#Valorant AU | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mezzy-1 · 6 months

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VALORANT UNIVERSITY HEADCANONS

@eviethelesbian once again thank you for the Headcanon List. Also shoutout to @darthladyofillusions because I included ur OC :)

Harbor is a history professor dating Astra, the archeology professor. Both of them met on a trip to a site in India

Both of them reached for the same the brush at one point and they laughed it off later

Both of them are excellent teachers in their own way. Varun has a habit of going on tangents about stories and is super nerdy about his subject. Efia’s classes are fun and her energy is infectious

Cypher has a family and does cyber security for the University. Nobody knows his actual name.

Nobody knows him that well but when he comes out of his office he’ll say hello to anyone nearby. He goes home quickly though and usually avoids working late.

Cypher’s office is full of pictures of his family, drawings from his daughter, screens, and the scent of imported Moroccan teas

He and his wife and kid see the students off when they graduate, and all of the students are amazed to realize that this guy has such a good family life. (They thought he was a no-life kinda guy)

Liam ‘Brimstone’ Byrne is the university’s Dean and basically runs everything as much as possible for the good of the students. Tariq and him are the brains and guiding hand of the university

He retired from the military after he was given an educator’s license and became a professor of tactics at a military academy. He then took his skills elsewhere and turned the college into what it is now

Liam keeps the students at the forefront of any policy changes and takes an interest in professors that are considered brilliant but difficult to work with. He’s an expert of recruitment and reining in the right people

Has snacks in his office for students but they can only get them if they complete a pull-up on an pull-up bar he has in his office. One arm only.

Sabine worked at R&D at a pesticide company but is the only Organic Chem teacher that the Valorant U could get. Somehow is a good professor despite hating students and no general teaching

She doesn’t really hate them but it isn’t a good idea to get on her bad side. It’s rumored she poisons the students she hates.

Stared daggers into the first person (Jamie), to make a Breaking Bad reference and since then nobody brings it up

Classes with her are pretty tense but if a student actually tries and gives their all, she’ll notice and be kinder to them. Especially students who study chemistry. Double for O-Chem.

Sabine’s style of teaching could use work, but when she tries to explain complex ideas she’s genuinely in her element. She once explained how tetrodotoxin and nerve ion channels worked to Zyanya’s little sister

Zyanya is a professor for sure, probably the best Spanish teacher ever. Beyond terrifying to new students

She will not let students forget proper accents and grammar, and god help the people that do. Somebody once forgot their homework and Zyanna was literally this close to killing them

Her Spanish is specifically Mexican, and that extends to the class through some of the words she teaches. Especially bits in culture and authenticity

Zyanya’s idea of testing people is borderline an interrogation. 10 minutes of extensive and stern conversations and multiple pages of writing. People say it feels like their souls have literally been drained

Students come out of the classes fluent or scarred for life

Ling is a professor of medicine and completed her PHD around the same time Viper completed hers. They were amazed to see each other teaching

She does Tai Chi for relaxation but did at one point learn Kung Fu while living abroad in a monastery for a couple of years. She once broke a board in front of her class just to prove it

Hosts meditation hours during finals week and her office hours are always super useful for all of the medical and nursing students. Calming as hell to anxious people

Tala got a scholarship via cross country and another from basketball, and wants to major in physical therapy. She also got a job doing late night shifts at the library as security.

Hazal is in a band called Nightmare. Her and several other introverts got together and started one. Only perform in the most obscure venue. She can play bass REALLY WELL

Tala found out and now shows up to every performance the band has. If it weren’t for the lights flashing red and blue, you could see Hazal blushing when she spots Tala in the crowd

That’s how she met Hazal. Tala was approached by her because Hazal wanted to study late and the two became acquainted

Both of them love the late nights that they share and Hazal is always at one of Tala’s games. Tala picks her out of the crowd every time, and at the end Hazal always kisses her

Mateo is a veterinary student and is everyone’s friend. Except Iselin because some of his patients got into her office once and trashed her latest project model

He keeps fish, dogs, lizards, cats, and nearly everything else. At one point he was in charge of a project that kept some monkeys around at one point

The animal counterparts are a chameleon (Dizzy), a Chinese High Banded Shark (Thrash), a bullfrog tadpole (Mosh), and an Axolotl named Wingman

He has a crochet version of his (radivore) crew, courtesy of Omen being bored one day

Mateo is a Gen Z kid, and his vocabulary beyond salvaging

Jamie is an English major, I mean, obviously

Everyone likes Jamie, he brings a certain energy to everything he does and it resonates well with people. His writing has a level of power and rhythm that makes it both easy to listen and layered

He is a songwriter, and poet, and even has a collection of published short stories. His mums are proud. His scripts are also incredible and his goal is to get his own musical to Broadway

When Jamie is in a play, it’s usually as the protagonist or the main antagonist. It is wonderful to see him on stage, especially because he’s trained as a Shakespearean actor

Tayane is THE art student and the reason most of the faculty drinks. And also the reason why most of the students drink too

Absolute ragers getting thrown anytime Tayane is involved. This woman does not stop until the sun is up

Her graffiti portraits are inspired, colorful, and almost always on government property or university property. Brim started commissioning her in order to stop her from painting everything

The commissioned murals are a lot better for her, and gave her legal access to make huge projects on some of the older buildings

One of the walls is a silhouette of a woman with big circular glasses, geometric pink and yellow patterns around her, and surrounded by flowers

Vincent Fabron is the art teacher and Viper HATES him. He’s also that one teacher an unreasonable amount of people of have a crush on

He was a tattoo artist while taking art lessons in France, then moved into high class art. His gallery pieces gained a lot of attention and he gained a lot of money from them.

Now he teaches art, and has done graphic design for many upscale companies. His own business card has won awards from design and art societies though

Omen is a guy in a scarf and hoodie that is somehow in everyone’s classes. He crochets in the back sometimes.

Texts notes at 4am to anyone who needs it and is incredibly nocturnal. He doesn’t need sleep he needs friends

Students never remembered or learned his name, so they just started calling him Omen after the laptop brand he uses

Erik ‘Breach’ Torsten is a coach they brought in and actually manages a paralympic team. May have criminal past according to some of the athletes he manages

He will scream at people in Swedish during games, practice, going over strategies, and if he sees them in public. Friendly but so loud

His prosthetic arms were a courtesy of the university’s science program. They were partially a gift and partially a test to see what they could do. Erik made sure that he could flip people off with the arms

Iselin the professor of Industrial Design, and she is the most stern professor ever. At times she works for a wilderness recreation company and does product design for them.

She is very organized, and her lecture presentations are always available, she lists the pages to read, dates for every assignment are posted a month in advance

Iselin’s a professional and rarely eases up, but the few times she’s been out with the other faculty she’s been surprisingly fun. Especially with Ling for some reason

Kirra is a Biology professor that has so many plants in her room. Has a parakeet, dog, and fish tank at home too. Does wildlife photography on the side.

Kirra protested in college and was arrested once for sabotage. So she is totally chill with people missing class for stuff, and gives extra credit for students involved in causes

Goes on wilderness expeditions with some students for a class and memorized several survival books worth of information and knows every plant, animal, and fungus she comes across

Klara is an engineering major and Tayane just comes to those classes because she can. It usually results in the equipment being plastered in stickers and paint.

They met when Tayane decided to tag the garage that Klara was keeping her final project in. Both of them sort of caught feelings as soon as they saw each other

Klara fell so damn hard, and realized this while Tayane was doing a kegstand. Klara whispered ‘she’s perfect’ mindlessly and then realized Sunwoo was right next to her

Sunwoo finished what was in her cup, patted Klara on the back, and said ‘good luck’ before walking away and pretending she didn’t hear

Her final project has been her ‘Lockdown’ which is basically an EMP crossed with a massive DDOS hack. It went off once and downed the college’s internet for a week.

She’s going to switch it to something a little less destructive at this point, and Tayane is helping her brainstorm. Currently it’s a robot but she’s trying to figure out what to make it do

KAY/O is Tariq’s gamertag. The man is a CS:GO fiend and has crazy flashes due to muscle memory

Liam and him are MARRIED. I’m not budging on this one and you will find me dead in the ground before I let this go

Tariq’s good at a lot of random stuff and doesn’t help out too much at the college but is well-known as the ‘guy who Brim allows to help grill things’ because nobody else is allowed

Helps Liam plan out things for the students and assists in any sort of set up that he can do

Ryo is studying Japanese History and works as a mechanic at a chop shop. It is shady as hell over there but Yoru will hook people up if needed. They definitely steal parts though

He takes business classes and there’s a real chance he might double major. His business acumen and aggressive nature would make him the ultimate CEO

Sasha is the professor that most students simp for, and he teaches Russian Language classes. Throws things at students that don’t pay attention and rarely misses

He has an owl nesting outside of the window to his classroom, he named it Matrioshka after the nesting dolls. It had owlets so it seemed fitting.

His babushka lives out of the country but gets a continuous stream of gifts from him

Sasha is that one professor that has a weird story for everything in his room. The bow he has? killed a grizzly bear with it. Glass eye on display? It was a gift from a glassmaker that was caught with illegal firearms. Weird rock? It was at the sight of a historic battle and has a bootprint in it

Has SO MANY books from Russian writers he reads in his off time. Also does archery at a cabin he has in the woods.

Nobody could handle Novikov at the cabin, the sheer hotness of him splitting firewood, bow hunting, and chopping trees would send people into a simp coma

At the end of the year, he writes each student a short note in Russian telling them something worthwhile.

Sunwoo is an amazing sprinter and also amazing at darts. Loves adding photos to the corkboard she has in her dorm

She isn’t really sure what she wants to study at the moment or even if she wanted to go to college. Gotta love families pressuring college on their kids right?

It isn’t as depressing though, she shows real talent and enjoyment in studying Business but surprisingly is leaning towards learning Journalism as well

She writes stuff for the school paper, a blog, and even has a (somewhat inspired by people around her) science fiction story. She hasn’t thought of a name yet.

It’s about secret agents that fight against an alternate dimension that tries to steal a powerful crystal from them. It’s quite popular with the people who she let read it and people are constantly asking for updates

Sunwoo is trying, and hopefully she’ll manage to find somewhere she can feel comfortable

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Kayra is studying botany, and started a garden in one of the common areas. At first it was small but cute, then after a few weeks the flowers and bushes spread outside of the garden and overtook the common area.

It's now her favorite place to get away from people because trellises were added in and nobody can see through the vines. There’s a chance she keeps patio furniture in the garden too

Has been living in an apartment with Hazal. Tala has been the only one in there and says its overrun with houseplants and hanging lamps.

(@darthladyofillusions I hope this is accurate to some extent)

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hauntedjpegcollection · 2 months

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rendezvous

wc: 6438 au: valorant au ch: xavier, benji

Xavier doesn’t like coffee, so he orders himself some overly sugared latte that’s more milk than anything else. It’s pale and frothy and the green haired girl at the counter smiles brightly at him, has to tilt her head back just a bit and there’s a rose color to her cheeks when she does. He sticks a five dollar bill into the jar next to the card reader that says FUNDS FOR NEW PLAYGROUND because apparently in the last attack, the one down the street had been demolished. This cafe had withstood, but the neighborhood wasn’t all that big. The sense of community was nice.

He hadn’t been here for that particular invasion, but he’d heard details. Mercenaries talked—a lot. It had been messy work and he’d known his extraction crew could have done better. Usually, anyway, but he wasn’t the one in charge. He isn’t even there for extraction today, isn’t even with his crew. All things considered, Xavier shouldn’t be here, not this quaint little coffee shop on the corner of a street, regular civilians buzzing about. A man reads a newspaper, a headline stamped across that says WHEN WILL THEY STOP?

He was being selfish. Maybe reckless—definitely reckless. Xavier wasn’t used to the former, all too used to the latter when it benefited Kingdom. He didn’t usually tug his leash, though.

Not like this.

“Seat taken?”

“Does it look taken?” Benji snorts. He doesn’t even look over his shoulder. Instead, he continues tapping a ball point pen rhythmically against a small, pocket sized sketchbook. The edges of it are battered, the page currently open filled with different small but well done drawings. The style is messy but pretty. Xavier skates his eyes away from the page—it feels invasive to be looking at it.

