chillypowder

[chillypowder]

Sooooo here's the thing I was recently complaining to my friend about how long it took for me to write the Zayne fanfic and how I was toasted but then as I was going to go read some Minho fanfics I realized there's barely any angst ones......So I'm gonna go write an Angsty Minho fanfic

Muhahqhahahha

With the power of thy pen and tablet no one can stop me

But I love as a reader I was gonna start complaining but then I realized I'm a writer tooo

[chillypowder]

Soft Hands, Sharp Lies

Pairing: Zayne x Reader

Word Count: ~17k

Summary: You trusted him with everything — your body, your heart, your silence. He said nothing. He watched. And now, nothing can be undone.

Masterlist

You don’t knock. You never have.

The hallway is quiet, dimly lit with flickering strips of sterile white. Past midnight, most of the base is asleep or wired into work they won’t admit is breaking them. You pad across the cold floor in socks, one too-stretched hair tie around your wrist.

Zayne’s door isn’t locked. It never is.

His office is half-lit — one low lamp in the corner, blue glow from monitors pulsing slow against the walls. It smells faintly like metal and something sharper underneath: coolant, maybe. You step inside like you belong there. Because you do.

Zayne doesn’t turn around right away. He’s bent over a set of datapads spread across the desk, thumb dragging across a screen, scanning. You watch the curve of his shoulder rise and fall with each slow breath.

“Forgot something?” he says without looking up.

“Hair tie.

That gets a glance. His eyes flick to yours — dark, tired, but not annoyed. Never annoyed. He leans back in his chair, stretching one arm up behind his neck as the other rakes lazily through the desk drawer beside him.

“Top right,” he mutters.

You crouch near the desk, rummaging through old pens, tangled wires, a half-open pack of nutrient chews, and finally — the hair tie. Stretched. Fraying. Familiar. You loop it around your wrist automatically.

Zayne watches you with that unreadable look again. Quiet. Not cold, just hard to reach sometimes.

“You still wearing that one?”

You shrug. “Works.”

He hums. “Barely.”

You don’t say anything. The silence isn’t awkward. It rarely is with him. It’s just full — full of all the things neither of you ever rush to name.

You move to stand, but your vision lurches sideways — a slow, tilting wave like your blood dipped too low. You catch the desk edge with one hand.

Zayne’s on his feet before you finish blinking.

“You alright?”

“Yeah. Just got up too fast—”

He’s already beside you, steadying you by the elbow, the pressure of his palm grounding. His other hand slides to the small of your back. Warm. Firm.

“You eat today?”

“You always ask that.”

“And you always lie.”

You flash a weak grin. “Had half a protein bar.”

He sighs. The kind that starts in his chest and ends in a deadpan glare.

“I’m fine,” you say again, a little softer.

Zayne doesn’t answer. Just watches you, eyes scanning like he’s running diagnostics. You wonder if he’s seeing something you don’t. You always wonder that, a little.

His hand doesn’t move from your back. You’re still close. You don’t step away.

“You’ve been pushing too hard,” he says. “Running tests all day, skipping meals, skipping sleep—”

“I was just looking for a hair tie.”

“Bullshit.”

You smile. It doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

He presses his forehead lightly to yours — unexpected, quiet. A gesture so careful it almost breaks you.

Your eyes close. For just a second.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod against him. “Yeah.”

His breath stirs the hair at your temple. “You sure?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

The room hums low around you — monitors, filtration vents, the faint buzz of some forgotten equipment. This space has always felt suspended in time, like everything outside can wait.

He guides you toward the couch without a word. You sink down with a sigh and tuck your feet under yourself. Zayne crouches in front of you, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand, then sitting beside you. Close. Not touching.

“Rest a minute.”

“I’m not going to pass out on you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You did once.”

“That was one time.”

Zayne leans back against the cushions. His body heat radiates like a steady pulse. You tilt toward it without thinking. He doesn’t move away.

Neither of you talks for a while.

The quiet feels heavy, but safe. You glance at him — the scar just under his left eye, the subtle crease between his brows, always there when he thinks too hard. You could trace it in the dark. You almost have.

“You always work this late?”

He nods. “Most nights.”

“Because you want to, or because you can’t sleep?”

Zayne’s jaw tightens. “Does it matter?”

You shrug. “Maybe.”

He glances over. The air between you shifts — closer, charged, but still wrapped in something soft. Something known.

Your shoulder brushes his. His thigh presses warm against yours. Neither of you pulls away.

You close your eyes, just for a second. Just long enough to feel safe.

And for the first time all day, your chest doesn’t ache.

You’re still leaning into him when he shifts. Just slightly. Just enough. His arm brushes your thigh again, and the contact lingers. Not accidental. Not anymore.

You tilt your head. Look at him fully.

He doesn’t pretend not to notice.

“What?” he says, but his voice has already changed — lower, quieter, like he’s stepping onto thin ice and doing it anyway.

“You’re looking at me weird,” you murmur.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Zayne doesn’t reply. He’s still, but something in him is burning under the surface. His gaze drops — your mouth, your collarbone, the faint rise and fall of your chest under his shirt.

And then, finally, he says it. “Come here.”

It’s not a question.

You move before you think. Knees on the cushion, straddling him. His hands slide up your thighs, slow, firm. Your fingers tangle in the fabric at his shoulders. He exhales, sharp, through his nose like the contact knocks something loose in him.

Your mouths meet like you’ve done this a hundred times — because you have — but it still lands like a first. Heat floods your chest. His kiss is open-mouthed, controlled, but hungry. Not rushed. Just heavy with intention.

Zayne’s grip on your hips tightens. He pulls you closer, chest to chest, legs tangled. He tastes like coffee and unsaid things.

His hand slides under your shirt — the one you only wore because it smells like him. His palm is hot on your skin, dragging slowly up your spine. When he hits the curve of your ribs, you gasp.

He bites your bottom lip. Gentle, but possessive.

You break the kiss just enough to speak. “Zayne…”

He leans in again, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

You shake your head. “Don’t stop.”

He kisses your pulse like he’s marking it.

You shift, pressing your body against his more deliberately, and the friction sends a quiet shock through you both. He groans — low, sharp, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest — and lifts you slightly, flipping you both with terrifying ease.

Now you’re beneath him. His hands are braced beside your head, knees sinking into the couch cushions. You look up at him — at the mess of hair falling into his eyes, the flush in his cheeks, the way his control is barely hanging by a thread.

You reach up, fingers tracing his jaw. “Still pretending you’re calm?”

“I’m not pretending anything.”

You smile, but it fades quickly — swallowed by the gravity of his next kiss. Slower this time. Deeper. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth.

Your shirt comes off. Then his. The feel of his skin against yours drags a gasp from your throat. He catches it with his mouth. You’ve done this before, but never like this. Never with this weight.

You’re not just touching. You’re offering.

He slides his hand up your inner thigh. You part your legs without hesitation, hips arching. He touches you like he knows exactly how — slow, deliberate, no teasing, just pressure. Just precision.

Your hand grips his forearm. “Please.”

That word changes him.

Zayne curses under his breath and shifts down, kissing along your stomach, your hip, the inside of your thigh. He doesn’t rush. His hands keep you in place, thumbs pressing into your hips like he’s grounding you. Or himself.

When his mouth replaces his fingers, your back arches off the couch. You bite your lip hard enough to sting. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t look up. He knows what he’s doing.

It builds slowly. Pressure spiraling in your gut. Your breath catches on every exhale. He doesn’t let up until you break — trembling, gasping, your hand in his hair and your voice gone.

He waits until you come down. Kisses your thigh. Then he moves up your body again — kissing your sternum, your neck, your mouth. You taste like want.

His hand rests beside your head. “Still with me?”

You nod, dazed. “Yeah.”

“Good.” He kisses your temple. “Because I’m not done.”

This time, when he pushes into you, it’s with a slow, steady drive that makes your whole body seize.

You moan his name — quiet, raw.

His rhythm starts controlled — hips rolling, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. But it doesn’t stay that way. Every sound you make unravels him a little more. Every claw of your fingers down his back makes him rougher, needier.

He catches both your wrists in one hand, pins them above your head.

“Zayne—”

His mouth is at your ear. “I’ve got you.”

You let go.

The pace becomes desperate, a breaking point approaching and neither of you slowing down. You kiss him like you’re afraid you’ll forget. He thrusts like he’s trying to stay inside you forever.

When you come again, it hits harder than the first. He follows right after, hips stuttering, groaning into your neck like the sound is being ripped out of him.

Then it’s quiet.

Only your breathing, layered and uneven. Only your bodies, tangled and boneless. His chest against yours, his forehead resting against your collarbone.

