#steddie pride and prejudice

[sentient-trash]

Day 2: Hands/ Touch starved

@steddie-week

Brought back my pride and prejudice Steddie au for this prompt

I love them so much RAHHH

[fernandesart]

perfectly, incandescently happy✨️

[shipping-world1994]

"You must know... surely, you must know it was all for you. You are too generous to trifle with me. I believe you spoke with my aunt last night, and it has taught me to hope as I'd scarcely allowed myself before. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes have not changed, but one word from you will silence me forever. If, however, your feelings have changed, I will have to tell you: you have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love--I love--I love you. I never wish to be parted from you from this day on."

[flowercrowngods]

Suggesting/Requesting Eddie having a crush on the valiant knight Steve Dustin goes on about, not realizing it's Steve "the Hair" Harrington and the way he reacts when he realizes they're the same dude. Cue adjustment period.

hi! first of all thank you for the prompt 🥰 i slipped and kinda decided to take your ‘valiant knight Steve’ quite literally and made this a medieval/regency au with knight steve and bard eddie, kinda enemies to lovers. it totally got out of hand, so this is part 1, with all my apologies to your original prompt 🤍🌷

Eddie smiles as the fields and forest that surround Hawkins come into view, kissed by the early afternoon sun with more affection and richness than the city probably deserves. It looks different this time of year, the green seems deeper than he left it, and nostalgia paints him a picture of glory and welcome that would make any traveller linger at the sight. 

He knows it’s only the magic of coming home, the thrill of having been gone so long that he needs to learn his town a-new, and the curiosity of a poet that makes his heart beat faster; but it’s his life’s blood to embrace all of that. So he spurs on his trusty horse to make it home even just a minute sooner. 

The people’s reactions to his arrival come in multitudes, though Eddie can respect the healthy dose of mistrust with which they regard him. He has made a name for himself after all, a bard more than a jester these days, but most people don’t tend to forget the pretty face they chased out of the city on multiple occasions. 

He lifts his head in greeting as he passes the elderly Wheelers as they’re tending to the flowers lining their windows, and grins with glee at both the disapproving scoff and the wary nod he gets in return. 

He’s in good spirits. Great spirits, in fact, the sun shining down on him, welcoming him and lighting familiar paths for him to tread again after years of absence. Hawkins will see his glory, his success, his victory, and it will pale in jealousy and regret. They cannot chase him away this time, not with the title of royal bard and winner of the bardic competition three years in a row. 

If his travels have taught him anything, it’s that he is pettiness acts as a wonderful motivation.

Of course, he shall also see his friends again. One of his saddlebags is half full with their letters that have accumulated over the years, all of which Eddie has kept for reasons of muse and a heart entirely too soft for his own good.

Most of all, though, even more than proving his worth and success to his city and its people, it is curiosity that brings him home. 

Dustin and his friends have been mentioning a most valiant knight, waxing poetic about his glorious deeds and his kinder heart — or, as poetic as they get, which is hardly at all. Which consequently made Eddie write no less than five ballads about the stories they told him, three of which have made it into songs yet, one of which he was made to play in every tavern on his long journey back to Hawkins and to Princess Nancy herself on more than one occasion.

The Knightmærs, as he calls his little collection of poeterey, his pride and joy about a man he has yet to meet. Tales about maidens saved and brothers defeated, hearts stolen and retrieved with the gentlest gestures, and children protected against the evils of night, expecting naught but friendship. And friendship he got. 

If Eddie’s heart picks up yet another notch at the thought of meeting this knight as the familiar city walls tower before him, he allows it for a second before announcing himself to the guards. They looked wary upon his approach and blanch now as they hear his name; Eddie does not hide his laughter this time and preens as he is told to ride on. 

“Oh, Hawkins, old friend,” he mutters under his breath, not even bothering to hide his smile. “You and I shall have so much fun, shan’t we?” 

~*~

He barely makes it to the home he has been sharing with his uncle since the ripe age of twelve with minimal fuss, unsaddling his horse and guiding her to the trough, when he hears it. 

“Eddie!”

Halting in his motions the currycomb, he looks up from the rusty brown that shines red like embers in the sun and spots Dustin racing down the street towards him. 

He lowers the comb and steps around his horse, grinning at his rapidly approaching friend. 

“Why, good day to you, young traveller, what brings you to my humble abode?” 

Dustin doesn’t falter in his approach, doesn’t even slow down, and Eddie braces himself for impact. Years of experience have made him quite practiced in handling tackle-hugs, but Dustin has grown quite a bit since he last saw him, and they both stumble backwards when Dustin’s arms wrap around Eddie in a way that seems to press all air out of his lungs. Eddie laughs as he hugs his friend back with as much ferocity. 

“I’ve missed you! I was writing to you this morning when I remembered you said you’d come this week. I didn’t think it would be today!” 

“I came as soon as I could. Such is the Munson way, or did you forget?” 

Dustin shakes his head and finally lets go, though Eddie yearns for another hug. It’s been too long. The boy has grown. He’s hardly a boy anymore, though he shall always remain as such in Eddie’s heart. He smiles and ruffles Dustin’s locks, realising with a pang that they’re almost of a height now. 

An ache like homesickness settles in his gut and wears on his heart heavily. 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, smoothing out the curls he’s put in disarray. “It’s just been too long. And I’ve missed you, too. You’ve grown quite a bit since last we talked.” 

“I have!” And he looks so proud of it, too, preening a little under Eddie’s faux scrutiny, and it’s what makes him pull Dustin against his chest again. 

Eddie continues taking care of his horse, feeding her, combing through her mane, making sure she has as much comfort as he can provide after their long days of travel. Dustin sits on the fence and watches him tend to her, feeding her the occasional apple when he thinks Eddie isn’t looking. He hides his smile and pretends not to see. 

God, but he has missed his friend. 

Their twosomeness is rudely and entirely too quickly interrupted by Lord Harrington of all people, who hurries down the street in search of Dustin. 

Eddie never did like the lord and his pompous appearance coupled with his rude personality. He always acted like a prince among men, subject to many a jest in Eddie’s younger days. On one memorable occasion, Eddie managed to steal the lord’s clothes and swap them with his own, making him walk about in linen rags and torn-up trousers. 

Days later, all of his lute strings ripped just as he was getting ready to play at the tavern, and he never messed with Harrington again — even though there was a parcel three days later with new lute strings and his old clothes he had made the lord wear. No note attached to it, because Lords didn’t stoop down to converse with lowly peasants even for revenge. 

So, seeing Harrington now on the very first day of his being back, it sours Eddie’s face and his humour. 

“Why, Lord Harrington,” he speaks before the man can get a word in. “To what do I owe the displeasure of seeing you here? Have you suffered a fall from grace yet, or was it a hit in the head that left you disoriented, bringing you to my humble abode?” 

Harrington frowns at him, though Eddie deems to detect confusion more than distaste. 

And then he has the audacity of not even answering to Eddie’s ruse, simply ignoring him and instead turning around to Dustin. 

“Dustin, Master Clarke is expecting you. I will not cover for you once more.” 

“But—“ 

“Spare me,” Harrington says, hands on his hips now, and Eddie is starting to feel defensive over Dustin. How dare his lordship come and steal his best friend away when he hasn’t even been home for an hour yet? 

Before he can get so much as a word in, however, Dustin is already jumping from his perch on the fence and trudging towards Harrington, rounding the man and leading the way up the hill towards the castle. 

“I’ll come back later, Eddie,” Dustin says over his shoulder, and then he is gone, rounded the corner, out of his sight. 

Harrington, however, lingers. Eddie raises his eyebrows in question and challenge, and the Lord scoffs a little. It’s like he wants to say something — but what could it be? What could Lord Harrington have to say to him, years after they last saw each other? 

