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martyrlamb · 2 years ago

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✶ when the clock strikes / leon kennedy

pairing: leon kennedy x gn!reader

summary: you’re starting to think a certain agent might be faking his injuries to see you.

tags: sfw, pure fluff, a bit of angst as a treat, love at first sight basically, silly workplace love story, nurse!reader, 1 year post re4r!leon, no use of y/n, extremely mildly passively suggestive, leon takes his shirt off twice (woohoo!), kissing, swearing, leon is awkward as hell, you are too though so it’s okay, description of bruises, cuts and a muscle knot (not detailed), medical talk, slight mention of gore and blood, reader has a backstory, reader has a mother.

note: i blinked and suddenly there were 8k words in my doc idek how that happened. im actually so nervous to post because this is my first one shot ever!! my cherry has been popped… but also apologies if things are kind of all over the place bc im still trying to get the swing of it all. trying to write in the present tense was like being beat over the head repeatedly so im sure theres many grammatical mistakes in that department

word count: 8.5k (got possessed sorry)

Everyone thought you were crazy when you accepted the offer.

It is crazy—but you aren’t stupid. You knew what you were getting into a long time ago as a nurse; people get hurt, and then you save them. Clockwork.

Years ago, you started studying in some middle of nowhere midwestern school. You remembered the rolling hills and the ungodly blankets of snow that fell during the winter months, the tufts of fallen leaves that it covered. It was all so peaceful for a while… until the outbreak.

You never saw it coming, no one did, really. At least, you hope no one predicted the atrocities that were about to be witnessed by thousands of innocents without warning.

Gnashing teeth and hands with dried blood, streaked down arms like veins. It plagued the memory of that point in your life. It was surreal to believe that you got up that morning and made your breakfast like any other day, you slid your shoes on and grabbed your keys, and then your foot hit the front porch and the trajectory of your life changed permanently.

The virus started as a woman with red-ringed eyes and pallid skin that reflected off of the blinding overhead lights—she looked visibly ill. That’s all that mattered at the time. You were actually the one who situated her and her husband in their room, he smiled at you and thanked you for your time and you scribbled down notes before hanging the clipboard and leaving the room for the doctor. The screeching horror music plays when you get to this part of the memory.

A type of calm before the storm. You hold your breath every time.

A few hours later people started screaming, and someone—something ran out of that room and wrenched its grip on the first person it saw. Blue scrubs dyed a nasty crimson, like crushed raspberries on cloth. The next part is a blur of running, watching your coworkers die, and using your medical expertise to help anyone who needed it. People were hurt. You saved them.

Like you said, clockwork. You try not to think about it too hard.

By the time help came, you had cramped a large handful of survivors—albeit, injured survivors—into a small house a mile or two from the hospital. Your quick thinking protected many people that day, and your skills were recognized.

A week prior, you were a simple nursing student who was lucky enough to be placed in a hospital, and by the next Sunday, you were being offered a position as a medic with the Anti-Umbrella Pursuit and Investigation Team. You finished your schooling, you got your specialized training, and now you’re on your way to your first assignment out of the country.

So, granted, maybe you are a little crazy for accepting such a prestigious and dangerous position after your humble beginnings. Your mother never ceases to remind you of this, with what little information you were allowed to tell her.

Iceland? she said, pulling her lips into a line. Are you crazy?

You begin to think that you are now that you’re standing in front of the base, arms tucked around yourself and teeth chattering as a sergeant points you around like one of his troops. Between the hustle and bustle of agents hurrying around and the amount of civilians sitting beneath the large, brown medical tent, you understand why they needed all the help they could get.

Things in Iceland were bad apparently; Umbrella thought the remote location would protect what little was left of them and their research from being exposed. Unfortunately for them, (and fortunately for everyone else) the AUPIT caught wind of what was happening and vowed to put a stop to it. You, freshly out of training, were sent to help with the sudden influx of displaced non-combatants and wounded agents.

Within the hour of the helicopter landing, you settle in and pull your cold weather scrubs on.

There aren’t many other nurses—only two—and neither of them seem to be very fond of you. The head nurse is older and straight-laced, following procedure, not mingling with you unless she has to. You don’t think you’re ever going to be put on a shift with the other nurse, but they spare you a few ireful glances. It’s like they could smell the fresh blood, and the scent made them turn their noses.

Nonetheless, you weren’t there to socialize, so you rolled up your sleeves and did your job, trying to ignore the passive aggressive looks being thrown at you from left and right. This kind of mutual ignorance worked for about three days, until you were placed on the night shift… every single night.

Before you came along, it was determined that the night shift could be manned by one person, as injured civilians were sent to the safehouses by nightfall and nearly all of the agents were either out on work or taking a much needed rest. There was no reason for both nurses to be awake when one could conserve their energy and rest while the other worked. So, most nights you spent alone, sitting by the fire in the back of the tent as you waited for the sun to come up.

One of those nights crept up on you again. You bounce your foot against the ground until your ankle aches, sitting in a lawn chair next to the fire with a wool blanket draped over your shoulders. Nothing chirps in the distance like the environment you’re used to, the only noises that float through the air are the wind rustling bare-armed bushes and your own breathing. There was a rip in the tent whistling, too, but you’d be damned if you let the incessant noise drive you insane. You were scared of the eerie silence for the first few days, but that was quickly replaced by the complete boredom that followed it.

You blow a raspberry as you spin a pen in your ungloved hand, fingers numb and stuck stiff with cold. I’ve ought to ask someone for a book, you thought to yourself, or a new job. You immediately push the second contemplation out of your head like it was something dirty and sat up a little straighter; your annoyance made sense, but this is what you wanted to do with your life. You want to help people in need.

Not that there were many people around.

In the distance, like divine intervention, you hear the crackle of wheels against snow, and a black mini-van rolls to a stop in front of the tent. A scuffle inside ensues for a moment, then the doors open and a man comes hobbling into the shelter with his arm over another man’s shoulder.

You nearly fall out of your seat with how fast you stand up and stride over to the men, assisting the injured one onto a cot.

“What happened?” you ask, pushing a cart of equipment to his bedside.

The uninjured one remarks from beside you, “Some snow gave way and he went down this hill with some pretty nasty bushes at the bottom.” His voice is quick and clicky. He looks young.

Clearly, they’re two agents, judging by the leather holsters strapped around their waists and shoulders. You purse your lips and place a lantern on the cart, gently inspecting the injured agent. There’s thorns lodged along the entirety of his left side, looking a bit like a child’s crude attempt at art with toothpicks and styrofoam.

He grunts when you gently lift his arm to check underneath, and you mutter an apology before you turn to the other agent. “I can take this from here.”

The agent nods and spins on his heel, disappearing into the darkness once he stepped out into the open air.

You turn your attention towards the man in front of you and pull on a pair of gloves, the latex makes a sharp snapping noise when you let go. His intense gaze follows your movements with great intrigue—or suspicion. You couldn’t really tell. You pick up a pair of tweezers and set them on the cart. You also finally get a good look at the wounded agent.

Blue eyes that strike down what little defenses you have and brows that spend their time permanently creased, almost erasing the space between them while he inspects you. His ability to make you feel thoroughly grilled with a simple fixated stare would have made you squirm years prior, but now you merely stare back with your eyebrows lifted. The blonde, possibly light brown haired—the darkness didn’t give much way in the form of colour—man averts his eyes first, as if he is caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

You’d be lying if you said he wasn’t attractive, but that’s not your focus right now.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, flicking on a flashlight to check his pupils. Healthy, good. He squints at you through the beam.

“Like I fell into a thorn bush.”

Looks like someone’s a comedian. You deadpan at him, unamused with the sarcasm while you try to help. Your expression beckons a better answer and he backpedals.

The man’s head bobs subtly, like a scale in his mind is weighing his thoughts on either side, and then he says, “I’m just fine.”

“Are you dizzy? Nauseous?”

“Fine.”

“Okay,” you reply, blowing out a not-so-inconspicuous huff of annoyed air that swirls above you in the cold. The agent raises his brow at your reaction but doesn’t seem too keen on speaking on it. “I’ll try to be as gentle as I can, but it’s going to be a lot of poking and prodding.”

He lets out another grunt that could have possibly been an Mhm… but you aren’t sure. You hold the tweezers between your fingers and begin to pluck them out, placing them on the metal pan on your cart. Clink, clink, clink. They fall from the tweezers with tiny noises.

To your surprise, he doesn’t writhe or make much noise, only occasional grunts and sighs and shit’s under his breath when you pull at particularly deep thorns lodged in his arm.

Even for an agent, his arms are an impressive size, which means a lot more surface area to extract from. Not that you really mind, as you would have helped him either way, but surely you would feel differently if you were in his shoes.

However, the silence is… awkward; sitting there with your face inches from the expanse of his arms—he could definitely feel your breath fan across the surface with how his skin dances with warmth and goosebumps and you do not want the attractive agent to focus on that. So, you break it with a question.

“You weren’t wearing a jacket?” A valid query, all things considered.

He blinks at you like it was obvious. “It came off.”

“Oh,” is all you say until you extract the last thorn from his arm and begin to slide the leather shoulder holster off of him. “I just need to take this off.”

He frowns slightly, and you realize his brows had been furrowed this whole time because that was all his face seemed to know how to do. When his expression changes, you stop.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Taking it off so I can look under your sleeve.”

“Why?”

“You could’ve pulled something and I need to bandage you,” you pause. “Is that okay?”

Maybe you wrongly assumed that he had done this a million times. Don’t get you wrong, you know how resilient agents have to be and how good they are at their jobs, so it isn’t like you thought he got hurt often… But with a short glance into his eyes, you could tell he’s a hardened delegate with years of experience under his belt. Isn’t he bound to need help occasionally?

The man gives you a slight nod and shrugs off the holster; it falls to the bed with a soft thud from the weight of the knife tucked into the leather.

His muscles tense under your fingers when you roll the black sleeve over his shoulder. The feathered, pale edge of a bullet scar peeks out from beneath the dark clothing and it makes you wonder how he managed to get it. A mission? Probably. It looks old. You’ve seen scars of all kinds at that point, and each of them held a story that ended in pierced flesh.

They remind you that they will never not be where they came from—your own scars will never not be where they came from. You shake the thought out like a stubborn rock in your shoe.

“Lucky you, it doesn’t look like you pulled anything in your shoulder,” you comment under your breath.

