted the picture of the Horsemen. Tales of Pestilence’s reign still remained.

They went on and on about how he rose from the depths of Hell. Pestilence had come. He, who sat on his white steed, had a bow, a crown that had been gifted to him by his gods had come, and when he had, he went out conquering. And so he did.

Until he was put to rest; until his conquering had come to an end. You listened with half a heart as the preacher went on and on about how his time had ended, yes, but this was not the end. All you had to do was keep praying, keep repenting, keep . . . kneeling, and you’d be saved.

But you knew better.

While others would attend midnight mass in addition to morning, you claimed you had to pray on your own, and when your mother had left with your sister on her hip, you snuck off with your father to learn of the world. You snuck off to better your shooting arm, to seek comfort in the only person who seemed to have their head screwed on right, to shoot ducks and geese and deer and everything in order to keep your town fed while everyone else prayed to a God that wasn’t doing half your work. And yet, every time, every kill, your father knelt beside the animal and prayed, until you had begun to do the same.

You weren’t sure why he did it. You had never asked. You never thought you needed to. (Now you would’ve done anything to know the answer.)

And so . . . life went on like that. Completely cut off from the world without the help of the internet your father provided for the two of you, life went on.

The virus no longer spread further, and many believed it was all just some hoax. News stations came to life again, but not much else was restored. That was how everyone found out the virus had concluded. Hell, even you remember being twenty-one years old, having your first legal shot with your father in the middle of the woods while the two of you watched news reporter after news reporter claim the virus had mutated and mutated so much to the point our bodies had accumulated a natural resistance to it.

But you couldn't believe it.

Three whole years of this deadly disease taking out population upon population, and then it all ceased. It felt almost too good to be true.

Of course, the town believed this too. Pestilence had conquered, and that was just the problem.

Every day, day in and day out, words spread throughout the hollow, the word in the Church mutated each week, even your mother who had spent the last three years praying to Jesus, Joseph, and Mary; your mother who had gone through rosary after rosary begging for God to have mercy on your family; your mother who had always forced you to attend those days at church on Sunday went around the house, boarding up the windows and hiding the special silverware in the basement, claiming that he would come next.

He has conquered, she had hissed over your shoulder when you and your father came back from one of your hunts.

Pestilence's reign had ended (according to your mother, who you were almost certain had a few screws loose). You didn’t believe it for a second, ignoring your mother's desperate ramblings.

War will come, she warned.

War will come.

But . . . you knew if something did come, it wouldn’t be this War.

And then . . . then he did.

The first sighting of the dead coming back was spotted just months after the virus that had plagued millions had ceased. And this time . . . the town allowed its folk to see the reports. Even your mother had brought the television from the basement to witness the dead rise . . . or rather . . . War. The news stations had captured a recording of these . . . people; people who had suffered from the virus coming back, and then with only their teeth, tearing any live thing apart. The recording was aired all across the world, fear, and hysteria spreading like wildfire.

The government was still up and running at this point with only one mission: to shoot down these seemingly reanimated corpses before they could cause more harm. People believed this to be a fluke, but your mother's words had stuck with you.

War will come.

It was all a little hazy now, but you remembered bits and pieces of the world back then. War had been quick, ruthless, and determined.

This was no man. This was War.

And it all became clear soon after.

While Pestilence had been silent, War had wanted an audience.

The things he could do; the people he could hurt . . . it was all so gutting. Those lost to the virus kept coming back, all with one purpose: destruction. With one bite, their victims would soon fall ill to that same virus, and then once it had taken their body, they’d come back, reanimated with the same gruesome purpose.

The government finally fell when the dead could no longer be stopped. Quarantines dropped, people ran, and everything just . . . stopped. These creatures tore through cities, sinking their teeth into civilians. And you watched it all on the television, until that, too fell, leaving the rest of the world in the dark.

That was when you realized just how real all of this was. That was when you realized the past three years of hunting with your father was not just something the two of you would look back on and laugh about one day when this virus was over. No . . . it seemed . . . it seemed you couldn’t quite see the end or maybe . . . maybe you could and that was the problem all along.

Your father, the man he was, tried to remind you that this was not War; that this was not the supposed God’s plan everyone was convinced of in your godforsaken hollow. And you tried to hear him, but for a while, you wished to be like everyone else in the town. You wished you could believe this was some greater plan. You wished you could believe that this was all because of some Horseman . . . but you knew better, and your father seemed to know this as well.

(And yet, when you thought back on it now, the stages in which the world ended still presented themselves as the Horsemen in your troubled mind.)

Because, well, you supposed that was truly when the world had ended—the day War came.

War will come, your mother had warned, and you knew that to be true the day the electricity stopped working. War had come, and he'd taken civilization with him. And while he reigned over the quarter of the world he'd been gifted, the rest of the world lay in the dark, trying to navigate throughout this new world.

From time to time you had heard talk of distant wars. You, however, had never seen one.

But War's ruthless hand still reached your town.

There was no news or contact with the outside world other than the people you could see with your own eyes. No transportation, no government, no nothing. It was said that cars had even been abandoned on highways as people tried to leave town to find their families. But they never got far; not with this newfound order bestowed upon the earth.

Because truly . . . War did not need to come to earth to corrupt it.

The government had fallen, the world had ended, the apocalypse had begun and that was all it took for chaos to ensue. People became their worst selves at the end of the world, you'd been told all your life through media upon media. But you had to disagree. You thought, perhaps, the end of the world brought out who people truly were deep inside. It allowed people to let go of civility.

And you discovered people really were perhaps even worse than this supposed War himself. Or rather a product of War and his righteous hand.

(Although, how righteous could he truly be?)

While War reigned, the rest of the world scavenged. Your family stood stagnant in your childhood home, holding up there for as long as you could. It was still warm when the second wave hit. You knew you'd need to find a different shelter when the time came.

The cold wasn't your only problem either. People were at their worst. When the news broke out in your town, the scriptures they held so dear began to fall apart. A lot left, some stayed, and others turned on each other, leaving houses with bloodstained splatters and a fear of thy neighbor. Your family stayed, however. Your mother read scriptures every day. Your father recited the truth. And they argued, while you sat by the window, terrified out of your mind as you watched the empty streets.

That was when you realized another truth about yourself. You were just about to turn twenty-two, the world had gone to shit, and you had never been so scared. Pestilence. War. Famine. Death. Their names raged on inside your head and it was as if you were still just a young girl, kneeling in church despite the scabs. Except now, you were a girl who could no longer kneel in church, and yet you were still so scared.

It felt cruel. Perhaps even unreal.

The scriptures had predicted this—the four harbingers coming down to scorn the earth. But you hadn't believed it. You were forced to now.

It was War’s reign back then. But Death would come one day. He had come to kill you all; to finish off everything his brothers hadn't touched, and one day he would.

It had been predicted. The words stuck in your head even now.

When the Lamb broke the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature saying, "Come." I looked, and behold, a pale horse; and he who sat on it had the name Death; and Hades was following with him. Authority was given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the earth.

— Revelation 6:7–8

Your mother told you long ago of these scriptures. When you were a child, you'd cover your head with your blankets, hiding from the mysteries of the night. Somewhere in your innocent mind, you'd convinced yourself the devil himself would find his way into your room, wrap his bony hand around your ankle, and drag you to the pits of Hell.

Back then you'd feared death. You'd done everything to steer far from its clutches.

She’s afraid of the world, your peers would hiss under their breath, not knowing you'd heard every word. And you knew they were right. You knew you had always been a scared kid, trying your hardest to keep the monsters at bay.

You wished you'd realized there had been no real monsters . . . yet. You would've lived more. Now you knew the consequences.

Now there was no more living, just surviving.

Still, sometimes you found yourself missing it; missing life. It was a bitter thought—what could've been had the world not ended all those years ago.

Back then—before the end—you'd feared death.

How far will this go? you remembered thinking back then when it was still War’s reign. How long until things are normal?

You didn't have the stomach back then to come to terms with the truth. You barely remembered it now.

But you did remember the day everything truly changed for you.

Up until that day, you'd been following your father's orders, huddling up in your home with your mother and little sister as the four of you survived day by day. Then . . . your house had been broken into, the intruder coming in through your window.

Back then you had feared death. You had thought you were going to die.

You'd thought this up until the very last scream ripped through your throat just as your father emerged from the shadows, a look on his face you’d never seen, moments before everything went red. You remembered that to this day. While everything else was blurry, that moment was clear. You could still feel the blood splatter on your face as you watched your father—the man who used to tie your shoes for you before you hopped on the school bus—kill a man before your very eyes, ripping out his jugular with his bare teeth.

Once a girl who could no longer kneel in church, became one painted with the blood from another. And you remembered a small part of you—the part that had once knelt so much her knees had turned to scabs—that this was all War’s fault.

You thought it until you watched the man pale, falling to your childhood bedroom floor with a thud. You remembered how his eyes stayed wide open, locked on you as he gurgled and choked on his blood, bleeding out onto your pink carpet. He didn't blink. Not once. Not even at all. They stayed cold and empty as your father breathed heavily above him.

And then you looked at him.

Your father was a good man. He was kind and just, despite the town. He believed in science and facts. He wanted the truth. But none of that mattered if his family was at stake.

Your father was a good man. He loved you, and he would’ve done anything for you.

Your father was a good man.

Your father had ripped out another man’s jugular in front of you.

Your father was a good man.

Your father had killed someone.

This was the end. You knew it, and it knew you, too.

(It wasn’t talked about, and you never brought it up again. He simply embraced you in a tight hug and kissed your forehead, leaving a smudge of blood from the man in doing so, and whispered apologies that would never sink deeper than your skin.

(Now you wished you would’ve told him you understood. Now you would’ve looked at him and seen an image of yourself staring right back. Now you would’ve hugged him back.))

That was all it took before your father took it upon himself to gather your mother and little sister, put all necessities in the car, and collect enough portable gasoline as he could before the four of you set off down the road. Where you were going was undetermined. There was no knowing . . . because there was nowhere to go.

The world had ended. There was nothing left. You just had to go.

You have to grow up. No more kid stuff, your father said to you that night on the road while your mother and little sister were fast asleep in the back of the car. One day I might not be here to protect you. You have to learn to protect yourself.

And you'd promised him you would. Because you had to. You had been old enough then, after all. You had been twenty-one . . . technically an adult.

(Now, however, you realized you had still been too young. Twenty-one wasn't old enough to face the end of the world.)

But . . . what happens when a scared young girl is forced to grow up too soon? She turns into a machine.

Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Repeat.

Your father had borne that burden back then, when you first set off on the road. The car hadn't lasted long. Not that it mattered. The world was a wasteland anyway. Walking from town to town on the vacant streets and highways was nothing new now.

You just have to survive, he kept telling you. Survive long enough to keep them alive.

And you always knew what he meant. He was training you for the day when he would be no more. Because when that day came, you would be the one left in charge. He'd turned you into a machine because that was the world you lived in. You were the oldest. Your sister was barely five years old back then. And your mother . . . your mother who once believed this was all some greater plan, was now convinced that if she prayed hard enough it'd stop Famine from following after his ruthless brother.

It was your job to remember what your father had taught you when Pestilence first came to reign—how to hunt, how to shoot a shotgun, and now . . . how to survive.

And when Famine came; when you caught sight of the words Famine has risen spray painted on a billboard on the side of a highway, reminding you of your sick home. It was then you finally learned how to survive. You didn't realize how hard it would be until a year after Famine's birth, your father had passed because of you (because of a stupid decision that you had made which you still couldn't bring yourself to acknowledge).

Survival became all that you knew after that.

Your father was gone. It was just like he had warned. You were in charge now, and you had one purpose: keep your family alive.

The burden became yours to bear.

This was your purgatory and you'd do well to repent for what you'd done; for the man you'd sent out to die; for the father you'd lost.

Survive, survive, survive. It was all you knew.

And when the final Horseman rose, you knew what you had to do. It didn’t matter if it killed you, you couldn’t let your family die at the hands of one of those . . . creatures.

Death had risen. The entire world was a wasteland filled with undead and wars made by man.

If you crossed paths with one of those creatures and let them lay a finger on your family, your oath to your father would be broken. Death would kill you all.

So you kept going, trying to outrun the inevitable.

Because you had to. For him. For your father. For the ghosts that haunted you.

Your father had wielded you to become a machine. And a machine you would become.

Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Repeat.

The routine was ingrained in your brain, going on and on like a mantra. You couldn't escape that. Not that it mattered. Survival mattered. Keeping your group, your sister, your mother, and your family alive mattered. They were all that mattered. You would skip as many meals as your body would let you if it meant they'd stay fed.

Sometimes you found yourself laughing at how naive you had been in the past. At twenty-five now, you were equal parts machine and woman, still oozing blood when wounded despite your protests. You didn't tremble at the sight of blood now. You didn't fear death.

When you were a kid, death was your greatest fear. Now, you envied it. Envied the fact you had to walk the earth; the same earth the dead destroyed. Because you couldn't die. That was the harsh truth: you couldn't die.

You'd feared death for so long and now as you sat awake, keeping watch while your group slept, you yearned for the clutches of death to drag you into nothingness. It was almost laughable.

In a world where people now fought for their lives, trying to outrun the dead, you wished to succumb to death. You knew it was wrong, and you'd never speak it aloud, but you yearned for it. This world was shit. Complete and utter shit, and you wanted to give up. Everything in you wanted to just wait like some brainless sitting duck and let Death or disease or even those wretched beasts you heard groaning in the dead of night have their way with your hollow body.

But you couldn't . . . not when you promised your father you'd protect them. He'd died for you, and it was your duty to keep your family safe. Your duty.

You couldn't die, not when you had to keep them alive.

So you let yourself turn into a machine.

And a ruthless machine you had watched yourself become.

That night had been enough evidence of this. Because that night as you sat on a log, slowly dragging yourself out of the past and into the present, you realized one thing. A bloody knife sat in your hand while you watched over your sleeping group, eyes searching for any sign of the dead, and that was when it dawned on you that you had been right all those years ago—the end of the world brought out who people truly were.

You were a machine. You didn't feel. You couldn't.

Glancing down at the bloody knife in your hand, you realized you hadn't felt anything that night.

That night you'd done something you never thought you would. That night your group was attacked by a man with a gun; a man who wanted to harm; a man who had put his hands on your little sister. She was only eight going on nine, and she was your responsibility, and as soon as his hand clamped down over her shoulder while he held a gun to her head, threatening to pull the trigger unless you gave up all your food, you lost it.

Everything went black. You couldn't see. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't even think. You just felt this pure blinding rage.

When you finally regained your sight, you realized what you'd done—you'd killed the man.