He does look stunning, Eddie has to admit with a grudge against his self and his integrity. The golden light of the afternoon sun catches in his hair, likening it to strands of gold that kings and queens pay alchemists across the world to procure. Eddie, for a moment, feels like he has found it in Lord Harrington’s hair and the skin of his face, but he quickly snaps out of it, cutting off that particular train of thought before it can run away form him. 

“I hear you are a bard of great renown these days.” 

The words catch him off his guard, for Eddie was sure that the Lord would not attempt to converse. Yet it seems that propriety still has a tight grip on him. 

Does Harrington like his ballads, his plays, his poetry and sonnets? Has he heard them? Or has he heard of them? Has word travelled across the countries, telling of Eddie the Bard and his brave-hearted muse his soul yearns for and his quill bleeds for?

Eddie is not sure which option thrills him more, but whichever one it is, it makes him smile, feeling quite bashful and yet proud. 

“So you hear,” he says, approaching the stiff Lord. “What exactly is it that you hear, my Lord?” 

He swallows, following Eddie’s steps with his eyes, turning his head when the bard circles him slowly. “I hear you sing of beasts slain and brothers banished, a knight at the heart of your ballads.” Eddie smiles at that, knowing that Harrington has at least heard of two of his Knightmærs. I hear it sounds like mockery, the knight but an object of your hyperbolic fascination and flowery imagination, his pain and bravery nothing to you.” 

He stops dead in his tracks, his feet planted right before Harrington. The Lord looks like he is taking personal offence to his works, and it irritates the bard. 

“And what, Lord Harrington, would you know of fascination, pain and bravery? I cannot imagine you have faced a lot of hardship in your life, and the only acts of bravery you had to chance upon were mislead in the name of false honour.” 

“False honour,” Harrington repeats, his words like poison, sharp and dangerous as the sword’s blade at his hip. “You would know something about that, I imagine, telling stories of which you have no idea. Immortalising glory where there should be sympathy.” 

Eddie studies him, the frown between his brows, the hard line of his jaw, set and calmed to keep more words from spilling. Imposing, this Lord is. A sight for sore eyes even in his  purely misplaced anger. 

Eddie huffs, his eyes travelling between the Lord’s where they are standing so impossibly close. 

“Sympathy,” he repeats. “Nobody, my Lord, wants a ballad of sympathy. It is glory that the people seek!” He steps back from Harrington, gesturing with his arms as he dramatically recounts the lessons he has learned over the years, passionate for his craft. “Glory, heroism, heartbreak and love! Yearning and longing and deeds of an aching heart, that is what the people want to hear. That is what deserves to be immortalised in art, in poetry, in song! I shall forgive you for being so painfully unaware of this, my Lord, but I shall not stand to be in your company much longer, calling my work lacking or a mockery when it is borne out of nothing but loyalty, fascination and love.” 

They are close again, because Harrington did not step back when Eddie approached him once more, his feet planted like a tree, fierce and strong and unbudging. 

It is intoxicating, though Eddie blames half of it on the passion and the rage, on the bravery that possessed him to send the Lord away, or the fierceness with which he came to his muse’s defence. 

Harrington swallows again, his eyes wandering over Eddie’s face once more, lingering at his lips, both their jaws set in determination and perhaps a sudden tension.  

“Forgive me for insulting you with my company,” he speaks at last, his voice nothing but a rasp. “You will find there is an irony to your words soon. I shall not rob you of that discovery. I ask you do not take it out on our mutual friends when you do, Munson.” 

And with one last glance, Harrington turns on his heel and hurries up the hill, too, leaving Eddie puzzled and quite dazed upon the lingering warmth of their close proximity. 

When did Harrington become so handsome? There was a fire in his eyes that Eddie got to witness for just the blink of an eye, but he wonders where that comes from, what it means, and what other secrets he holds. 

Perhaps, if he cannot meet his muse, the knight Dustin has only ever referred to as Steve, Harrington might serve to inspire a ballad or two himself.

~*~

Harrington catches his eyes on more than one occasion over the next days. Eddie is invited to the castle to play for Princess Chrissy, though she greets him like an old friend and makes him sit close to her at the banquet. Right beside Harrington, who merely nods at Eddie, his fists clenched as Chrissy asks the bard about one of his ballads — the one about the valiant knight slaying a horde of monsters to keep the kingdom’s children safe. 

The Lord must really hate Eddie’s work. It fills him with spiteful glee, for some reason, and he makes sure to play and recite all of his Knightmærs that night. Harrington excuses himself when Eddie hasn’t even made it halfway through his songs, and he doesn’t return that night. 

He takes personal offence now and vows to make the Lord’s life as difficult as he can. 

But still there is no sign of Steve. 

Eddie is starting to get frustrated. 

He was supposed to be here, stand tall and proud with a smile on his face upon seeing Eddie, sweep him off his feet, make him swoon, dare Eddie to fall in love with the face long after the name. 

His mood is sour, and only sours further when Harrington rounds the corner and stumbles upon Eddie who is tuning his lute for tonight’s banquet. The annual royal tournament is set for the next morning, so everyone is in a good mood. 

Well, everyone except Eddie. And Lord Harrington, by the look on his face. 

“Munson,” he says, straightening before he bows his head in greeting. “Forgive me, I was looking for some quiet. I shall look somewhere else.” 

And, somehow, that is enough to snap his patience that was already wearing thin. “Why can you not stand being in my presence, sir?” he asks, rising from his seat. “Does it disgust you so to be around mere peasants?” 

Harrington looks taken aback, shock and confusion clear on his face before a frown takes its place and washes away all further emotions. 

“It is not your presence that bothers me, nor the nature of your birth.”

“And yet you leave every time I so much as strum a tune, Lord Harrington, ready to throw both caution and propriety to the winds. Leaving me to wonder what it is that I have done to deserve such treatment.” 

Eddie finds himself walking closer and closer to the Lord, coming to a stop not one foot before him. He is drawn in by his presence, his charm as alluring as his cold silence. Everything about Lord Harrington intrigues him, horrified as he is to admit it. But with Steve not around to catch his eye and captivate his heart and mind alike, he simply has to find inspiration elsewhere. 

And the way Harrington’s face is taken over by a dangerous expression is the most inspiring, alluring thing he has seen in a while, even though it is directed at him. 

“How can you have the audacity to feign confusion over my disdain, bard,” he hisses, and Eddie shivers slightly. Harrington does not even have the sense to step back, staying right where he is, so close, so improper. “How can you pretend it is not my life you have taken and made your own, singing songs and telling stories, making into nothing but a jaunty tale recited by drunkards with no regard to the blood it was written in.” 

Eddie blinks, not quite catching up with the point Harrington is making. 

“What—“ 

“You sing your ballads, your histories, your Knightmærs like you know what they mean. Making a mockery of me, stealing from me every chance to tell my tale in my own voice, in my own tempo. Entire kingdoms will know before I will have had the chance to wake up from a nightmare, and they sing about it, sing about pain they did not have the misfortune to suffer, sing with a smile, with booming voices because you make them. And yet the only one without a voice remains the one who slew the beast.” 

Lord Harrington speaks to him as though he takes offence at the content of Eddie’s ballads, offence at the reality of their background. But what right does he have to take offence when his songs are based on heroic deeds, recounted to him first hand by his very best friend. What right does Harrington have to question the truth behind them? 

“If it is a matter of truth that concerns you, let me reassure you, my Lord, that all of my ballads are based on true events. I ask that you do not call me a liar, no matter how great your dislike of my craft.” 

“It is not a liar that I call you, but rather a thief.” 

Eddie gasps, offended now. “What do you suggest I have stolen, then?” 

“A person’s right to their own story. To their own nightmares. A man's right to flee from the horrors he lived through, acquainting every tavern in this kingdom and the next with his horrific and desperate deeds.” 

“How dare you call his deeds horrific,” Eddie hisses now, feeling protective over his knight. “How dare you accuse me of ill intent when every word out of my quill is written with nothing but love and admiration.” 

“For whom?” Harrington challenges, disdainful and cold. “Only for yourself, your vanity, your overgrown sense of artistic ambition.”

