I don't know who my intended audience is here, so whoever needs to hear this, I am begging you to learn to participate in conversations that are about things you aren't interested in.
Part of socializing and having friends is being a good listener even when you don't actually give a shit about the subject.
Your are hurting other people's feelings when you bluntly respond with "Anyway..." and then change the topic.
It can not always be about your preferred topic.
You are being rude. Yes, even if you are neurodivergent. You can be both autistic and rude.
Summary: Sometimes you have to step back from those you love, even if it seems unfair.
Word Count: 4.8k
Warnings: no Y/N, platonic Trevor x reader
Requested by an anon, I'm going to have more Courtney during Pride Month, but hey, who doesn't love some angst.... oh, just me....
Masterlist
The morning light filters through the Smosh office windows in that particular way that used to make you feel hopeful. Used to. Now it just illuminates everything you're trying not to see.
You're early, earlier than you need to be, but sleep has become something that happens to other people. People who don't spend their nights staring at ceilings, replaying conversations, reimagining moments that never belonged to them in the first place. You set your bag down at your desk and take a breath that doesn't quite fill your lungs the way it should.
The office is quiet. Peaceful, even. You could almost pretend things are different in this silence.
Then you hear it, Courtney's laugh. That specific laugh, the one that's unguarded and genuine, the one that used to be partly yours. You look up despite yourself, despite knowing better, despite every promise you've made to stop doing exactly this.
They're by the coffee machine with Shayne, and the morning light catches in Courtney's hair as they tilt their head back, laughing at something he's said. Shayne's hand brushes against theirs as he reaches for a mug, and it's such a small thing, such an insignificant gesture, but it lands in your chest like a physical blow.
You watch Courtney's fingers curl briefly around his. Watch the way she leans into his space like it's the most natural thing in the world. Because it is. Because they're married. Because this is their life, their love, their story.
And you're just the person watching from across the room, pretending your coffee is suddenly the most interesting thing you've ever seen.
"Morning!" Courtney's voice cuts through your thoughts, and you realize they've spotted you. They're waving, that bright smile on their face, and Shayne is turning too, offering his own easy grin.
You wave back. You smile. You've gotten so good at smiling.
"Morning," you call out, and your voice sounds normal. Friendly. Exactly like it should.
Courtney says something to Shayne and starts walking toward you, and panic flares in your chest. You're not ready. You're never ready, but especially not today, not after last night when you scrolled through their wedding photos again like some kind of masochist, torturing yourself with images of Courtney in that dress, looking at Shayne like he hung the moon.
"Hey, you okay?" Courtney asks as they approach, and there's concern in their eyes. Real concern, because despite everything, despite the distance you've been carefully constructing, they still care. They still notice.
"Yeah, just tired," you say, and it's not even a lie. You're exhausted down to your bones. "Didn't sleep great."
"You've been saying that a lot lately." Courtney's head tilts, studying you, and you have to look away. You can't let them see too much. Can't let them start asking the questions you can't answer.
"Just a phase," you say lightly. "You know how it is."
You don't miss the way their expression shifts, something like hurt flickering across their features before they smooth it away. You're hurting them with this distance, and that knowledge sits like acid in your stomach. But what's the alternative? Staying close enough to burn? Pretending you don't feel the way you do every time they touch your arm, every time they laugh at your jokes, every time they look at you like you matter?
"Right," Courtney says slowly. "Well, if you want to talk,"
"I'm good," you interrupt, perhaps too quickly. "Really. Just need more coffee."
You move past them toward the coffee machine, and you don't look back to see their face. You can't.
The green room is crowded before the shoot, everyone gathered in that pre-filming chaos of energy and conversation. You're tucked into the corner, scrolling through your phone without really seeing it, trying to take up as little space as possible.
"Okay, but hear me out," Angela is saying, gesturing wildly with her hands. "What if we did a video where we all have to,"
"Absolutely not," Chanse interrupts, laughing. "I'm not doing that again. My dignity can't take it."
"You have dignity?" Amanda asks innocently, and the room erupts in laughter.
You smile at your phone. You're present enough to smile.
"Hey, you've been quiet," Spencer says, nudging your shoulder. "What do you think? Should we subject Chanse to more humiliation?"
"I think Chanse can make that decision himself," you say, keeping your tone light, easy.
"That's a cop-out answer," Courtney says from across the room, and your eyes betray you by finding theirs immediately. They're watching you with that look, the one that says they know something's off, that they're trying to figure out what's changed. "You usually have opinions. Strong ones."
"Maybe I'm mellowing in my old age," you offer, but the joke falls flat even to your own ears.
"You're like, the same age as me," Angela points out.
"Then we're both ancient," you say, and this time a few people laugh, and you can breathe again.
But Courtney isn't laughing. They're still watching you, and you can feel the weight of their attention like it's physical there. You used to crave that attention. Used to do anything to make them look at you the way they're looking at you now, focused, concerned, present.
Now you'd give anything for them to look away.
"What about you?" you ask, redirecting. "You're usually the one with the wildest ideas."
It's a peace offering, an invitation back into the dynamic you once shared. Courtney's expression softens slightly, and they launch into a story about something that happened at home, something funny Shayne did, and everyone's attention shifts to them.
You let yourself fade back into the corner, into the safety of being unnoticed.
Tommy catches your eye from across the room and raises an eyebrow, a silent question. You shake your head slightly. Not now. Not here.
The conversation flows around you, and you participate just enough to avoid suspicion. A comment here, a laugh there. You've become an expert at this performance, at being present without really being there at all.
"Remember when we used to stay after shoots and just hang out?" Courtney says suddenly, and their eyes are on you again. "We'd order too much food and play stupid games until security kicked us out."
"That was fun," you agree, because what else can you say?
"We should do that again," they press. "It's been a while since we've really hung out, just us."
Just us. The words that used to make your heart soar now make it sink.
"Yeah, maybe," you say vaguely. "Things have been busy."
"Too busy for your friends?" There's an edge to Courtney's voice now, something hurt and confused, and you hate yourself for putting it there.
"Not too busy," you say carefully. "Just... tired. Like I said."
"You're always tired lately," Courtney says, and the room has gotten quieter, people sensing the tension. "You're always busy, or tired, or you have somewhere else to be. It's like you're..."
