#Raven Writes stuff

[shorthaltsjester]

i truly am baffled by some of the cr fandom when it comes to the topic of the gods and c1 and death in general because. the raven queen didn’t kill vax. in fact she gave him more time. she Does get the blame from keyleth and some from vex but even those two by the end were more so just holding grudges wrapped up in their own issues that were exacerbated by vax’s choices. but it was always vax’s choice. which, y’know, i’m aware of a portion of the cr fandom’s propensity for dismantling every interesting choice a character makes into something forced upon them, but the role of fate in exandria has never been like bad faith you must adhere to the path chosen for you, it’s much more like what brennan has spoken about wrt specificity: as one makes more choices they become more particular to a given outcome. but that’s not some curse by the gods that dooms characters that’s literally just. what living is.

and of course death is a complicated thing that everyone approaches differently but. god the amount of people who view vax’s dynamic with the raven queen as an injustice or his death as some unforgivable thing the raven queen caused some how? in the words of laura bailey, Were We Watching The Same Orb? it isn’t an injustice that vax, completely willing to pay whatever it cost him to save his sister, was bound to the Deal He Agreed To. his role as the champion was one he found meaning and purpose in. further, it was the raven queen that allowed him to be resurrected later in the campaign. like, it isn’t fair that vax had so little time but it is time he chose and time he was given, but vox machina tends to fall on the reaping the benefits side of unfairness of power in exandria. if what makes the gods — particularly the matron of ravens — irredeemable is that they have the power to make choices that mortals can’t like denying someone’s resurrection, how irredeemable must the group of heroes called vox machina (whose members drop like flies to be revived moments later) be to the everyday person who just has to watch the people they love die and make peace with it?

of course it sucks that vax could not have a happy ending or epilogue like the rest of vm, except of course, vex has a family and is happy and loved, and keyleth is strong and alive and protected, and i think that looks a lot like what vax wanted most.

[coquelicoq]

as a huge unreliable narrator enjoyer i love the fact that the raven tower is narrated by someone who cannot lie. so the narration is not unreliable, and any kind of uncertainty is always couched in "here is a story i have heard" or "i imagine", but it scratches the same itch as unreliable narration because the evidentiality of the narration is still so central, just in the opposite way. stories that don't care about where the narrator is getting their information or what biases are present in the way that information is shared with us are on one end of a spectrum, and stories that do care about those things are on the other end, and the raven tower is firmly situated alongside the unreliably narrated stories even though the whole point is that the narrator is as motivated as it is possible to be to never say something that is untrue. and it's fascinating to see how ann leckie manages to build suspense and subvert expectations without really at any point deliberately misleading the reader. every time i reread one of her books, the bouncing of the dvd screensaver in my brain gets a little more frenetic. how does she do what she does. ann leckie what is your secret.

[micamicster]

Super Rich Kids

Close my eyes and feel the crash...

I wrote this one on post-its on a trans-continental flight after my phone (where i was re-reading the raven cycle) died. 0/10 plane experience would not recommend but I did manage to entertain myself! And now hopefully you as well!

When Ronan pulled into Monmouth Manufacturing he knew Gansey wouldn’t be there. Adam Parrish was, though, sitting on the steps in the golden afternoon light, bike dumped to the side in dying grass. He didn’t so much as flicker an eyelid when Ronan bootlegged the BMW into an approximation of parking on the far side of the lot, which was fine because that’s how he would have parked the car anyway, whether or not Adam was here.

Ronan was pretty sure that Gansey had arranged a shift system with the other boys, to prevent Ronan from being unaccompanied on the rare occasions of his own absence. The idea of a babysitter should have rankled Ronan, but Adam did not seem particularly invested in his role. Small favors.

As he got out of the car he gave Adam his customary once-over, as brief as it was habitual. You could notice a lot in a single glance, if you were Ronan, glancing at Adam.

Adam was wearing long sleeves (his father? Or just because it was October?) and his faded camo pants, the ones Ronan said made him look like a jingoistic meathead. They had recently acquired a tear in one knee. Not in the stylish, deliberate manner in which Ronan’s own jeans were shredded, but awkwardly, in an L-shape, where they had caught on some jagged edge and given way before even careful Adam had noticed and unhooked himself. The tear gaped open at times, like it was doing now, revealing Adam’s knobby left knee and, worse, a triangle of his brown thigh.

Ronan looked away.