“No,” he shakes his head, hands clenched into fists as he finds himself incredibly close to Lord Harrington, their faces only inches apart now. “It is love for this person I have never met, whom my dear friend has told me about. A man who has kept me awake at night as I was pouring over letter after letter, hoping he should be well. It is a love so strong it has to be turned into art, into song, love that should be sung in every voice of the kingdom.” He scoffs, stepping back to catch his breath. “I do not expect you to know such a love when all you have in your cold heart is disdain for all things beautiful. You would never know bravery if it looked you in the face, you would never know love if it was the very fabric that makes this world. It would slip through your fingers, my Lord, for you would be busy yearning for the day your life found its meaning.” 

He is seething, heaving breaths, out of control over the words tumbling out of his mouth. Insulted in his pride and his muse, offended, hurt. Confused, still, as to why the Lord hates his songs with such vigour. 

“Is that your opinion of me?” Harrington whispers, though even in that toneless voice of his lies so much that Eddie cannot begin to decipher. 

“Yes,” he whispers back, the fight leaving him now, the very air sucked out of the room they share. “I believe I made that clear just now.” 

Harrington takes one step closer once more, but Eddie does not budge. 

“Then I suggest you forget that knight of yours,” he says, quiet and final. “And forget the idea you have of love. To love someone is not to turn his nightmares into song. To love someone is not to look him in the eye and insult his very existence even further. You love yourself, your craft, your mind. But you do not love him. You would not recognise him if he shared the same breath as you.” 

Eddie huffs, just barely able to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “And what makes you so sure of that, Lord Harrington?” 

A smile twitches his lips, though there is no mirth, no glee. “You have just proven it to me, Mr Munson.” He takes a step back and evades Eddie’s eyes. “I believe you should return to the fest now. Good night.” 

And with that, he turns around and leaves. 

Eddie finds himself rooted to the ground, air returning to the room now but still he is unable to catch his breath, staring ahead as he is. 

Words echo in his mind as the picture paints itself and a horrible, horrible realisation dawns on him. 

You will find there is an irony to your words soon. 

How can you pretend it is not my life you have taken and made your own?

But you do not love him. You would not recognise him if he shared the same breath as you.

You have just proven it to me, Mr Munson.

But… There is no way. There is no way that Dustin’s friend, Dustin’s knight and protector, his saviour, Steve, should be the same as Lord Harrington with his careful, quiet, disdainfully quirked eyebrow. 

Except, Lord Harrington collected Dustin from Eddie’s home, speaking with him in a tone filled with such familiarity, they cannot be mistaken as anything but friends. 

And Lord Harrington had listened with such rapt attention when Eddie played his jaunty tunes and the well-known classics at the banquet days ago, looking like he enjoyed Eddie’s play. His face had only soured when people started requesting his newer original songs, his fists clenched upon the opening chords of The Knight and His Nightmare, leaving the hall altogether when people requested more. 

You sing your ballads, your histories, your Knightmærs like you know what they mean. 

Eddie’s heart falls when he realises what he has done. How blind he was to the frowns and the tension, how deaf to the hints and insinuations, how ignorant he was of the pain he inflicted on Lord Harrington. Lord Steven Harrington. Steve. 

His Steve. And yet not his at all.

He falls back onto the bench, dazed, as the weight of his realisation settles inside his chest. 

onwards to part 2

[strawberryspence]

It's raining. It's raining and it's still the best day of Steve Harrington's life.

The Party is scrambling their way into the house, formal clothes getting wet from the sudden down pour. Joyce and Hopper are herding the grandkids into the bathroom so they won't get sick from the rain. Nancy and Jon are checking if no one left anything important in the backyard. Robin's checking the foods. The rest are scattered trying to dry themselves.

Steve's just sitting in the couch, Dustin ushered him into the couch when the rain started, making him promise that he won't move because it's their special day. He can watch the rain gliding down the big window of their home, like crystals falling from the sky, as the pitter patter of the rain calms his nerves. He takes off his blazer, his shoes and socks next, both wet from the rain and mud.

"My dear." Steve looks up from loosening his tie. Eddie's looming over him, two cups of coffee in hand.

"Don't call me my dear. That's what my mom calls my dad when she's annoyed." Eddie snorts, handing him one of the cups.

The couch is huge, Steve made sure it was so it would fit all of them, but Eddie sits next to him, leaving no space between the two of them. Steve sets down the mug on the coffee table.

"Well, what do you want me to call you then?" Eddie asks, hiding a smile behind his cup. He's wearing a white button down, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the denim jacket he insisted on wearing long gone.

Steve pushes even closer to him, getting a whiff of his familiar cologne, humming as he feigns thinking, "Stevie for everyday, sweetheart for special days, baby on special occasions."

Eddie snorts, but his eyes are full of fondness and adoration for the man beside him, "And when I am annoyed? Should I call you Mr. Munson?"

Steve shakes his head, smile growing on his face, "You may only call me Mr. Munson when you are completely, and perfectly, and incandescently happy."

Eddie's whole face lights up as he smiles, he sets down the mug on the coffee table to cup Steve's face in his hands. Steve instinctively melting into the touch.

"Mr. Munson." Eddie kisses his left cheek.

"Mr. Munson." Eddie kisses his right cheek.

"Mr. Munson." His nose.

"Mr. Munson." His forehead.

Eddie beams at him, letting his forehead fall on Steve's forehead, smile all toothy and big and Steve wonders if they'll end up hurting their jaws by the end of the day.

"And how are you on our rainy, wedding day, Mr. Munson?"

Eddie's smiling as he kisses Steve on the lips, their teeth clashing together but Steve couldn't give a damn. He's kissing his husband.

"Very well, Mr. Munson."

[paperbackribs]

So the confusion I face when trying to work out a ship on tumblr because

There's Eddie

Not to be confused with Ed

Who's with Stede

Not to be confused with Steve

No, not this Steve either

He's with Bucky

Sometimes they're with Darcy, too

No, not this Darcy

He's with Lizzie

[ladykailitha]

Yesterday I had two ideas for a steddie fic, so you'll be getting two updates from me today...

The first one is a modern (ish it would be set in the 80s) day Pride & Prejudice with Steve as Darcy, Robin as Bingley, and Eddie as Lizzy. Chrissy as Jane. Probably Billy as Wickham.

Nancy as Lady Catherine, but in the way that she's the catalyst at the end that comes up to Steve and tells him he can't date Eddie. Not because Eddie isn't in love with him, but no, because she thinks Steve is straight.

Cue Steve rushing to Eddie to tell him he still loved him.

Not sure where the rest of the gang would filter through. But none of them are related to each other like they are in the book.

I think Vickie would be a great Charlotte though. Deciding to be with someone she doesn't love because she doesn't think she can be with the one she wants because they're (Robin) out of her league.

The scene that gets Eddie to hate him on sight is they're at a party and he overhears Robin and Steve talking and Steve's too embarrassed to go on to the dance floor so he keeps making excuses. Tells her that Chrissy is the only pretty one there. Which Robin calls him out on because Eddie is soooo his type.

Steve scoffs and calls him cute at best.

Now Eddie who has carefully constructed his image to metal thinks that cute is the antithesis of that and gets offended.

Then in comes Billy and starts bad mouthing Steve. Saying all sorts of bullshit that Eddie just eats right up. Flirted with a 14 year old girl (Max and Steve was protecting her from Billy), deliberately threw a basketball game (had gotten a concussion and instead of continuing to play like the coach wanted went to the ER instead), and the list goes on about how miserable Steve has made Billy's life.

Chrissy doesn't believe it because the guys on the basketball team the following year love Steve. But Eddie thinks they were tricked by the King Steve image.

Robin isn't any help regarding the rumors because she wasn't friends with Steve until after all that went down and she wasn't in marching band that year, her parents couldn't pay for the uniform.

I know I know Bingley is the rich one and Jane is the poor one, but work with me here, it's based on personality. Robin isn't naive enough to be Jane.

