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chaaase69 · 9 months

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The day everything smelled like Nickels - Cyphmen/Shadowire

Hi Hello Wazzup, it is I, you until now dead author. Here to bring you all my lastest and greatest fic!

If you’d prefer to read it on ao3 feel free ! Check out my twitter for updates on new writings or more of my silliness <3

no warnings apply, sfw, m/m, cyphmen/shadowire

Most poeple would say that blood distincally smells like pennies, Amir swears it's more like Nickels

He could puke.

The air in the airship was heavy; it clung to his already sweating form. It reminded him of when there was rain coming, dark and heavy. A horrid storm. Yet there was a distinct smell of nickels—nothing like the beauty of rain that he knew. It weaved its way through the heavy fibers of his mask and wafted into his nose, making him want to recoil in on himself. Except he couldn't, even if he wanted to, for the ghost-like man nearly falling apart in his arms kept him from moving. Blue tendrils of smoke wisped their way up and dissipated into nothing. The bandages that normally clung tightly to the man's arms were now missing; they had fallen off or maybe even burned off in the bomb explosion. The spy's ears rang, and the pressure in the cabin only served to make the ringing seem louder. He vaguely recognized the other agents around him speaking, but none of their voices could be heard. He could see the way Viper glanced between him and the falling-apart ghost, eyebrows knitted together in worry. He didn’t have the mind to tell if she was faking it or not. Skye was nearby; she had been holding her healing aura over the two men, but neither gave any indication that it was helping; nonetheless, she still tried.

When the ship landed, he was off, gloved hands holding desperately onto what he could of the spirit. He nearly kicked down the door to Sage’s infirmary. Frantic words of jumbled Arabic spilled from the rattled man. English seemed so far from his mind that the only thing that mattered was getting help. Sage removed the man from the Moroccan's arms, ushering him out as she got to work. The spy stood outside her door, looking at his now empty hands. They were covered in a blue-ish purple liquid; it felt thick and sticky like blood but looked nothing like it. His back hit the nearby wall outside the door, and he slid down it, his hands coming up to cover his face. He could feel a wetness on his mask, but this was not blood. He became aware of the fog covering his blue lenses, making it hard to see around himself. The people rushing around him and asking him questions looked like streaks of light. The words they spoke sounded nothing like any language he knew.

It still smelled like nickels.

Cypher was hardly aware of the next few days; it felt like he was on autopilot. He could only vaguely remember changing out of his soiled suit that night; he tucked it so far into the back of his closet, hoping a black hole would open and swallow away those memories. Brimstone had temporarily placed him on field leave, meaning he stayed holed up as much as he could. He couldn’t bring himself to eat or work on his normal things. His dreams at night were paved in vivid shades of blue and purple as he watched his love be torn apart over and over again by the explosion. It had happened all so fast; he could still hear the echoes of his name being shouted as the blast consumed his voice. "Amir!" He’d often awake in a cold sweat, his nightwear clinging to his body the same way it had that fateful day. Even the air in his dreams smelled like nickels; it made his teeth ache as if he’d just bitten into a cold treat. Except this was no treat, no wonderful memory he’d want to share with their kids one day. This was fear. Anguish. Just like when he’d lost Nora. His days seemed to grow longer and longer as he forewent sleep in favor of not having to relive those memories.

A week later, there was a knock on his door; he didn’t even bother to check who it was, flinging the door open with reckless abandon, his mask skewed slightly to the left from having been hastily thrown on. He prayed it was his ghost, but alas, it was only Sage. Her hushed words led the man back to the infirmary. There was a warning that seemed to fall on deaf ears; it did not matter to him. His love was awake and breathing. Whole. The wooden door pierced the silence as he pushed it open, a wide smile plastered under the mask. Yet the air was so still. His sunshine seemed so dim and empty. Those eyes. The wonderful blue he had spent hours getting lost in felt icy. It was so quiet, you could nearly hear the crackling of his heart. Words bubbled up in his throat, but his lips remained sealed. The ghost turned away slightly, his gaze leaving the spy finally. Cypher swore he could cry. Why did it smell like nickels again?

