@steddiebbang 2026 project announcement | team #038
artist: @psychotic-nonsense | beta: @midwestharpy
SUPER excited (and terrified) to announce my first ever steddie big bang project! can't believe how lucky i am to have such a BRILLIANT artist and beta reader to work with on this!!! thank you for loving s2 aus with me <3
details:
rating: M
wc: 25k~
cw: graphic violence; detailed explorations of trauma; substance abuse
tags: S2 AU; canon divergence; eddie joins the party in S2; not-quite-enemies to lovers; angst/comfort; past trauma; past child neglect and abuse; canon typical violence; discussions of foster care; miscommunication; awkward flirting; happy ending
summary:
The funny thing about wearing a mask for so long is that eventually you almost forget you’re wearing it.
Steve Harrington has spent his entire life trying to be someone that people love. That people want to be around. That people want to stay for. He’s spent so long carefully crafting this persona that he’s not even sure who he is without it anymore.
Eddie Munson has spent his entire life just trying to survive. The best way he’s learned to do that is by not letting anyone get too close. By giving everyone some overly dramatized version of himself. Because everyone who’s ever gotten close to who he really is has either left or been ripped away.
One blurry night together bleeds into the jagged edges of the Upside Down returning. As the two of them fight off yet another wave of otherworldly forces while protecting some rather death-wish hungry barely-teenagers, their own demons suddenly demand to be confronted, leaving Steve and Eddie unable to keep hiding – from themselves and each other.
lil preview below the cut!
excerpt:
And for some reason Steve does not fucking understand.
For some reason he will continue to question for long after this.
For some reason he still won’t have an answer to years from now when they’re well and truly past this.
For some reason, Steve puts himself between Eddie and everyone else, says a quick “You might want to run” over his shoulder as he pushes Eddie toward the door with one hand, the other –
Well, in the span of approximately 1.7 seconds, Steve smiles, flips Tommy the bird, and kicks the leg out from the makeshift bar table.
The folding table holding a smattering of drinks.
The folding table holding the absolutely massive punch bowl.
Just in time for Tommy to collide with it.
And crash to the floor.
“Holy fucking shit.” Eddie laughs, hot on Steve’s ear.
Steve laughs too, actually, kind of shocking himself as he watches the punch bowl shatter – watches the greenish-red liquid spray everywhere. The fake eyes and dismembered candy fingers scattering across the floor. The partygoers shrieking as they’re coated in punch.
Tommy falls across the table as it collapses, getting completely drenched in punch and glass, the punch bowl half-beneath him as it crumbles.
Jason is hot on his heels, stumbling and falling on top of Tommy, the pair of them groaning in tandem.
“Oh–” Steve is laughing hard now.
Laughing as he watches Jason and Tommy writhe on the floor, helplessly trying to wipe the punch and glass from their…well, their everywhere, really.
Turns out glass likes to stick in things.
“Holy fucking shit.” Eddie whisper-laughs behind him again, a sentiment Steve wholly agrees with, except –
“Run, man, seriously.” Steve’s eyes are wide as he pushes Eddie a half-step towards the door, even as the laughter is still coursing through him, making him feel more alive than he has in who fucking knows how long.
“You’re fuckin’ dead.”
Which comes from a voice Steve has grown to loathe in a few short months.
Billy goddamn Hargrove.
Steve turns, watches Billy stop on the other side of the table catastrophe. People are still screaming and laughing and running around – mostly, they’re running away from whatever the fuck is happening. Forming a perimeter around the spectacle, circling them like they’re in a fucking ring about to face off.
“Running. Running now.” Eddie says, which, yeah – Steve told him to, so why the fuck is he still here?
“Dude, go.” Steve half-whispers over his shoulder, still trying to push Eddie toward the door. But, Eddie is more of a solid pillar than he would’ve imagined.
“Uh, yeah.” Eddie says with all the sarcastic merit of a 5th grader. “Let’s.”
“Wh–”
“Jesus.” Eddie’s hand wraps hard around Steve’s bicep, full-bodily yanking him back toward the patio door.
Billy is honest-to-god actually growling at them, mouth open, like, teeth bared and shit, fists clenched at his sides as he stalks across broken glass and spilled punch, when Steve…
Well.