Anyway.

Steve is oblivious to the drama going on around him because he's trying keep Max out of Billy's hands, as he took custody of her after her mom was unable. And dorky as hell.

He accidentally breaks up Robin and Chrissy with a remark about how Chrissy didn't seem all that interested in her (she was being shy Robin being her first girlfriend and didn't know how to act).

So when Steve asks Eddie out (at party hosted by Nancy that Eddie was trying to duck out of when Steve spotted him), Eddie flips out on Steve throwing all sorts of allegations around and Steve is devastated. He leaves this long voice mail on Eddie's phone explaining his side of the story and Eddie is gutted.

Steve really was a cool guy. But it's too late. Steve has gone back to Indy with Robin as they both nurse their broken hearts.

Chrissy goes to stay with her brother in Bloomington and the band takes Eddie to Indy not realizing that's where Steve's gone.

Their van breaks down near Steve's place and while they're stuck in town waiting until it gets fixed Steve and Eddie get thrown together a lot and Eddie falls head over heels.

Just as things are getting good between them, Eddie's van is fixed and Wayne tells him to haul ass because Billy has been threatening the Hellfire kiddos about Max's location.

Steve comes rushing to the rescue and gets a plate to the head for his trouble, but because of all the witnesses, Billy is forced to run, leaving everyone safe at last.

But Steve tells the kiddos not tell Eddie it was him that rescued Lucas and Max, thinking that Eddie still hated him.

Steve helps get Robin and Chrissy back together and now Eddie done for. He's in love with this man.

Cue the Nancy scene and Steve and Eddie finally getting together.

[hitlikehammers]

You Have Bewitched Me, Body and Soul

or: The Secret Life of Daydreans 🦋

A Pride and Prejudice AU based on this scene for @pearynice on her birthday 💙🎉

He walks the heath to clear his mind, or so he tells himself. He knows in the heart of him that he walks, here, so as to muddy his trousers, to feel close to this man, this man who is so fond of walking, this man who holds him, who keeps him—who wants nothing of him and for fair reasons.

And yet.

This evening and the morning hours before dawn saw fit to peak above the tall grass: it’s proven mortifying, Wayne’s brazen notions, to attend the Hopper-Byers home, to call upon Steven in the night—Eddie may forget himself, but to call unannounced, to impose upon Mister Hopper, to impress upon him even the notion of disrespect when—

And yet then further still: such actions have served now to lead him to this, to this—

Such brashness and its consequences, from Wayne’s mouth upon waking, it has done nothing save to usher Eddie to heights of foolishness he’s never touched before; did not dream existed.

These precious hours have taught Eddie to hope, a dangerous thing to the mortal heart in his chest, weak to fluttering whims of impossible notions.

And yet.

There is light now, caressing the heather, limning the blossoms copper, so much like his eyes but so lesser, such paltry imitations. Nature, despite her majesty, could never hope to compare; Eddie prefers to imagine it does not try.

It must know what has been born of it, more radiant than anything it knows for itself. More resplendent than the sun itself.

And it is the sun itself, that reveals true radiance; Eddie is unsure of its truth but only for an instant. He blinks against the trick of light, in case it plays upon the weakness, the fluttering in his blood, the hope in him, but—

Nature cannot compare to the specimen himself; Eddie’s own mind cannot conjure the wholeness of him.

And this, this:

And to behold him across the moors in the slow-breaking rays of day: subtle, coy, glimmering but ever-gentle, as if in deference to his nature cast in this moment so delicate, lips parted as if his lungs conduct the breeze that calls the grasses to dance—to behold him: it is not songs but hymns, then: greater held here in the golden tendril-strands of being itself, more dear and true in these moments than Solomon’s Song in its every measure and metre—more sacred to a sweeter god.

He is a vision, and come daybreak proper not even the dew underfoot could hope to glisten in such measure as to rival his radiance, and if Eddie’s feet move him unconsidered yet conscious in the soul of him, beckoned in his blood and bones—if Eddie takes the strides between them and crosses the expanse to where Steven stands, to where Steven watches, those parted lips nearer now, more plush and sweet like fruit on the vine; those copper eyes more amber at proximity, molten in motion, dancing even as the beloved lines of that face, that face appraise him with just a tilt of consideration, perhaps curiosity. It is not impassive but it is inscrutable, and Eddie’s heart takes pains to fill with all his blood, to pound hard until he’s dizzy with it—though less so than he is with the dancing starshine in that gaze.

His cause for hope.

“I couldn’t sleep,” and oh, oh, but such seraphic tones bathed in sunlight just so, like banked fires behind Eddie’s bounding heart, like the pulses can ride the flames as much as be driven by them: immaculate.

Then the words themselves, the notion: it could ring as a justification, an excuse for being out in these early hours as if Steven Harrington in his glory could ever require justification, something so gauche and pedestrian as an excuse for being when his being is a gift, and then so far beyond such—it could sound defensive, or as an explanation, but no: no, Steven sets it into the space between them like an offering, simple yet simultaneously reminiscent of the beauteous layers of the man himself, his glorious enigma stood before Eddie like dream made flesh: he couldn’t sleep.

“Nor I,” Eddie grasps for that offering, pulls it tight to his chest; “my uncle,” and by all that is good and merciful in the world: if there is hope, if there is an inkling even, to be had only to be dashed but to at least have been known as potential alone, then let his uncle not have offended the patriarch of Steven’s family. Wayne is a kind soul, and a good man, but his humor is acquired to a fault and if he may have—

“Peculiar affinity for porcelain in that dear man,” and Steven, bless him, exalt him, canonize him and damn him straight to hell so long as Eddie may follow and they may be warm and outrageously contented there so as to keep forever the perfect quirk of his lips, like as laughter from the chest but quiet and still, the giddy dance of it all inside the waltzing wonder of his eyes—any and all things, whatever is necessary Eddie will do with effervescent joy, only to keep it on that heavensent face:

“He may have brought me a vase, and promised a tea service in due course.”

And Eddie had toyed with the notion that he couldn’t possibly flush deeper, perhaps in those stray moments he’d spent blissfully distracted by Steven’s amusement, Steven’s sweet lips, and not the likelihood of Wayne’s quirky ways of making a point and this, this, he—

Porcelain.

Only a long-held tradition in his family so entrenched none recall the origin, merely the absolute intent: a token of wedded blessing, or a gift of betrothal. Nothing dramatic or profound in the slightest, of course.

And Wayne chides him for being over-bold.

“Wholly inappropriate,” Eddie coughs into his hand, tries to mask the red in his cheeks with the gesture; “certainly without your, without,” and Eddie casts his eyes to the now-soft lit meadows, seeks counsel and finds none, to say nothing of the pull of Steven before him, nerves pushing his eyes to at least attempt to shy, to defer from Steven’s haze but as so as their eyes meet, it is wholly for nought.

Eddie breathes in deep, tries to steady himself, tries to focus less on the galloping of his heart between his lungs as they expand and more on the faint scent of honeysuckle when none grows here, when the perfume must be of Steven, must be the sweet lure of him for himself alone.

“However can I begin to make amends for such forwardness, uncalled and,” he falters, because the question is heartfelt, the sentiment honest in him but the formality is comfortable familiarity; the root of his worry, the fear that tethers this hope to the ground beneath him, clips its wings: “and undesired?”

For how could it ever be; it wasn’t, and quite rightly so, conveyed definitively in spring last when Steven had met Mister Carver, and Eddie had soured at the reminder of that rake’s transgressions, had let it propel pure jealousy into something fiercer, that made him forget his tongue and speak of himself as some high prize with no thought to the fact that the Hopper-Byers household lived on inferior means in part by choice, their family a taboo of the region but mostly, to a glance, a happy one: the patriarch a veteran of foreign battles and the Missus a force and a household managed by both with all heads covered safe came nightfall and all bellies filled without pain of wanting and no care for which of the children shared their blood if all shared their love.