Invasive, he thinks, heh, laughing to himself.

That gets Benji’s attention. Maybe doesn’t like the idea of a stranger (is he a stranger?) standing behind him, laughing. He turns in his chair, looks up with a nasty expression that turns bewildered at the sight of Xavier. His lips part, jaw dropped. His eyes are pretty, widened like that.

“Sorry I’m late,” Xavier sighs dramatically as he slides himself into the empty chair across from Benji. He throws his long legs out on either side of the table, puts his cup down and drapes his arm around the back of the chair. “Traffic, you know?”

“What are you doing?” Benji leans forward with his hissing whisper. He’d picked a corner table at the cafe, no one around him. They’re next to a window overlooking the street, but it’s frosted glass so everything looks surreal and feels warped, far away and insignificant. It’s like that for Xavier, who isn’t from this world. Sometimes, even the air feels different. This was an upside down world, where he existed out there with his sisters but he wasn’t this. Mercenary. Man responsible for a leveled playground.

Sometimes he thought of breaking the glass of that other him.

Xavier takes a sip of the latte, finds it buttery smooth and warming. He raises eyebrows at Benji.

“What?”

“What d’you mean what? How did—why are you—” As Benji sputters over his sentences, Xavier leans in with elbows to the table. He takes up a lot of space. Benji leans back an inch or two. His hands are wrapped around his own coffee—something iced with no milk. There’s condensation still on it, which wets his fingertips in a way Xavier is acutely aware of. He has broad hands. Sparse hair peeks from underneath the length of his sweatshirt, at the tops of his wrist.

“I’m supposed to be doing recon—but right now?” Xavier smiles. He can feel how crazy it must look. Once, he’d probably had a nice smile. Now it’s all just teeth. The stretching of skin across his face. “We’re just two guys getting coffee, right?” Then he leans back once more. His fingers tap on the wooden table. There are rings of coffee stains, nicks here and there along the edges. It feels worn in, used in the best sort of way. This shop is a staple in the neighborhood. Xavier hopes it never becomes a casualty. Benji is a regular to this exact table. Xavier’s watched him sit here three times now—this fourth being the only time someone has sat down with him.

“You look good in civvies, by the way.”

Benji glances down at himself. It’s not a lie—his leather jacket is worn with age at the elbows, at the seams and shoulders. It’s lost luster, is faded and well loved (he’s worn it every day Xavier has watched him). It fits him, it suits him, it looks like something that he’d pull off a hanger everyday to wear. Benji must get cold easily, because the hood of a sweatshirt pokes out, the sleeves longer than the leather. Something about the style makes him look younger, somewhat boyish. It’s all black, even his jeans which have split at the knees, little strings of fabric clinging together against dark brown skin.

Xavier’s fingers twitch when blush spreads over Benji’s defined nose and cheekbones.

“You followin’ me?” he finally asks, quiet with his brows knit together in a menacing sort of look. Not angry—wary.

“Yeah, a little.”

“Out your fuckin’ mind then, mate?”

“Yeah, a little,” Xavier repeats, tilting his head back and forth, scanning the cafe once more. He cannot help himself from being slightly alert. He is an intruder after all. If Benji called for reinforcements… “I’ve only watched you, like, three times. Which I don’t think qualifies as stalking yet.”

He groans as he stretches arms above his head, trying to relax. He’s tired from being awake all night in a room with a sniper rifle trained on a building he already knew was too secure to get into, tired because of the shift from his world to this one (it always sort of felt like his bones were being compressed and stretched and shoved back into his skin, it never felt right). He catches Benji’s eye roaming and selfishly enjoys the attention. Stretches further, languid and pleasant, arms out above his head, sweater pulling up on his stomach. An painful burst of heat makes his stomach hurt when Benji’s eyes flit down and then immediately away. He scowls. The expression isn’t unattractive.

“Tryin’ to collect a thank you, then? You were actin’ mad fixing me up twice now. Don’t owe you for that.” Benji takes a sip from his iced coffee, licks his lips as his expression continues to sour into something delightfully pouty. Xavier’s memories of this face are tarnished somewhat. Sweat and blood and dirt and gunpowder. He doesn’t regret this, no matter how idiotic it was, how dangerous it was.

“How’s your hip then?”

“Had worse.”

“You’ll have to show me the scar someday,” Xavier flirts shamelessly. It makes Benji’s glare harder, narrows his sleepy eyes. Wary still, full of distrust but—tension doesn’t return to his shoulders. They stay pleasantly rounded, a bit mopey in his posture as he sits there. The ball point pen has nearly rolled off the edge of the table, but he makes no moves to get it. Xavier lightly taps the edge of his boot into Benji’s chair.

“This is kind of nice, huh?”

“Had worse,” Benji slowly repeats, the corners of his lips twitching into something almost like a smile. Xavier feels an intense burst of pride, sunny inside his ribcage.

It’s obvious why he keeps trying, isn’t it? Benji is good looking. Very good looking. He’s combat medic strong, thickly built with defined arms and legs. He has nice hands, a handsome nose and heavy brows, a stare that makes Xavier’s insides feel weak. His face had been burned into Xavier’s memory, had lived inside his thoughts ever since that first day. And then the second, finding him bloody once more. Sometimes, when his mind was otherwise going someplace dark, he’d let himself sink into those memories instead. Even if they were blood and dirt and gunpowder tinged, an empty gun smacking his shoulders, a moody medic snarling at him.

There can’t be any other reason he tries than sexual attraction. It scares him otherwise.

“This is also nice,” Xavier says, tapping the edge of Benji’s coffee. “Now I know what kind of coffee you like.” He takes a sip of his own, as if punctuating the sentence. Now I know something about you. Benji stares at him, eyes on the cup as it lowers to the table. He clears his throat and adjusts himself in the wooden seat. The ambient sound of others around them, drinking and talking and the workers making coffee make them feel pressed closer together. Finally, Benji lifts a hand and gestures.

“How do y’take yours then, yeah?”

“It’s a latte.” Xavier uses two fingers to slowly push it into the circle Benji has clearly outlined around himself. “Wanna taste?”

“No,” Benji scoffs with a curl of his lip.

“It’s really good.”

“Puttin’ milk in coffee is a crime, mate.”

“It’s sugar cookie flavored. C’mon. You know you wanna taste sugar cookie flavored coffee, man. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, really. It’s off the menu next week—”

“You’re not goin’ t’shut up, are you?” Benji is halfway to another grin when he reaches for the cup. “They pay you by the word over on your side?” Xavier’s eyes are narrowed to the single act of Benji lifting the cup. It pauses at the edge of his lips, and for the first time since he’s started this game (and maybe for the first time in a long, long time even outside this), Xavier feels sort of hot around the ears and cheekbones. He’s not usually one for that—he is good at flirting. Or, he’s disastrous at it, but he never has to put that much effort into it. His eyes flick up to meet Benji’s as he takes a small sip.

“You’re not a quiet guy yourself.” He reaches over to take the cup back and almost wishes they’d have one of those adorable movie moments. A brush of fingertips, an electric spark. But that moment never happens and instead, Xavier is slumping back in his chair, staring at the lip of his cup. “You were going to talk yourself to death, last time.”

“Tactic. Waitin’ on reinforcements. Had you real cornered, Xavier.”

He fakes a shiver to play scared, but there is a very real part of him that does feel shaken, because Jesus Christ he loves the way Benji’s just said his name. The first time he’s heard it, since they’ve exchanged them. He realizes that they’re both smiling at each other and it makes that shiver deepen. Too much time has passed. He wonders if they could ever invent technology that pauses the world—they’ve already invented something that lets you hop them. Why not something that gives you a little more time? What he wouldn’t do for a little more time.

Xavier fishes into his pocket and then fully hunches over the table again. This time, Benji doesn’t retreat as far, or as quickly.

“You think I’m insane don’t you?”

“Bit out of it, might say.”

He slides a folded piece of paper forward until it slowly disappears beneath the sketchbook. Benji can decide whether or not to look at it or throw it away (or give the information up to someone who will use it to kill him), but Xavier feels safer with it tucked out of sight. His heart beat has suddenly found it’s way into his throat and a certain sort of dizziness makes his ears ring. Xavier had not known for sure if he was going to do that, when he first sat down. He’d half thought all that would come from this was a small respite. Worst case scenario, maybe he’d be dead. But the piece of paper if out of his pocket now. It’s underneath Benji’s sketchbook.

It’s in enemy hands.

“Three short whistles, I’ll know it’s you.” Xavier moves quickly then. He stands from the chair, hands shoved into his jacket pockets so they don’t betray him. They shake with anticipation. Excitement.

He smiles down at Benji, who looks, miraculously and hilariously, lost for words.

—

Xavier hates the sort of music that Crowley puts on. It’s this velvety soft jazz music that feels uninspired and meant more for an elevator ride than background music to sex. He suspects that she puts it on half because she likes it and half because she knows he doesn’t. Crowley is like that; he is not twenty-four anymore, deluded into thinking he was special to her, or that she even likes him. But even fully aware, he still finds himself next to her, on her couch with a manila folder in his hands.

Sweat is still cooling on both of them. The music is grating his nerves, but she’d made dinner. Some sort of pasta meal that had tasted a little too fancy for him. He’s sated, in a way.

Xavier bites his finger as he reads, a strange habit he’d picked up as a kid and never let go. It’s not gnawing with an intent, he’s merely resting his teeth against a knuckle bone as he scans the pages of information Crowley has given him. Xavier eats it, consumes everything there is, like a hungry dog on the side of the road pawing roadkill. Because Crowley doesn’t like him and maybe he doesn’t even like her, but there is a mutual benefit to this gross relationship they’ve built over the last four years.

Crowley likes sex and she likes feeling in control. Xavier likes sex and he likes information. If he can have any say in what happens in Kingdom, even this little bit, then he feels important. No small part of him weeps at the idea of being important, being needed, or necessary. He feels like he can keep Lark safe. Ben safe. He can influence Crowley to move pawns in different directions.

He wasn’t smart. But he was logical.

“Go with this one,” he says, tugging a paper out and putting it atop the others. “You’d risk your radiants with the other maneuver. It’s stupid—Stiles lost her lieutenant in the last invasion. She’s not thinking clearly and won’t make the best decisions.”

Crowley’s fingers move into his sweaty, messy hair. Nails drag down his skull, his flesh pebbling to goosebumps, shoulders shivering as her hand draws down to the nape of his neck. Her perfume is dark and overbearing. She taps a finger a few times as if contemplating. Her salt and pepper hair falls across her face, skimming his skin as she looks at the paper. He’d not bothered to put his shirt back on, even though her penthouse is kept impossibly chilly.

“It’s a shame Lark is still recovering, or I could put your team on point, couldn’t I?”

No, he wants to snap at her. Sometimes he wants to bite her just to get her to shut up. He thinks she’d like it too much.

“He only got hurt because you didn’t listen to me last time.” His tone is clipped, voice level but that hint of anger bubbles at the surface. He tries to remain calm in her presence, because his anger had never scared her. And that scared him somewhat. Anger had always been his best defense. It made people leave him alone. He was big and strong and when he was scary, people backed off.

Crowley leans in, plucking the folder from his hands and tossing it onto the glass coffee table in front of them. Empty beer bottles and her glass of wine, thrice refilled, sit there as well. He feels her shifting to get into his lap and so he leans back to accommodate her. Because, well, there wasn’t really anything else Xavier was going to do. And his hands find her soft waist just as her mouth seals over his.

—

“You promised.”

“I said I was sorry—”

“Stop saying sorry, it doesn’t fix anything!”

Xavier has to pull his cell phone from his ear, because Tess screams so loud that it crackles. The city sounds around him are just as loud, just as cruel to his already aching head. The beer had not gotten him drunk, had only given him a migraine that was needling behind one of his eyes. Xavier didn’t suffer headaches that often, didn’t know what to do when his entire skull felt close to exploding with the pressure. He digs a heel into his eye as he walks the lonesome sidewalk. A newspaper flutters by, caught by the breeze. WHEN WILL THEY STOP? He swallows and clears his throat. Attempts diplomacy with his sister.

“How mad is she, then?”

“She’s not mad,” Tess seethes. “She’s—she was expecting you to be there. That’s all, okay. She was—Xavier it’s a big deal. Okay? PhD? She’s going to be—what is that, like a doctor?”