“If this is luck, I’d like to see what happens when I get unlucky.” For the first time, there’s humor in his tone—so faint you nearly miss it, but it makes you chuckle. When he isn’t huffing out responses, his voice almost sounds kind.

You rotate his shoulder slowly and inspect the length of his side, finding fewer thorns than the amount anchored in his arm. Still, your lips press into a line, pitying the fact that his bare skin will be exposed to the frigid, below-freezing air so you could remove them.

“Well, you should’ve knocked on wood,” you reply, “I’ll need you to take your shirt off so I can get the rest of the thorns out and check your ribs.”

Silently, the man hikes his shirt up and over his ribs for you, snaking his arm out of his sleeve and then laying on his side.

As he comes down, stretching, he groans. You see his muscles tense under his skin when he inhales, the dips and divots of his torso flex involuntarily when the squall of air nips at his newly exposed skin. The surface holds blossoms of red and deep purple that litter themselves across his ribs like splotches of messy watercolor dripped onto paper. Scarlet scratches bleed pebbles that drip onto the fabric of the cot.

You suck in through your teeth as you inspect the area. Even without the damage from the thorns, it doesn’t look good.

“Not good?” the agent questions as if he could read your mind. From over his shoulder, he turns his head to look at you.

“Not good. You bruised your ribs, I’d be surprised if one of them wasn’t broken.”

“I didn’t hear a crack.”

“It should be monitored for a day or two, at the very least.”

“I have to get back to work.”

“Look, I understand—“

“I’ll be fine.”

You sigh softly and remove one of your gloves to rub your face in exasperation. Unfortunately, this isn’t your first rodeo with stubborn patients, so you slide on another glove and begin to pluck at the thorns in his torso. “You won’t be doing much work if you permanently damage them.”

He twists his head away from you again and grunts softly, muttering a short, “Okay.”

How articulate. You guess he doesn’t get paid to talk to people.

“Okay? As in…?”

“As in, fine,” he replies, then pauses for a moment as if to prove a point. “But I’m sure you have better things to do.”

You laugh at this, then stifle it into your elbow so he didn’t think you were laughing at him. He still rolls over a little to look at you, confusion laces his eyes that dart around as they go from your face to the rows of empty cots behind you. Busy? You begin to laugh again.

He can’t be serious, you think as you fan your face. You let your laughter dissipate like it was being dissolved into water. “Sorry… no, you’re right,” you snort, “I was drowning in work before you arrived, agent.”

“I’m sure,” he chirps back, the ghost of a smile haunts his lips.

“I think I can squeeze you in, though. Might have to clear some of my schedule, but… I’ll make it work.”

The pleased look that graces your face is involuntary. You find it endearing how worried he is about becoming too much extra work for you and the other nurses, despite the fact that there isn’t any reason to gather that he would and—believe it or not—it’s your job.

The agent lets out an amused breath through his nose. “Should I be flattered?”

“Oh, of course.”

You place the last of the thorns onto the metal pan and tend to his wounds with gauze and bandages and nimble fingers that have done this hundreds of times before. Sometime along the way his body relaxed—just a little—and you think he fell asleep until he sits up like a puppet that had his strings yanked and puts his shirt on properly.

The sudden movement makes you blink, and he stares at you for a long pause filled with dead silence and an expectant look in his eyes. That damn rip in the tent whistles.

Finally, his eyes flicker down to your badge, then back to your face. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“I started here not too long ago,” you inform him honestly, a little embarrassed to admit your newbie title to a seasoned employee of the organization.

He doesn’t say anything else, so you take the reins.

“Well, I think we’re set,” you say, rolling the latex gloves off of your hands. “Let me know if you need anything, Agent…”

You never asked him his name?

“Leon Kennedy,” the agent, now with the name Leon Kennedy pinned to his face, finishes for you.

His name twirls around your head and makes you dizzy to think about. I should have known, you think to yourself once he bids you farewell to report to his superiors.

From what little time you spent at the base prior to meeting Leon, you had heard whispers during dinner drift from mouth to ear of the elusive agent. That he was a man of few words (immense understatement, you consider it more socially awkward, but true); that he had half of the base swooning every time he walked by (you don’t want to comment on this); and that he was immensely attractive (that is also true). You have to admit… you see why he had such an air of intrigue around him. To be so quiet after such successes he’s accomplished—people were on the edge of their seats trying to figure him out.

You also had to admit that you weren’t immune to it either.

During your meals and breaks you found yourself playing Where’s Waldo? with Leon, attempting to catch glimpses of him in his natural state to confirm or deny these claims. Which was an impressively difficult task for absolutely no reason other than that he avoids people for his own benefit. The motive for this disappearing act was, and still is, lost on you.

The few times you did spot him, he had the same clenched jaw and furrowed eyebrows. He never stayed in the same place for very long and frequently you only spotted him—or rather, his broad shoulders and white-knuckled fists as they turned corners and disappeared to do whatever he did all day. Important agent things.

Regarding your coworkers… it hadn’t improved much, either. The head nurse, who you later learned was named Winona, loosened up on you a bit—which is practically nothing when both she and the other nurse had been so cold to begin with. However, your determination to help those around you seemed to impress her… most days.

(Peeks of Leon’s ashy blonde hair stolen from cracks in the tent. His fur-lined coat hangs off of his sizable frame, enveloping his arms in the thick fabric—it makes them look even bigger. Not that you care, per say, but—

“You aren’t getting paid to stalk agents,” Winona jeers, jolting you back to Earth from your subject of stolen attention. You swear she smiles at you wryly. “Should’ve tried for one of their jobs if you wanted to do that.”

She turns on her heel and goes over to a trio of injured civilians with her cart, the knot of hair tied taut at the base of her neck stares you in the face. You’re left hot faced and embarrassed for the entirety of the next check-up with your patient.)

The endless night shifts never seem to cease rolling in and you’re afraid it’s begun to catch up on you. By the end of breakfast, when you could finally drag your corpse-like body to your quarters and into your bed, your head drooped comically into your bowl of oatmeal and some of the newer agents had a blast laughing at you. Whatever, assholes.

(You were deeply embarrassed.)

So, you opted for allowing a short nap in here and there during your shift—ten minutes at most—whenever your eyelids began to feel itchy and weighted and you couldn’t help but close them. You really couldn’t. Being sat by the fire with a hot drink made you so warm and the sounds of blowing wind lulled you to sleep in the darkness under the moon.

Truly, a terrible work performance from you, but no one was around to see and surely you’d be awoken by even a hint of an emergency.

Tonight, you count sheep with your wool blanket tucked up to your chin and your head lolls against your shoulder like it’s about to fall off its hinges. One, two, three. They mock you as they hop into their pasture and curl up into white, fluffy spheres, falling asleep within the warmth of their home.

From a distance, your ears almost register the sound of footsteps that approach the tent, crushing the crunchy top layer of snow under their feet as they stop in the entrance. It isn’t enough to completely wake you until they clear their throat and say, “Hello?”

Your eyes snap open and you turn your head so fast you think it might go flying across the room. Really smooth of you, considering Leon is the one to get your attention. By the smug look on his face and slight chuckle that wracks his chest, you know he isn’t fooled with your act awake performance.

He stands there, towering and rigid, unlike the night you first met him, with his palm outstretched flat like he’s trying to show the world something.

“Oh, hey, what do you need?” you reply quickly, standing from your chair as you let your blanket fall off of you.

Leon glances at his hand and then at you. “I, uh, got a papercut.”

“A paper cut,” you repeat, just to make sure you heard him right.

“Yeah.”

You stare at him for a moment, mouth agape as his words register as something he was actually saying to you.

“Well, get comfortable, then. I’ll patch you up.”

In reality, you’re terribly confused about a special forces agent needing first aid for a paper cut, but how could you complain? He needs help and you’re there to offer it.

The blonde sits on a cot near the fire—not before picking up your blanket from the ground and placing it back on the chair, though—and you situate yourself on a stool facing him.

You take Leon’s hand in yours gently and inspect the wound. It’s fairly shallow, but placed in the center of the webbed skin between his index finger and thumb. Tough spot. When your digits graze his rough knuckles he inhales sharply and you glance at him due to the sudden motion.

He doesn’t expect a reaction from you because he pauses for a second then asks, “You think I’ll live?”

“I dunno,” you answer, sucking your teeth. “Could be a close call.”

“Yeesh.”

“I know. My condolences.”

“For myself?”

“Uh-huh.” You turn his hand over so his palm faced the sky. “This’ll sting.”

When you disinfect the injury, Leon’s face twitches into itself but he keeps quiet, opting to focus his gaze on your face while you patch him up. You try not to shift under the intensity.

“What made you want to do this?” he queries, his voice cuts through the silence and startles you a bit. Leon looks pleased with himself and you roll your eyes.

“You’ll laugh.”

“Why would I do that?”

“It’s corny.”

Admittedly, it was—the original story as to why you wanted to be a nurse. You’ve had people laugh at it before and you mostly don’t want to repeat history with someone you find rather charming, but something in Leon’s face softens and he shakes his head briefly.

“Try me,” he challenges.

“Oh, fine.” As if there was a fight put up when you relent. You smooth a bandaid over his cut. “You know those things you’d fill out as a kid? Where it’s like, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

Leon nods.

“Every single time, I would write superhero,” you laugh sourly because you got used to other people laughing when you said this, but he listens as if you’re the only sound he’s ever heard. “I’d draw myself with a little cape and all that. Then at a certain age the teachers start telling you, pick a real job, pick something that exists. And, I dunno, I thought: there are real superheroes. They save people every day because they want to.

“I mean, I always knew I didn’t have all the right assets to be the one rescuing people from burning buildings and punching the bad guys. I wanted to help people when they couldn’t help themselves, you know? I can't carry the weight of the situation—it’s just not in my nature—but I can carry them. That’s why I started doing this, I guess.”

The look he gives you when you finish speaking is indescribable. He gazes deeply into your face like he’s trying to find a new feature he missed the first time. Something akin to pulling apart your mind with his eyes as if it’s clay made for the shaping and a load of a melancholy that’s too heavy for him; like he’s asking you, how do I carry it? Tell me how to carry something like that.

Your hand still lingers in his, over the bandaid you placed on him; you slide yours so the curves of your thumbs interlock and you grip the hilt of his palm. A hidden embrace.