Those eyes. So full of disdain, as though he wasn’t worth the ground he stood on. Where had his love gone? His ears barely registered the quiet "leave." He blinked once, twice, even three times. His mind was unable to process the words, and it felt like the whole world was shaking. "My love..?" Sage had gently begun to push the man back out of the door, yet he spun around, desperately searching the ghost's body for a sign of a response. "Please…" His voice shook just as badly as his hands did, yet his love did not reply. The healer kept gently urging him out until the wooden door swung shut in his face, leaving him all alone again. Alone. Again. The ground may as well have been spinning with the way he fell to his knees so suddenly. The ugly crack of his knees hitting the tilted floor rang out in the now quiet area. His entire body shook like a leaf trapped in a raging hurricane; the deafening sounds of silence made it hard to find his breath. He doesn’t know when he started running, but did the man run. He ran until his limbs burned with a fire he has since long forgotten, and the door to his quarters slammed shut with a boom.

It was quiet at first; the pain bubbled in the tips of his fingers like he’d just touched a hot pan by accident. The first tear that slipped from his eye didn’t even feel real; he hadn’t let himself feel vulnerable in eons. The pain traveled up his arms and into his shoulders; it reminded him of having to lug around a sniper rifle. It ached in just the wrong way for days, just so his body wouldn’t forget. The pain continued to travel down his side and curled around his legs, like a serpent trying to trap its prey. The burn of running is nothing but a dull ache compared to the constricting feeling of the snake. Then the pain shot up, ensnaring his heart, and that was all it took. A painful wail tore its way through his throat as his eyes leaked; he felt like he was choking from the way his mask absorbed the tears. The searing warmth caused his lenses to fog up, and he ripped off his mask, flinging it hard across the room. The blue lenses cracked softly as they came into contact with the floor. His hands dug their way into his soft, curly locks, tugging hard as his sobs tore through his body. The emotions of everything came crashing down onto him all at once, a giant tsunami of feelings worse than any pain he’d ever felt in his life. The fragile man screamed like it was the only thing keeping him grounded in this God-forsaken reality. It echoed through the corridors of the base, bouncing off the walls like rays of light. Everyone in the protocol felt the spy’s pain that night, and not a soul dared to mention it.

When the first rays of morning light peaked their way through the windows of the base, Cypher began to stir. Sore limbs and an aching throat throbbed as he shifted off of the floor. Now open, bloodshot eyes scanned the surrounding area as he tried to process why he was here. Then he remembered. His body slinked back onto the floor as if it were a sack of potatoes thrown off to the side. Small waves of tears trickled their way down the sides of his cheeks, far less explosive than the previous night but somehow even more painful. His thoughts seemed to spill out alongside the tears; empty babbles of ‘my love’ and ‘I miss you’ slipped from his chapped lips, falling on empty ears. How he desperately wanted to hold his ghost, squeeze him tight, and pretend none of this ever happened. That mission never happened, the spike never exploded, and Omen never forgot. The meager thought of being forgotten drove yet another spike into his chest, causing him to curl in on himself.

Hours later, the broken boy emerged from his room; tear tracks lined his saddened face. Deep-set wrinkles creased along his lower cheeks and over his forehead, and his feet seemed to drag behind his actual body. He stepped slowly into the common area, his eyes scanning the room of people before lazily heading towards the small counter. His mind was almost blank; he couldn’t bear the thought of anything besides Omen. All he wanted was his Omen. He didn't even acknowledge the stares from his fellow teammates; some looked sad, others looked amazed, and some looked away out of respect. No one had the heart to say a word to him; they were mostly too scared to provoke the emotionally unstable man. Deep down, that destroyed Cypher just a little more, chipping away at what little resolve he was so desperately attempting to cling onto. He ran a weak hand through his now tangled curls, trying to get them away from his face. He despised the feeling of hair on his face. He gave a tired sigh, giving up entirely on making any tea and just leaving the common area, returning to his dulled room.

The space seemed so empty to him now. Small things he looked forward to, like his projects or having new work to do, seemed pointless. His collection of expensive tea, including a special one he has specifically curated for his ghost, seemed like a waste of energy. The light that peaked through the blinds of his small window felt more like a burden than a gift from nature that would light up the room. He begrudgingly closed the curtains more, making sure no light went in anymore. His beautiful mask, which always protected him and kept him hidden away, was just broken and forgotten by now. He kicked it out of the way as he walked past it, slumping his body into his work chair. He let his eyes rest on his desk. There was a single photo resting in the far corner. He grabbed the framed photo delicately, letting his fingers run across the glass. His mind seemed to melt into the warm memory that snuck its way to the surface.