Ronan never allowed himself, even in dreams, to trespass beyond the carefully demarcated boundaries of Adam’s clothes. And Adam was usually helpful in the maintenance of this boundary. Unlike Gansey, who could be found working on his model Henrietta in boxers at all hours of the night, or wandering to and from the shower in a towel, absent-mindedly forgetting his clothes in bathroom or bedroom. Unlike the boys Ronan played tennis with, who stripped down casually in the locker room after practice. Unlike even Ronan himself, who’d never met a shirt he couldn’t rip the sleeves off; Adam was always fully covered.

This summer, foolishly, Ronan had imagined that this might change. Now that the hideous secrets Adam protected with his long sleeves were no longer his alone. But by now he knew what kept those sleeves in place, something that Adam had already understood: that knowing and seeing are two very different things.

For example: this. Ronan knew that Adam, like most people who walked around on earth under their own power, possessed thighs. Two of them, attached in the normal way to other body parts, such as knees and hips. To know this was one thing.

Now that he’d seen it, he couldn’t stop seeing it. The way his knee bent, and the muscle above shifted as Adam made room on the steps for him. Ronan was looking away, out at the familiar, grounding, skid marks on the concrete of Monmouth’s lot, but he could picture in their place with deadly accuracy the hinge of Adam’s knee, the tanned skin of his thigh, scattered with golden-brown hair. He could dream about pressing his face against it.

He picked up a rock and hurled it. It glanced off the side of the soulless suburban and fell anticlimactically into the grass dying by the rear tire. It didn’t help.

Adam shifted next to him, subtly.

“What?” said Ronan. “Impressed?”

“Surprised, more like. I thought you were supposed to be the tennis star.”

“You think you can do better?” Ronan pried another hunk of gravel or concrete out of the dirt and tossed it in his left hand, tauntingly.

“I know I can.”

“But?”

“But,” said Adam, with some hint of exasperation coloring his voice, “I’m not going to sit here chunking rocks at Gansey’s car to prove it. My ego’s not that fragile.” His accent slipped out on chunkin’, not as if Ronan had pissed him off enough to forget to hide it, but as if it was a word he’d never used any other way.

Ronan threw his rock again. This was, if anything, a worse throw than before, and it skittered harmlessly across the suburban’s roof.

Adam made a small but contemptuous noise.

“Don’t give me that shit, man. You know he hates this fucking car.”

“That was for your shitty aim.”

“Come on then.” Ronan hefted another piece of gravel. “Ten points if you knock out his taillight.”

“It costs a hundred and five dollars to replace a taillight on that make and model. Plus tax.”

Ronan’s brief cheer was collapsing again. “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks to bust Dick’s lights.”

Adam blinked slowly, his dusty eyelashes obscuring the contempt in his eyes for a brief moment. “I’ll leave.” (He wouldn’t).

Ronan dropped the rock. Next to him Adam sighed. Abruptly, he put out his hand. “Telephone pole. Six feet from the top.”

Ronan swept back up the rock and dropped it into his hand. Their fingers did not touch. His heart thudded.

Adam tossed the rock once, testing its weight while his gaze, cool and assessing, remained on the telephone pole. It was a splintered, tilting thing, shamed by his attentions. In one smooth, economical movement, he rose to his feet and let the rock fly. His leg went forward, knee jutting out of his clothes, his back curved, and his arm swept around in an arc, fingers scraping at the blue October sky. Ronan didn’t need to turn his head to know if the rock hit—he could see it in the brief hard satisfaction on Adam’s face.

Adam turned back to him, one eyebrow cocked.

“You’re going to have to do better than that if you want to earn that hundred,”

Adam shrugged. The gesture was disinterested, but there was a quirk to his mouth that contradicted it. “I know nothing blew up, but…”

Ronan already had another rock in his hand. “West corner lightbulb. It breaks or it doesn’t count.” Adam rolled his eyes, but turned agreeably to watch Ronan miss.

“Would you like to get your tennis racket?”

“Eat me,” said Ronan. (Maybe).

They traded shots back and forth for a while, calling increasingly specific and complex plays.

“Bullshit. Bullshit.”

“Get the government to pay for some glasses, Parrish, and then come back and try to tell me that wasn’t a fucking bullseye—”

“It wasn’t even close! You—”

“You calling me a liar?” Ronan loomed, and Adam, as usual, was unimpressed.