Leon’s eyes dart toward your hands and he makes no effort to remove you from his grasp, his fingers relax against your wrist. He feels your heartbeat. You feel his. When he looks up again, all he sees are your eyes.

You don’t know why you went on that anecdote in the first place, not really. Only that you were finished patching him up and wanted—needed—him to linger for a bit longer.

“What about you?” you ask, voice hushed close to nothing.

“I wanted to help people, too.” He sounds uncharacteristic—sheepish? “That’s it… I can’t follow up with something as articulate as you.”

“It matters just as much even if you can’t express it,” you assure him, your head tilts.

Leon clears his throat and nods, slipping his hand from yours and looking anywhere that isn’t you. You create a shadow in front of his face, back facing the fire, but you can see the subtle dark tinge of his cheeks when he avoids your eyes. He chooses to look at his feet.

There he goes, being endearing again, you think.

The harsh edges of his face are lit up with an orange glow, darkness shoots somewhere in between in a soft gradient, and he looks positively ethereal. If you reached out and cupped his face, you know it would be warm to the touch like laundry right out of the dryer. It makes him look all the more delicate and this feels more natural than the pointed looks and pinched expressions he usually wears.

You look back down at his hands. You’re trying to memorize the way they felt against yours (coarse and hot) and you get the picture of how hopeless you are—even an idiot could see you have a crush on him.

That doesn’t stop you from protecting your pride and you keep it to yourself. You stand up to put the disinfectant supplies and box of bandaids away without a word.

Leon stares at his hand like it’s missing a piece.

You have your head buried too deep into the cabinet to think much about that. Screaming at yourself was an understatement for what you’re doing in your head… a better description would be begging the floor to swallow you entirely with one gulp.

Surely, Leon has someone at home. He’s an attractive, intelligent man with an arguably stable job that pays him oodles more than he would ever need; not to mention how well-built he is, but again, for what seems like the millionth time you push this thought to the back of your mind. You could not focus on that.

“Are you okay?” his voice carries from the cot.

You take a moment’s breather and shut the cabinet door. “I’m good. How are your ribs?”

“They’re good.” Leon pauses, then adds. “Thanks.”

The shake of your head comes faster than your words; muscle memory. “It’s what I’m here for.”

“You do a good job.”

“I’m just a medic.”

“A good one.”

As you utter your gratitude for his comment, you hope he couldn’t feel the heat radiating off of your face from so far away. You aren’t one to get shy from such simple words, but you find your eyes glued to your boots because of his gentle bonniness. Damn you, you curse at him in your head—it holds no weight.

The blonde stands from the cot and walks over to you. He bends slightly to catch your eyes in his. “I have to go now, but... yeah. Thank you.”

“Of course, Agent Kennedy.”

“Don’t start using formalities now,” he half-laughs, half-breathes. His face contorts when he stretches back, and his hand comes up to massage his right shoulder—you even go to comment on this movement, being a medic and all, but he beats you to it with a smirk. “Stick with Leon.”

And then, in a few strides, he’s gone as fast as he came.

Your entire body deflates when you let out a guttural sigh. How come every time you watch his back, you’re left reeling?

Unfortunately for you, that blasted man had ingrained himself into your head, sitting pretty in your thoughts as snug as a bug in a rug while you tried to do your job, or attempted to focus on anything other than your feelings for him. On the contrary, he returned to clearing out Umbrella facilities for the time being, which meant he was out of the base for days, or even weeks, considering he was one of, if not, the best agent they had. This saved you from the embarrassment of being caught trying to catch glances of him from inside the tent or during meals.

This, however, did not stop you from daydreaming when work got slow.

You wondered how someone like Leon behaved domestically, if he was completely different outside of the AUPIT, or if he was still just the sweet, reserved man who needed your aid often. Did he have any pets? What music did he listen to? You guess you’d have to ask him later, but you imagined that the pieces would fall into place and suit him. They’d be so perfectly Leon that when he told you, you would think to yourself, huh, why didn’t I think of that?

The amount of daydreaming you did was not lost on Winona, and occasionally she snapped her fingers in front of your face and grumbled under her breath, “I’ll kill that boy.” With no real threat to her tone.

Please, you can’t help it. He has arms with the muscle definition of a god and he told you-you were a good medic; you’re a goner before you even realized it.

On the other hand, your family never let up with their pleas for you to return home, despite the fact that it simply wasn’t possible unless you had a very good reason for it. Which you didn’t, and you didn’t want to—people just didn’t get it through their heads that, yes, your job was difficult, and yes, patients got on your nerves sometimes, but no, you wouldn’t trade it for the world. This meant more to you than anything else you could fathom. You knew the fear these people felt first-hand, and you knew they needed a saving grace; just like you had.

(“Just come home,” your mother coos into the phone, her voice static-y and chopped from the poor signal. You could imagine her face right now, all worried and exhausted like you’re a child balancing on a wet playground. “There’s a hospital not too far from here… I’m sure they’d take you.

You promptly spend the next hour explaining to her that it isn’t that simple, even if you wanted to, and you remind her every few minutes that you aren’t going to leave, either. You’re happy, all things considered; which is why you make the executive decision to leave out all of the bad parts of your work so far.)

As for the efforts against Umbrella, you hear whispers of successes during dinners and fewer agents appear at the medical tent’s door in need of assistance than when you arrived. So, you think things are going rather well for your organization. Less tired eyes and solemn faces; the fight isn’t over, but everyone could rest a little easier with every night that passed.

And yet, those damned night shifts. You swear Winona and that other medic were scheming against you for no reason other than pure spite, on the basis of because they didn’t feel like doing it. It has to be funny to them by now, seeing you half-asleep at breakfast and looking all mussed at dinner because you woke up ten minutes prior. You let them laugh all they want because frankly, you began to enjoy the night shifts. The world went to sleep, and you enjoyed some peace and quiet.

You kick your feet up onto a stool and drape a blanket over your legs, book in hand. The soft sounds of Icelandic pop music crackles out of the radio and floats throughout the tent. You mouth the noises of the songs, unsure of the lyrics, but you’ve heard it so often by now, you could recognize the tune from the first few beats. You scat a few of the instruments, tapping your foot along. You don't notice the figure that stopped in the doorframe.

“Enjoying yourself?” Leon. You shut your book and turn to look at him, embarrassed. “I always feel like I’m coming at a bad time.”

“Never,” you reply with a haste that humbles you further. Worried about his sudden appearance in the medical tent after being gone on agent duties for nearly two weeks, you ask, “Are you okay?”

The corners of his mouth upturn and you barely see a flash of uneven teeth between the slit it creates, cute. This distracts you from how smug his face is. “I think I have a fever.”

“A fever this time?”

“Yep.”

“Make yourself comfortable, Leon.”

A paper cut, then a fever. You begin to think of his inability to soothe his minor maladies as an excuse to visit the tent. Your stomach flutters at the thought, but you have to make sure… just in case he’d fallen ill out there in the cold.

You find the thermometer and placed it in his mouth gingerly. It hangs crooked from the corner and he watches you with a certain keenness that makes you smile. After a few minutes, you check his temperature: 98.7. An amused hum escapes your lips without meaning to.

“Dying?”

“I don’t think you have a fever,” you answer, using the back of your hand to press against his forehead and cheeks. The first cheek is cold, then the left cheek warms under your skin—Leon’s expression falls bashful. “But if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were looking for reasons to come see me.”

It’s his turn to hum in thought. “Maybe.”

“You could just come talk to me.”

“You’re on the clock,” the blonde reminds you, grunting. In a swift movement, his hand presses into the curve of his neck and he rotates his right shoulder, face straining.

You see an opening. “That I am. What was that?”

“What?”

“Your shoulder.”

“I was stretching.”

“Does it hurt?”

Leon grumbles a response under his breath, unimpressed that you might have found something you could actually treat him for. You raise your brows. “I’ll take that as a yes. Let me see.”

“It’s fine.”

“Agent Kennedy.”

He pretends not to hear you.

“Leon.”

“Fine,” he gripes like a child being forced to get a shot and maneuvers to lay his stomach flat on the cot, his back faces toward the ceiling. He takes off his brown, fur-lined jacket and discards it onto the next cot over. You get a whiff of musk and cinnamon from the breeze it makes.

The shirt that clings to him leaves nothing to the imagination—a tight, black compression shirt stretches snugly over his muscles. You spread your fingers like fans to warm them up, then begin to run them over his shoulder and along the soft surface of his back.

You tsk, full of knots. This man needs a masseuse. You make a mental note to refer him to a good one you know.

With the issue at hand, though, you find an impressive knot in his shoulder, which is likely the cause of his discomfort.

You huff, your work cut out for you. “There’s a big knot in your shoulder, Leon. How are you living like this?”

“I wake up and roll out of bed.”

“I need to get this out.”

Leon turns his head, his cheek presses to the cot. He gives you a look that says nothing short of, are you serious? You smile as sweetly as you can at him, an attempt to coax him. To your surprise, he averts his gaze fast and relents. The blonde agent sits up and shrugs his shirt off. It’s tossed next to his jacket.

Under the fire light and the dim glow of lanterns that hang in a line down the center of the tent, strings attached to the ceiling, you see the way chills prickle over the surface of his skin. Goosebumps, like rolled carpets being kicked open, unfurl down his arms rapidly and he lays down on his stomach once again.

Your face burns in the dark—you’d be surprised if you aren’t glowing like one of those lanterns from the amount of heat it exudes.

You use a dollop of skin cream to keep the area relaxed and pliable as you work out the knot with your fingers. You push it in the right direction until you got it in a better spot, then you knead it firmly. It crackles within his body.

“Fuck…” he groans in relief, nestling his head into the fabric of the cot as he sighs. “They teach you massages in nursing school?”

“That might be just a learned from life thing,” you state in total honesty. You wipe the excess lotion from your hands on a rag.

Curiously, he peers at you from the corner of his eye. “You have someone back home you do that to?”

A laugh falls from your lips, though your face feels even hotter than before (if that is even possible). “No—not at all.”

Leon lets out a pleasant hum and sit up from the cot. Good, he says without saying it.

He snatches his shirt and tugs it over his head; you pretend to make yourself busy so you have somewhere other to look than at him. You hear him sigh with great reprieve as he rolls his shoulder back and forth, it must feel like a freshly oiled hinge.

