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steveseddie · 1 month ago

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my cards are on the table

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles prompt: family dinner and @steddiebingo prompt: matchmaker | rating: t | cw: 999 | tags: different first meeting, pre season 4, matchmaker wayne munson, soft boys

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Christmas at the Munson’s consists of early dinner on Christmas Eve and opening presents on Christmas morning once Wayne comes back from work.

It’s been that way since Eddie moved in so when Wayne opens Eddie’s door to tell him to wash up before dinner and casually says he invited someone, Eddie is puzzled.

“You– what?”

“Kid, you gotta stop listening to your music so loud,” Wayne says gruffly, rolling his eyes good-naturedly.

“And you need to explain why you invited someone to dinner!” Eddie demands, narrowing his eyes. “Is it a woman? Are you seeing someone, old man?”

“Not a woman, son, just a kid who does deliveries to the plant sometimes. His folks ain’t gonna be around for Christmas so I invited him over.”

Eddie’s lips press into a thin line. He’s known his uncle is a good man since he took him in. He loves him for it. He just wishes it didn’t mean he has to spend Christmas with a stranger.

“Fine, but I’m not dressing up just because someone is coming over!”

“Suit yourself, son, but I think you might wanna.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows. “Why?” Wayne just shrugs and leaves. “Why?” He repeats but gets no response.

Thirty minutes later there’s a knock on the door, and after whining about how this is Wayne’s guest so he should be the one to get the door, Eddie sighs and opens it to reveal–

“Steve Harrington?” Eddie shakes off the shock and flashes him a mocking grin. “Well, well, well, what are you doing on the wrong side of town, Your Highness? Did you get lost?”

The title makes Steve’s nose wrinkle but he lets it slide. “Actually, your uncle invited me.”

Eddie’s jaw drops. “You’re our guest?”

With a shrug, Steve makes a ta-da! gesture. Eddie stares blankly at him.

“Um, are you gonna let me in, Munson, or–” he trails off, hanging a hand from his neck.

“Ed? Is that the Harrington boy?” Wayne asks, snapping Eddie out of it.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry, come in, man.”

Steve gives him an awkward smile and steps inside.

After shaking Wayne’s hand, he politely asks if he can help and Wayne instructs him to fill three glasses with water. The sight of King Steve with his fancy green sweater and his perfect hair rummaging around their kitchen is so shocking that Eddie wonders if he fell into some alternate dimension. He’s glad that, despite his claim, he put on a red flannel and decent jeans instead of just sweatpants and a shirt with holes in it like he planned.

Still, Wayne could’ve done a better job warning him.

Not that Eddie wants to look good for Harrington or anything.

“Ed, get a chair for Steve,” Wayne says and Eddie dutifully brings the chair they almost never use to the table.

“Thanks,” Steve says, smiling softly.

Eddie isn’t used to pretty boys being nice to him so that’s the only reason why he falters, mumbling a you’re welcome and grabbing the seat furthest from Steve. Considering their table is small, it’s not far enough.

Dinner goes- surprisingly well, actually. Steve and Wayne talk about sports while Eddie rolls his eyes and makes comments about sport culture and conformity. He expects Steve to act annoyed like jocks do when he starts ranting, but he smiles amusedly instead.

And no, that doesn’t make Eddie’s stomach flutter.

After the sports talk, Wayne asks Eddie about his band. He expects Steve to tune him out since he probably doesn’t care what a freak like him does in his free time but he perks up, eyes going wide.

“A band? That’s cool, man!” He says and then starts throwing questions at him about the band’s name and the type of music they play. He even says he’d love to see them play someday.

Wayne’s knowing smile when Eddie blushes thankfully goes unnoticed by Steve.

When they’re done eating, Steve goes to his car to grab something while Wayne and Eddie clean up.

“Really? You couldn’t mention that our guest was Steve?”

“So you could lock yourself in your room? You’re the reason I invited him, boy.”

Eddie gasps. “This was a set up!”

“About time you brought a boy home.”

“Except I didn’t!” Eddie sputters. “You did.”

“You’re welcome.”

Steve comes back then, clearing his throat. “I know you do presents in the morning, but I still wanted to bring something.”

He gives Wayne a bottle of whiskey that probably costs more than his van and a small bag to Eddie. Inside, there’s a Beholder miniature.

“How did you–”

Steve starts rambling. “I know that you run that nerd club and this kid I know is obsessed with that game so I asked him what would be a nice gift for someone like you. He probably thought I was getting it for him and might be disappointed but–”

“Thanks, Steve,” Eddie interrupts once he finally finds his words.

Steve gives him a shy smile. And maybe this one makes his heart stutter.

When all they do is stare at each other, Wayne clears his throat.

Flustered, Steve announces he’s heading out. “Thanks for inviting me. I haven’t had a Christmas dinner in years.”

“You’re welcome, kid,” Wayne says. “Ed, will you see him out? Gotta get ready for my shift.”

“Sure, old man.”

At the door, Steve hesitates. “Sorry I crashed your Christmas dinner. Your uncle wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Eddie snorts, fiddling with the figurine. “He’s a stubborn old man.”

“Not that I didn’t have fun,” he quickly adds, “I did.”

“Yeah, uh, me too.”

Steve’s pink tongue darts out along his bottom lip.

“Like, enough fun that I could do it again.”

Eddie stops fidgeting and blinks at him. “Hang out with me and my uncle?”

“Or just you,” Steve says and he looks– almost nervous.

Oh.

There’s no denying the butterflies in his stomach this time. “Yeah,” Eddie says, watching Steve start to smile. “I’d like that.”

#steddie #steddie fic #steddieholidaydrabbles #steddiebingo2025 #look at wayne getting a boy for his boy!#steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things fic #monse writes

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indulgentdaydream · 8 months ago

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protective!jason hcs or blurb 🥰

Ok so I kinda touched on these in my latest fic but anyways i WILL elaborate bc those were just background

We all know that man is touch starved. We ALL know it.

We also all know he’s hesitant with sharing touch

It’s only once you both have been dating for a bit already, maybe three months in, that he really starts to show his protectiveness through his touch

Or at least when you notice it

He’s always at least holding your hand as you guys walk around Gotham. Depending on exactly whereabouts in Gotham is when he changes whether he’s between you and the road, or you and the alleyways.

You watched him change it up one time halfway through your shared walk, him letting go of your left hand, stepping behind you and around to grab your right instead.

“Oh? So you want me to get hit by a car and die?”

Jason only keeps his eyes on the passing buildings and the ones coming up, “The chance of that is much lower than somebody trying to mug you in this area, love.”

One day you’re both out at the bar together. He’s sitting on a stool behind you as you babble to oke of yours friends.

From over their shoulder, you see a man approaching, but don’t think anything of it.

Suddenly, you see the man stop in his tracks, freezing. You glance over at him. He looks terrified. He glances at you, his original target, then behind you again. He spins on his heel and walks back the way he came.