“Can you be a doctor for writing?”

He relaxes when he hears her laugh, even though it’s strained at the edges. Xavier presses on down the sidewalk, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. It’s cold out, but just barely. The wind nips at him here and there, but it feels nice. A reminder that he’s flesh and blood and real and alive. He passes by shops that are both closed and open, some of them dark and some of them lit up, calling to him to stop and rest and drink more or eat or do anything that wasn’t argue with his sister.

“I’ll call Emily,” Xavier finally says. “You know last time I tried to send her a gift card she yelled at me for like an hour.”

“It was an Amazon gift card.”

“The hell is wrong with Amazon?”

Xavier knows he’s going the wrong way toward home, but that doesn’t make much difference to him. He lets himself be guided, his eyes tired as they glance up at a smoggy, starless sky.

“Her boyfriend was there, by the way.”

“She has a boyfriend?” His voice goes deep and angry, reverberating from his chest. For a brief moment, when he thinks of Emily, he can only see her as the shy and awkward thirteen year old she’d been before he’d joined the military. Standing there with big, pleading eyes. You’re joining a fascist regime, she’d said and he had no idea how a thirteen year old even knew the words fascist or regime. All he’d known at thirteen was video games and comic books. But Emily had always been the smartest Wolffe. He’d envied her for that.

Only she’d turned twenty five earlier that year and he was still envious of her in a lot of different ways.

“Tanner. Which—I already know you’re going to say—”

“That’s a douchebag name.”

“He was very polite. Dad approves.” Tess says it lightly, but Xavier reads the tone. Dad approves. Dad approves because Emily is going to college and she’s going to be someone and she’s going down the right paths but most of all, Emily isn’t gay. He doesn’t detect envy or pain in Tess’ voice, but he knows if she were there, if they were in his shitty slum apartment, if they were sharing a joint together on his broken down couch, they’d both have the same expression. Defeat.

When he reaches Lark’s apartment building, he punches the code in so angrily, he thinks one of the buttons stick.

“I’ll call her.”

“And me. More often, thanks.”

It makes him smile as he passes through the lobby, the bank of mailboxes, into a dingy elevator that looks like it’ll break any day. It’d not even been functional when Lark had moved in, but he’d had such a shine of excitement on his sweaty face as they carried boxes of things up for him that Xavier couldn’t bring himself to disparage the place.

“I will,” Xavier says in a softer voice, shoulder to the wall of the elevator. It crawls higher and higher. “I love you, Tess.”

“Love you, Xavier.”

—

He tried not to make a habit out of showing up randomly. It had gone bad, once before when Xavier had opened the door to Lark’s bedroom and a woman had been asleep next to him. Even if it was a story that had made Benny laugh so hard he’d nearly pissed himself in his snipers perch, Lark hadn’t spoken to him directly for an entire week after. That had been the longest stretch of time they’d not talked since Xavier had picked him up from Kingdom headquarters two years ago.

Now, though, Xavier knows Lark will be alone.

When he sneaks into the mans bedroom and finds him laying on his back with an arm across his face, the bed is empty beside him. There’s a cast on his other arm, something slim and medical, high tech that was promoting faster healing than anything that was capable before that valuable mineral they were desperately fighting for. It sits on his stomach, which rises slowly and heavily with sleep. Xavier tries not to judge the absolute mess of Lark’s bedroom. Clothes strewn everywhere, plastic water bottles lining the dresser. He toes off his combat boots and attempts a silent approach as he crosses to the bed.

“You creep,” Lark says sleepily. His arm doesn’t move off his face. Xavier has never been able to sneak up on him before; he isn’t sure if Lark is a light sleeper by nature, or if prison had done that to him.

“Hows your arm?”

“Broken,” he replies dully, lifting the cast. Then he lets it fall back to his stomach. Xavier strips himself of his jeans and then lifts the blankets at the edge of Lark’s bed to crawl under. Despite the mess he seems to keep, his bedspread and blanket always smell of fresh laundry. Xavier settles into the bed and sighs, hands tucked underneath his head. His eyes have settled to the dark, and a cut of the outside night city light crisscrosses the ceiling. It’ll be morning in just a few hours.

“Emily has a boyfriend.”

“Okay.”

“Named Tanner.”

“She has awful taste.”

“Well, she liked you, so yeah.”

Xavier whuffs a sound when an elbow lands on his stomach. But both men snicker at least a little bit. Xavier falls asleep better, listening to Lark’s even, safe breathing directly next to him.

—

Three distinct, short whistles pull him to a complete stop at the entrance into a crumbling office building. The floor has split somewhere to his left, pipes burst and draining down into the floor below. Lights flicker a above him. Xavier slowly creeps his way into the next room. There’s a pause and then—three whistles—and—

“Fuckin’ hell, gives a note and doesn’t show—dickhead that one, should—”

“Should what?”

Benji’s rifle snaps up automatically. A red dot appears on Xavier’s chest and then immediately it skitters away and across the wall and then to the floor. Then disappears entirely when Benji thumbs it off.

Amongst all the rubble of what was once some random building, Benji looks stark and real. His uniform is gray, washed out amongst the beige and the crumbling plaster walls and yet, he is so there. His dark skin peeks at his throat, at the edges of his wrist. Benji lifts to yank his helmet off and his hair goes everywhere. Little sprouting curls that are frizzy from sweat. His gloved hand pushes strands back. His eyes are still as tired as they have looked the past three times, but they are shiny. Bright and excited and—just for Xavier. They’re staring at each other for a long moment before the mercenary takes another step into the room.

Something feels crackly and intense inside of him. Outside of him. In the air. Between them.

“Jesus,” Xavier says and laughs loudly. “Holy shit. You showed up.”

“Yeah,” Benji replies in a hoarse whisper. “Well. Yeah.”

He isn’t really sure which of them makes the first move then—even when he replays the events later for himself, in bed. On his side, an hand tucked protectively around an old wounded rib, staring at the wall and trying to memorize every small detail. That one escapes him, who had moved forward first. Maybe it was both of them, maybe the toes of their combat boots had met awkwardly and they’d nearly stumbled because of that closeness. A gap bridged in just an instant—but he will not ever forget the way Benji’s hands had slid around the plate armor he wore and held him steady in front of him.

“Yeah, well, m’here.” He mumbles it, his dark eyes up on Xavier. He has to tilt his head back just for that alone. His chin is almost touching the black vest. “You wanted that, right?”

Little bursts of energy explode inside Xavier’s fingertips, making him feel shaky all the way to his bones. He hasn’t moved at all, except that step forward. Benji’s eyes darken. They lid even further, no longer just sleepy. This close, Xavier can see a defining scar down the inner corner—he feels instantly possessive of that light brown cut, feels insane for wanting to know every single detail about it. Who did it? Are they still alive? If they are, they wont be for long.

Xavier has no idea whats happening, Benji’s fingers sliding further into his vest and pulling them a notch closer. Was this the same man who threw a gun at him? Who leaned back at the coffee shop? Who blushed when he was complimented? Xavier’s mouth dries and his throat narrows, his breathing coming out short and staccato. His eyes blink rapidly in some sort of attempt to clear.

Arousal swells in his lower stomach, pools heat down his thighs, between his hips.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Xavier says, through numb lips and a thick tongue. He has no idea why, of all things, that comes out first. It seems to unbalance Benji for a minute, but only a minute before that dark, heady look returns to his eyes. And it becomes obvious what Benji thought this rendezvous was for.

And was he wrong?

Xavier had been thinking about it. He’d been thinking near nonstop about it. He had been imagining Benji, imagining shoving the sleeves of his shirt up and kissing the inside of his forearm and kissing more places than just that. He’d imagined bending Benji over something, revealing back muscles and brown skin. He’d been thinking about Benji so much it felt like other things were being pushed out. Replaced. He closed his eyes and went to sleep, wondering when he’d hear three short whistles.

But now that he’s there, standing there, looking down at him, all Xavier can think is, I’m glad you’re okay. I was worried. Every time I’ve seen you, there’s some new injury and I’m not good at taking care of those. I’m better at shooting a gun. There’s a reason they gave me sledgehammer. I’m glad you’re okay. Jesus, I’m so glad you’re okay.

Benji’s hand moves and touches the buckle to his bulletproof vest. The click is so loud it feels like gunshots.

“Wait,” Xavier’s hand wraps around Benji’s wrist.

The rejection in those pretty, dark eyes is so immediate and so painful that Xavier has to suck in a breath because it feels similar to the crack of a rib. The wrist he holds onto is wrenched away and the space put between them feels impossibly cavernous. Benji’s face twists into blistering humiliated anger. Xavier’s stomach goes cold and hollow, the tingling in his hands getting worse, more like buzzing anxiety. He lifts them, palms up and fingers spread.

“Wait—”

“What the fuck do you want?” He tries to reach out once more and Benji swipes his arm away and out of reach. He is stumbling backward, toward the way he came. No, don’t go. “What the fuck are you—Why did you tell me to come here, then? Are you fuckin’ with me, mate? Is this some game?”

“No, I swear, I—”

“Mental fuck, I swear, if you’re tryin’ somethin’ with me—”

“I’m not,” Xavier hisses, reaching out again and snatching Benji by the bicep. His fingers curl harder than he means. He’s well aware that Benji is more within reach of his rifle than he is. That he could easily put distance between them and Xavier would be nothing but a mist of blood across the beige walls. He swallows and his breathing is short pants, his hand holding even harder as he tries not to lose this moment.

“Then what?” Benji snarls. He’s not putting up a fight to get away. That hurt in his eyes had felt worse than a knife to the gut—it hadn’t said, but I wanted to have sex and you’re taking that from me, it had said, I thought you this and now you’re making a mockery of me and Xavier hated himself for letting Benji think that. Even for a second. “I’ll break your teeth, mate, I will—”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Green,” Benji replies so quickly, spitting it so furiously, that it stuns both of them to silence. The only real sound is some continued gunfight far, far in the distance from this building. Slowly, as Benji’s cheeks start to darken, Xavier’s dimple with a giant smile. He can feel it, crinkling his eyes. His hand loosens. Benji jerks out of his grasp. He doesn’t step away.

“Don’t let that go to your head. Liked it ‘fore I ever met you.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You have that look on your face,” Benji gestures with a gloved hand. Xavier tries to make his smile smaller, or at the very least, tries for something more humble. He doesn’t think it works. Benji continues to stare at him, his jaw working. “What do you want?”

“I wanted to get to know you,” Xavier admits. “I just—I wanted to hear your voice again. And talk to you.”

“Why?” He tries not to let the suspicion in Benji’s voice hurt, but a small part of him does feel lost on that sound. He palms the back of his neck. His hair sticks to his temples, helmet flat. Xavier runs a hand back through it, feeling as it sticks up everywhere with the path of his palm. Benji stares. When he goes to say something—he isn’t sure what, because he’s not sure he could explain—Benji cuts him off.

“What’s yours then?” he asks. “Red? Black? Somethin’ scary?”

“You think I’m scary?” Xavier asks, like its a compliment, putting a hand to his chest. Benji doesn’t answer. He makes a move as if to turn and Xavier reaches out, long fingers looping around Benji’s forearm. He half expects to be shaken off. He isn’t. “I like yellow.” He thinks of Lark’s brightly bleached hair, underneath the sun. The golden lab he’d had as a kid, wiggling against him and licking his face as he howled laughing, when life still felt pure and simple and small. It was a good color. It felt like home.

“My turn, then?” Benji asks. Xavier feels worry prick along his skin. Until, “Right. What kind of music you listen to?”

“Oh man,” Xavier laughs. He slowly backs up, still holding Benji’s forearm, pulling him along. “You’re not going to like my taste in music.” His back hits the wall and he slowly slides until he’s sitting, a nod to the side to indicate Benji should do the same. He’s unsure how much time they have in the same way he is exactly aware of how little time they have. Benji hesitates, but only for a second before he turns and lets his back hit the wall. He slides until he’s sitting. His knees bent, one arm around the leg, the other resting next to him. Like a silent approval for Xavier to still be holding onto him.

—

“No, fuck no,” Xavier laughs. Benji stands in front of him, a hand outstretched to help haul him up.

“You’re having a laugh at me, right? There’s no way you’re scared of horror movies. You’re—you.”

