#[♡ REFERENCE]

[thebrainrotsreal]

Eve, Kate, Mark and Rex! Nailing some ideas down on how I wanna draw them in the future, and enjoying messing with their designs like usual! Not a fix-it whatsoever just fun + ref for the future! I cannot do realistic styles so translating them into something I can do while still being recognizable is peak. I will mess with Rex's suit more. Trust. I Kate so much now. Look at her <333333

[ryllen]

giri chocolate x ☜(⌒▽⌒)☞

[biblically-accurate-dca]

you ask sun what they think about valentine's day and they start ripping heads off of things rabid animal style (correct response)

[unrelatedsideblog]

I think animators had agenda with their height difference in some scenes lmao

[2productive]

Turning your life around? Coming out of a funk? Getting over a breakup? Need to reignite your spark for life? Need to feel in control? Want a boost of confidence? Dealing with low self esteem?

Where to start:

Exercise every day

Skincare + makeup of personal preference (yes this includes not wearing makeup at all if that is your personal preference)

Hair done

Showered and moisturized

At least one hobby you engage with on a daily/frequent basis

At least one skill you are developing on a daily/frequent basis

If you haven’t gotten a 7 day workout streak and completed the other bullet points on this list yet, stop moaning, get to work, and kill your distractions.

This is level 0.

[kaianimates]

i am calling wind archer x fire spirit airfryer as a ship name and you cannot stop me

[loviatarsluv]

FRIENDS?

— ꜝ synopsis: sylus invited you to accompany him to a charity event at the linkon museum, where he had a surprise prepared for you - that surprise being a wanderer crystal that he donated using the names “sylus and his friend”. a gesture that would normally have your heart soaring - if only he’d used a different word to describe what you were to him.

— ꜝ pairing: sylus x f!reader (reader is intended to be MC, so they are described femininely and use feminine pronouns)

— ꜝ genre: fluff/angst/comfort

— ꜝ word count: 1.4k

— ꜝ tags/warnings: mc/reader (you) rightfully panicking over being called sylus’ “friend” during sylus’ touring in love event ch. 4 story, teeny tiny bit of angst, lot of comfort, no warnings, just sylus being the most wholesome green flag king that he is ♡ also I used his famous line from razor’s grip bc I thought it was fitting here hehe

— ꜝ author's note: I wrote this months ago during the touring in love event but just never got around to posting it because I just wasn’t sure if it was worth posting (*ﾉｪﾉ) but after reading it again and editing it a little I figured why not!! I also have so many other lads fics that I’ve been sitting on for a while that I may get around to posting soon, so there’s that!! anyways I love sylus sm he has my whole entire heart ok bye ♡

The air trapped within the confines of Sylus’ car is thick and stuffy, the silence palpable and rife with unsaid tension. He didn’t seem to mind it at all, which only served to fuel your ire. 

You brought your legs up to your chest, your arms crossed over them as you watched the world whizz past the passenger window as he sped through the night. There’s an aching in your chest that you wish you could ignore. 

It's one silly word. Why am I freaking out about it?

As if he’d heard your thoughts, you hear a soft chuckle huffed beside you. 

“What are you pouting about?” 

You don’t turn to him, unwilling to look at him for fear that it’ll only worsen the ache. 

“I’m not pouting.” You murmur under your breath, your fingers fiddling with the laces of your boots. Lie. 

Without even looking you can feel Sylus’ shit-eating grin on you, but you refuse to give in and look at him. No matter how much you savored every single crooked smile of his. 

“Speak up, sweetie. I can never hear you very well when you’re pouting.” He teases, one hand reaching over to poke at your side. 

“I’m not pouting!” Your voice raises, irritation evident in your tone. You quickly school yourself and relax your body that had quickly coiled up like a snake ready to strike. “I’m just… it’s been a long day. I’m tired.” 

“Hmph,” He grunts beside you, words on the tip of his tongue that he doesn’t let go. The car goes silent once again as it races through the streets of Linkon, as your mind races through the overwhelming feelings that all spiraled after just one word.

⁺⊹♡◦₊⋄

Sylus tries to behave as normal as he walks you up to your apartment— opening your car door for you, helping you out of the car, wrapping an arm around your waist and lifting you over the curb— things that he does as naturally as he breathes. He would’ve done them whether or not he knew you were upset with him, but he was fairly certain you were pissed at him, he just wasn’t sure why, so the extra measures couldn’t hurt.