"We should probably get ready for the shoot," you interrupt, standing up. "Don't want to keep everyone waiting."
You leave the green room before Courtney can respond, before anyone can see the way your hands are shaking.
The sketch is supposed to be funny. It's a bit you've done variations of before, you and Courtney playing exes who keep running into each other in increasingly awkward situations. It should be easy. It should be fun.
It's torture.
"Okay, so in this scene, you're both reaching for the same coffee cup," Bailey explains. "And there's that moment of tension, that spark of old feelings, before you both pull away and pretend it didn't happen."
Spark of old feelings. Right. You can do that. You've been doing that for years.
"Got it," Courtney says, and they're looking at you, waiting for your confirmation.
"Yeah, got it," you echo.
The cameras start rolling, and you slip into character. It's easier, sometimes, to be someone else. To pretend these feelings belong to a fictional person in a fictional situation, not to you, not about the person standing inches away from you.
Your hand reaches for the cup at the same time as Courtney's. Your fingers brush. In the script, this is where you're supposed to look up, to meet their eyes, to let that tension crackle between you.
You look up. You meet their eyes.
And you feel nothing but the weight of everything you can't say.
Courtney's doing their part perfectly; there's surprise in their expression, a flicker of something that could be longing, the perfect performance of someone remembering what they used to have. They're a good actor. They're selling it completely.
You're just going through the motions.
"Cut!" Bailey calls. "That was... okay. But I need more from you," they say, looking at you. "More chemistry. You two usually have such great energy together, but this feels flat. Let's try it again."
Courtney's watching you, and you can see the question in their eyes. You used to be good at this. You used to be good at playing off each other, at finding that rhythm, at making magic happen on camera.
"Sorry," you say. "I'll do better."
You don't do better. You do the same thing, technically correct, emotionally hollow. You hit your marks, say your lines, make the appropriate facial expressions. But there's no spark, no real connection, because you've spent so long building walls that you don't know how to let them down anymore, even for pretend.
After the fifth take, Courtney pulls you aside.
"What's going on?" they ask quietly, and their hand is on your arm, and you want to lean into that touch so badly it makes you ache. "Talk to me. Please."
"I'm just off today," you say, gently extracting yourself from their grip. "I'll get it together."
"It's not just today," Courtney says, and their voice cracks slightly. "You've been off for weeks. Months, maybe. And I don't understand why. Did I do something? Did something happen?"
Yes, you want to say. You married someone else. You built a life with someone else. You're happy with someone else, and I have to watch it every single day and pretend it doesn't kill me.
"No," you say instead. "You didn't do anything. I promise."
"Then why does it feel like I'm losing you?" Courtney asks, and there are tears in their eyes now, and you're the worst person in the world because you're the one putting them there.
"You're not losing me," you lie. "I'm right here."
"No, you're not," they say softly. "You haven't been for a while."
The director calls you back before you have to respond, and you've never been more grateful for an interruption in your life.
You get through the rest of the shoot on autopilot. Professional. Competent. Empty.
The break room is blessedly empty when you escape to it after filming wraps. You lean against the counter, head in your hands, trying to remember how to breathe normally.
"That was rough."
You look up to find Trevor in the doorway, watching you with an expression that's too knowing, too gentle.
"Yeah," you admit, because there's no point in pretending otherwise. Not with Trevor, who's been watching you unravel for months with quiet concern.
He comes in, closes the door behind him, and leans against it. Not trapping you, just... present.
"You want to talk about it?" he asks.
"Not really."
"You want me to leave you alone?"
You consider it. Consider sending him away and continuing this spiral in private, as you've been doing. But you're so tired. So tired of carrying this alone.
"No," you say quietly.
Trevor nods and moves to sit on the counter across from you. He doesn't push, doesn't prod. Just waits.
"I don't know what I'm doing anymore," you finally say. "I don't know how to... how to be around everyone. How to be normal."
"Normal's overrated," Trevor says. "But I get what you mean. You've been different lately. Distant."
"I'm trying not to be."
"I know. That's what makes it worse, I think. Watching you try so hard to be okay when you're clearly not."
You laugh, but it's a bitter sound. "That obvious, huh?"
"To some of us, yeah." Trevor's quiet for a moment. "Does this have anything to do with Courtney?"
Your heart stops. "What?"
"I'm not blind," he says gently. "I see the way you look at them when you think no one's watching. I see the way you flinch every time Shayne touches them. I see you leaving rooms when they walk in, making excuses to avoid hanging out."
"Trevor,"
"I'm not asking you to confirm anything," he interrupts. "I'm just saying... I see you. And I'm worried about you."
You close your eyes. "It doesn't matter."
"What doesn't matter?"
"Any of it. How I feel, what I want, what I," You stop yourself, but the words are already trying to claw their way out. "It doesn't matter because nothing's going to change. Nothing can change. So I just need to... to deal with it. To get over it."
"Is that working for you?" Trevor asks, and there's no judgment in his voice, just genuine curiosity.
"No," you admit. "But what else am I supposed to do?"
"You could talk to someone. To Courtney, maybe,"
"No." The word comes out sharp, almost panicked. "No, I can't do that. I can't put that on them. They're happy, Trevor. They're married. They're building this beautiful life with someone they love, and I'm not going to be the person who ruins that."
"You wouldn't be ruining anything,"
"Yes, I would," you insist. "Even if I just told them how I feel, even if I made it clear I don't expect anything to change, it would still ruin things. It would make everything weird. They'd feel guilty, or uncomfortable, or they'd pity me, and I can't," Your voice breaks. "I can't handle them looking at me with pity."
Trevor's quiet for a long moment. "So you're just going to keep pulling away? Keep hurting yourself and them in the process?"
"I'm not trying to hurt them."
"But you are. Courtney's devastated. They think they did something wrong, that they're losing their best friend and they don't know why."
The words hit like a punch. "I know. I know, and I hate it, but I don't know what else to do. How do I stay close to them without falling apart? How do I watch them be happy with someone else and not let it destroy me?"
"I don't know," Trevor says honestly. "But I know that what you're doing now isn't sustainable. You're miserable, Courtney's miserable, and eventually, something's going to break."
