#( flashbacks )

[iwantvodka0009]

[mermaid-sky-writes]

Begin Again (one shot)

summary: you didn't think it was possible to fall in love again, until you met Dean pairing: dean dilaurentis x reader content: romance, a little angsty, flashbacks

inspiration: Begin again by Taylor Swift (preview of the song at the end of the story)

The rain in Boston always felt heavier when you were trying to outrun a memory. For eight months, my world had been a quiet, cautious place. Eight months since a relationship that had slowly chipped away at who I was finally ended. He had a way of making me feel small, of making my love for old movies, my tendency to overthink, and my choice of high heels feel like inconveniences. By the end, I had learned to hold my breath, to dress in neutrals, and to keep my thoughts to myself.

So, when a friend practically forced me to agree to a blind date, my immediate instinct was to find an excuse. But somehow, here I was, walking into a small, dimly lit café on a Wednesday, shaking off my umbrella.

I chose a table near the back, pulling my long coat tight around myself. I was early—a habit born from years of being told that making someone wait was a capital offense. I looked down at my hands, nervously spinning a ring on my index finger, wondering if I should just leave a twenty on the table and walk out before he arrived.

Then, the bell above the door chimed.

I looked up, and the air left my lungs. The guy walking in didn’t look like he belonged in a quiet, indie café. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a sharp jawline and messy blonde hair that looked like he’d just run his hands through it. He wore a simple black henley that clung to a physique that screamed athlete. It was Dean Di Laurentis. Even if you didn't follow college hockey, you knew who Dean was—the charming, effortlessly confident star player of Briar University.

His eyes scanned the room and locked onto mine. A slow, easy smile spread across his face, and he started walking over. My heart did a sudden, violent flip. Great, I thought, a wave of panic washing over me. He’s gorgeous, he’s famous, and he’s going to think I’m incredibly boring.

"Hey," Dean said, his voice a low, warm rumble as he pulled out the chair opposite me. "You must be her. I'm Dean."

"I know," I breathed out before I could stop myself. I felt my cheeks flush. "I mean, yes. Hi. Nice to meet you."

He laughed, a rich, genuine sound that instantly cut through the tension in my shoulders. "Good to know my reputation precedes me. Hopefully the good parts." He slid into the seat, his large frame making the small wooden chair look tiny.

When the waitress came over, I ordered a black coffee, a habit from my ex, who always complained if I ordered something "too complicated" or expensive. Dean looked at me, then at the menu, and then back to me with a twinkle in his blue eyes.

"Just black?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow. "Come on, we’re at a place that literally has a drink called the 'Chocolate Avalanche.' You’re telling me you don’t want a little sweetness in your life?"

"I... I usually just keep it simple," I stammered, unaccustomed to someone questioning my choices without a tone of judgment.

Dean smiled gently, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Two Chocolate Avalanches, please," he told the waitress, winking at her. When she walked away, he looked back at me. "Trust me. If we're going to suffer through a rainy Wednesday, we're doing it with whipped cream."

For the next hour, I waited for the other shoe to drop. I waited for him to take over the conversation, to talk only about himself, or to make me feel small for the things I liked. But he didn't. When I nervously mentioned my love for obscure, classic romantic comedies, I braced myself for a sarcastic comment. My ex used to tell me they were a waste of brain cells.

Instead, Dean’s eyes lit up. "Wait, are you talking about the ones with James Stewart? My mom makes us watch those every Christmas. You actually like those?"

"I love them," I said, my voice growing a little stronger.

"That’s amazing," he said, and the way he looked at me—completely focused, entirely present—made me feel like I was the only person in the crowded café. He didn't think I was weird. For the first time in almost a year, someone was actually listening to me.

By the time our extravagant, sugar-loaded drinks arrived, the rain outside had turned into a steady, soothing hum against the windowpane. I found myself talking more than I had in months. I told him about my classes, my art, and my terrible habit of laughing at my own jokes before I finished telling them.

"Show me," Dean suddenly said, leaning back and crossing his arms.

"Show you what?"

"Your art. I know you have pictures on your phone. Let's see."

With hesitant fingers, I pulled up my portfolio. I handed the phone over, my chest tight with apprehension. My ex had always called my paintings a "cute little hobby."

Dean took the phone. His expression softened as he scrolled through the images of vibrant landscapes and abstract emotions captured in oil. He didn't look at them for just a second; he studied them.

"Wow," he murmured, his voice laced with genuine awe. "You did this? The colors in this one... it’s like you can actually feel the wind moving through the trees." He looked up, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. "You're incredibly talented. Seriously."

A sudden, sharp memory pierced through me—a memory of sitting across a different table, being told to put my phone away and stop showing off. My eyes stung with a sudden rush of unshed tears, a mix of old grief and new shock.

Dean noticed the shift instantly. His brow furrowed with concern. "Hey, did I say something wrong?"

"No," I said quickly, swallowing the lump in my throat. I looked down at my hands, then back up at him, forcing a smile. "No, you didn't. It's just... my ex used to think my art was a waste of time."

Dean’s face hardened for a fraction of a second, a flash of protective anger crossing his features before it smoothed out into something incredibly tender. He reached across the table, his large, warm hand covering mine. His touch was electric, sending a wave of warmth straight to my heart.

"Then your ex was a fool," Dean said softly, his thumb gently brushing against the back of my hand. "And he clearly didn't deserve to have someone like you in his life."

