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Part 22 of hype's Steddie bingo
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Steddie Bingo 2025 - Round One
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Published:
2025-03-10
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2025-10-16
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3,986
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2/3
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Batter Up!

Summary:

Hottie huffs, running an annoyed hand through his hair. Even disheveled and damp from the heat of the location, it's still stupidly pretty. The electric-blue-dye-job sort of pretty. The sides of his head have been shaved, leaving the rest of it tumbling into his face in a messy mohawk that looks casual, but probably took forever to style.

Jesus.

---

Written for round 1 of the Steddie Bingo
Prompt: Punk AU

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes and other works inspired by this one.)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

The crowd is still roaring as they make their way off the stage, hundreds and hundreds of voices mingling with the rush of his own blood in Eddie’s ears. 

“And that concludes our semi-finals, people,” the host’s voice bellows through the venue. “The big finale of our battle of the bands will be fought tomorrow, between Corroded Coffin and Batter Up.” 

“Fuck yeah,” he hollers, taking a flying leap down the last two steps and landing piggyback on Jeff's shoulders. He yelps in surprise and tries to throw him off, but Eddie holds on one-handed, punching at the air with the other. “Excellent job, gentlemen. One more battle until victory and that sweet, sweet prize money. Will we kill it or will we kill it?” 

“We'll kill it,” Frank rumbles, grabbing him by the scruff of his battle vest and hoisting him clean in the air. “If you don't break our guitarist's back before tomorrow night, you hyperactive rodeo clown.” 

Eddie tackles him. Frank catches him in a headlock and proceeds to give him a noogie. By the time Eddie manages to elbow him in the kidneys and free himself, his hair is about twice its usual volume. 

“Not to piss on your parade,” Gareth says before they can lunge at each other again. “But we haven't won this thing yet. Have you heard Batter Up play? They're pretty damn good.” 

“I don't need to hear them play,” Eddie claims, trying to wiggle his fingers into the pocket of his skinny jeans to retrieve the hair tie he stashed there earlier. “There's no way in hell we're losing to that punk rock shit.” 

Gareth scowls. “All I'm saying is you could at least make an effort to get to know our competitors. Get an idea of what we'll be up against.”

“Oh, c'mon,” Jeff says, throwing an arm around his shoulder and giving Eddie and Frank a slow wink. “You're just jealous because their drummer is more popular with the ladies than you.” 

Gareth's face grows stony. 

“Harrington,” he spits. “That guy is such a fucking show-off. He isn't even that good, everyone is just obsessed with his stupid hair and the way he twirls his drumsticks like they're-” 

“Woah, Gare,” Eddie snickers, finally giving up his quest for the elusive hair tie. He must've lost it on stage. “Does someone have a crush?” 

Gareth punches him in the arm. “Fuck off, I don't. If you can't take this seriously-” 

“Eddie! Eddie, over here!”

A familiar, curly-haired, basecap-wearing face is bopping up and down in the crowd, just outside the barrier that separates the backstage area from the venue proper.

“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” Eddie grins. “My fans await me.” 

*

“That was fantastic,” Dustin shouts over the din of the venue. His face is flushed and his hair is plastered to his forehead. He probably gave himself whiplash from all the headbanging he did earlier. “The other guys didn't stand a chance.”

“Yeah well, thanks for telling me what I already knew,” Eddie says, but he can’t help returning his wide, excited grin. 

“Seriously though,” Will says. He’s not as sweaty as Dustin, but his usual, unfortunate bowl cut is uncharacteristically disheveled. “You were really good. Even Steve said so, and he's hard to impress, usually.” 

Eddie just barely manages to suppress the incoming eye roll. Here they fucking go again. 

Steve. Steve who went to school with Will's older brother and Steve who has a car and drives the kids places and Steve who lets them use his pool in the summer. Steve who has Opinions on music now, apparently. Capital O. 

“Is he now?” is what he says. “If he thinks I'm so great, why doesn't he tell me himself?” 

Dustin waves him off impatiently. 

“I sent him to get us drinks. Wonder what's taking him so long. It's a hundred degrees in here, and-” 

“There you are,” bellows a voice, and then the crowd of bystanders scatters apart. It’s that or catch an elbow to the ribs. “I thought I told you little shitheads to wait for me over- … Oh, hey. You're the frontman of Corroded Coffin. Munson, right?” 