"Maybe it already has," you say quietly.
There's a knock on the door, and you both freeze. Trevor gets up and opens it slightly, and you hear Shayne's voice.
"Hey, have you seen- oh, there you are." Shayne's looking past Trevor at you. "Courtney's looking for you. They're pretty upset."
Of course they are. Of course you've managed to hurt them even more.
"I'll be out in a minute," you say, and your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears.
Shayne nods, but he's looking at you strangely, like he's trying to figure something out. "You okay?"
"Fine," you lie. "Just needed a minute."
He doesn't look convinced, but he leaves anyway, and Trevor closes the door again.
"You should go talk to them," Trevor says.
"And say what?"
"I don't know. But you can't keep avoiding them forever."
"Watch me," you mutter, but there's no real conviction behind it.
Trevor sighs. "Look, I'm not going to tell you what to do. But I will say this: you deserve to be happy too. And right now, you're sacrificing your happiness, your friendship, everything, for... what? To protect people who don't even know they need protecting?"
"To protect people I love," you correct. "Both of them. Because Shayne's a good person, and he doesn't deserve to have his marriage complicated by my feelings. And Courtney doesn't deserve to carry the burden of knowing that their best friend is in love with them."
The words slip out before you can stop them, and Trevor's expression shifts, confirmation of what he'd already suspected, but hearing it said aloud is different.
"There it is," he says softly.
You slump against the counter. "Please don't,"
"I won't say anything," Trevor promises. "But you need to figure out what you're going to do. Because this?" He gestures at you. "This isn't living. This is just... surviving. Barely."
"Maybe that's all I can do right now."
"Maybe," Trevor agrees. "But you deserve more than that. You deserve more than loving someone from a distance and pretending you don't."
"What I deserve doesn't matter," you say, and your voice is tired, so tired. "What matters is that Courtney's happy. That Shayne's happy. That I don't ruin what they have."
"And what about what you have?" Trevor asks. "What about your happiness?"
You look at him, and you feel the weight of everything you've been carrying, everything you've been hiding, pressing down on you until you can barely breathe.
"If it doesn't matter," you say slowly, and your voice cracks on the words, "why can't I get my way?"
It's not really a question. It's a plea, a desperate cry from somewhere deep inside you that's been locked away for so long. If your feelings don't matter, if they can't change anything, if they're just this useless, painful thing you have to carry, then why can't the universe give you this one thing? Why can't you have what you want, just once?
But you know the answer. You've always known the answer.
Because what you want belongs to someone else. Because love doesn't work that way. Because sometimes the people we love choose other people, and we have to find a way to be okay with that.
Trevor's looking at you with such compassion it makes you want to cry. "I don't have an answer for that," he says quietly. "I wish I did."
"Me too," you whisper.
There's a long silence, and then Trevor speaks again. "For what it's worth, I think you're one of the bravest people I know. It takes a lot of strength to love someone and let them go. To put their happiness above your own."
"I don't feel brave," you admit. "I feel like a coward. Like I'm running away."
"You're not running away. You're making an impossible choice in an impossible situation. There's no right answer here."
"Then why does every choice feel wrong?"
Trevor doesn't have an answer for that either.
You eventually leave the break room, steeling yourself for whatever comes next. The office is quieter now; most people have left for the day. You're hoping you can slip out unnoticed, but of course, Courtney's waiting by your desk.
They look up when you approach, and their eyes are red-rimmed. You did that. You made them cry.
"Hey," they say softly.
"Hey."
"Can we talk?"
Every instinct is screaming at you to make an excuse, to run, to protect yourself. But you've hurt them enough.
"Yeah," you say. "We can talk."
You end up in one of the small conference rooms, door closed, just the two of you. Courtney sits across from you, and the distance feels like miles.
"I don't know what I did," they start, and their voice is shaking. "But whatever it is, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Just please, please tell me how to fix this."
"You didn't do anything," you say, and you mean it. "Courtney, I promise, this isn't about you."
"Then what is it about? Because you're pulling away from me, and I don't understand why. We used to tell each other everything. We used to be," They stop, swallowing hard. "We used to be best friends."
"We still are," you say, but it sounds weak even to you.
"No, we're not. Best friends don't avoid each other. They don't make excuses to leave when the other person enters a room. They don't look at each other like," Courtney's voice breaks. "Like they can't stand to be around them."
"I can stand to be around you," you say quickly. "That's not, it's not that."
"Then what is it?"
You can't tell them. You can't. But you have to give them something, some explanation that will make sense without revealing the truth.
"Things change," you say carefully. "People change. Maybe I'm just... going through something. Figuring stuff out."
"Then let me help you figure it out," Courtney pleads. "That's what friends do. They help each other."
"Some things you have to figure out alone."
"Why?" Courtney's crying now, tears streaming down their face. "Why do you have to shut me out? Why can't you let me in?"
Because if I let you in, you'll see everything. You'll see how I feel, and it will ruin everything.
"I'm not trying to shut you out," you say, and you're crying too now, unable to hold it back anymore. "I'm trying to protect you."
"From what?"
From me. From my feelings. From the truth that would make everything complicated and painful and wrong.
"From... from me being a mess," you say instead. "I'm not good company right now, Courtney. I'm working through some stuff, and I don't want to drag you down with me."
"You could never drag me down," Courtney says fiercely. "You're one of the most important people in my life. Don't you know that?"
You do know that. That's what makes this so hard.
"I know," you whisper. "And you're important to me too. So important. That's why I need you to trust me on this. I need some space to work through what I'm dealing with, and then... then things will get better."
It's a lie. You don't know if things will ever get better. But it's what Courtney needs to hear.
"Promise?" they ask, and they look so young, so vulnerable.
"I promise I'm trying," you say, because that much is true.
Courtney nods slowly, wiping at their eyes. "Okay. Okay, I can give you space. But please, don't disappear completely. I can't lose you."
"You won't lose me," you say, and you hope it's not another lie.
They stand up, and for a moment, you think they're going to hug you. You're not sure you could handle that. But they just give you a sad smile and leave, and somehow that's worse.
You sit in the empty conference room for a long time after they're gone, letting the tears fall, letting yourself feel everything you've been holding back.
