🎧

multiple fandoms, new to fanfics and very gay 19

[givemeursweater]

sooo, i kinda broke up with a long time friend that i have. i know that the term "broke up" isn't meant for friends, but i was in love with him for a long time. i asked him if he ever was in love with me because when we met he gave me so many signals, and it turns out he wasn't. i was stupidly blinded by love and our friendship was ruined because of friends, distance and my feelings. he was the reason i'm called givemeursweater, him and his conan gray that now i can't listen to without crying. i'm not looking for kind words or whatever, i just needed to get this off my chest for now. thank you.

[givemeursweater]

Can I have a kiss? | Baran Al-Hashimi

pairing: Baran Al-hashimi x Fem!Reader

summary: After a soft dinner, Baran is feeling needy.

word count: 1k

author's note: HELLOOOO ITS BEEN SO LONG i came here just to post this and then disappear again cus ive been failing all my classes (LIE) so ive been really burned out, WELL I HOPE U GUYS LIKE THIS i might write something more for al hashimi idk i love her

The apartment is quiet again after dinner with Baran and her son—soft, warm, lived-in.

The plates had been good, simple, something easy after a long day, and now the only thing left is the low sound of running water and the occasional clink of glass against the sink.

You’re standing at it, sleeves pushed up, hands submerged in warm, soapy water as you rinse the last few things. It’s not much—just a couple plates, a few glasses—but still.

Behind you—

Baran.

She had insisted you leave it. Had told you, very clearly, that it could wait until morning. That you should sit, rest, stay with her. Lay in bed and do something more fun.

You hadn’t listened.

And now she’s making that known.

Her arms slide around your waist from behind, slow and deliberate, her body pressing into your back as she tucks herself against you like she belongs there—which, at this point, she kind of does.

“You are ignoring me,” she murmurs against your shoulder.

“I’m washing dishes,” you correct, smiling faintly as you keep your focus on the glass in your hands.

“Is that more important than me?"

“It is when you get cranky seeing the mess of dishes.”

She huffs softly, but doesn’t move away.

Her chin brushes your shoulder as she nudges your hair aside, fingers gently gathering it and moving it over to one side—

And then her lips press, slow and warm, against your exposed shoulder.

You inhale quietly.

“Bee…”

She hums in response, already pressing another kiss, closer to your neck this time.

“You are paying more attention to the plates than to your girlfriend,” she murmurs, very pointedly emphasizing the word.

You can’t help it—you laugh softly under your breath.

“My girlfriend?” you repeat, amused.

“Yes,” she says simply, like that settles it.

Her hands tighten just a little around your waist, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt, resting warm against your skin now instead of fabric.

“You have been doing this for too long,” she adds, voice quieter, her lips brushing your neck again.

“It’s been like five minutes.”

“It has been at least ten.”

“It hasn’t.”

She doesn’t answer.

Instead, she kisses your neck—longer this time, slower, bitting carefully, lingering just enough that it makes it harder to ignore.

You exhale softly, shifting slightly in her hold but not pulling away.

“Almost done,” you tell her. “I’ve got like—three glasses left. Then I’m all yours.”

“I want you now.”

You laugh again, shaking your head a little as you rinse another glass.

“You’ll survive.”

“I am not sure I will.”

One of her hands slide further up under your shirt, just barely brushing the underside of your chest. The other hand settles more firmly at your waist, fingers pressing lightly into your skin as she leans into you again.

Then—

Another kiss.

Higher.

Closer to your jaw this time. More bitting than kissing, if you're being honest.

“Bee,” you warn, softer now.

She ignores you.

Her lips find your neck again, and you feel her breath warm against your skin before she presses another kiss there.

“I want a kiss,” she murmurs.

“You’re getting one,” you reply, trying to stay focused, “in like—thirty seconds.”

“That is too long.”

“It is not too long.”

“It is.”

You shake your head, but your voice is starting to betray you just a little.

“I’m almost done—"

“Please.” She whispers right against your skin.

Her fingers tighten slightly at your waist, one of her thumbs brushing more surely against the underside of your boob.

“I want a kiss,” she repeats, quieter now.

You exhale, half a laugh, half a whine.

“Bee—”

“Please,” she says again, and this time there’s a faint, almost stubborn edge to it. “Just one.”

You rinse another glass, set it aside.

“Two glasses,” you mutter.

She does not care.

Her lips press to your neck again, slower, more insistent now, and her hands shift—one cupping your boob and brushing over your clothed nipple, the other anchoring at your waist, moving softly lower.

“I am asking nicely,” she murmurs.

“You are being very distracting.”

“That is the intention.”

You huff a breath, trying not to smile too much.

“One more glass.”

“I want a kiss.”

“One—”

“Please."

You laugh under your breath again, shaking your head as you rinse the last one, water running over your hands.

“I’m literally finishing—”

“I know.”

“And you’re still—”

“Yes.”

You don’t even get to finish your sentence.

Because the second you set the glass down—

She moves.

Her hands move to your waist and she gently but firmly turns you around, pressing you back against the edge of the sink before you can even properly react.

Your hands are still wet, lifted slightly away from her on instinct—

And then she’s kissing you.

Her hands stay at your waist, grounding you as she leans in fully, closing the distance like she’s been waiting the entire time—which, clearly, she has.

You let out a quiet moan against her lips, instinctively wanting to reach for her—

But your hands hover uselessly in the air, droplets of water still clinging to your fingers.

“Bee—my hands—” you murmur against her mouth.

“I do not care,” she whispers back, and kisses you again.

It’s slower this time. Deeper.

Her grip on you softens just slightly, one hand sliding along your side while the other stays firm at your waist, keeping you right where she wants you.

You tilt your head into it despite yourself, laughing softly under your breath between kisses because you literally can’t touch her back.

“Unfair,” you mumble.

“You had your chance,” she replies quietly, lips brushing yours again.

The kiss lingers like she’s making up for every second she had to wait.

Her hands move slowly—down, deliberate—traveling from your waist to your hips.

Then lower.

And then—

A firm squeeze. Nails digging into your cheeks.

You let out a surprised laugh and moan against her lips, pulling back just slightly, breath a little uneven now.

“Okay—okay—”

She pauses, just enough to look at you, eyes softer now but still very much focused.

“…Now?” she asks, voice quieter again, but still carrying that same need underneath.

You shake your head, smiling, still a little breathless.

“Yeah,” you admit.

She leans in like she’s about to kiss you again—

But stops just short.

“…Can we go to the bedroom?” she asks, softer this time.

You laugh again, a little helpless, a little fond.

“Yeah,” you say, reaching for the towel with one hand, finally drying them off. “We can go to the bedroom.”

You toss the towel aside, leaning in just enough to press a quick, soft peck to her lips—

And she immediately follows you when you pull away.

[givemeursweater]

loved your trinity santos fic!! just wanted to let you know that the lullaby trinity sings is visayan— not tagalog!

OMG thank you so much! i tried to find some type of information about the lullaby on twitter but couldn't find anything so i just asumed it was tagalog:( i'll fix it right away!

[givemeursweater]

Found (Queer) Family? – Trinity Santos, Part Two

pairing: Trinity Santos x Nurse!Reader

summary: Certain gossipy nurse takes it upon herself to push Trinity to ask you out. Thankfully, everything works out... for now?

word count: 1.4k

author's note: i may have turned this into a three chapter thing, maybe more... ANYWAYS im glad you guys liked the fanfic!!!!!!!!!!! ive been feeling kinda down from a few things with my family but im glad that i can still produce a good fic for you guys, enjoy!

part one here!

The ER slowly stretched back into its usual rhythm after the little baby Jane Doe had settled in your arms, with Trinity singing.

Monitors hummed. A trauma page echoed distantly from another wing. The scent of antiseptic clung to everything. Baby Jane Doe now slept in her crib under the soft pediatric light, a tiny island of quiet in the middle of chaos.

You stepped out of the room after double-checking her vitals, pulling the door halfway closed so the light wouldn’t spill too harshly into the hallway.

Princess was waiting.

Not in a dramatic way. Just leaning against the counter near the supply cart, arms crossed, eyebrow already raised in anticipation.

The moment she caught your eye, her mouth curved.

