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@steddiemicrofic | Prompt: 'one' | 111 words | M | cw: none @steddie-week Day 2 | Prompts: 'hands/touch starved' Read on AO3

With eyes held shut, Steve's world had condensed to a single point of contact.

One finger ghosted agonizingly slowly up and down each of his own, swiping across his palm and leaving tingling trails in its wake. It drifted to his wrist and, with a bit of added contact, enough to briefly feel a ring, the finger drew his hand forward until warmth and breath revealed a new source tactile pleasure.

Steve closed the remaining distance to discover a land of contrasts--deserts of prickly stubble, pastures of plush lips, and a warm, wet cave of a willing mouth.

Lost to the sensations, Steve found heaven in the palm of his hand.

Which could mean nothing

had to gif her in her cute outfit

THE BEAR 3.07 "LEGACY"

No words.

Steve wasn’t sitting where he usually does.

He’s usually waiting for him at a table as far away from the people he’s “supposed” to be friends with. That’s their seat, where they’re free to hide amongst the forsaken and be themselves. Eddie even had some leftover pastries from Wayne’s job’s company bake sale; strawberry, Steve’s favorite. Eddie detests even the smell, but he’s held his nose over four periods just to give it to Steve. He even had something in his back pocket, a gift wrapped up in nerves and fear. The proposition of a dinner date at the quarry for just them, where he can finally ask that fabled question.

When Eddie looks for Steve around the cafeteria, he can hardly even recognize him. His hair isn’t its usual limp swoop, framing his face in this boyish, dorky way that Eddie adores. It’s crisp and slick, evidently so meticulously styled that it just looks bad.

And he’s sitting exactly in the place he never wanted to be.

Eddie’s so flabbergasted by the sight that he can’t control his legs, his face. He walks over without hesitation, not even sure what he’ll say but it has to be something, anything to get an answer as to what the hell is going on.

But Steve doesn’t see him until someone else does. When he looks over his shoulder, Eddie recoils at the sight. Steve’s eyes are dead of their usual spark, his lip curled the wrong way.

And when he speaks, it’s a growl of spikes and hatred that stabs Eddie straight through the heart.

—————————

Harrington doesn’t look the way he’s supposed to.

He’s usually harsh, sarcastic, stubborn, and a self righteous bitch. Every sentence at him is met with an eye roll and scoff. Every ounce of care given to him is rejected like the plague.

Suppose it’s the bottle to his throat, but this Harrington doesn’t even look scared, the smug fucker. He looks nervous, but it’s underneath this false layer of desperation, longing, and dare Eddie even dream of it, sadness. He hasn’t even flinched since he was shoved to the wall, almost relaxing into Eddie’s arms and subsequently the bottle’s edge. His eyes even look like they’re begging for the contact. ‘I wouldn’t be anywhere else and I’d bleed if it meant I could stay.’

Please. Even with the kids begging for Harrington’s safety, it won’t convince Eddie. So with the upper hand, he gives Harrington a taste of his own sour ale.

The kids think it’s for them, answer him honestly. But Harrington recognizes it, of course he would, and his already limp body sags further.

“No.” Eddie backs away, keeps the bottle outstretched. He refuses to give Harrington any comfort here, reveling in his open expression of loss. Serves you right.

“What are you doing here?”

Steddie Week Day 5: Reunion / Exes to Lovers