I looked at him, at the sincerity in his eyes, and a laugh bubbled up from my chest. It wasn't a polite, guarded laugh. It was a real, loud, head-thrown-back kind of laugh. Dean grinned, his own laughter joining mine, and in that moment, the ghost of my past felt a little less solid.

The café was closing by the time we finally stood up to leave. The rain had cleared, leaving the Boston streets glittering under the glow of the streetlights. The air was crisp and smelled of wet pavement and turning leaves.

Dean walked me to my car, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, keeping his stride slow to match mine. We stopped by the driver’s side door. The silence between us wasn't awkward; it was charged with a sweet, lingering anticipation.

"I had a really great time tonight," I said, looking up at him. For the first time in eight months, I didn't feel the urge to apologize for taking up space.

"Me too," Dean said. He stepped a little closer, breaking the boundary of casual acquaintance. He reached out, his fingers gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His touch lingered on my cheek, his skin warm against the cool night air. "You're kind of incredible, you know that?"

I felt a beautiful, terrifying flutter in my chest. "I think you might be biased."

"I am," he admitted with a smirk, his eyes dropping to my lips for a brief second before returning to my eyes. "Which is why I'm going to need to see you again. To confirm my theories. How does Friday sound? I'll pick you up. We can get dinner at a place that doesn't serve drinks with the word 'avalanche' in the title."

I smiled, a real, bright smile that reached my eyes. The weight that had been sitting on my chest for eight long months suddenly felt lighter, almost gone. The memory of the boy who broke me didn't hurt as much anymore. It was fading, replaced by the warmth of Dean's hand, the sound of his laughter, and the promise of Friday night.

"Friday sounds perfect," I said.

Dean smiled, a brilliant, heart-stopping expression, and leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to my cheek. "It's a date."

As I watched him walk away, his long strides taking him down the sidewalk under the streetlamps, I unlocked my car and got in. I turned the key, and as the radio came to life, I leaned my head back against the seat.

On a Wednesday, in a café, I had watched it begin again.

[coyotecam]

Only time I’ll link my TikTok, cause I think the music is too good not to be included lol - (Destroyed by Hippie Powers - Car Seat Headrest) If it's unclear, my headcanon is basically due to the volatile, explosive nature of both the Void Star and Taphs Subspace Mine when they come together, it creates a massive explosion (one not too dissimilar to a certain grenade)

[semiplural]

Emotional Flashback

"Emotional flashback" refers to an experience of reliving the feelings and/or mental state of a traumatic event without necessarily remembering the specific event associated with those feelings. You might be overcome by shame, terror, helplessness, and other feelings that may seem out of place in the present, but you may have little to no idea what memories those feelings are attached to. You may not even realize that these feelings are part of a flashback.

It is a little too easy to forget how insiduous emotional flashbacks can be. A disproportionate reaction can seem entirely reasonable until you manage to take a step back to assess the situation- it is not nearly as big of an issue in reality as it feels inside your head, and all of your fears and feelings have less to do with the present than you had thought. The urge to run away or fight back in an entirely safe, peaceful situation does not come from your surroundings. The seemingly logical connection between your situation and your emotions disintegrates when you look at it. You are thinking from the past.

Journaling helps. The more explicitly that you write out your thought process, the more that it becomes clear that you are acting from a mental state fixed in your past. It becomes possible to pick apart where the feelings originally came from. It becomes possible to choose to act differently even if you do not yet believe that other choices are possible.

A flashback can be a chance to understand and reassess if you are able to tolerate the feelings from it. Learning to tolerate it comes first.

[altafirelight]

No Man Left Behind

Leon x Gn!Reader

Leon had always been cold. Fearless. Detached. As a seasoned agent, you’d known him since your early days as recruits. You often wondered if the last bit of Leon’s soft side had faded since rising in the ranks. Or maybe, the rookie in him was just waiting for a moment to come back out.

Set between RE2R and RE4R. Can be read as pre-slash/romance or platonic. Whatever the heart desires.

Word Count: ~3.6k

Tags/Warnings: ptsd, flashbacks, hurt/comfort, reverse-comfort, agent!Reader, touch-starved!Leon, vulnerable!Leon, cuddling, crying, sharing a bed, Leon needs a hug (and gets a hug), references to RE2R, references to Tyrant/Mr. X, angst, gender-neutral reader.

A/N: I’m back! And I come with Rookie(ish) Leon as my offering. Been busy but I haven’t forgotten about all the tasty asks waiting for me (which are always open, by the way!) Thought I’d write a little warm-up to get me out of my block which eventually turned into a full-blown fic. Hope whoever reads enjoys it! 🖤🩶🤍

You didn’t really understand Leon. Not for the first few years of knowing him, at least.

When you first met, you often wondered what Leon had seen. You and your fellow recruits couldn’t ignore how Agent Kennedy was years younger—and doubly less experienced with a gun—than the rest of your training group.

Leon seemed determined, but tired. His soft expression was coupled with a look in his eye that was too weary for someone in such an advanced cohort of soldiers. He seemed to mean well, even if he seemed far from approachable. Leon wore the face of a cold, hardened agent, and it didn’t really fit such a kind face.

You wondered during those first few days if training would change that.

Krauser worked the whole team hard. He made sure to beat any look of uncertainty out of Leon within the first three weeks of boot camp. When weeks turned into months, Leon only escaped his hardened exterior after-hours, when you and the rest of the group went out drinking or stayed up in the bunks playing cards.