He comes up behind you, his shoulder skims yours when he peers down at what you were doing on the counter. Which is a whole lot of nothing; moving cotton swabs from one container to the other, counting how many rolls of gauze you have left for the hundredth time. Mindless hand ministrations to distract you from the heart that pounds in your chest.

“Is this what you do all night?” he questions, mildly amused.

“Sometimes.”

“Must be glad I showed up.”

“Something like that,” you tease, glancing up at him with a coy smile.

You watch his withstraint break a little inside of him. He inhales sharply, losing the words you said somewhere between your eyes and your lips—he couldn’t focus with your faces so close to each other and neither could you.

Leon reaches for the hand that rested on the other side of you and drags you in between him and the counter, twirling you to face him. Then he pauses and appears lost, like he doesn’t know which way is left and right.

Maybe he doesn’t know what to do, you think. You don’t really know either, so you go on about what you do know.

“You should probably use kinesiology tape on your shoulder,” you comment, suddenly becoming hyper-aware of all of your limbs. His eyes don’t leave your lips. You’d be a liar if you say yours left his.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The man’s body heat radiates off of him and it’s magnetic, pulling you closer, away from the bitter cold. Your breath hitches. His hand hovers over the curve of your neck, then it decides to rest on the side of your jaw, thumb pressed against your flushed cheek. You remember the texture of his warm palm, coarse and calloused from years of wear.

You try to memorize every fine line and crease that scuffs his face as he beckons you to close the gap with the slight tilt of his head.

I’d make a terrible agent, my resilience is slim to none, you theorize when your body moves before your mind does.

His mouth hovers over yours, his breath traces your cupid’s bow. You close the distance enough that your lips graze each other until someone clears their throat from a few feet away.

Winona stands like a judgmental statue, her thin brows raised expectantly. You and Leon jump away from each other. It rocks the counter with a loud clatter that echoes.

“Agent Kennedy,” she acknowledges him first as a sign of respect. He nods back awkwardly. “You two look like you’re enjoying yourselves.”

Neither of you talk for a moment and you find yourself desperate to muster any word that could explain what that was. Leon’s eyes dart around the room.

Finally, something tangible comes to your tongue. “I’m sorry.”

And then she laughs in both of your faces. Her hand waves like it’s fanning your words away from getting inhaled. You and Leon glance at each other, brows knit in honest confusion.

“Kids,” she exhales. “Stop distracting my medic, Kennedy.”

Then he speaks, but it sounds more like a nervous cough. “Yes, ma’am.”

Winona shoos him with a gesture of her wrinkled hand and a sheepish, apologetic smile breaks across his lips in your direction as he hurries away from the tent. You don’t make much of an effort to move as you prepare your ego for the chew out it’s about to receive.

“And you. Try to keep the fraternization out of the tent.” With that, she continues past you to search through some files, snickering to herself and shaking her head.

You aren’t about to push your luck. You get to keep your job and ego intact, and that’s enough for you. So, you whisper a quiet, “Yes, ma’am.” And go on with your day.

The encounter with Leon left you feverish and all tingly in every limb whenever it crossed your mind over the following days. You saw him out and about around the base, and during meals he offered you frail waves that faded in a breath.

Truth was, you’re too afraid of rejection to ask him about that night—go figure. Maybe you’re a cliche. Maybe you’re both cliches. Who cares? Well, you do, and you thought the ruffled, pink-tinted expressions on Leon’s face whenever you crossed paths meant that he did, too, but neither of you made a move to approach the other. You questioned if you would rather be told that his only plans for you was a short work fling with no strings attached, or if he felt the connection that you did. A terrible predicament, really, and soon your desire for a straight answer outweighed the fear of hearing something you didn’t like.

When you went to find him in the meal tent, sitting alone in one of the back corners, he wasn’t there. Okay. You waited, then decided to check the nooks and crannies of the base where you knew he hung around, and nothing. Leon vanished into thin air the moment you gathered enough courage to speak to him. Somehow you thought he read your mind and planned for this to happen, just to be able to tease you without being present. But that was ridiculous. He had to go to work, just like you had to do yours.

A week went by, then two; no sign of Leon’s reappearance cropped up and you began to worry you wouldn’t get the chance to speak to him at all. The only reminder that soothed you was the fact that you knew the organization was on the home stretch of completely wiping Umbrella’s power in Iceland. This reassured you for many reasons. Mainly, that you’d be able to sleep in your bed again at a proper time that didn’t leave you exhausted; but you also found comfort in the idea of finally getting a word with the blonde agent that clung to your brain like a disease once everything was over.

Of course, you had fleeting thoughts that he died and you’d forever be left wondering about what could have been. But, that was just ridiculous—he’s Leon Kennedy, the agent that saved the president’s daughter from certain death. So, you chalked it up to your anxiety being built up as doubt about the succession of the mission began to be put to an end. That yes, you would all return home soon, and no nothing terrible and tragic would happen just as you were about to win.

Eventually, you all received the verdict of the mission. Success. The sun shone through the clouds brighter that day, in ribbons of gold that elevated all of your senses to something dreamlike. Another catastrophe prevented. More people saved—clockwork. To say you were pleased with the conclusion of your first out of country operation would be an understatement; you were ecstatic.

Still, you find yourself fretting over that thing with Leon as you help pack up the equipment in the medical tent.

Winona, who has grown increasingly engrossed in your love life, gives you a knowing look when your lips tug downward and you send a pointed glance toward the entrance of the tent for the tenth time in the last hour. She tsks and shakes her head. It gains your attention.

“Just talk to him,” she insists, shoving a couple boxes of bandaids into the case. She’s unimpressed with your antics and just wants you to get a move on.

You sigh and preen your hair like he’ll walk in at any moment. “I haven’t seen him.”

“Hopeless,” she grumbles in response. “Hopeless. If you won’t do something about it, stop looking at the door like a kicked dog and help me.” Winona retreats further into the tent and you succumb enough to follow her.

You must glower the whole time because she won’t stop sending you dirty looks while she tapes the cardboard boxes with a tape gun. Her movements are threatening. You try to fix your expression when the line of cutters reflects off of the bright horizon outside the tent as it slices the tape.

After the innards of the tent are packed into a dozen or so boxes, you’re the person left to pick them up one by one and drop them off with the rest of the cargo that needs to be shipped. Your back is sore from the sorry excuses of beds you have and your arms ache from hours of cramming things. Kicking snow with each shuffled step, you heave out a lengthy sigh and pause to breathe. There’s a reason I’m not an agent.

“Need a hand?” Leon asks from behind you. You’re wondering how he’s always sneaking up on you.

Still, you nod and can’t help but be relieved. “Please.”

Like it’s filled with air, he takes the box from your hands and cocks a barely-there grin at your awed expression. Smug and content, he marches ahead with you in tow. You don’t really know what to say to him, if anything at all.

You walk alongside him for the first time in the daylight, and you take in his features now that they aren’t muddled in the darkened firelight or blurred by distance. He’s chiseled, sunken cheeks and high cheekbones with that intense look on in his eyes—but there’s something else—boyish, is what you think. Soft jaw. Moles and freckles litter themselves across his face.

Leon is beautiful and you would like to kiss him right now.

He stops at the drop off point, places the box next to the others, turning to you. Suddenly, he looks nervous and you feel some of your resolve escape you. He’s about to ask you something. He opens his mouth, rosy lips parting and you break—no, you pull him behind a tall stack of boxes and kiss him.

The collar of his jacket is clutched between your fingers in a moment and your lips are on his; the fur tickles your skin. His lips are chapped and cold but locked in yours, they prickle with warmth, you could be a summer’s day in this frigid air. His hands come to your waist, then your hips and his fingertips make indents when he holds you tight like this was always supposed to happen. When you part, you’re both breathless.

He searches for his words again, the question he was going to ask. “Would you—dinner? On me.”

You hum in faux thought and peck him on the lips again, then again, and a third time for good measure. He smiles into the last one.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t start that by saying you stubbed your toe and needed my help.”

Leon chuckles. “I thought about it.”

He pulls you in again, tongue grazing your bottom lip. You lean in further, desperate for connection until you both go slipping like baby deer. The thin layer of snow on the ground left everything icy. He tumbles into some supplies and you land on top of him. You’re both laughing into each other’s mouths. You’re both happy.

You chime together, like clockwork.

#leon kennedy #resident evil 4 #resident evil #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy fluff #leon s kennedy #leon scott kennedy #re4r leon #re4 remake #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy oneshot #fluff #oneshot #resident evil fluff #nurse!reader #nurse!reader x leon kennedy #post re4r

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jamesmcalover · 21 days ago

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worst plus one 3

Hálfdán Helgi Matthíasson (Væb) x Reader

Warnings: uhh banter?? alcohol?? does that need a warning

Summary: Reader is Matti's best friend and is brought along to this whole Eurovision mess. His annoying brother is making this trip even messier.

a/n: i'm so happy y'all eat this fic up <3 i'm sorry for not answering to some of your requests but i'm so busy atm, i'll try to answer everything when i'm done with worst plus one!!

2.1k words - not proofread

You’re still buzzing.

Not from the cocktail in your hand, though that’s part of it, but from the way the green room exploded earlier when the host called out Iceland. Suspense drawn out like a horror movie. You’d half-squeezed Matti’s hand off his wrist by the time the word landed, and then it was all lights, noise, and pure chaos.

You weren’t the one on stage. You weren’t even part of their official team. But when the camera panned to Væb’s section and they jumped to their feet, you did too, pulled up in the tidal wave of it all. Matti screamed. The dancers screamed. Hálfdán picked someone up – maybe Úlla, maybe someone else – and spun them around like a man possessed.

He caught your eye across the chaos, eyes wide and wild, mouth open in a yell, and for a split second it felt like he was going to cross the whole floor just to reach you.

But then the camera moved on. And the moment passed.

Now, hours later, the afterparty is wild. All sweat, lights, and pounding bass that makes your ribs vibrate. Everyone’s drunk on adrenaline, alcohol, or both. You’ve got that same cocktail, half-empty now, and the echo of Iceland’s name still vibrating in your chest.

Matti’s still yelling the word “final!” like it’s never been said before, and Hálfdán… well, he’s already dancing on furniture.

You clock him standing on one of the velvet lounge couches, beer in hand, screaming Icelandic into the ceiling like the gods themselves had something to do with it.