“Sooo,” she sang lightly. “You played happy lesbian family with Doctor Santos?”

You blinked once. Then laughed.

“She was just helping, okay?”

Princess pushed off the counter and followed you a few steps as you replenished the gloves from the wall dispenser. “Helping,” she repeated slowly, like she was tasting the word. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”

You snapped the box open. “We were calming a baby.”

“Mhm. Looked real domestic from where I was standing.”

You rolled your eyes but there was a smile tugging at your mouth. “You’re dramatic.”

Princess leaned her hip against the med cart, watching you with sharp amusement. “What’s going on between you and Dr. Santos?”

“Nothing,” you said easily. Too easily. “We helped Baby Jane Doe sleep. That’s it.”

Princess squinted at you, clearly not buying that.

“Uh-huh.”

You reached for a chart, flipping it open. “She stayed with me while I calmed the baby. Sue me if that's weird."

“She had her hand on your waist.”

You didn’t miss a beat. “Can't you let the kid be needy?"

Princess snorted. “Please.”

You shrugged, deliberately nonchalant. “There’s nothing going on.”

Princess tilted her head. “There’s something. It's been there for a long time. Longer than Baby Jane Doe.”

You flipped a page in the chart. “There isn’t.” You said, stretching the last word.

She leaned closer. “If Dr. Santos asked you out—hypothetically—what would you do?”

You finally looked up at her.

A slow smile spread across your face.

“Well,” you said thoughtfully, tapping the pen against the chart, “if she caught me in a good mood… I might say yes.”

Princess’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”

“But,” you added casually, closing the chart with a soft thud, “it’s obvious Trinity would be way too nervous to ever actually ask.”

Princess barked out a laugh. “Okay, that’s fair.”

You handed off the chart and moved past her to check on another patient. “See? No scandal.”

Princess watched you walk away, then glanced down the hallway toward where Trinity sat at the computer station, hunched over her keyboard like it had personally offended her.

Princess’s eyes gleamed.

—

Forty minutes later, Trinity was deep in her charting again.

The energy shot had kicked in just enough to make her thoughts sharper, but not enough to erase the exhaustion pooling behind her eyes. She typed quickly, jaw set, occasionally glancing over her shoulder to make sure you weren't around.

She didn’t notice Princess approaching until a shadow fell across her keyboard.

“You,” Princess said firmly.

Trinity startled slightly. “What.”

Princess quickly switched to Tagalog. “You need to invite her out.”

Trinity blinked. “Invite— who?”

Princess stared at her.

Trinity’s brain caught up.

"Oh. No. No, I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I absolutely do not.”

Princess planted her hands on the counter. “Coffee. A drink. Anything. You have to do it.”

Trinity’s ears were already turning pink. “What are you— why are you— no.”

Princess leaned closer. “You like her.”

Trinity’s fingers froze above the keyboard. “I do not—”

“You do.”

“I—” Trinity lowered her voice. “That’s not important right now.”

“It is if you keep staring at her like she hung the moon.”

Trinity’s heart slammed once, violently. “I do not stare.”

Princess grinned. “You do.”

Trinity looked around quickly to make sure no one else was listening. “Why are you like this?”

“Because,” Princess said, straightening dramatically, “you need to grow a spine.”

She knocked her knuckles lightly against the counter for emphasis. “Ask her out.”

Trinity’s pulse was in her throat now. “That’s insane.”

Princess lowered her head. "She's old, she's boring, she doesn't have a date today. Do it Santos."

Trinity covered her face with both of her hands, trying her best to ignore Princess.

Princess pointed at her. “You’re doing it.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

"Princess—”

“Ask. Her. Out.”

She tapped the counter one more time, then spun on her heel and walked away like she’d just issued a formal decree.

Trinity stared after her, stunned.

Her chest felt tight.

Ask her out.

Absolutely not.

Absolutely—

All of her thoughts were turned into mush the second she saw you walking down the hall.

You were heading back toward the pediatric room, replacing Jesse for baby watch duty. Your steps were easy. Calm. With a softness to it.

Trinity swallowed.

She looked left. Right.

Dennis was nowhere in sight. Probably Ogilvie and Joy were with him.

Langdon was in another bay. And she preferred it that way.

Princess was suspiciously absent. Surely catching Perlah up to speed with her gossip.

Her palms were damp but she stood before she could talk herself out of it.

—

The pediatric room door was partially open.

You were seated in a chair beside the crib, Baby Jane Doe nestled in your arms, a small bottle angled gently between her lips. The baby’s eyes were half-open, unfocused in that sleepy newborn way, tiny hands curled loosely.

You adjusted the bottle slightly when you heard the soft knock against the doorframe.

You looked up.

Trinity stood there.

She offered a small, almost shy smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you replied warmly.

She stepped inside, hands immediately unsure of where to go. Pockets? Crossed arms? Around her neck?

She opted for awkwardly clasped in front of her.

“How’s she doing?” Trinity asked, nodding toward the baby.

You glanced down fondly. “She’s eaten about thirty milliliters so far. No spit-up. Good latch. She fussed for a bit but settled quickly.”

Trinity nodded like this was highly technical information she was processing with grave seriousness.

“Vitals?”

“Stable. Respirations steady. No fever. She's still a very healthy baby."

“Good,” Trinity murmured.

She crouched down beside the rocking chair, carefully lowering herself onto her heels. Her knees cracked faintly and she pretended it didn’t happen.

She leaned forward slightly, peering at the baby.

“Hi,” she said softly, awkwardly. “You’re… very round.”

The baby didn't react.

You hid a smile.

Trinity gave a hesitant little wave with two fingers.

You shifted the bottle slightly. “She likes the light pressure on her cheek. Helps with the suck reflex.”

Trinity nodded like she understood completely, even though she absolutely did not.

Silence settled.

Not uncomfortable. Just full.

Trinity became aware that she was staring at you rather than at the baby.

At the curve of your jaw in the soft light. The way your thumb adjusted the bottle. The way you instinctively rocked even when the chair wasn’t moving.

Her brain short-circuited again.

Say it.

She swallowed.

"So,” she began, voice thinner than she intended.

You looked at her.

Her stomach dropped.

“What are you doing after your shift?”

There it was.

Out in the open.

You blinked once. “Nothing exciting. Probably go home. Sleep for twelve hours.” A small smile. “Why?”

Her hands tightened slightly where they rested on her thighs.

“Well, I was— I was just wondering if you’d maybe—”

Oh my God.

Abort.

No.

Princess will kill you.

She forced herself to continue.

“—like to get coffee. Or something. After.”

The last two words nearly tripped over each other.

You stared at her for half a second.

Then you smiled.

Warm. Genuine.

“I’d like that,” you said. “I’d like that a lot.”

Trinity’s entire body exhaled at once.

“Oh,” she breathed.

Her shoulders dropped visibly.

“Great,” she said quickly. Too quickly. Then a softer, breathier laugh escaped her. “Yeah. Great.”

You adjusted the bottle as the baby slowed her drinking.

Trinity reached out hesitantly and adjusted the tiny knit hospital cap on the baby’s head, smoothing it carefully so it sat straight.

“There,” she murmured to the baby.

You watched her with an amused softness.

Trinity stood up, brushing nonexistent lint off her scrub pants. “Well. I should, uh. Get back to charting.”

You grinned. “Good luck, Dr. Santos.”

Her ears turned pink again instantly.

“Yeah— uh— yeah. I’m— thanks.”

She gave you one last quick glance—like she couldn’t quite believe it had worked—then turned and walked out of the room, trying very hard not to look like she was floating.

[givemeursweater]

this is how i feel trying to entertain everyone while NOT WRITING SMUT

[givemeursweater]

Found (Queer) Family? – Trinity Santos

pairing: Trinity Santos x Nurse!Reader

summary: Taking care of Baby Jane Doe with you wasn't on Trinity's plans, but she clearly couldn't deny you—or herself—from helping calm down the little girl.

word count: 1.6k

author's note: YEAA FINALLY A FANFIC i have a part two for this so lmk if i should post it, i finally saw my girlfriend and saw the new chapter of the pitt, this is very spoilers (kinda???) so thread carefully. trying to revive my computer bc i hate writing on my phone but whatever!!!!!!!!

part two here!