After a year, all Leon seemed to utter out in between drills was a mouthful of sarcasm and actions that spoke louder than words. He grew cagey and cynical, but still couldn’t shake that look on his face when asked if he’d had another rough night.

By graduation into the next rank, Leon was stone-faced and far too good at his job for someone his age. After months of separation, you and Leon were assigned the same detail. After spending so long from your old training team, you never thought you’d get to work with him so closely again.

While you both immersed yourself in your new team’s culture, you picked up on the whispers about the new, silent soldier that joined their ranks. The one who reacted oddly to pats on the back and hands on his shoulders. The one who never smiled, never laughed, never raised his voice. Leon was colder than when you’d last seen him, but he didn’t hesitate to greet you when you first stepped into the office. It wasn’t long before the rest of the team began to talk.

I heard he survived something unthinkable.

Doesn’t seem like the socializing type.

I bet he doesn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

Can a guy so young lose his humanity so fast?

Sure seems like it.

You couldn’t blame the rest of them. If it weren’t for the few moments of tenderness you’d witnessed during training, you would have thought the same thing. You often wondered if the last bit of Leon’s softer side had faded since entering into the secret service.

Or…maybe it was just looking for a moment to creep back out into the open.

You woke up abruptly, with a jolt of energy that matched the thunder crackling somewhere outside. Your eyes fell open to a dark room, silent aside from the raging storm. You bit back your panic, trying not to jump to the worst case scenario.

No danger, you thought to yourself. No mission. No training. You were home. Or the closest thing to it, at least.

You were lying on the couch in your apartment, fully furnished and provided to you by the government until they inevitably sent you somewhere else. Your thoughts drifted toward earlier that evening. You had a stack of paperwork, reviewing a joint case between you and Leon, and—

Leon. Right. Leon had come over, hadn’t he?

You hadn’t talked with Leon much since you’d both been assigned to your new team. He kept to himself, apart from a few polite acknowledgements. But…you knew you both hated writing out your reports, so you grabbed a case of beers after you punched out and told him to come check out your new place.

You remembered the two of you eating boxes of takeout on your couch and doing work until the rain hit the windows too peacefully. With the stress of the day drowned out by the cozy weather, you remembered Leon’s stone-cold stare, him dryly commenting at every drawn-out yawn. Always something like, tired of me already? Didn’t know I was so draining.

You felt the warmth of the woolly throw blanket you kept on the couch over your shoulders. Gears turned in your head. The rain must have lulled you to sleep without realizing it, a blanket had “mysteriously” found its way atop you, and Leon had finished up his work and saw his way out before the storm got bad. That made sense, right?

“Fuck,” you whispered to yourself, sitting upright and stretching out your limbs. “My back is gonna kill me later.”

As you rose with another round of thunder, you caught sight of your pile of work…and realized there was far too much of it to only be yours. As lightning lit up the room, you drifted over to two metal briefcases, side by side, where you and Leon left them earlier in the evening.

A hint of dread bloomed in your chest. Leon wasn’t one to forget things. But…did that mean he was still here? If he’d left things so quickly, maybe he had to leave abruptly. Or…maybe he was taken by force.

You knew that was impossible—that the building had top-notch security and not just anyone could get access to the fob for your suite. It was most likely that Leon had a mission he couldn’t miss. Or maybe he trusted you enough to take care of his things so they wouldn’t get wet in the rain.

You stood up from the couch, tried to push down the growing anxiety that swirled in your stomach. You looked for any signs of life in your living room, your balcony, and over toward your bedroom. You didn’t expect Leon to turn up at all, which made it all the more surprising to spot his familiar silhouette when turning into the dining room.

You couldn’t exactly melt with relief just yet. You stayed frozen in place and observed him. He sat perched backwards on one of your chairs, shoulders hiked up to his ears and a pistol balanced shakily on the chair’s back frame. Leon stayed hunched forward, the rapid rise and fall of his chest betraying his attempts to stay still. He had the gun pointed at nothing. He was too wired, too vigilant to have it pointed at nothing.

What the hell was happening?

“Leon,” you whispered, your hands falling to your sides to draw fire on instinct until you realized you had your gun locked in the safe back in your room. When the he didn’t answer, you called out again, a little more forceful. “Leon.”

The pistol flew back around before Leon could, and you recognized the laser-red light pointed toward your chest. When Leon snapped forward and met your eyes, he looked caught in another world. His glassy gaze adjusted—the fear brimming in them just as intense—and he suddenly looked beyond mortified.

You felt that anxiety morph more into confusion when Leon lowered the gun and stood up from the chair. He didn’t look like himself. Not the cold-hearted agent he’d grown to become. Not even the quiet recruit you met on day one.

“I was leaving,” Leon breathed out, voice low and raspy, trying to block out any semblance of emotion. “I was on my way out.”

“Okay,” you nodded, still trying to figure all of this out. You didn’t want to scare him off. “Leon, what’s going on?”

Leon looked like he was ready to run right out the door, but something was stopping him. Rain pattered down on the windows and roof, and Leon couldn’t stop looking towards the door like it was a portal to Hell.

“The footsteps,” Leon forced out. The words clawed their way out of his throat in a sickened whisper. “Can’t tell if he’s coming from—from above or below this time. If he stopped outside the door, the room is safe. But—you can still never be sure.”

