if you’re ever worried about making omen too unserious much just remember there’s things such as him watching horror movies with younger female agents and he’s unironically sent a voicemail to brimstone where he just said ‘I told you so’
Also you’re having fun and not hurting anyone, be silly your honor
okay
also sorry i was 854 days 5 hours and 49 minutes late to reply to your message idk what to reply
for context i was drawing valorant fanart around that time, and i made a fanart post with tags that i felt sorry for drawing omen unserious, mostly because i was (and is) barely in the valorant fandom nor franchise, and not knowing about a character enough makes me afraid of people from that fandom complaining that i'm too OOC and then cancel me and demolish my art blog and i'll have to deal with whatever kind of internet related trauma that is
anyways someone left a message in my AMA and my introverted ass don't really know how to reply to these kind of encouragement... maybe i have some other issues too considering the previous paragraph i just fucking wrote BUT im doing it now after more than 2 years later so here have an omen
Omen’s chronic case of trigger finger stops only when he finds you at the other end of his gun. But, of course, it’s not you.
It’s the Phantom—your Phantom—that should have given it away, but he’s not paying enough attention to notice the pixelated camo print that has been meticulously painted on the body or the laser sight that’s mounted. He just can’t stop staring at you. He’s drinking in your face, that fact that you’re here with him again.
He hasn’t seen you in forty three days—not that Omen’s counting. First, you had been assigned on a reconnaissance mission in Siberia. It was supposed to be two weeks, maybe three max, but it’s been impossible to get a hold of your team. Omen has had no word from you in forty three days, and it’s affecting him more than he’d care to admit. Now, he finds himself in Morrocco, shifting between sand and sentiments as he struggles to keep his attention where it matters—
Omen doesn’t sleep. He isn’t sure what he does to pass the time, really, but sometimes, he thinks he sleeps because he dreams. He dreams that you’ve died somewhere in the desolate tundra and it’s his fault. He’s too far away to help you when you need it most and too weak to do anything to save you. He is thrust into consciousness each time, chest heaving and hands shaking. He finds that it’s worse on quiet nights.
There’s an enemy Raze that throws a grenade towards him. Omen barely has enough time to teleport away from danger into a narrow, curved alleyway. A trail of bullets follows him. One manages to bury itself into his shoulder. The controller hisses in pain and tucks himself deeper into the corner. Elsewhere, he hears Wingman making his rounds onsite. Killjoy’s turret goes off on his right. Overhead, one of Skye’s birds burst into a ray of light.
“Omen, you need to stop worrying,” Sage crosses her arms in the way she does whenever she’s about to scold someone.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sage eyes the half-finished sweater in Omen’s lap. It’s sat there for the last half an hour, untouched, as Omen stares at the screen listing updates on current missions. The status for you and your team hasn’t changed in eight days. It doesn’t stop him from checking.
The healer sighs. There’s nothing she can say to truly ease his mind, but she does her best anyway. You’re hardy and have a level head on your shoulders. You’re there with Jett, Cypher, Breach, and Astra. An experienced team. There’s nothing for Omen to worry about—
The enemy Viper fills the air with her noxious gas. It burns to breathe it in, but Omen has no choice. He stands in a toxic, green sea. He walks forward with cautious steps. Every so often, he flicks his gun back and forth, thinking he’s seeing something out of the corner of his eye. He thinks he sees your face in the veridian haze, but when he turns, there’s nothing there at all. He turns around and barely spots Viper off to his left. His shot is accurate, deadly. The air clears almost as quickly as she falls. It leaves him out in the open, exposed and in clear view down your sight.
“What will you do if you see her?” The tone in Vyse’s voice is monotone, but Omen knows better. She never speaks without reason. The Range is quiet, save for their gunshots. She shoots three targets, dead center, before lowering her Guardian. Her signal that it’s Omen’s turn.
He raises his Sheriff and hits his three targets with similar accuracy.
“It will not come to that.”
Vyse hums. She turns to a series of mannequins standing in the corner of the Range and fires, hitting a clean headshot.
Omen takes his turn, hitting two in the head.
“Will you kill her?”
Omen misses the third. It takes three more shots until he’s able to get a clean hit.
“Perhaps not with aim like that,” Vyse remarks dryly. “At least she’ll put you out of your misery by killing you first.”