He feels weightless as a strong arm yanks him. Xavier stumbles just a bit, pats at his ass to get plaster dust off his tac pants. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

“Man, just because I’m a mercenary doesn’t mean I can handle Pennywise the Clown. I had nightmares for weeks. I called my sister like, nightly.”

“Older or younger?”

“Older.”

Benji’s brow quirks, his smile softening. It looks nice that way. Xavier wasn’t going to pretend that Benji’s dark, mean and sometimes snide little smile wasn’t nice (or that it didn’t shake something inside him like a dog with a bone). He liked that flutter of gentleness though, the smallest hint of a softer side.

Though Benji doesn’t say it out loud, he has a feeling there’s an older sister in his life as well. Something shared between them. They had shared probably too much together, on the floor, listening to some rumbling and fighting that they should have been engaged in. Xavier worries for Benji, that his absence might be noticed, but the medic assures him there’s plenty of them. He’d called himself canon fodder and had only stopped laughing at that when he’d met Xavier’s stormy, furious expression.

“Should go now,” Benji comments, looking out the wide blasted hole in the wall. The sky is turning shades of purple and pink. The fighting will be nearly over. His job will only just be starting. When he turns back, he seems startled to find Xavier close once more. There’s only really a few inches between them. Steel toed boots scuffing once more. The crackling underneath Xavier’s skin has returned. An urge to touch so strong it feels overwhelming.

“I wanted to do more than talk,” Xavier admits, quietly. Benji’s expression becomes unreadable and that worries him, so he lifts his hand and closes it around the same bicep he’d held far too tight earlier. He worries that he might have left a bruise. He almost hopes that he has, as selfish and disturbing as that is. The physical proof of him lingering on Benji’s skin—something inside stirs at that, but he stomps it down.

“Xavier,” Benji begins. His accent makes it sound like his name ends with an ‘a’. It’s so impossibly fucking endearing.

“I mean,” he laughs. His hand slides from bicep to the back of Benji’s shoulder. “I really, really wanted to give you a hug. Sometimes, when I look at you—Jesus, all I can think about doing is hugging you. You ever meet someone who just like needs a hug?”

Then he does, wrapping an arm around Benji’s shoulders. The other goes around his lower back. Xavier pulls them nice and snug together and for a brief second images all the gear gone. He doesn’t even necessarily imagine it sexually, but the idea of intimacy is almost sexual in the way he desires it so strong.

Benji feels like he might pull away. Until he doesn’t. Until his entire body goes slack and two hands touch Xavier’s lower back. Then they’re hugging, this awkward but lingering and affectionate embrace between two enemies. Xavier pulls them tighter still, his arms briefly shaking with how hard he grips them together. He doesn’t mean to but his nose slips into Benji’s hair. He tells himself it’s just because he’s so tall compared to the medic. But it isn’t true, especially as that nose slips down the side of Benji’s face.

As it continues into the crook of Benji’s shoulder. He feels the slide of sweaty skin across his cheek. Xavier sighs contently and then inhales roughly. The hands at his lower back dig in tighter. He sighs out contently, rubbing his face harder against where shoulder meets neck.

“God, you smell amazing,” Xavier groans happily. He squeezes their bodies together once more. He tries to memorize the way Benji smells underneath smoke and war and gear. He’s too tempted to put his tongue there and feel the pulse underneath his warm skin. He’d meant it. Benji needed a hug, he just needed to feel arms around him. Xavier knew it.

Because Xavier needed it too.

An explosion goes off, far too close to them.

They shoot apart. Benji’s hands scramble across himself for his rifle, until he swears and darts for it, as it rests propped up against the wall. Xavier doesn’t reach for his own, but he sighs heavily, head rolling back on his neck. He swears he can still smell Benji, he can still feel the warmth of his body.

“That was one of mine,” Xavier explains, almost sheepishly. He reaches up for the radio on his chest and briefly switches it on.

“Motherfucker—yeah, f-fuck you! Hah! Fuck all of you cocksuckers—”

He switches it off.

“Snipers,” Xavier says, with a shrug, as if to explain.

“I’ve heard that one,” Benji says. “He scares our ground troops.”

“Ben?” he laughs as he crosses to the blown out wall. It looks out over a rubbled street. Xavier glances around outside of it. He pats around his pack on his side for the rappel. “He’s all bark, no bite. Swear. You’d like him, actually. He’s funny.”

“Xavier.” Benji’s voice stops him as he unhooks the rappel, the length of rope just enough probably to get him down to the ground. He glances up to the medic, who still stands there in the middle of the ruined office building, where they’d just talked for probably half an hour about absolutely nothing. “Are—”

He stops himself from asking the question. Xavier can guess what it is, but he doesn’t say anything as he hooks the rappel onto the ground, as secure as he can get it. He fights the urge to glance up, to take in Benji’s oddly vulnerable expression. Are. Are.

Are you going to want to see me again?

“Well, be fuckin’ careful, alright? We’re on the third story.” Benji’s voice is gruff and close. Xavier looks up as he positions himself to rappel down. He stands there, right at the edge and Xavier has to resist the urge to shove him back in, toward safety. Open area always meant danger. Instead, they both just look at each other, Benji staring down, and Xavier staring up.

“Soon you soon,” Xavier says and winks before he launches himself out the building.

#writing #valorant au #xw #bp #xw x bp

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sanctum-of-ramshackle · 1 year

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Continuous adventures of the MC/Yuu variants #2

[Synopsis]: More shenanigans with the various types of MC/Yuu

[Valorant x TWST: Agent Deadeye, Agent Yami, and Agent S.Wift]

MC/Yuu Kiritani: What…

MC/Yuu Fabron: The…

[Points their guns at each other.]

MC/Yuu Kiritani: Why are you me? Who sent you?

MC/Yuu Fabron: Nobody. Why are you copying Riftwalker’s style? You seem…Tacky, as the word I’m implying.

MC/Yuu Kiritani: Excuse you! Why are you wearing clothes like that French bastard?

MC/Yuu Fabron: Don’t demean my brother like that.

MC/Yuu Kiritani: BROTHER?!

Miyeon: *Watching the two Valorant MC/Yuu variants fighting*

Deuce: Should we stop them?

Miyeon: Not yet. This is fun watching two different variants from the “same” universe.

[During towards the end of the Glorious Masquerade Event]

Agent!MC/Yuu: Now this is my kind of fight. *Summons their Tour de Force 2.0 out*

Deuce: Woah, wait! Don’t shoot-

Agent!MC/Yuu: *Shoots at Rollo*

Rollo: *Knocks over unconscious*

Deuce: MC/Yuu!

Agent!MC/Yuu: What? It’s not bullets this time. I came up with tranquilizing pellets. In forms of ammunition.

[Ramshackle]

MC/Yuu Han: You.

MC/Yuu Fabron: Merde.

MC/Yuu Han: I remember you from last time. You barely shot my ass. Luckily, you missed.

MC/Yuu Fabron: I never miss. You just run away like a little scared child.

MC/Yuu Han: *Scoffs* How old do you think I am?

MC/Yuu Fabron: Same age as me?

MC/Yuu Han: Really? You look like you’re in your mid-30s.

MC/Yuu Fabron: I beg your pardon. When we return to our respective worlds, I would be one to take you out.

MC/Yuu Han: *Scoffs* When you return to your world, tell your Jett it’s her fault for the Venice incident. Thanks to her, my sister is accused for something she never committed.

[Self-Aware AU x TWST: Gamer MC/Yuu/[Y/N]]

MC/Yuu/[Y/N]: *Almost losing a round on Apex*

[lsr69no]: Haha! If you’re female, moan on the mic!

MC/Yuu/[Y/N]: Why? You can’t hear your mama moan anymore? That’s gross!

[lsr69no]: Shut up!

MC/Yuu/[Y/N]: Thought so! *Instant kill the other player* Sicko mode.

MC/Yuu/[Y/N]: Fuckin’ creep.

[The First Year gang were watching the whole game on the phone stand.]

Ace: *Wheezing from laughter*

MC/Yuu/[Y/N]: Ace? You good?

Deuce: He was laughing when you were roasting the other player.

MC/Yuu/[Y/N]: Oh, I thought he was dying. Wait, can you guys die?

Jack: I don’t think so. Unless you delete our coding.

MC/Yuu/[Y/N]: True, but I’m not that kind of genius.

Ortho: I can ask Nii-san.

MC/Yuu/[Y/N]: …

The rest of the gang: …

MC/Yuu/[Y/N]: …Were you watching the whole time?

Ortho: I was!

MC/Yuu/[Y/N]: Please don’t tell your brother from what I said and what the idiot commented during the game.

Ortho: Understand! I won’t break the promise.

[SCP-TWST-2020: Dr. MC/Yuu (SCP!MC/Yuu)]

[Dr. MC/Yuu’s Laboratory/Office]

SCP!MC/Yuu: *Experimenting with SCP-387*

Azul: Good morning, Dr. MC/Yuu.

SCP!MC/Yuu: Oh! You came just in time. I need you to participate in an experiment involving SCP-387.

Azul: Dr. MC/Yuu, I’m afraid I cannot be involved with your work as last time I was here, your Knotty Stalkers almost killed me.

SCP!MC/Yuu: Right, sorry. It confirms no matter what dimension you’re from, you still get affected by the Knotty Stalker.

Azul: *Shivers from the trauma* I cannot forget their beady eyes.

SCP!MC/Yuu: I promise this Safe Class object won’t kill you. It’s just Lego pieces that become sentient after pulling them out of the box and building some parts together with bare contact.

Azul: (c" ತ,_ತ) …

SCP!MC/Yuu: …Fine. I’ll sign a deal with you. A visit to SCP-267 but I’m monitoring since it’s dangerous by surprising items.

SCP!MC/Yuu: Uhh…Azul? Why did you construct the entire ocean in my lab?

Azul: *Just finished building a statue of the Sea Witch* …I enjoyed the experiment.

SCP!MC/Yuu: *Snaps an image of the whole ocean diorama for logging records* This is a success for today’s experiment. Let’s clean before something happens.

✨[Reblogging helps creators and creates more content.]💫

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geckogwumi · 10 months

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The overexposure of dimensional manipulation takes a toll on the human body. The first stages of these damages are wounds that glow blue. These tend to be invisible to the naked eye, but as they cut deeper, they become visible to others. These wounds will eventually close back up when given a break from using powers.

However, if the radiant does not take it as a sign to take a break from using their powers, then the rift slowly takes over a limb, starting from the fingertips/toes. Tactile senses are nearly gone. The affect limb not only throbs with intense pain but also has a lower pain tolerance. These effects are seen to be irreversible. It is advised to completely retire from using their power.

There are no recorded cases of the further deteriation of the human body from such. However, olden tales have described riftwalkers to eventually turn into dimensional entities. The human body quite literally turns into a vessel for dimensional rifts. People have once attempted to call out its name, but it seems to remember nothing of its human life. Its humanity has been completely eradicated.

#yoru valorant #my art #digital art #art #fanart #valorant #valorant fanart #drawing #sketch #valorant yoru #valorant hc #valorant au #this was drawn on my phone im cryin

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shern-illustrates · 2 years

Photo

college au killjoy doodle!!