The parking lot is nearly empty when you finally make your way out. The sun is setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that would be beautiful if you had the capacity to appreciate beauty right now.
"Hey."
You turn to find Trevor leaning against his car, clearly waiting for you.
"Stalking me now?" you ask, but there's no heat in it.
"Making sure you're okay," he corrects. "Are you?"
"No," you admit. "But I will be. Eventually."
Trevor pushes off his car and walks over to you. "I've been thinking about what you said. About it not mattering."
"Trevor,"
"Let me finish," he says gently. "You're right that some things can't change. Courtney's married. They love Shayne. Those are facts, and no amount of wishing will change them."
"I know that."
"But," Trevor continues, "that doesn't mean your feelings don't matter. They do matter. They matter because they're yours, because they're real, because they're part of who you are. And you don't have to apologize for them or pretend they don't exist."
"What am I supposed to do with them, then?" you ask. "If I can't tell anyone, if I can't act on them, if I just have to carry them around forever, what's the point?"
"The point is that you're human," Trevor says. "You're allowed to feel things, even when those feelings are inconvenient or painful or impossible. You're allowed to grieve what you can't have. You're allowed to take time to heal."
"I don't know how to heal from this," you confess. "I don't know how to stop loving them."
"Maybe you don't have to stop," Trevor says. "Maybe you just have to learn to love them differently. From a distance that doesn't hurt so much. In a way that lets you both move forward."
"That sounds impossible."
"Most worthwhile things are." Trevor's quiet for a moment. "Look, I'm not going to pretend I have all the answers. But I do know this: you're doing the right thing. Protecting Courtney and Shayne, not putting your feelings on them, trying to preserve what you all have together. That takes real love. Real sacrifice."
"It doesn't feel noble," you say bitterly. "It just feels like losing."
"Maybe it's both," Trevor says. "Maybe you can lose something and still do the right thing. Maybe that's what makes it the right thing, that it costs you something."
You think about that. About the cost of loving someone you can't have. About the price of protecting people you care about, even when it means hurting yourself.
"I don't want to lose them," you say quietly. "Either of them. Courtney's my best friend, and Shayne's a good guy. I don't want my feelings to ruin what we all have."
"Then don't let them," Trevor says simply. "Keep doing what you're doing. Take your space when you need it. Work through your feelings. And when you're ready, if you're ever ready, you can find your way back to a friendship that works for you. One that doesn't hurt so much."
"And if I'm never ready?"
Trevor's expression is sad but understanding. "Then you'll have to decide what you can live with. But that's a decision for another day. Right now, just focus on getting through today. And then tomorrow. One day at a time."
It's not a solution. It's not a fix. But it's something, a framework, a way forward, a path through the darkness even if you can't see where it leads.
"Thank you," you say, and you mean it. "For listening. For understanding. For not making me explain everything."
"That's what friends are for," Trevor says. "And for what it's worth, I think you're going to be okay. It might take a while, and it might hurt like hell, but you're going to be okay."
You want to believe him. You're not sure you do, but you want to.
"I should go," you say, gesturing to your car.
"Yeah. Get some rest. Actually rest, not just lying awake thinking about everything."
"I'll try," you say, and you both know it's probably a lie.
Trevor gives you a quick hug, brief, supportive, uncomplicated, and then heads to his own car. You watch him drive away, and then you're alone in the parking lot with the setting sun and the weight of everything you're carrying.
You get in your car. You start the engine. You sit there for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, trying to gather the strength to drive home.
Your phone buzzes. A text from Courtney: "Thank you for talking to me today. I love you. Always."
Three words that mean everything and nothing. I love you. They love you as a friend, as someone important in their life. They don't love you the way you love them. They never will.
You type back: "Love you too."
Because you do. Because that's the truth, even if it's not the whole truth. Because sometimes love means letting someone be happy with someone else. Sometimes love means protecting people from truths that would only hurt them. Sometimes love means carrying your feelings alone, in silence, in the dark.
You drive home as the sun sets completely, leaving you in darkness. And you think about Trevor's words, one day at a time. You can do that. You can survive one more day of loving someone you can't have. And then another day. And another.
Maybe eventually, it will hurt less. Maybe eventually, you'll find a way to be around Courtney without feeling like you're breaking apart. Maybe eventually, you'll be able to watch them be happy without wishing things were different.
Maybe.
But for now, you just have to get through today. And tomorrow. And the day after that.
One day at a time.
You can do that.
You have to.
Because the alternative, losing them completely, ruining what they have, destroying the friendship that still means everything even if it's not enough, is unthinkable.
So you'll carry this alone. You'll love from a distance. You'll protect them from the truth.
immediately after an interaction: i have GOT to get more normal oh god i need to get more normal immediately i have to get more normal or they're going to hunt me down they're going to hunt me down and flay me for sport
during an interaction: and why not put a little spin on it? why not add some conversational zest?
Even saying âIâm so sorry, I completely forgotâ sounds marginally better than â Iâm so sorry, I didnât completely forget, I actually completely remembered. I thought about it the whole time and it stressed me out so much my brain built an insurmountable wall around it.â
âIt didnât happen, and I donât know why. It could have. It should have. My life would be vastly improved if it had. I thought about it constantly and obsessively⊠and yet here we are.â
Hi! Can I request a Wanda x masc!female reader where Wanda owns a bookstore and reader is the masc lesbian always loitering in her store. I would love for it to give TOTAL grumpy x sunshine or like suave x nervous wreck energy (I think thatâs a thing, but Iâm probably not explaining it right lol) thank you! đ§Ą
you got me (head over heels for you)
Ë⧠Éwanda maximoff x masc lesbian!reader
now playing: ê°you got me // the acesê±
Ë⧠ÉđŹđźđŠđŠđđ«đČ: Wanda isnât the type to get crushes. But for attractive and charming masc lesbians who loiter in her bookstore, she might just make an exception
Ë⧠Éđđšđ§đđđ§đ: FLUFF, MAJOR grumpy x sunshine vibes, reader is a masc lesbian, gay panic, a pietro cameo, wanda not knowing how to flirt back, YEARNING, 2.8k words
Ë⧠Éđ/đ§: FINALLY managed to write something after nearly three weeks of writers block đ« i donât know quite if my block is cured yet, but managed to get some wanda fluff out of it, so i canât be that mad. thank you for this request and i hope you enjoy! <3
đŠđđŹđđđ«đ„đąđŹđ
Wanda loved her bookstore the same way most people loved their pets: a living thing with a beating heart and feelings that Wanda would protect with her life and maybe even die for. Maybe that sounded dramatic, but she didnât care.