“Just because you don’t lie doesn’t make you right all the time! Like when you said that quote on Tuesday was Seneca. It doesn’t stop being Martial just because you’ve got a child’s sense of morality—”

“See, right there.” Ronan pointed triumphantly at an invisible scuff mark on the doorsill, marking where his handful of gravel had made impact.

Adam gave it a skeptical glance. His face was faintly flushed from exertion in the cold air, but his eyes were as cool and considering as ever. “What we need,” he said, “is a knife.”

Ronan was not allowed knives.

~

“Are you trying to stab each other in the feet? Why are your shoes off! It’s October!”

“Equal playing field.” Ronan wiggled his toes against the cold asphalt. “Parrish’s shitty knife is no match for my boots.” Over Gansey’s head, Ronan tried to catch Adam’s eye, to share a ‘can you believe him’ sort of look. Adam’s embarrassment over being caught acting irresponsibly meant Ronan could expect the look to be rebuffed, but he couldn’t help himself from trying it anyway.

Adam was bent over, eyes hidden. He carefully dusted off his socked feet one at a time before sliding them back into his shoes, as though the socks or sneakers could look any worse. A little parking lot crud might improve their appearance, actually.

Next to him, Gansey was still fussing. Without the pressure release valve of eye contact with someone who knew Gansey was overreacting, Ronan snapped, “Come off it, man, I’m not going to slit my throat while Parrish watches. He can’t afford that caliber of snuff film.”

Gansey’s concern transformed into revulsion, but underneath it he looked hurt, which was far far worse.

Adam straightened up. “We were just using it to mark where we hit. Honestly, we could have done it tossing a sharpie, but neither of us had one.” He sounded conciliatory, which pissed Ronan off. But Gansey was letting it go, returning the knife to Adam with an apologetic smile. Sorry for the fuss. Sorry for Ronan. Ronan’s bare feet were cold against the asphalt.

“Well? Are you going to throw or not, Parrish?” he said belligerently.

Adam rolled his eyes, but obligingly stooped for gravel and let one fly at Ronan’s open bedroom window, a shot he made easily.

Gansey whistled. “You’ve got quite the arm on you. How come you’re not on the Algionby baseball team?”

Adam shifted his feet, awkwardly.

“Please,” scoffed Ronan, “he’s not a team player.”

Gansey did not let it go. “Bet you’d have a better fastball than both our pitchers.”

There was a pause, during which Adam’s face clearly showed all of the thoughts he was trying to corral into a polite response to Gansey’s unconsidered enthusiasm. Ronan got there first. “Yeah, Parrish, why not hitch your wagon to the star of organized sports, like every other rags to riches wannabe?”

“Ronan!” said Gansey, Ronan’s offensiveness registering where his own had not.

“Hitch my wagon to a star?” Adam was unruffled. “I thought quoting Transcendentalists could get you excommunicated.”

“Who said I know it’s Emerson. It’s a sourceless idiom to those of us who aren’t sad little nerds.”

Adam smirked. The smirk said, I never said Emerson. His words said, “Gansey’s damning me with faint praise. No one’s going pro out of an Algionby sport team. Even tennis.”

“Ouch,” said Ronan, cheerfully. “Hit me where it really hurts. My school pride.”

~

Now that Gansey had arrived, his plans for the day took precedence over noble pastimes such as flipping pocketknives at each other’s feet. His plans involved comparing readings from various instruments and then placing said various instruments in various new locations, all of which were equally arbitrary (to Ronan’s eyes) and inaccessible. Gansey’s plans involved him waiting by the car to monitor the readings while people hiked with antennae to the outermost reaches of the signal. People, in this instance, being Ronan and Adam, Noah having mysteriously and silently fucked off, as he so often did when a job required carrying anything.

Ronan put his head down and trudged. It was brambly here, and slightly damp, and he was beginning to work up the kind of counter-intuitive sweat that appears from working in the cold, the kind that makes you colder later.

As the person leading the hike, custom would dictate that he should catch and hold the long clinging arms of the brambles for the following hiker. This presented a dilemma. Ronan compromised, and set about stomping the multiflora into the ground as he walked. Scarlet hips burst under his feet, invasive and beautiful, spreading their millions of seeds across the damp earth. Noxious weeds.

“It’s too unreliable,” said Adam, into the silence. “Sports. It all depends on… your physical condition.”

“And your condition is shit.”

There was Adam’s ironic smile. “Yes. So.” He shrugged. There was the part they weren’t saying, which was that his physical condition could always get worse. Unexpectedly.