#valorant #valorant art #valorant killjoy #killjoy #valorant agents #valorant au #valorant fanart #valorant fan #artists on tumblr #fan art #valorant imagines #killjoy art #college au #anime #art #illustration #illustrators on tumblr

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flarebean · 2 years

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now im thinking about an au where kay/o has a horrible terrible no good bad day because for some mysterious plot reason he gets blasted with a ✨become a human✨ ray and he's like.

what.

you turned me into a human.

and whoever was responsible for it is like,,,, ahaha,,, uh,,,,

(they do not mention how his heart and blood glow very faintly)

so he's like 'how am i supposed to use my gear now' and makes a throwing knife motion, and the zero/point knife appears and thunks solidly into the floor and suppresses everyone in the room and he stares at it for a solid 20 seconds, and then he's like

you turned me into a RADIANT

anyway he has a small crisis and at some point considers engaging his destroyed-body backup routine to restore the last saved backup of... himself? kay/o? before... this. happened. and destroying the... biological form. because it's not meant to be like that. it's not right. it's not. he can't be.

he doesn't end up doing it but he does spend a lot of time looking very forlorn and lost

more excitingly, he gets to experience scent and taste for the first time EVER because he didn't have any form of olfactory sensors as a robot. he tries everyone's comfort foods. he learns to cook while he can scent things. he hangs out in the garden for a while. he has fancy tea and coffee and hot chocolate.

he pets the fluffy blankets the other agents swear by just to see what they're all on about. he does some exercise and is rather perplexed yet unsurprised by how his legs burn when he runs his usual distance. he burns his hands a few times because he forgets he isn't immune to temperatures. he spends really long in the shower wondering why it feels especially soothing, when it's just warm water.

there is a short discussion with reyna about whether killing him and, if possible, repeating the humanizing process would create a soul. they do not explore this. he does not want to die.

neon gets to be the bigger friend for once (not literally he is still as tall as ever) and help him acclimatize to the whole human thing while killjoy is making a reversal solution, and probably struggling a bit because 10/10 'become a human' is definitely some whackadoodle borderline magic thing

he has a very awkward talk with sova, who he trusts to tell him awkward things

omen pushes a huge sweater into his hands that he'd been working on for a while but never really had the opportunity to give. this is nice, as he'd been going around in some of brim's bigger wardrobe pieces like flimsy crop tops. he also gives him a plushie. he's very confused by this but appreciates it, and absolutely cannot stop petting it absentmindedly if he's got it nearby.

#valorant #kay/o #valorant kay/o #valorant au

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valdaycare-au · 7 months

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Welcome to Little Wonders Daycare!

We are a small daycare center run by caring and hardworking individuals prepared to provide for your child’s needs! Meet our dependable crew of babysitters who will do their all to make sure your adorable little wonder is taken care of! To get to know more about them, here are brief descriptions of the sitters written by themselves to serve as testimonials. (You may ask Sasha Novikov or Vincent Fabron at the help desk if you want to request a specific sitter for your child. We also do home service babysitting!)

Interested? Please contact us at 1-800-WONDERS or reach out to us via email at littlewondersDC(at)gmail.com! (Not a real email.)

See you soon with our little wonders!

(This blog is run by @domiiiq312 [made the amazing visuals] and @stellaris-archivum [who was in charge of the writing!])

#daycareval #daycareval-comic #daycareval-story #daycareval-sage #daycareval-skye #daycareval-chamber #daycareval-sova #daycareval-gekko #valorant #valorant sage #valorant skye #valorant sova #valorant chamber #valorant gekko #valorant art #valorant fanart #valorant au #daycare au

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taforiejosy · 11 days

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Somber hands as a therapy 🏹💙💛🥖

#valorant #valorant art #valorant au #valorant sova #sova #valorant chamber #chamber #valorant somber #somber #digital art #art #artwork #doodle #krita

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stinglikeabee1 · 1 year

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ACADEMY AU! YORUNIX!!!!

#yorunix #yoru valorant #valorant #valorant au #valorant academy au #jamie adeyemi #ryo kiritani #phoenix valorant

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auideas · 2 years

Note

hello can you give me some ideas of an au, like a YouTuber au?

Love it! To give it a little more applicability, let’s expand it to influencers and content creators in general:

(Please note that while we encourage writing fanfiction, please write about the characters that influencers may portray and not the people themselves as many have not consented.)

Moving can be a stressful enough situation as it is, but that’s only made worse by Character B’s new next door neighbor (Character A) who (for some godforsaken reason) keeps yelling “BLUE IS SUS” at all hours of the night. The noise is bad enough, but it’s like they already hated them or something. This whole situation is made just a bit worse when out of the blue (pun intended), Character A knocks on Character B’s door and basically demands to film a vlog in their apartment because it was “cleaner” and they “had a bunch of plants which proved they were responsible.” Even IF Character B somehow agrees to let them film over at their place JUST THIS ONCE, that had to be the end of it...right?

Character B has been a chronic “mod hopper,” jumping from one streamer’s moderating team to another streamer’s moderating team and so on and so forth. It seemed like their hopping days were over when they found a particularly small streamer (Character A) whose community just felt like home. Two years later, the previously small streamer seems to have exploded in popularity, competing with some of the greats of the greats. All was well and good until one fateful night: Character B was doing some online shopping while their streamer’s eventful game of Valorant played in the background when Character B pasted their own address into the shipping box and hit enter. Puzzled, they looked at the screen; the boxes were still blank. They trailed their mouse over to their other monitor and realized in horror that they’d pasted their address in their streamer’s chat to almost 70,000 viewers. TL;DR -- Character A comes to Character B’s rescue and fends off their overexuberant fans.

Being abroad in April 2020 was supposed to be fun, but it really just wound up with Character B being stuck in a hotel (where they didn’t speak the language) for quarantine for an indefinite period. They had everything they needed, so it wouldn’t have been the end of the world...that is, until the hotel became overbooked and they stuck an influencer (Character A) in their room, citing it as an emergency measure. Oh, there'd be an emergency alright, especially if Character A didn't stop filming live shows at 3 AM two feet away from Character B's face.

There’s a recent adage that says “when the world ends, everyone will record it on their phone.” And, well, there may be some truth to that, even if there’s a little twist. Character A (a YouTuber well-known for their cinematography, drone shots, and vlogging expertise) and Character B (a research facility assistant) attempt to navigate the apocalypse and accurately record the last moments of humanity.

Being an influencer made Character A some decent money, but not enough to compete with inflation. So, as a bit of a side gig, they decide to post some...racey content...on a specific site (with their face cropped out, of course). Their new partner (Character B) knows about their side gig and supports them, so it’s never really been a problem...that is, until Character A comes over to meet Character B’s parents and both seem to blush way, way too much. It’s almost like they recognize Character A from...not their face?

IT support at a popular tech outlet certainly isn’t very glamorous, but Character B really just does it for the paycheck and employee discounts (having a massive rig at home doesn’t exactly pay for itself). One day, this person (Character A) comes in and asks for IT support on their rig which seems to be on the fritz. After helping them fix their problem, Character A goes on their way...only to come back the next day with another issue. And the next. And the next. It’s gotten so bad that Character B just gives in: “okay, you having to drive out here every time you have an issue is driving me up the wall. Just, take my cell number and text me if there’s a problem, okay? We can FaceTime and I can walk you through it. Saves a ton of hassle.” Character A practically beams and saunters out of the store. Less than 5 seconds later, a text appears on Character B’s phone: “I think I may be broken; would you mind turning me off and on again sometime?”

Character B makes a living as an ethical hacker, testing larger company’s firewalls, running security checks, etc. On the down low, though, they offer some other slightly darker services. One that they’ve been hired to do repeatedly was to hack another person’s device and delete a recently sent message, either from text, email, apps, etc. On Tuesday night, they get a message from their page from a throwaway account asking them to do just that: delete a snapchat that was sent to the wrong person. This seemed like an easy enough task, but as soon as they saw the information attached, they realized the truth: the throwaway account was their best friend’s partner, Character A, who had accidentally sent a snapchat that admitted Character A had cheated on Character B’s best friend. This would seem like a fairly normal situation, but Character A had 10 million followers...so, what chaos can be wrought?

Character A knows better than anyone that being an ASMRtist isn’t all it’s wrapped up to be. The hours are long, the work can be exhausting, and you feel like a therapist a lot of the time. To try and help themselves feel better, Character A decides to do some research into how they can better relax. They come across cuddle therapy and they’re intrigued; after all, it’s basically ASMR but with touch, not sound, right?

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hauntedjpegcollection · 2 months

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outside

wc: 8596 au: valorant au ch: lark, crowley, xavier

Diana Crowley’s mother had once told her that high heels were a womans best kept weapon. Not in practicality; she had never expected her daughter would need to use one to puncture a man’s throat, or defend herself against a mugging in an alley and to Crowley’s credit, she’d just use her pistol in that case. She brought guns to knife fights—her father had given her that tidbit of life advice.

But there was some sort of credence to her mothers words and she’d ruined her arches by the time she was in her early twenties. Crowley still wore heels and they echo loudly in the prison hallway, snappy clacks that clearly annoyed the correctional officer in front of her. The tiled floor underneath every sharp staccato beat is shockingly clean. Not nearly as grimy as her playful imagination had made it on the car ride here. Crowley doesn’t visit prisons often, not that her quarry weren’t often in some sort of cell that needed unlocking.

She had people to do this for her, usually. People, she found—not from her mother or father but rather herself—were also a womans best kept weapon.

That’s why Eric King struggles to keep pace with her, as they are escorted to a secure holding room. He’s not a short man, but she’s not a short woman either. And in her heels, she’s the same height as him. Sometimes, she’s even an inch taller when he slouches, which Eric is often fond of doing. His posture’s not her concern—Eric is good protection if things were to go wrong and Crowley did not go anywhere without protection.

The officer stops in front of a plain, oak door with a small viewing window. She peers in, with a curious tilt of her chin. Two men sit inside, one of them in the obvious orange jumpsuit of an incarcerated individual and the other in the business suit of a very obvious lawyer.

“You’re coming in with us?” Eric asks, gesturing toward the correctional officer. He has a night stick on his waist, but no gun. Crowley had read in a report that Daisuke Tanaka should not be within two hundred feet of a gun—she wonders if that means he doesn’t get outside time, since the only correctional officers that have rifles are the ones patrolling perimeters. Is he allowed sanctioned, special time to meander the lonely dirt lot outside the facility? Or has he not seen the sun for a very long time?

Not for the first time does she wish she had more information. But buying Tanaka from the private prison was going to be costly enough; they were holding their cards tightly, just in case she didn’t bite. Crowley already knew she was going to, but that didn’t mean they had to know that yet.

“’Course. Dangerous, that one.” The officer indicates the door with a jerk of his head.

Crowley doesn’t mind making Tanaka and his lawyer wait, so she indulges this for a moment.

“Is he allowed in general population?” She watches the officer suck his teeth and tilt his head. He’s not much taller than her either, thanks to those heels. He glances her over, not shy in staring her down in either appreciation or disgust. Maybe both. Men that worked in prisons were not much different than police officers in the sense that they often felt very entitled to stare at a woman. And pass judgment.

“Started out in isolation for a while. Long while. Integrated a year back. We’re testing waters.”

“Because he’s dangerous?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The officer sucks his teeth again, rocks on his heels, smiles at her nice and wide. He has very white and very straight teeth that look fake. “And, you know. There was some fuss about it all. Him being what he is. If he were in gen-pop, his lawyer said he’d get jumped.”

“Because he’s a radiant,” Eric drawls with a condescending curl to his lip. “Or because he’s transgender?”

Crowley tilts her head and smiles her own very white and very fake teeth. Veneers. Weapons. Etc. The officer stares at Eric for a long moment and then looks to her, as she continues smiling. The skin at the corners of his eyes goes very tight. He does not humor Eric with a reply and instead turns to the door and thrusts it open.

—

After introductions with the lawyer—Jeremy Pool, a rather well known criminal defense attorney—there is nothing for them to do but stare at each other for a long while. Eric sits beside Crowley, the large (undoubtedly, two way) mirror to their backs. His knee moves in a steady rhythm that one might think is from nerves, but she knows is from electricity building up underneath his skin. Crowley sits the way she always does, which is with one leg crossed over the other and her hands forming a small, meditative triangle in her lap. It was a ritualistic sort of thing she did, made her shoulders look broader and her collarbone more prominent.

Tanaka is not baited by a woman in his presence. Though she’d combed his records and found no visitors, Crowley wonders if she is the first he’s seen in his three years of incarceration. She spares a thought to female correctional officers or medical staff; plain, boring or unsightly. No matter the tight skirt or her square neckline and the dainty thin gold necklace, the prisoner only stares at his own cuffed hands.

Crowley had expected him to be more intimidating. Not that it would work on her, but she expected more. A presence that would fill the room, something bordering on terrifying or wicked. Worthy of the money she would be spending. Instead, he sits there, looking average, if not a bit underwhelming. Not necessarily in size, although he is not large. Slim and short, lacking in the bulk people picture when they think of a criminal. He has a smattering of tattoos she can see on his hands, forearm, one underneath an ear. His hair is shaved down tight, more for economical reasons than looks, she thinks.