No, killed was too vague.

Like the true machine you had become, you had slaughtered him; the bloody knife in your hand was evidence enough of that.

The man was dead, a chunk of his jugular ripped out while he clutched the many stab wounds piercing his stomach. And you . . . you stood above him, eyes wide, bloody knife in hand, and the bitter taste of blood on your tongue.

You'd never killed anyone before. You'd put people out of their misery, but you'd never taken another life like this. You'd never had to.

But you had that night.

And now you paid the consequences.

It had been hours since then. No one had spoken a word since. And your sister . . . your little sister had only looked at you once since then, and you could see the utter terror her round eyes held. Normally she would sleep by your side, but she'd curled up next to your mother that night.

She was afraid of you, and you couldn't blame her. You had once given your father the same look.

So you sat alone on that damned log, bloody knife in hand as you thought back on how you managed to end up in this Hell. Sometimes you felt like a ghost, and now you knew why.

Your brows pinched together. You couldn't help but think: is this what your father had intended?

How much of a machine had he meant for you to become? Were you supposed to clutch onto the part of yourself that was still human? Or had becoming a monster been part of the deal when you'd signed off your soul for machine parts?

You weren't sure. You weren't really sure of anything anymore.

Your sister had looked at you like you were one of the monsters that plagued your earth, slowly destroying it region by region.

Were you no better than the dead to her?

You swallowed hard.

Had you become a monster?

“You did what you had to do,” you heard a deep voice from behind you, perhaps answering your thoughts.

But you didn't jump as you turned to see Felix sit down on the log beside you, exhaustion weaving through his delicate features. You didn't speak a word, just stared at the side of his face for a second before you glanced back down at the bloody knife in your hand.

You did what you had to do.

You nearly laughed. It was just like him to say such things.

You see: Lee Felix had joined your group around the same time Famine took his reign, and ever since then he'd been following you around like your own personal shadow. That was three years ago now. Your father had saved him, offering him to join your family on the road. Perhaps your father had seen something in him. Or maybe he had just saved him simply because that was just who your father was: a hero.

Not that it mattered. You'd taken a liking to Felix, too. He was kind.

Kind had been rare back then. It still was.

And Felix stayed kind.

When your father passed, Felix stuck by you. Your mother had begun to look at you as if you were a stranger, and your little sister still had been too young to understand much. Felix had made life easier.

You'd taught him everything you knew partly because you needed to and partly because you liked being around him as if he were the younger brother you’d never had. Little bird, you called him . . . because you'd taught him everything. You'd taught him how to survive. And sometimes you thought maybe you would've been friends outside of this. If things were different, if you'd met in a world where the apocalypse hadn't happened . . . then you'd like to think you could have met; that your paths would've crossed.

But things weren't different. You weren't even sure if you could let him in entirely. Your friendship would surely put him in some sort of jeopardy. Because, really, it all came down to survival, and you needed him to live. You didn't care what happened to yourself. You just needed to stay alive long enough to make sure they'd all make it.

That still didn't stop the feeling of relief that washed over you as soon as you felt him lean into you, arm touching yours. He was trying to comfort you in the way that he knew, and you couldn't help but lean against him further.

He was still just as kind as the day you'd crossed paths.

But you?

Well . . .

“I ripped his throat out . . . " you heard yourself roughly mutter before you felt the words tumble from your tongue. You lifted a hand to your blood-stained lips and swallowed. “I ripped . . . throat . . . his . . . with my teeth.” You swallowed once again, harder this time as your eyes drifted to your little sister's sleeping figure. She had been so scared. You had done that. You had scared her. “She looks at me like I’m a monster.”

”You’re not."

“Lix."

“You’re not,” he reiterated, his voice as harsh as he could manage (which was not harsh at all) while he clutched your blood-stained hand and took it into his. “You did what you had to do.”

Your eyes flicked down to your hands. But you didn't look at him. You couldn't. You just kept thinking and thinking and seeing that look on your sister's face. And then . . . then you felt yourself say. ”She says all life is precious. She cries when we have to put down a squirrel for Christ’s sake. I should’ve known. I should’ve—”

”She’s just a kid."

“I didn’t have to kill him,” you continued. “There was a point where I could’ve knocked him out. I thought about it. And I still killed him.” Your eyes finally snapped to his then. “I wanted to kill him, Lix.”

A muscle in Felix’s jaw twitched. ”It’s people like him that make me wonder if this world got it all right,” he admitted after a second. “I’m glad he’s dead. I just wish I could’ve been the one to do it.”

Your breath hitched at his words, not because they'd shocked you . . . but rather because you found yourself agreeing. But that wasn't . . . right. Felix was kind. You were not. He was good, and you . . .

”You don’t mean that,” you mumbled, squeezing his hand. “You’re not . . . “

”Not what?” Felix countered, eyes searching yours. “Hmm? Not what?”

You blinked, your throat constricting. ”Too far gone,” you choked out.

His brows twitched, his expression softening. ”Neither are you."

His hand touched your face a second later, his thumb wiping the dried blood from your chin. You weren't a monster in his eyes. You were just his friend. He didn't fear you, but you knew he should've.

But for a second, you let yourself forget this. Instead, you closed your eyes, allowing him to clean your face of the man's spilled blood. And when he was done, your eyes fluttered open just in time to see him try to reach for the knife in your hand, probably to release it from your tight hold.

However, you shifted it out of his grasp. His eyes snapped to yours then, questioning.

You offered a weak smile—something you didn't do often, but would for him. ”Sleep,” you hummed, patting his shoulder. “We need your brute strength in the morning.”

”We need your brain more,” he countered, tapping a finger to your forehead.

”Sleep, little bird."

He rolled those round brown eyes. "I wish you'd stop calling me that."

Nevertheless, Felix listened to you. He shifted down onto the ground, resting his head on the log, crossing his arms over his chest as his eyes closed. And you watched him until you were sure he was resting soundly. Then, your eyes went back to watching, making sure to keep your promise to your father.

But just as you were sure it was just you and the silence of the night again, you heard Felix’s voice filter through your ears, ”You’re not too far gone."

You swallowed hard but said nothing.

You're not too far gone.

Oh, how wrong he had been.

As if like some sort of phantom, your knees had begun to itch like they used to after mass all those years ago. For the first few days, you tried to ignore it, writing it off as poison ivy or not bathing for a few weeks, but even when you’d scratch, the itch would remain. You came to realize that this wasn’t something you could write off; this wasn’t something that hadn’t been caused by anything other than . . . you.

A few nights ago, you’d killed a man. You’d ripped out his throat with his teeth, and for a second too long, you’d enjoyed it. Now . . . now you wondered just how deep your guilt ran. Now you wondered if given the chance, would you do it again?

But you already knew the answer.

Your knees had begun to itch once again . . .

And you tried to ignore it. Honest, you did, but his screams; how easy it was to bite into his flesh; the bitter taste of metallic blood on your tongue which oddly tasted too similar to honey; the life in his eyes quickly dissipating as you towered over him like a predator to its prey; all of it kept playing in your head over and over again. You couldn’t escape it, not even when night came and you were forced to close your eyes.

His face was always there.

Sometimes you wondered if any of it had actually happened. Sometimes you wondered if none of this was real or if you even were. Sometimes you wondered if this man had been Death; if the tales your town preached had been real and this was your test.

Sometimes you wondered if you had failed.

And you knew you had.

At night, you could hear your mother whispering prayers under her breath, pleading to the heavens that she and her daughter would be spared. And every time, you knew which daughter she meant. Every time you knew she was praying to be spared from you. Every time you knew it was you who she feared the most in this world. And every time you wondered if one day he’d finally answer her prayers.

You couldn’t even blame her, because a few nights ago you’d done the one thing you’d never thought you’d have to do—kill a man. You knew you were some kind of fucked for that alone.

Then, last night, you began to wonder if this was how your father had felt. You began to wonder if this was why he was dead and not you. You wondered if he’d done it to save you, and to put himself out of his own misery.

And then you began to pray, too. You’d stopped believing in God years ago, but it was an old habit that you sometimes indulged in for some sick kind of comfort. And this time, in the dead of night, you’d shut your eyes and beg for your father’s ghost to return to you. You begged for just one more minute. One more minute and he could tell you how to deal with this; how to survive this, too, just as he had taught you how to endure everything else.

But no ghost ever came, only the perpetual darkness galloped in, consuming you whole.

Your father was gone, and it was all your fault. Guilt was your ghost, not him.

He would still be here if you hadn't—

"Mom thinks you've been possessed by the devil," your little sister's voice brought you out of your mind.

You blinked once. Then, you glanced down at her, taking note of her skeptical eyes and furrowed brows. It was almost as if she were inspecting your face, trying to decipher if you, her older sister, really were possessed as your mother had claimed.

It had been the first time your sister had spoken to you in the past week. The four of you had been walking through the woods, steering clear of the main roads ever since you’d come into contact with that man—the man whose blood you could still taste on your tongue.

She’d taken to walking hand-in-hand with your mother, just a few feet behind you and Felix as the two of you led the way into the unknown. You didn’t know where you were going. You never did. That was the thing about the end of the world—the only thing that mattered was surviving day by day. There was no end-point.

But today while you led the group through the woods, eyes searching for any rodents or small animals to capture for food, your head stuck in the past, your sister had taken the chance to walk into step with you. And those . . . those had been her choice of words.

Mom thinks you’ve been possessed by the devil.

And now with the world a ghost of itself, you thought perhaps maybe your mother could be right. You’d changed. The world had changed you. The old taste of blood on your tongue was evidence enough of that.

You’d killed a man. You’d ripped out a chunk of his jugular with your teeth and plunged the very knife in your belt into his flesh over and over again until you were sure he couldn’t do more harm.

Kill or be killed, sure, but . . .

. . . You’d still killed a man.

You’d actually taken a life.

(You weren’t expecting it to haunt you this much. But it had. You could still see his face, hear his voice, smell him, feel him. He was still very much alive in your mind, haunting you like a ghost.

It didn’t matter if he was more monster than man . . . you had still killed him. You had still taken a life without a second thought. His evils didn’t matter . . . guilt still seeped in.)

Mom thinks you’ve been possessed by the devil.

And maybe you had been.

That would’ve been easier to fathom.

But instead of voicing these thoughts aloud, you adjusted your backpack on your shoulders, touched a finger to the knife tucked into your belt to make sure it was still there and tightened your grip on your father’s shotgun in your hand before you finally spoke.

"Mom's off her meds," was all you offered. It was all you could say. And it hadn’t been what your sister was searching for.

Your sister stepped back, allowing you to walk alone. You knew you were losing her. You knew she barely trusted you now just as your mother stopped considering you a daughter.

And you couldn’t blame them.

The end of the world brought out who people truly were, and you were someone not worth saving.

The sun had begun to set when you finally declared you’d be stopping for the night. It wasn’t a solid resting place, which meant another night of no sleep on your part, but that didn’t bother you much anymore. All that mattered was there were no signs of the dead, no low groans in the distance, no immediate danger, and the small creek running just a few meters from your camp would provide just enough for you to wet your face and clean any dried blood from your skin. That was what mattered—a temporary sanctuary.

Felix had taken to accompanying your little sister to the creek, while your mother gathered small twigs and broken branches to add to the fire you had just started. But your eyes never stopped watching your little sister, keeping an eye on her to ensure no danger would reach her or Felix while you were occupied.

That was your only concern. Your second was food. There had to be some crawfish lingering in the creek that you could fry up. That was your second concern right after the fire was steady enough to last until nightfall.

With a soft sigh, you forced yourself to tear your eyes from your sister’s smiling face. You tried to ignore how she smiled at Felix while he splashed water at her. You tried to ignore the soft laughter you could still hear as you stabbed at the fire with a branch. You tried to ignore the thought that she’d never look at you like that; never laugh like that with you; never trust you like that again.

You tried to ignore how you had become more of a loose end your family needed to tie off, than a daughter or an older sister.

But you couldn’t. The thought was always there. There it would remain, you were sure of it.

Clenching your jaw, you added the branch in your hand to the fire, watching it crackle under the embers. And for a moment, you wondered what it would feel like if you were to reach forward and let the flames lick your fingertips.

Had he felt like this, too?

Had your father had these thoughts before he died for you?

Did he ever wonder if—

“You’re just like him, you know?” your mother nearly whispered, tearing you from your mind as she set down the pile of branches she had collected.

You glanced at her once, then glared into the fire. “Is that supposed to hurt me?”

She shook her head only once. “It should scare you,” she clarified, standing to her feet so she could tower over you once again. “God’s plan—”

“God’s plan?” you immediately spat out with a humorous scoff, now standing to your feet as well. You were taller than her now, unlike when you were a kid; unlike when you used to do everything she told you; unlike when she still considered you her daughter. “What does God’s plan have to do with my father?”

A muscle in her jaw twitched. “He has protected us this far. He couldn’t save your father. I’m worried if you continue down this path, he won’t be able to save you either,” she muttered back as she clutched the cross around her neck as if she thought it would ward you off like you had become one of the evils she’d warn you about when you were just a girl.

But you were no longer small; you were no longer moldable by her hand, and now, you were only made of anger. “You think God’s the reason we’re alive?” you questioned her, eyes narrowing into slits.

Your mother remained silent but clutched her cross harder. And you knew what that meant.

Your eyes flicked from her hand to her face. Then, you took a step forward, chin jutted out. “Is it God who kills so we can eat? Is it God who got us here, to this point? Is it God who holds dad’s gun?” you bit out as you touched a hand to your chest. “God doesn’t have a fucking plan.” You drilled a finger into your chest, your angry eyes never leaving hers. “I do. And God couldn’t save dad because it was supposed to be—”

But your words halted in your throat. You couldn’t admit it to her. You couldn’t tell her you were the reason behind your father’s death. It didn’t matter if she already knew. You just . . . you just couldn’t admit it to her face.

“God doesn't fucking exist,” you muttered out instead, turning away from her. “And if he did, he’s sure as hell dead now.”

“Your father filled your head with lies.”

You turned back to her, eyes glaring into hers. “Bullshit,” you scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief. “He was the only one who ever told me the truth.”

Ignoring your words, she took a step away from you, her hand remaining on the cross around her neck. "Your father . . . I knew he was deeply flawed when I married him, but I just figured he’d change. I figured he’d see the way, instead he only got worse, but he knew when to control it. He knew right from wrong,” she went on, her voice steady, but her eyes had begun to water. And you knew tears would come, and when they did, you’d leave to kill the crawfish. "But, you, honey . . . I don't know where we went wrong with you. It's like you came out of the womb defective. You got all the bad traits of your father and nothing else. I look at you and I see this angry little girl. And, you know, sometimes I ask myself how in the world we managed to raise a daughter who is even more deeply flawed than her bastard father, but I never seem to know the answer."

