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valaruakars · 1 year ago

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Let's Get Physical (Part 7)

Viktor/F!Reader || 6.3k || Modern!AU + Gym!AU || SFW

Bitches hate you for your overzealous approach to supporting your friends and deeply anxious behavior. Viktor is not bitches.

A/N: Omg. We're here. We're back on our bullshit. Thank you to everyone who beta'd and/or provided me free therapy about this for that past um... seven months. Oops. Thank you to everyone who reached out over the (unintentional) hiatus with encouraging comments and asks. I hope you'll understand why I took so long to handle this with care and unpack some of my own issues. Very cathartic. Would recommend.

Part 1 → Part 2 → Part 3 → Part 4 → Part 5 → Part 5.2 (nsfw) → Part 6 → Part 7 (Ao3 Link)

Before you know it, two weeks and a day have passed. They make no palpable difference.

Except maybe in your quadriceps.

The same weights you’ve been using feel almost effortless, too easy. You don’t fatigue as quickly into heavy breathing and the urge to cheat yourself a rep or two��not lunging with the dumbbell gripped at one of its wide ends, not squatting while it’s clutched close to your chest. It’s suddenly not enough.

Nobody’s around to see it, but progress is progress. Turns out, you’ve finally graduated to heavier weights on this lonely leg day you’ve committed to.

That’s a bit of a misnomer, though. The day is mostly past you now. It’s evening—crisp and wispy, sky like striated fire outside the garage—and as the sun sets, you’re reminded of the late start you’re up against. All because you forgot something.

A good attitude is optional. A scrunchie you can live without. But your shoes? Leave them forgettably kicked off in two different directions on your bedroom floor and you’re fucked. It’s a small miracle you’re here, dragging around weight plates, setting up a barbell. There was a very real danger of tripping and falling into bed—totally by accident, never to get up again—when you drove home and stomped upstairs to grab them.

But whether or not he knows it, likely the latter, Viktor keeps you accountable when no one else can. It’s because the only running you truly love is the risk of seeing him, which still requires proper footwear. And for you to leave the house.

Though by the time you whipped into the driveway and thrust the gear shift into park, it’s empty. He’d left already; you didn’t get to see him off on his reluctant shuffle through the garage. But lucky you—he tends to come straight home after physical therapy. Call it friendly concern that you’re paying attention.

It’s probably an odd way to think about a friend. You need to work on that.

Your phone vibrates dully on the padded bench beside you. Nearly knocking your water over in the process, you grab it to find a text from Jayce—the usual culprit. You slide it open, accidentally brushing the top of the screen with shaky fingers. It catapults you to the beginning of your most recent messages before you can read the new one.

Mon, Oct 10

[Jayce Talis, 5:56am]: Did you leave the back door unlocked last night? [Jayce Talis, 5:57am]: And the pool lights on? [Jayce Talis, 5:57am]: Was Viktor in the pool?

[7:32am]: Holy shit. Good morning. [7:33am]: No, no, and why do you think I know these things??

[Jayce Talis, 7:45am]: Sorry, it’s all good. He’s alive.

[7:46am]: ???????

[Jayce Talis, 7:49am]: You guys didn’t hang out after I left?

[7:57am]: Idk if you would consider it that. [8:02am]: But has anyone invited him to cards on Saturday??

[Jayce Talis, 8:17am]: He already said no. [Jayce Talis, 8:18am]: Although… [Jayce Talis, 8:19am]: You could try telling him it’s strip poker. Haha :)

[8:20am]: Blocked. Reported. Banned. NOT DOING THAT.

[Jayce Talis, 8:21am]: No wait! I was kidding. He’s not a creep :(

Tue, Oct 11

[Jayce Talis, 3:38pm]: Wait did you actually block me?

[3:50pm]: Yes.

Sun, Oct 16

[Tayce Jalis, 8:00am]: Can I have my t-shirt back today?

[8:31am]: Oh the really old anime one? I left it with some stuff to be washed, ask Viktor. [8:32am]: Maybe the dryer did you a favor and ate it.

[Tayce Jalis, 8:34am]: Hey! Naruto is timeless.

Today

Tayce Jalis unsent a message

Not fast enough to scroll back down, caught revisiting those unremarkable little messages, and now you’ll never know what Jayce’s butt managed to text you this time. Oh well. Keep your secrets.

You toss your phone down behind you with a leathery slap. Back to working on the whole stop pining after Viktor thing.

Right, and your legs.

The barbell bites into your hips as you roll it into your lap and adjust it, the bench presses into your shoulder blades. It’s heavier and harder to manage, but you do, driving down into your heels to get your ass off the ground, hefting yourself into a nice, solid bridge. From there it’s as easy as dipping your hips, which isn’t quite easy at all. No, it’s brutal.

It burns from your core down to your thighs; has you clenching your jaw, gritting your teeth with the strain. Even your biceps are active, lifting some of the steel-hard pressure off your hip bones.

You’re so zoned in—no thoughts, head empty except for the number six over and over until it’s seven—that you only hear the hiss of your breath in and out, the hammering rush of blood behind your ears. You don’t hear Viktor come home.

Not until he’s standing above you.

He had the heinous metal on metal sound in his old beige car fixed—that grinding, grating death knell in its engine. One of several potentially life threatening reasons the check engine light was always on—maybe still is. And though you much prefer him living, it’s harder to hear him coming over the steady music without paying attention.

Bad timing for Miss Carly Rae Jepsen on your Upbeat Workout Jams playlist, considering you do really, really, really like him. Him and how he stands at the end of the bench, staring down; how he fixes you with that sliver thin smile, a manila folder tucked under the arm of his long cardigan.

You seize with embarrassment, frozen on the upswing of your hips. “Hi,” whispers out on the end of an exhale, caught ragged in your throat.

You can’t do pelvic thrusts in front of him.

You just can’t.

It’s bad enough that you’re sweaty in every skin to skin crevice and certainly flushed, t-shirt sticky and legs trembling as they hold your awkward position, but then there’s him.

He wears that same look much better. On him, it’s healthy color across the cut lines of his cheeks; it’s still-damp curls at the nape of his neck and the jump of his lean throat when he swallows, dry when he must’ve forgotten a water bottle again. It’s suggestive. It’s hot.

And it’s the endorphins that make you feel that way, surely, more than any affinity for men in gray sweatpants that are far more revealing than they must realize.

You clear your throat, finding your own parched voice. “Watch your feet,” you warn, on the side of caution, dropping butt and barbell to the ground with a metallic thud. You let your head drop back against the bench pad, staring up at him with the dazed satisfaction of calling it quits. Only for the moment, of course, as you blindly feel around for your phone to turn the music down.

And good fucking god is what you see unholy. Viktor shifts his weight before you can look away, and the ache in your core redoubles—different, deeper than any lactic acid buildup. Did his pants shrink in the wash or is it really that m—?

Nope! Absolutely not!

You can tread no further with that thought because, really, there’s no such thing as having a platonic appreciation for your friend’s dick. Not when the friend is Viktor.

“You’re not finished yet?” he asks. Innocent. Oblivious to your mental struggle out of the gutter.

Typically you would be by now. Equipment racked, the citrus scent of disinfectant on your hands, picking at innocuous conversation while you walk inside together. How was your day? Did you hear they’re demolishing the old physics building? There’s a guest lecture next month that might interest you.

“About another thirty minutes,” you breathe, “and then I’ll be done. I’m running behind.”

“Ah, interesting. That looks to me more like sitting,” he says, which is terrible enough to earn an eye roll, and snarky enough that your lips wobble and break into an insurmountable smile.

“It’s called resting, thanks. This would go faster if you stopped distracting me,” you huff, muscles loose, lips looser.

The little spark of mirth in his eyes, so bright and awake, makes your stomach clench vice tight. “Mm. There’s no rush,” he shrugs, “but… Rio might enjoy a visit.”

Your smile is skeptical as he pulls the file folder from beneath his arm. “Oh really?” It widens as he starts to fan you from above—chilly in the garage, but you’re still sweating buckets. It’s futile, although he’s sweet to try and help.

He nods, gravely serious, “She told me herself.”

You crane your neck unconsciously to let it cool the sweat that lingers there, sighing as little wisps of loose hair billow feather light and tickle your feverish skin.

He isn’t holding it right, though. His grip is too loose on the edge.

At once, a flurry of white comes raining down on you. It’s instinct that your eyes clamp shut against the onslaught.

“No, no, no,” he hisses as if begging could stop gravity.

It doesn’t, of course.

His papers flutter and scrape across the floor. An unlucky one sticks to the sweat on your scrunched up cheek. He’s quick to dip forward and snatch it back first, the easiest to reach.

You blink off the surprise and snicker, “Oh, how the tables have turned. Who’s the clumsy one now?” Rolling the barbell away over your outstretched legs, there’s nothing in its path to be crumpled beneath the weight.

But Viktor doesn’t answer with a crooked smile or a quiet laugh, no dry wit to be found. His dark, heavy brows furrow and he insists, “No, just—just let me,” while he crouches to the ground, distributing his weight between his cane and the end of the bench.

“It’s okay,” you insist, reaching to gather what’s scattered between you, “I’ve got it. No big deal.”

“To you,” he mutters, snatching two away before you can turn them over. Makes him lose balance. He narrowly catches himself before he can veer face first into your spandex lap,, blunt, bony fingers digging into your thigh at the hem of those skin tight biker shorts. It crushes the papers all the same.

“Top secret nuclear codes?” you tease, drowning his muttered apologies. It sounds stupid and obvious that you’re trying to distract from the fumbling tension when his hand stays put for moments too long. Yours, too, on his shoulder to brace him.

Just until he’s able to sit himself solidly on the ground beside you.

He purses his lips, “My work is with reactor cores, not weapons.”

It’s only been a week since you got an impromptu lecture about nuclear fusion in the kitchen. It’s not like you’d forget so quickly. “I know—”

Impatient, Viktor reaches over your lap, too close for comfort. Whatever you were about to say is struck from your train of thought.

His cardigan drags soft and pilled with wear across your beat up knees. Beneath it, his sweat smells sharp and strangely appealing. It’s fascinating, that draw to something so base and human. It’s unsettling, the way your heart responds like it beats between your legs.