“Would you like water, Mr. Tanaka?” Crowley begins, waving a dismissive hand to Eric. He begins to stand from the chair, buttoning his suit jacket as he straightens. She’d always liked that about him, that he knew when a suit jacket was meant to be buttoned or unbuttoned. He’s barely out of the chair to move to the door, to find the vending machines they’d passed, when Tanaka speaks.

“What do you want?”

When he finally looks at her, his eyes are two black holes surrounded by sleepless rings of purple. The weight behind them feels instantly like two hands around her throat, cold and gentle in their warning. A thumb grazing the column of his neck, looking for the pulse. Eric stops moving, half in his chair and half out. She catches his hands twitching. Crowley gestures for him to sit back down and though it takes a moment, he finally does. He unbuttons his suit jacket. His knee continues shaking.

“Didn’t Mr. Pool speak to you before we came?”

“He says you can reduce my sentence.”

“I said they could try,” Pool quickly interjects. He sits the way a good criminal defense attorney does; slightly tilted toward Tanaka, one hand on the table, the other on the back of his chair. He glances between all three of them several times, a roaming watchful eye. Even occasionally over the back of his shoulder to the correctional officer standing in front of the door. He wears an expensive navy suit and there is a band of paler skin around his wrist where a watch must usually sit.

“Not necessarily,” Crowley unfolds her legs, just to refold them in another direction. Tanaka stares only at her face, his eyes unwaveringly still. Three years of federal prison had made him very different from the mug shot she had studied before this meeting. He’d had more fat to his cheeks, a terrified shine over his eyes. Dents in his lips from how hard he’d bitten them, likely to keep from crying or stem the tears that had already started. There’s really no hint of that young, dumb innocence anymore.

She reaches toward Eric and he meets her halfway, with the manila folder she’d brought with them.

“You’re in prison for arson, but theft was your passion, am I correct?”

“Don’t answer that,” Pool says quickly.

“I suspect you were the reason most of those robberies went so well?” Crowley flicks open the folder. “I paid to have your juvenile records exhumed for me. Breaking and entering at age fifteen, grand theft auto at sixteen, assault with a deadly weapon at eighteen—that was your first stint in jail?”

“What,” Tanaka says quietly, leaning over the table in a way that makes the correctional officer step closer, that makes the lawyer scoot backward, that makes Eric’s twitching knee stop. “Do you want?”

“I think,” Crowley says slowly, closing the folder. “It’s not what I want, it’s what I have. Which is money—and considering this—” she taps a finger on the folder. Underneath is the mug shot, that terrified boy who died somewhere in the last three years. “It seems like you understand money very well.”

“Money is not solving Elias’ problem,” Pool laughs, condescending and snide. “A work release program—sure. I know the government is trying to collect more of those…like my client. More—what he is—We can work with that.”

“I don’t work for the government,” Crowley purrs. She lifts a hand and feels across her hair for the bobby pin keeping strays from her face. When she slides it out, strands of black and gray hair fall across her eyes. A small swipe of her hand tucks them behind her ear. Tanaka follows the movement like starved animal, the only hint that something in him is breaking. Crowley holds the bobby pin up, as if it were some sort of key. Maybe it is.

“I work for Kingdom.” Crowley puts the bobby pin on the table and slides it across. “Could you demonstrate?”

“Absolutely not,” Pool seethes, reaching for the pin. Tanaka’s hand is a blur, closing over top of it. His tattoos are fine and small, all over his knuckles, across the back of his hand and up his forearm.

“Elias, I cannot advise you enough to not do what you are thinking of doing.”

Tanaka doesn’t listen. Instead, he slides his hand to himself and turns his palm upward to look at the slim, black bobby pin. A key.

“Alright, enough,” the correctional officer drawls. He steps forward and Eric stands.

Despite all those moving parts; the lawyer, the officer, the other radiant, Crowley herself, Tanaka simply takes the pin and straightens it in his slender, pale, tattooed fingers.

“I said enough, Tanaka—” But when he reaches for the inmate, Eric moves around the table. Tanaka manipulates the pin, jabbing it into the keyhole of the silver cuffs on his wrists. There are familiar red marks on his skin from the chafe of metal. Three years of captivity and correctional officers and these white washed concrete walls. Crowley watches, with rising anticipation sliding along her spine.

Eric is fast, his hand securing at the apex of shoulder and neck. The guard grunts and then twitches all over as electricity crackles underneath Eric’s broad palm. His eyes roll back, jaw slack, his giant body folding backward like a puppet with strings severed. Jeremy Pool makes a shocked and horrified sound as the guard crumples to the floor, still trembling. Eric’s hand stays in the air, little bits of white energy raining down like sparks.

And then the cuffs make a small clinking sound and Tanaka raises his hands out of them.

“That took longer than I thought it would,” Crowley comments.

“Plenty of people pick locks,” Tanaka says quietly. “You wanted to piss off Duart. So he’d have an excuse to put him down—and so I’d know he’s dangerous.” He gestures with his chin to Eric, who finally lets his hand drop to his side. The lawyer still stares, with wide, disbelieving eyes that dart between them all. He unfortunately lives in a realm of legal and illegal. He should know better, but he doesn’t.

“You’re very clever,” Crowley comments, tilting her head in a way that makes more hair fall free. Tanaka’s eyes flicker there and then back down to his hands and then up once more. “I wouldn’t be negotiating for a sentence reduction. Or a work release program, though you will be working. For Kingdom. It wouldn’t even be a negotiation. Just a transfer of funds from our accounts to the prisons. You’ll have all the civil liberties of a free man, I can assure you.”

There is an almost imperceptible change in Tanaka’s breathing. A harsh, quick inhale through his nose.

“I’d just like another demonstration is all. Now that it’s just friends in the room.”

“Elias—don’t—”

Crowley blinks when Tanaka disappears from in front of her. The bobby pin sits on the table, as do the cuffs. Her heart tumbles in her chest for a moment, unsteady and out of balance—and then she slowly tilts her head to the side, one eye glancing up to find him behind her.

“What do you need me to do?”

—

“We already have teleporters,” Eric comments, eyes down on his phone. His tone is bored, but his body language is severe and tight. Crowley barely spares him a glance. Her eyes are drawn forward, through the glass. It muffles all sounds, a bundle of people behind them speaking softly to one another, a phone call being made.

Daisuke—Elias?—Tanaka has barely broken a sweat, his arms and legs pumping in easy rhythm as he runs on the treadmill. A duo of nurses stand on either side, one of them with a tablet while the other monitors vitals on a desktop. She’s unsure how long he’s been running for, but it’s felt like close to half an hour.

He’s changed from the orange jumpsuit, into clothes she’d found in a training room down the hall. Ironically, despite what he is, Tanaka looks more human in the dark charcoal joggers and the black cotton shirt. Something about the movement of his body brings him alive, a flush to his face, an expression that is so close to a smile.

“Mm,” Crowley hums when she feels Eric’s eyes boring into her.

“And plenty of people that can run fast.”

“That’s true.”

“Is there a reason we just spent an entire quarters budget on this?” Eric waves a hand toward the glass. This. That. A person, or a thing?

“Did you know,” Crowley sighs, tucking an arm around her ribs, her other hand cupping her cheek. She continues to watch Tanaka as the treadmill’s incline changes. He adjusts naturally, with no decline in speed. “That your chance of being assaulted in prison goes up by seventy-five percent when you are only a week away from your release date?”

Eric says nothing to that.

“I’m lead to believe that the reason is—I’m sure you can guess. Jealousy, naturally? That is the human condition explained, in one easy word. Jealousy. So, a group of inmates that are in for life, who are free from consequences because there’s nothing that will ever be worse than a life in prison—they conspire together to assault a man a week away from freedom.

And that man has to make a choice. He will either lay down and take it so as not to risk his release date, or he will fight back. On one hand, you walk out of prison free, but probably with something broken. Maybe not even something visibly broken, but I’m sure no one’s necessarily normal after being dragged into a closet and beaten by four or five men. How do you live normally after that? Curious—but, I suppose it’s the second option we’re to consider.”

The treadmill slows as Tanaka paces himself to a cool down walk. His eyes are forward, feverish and bright.

“If you fight back, you save yourself from injury—or worse. But, time is added onto your sentence. Your week before release becomes a month. Or months. Or a year—or years. Depending on how much you fought back, maybe. How bad it all was.” Crowley tilts her head to smile at Eric. “And which option do you think Mr. Tanaka went with?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

“So, you’re right,” Crowley sighs, turning away from the window. Away from her investment. She leans back against it, arms crossed under her breasts. She continues smiling. “We have teleporters, or people who run fast—we have people that can light things on fire or create toxins or—whatever the fuck these people do. But, we are lacking, fundamentally, in desperation. People who are going to do what we tell them to do, because the only other option is something so horrible there aren’t any choices.”

Eric’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he swipes a hand back through his dark, curly hair.

“Jesus, Crowley. You are something.” Something so horrible, she assumes.

“I’m going to give him to Wolffe.”

“That fucking idiot?” Eric groans, eyes rolling toward the ceiling.

“Trust me.” Crowley steps forward and smooths a hand over Eric’s chest, watching his expression flit to satisfaction—and wariness. “I know what I’m doing.”

—

Xavier Wolffe is insane.

“Fuck you! I’ll kill you, asshole!” He screams, half out the window of car. “Fuck your mother! Prick!” He continues, yelling at the car that zips in front of them, that weaves around night time traffic. Xavier had been driving fairly similar, but seems to appreciate being cut off by another driver less. Lark has no idea what else to do but sit there and stare. One of his hands keeps running up and down his own thigh—the sensation of denim feels so out of place. It tingles underneath his palm, gloriously rough. He’d not been prepared for how things would feel.

The cotton shirt, the overly large jacket swallowing him up. Lark had not remembered his sizing for normal clothes, so the jeans are too tight and the tops are too loose. He was thankful for what he’d been given though; the shirt, jacket, jeans and sneakers are the only things he currently owns. And even that feels miraculous. Unearthly.

“I can’t fucking stand out-of-staters,” Xavier growls as he settles himself back into the drivers seat. Lark’s hand stills on his thigh, suddenly scared he might get caught. Doing what? What even was he doing? He tries to remember how to sit casually, but almost every muscle is tensed in a way he can’t unclench.

Xavier is big. Big. When he’d stood in front of Lark, he’d taken up so much space that a step back was necessary to see all of him. And he was so obviously dangerous it felt maddening that no one else seemed to notice. Xavier prowled when he walked them to the car, and though he’d been smiling and making off handed jokes and comments, his eyes had swept back and forth. Clean sweep of the environment. Danger assessment.

Xavier’s scary. Lark’s sense of survival makes his ears ring. He does not like being in a car with Xavier, but what else is he supposed to do? Say no? Lark’s simply not sure what he’s allowed to do and what he isn’t allowed to do. He isn’t aware of the rules outside.

“Where are we going?” he finally asks, shoving his hands into the pockets of his new jacket so that he’ll stop feeling idiotically mesmerized by textures.

“Well,” Xavier drawls the word out happily. “I know they got you out a couple days ago and all—but this is like your first day out, right? I thought we could celebrate.”

“Celebrate?” The suspicion in his voice is more icy than he means it to be. Lark realizes that he isn’t sure how else to talk; if he could make his voice less harsh.

“Yeah, dude, celebrate. Like—I dunno, consider this a welcome party, alright? Welcome to Kingdom.” Xavier, despite how off putting Lark knows he is, does not seem at all daunted. In fact, he leans his head to the side, till his cheek is squished against his shoulder, giving Lark a big, dopey smile. “You should have fun, man. I’ll make sure we have fun.”

Lark does not trust Xavier at all.

—

The alley behind the club is dank and disgusting—and the smell is overwhelming. Lark has to keep the sleeve of his jacket underneath his nose because fuck, when was the last time he’d smelled this? What even was this? A dumpster nearby leaks an oozing, black liquid. A puddle just a few steps away is brown, viscous on top. There are cigarette butts everywhere and a barely flickering light.

Lark stares at Xavier with flat, annoyed eyes.

Music pours out of the building. A loud, thumping sensation that makes Lark’s heart beat feel irregular. If it’s this loud, with the barrier of walls, he can’t imagine how it sounds inside. His throat feels tight and narrow, his mouth dry at the thought of inside. He’d only just gotten out, he didn’t want to be inside anywhere anymore. He wants to stand in an open field and scream and run in circles and throw himself onto grass and roll around and cry—he mostly wanted to cry. A lot.