There were the tears now.

But along with it came a knife in your chest that kept twisting and twisting the more she spoke.

Twist the knife, and she did.

"There's something wrong with you,” she whispered again after a moment’s silence, the tears starting to roll down her cheeks. “You frighten me.”

Twist the knife, and you refused to pull it out.

This was what you deserved.

Still, you didn’t cry, not for yourself. Never for yourself. Instead, you continued to stare at her with no emotion in your eyes as you muttered, “Talking ill of the dead is a sin, remember?” And then you began to turn.

But your mother’s hand landed firmly around your arm. “Don’t you turn your back on me, girl,” she warned, her words sharper than the knife she’d twisted into your chest.

Swallowing hard, you sucked on your teeth. “What else do you want me to say?” you questioned, but didn’t bother to turn and face her. “I have nothing else to give you, mom.”

She released your arm as if you’d burned her and hissed, “Don’t call me that.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion for a mere second before you realized what she meant; before you realized what you’d said; what you’d done. It was an honest mistake, as well. You hadn’t called her that in so long, and yet it still came out. You hadn’t meant to say it, but it still came out as if you were still small and thought the whole world was in her arms.

“Then what do you want me to call you?” you asked, your voice quieter now as you took a step back. “If not mom, then what should your daughter call you? Hmm? Or is the answer nothing? Is that what we are to each other now? Will that make God come down from the heavens and give us salvation? . . . If you abandon me?”

Your mother remained silent.

And you knew her answer.

Sucking on your teeth, you nodded in acceptance. “What?” you spoke in a whisper as you took another step back. “Am I not being loud enough for him?” You outstretched your hands at your sides, gesturing to the heavens. “Should I scream it? Will he finally fucking answer then?”

“Stupid girl—” your mother quickly scolded, grabbing you firmly by the arm— “don’t you dare put this family in danger,”

But you only tilted your head in question. “Does that include me?”

Her eyes fluttered, taken back. “What?”

“This family,” you reiterated. “Am I a part of this family?”

Once again, she remained silent.

But you knew the truth.

“God’s plan as long as I’m out of the picture, right?” you muttered under your breath, swallowing hard once again. “At least we finally agree.”

Then, you were tearing your arm out of her grasp, but you didn’t move, you didn’t even look away from her. Instead, you kept still. You kept your eyes locked with hers as if breaking that eye contact would sever the final string holding the two of you together. She didn’t speak either, and she refused to move. She wouldn’t move first. You knew that. She’d always been that way. So had you . . .

And when you were sure the world had begun to rot around you, you could have sworn her bottom lip quivered as if she were on the verge of saying something . . . anything. Only, when her lips parted a mere sliver, a shrill scream sounded from behind, and the perpetual darkness of your world crept back in through your peripheral vision.

Beat. Your heart shot to your throat.

It happened too quickly for you to think.

Beat. Beat.

You heard the scream and you knew your sister was in trouble.

Beat.

Without a second thought, you dropped everything and ran toward the scream; toward the creek; toward your sister. It wasn’t far, but it was far enough for you to catch sight of two of the dead. One Felix fought off, while trying to grab his knife from his belt. The other had found its way to your sister, pinning her to the forest floor as she thrashed and screamed, her weak limbs desperately trying to keep the thing from sinking its teeth into her flesh.

And you knew what to do.

For a brief second longer, there was screaming. Then the squelch of a knife being plunged through a skull. Then nothing.

The world faded away. No noise. No people. No nothing.

One. Two. Three seconds, then the world started to return.

Breathing heavily, you watched carefully as your mother rushed past you, tearing the dead corpse off your sister and holding her closer . . . closer than she’d ever held you. Your nose twitched for a mere second as your gaze shifted from your mother and sister staring at you in shock ((?) no, maybe it was horror) to the stilled corpse, and finally to the bloodied knife gripped tightly in your hand.

You’d killed that thing, yes. But you hadn’t even thought about it. You hadn’t stopped to think that this thing was once a person. You hadn’t even seen it as such, unlike your mother; unlike what the town had tried to drill into your head during Pestilence’s reign. And . . . you could see that realization in your mother’s eyes.

. . . You were getting worse.

Your legs had begun to weaken at the thought, but you quickly stabled yourself, afraid they’d see it as another sign to put you down like the violent dog you knew they saw you to be. Instead, you tore your gaze from the knife in your hand and met your mother’s eyes once again (but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet your sister’s tearful stare). “Tell me, mo—” you quickly stopped the word from tumbling from your tongue, then went on— “is this still what God’s plan looks like to you?”

But your mother didn’t reply, and you didn’t wait for her to. You could barely stand to hold her gaze for a second longer. Instead, you wiped the blood from your knife on your pants, shoved it back into your belt, and turned, walking back to the fire you had begun to make minutes before.

And as you walked, you took note of the silence which followed you. You took note of how even Felix hesitated slightly before he followed after you. You took note of how your mother and sister sat near that creek for a few minutes longer and didn’t bother to wander after you as if you were no longer their blood.

The final string tying your family together had begun to wear thinner. You wondered when it would finally snap. You wondered how long it would take for a violent dog to succumb to its instincts; how long it would take you to become the lost cause you knew you were destined to be.

Would they make the decision to put you down then?

Four days. Two sleepless nights. And one squirrel shared between the four of you. You felt a fever coming on a couple days ago. You saw the infected cuts from the fight with that man. You knew your body was weakening day by day.

If you didn’t stop soon, you’d sure become one of the dead.

But you tried your best to ignore it. You had to.

Your mother; however, remained hopeful (of course). You could hear her chattering on to your sister throughout the day while you watched the world.

According to her, no one really knew why the Horsemen came to earth. She claimed the world needed saving from certain people (what you were sure she was leaving out was the fact that she was convinced you were one of these people). So, she went on and on and on, and you quietly listened, too, because you were still a girl who used to kneel in church, after all; because you could still feel the bruises on your knees; because you could still see the scars left behind from the scabs.

So, you listened, but you did not believe.

The world was fucked and needed cleansing. People were inherently bad and God saw no other way for salvation (apparently) than to send his four loyal Horsemen to destroy Earth and its people. . . . Well . . . supposedly. You knew the truth; however. There were no Horsemen. There was just death. Something had gone wrong and no one really knew what, so they blamed it on some higher power.

Whatever.

(Supposedly) Pestilence had been a shadow. War had wanted an audience. The world fell before you could get a proper grasp on Famine. And now Death was here. He’d been walking the earth for two years now, and still no one knew why.

Just like the town, your mother had her theories. And while she believed this God was still on your side, still searching for the good in humanity, you thought him fucked up. The human race was just his playthings.

He’d made sure there was nothing left.

Hell, you knew there wasn’t even a god. The world was just fucked. The end.

Point blank: it didn’t matter. Nothing did anymore.

Survival was all that mattered.

Everything else was fucked.

And as you continued to lead the way into nothingness, listening to your mother’s ramblings about the Bible, all you could do was ignore how your knees had begun to itch once again, while you focused on one thought: survive, survive, survive. But . . . not for yourself . . . for them.

Survive long enough for them.

For your father.

For your sister.

For your mother.

For Felix.

For them.

By sundown, Felix managed to find an abandoned warehouse for the night. It wasn’t much, but it was better than sleeping out in the wild. Perhaps all of you could get some shuteye that night. Sure, luckily it was around Fall or maybe just before where it was still warm, but sleeping on logs wasn’t ideal. (Not that you could be picky. Not that you were.)

But, just your luck, sleep never found you.

Beside you, Felix softly snored, laying on his back with his arms crossed over his chest and his head resting in your lap. Your hand found its way to his dark waves, gently scratching his scalp as he slept. It brought you peace where you normally had none.

Sometimes you wondered when Felix would finally realize the monster you’d become. You wondered what it would take. How many more people would you kill for them in order for him to look at you as if you were a stranger?

You didn’t want to see that day come.

It’d already come for your mother the day your father died. Then for your sister when you’d butchered that man. You couldn’t bear living through Felix’s realization.

With a sigh, you glanced over your shoulder, eyes landing on your mother’s sleeping figure as your little sister curled up into her side, miles away in her dreams. You hoped it was better there; that her dreams were still pure and innocent despite the world.

You tore your eyes from them a second later, instead opting to glance out the large opening in the warehouse where a window used to be. The world was so bleak now. Even the sight of the empty lands before your eyes stirred nothing within you. It was just so . . . distant.

Nothing was left.

Truly.

Reluctantly, you shut your eyes, trying your hardest to drift off into sleep, but the pounding in your head and the scratch in your throat kept you up. You were getting worse. You squeezed your eyes tighter, hoping this fever would subside soon. The world was darker now, the nothingness intensifying. You weren’t even sure if you could sleep anymore. Had you been? You couldn’t remember.

But just when you were sure sleep wouldn’t greet you that night, forcing you to keep watch, you could’ve sworn you heard an inhuman howl echo throughout the darkness beyond.

Your eyes snapped open, heart hammering.

No.

It couldn’t be.

Another howl echoed throughout the air. But this was no howl from a wolf or even a beast.

You’d heard stories from survivors in the towns you’d passed through in the two years Death had taken his reign over your lands. You’d heard the stories of Death and his steed. His steed, pale in color similar to a corpse, was rumored to have this cry.

The cry was no ordinary cry. Death’s steed cried similar to a wolf or rather a beast, hungry for blood. It was a war cry—a warning sign.

Of course, Death was not real and there was no horse with their cry. No, you knew what this was. You’d heard these cries in smaller amounts. You’d heard these cries as you plunged your knife into each undead’s brain, killing the parasite living within. And a howl like this only meant one thing—a hoard.

You swallowed hard.

Death was near.

You’d thought the undead didn’t hoard unless . . .

The man.

Your eyes widened.

The night the man had attacked your group, you had managed to hotwire a car. That had been your plan. You were going to use that car to get your group farther and safer. But because of that man . . . because of what you’d done to him, you’d accidentally popped one of the tires in the process, forcing your group to stay the night in those woods when you should’ve been on the road.

And his screams . . .

You’d slowed down and made yourself known, and now they were following the noise.

And . . . it was all your fault.

You exhaled a shaky breath.

Death was coming.

Immediately, you swung into action, quietly waking Felix up. His eyes questioned yours before he, too, heard the war cry.

Death was coming. Felix knew this now, too.

The two of you silently awoke your mother and sister, Felix informing them of the matter they had on your hands, while you gathered your father’s shotgun, crouching near the window for a better look. If they were near . . . how near?

You swallowed hard.

Maybe you could still run. You could still get everyone out if you ran. It could work—

But then you saw it.

In the distance, you caught sight of the undead as they cried, following each other.

You checked the gun’s chamber, removing and reloading the cartridges just to make sure they were in place in case you were forced to fire. Your grip tightened and loosened, and you could hear Felix whispering your name, but your eyes were transfixed on the hoard up ahead.

Death was here. So close. Too close.

They couldn’t see you now, couldn’t hear you, but . . . if you ran, they’d catch sight of you. They’d kill your family. They’d kill Felix. They’d kill you all.

There was no way you could outrun the hoard. Not when they were this close; not when they could smell you; hear your every breath.

Fuck.

You wanted to scream.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Your father had trusted you. They all had. And now you were going to let another person down all because you’d been stupid one night. You’d fucked all of you.

“Snap out of it,” Felix whispered, his hand on your shoulder. “Ideas?”

You could only shake your head.

Felix swore, running his hands through his hair. "There's no way," he nearly gasped at his words. "Fuck."

You swore you felt your heart drop as you slumped against the wall. They were going to die. Because of you.

There was no way out; no way any of you would make it past the hoard without them noticing. The moment they saw any of you, they’d follow you until they could get their teeth into your flesh. And while you had no care for your own life, you still had care for theirs—the people you'd sworn to protect.

Your father had died for all of you. He knew it wasn't safe, and he still went out. He'd traded his life for yours. He'd made you swear to protect your mother and your little sister, and along the way, you'd sworn to not only keep them safe but to keep Felix from harm. You'd sworn that, and you were not one to fall back on your word.

There was no way out together. But . . . there was one way out.

You knew what that meant.

This was what your father would've wanted. This was what he would've done; what he had done.

It was always going to turn out this way. You'd known that.

And in that moment, you accepted that. After all, you'd always been told you were your father's daughter.

This was how you made things right.

You nodded at your thoughts.

Then, you felt your eyes burn, your brows scrunching in confusion. Wetness slipped down your cheek and you briefly touched a finger to the tear, finding you were crying. You hadn’t cried in so long.

Angrily, you wiped the tears away. You didn’t get to cry.

This had been your fault in the first place. This was how you made it right. You didn’t get to cry. You didn’t.

So you sent one last glare at the hoard up ahead, then turned to Felix. Fuck. He would be the one in charge now. You trusted him, yes, but you knew how heavy that burden was. That was what you would regret the most—putting Felix through this agony, too.

Still: "Little bird," you whispered.

Fearful tears were already in his eyes. "I wish you'd stop calling me that."

"Can't help it. I taught you how to fly," you hummed, voice soft and unlike you.

You both knew what you meant. You'd taught Felix how to fire a gun, taught him how to gut a fish, you taught him how to survive—you taught him how to fly. But he didn't need any more teachings. Like a baby bird, he'd flown from the nest ages ago. He could fly without you. The thought brought a melancholic smile to your chapped lips as you fought back the burning in your eyes when they met his worried gaze once again.

"Makes me feel important." You touched a hand to his cheek. He felt soft under your calloused skin. "But . . . you don't need me anymore."

Felix exhaled with a strained choke, his eyes widening in realization. "No," he rushed out, shaking his head as his soft brown eyes searched yours. "No." His hand enclosed around the one you'd touched to his cheek. "Don't. Don't."

You knew what he meant. Don't be the hero.

But that wasn't his decision to make. You had debts to pay; people to protect.

Living had never been something you wanted in a world like this. Sometimes you felt like a ghost; when the world was quiet and your heart beat a little slower—you felt like one of the many corpses you'd passed by on the daily.

Years ago, you promised your father you'd take over his job and protect. You'd never wanted to live, but you had forced yourself. Back then, you made a promise to yourself—you had to stay alive, not for yourself, but for them; you had to stay alive for the one you had lost. And you'd upheld that promise, but now . . . in order to save them, you had to break it.

You knew this.

Felix did, too.

He rested his forehead against yours. "Please. Don't. It's supposed to be you and me."

Your eyes squeezed shut. "I'm the reason he's dead."