Steve holds up a finger, somehow actually making Billy stop a foot away, surprise etched on his face. Then, Steve grabs a half-empty cup left forgotten on a shelf by the door.
“Sorry, did you want some?” Steve asks before taking a sip. “How rude of me. Here.”
Then, in some feat of King Steve of days past, he takes a big mouthful, pulls down his sunglasses just enough and winks at Billy, before spitting the drink all over Billy. “Enjoy.” Steve croons as he throws the rest of the cup at Billy and blows him a fucking kiss.
Steve laughs hard as he turns and tumbles through the patio doors and out into a run across the yard with Eddie motherfucking Munson still holding onto him.
There's something to say for the luck they have to be riding on the same day. It means they can spend the entirety of the seventh burning off steam.
Not that they watch movies or lounge around all that much, but they find other ways to waste away the hours of the day.
Like now, with Steve bent over the arm of the couch and his face shoved into the seat cushion as Eddie fucks him from behind.
Managing to keep him grounded and firmly in place, Eddie's grip in his hair is a welcome pain—even if he might show up to ride tomorrow with rugburn on his cheek from the particularly scratchy fabric of the couch, it'll be worth it.
As will the bruises of fingerprints left on his hips.
With each rolling thrust, it feels as if Eddie's grip only grows stronger. That he's ensuring Steve won't leave his grasp by sinking in his metaphorical claws and holding on tight.
If only his nails were sharp enough to draw blood.
Between gasping breaths, Steve knows he'll spend time admiring the marks left behind in the mirror later tonight. That he'll trace his fingers over every bruise and bite mark and remember just how electrifying it felt to be needed so desperately.
Though it's difficult to maintain that thought when alongside his dick, Eddie gently begins to press in his thumb.
He'd felt full before, but now, even with the smallest amount of added pressure—“Jesus Christ, Munson.” Steve finds himself moanimg as he scrambles for purchase, trying to find a hold anywhere on the couch so that he can fuck back into all that Eddie’s willing to give him.
Somehow, he craves more. Needs, more. He wishes Eddie would push two more fingers in alongside his thumb. He tries to do it on his own as he struggles to reach back and only catch the edge of his rim with a single fingertip. It's not going to happen, or at least Steve doesn't think so until he hears and feels Eddie spit on his ass and use his already lube slick hand to help ease them in.
Before he knows it, with a huff of laughter Eddie's fucking him so hard he thinks he might just fall off of the couch and onto the floor.
Cowboy!Steddie | PBR | Enemies with Benefits | Strangers to Lovers
Team #058 for @steddiebbang || @oriarts @lihhelsing
Now that the anonymity ban has lifted, here's a little sneak peek of my first steddie bang.
banner by @oriarts & moodboard by myself
🔞 Excerpt Under The Cut
8 seconds is all it takes to change Steve Harrington’s life.
To give the woes of his past the potential to slip through his fingers and to finally find a sliver of happiness. To find someone that could bring him the joy in life that he lacks beneath the suffocating weight of his father's thumb.
7 to enter Nachbar on Charles in Louisville, Kentucky.
A bar he's frequented ever since he was two years shy of old enough—having been a patron simply for the fact of convenience and the pleasure of another's body pressed against his own. He wonders what his father would think if he knew every time Steve came to town with a load of cattle or horses that he too managed to find someone to swallow the stress of his life along with a shot of bourbon.
6 to order a beer and a shot of his usual in an effort to shut off his mind, hoping that at least he can get a few minutes of silence and a shitty drink out of such a worthless day doing his fathers bidding.
5 to choke the fucking thing down and chase it with half a bottle of Coors, trying his best to not shiver as the awful combination makes its way over his tongue and down his throat.
4 to notice the guy at the end of the bar whose eyes have yet to leave his lips. Who has an amber bottle of his own lazily clasped between ringed fingers, easily drawing Steve's attention to the porcelain skin of his hands.
3 to feel the rush of heat that floods his cheeks as he takes in those onyx eyes, that mess of whiskey curls, and the way sharp teeth bite into a plump bottom lip as Steve absentmindedly licks his own.
2 to take the first step in Mr. Brown Eyes’ direction.
And 1 to decide fuck it.
Falling into the wobbling barstool next to the mysterious young man, Steve feigns confidence as whiskey-sweet words fall from his lips.