The ER at 1 in the afternoon had a particular kind of exhaustion to it.

Not the loud, chaotic exhaustion of sirens and trauma alerts—but the slow, heavy one. The kind that settled into fluorescent lights and made everything hum a little too loudly.

The waiting room was still a war zone, chairs filled to the brim. The automatic doors sighed open and shut every so often for no real reason.

Trinity Santos sat hunched at one of the computers behind the main nurses’ station, her spine curved in a way that was going to punish her later. The blue glow of the screen reflected off her tired eyes as she typed, deleted, retyped.

She was behind on charting.

Very behind.

Her cursor blinked at the end of a half-finished assessment for a laceration repair she’d done an hour ago. She still had to reconcile medications for two patients, update vitals in the system, and respond to a flagged message from Robby about a missing note.

Her jaw tightened.

Across the ER, she could see Langdon laughing quietly at something Mel said. Clean. Polished. Fresh from rehab. As if the memory of her discovering the drug discrepancies didn’t exist between them like a live wire.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

She hated this shift.

She hated feeling behind.

She hated feeling like every attending was silently judging her.

A small cylindrical object rolled gently against her hand.

She blinked and looked down.

A 5-hour energy shot.

You were standing there, casual like you hadn’t just slid it into her personal space. “Thought you might need it.”

She stared at it. Then at you.

“You’re trying to induce a cardiac event in a sleep-deprived doctor,” she muttered.

“You look like you’re about five minutes from charting ‘asdfghjkl’ and submitting it.”

A tiny, unwilling smile twitched at her mouth. “It’s 1:12 pm.”

“Exactly. Just a few hours and then we're free.”

She exhaled slowly, then picked it up. Your fingers brushed for half a second when you let go.

Her stomach did something inconvenient that she really hoped it was because of hunger.

“Don’t think this means I’ll finish faster,” she said, peeling the foil seal back.

“Wouldn’t dream of pressuring you, Doctor.”

She shot you a look at the emphasis on the title, then tipped the bottle back and swallowed it in one quick motion.

Immediate regret.

“Oh my—” she coughed once. “That tastes like battery acid.”

“Give it ten minutes.”

She set the empty bottle down, rolled her shoulders, and forced herself to refocus on the screen. You didn’t linger. Just gave her shoulder a small squeeze—barely there—and walked off to check on another patient.

The ER hummed.

Monitors beeped steadily. A nurse laughed softly somewhere down the hall. The printer spat out a discharge summary.

Then—

A thin cry.

High. Trembling.

Fucking baby Jane Doe.

Found earlier in the women’s bathroom off the ER waiting room. Wrapped in a thin towel. No name. No mother who came back.

The cry came again, more insistent this time.

Trinity froze mid-sentence.

She wasn’t good with babies.

Kids, sure. Pediatrics rotation had been fine. But babies? Tiny, fragile, unpredictable bundles of crying and spit-up? They made her nervous in a way that she really didn't need to unpack.

The crying continued.

She glanced around. You were occupied with a patient in Bed 6.

She stood up before she could overthink it.

“Just… checking,” she muttered to no one.

The pediatric room off the ER was dimmer than the main floor. One overhead light was turned low. The portable crib sat near the wall, just slightly off-center. A hospital blanket patterned in faded pink and blue shapes.

The baby’s face was scrunched, fists flailing weakly in the air.

Trinity approached cautiously, like the crib might explode.

“Okay,” she murmured under her breath. “Okay. Hi. Can you shut up?”

She didn’t pick her up. She would probably vomit before having to do it.

Instead, she rested both hands on the railing of the crib and leaned slightly over it, peering down.

The baby’s cries hiccupped between breaths.

Trinity swallowed.

“You’re fine,” she whispered awkwardly. “You’re… very noisy. But fine. So stop crying.”

The baby did not appear reassured.

Trinity glanced toward the closed door. Empty hallway.

She cleared her throat.

And then, quietly—very quietly—she started to sing.

Soft Visayan words slipped out, hesitant at first. Her voice wasn’t loud. It barely filled the small room. The melody wavered on the first line before she found it properly.

The baby’s cries stuttered.

Trinity kept her hands on the railing, swaying slightly on her feet. Not dramatic. Just a subtle shift of weight. The song flowed more steadily now, muscle memory from childhood taking over.

When the baby’s cries softened into whimpers, Trinity carefully reached into the crib—not to touch her—but to adjust the hospital blanket.

She spread it gently over the baby’s small belly, tucking it lightly at the sides. Her fingertips brushed over the tiny rise and fall of the baby’s abdomen.

“Shh,” she murmured, now humming the song.

The baby’s breathing steadied.

Trinity let the last note fade.

She exhaled in relief.

Then she turned.

And nearly jumped out of her skin.

You were leaning in the doorway, arms crossed loosely, watching her with an expression that was way too soft for her to handle right now.

She physically startled. “Jesus— Fuck—” she hissed. “Don’t do that.”

You pushed off the doorframe slowly. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Her face was already warm. “How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough.”

“Oh my God.” She covered her own face out of embarrassment.

“You sing really beautifully.”

Her brain short-circuited.

“I—no. I don’t. That was—” she gestured vaguely toward the crib. “Just—forget about it.”

You stepped closer, peering into the crib. “She liked it.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“You covered her tummy,” you added gently. “That was sweet.”

Her throat tightened. “I just… she looked cold.”

There was a pause.

You moved around her, closer to the crib. The baby stirred, a small protesting noise bubbling up again. Just about to cry from the sound of the voices around her.

Without hesitation, you slipped your hands beneath the baby and lifted her smoothly, supporting her head with practiced ease. The baby settled against your chest almost immediately.

“Oh,” Trinity breathed, watching.

You began to rock gently, small rhythmic motions, one hand splayed protectively across the baby’s back. “Hey, sweetheart,” you murmured. “It’s okay.”

The baby fussed for a moment, then quieted.

Trinity stood there awkwardly for half a second, unsure what to do with her hands.

You were… good at this.

Effortless.

A thought came to Trinity's mind. Did you have kids?

She knew you were older, but she didn't know how much older. Were you married at any point?

Your thumb traced small circles against the baby’s back. You shifted your weight slightly, swaying in a slow, steady rhythm.

The baby’s fingers curled into your scrub top.

Trinity’s heart did something that was just like tachycardia.

She stepped closer. Too close for coworkers, probably. But she didn’t stop.

She hovered behind you, hands twitching uncertainly at her sides.

“You’re,” she started, then stopped.

You glanced back at her over your shoulder. “Yeah?”

“You’re really good with babies.”

You smiled faintly, looking back at the baby. “My sister had a baby a few months ago.”

The baby let out a tiny whimper again. Ready to cry at any second. Like if you holding her wasn't enough.

Without fully thinking it through, Trinity moved closer still, until the front of her scrubs brushed lightly against your back. She leaned in just slightly.

“Can I—” she hesitated.

You nodded without turning.

She swallowed, then began to sing again. Softer this time. Closer to your ear.

The Visayan lullaby filled the small space between you.

The baby’s breathing slowed as your rocking matched Trinity’s subtle sway behind you.

And then—because she clearly had no self-preservation instinct—Trinity let her chin rest lightly against your shoulder.

Just for a second.

Her hand hovered awkwardly before settling, uncertain but warm, against your waist. In a way to move with your rhythm.

You didn’t move away, not even when she finished the song.

“Maybe you are a baby whisperer,” you murmured quietly.

She huffed a nervous little laugh against your shoulder. “I am absolutely not.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

The baby’s eyes drifted closed.

The room felt smaller. Warmer.

Trinity was hyper-aware of every point of contact—your back against her chest, your shoulder beneath her chin, her hand resting at your waist like it belonged there.

The door clicked open.

“Oh—”

Both of you stiffened.

Victoria Javadi stood just inside the room, eyes wide, hands halfway raised like she’d accidentally walked into a crime scene.

“I—uh—sorry— I didn’t— I mean—”

Trinity jerked upright so fast she nearly tripped over her own shoes. Her hand flew away from your waist like she’d been burned.

Javadi’s gaze bounced from you, holding a sleeping baby, to Trinity, flushed and flustered.

“I can—I can come back,” Javadi stammered. “I didn’t see— I mean I saw but— not—”

“What, Crash?” Trinity snapped, too quickly.