You follow his hand, unabashedly curious, and watch him pick up another overturned paper. Below it, the next sheet is stuck face up to the floor with what you cringe to assume is a drop of your sweat, bleeding the ink of a diagram. Multiple diagrams, actually.

Of stretches.

The familiarity sparks excitement.

By the time he peels up the corner of the page with his fingernail, you’re sure of what you’re looking at. It’s common ground, of a sort; the excuse to end all excuses.

“These are from the physical therapist?”

He sighs, sitting back in an awkward fold of spindly legs. Looks wearier, now, with his shoulders collapsed like the exhaustion of going has finally caught up. “Yes,” he admits, because you’re smart and he’s smart, and any other answer would be an obvious lie.

You’re doing it again—digging your fingers into a soft spot that feels as ripe as it does intrusive. We do not talk about it much, he once said, but it’s hard to stop once you’ve started. You just have to know: “Do you do them?”

His eyes cut down to the papers in his hands. “When time permits.”

“How often does it permit?”

“Occasionally,” says Viktor, which might mean somewhere between rarely and never.

Early mornings, late nights; classes to teach, lab hours to log, projects, papers, and a dissertation that looks done to you, but he laughs bitterly when you suggest it. Still has to find time to eat and shower and sleep, but his eyes are always restless purple and there are wrappers from meal replacement bars scattered around the house, too high calorie for Jayce to be the culprit.

You wonder what will happen when it all catches up with him. Worse, you worry.

Beseechingly, you reach out. Your grip is gentle as you take hold of the printouts at their edge. “Can I see?” you ask, not grabbing or pulling or taking, just there and ready.

His lips form a tight, considering line. “If that is the last of your questions,” he slowly replies. Prickly, but relenting, he lets go before you can ever agree.

So you don’t.

His eyes are on you as you flip through the stack—you can feel it as a strange, shy tension like bated breath, watching and waiting.

Page by page, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before. Some you’ve even done yourself, but with simple modifications. Hell, bridges are just hip thrusts performed flat on the floor, without the weight. Nothing he’d need help with, which is ideal when you’re not qualified to do anything but make space for him; to emphasize that he’s welcome and wanted, maybe offer up a sweaty-palmed high five if you’re feeling spunky.

You peel your legs off the floor and resituate, tucking them as your turn to face him, direct in every sense. “You could come do these with us on Sunday mornings after we run, before you get started on work. It would make Jayce happy, and Vi has a really funny way of being encouraging—”

He pulls a face—a nose scrunched up, barely concealed, abso-fucking-loutely not sort of scowl.

“Or…” you’re quick to try, “Just with me, when I’m here. It’ll take, what—fifteen? Twenty minutes?”

“It’s a poor use of time,” he says. It’s as avoidant as it is clumsy, with a dismissive edge still dull enough to bruise.

And that’s because: “You stop and talk to me for longer than that sometimes,” you remind him flatly.

He sighs sharply, toying absently with the cane laid across his lap. “That is different.” He says it like it’s obvious; like it’s frustrating that you don’t know how obvious it is.

“Well, what if we could do both at the same time?” you propose. After all, he’s got such a hard-on for efficiency, if that’s what’s stopping him. “I know you’re a good multitasker…”

His jaw works, trapping his thoughts behind imperfect teeth.

“And we probably keep this floor cleaner than the carpet…” you prod, because the silence of a man who can and has talked your ear off is disquieting; because you don’t always know when to stop; because this feels like a negotiation.

“My bedroom suits my purposes just fine,” he says, eventually.

But you never said which carpet. The thought of him sequestered in there, even for this, is fucking depressing. Arguably disgusting when you’ve walked across that rug and felt the grit of dirt, crumbs, and debris that the pattern hides through your socks. And worse: It’s a choice, so why is he making it?

Abruptly, the rubber tipped end of his cane meets like against the rubber tiled floor. He pulls himself up on it with difficulty you can’t ignore, but shakes his head when you move to help. The only thing you do is hand him up the battered stack of papers, tucked back into the folder from which they came, when he stands up fully. You won’t hold them hostage, even if part of you wants to. It wouldn’t keep him from leaving, his back to you such a familiar sight.

You just want to understand, though, if nothing else. To crack him like a cipher.

Softer, you try: “I wouldn’t judge you.” It’s the last, desperate little thing you can think of. They’re like magic words to you.

But the problem is: They don’t work on everyone.

To his credit, his tone isn’t harsh. It’s indifferent, like stating a sterile fact. “This has nothing to do with you,” he says. “I haven’t skipped an appointment recently, and that should be enough.”

Indigence might suit you in those moments you grow a seedling backbone, but it doesn’t suit this. You can’t help it though. His frustration has bled into you, caught like kindling. “Is it?”

“You and I do not share the same sense of priorities,” he replies, but it’s not an answer. Not really.

The urge to turn him upside down and shake him until something definitive comes out is overwhelming—so straightforward until he just… isn’t. “If you’re not going to say yes or no, can’t you just lie and say you’ll think about it?”

He looks you over inscrutably, sitting there in his shadow. “Why would you assume it’s a lie?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” you huff. But you do. Experience and a certain friend who actually bothers to text you back have given you the answer. “Jayce says you’re stubborn and I’m starting to think he’s right.”

Viktor nods conclusively, but doesn’t care to share what’s going through his head. As evasive as ever when he cares to be, just murmurs,“You should finish this.”

And then, for a reason that is simply beyond you, says: “I will see you later.”

But for once, you’re not sure if you want to.

—

You rap your knuckles against his open door.

Seriously—who were you kidding, thinking for even a second that you wouldn’t be here, doing this?

Yes, it’s well after eight now and you’re pitifully hungry, but it wouldn’t feel right to leave without saying anything. In writing a note or sending a text, you’d simply be spelling out, ‘I’m a coward!’ in far more words. It’s best, you decide, to be polite and mature and just say goodnight despite the awkward taste in your mouth that is very reminiscent of your own foot.

And you get to say it to his back, which should be easy.

But then there’s Rio on his desk like a pissed off paperweight, swimming the foggy side of her holding tank—sorry, prison—without any hope of escape. They’re the angriest, most pathetic wiggles you’ve ever seen. Habitual, given how tongue-smudged and abraded the plastic has become.

“You see?” he says, gesturing to the sound of her scrabbling in his bright rubber kitchen gloves. “It’s just as I said.”

“I think it’s more about you ignoring her.” Rio pauses, slipping down the side. Her little face conveys it perfectly: “Father is cruel? Father is… unyielding? Father hates Rio?”

“No, no… Although, eh, yes, I suppose she does sound like that…” he muses, nodding. “I think she must wonder those things about you, actually.”

Your shoulder hits the door frame, shrugging against it where you lean. “I probably don’t matter much to her.”

There’s a heavy pause, enough for him to breathe in and hold it. Breathe out, softly: “You do.”

And suddenly, you can’t find it in you to leave. Did you ever truly have the will?

The truth is there on your feet—those perpetually mismatched socks. You’d hoped for this, secretly, else you wouldn’t have left your shoes off at the door.

It’s warm when you walk in. A space heater that’s been running too long glows electric orange on the floor near his desk. Makes the smell of churned earth and vinegar cleaner that much stronger. And while the clutter is clearly endemic, it seems the fuzzy, stagnant mugs are not. They’re all gone from his desk and the bedside table, replaced by sticky notes, pill bottles, and an avalanche of papers.

You come up and give Rio’s tiny, clawed foot a high-five through the plastic. “Has she been doing this all night?” you ask, looking over.

Knee on the desk chair for leverage, he’s elbows deep in her tank, rooting those waxen, fake plants back into the substrate with unnatural posture. It’s that stiffness you’ve always noticed—ramrod straight from the mid-spine up. It’s easier to see in profile, in a thin shirt that clings to his back, that there’s nothing visibly forcing it.

“On and off. She tires quickly now,” he says, arranging a broad-leafed plant near her favorite rocky shelter—scrubbed clean, still damp. “When she was younger, it would go on much longer while I did this.”

“How old is she exactly?”

His sigh is almost lost beneath the hum of the space heater. He answers, “Fifteen,” in the soft, subdued way of someone who hates to be reminded.

There’s many things you’re too afraid to ask him. Such hits as: Why did you dig yourself a hole this deep, does Jayce text everyone about you, and would I even stand a chance if things were different? But right now, most of all, it’s how long do geckos live?

You don’t think you’re going to like the answer.

Viktor clears his throat. “She’s very, eh… spritely for her age,” he adds, fondly this time.

You hum a soft sound in agreement, too shaky through the legs to squat down to eye level with her. When you bend your knees to try, you realize you’ll probably never get up again.

He glances over as you straighten up. “You can sit,” he offers without really saying where. It’s obvious, though. The only option—his rumpled bed, never made, with all its mismatched pillows. One has definitely been stolen from the couch, three are yellowed and missing pillowcases which is… ew.

But you’re not going to refuse. You’d like to hold Rio, after all.

You swallow hesitation and tuck yourself onto the end of his mattress, balancing on the firm edge. At least the intrusive thoughts are fleeting. Only briefly do you wonder what he thinks about at night. What he does. What he wants for.

Not you. That’s for sure.

Your elbows lock out where you grip the ridged edge of the bed. The weight of things gone unsaid, of things left unresolved bears down; it prickles warm at the back of your neck and you can’t stand the waiting silence.

“So…” you drawl, letting your voice fill the void.

“Hm?”

“Are you going to hand her to me now, or…?”

“Ah, no, I’m finished,” he says over his shoulder. “She needs to go back in the tank.”

“Then why am I sitting here?”

“Because I have something to ask you.”

Straightforward. Right. You forgot just how terrifying that can be.

“That sounds just as bad as saying we need to talk,” you mutter, heart twisting into a suffocating, arterial knot.

“We do, though,” he says, too literal, too preoccupied with placing Rio back in her clean terrarium to notice your soul leave your body—preemptively abandoning ship.

But he’s merciful, at least. He doesn’t keep you in suspense.

“I just want to understand at what point you developed such a vested interest in, eh… fixing me, I suppose,” he asks, like wondering what the weather will be tomorrow or what the dining hall might serve for lunch. Conversationally. “Did Jayce put you up to this?”

Your eyes narrow in thought. “No…?” you reply. It comes out too shifty as you toy with the serged edge of his blanket. Jayce put you up to something alright, though that hardly matters anymore. But, in a way, does this count? Would Viktor think that this counts?