Wanda loved everything about her bookstore, from the uneven wood floors that creaked in the same places everyday, to the one leaky window that always seemed to drip when it rained no matter how often she got the roof repaired. She loved how the smell of espresso always drifted in from the tiny cafĂš corner that sheâd fought tooth and nail to include when she bought the place two years ago.
Most of all, Wanda loved the people her bookstore attracted.
Her bookstore sat tucked between a vintage record shop and a plant store, and the plaza was just off a college campus. Which meant that Wanda spent most days surrounded by artsy college students with obscure majors and even more obscure fashion choices. Wandaâs seen it all: patchwork sweaters in the middle of July, chunky boots with tiny silver charms tied to the laces, and rings. They all loved oodles and oodles of rings. Wanda always felt like an outlier with her basic outfits, which typically consisted plain long sleeves and a skirt with tights every day.
And yet somehow, everyone was always so painfully polite. Everyone always cleaned up after themselves, theyâd tell Wanda âthank you so muchâ at the end of their transactions. And the tip jar at the cafĂš counter was always flooded with $1 and $5 dollar bills.
The bookstore has become a strange little haven for people who lingered. Students typing away at essays in the corner, couples sharing headphones in the poetry aisle, someone inevitably curled into the armchair near the window pretending to read whilst actually sneaking a nap in. (Wanda totally got it. Though sheâd never enrolled, she could imagine college was exhausting)
But there was one returning customer who was the biggest question mark to Wanda. And when the bell above the door chimes, yanking Wanda from her thoughts, her eyes lift from the register to see that very question mark walking through the door. You.
Something in Wandaâs chest betrayed her instantly, a familiar little flutter she absolutely refused to examine too closely. You stood in the doorway wearing a dark bomber jacket over a white tank top, rings glittering beneath the afternoon sunlight spilling through the windows. Your hair looked a little messy, purposefully wind-tossed, and a pair of sunglasses the same color as your jacket are tucked into the collar of your tank top.
You glance up the moment you step inside, smiling the second your eyes lock onto Wanda. It wasnât even a big smile. Just a small tug at the corner of your mouth, but it was debilitating enough that Wanda immediately looked back down at the open book in front of her like she hadnât noticed it, or you, at all.
Of course Wanda made it a point to greet every customer who walked through the doors, a rehearsed chirp of, âHi, welcome in!â ready on her lips. But itâs like you were the one anomaly. Every time she tried to greet you, sheâd get tongue-tied, those three stupid words suddenly impossible to say.
Wanda follows you with her eyes as you step into the cafĂš, and she also notes how the barista Sammy blushes immediately the second youâre at the counter. Wanda supposed you just had that effect on people.
âYou know,â Pietro, Wandaâs twin brother who actually was enrolled at the university down the street and, much like the other college kids, also came into Wandaâs bookstore to loiter, suddenly appears to Wandaâs right. âOne of these days, youâll have to swallow your pride and just ask for her number,â
Wanda slammed the book shut in front of her. âI donât want her number.â
âRight. And I donât come in here just to eat all the chocolate chip cookies in the cafĂš,â her brother teases with a roll of his eyes.
Wandaâs brows furrow. âYes you do, Pietro. Youâve said before that thereâs crack in those cookiesââ
âI know, Wanda. I was being sarcastic. Thank you for proving my point,â Pietro barks a laugh.
Wandaâs cheeks flare even hotter, making her curse her nervous system. âSheâs just another customer,â she argues.
âJust another customer who comes in here five days a week at minimum,â Pietro counters. âJust another customer who buys exactly one coffee and then spends three hours wandering around and pretending not to stare at you,â
Wanda frowns down at the register. âShe does not stare at me,â she mumbles. Though what she doesnât say is that she canât even count on her two hands just how many times sheâs caught you staring. And she definitely canât count how many times those stares had given her butterflies.
Before Pietro could tell Wanda she was full of shit, your cologne reached the checkout counter before you did, your boots sounding on the hardwood a moment later.
âAfternoon, Maximoff,â you greet Wanda warmly, then nod in Pietroâs direction. âWhatâs up, Pietro? That sub professor in German 2 today was weird, right?â
âTotal weirdo,â Pietro agrees with a shake of his head. Wanda glares daggers at her twin, a look that says âyou never told me you had a class with her!â And Pietro smiles back with a shit-eating grin that replies, âYou never askedâ. Wanda continues to glare at Pietroâs retreating back as he walks away.
Wanda turns back to face you to find you already grinning at her. She ignores the way that her stomach flips in response. âItâs 2:30,â are the first brilliant words out of her mouth.
âThat it is,â you say before bringing your coffee cup to your lips for a sip. âArenât you observant,â
Wanda huffs. âMy point is that you typically come around noon,â she says. âWhat, find a better bookstore than mine?â
Your eyebrows lifted, followed by a slow grin that spreads across your face. âDidnât realize you were keeping tabs on me, Maximoff,â
Heat crawled up Wandaâs next instantly. âI am not keeping tabs on you!â she defended quickly. âI just happen to have memorized the comings and goings of my customers. Plus, I know how much you like to loiter, so you coming in at two-thirty only gives you six hours of loitering instead of eightâŠâ she trails off, wincing. What the hell was she even talking about? Pietro snickers from somewhere inside the stockroom, definitely having heard his sisterâs rambling, and Wanda makes a mental note to kill him with her bare hands later.
When Wanda risks a glance back in your direction, your small smirk has transformed into a full-blown grin. âSo, youâre saying you missed me?â you ask, leaning your elbows on the counter.
âI am saying no such thing.â
âMm,â you nodded thoughtfully, clearly not absorbing what Wanda just said. âInteresting.â
Wanda points an accusatory finger at you. âDonât do that.â
âDo what?â you chuckle.