The two had finally gotten their schedules to line up, allowing them to take the day off and forget momentarily about their jobs. It was mid-to-late fall, and the air was just perfectly cool enough that the warmth from walking side by side was just enough (and some nicely knitted mittens from his ghost, which he will deny to all above that he has). The leaves had just begun to fall from the trees; beautiful reds, yellows, and oranges rained around them occasionally as the breeze shook the trees gently. Omen has caught one of the leaves, holding the beautifully golden piece of nature up to Cypher like a giddy child. He will never forget the way his ghost's hands held the leaf so gently, making sure it didn't crack or fall apart as he showed it to his lover. When he opted to let the leaf go, they both watched as the wind picked up and sent the leaf soaring off into new heights. He remembers the way the spirit giggled and pressed just a little closer to him, his free hand now reaching up to caress the spy's face. So soft, gentle, and careful. In love. The ghost gently lifted the spy's mask, but only just enough to see his beautiful lips. He would never push his love past his limits; he knew exactly how far he could go, and they were both okay with that. The touch of their lips against one another was soft, slow, and just right.

Emotions festered in the Moroccan's chest once more, ripping him right out of his beautiful memory. His hand had moved from the glass to rest against his own lips; the weight of his fingers wasn’t right. Too rough and not soft enough—nothing like his lover's lips. It hurt; he didn’t want to hurt. It hurt so bad. Why was he being forced to relive this pain? Wasn’t once enough? It made him so angry. What had he done to deserve this pain and this loss? He had gone through it once already, losing his entire life right before his eyes. He held his dead Nora in his arms, and now here he is again. Losing the love of his life. The thought made his chest seer with intense fury, as if a fire had been lit at the base of his heart, causing it to swell and grow with pure, unadulterated rage. He wanted to curse the Gods above and blame them for taking away everything he’s ever cared about, but he knows he doesn’t believe in them. The world is truly just too cruel to him.

The scream that broke through the silence could break glass. It comes from the bottom of his chest and is raw, pure, and unfiltered rage. The ground below him may as well have been shaking from how angry he felt. His throat stung from how hard his voice came out, yet none of that even mattered to him. His fists balled so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, creating little marks on the inside of the knuckles, some even piercing hard enough to draw blood. Yet he just continued to scream and scream; the might of years and years of accumulated trauma fueled his rage. His voice eventually cracked, and he coughed hard. His throat was on fire, and his mouth felt all tingly. The scream morphed into a high-pitched whistle before fading out entirely into nothing. Even if he had the will to talk, his voice would no longer let him. The man is pulled into the darkness of sleep at some point, the metallic smell of nickels invading his senses.

The next day, Cypher is taken off field leave and placed right into a mission, almost like the fates were taunting him. Laughing directly into his face at the sight of his misfortune. As he boarded the airship for the first time in what felt like forever, he could feel the stares of his teammates boring into the side of his head like they were trying to pick him apart without saying a word to him. One of the lenses on his mask was still cracked, but he did not seem to care whether or not he could see out of it. He sat silently for the duration of the trip; not that that was out of character for him normally, but everyone knew what was going on. They almost hoped he’d talk, wondering if Cypher was even there. When they finally landed, the spy stepped onto the ship without a word. He felt a passing pat on the shoulder from Raze and a simple word of encouragement, which he just ignored. He grabbed his usual equipment and walked off to the site without waiting for a debrief or instruction. He knew his job, and he knew this place all too well. He didn’t need to stick around for mindless conversations.

The spy's movements were slow; his arms felt like there were heavy plates attached to them. He couldn’t get his trips to place the way he wanted, either too high or not high enough. He wanted to toss the flimsy plastic across the site and say, “Screw it; it's not like it matters anyway." Nothing seemed to really matter to him anymore. He settled on leaving the trip just slightly too high and turned to place his camera on the nearby wall. The magnet stuck nicely up in a corner that was slightly hidden but was able to pick up enough of the site for information. He glanced around the barren wasteland of his previous home, the wind blowing slightly, causing the orange dust to scatter around, sticking to his broken lens almost like glue. His gloved thumbs traced along one of his cages as he let his eyes scan the surrounding area. In the distance, he could see the broken remnants of old homes and the way the sun bounced off broken glass and reflected even the darkest areas of the ghost town. A shiver found its way up his spine and out of his fingertips.