“A sure answer, please.”

Fuck.

“It’s just that I would lump that in as part of being friends with you—except I’d call it, y’know, caring?” You draw your leg up onto the bed, closer, tucking your foot beneath your thigh. “That’s all I’m trying to do.”

Viktor flips the grate down with a finality that lights your nerves like a beacon to flee. “So he asked you to do what, exactly?”

“Nothing,” you squirm.

He pivots, solidly on two feet. Doesn’t sit down in the desk chair quite yet. “It wouldn’t be the first time for this behavior, and, with you, I’m sure it was not the last. Do you know that he once provided Caitlyn with a written list of topics not to bring up to me?”

You shrug, “He’s a good friend...”

Now you’re staring down the barrel of being just the opposite—of throwing Jayce under the bus.

“What did he ask?” Viktor presses.

And you break. Made brittle by your desire to put him first, of course you do.

“All he wanted was for me to give you a chance, which was pretty reasonable after you called me annoying—” that word comes out with a bite to it you didn’t intend; sensitive, sore, “—but I never told him about that. He’s just… worried about you in his own way, I guess.”

Viktor quietly raises an eyebrow, and that’s all it takes to snap you into fours next. It practically falls out of your mouth: “He keeps texting me to make sure you’re still alive. Sometimes I think he’s joking, but then one time he told me he had a nightmare that you drowned in the pool, so part of me actually thinks he’s being serious.”

“He is.”

“Wait, really—?”

“Is that why you come so often now?”

Wednesday. Friday. Sunday. Monday too, sometimes, if the day before hasn’t left you sufficiently sore enough. The pain means progress. It must.

“Well, no,” you blink, “that’s mainly because I have a lot to work on.”

“Do you?”

You gesture to yourself. All of you. The way your stomach folds and rolls and fucking exists unappealingly beneath your sweatshirt when you slouch—it could be better. The way your thighs pancake out, smushed against the bed—not getting better, but discipline and toning might shape them into something near desirable. “Yeah, obviously.”

He treads lightly. “I… would not say it’s obvious.” But his eyes are cast down as he carefully removes his rubber gloves and discards them in a bucket of cleaning supplies. He’s not rude enough to agree, but you worry, in all those moments you can feel him looking at you, that he’s thinking it. After all, he’s willowy, sharp and elegant in a way you’ll never be. Soft and fleshy. Never quite right.

“And that’s because you’re, what, zero percent body fat?” you sigh, gesturing to him incredulously. “I’m not implying that’s healthy or ideal—honestly, I’d share some if I could—but…” Your hands curl to your chest, clasped tightly in one another when there is no one else to hold them through the indignity of admitting, “I’m the one that needs fixing. Not you.”

He was right, though, when he said it earlier. This isn’t about you. “Where did you come up with that, anyways?” you ask.

The lines on his face, those deep, concerned creases between his brows, spell out what the fuck. You don’t understand what’s so hard about that question—what he can’t figure out, why the confusion lingers in his eyes. “This… This is the second time you’ve offered to help me.”

“I was trying to be supportive. Encouraging, even—that’s also a good word for it.”

“It all feels the same,” he tells you, taking his turn to sigh. “Which is to say patronizing, sometimes.”

And that was not what you intended. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be a saint or anything. That’s not entirely it.” You fight the turtle-like urge to retract into your sweatshirt, which would arguably be more stupidly embarrassing than admitting: “I was just looking for… common ground, I guess. Ways to hang out without dragging you out with us.”

“Are we not doing that right now?”

“Sure, but I feel bad about it.” There’s the silvery peek of his computer, buried on the desk. “I’m keeping you from more important things.”

“You’re not,” he says—no, placates, but the disbelieving press of your lips makes him reconsider. “Well, eh, perhaps, but I can manage. I’ve dealt with Heimerdinger’s high expectations and, mm, sadistic deadlines for years. The weekends work well to make up for lost time, and there is all night after this too.”

“You should sleep.”

“I can’t. Not well.”

You give a creaky little bounce—not much of one, no spring to it—to demonstrate: “Maybe because your mattress feels about as hard as sleeping on the ground.”

“One problem of many, yes.”

You count yourself among them, in one way or another. You’ve been leaking these awful insecurities all night.

Is it any wonder that another slips?

“It’s just—the last thing I want is to bother you. Everyone, really, but especially you.”

“Is that because of me?” he asks quietly. “Because of what I said?”

Oh, you’ve carried this around since day one. Let it color his tone and his words and his actions. Let it haunt you trying to reach for others, the freshest nick in a line of scars that was never stitched properly. That’s what you get for letting all those little anxieties run wild with knives in their hands. That’s what you get for forgiving him before he ever asked for it, as if that would make things easier. For you. For him. For everyone.

It hasn’t.

Viktor crosses the three steps between you on bare, nobby feet. His weight dips the bed beside you ever slightly, like he’s hardly there. But he is, by the way his leg bumps your knee, and you scoot over to give him space.

He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, grasping at some distant thread. They’re as awkward as he is in saying, “I can’t recall what I meant at the time, but it… it wasn’t that. It would’ve been fine if you thought less of me for it, but not of yourself.”

You shake your head. “It’s—don’t worry, it’s not all you,” you say, softening his guilt, perhaps at your own expense. “I have a lot of anxiety, and that’s a long running thing, okay? It’s mostly… me.”

“That’s… good to know. About you, I mean. Not that it’s—it’s good. Just, eh, helpful to know.”

“I guess that’s generally the benefit of being upfront about things,” you shrug as if it comes easy.

“I would prefer that, I think.”

It doesn’t, but the light, fizzy feeling of relief makes you want to try, if only to have more of it. Maybe more of his shy little smiles too. This time with more intention, and less leaky word vomit.

“Okay…” You shift to face him fully, mirroring his posture in leaning back on your hand for support. “Then in no uncertain terms, I want you to know that I’m not trying to fix you.” Been there, done that, got the shitty dunce hat. People don’t change unless they want to. You know that. “I just wish you were kinder to yourself, but that’s on you. So if you ever decide you want better, whatever that means, I’ll be there. Only if you want me to and only on your own terms—no physical activity required.”

“I might want to consider it, you know…” His voice lowers, softer and softer with hesitation, to the point that you find yourself leaning in. Noticing, as he seems to have noticed, that your hands are a hair’s breadth apart. “As a future prospect, if anything. But you have to understand, I don’t enjoy being watched.”

“I get that.”

“Mm, no, I imagine people stare at you for very different reasons,” he mutters. “Not pity. Envy, perhaps.”

“I promise, most people don’t want these thunder thighs,” you huff, resisting the urge to slap them like a used car salesman. These babies can fit so much soul-crushing insecurity, which is a terrible pitch, really. The occasional bouts of self-loathing are not your strongest selling point.

He lets out the strangest bark of a laugh, so dry it’s almost ugly, as if he can read your mind.

But you didn’t mean to derail. “Sorry, continue.”

“Right…” Viktor draws in a long breath, quiet for a moment before he figures out how to word it. “It’s as simple as that I would rather go unseen. It’s very, ah, personal. And painful, sometimes.”

You think of the age old adage: If it hurts, don’t do it. “Um, not a doctor, but I don’t think it’s supposed to be?”

“So they say,” he nods pensively, eyes ticking over some distant thought, maybe a memory. “It wasn’t like this before. The discomfort wasn’t… serious. That’s how I was able to ignore it for so long.”

“Ignore what?”

Not the brutal slam of the garage door across the house, for one thing. The pictures on the wall must be hanging crooked now.

Viktor sits straighter—if that’s even possible—and calls out: “Jayce?”

Footsteps—softer, distant.

His eyes snap back to yours. “It’s been a week since he’s come home,” he tells you in a quick whisper. “Mm, well, in the evening. He’s here in the morning—”

“To work out at the ass crack of dawn? I know.”

“You were invited?”

“He knows better than to think I’ll get up that early. I saw on his Instagram.”

Footsteps—louder now.

Viktor nods sagely. “Ah, yes, the stories. By my count, he has written, eh, ‘rise and grind’ forty three times since the first of the year.”

“That’s…” Your math isn’t great but, “More than once a week,” you whisper back, on the cusp of giggles as Viktor nods. And then, it hits you. “Wait—”

But the footsteps have stopped.

And instead, there’s Jayce’s stoop-shouldered figure braced in the doorway. He sniffles loudly.

He’s still dressed in the khakis and blue button down he wears to work—rumpled, sleeve cuffs smeared darker. His eyes have that red, raw, burning swell of someone who's tried very hard not to cry, and failed spectacularly.

Viktor finds the words you’re looking for with immediate precision. “Has something happened?” he asks, voice tight, hand tighter on your shoulder as he leans around you to look his roommate over. “Jayce?”

They spend a lot of time apart. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that they’re best friends too.

He swipes at his nose as it runs into the raw little divot above his lip. Beyond sadness, there’s a guilty cast to his dark, hazel eyes, turned down to the floorboards, but you can’t find your voice to tell him that this isn’t what it looks like.

“Are you… injured?” Viktor tries again.

Jayce shakes his head. No.

“Is your mother alright?”

“She’s fine,” he rasps. “Um… Can I just—?” he asks, gesturing weakly to the two of you.

Which you think must translate to: “You want to come sit?”

“Yeah.”

Viktor’s of course comes without apprehension, without judgment. Only with the apparent surprise that he even needed to ask.

But Jayce, in several long legged strides, doesn’t come sit. No, he collapses face first onto the bed behind you, all broad, shaking shoulders and quiet sniffles seeping out from behind his arms. They hide his face and nothing else. Hands curling, clenching into his shirtsleeve, there’s the thick band of a tan line striped across his middle finger.

You turn yourself around, scooching closer, folding up cross-legged to face him.

You’ve never seen him like this—laid so low. A sweat stain blooms dark at the small of his back, up between his shoulder blades, but sweat is sweat and Jayce is Jayce. You reach out to rub his back despite it. “It’s alright…” you whisper. Feels like putting band-aids on a bleeding heart, but it’s all you have.

Soft cotton weave catches the peeling skin of old blisters as you soothe your hand in circles. His shirt leaches the vetiver smell of cologne, but somewhere beneath it, there’s an elegant, cloying perfume still lingers. It’s no secret where he spends most of his time these days.