âThat thing where you decide what I mean instead of listening to the words Iâm actually saying.â
âWell, in my literature class, the professor is always going on and on about how we should pay attention to hidden meanings, so thatâs what Iâm doing here,â
Wanda folds her arms across her chest. âFine, so what exactly is the hidden meaning here?â She challenges.
You donât answer at first, but your smile goes a little soft, and Wandaâs heart starts to sound like a drum-line in her chest. The atmosphere dissipates completely when Pietro calls from the other room, telling Wanda that a customer on the phone wants to speak to her. When Wanda returns from the phone call however, youâre gone, and sheâs completely blindsided by the visceral feeling of disappointment she feels. She also canât shake the image of that soft smile sheâd seen on your face.
***
The next day, you didnât show up right around noon like you always did. Wanda told herself sheâd only noticed your absence because the bookstore was unusually quiet; much less foot traffic than there usually was on a weekday afternoon. But then, you didnât come in the next day either. Or the day after that.
Every tiny bell chime tugged Wandaâs attention upward before she could stop herself. But it was always just another cool-dressed college kid. Every laugh from outside made something hopeful spark in Wandaâs chest. But it was never you.
Wanda didnât care. She couldnât. So what if you stopped coming in? People drifted in and out of the bookstore all the time. College kids graduated. They got new routines, new cafĂšs, new favorite haunts. Wanda had seen it happen before. It didnât matter. Thatâs what she told herself anyway.
She threw herself into work instead. She reorganized the fantasy section that was constantly in a state of disarray, brought order back to the Funko Pop display, even vacuumed the stockroom, which was the only part of the bookstore that still had carpet for some reason. She did anything she could to avoid thinking about the fact that a certain girl with windswept hair and an affinity for clunky statement jewelry hadnât shown her face in the past few days.
By the fifth consecutive day, Wanda almost asked Pietro if heâd seen you around campus. Which was humiliating, because that would require admitting she cared at all. And Pietro would never let her live it down. But Pietro had a way of knowing that Wanda was thinking about asking it anyway.
âIf youâre worried about your girlfriendââ Pietro starts.
âShe is not my girlfriend,â Wanda interjected.
âWell, if youâre worried about the girl whoâs not your girlfriend, but whom I know youâre attracted to,â Pietro amends his statement. âSheâs not dead or anything. Sheâs been in German 2 every day this week. She just hasnât been coming here,â
Wanda ignores the sting she feels. So you were safe, you justâŠwhat? Found a new bookstore? Didnât want to see Wanda anymore?
Not that you were seeing her at all. Not that Wanda cared if she ever saw you again. Wanda fights to stay aloof, managing a cool nod in response to Pietroâs news. âOkay. Great,â she says. âIâm glad she is safe.â
Pietro looks at Wanda, an annoyingly sympathetic expression on his face. âIâm sorry, Wands. I donât know why sheâs stopped coming here. I guess I could ask her the next time I see her in classââ
âNo.â Wanda snaps. âYou will do no such thing, Pietro. But what you can do is stay out of my business, alright?â
Wanda doesnât wait for Pietro to answer. Turning away from him, she grabs the stack of books off the register, and storms off to put them back on the shelf.
Wanda finds herself in the romance section, because of course she does. Her brain is on autopilot as she puts each book back where it goes. The last book in her hands catches her attention. Itâs a sapphic romance, an art design of two girls holding hands on the cover. Wanda stares for a long time at the dark-haired girl with tattoos depicted on the left side, and suddenly sheâs thinking of an attractive smile and a bomber jacket. Wanda clears her throat and shoves the book back on the shelf.
This was ridiculous. Wanda didnât get crushes. She didnât get weird and gooey about people. She was better off alone. Her stomach was wrong. Her heart was even more wrong. Wanda canât flee the romance aisle fast enough.
***
It has now been two weeks since Wanda had last seen you in her bookstore. You would think that after fourteen full days, her body would stop reacting. That eventually sheâd stop glancing up every time the bell above the door chimed. That the tiny spark of hope in her chest would finally die out instead of reigniting over and over and over again. But it never did. Every single time the door opened, Wandaâs stupid heart still leapt before her brain could catch up. And every time it wasnât you, the feeling fizzled out just as quickly, leaving behind something hollow and embarrassing.
It was pathetic. Especially because Wanda still didnât even know why youâd stopped coming. Maybe you found another cafĂš. Maybe you got bored of flirting with the awkward bookstore owner who could barely string a sentence together around you.
It had been a slow day from start to finish, and by the time closing rolled around, Wanda had already sent everyone else home. Now it was just Wanda alone behind the register, counting the tills and organizing receipts. The silence is broken by the bell chime of the door.
âWeâre closing in ten minutes,â Wanda called automatically without looking up.
âThatâs okay,â a familiar voice said warmly. âI only need one thing.â
Wandaâs heart did something fizzy in her chest. Her head snapped up so fast, she nearly gave herself whiplash. And there you were.
Rain droplets dappled the shoulders of your dark jacket and the ends of your hair were damp too like you narrowly escaped the downpour. You shoved your hands into the pockets of your jacket, and gave Wanda a cheeky smile. And just like that, two miserable weeks of pretending she didnât care evaporated.
Something mustâve shown on Wandaâs face because your expression softened almost immediately. âThere she is,â you murmur quietly.
Wanda realized, distantly, that she was staring. âYou just disappeared,â she blurts before she can stop herself. Your eyebrows lifted, and Wanda wanted to throw herself directly into traffic. âI meanâŠâ she backpedals. âYou-you havenât come in and Pietro said classes were still in session, so I thought maybeââ
Your expression melted into something so unbearably fond that it made Wandaâs stomach flip. âYou noticed I was gone, huh?â you ask.
Wanda crosses her arms defensively even as heat rushes to her cheeks. âWell, you loiter in my store for eight hours a day. It wouldâve been difficult not to notice your absence,â
You chuckle, stepping closer to the counter. âI missed you too, Maximoff,â
Up close, Wanda notices two things about you: that you have the prettiest eyes sheâs ever seenâŠand that you look exhausted. Something tugs in her chest.