Typical.

He spots you and points dramatically, like he’s just discovered you in the crowd. You mouth no at him immediately, but it’s already too late. He hops down, nearly lands on someone’s foot, and beelines through the party haze, stopping inches in front of you.

“You gonna say it?” he shouts over the music.

You raise an eyebrow. “Say what?”

“That I’m a fucking legend.”

You snort into your drink. “You were off-beat for the first chorus.”

He throws his head back dramatically. “Haters everywhere. Even in my own delegation.”

Somehow, his presence tonight isn’t as irritating. Or maybe the drinks have dulled your patience just enough to make him tolerable. Maybe even fun.

You tip your drink back, smile against the rim, and say, “Congrats, by the way. You guys smashed it.”

He freezes for a split second, then narrows his eyes. “Was that a genuine compliment?”

You groan. “I knew this was a mistake.”

But before you can turn away, he grabs your hand. His palm is warm and a little sweaty. “No no, come on. I want this in writing. Say it again. Say you’re proud of me.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. “Don’t push it, boat boy.”

He grins, stepping a little closer. “You’re drunk.”

You give him a lazy smile. “And you’re still annoying.”

He laughs. One of those loud, unfiltered ones that draws stares from people. You don’t pull your hand away. He notices. His grin shifts slightly. Less obnoxious, a little softer. You’re standing closer than you meant to, but neither of you steps back.

“You’ve got glitter in your hair,” he says after a beat.

You blink. “What?”

He steps closer, too close, and reaches up, brushing something from your hair that may or may not exist. His fingers linger a second too long. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of the music, of the bodies pressed around you, of the way he smells like cologne and cheap beer.

He leans in, like he’s about to say something else. But then someone shouts his name and grabs him from behind. Matti. And the moment breaks.

You step back fast, heart doing something weird in your chest. Hálfdán looks at you like he’s trying to remember what he was about to say.

You beat him to it.

“I need another drink.”

“Wait for me,” he calls as you disappear into the crowd.

You don’t.

Not yet.

You lose track of time after that. One drink turns into three, or more. The floor blurs with too many bodies. Your feet ache from dancing and your voice is gone from shouting over the music. You’ve circled the room twice without meaning to when you spot him again.

He’s alone, sitting on the edge of a low sofa with a drink in one hand, head tilted against the wall. His shirt is wrinkled, collar askew, curls wild. He looks tired. Soft around the edges. Not like the guy who just brought down an arena. More like the guy you used to bicker with in hallways.

You’re about to keep walking.

But he looks up, and his eyes catch yours, like they always do.

You hesitate.

Then slump down beside him, not saying anything at first.

“You didn’t wait for me,” he says, voice low, not teasing this time. Just stating a fact.

“You got distracted,” you answer, staring straight ahead. “Not my fault.”

He doesn’t argue. Just leans back, shoulder brushing yours lightly. Neither of you shifts away.

“I was gonna say something earlier,” he says after a beat.

“Oh yeah?”

“Don’t remember now.”

You glance at him. His eyes are already on you.

You give a small, almost-smile. “Tragic.”

You reach out without thinking, brushing a wrinkle from the front of his shirt. His breath hitches. Barely, but you catch it. He looks at your hand, then up at you, and something heavy settles in the space between you. Neither of you moves.

Then you pull back.

“Come on then,” you say, standing too fast. “Let’s get a drink.”

He doesn’t question it. Just rises to follow, close behind you through the crowd, hand brushing yours more than once but never fully taking it.

At the bar, you order, pretending not to notice how close he’s standing. He doesn’t touch you. But you can feel him there.

When you hand him his drink, his fingers brush yours. Deliberate this time. Longer. Slower.

You don’t pull away.

He leans in, lips near your ear. “So. Still proud of me?”

You shoot him a look, but it’s a little breathless. “I regret everything.”

He smiles, but doesn’t step back.

You sip your drink. So does he. The silence that follows hums with something unsaid.

“You’ve been less mean to me tonight,” he says after a moment, voice almost curious.

“Maybe I’m just too tired to argue.”

He watches you closely. “Or maybe you like me now.”

You snort, but it’s weak. “Keep dreaming.”

But your voice has lost its edge. The words fall softer than you meant them to. He hears it. You both do.

He leans on the bar beside you. His arm brushes yours again, slow and intentional. You let it.

There’s a silence, not awkward, just full. The kind that sits heavy between two people who’ve been circling something all night without naming it.

Then, quieter, he says, “Hey… about the other day.”

You glance over. His eyes aren’t quite as wild now. The alcohol hasn’t dulled them completely.

“What about it?” you ask, more cautious than before.

“I was a dick,” he says plainly. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

You hesitate. Then nod. “I wasn’t exactly a ray of sunshine either.”

He smiles faintly. “We’re both terrible.”

“Speak for yourself,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it.

You clink your glass gently against his. “Truce?”

He looks at your glass, then up at you. “Truce.”

But he doesn’t drink. He just holds your gaze a second longer than you expect.

And for a heartbeat, everything around you, the music, the lights, the people dancing, fades into the background. It’s just the two of you, standing too close, saying nothing, saying everything.

You blink first, turning back to your drink.

He laughs under his breath. “Scared?”

You shoot him a look. “Of you? Never.”

“You sure?” he asks, a half-smile pulling at his mouth, like he already knows you’re not.

You don’t answer. Just raise your drink again and take a slow sip, stalling. Hoping the noise and lights will swallow whatever this is that’s hanging between you.

You start to turn, but he shifts closer again. Just enough that his shoulder bumps lightly against yours. You don’t move away. You hate that you don’t move away.

“You were looking at me earlier,” he says, too casually.

Your jaw tightens. “You were standing on a couch screaming. Everyone was looking at you.”

“Not like you were.”

You scoff and shake your head, but he leans in again like he’s telling you a secret.

“You looked impressed.”

“I looked horrified.”

“Same thing.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to stop a smile, but it’s already too late. He catches it, and the smirk he gives you is unbearably smug.

“I knew it,” he says, cocky as hell.

You roll your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet–” He holds up his glass, tilting it in your direction. “You’re still here.”

You stare at him for a second, something flickering low in your chest. Then you grab your drink, draining the last of it.

“Only because the bar’s right here.”

You shoulder past him, not quite rough, but enough to make a point. He lets you go, but you feel his eyes on your back the whole way.

And when you glance over your shoulder, just once, he’s still standing there, grinning like he’s already won something.

You hate how warm that look makes you feel.

And worse. You kind of want him to follow you.

But he doesn’t.

You ditch your empty glass on the nearest table and head for the edge of the room, where the lights aren’t quite as blinding and the bass doesn’t threaten to crack your ribs open. You need a second. Just one breath that isn’t thick with sweat and him.

Your heart’s still doing that traitorous skip, the one it always does when Hálfdán looks at you like that. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Like he’s winning something.

You lean against a wall, closing your eyes for a beat. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

“Damn. He’s got you bad.”

Your eyes snap open. Úlla grins at you, drink in hand, silver eyeliner still miraculously intact. She’s leaning against the wall beside you, like she’s been there the whole time.

You scoff. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She makes a noise that’s somewhere between a snort and a laugh. “Sure. That’s why you were practically vibrating.”

“I was not–”

“Please. I thought you were gonna kiss him or slap him. Could’ve gone either way.”

You glare, but it doesn’t have any real heat. Mostly because you’re not sure which option you would’ve picked either.

“You think too much,” you mutter, arms crossed.

She shrugs, sipping her drink. “You think too little.”

Before you can respond, someone crashes into a nearby table and the music surges louder. You use the chaos as an excuse to slip away again, weaving back toward the dance floor where anonymity’s easier.

You don’t expect to see him again tonight. Not really. Not with how much you’ve both been circling each other, neither quite ready to push things into the next space.

But of course he finds you.

You’re midway through dancing with Sweden's KAJ, trying to learn their dance, when a familiar voice cuts in behind you.

“Sorry, I need this one back.”

You turn, ready to tell him off. But Hálfdán’s already there, hand extended, brows raised like he’s daring you to say no.

You hesitate.

He leans in, dropping his voice just enough to be heard over the beat. “Unless you’re scared.”

God, he’s infuriating.

You take his hand.

His fingers curl around yours with zero hesitation, tugging you closer, and then you’re dancing. Not perfectly, not gracefully, but with a kind of chaotic rhythm that matches the night. He spins you unnecessarily, just to be obnoxious, and you stumble into him laughing, catching yourself on his shoulder.

You mean to step back. Really, you do.

But his hand settles lightly on your waist. And neither of you moves.

He leans in, voice low against your ear again.

“Bet you’d miss me if I stopped being annoying.”

You open your mouth. But then the beat drops, someone bumps into your back, and the moment scatters like ash.

You laugh again, too loudly. “Still dreaming.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺

Part 4!!

#esc #eurovison 2025 #esc25 #eurovision #eurovision fanfiction #hálfdán x reader #hálfdán #væb #vaeb

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ipso-faculty · 4 months ago

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The state of intersex studies

So we recently read the first part of Malatino's Queer Embodiment for Intersex Book Club. It'll be a while until the summary gets posted because we have a backlog (whoops) but this book makes me want to rant.

Having now read a bunch of intersex studies books for the book club has made me acutely aware of HOW MUCH of (American) intersex studies is the same five topics over and over again:

The life of Herculine Barbin

Fuck John Money

Fuck Middlesex

The rise and fall of ISNA + Fuck DSD terminology

Caster Semenya

For the record, Malatino only covered four of these five 🙃. It's honestly getting tiring seeing the same five topics over and over again when there is SO MUCH else that could be talked about.

I'm tired of hearing about ISNA The repetitive focus on ISNA is particularly grating to me because the total amount of text I have head on ISNA's history is greater than the total amount of text I have read on the histories of all other intersex advocacy organizations. 😬 The USA did not invent intersex advocacy and isn't even a world leader in intersex activism (sorry, American friends).

The only text I know of that chronicles the history of a non-ISNA intersex advocacy organization is Swarr's Envisioning African Intersex where she talks about the history history of Sally Gross and Intersex South Africa (and gives a brief shout-out to Julius Kaggwa and other Ugandan activists). Which is weird because...