You look behind you, feeling Jason’s hand still resting on your hip. You almost feel a little scared yourself, seeing that killer glare that Jason’s pointing at the guy’s back.

He switches immediately the second he looks down to you, a soft smile and kind eyes, not a hint of the previous bloodlust a mere second ago. “What?” He asks, like watching his expression change wasn’t the biggest turn on in the world.

You’re sitting in your apartment at your desk typing away on your laptop. You’re trying to file your taxes, and Jason had come over to help you with it (surprisingly he knows how even though he’s still legally dead at this point and hasn’t had to pay any taxes. Ever.)

He had stood and was wondering around your room a bit while he waited for you to fill the next part out. You can hear shuffling, but you’re too focused to tune into it.

“Jay? What does this line mean?”

Jason grunts for a moment and you hear your window slide open.

You turn back around, “Jay?”

“One second.” He shuts your window again. You watch as he fiddles with the lock before easily sliding the window back open. He throws his hands in the air and looks at you. “How long have you lived here?”

You shrug, confused, “You helped me move in.”

Jason waves his hand through the air, “When?”

“Almost a year? Last November.”

Jason fiddles with the window again, slamming it back down, “This lock doesn’t work. You been sleeping in here and anyone could’ve just broken in?”

You shrug again, “I didn’t know it was broken! I don’t really lock my window often.”

Jason looks like he almost broke his neck by how fast his head whipped back to you, “You don’t lock your window????”

He finishes your taxes for you before he leaves, saying he’ll be back. Within the hour he’s knocking on your door again, a duffle bag in hand full of power tools, screws, and different assortments of heavy duty locks. He spends the rest of the night installing them.

A new one on your bedroom window that actually consisted of two different locks. A similar two on your kitchen window. Another three on your bedroom door itself. Then four on your front door.

As he leaned over your kitchen sink, screwing in the lock and blocking your way as you tried to make you both dinner.

“Is this really necessary?”

“I’m not having you practically open to every bad thing the city has to offer, love.”

“Then how are you going to come in through my window now?”

“I’ll learn to knock.”

That’s all I can think of right now okay byeee

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lennythereviewer · 2 months ago

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Theory: Jax is NOT a self-aware NPC nor is he actually trapped in the circus: He's a hacker who can leave at any time.

Even what little we got in terms of Jax content in episode 3 has been reinforcing a belief I've had for awhile, and in fact Jax's brief standout moment in ep 3 added a new wrinkle to my thought: That he's not some NPC who gained sentience and slipped in with the humans, he's actually a hacker who backdoored his way into the Digital Circus, and he's not trapped there.

Jax seems to have an affinity for keys and getting into places he shouldn't belong. Twice now he's done this thing of spinning a key on his finger while boasting about it. He mentions in episode 1 that "I got keys to everywhere" and in episode 2 he swiped the key to the kingdom from Ragatha, and the candy monster calls him a "Master of Unlocking Things" which I think could be genuinely some subtle foreshadowing. A hacker would potentially be able to do something like clip out of bounds, find security keys, crack passwords, and so on and so forth. All he's done with this however is seemingly just pull pranks and leave things in peoples rooms; he's a troll.

We've all speculated about the mysterious pin-back covers: The official pin merch line showing everyone's rooms except for Jaxs, which only shows his door and peeks of The Void tearing through the wall. We're not privvy to what's in Jaxs room if he even has one at all. His room door might actually be his own sort of exit door since he's not trapped. For him it's like loading into a VRChat server and he can log off any time he wants, he's just always sure to be there when everyone else is active so no one notices.

A small stupid thing but, "Jax" is not too far off from "Hax"

Okay, so if Jax is a hacker who can come and go as he pleases, a question is why? Why does he keep coming back to torment everyone around him? His brief gag in Episode 3 I think filled in the blanks for that: He's not just a hacker, he's a streamer and he's broadcasting everything that's happening in the Digital Circus to a watching audience.

He's the one character who has consistently broken the fourth wall in all three episodes so far, the first two episodes were him mugging to the camera and giving comical shrugs and knowing glances to the viewer, but in this episode he outright addresses the audience while seemingly talking to no one to the POV of the other circus members. He's acknowledging his chat. Plus in merch promotion Jax has openly acknowledged his IRL popularity, another form of fourth-wall-breaking.

This may also explain his overall behavior; the reason he's always causing problems on purpose or forcing the group to go on the most dangerous path or take the most 'exciting' option in their adventures: It makes for a good show. Audiences don't want some stupid silly candyland fantasy! They want car chases and explosions! They want to see what wacky things happen to the other circus members! The show must go on! Jax is chasing content, and when he can't get that content it upsets him like the end of Episode 2. Maybe that ties into his self-worth, maybe he needs that sort of validation from his chat and audience.

This angle also adds a bit of a meta angle to the entire series: We the viewer also tune in to watch our favorite circus buddies suffer through whatever zany adventure Caine cooked up. Are we any better than Jax's livestream audience who tune in to see how they're tormented by Caine this week? Heck maybe in-universe we're the audience Jax is playing to! We too want to see them sweat and suffer to get that sweet character growth so are we part of the problem?

Time will tell whether this comes to pass and whether or not I'm overthinking this, but I've had this thought for awhile and only after this episode did the livestreamer angle come to mind.

#Had this sitting in drafts for awhile #but with the new episode coming out I figured I should drop it #Jax #TADC #The Amazing Digital Circus #TADC theory #Pomni #Ragatha #Gangle #Zooble #Kinger #Caine #tadc caine #theory #Streamer Jax

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adventuringblind · 1 year ago

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Deserving

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Genre: hurt/comfort

Summary: while she falls into the pit of her mind, Charles is there to pull her out.

Warnings: mentioned self-harm, anxiety, toxic media, mentions of addiction

Notes: A Nonny request, I hope you like it!! This one is definitely an insight into how my brain works.

Masterlist // Request Form // My Website // buy me a Ko-Fi

Everyone says rookie years are the hardest. Which, she won't say everyone is wrong, just that she also had consistently bad years. They blend into each other now. A never-ending cycle of the same lame excuses as to why she's so downcast.

She's a rookie driver and having a pretty decent season. Logan and Oscar are two of her closest friends. She's dating Charles Leclerc of all people.

So why is that piece of her brain still nagging at her? Years of therapy and help hasn't done the trick. The stinging still pushes through to the front of her mind.

The habit started so young. It was a distraction from the pain of whatever she'd been going through at the time. A means to satisfy her the voices in her head. Now it's to remind her she's still alive. That the media hasn't shattered her already frail will to live quite yet.

Everything in her wants to just... stop. Everyday she's reminded that her place is somewhere else. Not in the car, not with Charles, not even on the planet.

It doesn't matter that she's having a good year, that the car is good, or that she has people who love her. The voices always come back in those dark hours when she's alone.

