AU where Steve has decent parents. They aren’t great, but they’re not bad. They show up for major things and tell him they love him, but they don’t understand him. They don’t get that he needs more than that.
So Steve’s nanny keeps in contact with him even after she’s let go because “Steve doesn’t need looking after” at the age of 10. She checks in with him all the time.
Ms. Munson is always bringing him a dish from her own dinner with her brother and son, making sure he has someone at the awards days at school, makes sure he has gifts at Christmas that he’ll actually like.
But she never invites him to her home and it doesn’t hit him until his senior year of high school that she’s Eddie Munson’s mom, that they live in the trailer park that he was never allowed to go to, that her brother must be Wayne, who took him fishing once when he got his heart broken by his first girlfriend.
He’s a different person now, but not to Eddie.
As time goes on, and he experiences more trauma than any single person should, and he gets Robin as a platonic soulmate, he realizes that Ms. Munson still shows up. His parents don’t bother much anymore, but she does.
And two days before spring break of ‘86, she sends Eddie to Steve’s house with a care package.
When Steve shuffles through the items, he nearly chokes on his own spit when he finds a bag of pre-rolled joints.
Eddie comes up with excuses, brushes it off as just a friendly gesture for someone his mom cares so much about.
But Steve won’t hear it. He asks him to stay and smoke one with him, take the edge off since he’s been dealing with midterms.
They get high on his back patio, talking and laughing late into the night, so late that Eddie almost worries he’ll have to go to school in his clothes from the day before.
Steve won’t hear it, offers his shower and his “most metal” clothes- his only black jeans and a plain white t-shirt with the sleeves cut off- and says he can sleep there for the couple of hours left before school.
Eddie wakes up to Steve making coffee and toast, using the jam his mom had included in the care package and a smile that made Eddie’s cynical heart flop in his chest.
Eddie didn’t think the next time he saw Steve would be when he was holding a broken bottle to his neck, terrified of everything and everyone, but the moment they had a second alone, Steve hugged him close.
“It’s a shit way to be welcomed into the group officially, but I’m glad you’re not alone.”
Steve and Eddie were inseparable while fighting Vecna, both of them insistent on protecting the kids.
When Steve managed to get Eddie to the motel the Munsons were staying in after El managed to get rid of Vecna, Ms. Munson was standing at the door with tears in her eyes.
“My boys.”
She patched them up, better than any doctor probably would have, giving them small kisses on the head when they winced in pain.
And eventually, she tucked them into one of the beds in the room, ignoring how they hadn’t stopped holding hands for the entire night.
She’d been hesitant to introduce them; Eddie, for all his talk of accepting people for who they are, struggled to accept how much she did for Steve, not understanding why he may need it.
But it seemed like she didn’t need to force anything. They found their way together in the end.
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january 5 - withdrawal. 1,728 words. @jegulus-microfic.
oh, yes. it's the stripper/sugar baby au. part one.
It hits Regulus when he’s standing in front of his closet at a complete loss: he doesn’t know how to dress for a date with a man who’s already seen him in nothing but a G-string and thigh highs.
It feels like they’ve done this all backwards.
Then again, it’s not as though Regulus makes a habit out of going on dates with his clients. In fact, this is the first—ever.
A few have asked, going so far as to offer a measly couple hundred for his time, but none have managed to convince him. That’s not why I’m here, he always tells them. You pay, I dance. If you pay more, I dance more. But I’m not going to suck you off no matter how much you throw at me.
It rarely earns him a repeat client—and Riddle is usually pissed at him for the attitude display that’s cost the club a customer—but Regulus has had enough of being meat in a freezer. Pick the best cut, take it home, and have your way with it.
Absolutely not.
So he doesn’t know what’s right for a date with a man who’s paid him—and yes, he’s run the numbers several times—$172,639.00 in the last month.