“My dad hates baseball.” Ronan heard himself make the slip—hates and not hated—and a spark of fury burned through him, brief and inconsequential.

“My dad loves it.”

They marched on in silence.

Adam swore as a bramble Ronan had beaten down sprang up again, catching him right across the tear, where his skin was exposed. He bent to unhook it from the camo with deft, deliberate hands. “What?” he said, like he could feel Ronan’s eyes.

Ronan looked away. “Why not the military?” He kicked purposelessly at the bramble and heard Adam sigh. “And don’t tell me you never thought about it. Test scores like yours out in hicksville high school, you must have had recruiters hopping all over you like fleas.”

“Would you believe I had a moral objection?” Adam’s smile was self-deprecating. Ronan studied it.

“No.”

Adam shrugged. It, too, was self-deprecating.

“I think you had a superiority objection. You think you’re too smart for that shit.”

Adam blinked at him. “Do you think I’m wrong?”

Ronan snorted. “Hell no. You can do better than getting blown up in a desert for the United States government.”

The smile, when it came, was small and stunning. “Damned by faint praise again.”

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

How do you edit your pics? They look so stunning

Are you talking about the character banners I use? (Like this one:)

Thank you ^^ I had help from a friend in figuring out the initial assets (border, pen, texture) and basic composition, so I can’t take all the credit.

I use a combination of official card art, a textured layer with a soft light filter (so it makes the official art I lay with it look like it is drawn on a sheet of parchment), and free assets I find on sites like PNGtree. Some of the borders are even hand-drawn.

I have many other variations of this same standard banner layout; those I throw together based on my own instincts and pure vibes 😂

[wishchip106]

more ready player one cherik au ideas

erik is pretty much a complete loser irl and online and barely has any friends until he meets charles at the first trial and joins his online friendgroup (aka fc xmen) when he gets the first key

everyones avatars are more based on their comic looks so they all look a bit silly but its the oasis so its okay

thats pretty much it so far my brain is slowly building some kind of a story but it hasn’t gone into details yet

i dont even know if im gonna write this i just gotta dump my ideas here otherwise they’ll be sent to the void

[cursedwerewolf]

in dream thieves, adam's mattress is specifically described as an ikea mattress, so now i need a fic where ronan and gansey take him to ikea (noah's probably there as well). it's right after trb, so adam is being all creepy and haunted by the magical forest he just sold his soul to, gansey is feeling all heartbroken and betrayed, ronan has just revealed he can take things out of his dreams and they're all freshly traumatised by seeing their latin teacher be trampled to death. they all have probably never been to ikea so they have that whole experience to take in. they eat shitty hotdogs and mispronounce swedish names and buy too many scented candles

(i am just gonna have to write this aren't i)

[ravenmoodle]

The Owl House pitch bible being found has done things to my brain- namely i can NOT stop thinking about making one for my guys to the point of rambling about it unprompted.

[desertduality]

New Ad Astra chapter tomorrow :)

[gallopinggallifreyans]

last one before i buckle down for the semester (featuring a little headcanon about summer)

[inastarlesssky]

Okay, it's here.

I am so very grateful to @kydrogendragon for so kindly looking over this silly little bit of writing. It's my first attempt at a fic for The Sandman, and I tried my level best to do Morpheus and Calliope justice.

Anyway, here it is! Little attempt at a fix-it that had to break things a little bit first. Basically a look at what would have happened if Calliope had visited the Dreaming on that 'one day perhaps'...

[jack-cass-and-co]

Let me explain myself. I never thought it would go this far. It was a fling, nothing else, if even that. I didn't set out to deceive anyone, Carl, Elliott, or otherwise. How could I?

I'll tell you how it happened.

It was the April that Carl left for his ordination. Lillian was born only two years ago, and I had to stay behind to take care of her. I had found a temporary job at the local gas station for the basics-- food, mortgage, etcetera. I couldn't take her with me, so I had to leave her behind with my sister Georgia while I worked and ran errands. It was difficult, but we worked around it, and Georgia was a well trained nanny and good friend.

He showed up around the ninth.

A sleek, black, expensive looking convertible (Carl could tell you what kind, I've no knack for that sort of thing,) rolled into the parking lot, not into a gas pump. I could hear his music, maybe Soundgarden, even through the glass doorway, half expecting the man I could just barely see to be hard of hearing by the time he entered.

The man, yes.