She staggered herself in the beginning. Enough that her physio wasn't catching on. She lived in Charles' hoodies, and he thought nothing of it. Just another source of comfort.

He'd seen the faded scars, asked her about it every occasionally. He never pushes her to talk about it.

She doesn't deserve Charles, or anyone for that matter. Mentors, family, friends, they are all to wonderful for her to drag them down into her misery. The constant pity party she throws herself has no guests, only her and her demons.

Redbull isn't the best environment for someone as fragile as her. Despite the boosts of confidence Christian gives her daily and the constant reassurance from Max, she doesn't feel like she deserves it. The media is eating her alive. The next teammate to be crucified to Redbull and Mad Max.

It's starting to become noticeable again. The lack of sleep and covering clothes. Charles is skeptical and keeps reassuring her she can talk to him.

If she does that, he'll leave. Her mind can't take being alone yet.

Max is the first to catch sight of the new lines adorning her wrist. He asks if she's alright, but again, nobody pushes for more. Maybe if they did, she would break. Her fragile walls would come tumbling down.

Oscar is the next to push. A good friend of hers and they've both had good seasons. He and Logan show up one night with comfort food and cards. It manages to make her smile like when they were younger.

But they have to leave eventually. The voices swallow her whole the second she's alone again.

Charles finally pushes for answers. He finds her alone, body slumped along the hotel bathroom wall. She's exhausted, but manages to give a crooked, tired smile.

He crouches down in front of her and looks at the fresh line on her thighs. Bandages are something she has readily available, and Charles knows exactly where to find them.

He works quietly, just humming softly as he patches her up. It's a classical song that he listens enough that she knows the tune but not the name.

Charles dresses her into comfy clothes and tucks her into bed. A hand plays with her hair and strokes her cheek.

She doesn't deserve him.

"Tell me what's eating away at you, chéri. Please, I hate that you won't talk to me."

She scoots her body closer to Charles so she doesn't have to see his face. "Just hard - I guess."

"It's okay to have hard days. It's okay that you feel the way you do. But this thing, hurting yourself, is not the way to make it better."

"I know that, Charlie!" Her voice cracks at saying his name. "I just can't help it."

Those fragile walls she has come tumbling down. The pit of despair finally swallows her, and she can't stop the tears.

It hurts. Her head, her heart, her bones, it all hurts. She falls and shatters, but Charles is here to put the pieces back together.

"I don't deserve you. You're everything people love, and I don't want to drag you down with me."

"Who put that idea in your head?"

"The voices," She sniffles. Her words muffled when Charles pulls her into his chest.

"Well, the voices are incorrect. I, of all people, know what it's like for the media to pick you a part. Whether it's appearances, my driving, my relationships, they will always find something." Charles pulls her back just a bit, enough for him to make eye contact. She hates how his eyes are as glassy as hers. "You don't have to suffer all alone, in silence. You have people around you that understand and want to help. None of us are asking for perfection. We - I - don't want to see you hurting so much."

"What if it's too much?"

"Then we figure it out together."

She falls asleep in Charles' arms. Tears soak into everything, but he doesn't tell her to move. He comforts, because Charles loves her.

She has people who want to be there for her. Yes, slips happen, healing is never straightforward, but she can try. She can lean on Charles, let him love her; let him be the steady rock she needs in her life.

"Progress chéri, not perfection."

"You sound like all team principles."

"And? It's a good saying!"

Charles pulls a laugh out of her. A genuine laugh at something that isn't even funny. She blames her love for him.

"Maybe I do deserve you."

"If this is an insult, I'm taking all the covers tonight."

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sarahowritesostucky · 10 months ago

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📖"The Taste of You"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Tags: Fresh AU, dark rom-com, dark!Bucky, pre-serum Steve, cannibalism, kidnapping, yandere/basement wife, meet cute-ish, gay sex n' stuff, dub-con

Summary: Steve is so tired of the meat market that modern dating has become. Just when he's deleted all the apps and given up on ever finding Mr. Right, he meets the perfect guy at the grocery store.

A dark, cute, funny, fucked up, and very tasty love story.

A.N.: It's not as murdery as it sounds 😅 But, as per usual: minors DNI. It's a Fresh AU. "If you can't handle the cannibalism, get out of the kitchen"--or something like that

1. Specialty Ingredients

Steve watches, mouth literally hanging open, as it happens again: his date is stomping away, mad.

He just called Steve a scrawny, cock-teasing twink for making out a little on the sidewalk, but then declining to go back to his place to hook up. The guy pressed the issue and Steve got frustrated and told him tersely that he wasn't interested because they just met, okay? That went over like a lead balloon.

Steve scowls as the jerk disappears around the corner at the end of the block. “Well fuck you too,” he mutters, feeling put out—and okay, a little hurt, too. He’s not a cocktease. He’s not scrawny.

Well, maybe that second one is kind of true, but Steve hates how guys will act like they’re into his small stature when they think he’s a sure thing, but then get all derogatory and mean about it once he tries to tell them he’s looking for more than a hookup and wants to take it slow—and not even hetero people slow; gay guy slow, which is super fast in comparison! Steve just wants to get to know a guy for once before sleeping with him. Is that really so bad?

He huffs and turns around, walking dejectedly back to his car. Another handsome asshole, another hope dashed, another pathetic date. He really does have the worst luck, and he’s getting plain sick of it. He checks his phone before he drives away.

Clint: Well???

Steve sighs. He types back a reply to his friend

Steve: another dud

Clint: dude …

Steve rolls his eyes and chucks the phone onto the passenger seat. He turns the key in the ignition, the radio coming on to an old eighties love ballad that just worsens his sense of dejection. “Fucking figures,” he mutters, putting the car into drive.

He leaves the song playing though, because sometimes wallowing is called for.

The next morning, Steve wakes up in a glum mood. He tries to focus on his work for most of the day, rather than his horrible luck with dating, but as he paints the hours away he winds up pouting about it anyhow. He sinks further and further into a depressing pit of self-pity and despair.

Clint texts him, asking if he wants to go out and sing karaoke or something, and Steve knows he’s just trying to cheer him up and all, but he really can’t stand the thought of being cheerful right now.

Steve hates gay guys, he thinks, stomping over to the crappy small sink in his crappy small apartment’s kitchen. He runs the water and rinses off his brushes with a vengeance they don’t deserve. Gay guys suck. Steve hates how shallow they all are, how vapid and self-centered. All they want is to go clubbing and fuck around and that’s it. None of them want a real relationship, and they think Steve is boring for wanting to have a meaningful conversation instead of suck their dicks right away. He gets grumpier about it the more he thinks, and he even has the thought that at least if he were straight he could find someone with feelings, a desire for genuine connection. “Gay guys suck,” he mutters to his poor, abused paint brushes.