Javadi swallowed. “D-Dennis is looking for you.”

“Of course he is,” Trinity muttered immediately, running a hand through her already messy hair. "Fucking Huckleberry."

You carefully stepped back toward the crib, lowering the baby with slow precision. You adjusted the blanket again, tucking it gently around her tiny body.

Trinity avoided looking at you.

“I’m coming,” she said, voice tight.

Javadi nodded too fast. “Y-yeah. Okay.”

Trinity moved toward the door, pausing only for half a second like she might say something else—then thought better of it.

She stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind her.

Javadi followed.

You stayed inside the room, one hand resting lightly on the crib railing, watching the baby’s steady breathing with a smile as their footsteps faded down the corridor.

In the hallway, a few feet from the door, Javadi leaned slightly toward Trinity, lowering her voice.

“Soooo,” she began carefully.

Trinity didn’t slow her stride.

“Like, wh-what was that?” Javadi asked, words tangling over each other.

Trinity kept her eyes forward.

“Just shut up and don’t say anything.”

[rafeandonlyrafe]

well 🧍‍♀️ as a reminder this blog is NOT a safe space for trump supporters but it IS a safe place for women, queers, trans ppl, people of color, undocumented people, and any marginalized group.

[givemeursweater]

Misunderstanding — T.S.

pairing: Trinity Santos x Female Reader

summary: A late-night ER visit turns messy when a harmless misunderstanding sparks rumors, jealousy, and far too many curious eyes—forcing Trinity to confront her nerves, her possessiveness, and just how bad she’s got it.

word count: 1.5k

author's note: so sorry but this is very rushed and kinda weird, my laptop broke so now im posting from my phone and i hate it!!!!!!! i remember reading an ask from a fanfic really close to what i wrote so if anyone catches the original one please tag me so i can credit them thx

original post!

Post by @d3ad-aliv3 · 7 images

💬 0  🔁 10  ❤️ 255 · She Loves You · Can we please get a fic with Trinity Santos x fem! Reader where she comes in hurt to the ER and everyone

The Emergency Room waiting area is louder than usual—overlapping voices, the low buzz of fluorescent lights, the constant squeak of shoes against linoleum. You’re sitting stiffly in one of the plastic benches, one hand pressed against your side where you accidentally "stabbed" yourself, jaw clenched more out of irritation than pain.

You hate hospitals.

You hate this hospital slightly less, but still.

Whitaker stands a few feet in front of you, already halfway out of the ER doors, scrubs wrinkled, hair a mess, eyes sharp with recognition the second they land on you. His gaze flicks down your body in a quick, professional scan, then right back to your face.

"Hey."

You look up—and immediately relax.

“What happened?” he asks, already stepping closer.

“Minor kitchen accident,” you say. “I’m fine, it's just a cut.”

He hums, unconvinced. “Uh-huh.”

Without asking permission, he turns toward the double doors and signals something before grabbing you by the arm so he can help you walk. “Come on.”

You blink, one hand resting on his shoulder while the other hand puts pressure on your own wound. “What? I haven’t even—”

“She’s important,” Whitaker calls over his shoulder to the triage nurse, already waving you through. “I’ll take her.”

You barely have time to process that before you’re past the waiting room, past the curtain dividers, and being guided toward an empty gurney in one of the side bays.

“Whitaker,” you laugh softly as he helps you sit. “You know you’re gonna get in trouble for this.”

He grabs a blood pressure cuff and wraps it around your arm with exaggerated care. “If you’re injured in my side of the ER,” he mutters, “and Trinity finds out, I’m dead.”

You snort. “Dramatic.”

“You know it's true.”

He checks your vitals slowly—too slowly. His hands are gentler than usual, voice softer, posture more relaxed as he chats with you about work, about whatever plans you have tomorrow, about how exhausted Trinity’s been lately. The familiarity between you is easy, practiced, the result of countless midnight snack runs and movie nights that Trinity slept through.

From the outside, it looks… intimate.

Close.

“Well,” you say lightly as he rechecks your pulse, “I'm going to clean your wound and then suture it, you should be out of here in no time.”

Before he could say anything else—

“Whitaker.”

Robby appears at the edge of the bay, arms crossed, brow raised. “You know you’re supposed to see at least two patients an hour, right?”

Whitaker straightens immediately. “Yeah—yeah, I know. I was just—”

Princess passes by behind Robby, glances at you, then grins. “Aw. Leave him alone. He’s with his girlfriend.”

Whitaker freezes.

You choke on a laugh.

Before anyone can correct her, Robby’s expression softens into something amused. He steps forward and gives Whitaker a solid pat on the back, massaging his shoulder. “Alright,” he says, smiling. “Just don’t take too long.”

And then he’s gone.

Whitaker stares after him in horror. “I didn’t— She isn't—”

“You know,” you say, biting your lip. “If she knows about this...”

“Please don’t—.”

It’s too late.

By the time Whitaker finishes cleaning your wound, the rumor has already spread.

Trinity hears it near the elevators when she hears it.

The elevator doors slide open, “…Whitaker’s girlfriend is here,” someone whispers.

She stops mid-step.

“What? Girlfriend?” she asks flatly.

Perlah shrugs. “That’s what Princess said.”

Trinity’s jaw tightens. Girlfriend? Whitaker? Her twink roommate?

She strides straight into the ER, eyes scanning until they land on the familiar sight of Whitaker bent over a gurney—

And you.

Her chest tightens instantly.

“What the hell is going on?” Trinity snaps.

Whitaker looks up, startled. “Santos—”

“Why,” she says sharply, “did I hear that you're dating her?”

You open your mouth, but Whitaker gets there first. “I didn’t say she was my girlfriend. Princess did.”

Trinity’s glare sharpens. “So you just… let that happen? Didn't correct her?”

“It wasn’t— I couldn't—”

"I swear to god Dennis, I'm—"

Dana appears with Princess and Perlah in tow, clearly drawn by the tension. “Everything okay here?”

Trinity exhales sharply. “Go on, fix your mess.”

Whitaker grimaces and turns to the small crowd. “She’s not my girlfriend,” he says stiffly. “She’s just a friend...”

There’s a beat.

Dana blinks. “That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“…Alright then, kid. Nice meeting your... friend.” Dana shrugs and walks away.

Princess and Perlah exchange looks before following, disappointed.

Silence settles.

Whitaker turns back to the gurney—and Trinity snatches the suture kit out of his hands.

“No,” she says. “I’ve got it.”

Whitaker raises both hands. “Please don’t kick me out.”

She doesn’t answer. Once the curtain is drawn and Whitaker is gone, Trinity moves closer, her expression shifting the second she’s sure no one’s watching. Her hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as she leans in and kisses you—soft, relieved, lingering.

“I’m going to kill Huckleberry,” she murmurs against your lips.

You laugh quietly and rest your hand over hers. “Leave him alone, he tried.”

She kisses you again, slower this time. Needier. Her tongue parts your lips and tastes your mouth softly before her forehead rests against yours as she exhales. “I missed you,” she admits. “This shift’s been hell.”

“I can wait for you,” you whisper. “Dinner’ll be ready.”

She smiles, pulling back just enough to grab the sutures. “What’re we having?” she asks lightly. “Because right now, I just want you.”

One of her hands keeps the suture kit out of reach while the other crawls up your neck, "I couldn tell Huckleberry to fuck off, we can have the apartment all for ourselves..."

You laugh, one hand softly resting on her thigh as she moves swiftly, now with a needle and thread.

Trinity finishes the stitches with practiced precision, cutting the suture cleanly and taping the area down carefully. Her hands linger for half a second longer than necessary, thumb brushing lightly over your ribs as if committing the moment to memory.

“All set,” she says quietly. “Don’t move too much, it should heal clean.”

You shift on the gurney, testing it. “Thank you, my Doctor.”

“Don’t,” she deadpans, blushing softly before speaking. “I’ll walk you out.”

She peels off her gloves and tosses them, grabbing her coat as if daring anyone to comment. No one does. Dana is busy. Whitaker is buried in a chart. Just enough time to slip away for a few seconds.

The hallway feels longer than usual. Quieter. Trinity walks just close enough for you. Her hand brushes yours once, twice. Interlocking her fingers with yours.