“Uh,” Eddie says, at the same time that the kids surge forward to rip the assorted sugary drinks from the newcomer's arms like a horde of starved animals, leaving him only with a single bottle of beer. “Yeah. Eddie. You can call me Eddie.” 

It may not sound very eloquent, he thinks, but at least it's not what his stupid, tiny lizard brain is trying to convince his mouth to blurt out, which is that this hottie could call him anything he wants. 

“Eddie?” The stranger arches one eyebrow - one perfectly shaped, aristocratic eyebrow sporting a single, silver barbell piercing - before he whirls on Dustin. “Wait a sec. This is Eddie? Eddie from the Dungeon club thingie? Eddie who likes metal? When were you planning on telling me this?” 

Dustin takes an unimpressed slurp from his can. 

“I did tell you. I said he'd also be here, remember?” 

Hottie huffs, running an annoyed hand through his hair. Even disheveled and damp from the heat of the location, it's still stupidly pretty. The electric-blue-dye-job sort of pretty. The sides of his head have been shaved, leaving the rest of it tumbling into his face in a messy mohawk that looks casual, but probably took forever to style.

Jesus. 

Eddie tucks nervously at his own sweaty curls, but the part of them that's not currently defying gravity is glued to his neck. 

“You said he'd be around,” Hottie is telling Dustin. “Not that he'd be competing. It didn't occur to you that I might wanna know so that I wouldn’t make a complete ass of myself?” 

A tendon on his neck twitches in annoyance. There's a tattoo right over it. A tiny bird perched in a thicket of roses, thorny vines and blood red blossoms disappearing into his ripped shirt. Eddie finds himself wondering how far down his shoulder and arm they continue. 

That train of thought comes to a screeching halt when Dustin groans and rolls his eyes. 

“Goddamnit, Steve, don't be so dramatic. You act like he's a fucking rock star instead of-” 

“Wait,” Eddie blurts. They both turn to face him with matching looks of confusion, and automatically, his hand starts tugging on his hair again. “Hold on a second. You're Steve? Steve with the swimming pool and the fancy German car and the villa in Loch Nora?” 

Dustin mumbles something unintelligible under his breath, which might or might not contain the words stupid dorks and listening skills and turns to talk to Mike instead. Steve sips on his beer and shrugs, a little defensive.

“Well, it's my dad's villa to be precise. And his pool. And also his car, if we're being honest. But yeah, I'm Steve. Is that a problem?” 

“Problem? What? Nah,” Eddie says. His hand migrates to his mouth. He needs to stuff a knuckle or three between his teeth to stop his frantic babbling, but his rings have become tangled in his curls. “You're cool, man. I mean, I dunno if you're cool, I literally just met you, except these little goblins here won't shut up about you, it's just …” 

He trails off with a helpless shrug. It ends up a little jerky because his hand is still stuck in his hair, so he pretends to be pulling it into a ponytail instead.

Steve watches him fiddle and smiles, a slow and amused thing. His lower lip is pierced as well. A simple silver ring that glints in the low light of the venue. Eddie does absolutely not want to sink his teeth into it and pull, because that would be crazy and inappropriate and also probably painful, so yeah, he’s not gonna do that. 

Unless Steve is into crazy and inappropriate and painful.

“It's just that you were expecting someone a little different?”

“A little different?” Eddie cackles, a bit surprised, a bit unhinged. “More like a lot different. Like … less tattoos and piercings and more polo shirts and knit sweaters.” 

Steve throws his head back and laughs. He has a nice laugh, Eddie thinks. Loud and deep and unashamed, and he doesn’t bother trying to hide it. Something glints in his mouth - something small and round and distinctly metallic, and, yup, tongue piercing. 

Eddie is in so much trouble. 

“Yeah, I moved away from those a while ago,” Steve says, gesturing offhandedly at the entirety of him. There’s a lot of ripped denim and leather involved. Also studs. “I like this look a lot better.”

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees dumbly. “Me too. I mean … absolutely. It’s a killer look.”

“You too, though,” Steve says. His eyes rake over Eddie’s own skin-tight jeans, the cut-off shirt he’s wearing under his battle vest. Linger on his exposed midriff for just a second too long to pass as casual. “You were incredible up there, you know that?” 

Which, rude, how dare he hit him with compliments like that out of nowhere?

“Um, thanks,” Eddie says. His hair is rapidly descending into bird’s nest status. He gives it a violent pull, and his trapped hand finally comes loose. So does about a fistful of sweaty curls. “Ouch, fuck me.” 