Nevermind that Steve himself is incontrovertibly homosexual and has no choice in the matter of what his dating pool consists of. After all: ‘Haters gonna hate, players gonna play’. “Gaays gonna gay, gay, gay, gay, gay.” Steve sings the tune under his breath. He just hates it, hates it all. He’s sick and tired of playing the game.

He sends Natalie a nastily self-deprecating text:

Steve: Know any of your girlfriends who might want to date a faggot?

It’s not nice, and he knows she won’t like him using that word in that context.

Natalie Potential Rich!! Buyer: another douche huh?

He sighs and texts back an apology with a huggy emoji.

Steve: Sorry 🤗 Just frustrated. All the good ones are taken and I’m not interested in the skanks who’re left over.

Natalie responds with the “Give that man a Snickers” Diva-meme, which makes Steve realize that he is, in fact, hungry. He needs to get something to eat. He needs to focus on himself for a change. Maybe it’s finally time to stop looking for Mr. Right and just enjoy Steve Rogers. Maybe he should join a gym, start a new hobby, anything to fill up his time with himself rather than another person.

He goes into the kitchen, thinking that he’ll make something yummy and binge watch a new series off his Netflix list, but scowls at the barren interior that greets him when he opens the fridge door. Nothing good to eat. “Fuck,” he mutters. He’s got to go to the grocery store now before he can sit down with a meal and relax.

And it’s raining outside, too. Just his fucking luck.

His phone ‘pings’ and he looks over at where he’d set it on the counter. The screen is lit up with a new notification from Grindr:

Henry super liked you!

He picks up the phone and opens the app. Henry’s profile pic is only from the neck down, showing off his abs. Steve rolls his eyes. The next picture is his lower half, a pair of tighty-whities stretched over his erection making it lewd, but still within the app’s no dick pic rules. The third pic is of his bare ass in a jockstrap.

Steve spends a second more than he intends appreciating the guy’s backside, but then he growls and jabs his finger at the screen to reject the guy. He’s fucking fed up with this entire thing! On a sudden, right-feeling whim, he exits the app and holds his finger down on the screen until all the icons start wiggling with their little x’s. He quickly proceeds to delete Grindr, Scruff, and Hornet from his phone.

He’s fucking done with dating. He’s giving up. Steve is just not meant to find Mr. Right. Not this year, anyway. He feels lighter after deleting the apps, and he slides his unburdened phone into his pocket with a sense of accomplishment and a shiny new idea: He’s not going to date for a whole year. He’s going to make this The Year of Steve.

Fuck yeah.

He goes to the hall closet to grab his umbrella and rain boots.

The walk to FreshMart is only four blocks from his apartment, but he still arrives at the grocery store a little damp from the gusting rain. He shakes off his umbrella by the door, grabs a basket, and directs himself towards the produce aisle. He’s added fingerling potatoes and some asparagus spears to his basket, and has just started perusing the meat section when he hears a man’s voice say,

“Hey, have you ever had this?”

Steve looks over. The guy is holding up a package of bloody red … something. Steve blinks. “Um …”

The stranger twists his lips and shakes his head, looking at the meat. “It’s venison. I thought I’d freak my sister out with something a little different.”

“Your sister?” Steve asks, feeling very odd at being asked his opinion in the middle of the meat department. He looks between the package of raw meat and the stranger—He’s unusually handsome, tall and strong-jawed, brown hair styled in an effortlessly flattering cut. Steve licks his lips nervously. “Um, isn’t that like, deer meat?” He takes a step closer to peer down at the label. “Huh.” He didn’t know regular grocery stores sold that kind of thing. “That’s … exotic,” he says, for lack of a better word.

The stranger chuckles. “Yeah, well. I actually don’t eat animals, so …” he shrugs. “But her and her husband and kids are total carnivores. Thought I’d bring something other than my usual bottle of wine.”

“Oh.” Steve peers up at the man, trying to figure him out. The man smiles sheepishly and Steve winds up smiling, charmed, if somewhat baffled. He looks the man in the eyes and is taken by how pretty they are, how intense. Damn he’s good looking. “Well I, ah, couldn’t tell you what it tastes like. I’ve never had it.” He makes a face. “Like I said, it’s exotic.”

“Oh I love to cook with exotic ingredients. I’m kind of an amateur cuisinier. Or at least I try to be.”

“Oh. Right.” Steve gestures to the blood package. “But you ah … you don’t cook only vegetarian stuff?”

The man grins (and shoot, he’s got an unfairly attractive smile, too). “I guess I just like to satisfy other people’s appetites,” he says, lips parted enticingly. And then his tongue darts out in this totally casual, should-be-illegal sort of way. “I take it you’re a meat eater,” he says knowingly.

Is that a double entendre? Steve thinks it might be a double entendre. Yes! he wants to scream. Yes! He is 1000% a meat eater. He gulps as the guy’s eyes flick down and back up his body in a heated onceover, and Steve may not always be the brightest bulb in the box, but he can tell when he’s being considered. Is this guy really flirting with him? Here? In the freaking grocery store? Is that even a real thing that happens, anymore? Steve flushes and pulls his shopping basket up higher in front of himself, like a shield. “I–I see,” he stammers. “Well … um … yeah.” God, he’s hopeless.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Venison’ll probably be … different.” He nods at the stranger, awkward and aware that the other man isn’t moving away. “Well. Good luck.” He turns and vacantly peruses the meats, pretending that he’s more invested in searching out the perfect porkchop than he really is. He hears the guy’s footsteps moving away.

“Fuck it,” the man says, and turns right back around. He takes a deep breath. “I like your boots.”

“What?”

The guy nods downwards. “Your rain boots. They’re really cute.”

Steve looks down at his feet. His rubber boots are pink and printed with the golden girls’ faces. He looks back up at the stranger, stunned. No straight guy on planet Earth would ever say such a thing. “Um. Thanks.”

The guy holds out his hand, friendly, like he’s not aware he’s acting weird as shit. “I’m James.”

Steve probably stares too long at the offered hand, before he hurries to shove the handles of his shopping basket up onto his one arm so that he can take the guy’s—James’—hand and shake it. It’s pleasantly large over his own hand. “Steve.”

James smiles. He’s arrestingly handsome when he doesn’t smile and Steve feels like an even weaker creature when he does. “Sorry,” James says, looking down shyly. “I uh, I don’t usually do this.”

“Do what?” Steve asks, keenly aware that he may just be about to be propositioned. He winces at the idea of having to turn down another good-looking jerk.

James tilts his head. “Would you …” He hesitates, eyes flicking up and over as a woman passes them. She turns and goes down the soda aisle. He looks back to Steve, distracted. “I was gonna be crazy and ask for your number,” he says, flushing. Steve doesn’t even get a chance to say anything before James is scrubbing his hand over his embarrassed face. “Fuck, I’m sorry. You’re probably not even—” He looks back to the soda aisle where the woman had gone. “Sorry,” he mumbles again, and starts to walk away. “Human disaster in the meat aisle. Just ignore me, please.”