He walked with such smoothness. I'm not sure how else to describe it. Like every step, every wave of his hand, were choreographed, and he had been dancing all of his life. One foot in front of the other, hands tucked into the pockets of spotless white, perfectly ironed slacks. A brown leather jacket over a black, tight turtleneck that looked almost as sleek as his car. Golden hair, sides shaved, long enough such that you could tie into the world's smallest ponytail, but he didn't wear it that way. He didn't look like he hadn't shaved that day, but I wouldn't have called him rugged or anything of the sort. What struck me were his sunglasses. The springtime clouds were just starting to roll in, and it wasn't bright outside in any way, yet he strutted in as if it were the middle of July. Tall. Young. Squared, chiseled jaw. Fit. Permanent smile like he knew a secret you didn't. He was attractive. Scarily attractive. Of course, I did not notice any of this because I was reading Jane Austen. Carl did not care for Jane Austen, but Georgia said it was necessary for every woman of age, so I spent most of that winter hiding "Emma," "Pride and Prejudice," "Sense and Sensibility," and some other I can't recall for my life, from him while we lay in bed. Sense and Sensibility was the book I was reading this particular day, I believe.

"Pardon, darling." He knocked on the counter, shocking me up from my book. I may have yelped.

"Sorry. Excuse me. Hello," I answered, setting the book on my chair as I stood up. I've never been called darling before, which would have shocked me if I'd noticed. It didn't exactly sound unnatural-- his accent was not at all American-- so it felt more like one of those big-time European men from the movies that my friend Nancy likes. Like Tom Hiddleston. I couldn't really place where it was that the accent was from, not that I know much about Europe, but I know for sure he wasn't British. His smile grew gently when I met his sunglass-shadowed gaze, letting himself pause a little.

"Think nothing of it, my dear. I know all too well what it's like to get caught up in a good book."

I ignored the attempt at a conversation starter with a polite smile. "How can I help you today?"

"Oh, if you could perhaps show me to the wine. I'm afraid I'm rather new here," He answered without any hesitations, leaning forward with his hands behind his back like a scientist trying to be rebellious.

Asking a 7/11 for wine at four in the afternoon. I didn't have a bad feeling about him, exactly, though I recognized his oddity. "This is a gas.. station?"

"Gas station," The man whispered like it was the first time he's heard it. Now that I'm thinking about it, maybe he was from a very small European country, if he's never been to a gas station. "How wonderful. Gas station wine, then?"

"Not here, that I'm aware of," I said with a chuckle. The man let out a swear I didn't understand under his breath. "We have Coke, Pepsi, beer, sparkling water, Snapple.."

As I listed out the products, I watched his face for any reaction to any sort of thing. His eyebrows twitched with confusion at most, but on "Arizona Iced Tea," they raised.

"Tea?" I added.

"I do enjoy a good tea. I'd be rather grateful for something cold, especially on such a hot day, yes?"

The 56° wind shook the spring trees in my silence, warning of an oncoming storm. "..Sure."

[kaseyskat]

Once, this palace was lively. 

Well, as lively as it could be, given its history. Still, despite all grievances, Lark had been happy here, running the halls, causing mayhem and mischief, tearing down trees in the forest and exploring and everything else that came with living in a near-abandoned castle in the middle of nowhere. 

Maybe they should’ve expected that the old owners wouldn’t be so happy about a new family coming and redecorating the place. Lark hadn’t– he was a kid! So really, it was their parents to blame, wasn’t it? 

Their parents aren’t here anymore though. It’s just Lark, curled up in the room he had claimed as his own, and the wolf form of his brother sprawled out next to him, asleep. 

It’s so unfair that I don’t get to be a person when I’m awake much, Lark thinks with a grumble as he stands, stretching his arms and staring out the open window at the star-lit sky. Already, the moon has dipped close to the horizon, meaning that his time on two legs is just about over. Whatever. 

He doesn’t look at Sparrow. When the curse settled in, it felt like that’s all they ever did– frantically looking at one another during the rise and fall of the sun, hoping to catch a glimpse of the other in human form before being overtaken by magic. It’s been a few years though, now, and Lark just sighs as he gingerly runs a hand over the windowsill, enjoying the sensation of dirt and dust lining his fingers. 

Fur brushes against his side, and Lark jumps, glancing down at the wolf that has joined him, head nudging at his legs endearingly. 

“Don’t feel too left out, I wasn’t going anywhere,” he huffs, but he still can’t resist placing one of his hands on top of Sparrow’s head, gingerly stroking through the rough tufts of fur. “We do need more food though. Want me to handle that after sunrise?” 

