Work Text:
$2 = 1 squat.
Ver Vermillion lowered himself once again, his thighs trembling, his glutes tight, and he began to seriously question why—why—he always made promises that no one ever asked him to.
Sure, it sounded doable at first.
But he had somehow forgotten that the version of himself doing this 3D debut stream was a tired office worker at the end of a long week, not a professional athlete. It had been ages since he’d last touched his Ring Fit, or followed the guidance of a friend who used to drag him into doing proper workouts. In truth, most of his days before returning to streaming were spent sitting motionless at a desk. Whatever muscle he used to have had probably thinned to something as delicate as a cicada’s wing.
Panting heavily, Ver glared at the camera between ragged breaths, irrationally furious at the “love” Chat kept pouring onto him in the form of Super Chats. His chest rose and fell rapidly, sweat beading along his hairline. Still—determined to keep up the illusion of being “the President with abs”—he forced himself to smile through the pain, swallowing the curses that nearly slipped out every time he squatted down again.
But as the Supas kept rolling in, and his mods cheerfully updated the ever-growing total of squats left to complete, Ver could feel his legs starting to give out. His breathing turned shallow, his knees wobbled, and he finally stopped, leaning toward the camera with a pleading grin.
“Hey, Villions, you don’t seriously want to spend the entire stream watching me squat, do you? We could, uh, do something else instead?”
He glanced at the chat. The messages began to slow—finally, a sign that he might get to rest. He dared to hope he could talk his way out of the remaining squats… until one particularly bold white tiger sent a magenta Supa across the screen:
“No, don’t stop. I want to see you exhausted, collapsing on the floor—eyes red, angry and frustrated but still trying to hold it together.”
Ver froze. His eyes widened in disbelief.
And of course, his chat exploded. The fans who had just been asking for heart gestures, head pats, or cute little “rawr” poses instantly switched sides, spamming a single word in perfect unison:
Continue.
For a long second, Ver didn’t know whether he should climb through the screen to fight his own fans… or just give up and cry right then and there.
In the end, Ver took a step back to where his phone stood propped on its stand, braced his feet shoulder-width apart, and resumed position.
The numbers spilling from his lips kept climbing higher. He was panting so hard it sounded almost comical, but still—he had to keep pushing his hips back, bending his knees, and forcing himself upward again through the strain in his heels.
Each breath came out ragged. He tried to distract himself from the pain, silently grateful that home 3D setups weren’t yet advanced enough to capture the trembling in his legs. By the time he felt his lungs about to collapse and imagined himself crawling around the apartment tomorrow, Ver’s harsh breathing had all but turned into wheezing. But at long last, he finished the final squat.
Abandoning all pretense of elegance, he stood there with his hands braced on his knees, gasping for air. Chat couldn’t see it anyway; he told himself—so why bother pretending? Straightening up again, Ver grabbed the hem of his shirt and wiped the sweat dripping from his forehead, baring his slender waist, slick with a sheen of heat that glistened faintly under the light.
The Villions couldn’t feel the warmth radiating from his body, but they could hear the quick rhythm of his breathing. Oblivious to how distracting that was, Ver leaned weakly against the nearest wall, face flushed, stubbornly refusing to give in and flop onto the floor like a defeated ragdoll.
A few minutes later, his voice finally steadied. He tried to sound nonchalant as he started chatting again. Someone cheekily commented,
“I’ll send you Supa for a snack—don’t worry, you don’t need to squat anymore. I doubt you even can.”
Maybe it was the fatigue talking, or maybe his pride simply refused to die, but Ver gave a low hum and replied with a cocky grin:
“Me? Not a chance. I could even do push-ups like Krisis if I wanted to. But you’ll have to pay me fiv—”
He didn’t get to finish.
A sparkling train of Supas—complete with smiley emojis—lit up the screen again. The sight hit him harder than any workout could. Dizzy from exhaustion and the dawning realization of what he’d just committed to, Ver trembled all over. Not even a “shi-bal”escaped his lips.
Finally, clutching his head, he let out a strangled cry toward the camera:
“Alright, fine! I give up! I’ll cry for you right now, okay?!”