“Wait!” Steve blurts. James turns back around. “Why do you want my number? Were you gonna ask me out? Like on a date?” He uses the word purposefully.

“Well, yeah.” James looks apologetic. “Sorry. I know it’s weird.”

It is weird. But Steve is kind of charmed by the guy’s odd methods. He promptly pushes away his resolution of The Year of Steve. “James,” he says, taking a step closer. “Um, you can. Have my number.” He peeks up at him shyly. “If you want.”

James' happy-surprised-enthused smile is the best one yet. They exchange numbers.

Clint: Wait, wat do you mean, the grocery store??

Steve: he came over and just started talking to me.

Clint: … that’s weird, man. That’s shady.

Steve: actually it was kind of cute. Kind of idk old fashioned.

Clint: Kind of weird. Whats his Insta?

Steve doesn’t hear from James for almost three days. He alternates between finding it refreshing, and being disappointed. Maybe Clint’s right. Maybe the guy was just a weirdo.

Then, on the third day, Steve is leaving from his morning shift at Michaels when he hears his phone ‘ping’ with a notification. When he sees the name “Weird Meat Guy” on the screen, his face splits in a grin.

Weird Meat Guy: Been thinking about you since the other day.

Happy butterflies come to life in Steve’s stomach at the flirtatious tone of the text. His first instinct is to force himself to ignore it for at least thirty minutes, so that he doesn’t seem overeager. But then he thinks, fuck it, just like James had said in the grocery store before turning right back around to ask him out.

Steve types a reply.

Steve: hey stranger. Yeah I was wondering how that venison worked out for you. 😂What’s it taste like?

Weird Meat Guy: I don’t eat animals, not even for my sister’s Sunday dinners. But she said it was fine. Not as good as regular old cow, though🐄🥩

Steve: not surprising.

There’s a bit of a pause where he can see James is typing and deleting and typing again. Then,

Weird Meat Guy: Do you want to go out tonight? We could grab drinks or something?

Steve bites his lip, bad memories of “casual” meetups and “just grabbing drinks” dates and what they’ve always led to, in the past.

Steve: let’s go out to eat. At a restaurant or something. A real date.

James texts back almost immediately, and his answer makes Steve beam like a fool.

Weird Meat Guy: Hell yeah. What’s your favorite kind of food?

Steve can’t help it; he has a good-verging-on-great feeling about this guy. He tries to tuck away his expectations that this time it’ll be different. He can still do The Year of Steve if or when this goes wrong. He’ll just try this one last time though. Just once more before he swears off being a “meat eater” for the year.

He tells James that he really likes Italian food, and the next thing he knows, James is sending him the link to a really nice and expensive Italian place in Brooklyn. Steve thrills at James' enthusiasm, and grimaces at the three dollar signs that Google has lined up beside the restaurant’s name.

He tells James okay, figures he’ll just tighten up his budget a bit for a few weeks after.

James meets him inside the restaurant, at the bar. He’s already got a drink in his hand. “It’s an old fashioned,” he tells him sheepishly. “Sorry to start without you.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“I just get a little nervous when I ask a cute guy out to dinner.”

Steve freezes, but then his mouth twitches. “Oh,” he says. “You, ah … you think I’m cute, huh?”

James grins and winks at him in a way that is devastating and should-not-be-allowed. “Yeah. I sure do.”

Steve is charmed.

The hostess seats them in a dark and cozy booth in the back of the restaurant. Steve settles in and looks around, impressed. “This is a really nice place,” he says, genuinely meaning it but also kind of anxious to open his menu and get a look at whatever prices garnered a $$$ on Google.

“Yeah it’s one of my favorites.” James is grinning at him from across the table. “I was so glad you picked Italian, cause then I knew I had the perfect place to bring you.”

Bring you. Steve looks down and tries not to smile too obviously at the words. “I like it so far,” he says, peeking up coyly at James so that he knows Steve doesn’t just mean the restaurant.

James seems to get it, if his expression is anything to go by.

They open their menus and Steve’s stomach drops at the forty dollar appetizers. Shit. He wishes he’d found a way to mention to James that he’s kind of a starving artist.

“Do you like mushrooms?” James asks, oblivious to Steve’s internal panic. He’s looking across the table at him with eager eyes. “They’ve got the best stuffed mushrooms I’ve ever had. I think they put crack in ‘em.”

Steve laughs despite himself, then decides ‘fuck it’ once again, and closes his menu with a nod. “Sure,” he says. “Let’s do it.” He’ll live frugally for a month if he has to.

James orders them the appetizer and an entire bottle of wine that he knows by its specific name and year. All Steve makes out is the “‘94 ” part of it, and his heart rate picks up. He’s about to really worry about how the hell much a place like this is going to charge for an entire bottle of wine that’s older than he is, but then when the server delivers it and pours for them, James shoots him a wink and tells him, “S’my treat.”

Oh. Steve’s heart flutters as much at the gentlemanly gesture as it does at the possibility that maybe James will pay for the whole meal. A guy can dream.

The mushrooms arrive and Steve gushes to James about how he was right: they are amazing. They get to talking, covering the standard ‘first date’ questions, and it’s stupid and awkward like it always is; but also it isn’t, because James seems to laugh about the awkwardness of it, too. And that makes it kind of fun.

James is thirty-seven to Steve’s twenty-seven (Daddy kink: activated). He has a place in Manhattan but his sister lives in Brooklyn, which is why he was shopping at the FreshMart in Steve’s neck of the woods the other day. He’s got one parent still living, grew up with a loving family but “pretty poor” in Jersey. He hasn’t been in a relationship or even been on a date in “a really long time.” He wants to travel more but he lets his work consume him too much. He doesn’t eat animals.

He’s also really good at making the whole first-date interrogation-phase go smoothly. It’s fun with him, Steve realizes, not awful and strained like it usually would be. Their conversation just seems to flow naturally and easily, both of them smiling almost continually as they chat and joke.

Steve is utterly charmed.

“Okay,” James says, as he pops another mushroom into his mouth and then talks around it. “I’ll do another boring one: what do you do for work?”

Steve gulps and delays answering by taking a sip of the wine—a red that downright tastes expensive. “Um, well my passion is my art. It’s what I went to school for.” He tucks his lips in and shrugs. “But, ya know, ‘starving artists,’ and all that. So I work part time at Michaels, too.”

James doesn’t look like he’s thinking that Steve’s a stereotype or a loser or anything like that. “That’s awesome!” he says, sounding like he genuinely means it. “What kind of art? Or like, what medium do you work with?”

Steve blinks. Nobody ever asks him good questions like this, like they actually care and want to dig deeper into who he really is. “Um, mostly acrylics. Some watercolors and pencil-charcoal sketching,” he says, flustering at the way that James pays such close attention to his answers. “I like to mix it up sometimes, but mostly it’s those three.” He shrugs. “I sell online. I have one really loyal patron—she keeps me afloat. S’nothing that special.”