Sparrow makes a little snorting sound in the back of his throat, and he nudges at Lark’s hand. After years of relying solely on this awful method of communication, Lark interprets that as a yes please, brother, you enjoy the hunt far more than I. 

Never mind that Sparrow’s cursed form is literally a wolf. How he got the cool form and Lark got the stupid bird, Lark will never know. 

The sky lightens to grey, and then a dark red. Lark inhales, and he closes his eyes, his hand falling away from Sparrow’s head. 

When he opens them again, he has shifted forms. Readjusting to Bird Vision is difficult, and he twists his head around, watching as Sparrow curls against the mattress. Despite the sleep he had gotten in wolf form, his eyes are dull, his gaze staring off to nowhere. 

It would seem after years of being cursed like this, to live alone and without each other for company, has finally started to take a toll on his brother. Lark glances longingly out the window for a long moment before carefully flying over to where Sparrow’s curled next to the pillows, tapping his cheek as gently as he can. 

“Sorry Lark,” Sparrow mumbles, and he reaches a hand up to gently comb over Lark’s feathers. “I’m just so tired… you can go out today though, don’t let me stop you.” 

Lark caws at him more insistently. I don’t want to go without you! he tries to convey, hopping down a bit so he can pull at Sparrow’s threadbare shirt, careful not to catch skin. Please don’t give up on me, Sparrow. Please. 

But Sparrow doesn’t move, his eyes fluttering as he dozes off, face screwed up in a grimace. Lark tugs at his shirt for a moment longer before giving up, hopping backwards and looking longingly at the window again. 

Those adventurers are probably still around here, he thinks, flying to the windowsill. Maybe they can help return Sparrow’s spirit. I just have to… bring them here. 

He doesn’t trust anyone. Not since the last person to run into them had been so awful. However, there isn’t much that Lark wouldn’t do for his brother! 

So, with one last glance at Sparrow, Lark takes flight, soaring out the open window and towards the last place he had seen the three imbeciles who were wandering the castle grounds. It’s his only option. 

[nondelphic]

i fear ebony dark'ness dementia raven way will always be the blueprint for goth characters

[artbyfuji]

someone asked for handwriting headcanons.

[magniloquent-raven]

hope yall are in the mood for some aro max because i wrote some aro max (and terrible-at-feelings-but-trying-to-help billy lmao)

posted on ao3

**

"Alright, shithead, spill." Billy lands heavy in the empty space next to Max, arms crossed. He's not looking at her, and his expression is his version of blank. A careful mask that doesn't keep the ghost of a scowl from pinches the corner of his mouth. 

It's not the worst way he's ever approached a conversation, and it's not like she was really watching whatever's on the TV, but irritation grips her insides tight anyways. 

Christ, he didn't even bother washing the engine grease off his face before ambushing her. His work clothes are streaked with grime where he's been wiping his hands all day. No doubt Steve's going to make him clean the cushions later. 

Which would be funny, except that might leave her without a bed for the night. 

She eyes the side of his head, annoyed at his dumb purple scrunchie and all the curls slipping out of it and the little blue crystal stud Steve bought him that he's been wearing ever since. She hates his whole face right now. Looking at him try to act like the big brother he never was makes her chest squeeze unpleasantly.

"Mind your own business." She crosses her arms. And then uncrosses them, shoving balled fists into her sweater pocket instead. 

"Fuck that, you made this my business when you decided to mope on my couch and eat all of my food for three fucking days." 

"Steve's couch," Max mutters. 

A muscle in Billy's jaw jumps. It's grimly satisfying to hit a nerve. Misery loves company and all that. Max doesn't even know the full extent of the issue, but she's heard enough snippets of arguments to know cohabitation isn't going as smoothly for them as Billy wants everyone to think. 

"Not the point."

Max scrapes her fingernail along the seam of her pocket, digging up lint and stale crumbs. This sweater needs to be washed. It was thrown over the back of her desk chair, and she didn't bother with the sniff test before she grabbed it on her way out the door. It wasn't until she'd fled half a block away that she noticed it reeked of stale sweat. And it's only gotten worse in the days she's spent here with no change of clothes.

He's still waiting for her to say something. Like it's that easy. He's a hypocrite if he expects her to spill her guts just like that. He's never made a single thing easy, he doesn't get to just…

But maybe he doesn't actually care, if flat out demanding answers was his game plan. Maybe it didn't matter that his approach was shitty. "If you wanted me out of the apartment, you could just say that." She's not sure she actually believes that, but it's the only thing willing to come out of her mouth. 

