#gonna dunk my head in a bucket of holy water now byeeee

[harmonictechnicality]

thinking about Steve digging into a KFC bucket around Eddie, who is about to snap in half at the sight of it. Just seeing Steve Harrington sink his teeth into a chicken thigh, sucking on a drumstick bone, swallowing the most ungodly-sized bites he’s ever seen. His eyes are fucking locked on Steve’s lips that are extra shiny from all the grease. Eddie can’t even touch his own damn food because his stomach is in knots from this weirdly erotic and carnivorous circus act.

Steve smears the grease off with the back of his hand, staring hard at Eddie. “What?”

“Huh?”

Dumb. Idiotic. Why is Eddie suddenly experiencing the same level of flusteredness as the varsity cheer squad around this guy? It’s just Steve. Steve eating meat…

Thick, juicy, noisy meat in Steve’s mouth. His mouth that looks so-

“Dude, try some.” Steve waves a half-eaten chicken wing in front of Eddie’s face. He’s smiling as he chews, looks honest to god tipsy from how much he’s enjoying this meal.

Eddie shrugs, pops his knuckles to keep his hands busy. “Not hungry.”

Which is a big, fat lie. He is hungry. Thoroughly starving to see Steve in angles that are banned from biblical literature.

“Christ on toast, Harrington, close your mouth. I can see your fucking tonsils from here.” And yeah, that’s a problem too. Eddie could draw the inside of Steve’s mouth from memory by now. Could make himself a handy little diagram on how stuffed it could be if he just-

“Can’t help it.” Steve interrupts. He tears another piece of meat off and chomps as he speaks. Says something that actually breaks the last bit of dignity in Eddie’s soul. “It’s finger lickin’ good.”

Right, yup. Okay. Eddie is all impulses after that. His gaze drops to Steve’s slick hands. His ears only able to process words at a caveman baseline:

‘Finger. Lick. Good.’

Yeah. That does sound pretty good to him. Really good, actually.

So Eddie reaches across the table and takes Steve by the wrist. He opens his mouth, swirls Steve’s index finger over his tongue, sucking on it for way too long. Makes a loud slurping sound as he returns Steve’s hand back to him. He’s pretty sure Steve gasped at the contact, but couldn’t exactly focus on anything other than the taste of salt and grease and skin.

As Eddie sits back down in his chair, he examines Steve’s face. Red everywhere. Up his ears, down his neck. He isn’t moving either - like Eddie’s little stunt just paused all the muscles in his body or something.

He should run. Avoid getting beat up by a guy who’s a former jock. Besides, Eddie Munson is somewhat famous on cowardly shit like running away. It wouldn’t exactly be unheard of for him.

But he doesn’t. Instead, Eddie dabs the corner of his mouth with a napkin. Takes a deep breath in. Smiles sweetly over at Steve, sweet enough to feel playful. Edging on mean.

“Looks like it wasn’t false advertising after all.” Eddie tosses the used napkin at him. Isn’t trying to make Steve flinch, but it happens anyways. “Finger lickin’ good is an understatement.”

“Understatement?” Steve studies his finger, the one Eddie just used like a jolly rancher, then smiles wide:

“Should be mandatory with you, Munson.”