The man mosied his way into the garden, letting his fingers trace the dying flowers that lined the ground. When was the last time they had some water? A memory flashed before his eyes, buzzing his senses. He was suddenly hyper aware of the way his own breath stuck to his mask, how his sweaty skin pressed against the all but too tight fabric of his waist coat, and the way his heavy boots were now full of sand and dust that he may never be able to get rid of. He was once again aware of just how much his heart hurt; why was he even on this mission? What was Brimstone thinking? He straightened his back and pulled away from the delicate flowers, letting his eyes wander again. He faintly registered the sounds of his fellow teammates speaking over comms, but the words sounded fake. He removed the tiny earpiece from his ear, letting it hit the ground before he stomped it out under his boot. Silence. Loud silence. Unbearably loud silence. He covered his ears in an attempt to drown out the ringing, but it could not be stopped. Anguish bubbled in his chest once again, and he did the one thing he knew how to do.

Run.

The wind rushed by his ears and down his back; it swirled around his feet and seemed to carry him away. He ran like his demons were chasing him into the pits of hell, into the darkness of an empty building far off in the distance. He slammed hard into a wall that he swore wasn’t there a second ago; his vision spun as he tried to find his footing. Pushing off the wall, he kept moving, weaving in and out of building after building. Bile bubbled in his throat as he remembered the smell of burning flesh from when Kingdom bombed his beloved home and stole his life away. He panted heavily as his body tried to keep up with his intense pace, and his calves burned as he worked overtime to carry his body forward. His breath was sharp and ragged; he had little to no control over it, and the ground spun hard like it was trying to swallow him whole. As the sun began to crash into the skyline, the poor man continued to run, disappearing into the vast wasteland that once held everything he needed. Amir never looked back; this time, the air smelled like home.

The ghost wanted to understand what he was missing. Why had that spy looked hurt? What gave him that right? With special permission from Brimstone, Omen was allowed into the spy’s room to explore. The hope was that it’d spark his faded memory and allow him to return to his duties sooner. When he stepped into the dim room, a few things caught his eye—the mess being one, and two being the spilled box on the bed. He walked over carefully, picking up the box to inspect it. While most of the box was in a language he could not understand, he did pick up on the fact that the box seemed to contain tea bags. He lifted one of the small bags to his face, inhaling the scent. It smelled wonderfully of warm honey and mint; there were small undertones of a floral note. The ghost sighed softly as he relaxed into the smell. He was very sure he liked this, but when had he even tried it? Confusion swirled in his mind as he attempted to recount when he had ever had this, but nothing seemed to come to mind. His clawed fingers curled around the tea bag carefully, holding onto it tightly, hoping that maybe it’d eventually spark a memory or two. Small pinpricks of anger dotted his thoughts as nothing came forward. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and stepped back, glancing around the room more. He saw other boxes of tea, wondering why those ones were still neatly stored away while these ones had been scattered across the bed. He stored those questions away; they were not that important.

As he continued his exploration, he moved to the desk nearby. There was a framed photo of him with the spy. Guilt washed over him momentarily as he looked at the photo before picking it up. What was this, when did this happen, and more importantly, why did the spy even have this? He stared deeply into the picture, his eyes tracing over the spy’s partially uncovered face and then his own hooded figure. His heart ached in a way that he could not comprehend; why was this so special? It vexed him even more that he simply could not recall when or where this happened. Maybe this was just part of his past before the first light, and that's why he couldn't remember it. He used that thought to console his aching heart, but the little points of wrath still did not die down. He made himself a note to try and ask the spy himself later; maybe that would help. The ghost finally decided he had explored enough, setting the photo back on the desk. He did take the tea bag with him for good measure; he’d try a cup of it later to try and jog his forgotten memory.

The lone camera resting on Sage's desk made a small noise as it powered off. The healer glanced over at the gadget, eyebrows raised as she looked confused. She picked up the device and inspected it carefully. She was sure she hadn’t done anything to break it, but then again, she knew next to nothing about how the Moroccan agents' gear worked. With an offhanded shrug, she rested it back on the desk, making a note to let the agent know when he returned to base. She glanced over at the window; rain had begun to gently pitter-patter against the clear glass, and a continuous rhythmic thumping rang into the now silence. It was weird; the rain even seemed to smell like nickels.

#valorant #cyphmen #shadowire #cypher #omen #valorant protocol #angst #cypher centric #cyphers pov #heavy mentions of cyphers past #implied sewerslide but nothing is explicity stated #unrequited love #memory loss #cypher x omen #sfw #no beta we die like cypher in the cinematics

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cyphertripping · 2 years

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hi :) could you write soft cypher x omen? maybe something like omens never celebrated christmas before and cypher goes all out to make it extra special for omen? please :D

thanks for the req! beware hardcore fluff ahead :) also it was fun researching some of the other agents' holiday traditions, hope you like the cameos!