…what?

You stood there, unsure of what to say. Leon stared through you, acting like any of his words made sense. Your body still couldn’t decide if there was an intruder on the other side of the door. Full with adrenaline, you crept closer.

“I don’t understand,” was what you finally said. Leon seemed to have no problem jumping into things again. It only made you all the more confused. “Who are you talking about?”

“I should’ve just killed him. I keep trying but it’s like the bastard’s immortal. I don’t know how else to lose him. It’s like I…”

What the hell was he talking about? You didn’t cover immortal stalkers in training. Leon kept the gun raised, eyeing the door like someone might bust in at any moment. Looking at him felt like watching someone teetering off the edge of a tall drop. You tried not to get frustrated.

“I can call the lobby and get them to check the cameras if that’s what you want,” you reassured him. You still had your hands held above you on the off-chance he decided to shoot. And what an incident report that would be. “Can you please put down the gun?”

Leon didn’t look like a secret service officer. He looked like a man too shell-shocked to hold a pistol properly, as if he’d barely used the thing. Any instinct pounded into him from boot camp was gone.

“There’s no one to call,” Leon whispered back, desperate, “No cameras. Power’s out. There were other officers when I first came in, but I couldn’t—”

It clicked for you.

“Leon,” you cut him off, trying your best to keep his attention. “Look at me. Do you know where you are?”

Leon met your eyes intensely, now evidently disoriented. It felt like talking with someone who wasn’t fully awake. Something in his eyes changed, from threatened to utterly defenceless. Leon looked far too young to be an agent for a moment, then his body turned boneless. His shoulders drooped.

“I don’t…”

Leon ran one hand through his hair, covered his eyes with the other. A whimper left him, soft and vulnerable. You tried to internalize the shock that Leon looked like he was about to burst into tears in your dining room.

“You’re with one of your own,” you layed out the facts, slipped back into work mode. That was all you could do for him until he agreed to touch you. “You’re with an agent, Kennedy. Stand down. There’s no threat.”

Fully lucid, Leon let the gun hit the table softly. You moved swiftly and took it, hitting the safety lock and pushing it over to the other side.

“Sorry,” Leon choked on his words. His voice sounded higher, more emotive than the one you were used to. Despite trying to act more normal, Leon still looked like an absolute mess. “Shouldn’t have happened.”

You couldn’t help wondering if he meant that it shouldn’t have happened in general or just with you watching.

“You don’t have to worry,” you reached out toward his trembling shoulders. You let him step in and accept a hand on his back, even if it made him seize up. “What was that? A flashback?”

Leon’s lack of a response told you all you needed. You’d seen it in countless soldiers. The ones who’d really gone to war, the ones assigned to missions they weren’t meant to come back from. Flashbacks weren’t uncommon in your line of work. Neither was the paranoia and the shame that came with it.

You just…you didn’t expect Leon to experience them. Not this viscerally. Maybe you’d pegged him all wrong.

“Can I touch you again?” You asked. Leon barely nodded, head still in his hands. You cautiously rubbed at his shoulder, down to his bicep. He stared down at you with big, fearful eyes. “There you are. You okay? You with me?”

That question seemed to push him over the edge. You still didn’t regret asking.

“I’m an agent,” He muttered, as if he was trying to remind himself of the fact, “I’m an agent. It’s my job to do this. Why can’t I just do my job without—”

The younger, more doubtful version of Leon jumped out at you with such vulnerability, it made your heart want to break open. Like paper, he crumpled in front of you with a broken sound.

“Hey, hey. You’re okay. Take a few breaths,” you murmured, “Happens to the best of us. You don’t need to feel any shame about it.”

What you didn’t want to say was that you’d tackle anyone who tried to come in here. Leon’s breaths sounded heaving and wet and frustrated. You sat him down in one of the dining room chairs, pulling another one close to him. Leon’s heartbeat hammered away in his chest. He kept a flat hand pressed right above his diaphragm. He turned away from you, as if he couldn’t bear to have someone else seem him without his walls.

“You remember what they taught us during training?” You ghosted a hand over his shoulder. He shivered, but nodded. Without looking at you, Leon’s hand moved to grip yours. You assumed that was his way of asking you to lead. “On my mark, alright?”

The next 15 minutes was filled with grounding techniques designed for even the most wounded of soldiers. You tightened and released each muscle, let rounds of controlled breathing calm both your bodies down.

When Leon could sit in his chair without trembling, you snuck out of his iron grip and got him a glass of water. He still seemed too embarrassed to comment, too withdrawn and drowning in old memories to be more like himself.

Leon’s heartbeat still hammered against the palm of your hand on his back, even after he drank the water you gave him. Thunder rumbled steadily outside, keeping the two of you trapped in the bubble that defined your apartment.

“Feeling more grounded?” You asked cautiously. Leon let out a shaky breath, turned away from you like a wounded predator. He didn’t want you to see, even though you were far past that point.

“Yeah,” Leon swallowed his pride to respond. He sounded like he’d rather be swallowed up than perceived. “Thanks.”

A part of you wondered if he’d tell you about the immortal man he thought he heard outside your door. Perhaps Leon couldn’t sleep back at the camp because he was afraid of being pursued by something he couldn’t shake. If you asked, maybe it would open a part of him up.

Before you could, Leon stiffened under your arm’s length when rain rhythmically hit the windows. You decided against it.