You meet Viktor’s searching eyes and mouth: Mel.

He nods gravely as if to say he drew the same conclusion.

Say something—that’s your next silent suggestion, canting your head toward Jayce.

But instead, Jayce takes a deep, wet, shuddering breath and asks, muffled into the mattress, “Can… Can we go to Taco Bell?”

“Sure…” you murmur. He could’ve asked you to drive him two states over to bury a body and you would’ve agreed just as thoughtlessly. Anything he needs. “We’ll take you.”

He doesn’t move. Just sniffles at a prompting little scritch to the nape of his neck, where his hair fades out to shadowy, peach-flesh fuzz.

So you ask, “Do you want to go change, and then I can drive us?”

“Can I just have a minute? Please?”

“Why?” demands a perplexed Viktor, still soft spoken. Desperate for an answer that isn’t made of cobbled assumptions; blunt in its pursuit.

And worried. You can tell that he’s worried.

As if you’d been the one to ask, the personification of wet, doleful misery lifts his head and looks up at you. His face is a ruin of dark, clumpy lashes and tear-tracked skin. His lip wobbles, the pressure of withholding little sobs building, building, building. But speaking it aloud makes it real. Speaking it aloud breaks the levee.

“I think we just broke up,” he finally whispers.

And cries face-down for another hour after that.

#arcane #viktor #viktor arcane #viktor x reader #reader insert #arcane x reader #my writing #literally beating tumblr with a stick i've been formatting this for fOURTY FUCKING MINUTES #GOD.#negl crying like a little bitch from the relief of finally posting this #pour one out for heraldeez who has to listen to me #just like jayce fr fr

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merakiui · 1 month ago

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Mera !

Your new Riddle fic aodniqndoadb I love how Darling remains true to the fact Riddle and Her never said "I love you" to each other. The "I adore you" really got me feelin some type of waayy AHH THE WAY MY HEART JUST BREAKS

I must ask, sincerely so; the writing is uniquely different from your usual. The formal is the same but the flavor?! OH! YOU HAVE MADE SOMETHING TRULY FIERCE IN THE KITCHEN TODAY -- and ugh, the dialogue? It also got me speaking some type of way (⁠つ⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)⁠つ You're so amazing! You truly keep outdoing yourself, makes me believe that you will continue improving over time and that's so.. amazing. You're amazing ma'am orz. So my question, how long has this been in your drafts? It reminded me of pieces of your old fics. Very nostalgic tbh.

Finally, I must admit. When I finish reading, the first thing I said amidst the silence was . "I adore you something fierce." Usiwndsonziw really impactful! And how lucky are we to be called Mrs. Rosehearts the entire time 😍😍🙏 finally, the ending. I was surprised at how happy it was- Since you never write a story without an open ending. So it's truly hilarious that the children found the Moro's mirror. Oroboros in it's finest (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)⁠❤ sorry for the ramble, thank you again for the great meal!

- Wild flower from your garden (iforgor my anon name to usbiandjs mb)

Wild flower anon, hello!!! :D aaaaa this is incredibly kind of you!!!!! 🥺 if anything, you're the amazing one!!! I'm so happy this fic was enjoyable and can be a fierce meal. (˵ •̀ᴗ•́˵)و hehehe!! I am never finishing a fic in one day omg...... ^^;;; that was terribly exhausting, but I had so much inspiration after seeing Riddle's new card and I just had to see the vision through to the end. <3 aaaaa the woes of a writer!!!! Every word was worth the exhaustion, though. Anything for the beloved Riddle!!!

This story has been in my drafts since 2022!! I thought it was very nostalgic, too!! I think what makes a 2022-era merakiui twst fic is the feeling of adventure and peril!! It felt very much like Sea Glass: the reader is placed in an uncertain situation and is fighting against whatever force (i.e. the yan) is trying to keep them there. It was very exciting to return to that style for this fic!!

Aaa that is true!!! Actually,,, I was going to write the bad end instead of what's published, but I felt it would be better (and more cathartic for the plot) to give a happy (albeit bittersweet) ending for Reader and Riddle! It did feel strange, though. ;;; I'm so used to writing open endings or endings that just aren't good for either the yan or darling (or both). That's probably why I decided to keep in the final part with the three children who find Moros. I couldn't resist. Since Moros aligns with the concept of death, it's only an inevitability that he returns to the reader. Truly Ouroboros at work!!!!

Thank you so much for reading the fic!!! ( ∩´͈ ᐜ `͈∩)💖

#sweet messages #wild garden flower anon

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nightcolorz · 5 months ago

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What do you think Armand’s favorite video game is? Or perhaps favorite genre. ((If he had a movie phase, I feel like a video game phase isn’t too far fetched.))

lmao omg I love this question 😭🙏I agree 100% Armand absolutely had a video game phase, that is so him

I think Armand would rlly mf like mobile games 💀 like those really mundane repetitive sensory games, where u stack layers of cake or tap balls through hoops. He’d do that shit for like multiple days straight without getting bored 😭. I feel like the thing Armand would be most enamored by with video games would be the coding and technology aspect rather then like, story or entertainment value, so I feel like he’d be into games that most ppl would find pretty boring. I think he’d play online chess and care wayyyy too much. He’d be more fascinated by the Ai chess player function than the actual game tho (yknow where u can play a single player round against the app), bcus the whole concept of playing chess against a computer would be mind blowing to him. I think Armand would also like basic puzzle mobile games, like candy crush and tetris (once again, would be hyper fixated on that for multiple days straight). The issue Armand would run into with mobile games would be always, without fail falling for the clickbait adds and then immediately downloading whatever he clicks on 😭. His iPad data is absolutely devastated by how many shitty mobile games it’s trying to support 😭

my potentially controversial opinion is that I don’t think Armand would be interested in violent/fighting games. He explains in queen of the damned that he doesn’t understand what is cathartic about violence, and he finds the concept of seeking out violence disturbing and confusing. I feel like Armand would have a similar reaction towards shooter/war games as a conservative mother with a gaming son would 💀. “Why would u enjoy that 😦?? War is not fun 😦”. Lmaoooo. He would definitely try those games out to try and understand the appeal (endlessly curious and desperate to understand other ppls perspectives as he is) But I think Armand would be immune to any catharsis that comes with game killing, bcus of how often he experiences real killing💀 The only appeal he would find in violence based games would be the competitive aspect and the visuals + technological components. he is so easily stimulated that I feel like if Armand were to play like, Red dead redemption for example, he’d end up spending hours and hours riding the horse around and looking at the visuals instead of participating in any of the game play 💀 yknow? If he were to try Fortnite or Dead by Daylight or smth like that he’d be so focused on the running around and jumping functions that he’d die immediately 💀

I think Armand would be captivated by story games and visual novels, part of me thinks that he is so easily entertained that he would be too busy staring at a single environment or clicking around buttons to engage in the actual story 💀. Armand would 100% be obsessed with video games, but I think he would not play or engage with them in anyway conventionally, just bcus of how he experiences his fixations and what things he takes interest in. Armand is so invested in sensory experiences that I think if he were to play a large scale game he’d spend tons of time fixating on tiny little aspects of the features instead of working to finish it😭. Armand plays like, life is strange for a year and never gets past the first scene bcus he enjoys listening to the sound design so much 💀

Thank u SO MUCH for the ask I love this question I was smiling and giggling writing this 😭 I hope my response was enjoyable, I honestly don’t know much about video games so I have a sort of limited perspective, but I hope my Armand knowledge makes up for it 🙏lol

#tvc #the vampire chronicles #armand #vampire chronicles #iwtv #interview with the vampire #the vampire armand #armand iwtv #armand vc

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badaziraphaletakes · 6 months ago

Text

In which some poor innocent unsuspecting reader submitted an ask and I respond by throwing an entire textbook at them

Like seriously i won’t even be upset if no one reads this PhD dissertation, like actually what is wrong with me omg

The ask:

I want to start by saying I love this account and really appreciate the rebuttals I see here to some of the messed up stuff the fandom’s spit out over the past few years. That being said, the most recent post about “the creepiest take you’ve ever seen,” was one I disagreed with strongly. It’s entirely normal to enjoy watching media where characters have breakdowns. It is not a desire to see a person breakdown. It is a desire to watch a good story.

(Edit: Just realized I somehow omitted to include the full text of the ask here. I apologize for the error! Will fix it soon. -Mod X)

My response:

Hi and thank you for your kind words! (Also idk why there is this huge gap in the text here, sorry haha!) If it were a necessary part of the story, or a part of the story that made sense, I would agree. But it’s not necessary (esp not at this point in the story) and therefore wouldn’t be “good”, if we are defining good art as being emotional truthful, which I imagine is a pretty uncontroversial definition.

Side note: We already saw him have this exact shattering breakdown in Uz. So that renders most of what I am about to say (and arguably some of what you have said) somewhat moot. But I’m going to continue anyway because some of the points brought up here touch on issues that I think bear re-visiting often.

It’s cathartic, it’s engaging, and it helps people who’ve been through the same thing see themselves reflected. For example, I like watching someone on tv hit rock bottom with their addiction because I’ve been through that, and seeing them finally realize they have to work on recovery and actually do it is motivating and empowering.

I’m so sorry you’ve been through that. I haven’t (although I am estranged from an entire side of my family due to alcoholism and meth addiction, which is a whole fun thing), so I can’t comment on this too much.

But addiction is not the same as an ab*sive relationship. (I do have knowledge of those, both from life experience and from my previous job in ab*se research. I edited a newsletter about family violence research for several years.) Seeing a person suffering from addiction realize they want to work on recovery, and realize that the substance they are addicted to is messing up their life, can make sense. Especially if they're in a place where they're able to work on it and have the opportunity to try to change.

But seeing an ab*se survivor “realize they need to get away from their ab*ser because they’re evil and have a breakdown about it” doesn’t make sense, because being trapped in an absive situation is not about “motivation” or what they think about the abser or even, really, about "empowerment". (Side note that word is thrown a lot to delude women into thinking our capitalist system is working for us rather than oppressing us. But I digress.) It boils down to the fact that they are in danger if they leave. The situation is not within their control.

(This next part is not directed at you, but at the general readership, in case this is helpful discussion for anyone: A lot of addictions aren’t within people's control at all either. It depends very much on the drug we’re talking about, the health of the individual, the quantity and duration of the addiction, whether the person has access to the healthcare they need to be cured, and whether there’s a way for them to get free from the broader societal dysfunctions that led to them being trapped in this situation in the first place.)