And Eddie was, he was…

To call him a fool is too lenient, far too forgiving.

He’d spoken low of them even if only in passing, but he believes it was worse for it, for being impudent, thoughtless, and about inferiority of all arrogant nonsense, as if his money outstripped the goodness of those people, of Stev—

Oh, and he couldn’t have stopped there in his imbecility. Even if Eddie hadn’t known quite how Steven’s beloved sister held his heart; even if Eddie had acted for honest reasons to protect his oldest and dearest friend, despite the concern in it no greater than blind hypocrisy, how could he, how could he in defense of his friend not witness the same awkward tendency to babble in the face of feeling—regardless of any and all of it, what he’d done was done callously, and to have seen it crush Steven, the chasm that had opened in the moments Eddie had owned to his deeds—it had only been rivaled for how hateful it settled in him inside the wrath that had emerged to fill that chasm, the disdain, the loathing aimed at Eddie alone when Eddie had thought, when he’d asked, because he wanted so ardently—

He is grateful only that he told no lie in it. Did not try to save himself in falsehoods. The pain, he knows, was never something he could have been spared.

Same as he knows, now, that his feelings in April were sentiments he thought insurmountable. And yet the stirrings in his breast then were but a faint breeze compared to the whirlwind that consumes him now, his heart riotous and rejoicing without even being granted permission, without reciprocation, even before he knew the first lilt of hope.

And now, now that there is hope—

“Considering the lack of pure ruin well deserved yet unsuffered by my fool of a brother,” Steven eyes him knowingly; Eddie had asked Michael not to disclose his hand in shoring up the transgressions made in connection to Mister Carver in the city, but Steven quirks a brow with pointed intent and a warmth, a softness that is offered in something like companionship, like camaraderie, like a confidence shared; “to say nothing of the fortuitous appearance of one Lady Cunningham in our humble sitting room just last morning,” and Steven’s smile, then—and Eddie knows, because he drilled Chrissy through fumbling attempts so very many times, he knows she’d been and he knows it had borne sweet fruit for her affections—but to see Steven smile at him for it, if only in some part, is further still a gift in its own self: “I suspect we both have more than mended our share of transgressions.”

It is more than Eddie could ask for, an even footing steadier in this moment than he could have wished to reach.

And yet.

“You must know,” and Eddie can hear his own heart in his words, in his voice undeniable, inescapable—only rational, for the words passing the thumping in his throat on their way past his lips by necessity: “surely, you must know, it was all for you.”

Steven’s gaze on him is unyielding for a few silent moments, long with only birdsong in the periphery and Eddie’s frenzied heartbeat at the fore: a panopticon than feels all-knowing as it takes him in. Eddie feels wretchedly exposed for it, giddy for the attention in it, and flustered for its sheer intensity all at once.

“I did not wish to make assumptions,” Steven finally speaks, and the words are more exhalation than voice but it lands as poetry woven through a song of him, all of him, as clear as he breathes the music sewn in sonnets; “though to hear it now, from your lips,” Steven’s mouth quirks, and oh, but the apples of those regal cheekbones, their sharpness a threat to man’s sanity—he blushes so sweet.

“But in the measure of mending transgressions, then,” then Steven bites the swell of his bottom lip every so slightly, rewrites the staves of Eddie’s pulse for the indentations as he shakes his head, then lifts his lashes, gilded in remorse; “I fear I’ve—“

“Hush, sweetness, please,” and oh, Eddie has learned well from his uncle to presume, indeed; to be brazen, to speak without a rein on his heart just in this moment, to call him dear sugared things and he almost regrets, almost retreats or seeks apologies but oh, oh but those amber-pooling eyes: they start to drown so dark, the middle-black flooding for more than a pulsebeat but less a moment and—that pesky foolish hope, and Eddie takes not one step, but two steps closer for its pull.

“Anything you have said and done has been more than merited,” and Eddie feels certain in this moment that he must own it in not uncertain terms, even if it risks the heart in his chest; “I was a,” he licks his lips, casts his eyes down in shame, for it because he cannot do otherwise but then he looks up again, pleading in his gaze he knows because once more:

He cannot do otherwise.

“A proper fiend,” and it is true, it is true and he remembers confessing one of his own cardinal sins, his unforgiving tendencies when his opinion of others is sullied and he should not hold so much optimism for the man before him being so deeply entrenched as something different, something better but Eddie has changed himself, for this singular person’s presence in his world; he cannot help but lift his transgressions and pray better than he’s ever managed in a pew for mercies greater than any scripture could serve to the fate of his soul:

“I presumed blindly, and let pride blind my eyes to what stood before me so clear,” he breathes, and it is that, it is a prayerful thing he speaks, and no less.

“And what might have proven such a spectacle?” Steven asks and there’s levity in it, brightness but then underneath: a truth believed, a certainty in doubt. That such a spectacle would be unfathomable, rather than commonplace and a foundational truth among all things.

“The heart of you,” Eddie murmurs without hesitation, reaches toward Steven’s chest on instinct but hesitates before he touches, before he feels more than the suggestion of his heat in the morning chill—Eddie does not have the privilege.

Yet. And he…he still…

“The man you are, truly good beyond all reason or compare,” Eddie murmurs, marvels—he doesn’t touch, but he doesn’t yet withdraw his hand, pull any further away because—

He hopes.

“Beautiful for the flesh of you only as a paltry reflection of the soul in you,” Eddie speaks it so low, pitched close to the earth and deep in his chest because it demands no less, no less, and he wants to touch, he wants to cup Steven’s cheek, he’s wants so deeply to trace those lips in revere and feel him, show his love the best he can, with the remit of action he is allowed for now as a bare echo of what he could, if he’s allowed, if he is granted the joy, the honor of holding this man and reverencing him and adoring not like some idol, no, but as the part of his own heart that conducts all the beating, that makes any living truly worthwhile at all.

Because the value and weight of measuring living has shifted in this new world, with Steven in his view.

“And you, my,” no, no, Steven is not his, not yet, but he can respect what has not come to pass while still lavishing Steven with the ardor full to his heart:

“You, Steven Harrington, are breathtaking,” and now he does presume, the over-boldness his uncle has tried to tame in him but he reaches, and tucks Steven’s soft swoop of hair behind the delicate shell of an ear, and his hand never so much as brushes skin, and Eddie is quick, of ever so gentle in it, so that his fingers have retreated by the time he notices, but: Steven leans for the touch.

Steven leans for his touch.

”And if you are breathtaking,” Eddie lets his eyes roam across Steven’s figure, and he is a marvel, truly, but Eddie’s gaze lingers on the mud-splatters at his hem, stretched over strong calves and it would be impossible not to soften, not to melt within for the bright glow that spreads through Eddie’s chest as he smiles gentle, trusting in the promise of that emanating light as he breathes:

“Imagine what such truths must speak greater truth still, of your soul.”

Steven blinks, and those lashes fan so full: Eddie swears he feels the world around him shift for it, some a divine kind of a blessing.

“You spin such poetry as to treat toward nonsense, good sir,” Steven sighs the words a little over-soft, so gentle, a demure sort of lilt, to poke at him with a familiarity, a casual comfort Eddie aches for; aches for what else it could accompany, could mean.

“You speak with kindness,” Eddie cannot help but to voice the yearning, and his tone does nothing to belie the earnestness of his heart for it; “with lightness to your tone,” he reaches, dares to smooth Steven’s hair once more, slower with the touch to test if he leans again and oh—oh.

Steven cants his chin ever so slightly, and lets his jawline press to Eddie’s hand: more touch of his skin than Eddie has ever known before. He gasps for it, not only slightly undone.

“It tempts me so,” Eddie thinks he breathes; knows it is a shaking thing, much like the thunder of his pulse.

“Tempts you?” Steven leans back, lips pursed to confusion, and Eddie mourns the loss with his blood and bones entire.

