Steve notices when Eddie disappears from the party, almost immediately. Robin and the others are crossfaded and a little weepy, and Steve knows they're excited—and scared. They're all heading out next week, Robin to Chicago, Nancy to New York, Jonathan to California. So they didn't notice it, when Eddie got up for the bathroom and didn't come back.
Steve did. Steve's pretty good at recognizing stuff like that, especially when it's painfully familiar.
He's pretty loud when he crawls through his own bedroom window out onto the roof, loud enough that Eddie startles and drops his cigarette onto the asphalt shingles.
"H-Hey!" he says, all false cheer despite the croak in his voice and the sniffling—the way he wipes quickly at his face.
"Hey," Steve says, going for softness and compassion. God knows he's spent many a night out here crying by himself. He doesn't want Eddie to think he's being a dick about it. "You okay?"
"Yep!" Eddie says, pitched too high and the words crack between his lips. "Totally fine! I'll come down in a bit so—"
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Eddie's teeth clack together when he shuts his mouth, falling into silence as Steve settles down at his side. Neither of them say anything. Faintly, they can hear the murmur of their friends' voices, mixed with the summer night call of forest frogs and bugs. Steve thinks about chasing fireflies in the back yard when he was little, how the dark woods are near impenetrable to Steve now, the boyhood security long stripped from him.
Beside him, Eddie wipes at his face again, his elbow brushing Steve's arm because Steve's sat himself so close. Steve, carefully not thinking about it, leans over—further and further—until his head hits Eddie's shoulder.
The sound Eddie makes is soft and broken, so Steve tucks himself even closer into Eddie's side, arm going around his back, and closes his eyes just so he could overwhelm himself with the warmth radiating from Eddie, the smell of soap and sweat and weed, the feel of Eddie's hair on his head when Eddie bows his head as he cries, hair long and curtaining the two of them—Eddie keeping Steve, pulling him in to witness his private grief.
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Something about Lestat lighting Louis' cigarette without Louis needing to ask despite that they're fighting and Lestat can't read his mind vs. Armand letting Louis light his own cigarette despite that they're friendly and he can easily read his mind and knows that Louis was probably hoping he would do it, but i think Armand wants Louis to ask for things... I feel like this represents the differences in these relationships perfectly
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Oh, this is so cool???
"In that issue, the African-American Mal kissed the Caucasian Lilith Clay goodbye, in a scene considered to be the first interracial kiss in comic book history. When editorial director Carmine Infantino objected to the scene, thinking it too controversial, editor Dick Giordano kept the scene, but colored it in blue as a night scene, to draw less attention to the moment. Giordano recalls receiving many letters about the kiss, both hate mail (including one death threat) and many supportive letters approving of the kiss."
Bonus: the set up
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no bc oml finnick odair would absolutely start giggling like a little girl whenever reader compliments him. he's literally like a lovesick teenager 🤧😭
and if reader traces his dimples ?? dear god it's over for him
the dimple thing yes!!!!! thank u for the thought angel and your support!
finnick odair x fem!reader
You’re half in Finnick’s lap, gazing up at him as he reads. He keeps asking you if you’re bored, but you’re not, you just like watching him. He’s got a lovely face — a handsome, sharp jaw, golden sunkissed skin, thick blonde curls and stormy eyes. You think you could look at him all day, and more.
“Honey,” he says without looking at you. His neck is warm under your hands. Your hands, which are climbing him like a tree, desperate and greedy where they push over his t-shirt and his warm, warm skin. He sounds amused as he turns a page of his book idly. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” you say airily. “Just looking at you.”
Finnick chuckles. It rumbles low in his chest, and you feel it where your hand is pressed to him. Your body warms through at the sound.
“I can see that,” he drawls. He peers at you out of the corner of his eye, grinning like a fool, pretty teeth peeking through prettier lips. “Are you enjoying the view, sweetheart?”
You think he’s teasing, but you're too enraptured by his nice voice and his bruising smile to do anything about it. You especially like his dimple. You bring your hand to his jaw clumsily, grab hold of him with your fingers and poke at the indent in his skin with your thumb.
“What are you doing?” Finnick asks through startled laughter, though his neck grows rapidly hotter under your touch.
“Your dimples are so nice,” you say earnestly, your thumb now tracing over the corner of his mouth. “You’re really pretty, Finnick, you know that?”
Finnick gives a breathless sort of laugh. “What?”
He drops his open book onto his lap to look at you. There's something in his gaze that you don't quite understand, but it sends your heart into a riot anyway.
“What’d you say?” He asks, though you know he heard you just fine.
“I said you’re pretty,” you say sheepishly, shrugging one shoulder. You feel very warm under his intense gaze. But he is pretty, and you’re sickeningly obsessed with him, and he deserves to hear it. “Or handsome. Whichever one you prefer.”
Finnick blinks at you, his blonde crush of eyelashes fluttering like butterfly wings. He closes his book and puts it to the side.
“Sweet girl,” he croons, all sticky sweet and husky.
He gets his hand around your leg where it's half hooked over his, and pulls you firmly into his lap. His fingers mould to your hips, gracing a slice of your skin as your shirt rides up. You go happily, planting your hands on his firm chest, and try to act like this isn’t exactly what you wanted.
The way his heart pounds under your palm doesn't go unnoticed.
“I like them both,” he says, earnest. He kisses you once, chaste, and then pulls back, his forehead pressed to yours. His warm breath washes over your mouth and you get so dizzy you could pass out in his arms. He's looking at you like he wants to devour you, mouth quirked into this half smile that has your stomach doing backflips, eyelids hooded.
He works his fingers behind your ear to draw you in, as if he can't get you close enough.
"You really think I’m pretty?” He murmurs.
"Yes," you nod, breathless. "So pretty."
Finnick's answering kiss tells you he really appreciates the compliment. You figure you’ll have to compliment him more if he’s gonna react like this.
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