Billy turns to look at her, a crease between his eyebrows. She doesn't know if it's concern or confusion. Maybe both. Or neither. His face is hard to read sometimes, when he wants it to be. It unnerving. Not as scary as it used to be, but still. She liked it better when he was awkwardly avoiding eye contact.

"I would've just said that, if that's what I was getting at, dumbass." He stops. Sighs, short and sharp, and rubs his forehead. "Look, I heard Ellie's moving in with that girl she's been seeing…"

Max jolts. The reminder hits like a bucket of ice water dumped on her head, a sudden shock that lingers, unpleasantly trickling down her back and leaving her palms clammy. She grinds her teeth. Forces out, "Yeah, so?"

"So, I can put two and two together, alright."

"Well I hope so, seeing as you graduated high school and all."

"Ha ha. Hilarious. You know what I meant."

Of course she knows. He's jumped to the same conclusion everyone else has. What El thought when she broke the news, all big sad eyes and careful words, walking on egg shells. What Lucas thought when she went running to him in tears and a rank old hoodie. What Steve thought last night when he told her she could get whatever toppings she wanted on the pizza he was ordering. She's tired of pitying faces and sympathetic gestures, and she's tired of everyone's assumptions. 

"I'm not in love with her." 

"Oh come on, everyone knows you two had a thing—"

"Would you just fucking leave it?"

Her eyes start to burn. There's a weight in her chest she's been carrying for days—or maybe it's been there for months, years, and she's only just noticing it now—pressure on her lungs, iron fingers gripping her heart. It gets heavier the more she dwells on it, and Billy's prodding isn't helping.

"Max…"

"I wouldn't have crashed here if I knew you were going to hold it over my head like this."

"Bullshit, I know you didn't have anywhere else to go."

"Could've figured something out." She cringes internally at the lie. It's petulance alone that keeps her from admitting Billy's right.

Besides, even if all her friends hadn't been too busy, too preoccupied, too unavailable, even if she'd settled for a patch of floor in Lucas's dorm room—which definitely would've gotten him in trouble with his girlfriend again—it's not like they would've been any less nosy. In fact she might've had less time to herself before the interrogation started. 

Billy scoffs, "What, like running back to your mama and hoping she's sober enough to give a fuck about your teenage melodrama—"

"Fuck you!" Max snaps, bristling with anger too big to stay trapped in her ribcage. It burns in her veins, tension trembling down her arms, her hands, her fingers. She wants to hit something. Someone. It's making her palms sweat and her shoulders ache. Keeping still. Contained. He's trying to get a rise out of her, trying to get her to slip and say something, and she's not going to give him the satisfaction.

"You lived through actual monsters trying to kill your friends, and you're acting like a girl not liking you back is the end of the world." 

"That's not…" Max lets out a slow breath through her nose, jaw clenching shut. 

"Stop being a fucking pussy, Max." 

"Oh that is rich coming from you."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"No, I don't think I did."

"Have you told Steve you hate the way he's always throwing his parents' money around?" Max sneers back at him. He withdraws all at once, mouth snapping shut, eyes going dark, seething. That muscle in his jaw is twitching again. "Yeah. Of course you haven't. You don't have a leg to stand on here."

He stares at her for a long time, not saying a word. It's worse than if he'd yelled or broken something or threatened her. It's uncertain, and tense, and she can't do anything but stew in her own impotent rage. There's a part of her that wants to jab at him more, cut deeper into that wound. There's so more she could say, but it gets lodged in her throat when she notices the way he keeps digging his fingernails into his forearm. 

She uncurls her fists in her pocket, and her knuckles protest after being clenched for so long. Flexing her fingers doesn't make it feel any better.

When Billy finally speaks he's so quiet she barely hears him over the canned laughter crackling through TV speakers. "At least I can admit I love him."

A dozen different impulses all crash into each other. Kick the coffee table. Punch him in the nose. Scream. Break something. Anything. Any goddamn thing. 

Max's whole body tenses, flinches, and a sound rips out of her, a scoff, a sob, a wet, mirthless laugh. And the dam breaks. She cracks. Crumbles. Angry tears burn her eyes. "I don't love her and I never did."