Belatedly, he realizes maybe he should’ve run out to a department store and spent money on fancy clothes. Well, fancier. He has shirts that cost more than two hundred dollars. He has jeans with designer labels. The problem is, he has a feeling James hasn’t spent less than four figures on an item of clothing since his head emerged from his mother’s womb.
“Filthy rich bastard,” mutters Regulus, snatching the most expensive shirt he owns. “Making me insecure about clothes. I’m never insecure about clothes. I know I look good.”
But something about James makes him want to try. To make sure his curls aren’t carelessly perfect but rather artfully placed. He spends extra time adjusting the strands so one will stay looped over his forehead. Foolishly, he hopes James will have the urge to brush it away.
Don’t be romantic, he thinks, scowling at his own reflection. You’re a stripper, he’s a client, and this will be over the second you give him an inch.
Still, he even rubs a little liner on his bottom lash line, smudging it so it seems unintentional. Makes your eyes less gray and more blue, Sirius told him once. Like mine.
It’s a pang that makes Regulus want to wash his face. Get rid of the smudges that, admittedly, look fantastic, yet are reminders he didn’t anticipate. But there’s no time—his phone buzzes on the counter.
James [17:58]: Outside! Don’t rush. I’ll wait.
Regulus could kill him for being here when he said he would be. Though that isn’t James’ fault; Regulus is too used to being ready at six, only to wait for some asshole who rolls up late in car whose tires might fall off at highway speed.
He knows his bar is in Hell. Below it, maybe.
He doesn’t text James back. He grabs a denim jacket, his keys, and slips into Docs. Not the beat up ones, but a new pair he bought last week. A quick check in the mirror and—oh, he’s going to lose it. It’s not that he’s underdressed or overdressed, he’s just…dressed.
This isn’t how James usually sees him.
He feels more vulnerable like this than when he’s bare.
“Fuck it,” he mumbles, shoving his phone in his pocket. “If he can’t handle you when you’re you, then he doesn’t deserve a second of your time.”
Some part of him knew before he even stepped out of his flat that James would not show up in a car whose tires might fall off, but this doesn’t mean his jaw doesn’t unhinge at the sight of what’s idling on the curb.
“You—What the fuck.” Regulus marches down the short walkway and waits for James to lower the window. “What is this?”
“An Aston Martin.” James leans across the console, grinning like mad. “You look good.”
“I’m underdressed for an Aston Martin.”
“It’s just a car.”
“It’s just a—” Regulus coughs on his own laugh. He’s not unfamiliar with wealth—he’s not exactly poor, considering his profession—but this level of wealth? This is generational. This is a name that’s been trademarked. “This is not ‘just a car.’”
James purses his lips and furrows his brow. He shaved, but there’s still a hint of shadow along his jaw. And his clothes are…
“Is that suit Tom Ford?”
“Yes. Why? You don’t like it?” James stretches his arm out in front of him, and Regulus realizes it’s an emerald green cut so dark it’s almost black. “Picked this one for you, actually. Reminds me of that number you wear sometimes. The pretty green one.”
Regulus thinks he might hate this man. “You didn’t tell me this place requires Tom Ford,” he grits out, irritation spiking. “I’m wearing Docs.”
“I told you—you look good. Very good. Though I imagine you’d look good in absolutely everything, but maybe I’m biased.” James’ grin is too wicked. “Since I’ve seen you in almost nothing, after all.”
“I need to go inside and change.”
“No, you don’t. I promise. Get in the car.”
“James. I’m serious. I can’t—”
“We’ll be late, love. Come on.”
Reluctantly, Regulus yanks open the passenger door and takes his seat. The interior is all black with burgundy accents that match the car’s paint. The engine purrs when James hits the gas, and Regulus tries not to stare at the hand wrapped around a gearshift dangerously close to his knee.
“Will you tell me where we’re going?” he asks instead.
“Italy.”
Regulus blinks several times. “Excuse me?”
“You said you like Italian food.” James says it so matter-of-fact, so blasé, that for a moment, Regulus thinks, Oh, of course.
Except—what?