“I think you should stay over,” you said instead. Leon looked up at you in disbelief. “It’s late. It’s pouring. And…” you stared at the gun sitting just out of reach. “I don’t think you should hold that thing right now.”

Leon laughed, soft and cynical, just a little too insecure. “I’ve already overstayed my welcome.”

“I’m your equal,” What kind of an agent would you be if you didn’t take care of a fellow soldier in need? “You don’t get to decide when you’ve overstayed your welcome. I want you to stay.”

“Why? Can’t leave me to lick my wounds by myself?” Leon was back to his colder persona. You could tell he was trying to push you away. It wasn’t going to work.

Because I care,” You tried to get it through his stupid, self-sacrificial skull. “Because I’m worried about you. I know you like to work alone. It doesn’t mean you have to do this alone, too.”

That seemed to strike a nerve. Leon’s face went from cynical to uncertain. You wondered about the last time someone had told him that. You wouldn’t ask about that, either.

“Fine,” Leon breathed out, eyes closed as he tried to wrangle his breathing under control. “Okay. Fine. Just—tell me when to go. I’ll go.”

Within one evening, your expectations of Leon had fizzled. Cold-hearted, quiet, arm’s-length Leon followed you into the bedroom more like a lost puppy than a trained agent. He dropped the scowl when he thought you weren’t looking, and never seemed to pick it back up.

As Leon stood behind you, the first thing you did was stick his pistol in the safe. As much as you wanted Leon to feel at ease, you didn’t want any bullets flying around so early after joining your new assignment. You passed him a pair of men’s shorts you didn’t remember having. Leon kept his t-shirt on. He turned his back while you changed.

Leon’s aura of uncertainty spoke louder than words. Your bed was big enough for two, and you were sure the two of you had slept in places far worse during your time in the military. Still, he stared at the bed like he’d never gotten into one.

“I can take the couch if it’s too weird,” you offered, knowing full well that the thing wasn’t nearly comfortable enough for that. Thankfully, Leon shook his head. You both settled under the covers and flicked the lights off.

Leon next to you looked stiff as a board. He stared up at the ceiling with stormy eyes, arms crossed tight over his chest. You wondered if he was still embarrased about earlier. He hadn’t said a word since he thanked you for the shorts.

After a few minutes of staggered breathing beside you, you realized sleeping next to him would be impossible without some kind of confrontation. You couldn’t take seeing him look so—you couldn’t put your finger on it—afraid? Alone?

“Come here,” you outreached your arms, and Leon rolled over, eyes crinkled with confusion.

“What?”

“Come here,” you repeated. A detached hand on his shoulder wasn’t going to cut it anymore. “You look like you need it.”

Leon looked ready to argue, but something about your tone of voice, the look on your face in the near-darkness shut him up. Hesitantly, he scooted forward until your arms filled up with his presence.

Leon gasped when you wrapped around him fully. You squeezed until he breathed back out again, a whine coming out with it. Your hands went to his neck, his hair, softly down his spine. His shoulders shook under your gentle grip, excess adrenaline escaping as his body as he finally started to relax.

“Was I right?” You asked knowingly. You paused when a pair of eyelashes pressed against the crook of your neck. They blinked something soft and wet onto your skin. “Hey…hey, I’m sorry. Too much?”

You didnt expect him to cry. You didn’t expect much of this at all, but here you were.

“I haven’t—” Leon hiccuped soft against you. You’d never seen him so fragile. “Haven’t felt like—no one’s done this in a long time.”

Leon dug himself deeper into your skin, hungry for it like oxygen. Was he really that touch-starved? You had your moments of feeling lonely, but you always had your fellow recruits. Hands on shoulders, pats on the back, huddling for warmth, visiting each other’s bunks when nights got to be too daunting.

But Leon never had that, hadn’t he? He’d closed himself off from day one. You always thought he didn’t want to be bothered. Your chest tightened. Right now, Leon seemed so lonely. How much of this had he weathered alone?

“You know I’m here, right?” You murmured into his hair, hands rubbing circles into his back. “You have people in your corner. People at the office wonder about you. They care. You can let us in.”

Leon squeezed his eyes shut, and uneven breaths turned to quiet sobs. You could tell he didn’t believe you. Or maybe was scared to. You rested your head against his and let him release it all into the darkened void of your bedroom.

“They all think I’m a monster,” his voice wavered, his breathing quick and wobbly. “I know what they think about me. I can tell.”

You had no idea that Leon was so worried about what people thought. He harboured enough guilt to tear him up, inside and out.

“There are professionals, too. Military doctors. Meds,” You tried to soothe him like you would a civilian caught up in the crossfire. “They can help with the flashbacks. If you get them often, it wouldn’t hurt to talk to someone.”

You could tell Leon didn’t like the idea before he even opened his mouth to speak. You hoped you weren’t making things worse. You just…you didn’t expect him to crumble so easily.

“They can’t know,” Leon muttered with defeat. “If they find out…if they have any leverage on me, they’ll throw me out. They can’t think I’m unfit. The people I’m trying to protect will…”

“Who?” You asked softly. You wanted so desperately to understand. Understand him. “Who’s they?”

Leon stiffened under your embrace. “It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget it.”

“Leon—”

“Please just forget it. Please. I can’t drag another person into this.”