He stays inside you longer than usual. One hand still holds your wrist. The other cups your face.

When he finally moves, it’s slow. Gentle. Like he’s afraid to leave any part of you untouched.

Neither of you speaks.

You end up side by side, limbs a mess, your head on his shoulder, his arm around your waist.

You reach for the discarded hair tie on the side table.

Zayne takes it from you. Slips it around your wrist.

And says nothing.

Because tonight, everything felt solid.

But something is already starting to crack.

---

You don't know how long you’ve been lying there — half-draped over Zayne, still warm, muscles aching in a way that feels good.

His arm is heavy around your waist, the weight of him grounding. Your legs are tangled with his, the blanket slipped off the edge of the couch. Somewhere in the haze, you think you should get up. Clean up. Say something.

But he hasn’t moved either.

It’s quiet. Not dead silence — just the soft hum of machines, and the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing under your ear.

Your fingers trace lazy circles across his chest, sweat drying on your skin. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t stop you. He’s still.

Too still.

“You asleep?” you murmur.

“No.”

You glance up. His eyes are open, unfocused. Not looking at anything in particular — just somewhere far. Somewhere you can’t see.

“You okay?”

He blinks like you pulled him back. “Yeah.”

You’re not sure you believe him.

Still, you nod and shift up to kiss the edge of his jaw. The skin is warm, damp, a little rough. He exhales through his nose and lets his eyes close for just a second.

Your voice is soft. “You get like this sometimes. After.”

Zayne swallows but doesn’t answer.

You run your fingers up his side, slow and thoughtful. “Want me to go?”

That gets a reaction. His grip tightens on your waist like instinct. “No.”

He says it too quickly. Too sharp.

You pull back just enough to look him in the face. “Okay.”

He leans up, cups the back of your neck, and kisses your forehead. Not rushed. Not out of obligation. Just… there. Present. But it feels like a cover.

You let your forehead rest against his. Your breaths match. For a moment, everything syncs — your skin, your heartbeat, the heat still lingering between your thighs. The emotional throb of trust still holding.

“I like it here,” you whisper.

Zayne’s hands move to your back, one sliding up to cradle your shoulder blade, the other curling around your waist again. “You can stay.”

You hesitate. “You sure?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, his voice is quieter. “Of course.”

But his eyes don’t meet yours.

You let it go. For now.

---

You sit up eventually, pulling the blanket over yourself, legs curled underneath. Zayne stays lying down, arm behind his head, eyes on the ceiling again.

“Want some water?” you ask, rubbing your temples.

“Already on the table.”

You blink — and yeah, of course he already thought of that. A bottle of mineralized water sits untouched on the edge of the desk, condensation barely visible in the low light.

You get up, stretch, and walk over to grab it. Your body aches — not painfully, just in a way that reminds you how completely you’d given yourself to him tonight.

When you turn back around, Zayne’s watching you.

Not lust. Not fondness.

Something else.

He schools his expression before you can read it.

You hand him the bottle. “Drink.”

He takes it. Doesn’t argue.

You settle back beside him, this time curled into his side. He tucks the blanket around both of you, like a habit.

“Can I ask you something?”

Zayne looks down. “Yeah.”

You study him for a moment before you speak. “What are we doing?”

He tenses, just slightly. Like a flinch he couldn’t suppress.

“You mean… this?” he asks.

You nod.

He thinks too long before answering.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I don’t want it to stop.”

You lie there, staring at the ceiling. You want to ask more. But the moment is too fragile.

And he looks like he’s already retreating behind his eyes again.

---

You doze for a bit, drifting in and out of sleep. Your head on his chest. His hand in your hair. The quiet between you stretches again — not awkward, but loaded.

You dream of something cold. A white hallway. A pulse in your chest you can’t place.

You wake to Zayne kissing your shoulder.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod, still half-asleep. “Bad dream. Nothing specific.”

He studies you, then pulls you closer.

“You need rest,” he says.

“So do you.”

He doesn’t answer that.

---

At some point, you sit up to redress. Your body still hums from him — not just physically, but deeper. Like something inside you is still tuned to his frequency.

You glance over and find him pulling something from a drawer — a folded blanket, maybe, or a spare shirt. He tucks it away quickly when he realizes you’re watching.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Zayne.”

He meets your gaze, dead serious. “It’s not important.”

There’s a moment — so brief it barely registers — where you feel something in your stomach twist. A flicker of distance. A door he’s keeping closed.

You don’t push it.

But it stays with you.

----

He walks you back to your apartment, shoulder brushing yours the whole way. The corridors are quiet, citylight filtering in soft through the high windows. Upstairs, somewhere, Xavier’s probably just getting in — you hear faint music thrum through the walls like a heartbeat.

Zayne stops outside your door. Doesn’t say anything at first.

You key in the lock, then pause. Glance back.

“You could come in,” you say. “Just to sleep.”

He hesitates. His hand lifts like he might — then drops again. “I’ve got work.”

You nod. Try not to let the quiet bite too deep.

He leans in, kisses you softly — lips barely brushing yours. It’s not just tired. It’s restrained. Like he’s holding something back.

When he turns to leave, you watch him go.

The city feels colder without him.

Something’s off. You can feel it now.

You just don’t know what.

Not yet.

---

It starts with a mess.

You’re running late — not late to anything important, just late to your own rhythm. Your bag’s half-packed, the apartment still warm with the scent of rehydrated coffee and sleep. Zayne had stayed over last night. Left before you woke.

There’s a hair tie missing again.

You don’t panic — not really — but something about it nags at you. You swear it was on the edge of the counter. Maybe it rolled. Maybe it fell. You check the floor, the bathroom sink, the blanket on the couch. Nothing.

So you retrace.

The last place you remember using it was Zayne’s office.

You shouldn’t go back there without asking. Not because you can’t — you’ve been in and out of that space a hundred times — but because something about today feels different. Still, you go. Let yourself in. His office is quiet.

Empty.

You leave the lights off.

Your hand skims the desk. Everything’s where it usually is — neatly organized chaos. Loose datapads. Old calibrator parts. A pair of surgical gloves crumpled beside a closed drawer.

It’s always that drawer.

You’ve never opened it. Not once. Not even during the months when you basically lived in this room.

But today — today it pulls at you.

You don’t plan to open it. You just... do.

The lock accepts your ID tag. Zayne must have left access open.

Inside: files. Not digital ones. Actual paper. Rare. Expensive. Meant to avoid detection.

Your fingers hesitate.

Then you see your name.

Your full name. Printed neatly on a tab clipped to the top of a file marked N109 – Patient Variant Registry.

You freeze.

The room goes cold.

You pull the file out slowly, breath shallow, fingertips numb. The papers are dense — filled with words you recognize only from high-level Ethercore documents. Neural reintegration, N109 compatibility thresholds, synthetic cognition scaffolding.

Your birth date is at the top. Your blood type. Your Ethercore implant serial number.

And a signature.

Zayne's.

You flip the page. There’s a scan of a report — dated months before your first medical clearance. Notes about exposure timeline, unreported symptoms, and a list of recommended memory gaps to preserve compliance.

Your ears start ringing.

You dig deeper — hands shaking now — and find a photo. You. Hooked to equipment you’ve never seen before. Eyes closed. A medical strip over your heart. Tubes running from your spine.

The date on the photo is before you were ever told you needed treatment.

You drop the file. It hits the desk with a flat thump.

This isn’t an accident.

Zayne knew.

He knew what was done to you — before it happened. Maybe during. The signature on the clearance form isn’t just on a line. It’s next to a title: Observing Officer.

You stare at the words like they might blink away.

They don’t.

---

You grip the edge of the desk.

Your knees don’t give out, but it’s close.

The papers lie open in front of you, stained with the sweat from your hands. The fluorescent monitor casts a sterile blue hue across them — too calm for what you're reading. You scan again, slower this time, hoping it’ll make less sense the second time through.

It doesn’t.

The words are clinical. Cold. You read phrases like:

Subject showed high resilience to Ethercore integration under N109 stimulus.

Memory synchronization proceeded without significant rejection symptoms.

Emotional tethering increased compliance scores beyond projection.

Compliance.

You feel sick.

The whole page blurs. Not from tears — not yet — but from that sickening weight in your gut, like gravity just turned inside out. Like your bones aren’t holding you up anymore.

You turn to the back of the file.

There’s a transcript. A conversation. Redacted lines cover most of it, but a few things are still legible.

[ZAYNE:] If she remembers the procedure, it’ll break her.

[UNKNOWN:] Then make sure she doesn’t.

[ZAYNE:] She trusts me. That’s why this worked. That’s the only reason it worked.