“To hope,” because what more can Eddie do now but name it, this feeling beating wings through his veins, propelling his blood as much as his shivering his breath, narrowing his vision but making the whole of being brighter, more flooded full with color?

“To hope as I’d scarcely allowed myself,” his oversaturated wanting bubble forth from him, tongue loose and lungs oddly tight; “as I’d feared never again to know.”

And how he’d feared, he’d feared so deeply that all chance was gone, all hope was lost, that his presumption in the rain that Sunday morning had lost him all possible chance at the happiness his heart understood sooner than his mind, that when he’d leapt without that understanding through and through he’d put fire to the bridge he ever wished to cross.

But: he is here. Now, he is here.

They are here. And Eddie thinks he knows where to leap, his mind seeing the path as his heart trembles for how big the hop has been coaxed into swelling.

“You are too generous to trifle with me,” Eddie swallows hard, tries to even his breath but to no avail; and no matter, not truly: “so I must ask it of you, pure honesty, with no thought to spare my heart for it,” his voice doesn’t crack so much as fade a little, and he prays it does not undercut his sincerity but then Steven moves, reaches.

Tucks Eddie’s curls behind his ear soft, quick as Eddie’d done in reverse but it soothes something in him, doesn’t quieten his pulse but draws enough anxiousness from the drumming for there to be room for wishing, for hoping.

“I swear it,” Steven tells him solemn if soft, and the way he draws his hand away so slow: it feels like a statement of its own.

Eddie sees the path all the more clearly for it, and leaps with the whole of him, now:

“If your feelings have not changed, if your wishes stand firm as they did,” Eddie preludes, needs Steven to know, and to feel no obligation to him, nor guilt in speaking true: “tell me so and I will bother you no longer, this last of my presumptions my final transgression against your kind nature.”

“I swore it, Edward,” Steven speaks with a steel determination, not in kindly but wholly unwavering; “and not lightly done,” and his eyes shine ever-so, as steel in a forge burnt fire-bright.

“I will not lie to spare the heart of you,” Steven promises, then breathes deep with clear resolve; “but neither will I see it handled without due care, no matter your question, no matter its answer.”

And indeed, heart of Eddie is not spared. Because Steven, Steven is being honorable and speaking in vows in ways that tap furious and wantonly around Eddie’s chest but then: he speaks of caring for Eddie’s heart without precedent save for his generous inclinations as a rule—this rings different, though.

And Eddie’s unspared heart—a quandary to be sure, as the point to hand is to hold the very same with care—but his heart is not spared a frenetic pounding that Eddie feels high in his throat, a feathered thing beating to be free.

When his lips part, perhaps he grant’s its wish:

“If,” Eddie starts, breathless at first and understandably so; “if by some kindness I have neither earned nor deserved, your feelings havechanged,” Eddie feels himself on an unexpected precipice, for Steven gazed upon him with…with tenderness. With so much more he has not earned or deserved and yet:

“Then I would have to tell you,” and it’s Eddie’s racing heart giving itself away as not merely frantic but full, so full, and if it takes flight now it can’t help but spill its splendored hopes at the feet of its desire, its best excuse to beat:

“You have bewitched me, body and soul and I love, I love, I,” his breath catches, the revelation of letting the words spill again from his lips now terrifying, for how last they were received but his heart and mind understand it fully, now, and he can speak it with a fullness he didn’t comprehend then, a wholeness he hadn’t tapped to know, then.

And thus so much more than anything: it is exhilarating, to open his heart and hope to be seen truly for all he is, for all that he feels and seeks to give without reservation or reliant: unending.

“I love you.”

And when he breathes, after the world holds those words, when he breathes the air tastes golden, rich and born anew. He makes to speak, to confess further but then—

Steven reaches for his hand, takes it fully in a way Eddie’s never felt before, laces their fingers and stares at them before lifting his eyes to Eddie’s, glistening and stretched so wide. Eddie barely blinks to drink in the whole of him, and when he catches glimpse of the blood-beat at the stretch of Steven’s star-charted throat, the swift rhythm a perfect swell between beauty marks, it swathes something in Eddie that had retained rough edges somehow, smoothes him into whole submission to the way his heart hums for this man’s mere touch.

When Steven pulls Eddie’s hand joined in his own, to press against the source of that perfect beat, and Eddie knows by touch now the way it pounds with the same gusto, the same fluttering testing Eddie’s own ribs: it is magical. It is divinity itself writ in flesh and held between mortal hands.

“I never wish to be parted from you from this day on,” Steven whispers, fierce with it, and Eddie wishes he could move, just now, to bring Steven’s hand close to his chest in turn, to let him feel the tripping slip of beats as it acclimated to a world where, just perhaps, Eddie may have just gotten everything he’s ever wanted.

In point of fact, though: he cannot quite move, because it so happens that cupping a hand against the heart you’ve yearned for so long is momentous to the point of stilling time itself.

But Steven, of course: he proves Eddie’s trust in him, Eddie’s faith and hope, as he does the moving for the both, and draws Eddie’s hand upward, reaches for his other wrist and gathers them together between both his own and lifts them to his lips, kisses fingertips, the peaks of his knuckles, the curve of his wrists.

“Your hands are cold,” Steven breathes, glances up at Eddie and Eddie cannot know what he sees but hopes—since it has not failed him yet—that what he finds is the heart and soul of him for the taking, the sharing, the giving for any and all that’s wanted and received.

Steven’s mouth is only parted the slightest bit but it sends Eddie’s pulse to tripping all the more, but Steven’s eyes are dancing, his inhalations deep but quick, affected as Eddie when he cradles both Eddie’s hands now back to his chest, flattens them to the palm against to feel every beat and breath like a confession or a promise or both of them and more and then—

Then he leans, slow, and Eddie understands this impossible thing: an invitation as much as a query for permission. Steven’s lips are still parted when he pauses a hair's-breadth from meeting and Eddie falls, somehow, although he thought he’d fallen already farther than a man could manage.

But Steven’s pulse under his hand skips, stumbles hard but feels as jubilant as Eddie’s own, so he finds a way to fall further, just the slightest tip forward into that parted pout and Steven; Steven.

Against Eddie’s lips, his kiss is like sunlight.

Against Eddie’s hands, his heart is so warm.

🦋

also on ao3

🤍permanent tag list (lmk if you’d like to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 (again: thank you so much for the beta/wrangling my bad brain™ into its cage) @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme

[afewproblems]

Okay but hear me out.

Pride and Prejudice Steddie AU??

Yeah, I said it.

Now the tricky thing is that both Steve and Eddie work for both parts...would need to give this much more of a think.

[lunaraindrop]

Eddie Munson is very much like Elizabeth Bennett.

Okay, so he doesn't have a bunch of sisters, or a hysterical, matchmaking mother. (He actually doesn't any siblings, that he knows of, and the closest thing to a hysterical matchmaker in his life is Henderson.)

But, yes. Besides outward appearances, Eddie Munson is very like Elizabeth Bennett.

He judged Erica for being a little girl and not being right for his Party. He learned that he was wrong.

It is that same quick to judgement that made him so jealous of Steve.

And, wouldn't you know it? Just like Lizzie, Eddie fell for the handsome, rich guy that he used to hate. The responsible one that cares more for his younger sibling and friends.

[penny00dreadful]

First Impressions

Hi! So my next WIP is going to be Steddie and Buckingham Pride and Prejudice fic titled First Impressions. I'm currently in the middle of writing it and am hoping to have the full first chapter posted to AO3 sometime this week. It'll be based off the 2005 movie because things go into my brain easier in a visual format, I'm sorry, my brain is having a hard time, she's a mess. Thanks to @henderdads for reminding me this WIP existed and I need to stop procrastinating.

Here's the first 1.5k words of Chapter One, I hope you like it! 😘

A03

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

"Have you heard? Harrington is back in town."

Eddie had to suppress an eye roll, keeping his gaze fixed on the whiskey in his hand and trying to ignore the conversation happening in front of him. Great, one more prick crawling back to Bum-Fuck-Nowhere Indiana after realising that 'finding yourself' didn't exactly work when there was absolutely nothing below the surface to find.