Also, with addiction, people can absolutely get past that without losing their sense of self and their identity. If they go through that kind of crisis in the process of healing from addiction, I would argue that something is very wrong. (Not with them, but with the society around them). In a best-case scenario, a person suffering from addiction would have access to the kind of mental and physical healthcare and support system that lets you get free from that without a shattering breakdown or loss of sense of self.

Besides, not everyone who has an addiction has toxic beliefs about themselves or their own identity or other people, etc etc. (Babies who are born addicted come to mind, if we want to talk about the most extreme example.) So I find the idea that addiction is down to toxic beliefs about one's self very suspect. I would argue that 95% of the time, addiction happens because your life sucks. The mental health community is starting to have this conversation about depression and anxiety - Cognitive Behavioral Therapy to work on one's "limiting beliefs" and "destructive thought patterns" can only do so much to help you feel better when your whole life is shit anyway. And it can actually make it WORSE if the victim is made to believe that their depression is the fault of their "Faulty thoughts" rather than a reasonable reaction to a shitty situation. Not necessarily saying we should throw CBT out the window altogether, but I am saying that mental healthcare will be a LOT more effective when it learns to truly take the broader societal context into account. I suspect, I hope, we'll soon be having a simialr conversation around addiction.)

And that’s doubly the case for ab*se survivors. They’re not stuck in that situation because there’s something wrong with them that they need to fix. They’re stuck in that situation because there’s something wrong with the ab*ser.

Regardless of the victim’s personal worth as an individual, regardless of whether they’re a good person or what-have-you, they don’t deserve to be ab*sed.

(I'm just waiting to hear about how some therapist tells a victim to work on their "limiting belief" that they need to stay with their ab*ser in order not to be killed, and/or tells them that fearing their ab*ser will kill them is a "cognitive distortion", and tells them to stand up to their ab*ser and/or leave, and then the ab*ser kills them. But I digress.)

And the loss of self when separating from a toxic system that’s defined your whole life is a real thing some people go through. It’s not bad consider that Aziraphale could also go through that, or to want to see that experience reflected.

I want to be very clear that I don’t have the smallest objection to people wanting to see that in a show. But a. that’s not what the person was saying, and b. they were also saying it’s necessary. IT’S NOT. I can’t emphasize this enough.

Loss of self is the worst-case scenario for how something like that goes. Nothing good comes from that. That is a side effect of ab*se (because the ab*ser’s the one who says that “Everything you are is bound up in me and you’re nothing with me"), not an integral part of the process of getting away.

Trauma is not necessary for character growth.

The way these things should go is that the person is able to gradually and mindfully work through the beliefs that are poisoning them with the help of a therapist, trusted friends, etc.

I know what I’m talking about. I worked in trauma research for over seven years. Please trust me on this one.

And again, Aziraphale can’t “separate” from them anyway. There’s nowhere he can go where they won’t find him. So his beliefs are irrelevant to his situation. And if the show implies that his beliefs “need to change” as part of the earth being set free from heaven-hell’s tyranny, or that he “needs to change” in order to be free, I will be writing a strongly-worded letter to the creators.

But more importantly, *they didn’t just say giddy.* They also said apprehensive. Perhaps they’re apprehensive because they know it could be painful to watch. Or because they don’t want to see it handled poorly.

“Giddily apprehensive” sounds an awful lot like “excited” to me. I admit it is ambiguous, though, so I’ll give you that one. I maintain that the OP expressed themselves with an exceptional lack of grace, however. And fwiw, they’d be FAR from the first person to want to see Aziraphale suffer because they are mad at him. I think I have good reason to believe that's what they're getting at here, given how many people in the poster's orbit say the same kinds of things and how many other things I've seen the OP say that are along those lines. I acknowledge I should have made that clearer in my original post.

They aren’t giving this advice (if one could call it that) to a human. They’re saying they’re excited to see a character breakdown. Character arcs like that are common and enticing for good reason.

I have yet to see a reason why I should believe that the things people say about Aziraphale are different than the things they say about people in real life.

I would point you to a couple lines down where you say yourself that we respond to characters the same way we respond to real people.

Personal growth ≠ character growth.

But what makes a good character is that they act like real people.

As an audience, character growth (even negative) is engaging.

Yes, absolutely. But we can absolutely do character growth in a way that does not spread harmful mindsets or misinformation about what ab*se and recovery from ab*se looks like. In fact, I would argue that character growth can’t happen if the writer doesn’t write the characters to behave in a way that is realistic to real life.

Characters follow the same rules, though. We respond to characters the same way we respond to real people. The same general rules of personal development and so forth apply.

The idea that “Aziraphale realizes his ab*sers are terrible” is something he needs to do for his “personal development” is highly objectionable. He doesn’t need to grow in this area. He just needs his ab*sers to leave him alone. Side note: We should give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he already does think they’re terrible and only stays with them because he is terrified. Even if this hadn’t been strongly and frequently hinted at in every episode going all the way back to S1E1 - almost every scene, in fact - we should still give him the benefit of the doubt.

Also, even if we say, for the sake of argument, that Aziraphale was a terrible, awful, horrible person - I know you’re not saying that, to be clear - even then, he still wouldn’t “need to realize his ab*sers are terrible” or “have a complete breakdown” or “lose himself” in order to grow. That's not how growth works. The best growth happens when people are at peace and safe and loved. Not frightened and confused and alone. He never chose them in the first place, he never wanted to be on their side. If he were left alone, he would just spend the rest of eternity reading his books and eating Eccles cakes and snuggling with his former-demon. That’s who he really is. There’s nothing about him as a person that needs to change. I agree a story where a person loses their sense of self after escaping from an ab*sive system would be interesting to watch, but I maintain that it does not make sense for the context of this particular story. And, such a story would NEED to make clear that the person wasn’t bad or wrong for deriving some part of their sense of self from the ab*ser and that they shouldn’t have had to have a catastrophic breakdown in order to develop their own sense of self. No one should have to go through that.

It’s not the same thing as asking for personal growth from a real human being.

Good characters do not operate according to different emotional and psychological rules than we do, though. If they didn't, we wouldn’t have millions of people sobbing about how real Aziraphale and Crowley feel to them. We would be the biggest dodos in the world if we were reacting this way to paper dolls 😄

Comparing the desire to see a character go through a dramatic storyline like that (and to come out of it strong and shining) to fundamentalist rhetoric is… just total bullshit.

You said this blog has been a good place for you and I want it to continue to be that way for you. So I want to give you a chance to revisit this part and see if you can say something more constructive. Because I've gotta admit, this really made me upset and I can't let it go without saying something. It’s not cool to call someone’s commentary “bullsh*t” like this.

I heard the line “we must die to ourselves” many, many times from the high-control religion of my childhood. It is a classic cult line. Hence why so many cults have "burial and rebirth" rituals, make people change their names, etc.

I am not just making up a comparison. This is a real phenomenon. Controlling ab*sers are the ones who’ve given us this idea that “death of the self” is character growth. It’s not. Character growth happens in spite of those excruciating emotional crises, not because of them.

Growing as a person is supposed to feel good overall. Not always easy, but on the whole, it should be a positive experience.

Also - Again, they said he “needs” to do it.

And they didn’t say anything about Aziraphale “coming out strong and shining”. You added that in. I think it's wonderful that you want to see that for him (so do I) but that’s not what this person was saying

If they'd said that, I wouldn't object to it at all. But they didn't. That part was left out. Which I think may be very telling in itself.

There are a myriad of reasons someone could have that desire, including having gone through something similar themselves.

Having gone through something similar doesn’t necessarily mean it makes sense for another character. It also doesn’t mean it’s necessary. And having been through something that went a certain way does NOT mean that it happening that way makes sense for someone else.

Deconstruction from a religious upbringing is different from leaving an ab*sive relationship

Aziraphale doesn’t have religious trauma. (I’m not going to talk much about religious trauma and deconstruction here, because it’s outside the scope of this blog, largely because - as attested by no less an authority than Neil Himself - Good Omens is not about religion. But I’ll say a little bit.)

Heaven and hell are not a “religion” in his world - they’re real. His fear of hell (and of heaven) is absolutely, one hundred percent, completely legitimate and appropriate, and NOT something he should be “reasoned” out of. Saying otherwise gives “your ab*ser isn’t actually that evil and scary”. But regardless, in either scenario, that kind of traumatic personal crisis is not a necessary part of the healing process. My heart aches for all the people whose deconstruction process was emotionally shattering. But what makes it ache even more is how for so many of them, the takeaway is somehow that that kind of crisis is necessary - rather than "dear god, i hope no one else ever has to go through that kind of hideous experience to get away from their shitty religion", which surely is what the takeaway should be (assuming there even is a lesson to be learned at all from an experience like that, which is doubtful) - and they go on to demand it of other survivors and gatekeep against people who haven't gone through the exact same thing they did in the process of getting away.

How, HOW did we get to a point where so many people’s deconstruction is a fucked-up, scarring experience that we think it’s inevitable for deconstruction to be that way????? I grieve.

I know the idea of killing one’s old self is inherently wrong to many people.

It’s not about whether it’s *wrong*. If that's valid for someone and they get where they need to be - you do you. It’s about the fact that it’s painful and it’s unnecessary to the process of growth.

Furthermore, it is the kind of thing ab*sers WANT to see happen to their victims when they leave. They want victims to think that they have to have that kind of crisis if they want to leave them. Because then they’re less likely to leave. When we encourage that kind of thinking, we are playing directly into their hands.

What should happen is that the victim should be given the opportunity to realize that all along there was much more to them than their ab*ser.

I don’t personally desire to watch Aziraphale do that, especially because there are so many wonderful aspects of the Angel he’s been since the beginning

Agreed.

But fwiw, this is giving a faint whiff of perfect victim syndrome. Even if he were an asshole, he still deserves to just have his ab*sers leave him alone, not to have some kind of shattering, soul-crushing emotional breakdown. They will always, always be worse than him.

but it’s not wrong to want to see that. People do go through it, and their stories are incredibly compelling.