Outside, the automatic doors slide open and the cold night air rushes in, sharp and grounding. Streetlights glow against the dark pavement. The ER hums behind you, constant and distant now.

Trinity stops just past the doors.

“Well,” she exhales. “You’ll live.”

You turn toward her, smiling. “Thanks to my favorite doctor.”

She scoffs softly. “Don’t let Huckleberry hear you say that.” She quickly adds, "actually, please say that in front of him. In front of the whole ER if possible."

You laugh step closer. Close enough that she can smell your shampoo. Your voice drops, teasing. “So… I’ll be at your apartment. Dinner will be ready. Real food, but maybe something else if you're still up for it.”

Her mouth curves before she can stop it.

She leans in and kisses you—brief and warm. Her hand cups your jaw for just a second, thumb brushing your cheek like she can’t help herself.

“Text me when you’re home,” she murmurs.

“I will.”

She pulls back reluctantly, eyes flicking to your lips once more. “Don’t make dinner for Dennis, it's his punishment.”

You grin, walking backwards. “I absolutely will.”

She watches you go, hands shoved into her coat pockets, chest tight in a way that has nothing to do with stress or adrenaline.

Then she turns back toward the doors. Back into the noise. The lights. The Pitt.

The moment she steps inside the EF, Perlah and Princess are already there, leaning casually near the nurses’ station like they haven’t been waiting.

Trinity knows that look.

She sighs. “What.”

They switch to Tagalog, smooth and deliberate.

Princess smiles, “so that’s your girlfriend, huh?”

Perlah adds, amused, “You walked her out yourself. Very boyfriend behavior.”

Trinity groans and rubs her face. “Can you not.”

Princess tilts her head. “And the Whitaker thing?”

“Yeah, it felt like watching a soap opera.” Perlah agrees while laughing.

“I was doing my job,” Trinity snaps.

Princess hums. “Sure. Just your job.”

Perlah grins wider. “Whitaker’s job before you became jealous.”

That one hits harder than Trinity expects.

She straightens, forcing her expression back into place. “If you two don’t get back to work—”

Princess laughs. “Relax. We won’t tell.”

Trinity points at them. “You didn’t see anything.”

They exchange a look and a laugh.

Trinity turns and walks away before they can say another word, jaw tight, ears burning.

But as she disappears back into the chaos, adjusting her gloves, calling for her next patient—there’s a small, stupid smile she can’t quite shake.

Because tonight, no matter how brutal the shift gets—

Someone is waiting for her at home.

[givemeursweater]

sooo... my computer just broke.

[givemeursweater]

Guess who posted on AO3!

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

This is a Wenclair fic, I might make more character x character and post them on AO3 because I feel like tumblr is more for reader x character, follow me there if you’d like!

[givemeursweater]

Look at me – G!P Sevika

pairing: G!P Sevika x Female Reader

summary: Sevika isn't going to wait for what's hers, even when you both are being hunted by goons after a mission.

word count: less than 1k

author's note: this is kinda rushed and pretty bad because i haven't been able to use my computer, i've been hit by my failing grades and a broken heart so that's why i haven't been posting but this week i should be back to at least trying to post every week! i have a robin (st) version of this too, because this was originally meant to be a fanfic about her but i felt like it fit sevika better, maybe I'll upload it later...... enjoy!

The alley still smelled like shimmer and blood — metallic, damp, humming with leftover danger.

The fight was over.

The threat gone.

But Sevika wasn’t walking away.

She had you backed up against a cracked support pillar, her metal arm braced beside your head, her body crowding yours until you could barely breathe.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she murmured, voice dark, low, vibrating against your chest.

“Done what…?” you asked, swallowing.

She leaned in.

Her breath ghosted your ear.

“Thrown yourself in front of that blade for me.”

A pause.

“You pressed your whole body against mine.”

You felt it before you saw it. Something hard. Thick. Demanding. Pressed against your hip.

“Sevika…” your voice came out small.

She smirked — slow, dangerous, hungry. “Yeah. Feel that? That’s on you.”

You couldn’t look away from her eyes. They were blown wide, shimmering with something primal.

“Let me— let me help you,” you whispered.

She clicked her tongue and grabbed your jaw with her real hand, forcing your chin up.

“On your knees,” she ordered. “Now.”

Your body reacted before your brain did.

You slid down the wall, breath shaky, heart pounding. Sevika watched you with a half-lidded stare like she was starving.

“Good,” she murmured. “That’s a good girl.”

Your cheeks burned instantly.

She unbuckled her belt with one hand — slow, deliberate — never breaking eye contact.

When her cock sprang free, heavy and already leaking, your breath hitched.

Before you could move toward her, she grabbed the back of your head. No hesitation. No asking. Just firm, deliberate control.

“Open your mouth.”

You did. Sevika guided your head forward—

Not shoving, but directing, like she knew exactly how she wanted you.

“That’s it,” she breathed as the tip slid past your lips. “Take it slow… there you go.”

Her fingers tightened in your hair, metal arm braced against the wall so she could hold you exactly where she wanted.

“Look at me.”

You looked up, and her pupils blew even darker.

“Fuck,” she hissed. “You look obscene like that.”

You sank deeper, and Sevika let out a low, broken growl.

Her hand guided your pace — not rough, but firm, controlled, hungry.

“That’s my girl,” she muttered, breath shaking.

“Use your tongue. Yeah— like that— don’t stop.”

You tried to pull back once just for air — instinct — but she didn’t let you go far.

“Ah ah,” she breathed, tightening her grip. “I didn’t say you could stop.”

Her cock pulsed on your tongue.

“Fuck, you’re perfect—”

Then—

Voices. Close.

Sevika went still, hand on your head locking you in place but not forcing you deeper.

Two men stumbled into the alley, arguing.

“…boss said sweep the whole area—”

“Relax, nobody’s here.”

Your heart thudded.

You were hidden in shadow behind rubble, but if either man took one more step—

Sevika leaned over you, shielding you completely with her body, her cock still in your mouth, her hand still wrapped in your hair.

“Don’t move,” she whispered, barely audible, breath sharp.

The men lingered. One squinted toward your side of the alley.

“I swear I heard—”

Sevika’s entire body tensed. You could feel her trying not to thrust into your mouth.

After a moment that felt like forever, they walked off.

Silence returned.

Sevika’s grip loosened — only slightly — and she exhaled shakily.

“You stayed quiet,” she murmured, her voice full of pride and hunger. “Good girl.”

You sucked her deeper in response. She groaned — a deep, low, ruined sound — and her hand tightened hard in your hair.

“Oh fuck— baby— I’m close—”

Her hips started to move, guided by instinct, by need, by the sight of you obeying every touch of her hand.

“Don’t stop— don’t you dare—”

You took her deeper, and Sevika choked out a curse, her thighs trembling as she came, gripping your hair like she was holding onto sanity.

When she finally pulled you up, she didn’t let you stand on your own.

She lifted you by your jaw and crashed her mouth against yours, tasting herself on your lips.

“You’re trouble,” she growled, pressing her forehead to yours.

You smiled breathlessly.

“You wanted it.”

She smirked, dark and wicked.

“Oh, I still do. More than you know.”

Her metal arm slid around your waist, hauling you flush against her.

“Next time,” she murmured into your ear, “I’m taking my time. And you’re not walking straight when I’m done.”

[givemeursweater]

i know that my platform isn't made to discuss my country's voting day, but still i feel like i have to say something.

if you are poor you CAN'T VOTE FOR SOMEONE WHO OPENLY SAID THAT THEY'RE GONNA REVOKE YOUR RIGHTS.

if you are a minority you CAN'T VOTE FOR SOMEONE WHO ONLY THINKS ABOUT THE MONEY.

if you are working class you CAN'T VOTE FOR SOMEONE WHO USED THE MONEY FOR YOUR RETIREMENT TO FUND HIS CAMPAIGN.

if you are a student you CAN'T VOTE FOR SOMEONE WHO'S WILLING TO TAKE AWAY THE FREE EDUCATION THAT SO MANY OTHER STUDENTS WORKED FOR, THE SCHOLARSHIP THAT ALLOWS SO MANY STUDENTS TO HAVE A PROPER MEAL.

if you care about your people, about our country, you CAN'T VOTE KAST.