“Is there… Is there suddenly a restaurant called ‘Italy’ in London?”
James gives him a dubious look. “No? I mean Italy. Like, Italy Italy.”
“Italy Italy.”
“Italy.”
“The country.”
“I believe there’s only one, yes.” James rolls to a stop at a light and flicks on his blinker. “Our flight leaves at seven, so we’ll get in a little after nine. I made—”
Regulus holds up a hand to stop him. “You’re taking me to Italy for a first date?”
“You said you like Italian food.”
“I do! But I meant a local place. Somewhere that’s in London. That doesn’t require—” Regulus waves his hands nonsensically. He doesn’t even know what this requires. “It doesn’t require a—a fucking flight.”
James eases the car forward. His brows pinch together. “I made reservations…”
“James,” Regulus says, exasperated. “I don’t want your money. Really, I don’t. Maybe it seems that way because of how we met, but I…” He turns to look out the window, inhaling a shaky breath. “I don’t want to owe you something.”
He doesn’t say it, but it falls between them anyway: I don’t want to owe you me.
“You don’t owe me anything, love. I promise.”
“But I’ll feel like I do, and that’s bad enough.”
James is quiet for a moment, but before he can jump on the freeway, he pulls into a parking lot, rustles around, and then: “Hi, Frank. Can you, uh… Can you cancel the jet? I’m not going to Italy. No, no. Everything is fine. Just a change of plans. Thank you. Tell the crew I’m sorry for the trouble. Great. Thanks again.”
Regulus stares resolutely out the window long after James ends the call. His arms are crossed, fingers digging into the rough material of his jacket.
“Baby, look at me.”
There’s a fascinating building in his line of sight. Regulus focuses on it.
“Regulus, love. Please look at me.”
With his jaw set, he finally turns. James’ eyes are wide, round as dinner plates, and slightly panicked.
“I might have miscalculated a bit.”
“A bit?”
James rubs at the back of his neck sheepishly. “I just wanted you to have something nice. Impress you, I guess.”
“You wired me one hundred thousand dollars not five hours ago. Consider me impressed.”
“But—”
“I don’t know what you do for work, James. Clearly it’s something that’s made you ridiculously rich. But I don’t know you. I don’t know your friends or your favorite color or why you drive this ridiculous car—”
“I like it,” James mutters, but Regulus barrels on unperturbed.
“—but what I do know is that you paid me thousands to notice you, even though I noticed you the second you walked in the room. You promised you won’t push me to fuck you if I don’t want to. Because you want me to want it—not because you paid for it.”
James’ Adam’s apple bobs, and Regulus wonders if maybe he’s scolding James more than he should.
So he softens, says, “I want to get to know you, James. On my terms, just like you said.”
“Can I—?” James shifts, reaching up near Regulus’ cheek, but he pauses until Regulus nods once. His palm is warm where it cradles Regulus’ face, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “It’s sexy, you know. That attitude of yours. I shouldn’t find it as hot as I do.”
“I just scolded you,” Regulus mumbles. He feels his cheeks heat. “I didn’t—I probably sound like an—I’m sorry. You did a really nice thing, and I—”
“It doesn’t matter. I should’ve asked if you were okay with it. I think I got a bit too excited.” James smiles ruefully. “I mean it. I just wanted to impress you.”
Regulus rolls his eyes. “I’m sitting in an Aston Martin, and if I went to the bank right now I could make a six-figure withdrawal. I know your money, James. It’s you I want to know.”
“Alright, fine. Change of plans.” Regulus tries not to whine when James’ hand leaves his face to curve around the steering wheel. “Where are we going? What’s good Italian near here?”
“There’s a local place down the street. A little small, but the owners are really nice. They make everything from scratch.”
James shoots him a grin, and this time, instead of the gear shift, he settles a hand on the inside of Regulus’ thigh just above his knee. “Sounds perfect. Should I turn around?”
“Yeah, it’s the opposite direction.”