The two of you knew what you meant. This was how you repaid him; how you repaid your father.

"Then let me do it," Felix muttered, hand dropping from yours to grasp the shotgun in your other hand.

You were quick to rip it from his hold. "It was always going to turn out this way," was all you said, and he knew what you meant.

The sound of the cries coming closer made you spring back from him. Your head swiveled, taking in your surroundings as your hands found their rightful place on the shotgun. Your eyes briefly found your little sister's—her round eyes wide with fright, only furthering your decision. You knew doing this for them, for her.

"Fine," you heard Felix hiss in a quiet whisper. "But I'm coming with you."

Your head snapped to him. "Like hell you are."

"You don't get to die."

"Neither do you."

"Then I guess we have a predicament."

Your eyes softened. "Lix."

His brows pinched together. "You don't get to die."

And you almost felt yourself smile. "Little birds are meant to fly," you hummed. Little birds are meant to fly; they aren't meant to die.

He shook his head.

You swallowed hard.

The cries grew closer, and your heart raced. You were out of time. This was your last goodbye.

You gripped his hand. "Protect them."

He latched onto your shoulders. “No. No. I’m not ready. Don’t make me say goodbye to you.”

Against your will, your bottom lip trembled. “It’s not.”

But it was. You both knew that.

Felix could only shake his head. “Please.”

“See you later, little bird,” you hummed, weakly, kissing his forehead before you tore yourself from him. And he reached for you, begging you to stay.

But . . . no amount of pleas could change your mind. You were already moving before Felix could stop you. You didn’t have the heart to glance back at your sister or your mother. You never wanted to live in a world like this, but if you looked back, you feared you might’ve found salvation in their eyes. You couldn’t put them through that. You’d put them through enough.

You worked quickly. You had to. For them.

The quiet cries of the hoard approached, moving slowly. You kept your eyes on their figures, stealthily stepping down the creaky stairs to the bottom floor. From there, you moved to the woods surrounding the area. You quickly crouched down in the dark forest, clutching the shotgun even tighter. This was your father’s, now it was yours, and you were going to use it to save your family.

You weren’t naive enough to think that you could actually kill all of them. But that didn’t matter. You were solely supposed to be a distraction. You would fire that damned shotgun at those things over and over again, not caring if it even did any damage. You just needed to keep their attention long enough to get them to follow you in the opposite direction. That would allow your family to escape. That was all you intended to do.

You knew there was no surviving this. And you were fine with that.

Death didn’t scare you. Not yours, anyway.

So you hunkered down, hands clutched on the shotgun as you waited for the hoard to get near enough to strike.

You heard them before you saw them. The cries echoed throughout the dark night, making your heart pound faster. It became louder and louder, so loud you felt yourself start to tense, and then the first came into view.

It came to a gentle halt, almost as if it had been expecting you. But that couldn’t be. It hadn’t seen you. You were still in the clear.

Still, you watched, remembering the lessons on hunting that your father had taught you. This was how you hunted—quiet, hidden, and alert.

The creature tilted its head back, eyes closed as the moonlight cascaded across its pale face. Your brows scrunched in confusion as you watched it, tilting your head to the side. It was almost as if it were basking in the moonlight, soaking up the feeling of the satellite shining down on it. And then you realized what it was doing: sniffing you out.

Behind it, the world was bleak as the rest of those damned creatures sauntered forward. The trees seemed to sag, the grass stale, and it was quiet, so very quiet. Every step they took, decay followed.

And then they began to move . . . toward the warehouse where your family still resided.

Your jaw ticked as you raised the shotgun. Your father’s instructions rang through your ears and you lined up the barrel, aiming at one of the creature’s chests as it was perhaps the only part of it you had direct access to. You were certain the impact wouldn’t kill it, you were almost certain it wouldn’t even hurt it, but . . . it would distract it, and that was all you needed.

Last week, you killed a man. You ripped out his jugular with your teeth. You’d slaughtered him. So this, killing this entity shouldn’t have made your stomach churn, but it did.

Your world was gone. Death remained. And it was all his doing.

Still . . . still, your finger hesitated on the trigger.

You would die tonight . . . by its hand, no doubt. And perhaps that scared you. Perhaps a part of you truly didn’t want to die. But you dumbed down this hesitation to just pure fear.

Fear that those things would find your family after disposing of your body; fear they’d kill them; fear all of this would be for nothing.

You swallowed hard and adjusted your grip on the gun. You had to try. Your life for theirs. It was that or you all died tonight, and you wouldn’t have that, not after all you had done; all you had put them through.

All you had to do was pull the trigger. And yet . . . you still hesitated.

Fuck. You closed your eyes, clenching your jaw as your heart hammered in your chest. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

And as your eyes remained closed, you heard their voices then.

You're not too far gone.

Mom thinks you’ve been possessed by the devil.

There’s something wrong with you. You frighten me.

You have to grow up. No more kid stuff.

Your breath hitched. You have to grow up. And you had. Too quickly you now realized. It was always going to end up this way.

This was the only way to save them. The only way.

Your eyes snapped open, catching sight of the creatures still sniffing the air like they could just smell your terror. You sucked in a breath, then pulled the trigger. Exhale.

The ringing in your ears was almost immediate and the explosive sound echoed throughout the silent night. You barely even noticed the shotgun’s kickback, too focused on the creatures before you, watching with wide eyes as the pellets hit one of the things, knocking it entirely to the ground.

The others cried out, their noses no longer needing to be depended on as their eyes searched for the origin of the noise. And then you caught the eye of one, and you knew it was the end.

You faltered at the sight, stumbling backward as you tripped on a root, causing your body to hit the ground. A low groan escaped you before you could stop yourself.

Fuck.

Had that been too loud?

Heart pounding in your chest, you slowly glanced up, eyes landing on the creatures. More eyes stared back at you, hungry with . . . something as a few had begun to make their way toward you.

You swallowed hard.

Death itself had seen you.

Acting fast, you hastily grabbed the shotgun. You weren’t sure how long you could keep this up, but you needed to buy your family more time. You needed to end this.

And end it you would.

You clutched the shotgun tightly in your hand and sat up, groaning slightly when you felt a sharp pain in your ankle. But still, you went on.

Remembering your father’s teachings, you knew what a machine was good for at the end of its reign: making a lot of fucking noise.

And so with a heavy heart and angry tears pricking your eyes . . . you belted out a loud yell.

There was no hiding now. They had all heard you. And that was all that mattered to them.

“Come on, you fuckers!” you took it a step further as you yelled at them, clanking the butt of your gun on a tree to make as much noise as you could. And then, when you heard their cries echo with yours; when you saw one turn to two turn to ten following you into the woods, you knew it was time.

With a fleeting look at the warehouse where your family still resided, you fought back the urge to crawl into yourself and let that anger you’d been holding inside yourself for years now finally just . . . snap. You didn’t know if you fired the shotgun at one of the creature’s heads first or ran off further into the woods, still screaming. You didn’t know the present from the past, but you did know you couldn’t look back.

And so, you let yourself be loud, screaming for yourself, for the people you’d lost, for the people you’d never see again, for your father. You yelled and yelled, racing through the woods as they all quickly followed after you, releasing cries of their own.

The world fell behind you in those moments, time moving in slow motion as you weaved through the dark woods, your feet bounding off the ground as if you were in zero gravity. Sound evaded your senses, only the muffled noises of your rapid breathing could be heard echoing in your ears.

But you just kept running, letting the world escape you. Even when you’d trip over hidden roots, your knees buckling as you fell to the ground, surely bruising and cutting up your skin, you persisted each time. Like your father’s daughter, you pulled yourself to your feet each time, sparing a glance over your shoulder only to be met with the sight of the hoard getting nearer and nearer. And every time, you’d force yourself to swallow the bile crawling up your throat before you cocked your shotgun and fired into the hoard, taking off screaming for them to follow after you.

This was the end, and you planned to gather as much of them away from the warehouse and closer to you. You knew it would hurt, but you didn’t care. Their teeth ripping into your flesh would never be a match for the sins you’d committed in this lifetime. That was why you met every dead that got in your path with a lethal hit from the butt of your shotgun and a silent prayer that your damned soul could be traded for the safety of your family.

You were sure you would have continued running had your foot not slammed into a divot in the ground, twisting your ankle with such force that you hit the ground instantly, crying out in pain. And this time when you tried to stand to your feet, you realized the pain was too much to stand.

It hit you then.

Beat.

This really was the end.

You couldn’t run.

Beat.

The hoard was gaining on you.

This was the end.

Beat.

Swallowing hard, you clenched your jaw, shutting your eyes as you realized what you needed to do. Clutching your father’s shotgun close to your chest, so close it nearly touched your heart, your lips parted, and a scream bubbled up your throat, ripping through your vocal cords as it echoed throughout the dead of night.

But before you could inhale and breathe out another war cry of your own to match theirs, a hand slapped over your mouth, muffling your screams. Another hand was gripping your arm the next second, pulling you off the ground and shoving your back against the nearest tree.

Your eyes shot open, dropping your shotgun as your hands instinctively clasped around the wrist of the hand covering your mouth. Deep dark eyes stared back at you, a sense of urgency in them as you realized what was going on.

It happened so fast, too fast for you to process. But you quickly realized the eyes belonged to a man not much older than you. Dark eyes. Full lips. Sculpted nose. It was your first time seeing a man other than Felix . . . other than the one you’d gutted . . . in a long time.

What was he doing?

But you couldn’t ponder long as his eyes twisted to the scene behind you, and you could’ve sworn you felt his heart beat faster against your lips where his hand still lay. And at that sight, he kicked into action.

“You listen to me. We have a few seconds before those fuckers are at our throats,” he spoke in a hushed tone, his voice deep and controlled, but you could sense the fear on him. It was different from yours. “When I tell you, you run as fast as you fucking can in that direction and you don’t stop. You follow me and you don’t get lost or you’re dead.” His hand fell from your mouth as he began hastily digging through the pack over his shoulder. “Got it?”

You skipped a beat, not answering.

His eyes were on you instantly, expectantly.

But you only blinked.

You didn’t want to be saved.

No, he couldn’t do this. It was your time. This was your punishment. He couldn’t—

Your thoughts were cut short as he pulled something out of his pack, and you quickly realized a grenade now sat in his hand. Your eyes widened. He was going to—

“Run,” he bit out, an order.

And it all happened so fast.

You stayed put.

He turned from you, quickly pulling the pin and chucking the grenade as fast and hard as he could from your location. You watched the weapon soar, your heartbeat stilling in your throat as the seconds of anticipation crept upon you.

Beat.

Be—

A loud explosion sounded in the distance, the ground shaking beneath your feet as ringing in your ears commenced. Only then did you realize your feet had been moving on their own, carrying you farther and farther away from the scene as you caught a glimpse of the hoard following after the explosion. But you wouldn’t do this. You had accepted your death. You wouldn’t—

Your feet weren’t moving of your own volition. The world had fallen away from you, you realized, but as you turned your head away from the hoard you realized it was the man who was dragging you away from the scene. You realized in your daze, that he must have locked his grip onto your arm and took off running, dragging you along with him despite your injured ankle and dormant mind.

And for some reason, despite the urge to fall to the ground and let yourself fade away, you allowed him to drag you further and further into the woods. You didn’t realize just how much land you had covered until the sound of the hoard was so far, that he’d begun to slow down ever so slightly. You didn’t realize until the woods turned into sparse grassland, until the sight of what appeared to be a latched roof to an underground bunker of some sort. You’d heard of shelters like these, but you’d never seen one. You always just assumed the military had covered it all up, leaving people to die while they sat safely under the barren earth.

Your mind raced with a million thoughts, but you could barely see straight let alone think right as you allowed this man to drag you to the entrance. Hell, you allowed him to shove you inside, as you crawled down the ladder in the tunnel. It was a subconscious action, honest. Otherwise, you would’ve begged him to leave you outside to die. But there was no breath for begging as he followed in after you, shutting the hatch and twisting it closed to ensure it was tightly locked.

And when your feet finally met the metal flooring of the inside, you stepped back in shock.

As you had predicted, this was a government bunker. A rather large one at that. You swallowed hard. Fuck.

And when you turned around, your eyes searching the area, you were met with the scene of a group of survivors staring back at you in confusion. People. And they were alive. You hadn’t seen so many people since before Famine.

What the fuck?

But before you could react, something hard cracked over the back of your head, throbbing pain followed. The darkness seeped in instantly, your mind losing control of your body as you smacked the ground, eyes fluttering as you faded in and out of consciousness.

There it was, you realized.

Your punishment.

You were going to die.

And you couldn’t help but allow yourself one last selfish look because maybe there was still a small part of you that wanted to be alive. But that part could only live if things were normal again, if things were the way they had been before the world died. Still, that part of you took over and you watched silently, your vision fading in and out as you caught a glimpse of those dark eyes that had saved you, just moments before the world faded into darkness.

The next time your eyes fluttered open, a metal ceiling stared back at you.

There was a throbbing in your head, searing through your thoughts, and your shotgun was nowhere to be found. You released a soft groan, trying to shift in your spot, but you were met with resistance. You tugged and tugged, but your body didn’t budge.

In confusion, you glanced around, finding yourself on a medical bed, your hands tied together with rope, attaching you to the bed. This didn’t make sense. You hadn’t seen a bed in months maybe a year now. This didn’t make sense. Where were you? How did you—

And then . . . then the memories all faded in.

The warehouse. The man. The shots. The hoard.

This was Death’s doing.

The town had warned you of this and you’d denied it. You still didn’t believe. You couldn’t. God was dead and the Horsemen were just a figment of fearmongering. But for a second, you wanted to believe. For that second you were strapped to that bed, you wanted to believe that this was your purgatory and Death was punishing you. That would be easier: if you believed.

Death was an entity; one you had no idea about. There was no knowing what exactly he could and couldn’t do. And this . . . being bound to a medical bed with not even a soul to be heard felt utterly ordinary if he did exist, considering what you did know about this dark being.

But . . . why were you still alive?

Slowly, you lifted your head, groaning at the pain that followed as you assessed the rest of your body. You were alive. Cuts and bruises everywhere, but you could still inhale, exhale, breathe. You could still hear the beat of your heart if you closed your eyes and focused. You were alive.

You were alive.

Your jaw twitched. “I’m alive,” you whispered to yourself, a bitter taste left on your tongue. “I”m . . . alive.”

And for a second, you truly allowed yourself to believe Death existed. You allowed yourself that he had done this to you; that the two years he’d reigned all led up to this very moment. You allowed yourself to believe that he had kept you alive because suffering was for the living.

Was this his way of being kind? Sparing you?