He sounded serious. You had no idea how much pressure he’d been under. He was cold and calculated for a reason. Leon had people he loved, people he thought were more worthy than his own life and comfort.

A surge of guilt rippled through you. If only the others knew.

“I won’t tell anyone,” you reassured him, “Your secret’s safe with me, okay?”

“Thank you,” he muttered back. “It’s not just you. I promise. I wish I could say, but—”

You realized tonight Leon was much more of a gentle soul than you first thought. A rookie with a heart of gold. A scared kid deep inside, as much as he was an agent.

“I’m here no matter what, though,” you made sure to tell him. “No questions asked. You can come over anytime.”

Leon almost cracked a smile at that.

“I’m sorry for dragging you into my shit,” He said quietly, though he didn’t pull away. Keeping his arms around you, Leon’s breathing finally slowed.

“What kind of an agent would I be?” You ran a hand through his dusty blond hair, scratching at his scalp until he let out a noise of relief. “No man left behind. Especially not tonight.”

The thunder raged on, but something about your room felt detached from the rest of the planet tonight. As Leon’s thoughts began to drift, you hoped the rookie in him was still listening.

A/N: Ahhhhh kicking Leon while he’s down and making someone take care of him NEVER gets old. Rookie Leon has a special place in my heart, poor baby :(( If you have any revolutionary ideas, do send them over. And please let me know if you enjoyed!🖤🩶🤍

[miryum]

You've Got Stars in Your Eyes so Let's Paint the Sky (Azriel x Reader)

Summary: Azriel “mourns” his wife

Warnings: Az pretending to be angsty (but happy ending), recreational drug use (tho not from Az or reader), gambling, drinking/alcohol, mentions of hangovers, timeline is a bit loosey goosey, a bit of Elain-bashing, guilt. (title is from Hold On by Extreme Music. Fic is not based off of it, but I was listening to it while editing and thought it fit well)

Word Count: 2.9k

Azriel was hardly one to get intoxicated. Yet there he was, sitting around the expansive fireplace with the other members of the Inner Court, tossing back his fifth glass of alcohol. 

It was not an uncommon occurrence for the Court to get drunk every once in a while and indulge in pleasure after their missions. Azriel had just returned from a two-week long commission and was slouched in an armchair big enough for his wings to fold comfortably behind him. It hadn’t been very taxing, but the trip had required secrecy. He couldn’t speak to anyone, just having to let his shadows zip in and out of places, returning to whisper in his ear. Admittedly, he had missed his family and couldn’t say no when Cassian asked him to join in some indulgences.

A cloud of weed surrounded Cass as he took another drag. Even Rhys had an ornate pipe between his lips, though he had yet to light it. Feyre sat on his lap, dragging a slow hand through his hair. Mor had convinced Nesta to play a round of cards and the pair had money laid out for the winner. Elain was sitting next to them, awkwardly watching. Amren was in Summer Court, visiting Varian.

The Shadowsinger didn’t like to drink. It usually brought back painful memories at night, though he was able to forget about them during the fact. He liked the sting of alcohol and its taste, but not the effects. The pleasure of it burning down his throat was always welcome, but the headache in the morning was uncomfortable. As he would lay in bed that next morning, memories swirled in his mind, either one’s from the night before or from his childhood. It was a gamble he was very rarely willing to take. And yet, as he watched Rhys finally light his pipe, Azriel couldn’t help but take another down of his drink. He swallowed thickly and the alcohol was like fire. The moment he compared it, he glanced down at his hands. Flexing his fingers, Azriel turned his stare to his whiskey. It was a lovely amber that seemed to glow in the firelight.

Azriel’s eyes wandered to his brothers and their mates. His finger slid around the rim of his cup, sometimes catching on the glass and disrupting his rhythm. His lips pressed together and his gaze turned to the fire. Shadows slowly curled around him, resting in his lap like a cat. They shifted and creeped lazily up to settle on his forearms. One wisped around his ear before brushing against his cheek, like a kiss. A deep sadness settled within Azriel. His heart weighed down as if by an anchor. 

He reached up and brushed at the leathers right over his chest, like he was searching for something that wasn’t there. One shadow climbed up to nestle in his hair, before settling down with a wistful sigh only Azriel could hear.

“You alright, brother?” Rhys asked, noting the shift in mood. Feyre glanced towards Azriel, resting her head on Rhys’ shoulder. Elain quickly looked over her shoulder.

The Illyrian nodded, exhaling through his nose. “Simply thinking,” is what he only replied.

Cassian blew out a smoke ring before turning to the conversation. “And what is it that you’re thinking of?”

Azriel only shook his head when he noticed Nesta peering up at him suspiciously. She laid down a card and Mor’s brows furrowed just a touch. It was things like these that one noticed being the Spymaster of the Night Court. 

Rhys studied Az’s face carefully. It wasn’t unusual for Azriel to be quiet, but something about this was unsettling. Something was on his mind and there was only one person that made Azriel this melancholy. Unfortunately, the weed was lowering his inhibitions, and he forgot the promise he had made to Azriel when the Archeron sisters had first arrived. “Thinking of Y/n again?” he asked in a whisper, though his voice was powerful enough to sweep the room. 

Mor instantly tensed, a contemplative frown on her face. Cassian blew out a long column of smoke, using his full chest to exhale. Feyre stared at Azriel, confusion swirling on her features. She stayed in the crook of her mate’s side, ever perceptive. Nesta rubbed a card between her thumb and pointer, about to set it down. She was the first to speak. “Who’s Y/n?”