Chile is forgetting it's history, and if our next president doesn't believe that a dictatorship was one of the worst things that could've happened, where thousands of kids, mothers, sisters, brothers, fathers, GRANDPARENTS were tortured, killed and disappeared, Chile won't ever be able to move on.

vote informed, vote with the heart, vote JARA.

[givemeursweater]

pleaseee pt 2 of everything but this where they get together properly 🥺🙏

no pressure but it was sooo good I’d love more 💞

Just you. — W.M.

pairing: College!Wanda Maximoff x College!Reader summary: After the kiss, Wanda and you go radio silent. A party and a few weeks later you decide to meet again. word count: around 1.7k authors note: HERE’S THE SECOND PART YOU ASKED FOR ANON i hope u like it part one

The morning after never really ended — it just stretched out, thin and quiet, into the days that followed.

You and Wanda went back to pretending. Pretending it hadn’t happened. Pretending you hadn’t felt her heartbeat stumble against yours or the way her breath had caught between your lips. But pretending didn’t erase anything; it only made it sharper. Every silence weighed heavier. Every look lingered too long. Every message felt like it was written in code — cautious, trembling.

At first, there were still texts. Harmless things.

Good luck on your exam. Don’t forget to eat. Miss your dumb face.

But even the jokes felt staged, like you were both performing versions of yourselves that didn’t exist anymore.

By the second week, the messages slowed. You told yourself it was fine — that maybe this was what growing up looked like: losing pieces of the people you loved to time and distance. But it wasn’t time. It wasn’t distance. It was fear.

Peter noticed first, of course. He always did.

You were sitting cross-legged on your dorm bed, cold coffee in hand, scrolling through Wanda’s contact without pressing send.

“She still hasn’t texted?” Peter asked, spinning lazily in your desk chair.

You sighed. “It’s not like that.”

“Right,” he said, drawing out the word. “You just look like someone waiting for a text that’s not like that.”

You glared, but he only smirked.

“She’s your best friend, Y/N. Did you two fight or something?”

“No. We just—” you hesitated. “We kissed.”

The chair stopped spinning. “Oh.” A pause. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“And now you’re doing the whole ‘we-were-drunk-it-meant-nothing’ routine?”

You tried to laugh but it cracked halfway. “Pretty much.”

Peter leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So… do you want it to be nothing?”

You stared at him. The answer was already burning in your chest. “No.”

“Then stop pretending it is.”

You didn’t respond. Because it wasn’t that simple — not when every memory of her still burned, not when loving her quietly still felt safer than losing her loudly.

Across the city, Wanda sat curled on the couch of Nat’s apartment, blanket wrapped tight around her shoulders. The TV played some old rom-com she wasn’t watching. Nat sat beside her, painting her nails a shade of crimson that looked like trouble.

“So,” Nat said, casual but sharp, “you gonna tell me what’s going on, or do I have to guess?”

“Nothing’s going on,” Wanda muttered.

“Right,” Nat said, blowing on her nails. “You’ve sighed six times in the last minute.”

“Do you keep count?”

“Only when it’s obvious.”

Wanda hesitated. “It’s… Y/N.”

Nat looked up, grinning. “Finally.”

“Nothing happened,” Wanda lied.

Nat’s brow rose.

“Okay, something happened. But it didn’t mean anything.”

“Sure,” Nat said. “And that’s why you’ve been moping for weeks?”

Wanda glared, but her blush betrayed her. “I don’t know what it meant,” she admitted quietly. “That’s the problem.”

Nat softened. “You like her.”

“I’ve always liked her. She’s my best friend.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

Wanda didn’t answer. She just traced invisible circles over the blanket. The truth sat heavy, too big to say out loud. Saying it would make it real — and real was terrifying.

So she did what she always did when she didn’t understand something. She tried to fix it. To test it. To disprove it.

That weekend, she went to a party.

The party was loud — the kind of loud that made it easy not to think. Music thudded through the walls, perfume and sweat thick in the air. Wanda lingered near the kitchen, red cup in hand, nodding absently at something Bucky said. Her smile felt borrowed, her laugh a beat too late.

She told herself she was fine. That she just needed a distraction.

Then someone touched her arm — a girl she barely knew from psych. Warm hands, bright eyes, a dimple when she smiled. “Wanna dance?”

And Wanda, who had spent weeks trying not to feel, said yes.

The music slowed. The girl’s hands slid to Wanda’s shoulders, soft, steady. Wanda moved with her, tried to let it mean something. Tried to lose herself in the motion. But it didn’t work.

Every time the girl’s breath brushed her neck, it felt wrong — like humming someone else’s song.

When the girl leaned in to kiss her, Wanda didn’t stop her.

It was soft. Careful. Perfectly fine.

And completely empty.

Her eyes fluttered shut — and she saw your face instead. The shape of your smile. The sound of your laugh. The way your name had felt against her lips.

She pulled back too fast. “I’m sorry,” she said, voice shaking. “I can’t.”

The girl blinked. “It’s okay.”

Wanda mumbled something and slipped outside. The cold air hit her like a confession. She leaned against the brick wall, hands trembling — not from alcohol, but from the ache of knowing that no one else would ever be you.

The next morning, Nat found her in the same spot on the couch — hair messy, mascara smudged, eyes red-rimmed.

“Oh, you definitely made some bad decisions last night,” Nat said, flopping down beside her.

“Please don’t.”

“Let me guess — you kissed someone.”

“...Maybe.”

“And it didn’t help.”

Wanda glared. “How do you do that?”

“Because you’re easy to read, Maximoff. You always have been.” Nat handed her a mug of coffee. “You can’t kiss away what you feel for her. You just have to wait until you’re ready to deal with it.”

Wanda looked down, whispering, “What if she doesn’t feel the same?”

“Then you’ll survive,” Nat said simply. “But something tells me she does.”

You weren’t surviving gracefully either.

It was almost laughable — the way your life had shrunk to the size of a girl who wouldn’t call. You went to class, you ate, you smiled. But it all felt rehearsed. Like living on autopilot.

Ava noticed, of course. She always did.

“You’re brooding again,” she said from your bed, scrolling her phone.

“I’m not.”

“You are. You get that little wrinkle right there—” she pointed between your brows “—whenever you’re thinking about her.”

You groaned. “Do I really?”

“Yup.” Ava tossed her phone aside. “So what happened?”

You hesitated. “We kissed.”

Ava blinked. “Wanda?”

“Who else?”

“And you haven’t talked since?”

“Barely.”

Ava frowned. “That’s so dumb. You guys are, like, disgustingly perfect for each other.”

You laughed weakly. “Yeah, well. We were drunk. She probably regrets it.”

Ava gave you a look. “You don’t believe that.”

You didn’t. But believing otherwise meant hoping — and hoping felt dangerous.

When break finally came, the world slowed down. You went home — same small town, same quiet streets, same streetlights flickering like they were tired of holding on. Everything looked familiar, but it all felt heavier.

You saw Wanda’s name light up your phone a few times that week. A text half-written. Deleted. Another sent at 2 a.m.:

Are you home?

You stared for a long moment before replying.

Yeah. You?

Same. Wanna talk?

You didn’t even have to think.

You met at the diner by the highway — the same one that hadn’t changed since high school. Wanda was already there, leaning against her car, hands tucked into her hoodie, curls messy from the wind. When she saw you, her expression softened instantly.

“Hey,” you said, voice careful.

“Hey,” she echoed. “Been a while.”

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Guess it has.”

For a moment, you just stood there, the space between you alive with everything unsaid.

Wanda spoke first. “Wanna go for a drive? I don’t really wanna go home yet.”

You nodded. “Sure.”

The road stretched open and quiet. The radio hummed low, headlights cutting through the dark. Wanda’s window was cracked, the air playing with her hair.

After a while, she said quietly, “I went to a party last week.”

You smiled faintly. “You? Party girl now?”

“Hardly,” she said. “It was loud. I hated it.”

“Then why’d you go?”

She hesitated. “Thought maybe I could stop thinking about you.”

Your hands tightened on the wheel. “Did it work?”

“No.”

Silence again — but not the bad kind. The kind that hummed with something alive.