Swallowing hard, you glared up at the unfamiliar ceiling. If you prayed, would he give in? Would he end this suffering? Would he finally give you your punishment?

Your mind wasn’t allowed much longer to ponder as the sound of a door opening brought you out of your repenting. Wearily, you watched with stern eyes as a man stepped in, carrying a bowl in one hand and a washcloth in the other. You watched as he let himself in, still not looking up while he closed the door behind him with a heavy sigh and finally . . . glanced up, meeting your gaze.

Him.

The man.

Slowly, your face softened as confusion consumed you. Him. He had done this to you. He had been the one to lead you here. (He’d also been the one to save you . . . ) He had knocked you out cold. And now . . . now here he was.

You clenched your jaw hard.

The man just stared a minute longer at you, his gaze stern, cold, calculating. Then, he was walking toward you, resting the bowl on the bedside table beside your head before he reached forward and tapped a finger to your chin, tilting your head so he could analyze the wounds on your face.

And you let him, analyzing his actions, preparing for his next.

“You’re awake,” was all he simply said as he dropped your chin and diverted his attention to the bowl on the bedside table. “Sorry about the blow and the rope . . . it’s . . . protocol.”

But you remained silent, watching.

"Your stunt back there . . . could’ve cost us this entire place," he muttered, his voice calm and controlled but you knew he was seething inside. He remained quiet as he dipped the washcloth into the bowl of what seemed to be warm water before he turned to you once again, his eyes lethal. "Screaming only attracts more of them, don’t you know? If you wanted to die, you should’ve just stayed put.”

You swallowed thickly.

There was something terrifying about a quiet rage.

"There's always someone like you," he continued, his eyes racking up and down your body in a menacing glare before the warm touch of a washcloth to your cheek startled a quiet gasp out of your lips. "Someone who ends up surviving longer than they should have." A scoff left him. "Someone who doesn’t care who dies for them as long as they get out unscathed. Did you even think there might be other survivors around before you took off attracting all of those things? If there were children? Families? People who survive together and want to stay alive without running into someone like you?”

And you hadn’t.

You never thought yourself to be stupid or any of the sort. You hadn’t been thinking. There hadn’t been enough time. You just needed to do something so your family could make it out alive. You hadn’t thought that there could be others. You hadn’t thought that saving your family could damn another.

Had your mother been right about you?

Were you really just a stupid girl? A stupid girl playing hero?

The man pulled a chair from the corner of the room, and placed it beside your bed, sitting on it as he dragged the washcloth down your arms now. His touch was somehow gentle despite his glare. Perhaps it was because no one had touched you so gently in so long. Perhaps it was because you had given up, but you let him clean the wounds on your body as you rested your head back onto the pillow, your muscles relaxing ever-so-slightly.

"No?" he questioned, reiterating his accusation. “In my experience, people like you don’t find themselves in trouble like that unless they’re planning something.”

You remained expressionless as you watched him, taking in his words. He thought you’d lured the dead here, and for what? Looting? Or just plain insanity?

Had you really become that corrupt even a stranger could sense it on you?

Slowly, you blinked, wondering if your father had ever felt this way before his death. And as you wondered, the man beside you continued cleaning your wounds, but this time, remained silent. Maybe he realized you wouldn’t answer. Or maybe he already knew the truth about you and your damned soul.

And as the minutes of silence ticked on, you did your own inspection.

Now, under the light, the man sat beside you, his eyes fixed on meticulously cleaning each wound with care despite his lethal words. It had been so long since you’d seen another man like this; a man that had to be around your age; a man so young yet so riddled with age. His dark hair was slightly curly, more tangled and messy than anything as if he hadn’t slept in days. The dark circles under his equally dark eyes were enough to show his evident sleep deprivation. And yet, he seemed almost too alert: his full lips were hidden as his teeth worried his bottom lip while he continued to clean the blood from your skin.

(You’d be lying if you said he wasn’t beautiful; so beautiful it almost made you believe in God once more.)

And for a second, you let yourself wonder what else your mother had been right about. You let yourself believe once again. You let yourself be a girl who could finally kneel in church without bruises being left behind. For a moment, you let yourself believe that she and the town had been right; that this whole thing was God’s plan; that the Horsemen had come; that they could be saved, but you would be condemned.

Then . . . you began to wonder if you had already been. Maybe it was the blow to the head you’d taken or the fever raging through your body or maybe it was the truth, but you began to believe that perhaps this was your purgatory; perhaps you had died in that hoard and you’d been sent here; perhaps the beautiful man beside you was Death himself.

Was this it then? Were you always meant to see him at the end?

Oddly enough, he reminded you of this small dog your sister had found near one of the abandoned houses your family had stayed in over the years. This was during Famine’s rule—when food became sparse, when lands became stale and yellowed; when the dead had only just begun to migrate south. This tiny dog found your younger sister then, and she’d brought it home, leaving you no choice but to care for the little thing.

Your sister had named her Berry. (A few months later you had to put her down; it was what we had to do to survive, you’d told your sister back then. You were sure it was then she first started to hate you.)

And as you stared at Death, taking note of how his eyes were a particular shade of brown, you realized they were the same shade that the silly dog had.

You tilted your head. Death somehow had eyes that were kind; eyes that were warm; eyes that reminded you of Felix. Was that how they planned to transfix you? Was Death meant to be this beautiful; this familiar so you’d go willingly? Had God forgotten you’d already condemned yourself? Had he forgotten you didn’t need to be tricked? Had he forgotten where your prayers resided?

Only a moment later, when you felt his hands running over your torso, did you snap out of your exhaust-ridden daze. You realized quickly he was cleaning the last of your wounds which resided on your ribs. And when he was done, he tossed the washcloth into the bowl without another care before he slowly leaned back, arms crossed over his broad chest as he watched you with scrutinizing eyes.

Death narrowed his gaze, but it wasn’t menacing this time. Rather, he seemed almost perplexed. "Why aren’t you fighting?" he questioned. "You didn’t stop to run before. Why calm your fire now?"

Why aren’t you fighting?

The thing was: it was over. Your fight was over.

Sure, you were still trying to wrap your head around the fact that Death was painfully beautiful . . . but it went beyond that.

It was surely daylight by now.

Daylight had come, hours had passed, and Death had you in his hold.

By now, Felix had probably taken your mother and sister onto the road again. They’d escaped, and they were miles and miles away from you and Death. They were safe.

So . . . where was your fight?

You didn’t have one anymore. This was the end. Death would either kill you or make you suffer again and again and again, and your family would live. You’d once told yourself that you never wanted to live in a world like this, but you’d kept yourself alive to protect your family. Only now . . . you didn’t need to fight because there wasn’t anyone left for you to protect.

Your fight was over. Maybe you could rest now. Maybe he’d let you.

Death seemed to catch onto the shift in your demeanor as he narrowed his eyes. "Do you not speak?"

For a moment, you considered not replying. Until: "There's no point," you heard yourself say, voice dry and hoarse.

The look on Death’s face was unreadable as his eyes shifted across your face, his mouth slightly parted. "You smell of death," he muttered, gaze still searching your being.

And you almost laughed.

Because this was your end, and Death himself just told you that you smelled like shit or well . . . like him, you supposed . . . apparently.

It all felt a little unreal.

Death must not have liked your silence as he shot you one last glance before he pulled away and walked toward a table on the other side of the room. As he walked, you caught sight of the blood painting his body, his skin, him.

You swallowed hard. You’d brought that hoard to him. He’d fought his way out. You’d caused those wounds, and now he was more than likely going to do worse to you. He’d probably take that scythe you were told he carried and cut your head clean off.

But unlike what you thought, Death sifted through the miscellaneous items on the table before pausing and grabbing a small knife. Your brows furrowed in confusion as you watched him approach you, knife in hand.

There it was.

This was the end you were promised.

Was he going to slit your throat and leave you to bleed out? Or cut you open so you could see just how dark your heart had become? You wouldn’t put it past him. Hell, you might have even welcomed it. But as he approached you, your eyes closing in anticipation, he did not bring that knife down upon your body. No, instead, with a few quick motions and the sound of the rope being cut, you slowly opened your eyes just as your hands were released from the rope’s grip.

On instinct, you brought your hands close to your chest, rubbing your raw wrists. You couldn’t even speak, you just watched as he kept the knife in his hand but returned back to his position of leaning back against the chair with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes on you.

"You're human," you found yourself uttering as you watched him watch you.

His brows twitched in confusion. "Of course I am.”

But Death couldn’t bleed. . . . Could he?

"You bleed,” you spoke your thoughts, dumbly.

His eyes met yours, but only briefly. "Am I not meant to?" he bit out before his gaze fell back on your hand rubbing your wrist. "Even the dead bleed."

Your confusion only spiraled. This was your end; your purgatory. This was Death, was he not? Your mother had been right. She had to have been right otherwise you were still alive; otherwise, you had managed to escape death once again without so much as a punishment. That wouldn’t be fair. That wouldn’t be right. That wouldn’t be just.

This had to be Death. You had to be dead or somewhere in between. It didn’t matter, this just had to be your end.

So, why hadn’t he condemned you yet?

Why—

"Why—” Death interrupted your thoughts, once you finally dropped your hand from your wrist— “did you think I couldn’t bleed?"

You glanced his way, finding his eyes already on you.

His stare only unnerved you more.

Why couldn’t he just kill you? You deserved it.

Your brows furrowed. "Hasn't anyone ever told you not to play with your food?" you found yourself spitting out, finally finding your voice despite his devasting beauty capturing your words. "I put your lives in danger. I lead them here like you said. I could be with anyone. Having me here could kill you all, so take your revenge. Kill me."

The crease between his brows deepened further. "I'm not letting you die," he simply said, his anger quiet and calm . . . still. “You put my group in harm's way. I won’t pardon you for that . . . but . . . we don’t kill the living.”

That only unnerved you further.

Was this truly Death?

Surely he had killed before.

Although . . . you supposed perhaps he’d only just ever waited. Was that his fault? Waiting for the dead to find him? Is that how he found you in those woods? Is that how he’d taken your arm and helped you crossover to the other side? But . . . if that were true . . . where was your father now? Surely, he would’ve come to see you. Surely, he would’ve been the first one knocking at your door. Surely, he’d be here.

As you briefly wet your lips, your eyes flicked up to meet his. “Where’s my dad?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

A look of deep confusion twisted onto Death’s face, and then he was leaning forward to feel your forehead with the back of his hand. “Fever,” he mumbled more to himself before he pushed himself to his feet, the chair screeching against the floor. “Get some rest. Someone will be in to bandage you up and . . . I’ll be back in a couple hours with medication.” His gaze dropped to the large gash on your arm from just a few nights ago. “When you’re healed, we’ll give you some supplies and then you’ll be on your way, understood?”

But you just stared at him, silently pleading. Pleading for what? You didn’t know. All you knew was if your father wasn’t here, you couldn’t be dead. And if you weren’t, you wanted to be. You’d be able to find him then, because although you were no longer a girl who could kneel in church, you could still feel the scabs on your knees from years ago; you could still remember what it was to believe so blindly; you could still feel that insistent desire for there to be something beyond this world . . . something after this world.

There just had to be. You had to see him again. You had to find him.

You could die now. You could find him now. You would find him.

“Great,” Death muttered under his breath, breaking you out of your own mind. And with one final glance at your exhausted body, he began to turn and head for the door.

Fear struck you then. You had to find your father. “Wait, please—” you hastily grabbed onto his arm, only being able to reach his hand enough to dig your nails into his skin to halt him— “I beg of you.”

His eyes snapped to yours, wide and cautious as if at any moment, one wrong move and he’d grant your wishes. And all you could do was hope.

“Kill me,” you weakly whispered, hopelessly searching his eyes.

His brows twitched, taken back.

“Death,” you begged in a whisper, your bottom lip trembling, “please.”

But Death only stared back at you with a perplexing look written across his face. It was as if he couldn’t believe your request. Had no one ever begged him to die?

A heavy beat of silence pounded in your ears.

Death only continued to stare, a world raging on behind his eyes as he took you in. His demeanor was still calm, still collected, but he seemed . . . perturbed by your request, by your presence, by you. And you watched as his eyes trickled across your face, searching for something until finally . . . his gaze zeroed in on your cheek, his brows furrowing.

Then . . . you felt it.

A tear had slowly begun to slip down your cheek as if your body knew it was a sin to cry. But you were . . . crying that was.

You nearly gasped.

Another tear trickled down your cheek. Guilt followed.

But just as you were about to angrily wipe it away, there was a sharp knock at the door, breaking both you and Death out of your spell. The door opened a second later, a man peaking his head in with a solemn look on his face.

The man didn’t spare you a glance, he only cleared his throat and said, “Chris?” His brows raised, a silent message passing between the two. “A minute.”

Death only nodded, and then the man was gone, the door shutting behind him. Silence followed, but Death stayed unmoving, his arm still in your tight grasp.

“You won’t run,” he slowly spoke, his words a statement, not an order, but he didn’t turn to look at you. He kept his eyes on the door. “I don’t kill the living. I won’t kill you.” He paused, audibly swallowing, and then his eyes were on you. “And I know you won’t kill us.”

And then he was gone before you could blink, quickly tearing his arm out of your grasp before he reached the door and closed it behind him. You were alone with yourself once again, your thoughts running wild as your hand remained outstretched, almost frozen in place.

I know you won’t kill us, he’d told you.

But how could you kill Death? How did he know you wouldn’t if he didn’t give you what you wanted? How could he be so sure that you weren’t a killer, when you so clearly were?

You had killed before, and if he didn’t take you to the other side, you’d surely kill again. That was who you had become. That was who you were. He should’ve known that.

And then as you slowly laid your head back onto the pillow and allowed the minutes to tick by, the throbbing in your head began to subside, and the world became a little clearer. You were no longer a girl who could kneel in church. You did not believe anymore. The world had gone to shit, and it wasn’t because of God’s plan. There were no Horsemen. Your family was gone. And that . . . that man had not been Death.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you swallowed thickly. What was happening to you?

It all hit you then.

These were a group of survivors. That man surely was their leader, and you had just led hundreds of the dead to their doorstep. They should’ve killed you for that alone. You would’ve. You wouldn’t even hesitate if this had been your family. You would’ve done everything to keep them safe, even if it meant killing others, and yet . . .

I won’t kill you.

But why? You deserved it. You could see it in his eyes that he knew.

These were good people. And you were their bad omen.

It wouldn’t be long before your presence brought misery upon them, too, just as it had to your family. And it’d be all your fault.

You’d live, only to see many die. You’d make it out unscathed just as you always had, while they’d suffer, just as he had said.