IGM is banned in Greece! 🎉 And Spain! 🎉 And Portugal! 🎉 And Iceland! 🎉 And Brazil!! 🎉 And Chile! 🎉 And Uruguay! 🎉 There are partial bans on IGM in India and Australia. So why haven't I seen a single book chapter on the history of intersex activism in any of these countries? 🧐 What can we learn from these successful campaigns???

I'm tired of hearing why ISNA failed when I want to be learning how OII-Europe and similar organizations have succeeded. 🫤 There have been more than two people in intersex history Herculine Barbin isn't the only intersex person from history and I would honestly like to see more on other famous intersex people from history, e.g. Isidor of Seville, Helena Antonia, Elen@ de Céspedes, King Francis II of France, King/Queen Christina of Sweden, Princess Ismat al-Doulah of Persia, Sa Bangji, Im Seong-gu, Xie Jianshun, Fernanda Fernández, Gottlieb Göttlich, Karl Dürrge, Karl M. Baer, Lili Elbe, Clémentine Delait, and Annie Jones (Just to name a few that *I* know of!)

Caster Semenya isn't the only intersex athlete to have experienced discrimination! She wasn't even close to being the first! Maybe give some airtime to Maria José Martínez-Patiño, Foekje Dillema, Ewa Kłobukowska, Erik Schinegger, or Witold Smętek? Or even contemporaries, like Duttee Chand or Margaret Wambui?

I'm *really* tired of hearing about Middlesex The repeated critiques of Middlesex have also gotten tiring. The book sucks. This is not news. What I'm not seeing is literary scholars engaging with the growing body of books written by intersex authors like the works of Rivers Solomon, Bogi Takács, Alec Butler, or KOKUMO. And don't tell me they're not "literary" or "notable" enough, Butler has a Governor General's Award and Takács has a Hugo.

Intersex Studies can do so much more! Intersex studies is a young field. I know this. I just wish I'd see more variety making into book format? It's weird seeing the same things get repeated exhaustively when there's so much that doesn't seem to have gotten any attention? Like in book club we talked about intersex people in mythology for a bit and it made me realize we haven't seen anything specifically on this subject and there is so much that could be talked about there. 😯

My rant ends here. If anybody here is looking for a research topic I hope I've made the point that there's a lot of fertile ground that has not been covered when it comes to intersex! 💜 (If you wind up writing anything along these lines please do send it my way! 💜)

#rant #text #intersex studies #intersex #actually intersex #sociology #gender studies

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starstruck-cupid · 6 months ago

Text

Secret Lover

Jason DiLaurentis x fem!Reader

A/n: I'm sorry this took so long. I lost the motivation to write and the last few months have not been great for me this will be a two or 3 part series and might not end happily, but we'll see

“Ali can't find out about this. You can't tell any of them.”

Jason had sweet moments, but those words felt like a punch in the gut. He was right, of course. He usually was. At least he was when he was sober, which wasn't often.

The fling we had that summer, the same summer Alison disappeared, was short and sweet. It was what he needed it to be. He wanted something easy with someone malleable. I was like a stray dog. I was alone, and willing to follow whoever gave me any attention. Ali knew that the second she saw me, so it's no surprise Jason did too. The whole DiLaurentis family had a knack for sensing things like that.

Jason ended it when he found someone more fit for the image he was trying to portray. It was easy for him. He never had trouble with girls. It was never easy for me, though. Especially after him. No one could ever be him.

Rosewood after Ali disappeared was hell. Nothing ever happened in Rosewood. People were afraid for a while. They thought their daughters were next. As time passed, the feelings of fear dissipated. Alison was forgotten. She became a statistic. Just another missing girl from a small town.

Jason and his parents left soon after, it was weird seeing the house next door so empty. Then Aria left. She stopped messaging a few months after she left. No one blamed her. It was just Hannah, Emily, Spencer, and the ghost of Alison’s memory. It was different, though. We all drifted and became different types of people with different types of friends. Small conversations became passing a “hello”, which turned to nothing.

/////////////////////////////<3//////////////////////////////////

Tomorrow marks a year since Ali disappeared. All of these thoughts and memories had been running through my head. I desperately wanted someone who understood to be around. Imagine my surprise seeing Aria walk out of the bathroom with a man way too old for her a few minutes into my shift.

“Aria?” shocked, I stopped in my tracks. The look on her face screams of surprise and embarrassment. The two of them share the same look of embarrassment. I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity.

“Come find me when you’re done here,” I say in a playful tone, shaking my head.

A few minutes later is hear the clicking of heels against the floor. Setting down the paperwork in my hands, I look up and see Aria in front of me. It feels like forever that we're sitting there analyzing each other. She looks different. No more pink streak. I remember helping her dye it in my already dye-stained bathroom with some leftover pink I had. I think it was the only time we weren’t silently fighting to be Alison’s best friend.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t say anything,” she said, finally breaking the silence.

“Honestly, I get it. I probably wouldn’t have either. How long have you been back?” I pushed a chair across the table out with my foot and finished the little bit of the accounting paperwork I was doing.

//////////////////////////////<3///////////////////////////////////

We talk for what feels like hours. She talked about Iceland, the man in the bathroom, and everything going on with her family. I talked about Rosewood, my job, the rest of the group, and oddly, Jason. Aria had messaged him a few months ago and he seemed better. I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t jealous. I could have tried, though. After Aria said her goodbyes, I wrote, deleted, and rewrote so many messages to Jason. I wanted him to know I was thinking of him. I didn’t even know if he would want that.

I gave up after half an hour. I packed up my stuff, said goodbye to my uncle and whoever else was left, and walked out. It was 11 pm, and cold. After putting my headphones in, I start walking. I felt a presence during my walk. I felt eyes on me, watching me like I was prey. I felt like my every move was being analyzed. I jumped when I felt my phone buzz. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I see a text from an unknown number.

‘Missing your lover? Sucks for you Bitch - xo A’

What the fuck?

/////////////////////////////<3//////////////////////////////////

I didn’t sleep last night. Anxiety kept me up. Anxiety about the text and the first day of school. Walking into my English class, I was surprised to see Aria, Emily, Hannah, and Spencer. All of us were in one room for the first time in almost a year. Walking towards Aria and Emily, I take the seat in front of Aria.

“Interesting class lineup,” I jokingly say, turning towards the girls. The bell rings and I turn halfway towards the front of the room. An oddly familiar figure stands in front of the board. As he turns I recognize the man from last night. That’s the guy Aria fucked. I turn my head back to her, wide-eyed, and am met with a similar face. Her eyes get wider as her phone goes off.

////////////////////////////<3/////////////////////////////////

The rest of the day is less eventful. No weird texts, no odd interactions. It was nice to spend the day with Aria and Emily. Work was paperwork, putting in orders, and planning community events the bar was involved in.

Walking towards my house, I see flashing red and blue lights. Speeding up I see ambulances and cop cars in front of Alison’s old house. Walking up to the group of people I spot Spencer away from the group. I stand beside her, Aria appearing next to me soon after.

“I heard the cops took Hannah to the police station today,” Aria said, breaking the silence.

“Wait, you don’t think she’d ever talk about-” Spencer began to ask.

“The Jenna thing?” Hannah interrupted, “ We made a promise”

#jason dilaurentis x reader #jason dilaurentis #pretty little liars

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apiswitchcraft · 5 months ago

Text

understanding norse runes: a historical and modern perspective pt. 3

Sorry it's taken me so long everyone, holidays and school starting back up had me really distracted.

For part 1 click here, for part 2 click here.

ᛏ tiwaz

ANGLO-SAXON:

"Tir is a guiding star, well keeps faith with princes; it is on course over the mists of night, never failing."

NORWEGIAN:

"Tiw is the one-handed member of the Aesir often has the smith to blow."

ICELANDIC:

"Tyr is the one-handed As and leavings of the wolf and king of temples."

INTERPRETATION: Law and order, justice, victory, but victory for the people, not just the individual. Tyr (this rune's namesake), as the god of war, is also a god of the people, much in the same way Ares is. This rune emphasizes self-sacrifice in the name of common good, in order the serve a larger purpose. However, Tyr also embodies the wisdom of the goddess Athena, also a goddess of war. You have to be reliable, hard working, and loyal in order to achieve success, but you also have to have a plan, gather intel, do research. Think about what you did to deserve your successes: it's not just about the end goal, but the path you took too. As a bindrune, this stave can be good for summoning courage and energy needed for change, especially in legal matters. However, if your motivations are not pure, or actions not just, Tyr will just as much take action against you as for you. Use this rune if you need help bolstering your leadership skills, or for reinforcing a position you already have. Take decisive action, assert yourself, and take on obstacles with gusto.

KEY WORDS: Courage, loyalty, justice, wisdom, determination

ASSOCIATIONS: Tyr

ᛒ berkano

ANGLO-SAXON:

"Poplar/Birch bears no fruit, bears without seed suckers, for from its leaves it's generated, splendid are its branches, gloriously adorned its lofty crown, lifting to the sky."

NORWEGIAN:

"Birch is the greenest-leaved of branches; Loki was lucky in his deception."

ICELANDIC:

"Birch is leafy branch and little tree and youthful wood"

INTERPRETATION: Meaning "birch," this rune represents birth and rebirth, especially when created out of very little. New beginnings, or a restart of something old. But just in as much as it can be ascribed to the cycle of life, this rune is also connected to the cycle of death, as they go hand-in-hand. Birch is a hardy tree that grows in cold climates, bracing the bitterest winters to be cut down and used for maypoles at the coming of spring. This stave is especially useful in what is called "feminine" magic: relating to menstruation, birth, protection of young girls, or sensuality. Use Berkano to call upon the power of Frigg during wedding preparations, Freyja during times of courtship, and Hella during times requiring vengeance or after betrayal. Prosperity and beauty are indicated, as well as a nurturing, protective force. Lots of interpretations relate this rune to the Divine Feminine, or the Goddess archetype.

KEY WORDS: Fertility, new beginnings, femininity,

ASSOCIATIONS: Frigg, Freyja, Hella

ᛖ ehwaz

ANGLO-SAXON:

"Horse is a joy to princes in presence of earls, Horse in pride of its hooves, when rich men, mounted, bandy words, and is to the restless ever a comfort."