He was carrying your purse and jacket for you as he always did, both draped over one shoulder as he tries to keep up with you and your irregularly hurried pace.

He opens the door for you, having memorized the key code by heart, then hangs your things up on the coat rack once you get inside, his heart aching at the fact that you hadn’t even seemed to want to say goodbye to him.

He watches as you quickly disappear into your dark apartment, not even bothering to turn on a light along the way, and he feels a tightness in his chest that he only ever feels when you’re hurt or upset about something. 

He considers giving you space, but he knows you— so he slowly follows behind you, allowing the door to shut with a soft click as he flips the light switch by the door. 

You’d flopped onto the couch, burying your face in the cushions and assorted plushies that you and Sylus had won from the claw machines (mostly you, Sylus was terrible at claw games) - you hadn’t even bothered to take your shoes off at the door.

He smiles softly at you, finding your childish behavior endearing, despite the fact that he was well aware that he was very clearly the cause of your tantrum.

“Kitten,” he says softly as he kneels down beside the couch, one hand stroking the back of your hair and pushing it across your back so it wouldn’t get in your face. 

You twist your face slightly to peek at him, your heart melting instantly at the sight of his crimson eyes soft and round and pleading for your attention. Ugh. 

“There she is,” he smiles warmly, his voice so tender you think you might burst. “What has your tail in a twist, hm?” 

Your brows furrow, your mind replaying it in your head over and over. 

The Wanderer crystal was donated with the name "Sylus and His Friend."

Friend. 

“Nothing.” You reply, huffing and flipping onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. 

You knew it was silly, and he likely didn’t mean anything by it— but it had been bothering you all day and you just couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that had bubbled up in your chest.

Was that all he saw you as? A friend? An ally? Surely you were more than that by now… besides, look at how he looks at you. 

“Your acting skills still need a bit of work, kitten. How about we watch some movies so you can take notes?” He smirks, leaning over you so that instead of the ceiling, you stare into his eyes, his breath warm across your rapidly reddening cheeks. 

“Ugh, shut up.” You groan, your hand reaching up to playfully push his face away, only for your wrist to get caught by a much larger hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he teases as he moves to sit beside you on the couch, adjusting so that your head is laid in his lap, his fingers gently caressing your face and your hair as he searches for a movie to watch. 

Your eyes flutter closed as his fingertips mindlessly trace the features of your face, as if he was memorizing them, mapping them out in case he ever lost his sight and wanted to recall your beauty by touch alone. 

He traces the bridge of your nose, the bow of your lips, the curve of your cheeks; his touch warm and comforting, almost allowing you to forget for a moment the war raging on in your mind. 

You open your eyes to watch him, his focus directed elsewhere, but a warm smile remains painted across his lips. The ache in your chest blooms a little more, and you could barely stand it. 

You huff, quickly sitting up as Sylus’ hand drops back down to his own lap, his face nearly twisting into a pout. 

Ugh! 

“What’s wrong?” He asks, his tone gentle and worrisome, feeding the licking flames of the ache roaring angrily within your ribcage. 

You look at him, your chest rising and falling as your breathing picks up, your lungs fighting against the pain. “You can’t do that, Sylus.” 

Confusion washes over his features. 

“You can’t pet my hair and kiss my palm and call me baby and kitten one second, and then refer to me as your friend another!” You burst, regret filling you the second it left your lips. You close your eyes in shame, immediately realizing how silly it all was. 

One word. One stupid, little word. 

He looks as though he’s thinking for a moment, before finally, a knowing smirk tugs at the corners of his lips, a quiet chuckle following it soon after. 

“Oh, kitten… come here.” He reaches out, gently pulling you by your hands back into his lap, your legs draping across his thighs as he holds you against his chest. 

Long fingers thread through your hair, combing through it and scratching your scalp softly as you listen to his heartbeat— its pace had quickened from your outburst, and guilt began to creep in. 

“You are so much more to me than words could ever express. It was silly of me to even use one as lackluster as that one,” the rumbling in his chest as he speaks soothes you as it vibrates against your cheek, a perfect harmony with his now steady heartbeat. You relax into him, the tightly wound muscles in your body slowly relaxing. “You should know by now that I adore you. And there is no love purer than mine.” 