It was then you realized this was not your purgatory, it was your Hell.

taglist:

@amaranth-writing @binchanluvrr @dreamingsmile @eternalrajin

(i did post the teaser like a year ago, so if you want to be taken off, send me a lil message <3)

400 notes · View notes

myseungsunglove · 8 months

Text

The Art of Meeting | Bc

Pairing: Chan x Reader

Warnings: angst, fluff to wrap it up

Word Count: 5.4k (whoopsies)

Summary: the reader and Chan are meeting up after their unlikely connection via bubble and Instagram. The reader is heading to LA to meet Chan and the boys. Will this meeting be everything she hoped for or make matters more complicated than she imagined?

A/N: Part 3. For The Master of Flirting - This one really, really got away from me. Sometimes I include so much detail because I just feel like you NEED to know, you know? Anyway, I very much enjoyed writing this part, so I really hope you guys enjoy it.

◠ ◡ ◠᭚ιαᵕ̈

Feedback Welcome

「© September 3, 2023 by mysweethannie」

Saturday, August 19th 12:15 AM CST

Chan: *received video*

Hey there, beautiful. We are on the plane and about to head out. It’s a long flight, and I’m exhausted. I can’t believe I’m going to see you in a little over 12 hours. I’m literally on cloud 9 just thinking about getting to see you.

“Is that our lovely y/n?” you hear Han’s voice in the background.

“Did someone say y/n?” Seungmin quickly interjects.

It’s not long before both boys' heads pop into the frame. Stupid, goofy grins plastered on their faces.

“Oh my god, Y/n Hi! We’re gonna see you soon. Get excited because this is going to be the most exciting weekend of your life,” Han practically yells at the screen.

Seungmin scoffs, a small smirk briefly appearing on his face. He always pretends to be annoyed with Han, but you know the opposite to be true. His eyes don’t lie. He is extremely fond and protective of Han.

“Seriously, you’re so loud,” he says, shoving Han playfully. “Can’t wait to see you, y/n,” He waves a tiny little wave that makes your heart squeeze in your chest. Han leans up and kisses the camera before Chan can swat them both away.

“Anyway,” Chan laughs, rolling his eyes playfully. “Seems I’m not the only one excited to see you,” he smiles fondly. “Maybe for different reasons, but still those two don’t shut up about you. Hell, I don’t either,” he laughs at himself. “Now I’m just rambling, but I just wanted to let you know we boarded and are heading out. I know you probably won’t be up for a few hours, or at least I hope you took my advice and got some rest. I’ll text you when we land. Our flights are scheduled to arrive pretty close together, so I’ll see you at LAX,” he smiles at the camera, his eyes becoming tiny slits.

“Byeom, darlin’”

The video ends there and you smile contentedly at your phone. You watch the video over again, laughing at the interruption of Han and Seungmin, your heartbeat quickening when Chan admits that he can’t stop talking about you and is excited to see you. You type out a quick response, hoping you’ll catch him before his phone is put on airplane mode.

Y/N: I’m so nervous and excited, I can hardly sleep. Though, I am getting a little tired now that I know you’re headed out. I can’t wait to see you. I’m not sure words can even explain how I’m feeling if I’m being honest.

Chan: I was hoping you’d be asleep, but I get it. I’m gonna have to take something to make me sleep. Ah, they’re telling us to prepare for take off. I gotta go. Please get some sleep, baby girl. It’s gonna be busy once we’re in LA, trust me. My life is kind of crazy. See you soon, y/n

Y/N: I’m not sure how one misses someone they haven’t actually met, but Channie, I miss you.

Chan: I know exactly what you mean. I miss you more, baby girl.

Y/N: Travel safe, Channie. G’night babe.

Chan: G’day, darlin’

You lock your phone, switch it over to silent and place it on the wireless charger. Sleep suddenly feels imminent now that you know the boys are about to be in the air. You smile to yourself as you roll over and cuddle up to your body pillow to fall asleep.

August 19th 4:30 AM CST

Morning comes much more quickly than you anticipate. You wake with a jolt at 4:30 AM. Whoever is taking you to the airport is due to be at your house at 5:30 sharp. You peel yourself out of bed and drag yourself into the bathroom to go through some kind of morning routine. You debate on whether you are going to travel cozy and casual or dress up and actually put on makeup. You settle for something in between the two, a simple tinted moisturizer, a light powder, and some mascara. You have pretty healthy skin and it is glowing this morning despite your complete lack of sleep. Your freckles, one of your more charming features, dance across your round cheeks. Chan has mentioned absolutely loving them, so you decide to let them shine today.

Your outfit isn’t complicated. You don’t want to look like you are going on a business trip but equally so you don’t want to look like a bum either. It is hot as hell at home, so you grab a purple sundress with white flowers on it and throw on your favorite pair of cons.

You slip on your jewelry, a simple diamond pendant necklace, a few low statement rings, and your earrings. You assess yourself in the mirror and figure you are about as ready as you’re going to be. Your hair is short, so a little spray and a few tossles here and there do the trick. You look at the clock and it’s near 5:00, so you move to refill your water bottle and double check your luggage. You are a meticulous planner, so the likelihood you are forgetting anything with all the lists you have made is slim to none, but it doesn’t stop you from triple checking everything.

Your phone rings at 5:30 on the dot, the person accompanying you on your journey arriving at your door right on time. You swing it open and are immediately greeted by a warm smile and a small Korean woman who looks to be about ten years older than you.

“Y/n?” she asks.

“Yeah that’s me,” you bow and reach out a hand to shake hers all at the same time, so nervous about the day ahead. She laughs softly and it’s a pleasant sound that calms you in an unexpected way.

“I’m Lee Jia. It’s nice to finally meet you. Chan speaks of you with the highest regard,” she smiles and bows.

You blush. “It’s lovely to meet you. Come in, I’ll grab my things,” you say as you usher her in. Lovely to meet you, you ask yourself. Who even are you right now, y/n? A nervous fucking wreck, that’s who.

You scurry off to gather your things and you return to see Jia standing in your entry, looking down at her phone.

“Ready,” you breathe.

“Shall we?” she asks as you pull open your front door. She leads the way to the car and you’re off. The ride to the airport flies by. When you arrive at the airport, a large Korean man joins your little entourage. He introduces himself as Seok-Jin. He explains that he is your bodyguard and gives you a quick rundown of what to expect. Before you know it, you’re in line to board the plane after clearing security.

“We can chat more on the plane,” Seok-Jin explains, “but essentially, I say, you do. Your safety may depend on that specific instruction especially once we are in LA.”

You hadn’t even considered this side of your meeting. And suddenly you are starkly reminded that Bang Chan is in fact a world wide superstar. Internationally known. He doesn’t get to just exist like a normal person, and you’re hit with the fact that, from this point on, you may not either depending on the outcome of this trip.

“Of course. You say, I do. Got it,” you repeat back to him. He gives you a small nod as you move through to board the plane. Chan had booked first class seats and that experience alone is shocking. You settle into your seat, both Jia and Seok-Jin close by, pull out your headphones and open up your phone. You type out a quick message to Chan even though you know he is currently somewhere over the Pacific Ocean.

Y/n: Settled and about to take off.

*picture sent* in the photo you have your eyes closed and your face scrunched up in a cute closed lipped smile. You hold up a peace sign feeling like a goober.

Y/n: Guess I’ll see you in about 4 hours. I can’t believe this is real.

You turn your phone on airplane mode, listening to the preflight instructions before take off. You look at your watch. 8:20 Everything is going off without a hitch and that makes you a little nervous but you try not to dwell on or overthink it. Things are allowed to go your way, you tell yourself.

You stick in your headphones and turn on your music, Chan’s soft voice lulling you to sleep as you close your eyes and settle in for the flight.

August 19th 11:00 AM PST

The flight is uneventful. You sleep most of the three and a half hour journey. Changing time zones always throws you for a loop, but with the difference only being two hours, you’d adjust easily enough. Easier than the boys would for sure.

“The boys’ flight just landed,” Jia tells you quietly as the two of you settle at a table outside Urth Caffe & Bar. It’s located close to the terminal the boys will be arriving at. You can tell because the amount of people with cameras around is insane. Some of the people are from News Outlets, but others are just regular people, probably STAYS excited to see the boys arrive in LA.

You order a Green Tea Americano, in desperate need of some caffeine. You run to the bathroom while Jia waits at your table for your order. Seok-Jin accompanies you to the restroom, but waits a respectable distance away from the entry. It feels so weird to have someone right there watching every move you make.

You take a few minutes to compose yourself in the mirror of the bathroom, giving yourself a little pep talk. You are about to meet someone you never expected to meet. Bang Chan still felt a little bit like a fictional character. Your brain can’t fully comprehend that you are about to actually meet him. Not only that, you are going to meet all of Stray Kids. You had formed a quick bond with Han and Seungmin, but your interactions with the other boys had been minimal thus far. That was all about to change.

“You can do this you idiot,” you tell yourself in the mirror. “He’s just a guy. At the end of the day, he wants normal as much as you do,” you remind yourself. With that, you straighten your hair and dress one last time and exit the bathroom.

Seok-Jin leads you back to the table where Jia is seated. Your drink is sitting on the table and you snatch it up, eager to have that rush of adrenaline in your veins that the caffeine will provide.

“Okay, so the boys are clearing security now,” Jia starts.

You stare at her, your mouth agape.

“Wait, already?” you ask, a slight panic in your voice.

Jia smiles softly at you and it’s reassuring as you will your heart to slow down.

“Already,” she confirms. “Your luggage is already on its way to the hotel. Now we just need to go meet up with them. Chan insisted that you would be riding with them from the airport to the hotel, despite my advice.”

“Your advice?” you ask.

“I’m not sure it’s the best idea for your first meeting to be here. I swear he forgets the level of his notoriety sometimes,” she sighs and you can tell she is a little exasperated. “They all do.”

“Ah,” you nod in understanding. “That he does. Should we just go ahead to the hotel?” you ask, suddenly doubting the plan to meet with Chan here.

Jia shakes her head.

“We’ve got everything figured out as best as we can,” she assures you. “Seok-Jin will be right there. If he says…”

“I do,” you answer with Jia.

“Exactly,” she smiles. “Let’s move. We are going to head to the meeting place. We will basically meet up with them. There won’t be time for a grand meeting. Essentially, we will simply walk up and join the group. We will head to the cars from there,” she tells you.

“Got it,” you nod nervously.

You both stand, Seok-Jin close behind as you throw your cross body bag over your shoulder. You take a deep breath. You can feel your anxiety bubbling up as you take a step forward. There are so many things you hadn’t accounted for. So many factors you hadn’t considered. You briefly feel a little foolish for rushing into all of this, but there is no turning back. Not now.

The three of you cover a lot of ground fairly quickly and suddenly you are rounding the corner. The noise of the crowd hits you before you actually see it. It feels like there are hundreds of people around you. They aren’t there for you, though, you remind yourself, though that doesn’t entirely help ease your anxiety. But you have a guard. You’ll be fine, y/n you tell yourself.

“Oh my god, is that her?” you hear someone say, and you turn to look at whoever the voice is mentioning. You don’t stop moving, but when you look, you realize that the eyes are on you. That isn’t right. No one should be looking at you.

“It is her!” someone else says, and suddenly it feels like the wolves are descending. There is a swarm of people closing in on you. They are shouting questions and pointing cameras in your face. Seok-Jin’s hand is on your back, his other on your arm as he shields you from the crowd, but he is just one person. It feels like the walls are closing in and you instantly feel like you can’t breathe.

“Y/N! Y/N! Are you working on a collaboration with Stray Kids?” someone shouts from not far enough away. “Do you have plans to showcase your singing soon?” Another shouts. Your head is spinning. How did these people know your name? Why were they talking about your singing? You can feel your chest collapsing in on itself as you become so overwhelmed you aren’t sure you can keep going.

You haven’t remotely paid attention to where Jia and Seok-Jin are leading you. At this point, meeting up with the guys is the last thing on your mind. You just want to get into a car and drive away from this chaos. Your breathing is quick and you stop, clutching your chest, trying to will yourself to keep breathing. You had not anticipated any of this.

It’s then that you suddenly feel a pair of strong arms wrap around you, pulling you into their body. The person is too short to be Seok-Jin.

“Y/N, I’m here. It’s okay.”

He strokes your hair and gently kisses the side of your forehead. “We’ve gotta move, baby girl,” he whispers in your ear and suddenly you realize it's Chan. You are wrapped up in Chan’s arms and that’s all the strength you need to move again. You don’t know where he had come from or how he knew anything was wrong, but the two of you move together and head for the door which is much closer than you realize.

What you hadn’t realized was that Jia had been communicating with Chan’s team the second things went south and people started recognizing you. She had been trying to get to the bottom of why anyone even remotely knew who you were to begin with. Chan had been filled in and demanded that he move ahead of the group to come to you.

Chan’s arms are wrapped protectively around you as your group of five; you, Chan, Jia, Seok-Jin and Chan’s bodyguard, suddenly becomes a much larger group. You haven’t looked up at Chan yet because you are surrounded by people and completely overwhelmed. You finally take a chance to pay attention to your surroundings and you realize that the rest of the group has joined you. The crowd of people now feels further away as there were many people surrounding you and the boys. You take a deep breath and scan the faces.

Your eyes meet a pair of round hazelnut eyes and he smiles, giving you a tiny wave. His eyes squint up almost closing completely, and even though you can’t see his smile because of the face mask, you know the person is smiling brightly at you.

“Seungmin,” you breathe.

You step outside the doors and the bright LA sun hits you along with a nice breeze and you take another deep breath. You feel as though it’s the first time you’ve breathed since you left the caffe.

Chan’s guard rushes ahead of you and opens the door to an SUV. Chan’s hand is resting on the small of your back.

“You first, darlin’” he says, guiding you into the car and following quickly behind you. The two of you settle in the back seat and Han and Seungmin jump in the seats ahead of you which are facing backwards so that you are all facing each other. You toss off your cross body bag, and let your head fall against the headrest behind you.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, your breath coming out in a shutter as you run your fingers through your short hair.

Chan places a firm hand on your bare thigh and squeezes lightly.

“Are you okay?” he asks. You can hear the worry in his voice. “I don’t know what happened,” he says, speaking to the situation back in the airport.

For the first time you look up and your eyes meet Chan’s. He has a soft, concerned smile on his face, his hand staying firmling on your thigh as his round eyes hold your gaze. His skin on your skin is enough to send a thrill through you despite everything that has transpired in the last twenty minutes.

“I’m okay now,” you chuckle a little. “Hi,” you add, not knowing what else to say.

He laughs then with his entire body, his head thrown back at the gesture.