“Sounds like you know your stuff,” James counters, not letting him insist on his own mediocrity. “If you went to school for it and all, then you must be pretty good. Don’t you have to, like, audition for art school?”

Steve blushes and looks away. “Well. Yeah.”

“And I bet you get all your supplies cheap with the side gig, huh?”

Steve stares at him. “Yeah,” he says, impressed. “Employee discount.”

James nods sagely, as if he’s ever had to worry in his life about the utility of an employee discount. He might’ve grown up poor, but he’s clearly well-off now. Steve can tell that the suit he’s wearing is a custom tailored deal, and the wine he’s ordered for the table has a bouquet of oak and dollar bills. “I think it’s really brave of you,” he’s telling Steve, looking like he admires him or something ridiculous like that. “That you’re following a passion like that? That you can just …” he makes a shaping gesture over the table with his hands, “make something with your own two hands and then sell it? That’s incredible.”

The more James talks, the more Steve gets his hopes up that he might actually be A Really Great Guy™️. Steve can hardly stand to take all the compliments, so he turns the question back around on James: “What about you? What do you do for work?”

James hesitates. “... I’m a surgeon.”

Steve’s eyes go wide and his mouth drops open, making him look like A Gold Digger™️, probably. He closes his mouth. “Oh. Wow, that’s … that’s neat. Medical school, then, huh?”

James smiles through a wince, as if being a freaking doctor is no big deal. “Yeah. It was rough for a few years, but I got through it. I’m in a good place now. It’s pretty smooth sailing.”

“So do you work at like a hospital or something?”

“Not exactly.” He stares at him for a long moment, then suddenly says, “Gosh, I’m just really attracted to you, Steve.” Steve blinks, taken-aback. He reaches for a hurried sip of his wine and tries to think of a response to the weird shift in conversation. “Sorry,” James hurries. “I just felt like I had to say it.” He gives Steve a tender look rather than a lecherous one, which is a welcome change from the usual script. “I think I might really like you.”

Steve flusters and averts his eyes to the tabletop, peeking back up at James a few times. The guy is totally focused on him. It’s intimidating, but not in a bad way. “Yeah,” Steve eventually manages to murmur. “Yeah I think you might be nice.”

James teases him about the ‘nice’, and they fall into easy banter again as they finish the mushrooms and open up their menus to choose their entrees. Steve’s once again fixated on the prices, and he immediately starts trying to see if there’s anything under sixty dollars …

“By the way,” James says casually, not looking up from where he’s reading his menu. “I know this place is fucking ridiculous: I got it covered.”

He says it all easy and nonchalant, like it’s no big deal that he’s treating Steve to what’s probably a three hundred dollar dinner, and Steve once again feels like he’s on a date with a hero, a real gentleman. “Kay,” he says smally, feeling delighted and hopeful as heck on the inside.

He orders a seafood linguini, and James gets a spinach and cheese tortellini dish. “This is so good,” Steve practically moans around a mouthful of his food.

James makes a noise of agreement, stuffing another tortellini shell in his mouth. “Mmph.”

“So you really don’t eat any meat?” Steve winds up asking. “Like, not even fish or chicken or anything?” Where does he get his protein? James looks like he keeps in good shape …

James chuckles. “Nope. Haven’t touched the stuff for … gosh, almost fifteen years.”

“Wow.” Steve spears up another shrimp from his pasta and wonders if it offends James. “So like, is it an ethical thing or just …”

“No, no. I just kind of had this epiphany one day—while I was tenderizing a thigh, mind you—that all the things I was eating were living creatures, that we’re animals just like they are.” He makes a thoughtful face as he considers it. “It’s not a moral viewpoint so much as it is a …” he trails off and his eyes return to Steve with an apologetic shrug. “I dunno. My viewpoint shifted that day. Couldn’t shift it back. I’ve tried so many other things now, animal meat just doesn’t taste the same anymore.”

“I can respect that.” Steve wiggles his fork that’s speared with a juicy scallop. “As long as you don’t mind this.”

“No, no way. Don’t you remember where we met?”

Steve snickers. “Oh yeah, how could I forget. What was it you said? You like to ‘satisfy other people’s appetites’?” He chances a flirty look across the table. “Wasn’t that how you put it?”

James chews, smirking, and he winks at Steve again. Goddamn. “Yeah,” he says lowly. “Yeah. I sure do.”

On the sidewalk outside the restaurant they stand close together, bundled in their jackets. Neither one of them seems to want to leave. “Thanks again,” Steve says. “For dinner. It was really nice.”

“My pleasure.” James takes a step closer, so that they’re almost toe to toe. “I was so excited to go out with you,” he says. He brings a hand up and traces the side of Steve’s face with the backs of his fingers, not looking at Steve’s eyes but rather where he’s touching his cheek. “You’re different,” he murmurs. "And I knew it the moment I met you."

Wow, what a fucking intense thing to say. Steve … doesn’t hate it. “I am?” he whispers, watching his breath swirl on the air between their faces.

“Mmhm. I can tell.”

Steve shivers and fights the urge to press into James’ touch on his cheek. It feels unduly intimate, and they’re already so close. “I was excited for tonight, too,” he confides. “I’ve had a lot of bad luck with dating. Was getting sick of trying, to be honest.”

“But?” James asks softly, and Steve looks up at him, for once feeling open and honest enough to just admit,

“But I didn’t meet you on some app. And you liked my stupid Golden Girls boots.” James chuckles and Steve looks up, taking in his face up close: the dimple in his chin, the creases of age that’ve barely begun to collect at the corners of his eyes, that one tiny patch of grey in his beard. It makes him all the more insufferably handsome. “And you’re charming,” he whispers. “So there’s that.”

James smiles softly. “Aw, shucks.”

“I think you’re a really nice guy, James. I’d like to see you again.”

James' smile widens hopefully. “Yeah?” he says, leaning even closer.

“Yeah. I think, well … I just think …”

“What?” James touches his face again, this time palming his cheek. “Tell me.”

“Oh, it’s nothin’.” Steve finally lets his eyes slip closed, enjoying the feeling of James’ hand on his skin, the cologne he gets a whiff of when they’re standing this close. “You smell nice.”

“Thank you. Still haven’t told me what you were gonna say.”

Steve smiles sadly. “Oh, I’m just getting my hopes up about you, is all.” He’s still got his eyes closed when James kisses him. He inhales sharply through his nose, surprised. But he doesn’t pull away, and they just … keep kissing.

Eventually James cups his face with both hands and Steve moans, because the way James is kissing him feels so natural and good. He feels like he can taste James' good intentions as they make out softly, right there on the sidewalk.

When they part they’re both panting a little, heavy-lidded eyes flicking over one another, gauging, desire tinged with uncertainty. “That was …” James breathes.