I don’t disagree. For me it’s rather about the place this is coming from. OP was saying it’s necessary. There’s a difference between wanting to see a show address this issue overall because it’s interesting, and demanding that a specific character go through it because you think it’s necessary, or that their process of leaving and healing won't be legitimate (or whatever word we wanna use) if it doesn't happen.

And, as you said, it doesn’t make sense for Aziraphale. If the character is an asshole, I’d be able to see it a little more (although again, I still very much question the entire idea in the first place) But he's not an asshole. I find anyone’s thinking it “makes sense” for him to be highly questionable.

I know Aziraphale is much more than a character to many people

Speaking as a (very, very, very slightly, lol) professional writer and actor - every character should be “more than a character”, if they’re well-written. They should feel real if the writer and/or actor has done their job well. I like NG's line that "If you write someone who is utterly and completely themselves, you get people coming up to you and going 'Oh my God, you wrote my life!'

a desire to watch him go through a psychological breakdown is not some poorly concealed desire to watch real people go through that.

It may or may not be. I agree that it isn't always.

In this person’s case, though, I very much did get concerning vibes. Poorly concealed. (As an ab*se survivor, you start to know the vibe of victim-blamers after awhile.)

Regardless, though, the way we respond to characters is the way we respond to people in real life. Story is a primary vehicle through which people learn how to interact with one another and their environment. If it wasn’t, discussing media along these lines would be pointless, and I'd just spend all my time talking about how good David Tennant looks in those tight pants 😁 Or, probably, I would take up a different hobby altogether.

I wouldn’t have wasted my time starting this blog if the things people say about this story and especially about Aziraphale didn’t have real-world applications (not to mention making a lot of ab*se survivors feel very unsafe in the fandom - before we turned off anonymous asks, I got an average of two messages a day from ab*se survivors and other oppressed people telling them how this blog has made them feel so much safer in the fandom) - and if their views about the characters didn’t mirror the kinds of things they’d say about people in real life. (All the anti-Aziraphale autiphobic takes come to mind.) I flatter myself I have enough judgment that those takes wouldn't have troubled me so deeply if they weren't reflective of real-world societal problems and indicative of problematic attitudes in the people who write them.

In this case, the wording is identical to the kinds of problematic things people say about real-life victims/survivors. Yes, the person may not actually consciously want (or want at all) to see real-life ab*se victims/survivors suffer. But I absolutely, one hundred per cent guarantee you that anyone saying this has some major problematic biases/assumptions that are contributing to how ab*se survivors are maligned, degraded, and oppressed in our society. (I never want to see Disabled people suffer, but if I say ableist things, I’m contributing to it whether I mean to or not. I may not want to see women suffer, I am a woman, well more or less anyway lol, and I've identified as a feminist my entire adult life, but nevertheless there have certainly been times in the past when I've said sexist things. It's something all of us will always have to be vigilant against in ourselves. I suspect at this point I'm preaching to the choir, because you do not strike me at all as a bigoted or ignorant person, but I figured I'd re-iterate all that again anyway, because screaming it through a megaphone as often as possible is what this blog is for lol. :)

And what’s worse, they are spreading that rhetoric. I’ll be damned if I’ll let it go by without saying something.

Hope this makes sense and cleared some things up.

With love and respect,

Mod X.

#good omens #goodomens #aziraphale #good omens 2 #badaziraphaletakes #goodomens2 #ineffable husbands #cw: abuse #cw: trauma #cw: religious trauma

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kaleidoscopic-quiddity · 6 months ago

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belated character ask game submission: 1, 12, 25 fooooorrr sugishita, tsubakino, and/or kaji

yes!! windbreaker, thank youuu

1. Why do you like or dislike this character?

sugishita: i like him because i find him funny lmao, i love that hes this grouch who Really Loves His Senpai, i love that hes this rough n rowdy delinquent but also he gets hair treatments every month, also his dynamic with sakura is top tier

tsubakino: tsubaki-chan, the love of my life!!! literally what isnt there to like about her shes a sweetheart shes a style icon shes a badass, genuinely tho shes one of the best written queer characters ive ever read in a manga thats not specifically about being queer, i adore her

kaji: i like him because hes incredibly relatable to me, as someone who struggles with anger issues myself i find kaji to be a very cathartic character, i also really love his personality and his dynamics with the other bofuurin kids

12. What's a headcanon you have for this character?

sugishita: i like to imagine that hes raised by his grandparents and that hes very much a Grandma's Boy TM, he knits with her and shares gardening tips he got from umemiya, they have afternoon tea on sundays, he just gives me that vibe yknow?

tsubakino: bc shes such a sweetheart i feel like shes always carrying around a backpack or purse with anything you might need in it. lip balm? tampons? granola bar? water bottle? hair tie? breath mint? tsubaki-chan's got you covered

kaji: he always just sits with the tamborine whenever his frieds drag him to karaoke but hes actually a very good singer!! i feel like he'd absolutely slay Ling Tosite Sigure songs

25. What was your first impression of this character? How about now?

sugishita: something along the lines of 'holy shit', i mean he literallly thREW A DESK at sakura lmao, ive always been quite fond of him tho hes just a very fun character imo

tsubakino: i was so excited when she was introduced bc i was like 'fuck yes girl delinquent' then i was like 'fUCK YES TRANS GIRL DELINQUENT', i love her sososo much shes easily one of the best wbk characters if you ask me

kaji: i liked him immediately based off of his character design and fighting style and then we learned more about him and i was like 'omg he just like me fr', prolly my fave wbk character i really really love kaji a whole lot

#wind breaker #sugishita kyoutarou #tsubakino tasuku #kaji ren #hi anon #leo answers #character ask game #og post //

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stabbyfoxandrew · 7 months ago

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omg i forgot it was wednesday!! requesting mafia restaurant this time!! hope you’re doing well aerie

WIP Wednesday (4/3) | Mafia Front Restaurant AU (Part 127)

After fifteen minutes of people watching and reading Tweets over Kevin’s shoulder, Neil’s about to go insane. His restlessness is something he’s never grown out of and he’s starting to feel cooped up. Like a dog tied to a tree. Or left in a car...

“What’s the matter?” ask Kevin from the front.

Neil looks up at him. “Huh?”

“You keep sighing.” Kevin says.

“I do not,” Neil argues. Then he looks towards the door to the shop and lets out a breath.

“You just did it again.” Kevin says, turning in his seat. He starts to laugh quietly. “You sound like an old dog.”

“Shut up.” Neil pouts, remembering Jean’s joke about him being a pet. “What is taking him so long?”

“It’s not been that long.” Kevin says, looking back down at his phone. “You’re just antsy all the time.”

Well, he’s got a point. Neil glances out the window to see Jean exiting the shop with quite a few bags in his trolley. Oh, thank God. He’s finally done. When he gets to the car, Jean loads most of the groceries into the trunk. Except for one bag that he brings with him into the front seat.

“Took you long enough. I thought we were going to have to send out a search party.” Neil snides as soon as Jean climbs in. Jean gives him a look in the rearview.

“This is the thanks I get for searching for this for ten minutes?” Jean asks, slipping a magazine out of the bag. Neil’s mouth falls open.

“You do care.” He says with a smile, reaching for the magazine.

“Of course I do, you imbecile.” Jean folds the magazine and slaps Neil in the side of the head with it before dropping it in his lap. The smack rattles Neil’s brain a bit and Kevin snorts. Jean clears his throat. “For your information, they moved the magazine stand to the other side, nearer the bakery section.”

“Thanks,” Neil says, hand coming to his head. “Can we go now?”

“God, you’re never happy. Are you?” Jean asks, starting the car.

“I’m not sure. Thanks for the concussion.” Neil says, then he waves the magazine. “And this, I guess.”

Kevin snorts. “All three of us have had concussions. I think it takes a little more than that.”

Jean and Neil share a look in the rearview mirror again. The two of them know exactly what it takes to get a concussion, courtesy of Riko Moriyama, but they silently agree not to bring it up. Because, while it’s sort of cathartic for the two of them to bitch about Riko, it only serves to make Kevin feel like shit.

#i'm doing okay but my brain is fighting me this week. lol i might die. it's already almost monday... and i've only done like 7/34 TWT #aftg #kevjean #Mafia Restaurant AU #WIP Wednesday #🕊️#answered #anon

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paingoes · 1 month ago

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Would you consider any of the characters in destroyer/other series to be self inserts? If not, how did you come up with the characters?

hiii thanks for the ask!!!! omg ummmm

for some reason im finding this to be a really difficult question to answer? which is annoying me cause i HAVE thought about it a lot and i think the answer ive had in the past is that delta is who i would have related to when i was younger and paris is who i really relate to now.

that’s a bit of an oversimplification honestly. delta was conceptualized first, probably when i was around 16-ish, and i really enjoyed imagining hurt/comfort scenarios w him. i think that was partially as a coping mechanism and it was something that brought me a lot of comfort. i dont think we actually share a lot of traits though.

paris was conceived for the story just these past couple months and its kind of insane how much ive grown attached to him? again i think it’d be a stretch to say he’s a self insert and yet i do feel i put a lot of myself into him. i think its the way his world is always ending and how stressed out and panicky and self destructive he is. i find it cathartic to write his freakouts cause secretly i want to to freak out too.

they are both constantly in survival mode and i think i related to delta more in situations where i was younger and had less autonomy and so i just had to put up with it. i think i relate to paris more as an adult because now my life is mine to ruin.

haha this got weirdly personal! i guess the answer is i dont see either of them as necessarily self inserts but they do represent different parts of me :)

#also paris is hunter biden coded and its not gonna feel the same writing about him after the election :(#destroyer is a Biden Era creation lmfaooooo

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doeshrine · 1 year ago

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OMG I FOUND ONE

it’s so rare to find a writer SPECIFICALLY for John Doe-

anyways, hello! Could I please request some fluff (maybe a bit suggestive at the end if ur feelin it, but it’s fine if not) with a GN reader? For the idea… maybe if the reader had just gotten home from a long day at work and John just flocks to them, tending to their every need and trying his best to make the reader feel like the most valued living thing in the world! Yk, him just fawning over his partner, absolutely SMITTEN.

thanks for listening and I hope you have fun writing this! Who knows, I might be back for more 👀

I'm so glad you came to my page!!! I specifically write GN and Male readers so drop a request anytime hun!

Edit as of Posting: Just want to apologize for this taking so long. College kicks my butt and has been causing quite a lot of depression, but I'm back into the swing of things!!!