He sees your familiar face, and it’s as if time itself has grinded to a complete and utter stop. He feels a strange pang in his chest. He can’t bring himself to focus his aim on you. His fingers are stiff. It's as if his body can’t bring itself to pull the trigger.
The feeling is not mutual.
He hears someone behind him shout his name. Maybe it was Skye or Brimstone, he can’t be sure. He falls to the ground before he can register the pain of your shots coursing through his body.
Whorls of brown smoke rain down from the sky as the sound of Skye’s bird shoots into the air before erupting into blinding brilliance. Enough time is bought. Two pairs of hands hurriedly find themselves hoisting the injured Controller off the ground and away from the open fire.
Omen doesn't feel pain the same way now, or at least, he thinks he doesn’t. He’s not sure what is normal anymore. He knows he should be afraid—you managed to do some nasty damage—but his heart stutters as he manages to catch a glimpse of your face between the wisps of smoke that fill the air. He’s too taken to register Skye and Brim speaking to him, Gekko racing over and frantically asking “what happened?,” Killjoy replying that there’s no time for this now, we need to leave.
Just the thought of you is enough to send his mind racing. Even as he’s hauled away, he finds himself scanning the smoke for some sign of you. He’d accept even a trace, some vestige, but you seem to have disappeared in the chaos. For now, you have lived only in his thoughts. He is enamored by your spectral presence, your haunted, hopeless loverboy.
in Omen's mind, he's just being vigilant. to everyone else, there's clearly more going on.
Omen x f!Agent!Reader
parts [1], [3]
Omen who attaches himself to your hip and never once considers why he’s so keen on having your company.
Omen who is one of the last people in the entirety of Valorant HQ to realize that he has a crush on you.
All the other agents know. They talk about it too, just not to him.
“Brim keeps hinting at a mission, a big one—Wingman, put Cypher’s hat down! Don’t touch what’s not yours, little buddy—He said it’s several weeks in the field.” “Yeah? Who do you think’s going to go?” “Omen?” “Ha! Only if the new recruit goes too! He’s like her shadow or something.”
Omen is too tense when Miks challenges you to a friendly game of Mario Kart in the breakroom.
He’s watching too intently from the corner of the room as Yoru shows you how to do tricks with his butterfly knife.
Even as the mission looms closer and the agents begin preparations, the tension never leaves him.
Deadlock catches the way that Omen hovers when she’s giving you some shooting tips in the Range
Vyse notices the annoyance rolling off him when she’s helping you with utility placement during group training.
It’s on one of the rare occasions that you are not with Omen that Jett finally says something.
He's sitting with his bonsai tree, shears in hand, but not a single leaf has been trimmed. Instead, he's too busy watching you in the training room with Phoenix and KAYO as you practice your aim with the Sheriff when she speaks, “chill out, Omen. No one’s trying to steal your girl.”
The sure-footed shroud fumbles with his shears, they fall into his lap. His voice, gravelly and panicked, “what?”
Jett’s too busy laughing at his reaction to respond, so Neon finishes for her, “the new girl. You don’t need to stare daggers into everyone that gets within a three foot radius of her, you know.”
Omen, who never hesitates with his words or is ever wanting for something to say, has been rendered speechless.
“Just tell her already. It’ll make this less painful for all of us.” Jett grabs a banana off the table and throws him a wink. They don't wait for him to respond, the two Duelists set off to join you for combat practice.
Omen vaguely contemplates saying something that day at lunch, then that night when you’re seated next to him on the couch, struggling with a row of purl stitches, wonky and uneven, when his comms go off, signalling an urgent mission requiring immediate departure. That mission.
Omen, who digs for his comms, only to be greeted with his own reflection in the dark screen, no ping.
Omen, whose heart drops when he realizes that it’s your comms going off.
Omen who hardly mutters a goodbye before you’re dashing out of the door just in time to join Jett and Cypher as they run down the hall towards the helipad. He hears your voice faintly call out to him. "Be back soon!"
Omen who’s left there alone with his sweater (well, your sweater, but you don’t know that yet), half-done, and the empty sofa cushion beside him, warm from where your body just was.
He stays there motionless until the fabric goes cold as if waiting for the last trace of you to fade away. Wordlessly, he gathers your knitting and returns to his room, alone.