The night was silent and it took a long time for Azriel to answer. He pressed his finger into the rim of his glass and the shadow in his hair seemed to deflate slightly. Even the shadows in his lap stilled before curling tighter around their master, either asking for comfort or trying to give it.

“My wife.”

Elain’s eyes grew wide and a thick blush covered her cheeks. Her stare darted down to his fingers, as if looking for a ring. When she didn’t find one, she turned away, head ducking down. Feyre lifted her head off of Rhys’ shoulder and even Nesta looked shocked. The senior Inner Circle, however, didn’t react. They all knew who Y/n was and they loved her dearly.

“I miss her. I miss my wife,” Azriel muttered, staring down into his drink.

Azriel could barely see through his tears. He stood, in a new custom suit, in front of his brothers. He sniffed once and Rhys clapped him on the back so hard he let out a cough. 

“Where is she?” Cass muttered from his place behind Rhys. Rhys then turned around and gave him a sharp glare. Amren rolled her eyes at their display and Mor gave Azriel an encouraging nod. The females were standing opposite them.

It was then that the door to the garden opened and Azriel turned to see his mate, you, walk out. 

You were wearing the dress you had always gushed about and your hair was styled beautiful. A bouquet of flowers was grasped in your hands, though Azriel could hardly see any of that. All he could see was your eyes. They had quickly become his favourite colour and something he loved to stare into. 

The tears finally began to fall. He could hardly remember the words the High Priestess said, too lost in the feeling of your hands in his and how utterly beautiful you looked. You had insisted on a wedding after learning of the human custom. Your mating bond had snapped over seven years ago, but Azriel was more than happy to keep indulging in your wishes.

Morrigan and Amren were your ladies and Rhysand and Cassian were Azriel’s gentlemen, something you insisted was vital in a wedding. You had also insisted on exchanging rings, slipping the band onto his fingers before he repeated the gesture to you.

Finally, Azriel had the chance to kiss you. He had kissed you plenty of times before, even before you were mated, but this felt… more complete. With one hand on your hip, he pulled you close. You let out a giggle as his other hand cradled the back of your neck. His lips curved up into a devilish grin before dipping you low. You let out a lovely squeal, arms looping around his neck, before he silenced you with a fierce kiss.

And so you were wed. And he would never let you go.

Mor let out a sigh, rising from her place on the floor. She stood for a moment, as if unsure of what to do. Eventually, she decided to refill her own glass before offering the pitcher to Azriel. He took it thankfully. “I miss her as well,” she said. “But it does not help to dwell on her, Azriel. It only makes you sad, and you know this.”

“What- what happened?” Elain asked, clearing her throat. Feyre shot her a stern look but Nesta hummed in agreement. As much as Feyre wanted to be considerate, her curiosity also burned.

In response to Azriel’s silence, Rhys provided quietly, “I sent her on a mission. Years ago.” The muscles in his jaw jumped and Feyre made a sympathetic noise, running a hand through his hair again. “I don’t believe Azriel has ever forgiven me since.”

Azriel let out a derisive scoff. He pressed his lips together and gave Rhys an eye roll. However, after a moment, he said, “it comes and goes.”

Elain shifted her position so she was sitting a little closer to Azriel and facing him. “How many years ago?” she asked, her voice calm and consoling. “Do you still have your ring?”

Cassian was the one to answer, brows pulling together like a drawstring. “Only two years,” he said. It sounded like he was scolding Elain, but Azriel didn’t notice, instead focusing on a shadow that was weaving around his fingers. 

The shadow drifted up to rest on Az’s collarbone and it dipped down to touch his leathers. With a sad, nostalgic smile, he tugged out a chain that was hidden beneath his clothing. Hanging down from it was a gold ring. “Even before her mission, I thought it would be best to keep it out of sight,” he murmured. “In case I was ever caught. I wouldn’t want to risk her.”

Mor, who had been drifting around the room, gave Azriel’s shoulder a squeeze as she passed.

Meanwhile, Elain glanced towards Feyre, a pleading look in her eyes. Rhys turned towards his mate and let his hand glide up and down her side. Feyre finally asked, “did the bond ever snap for the two of you?”

Azriel’s entire expression softened and practically everyone could see his shoulders relax. He wasn’t sure if it was the memories or the fire that sent a warm feeling through his chest and throughout his body.

You stood on your balcony, doors wide open and arms crossed. You didn’t want to be here. You didn’t want to be at the Town House. You wanted to be at your shared apartment with Azriel, one that was located in the city center. But, seeing as Az was being a stubborn male, you had decided to spend the night away.

Of course, Azriel wasn’t going to let you. You saw his shadows before you saw him. They zipped to you, racing up your body. They twirled around you excitedly and you couldn’t help your smile. Even if you were mad at the Shadowsinger, you couldn't stay mad at his shadows. “You know I love you, yes?” came his smooth, quiet voice from behind you.

You let out a breath and nodded. Azriel came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist. His chin rested on your shoulder and in your peripheral vision, you could see his wings twitch next to you, as if wanting to embrace you too.

“That’s not an apology,” you noted.

It was Azriel’s turn to sigh and his breath tickled your skin. “I know,” he murmured. He didn’t say anything for a long time. Entering your relationship, you were aware that apologising was hard for Azriel. He wasn’t used to making mistakes and was usually so guarded and careful that he didn’t. But you were different. You made him feel things that no one else had and he didn’t know what to do with those feelings. He was bound to make some mistakes.