You ended up driving to the lake without deciding to. The same spot you used to sneak off to when you were teenagers. The air was cold, the stars stretched wide above you.

“Come on,” you said softly, reaching for the blanket in the back. “I’ve still got the old setup.”

Wanda smiled — that tiny tilt of her lips that still undid you. “Of course you do.”

You spread the blanket in the truck bed. She climbed up beside you. The two of you lay there, shoulders almost touching, breaths clouding in the night air.

“It’s weird,” Wanda murmured. “Being here with you again.”

“How so?”

“Like everything’s the same… but different.”

“Different’s not always bad.”

Her lips curved, soft and sad all at once. “No. It’s not.”

The water lapped quietly. Somewhere far off, a dog barked. The world felt still — the kind of stillness that comes right before something changes.

Her hand brushed yours once. Then again. You didn’t move away.

Her fingers found yours, slow, deliberate.

“Y/N,” she whispered, your name breaking in her mouth.

“Yeah?”

Her eyes searched yours — apology, fear, wanting — all tangled together.

And then she leaned in.

The kiss came like a confession.

It wasn’t rushed or uncertain. It was steady, trembling with everything unsaid. Her lips were warm and familiar; her hand cupped your cheek like she’d been waiting to remember it.

When you finally pulled back, foreheads pressed together, Wanda laughed softly — breathless, disbelieving.

“Guess we’re bad at pretending,” she whispered.

You smiled. “The worst.”

Her fingers slipped between yours, her thumb brushing small, slow circles.

The stars burned quietly above you, and for the first time in weeks, it didn’t hurt to breathe.

You stayed there — two girls in the back of an old truck, wrapped in a worn blanket, holding hands like a promise. No labels. No explanations.

Just this.

Just you.

[givemeursweater]

Hello, age on bio please. Thanks.

SO SORRY I NEVER READ THIS i'll update my bio now!

[givemeursweater]

Everything but this. — W.M.

pairing: College!Wanda Maximoff x College!Reader summary: Wanda and the reader have been inseparable since childhood, and as they grow up, the line between friendship and something deeper blurs, until one drunken night in college when a single kiss shatters the illusion of “just friends.” word count: around 880 authors note: sorry i haven’t been posting as much as i would like, i’ve been having some emotional problems and fights with my best friend, so i maybe channeled everything i feel in this yearning fic. i might make a second version with smut bc after crying im horny but wtv

They met before the world knew what to do with them — two girls sitting cross-legged on the same cracked pavement, sharing a pack of strawberry candy.

Wanda had red-stained lips and grass in her hair. You had scabbed knees and a laugh that cracked open the quiet. From that day on, you were inseparable — childhood summers melting into teenage winters, sleepovers into late-night talks that blurred the line between I love you and I need you.

It was never clear what you were to each other. Friends, sure. Something else, maybe. But neither of you dared to name it.

By the time you were both in university, everything was different — and somehow exactly the same.

Different cities. New people. New noise. But every weekend, like gravity, you found your way back to each other.

You could always tell when Wanda was coming down the hall before you saw her. The faint jingle of bracelets, the scuff of worn Converse, the smell of cherry shampoo.

She had travelled all the way over to your college just to see you, with a soft excuse of "being apart too long".

Tonight, she leaned in your dorm doorway, a bottle of cheap vodka dangling from her fingers. “Movie night?” she asked, grinning. “Or drinking night pretending it’s movie night?”

You grinned back. “Both.”

The two of you ended up on your dorm floor — lights low, a half-eaten pizza between you, the air thick with laughter and warmth.

Wanda poured shots into mismatched mugs, her voice playful and steady. “To… survival?”

“To being broke and barely functioning,” you said.

You clinked mugs, and the first shot burned like liquid courage.

The second made her cheeks flush pink. The third made her eyes softer, slower, hungrier.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

You’d always known she was beautiful — the kind of beautiful that could ruin someone if they stared too long. But tonight, she looked unfairly beautiful.

She was sitting cross-legged on your bed, hair falling over her shoulder, wearing one of your old hoodies. Your hoodie.

“Hey,” she said suddenly, her voice a low murmur. “Remember that night after graduation? When we sat on my roof?”

You smiled. “You made me promise we’d never lose touch.”

“I meant it,” she said, eyes finding yours. “You’re… you’re kind of my person.”

It was nothing new — she’d said things like that before. But something about the way she said it now made your chest ache.

You looked away, afraid she’d see it.

One shot turned into five. The air turned heavy, the kind of heavy that hums between two people trying too hard not to touch.

Her laughter faded into something softer. “You’re staring,” she said.

You blinked. “No, I’m—”

“You are,” she interrupted, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Why?”

Because you’re perfect. Because I’ve been in love with you since I was fourteen and I’ve been pretending it’s nothing ever since.

Instead, you said, “You’ve got something on your face.”

“Oh yeah?”

And before you could think, before your mind could scream don’t, your hand was on her cheek — wiping away a smear of pizza sauce that probably wasn’t even there.

Her breath caught.

The room tilted, or maybe you did. Her eyes flicked to your lips — just for a second, just long enough to break you.

“Wanda—”

She leaned in before you finished.

The kiss hit like a spark meeting gasoline — sudden, sharp, hungry. Her hand fisted in your shirt, yours in her hair, every inch of space between you disappearing in an instant.

You didn’t know who moved first, only that once it started, neither of you wanted to stop.

It wasn’t gentle. It was messy, desperate, too much and not enough. You could taste the vodka, the heat of her breath, the ache of every word you’d never said.

When she finally pulled away, her lips were redder, her chest heaving.

And for the first time in years, Wanda Maximoff looked scared.

The next morning was cruel.

Sunlight. Headache. Silence.

She was already awake, sitting on the edge of your bed, her hair a tangled halo. She didn’t look at you.

“About last night…” she said, her voice small.

You forced a laugh that hurt. “We were drunk. It was stupid.”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah. Totally.”

You both nodded, pretending it was that easy. Pretending it didn’t matter. Pretending that the world hadn’t just tilted on its axis.

But it changed everything anyway.

Now, every time she brushed your hand by accident, your chest tightened. Every time she laughed too close, you forgot how to breathe.

You caught her staring sometimes — the same way you stared at her — both of you pretending you hadn’t noticed.

You’d tell yourself it was nothing. She’d tell herself the same.

And maybe it was easier that way.

Easier to stay in that in-between — to keep pretending the world was simple when it never really was.

Because if either of you said it out loud, there’d be no going back.

And the truth was, you’d rather ache with her near than lose her completely.

So you stayed silent.

You stayed best friends.

You stayed everything but this.

[givemeursweater]

very out of the blue but do u guys know why im called givemeursweater? when i was around 14-15 i fell in love HARD with my now best friend (who still to this day doesnt really know about how IN LOVE i was with him), and he loved conan gray so we joked a lot about the 3rd of december and about wanting a sweater so i ended up with this username because of that...

[givemeursweater]

Down by the Creek — W.M.

pairing: Teenage!Wanda Maximoff x Teenage!Reader summary: A summer by the creek next to Wanda turns into a sweet, unforgettable something that quietly blossoms. word count: 1.9k authors note: two fanfics back to back??? incredible... also this is highly inspired by the afternoons that me and my ex-bffs used to spend together so the yearning in this is kinda real ALSO i might make a taglist but i dont really know how to make one, if anyone can teach me ill write whatever you guys want

You arrived at your grandparents’ house for the summer—an old, slightly creaky cottage perched on a hill surrounded by fields that rolled into the horizon, and forests that smelled like earth and pine. The air was different here: fresher, calmer, carrying the scent of sun-warmed grass and the faint tang of the nearby creek. Your parents were… well, mostly absent, caught up in their separation, leaving you this little escape where you could think, breathe, and be yourself without interruption. You liked that, the way the quiet seemed to settle over everything like a soft blanket.

The first morning, sunlight spilled through the thin curtains of your room, lighting up the dust motes that danced lazily in the air. You stretched, listening to the distant sound of birds, the low hum of the wind moving through the trees, and the occasional creak of the old wooden floorboards. Breakfast was a quiet affair with your grandmother bustling in the kitchen, humming to herself as she set out buttered toast and tea. She didn’t say much about the summer, but you knew that she noticed the tension in your shoulders, the slight slump in your posture, the way your eyes lingered on the horizon beyond the fields.