“Aren't from around here, are ya?” His resolve fractures only in the slightest as that damn bitten bottom lip pulls into an enticing smirk.
Before he knows it, he's a second bourbon in with his tongue down a beautiful man's throat and his hand shoved down the front of tight black Levi's. Feeling the warmth and weight held in his palm, he can't find it in himself to complain about the uncomfortable angle or the way his wrist feels like it just might fracture in-between them.
It's not like his usual bar bathroom hookup—not that he does this all that often—but Eddie—as Steve learned only sheer seconds before their lips collided in a desperate crash—is attentive, and somehow manages to be sweet and gentle even while rutting his swollen cock into the grooves of Steve's palm, and sucking on his tongue.
With the taste of cheap cigarettes and shitty bourbon dancing over his taste buds, Steve hears himself moaning with every slow roll of his hips as he grinds against the solid line of Eddie's body and his groping hands.
Tangling in his hair and wrapping firming around his waist—while one hand seems to be preoccupied edging him nearer and nearer to his end—Eddie's other hand feels as if it's everywhere all at once.
Each grip, dizzying. Every caress, tantalizing. The very feel of those ringed fingers gliding over his skin and beneath the fabric of his shirt only pushes Steve nearer to his climax.
Pale blue light buzzing above them, somehow even in such artificial rays Eddie's the most beautiful thing Steve’s seen.
The lighting of a dive bar bathroom has never seemed to do Steve justice, but with raspy words slurred over his tongue calling him every version of beautiful in the book—well—maybe he could consider himself wrong.
He's never had a hookup moan against his lips purely due to the fact that his neck is littered with moles or that his ‘eyes glitter like the gold scattered through the Arizona desert.’
Nor has he had anyone notice the skip in his heart rate when his shoulder flares with pain upon raising his arm—ghosting gentle fingers over the still-clothed joint, only to pull the fabric aside to reveal the raised pink of scarred skin and press gentle lips to the still-healing riding injury. Then to his neck, his cheek, and back to his lips.
Something about Eddie's kisses taste sweeter then. As if in his detour to lay affections to Steve's skin, he somehow managed a spoonful of sugar in-between.
He can't remember the last time someone's lips had tasted so sweet.
Greedy for every grain of sugar-sweet that he can bear to stand, Steve hums and tries his damndest to not devour Eddie entirely.
In his restraint, time slows. Though only for a short while as Eddie pulls away to gently cradle Steve's jaw in his grasp. Brushing his thumb along Steve's bottom lip and looking him in the eyes, he tells him—for not the first time—just how beautiful he really is—as if he says it enough, Steve will have no choice but to believe him.
Leaning into Eddie's touch to nose along his palm, Steve thinks it's a wild thing to feel so cared for in an otherwise shit-hole of a place.
The lights are flickering, the stall door hardly concealing them is hanging uselessly from a single hinge, and lord only knows what their boots are standing in—but with Neon Moon by Brooks and Dunn playing over the speakers, and the smell of cigarette smoke and bourbon flooding his senses, Steve feels so easily adored and hungered for at the same time.
He hopes Eddie feels a similar sort of comfort, even if all Steve believes he can offer the man is a good time and words just as sweet as the ones falling to his kiss-bitten lips. There's no way he's going to let Eddie leave this bathroom without.
Eventually they get off—Eddie into Steve's palm and Steve into the cotton of his underwear—and surprisingly, it's not awkward from then on. Not as they wash up, not as they sit back down at the bar, and not as Eddie chooses to stay when Steve offers him the easy out he does to all of his one time hookups.
He can't remember the last time anyone bothered to stay—can't remember the last time he didn't feel like somebody's one-and-done either.
They don't stick around for long—what with the bar growing busier and the night stretching on—and find themselves taking a cab back to Eddie's apartment before the clock manages to strike midnight.
The drive is short and though they know to keep their affections from the eyes of their unknown cab driver, they still manage to trade knowing glances, brushed fingers, and a handful of whispered words when they know the driver is otherwise occupied.
Eddie repeats his earlier praises of Steve's beauty, and Steve—while helpless but to blush what Eddie tells him is a stunning shade of pink—presses a quick kiss to Eddie's cheek and lets him know exactly what he plans on doing when they reach his home.