That Special Season (Cypher x Omen)

Word Count: 827

Fluff

When Omen comes up to Cypher one day in fall and mentions offhandedly that he thinks he might have enjoyed Christmas in his past life, Cypher can’t believe how wistful his partner sounds

That makes up his mind that he must now immediately make it the best Christmas ever for Omen, lest their relationship fall to ruin and Cypher the worst boyfriend ever

(It doesn’t help the pressure that Omen remembers so few fragments from his past life that they try to maximize what he does)

Cypher then promptly panics because he realizes he knows jack shit about Christmas, having grown up Muslim and not really paid attention to whatever advertisements there were during Christmas

He then goes to some of the younger agents for advice, because surely they have more holiday expertise than him

“Well, you have to have Christmas trees, caroling, advent calendars, parades, and the like,” Killjoy says, immediately info-dumping on him the moment he asks

Cypher hums, “but it has to be special. For him.”

“Oh we have a lovely lantern festival in the Philippines— they’re huge and light up the sky,” Neon adds in. “That’s special.”

Phoenix chimes in, “oh, you’ve got to have crackers, mate. You know, the things that pop and there are gifts in ‘em? Omen would love that for sure.”

“I hung up lights and cook with my family on Christmas,” Jett adds. “My bulgogi is the best.”

“My family usually eats fried chicken and gives gifts,” Yoru surprisingly contributes to the conversation. At the stares, he shrugs defensively. “It’s a Japan thing, okay?”

“Bruv, Omen can’t even eat though,” Phoenix points out.

Cypher has to admit he has a point. He has a long list of things that he could do but honestly seem like minutiae that are distracting him from the point. Fried chicken and bulgogi would be great for the protocol but what would Omen want?

As the weeks and then days trickle down to Christmas, Cypher assists the others in the VP with decorating the common space. But even when the tree takes its place, something feels like its missing.

He takes to the internet and sees that apparently, people appreciate ‘heartfelt gifts from loved ones’. Cypher tries to wrack his brain for what exactly Omen might want when he sees an extra pair of knitting needles he’s left out.

If there’s anything Cypher is good at, it’s obsessively focusing on things and doing so secretively. He works on learning to knit (many a Youtube tutorial is used) and slowly but surely, a knitted hat with cat ears (he thinks it’s cute) takes form

By the time this is done, especially since he can only work on it alone in his office or elsewhere without Omen noticing, Christmas is almost upon them

Christmas day, the two of them spend as long as possible chilling in bed, curled around each other in the warmth of their bed. Cypher likes smashing his face into Omen’s chest and sleeping that way, even if it leaves imprints of his chest on Cypher’s face (he has a mask for a reason)

The morning is a whirl of gift giving and present opening. Cypher, who had never really paid attention to what the protocol had done in past years, nervously clutches at his poorly wrapped gift. When he offers it to Omen he can see the surprise in the way he holds it, surprised but tenderly

What’s revealed is a knitted hat to keep him warm (he often complained about phantom pain and aches). The stitches aren’t the neatest and Omen can see stitches missing, but it’s heartfelt and filled with the essence of Cypher. He loves it.

Omen pushes back his hood and puts it on. “I love it, thank you,” he says, voice a bit choked up with emotion. He gives Cypher his gift, a long scarf, full of earth tones and a hint of gold and blue. Cypher marvels at the way some of the yarn shimmers as he turns the scarf over in his hands. “It’s beautiful, habibi (love). Thank you.” He leans forward to hug Omen when Phoenix yells from across the room: “wait!”

With a gust of wind, Jett zooms across the room and hovers in the air, holding a small plant with delicate leaves and bright red berries above them. Cypher blinks. “What is this?”

“Mistletoe, dummy,” Jett laughs at him. “You know what that means,” Killjoy adds on and laughs. Cypher rolls his eyes— actually, he really doesn’t.

Omen laughs, low and soft. “It means we have to kiss,” he says, remembering. Is he embarrassed? Oh, Cypher definitely has to capitalize on this then. He leans forward again and pull his mask up from the chin just enough to expose his mouth. He feels the whole room’s eyes on them and he gives a teasing smile. “Well, better give the people what they want,” he whispers and kisses Omen. “Merry Christmas, habibi.”

#do they have a ship name i have no clue #omen x cypher #cypher x omen #cypher x omen fic #valorant fic #valorant fic requests #valorant headcanons #headcanons #x reader request #valorant x reader request #cyphmen #cypher valorant #omen valorant #valorant ship #valorant ships

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