“G’day darlin’” he smiles.

You grab his hand that is still resting on your leg and squeeze it. He turns it over and interlaces his large fingers with yours. His eyes never leave yours except for the brief moment they dart down to glance at your lips. You can feel the heat rising in your chest at that small action.

“I don’t know what happened,” he repeats again. “I don’t know how anyone even remotely knows who you are or that you are connected to us in any way,” he says.

“I don’t know,” you echo.

Just then Han looks up, a nervous look on his face. He’d been fiddling with a rip in his jeans the entire time you had been in the car.

“I might know what happened. Shit, I’m such an idiot,” he mutters, looking away from you both, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

“Han-ah?” Chan looks at him questioningly.

“I may have posted that clip of y/n singing Iris to our instagram story before we took off,” Han admits, his head falling into his hands.

Seungmin clears his throat.

“And I may have mentioned something in a story post after it about meeting you in LA and not being able to wait until I got to work with you in person,” Seungmin groaned, mimicking Han’s motion, putting his head in both of his hands. If it wasn’t so sad to see them beating themselves up, the gesture would have been cute.

“Oh,” you breathe out. Suddenly you’re laughing. It’s a little bit panicked, a little bit relieved, a lot of bit manic. “You guys are kind of idiots,” you tease as you pull your hand away from Chan’s to rub your hands over your face. “I was so not prepared for this. For any of this,” you admit looking at all three of them.

“God, I’m so sorry,” Han half sobs. You can see that he is absolutely beating himself up. Seungmin is quiet and you realize that he is crying.

“This is all my fault,” Seungmin manages, stuttering out his words before looking away.

You glance at Chan, a desperate look on your face at the despair of your new friends. Chan’s face is unreadable, but you can tell from his body language that he is frustrated. You on the other hand just want to comfort Han and Seungmin.

“Hey,” you say softly, reaching across you and putting a hand on Seungmin’s leg. “It’s okay. We made it through,” you smile reassuringly.

Han reaches out and squeezes your hand that is resting on top of Seungmin’s leg, placing his other hand on the shoulder of his friend, rubbing gently.

“You guys were excited. Hell, I was too. It could have easily been me,” you tell them.

“Except you don’t have millions of followers like us,” Han groans.

“Yeah, except that,” you admit.

“Actually,” Chan speaks for the first time in a while. “Might better check your Instagram.”

You grab your phone, open Instagram, and have thousands of requests to follow your account. Thousands. Your message requests are practically overflowing.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, your small hand clapping over your mouth as you sit up and pull away from Han and Seungmin.

“Looks like the video was screen recorded and shared a shit ton before anyone on our end realized it was on our story,” Chan says scrolling on his phone. “Look,” he says, scooting closer to you, your legs pressed firmly together.

“Holy shit,” you breathe as Chan scrolls through countless posts, all about you. STAYS had quickly shared your video, most of the feedback fairly positive to your singing. They had also put on their mega detective hats and found your private Instagram handle and shared it far and wide. “I can’t believe this,” you admit.

“We’ll figure it out,” Chan smiles at you. “Together, yeah?”

You look up, meeting his eyes and practically melt. The frustration that was there before is now replaced with determination. You’re fascinated by how quickly he can mask his feelings in order to deal with a problem. You admire it, but it also concerns you a little bit.

“I mean, you deserve all this attention. I just wish you had been able to brace yourself for it,” Chan adds. “Obviously we aren’t the only ones who think you’re incredible.”

You click off your phone, no longer able to look through all the posts. You’re incredibly overwhelmed and so unsure how to handle yourself. You’ve only just arrived in LA and it feels like your entire life has already been turned upside down. You slide the phone into your bag on the floor and bring your hands to rest on your legs as they ball up in small fists. Your knuckles crack at the movement, and suddenly Chan is reaching out and grabbing your hands once more.

“It’ll be okay. I promise,” he says, holding both your hands in his, his thumb rubbing the top of your hand in a soothing motion. He has moved so that one leg is resting up on the seat between the two of you, the other resting on the floor.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Chan drops both of your hands and moves them so that he is gently caressing your face. A small tear trails down your cheek and he gently wipes it away. He closes the space between you.

“I will always protect you,” he whispers, his breath now warm against your lips. His eyes search yours for permission and you don’t pull away. He takes that as a positive sign, and closes the distance that remains between you.

His mouth meets yours in a tender, hesitant kiss. His lips are soft and full. He tastes like sweet mint and smells like fall. The kiss is short, yet surprisingly intimate for a first kiss.

“Always,” he murmurs against you and you are chasing after his lips at those words, this time the two of you meeting in a much more desperate kiss. Your hands drape around his neck as he tilts your head slightly, his fingers dancing along the nape of your neck. Your head is spinning again, but this time in the best way possible. You knew the two of you were connected, but you couldn’t have possibly imagined any of this.

“I think we’re almost to the hotel,” Seungmin meekly whispers.

You and Chan are reminded then that you are not alone and pull away from each other hesitantly. You’ve never felt this immediately bonded with someone before and it’s a little overwhelming.

“Okay, good,” Chan chuckles, moving to sit up properly in the seat again, his hand finding yours once more. “Guys, we’ll all figure this out. Don’t beat yourselves up, yeah?” he assures the two younger boys across from him. “We’ve got a busy couple of days ahead of us. We’ll come up with a game plan,” Chan says, looking at all three of you. “I’m sure Jia is already working through it all.”

“She is,” Jia chimes in from the front seat and you all chuckle. None of you realized she had joined the four of you in the car. “Everyone can get settled in at the hotel, rest up and then we can all meet to talk about logistics.”

“All meet?” you question.

“Yes, all 9 of you. Everyone needs to be on the same page,” Jia says and turns back around in her seat.

You had completely forgotten about the other members that weren’t currently in the car with you. This would likely affect all of them in some way, and you could feel your nerves creeping back in once more.

“We’ll be fine,” Chan says beside you as if he knows the thoughts running wild in your head. He squeezes your hand reassuringly. “We always are.”

You chuckle nervously as the car comes to a stop. Someone comes out to the car with key cards for your rooms and Jia passes them out quickly. With that, the four of you retreat from the small cramped space and step back out into the sunlight. It seems that people don’t know where the boys are staying because there aren’t throngs of people waiting here for them. As if Chan can read your mind he speaks.

“Our hotel is always a safe haven. No one will bother us here,” he says with a confident smile. You walk into the hotel and it’s beautiful. Chan leads you to the elevator, pressing the top floor and entering it with you, Han, and Seungmin. Your car arrived before the others, so you have yet to lay eyes on the rest of the members of Stray Kids at this point.

The bell of the elevator dings and you all step out of the small space. Your room is the last one on the hall, past all of the boys’ rooms. As Han and Seungmin depart, murmuring their apologies once again, and you realize that you are situated across the hall from Han and Seungmin, their rooms adjoined by a door inside.

Chan opens the door of his room and pulls you in behind him. You notice a door inside other than the bathroom door and closet door and realize then that your rooms must be joined as well. In fact, the door is open.

“That room is yours,” he says with a smile, gesturing to the open door. “I didn’t want to have to be caught in the hallway every time I wanted to come see you, so I figured requesting a set up like this would be easier,” he admitted sheepishly.

“Smart,” you chuckle.

You walk into your room and see that your luggage is all safely there, just as Jia assured you it would be. You throw your cross body bag on an empty chair and retreat into the bathroom. You take one look at yourself in the mirror and realize what a mess you look like. You glance down at your watch and it reads 1:00 pm. You hadn’t realized so much time had passed from getting off the plane, the whole airport disaster, and the car ride to the hotel. Traffic must have really been crazy, but you were so caught up in your own world with the boys, you had had no time to notice anything like that.

You wet a hand towel down with cold water and dab your face gently. You decide that you can refresh your makeup later, after you’ve rested. You use the bathroom and exit the room. You immediately notice Chan laying on the edge of your king size bed, an arm draped over his eyes.

“Are you as tired as I am?” you ask as you sit down gently beside him.

He chuckles and it's a low pleasant sound that sends a thrill through you. Sitting here with him feels so natural. Like it’s something you’ve done hundreds of times. It feels safe.

“That’s the understatement of the century,” he says as he moves his arm away from his face and softly smiles up at you.

You suddenly stand, holding out your hand to him.

“Then I propose a nap,” you say, offering your hand to him. He takes it without hesitation and stands, his free hand landing on your hip and pulling you close to him.

“That’s a proposal I don’t think I could possibly refuse,” he smiles down at you and damn it if you don’t go completely weak in the knees as his eyes lock with yours. You can see that he wants to kiss you again, but he hesitates this time. Something about being in a hotel room makes a kiss feel much more intimate and you both know you aren’t ready for where that could lead. Not after a day like today.

“I’m gonna change real quick. I don’t want to sleep in my travel clothes,” he laughs and steps away and back into his room.

“You’re too right,” you agree, moving to your luggage.

You open it up and the urge to unpack everything like you usually do is strong, but you’re also completely exhausted. That type A OCD trait will have to wait, you tell yourself as you search for an oversized T and a pair of shorts. You find your shirt that reads, “President of the Big Tiddy Committee” on it and burst out laughing. You had entirely forgotten that you had packed this. You throw it on and slide on a pair of black shorts.

You turn around, moving towards your bed and Chan is suddenly in the doorway between your rooms again. He is wearing a black tank top that sticks to him like his skin and a pair of loose black basketball shorts.

Suddenly he laughs out loud, his head falling backward as he laughs with his entire body.

“Oh my god,” he giggles, his hand going over his mouth. “Your shirt.”

You look down at it with a proud smile, pulling it away from you and reading it as if you’re reading it for the first time. You shrug, a smirk spreading across your face as you look back at him.

“Iconic, right?” you smile at him with a cocked eyebrow.

“That’s one word for it,” he laughs, shaking his head at you.

You wink at him and he blushes, a red tint spreading across his chest and face.

You pull back the comforter on the bed and crawl in, turning on the lamp beside the bed and grabbing the remote that closes the curtains, pressing the button. The room goes practically dark as night despite the fact that it’s 1:30 in the afternoon.

“You coming or what?” you ask, like you’ve done this with him a hundred times.

“Yeah, okay,” Chan responds nervously, but doesn’t hesitate to crawl into the bed from the other side. He quickly scoots close to you and wraps his arms around you, pulling you close to his chest without hesitation. You melt into him and suddenly feel ten times more tired than you had just moments ago. You feel him sigh contentedly and you can’t help but look up at him.

He is smiling down at you, his arm rubbing up and down your back gently.

“This is gonna be the best nap I’ve ever had in my life, I can feel it,” he whispers, pressing his lips against your temple.

“Hmm,” you hum in agreement and drift off to sleep, the chaos of the day on the back burner of your mind.

“Sweet dreams, darlin’” Chan whispers against your head before falling asleep too. You aren’t sure what you will have to face when you wake up, but in Chan’s arms, you feel like you can tackle just about any issue that comes your way.

< Pt. 2: The Mystery of You |Pt. 4: The Complication of Life Connecting >

MoF Tags: @hoeinthehouse @drhsthl @chrizzlaptop @dna-black-and-blue @lynlyndoll @hufflepuffanddurinsdaughter @amararosesblog @flirtyskzbutterfly @spearb-99 @jascurka21 @colorguardlover14 @bangchansbiggestfeet08 @vxllxnsworld

#stray kids #stray kids x reader #bang chan x reader #Bang Chan Series #the master of flirting series #Bang Chan Fluff #Bang Chan Fanfiction

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gamerwoo · 7 months

Text

[skz] In Between: Bang Chan and...

characters: chan x gn reader (if there are any she/her pronouns that i missed while editing i'm so sorry it's an accident)

genre/warnings: idol!chan, non-idol!reader, fluff, humor, established relationship, the whole fic is set up like an interview video, reader is bigger than chan, it's mentioned that reader is older than chan, mentions of parties and alcohol consumption, mentions of murder in the sims lmao

word count: 3,490

summary: welcome to the couple's interview called 'in between:' where your favorite couples answer some questions to show a little background and insight to their relationships. today, we're exploring in between: _____ and bang chan!

[a short preview of the video plays where _____ is holding chan’s face between their hands as they lean in closer. chan is trying to laugh but his cheeks are getting squished.]

_____: I will cry right now.

[the video cuts to the beginning of the interview. _____ and chan are sitting on stools beside each other.]

Chan: Hi, I’m Bang Chan from Stray Kids.

_____: And I’m _____.

Chan: And we’re at Gamerwoo today to answer a few questions about our love life.

_____: This is In Between: Bang Chan and _____.

[the intro card plays, and in the background, chan can be heard shouting their couple name and laughing loudly. then it changes to the question card before going back to the couple.]

[what was your first date?]

Chan: [looking to _____ in confusion] Was it…the concert…? Or the picnic?

_____: [looking back at him with a neutral expression] Guess.

Chan: …The…pic– No! Concert.

_____: Final answer?

Chan: [giving a solid nod] Final answer.

_____: [looking back at the camera with a wide smile] It was a picnic.

[chan starts sputtering and yelling while _____ just laughs loudly. nobody can really make sense of what he’s saying, but it’s obvious he’s not only embarrassed that he was wrong, but blames _____ for not giving him a hint.]

_____: Yeah, yeah, sure, whatever. [they look at chan fondly and rest a hand on his leg] You don’t have to sleep on the couch tonight, don’t worry.

Chan: [scoffs] Wow, yeah, thanks.

[the video jump cuts to _____ and chan talking about the actual date.]

_____: He asked me to go on a picnic and he set up a blanket with flowers and snacks and sandwiches and…yeah. It was really cute. By the river and stuff.

Chan: ‘And stuff’ as if I didn’t put my entire heart and soul into our first date.

_____: That was when you asked me out, dude. Our first date, you literally brought a fancy bottle of grape juice instead of wine because you can’t read.

[chan pauses a second, eyes wandering elsewhere as he thinks about it. _____ laughs quietly while they watch him.]

Chan: With the flower petals and star-gazing?

_____: [nodding] Yeah, that was when you asked me out. Not our first date.

Chan: Ohhhh, yeah, you’re right. Okay.

_____: [chuckling] Your memory is getting worse, old man.

Chan: [rolls his eyes and _____ continues to giggle more] You’re literally older than me.

_____: [looking back at the camera] That’s not what Seungmin says.

[how did you meet and what were your first impressions?]

_____: We…actually met through mutual friends. It was, like, at some random party and I guess Chris was in the area and showed up.