Instead, the door finally cracks open and just as Lark suspects, the noise is immediate.

“You,” the bouncer snarls, with an angry glare at Xavier. He’s tall, but not tall like Xavier. He fills out a tight black shirt with the word SECURITY stamped across it. Lark cannot decide if he’s good looking or not, because his entire body thrums with the sudden fear of the unknown. He does not know this man. He barely knows Xavier. He barely knows whats going on.

“You’ve so much fucking nerve, Wolffe.”

“Aw, man, c’mon.”

“Don’t ‘aw man’ me. What do you want?”

“It’s my friends birthday,” Xavier lies, stepping behind Lark. He puts big hands on his shoulders. Lark’s entire body protests the sudden intimacy of touch. He feels a broiling underneath his skin, a wave of nausea and longing and disgust and annoyance. But his face must remain placid, because the bouncer merely looks at him blankly.

“So?”

“Desmond,” Xavier’s voice turns sultry and low and makes Lark shiver at the sensation of it behind him. The night speeds along at a current he cannot grasp and it continues scaring him. He watches the giant red head slip forward, the same broad hands that had been on his shoulders now snaking their way around the bouncers hips. Lark feels invasive to witness one of Xavier’s pale thumbs encroach underneath the black shirt and touch dark skin. “You’re still mad at me?”

“If I let you in and you start a fight, I’ll kill you. Just so you know.”

“You’re so hot, you know that?”

Lark clears his throat, his cheeks painful and hot, his skin tight all over. He stares at the puddle of…whatever. His shoulders are so tense that it’s starting to hurt.

“Fine,” Desmond the bouncer finally snaps. He shoves the door open wider. “I’m serious—no fighting. I’m serious.” Xavier places a wet sounding kiss to the mans cheek, his hand wrapping around Lark’s wrist to fully tug him in. As he passes through the door frame, Desmond stares down at him, with curious eyes. Lark can’t stand being looked at like that (or at all), so a shaky hand slides the hood of his jacket up.

And then they’re inside the club.

—

Sometimes, Lark wonders if three years had felt so long just because he was inside. How much of the world could have changed in three years? How much could have happened that he’d not been part of? Would it have made any difference if he’d been there? What movies were out, what was his ex girlfriend doing, where was his sister? Was he out of touch with slang?

Was he out of touch with music?

He doesn’t recognize any of the songs, which makes him feel so oddly lost. Not that it’s Lark’s genre to begin with. This is fast tempo club music, two songs mixed into one, with too may hi hats and too much beat. It’s music for people to dance to, when dancing doesn’t matter so much as moving your body in time with another person. Lark’s still panicked, listening to the music as it shifts from one song to the next, trying desperately to find a song he remembers at all.

Lark had been allowed CD’s in prison. Not many, but a few. Good boy behavior. Sometimes, having things only invited people to want to take, though. He’d had to hide them more often than actually listen to them.

“What do you drink?” Xavier yells into his ear. “Beer? Cocktails? What’s your poison man?”

Money, Lark thinks instinctively. I don’t have any money.

“I can’t,” he yells back. Xavier tilts his head. For some reason, it’s like the motion of a curious puppy. Like all the layers of something scary had suddenly been stripped away from Xavier, underneath the clubs lights and the music. He smiles and it doesn’t look as terrifying anymore. Just white shiny teeth and big, pretty green eyes. Lark is stunned by how attractive he is, that realization sudden and dizzying. Lark’s not been attracted to anything but his own fucking hand for three years.

“I don’t have any way to pay for it,” he turns his pockets inside out, playfully. Trying for a joke, trying to smile. He isn’t sure if he actually does or not.

“Oh, dude,” Xavier laughs loudly, slinging both arms around Lark’s shoulders, pulling him in so close it’s nearly a hug. Lark’s stomach twists and turns. He can’t remember the last hug he’d gotten—who had it been from? Eliza? No. He couldn’t think of her anymore. “I’ll get us free drinks, don’t worry.”

—

And he does. He gets them too many free drinks.

Lark would have been drunk off of just one; but he doesn’t stop at just one. When Xavier places a cool beer bottle into his hand, it feels like something untwists inside him. Something releases, some worry or fear finally slowly dissipates, or is replaced instead by substance. It pushes everything out and that feels glorious. That feels beautiful. Lark realizes halfway through the third one, where he is.

A club. Outside. Around people. He’s not inside. He is not going to sleep inside a cell tonight. There are no guards, there are no other prisoners, no lawyers, or judges. Mania sets in almost immediately, like a creature that’s finally chewed it’s leg free of a trap. Lark takes the next beer—and the next. He laughs, one arm around Xavier’s slim torso, letting himself be pulled into the writhing mass of bodies dancing to songs that were released and remixed during years he spent incarcerated.

He doesn’t decline the drugs when they’re offered to him, when they make their way into a small, dark corner of the club. The ground is sticky beneath their feet. His new sneakers have perfect tread; it’s such a bizarre thought to have as he stares down at them. Everything is bleary and smeared together and his head feels stuffy. His hands don’t feel attached as they hold Xavier’s waist. He holds someones waist—he touches someone, he feels the warmth of their body radiating into his palms. He glances up as Xavier takes a small baggie and squeezes it to pour a shaky line on the back of his phone.

“Only one for you,” Xavier says, his voice rich and warm and gorgeous. He has freckles all over him. Lark hadn’t even noticed them because he’d been so scared staring at him. He has freckles on his neck, even. They disappear into his fiery hairline. “Okay, put your finger—like that. And—don’t laugh. Lark, don’t laugh.”

“I’m not,” he giggles, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not. I—” He is, though. He’s laughing, because it feels so good. Outside—he is outside. Not…not technically, but it’s outside the way prisoners talk about outside. Out, I’m out, I’m not in. I’m not inside. He pinches his nose shut on one side. It feels like he’s part of a movie as he leans over the phone and then inhales the little white line.

The world explodes in stars around him, the lights going brighter and brighter like a solar system turned on just for him. He slides a hand across his short, buzzed hair, feels every single one. His eyes roll for a moment—it feels so unbelievably good. Like running—oh God, it feels like the first time he ever realized he could run fast. The first time a track coach had slapped his back and told him to run, run, run and he was the best guy on the whole team—he was so good, he was so good he got a scholarship for it. And it was so free, he was so free, he was—

“Oh shit!” Xavier’s laugh brings him back into his body. Lark watches with blown out, too big pupils as he drags a wet, pink tongue over the back of his phone, cleaning it of cocaine. “Are you going to dance with me?”

“Yes,” Lark breathes.

He becomes completely unburdened then, swept into Xavier’s arms and half carried back to the throng of dancing people. Lark unzips the jacket, loses it (a part of him crying for it, because he doesn’t have anything else, just the jacket, the shirt, the shoes, the jeans and now he doesn’t even have the jacket) and he feels himself squeezed between bodies, one of them Xavier.

I love you, he thinks, staring up at that happy, freckly face under all the lights, under all waves of music he feels like he can see.

“I love you too!” Xavier yells, somehow louder than the music. Lark didn’t even realize he’d said it out loud. But it feels natural, loving Xavier feels so suddenly easy and nice and warm and comforting and safe and isn’t that what Xavier is? Hadn’t Crowley handed him over, because Xavier would keep him safe, wasn’t he going to be staying with Xavier for a while, learning what being outside meant? Wasn’t this good?

And Xavier is so big in every single way, not just height, not just in prettiness, he’s just there and holding him and they’re jumping to music he doesn’t know. Does Xavier know he burned someones house down? Does he know and not care? Could people not care? Could Lark stop caring? Oh God, he’s so high and he’s so drunk—he’s outside and—

It doesn’t take long for others to notice Xavier, either.

—

The girls names are Melonie and Isla. Lark tries very hard to not fumble over their names and he also tries to remember that the brunette is Melonie and Isla is the blond. They are both so beautiful it makes him nauseas.

All four of them dance for a minute, but it feels less special with them involved. Lark tries so hard not to think about that, to feel like something was being stolen from him in that moment, because Xavier is very clearly interested in Melonie. His hand looks big around her slender shoulder, he leans in close to her ear to speak to her instead of yelling. He brushes his knuckles across her forearm.

“Where are you from?” Isla asks to his ear. Lark blinks a few times. He thinks the cocaine might be wearing off. He isn’t sure how long cocaine even lasts.

“Oakland,” he answers and she smiles curiously. “California.”

“Wow!” The word pops out of her. Lark’s suddenly aware that he has another beer so he chugs it quickly, because he has no idea what to say to that. What to say to her. She’s so pretty; her lip gloss is shiny and her nose is slender and long and her eyes look like they’d be hazel maybe if he could look at them clearly. “Oh my God, Melonie.”

When he glances over, Xavier is kissing the girl. Shock makes Lark drop the beer, which rolls away, gets kicked across the club by someone dancing to the side of them. He can’t remember what kissing is meant to look like; should it have so much tongue, should his hands be covering her whole face like that? Strangers. They’re strangers, Lark only knows they’re names. He suddenly is afraid again, a pulsing fear in his chest—what do they want?

He doesn’t remember coming with them to the private seating. The music suddenly feels too loud and heavy, a headache beginning to pulse behind his eyes. He’s sitting—Lark doesn’t even remember sitting, his knees slightly spread because a body is between them. Isla’s hands touch his thighs—the denim. The texture of jeans, foreign and strange. She touches them, her warmth making his skin buzz. The smell of her shampoo, her body, it’s sweet and cloying as she leans into him.

Her lips touch his and Lark trembles as he tries to remember the way he used to kiss before prison. Before three years of it. His hands try to find the places they used to go to. Her tongue pushes past his closed lips. She tastes like cocktail juice. Her hands rise, one of them slides along his thigh more and suddenly, he’s aware that she’s looking for something he doesn’t have.

Fuck, he’s stupid. Lark’s stupidity crashes into his skull, a car crash of it. How could he have forgotten this part? Her hand continues, squeezes, her lips pepper over his jaw and to his ear and she says something, but Lark’s eyes go dim and terrified. He doesn’t know what to do, if he should shove her off, how he can explain something so quickly, under such a stranger circumstance. His limbs are jittery and nausea rolls up his throat. Not just nausea. Oh God, not just nausea—

“Uh oh,” Xavier’s voice is loud in his ear. “I got you, man. Don’t worry, I got you.” And strong arms wrap around him and pull him away before he throws up all over the floor.

—

Lark adds to the mysterious puddle in the alley way with green looking vomit. It’s stringy and wet from his mouth, horrifyingly cold. How long had they even been in the club, that the beer in his stomach hadn’t even warmed? He heaves, his back muscles tensing and flexing. He holds onto the wall for support as one of Xavier’s broad palms flattens on him and rubs soothingly. He cannot forget Isla’s touch though, her searching hand, her breath on his ear. He shudders all over, closing his eyes.

He feels stunningly sober suddenly.

“I got that girls number, if you want it,” Xavier says, stepping back to give Lark room to unfold. He leans against the cool brick wall, temple to it. He lets himself breathe a few times, the taste of bile and alcohol on his tongue disgusting.

“I don’t have a phone,” he finally breathes quietly.

“What?”

“I don’t have a cell phone.”

Xavier blinks a few times and then his face turns cold. His eyes look glinted in the amber alleyway light. His nose curls, wrinkled at the bridge, lip lifted angrily.

“Fucking Crowley,” he snaps, pulling out his own phone. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she gets you one.”

“Why?” Lark breathes through his nose, eyes closed. When he opens them again, Xavier is staring. Assessing. He doesn’t like the sudden feeling of being cared for, even though he distantly remembers that drunken, intoxicated obsession with just that. He clears his throat, arms around his chest. “I mean, why would she get me one?”

“Pfft,” Xavier snorts, tapping away on his phone. “She’ll do it if I’m the one asking, you know what I mean? I got uh, sway.” He winks, a vulgar gesture with a fist at his hip. “You need a phone, man. Don’t worry about it.” And he tries not to, he really does. But a strange feeling reanimates his limbs and makes him move closer, away from the pool of sick.

Xavier glances at the throw up and then up to Lark, with a small smile, brows bunched together.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

“I haven’t.”