Steve’s smile goes a little sharper. 

“Allow me,” he says, and then he’s pressing his half-finished bottle of beer into Eddie’s hands so that he can pull something from his back pocket as he steps around him. Eddie is about to ask what the hell he’s trying to do, but then he feels a pair of large, nimble hands slip into his hair and human speech leaves him. 

“Metal isn’t really my kind of genre, y’know?” Steve says conversationally. His breath ghosts over the shell of Eddie’s flushed ears as he gathers his hair at the base of his neck. Then he twists. Eddie is very grateful for the noise of the venue for swallowing the pathetic little squeak that comes out of his mouth. “I gotta give it to you though, you’ve got talent. I’m looking forward to the finale tomorrow. Here we go, all done.”

He slaps Eddie’s ass, all jovially, like a final sign-off on a job well done. This time, the ensuing noise isn’t quite low enough to be drowned out by the crowd. Eddie stumbles forward a step and whirls, mouth aghast, but Steve just grins and snatches the beer bottle from his hands again. 

“I’ll need that back,” he says around a swig, gesturing offhandedly at Eddie’s head. Eddie’s hand flies to his hair to find it wrapped into a neat, twisted updo, secured with something long and thin and distinctly wooden. A drumstick? “You can return it before the gig tomorrow.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie says dumbly. “Sure. I, um … I should go back to my band.” 

The kids are already lost in their usual squabbles again, so they don't pay him any mind as he starts weaving his way back towards the backstage area, but he can feel Steve's eyes burning into the back of his very exposed neck. 

And speaking of burning eyes … Gareth is glaring at him like he's trying to reduce him to a crisp, Eddie-shaped piece of charcoal with the power of his mind, and Frank and Jeff don't look too happy either.

“Careful there,” Gareth hisses the moment Eddie is close enough to hear him. “Or you might slip.”

Eddie blinks at him. “Come again?”

“On your own slime trail,” Gareth says. “Y’know, the one you left from creaming your pants just now.”

Eddie barks a surprised laugh.

“Ew, Gare, gross,” he says, “But also funny, I gotta give you that.” 

He reaches out a hand to slap Gareth’s shoulder good-naturedly. Gareth doesn’t laugh. Instead, he punches him. Again. And this time, he means it. 

“Ow, you little shithead,” Eddie yelps. “What the hell was that for?”

“You utter fucking asshole,” Gareth growls, struggling against Frank’s hold as he pulls him back. “I have a crush on Harrington? Well, isn’t that hilarious? You were two seconds away from jumping his bones just now.”

“Wait, what?” Eddie blurts. “Harrington? I have no idea what you’re talking about, that was just Steve. He’s with the kids, and-”

Gareth groans. “Oh my God, can you try and not think with your dick for two seconds here? You think Harrington is his first name or what?” 

Realization trickles in slowly, but it does. 

“What the hell?” Eddie mutters. “You don't mean-” 

He turns. Dustin is pulling on Steve's arm, yelling at him about something Eddie doesn't catch over the distance, but Steve is paying him no mind. Their eyes meet. 

Steve raises a hand and wiggles his fingers. His mouth forms three words, soundless and so slow that Eddie can read them off his lips. 

See you tomorrow. 

Eddie stands corrected. He's not in trouble.

Trouble is way too tame a word for what he's in. 

“C’mon,” he mutters, forcibly prying his eyes off Steve and his stupidly handsome, stupidly smug face. “Let's go. We have a finale to win tomorrow.” 

“That's what I've been saying,” Gareth grumbles as he trails after him. “Glad you're finally starting to take this- … Is that his fucking drumstick in your hair?” 

Eddie has a feeling he may not survive the next twenty-four hours. 

Chapter 2

Notes:

More punk!Steve, because why the hell not?

This chapter was supposed to be for the "Semi-Public" Sex prompt of the Steddie Bingo, but Steve decided to be a little shit instead. So now this is for the "Corroded Coffin" and "Competition" prompts, and we're getting a third chapter.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“Ugh, look at that asshole,” Gareth mutters. “Strutting around that stage like he owns the place. He thinks he’s so great, huh? He thinks he’s already won. What the fuck is he even wearing?”

They’re hunched behind a backstage curtain like four malignant bridge trolls in metal outfits, watching Harrington and his band prepare for their gig. The coin toss determined that Batter Up will go first and Corroded Coffin second - and then it will be up to the audience to decide who shall win the big battle of the bands and take home the prize money.