"Max—"

"You don't fucking get it, Billy, nobody gets it! Nobody listens!" She swipes at the wetness on her cheeks with the heel of her hand. "She was one of my best friends, so I thought maybe… Things never 'clicked' with Lucas, so I thought…" Words fail her again, petering off into a frustrated growl. 

El didn't understand when Max ended things. She didn't understand why. Max hardly understood at the time. But she's done a lot of thinking since then. About every bullshit excuse she'd ever used to break up with Lucas when they were kids, and how much of a relief it always was. The dread she buried whenever she took him back because she missed having him around. The same emptiness she pretended she didn't feel when she was trying to convince herself kissing girls instead was the answer. 

Being more sure of herself should've made it easier to say, but it hasn't. She takes a breath.  

"I've never felt that way about anyone. And I doubt I ever will."

Billy eyes her carefully. Neutrally. His silence makes her twitchy. 

"Okay," he says after far too long, then gestures vaguely at her, "What's all this about then."

"I…" Max blinks at him. He blurs. She blinks again. A whole spectrum of emotions swell up between her ribs, pressing out like a balloon about to burst and making her feel queasy. "That's it?"

"Did you want me to say something else."

When she told Lucas he said she must be a late bloomer. Not to worry, because he's sure she'll get there eventually. El took it personally. Yelled. Cried. Didn't talk to her for weeks afterwards. When she told Mike she was single by choice thank-you-very-much he laughed at her. Mocked her. Whenever she visits her mother there are a million and one questions about why she hasn't found a husband yet.

She didn't want her friends and family to say any of those things, but she expected them to. She didn't expect this.

"...No."

"Okay," he repeats, with just a hint of impatience. "So?"

"It's…" Her voice is unsteady, small and wavering. "I don't want to end up alone."

Billy sucks in a short, sharp, barely audible breath. 

Max curls her arms around herself, palms flat against her sides, tucking deeper into her sweater. "I'm glad El likes this girl, I'm, fucking. Happy for her. Or, I was, I guess. But she barely talks to me anymore, and now she's moving out of our place—Everyone just keeps fucking leaving. Because they've all got someone more important than…than the person who's only ever gonna be just a friend."

It feels so much more real now that she's said it out loud. The yawning abyss of her future threatens to swallow her whole, and all she can do is stare at its teeth. No shuddering gulp of air is enough to make her lungs stop burning, and she's given up trying to dry her eyes.

"I don't know what I'm gonna do if all I have isn't good enough." 

"Shit," Billy mutters. "Max, Jesus Christ, just. C'mere." He turns to face her, prodding gingerly at her elbow until she slumps against his shoulder. He stinks like sweat and motor oil and shitty cigarettes, and his embrace is awkward, hesitant, but she clings to him anyways. 

He lets her cry. Lets her gets tears and snot on his shirt. Doesn't say a word while she sobs her heart out. Eventually she goes quiet, half expecting him to pull away immediately, but he stays, arms loosely wrapped around her. 

Max snuffles, then wrinkles her nose. "You need to shower," she mumbles.

He snorts. "Yeah, whatever, Captain Snot. You're not exactly a basket of roses either."

She huffs quietly. 

"Listen…" Billy starts, and pauses. "I chose to be your brother. I decided to be. I didn't keep you around because my dad made me or because Steve likes you, I did it because you're important to me. And your shithead friends love you too, Max, they're just idiots. You have to tell them what's going on instead of hiding in my living room for the rest of your life."

Max sits up, wiping her face on her sleeve, and lets out a jittering sigh. He's right. She knows he's right, some distant part of her knows it, but it's buried too deep to feel like it's real. Maybe his words soften the earth packed around it, maybe hearing him admit he cares will make it easier to dig that part out, but she's too exhausted to pick up a shovel yet. 

She nods. It's all she can manage.

"Alright. Now help me flip these cushions before Steve gets home."

Max cracks a tiny smile. "You're terrible."

"Yeah, and you're stuck with me. Jokes on you."

"...I can live with that."

✨tag list✨

@spreckle @growup-thatbeautiful @prettyboy-like-you @suddenlyinlove

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

you ever watch a video and the twst part of your brain just. activates

LIKE.

IS THAT NOT CATER AND ROOk???????

Just look at the way the ginger is dressed. Hello???? Casual Cay-kun???? He’s also got his phone out just like Cater does… 😂

THe BLOnDE BOB CUT ONE eVEN COMES WiTH BINOCuLARS????? ISn’T THAT PEAK HUNTSmAN???????