Your chest goes tight.

You slam the folder shut.

And for a moment, you just stand there. Breathing hard. Staring at the closed drawer, like it might swallow the evidence again if you blink.

You want to scream. You want to throw something. You want to run — but your feet are rooted to this spot, where everything you knew about him just shattered into something unrecognizable.

You think of his hands on your skin last night. His breath in your ear. His lips on your forehead, whispering you can trust me.

You think about the way he looked at you when you asked what scared him most. Losing something before I can fix it.

Was that it? Was this what he was trying to fix?

Or was he just keeping you in place long enough for the damage to set in?

You back away from the desk slowly. Careful not to touch anything else. Careful not to leave proof that you were here — like you’re the one hiding something now.

Like you did something wrong.

You make it out of the office without collapsing. But just barely.

When the door hisses closed behind you, your legs finally shake.

Zayne knew.

He watched it happen.

And he said nothing.

---

You wait.

Not long. Just long enough to make sure you won’t scream the second you see him.

Zayne doesn’t come by your apartment like he usually does. Doesn’t check in. Doesn’t message. Maybe he knows. Maybe he felt the shift.

You don’t sleep.

You don’t eat.

You don’t cry. Not yet.

You just sit on the couch, that same spot where he touched you last, and watch the wall like it might peel open and give you a better answer.

He knocks.

You open the door.

He starts with your name — soft, cautious, like he’s already trying to manage you.

You cut him off. “Close the door.”

He hesitates. Then steps in and lets it slide shut behind him. The air seals around you both.

You don’t move.

The file is already on the table. Closed, but obvious. A choice.

Zayne sees it. His shoulders lock.

“You found it,” he says.

Not a question.

Your voice is rough. “So it’s true.”

He nods once. “Yes.”

“You knew what they were going to do to me.”

“I oversaw it.”

No apology. No deflection. Just a fact laid out like a body on the table.

You blink slowly, willing your heart to slow down.

“I thought you were on my side.”

“I was.”

“Were,” you echo. “Past tense.”

He watches you. Silent.

You walk past him, put the file in his hands. “You signed off. You let them open me up and install whatever this is inside me, and you never told me.”

“I made sure it was done right.”

“Because you cared?” you snap. “Or because you didn’t want your experiment to die?”

That lands. Just barely.

Zayne looks down at the file. Then closes it slowly and sets it on your table, like it’s something fragile.

“You were dying. There was no scenario where you survived with conventional methods. The Ethercore variant was the only viable solution.”

“You could have told me.”

He looks up, eyes cold, voice even. “And you would have said no.”

“Exactly.”

“I wasn’t willing to let you die for your pride.”

Your chest burns. “It wasn’t pride. It was mine. My body. My choice.”

Zayne nods once. Not apologizing. Just agreeing. “And I took it away.”

You go still.

His words hang heavy in the air.

He doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t move toward you. He’s always known how to weaponize silence.

You swallow hard. “What was I to you?”

His gaze finally breaks. Just for a second.

“Someone I couldn’t lose.”

You breathe in too sharply. The sting rises hard in your throat.

“That night,” you say, voice trembling now. “When you held me. When you said I could trust you—”

“You still can.”

You laugh — short and shattered. “You rewrote my body. You helped them make decisions for me. You watched it happen. And then you laid in my bed and kissed me like it was nothing.”

“It was never nothing,” he says.

Your hands ball into fists. “Then why does it feel like it?”

Zayne takes a breath. You can see him wanting to reach for you — not physically, but in his way. His calculated fix-it voice. But he doesn’t use it.

Instead, quietly: “I did it because I thought I was saving you.”

You shake your head, slow. “You didn’t save me. You violated me.”

That word stops everything. Even him.

For a long time, neither of you moves.

“I need you to go,” you say finally.

Zayne blinks once. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t plead. Just nods.

At the door, he turns to face you. His voice is soft. Controlled.

“If I could do it again,” he says, “I’d find a way to keep you alive and tell you the truth.”

Then, lower: “But I’d still choose you living. Every time.”

The door closes behind him.

You don’t move.

You don’t speak.

The silence fills the room like pressure in your ears.

---

The next time you see him, it's like looking through glass.

He’s at the far end of the lab, speaking to a junior researcher in clipped tones, scrolling through something on a datapad. His coat’s too crisp. His posture’s too straight. Every motion is precise.

You watch him like you’re watching someone else wear his skin.

He doesn’t look at you. Not once.

You walk past him to check the diagnostics readout like nothing’s wrong. Like you aren’t vibrating with a grief that has no name.

This is how it is now.

Silence. Efficiency. Ghosts in plain sight.

---

A week passes like this.

You keep expecting something to break — a conversation, a look, anything — but it never comes.

Zayne doesn’t reach out.

You don’t either.

You see him in briefings, in hallways, in the edge of your vision when you're not even trying to find him. His presence is a weight your body still registers, even when your brain tells it not to.

At night, you catch yourself reaching for him in sleep. Then pulling your own hand back like it's been burned.

---

The worst part is: no one else knows.

You’re still “you and Zayne” to the rest of them. Still the golden pair, the unshakable unit. The eye of the storm. Even Xavier doesn’t pick up on it — or if he does, he says nothing. He just narrows his eyes sometimes when you’re too quiet in the breakroom.

You go home to your apartment and sit in the silence like it’s a punishment.

He used to fill it.

Now it just echoes.

---

Sometimes, in the dark, you wonder what would happen if you confronted him again.

Not with anger — that’s long gone now — but with the ache of it. The absence.

But you know what he’d say.

He already told you.

He’d still do it.

And somehow, that hurts more than if he’d begged for forgiveness.

---

You get a package two weeks in.

No name on the sender line.

Inside: the fraying hair tie. The one that went missing. Clean. Pressed flat.

You stare at it for a long time.

Then put it in a drawer.

You don’t wear it again.

---

Zayne passes you in the corridor three days later.

You meet his eyes.

Just once.

His expression is unreadable. Not cold — never cold — just distant. Like he’s already given you everything he could and has nothing left.

You don’t say a word.

Neither does he.

But for a second — half a second — it feels like the whole station’s gravity pulls just a little harder. Like the air thickens. Like whatever was between you is still alive, buried under the wreckage.

Then he looks away.

And you keep walking.

Yes. We're going to make it hurt in a quiet, spiraling way — the kind of breaking point that doesn't explode outward, but collapses inward like a dying star.

---

It starts with a missed appointment.

A neural sync scan, one of your routine post-implant checks. Nothing major. Just a timestamp and a signature. You ignore the first reminder ping.

The second.

By the third, you’re not ignoring it anymore — you’re just frozen in your chair, staring at the blinking alert while your coffee goes cold in your hands.

You feel… wrong.

Not sick. Not hurt. Just wrong.

Like your skin doesn’t quite fit. Like your body is running, moving, thinking — but not from you.

More like a machine humming in the background. Self-sustaining. Self-correcting. Like you’re watching someone else drive you from the back seat.

You think about the file.

About how they called it a “compliance scaffold.”

How your nervous system was retuned for survivability.

How your memory thresholds were adjusted to accept Zayne without resistance.

You’re not dying.

But you’re not alive, either.

You’re functional.

Like a system with all the lights on and no one home.

You start working longer hours.

Not out of ambition. Not out of duty.

Just to stay ahead of the thoughts.

You sit at your station long after the others have gone home, hands still typing, eyes still locked to the screen, even when you haven’t read a word in ten minutes.

You push past your own limits until your body buzzes with low-grade exhaustion and your head spins when you stand.

Once, you work 36 hours straight before collapsing in the chair beside the Ethercore console and sleeping through a fire drill.

Xavier finds you.

Doesn’t say anything.

Just drapes his jacket over you and walks away.

---

Food becomes optional. Sleep becomes inconsistent. You stop taking your supplements. Stop logging your vitals. You ignore the fact that your pupils don’t dilate evenly anymore. That your hands twitch at night. That your dreams don’t feel like dreams anymore — more like corrupted data loops.

You don't cry.

You don't talk about it.

Because how do you even explain it?

How do you tell someone:

“I found out that my body was rebuilt without my consent, and that the person I trusted most orchestrated it.

I am breathing. I am functioning. But I am not whole. I am not mine.”

You can’t.

So you work.

You run like a car filled with the wrong kind of fuel.

Still moving.

But burning out in ways no one can see.

---

The end doesn’t arrive like a scream.

It arrives like a breath you didn’t know would be your last.

It happens quietly.

At first, it’s a missed check-in.

Then two.

Then silence.

You’re just… gone.