"Yeah, he's brought two girls with him apparently. You think one wasn't enough?"

Eddie stopped the stream of whiskey just short and topped it off with Coke. They wouldn't notice. He slid the glass across the bar towards them, putting the bottle back on the shelf behind him.

It had taken him a minute or two to recognise them when they walked in but now that he had, he would underpour every drink they ordered from him, the bastards.

Tommy and Carol had been a pair of dicks in school. Mean for fun. He was pretty sure they didn't even recognise him, barely glancing his way as they called out their orders.

"Not for him. You remember what he was like. Before."

"Think he managed to get his mojo back in California?"

"Only one way to find out. He's back at his parents' place. Throwing some kind of Welcome Home party."

"How the hell did you find that out?"

"Eddie!"

He whipped his head around at the sound of his name. Gareth was standing at the end of the bar, tapping his drumstick against his wrist. 

"C'mon!"

He glanced down at his own watch. 

9.30pm

Thank Christ for that. He hurriedly untied his apron from around his hips, dipping into the back office to throw it on a chair and calling out a quick "Lunch break!" to Charlie who didn't even look up from her magazine, waving him off.

"You good here on your own, Lionheart?" Eddie asked, turning to the other bartender, a boy of nineteen with wide innocent eyes and an easy smile as he took his beloved guitar from Gareth's hands.

Lionel giggled and gestured around at the practically empty bar. "I think I'll survive."

"You're a star, kid."

"Hey, after this do you think you could mix me up a Healing Potion?" Gareth asked as they settled in on stage.

"Do you not remember what happened last time?"

"No, I don't remember, isn't that the point?"

"Love treating you badly?" Jeff put his hand over the mic in front of him as he asked, turning around to look at them.

"Work is treating me badly."

"Sure. And Will is still with that guy."

"Jeff, I will use your head as my kick drum." Gareth snapped, pointing a drumstick at him.

"Alright, alright. Jeff, leave the poor halfling rogue alone, we've only got twenty-five minutes left. Gare, if you can make sure Charlie doesn't see, I'll make you your poisonous drink. Now count us in." Eddie settled his guitar against his hips and waited for his cue. They didn't need a verbal introduction, it was the same five drunks as usual. Hagan and Perkins didn't count.

He just hoped the crashing, thumping music would be enough to wash the name Steve Harrington from his memory for good.

It was nearly one in the morning by the time Eddie got home. He was momentarily surprised to find Chrissy awake before remembering she'd said something about a night out with the girls before he left.

"Have a good time?" He asked, dumping his bag by the couch and throwing himself down next to her. She immediately curled into his side, draping her pink throw over both of them, her face illuminated by whatever late night nonsense was playing on the TV. 

They were a weird duo, the two of them. The Freak and the Queen. But after the earthquake of '86 and all the insane shit that came after, they were practically inseparable. Best friends, siblings, platonic soulmates.

Their apartment together was a perfect example of the complete clash of personalities. Like two full speed trains that had collided. Chunky knit soft pink throws draped over the couch contrasted with black painted brick work and what was, in his opinion, artful graffiti. Metal posters stuck up haphazardly side by side with pop princess icons spaced evenly apart. 

The bookshelf was stuffed with D&D manuals, miniatures, classic literature, dice, plants, old cheerleading pom poms, fashion magazines, nail polish, small pride flags and team spirit flags. Photos were lining the walls of raggedy boys holding up devil horns and athletic girls cheering with a giant trophy between them.

Floral curtains and animal skulls. Combat boots and high heels. Delicate feminine gold earrings and bracelets next to chunky masculine silver rings and black corded necklaces.

Even the bathroom had the two of them littered all over it. Intense skincare that looked to Eddie like potion bottles, 3-in-1 that Chrissy said was a crime against the human body. Fluffy guest towels that weren't supposed to be touched even though he used them anyway. Hair masks and tampons next to spare lube and condoms. Perfume and cologne lined up side by side.

The only place that was completely their own was their respective bedrooms. 

In one, a full length mirror and vanity sporting heaps of makeup next to a bed that was always perfectly made piled high with way too many throw pillows and stuffed animals. Old cheer hair bows in a corkboard along with team photos, medals decorating the walls, shocking pink workout equipment stacked neatly in a corner and the floor dressed up with white faux fur rugs.

In the other, a thrifted typewriter sat on top of an antique desk that was littered with notebooks, spare pages, crumpled up attempts and coffee stains. The wall was so covered in more band posters, DnD posters, flyers, vinyls, artwork and drawings that they had started to creep onto the ceiling. On top of his bedside table was a teetering stack of books that was going to fall over soon. A heap of unwashed clothes sat in one corner and a heap of clean clothes sat in another. The corner of a fitted sheet lifted up on a bed that looked like it had never been properly made in its life. There was an empty spot to the side where his guitar would usually sit once Gareth got it back to him and a stray d4 that was on the floor somewhere that he just knew he was going to step on one of these days.

"Yeah." She giggled happily. "Really good."

"No drunken cheer routines this time?"

"No, but you'll never guess who we met."

"Do tell, my maiden fair."

"Steve's back. He's throwing himself and his friends a welcome home party on Saturday. We're invited."

We?

Eddie tried his best not to groan out his frustration. Why was he surprised? Chrissy and Harrington ran in the same circles for most of their lives.

"Well I'm sure you and the girls will have a great time."

Chrissy tilted her head up to look at him with her big, pleading baby blue eyes. "No, I mean he invited us."

He stared down at her in bewilderment. "Us?"

"Yeah, well when he invited me I think he could tell I was nervous and he told me I could bring someone."

"So why not one of the girls, they're already going right?"

"It's not the same, you know it's not the same."

"Chris, honey, I don't fancy the idea of being surrounded by the people who tormented me for years while they get brazen and drunk."

"No, it's not going to be that kind of thing. He said it was supposed to be a small get together but word got out somehow so he figures he might as well invite people he likes."

"And that includes you, does it?"

Chrissy's narrowed her eyes. "Yes it includes me. I've told you, we were friendly back in school. He looked out for me, noticed things when others didn't. I told you about that time he found me in the bathroom-"

"Yeah, I- I know." He had to cut off that train of thought right there, running his hand up and down her arm. No need to go back to dark memories when they didn't have to. She hadn't relapsed in two years.

"He's not what you think he is, Eddie. He's sweet and kind and I think you'd like him if you gave him a chance. You've never even spoken to him."

"Don't need to. I know enough."

"You know what you've heard. Rumours and gossip. I mean they used to call you a Satan worshipper."

Eddie huffed.

Chrissy blinked her big eyes up at him again. "The boys are going."

"The boys? The- the Hellfire boys? Like, the kids?"

"Yeah. They're friends with him, you know that. They talk about him all the time."

"I tend to block them out when they do that. But they're kids! He's inviting them to a party?!"

"They're eighteen, Ed."

He rolled his eyes but wouldn't budge. There was no way he was going on Saturday.

Chapter continues on AO3

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

[insert-badass-username]

Stranger things AU with Steve as Mr. Darcy and Eddie as Lizzie.