“Yeah,” Steve says, and they both stare at each other for another long moment, before Steve says, “Fuck it,” and surges in to grab James by his jacket and kiss him again, this time harder. James whimpers needily into his mouth, and heat shoots through Steve’s belly at hearing it, arousal flaring to life faster than he can handle. Suddenly his pants feel a little tight, and he wants James so badly he can hardly stand it. “Oh man,” he groans, pulling away from the kiss, grimacing at himself for what he’s about to say. “I really, really never do this,” he promises against James' lips. “But … Do you want to go back to my place?”

James' eyes widen. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Fuck. Yeah, okay.”

They kiss eagerly one more time and then hurry off, giddy, hands clasped, and headed in the direction where James says he’s parked his car.

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c1trvswrites · 2 months ago

Text

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ Theres a New Day Coming ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

#O1: Mercy <-PREV

Cold.

He was simply cold.

From the moment he heard those cool metal clunks and hisses from his cryopod to when he was brought to the nearest hospital, till even now as he stumbled into ‘his’ apartment. Still as sad and desolate as he remembered. Somehow still unclaimed. Unwanted.

Just cold.

And yet in some odd way, he couldn’t help but consider himself blessed. And all he could think was, that’s a first. The first time he’d ever been on top—whatever the definition of the word, the meaning, the weight, the feeling on his tongue when he could cut into steak [consume] and pay his bills on time. The flush in his cheeks when he heard the click of a camera, the blood rush of whispers when he walked into hospitals.

It was nice. What he needed. Days have never went by so fast like before, never felt so smooth and clean when he stepped into the shower and just sat under the scolding hot pitter patter washing his thoughts away. Not worrying about wasting the heat. This was luxury. A luxury not dependent on an anchor just out of reach. A nice consistency when he’s afforded the blessing of smoking on his veranda. Staring above, the transport that swirled about like mindless little ants searching for their queen. The workers and drones getting snuffed out by the carbon emissions from the few cars that sliced through air. That was their luxury.

The cig in his hand, beer by his side and nice warm scolding water was his.

There's always something though. A ‘but’ an ‘if’ and in his case a ‘when’. A thumping clock in tuned with his heart. Each click of each hour dragging him back to that damned cryopod. The hiss, the crack the ragged breaths. Disembodied hands reaching and pulling. Cutting off clothes he couldn’t stand to be in one more second.

Shouts and barks of medical codes he’s too mentally out of it to memorize and research in his own downtime.

Bodie…body status in cryostate! Approximately 10-15! 15 years!*

He was blessed, few men were blessed like him.

Yes, very few men.

Very few…

“You would’ve loved it, trust me.”

It was an afternoon in November, practically bordering on December—fresh, numbing—the kind of cold that stuck to your bones. It was the month of cool sunsets, watercolor gradients of rotting browns and rusting oranges, chaste kisses from winds, and deep, rich, sad hymns—or at least that’s what he would say.

But they lived in godamn Arizona, and Cur—he was a lovesick poet. A real Edgar Allen Poe.

He remembered him in those days. The way his voice would drop when he talked about something sentimental, trying to sound deep, dramatic. Jimmy would stare and throw something at him, maybe an apple or an empty bottle, just to break the tension. Just to shut him up.

You’re too much, Curly. Too much.

And yet, that’s why he stayed by his side. He liked the way Jimmy saw the world—harsh, cynical, sharp—but Jimmy liked his softness, his blind devotion.

Jimmy’s own personal Pavlov's dog.

He was blessed like that

Curly was blessed like that, to have a man like Jimmy in his life. Blessed people like him just turned his stomach. He could tell from his nails that he had never worked, that from the light scruff on his palm he never did enough to gain a proper callus, Never had to scrabble, pull another crab down in the bucket. He spat on men like him. But there he was.

Right by his side.

sizzle.

Yeah it was December now—

High school had been…something else.

sizzle

It was him who made things easy. Jimmy knew that. Knew it even back then. While Jimmy was the one doing ‘alright’, a skipped class or two, a B+, he was always there to smooth things over, to make excuses to the teachers, to bail him out of detention with those doe-eyed apologies. The teachers trusted him. That boy—man, no boy…was good, he was safe.

Jimmy wasn’t. Subpar. Decent. Skirted on by.

He remembered sitting on the bleachers during the afternoon, the other shoving another and another damn orange into his mouth, grinning through the sticky juice like he had no care in the world.

"Man, you’re gonna get sick if you eat another one," Jimmy had said, or at least wanted to in his head. Conversations played out but held on a tongue. Felt like a threat, that if he ever let that confetti sprinkle out there’d be a line of judges deducting every point from every stutter, every pause, every wrong inflection. And then—comically so, would take out their rifles and execute him like a modern-day firing squad. That’s how conversations always were, little disturbing snuff films of anticipation, and for once he was grateful in that moment that Curly never listened. Wasn’t able to.

The schoolyard was quiet that day. The fall air was crisp but not biting, just enough to keep you awake. Most kids were already home, and Jimmy and that boy had the place to themselves.

He swallowed and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "Its been so long."

"Hm,"

"Since we’ve been out here…alone."

“Mhm”

“We don’t talk much anymore, I’know school’s been busy, just feels weird, loose footing—don’t know where to start…”

Now they were looking at each other. Cigarette laid haphazardly across Jimmy’s lips, blank, plain, as always. Wondering who would break first but there was no point. It was curly, it was always Curly.

“So. How’s your life been…” Finally, he finished the last of his orange massacre spitting out the seeds into the dirt and smooshing it into the earth with his shoe, always giving he was.

sizzle.

And Jimmy had laughed at that, the weather talk, the how have you been. He was so used to it, filtered it out, never engaged. But there was something in the way Curly said it—so genuine, so damn sincere, shakey, weak and insecure—that made him pause.

"Well, I’m here."

"Yeah," Curly had shrugged, "yeah… yeah you are!"

And there’s a smile. That smile.

sizzle

It unfurled like the sun breaking through stubborn clouds, a radiant paradox of warmth in cold. His gentle arc of lips revealed dazzling teeth, crooked canines never hammered down by old braces. All the while his blue eyes sparkled and ignited something deep inside the wells of Jimmy's brain. Each neuron rushing to save every pixel of his round cheeks that blushed, accented by dimples brows arched in curiosity and sun-kissed skin glowing oh so invitingly.

[He’s yours]

Jimmy didn’t know what to say. That look, it swelled. And at the same time, it scared him. Because deep down, he knew what he was thinking.

But they just laughed and laughed till Curly turned to him. Now closer than before, leaning in in the way he knew Jimmy hated just to press up against his ear. Eager to get something out like a giddy joy drunken child. He doesn’t know why but there's an instinctive urge to run, heart pacing and tripping but he couldn’t move. Simply frozen. Cold. Calming himself down enough curly sighed finally saying….