Your room is empty. Not cleaned out, not packed, not erased — just stopped. The blanket is still half-off the bed. There’s a coffee mug on the counter, dried at the edges. Your boots are by the door.

The data logs show no emergency recall. No travel file. No departure authorization.

You didn’t leave.

You just disappeared.

Like a skipped frame in a video.

Like you were never there at all.

---

Zayne doesn’t react at first.

Not publicly.

He keeps working. Keeps moving. Keeps breathing.

But the days stretch long now. His notes get shorter. His sleep gets worse. He reruns the surveillance logs on a loop — not to find you, but to feel you. Just for seconds. Just to remember your presence in a hallway, the sound of your laugh in the lab, the way you used to speak his name when no one else was around.

He rewatches the same thirty-seven seconds of you tucking your hair behind your ear on loop one night until the screen burns out.

---

Eventually, someone asks him directly.

“Is she dead?”

He looks at them like they asked if the sky is broken.

“I don’t know,” he says.

Then adds, “But if she is… I did it.”

---

He keeps your file.

The one you found.

The one that started everything.

He doesn’t lock it away or delete it. He keeps it open on his desk, page corners soft from the constant flick of his fingers.

He rewrites the last line of the transcript by hand.

She trusted me.

That’s why it worked.

And that’s why it broke her.

Sometimes, in the dead hours of nightshift, he thinks he sees you.

In a hallway. In a reflection. In a voice two rooms away.

But it’s never you.

You’re not there.

You haven’t been for a long time.

Maybe not even before you disappeared.

Maybe the moment they changed you — rewrote your body, bent your thoughts to survive — maybe that was the real disappearance.

Maybe you were gone long before he noticed.

And maybe he’s the only one who still remembers what you used to be.

---

There’s no body. No proof. No confirmed outcome.

Maybe you died. Maybe the Ethercore rejected.

Maybe you ran. Maybe the implant buried you under someone else’s mind.

Maybe you’re still alive — somewhere.

Maybe that’s worse.

All Zayne knows is: he can’t fix it.

He thought hiding the truth would save you.

It didn’t.

And now he’s left with the silence.

Masterlist

Note: While proofreading this I realized this is more of a transcript than a fanfic

But if you like this writing style more I'll continue it.

[chillypowder]

Sooooo bitches I'm not back but I was bored and remember Tumblr existed and out of boredom continued working on my 50k ༎ຶ⁠‿⁠༎ຶ ekko fic got tired of it and decided to dedicate a fic to my boo bear Zayne from love and deep space but the question is do you guys wanna read it to ???

Title: Built from Ruin

Pairing: Zayne x Reader

Word Count: ~17k

Summary: You trusted him with everything — your body, your heart, your silence. He said nothing. He watched. And now, nothing can be undone.

Tags:

#zayne x reader

#love and deepspace

#fanfic

#n109 zone

#ethercore

#emotional devastation

#slow burn

#angst

#betrayal

#smut

#reader insert

#sci-fi romance

#hurt no comfort

#tragedy

#longfic

#no happy ending

#second person pov

#fic dump

#trust issues

#soft hands sharp lies

[chillypowder]

So first and foremost happy New year's can't wish a happy Christmas due since it's against my religion.

That aside sorry for being MIA and can't promise of it won't happen again.

But I do have some good news so I'm working on a fanfic. Two actually one ekko and the other Chishiya. Cause my other Chishiya fanfic exploded out of nowhere.and ekko cause my fav needs more fanfics.

Now the Reason I'm posting at all.

I was thinking do you guys want a two part series for Chishiya or a Hella long fanfic that might be 12k+ (⁠ ⁠╹⁠▽⁠╹⁠ ⁠).

Don't question it.

The Ekko one will probs be posted after I'm done writing Chishiya's fanfic.

[chillypowder]

Falling With You

Pairing: Ekko x Reader

Fandom: Arcane (League of Legends)

Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Romance

Word Count: ~2.5k

Zaun breathes.

The city is alive, a restless pulse of machinery, steam, and dreams that refuse to die no matter how many times they’ve been stepped on. The air is thick, heavy with the scent of oil and metal, but to you, it smells like home. And tonight, like always, it’s brighter when you’re with him.

Ekko’s laugh is soft but genuine, carried on the wind as his hoverboard dips and soars beside you. The two of you are high above the city, the Firelights’ familiar haunts zipping past in bursts of neon and shadow. He’s weaving through the air with practiced ease, his scarf fluttering behind him like a comet trail.

“You call that flying?” he teases, glancing back at you as you grip your own makeshift hoverboard, struggling to keep up.

“Some of us weren’t born with wings, Ekko,” you shoot back, grinning despite yourself. The thrill of the ride courses through your veins, and for a moment, it feels like you’re untouchable, weightless in a world that’s always pulling you down.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” he says, his voice warm as he slows just enough to glide alongside you.

And you know he does. He always does.

The two of you land on the edge of a towering spire, the remnants of an old factory long since reclaimed by Zaun’s green glow. It’s quiet up here, the hum of the city below muted by distance, and for a while, neither of you speaks.

Ekko leans against the railing, his hoverboard propped beside him, and gazes out at the city. His face is calm, but you can see the weight behind his eyes—the kind of weight that comes from carrying a whole world on your back.

“Everything feels different,” he says after a while, his voice barely above a whisper.

You step closer, resting your arms on the railing beside him. “Different how?”

He shrugs, his gaze fixed on the patchwork lights of Zaun below. “I don’t know. Like... everything’s changing, and I’m just trying to keep up. Piltover’s still breathing down our necks, people are still hurting, and no matter how much we do, it feels like we’re barely making a dent.”

There’s a heaviness to his words, the kind that makes your chest ache. You’ve always admired Ekko—his strength, his vision, his relentless drive to make things better—but moments like this remind you that he’s still just one person.

“You’ve already done more than most people would even try,” you say gently, your hand brushing against his.

He glances at you, his eyes softening. “Doesn’t feel like enough.”

“It is,” you insist. “You’re keeping Zaun alive, Ekko. You’re giving people hope. That’s more than enough.”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond, his gaze searching yours like he’s trying to find the truth in your words. And then, slowly, he smiles—a small, quiet thing, but real.

“Thanks,” he says softly.

The night stretches on, the two of you sitting on the edge of the spire and watching the city below. It’s peaceful, the kind of moment that feels like it could last forever.

Ekko leans back on his hands, his scarf pooling around him as he tilts his head to look at you. “You’re not too bad on a board, you know,” he says, his tone teasing but warm.

You snort. “Coming from you, that’s basically a compliment.”

He laughs, the sound light and easy, and for a moment, you think you could live on it.

“I mean it,” he says after a pause, his voice quieter now. “You’re... good at this. At being here. With me.”

Your cheeks warm at his words, and you glance away, suddenly shy under his gaze. “I try,” you say lightly, though your heart is pounding in your chest.

Ekko leans closer, his shoulder brushing against yours. “I don’t say it enough, but... I’m glad you’re here,” he murmurs.

You turn to look at him, surprised by the vulnerability in his voice. He’s always been good at putting on a brave face, at pretending he’s invincible, but right now, he’s just Ekko—your Ekko, the boy who’s always tried to save the world, even when it felt impossible.

“I’m glad I’m here too,” you say softly.

He smiles, and for a moment, the weight on his shoulders seems a little lighter.

The two of you stay there for hours, talking about everything and nothing, until the city begins to quiet and the first hints of dawn streak the sky.

“Come on,” Ekko says, standing and offering you his hand. “Let’s get out of here before the sun catches us.”

You take his hand, letting him pull you to your feet, and the two of you leap back onto your hoverboards, the city coming alive beneath you once more.

And as you fly through Zaun’s endless maze of light and shadow, with Ekko’s laughter ringing in your ears, you can’t help but feel like everything might just be okay.

For now, at least, you’re falling with him—and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Masterlist

[chillypowder]

So before some people ask why I did a Jinx fic instead of a Ekko fic is before I actually did another pole on the arcane community at jinx got 30% of all the 198 votes just little more than ekko did. So I decided to do Jinx first and post a Ekko fic tomorrow instead I already wrote both of them so worries. it'll be post by Tomorrow.

Masterlist

[chillypowder]

Powder Blue

Pairing: Jinx (Powder) x Reader

Fandom: Arcane (League of Legends)

Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Act 3 Healing Vibes

Word Count: ~2.5k

Warnings: Mentions of emotional vulnerability, brief discussions of chaos and destruction (Jinx being Jinx). Overall, it’s a soft and tender piece meant to heal your heart.