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Physically Exhausted

Since moving to the Uncanny Valley, work had always been a difficult thing due to the late shifts you worked. It wasn't exactly for the fainthearted. Especially since your boyfriend didn't work- well couldn't get work since he was a Regular Guy which is seen as local pest, and while yes your boyfriend is a tad bit pesky, he was far above common vermin, at least to you.

You walked home tiredly in the rain, having missed your bus. Doe would have met you at the bus stop, but he is hydrophobic and you'd rather not watch your partner devolve into a puddle or something. The thought made you uncomfortable.

You were covered in a grape slushie that someone dropped on you since you told them they were a dollar or so short. Your pants smelled of orange soda some kid dropped on you that his guardian said wasn't a big deal. You felt miserable. You walked home miserably as you were soaked in rain and seething with frustration. You got to your apartment building, clicking the button on the intercom.

"Who is it?" Doe spoke on the other end curious as to who it was.

"Hey, honey. Can you let me upstairs?" You asked him. You had conveniently forgotten your keys this morning, so you couldn't get in.

"On it!" He spoke happily and bolted to the door to open it for you. As you walked up the stairs, you went to hug him, but he stepped back, pointing to the water coming off your clothes.

"Sorry, love bug." He smiled at you sweetly.

That kinda was the last straw for you and you just started crying in the hall, as John Doe was wide-eyed and looked at you as you cried and rambled about how horrible your day was.

"Some bitch dropped a slushie on me! Some kid dropped soda on me! Then I forgot my keys and it's raining! and now I can't hug my boyfriend." You just cried and rambled about your bad day and Doe gently guided you inside as you sobbed quietly and pitied yourself. He slowly took your jacket off(with plastic gloves), and set it aside with your uniform hat and he led you to the bathroom where you saw your favorite pajamas out for you and your bluetooth speaker on to blast your favorite music. You slowly stopped crying and he just had a sweet smile on his face as you finally calmed down.

"It'll be ok. You're home now! For the rest of the night you'll be treated the way you should be treated." He smiled again and held your face in his hands. "Even when you're upset, you're still the most beautiful thing to me." He kissed your forehead, and let you be for a while.

You calmed down finally and threw aside your wet clothes. You were surprised he wasn't fussing about the shower since he usually hates it when you do. You open the shower and hook up your phone to the speaker, vibing to your music and cathartically losing yourself for a moment. After a good twenty minutes of scrubbing yourself and your hair, you eventually opened the curtain to find your favorite fluffy towel, the one you loved the most, and did your best to keep it in good condition. After you got all dressed you came out to see Doe had warmed up your favorite meal you prepped and defrosted throughout the week.

"I got your favorite movie on, lovebug!" He smiled at you as you sat down. "Thanks, Doe." You smile and ate your meal, snuggling up to him and eating your meal. Despite a bad day... this was nice. Coming home to the man you love. Of course he wasn't watching the movie, those big, sweet eyes were looking directly at you. Of course you didn't mind as you hugged him.

"Thank you, Doe... for everything." You smiled and kissed his cheek gently, making all his adorable curls turn to hearts and his pupils to dilate largely.

"Anything for you, my beloved." He proceeded to pounce you- smothering you in kisses and all over your sweet face. Of course, you tried to escape- but you were stuck for a while, but who could ask for more than him? Someone who loves you so devotedly as John Doe? No one could ever compare.

#john doe #john doe visual novel #john doe x reader #character x reader #john doe x you #tw yandere #johndoeshrine #obsessive yandere

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ravewing · 19 days ago

Note

hieeee!! i just read all of terror of talons in one sitting and omg its so good hehe... condor is my fave i miss him :,(

anyways i just wanted to ask if you have any voiceclaims for the characters!! if this means anything i imagine arroyo to have a brooklyn accent :>

cant wait for the next part! i care these blorbos so much

in ONE ??! (1) sitting is insane i love you anon !?!???? thats like three hours holy

anyhow yes i do have voice headcanons for a few characters thank you somuch for the ask .!!! is it called a headcanon still if theyre my characters .. who knows

shrike – definitely liam plecak (hfjone) .. i dontknow why tbh but theres just something about him. i could also see him sounding like sunburst mlp or francis from felidae a little bit

condor – hmm idk i imagine him with like a playful jock-type himbo voice but i canNOT come up with a character. maybe kronk from emperors new groove? but like not as deep.. actually like a blend of kronk and brett hand from inside job. actually maybe we can throw shining armor mlp in there too

ptarmigan – trophy from ii methinks ..

cathartes – EASILY sweetie belle from mlp like is this even a question ??

queen markhor – mother gothel easy . next

kaolin – perhaps something similar to felicity from felidae ? like a mix of that and wendy from the newer seasons of south park

chimaera – honestly knife from ii like do you see the vision ..

general claymore – george washington from libertys kids !! fun fact i loosely had george in mind when i was writing him. also i know he had like one line but colonel whimbrel sounds like hamilton from libertys kids

arroyo – 100% agree with you about the brooklyn accent .no characters r coming to mind but yeah

strix – adult kyle broflovski from like the post covid thingy they made a couple years back ...

hereafter – princess luna mlp !! like literally she is her with the whole dream visiting thing and idk i just feel like they have suuper similar vibes .....

puma – ive never watched wander over yonder but ive seen clips and omg sylvias voice suits her EXACTLY. like its crazy

lieutenant hickory and captian fen – braeburn mlp and bloberta puppington respectively

i dont think ive properly given princess aracari nor panthera proper introductions but aracari definitely sounds like trixie (ESPECIALLY when she was more of an antagonist in the series) and panthera is charlotte stern from hfjone hehe ..

i feel like this is such a random mix of characters and there are a lot of like unimportant one-off background characters that i just skipped over but whatever. if anyone has any requests for characters i missed then hash tag comments please let me know !!

#holy yap #im so glad people like tot hehe #wof #terror of talons #rave rambles

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violets-and-books · 2 months ago

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Boo I appear in your ask box for the first time in a million years 😮 Not me scrolling through the dbda ask game trying to find one I don't already know the answer to 😋

4. Something you wanted to see in season 2?

(Charles confession andddd /lh)

11. Favourite ship in the show?

(You have to choose bestie 🔫)

15. Favourite line in the show?

(I saw you answered this one so second fav I guess 😋)

22. Personal favourite female character? Why? 👀👀👀👀👀

*gasp* For the first time EVERRRRR

We've really not been talking through ask boxes, bestie, omg

4. Something you wanted to see in s2

*glances at my 4 charles confession fics* Yknow, I think that mightve been something I wanted, yeah-

I wanted Niko back. Or, at least, I wanted the moment when Edwin found out the Principal was Niko. I wanted Edwin to cry more, basically, because he would and I wanted them to catch up and for everything to be revealed. I JUST WANTED NIKO'S STORY TO BE RESOLVEDDDDD 😭😭😭

11. Favourite ship in the show

How DARE you make me choose /lhlhlh

I will always have a special place in my heart for Payneland. They're profound and beautiful and wonderful and perfectly wound up, red string of fate, all that sort of thing

But.

My comfort ship rn is catcrow. Theyre so bitchy and annoying and they have only one scene together. But they are my favourite. AND I BLAME YOU FOR THIS, LORE- /lhlhlh

15. Favourite line in the show

Charles' whole mini monologue in episode 4. It's an absolute gut punch. "Was it too extreme, Edwin? So was me dying at 16, mate" Brutal. "I don't wanna be dead! I hate it" Tearing my heart out. "But I'm always fucking smiling" Just kill me why don't you

And Jayden Revi, the man that you are for delivering that so fucking well. It's one of my favourite scenes just because of how much it hurts. It starts out cathartic with him beating the Night Nurse and then very very quickly turns sour and horrifying and you just get hit with how absolutely fucked up it is that Charles and Edwin died like this. You get it a bit with Edwin's monologue in ep1 but Charles' monologue is just delivered with such passion that it's painful and horrifying and beautiful to watch

22. Favourite female character?

Ooooooooooooooh. I love all the characters sm but my favourite female character is probably Crystal. She's so complex and wonderfully written and she's a female character who's allowed to be angry and that is so bloody rare in media, I think it's gorgeous. And she's so lost for most of the show but she puts it to the side to help others and she cares so deeply about justice and she's also a character who was allowed to change and allowed to hate who she was and allowed to regret it while knowing she may not deserve the redemption she wants and it's wonderful writing and I just love her so much

Thank you for the ask, bestie 🩷

#lore <3 #blaize answers #dead boy detectives #dbda #crystal palace #crystal palace surname von hoverkraft #save dead boy detectives #charles rowland

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frostycatblr-fandom-files · 1 year ago

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Heeeeeyyyyy

Can I drop a request? (You can say kriff off and I will still love you ❤️)

I'd like a little soft Hunter? Or any clone really if you wanna try someone new.

I had one of the worst days in a long time about two weeks ago. It was the first anniversary of my caretaker's death combined with the worst day at work I've ever experienced. I cried for the thirty minute drive home, and for another 30 curled up catatonic on the couch. I tried to quit my job, called my mom sobbing, it was a very bad time.

Cue some clone comfort? You absolutely do not need to use the details of my bad day, that's just what was going on and inspired my ask.

Anywho, here's two cats as payment:

🌙Hex🔮

Omg of course you can drop a request, Hex, always!! You're actually the first person to make a request too, and I was so surprised I kinda cried. 🥺

Penelope and Baklava are so cute all cuddled up like that too aaaa~

I hope you like what I came up with, sweetheart; and I'm sorry you're Going Through It™ as well, too. I'm currently there for different reasons and it suuuucks so this was extremely cathartic. Hope things will get better soon, love. 🩷

W&I: Minor proofreading and plot. 2nd person POV, undescribed fem!Reader. Emotional angst. Talks and thoughts centered on the loss of a person only described as a "loved one" without explicit mention of relation to you or their role in your life. Can be read as an established relationship fic. Hunter's just being real sweet on you to cheer you up. Little sprinkling of Mando'a. Minor language. No real age rating for this one.

Word-count: 2,383

That's it.

You're done.

You're so over this place.

If one more patron tries to tell me to smile while using some variation of darling or sweetheart, I'll give him teeth alright: in the flesh of his arm, you think to yourself.