“Lead the way. I’ll go wherever you tell me.”
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why do we go back?
damian wayne x reader
warnings: anxiety, kind of a panic attack?, implied past trauma/abuse
wc: 800
~~
“I went back.”
“Why? They—”
“I don’t know. I don’t know why. I—”
“Damian, honey, breathe.”
-
Damian’s brothers don’t text you that often. You don’t have their numbers saved in your phone. Or you didn’t. You have Tim’s now.
come to the manor now. non-medical emergency
oh and this is tim by the way
You don’t even see the text until you’re done with your meeting, phone on do not disturb and notes document in fullscreen mode. It was sent at 1:30 in the afternoon. Bad things aren’t supposed to happen at 1:30 in the afternoon.
I’m on my way, you text back at 3:00. Is he okay? The response comes as you’re setting up your gps. no. then, i mean he’s fine but no. You pull out of your parking spot a little faster than you should have.
Once you get on the highway, you turn off the GPS. The number 21 exit towards Bristol and Wayne manor is nearly as familiar as your own. You’re thankful for the dozens of trips you’ve made because Tim calls you five minutes in.
“What happened?” You can feel your heart pounding in your chest. The anxiety that had taken root when you saw the first text is morphing quickly into fear.
“He disappeared.”
“What?”
“He’s not on manor grounds anymore. But he’s not in his suit.”
On top of the phone call screen, a push notification lets you know that Damian's code was used to disarm your alarm system. You let out a short breath and switch lanes. Your exit is the next one.
“I know where he is,” you tell Tim as you shift over into the right lane. It’s a little backed up, the way it always is this time of day, “I got him.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
You take exit 24 towards the lower east side, then switch to an even more local highway and take exit 8 towards the residential district. When you pull into your parking spot in the cul-de-sac, your house looks empty. When you walk inside, Damian’s combat boots are sitting by the door, not unlaced all the way. One of them is sitting on its side. The other is askew. You let your bag slide off your shoulder to hit the ground next to your own shoes and venture further in.
Damian’s sitting on the steps in dark casual clothes and white socks with a paint blob pattern. His knees are bent, legs pressed against his chest. Your steps aren’t steep and Damian is very tall. Hands clenched into fists rest on top of his knees. His neck is bent too, forehead pressed against his fists.
You slide back on the wooden steps when you sit down. Damian doesn’t so much as twitch. You wait for him to come to you. He does.
“I went back.” His voice is rough but not thick with tears.
“Why?” You ask. The League leaves him with deep hurts every time he goes back to Nanda Parbat. And not the physical kind. “They—”
“I don’t know!” He exclaims like the words burst out of his chest. The energy propels him up, fingers digging into the arms of his sweatshirt as he rocks on his heels. “I don’t know why. I—”
“Damian, honey,” You stand to meet him. The emotions in his green eyes are wild, untethered. “Breathe.” He shakes his head at you, fingers curling harder into his sleeves. “You can.” Damian scans your body language and you let him, relaxing the tension in your shoulders and leaving your hands open, arms angled to hold him if he wants it.
“I’m here,” you say to the hesitation in his eyes. “You’re safe.”
You let out a grunt of air as Damian slams into you. His arms wrap around you tight enough that you think he’s afraid you’ll turn into smoke if he lets go. You raise your arms more slowly, one coming up to rub at his back and the other to cup the back of his neck.His knees buckle. You slow your descent to the ground only barely, saving your knees from catching the brunt of your weight. Your butt stings instead from how hard it hit the floor but it’s worth it when Damian buries his face into the junction between your neck and your collarbone and breathes. They’re choppy loud breaths that come with shoulders shuddering under the hand you have rubbing up and down his back, but no tears hit your neck.
“I’ve got you,” you whisper to him, cheek pressed against the top of his head. “You’re safe here.” Damian’s arms only tighten further. In response, you hold him tighter too.
Why do we go back, you wonder, when we know the only thing to come of it is more pain?
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