Summary:

Zaun isn’t known for its quiet moments, but you’ve always found them with her—whether she’s Jinx, Powder, or the storm in between. After everything she’s been through, you’re her anchor, her “sunshine,” even when she insists she’s the thundercloud. Tonight, beneath the smog-filled sky of the Undercity, you remind her that stars, no matter how hidden, never burn out—and neither does she.

Notes:

This is for all the Arcane lovers who were emotionally wrecked after Acts 2 and 3 (raises hand). I wanted to write something soft and dreamlike, like the kind of fluff you fall into after a heavy rainstorm. Jinx deserves peace and someone who reminds her that she’s more than her chaos. Reader is gender-neutral and full of love. Let’s heal together!

The air smells of ash and copper, but it’s soft, almost like the remnants of fireworks in a summer sky. Zaun always had a way of making things feel heavy, like the weight of a smog-filled sky pressing down on you, but tonight? Tonight feels different. Tonight, she’s here.

Jinx.

Or maybe she’s still Powder to you, even now. You’ve never been able to pick a side, not when it came to her. Not when her eyes, burning with chaos and brilliance, find you across the workshop you’ve quietly tucked yourself into for the evening.

“Hey, sunshine.” Her voice rings like a melody, mismatched and full of energy, dragging you from your thoughts before you can start wallowing. The door slams shut behind her, and her boots clink against the uneven floor. She’s bouncing on the heels of her feet, a grin that doesn’t quite reach her eyes spreading wide as she leans against your desk. “What’re ya doing in here all alone? Didn’t you miss me?”

You blink, still caught between the memory of who she used to be and the whirlwind she’s become. It hurts sometimes, like a pinprick in your chest, but tonight you push it aside. Because if there’s one thing you’ve learned, it’s that Jinx needs your steadiness. Needs the quiet you offer when her head gets too loud.

“Just working on something,” you reply, your voice soft, a balm to her usual sharpness. You motion to the half-finished contraption on the table—a little music box that you thought might make her smile. You don’t tell her it’s for her, though. Not yet.

She tilts her head, her pigtails swaying with the motion, a curious glint sparking in her eyes. “Ooh, what’s that? It looks... fiddly.” Her fingers twitch as if resisting the urge to grab it and take it apart. Jinx has always been like this—a hurricane with hands, tearing things apart to see how they work, only to put them back together in ways no one else would ever dream of.

“It’s... not finished yet,” you say, moving it out of her reach before she can snatch it up.

She pouts, her lips curving downward, and it’s almost enough to undo you. “You’re no fun,” she mutters, but there’s no bite in her words. Instead, she slides onto the desk next to you, her long legs swinging over the edge as she watches you with that unnervingly intense gaze of hers.

You let the silence settle between you for a moment, comfortable despite the unspoken things hanging in the air. The hum of Zaun’s machinery rumbles softly in the background, a lullaby of gears and steam.

“How was your day?” you ask eventually, glancing up at her.

Her grin widens, almost too wide, and she starts talking—fast and animated, her words tumbling over each other as she recounts her latest escapade. Something about a heist, explosions, and narrowly escaping one of Piltover’s enforcers. You know you should probably scold her, tell her to be careful, but the way she lights up when she talks about it makes it impossible.

“And then, boom!” she says, throwing her arms out dramatically. “The whole thing went up in flames! You should’ve seen it—it was beautiful!”

You raise an eyebrow, unable to keep the fond smile from tugging at your lips. “Beautiful, huh?”

“Yeah, like... like a firework,” she says, her voice softening just a little. Her eyes drift to you, and for a moment, something vulnerable flickers in their depths. “You like fireworks, don’t you?”

You nod. “They remind me of you.”

Her head tilts again, and for once, she doesn’t try to hide the way her cheeks flush pink. “Tch. You’re so cheesy.”

“You love it.”

“Maybe,” she says, her grin returning full force. But there’s a softness there now, a quiet understanding that settles in her features like a shadow. She reaches out suddenly, her hand brushing against yours where it rests on the desk. Her fingers are calloused, scarred, but warm. “Thanks,” she says, almost too quiet for you to hear.

“For what?”

“For... I don’t know. For putting up with me, I guess.” She shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but you can feel the weight of her words. She’s always been bad at saying how she feels, always hiding behind laughter and chaos, but you’ve learned to read between the lines.

“You don’t have to thank me for that,” you say, your voice steady. “You’re not something I have to ‘put up with,’ Jinx.”

Her eyes flicker down to the floor, and for a moment, you think she might argue, might push you away like she’s done so many times before. But instead, she stays quiet, her fingers still brushing against yours.

It’s a small thing, barely noticeable, but it feels like a victory.

The night stretches on, and somehow you end up on the rooftop, the city sprawled out below you like a broken mosaic of light and shadow. Jinx is lying on her back next to you, her arms stretched out above her head as she stares up at the smog-covered sky.

“Do you think the stars are still up there?” she asks suddenly, her voice softer than you’ve ever heard it.

You glance at her, surprised by the question. “Of course they are.”

She hums, her eyes half-lidded. “I dunno. Feels like they might’ve all burned out by now, y’know? With how dark it’s gotten.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you stay quiet, your gaze drifting upward. The sky is heavy with smoke and pollution, the stars hidden behind layers of grime, but you like to think they’re still there, waiting.

Jinx shifts beside you, rolling onto her side so she’s facing you. “You ever think about leaving this place?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

You turn to look at her, your heart clenching at the vulnerability in her expression. “Sometimes,” you admit. “But not without you.”

Her eyes widen, just a fraction, and for a moment, you think you’ve said the wrong thing. But then she laughs, a soft, breathless sound that makes your chest ache. “You’re such a sap,” she says, but there’s no malice in her tone. If anything, she sounds... touched.

“Maybe,” you say, a small smile tugging at your lips. “But I mean it.”

She stares at you for a long moment, her eyes searching yours like she’s trying to find the cracks in your sincerity. But you’ve never lied to her, not once, and you won’t start now.

Finally, she sighs, flopping onto her back again. “You’re gonna be the death of me, sunshine,” she mutters, but there’s a hint of a smile in her voice.

The night ends with her falling asleep against your shoulder, her breathing soft and even as the weight of the day finally catches up to her. You stay still, not wanting to wake her, and let your eyes drift shut as well.

For a moment, everything feels okay.

And for now, that’s enough.

The music box sits on her desk the next morning, finished and polished to perfection. When she wakes, groggy and blinking against the morning light, her eyes land on it, and you watch as her expression shifts from confusion to wonder.

She picks it up carefully, like it might shatter in her hands, and when she winds it up, the soft melody fills the room—a song she used to hum when you were kids, back before everything fell apart.

She doesn’t say anything, but when she looks at you, her eyes are shining, and for the first time in a long time, you see a piece of Powder there.

“Thank you,” she says, and this time, you know she means it.

You smile, reaching out to brush a strand of blue hair from her face. “Always.”

Masterlist

[chillypowder]

Welp Arcane wins so who shall it be?

[chillypowder]

So I saw the majority of you guys voted for Fluff so I'm going to try my best but the question is what Fandom and Character are you guys looking for?

I'll add another pole in another post for character after we figure out what Fandom.

[chillypowder]

Do you do fic requests?

Yes I do just that my full schedule only gives me free time from time to time so I apologise if I don't see your request in time

[chillypowder]

So I was thinking should I do a fluff for a change cause Arcane kinda got me balling my eyes out.

[chillypowder]

A Future Without You

Pairing: Ekko x Reader

Word Count: ~2,050

Genre: Angst, Tragedy

Summary: Years after encouraging you to leave the violence of the Undercity, Ekko discovers you’ve returned—as an Enforcer. Old wounds reopen as duty and ideology threaten to pull you apart once more. In the end, love may not be enough to bridge the divide between your worlds.

Warnings: Violence, major character death, emotional conflict

Ekko sat on the rickety railing of a Firelight hideout, the glow of the Undercity flickering below. The humming engines of passing drones were drowned out by his own thoughts—visions of a face he hadn’t seen in years but could never forget. The reader. You.

He’d told himself he had done the right thing back then, encouraging you to leave. “This place ain’t safe for you,” he’d said, his voice trembling under the weight of unspoken fears. Back then, you’d both known that staying meant being swallowed by the violence that consumed the Undercity. You’d begged him to come with you, but Ekko had stayed. He had a cause. A family. A purpose.

But what was the point of fighting for tomorrow if you weren’t in it?

He sighed, his thumb tracing the edges of the Z-Drive strapped to his wrist. It was a constant reminder of the choices he couldn’t undo and the moments he couldn’t relive, no matter how much he wanted to.

“Boss.” One of his scouts interrupted his thoughts, climbing up onto the railing. “You’re gonna wanna see this.”