Chan: We were on tour and I was texting a couple friends I knew were around that area to just catch up, and one of them mentioned he was having a small party and wanted to see if I could make it, and I was like, ‘sure, why not? I got nothing going on tomorrow,’ so I went. [he looks over at _____ with a smile, grabbing their shoulder and lightly shaking them] And this one was there.

_____: I recognized him and I was kinda freaking out like a psycho, but I just played it off and was like ‘hey…I like your music and stuff’. But then we ended being beer pong partners and I got a little too drunk and told him I was actually a huge Stay. [looks at chan and they meet eyes] But I think we vibed, so.

Chan: [nodding] I thought you were cool. Very sweet; very charming. Definitely a little goofy.

_____: You still invited me to hang out, though – [they look back at the camera with wide eyes] which was super intimidating, by the way. He asked me to just go chill in the studio and then go grab lunch, and I was terrified. When I tell you I panicked trying to figure out what to wear. I had an entire ****ing breakdown.

Chan: You still looked good, though. And we had fun.

_____: We did. I’m glad I didn’t bail like I considered [laughs].

Chan: [also laughing] Could you imagine? We probably wouldn’t even be here right now. So yeah, thanks for not flaking.

[the video jump cuts to another shot of chan and _____ a little bit later.]

Chan: I would like to clarify that I was not drinking at that party. I played beer pong with water.

_____: Christopher is a coward.

[who asked who out and how did it happen?]

_____: [scoffs] It was absolutely not me. I didn’t have the balls to do that.

Chan: [blushing] It was me. I reenacted our first date, just made it more fancy with rose petals everywhere and we looked at the stars. I even learned where constellations were to point them out!

_____: [grinning widely as they look at chan] It was super cute.

Interviewer: How did you ask _____ out? What are the details?

Chan: [smirks directly into camera] That stays top-secret.

_____: Fans are gonna think we ****ed.

Chan: [his eyes widen and he points at the camera] Okay, we didn’t do that.

[what did the members think of _____, and what did _____’s friends think of bang chan?]

Chan: All the kids really liked _____. Everyone got on really well.

_____: None of them will let you forget you picked up someone at a party, though.

Chan: [lets out an exasperated sigh] You weren’t even just some rando, though! You’re friends with someone I’m friends with. You, me, him, and a couple other people all hung out before I asked you to hang out alone.

_____: I know, I was there. Tell that to the kids, buddy.

Chan: They don’t listen to me.

_____: [shrugs] I have no problems with them.

Interviewer: _____, what did your friends think of you dating a big-name kpop idol?

_____: Honestly, they clowned me for it. [laughs] They literally were making fun of me because it’s kpop, and I was like, ‘okay, whatever’. They met him a few times, though, and they think he’s really cool. But yeah, they’re always calling me a kpoppie and a koreaboo.

Chan: And they say you’re living your y/n wattpad fanfic.

_____: Oh yeah, can’t forget the y/n thing.

[who said ‘i love you’ first?]

[_____ is clearly already flustered and Chan is giggling like a maniac.]

_____: Okay, to be fair…I probably wanted to say it before he did, but I was so scared to say it so I waited until he did first.

Chan: [smiling and laughing softly at _____] You’re such a baby sometimes.

_____: Yeah, and?

Chan: You’re my baby, though. [he reaches over to take their hand.]

Interviewer: When did you say it?

Chan: I think it was… I wanna say it was a few months in, at least.

_____: I was fully in love with this man, like, 2 weeks into dating.

Chan: To be fair, you knew me before I knew you. Or knew of me, I guess.

_____: My bar was also literally at the floor. You did the bare minimum and I was already telling my mom about you.

Interviewer: How did you know you were in love?

_____: Personally, I was obviously just…infatuated with the idea of him because I knew of Stray Kids, so I realized I actually loved him the first night we had a sleepover. He was super respectful of my boundaries, and the way he looked at me was just, like… It’s gonna sound so ****in’ cheesy but I’ve never seen someone look at me like that before. And he was just super sweet and it was like those cheesy stories and movies where you watch movies and cuddle, and dance in the kitchen really late at night and bake cookies and stuff. And then in the morning we made pancakes and watched TV and, I dunno. It was just really cute and made me realize I wanted every night and every morning to be like that.

[chan squeals and pulls _____ in for a tight hug. _____ is obviously embarrassed but is laughing and letting him coo at them. then it cuts to them sitting normally and holding hands instead while chan starts talking, like the hug lasted for too long.]

Chan: For me, I never really had a moment that hit me. I was always pretty fond of them, and that feeling just grew and grew until one day I was just kinda thinking about it and went, ‘oh, this is what being in love is,’ so then I told them the next time I got a chance in person.

Interviewer: How did you tell them?

Chan: We were just watching a movie in the studio and we looked at each other for some reason, but I think I blacked out so I forgot why, but I just [shrugs] told them.

_____: And I squealed. [nods slowly] Directly in his face.

Interviewer: Like, actually?

Chan: Literally–

_____: Like, full on pig squeal.

Chan: [laughing] Okay, I wouldn’t call it that. It was cute, though.

[has bang chan ever written a song about you, and if so, was it released and what song was it?]

Chan: Only unreleased.

_____: [whips their head over to look at him with wide eyes] You wrote a song about me?

Chan: [scratching the back of his neck and giving a shy smile] Maybe…multiple? [laughs]

[_____ holds chan’s face between their hands as they lean in closer. chan is trying to laugh but his cheeks are getting squished.]

_____: I will cry right now.

Chan: I’d prefer if you didn’t, baby.

[instead, _____ gives him a peck on the lips before releasing him. chan is still giggling and blushing. the video jump cuts to the couple sitting normally again while chan talks.]

Chan: I’ve definitely written some songs that are released that are…sort of inspired by _____ and my feelings and stuff like that. But, I mean, if we’re making a love song, obviously some real life stuff is going to inspire that. But the songs I’ve written completely about _____ or our relationship are still unreleased. They’re still…– They need tweaking.

Interviewer: Are you planning on releasing any of them at some point?

Chan: Maybe eventually. Like I said, they’re all pretty rough right now so they need some work. But maybe someday.

_____: Will I ever hear any of them?

Chan: [smiling smugly] When I release them.

[who’s the driest texter, and what are your names saved as in each other’s phones?]

[they stare at each other and seem to really consider the answer, but the video jump cuts to a reply because they took too long thinking]

_____: I think sometimes it’s me, and sometimes it’s him. Overall we’re both pretty good about not being too boring.

Chan: Sometimes one of us is too busy to text back a lot or we’re just not in the mood so our texts are kinda lazy. Usually, though, they like to send memes or something. They have, like, 5 emojis that they use a lot, too.

_____: And Chan likes to spam-text.

Chan: [looks at _____] Why’d you say it like that?

_____: Like what?

Chan: Like it’s a bad thing.

_____: I didn’t. …Don’t even.

[chan starts giggling, and _____ whacks him in the arm. then it jump cuts to them talking again.]

_____: In my phone, he’s Christopher with the werewolf emoji and a heart.

Chan: Which heart?

_____: The black one.

Chan: [nodding] Alright, I’ll take it. Um, for me, _____ is My Baby with, like, the emoji smiling with the hearts around it, and the couple kissing.

_____: [looking at chan] is it just the standard yellow emojis?

Chan: [scoffs, looking offended] No, I made them us.

_____: [looking back at the camera] Boomer.

Chan: Okay.

[do you ever read fanfiction about each other?]

_____: Well, there’s definitely none about just me, but I’ve seen a lot about Chan. Or we’ll just be vaguely mentioned as a background couple or something.

Chan: [looks at _____ curiously] Who are you reading about if we’re the background characters?

_____: [shrugs] Sometimes I see something interesting about one of the guys. But yeah, it’s never about me and Chris, unless it’s Stays guessing what our relationship is like or talking about how Chris would be in a relationship – which I guess still doesn’t count as it being about us.

Chan: Do you read any of the spicy stuff? [he leans toward them and wiggles his eyebrows]

[_____ slowly turns their head to look at them, their face void of any expression. chan continues to wiggle his eyebrows and giggle.]

_____: I’m gonna shove you out of your seat, Christopher.

Interviewer: Which name do you call him by the most?

_____: Usually Chris or Chan, but he’s Christopher when he’s in trouble or I’m just being…sassy, I guess.

Chan: Which is always.

[it jump cuts to _____ still talking about chan’s names.]

_____: There’s just something funny about whipping out ‘Christopher’ sometimes that I can’t explain.

Chan: It’s literally just my name.

_____: Christopher is funny somehow. You just don’t get it.

[what’s an item of yours that the other steals the most?]

Chan: My card.

[_____ is already loudly laughing, and while chan looks annoyed, he can’t help but chuckle as well.]

_____: Look, I know what people think. I know if anyone could date Chris, they’d be, like, taking his hoodies and stuff – I’ve seen the fanfiction, okay. I know that the common theme in a relationship with good ole Christopher Bahng is to steal his hoodies. But if you think I’m gonna squeeze my ass into his children’s XL hoodies, you’re wrong. I’m actually smarter for taking his card.

Chan: [looking at _____ defensively] I’m not even that short! I’m a very average size for a man. And my clothes are not children’s clothes.

_____: [looking deadpan off somewhere between the cameras and chan] I’m the size of the blue ***** from Poppy Playtime. I’m not gonna go out of my way to steal your Polly Pocket clothes.

Chan: [laughs at what they said] My sweaters are too big for even me. You fit into them perfectly fine, and you do take them.

_____: [making a disgusted face] Don’t expose me like that.

[the video cuts to another shot of _____ a little later after them and chan are done bickering]

_____: I would also like to clarify before Stays get mad at me: I always ask before I use his card. Or he offers first. And let’s be real, he’s making better money than me anyway.

Chan: Nah, I’ve seen what Stays say. They’d agree with you for taking my card instead.

Interviewer: Chan, is there something of _____’s that you take often?

_____: My hoodies!

Chan: [giggling] What can I say? They’re comfy! Smell nice, too!

[which member of stray kids is _____ closest with?]

[chan looks tired, sighing deeply as he tilts his head back to look at the ceiling. _____ is giggling at his reaction. then _____ looks at the camera and smiles proudly.]

_____: Me and Seungmin are besties.

Chan: See, [fixes his head to look in _____’s direction but not directly at them] I can’t tell if you’re a bad influence on him or vice versa, because you both tease me all the time.

_____: Yeah, but we do other stuff. We made friendship bracelets!

Chan: And then pointed out how I didn’t have one and was too old for making them, and when I said you’re older than me, Seungmin told me it was past my bedtime.

_____: Yeah, you get grumpy when you’re not in bed by 5. [giggles]

[chan shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose.]

Interviewer: What’s your friendship with Seungmin like? Like, what makes you feel closer with him over the other guys?

_____: Um… I don’t know, we just kinda hang out more often. Like we just chill together a lot. Lately, we've been playing a lot of video games together since he has more free time. He's been trying to teach me how to be better at first person shooters.

Chan: In return, they’ve taught Seungmin how to mod The Sims, which has been so good for everyone.

[it’s very clear chan’s tone is sarcastic, but _____ is laughing wildly, their hand on his shoulder.]

_____: No, okay! So I taught Seungmin how to download, like, clothing mods and stuff just for cooler physical things. But then I was explaining how there’s basically a mod for everything–

Chan: He has a murderer mod and he keeps putting sims of us into a room together and seeing who dies last.

[chan seems unamused while _____ is still laughing about it.]

_____: I told him he should start streaming him playing The Sims like that. I think Stays would have fun.

Chan: [looking visibly tired and concerned] The fact that you were a Stay before I met you absolutely, like… [turns to look at _____] blows my mind.

[_____ just continues to keep laughing.]

[what’s something the other does that you don’t like?]

Chan: I wouldn’t necessarily say you do things I hate, or that, like…bother me a lot.

_____: Yeah, I would’ve told you if it was bothering me.

Interviewer: Something small, like a pet peeve.

_____: Oh, [they turn to Chan] like you not coming to bed at a normal ****in’ time to cuddle with me, you gremlin?

[chan’s only reply is to laugh guiltily.]

_____: And then you wake me up at 4am coming into bed and whining about how I went to bed without you as if I’m supposed to wait?

Chan: Well, then my thing is that you won’t wait for me to fall asleep with you.

_____: [rolls their eyes and looks back at the camera] You’re unbearable.

Chan: [leans his head on _____’s shoulder and grins up at them, batting his eyelashes] But you love me sooooo much.

_____: What’s actually something I do that you don’t like?

[chan hums while he thinks, keeping his head on their shoulder.]

Chan: You take up a lot of space when you sleep.

_____: I have long limbs, where do you want them to go?

Chan: [lifts his head back up] Off the other side of the bed instead of all over me!

_____: That’s your punishment for not cuddling me. I’m gonna crush you with my body.

Chan: [sighs happily] What a way to go out, though.

[what’s something you especially love about each other?]

_____: I don’t know if I should be talking, like, to you about him, or if I should be confessing to him.

Interviewer: Whatever makes you the most comfortable.

[_____ turns their body to face chan, but after a couple seconds of silence and them very clearly growing more flustered with chan looking into their eyes, they look back at the camera instead. chan laughs loudly.]

_____: He’s just so caring about everyone. He takes great care of his members and always makes sure they’re doing okay and they’re being treated well. He always takes good care of Stays. And, I mean…y’know, also me.

[chan coos loudly and leans into _____, who is growing more and more flustered by the second. they start shrinking down into their stool. it cuts to chan speaking next.]

Chan: I just love how they were always themselves. Like, _____ knew who I was the entire time but has always been so real about themselves, and their real self is just so wonderful and caring and kind. The only times they’ve ever changed was to improve themself as a person or to learn or to grow. It’s never been changing to what they think my partner should be because I’m an idol, or changing to make me like them, y’know? [he looks at them and they’re smiling back at him] _____ is just _____. I love just _____.

[they lean in, but suddenly, the video shows the logo before cutting back to the idol, sitting side-by-side on stools still.]

Chan: Well, this has been In Between: Bang Chan and _____. Thank you so much to Gamerwoo for having us today, and we hope we can return in the future to do other fun things together.

_____: We hope Stays and…whoever else may have been interested in our love life enjoyed our little interview today, and hopefully we can do more stuff like this together soon!

Bang Chan & _____: [waving at the camera] Bye!

[as the logo card appears on the screen again, chan and _____ can be heard still loudly saying goodbye over each other, as well as laughing and making weird noises. The screen goes black and the recommended videos come up.]

«─── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ───»

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#k-labels #stray kids #skz #bang chan #stray kids au #stray kids fic #stray kids series #stray kids x reader #skz au #skz fic #skz series #skz x reader #bang chan au #bang chan fic #bang chan series #bang chan x reader

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