âSo where were you?â she asks before she can stop herself. Sheâs hoping more than anything that youâre not about to mention a longtime girlfriend that youâve been spending all your time with.
âMy mom was in the hospital,â you admit softly, scratching at the back of your neck. âSheâs okay now. It was justâŠa rough couple weeks.â
Oh. Instant guilt crashes into Wanda so hard it nearly makes her dizzy. All this time sheâd been spiraling, thinking youâd just gotten bored of her when youâd been dealing with something so real. Was she really that much of drama queen?
Your smile suddenly turns sheepish. âI kept meaning to come by, but things got kinda crazy, both with my mom and with classes,â
Wanda suddenly doesnât know what to do with herself or her nervous energy. You hadnât been avoiding her. Youâd wanted to see her all this time, you were just busy dealing with a sick mother and ruthless college classes. Wanda steps out from behind the counter to talk to you, and is struck immediately by the height difference. You were a good four inches taller, to the effect that Wanda had to tilt her head a bit to meet your eyes.
âIâm so sorry, that all sounds really stressful,â Wanda says. âBut Iâm glad your mom is okay now,â
âYeah,â you smile. âMe too. Now, I can spend more time here figuring out a puzzle,â
Wanda frowns. âI donât sell puzzles here,â
You chuckle. âI know, Maximoff. I meant you,â
Wandaâs heart jolts in her chest. âExcuse me?â
âYou heard me,â you reply, shameless. âI know youâre a little prickly, but I think youâre cute. And I hope you know Iâm not gonna stop flirting unless you tell me to back off,â
Wanda swallows hard. âIâm notâŠgood at that, though,â she stammers. âAt-at flirting back. Iâm not good at it.â
âYeah, Iâve gathered that,â you laugh. âBut donât worry. I think thatâs cute too, and I can definitely work with that,â
âYou can?â Wanda asks.
âYeah,â you say. And then you reach for Wandaâs hand. Your skin is warm against hers, and the touch sends a spark up her entire arm. Wanda relaxes into it, letting her fingers lace with yours.
âAre you hungry at all?â you ask next.
âStarving, actually,â Wanda replies. And she was. All sheâd had for sustenance today was a fruit smoothie around six a.m in the morning. And she could finally admit to herself that sheâd been thinking of you all day, and thatâs why her stomach had been in knots.
âWanna get out of here? Grab a bite? Actually have a conversation now that youâve admitted to digging me?â you tease.
Wanda tilts her head. âDid I admit that?â she asks coyly.
You smile down at her. âWell, you havenât dropped my hand yet, so I think that counts for something,â
Wandaâs smile widens. âHmm. Well, just let me lock up and Iâm yours,â
You wait for Wanda as she locks up her bookstore. When sheâs done, her hand finds yours and she lets you lead her to your car. Wanda canât shake the dopey smile that plays on her lips, and all she can think about is how sheâs just so damn glad she finally stopped pretending.
WARNING: cutie beginning, SMUT, cursing, cunnilingus (max receiving!), fingering (max receiving!), f4f action (dont like it, dont stay!), âsubtleâ arcane reference, NOT PROOFREAD.
FIC UNDER THE CUT âŒïž
Max was in the kitchen making dinner and you were lounging on the couch, scrolling through Crosstalk. You smile softly at the savory smell of whatever Max was making. You didnât have a clue, but you were ready.
You turn your phone off, surrendering all your attention to her, âMmm that smells so good, babe! Whatâre you making?â You marvel at the smell of her cooking.
âOh youâll see! Something special for my someone special,â She says, the biggest and goofiest smile on her face as she says it. You giggle, admiring her cute and cheesy millennial lines.
You turn your attention back towards your phone, occasionally peaking into the kitchen to see what Max was up to.
What only seems like a few minutes later, she finishes cooking and she takes two plates out of the cabinet, serving you before herself.
âThank you, babe, this looks SO good!â You exclaimed, drooling over the sit in front of you.
âHey you should be thanking yourself. I was only following your recipe,â She smiles. You smile back up at her, pulling her hovering figure down by her collar to give her a kiss, expressing your gratitude.
Max gets shocked at the sudden and unpredictable move, resulting in flusted cheeks and wet panties. They werenât soaked, but if you kept it up they would be.
You take notice of this and decide to have fun with it. As Max sat down across from you, you lean forward, elbows resting on the table and your head in your hands. You âlistenâ to Max rant about whatever she was talking about, too focused on riling her up to even hear what she was actually saying. You start flashing those eyes at her and she swallows harshly, starting to stumble on her words.
You tilt your head in feigned confusion, âMax whatâs wrong? Are you okay?â
She crosses her legs.
âWhat do you mean? Nothings wrong!â She pauses, avoiding eye contact and fanning herself, âIs it hot in here? I need to turn the air down.â
She gets up and walks around, trying to free herself from the restriction of her seat. You get up after her and grab her face.
âWhatâs wrong, my love? Are you feeling alright?â You speak to her in a baby tone, almost mocking her shyness.
âY-yeah, Iâm okay. Iâm just⊠hot is all.â
âYes, you are,â You comment, her face slightly going pink at your flirting.
You walk behind her and guide her back to her seat. As she plops down, you return to your side of the table and continue to enjoy your meal. You look up at her, seeing her scroll on her phone and squirm a little in her seat.
Suddenly, a light bulb forms over your head. You âaccidentallyâ drop your utensil under the table, grabbing her attention.
âOh, oops! Iâll get it!â You say crawling under the table.
Max, unsuspectingly, gets back on her phone and tries to contain herself. You pick up your fork and move towards her, running your hand up her leg slowly. She gasps, immediately pushing her chair out from under the table to look down at you.
âBabe! W-What are you doing?â She asks, body temperature rising at the sight of you on your knees.
âDo you remember that conversation we had? You had said something that stuck out to me,â You tease, reaching for the chair legs to pull her closer.
Max knew where this was going, but she was too flustered to give an actual response. You look up her, moving closer. You rest your head on her thigh, drawing spirals on the other with your finger.
âHmm, what was it? Oh yeah! âI could eat you under the tableâ was it?â You smirk to yourself, looking up at her with doe eyes. She gulps and nods, too nervous she might ruin the moment if she speaks.