Ekko leapt down, his boots landing silently on the metal grating. “What is it?” he asked, trying to push the pang of longing back into the recesses of his mind.

The scout hesitated. “Enforcers. We spotted a squad near the border. They’re armed, but they don’t look like a raid party. One of ‘em… they look familiar.”

His heart stopped for a moment. He followed the scout to a hidden vantage point. Through the scope of his makeshift binoculars, he spotted a small group of Enforcers patrolling the alleyway below.

And there you were.

You moved with confidence, your armor glinting in the sickly green light of the Undercity. The years had hardened you; the softness he remembered had been replaced with a sharp, almost dangerous resolve.

Ekko’s breath caught. It had been so long since he’d seen you. So long since he’d heard your voice. So long since he’d broken his own heart by letting you go.

The confrontation came faster than he expected. The Firelights intercepted the Enforcers before they could make it further into the Undercity. Ekko stood at the forefront, his mask hiding his face but not the determination in his stance.

“Enforcers don’t belong here,” he said coldly, his voice amplified by the modulator in his mask.

Your hand hovered over your weapon. “We’re not here to fight.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?”

The tension crackled like a live wire. Ekko’s crew had their weapons drawn, and the Enforcers shifted uneasily. Then, you stepped forward, lowering your weapon—a gesture of trust.

“Please,” you said, your voice softer now, more familiar. “We just want to talk.”

Ekko hesitated. He could feel the eyes of his crew on him, waiting for his decision. After a moment, he gestured for them to lower their weapons.

The conversation took place in one of the Firelight hideouts, a dimly lit room filled with the hum of machinery and the faint scent of oil. Ekko removed his mask, and the shock on your face was impossible to hide.

“It’s you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“It’s me,” he replied, his tone flat.

You reached out as if to touch him, but stopped yourself, your hand falling back to your side. “I thought you were…”

“Gone?” Ekko finished for you. “Yeah. I thought the same about you.”

The room seemed to shrink around you as the weight of everything unsaid hung in the air. Your comrades stood awkwardly in the background, but Ekko gestured for his crew to give you space.

“What are you doing here?” he finally asked, crossing his arms.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you shot back. “The Firelights, the raids… This is what you stayed for?”

“This is my home,” he said simply.

“And look what it’s done to you.”

The bitterness in your voice cut deeper than you intended, and Ekko flinched. You took a breath, trying to steady yourself. “I joined the Enforcers to make a difference, Ekko. I thought… I thought I could help. But seeing you here…”

“Seeing me here makes you what? Guilty?” His voice was sharp now, laced with anger he hadn’t meant to show.

“No,” you said firmly. “It makes me remember why I left.”

The argument spilled out like a storm, years of frustration and heartbreak fueling every word.

“You don’t get to lecture me about choices,” Ekko snapped. “You think I wanted this? You think I didn’t want to leave with you?”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because someone had to stay and fight for the people who couldn’t leave!”

The silence that followed was deafening.

“You don’t understand,” Ekko said, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “You don’t know what it’s like to watch everything you love fall apart and not be able to do anything about it.”

“I do understand,” you said, your voice trembling. “Do you think leaving was easy for me? Do you think I didn’t hate myself every day for it?”

“Then why did you come back?”

“Because I thought I could save you!”

The words hung in the air, raw and unfiltered.(like the air😭)

The reunion didn’t end in resolution. You left with your squad, and Ekko let you go, his heart heavier than ever. But the encounters didn’t stop. Over the next few weeks, you crossed paths again and again—on the battlefield, in negotiations, in quiet moments stolen from the chaos around you.

Each time, the old feelings resurfaced, tangled with the new scars you both carried.

One night, you found yourselves alone in the ruins of an old factory, the only sounds the distant hum of Shimmer labs and the occasional drip of water from a broken pipe.

“I never stopped loving you,” Ekko admitted, his voice barely audible over the din.

You looked at him, your eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Then why does it feel like we’re further apart than ever?”

He didn’t have an answer.

In the end, it was duty that tore you apart for good. The Firelights and the Enforcers collided in a brutal skirmish, and Ekko found himself face to face with you once more.

“Don’t do this,” he pleaded, his weapon lowered.

“I have to,” you said, your voice cracking. “This is bigger than us.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s not. It’s always been about us.”

For a moment, it seemed like you might lower your weapon. But then, a shout from one of your comrades broke the spell.

“Stand down!”

The explosion that followed sent you both flying. Ekko woke up to find the battlefield eerily quiet, the smoke and debris settling around him. And then he saw you.

You were lying a few feet away, blood pooling beneath you.

“No,” he whispered, scrambling to your side. “No, no, no…”

Your eyes fluttered open, and you smiled weakly. “Ekko…”

“Don’t talk,” he said, tears streaming down his face. “I’ll get you help. You’re gonna be okay.”

But you both knew it wasn’t true.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“For what?” he asked, his voice breaking.

“For leaving. For coming back. For everything.”

“No,” he said firmly, his hands trembling as he held you. “You don’t get to apologize. This isn’t your fault.”

You reached up, your hand brushing against his cheek. “I’m glad… I got to see you again.”

And then you were gone.

Ekko sat alone in the hideout that night, your words echoing in his mind. He stared at the Z-Drive on his wrist, the temptation gnawing at him.

He could go back. He could save you.

But no matter how many times he replayed the moment, no matter how many ways he tried to change the outcome in his mind, he knew it wouldn’t work. Some things couldn’t be undone.

Some things had to be let go.

Ekko’s grief became a part of him, woven into the fabric of who he was. But so did your memory. He carried it with him, a reminder of what he’d lost and what he still had to fight for.

And though the future felt emptier without you, he vowed to keep moving forward. For you. For the Undercity. For a tomorrow where love and sacrifice wouldn’t have to be the same thing.

Masterlist

[chillypowder]

Timelines of love

Pairing: Ekko x Reader

Word Count: ~2,000

Genre: Angst, Tragedy

Summary: When you’re fatally caught in a Firelight raid gone wrong, Ekko uses his Z-Drive to try and save you. But no matter how many timelines he rewinds, the outcome only grows more devastating. Caught in an endless loop of grief and guilt, Ekko struggles to decide: should he let go or keep trying, knowing he might never succeed?

Warnings: Violence, repeated character death, grief, and emotional turmoil.

Ekko adjusted the dial on his Z-Drive with shaking hands, ignoring the searing pain in his ribs. The world around him shimmered like broken glass as time bent to his will. He clenched his jaw, focusing on the moment he needed—the instant before everything went wrong.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

The light enveloped him, the sounds of chaos fading until they were replaced by a familiar scene: the Firelights’ hideout, moments before the raid. The scent of oil and grime mixed with the faint sweetness of the flowers you kept in a chipped vase.

You were there, standing at the table, running your hands over a makeshift map of the Undercity. Your brow was furrowed in concentration, your lips moving silently as you reviewed the plan. You were always so focused, so determined, and it made his chest ache to see you like this again—alive.

“Ekko?” You looked up, startled. “You okay?”

He couldn’t stop himself. He crossed the room in two long strides and pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your shoulder. You froze, confused by the sudden embrace, but then your arms came up to wrap around him.

“Hey,” you murmured, voice tinged with worry. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he lied, his voice muffled. “Just… wanted to hold you.”

You pulled back to look at him, your hands cupping his face. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

Ekko laughed softly, his heart twisting in his chest. He couldn’t tell you the truth. He couldn’t tell you how many times he’d already seen this moment play out. How many times he’d tried to save you.

It always went the same way.

The Firelights set out to intercept a Shimmer shipment. The intel seemed solid��too solid. The ambush turned into a trap, and chaos erupted. Somewhere in the middle of it all, you were caught in the crossfire. A stray bullet. A collapsing structure. A knife meant for him.

Every time, you died.

And every time, Ekko rewound the clock, trying to change the outcome.

This time, he made sure to stay close to you, never letting you out of his sight.

“Stay behind me,” he urged as the team crept through the shadows, his voice low but insistent.

You rolled your eyes. “I can handle myself, you know.”

“I mean it,” he said, grabbing your wrist. “Promise me.”

You hesitated, studying his face. There was something in his eyes—something raw and desperate.

“Okay,” you relented, your voice softening. “I promise.”

The fight erupted moments later, gunfire and shouts tearing through the night. Ekko’s staff whirred as he deflected bullets, his movements precise and calculated. He fought like a man possessed, every strike aimed at protecting you.

But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how fast he moved, it always ended the same.

This time, it was an explosion. A stray spark ignited a barrel of Shimmer, and the blast sent you flying.

When the dust settled, Ekko found you lying motionless amidst the rubble, your promise to stay behind him broken.