“It’s called a kilt, you may have heard of it,” Frank informs Gareth in his usual drawl; the one that makes it impossible to ascertain whether or not he’s being sarcastic. “It’s like a plaid skirt but for Scottish dudes? Worn at formal events and competitions to signal alliance with a clan. And also, apparently, to make Eddie horny.”

“Huh?” Eddie says, and forcibly tears his eyes off Harrington’s legs. He isn’t doing much strutting at the moment, admittedly, merely standing and talking to one of his band mates, laughing that infuriating, sunshiny laugh of his. He has paired the kilt with a band shirt with cut-off arms and a pair of chunky, steel-capped boots, and Eddie has been unable to stop staring at him since they entered the backstage area. His eyes are burning. He wonders when he last blinked. 

Frank wags his eyebrows at him. “They’re traditionally worn without underwear, y’know.”

Jeff whacks him over the head. 

“Stop it, what are you trying to do? Kill off his last functional brain cell before the competition?”

“He isn’t even Scottish!” Gareth blurts. “Is he allowed to do that? I’m pretty sure you’re not allowed to wear a kilt if you aren’t even Scottish.”

“I don’t think he cares,” Eddie mutters. “Sorta would defy the point of punk to give a fuck about the establishment, right?” 

They all stare at him like they’re beseeching some kind of higher power for a clue on what to do with him, and it occurs to him that it may not have been the right thing to say.

“I mean … Yeah, right! What a jackass. Who does he think he is, with his stupid blue hair and his stupid piercings and his stupid plaid skirt, huh? I hope he isn’t hoping to impress anyone with it, because exactly nobody will- Jesus fucking Christ!” 

The last part was an undignified shriek, because a large, heavy hand just landed on his shoulder. Eddie jumps about a foot into the air and whirls, and when he lands, it is to find Harrington’s smiling face about four inches from his. Damn, how can he move that silently in those boots? That shouldn’t be legal. 

“Eddie, hey,” Harrington greets. Like he’s both genuinely surprised and really happy to have run into him. “Ready for the big finale? I see you opted for a different hairdo today.”

“Uh,” Eddie says intelligently, hand flying to his ponytail. “Yeah. More manageable that way.”

Harrington smiles. 

“Smart choice,” he says, running a hand through his own hair. The blue mohawk is a little less disheveled than yesterday, but Eddie has a feeling that it’ll only be a matter of time before that changes. “Though I would’ve been more than happy to give you a hand with it again.”

“What do you want, Harrington?” Gareth snaps while Eddie is still desperately trying to block out the memory of those hands carding through his hair, twisting and pulling to disentangle the sweaty curls. “Don’t you have a gig to prepare for?” 

“I could ask you the same thing, y’know?” Harrington smiles, smooth and unaffected. Gareth reels back with an indignant sputter. “I thought I’d wish you luck. May the best band win and all that, right?” 

His smile goes just a little cocky, and somewhere in the empty cavern that is Eddie’s brain, his competitive streak rears its head. Because fuck, Gareth is right, isn’t he? That asshole really does think he’s won already.

“Oh, don’t you worry, big boy,” he purrs, making sure to plaster on his widest, toothiest grin. “I’m sure we will. C’mon guys. Let’s give them some room for last-minute practice. They’ll need it.”

He’s just about to turn when Harrington speaks again. 

“Yeah, I’d love that. Except you still have something else I need.”

Eddie freezes. All eyes turn to him. Harrington raises one brow. The pierced one. The barbell has spikes today. Jesus fucking Christ.

Frank nudges him in the back. “I think he means your new hair accessory, Rapunzel.”

Oh, right, the drumstick. The one Harrington used to twist up his hair yesterday. The one that has absolutely not been sitting on his bedside table all night long, smooth wood glinting mockingly in the neon light of his alarm clock while he stared at it for hours on end. 

Eddie swears and unslings his guitar case from his back. Frank takes one look at him digging through the manifold compartments and turns to go, gesturing for Gareth and Jeff to follow. “C’mon, this may take a while. We’ll be in the green room if you need us, Eddie.”

Eddie is dimly aware of Harrington wiggling his fingers after them as they disappear into the backstage area, but he doesn’t have any time to dwell on how stupid and dorky it makes him look, because he has just discovered what he was searching for.