âIâve noticed you getting nervous. Have I made you all hot and bothered?â She nods quickly, pulling a chuckle out of you. You crawl up her and sit on her lap, immediately throwing your arms around her shoulders.
You guys just look at each other, mesmerized by the beauty of one another. You look her up and down, your eyes travelling to her lips the most. She rests her hands on your waist, pulling your body closer and closing the gap between you.
When your lips collide itâs game over. Your hand runs in her hair, tugging at the brown strands. She softly whimpers into your mouth at the gesture, pulling a smile out of you. She kisses down to your jaw, slowly working her way to your neck. She makes sure to not leave a single spot unkissed.
When she reaches your shoulder and starts sucking on your skin. Your back slightly arches and you tug her hair a little bit, pulling another sound out of her. She kisses, sucks, even bites your skin. Sheâs so gentle with it but still her hunger is shown through her kisses.
You pull her face back up to kiss you, the kiss even more heated than before. You pull your bodies impossibly closer, arching into her body.
You slowly get up, separating yourself from her addictive kisses, dragging a groan out of her. She was about to question you until she saw you drop down to your knees and move under the table.
âTake your pants off, pretty girl,â You tell her, causing her body temperature to rise. You chuckle, staring into her eyes, âI wasnât asking, baby. Take your pants off.â
She starts unbuttoning her jeans slowly, being hesitant. She slowly drags her pants down, leaving her in her underwear. You smirk at the sight of your girlfriend, knowing she was soaked.
âAre you gonna stay there in your panties or am I gonna have to take them off of you?â
She just stares at you, the look in her eye screaming and begging for you to do it. You obey her command and slide her panties off of her legs, having fun with it.
You pull her legs farther apart, leaning in close to her womanhood. You breathe against her skin, sending shivers throughout her body. You start leaving lingering kisses on her thighs, causing her hand to fly over her mouth.
You look up at her as you slowly work your kisses up her leg, traveling to her womanhood. You grab her hips, pulling her closer to the end of the seat, earning a gasp in response.
You look up at her one more time, searching her eyes for approval. She nods slowly and you smirk, diving in. You start shamelessly sucking and lapping your tongue on her clit, hands slowly sliding up her thighs.
Your nails dig into her thighs, slowly getting drunk on her smell and flavor. He head flew back at the sudden attack on her cunt, moans spilling from her mouth. Her hand reached to your head, tugging on your locks. You moan against her, sending small vibrations to her clit.
Your tongue keeps working between her folds, drowning in her taste. You let go of one thigh, moving your finger to her entrance. With no hesitation, you stick a finger inside of her, slowly pumping in and out.
You suck on her clit harder, causing her to pull your head back to look at her. She stares at your wet lips and chin through heavy, lidded eyes, admiring the view.
You slowly move back down, pumping your fingers in faster and continuing to work your tongue. She starts moaning your name, making your face heat up. You slip in another finger, making her arch her back a little. Her grip on your hair never loosens, only getting tighter the more you satisfy her.
As your thrusting speed starts faltering, her moans slightly get higher. You try to keep up your pace but your arm starte cramping, causing you to slow down.
âRight there, please! Iâm almost there! Oh my god, donât stop, donât stop, fuck-â She drags, her begging immediately recharging you and giving you the stamina to keep going.
You pull your mouth away from her clit, looking up at her, âI want you to look me in the eyes until you cum, understood?â
She nods, doing her best to look at you through heavy, lidded eyes. You thrust your fingers harder, making sure she can feel how much you want to finish her off.
Her eyes go wide as she babbles, âIâm cumming! Iâm cumming-â
You keep your pace consistent, letting her release herself onto you. As she starts coming down from her high, you slow down your pace until her breathing returns to normal. You lick her clean, crawling up to her face.
You sit on her lap again, leaning in to kiss her slowly. Her hands go to your sides, pulling you close. As she tastes herself, she grips your hips, pulling away from the kiss.
âTake that as a thank you for dinner,â You say, smiling and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
âYeah, the dinner you didnât even eat. Itâs probably cold now!â Max retaliates, making you giggle.
âWell, maybe I was hungry for something else,â You shrug your shoulders, pecking her lips.
âYouâre luckly I love you,â You smile at her comment, kissing her passionately again.
âI love you, too. Now go clean yourself and get comfortable, Iâll do the kitchen,â You say, climbing off of her.
âYes maâam!â She salutes you, leaving to go shower.
EEK I FINALLY FINISHED THIS!! i literally started this in i think⊠december? and now i finished it!! i hope you guys enjoyed it!! sorry it was kind of repetitive⊠PLEASE SEND ANY REQUESTS YOU MIGHT HAVE!!! my requests are OPEN! i literally have such bad writers block and idk what to write so if you have any ideas for my series or a oneshot DONT BE SHY to lmk!! :)
Bro. Was no one going to tell me that in the Bae! Timeline Max literally brought back Arcadia Bay just because Chloe was SAD
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I canât believe there are people out there that think Max (or Chloe for that matter) could ever have a love interest long term that isnât each other. Max was out here truly and absolutely fucking around with her literal time control powers, which she barely understands, to save Chloe the heartbreak of what happened.
From the moment Robin got a girlfriend, her life... didn't change. Well, just a little. Someone just appeared who voiced the obvious things like, âThe waiter should have brought the food half an hour ago,â or âThat man shouldn't talk to you like that!â
Finally broke down and looked up "67" on wikipedia today, and i love that wikipedia had to include the fact that people are using the meme as evidence of "brain rot" in younger generations because of how low-effort it is. And like, i have no horse in this race, i'm clearly out of touch enough with what the kids are saying that i have to go look up memes on the internet to understand them, but brain rot? I'm pretty sure kids have been saying random numbers as memes since... like, the beginning of language. the beginning of numbers. I'm guessing that some time around 15,000 years ago in hunter-gatherer tribes all around the world a scene played out where one kid shouted "hey look, four rocks!" after seeing a few rocks on the ground, and every other kid in the tribe shouted "four rocks! four rocks!" and the adults just stood around like "what the fuck are the kids on about now?" and then had to live with the kids saying "four rocks!" every time they saw four of literally any object together. Like, this does not seem like a new phenomenon.
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