The flutters of a billion butterflies erupt in your chest and stomach. Your cheeks flare and you press your face against his chest to hide it, a smile threatening your lips as he chuckles at your bashfulness. 

“Stop hiding from me,” there’s a gut wrenching amount of mirth in his tone, you can barely stand it. You look up at him, your heart fighting to leap out of its confines and jump right into his open and waiting palm. “There’s that smile. I thought I’d lost it for a minute there.” 

“Yeah, well, you scared the shit out of me earlier,” you finally found your voice again, and that attitude that he adored so much. You playfully push against his chest. “Don’t ever pull something like that again, I mean it.” 

His smile is like the sun peeking out from behind heavy clouds on a stormy day— it’s rare to catch a glimpse of, so you bask in the blinding warmth of it, let it seep into your bones and settle into your soul, even amidst the dreariest of surrounds.  “Next time, I’ll be more apt with my word choice,” he pulls you against his chest again, resting his chin on the top of your head. “My love.”

⁺⊹♡◦₊⋄

other l&ds works ➛ bloop

[weirdghostcat]

I need more drawings of Error doing daily stuff. You know... like bringing out the "trash", for example.

[atsubie]

   ۪ 🏩 𝒮𝗈𝗆𝖾𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝗆𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀིྀི ♩ ׂ

[sleepinglionhearts]

I think he's lovely in green

[dreamdripdistance]

doodle time (theyre under the cut...!)

the faves + full page

[bunnysnared]

L.T. ♡

[mythblossoms]

nebula

pairing: caleb x gn!reader content: first! kiss!, yearning & down bad caleb and reader, light teasing, nicknames (pip-squeak), two dummies (affectionate) in love, loose EPIC/Odyssey reference because it's me a/n: double posting today to BECAUSE IT IS LOVE DAY and this is dedicated to beloved @spiderlilypetals - happy valentine's day, i think you deserve the world and sweet nights cuddled up and looking at the stars ;u; wc: 1.6k

Solar systems begin with the collapse of a nebula, swirling clouds of dust and gas expanding, swelling, building until caving in on itself. Waves of energy rippling across space and time, clinging to the remnants and tugging them in and forming a new home.

Funny, Caleb thinks, that this is what loving you feels like. 

Years spent memorizing the way your lips quirk up into a smile when he teases, the way you bit your lip when you were upset, how your eyes sparkled  when sharing some new interest — moments building something in his heart until it caved in on itself and you became the center of his universe, the brightest star with the strongest pull, keeping him stable but spinning.

“Any one home?” your voice broke through the churning cloud of thoughts encasing his mind like a bright light, the slight nudge of his knee with your foot grounding him ��� as you sat curled up on your couch. “Is someone getting too sleepy?” 

He grinned at you, lightly grabbing your ankle and squeezing. These light touches were familiar, safe. Contact that came easily after years of knowing each other. “Me? I wasn’t the one who stayed up late last night looking up best claw machine tactics.” 

“Well, at least one of us is trying,” you scoffed, tucking cold toes under his thighs and crossing your arms. “Your skills are getting rusty. Might have to revoke your arcade membership.”

“Don’t pout, pip-squeak —” his hand grazed your knee before settling on the back of the couch, another barely there touch that sent a ripple of energy towards his heart. “Pretty sure those new plushies on your bed came from your very dedicated co-pilot.”

“You can’t always use your evol, you know.” You poked your tongue out at him. “It’s cheating.”

It was easy like this, hidden under the familiarity of teasing and the safety of nostalgia. You would laugh, poke him in the cheek, make some silly joke at his expense. And he would collect this moment, another star in the galaxy of you. 

“And I’ll do it again,” he grinned. “Anything for you.” Only for you. 

You yawned then, the late hour truly not lost on either of you. Your hands stretching above your head, the collar of his old sweatshirt loose on your shoulder. 

“Remember the time we hung all those glow in the dark stars in my room?” You leaned in, head resting on your knees. Wistfulness lingered in your eyes, and Caleb’s heart stuttered - the gravitational pull of your gaze that strong. 

And how could he forget. All day spent arranging those stars in different paths across your ceiling, every pillow, blanket, and plushie to be found pulled into a massive pile on the floor. The night spent creating stories about constellations found in the patterns crisscrossing the ceiling. The pale green glow of the stars reflected in your eyes, the atoms hovering in the smallest space between the two of you humming with the energy of a combusting star. A night sky for just the two of you. A memory so ingrained that he could feel that weighted charge clinging to his skin. 