INTERPRETATION: Relationships and friendship, literally meaning "horse," the interpretation stems from the trust and love between rider and horse. On any journey into the unknown, you should always bring a friend. Mutual trust is important, though, and that takes a good amount of work to achieve. Harmony between to people is indicated, but loss of individuality does not accompany it. Reliability and loyalty are important qualities in this situation, not intolerance or jadedness. This harmony can also be achieved between two unlike things, two opposites: man and woman, physical and psychic, shaman and god. It is a good rune for meditation with the gods, as it can help bridge the gap between the mortal and immortal realms. Because ehwaz means "horse" this rune can also indicate travel or change. A steady and progressive change is underway, and consistency is key to maintain it.

KEY WORDS: Partnership, harmony, travel

ASSOCIATIONS: Sleipnir, Freyr

ᛗ mannaz

ANGLO-SAXON:

"The mirthful man is dear to kinsmen, yet every man must fail his fellow since the will of the Lord dooms that the frail flesh to earth be taken."

NORWEGIAN:

"Man is an augmentation of the dust; great is the claw of the hawk."

ICELANDIC:

"Man is the joy of man and augmentation of the dust and adorner of ships."

INTERPRETATION: Literally meaning "man," mannaz represents the journey towards self-actualization, achieving an internal balance: between mortal and divine, between male and female, between conscious and unconscious. Take responsibility for yourself, and have respect for everything around you: nature, your fellow man, the gods, our ancestors, and your future. This is the stave of humanity, and all the flaws and follies that may accompany it, but recognizing them as inherently Human, and therefore not all that negative. It represents an awakening, like removing the blinders from a horse, so to speak. It addresses question of identity and purpose, one's function in society. However, this rune requires cooperation, for the user not to fight their "destiny" (which is self-made), or to at least not to abandon it. This rune represents the choices a person is constantly presented with, the same choices everyone is presented with, as a collective. It serves as a reminder that we are never alone, and while we are constantly reliant on others, we should also allow others to be reliant on us.

KEY WORDS: Identity, self-actualization, community, humanity

ASSOCIATIONS: Heimdall, Odin-Vili-Ve

ᛚ laguz

ANGLO-SAXON:

"The sea seems interminable to people if they shall venture on rolling ship and the waves of the sea terrify them, and the sea-stallion heeds not its bridle."

NORWEGIAN:

"Water is where a cascade falls from a mountain-side but ornaments are made of gold."

ICELANDIC:

"Water is welling stream and broad kettle and land of the fish."

INTERPRETATION: With the translation being "lake," the laguz rune represents a lot of what the element of water represents: creativity, visions/dreams, emotions, and vital energy (coming from the idea of the Niflheimr). As with the flow of a rushing river, it is safer to go along with the current than to fight it. A period of trials leading to personal growth is indicated, something that will be difficult, but not outright impossible to overcome. It may be that something hidden is soon revealed. You might feel overwhelmed, or quite put upon, but remember that there is nothing wrong with you, and all shall soon come to pass. Representing the essence of life, laguz can have alternative meanings involving birth, reproduction, healing, psychic powers. It's usage in matters involving the female reproductive and menstrual cycle is said to be very powerful.

KEY WORDS: Intuition, femininity, adaptability, emotional depth

ASSOCIATIONS: Nerthus

ᛝ ingwaz

ANGLO-SAXON:

"Ing was first among the East-Danes seen by men, till he to the east over waves went, his wain after ran, thus the Heardings named the hero."

INTERPRETATION: Ingwaz, representing fertility and masculinity, was said to translate to "Yngvi," thought to be another name for Freyr. It is the time before actualization, a period of gestation, in a sense. This is a potent state, a time where you have to have patience, and let things come to be on their own time. Ingwaz is a rune of transformation, of birth and death, of sensuality and love. However, not so much in the same way that Freyja was a goddess of love, but in the way that Freyr could be interpreted as a god of love; which is more about virility and sex than love. However, if your issue does not relate to interpersonal relationships, this is definitely a rune of nature. This is the stave of the farmer, of the father. Look towards the masculine figure in your life for answers, whether they will provide it to you, or are the crux of your issues.

KEY WORDS: Virility, fertility, potential, masculinity,

ASSOCIATIONS: Freyr

ᛞ dagaz

ANGLO-SAXON:

"Day is God's sending, dear to men the great lord's light means mirth and happiness to rich and poor, useful to all."

INTERPRETATION: Meaning "day," this rune represents clarity, awakening, opening the third eye, consciousness, hope and happiness. Often given very little context other than it's interpretation being overall positive, the dagaz rune should be invoked whenever you need a turning point, or clarification. It is the light of day at dawn, that brings recompense to the fearful and retribution against the hateful. It reminds of the cyclical nature of life, as bad times come, so does new hope emerge. New opportunities are being presented to you, basically on a silver platter. When surrounded by other runes, it turns basically a whole reading towards the positive.

KEY WORDS: Awareness, dawn, hope, happiness

ASSOCIATIONS: Day, Odin

ᛟ othala

ANGLO-SAXON:

"An estate is very dear to every man if he may there rightly and peacefully enjoy in the hall frequent harvest."

INTERPRETATION: The rune of the hearth and home, othala means, most literally "ancestral property," which aligns very similarly to the divinatory interpretation. It promises safety and stability, our relatives, our roots. However, it also warns us to not hide behind our pasts, and to be constantly evolving along with the rest of society. At the end of the day, we must always have something to come home to, a strong foundation. But if this foundation is unsteady, like a toxic relationship is, it can harm us more than help us. It represents everything inherited, psychological traits, land, a home, a name, family, a community. It represents the separation between the here and now, and the then and there, between mortal and immortal. For this reason, it can be a rune to represent Odin.

KEY WORDS: Heritage, inheritance, legacy, tradition

ASSOCIATIONS: Odin

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anamericangirl · 3 months ago

Note

I see lots of disabled folks supporting eugenics and abortion, and I don’t understand why? I’ve endured horrible things, and because of the system and abuse, I have C-PTSD and dissociation now. But I would still choose life. And when I enter subs like r/disability on Reddit, I see “If my child was disabled I would kill them / I wish my mother would have aborted me” etc. WHYYY? It’s SO fucking triggering to me, I started to avoid those subs. But it’s coming from disabled folks! Y’all want changes but SUPPORT THE SYSTEM? Support TRAUMA? HOW Iceland eliminating the whole kids with Down’s Syndrome is ALRIGHT, considering they can live and lead NORMAL life now? I swear, if we find out about autistic genes, or genes that make people be prone to be gays… we will be even MORE selective. *coming from someone physically disabled + auDHD*. I don’t understand how people can support disabled rights and then go “Let’s abort a disabled child!”, so you lowkey wish death on me?

It's really sad to see people supporting abortion and using themselves as a reason to justify it. Like I'm sorry you're depressed and think your life is so terrible you wish you had never been born and that death is better but you can't use your own depression to justify killing someone else.

No amount of someone saying "I wish I had been aborted" is going to make me get on board with murdering babies.

It will make me suggest you seek out therapy but anyone who really thinks that's a persuasive argument for abortion is insane. We don't use suicidal people to justify murder.

And anyone who thinks eliminating people with disabilities is a good thing is just a eugenicist. We should focus on eliminating disabilities, not people with disabilities.

The more you sit there and listen to pro-abortion people the more absolutely insane and vile opinions you will hear.

#anon #answered

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pelova4president · 1 year ago

Text

My muses

Laura Freigang x Sydney Lohmann x Reader

summary~ In which you fall for two German girls that are in a relationship with eachother. They’ve had their eye on you for a little while now and decide to make a move now you’re working with their national team.

Syd and Laura are bestfriends, everyone knew that. They roomed, sat and did basically everything together. They played for different clubs but that didn’t matter, they got to see eachother more than enough.

What most people didn’t know is that they are a little more than friends, girlfriends to be exact. They didn’t really try to keep it private but everyone just thought that they were good friends since they had always been like this.

When you moved from the Netherlands to Germany it felt like a big change, you were only twenty and, ofcourse you knew a few words and sentences but that was it. German sounds a bit like Dutch but it was still hard to understand all of the difficult business words, especially when they were talking so fast.

You’ve been a sports photographer for about three years now. It began with your love for women’s football. Watching your childhood club Ajax play week in week out, you wanted to capture it. After you realised your phone camera wouldn’t do the job anymore you bought a real professional camera, it had cost you a fortune and you had to work extra hours at the cafe you served at. But honestly, it was the best decision you’ve ever made. You tried to capture moments from your seat in the stands but that was hard when the bald men in the seats in front of you stood up at every exciting pass.

Eventually, you mustered up enough courage and mailed Ajax, asking them to get access to the field to photograph the players in action. A few days later you got a response back saying that they’d like that.

After capturing many more games you signed a contract with the club, not as a player but that didn’t matter.

That’s how you got here, signing a contract with the German women’s football team as media manager and photographer. You’ve photographed some of the players because some of the girls had played against Ajax. But this was all still very new to you, working in Germany and also managing the socials.

They also didn’t really bother to introduce you to the girls, you just had to start. Or well, that’s what you understood anyway.

The start of your new era began rather hectic. The German girls were going to Italy and Portugal for some friendlies. They would play against Iceland and England to prepare for the World Cup.

You were staying in the same hotel as the team and at dinner time you eventually met some of them. Sitting alone, Laura approached you.

“Hey, ich bin Laura, ich glaube, ich habe dich schon einmal gesehen.” (Hey, i’m Laura, i think i’ve seen you before.) she introduces herself. “Ich bin y/n, but uhh i don’t speak that much German. I’m the new media manager.” you say awkwardly. Why are you like this all of a sudden. “Oh sorry, i didn’t know but you’ve got an accent. Where are you from?” Laura asks you.

You tell her about your little journey, working for Ajax and photographing. Laura sits down at your empty table and you fall into a nice conversation. She apparently remembered you from a game she played against Ajax a few months ago.

Laura was telling you about her love for photography when a certain midfielder came crashing the conversation. “Laura, warum hast du mir diese Schönheit nicht vorgestellt?” (Laura why didn’t you introduce me to this beauty?) the girl said. Laura rolled her eyes at her, “Syd this is y/n, our new media manager and sports photographer, y/n this is Sydney my idiot girlfriend.” Laura explained.

You didn’t even know the girl but to say you were disappointed that she was taken was an understatement. You really clicked and thought that she was even flirting a little bit with you but you were just imagining things apparently.