[hammity-hammer]

okokokok más steddie bc brainrot and i was zooted last night thinking ab them-

but steddie x pride and prejudice??

steve as mr. darcy ofc, eddie as elizabeth<3

robin as mr. bingley, nance as jane

max, el, and will as the other three bennet sisters bc will would in fact be the emo one that doesn't fit in, and el and max would be boy crazy goobers who end up doing stupid shit

dustin as darcy's sister who absolutely adores eddie right off the bat and wants them to be together bc he's sick of hearing steve go on and on about this man

wayne as mr. bennet bc he would be a sweet angel of a man who's protective of his kids, and dustin's ma as mrs. bennet

i think argyle would be the cousin dude that tried to married elizabeth (but ends up marrying our boy jonathan instead- who would be an ed's childhood bestie)

and lucas would be mr. wickham but NOT shitty- and he has a sassy ass sister who's erica obvs

and lucas and max get to be together but max def does run away like a drama queen to be with him and then comes back bc we love happy families <3

i just realized i forgot mike- he would def be bingley's bitchy sister who snarks ab rob and nance being together bc he thinks rob deserves better (ik the siblings would be flipped but tbh i think robin and mike being siblings would be so fucking funny) but he also would somehow find the weirdass middle sibling(will) attractive and they end up together and in lub <3

and joyce as their milk maid or w.e she was who just like fucks around and hangs around the fam w their hijinks

hop and murray are just townsfolks who know all about the weird ass bennets

but yeah idk if anyone's like thought ab this or cares ab it but i so badly wanna write this shit ! i habe too many wips omg

also i swore i saw like artwork someone had made of the rain scene but steddie but i can't remember and it was 5ever ago so !! if this has already done excuse me lmfao

[babyblender]

Eddie and Steve parallel Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice far to much. Eddie is Lizzie and Steve is Darcy. Change my mind.

[inklessletter]

Ok, confession time: I've read a lot of reasons why people are so into Steddie (from "they look so good together" to [insert here a deep analysis of both characters to justify how both have the same core but different façade so they're perfect to fulfill each other's desires and needs], and all in between) and all are great, but today I wanna share my reason:

The plotline between Steve and Eddie is the same as in Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. They both know of each other, but they never crossed paths, they never really met, so they construct this abstract concept of each other based purely on rumours, and reputation, and at some point, there's even jelousy involved. But then shit goes down and they replace that original, vague and unfair idea of one another and they get to truly see each other for who they are at the moment. Not the town freak, not King Steve. Just Steve and Eddie, and they bond over their present selves. Sadly that plotline is unfinished, they don't get to know their past, or their traumas, they don't really share that deep, and suddenly Eddie's gone. And what I absolutely love is that no matter what reasons does this fandom have to ship them together, we all saw the end of vol. 2 and told the ST creators "ok, you did great, sweetie, we'll take it from here."

And goddamnit if we didn't do something great with it.

[unclewaynemunson]

Belated happy birthday to @steviesbicrisis! Your bday post made me think about a steddie pride and prejudice au with a twist so this one's for you :D

(obviously this takes place in a world where gay marriage has always been completely normal. Fuck historic accuracy)

----------

Steve feels his face light up when an all-too-familiar knock sounds through the house; there's only one person in his life who tirelessly drums out the most elaborately ridiculous rhythms on the wood of the door. 

Unsurprisingly, Eddie stumbles inside a moment later. Something is different, though, Steve notices that much right away. His friend doesn't barge into the room to drape himself over the couch like he usually does. Instead, he closes the door behind him and keeps standing still right in front of it.

'I have some news for you,' he says, in a strangely solemn voice.

'Is something wrong?' Steve asks, immediately worried.

'No.' Eddie shakes his head. He smiles, but it's only a weak version of his usual bright grin and it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 'No, it's um... It's good news.' He nods, almost as if he's saying that to convince himself, and Steve feels a frown creep onto his own face.

'I'm engaged. To Keith.'

For a few seconds, Steve can do nothing but stare at him.

'Engaged?' he then stupidly repeats.

'Yes.' Eddie nods again.

'To be married?!' Steve asks urgently.

Now, Eddie rolls his eyes. 'Yes of course, Steve, what other kind of engaged is there?'

Steve feels his jaw drop. 'How– Why–'

'Oh for heavens sake, Steve,' Eddie impatiently interrupts his stuttered, unfinished questions. 'There's no earthly reason why I shouldn't accept his hand.'

'But he's – ridiculous!' Steve finally manages to spit out.

And something shifts in Eddie's posture. 'Well, not all of us can afford to be romantic,' he says with a chilly edge to his voice. ‘He's rich, he can give me a comfortable home and a reasonable position in society – I wouldn't dare ask for more.'

'Eddie,' Steve says. He doesn't even know where to start. He wants to tell Eddie exactly how much more he deserves than some gross creep, how he's betraying everything he stands for by marrying Keith, how he's signing for a life devoid of any happiness – but before he can even begin to properly phrase any of those thoughts, Eddie already narrows his eyes at him. He looks at him like a cornered animal, and Steve understands that Eddie interprets his silence not as caring, but as judging, or maybe even pity.

'I am twenty-seven years old,' Eddie says, his voice colored with a kind of forced calmness. 'I have no money and no prospects. I'm already a burden to my uncle. And I'm frightened. So don't judge me, Steve, don't you dare judge me.' Then, he resolutely turns around and opens the door.

'Eddie, wait,' Steve quickly says.

For a second, it looks like he won't listen, like he will walk away without looking back – but then, he turns his head around, and Steve sees tears glistening in his eyes.

'I – I'm not judging you. I'll respect your choice, even if I don't understand it. Don't cry, please.' He knows it's a useless thing to do, telling people not to cry, but he hates seeing this look on Eddie's face. It makes his hands itch with the desire to hold him.

'I’m just... You caught me off-guard. I didn't know you were interested in marriage all of a sudden.'

'Why does it matter?' Eddie asks with an arched eyebrow. 'Were you planning on asking me if I was?'

And that question, phrased in such a sarcastic way, paired with the defensive look in Eddie's eyes... The insinuation of how truly preposterous that would be feels exactly how Steve would imagine getting stabbed in the heart would feel like.

It makes him realize that he has nothing left to lose. Eddie will walk out of that door – maybe they'll make up, maybe they won't, but their friendship will never be the same as before Eddie got engaged to Keith.

'What would you say if I was?'

Eddie stares at him. He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

Steve just stands there, waiting, until the surprise on Eddie's face makes place for something more unreadable.

'Don't be ridiculous now, Steve.'

'Is it truly that much more ridiculous than you marrying Keith?'

'Are you seriously asking me to marry you only to keep me away from Keith?'

'No, I –' Steve pauses; he wishes he would have had time to think about what to say. It feels like his words won't ever be able to do his feelings justice.

'I have loved you for years, Eddie,' he finally admits. 'And if you truly want to marry Keith, I won't try to change your mind. But I can't let you go without telling you the truth.'

Eddie's eyes widen as he lets the words sink in with a shocked look on his face.

'You love me?' he repeats in a slightly raspy voice.

Steve nods, only to be met with more silence, as the clock on the wall ticks away the seconds.

'You don't have to say anything. I just needed you to know.'

'Steve... Is this a goddamn proposal or not?'

'I don't know.'

'You don't know?!'

'I mean, it isn't – I don't think it is.’ Steve stumbles through the words. ‘I don't want you to choose me because I'm richer, or – or better-looking than Keith... I only want to marry for love, and I'm not as arrogant to expect you to feel the same way about me.'

'Oh, Steve...' The shock on Eddie's face melts away, softening his features and making the look in his eyes gentler.

'You don't need to pity me.’

'No, no way, I'm not pitying you,' Eddie answers. He takes two big steps towards Steve, wraps his hands around Steve's. They're warm and familiar and making him miss what he can't have even stronger.

'If I had known... Stevie, I would've never said yes to Keith, it's not even close to a competition. If I had known I could have you, all this time... I never even thought I'd stand a chance. You're probably the most perfect person I know, and I'm, well, just Eddie.'

'Oh, we need to work on your self-esteem, baby.' The pet name slips out of Steve's mouth before he can help it, and it brings that beaming bright smile to Eddie's face; the smile that Steve loves so much.

He feels Eddie’s hands slide around his waist and they rest their foreheads together, both breathing shakily, trying desperately not to let their emotions overpower them.

'Does this mean that we're engaged now?' Steve finally manages to ask; his voice is shaking but he needs to hear it. He needs to be sure that he indeed gets to hold the man in front of him for the rest of their lives.

Eddie utters a tearful chuckle. 'I suppose I have another wedding to cancel first.'