“Aha,” he cheers, whipping it out and nearly poking Harrington in the eye. “Knew I had it in here somewhere.” 

“Thank you,” Harrington says politely, like it was Eddie who gave the fucking thing to him and not the other way round. Their fingers brush as he takes the drumstick from his hand, and he lets the touch linger just for a second too long. “And good luck. I’m looking forward to hearing you play again.”

“Oh, cut the crap,” Eddie says. The brow arches again, and it’s all he can do to not pounce on the guy. He isn’t entirely sure if it would be to put his fist or his tongue in his pretty face. 

“I don’t think I’m following,” Harrington says. “I’m just trying to be nice.”

“You’re just trying to fuck with me, you mean,” Eddie snarls. “With your drumstick, and your smiles, and your piercings and your fucking kilt. You’re trying to make me lose my cool to give your band an advantage in the competition, stop denying it. I’m not an idiot, y’know?”

“Is it working?” 

Eddie blinks, suddenly out of steam. 

“What?”

Harrington chuckles. 

“For all that you’re claiming not to be an idiot, you’re pretty slow on the uptake. You told me to stop denying that I’m trying to fuck with you, so I thought I might as well ask. Is it working?” 

He lets the question roll out slowly, enunciating every single syllable, like he’s talking to a dense child. He’s still smiling, but it’s gone sharper. Meaner. Eddie feels his mouth go dry.

That absolute fucking asshole. 

“You wish,” he spits, leaning dangerously close into Harrington’s space. One of his hands comes up to jab a finger at the other boy’s stupid, gorgeous, obnoxious face. “You thought this would be easy, huh? That you could just flutter your lashes and unleash that charm and I’d fall all over myself like one of your stupid, dithering fangirls, huh? Well, big boy, you’ll need to up your game, because I am here to win this thing, and I won’t be distracted by- What the fuck are you doing?” 

Harrington looks at him like he’s trying to ask if he’s always this slow. Eddie is pretty sure he’d say it out loud, if his mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied. Occupied, to be more specific, by sucking on the finger that Eddie was pointing at him only a second ago. Eddie can feel the hard nub of the tongue piercing pressing against it. His cock, the ill-timed little traitor, throbs in his leather pants. 

“Obvious, isn’t it?” Harrington asks, sliding off the finger with an obscene little pop. Eddie’s skin feels cold after the warm, tight wetness of his mouth. “I’m upping my game.”

Eddie stares at him. It takes Harrington reaching out and pressing two fingers under his jaw for him to realize he’s been gaping like a fish.

“Dingus,” one of Harrington’s band mates calls from behind them. She’s hauling a giant amp along, freckles standing out against her flushed face, and grinning from ear to ear. “Leave the poor boy alone and give me a hand with this. You can flirt after the show.” 

“Coming, Rob,” Harrington calls over his shoulder. Eddie is still too dumbstruck to resist when he leans back in to tuck a stray curl behind his ear. “Good luck with your show. You’ll need it.”

While Eddie is still trying to wrestle a witty reply from the static noise that has filled his brain, he turns and skips back onto the stage. Eddie watches how he twirls the drumstick in his hand, sends it spinning into the air, and catches it effortlessly before tucking it away in a slim leather holster that’s hanging from his belt. He doesn’t look back at him once.

Eddie makes his way down the stairs and into the green room on numb legs. The others are already right in the middle of a noisy discussion about some other topic, but Gareth turns when he hears the door open. 


“Finally,” he snarks. “Please tell me you kept it in your pants, you’ll need that energy for- … oh, shit, what’s with the face?”

Frank and Jeff go silent mid-conversation and swivel their heads, faces dropping into the same expression of shocked surprise that Gareth is currently sporting. Then, very slowly, Frank’s mouth curls into a grin.

“Oh, I know that face. It’s the same one he gets before the finale of a big campaign.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Eddie lies. The room is tiny, but when he takes a step into it, they all back away to clear a spot for him in their middle. “Now get your stuff ready. We’ve got a battle to win.”

The guys break into cheers, clapping his back and elbowing him in the ribs as he unslings his guitar case from his back and lets the zipper screech open. His fingers close around the neck of his sweetheart, and Eddie feels his face break into a grim smile.

Harrington wants a show? He’ll give him a goddamn show. 

Notes:

Say hi to me on tumblr! ❤️

Notes:

Say hi to me on tumblr! ❤️

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