Syd sat down on the chair on the other side of you and began to ask you things too. But she had other questions in mind. “So, do you have a girlfriend.. or boyfriend?” the midfielder asked you shamelessly. “Uh no, i don’t have a girlfriend at the moment.” you said with a red face trying to look anywhere but at the couple. The two German girls smirked to eachother and continued to pester you with questions.

The next day Laura and Sydney wanted to take you out for the day since they had the afternoon and evening off. Laura had promised you some beautiful views and good food so you couldn’t resist a night out with the two girls.

You dressed up and had done your makeup and hair. The two girls knocked on your door and when you opened it you saw both of the girls looking you up and down. Sydney licked her lips and greeted you, “Du siehst echt gut aus” (You look really good) and Laura did the same, “Du siehst so schön aus.” (You look very pretty).

They walked you to the black BMW they had rented and Sydney opened the car door for you. Laura sat in the drivers seat and Sydney in the passenger’s. Sydney connected her phone and r&b played on the background of your lighthearted conversation. At some point in the conversation they stopped talking English and switched to German.

“Sie sieht gut aus.” (She looks good) Laura said looking in her little mirror. Syd hummed, “Sie ist sehr schön. Glaubst du, sie mag uns?” (She’s very pretty. Do you think she likes us?). You were looking out of the window, listening to Frank Ocean when you heard Laura speak English again. “I think so, i guess we’ll have to find out.” and with that she parked the car and opened your door.

They took you to a very nice restaurant, the vibe was good and the food and company was even better. They kept flirting with you and now it wasn’t just Laura when she was alone with you, they both were and they both seemed to be okay with it too.

“What got you into sports photography?” Sydney asked you. “Well, i wanted to capture the moments and you know, the women.” you laughed, your face heating up. The couple laughed at your answer and Laura spoke again, “I get it, i’m surprised none of my teammates made a move on you yet, you’re a pretty girl.”. You were surprised but flattered by her words. “Oh thank you, the both of you look really good too.” you complimented them.

“Sie ist niedlich.” (She’s cute) Laura said to her girlfriend. The brunette gave her teammate a smile and looked at you again. “Yeah, you think so, liebling?” Sydney asked you, trying to get more out of you. “Yeah- well i mean you know, you’re both really attractive and sweet and stuff.” you rambled and they let you. Both of the girls giggled at your rambling, finding it quite cute how you got flustered so easily.

The night ended after some more teasing and a nice dessert. They walked you to your door and told you that they enjoyed their evening with you and how they’d love to do something like this again sometime. Sydney kissed you goodnight on your forehead while Laura kissed you on the corner of your lips. You wondered of she did that on purpose or if she did it by mistake.

laurafreigang posted on their story

y/n_y/l/n

liked by victoriapelova and 78.628 others

portugal📍, italy you’re next.

comments

viviannemiedema 😍😍

stanwaygeorgia got that portugal glow

sydneylohmann looking good 👀

laurafreigang touring with a good view

l0hmannbayernn wait but syd and laura were at that same restaurant too

↳ germany_w0men they’re probably friends i think since y/n works for the national team

You traveled to Italy with the team and arrived in the evening. When you stepped out of the travel bus Sydney approached you. “We’re going to the beach with the team, do you want to join us?” she asked you calmly. You accepted her offer and walked to the beach together.

Syd told you about the time she went to Rome with Laura and how they got lost and nobody understood them because of their German accent. It was so funny that your stomach hurt from all the laughing. “Syd! Stop, my stomach!” you giggled. “Okay, okay i’ll stop.” Sydney hugged you from behind, her hands on your stomach. “Better now?” she asked you, you could feel her little smirk. “Yeah, all better.” you hummed leaning into her.

Sydney took your hand in hers and with your fingers intertwined you arrived at the beach. Apparently there were boats for rent and you couldn’t resist, floating on the water at sunset, that’s a dream. Laura saw the two of you get on the boat and joined, not wanting to miss out on more quality time.

The three of you sat at the front of the boat, looking at the sun disappearing into the sea. “I’ve had my eye on you for a little while now.” Laura suddenly says. You’re a bit shocked and your first reaction is to look in the direction of her girlfriend who laughs at your motion. “We’ve had our eye on you.” Syd corrects her girlfriend. Now you’re even more lost.

Not knowing where to look you look into the distance. “What do you mean?” you ask just above a whisper. “We both like you, romantically.” Laura says for the both of them. You look up and Laura is staring at you expecting some kind of reaction. You look at Syd and she nods assuringly.

Laura took your face into her hands and leaned in for a kiss. Your lips met hers. You’ve wanted this for longer than you’d like to admit. Your kiss with Laura was hungry but sweet. When you disconnected your lips Sydney saw that as her chance. The kiss with the midfielder was a little more rough and longer.

Laura saw the state of you and couldn’t help but smirk at your swollen lips and messy hair. “I’ll take that as a ‘i like you too’.” Sydney said giggling and pulling a strand of hair behind your ear. Your cheeks reddened and you nodded furiously. The girlfriends laughed at that and Laura kissed you on your red cheek.

laurafreigang posted on their story

The next few days you photographed the girls at training, made content, went on little outings with the team and you even got to steal a few kisses here and there. Sydney and Laura were absolutely wonderful and amazing models, both of them are pretty, beautiful, sexy, everything honestly. You liked taking pictures of them, especially when they weren’t looking or after a game they’d won. But all three of you knew that after this camp you’d probably see eachother again at the preparations for the World Cup and that was weeks away.

sydneylohmann

liked by lynnwilms_ and 103.728 others

got the best photographers out there 🎞️

comments

y/n_y/l/n i got the best models out there

stanwaygeorgia tatted girl 👀

laurafreigang du bist sehr cool lohmann✌️✌️

jule_brand 😍😍

wos011 why did y/n comment??

↳ arsenalw21p they’re sooo dating

laurafreigang

liked by jule_brand and 118.620 others

best days away

comments

lena_oberdorf looking good

y/n_y/l/n mooi meisje 😍

sydneylohmann got the coolest gf

↳ gerwntfann wait they’re dating???

sophie.kleinherne 😍😍

giuliagwinn laura freigang things

chels3akerrr why did y/n comment?

You were going from club to club in the break since you still needed to get some work done. Syd and Laura texted and called you a few times and they had a few dates planned between the camps. It was nice, they were absolutely perfect. You loved them.

The time flew by and the team had to get ready for the World Cup. You knew how much this meant to all of the girls. For some it was their first and for others just another. There was so much pressure on them, their nation was a winning one and everyone knew it, you could feel it. Germany was in it to win.

The team ended on top of their group and won all the other games in the knockouts. Fighting for every goal they got into the final. The final against England, the nation they lost the Euros title to. They wanted payback.

When you arrived at the stadium it felt like a dream. The atmosphere in the stadium was magic, nothing like you’ve ever seen before. Fans from all over the world eager to watch the rematch of the Euros final. As the match continued, it became clear that it would be a battle till the very end.

With the score tied at 1-1, it got hard to watch the game. The seconds were flying by, and both teams were pushing themselves to their absolute limit. Lohmann, your midfield maestro, got past Keira Walsh and Georgia Stanway. Spotting an opening, she passed a perfectly calculated ball to Freigang, your quick forward.

Laura, known for her fast pace and clinical finishing, sprinted towards the goal. Millie Bright tried to tackle Freigang but just couldn’t get to her. With adrenaline running through her, she released her shot in the top bins. The stadium erupted as Germany took the lead in the dying minutes of the game.

Sydney flew into Laura’s arms, but Laura was searching for you. She knew you were there, capturing every moment through your lens. With one of her cocky smirks, she made her way towards you, with the high of scoring such and important goal she leaned in, planting a kiss on the camera lens. Her eyes meeting yours as she playfully winks at the camera.

The game didn’t last much longer. The extra time was over and the German girls ran towards eachother while the English girls sunk to the ground.

Your two footballers hugged eachother and you captured the moment. Nothing could top this moment you thought, atleast not for now.

The girls came running towards you and included you in their hug. “Saw what i did there?” Laura whispered in your ear. You laughed, “Yeah, couldn’t really miss it eh?”. The goalscorer poked you in your side and Sydney laughed at the two of you.

Things went really fast from that moment on, Syd and Laura asked you to be their girlfriend and you said yes ofcourse. You signed a contract with Bayern for when you weren’t working for the National team. That made it possible for you to see Syd almost everyday. As promised you had a date night atleast once a week with your girlfriends and Laura announced her signing. Both of your girlfriends were playing for Bayern and you couldn’t be happier.

It had all gone fast. You fell fast, you got close fast and you started dating fast. But in your eyes it felt like you’ve always known. You loved them and wouldn’t trade this for the world.

y/n_y/l/n

liked by daniellevddonk and 103.613 others

meine schätze

comments

laurafreigang finally learned some german

↳ y/n_y/l/n just for the both of you

jillroord you’re supposed to root for us not Germany 🙄

sydneylohmann you’re our WAG 😍

↳ y/n_y/l/n honoured to be your WAG 😘

wosogirll HARDLAUNCHH

lovef00tball i knew it!!

sydneylohmann

liked by jillroord and 271.624 others

thank you Australia and New Zealand ❤️

comments

y/n_y/l/n mijn lieveheersbeestje 🐞❤️

↳ sydneylohmann you were scared of it so i don’t take it as a compliment

jillroord loohhmaaannn ❤️

sam_kerr_ winnerrrr 🥇

laurafreigang we’re so sexy

↳ y/n_y/l/n you are xx

↳ sydneylohmann thank you baby

laurafreigang

liked by alex.popp11 and 212.427 others

australia with my mäuschen

comments

sydneylohmann you’re a rat

↳ laurafreigang awww you’re so sweet 😍

y/n_y/l/n you’ve charmed your way into my life

↳ laurafreigang it was the photographer rizz i think

↳ sydneylohmann no definitely the football rizz

sam_kerr_ freigang touring the world with her sidekicks

↳ sydneylohmann i’m not a sidekick!!

A/N the ending is a bit abrupt so there’s a chance that i’ll make a second part?? Thanks to @totaly-obsessed i think i’ve done pretty well with the german nicknames and sentences.

#woso x reader #woso fanfics #woso community #laura freigang x reader #laura freigang #sydney lohmann x reader #sydney lohmann #gerwnt #bayern munich frauen #eintracht frankfurt frauen #engwnt #georgia stanway

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