“You smell that, Jimmy?”

“What."

Breathless he sat heavily on the couch, the weight of the past sinking into his chest. The apartment felt too big, too empty, even though it was just him. He reached for the remote and flicked on the TV in a hurried sweat. Another news report about the tulpar. The remains of the ship was plastered on every channel these days—the return of the hero, the man who had defied death. People adored him. They didn’t know who he really was.

He didn't know.

Not like Curly did

In the apartment, the sound of the news anchor's voice pulled Jimmy back to the present. He stared at the screen, at his face—a face that didn’t even feel like his own anymore. The weight of the years, of his absence, pressed heavier than the blanket of he was wrapped in.

sizzle.

His eyes shifted down to the cigarette in his hand, the embers dangerously close to burning his fingertips. The smell of scorched fabric reached his nose, the dark stain of ash spreading on the couch beneath him. The charred edges dug into itchy synthetic cushion amongst an array of other older bruises that this couch had taken. He quickly stubbed it out, hands shaking. Scared. The room felt colder than before, even though he was wrapped in a thick blanket.

Cold.

He was always cold. No amount of heat—no shower, no sun, no cigarette could chase it away.

He had everything he wanted…needed and more. And yet, none of it mattered. None of it felt real.

Because he wasn’t here.

Jimmy turned the TV off and closed his eyes, trying to drown out the silence of the apartment. He could still hear melded voices in the back of his mind, always so damn consistent, so damn there.

But now that he had this, Jimmy wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with it.

It.

It?

Jimmy stared at the mirror. He’s better now. Not just appearance-wise, but physically…mentally. Though still not enough in his doctor’s eyes.

2 months, 1 week, 5 days and half an hour plus some change.

That’s how far into recovery he was.

Well, at least the physical aspect of it. Cryostasis…does a number on you. The doctor had said, all the while poking and prodding at his body, questioning him on his weight, his sight, how he felt.

Recommended him—forced him into some kind of psychiatric care for at least 6 months despite how much he said he was fine. Like a gnat he remained consistent, blubbering, annoying, doting.

Familiar.

He didn’t like familiar.

And this damn doctor's office was becoming the epitome of it.

Jimmy sat in the office, staring at the sterile white walls that seemed to close in on him. The doctor's office smelled faintly of antiseptic and coffee, the kind that lingered in every corner of the small waiting room. Or confined cramped blaring rusted metal walls— The ticking clock on the wall was maddeningly consistent, each second dragging longer than the last, pulling Jimmy back to that slow, timeless feeling he’d had in the cryopod. He sat slumped in the stiff chair, staring at the walls, waiting for his turn with the psychiatrist. He hated this place. He hated the constant evaluations, the way people looked at him like a specimen.

It was different from the clicks and the gasp, more piercing, more critical. Didn’t make his pants tight like that lense of the camera…

The clock on the wall continued, each sound synchronized with the thudding of his heart. Time had always been such a strange concept—frozen for 15 years, then suddenly thrust back into it. Recovery, they called it. But he wasn’t sure what he was recovering from. The cryostasis? The time he lost? Or was it from the monotonous day to day?

The doctor droned on, listing off his vital signs, his progress, the schedule for his next psych session. Jimmy barely listened. His fingers tapped against the arm of the chair, restless, agitated. He felt better, at least physically, but no one seemed to believe him. Everyone was obsessed with analyzing him, dissecting his thoughts, waiting for him to crack. The psychiatrist was next stop—another hour of “how do you feel?”—but what could he say that he hadn’t already said? That he felt fine? Or that he felt nothing at all?

“James, are you listening?” The he asked, eyes glancing up from the clipboard.

Jimmy nodded absently, eyes glazing over. “Yeah, I’m listening,” he muttered.

The doctor sighed, clearly not convinced but too tired to argue. At least he knew his place “Just remember, the psych evaluations are mandatory. The effects of cryostasis on the mind—especially after such a prolonged period—are still being studied. We’re here to help you adjust.”

Adjust. That word grated on Jimmy’s nerves. Adjust to what? The good life? Expensive liquor? Or maybe adjust to the constant spotlight, the constant reminder that that the pain and suffering he was put through paid off.

He left the office without saying another word, the weather outside slapping him in the face as he stepped into the street. The air was sharp, biting—like a constant buzzing reminder. He zipped up his jacket and headed down the sidewalk, blending into the city’s faceless crowd. The people around him bustled about, living their lives, oblivious.

Oblivious?

Breath held taut—like his lungs were about to explode, he found his fingers drifting towards the zipper of his hoodie, pulling it down slowly. His steps slowed, his heart racing in anticipation.

To be noticed. To be seen.

Because that’s what he craved now—the attention, the stares, the recognition. It had been like a drug ever since he stepped out of the cryopod and into the world’s spotlight.

Embarrassing.

God he was embarrassing, sniveling like a dog. Some self respect. That's what he needed. Needed this, needed that, so fucking needy.

Needy.

It made sense, didn’t it? He had been through something no one else could understand. He survived. He was the story. Gone for so long, of course he’s needy.

He stopped near a busy intersection, cars hovering by, pedestrians pushing past him, holograms of underwhelming adds ironically overwhelming his senses. He looked around, scanning the crowd, waiting for someone to recognize him. To see him standing there, hood off, hair disheveled, but still him—the man they all adored. And when the first set of eyes landed on him, a flicker of recognition lighting up in someone’s face, Jimmy felt it. That electric spark in his chest, the rush of adrenaline. It was all too familiar now.

The girl’s gaze lingered on him, and Jimmy met her eyes. She smiled, hesitantly at first, but then wider. She knew who he was.

Good.

He took the hoodie off completely, slinging it over his shoulder, deliberately exposing himself to the wind. It bit into his skin, but he relished it. The sting was real, reminded him that he was alive, that he was somebody. And that’s all that mattered now, wasn’t it? To feel that rush. To know that they knew who he was.

He took a deep breath, feeling the air flood his lungs. The attention felt like warmth in his veins, fighting off that ever-present chill that clung to him, both inside and out. His heart raced as more people glanced his way, some pointing, some whispering. A few even pulled out their phones to snap pictures. And Jimmy soaked it all in.

They love you, Jimmy, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. I love you.

They only saw the surface. The hero. The survivor.

But Jimmy? He knew what he was and no amount of flashing cameras or admiring looks could change that.

That warmth that those eyes gave…

Familiar.

Enough to keep him satisfied for eons, invigorated until he neither needed nor wanted anymore. The weight on his chest—the constant grasping for something more, like liquid slipping through his fingers—was gone. A blessing it was, attention that is.

So he walked, walked and walked. From the moment he heard those gasps, felt those lingering looks to when he tuned into the sound of not so subtle followers peering at his every move, till even now as he stumbled into his apartment. A bit more warmer and nicer than he remembered. His to take back. Make a home.

Warm.

He just felt warm.