It's not exactly an appropriate time to laugh, but if you don't snicker softly to yourself over the thought of such a forbidden fantasy, you're going to cry. You're going to cry before you squeeze through the doors that read EMPLOYEES ONLY and make your way to the machine to clock yourself out of your shift and get yourself home. Who gives a load of Kryatespit if it only earns the customer's ire to have you laughing at him?

Right now, if you had your way, if you gave into your impulse, you'd quit. You'd turn in your uniform, your name badge, and any little piece of company property you'd ever acquired so these soul-sucking middle managers and CEOs can't come around and accuse you of anything.

You didn't want to be here today. You didn't want to get out of bed today. But you couldn't get the time off approved. Some banthashit about too few hands to run the place as it is.

Well maybe if you hired more kriffing people…

"Your receipt is in the bag. Enjoy the rest of your day, sir." When you give the customer his purchase with these phrases you're required to say, it means he can leave now and take his smug attitude with him. Social obligations means he's going to tell you the same. An empty, hollowed out "Thanks, you too." that perfectly encapsulates how you feel inside.

How the hell am I supposed to enjoy today of all days? One of the most important people to me in this galaxy isn't here anymore.

I don't want to be here at this job anymore… I just want to quit.

You keep your head down when you clock-out, and grab your things. You don't return sentiments of farewell from any of your co-workers, and you don't respond to the request to trade shifts with someone for some BS reason. "Hey, c'moooon! Please?! I've got things I wanna do that day!" they whine after you, calling to your retreating back.

Don't we all? I just wanted to stay home and maybe sob into a carton of ice cream while looking at my photos of my loved one. We don't always get what we want.

What you want is to go home. Think of how you're going to call in, or write up your two weeks notice, or just cold-quit while you're sitting in your transport and-

You find an unexpected figure leaning against your transport when you step out into the employee lot, their back to you. What the hell? You begin rifling through your bag for something to arm yourself with, perhaps something like a bottle of cheap perfume you have in there somewhere that you can spray in their eyes, or maybe there's something you can throw in their direction, tell them to scram. Or maybe their after your credits, so you hope you can just tell them to take your credits and not cause you any trouble and-

Looking over his left shoulder, you find yourself staring at the ink of the skeletal tattoo and a side profile framed by waves of curled, brown hair you'd recognize anywhere.

"H-Hunter?"

Hunter turns to face you, his hands fiddling with the knot of his crimson bandana to work it loose. That's when you finally realized why you didn't recognize who was leaning against your vehicle in the growing, deepening purple shadows of the late afternoon. "I thought you'd be a little happier to see me than that," he says with a look that's somewhere between a typical smile and a concerned frown, "but I guess you didn't realize it was me. And I guess I shouldn't have been standing here with my back to you, either." Hunter slips the accessory around his head and reties it with a hasty knot. "Sorry about that, mesh'la."

There's a million questions swimming over the top of your tongue, each one vying to be asked. "Wha-? How did-? Why are you-?"

Hunter does his best to answer the questions he believes you're trying to ask. "Crosshair gave me a lift here so I could drive you home once you got off work." he says, holding a hand out. He's offering to take your bag and the keys to your vehicle. "As for why, well: it's today. I saw it written on your calendar the last time I came to visit. It's been a year since you lost your loved one. I figured you might be just holding it together by the time your shift ended, and… I think I was right." His hand cups the soft curve of your cheek, the pad of his thumb collecting the first tears that have begun to escape the confines of your tear ducts.

Hunter sweetly helps you into the passenger seat, and gets any and all safety belts secured before he himself climbs behind the controls and gets ready to take you home.

"We'll pick up whatever you want to eat on the way home, if that's what you want, cyar'ika." he offers, gently resting the palm of his hand on your trembling shoulder for a brief moment. He's not certain if you want a lot of these gestures of reassuring, physical touch, but it's what he can offer right now so you know that he's there for you.

Right here, right now, as you weep silently into the sleeves of your work uniform in the passenger seat, Hunter is here for you. And he's not going anywhere until he's either satisfied with his efforts to do his best to lift your spirits, or until you ask him to leave.

Remnants of the comfort-food you'd requested are either tucked away with the rest of your leftovers, or swept up and deposited into the kitchen trash by Hunter when he makes the offer to do a bit of tidying up. Gentle murmurings that he doesn't want you to worry about it, he'll take care of everything.

He'll take care of you. Hunter's not going to judge you for your tears. Or for telling him how you wished you could have reamed out this difficult customer. Or for how you shout in your episodic instances of anger, calling your manager a spineless and incompetent little twit who needed to get their act together and quit being so cheap and to hire more people so you're not running yourself so karking ragged.

Nor does he admonish you for how silly it was that you're complaining about the rip in your clothing made by the thorns found in one of the bushes outside your house, or easily you fall apart into a mess of tears at the gentle hand on your shoulder when he joins you on the sofa once again.

"Could this day get any worse?!" you sob, your face hot with anger and grief, and your voice thick and choked with the respective emotions.

Hunter is patient and endlessly perceptive; tucking your body just right against him, the way you need him right now. "C'mere, cyare… You've certainly had a pretty thorny day… And I don't blame you for simply just having enough of it all. I don't blame you at all." he promises, sweetly and softly peppering your face in tender kisses with the intention of comfort.

"I've been having a lot of thorny days lately…" you admit with a stutter, burying your face into the material of his shirt. Hunter smells like sun-warmed cotton and the heavy tang of seawater. Of course now you can't tell if you smell hints of his homeworld on him, or if that's the dried tear stains from earlier. When the two of you simply sat in the parked vehicle once you'd gotten home, Hunter leaned over the center console so you could weep into his shoulder. You'd dialed up your job, ready to tell them that they needed to find someone else, but you couldn't go through with it. Not then, anyways. You haven't been able to make up your mind, either.

Hunter rubs little circles with his thumb into your shoulder blade as he holds you close, saying that he's sorry to hear you've been struggling lately. That he's sorry you're having hard days. "I just want them to stop!" you sob softly, feeling his fingers gently caress the back of your head, and the deep rumble in his ribs as he asks you to take a deep breath, promising that he's here. That he'll help however he needs.

If you breathe him in deeply enough, you could probably find something from all of his brothers. Something sugary that he was offered a bite of to share with his brother as Wrecker indulged his sweet tooth. The rich blend of caf Tech was partial to lately, that could give him the jitters when Hunter drank it by mistake. The smooth notes of the polishing agent Crosshair spoiled his Firepuncher with because he swore nothing else would do. The faint whiff of synthetic lubricant that must mean Echo had performed upkeep on his prosthetics today or the day before.

"There we go," Hunter says softly in praise, feeling the frenzied beating of your heart begin to slow and your tears eventually peter out, "it'll be okay, cyare."

You sniffle, mumbling softly into Hunter's chest. "I'm just so scared that it won't. And I feel silly for feeling so scared..." His arms stitch just a little tighter around you in return when you pull yourself against him, feeling his breath against the top of your head. You just feel so small in your sadness today. But in his arms, the way you fit just right…

The way he's so steady, you feel so loved and protected when you're at your most vulnerable.

Hunter hushes you, pulling the hair back from your face with a gentle touch once you sit up again. "Tech would probably tell you that that fear is a natural and normal part of life, and that there's no use to feel silly about it. And, even if the way he'd probably say it isn't so gentle, he'd be right. How you're feeling today - angry and upset about your job and wanting to quit, and how much you miss your loved one - is all very thorny and uncomfortable, and no one likes feeling like that. But it's normal. And it's nothing to be ashamed of. And I promise you, I'm here to help. However I'm needed. However long you need me to hold you and make you feel loved while you're feeling down."

The gentle reminder is just what you need. You're not dealing with this alone. That if you're going to quit your job, Hunter would do whatever you asked of him to help you get ready to sever those ties if you felt it was time. That even though you're left with a hole in your heart with the passing of this loved one who was very important to you, Hunter doesn't expect his presence to merely fill it like it's nothing.

That's the marvelous thing about the human heart.

It can hold so much love for so many people if you let it.

You're certain your eyes look so swollen and red. You're certain you'll find more tears to shed when the thorns of grief find their excuse to make you weep once more, but right now, Hunter's hands have carefully and kindly cleaned away the last of them. He's so gentle and sweet on you, right now.

"Hey… what if," Hunter begins, offering in a soft, low voice between the kisses he stamps in the crown of your hair and trails down one side of your jaw to the other, "you changed out of your uniform, and we found something to watch together now that we've had something to eat? Something silly. Maybe something romantic. Or both. Whatever you want, cyare. I don't care what it is." he promises.

You fiddle with the frayed and torn edge of your clothing that had been caught on the thorny plant outside. "What if I just want more cuddles after I change?" Hunter laughs gently, nodding as he reluctantly releases you so you can slip into something comfortable and try to end this day on a happier note.

(You're going to have to send Crosshair a message later to thank him for doing Hunter a favor by giving his brother a lift and dropping him off.)

"Whatever you want. Especially if that's more cuddles." Hunter says once more with a warm smile, hooking your pinky fingers together so he can hold some part of you just a moment longer. If you found comfort in his touch and wanted more of it, he was happy to provide.

You're pulled back into Hunter's arms when you come back to the living room after you've thrown on a comfortable pair of clothes, finding yourself wrapped up tight. He's so strong, like all of his brothers, and every ounce of it is devoted to comfort and consoling you right now.

Hunter is so warm and comfortable, and you're so emotionally drained that it's hard to resist the act of nuzzling one cheek into his chest and closing your eyes to simply relish this quiet moment. You don't know what you want to do, but you just know that you need this. Hunter knows it too.

People need a good hug now and again. This galaxy could be so cruel and thorny to the people who mattered most to us, that sometimes what they needed most was an act of deliberate softness to remind them everything would be okay. That the bad times will pass.

That while our hearts yearn and grieve for the ones we miss the most, the room we had for them in our hearts will always remain no matter how long they've been gone.

And the people we love in the here and now will fit themselves next to that jagged space and trim back the thorns, if we only ask.

[Masterlist] [Requests: OPEN]

#frostfics #Thorny Days #star wars #the bad batch #tbb #tbb hunter #hunter bad batch #hunter tbb #tbb hunter x you #tbb hunter x reader #tbb x reader #x reader #hunter x fem!reader #comfort fic #request fic #the-hexfiles

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