Finally, he turned his head into your neck and whispered out, “I am sorry, my love.”

That’s when the bond snapped.

Your soul was yanked towards Azriel’s and the centre of the universe seemed to change. Everything was now focused on him. Everything now made sense. And based on the hopeful, desperate expression on Azriel’s face, he felt it too.

“We didn’t see them until practically a month after their mating ceremony,” Mor snickered. Cass let out a loud laugh, the weed making everything seem much more funny than it actually was. Elain pressed her lips together. 

Azriel shook his head fondly. His shadows suddenly darted away from him, but he was too inebriated to care. “Shut your mouth, Morrigan,” he muttered, though he was smiling. “What can I say? I love Y/n. It was a nice month.” He took a sip of his whiskey, trying to hide his grin.

Yet, before he could start reminiscing, a knock sounded against the wood of the doorframe. “Az, what are you telling these lovely people?” a new voice spoke up, a teasing lilt in the tone.

Azriel instantly stood. “By the Cauldron,” he murmured reverently. He didn’t notice the Archeron sisters peering curiously at the newcomer as he launched himself into your arms. You were obstructed from view to the sisters as Azriel’s wings curled around you protectively as he held you close. His grip was desperate and loving as he pressed his face into the crook of your neck. “My love,” he whispered out so that only you could hear. “I didn’t know you were visiting.”

You held your mate close, a hand brushing calmly in his curls and your other on his back. “I’m not visiting,” you replied softly. “Rhys said I could be done. With the mission, I mean.”

Azriel had half a mind to turn and shoot an accusing look at Rhys, but he wouldn’t take his eyes away from your beautiful face. “My wife,” he muttered. He took your hand in his and kissed the ring you wore proudly. “Forgive me.”

“What for?” you asked.

He shook his head and pressed his forehead to yours. “That promise I made to you years ago – I didn’t keep it. I let my emotions get the best of me as I missed you. Rhys didn’t deserve my anger for sending you away.”

You let out a laugh that was beauty incarnate to Azriel’s ears and Feyre shared an bemused look with Nesta. Since when did Azriel apologise? And for being rude to his brothers, of all things. To add to it, he had been smiling more with you in his arms than the entire time they had known him. Was it simply that the Shadowsinger had missed his mate? Was there another layer underneath that lay dormant until you were there to peel it back? What was Azriel truly like when the love of his life was home?

Cassian called you over and you exchanged hugs with the rest of the Inner Circle. Mor was ecstatic to have you back – her best friend had returned. You were disappointed that Amren wasn’t there to greet you, but you understood the needed time with her mate. After all, you were sure Azriel wouldn’t let you out of his sight after being reunited. 

You were then introduced to the Archeron sisters. You gave Feyre a little teasing bow and greeted, “my High Lady.” Feyre scoffed and swept you into a welcoming hug. 

Nesta was next to greet you and you congratulated her on being able to put up with Cassian. Azriel laughed at your joke, arm around your waist. Throughout greetings and introductions, he had never left your side. Every so often, he would place a kiss on your temple or give your hip a small squeeze. He truly was a different man around you.

Eventually, you stood in front of Elain. “Azriel made it sound like you were dead,” she said in hello. Her voice made it sound like she was passing blame onto your mate, but you tried to brush it off.

With a laugh, you said, “well, he gets rather grumpy whenever I’m away for too long. I’m sure you understand.” Some of Azriel’s shadows brushed lovingly along your arms and face.

“He wasn’t wearing his ring, you know?” She laughed along with you, albeit a bit awkwardly. “You have a lovely mate. You’re very lucky to have him.”

You raised your brow and exchanged a look with Mor. “Yes,” you agreed slowly, thinking that was an odd thing to comment on. “But Azriel can choose to wear his ring or not. And he talked to me about it beforehand. We both thought it best to keep our marriage under wraps as we went on missions.” You held up your left hand and Azriel took that as his cue to nuzzle his nose into your hair. “I put mine on only a couple hours ago, when I knew I’d be coming back.”

Elain’s cheeks filled with heat and she nodded. Muttering some things about how she was glad to meet you, she stepped back and towards Nesta. 

Impatient as ever when it came to you, Azriel soon ushered you away with the complaint on his lips that your attention wasn’t only on him. He wanted to see you back in your home. After mating, he had chosen a wonderful house special just for the two of you. Over the months, it had gotten harder and harder to live there without your presence. Oh, how he had missed you.

When you were finally alone, you cradled his face in your hands, finally able to kiss your mate after two years. One hand slipped down to pull on the chain that hung around his neck. “I need you to wear this now,” you whispered. 

Azriel chuckled and raised a brow. “Jealous, my love?” He pressed close to you, unable to take the feeling of you not cradled in his arms any longer.

“I think I’m entitled to some jealousy,” you replied. “After almost twenty-eight months without hearing your voice, seeing your face, or touching your skin, I get some leeway.”

“Hmm, that you do,” he muttered, slipping his ring back on proudly. “Now, will my beautiful wife accompany me to our home?”

“With pleasure.”

[linecrosser]

Febuwhump 2026 - Day 21 - Flashbacks

Visitor to the Magnus Archives gets his trauma forcefully extracted and re-experience it all over again.