“What?”

Lark gestures to himself, to the air, to nothing.

“I didn’t eat today.”

“Dude,” Xavier breathes, slinging an arm around Lark’s shoulders. “C’mon.”

—

They walk down the street to a burger place that is, blessedly, mostly empty. A gaggle of college aged kids sit in one corner, one of them throwing curious stares their way. Lark sits at the booth with arms around his middle, trying to remember how to breathe. The lights inside are blindingly white, casting them both in horrible shadows. Xavier doesn’t look nearly as regal as he had underneath the flashing club reds and greens and yellows—he looks tired too. Exhaustion draws lines across his handsome features, but he still looks pleased.

Especially with a hamburger between his hands, eating happily.

Lark tries to tally up everything in his head, so he knows exactly how much he owes Xavier when all of this is done. He gets lost trying to count how many beers he’d had—and if Xavier had even paid for them, or just flirted haphazardly with a bartender to get them. He eats his fries slowly, half the burger gone. His stomach is tender and sensitive and trying to fit more in feels like a heruclean task.

“Are you sleeping with Crowley?”

Xavier stares with giant, moss colored eyes. There’s red around them, from the coke or the drink, or the night in general. He swallows the massive bite he’d just taken, and then his expression turns sheepish. Uncharacteristically boyish, if Lark even can think of it that way. Xavier should still be a stranger to him, but sitting there, across a diners laminated table, he feels closer than he has to anyone else in years. Three to be exact.

“Older women are good in bed,” Xavier says with an impish smile. He uses his thumb to wipe at the sauce dripping down his chin.

“Isn’t she—like. She’s the uh, boss. Of it all?”

“Not of Kingdom,” Xavier laughs. He shoves the rest of his burger into his mouth, chewing happily. He sucks nosily from his fountain soda. “She’s Commander. It’s not a big deal, man. I’ve known her for years.”

One of the first people to approach Lark, to see if he’d let them fuck him, hadn’t been a fellow prisoner. He’d been in seclusion for a long time. He’d not counted, he was still afraid to really know the details of those long stretches of time. How long they actually were. It had been a guard—not a guard, that didn’t feel specific enough. It had been the security supervisor, in charge of the cameras. He could turn them off, whenever he wanted. That’s what he’d said. That power had scared Lark, so bad that he’d slept with the makeshift shiv he’d managed to cobble together, for weeks.

Nothing had ever happened, but it had stuck with him. People in power liked fucking people. They liked owning people. Xavier didn’t seem like someone who should be owned like that. It made Lark’s insides hurt even worse, made him feel worn to the bone with the realization that maybe outside was just as bad. What had he gotten into? What was he doing?

“Are you going to eat that?” Xavier finally asks, his boyish face innocent like a fist wrapped around Lark’s heart, squeezing. Finally, for the first time maybe in the entire night, Lark smiles and slowly slides his tray of half eaten burger toward Xavier.

—

They stand outside while Xavier makes a phone call for someone to pick them up. Something about that feels so responsible; that Xavier wasn’t making them walk all the way back for his car, that he wasn’t driving. Lark isn’t sure where to place that kind of consideration. If he should even be overwhelmed by it at all. Everything is raw and bruising, though, even the casual way Xavier throws an arm over his shoulder while they wait.

And when the car—an old, but well maintained mustang—finally arrives, a white, blond man is leaning out the window.

“H-How much for a night?” He asks, in a slimy edged voice. Lark tenses from head to toe, but Xavier laughs, darting toward the car.

“More than you could fucking afford, fuck you—unlock the car. Ben, fuck you, seriously, it’s cold.” The door gets thrown open for him, the back seat entirely all his as Xavier slides into the passenger seat. The car smells like nicotine, but not in that nasty way. It doesn’t hurt the back of Lark’s sinuses, instead it’s something soft and smoky.

The driver turns fully around, staring at Lark with unimpressed eyes.

He looks a few years older than Xavier. His hair is shaggy, brushed back from his forehead. His eyes are so intensely blue they almost seem to glow. They rake over Lark slowly, appreciatively. He slowly extends his hands, but not like he’s going for a handshake. Instead, he splays his fingers, and between the webbing are little tattooed eyes. Lark realizes that Ben—Xavier’s friend, his new team mate, someone else employed by Kingdom—is completely covered in tattoos. The ones between his fingers are faded light blue.

“Me too,” is all he says, with a savage, twisted grin. “Lucky I d-didn’t get sepsis.”

“Prison boys,” Xavier laughs fondly, his hand ruffling Ben’s pale, stringy hair.

—

“You can sleep on the couch,” Xavier says, as he tosses a pillow onto it. The inside of his apartment is sparse. It’s cramped too, with walls closing in. Lark has to steady his heartbeat with a hand over his chest to not remember the cell. The four walls. The closeness constantly drawing in. He watches Xavier instead, dragging a blanket out of a closet. Lark looks around at the neat little space and it feels so oddly un-Xaver like. Not that he’s known him for longer than a night, but how can something so small and clean and white and plain belong to someone so—so like Xavier.

“I’ll help you apartment hunt, but I hope this is good enough.”

“It’s perfect,” Lark says quickly. He steps inside the little living room. His hands stay as fists by his thighs. He swallows and stares at Xavier.

“Cool, do you—”

“I don’t wanna fuck,” Lark quickly cuts him off. His voice is higher than he’s ever heard it, pitched through with anxiety that pools coldly in his veins. His hands would be shaking, if they weren’t so tightly clenched by his sides. Xavier stares, his hands still holding the blanket meant for him. He blinks a few times until dark red spreads across his cheeks, down his throat.

“Uh,” he laughs awkwardly. Clears his throat and pats the top of his head, attempting to tame the wild, club crazed red hair. “I have—I’ve made a really bad impression on you haven’t I?”

“No,” Lark breathes it quickly. “No. Fuck, sorry. It’s—sorry.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubs the heel of his palm into his eye, sighing heavily. He tries to collect his thoughts, sobriety really just there. He feels like he could fall onto the couch and sleep forever, he could let his exhausted body finally relax. It’s just right there, but he also—he wants to say this.

“When I was inside, I had a therapist. Dr. Wexler. He was—he was great. He uh, he was trying to help me get organized for being released.” Before it all went wrong. “And one of the things he told me. Hah—he’d said, uh. Well, he said that the first person I ended up with, I was going to want to sleep with them.”

Lark hadn’t taken it seriously, back then. He’d been so high on the idea of finally leaving, that he’d barely listened to anything, so it was funny that those words of advice were with him now. He scrubs hands back over his buzzed hair, laughing and looking at the ceiling. Because, well, yeah. He could imagine it. He could imagine following Xavier into his bedroom instead, he could imagine being kissed like that girl had been. Hands on his face, tongue in his mouth. He knows Xavier would be good at it, would be good for it. He knows it would feel good, but he knows more than anything else that he doesn’t want that.

He looks at Xavier, standing there, one hand still on the blanket, and all he wants—all he wants from this man is a friend. Please, he thinks, ashamed of the crying sound of his own voice in his skull. Just be my friend. Please.

“I was going to ask if you wanted to watch a movie,” Xavier says, smiling. It’s curled at the edge, but it’s softer than that giant, wolfy grin he’d had in the club. “Promise to keep my hands to myself.”

“I don’t think you’re capable of that,” Lark laughs, wiping a hand under his nose. He didn’t know why it was so wet, why his cheeks hurt so much. “You’re like, a very touchy guy, Xavier.”

“It’s part of my charm!”

“It is,” Lark admits, sitting slowly on the couch. Xavier does as well, adjusts the pillow and the blanket to be more on Lark’s side, long legs kicked out in front of him. He fishes for a TV remote as Lark slips his own sneakers off and puts them beside the couch. He gets comfortable. Really comfortable. He lets his limbs relax and his head lean against the back of the couch as Xavier puts on an old comedy. One he’s seen before. That is so oddly comforting that it’s easy to fall asleep.

—

“Wolffe just checked in,” Crowley says, locking her phone and placing it down on the coffee table. She reaches for her glass of wine, sighing as she leans back. She toes her way out of her heels, rolling her neck with a hand pressed to the nape. Eric’s heavy weight settles into the couch beside her and his hand replaces hers.

“I’d like to go a night without hearing about that asshole,” he says, close to her ear.

“I didn’t peg you for jealousy,” Crowley sighs back, letting Eric’s hand enclose around her aching muscles. His thumb digs perfectly into a sensitive bundle of nerves that make her calves tighten.

“Well, technically, you haven’t done that tonight yet.”

“You think you’re funny, Eric, but you are actually very dull.”

“And you think Xavier Wolffe is any better?”

Crowley turns to face Eric, bringing her wine glass up to take a long sip. He’d discarded his tie somewhere in her room, his shirt unbuttoned at the top, revealing dark swirls of chest hair. He thinks he’s more handsome than he is, but most men are like that. His hand withdraws to find his own glass, scotch that she keeps just for him.

“You’re as much a dog with a bone as he is,” she says casually, eyebrow quirked. “He has a longer tongue.”

“You disgust me sometimes,” Eric replies just as calmly. “Why did you give the new radiant to him?” The wine is bitter on her tongue. A dark red that she’d selected from a store after much careful consideration and heavy weighing in from the owner. He was her favorite, his little shop quaint and perfect for when she needed a break from the day to day. She sighs, eyes rolling, taking another long and perfect sip.

“Remember what I said about desperation?”

“You think Xavier will do whatever you want because he’s pathetic?”

“I know Wolffe will do whatever I want,” Crowley corrects, slowly moving herself into Eric’s lap. “Because he’s even more desperate than a man trying to escape prison. And that’s my favorite thing about him.” She watches Eric’s expression turn haughty, and because she likes hurting him, she tilts her head and bats her eyelashes. “And his tongue, of course.”

Eric groans with exaggerated annoyance, but he doesn’t protest when she leans in to kiss him.

***

Nomi has to dart around people in the hall, because they somehow don’t notice her. A shoulder nearly clips her here and there, and even though she huffs under her breath or stomps a chunky heeled boot, this is an office building that thrives on not paying attention to the little things like her. This is where magic happens, after all. Where money is spent on a galactic war; Nomi, for her part, is simply carrying a USB in her hand and trying to make it to Matilda’s office before she logs off for the night.

“Excuse you,” Nomi snips as she’s nearly knocked over by a man and a woman chatting excitedly about whatever latest news is plastered all over the walls. The television screens whip scene after scene of gallant interstellar fights for radianite. Nomi knows it’s propaganda, but even she sometimes will pause to watch an interview, or scroll an article on her phone, looking for some handsome face, quoted heroically about saving the world.

Matilda has a nice office, a frosted clear door separating her from the nosier parts of the building. When Nomi pushes in, she relaxes considerably to see Matilda still there. Sitting with her headphones slung around her neck, a lazy hand typing one finger hunt-and-peck style at her keyboard.

“Do you want sushi tonight or should we do Mexican again?”

“I have footage,” Nomi says breathlessly, stomping her way to the side of Matilda’s messy desk. Half a cup of coffee sits precariously on the edge, paperwork building up, a cute little glass cat paperweight and a scattering of sketching pencils nearly rolling off the desk.

Matilda slowly removes the headphones from her neck and tosses them onto the desk. The pencils almost escape but Nomi catches them—she opens a drawer, shoves them in where she knows Matilda keeps her sketchbook and then snaps it close.

“Footage of?”

“Don’t be coy,” Nomi sighs, rolling her eyes. She slides behind the desk, yanking at Matilda’s laptop to shove the USB in.

“Is this footage illegal?”

“Of course.”

“You didn’t answer. Sushi or Mexican?”

“Sushi,” Nomi replies, before double clicking open a file and slowly straightening. She’s seen it already—this new radiant, this blitz and blur of movement. It’s short, merely a security camera’s quick snapshot of a man blinking across the street. Pausing, pulling his hood down, glancing to the side, as if looking for something. Nomi’s eyes slide to Matilda, because she’s seen the snippet already. His dark, curly hair, sharp and terrifying eyes. Nomi watches Matilda’s chest expand and contract with a deep inhale. Her chin tilting up slightly.

She watches her friend smile, eyes narrowed with immediate interest.

#writing #lt #xw #dc #valorant au #oh my god #releases this into the fuking universe

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