He rewound again.

And again.

And again.

Each attempt grew more frantic, more desperate. He changed the plan. He changed the route. He even tried convincing you to stay behind entirely, but you refused every time, your determination unwavering.

“I’m not sitting this one out,” you said firmly, crossing your arms. “You need me out there.”

“I need you alive,” he snapped, his voice sharper than he intended.

Your expression softened, and you stepped closer, placing a hand on his cheek. “Ekko, you can’t protect me from everything. We all take risks. It’s part of the fight.”

He wanted to scream, to beg you to understand, but what could he say? That he’d watched you die a dozen times? That no matter what he did, he couldn’t save you?

Instead, he nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat.

In one timeline, he managed to keep you out of the fight entirely. You stayed back at the hideout, safe and sound. For a fleeting moment, he thought he’d finally won.

But the mission failed without your help. The Firelights were ambushed and outnumbered, and Ekko barely made it back alive.

When he stumbled into the hideout, bloodied and broken, the look on your face shattered him.

“You should’ve let me come,” you said, tears streaming down your face. “I could’ve helped. I could’ve—”

“I couldn’t risk losing you,” he interrupted, his voice raw.

“But you’re okay risking everyone else?” you shot back, anger and grief warring in your expression.

He didn’t have an answer.

In another timeline, he tried sending someone else in your place. But when the Firelights returned, it was with news of your capture.

He led a rescue mission, determined to bring you back, but by the time he reached you, it was too late. The sight of your lifeless body, bruised and broken, haunted him long after he rewound the clock.

No matter what he did, the timeline refused to bend. It was as if the universe itself had decided that you were meant to die.

The final attempt was the hardest.

Ekko stood in front of you, his hands trembling as he held your face.

“Promise me you’ll stay safe,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

You frowned, confused by the intensity in his eyes. “Ekko—”

“Promise me,” he repeated, cutting you off.

“I promise,” you said softly, reaching up to brush a tear from his cheek.

It wasn’t enough.

He knew it wouldn’t be enough.

This time, he didn’t rewind.

When the fight broke out, he stayed by your side, doing everything he could to shield you. But when the explosion came, there was nothing he could do.

You were thrown to the ground, blood staining your clothes as your breathing grew ragged.

“No, no, no,” Ekko muttered, dropping to his knees beside you. He pressed his hands against the wound, desperate to stop the bleeding.

Your eyes fluttered open, and you gave him a weak smile. “Ekko…”

“Don’t talk,” he said, his voice breaking. “You’re gonna be okay. I’ll fix this.”

You shook your head slightly, your hand reaching up to cup his face. “You can’t fix everything.”

Tears streamed down his face as he clutched you tighter. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that.”

“I’m glad I got to fight by your side,” you whispered, your voice growing weaker.

“No,” he choked out. “You’re supposed to stay. We’re supposed to have more time.”

But your hand fell limp, and the light faded from your eyes.

For the first time, Ekko didn’t reach for the Z-Drive.

He sat there in the aftermath, cradling your lifeless body as the reality of your loss settled over him.

No matter how many times he rewound, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t save you.

The Z-Drive hummed softly on his wrist, a cruel reminder of the power he held—and the limits of that power.

In the days that followed, Ekko carried the weight of your memory with him. Your laughter, your determination, your love—they were all etched into his heart, a painful but precious reminder of what he had lost.

He still wore the Z-Drive, but he never used it to return to that moment again.

Some things, he realized, were meant to be let go.

Masterlist

[chillypowder]

Masterlist

My hero Academia

"I'll Comfort you next time"

"Rescued Hearts"

Alice in borderland

"More than Words"

Genshin impact

"Regretful Petals"

"Shadows of Doubt"

"Frozen Embrace"

"Fragile Bonds"

"Northern Lights"

Arcane/League of Legends

"Timelines of Love"

"A Future without you"

"Powder Blue"

"Falling with you"

Love and Deepspace

"Soft Hands, Sharp Lies"

[chillypowder]

"More Than Words"

Pairing: Chishiya X Reader

Summary: In a place Unknown to you your happy to have met Chishiya. Your life line and aswell as your grim reaper. And your unrequited lover..I meant your Friend,Just your Friend.

In the Borderlands, everyone you loved was a weakness, a target. Survival didn’t allow for attachments. But you, reckless and hopeless, had latched onto Chishiya anyway. It was foolish—you knew that. He’d never given you any reason to hope. He didn’t do closeness, didn’t do love. To him, you were probably just another face in this hellscape. Maybe not a stranger, but not someone he would ever call his own.

And yet, there were those stolen moments. The way his gaze lingered a fraction too long. The quiet conversations in dim-lit rooms after exhausting games. The way he’d listen, lips pressed tight as if fighting back some invisible wall. He’d listen, and you’d talk, filling up the silence as though you could get closer to him through sheer force of will.

But even then, it had never been enough. You knew you were just a friend.

Still, when you entered this game together, you hoped maybe this time it would be different. This game was brutal, built to split people apart, confuse them, turn every choice into a gamble. It was meant to break you, just like all the rest. But he was here. And as the walls shifted and the path twisted, your only thought was of finding him, of reaching him before it was too late.

3...2...1…

The clock started, and you bolted forward, searching, shouting his name. Every twist and turn separated you further, every dead-end taunting you. Panic clawed at your chest, but you shoved it down, forcing yourself to keep moving, to believe you’d find him.

Finally, there he was. Chishiya stood in a clearing, trapped between jagged edges of electrified wire and a barricade that forced him into a narrow path. You saw the calculation in his eyes, his mind already working through the maze, testing every possibility for escape.

"Chishiya!" You called his name, stumbling toward him.

He turned, and for a second, you thought you saw something vulnerable flicker across his face—a hesitation, a softness that he couldn’t mask quickly enough. But just as soon as it appeared, it was gone, his gaze hardening into that unreadable stare you knew too well.

“Go. I’ll figure this out,” he said, voice flat, his expression guarded. “You can still make it.”

The words cut deep. Every time, he kept his distance. Every time, he made it clear—there was no place for you in his heart. And maybe that was your mistake. Because to you, he was everything. To him, you were just a friend.

“Not without you,” you said, your voice shaking, the desperation slipping through. “Chishiya, please…”

He shook his head, a hint of frustration breaking through his stoic mask. “Don’t be foolish. You’ll only get yourself killed.”

But you were already past the point of caution. “You think I’d just leave you here? After everything?”

He averted his gaze, jaw tight. “Why does it matter so much to you?”

A thousand answers surged forward, each one more painful than the last. You wanted to tell him that he mattered. That you’d give anything if he’d just let you in. That every time he held you at arm’s length, it felt like another piece of your heart cracking, splintering, but you couldn’t stop coming back to him. Even knowing it could never be enough.

“It matters because…” Your voice wavered, your throat tightening. “Because you matter. Because maybe you don’t care, but I—”

The words were cut short as the floor lit up with an ominous red glow, the game’s timer ticking down. You were running out of time.

“Leave, now,” he commanded, his gaze hard and unyielding. The same way he’d told you countless times. The same look that reminded you of all the times he’d only see you as a friend.

But you didn’t move. Couldn’t. Instead, you reached for him, feeling the warmth of his arm under your fingers.

He froze, caught off guard by the touch. For a moment, the mask cracked. For a heartbeat, you thought maybe—just maybe—he might let you in. But then he pulled away, stepping back, and it felt like something shattered between you.

“You’re just going to get yourself hurt,” he murmured. The words hung in the air like a bitter reminder of all the ways he’d tried to keep you at a distance.

Before you could respond, the walls shifted again, the wires sparking dangerously close. The only path left was a narrow, treacherous ledge, and the goal was still just out of reach. You knew what you had to do, even if he didn’t understand. Even if he never would.

With a steady breath, you stepped forward, pushing him behind you. He protested, reaching for you, but you were quicker. You dodged the wires, feeling the sting of them as they grazed your skin, sharp and searing. Each step was agony, but you didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate. You pressed on, clearing the way for him as he watched, his face stricken, caught between horror and helplessness.

Finally, the end was in sight. But the last trap triggered just before you reached it, a final wall of wires sparking to life, cutting you off from escape.

“Go,” you whispered, voice hoarse, barely able to look at him. “You can still make it, Chishiya. Please…”

His face was unreadable, a storm of emotions swirling in his eyes. But he didn’t move.

“Why?” he asked, voice barely a whisper, so quiet you almost missed it.

Because you’re more than just a friend to me. Because you’re the only reason I’ve fought this hard. Because even if you’ll never feel the same way, I’d do anything for you.