Later that afternoon, when the heat softened and the sun tilted toward gold, you wandered down to the small creek that threaded through the forest behind the house. The path was narrow, overgrown with ferns and tall grasses that brushed your legs, and the sound of the water grew louder with every step. You breathed in the smell of damp earth, the freshness of leaves, and felt some of the heaviness in your chest start to lift. The water was clear and cold, sunlight scattering across it in tiny golden patterns, and you kicked off your sandals, letting your toes touch the cool surface, exhaling in relief. This was your place, your quiet corner of the world, and you weren’t expecting anyone else to be around—and that was exactly how you liked it.

“Hey.”

Startled, you turned your head, eyes catching the girl perched on a mossy rock across the creek. Wanda. Your neighbor. You had seen her once or twice through the fence that separated your properties, a flash of copper hair or a glimpse of her leaning over the garden, but this was the first time you were actually seeing her, in person, fully. She looked smaller somehow, a bit shy, but her presence was warm, gentle, and curious.

“Uh… hi,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, your voice slightly hesitant.

She smiled, tilting her head slightly as if the sunlight had caught her just right. “Didn’t expect anyone else to come down here,” she said, voice soft but bright. “It’s… nice. Peaceful.”

You nodded, stepping closer to the water’s edge, feeling the smooth stones under your feet. “Yeah. I come here to think. To… escape the noise, I guess.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Escape the noise, huh? Sounds… familiar.”

You laughed softly, the sound spilling over the water, blending with the murmuring creek. “You come here often?”

“Sometimes,” she said, shifting slightly, brushing a hand over the wet moss beneath her. “When my parents aren’t around. I like being alone… or not alone, but quiet, I mean. Quiet’s nice.”

You took a hesitant step closer. “I’m… glad I’m not alone then,” you said, smiling awkwardly, your fingers brushing a wet rock as you tried to steady yourself.

And that was how it started.

Over the next few days, you found each other at the creek more often. Sometimes you arrived at the same time by coincidence, sometimes one of you would leave a small note under a flat stone to signal you’d be there. You shared stories about school, favorite books, the ridiculous things that made you laugh, and even the quiet little embarrassments you wouldn’t normally tell anyone. There were long stretches where neither of you spoke, simply listening to the rush of water and the rustle of leaves, letting time stretch and bend around you. Wanda’s laugh was warm, easy, like a ribbon wrapping around your chest, and you felt yourself slowly unwinding in her presence, the tension in your shoulders melting just a little bit each day.

Sometimes, afternoons stretched so long that the sun slipped toward the horizon while you sat on the rocks, tossing stones, comparing which could skip the farthest. She taught you how to flick your wrist just so, and you laughed when your stones sank too quickly or hopped only once. Other times, you simply lay on the grass nearby, backs pressed to the soft earth, staring at the shifting patterns of sunlight through the trees, speaking in murmurs about nothing and everything.

One afternoon, she splashed you with water deliberately, grinning like she’d won a small victory. “Hey! Payback for last time!”

“You’re lucky I’m not going to throw rocks at you,” you said, spluttering and laughing as she slid closer to the edge, trying not to let your wet shoes sink into the mud.

Her hands brushed yours as she steadied herself on a slick stone, and you froze for a moment. Not electricity, exactly—not the kind that makes your stomach flip—but something warm, tender, a little thrill that made your chest feel lighter. She noticed, smiled, but said nothing. No words were needed.

As the summer continued, afternoons became longer, more frequent. Sometimes it was at the creek, sometimes at her house while her parents were away, and her brother Pietro would hover nearby, teasing, grumbling, but always in a way that faded into the background. You’d sit in her living room with mugs of iced tea, talking about everything and nothing. Wanda liked to sketch, often drawing the patterns in the sunlight, while you scribbled small nonsense poems or little observations. She’d peek over your shoulder, curious, warm eyes glinting, and your pulse would stutter, though nothing was ever named or acknowledged. It was during one of these long, golden afternoons that the first kiss happened. You were sitting cross-legged on the floor of her room, a notebook open between you, both laughing at some stupid drawing she had made of a cat with wings. You leaned closer to get a better look, and her hand brushed yours—not for any reason, just… naturally. And then, slowly, softly, her lips pressed against yours, like a whisper of affection, a tiny, gentle sigh in the middle of laughter.

You froze for a second, wide-eyed, and then realized… it was okay. It was warm and comforting, like a secret you both shared without needing to name it. When you pulled back slightly, she smiled, that same quiet, knowing smile, and the world felt a little softer, a little lighter.

It wasn’t just that one kiss. It became more. A quick peck on the cheek when one of you arrived at the creek first, a lingering brush of lips when you laughed too hard at a joke, soft presses during moments of quiet. Each one felt natural, inevitable almost, like the summer itself had decided this was how it would speak between you two. And yet, it was never about labels. You never called it a relationship. It was just… you. Just her. Just Wanda. And it felt infinite in the way only summer afternoons could.

There were afternoons spent sprawled across her backyard, the grass warm beneath you, talking about dreams and fears. You learned about her favorite books, the smell of her mom’s perfume lingering faintly on her clothes, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous. She learned about your parents, the quiet ache of missing them, the freedom of being away. And every so often, without thinking, your lips would find hers again—soft, tender, a language of care rather than desire.

Then came the day your parents arrived to take you home. You grandmother told you at breakfast, in that casual, unthinking way adults sometimes deliver devastating news.

Wanda found you at the stream again, suitcase already half-packed in your mind.

“So you’re leaving,” she said, voice carefully even.

“Tomorrow,” you replied. “They… figured things out. Or something.”

Wanda nodded, though she didn’t believe it. “That’s good,” she said, but it didn’t sound like she meant it.

You spent that last day together, moving through the world like ghosts. You went to the porch, to the field where you’d picked flowers, to the stream one last time. Neither wanted to talk about what would happen next.

The next day you packed your things, hands trembling as you folded clothes and tucked away notebooks. Wanda appeared in the doorway, silent for a moment, and then reached into her pocket.

“I… I want you to have this,” she said, holding out a small silver necklace with a delicate charm. "To remember me by"

You took it, fingers brushing hers, and your chest tightened. The world seemed to pause for a heartbeat—the warmth of her hand, the weight of the necklace in your palm, the quiet longing in her eyes. You didn’t speak; you didn’t need to. Everything unsaid hung between you, gentle and aching.

“I’ll… I’ll wear it always,” you whispered, holding onto the charm.

Wanda gave a small, sad smile, and you leaned in for a soft, lingering kiss on her cheek—a quiet, perfect moment of connection interrupted by the honk of your parent’s old Honda. Then you turned and walked toward the car, slinging your bag over your shoulder while trying not to look at Wanda on the eyes. You feared breaking down infront of her.

Wanda watched you say your goodbyes to your grandparents, the tight hugs, the quiet “take care”s, the half-smiles that tried to hide how much you didn’t want to leave. She stayed a few steps behind, silent, as if she didn’t want to intrude, but her eyes never left you. You carried your suitcase, each movement slow, reluctant, and Wanda felt that familiar ache in her chest, that mix of longing and helplessness.

You climbed into the car, pausing for a fraction of a second to glance back. Wanda was still standing there, at first frozen, watching silently as the car door closed. Her heart tugged at her, wanting to follow you, to not let you go, but her feet remained rooted. She waited, holding herself back, until the engine started and the tires rolled forward.

And then, almost on instinct, she began walking, slowly at first, into the middle of the dusty lane, her eyes fixed on your car as it rolled away. She matched your pace with her gaze, wanting to keep you in sight for as long as possible, wanting to somehow follow without really leaving the ground beneath her. The world around her blurred—trees, fields, the fading sunlight—but all she could see was you, getting smaller with every passing second.

Even when the car turned the corner, Wanda lingered, standing in the center of the street, heart tight and chest aching, imagining herself running after it, imagining herself in the passenger seat, just so she could hold onto this fleeting summer a little longer. And though the car eventually disappeared from view, she didn’t move immediately. She stayed there, letting the memory of your smile, the warmth of your laugh, and the glint of that small silver necklace fill the empty space you left behind.