But you didn’t say any of it. Instead, you smiled, a weak, broken thing. “You know why.”

The timer ticked down, the red lights flashing, warning you both that time was almost up. He looked at you, really looked, as if for the first time. And for one second, you thought he might stay.

But he didn’t. With one last unreadable look, he turned and ran toward the goal, his figure disappearing into the light.

The pain hit all at once as the wires closed in, a shock so intense it stole your breath, your vision blurring. But even through the agony, you felt a strange peace. Because you’d given him the only thing you could—another chance.

You closed your eyes, the ache in your heart blending with the physical pain, both sharp and unyielding. You wondered if he’d think of you, if he’d remember this, even for just a moment.

Maybe to him, you were just a friend. But to you, he was everything.

As darkness settled over you, your final thought was of his face, his soft, unreadable gaze lingering in your memory. The tears slid down, silent, unseen, as you let yourself go, hoping that somewhere in the Borderlands, he’d carry a piece of you with him.

He stood alone, hands clenched, staring into the darkness where he’d left you behind. That brief moment replayed in his mind, over and over—the way you’d looked at him, the weight of your unspoken words, the pain in your eyes.

And for the first time in his life, Chishiya felt something like regret.

Inspired by Just a Friend to you by Meghan Trainor

Masterlist

[chillypowder]

Hey could you please do a part 2 of rescued hearts from his perspective. I would like more heartbreak

Rescued Hearts: A Second Chance at Love Pt.2

Genre: Angst,No comfort

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader (gender neutral)

Warning ⚠️: Major character death, Death, Neglect

Summary: After 6 years of Marriage most would say they know their spouse better their own parents but he could never say utter those words after seeing how badly he failed you.

Note: I am so sorry that I didn't see your request in time but I hope is satisfactory for you. But the funny thing I was planning to make a fanfic of Bakugou's perspective and when I saw your requesti was over the moon.

The keys slipped from my fingers, and they clattered against the marble floor, echoing loudly in the stillness. I took a step inside, shoulders sagging under the weight of another brutal day. The quiet that greeted me was thick, pressing down on my chest as I looked around our darkened penthouse. The city lights flickered through the windows, casting shadows across the empty room. There was no warmth in the place, nothing to greet me or soften the silence. It was just… empty. Too empty.

A quick glance at my watch told me it was well past midnight. Another missed dinner. Another broken promise. I scanned the room, half-expecting them to be waiting there with that tired, knowing smile—the one they always wore when I staggered home hours too late. My stomach twisted, a familiar pang of guilt flickering to life. I didn’t deserve the forgiveness they’d give me, not again.

I walked further in, catching sight of the cold remnants of what had clearly been an evening planned out just for us. The dishes on the table, barely touched, and candles burned down to puddles of wax. They’d set everything up, hoping I’d actually show up on time. Hoping, even though I kept disappointing them, again and again. It stung—no, it burned. They’d stayed up waiting for me, probably for hours, just to watch the night slip away with only silence for company. I’d never once come home to anger or resentment, even though I deserved every bit of it. They always forgave, always understood, and I took it for granted every damn time.

I clenched my jaw, pushing the guilt aside. Tomorrow. I’d make it right tomorrow. I’d tell them how much they mattered, that I’d fix this. Make it all up to them. All of it.

That’s when I saw them—lying on the couch, still as a statue, face half-hidden in the shadows. At first, I almost sighed in relief. They must’ve fallen asleep waiting for me, like they sometimes did. I felt an ache in my chest, and the words I’d never said to them hovered on the tip of my tongue, things I’d always planned to say in some perfect moment that never seemed to come.

I moved closer, lowering myself down beside them. “Hey,” I murmured, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from their face. “You asleep?”

They didn’t stir. I frowned, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling. I tried again, voice louder this time. “Come on, babe, wake up. You’re gonna get a crick in your neck if you stay like this.” Still nothing. My heartbeat picked up, a sense of dread curling in my stomach. I reached for their shoulder, giving them a gentle shake.

“Hey.” I shook harder, my voice catching. “Wake up.”

No response.

My hand slipped to their wrist, pressing against the cold skin. I searched for a pulse, feeling my own pounding as a sickening sense of fear clawed at my insides. There was something there—faint, so faint I could barely feel it. My hands began to tremble.

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t happening.

“Come on,” I whispered, my voice barely holding together. “Wake up. Please. I’m here now, alright? I’m here.”

They didn’t move. They didn’t even flinch. A desperate, helpless panic crashed over me, and my mind screamed at me to do something, anything, but I didn’t know how. I didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t like the battles in the field, where everything was black and white, life or death. This was them, lying cold and motionless in front of me, and I was completely, utterly powerless.

I grabbed my phone with shaky hands, fingers fumbling over the screen as I punched in the emergency number, struggling to keep my voice steady when the operator picked up.

“Yes, I need an ambulance. Now,” I said, my voice cracking. “My—my spouse… they’re unconscious, and they’re not responding.” The words tumbled out in a rush, half-choked with panic, and it took everything in me not to break down right there.

They tried to ask questions, but I didn’t have the patience. “Just get someone here,” I snapped, my gaze glued to their still, pale face. I dropped the phone and dropped to my knees beside them, grabbing their hand. Their fingers felt cold against mine. Too cold. I pressed my forehead to their hand, clinging to them like I could somehow will them to wake up if I just held on tight enough.

“Please,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “Please, just open your eyes. I’m here. I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry.”

My chest felt like it was splitting open, each second that passed without them stirring chipping away at my resolve. Every missed dinner, every broken promise, every selfish decision I’d made—every moment flashed through my mind, leaving me raw and hollow.

Where the hell had I been?

[chillypowder]

Shadows of Doubt

Pair: Ayato Kamisato x Reader

Genre: Angst, no Comfort

The scent of cherry blossoms mingled with the faint aroma of incense, a familiar comfort in the Kamisato Estate. But the familiar beauty felt suffocating tonight. I sat on the veranda, watching the koi dance in the pond, their movements mirroring the restlessness in my heart.

“You look troubled, my love.”

Ayato’s voice, a soothing melody, cut through the quiet evening. He stood beside me, his presence as comforting as the warm glow of the setting sun.

'It’s just…,' I started, my throat constricting with a wave of emotions, 'this life.'

His eyes, the same shade as the twilight sky, held a gentle, understanding gaze.

“We are the Kamisato clan. Our responsibilities are great, and our standards even higher.”

His words, though intended to comfort, felt like a stone in my stomach. It was true, our lives were ruled by duty. Our every move scrutinized, every decision weighed against the well-being of Inazuma.

But it felt like the burden of responsibility was crushing me. Every day felt like a relentless race against time, a constant struggle to maintain the facade of perfection. We were puppets in a grand spectacle, our personal lives a mere footnote.

“Haven’t I given enough?” I finally whispered, the words echoing the unspoken frustration churning within me.

He frowned, a flicker of concern crossing his face. “We must uphold the legacy of our family, my love. That’s the oath we swore.”

I looked at him, his face etched with a familiar stoicism, a mask that hid the true person beneath. “But what about us? What about our marriage, Ayato? When do we get to just be… us?”

His voice hardened, “Our duties are paramount. It’s the price we pay for the honor of bearing the Kamisato name.”

The coldness in his words shattered the fragile peace I’d clung to. It was always about the family, about Inazuma, never about us. My voice cracked as I choked back the tears, the frustration finally reaching a breaking point.

“This is all just a facade, Ayato! A performance for the sake of upholding some fragile illusion of perfection. Where’s the real Ayato in all this? Where’s the man who promised me a life we could build together?”

A silence fell, heavy and suffocating, as I waited for his response. He looked at me, his eyes mirroring the pain in mine, yet his face remained impassive.

“You’re being sensitive, my love.”

The word, so carelessly thrown, pierced me like a shard of glass. It was a familiar dismissal, a way to brush aside my concerns, to silence my desperation. I realized then, with a crushing clarity, the extent of my delusion.

I had married the Yashiro Commissioner, not the man behind the mask. I had traded my heart for a title, my life for an illusion.

With a shaky breath, I stood up, my body trembling with a mix of anger and grief. “I’m done, Ayato. This charade, this constant struggle for approval, for perfection, it’s exhausting. I need more than the title of the Kamisato wife. I need a husband, a partner, a love that doesn’t come with a price tag.”

Without waiting for a response, I turned and walked away, my footsteps echoing the finality of my decision. As I left the Kamisato Estate, the once comforting scent of cherry blossoms turned bitter on my tongue, a reminder of the love I’d left behind. It was time to find my own happiness, even if it meant walking away from the gilded cage of my marriage.

Masterlist