“What, you think I’d forget that?” He pinched your chin gently. “Someone wasn’t tall enough to put them on the ceiling so I had to do all the hard work”. He waited for the eye roll, the huff that would surely follow or the pillow that would be tossed his way. Safe he thought, easy.

The energy in the room had shifted, perhaps in the way you had looked at him or in some memory that had reawakened. The comfortable silence now thrumming in time with his beating heart. He wondered, briefly, could hear it? You sighed, wrapping your hand delicately around his, offering a gentle squeeze. “I miss it.”

Did you know the effect you had on him? Eyes closing as you relived the memory, fingers threading delicately with his. “I miss it being just me, and you, pretending like the stars were meant for us.” Caleb would pull every star out of the sky and hang it in your room, if it meant you were happy, if it meant your hand entwined perfectly with his.

“We don’t have to pretend anymore,” he said gently, his eyes speaking every word that drowned on his tongue. Simultaneously hoping you felt the weight of his words, wishing you would stay in your reverie. He moved imperceptibly closer, hovering on the boundary of what was familiar. “We could grab some blankets and look at the stars now.” His voice just above a whisper, the softness masking the slight quiver in his words. 

You hummed, a soft content sound, squeezing his hand - a slight glimmer in your barely open eyes. “Don’t forget our plushies.”

Your balcony had become your very own cozy fort. Big pillows carefully arranged against the windows of your apartment, every blanket you owned layered up, plushies propped up in the optimal stargazing seat — and Caleb sat next to you. The warmth of his leg pressed against yours, the chilly night a distant memory. He was safety, a constant comfort entangled in your life - never just you, or just Caleb, but you and Caleb. 

From here, the bright city lights hid most of the stars from view, only the brightest peeking out from their inky blanket. “I never thought it would be so hard to see the stars in the city,” you sighed curling into the blanket, pulling it up to your chin. “No stars means no stories.” 

Caleb grinned then. “Are you sure? Look-” he pointed to two stars that shone brightly - directly across from each other in the night sky. “You don’t know the story of the man who couldn’t return home?”

He was always better at this, the lightheartedness, the ease in offering something to you. Even back then, pulling stories from nothing just to make you smile. And of course you did. Earnest hands pointing to each plastic star, words energetically tumbling out, his own warm smile. Could he see warmth dusting your cheeks then? The way your eyes widened with each knock of his knee? 

His voice brought you back, the simplicity of a story much like before, but this time his voice was softer, the words more delicate. “Every time he tried to get home, some new obstacle blocked his path. Monsters and mayhem — but each time he would use his strength in strategies and calculations to pass them.” 

You leaned in, enraptured, eyes focused on him as he gazed up at the night sky. “And each time he felt like it was too much, like giving up - he only had to think of her. His guiding light. His constant - always together, always tethered. No matter what happens, he would stop at nothing to be by her side. “

Truths always lie hidden in stories - offering a semblance of reality. You could feel that here too, tonight. Time had stopped, or was it moving too quickly? Outside your balcony everything was a blur, here it was just you and Caleb. 

“Did he ever get home?” you barely heard your own voice. 

He finally looked at you, brows knit together in some unreadable expression. “He did, but things weren’t the same. All those things he did to get home had changed him.”

Your fingers found his, easily - simply. Fitting together as they always had. “But she loved him all the same.”

You felt it now, the restraint. The way Caleb held his breath, how his body stilled. His eyes the only thing betraying him — flicking from yours, to your lips, down to your clasped hands. The soft sound of surprise that escaped him. A bundle of energy bound so tightly it threatened to implode. 

“He was always hers too, right? Time can’t change that.” You moved closer, angling your head closer to his - warm breath against his cool cheek. “It’s always going to them.” It was always going to be Caleb and you.

The space between you felt too large, too charged with an energy that bound you and Caleb together. Closing the distance, you placed a tentative kiss on his jaw. His hand squeezed yours tighter, eyes fluttering shut — a slow shaky exhale released, as he leaned just slightly into your touch. 

“Is this okay-” you hummed into the tender part of his neck. The flutter of his heartbeat strumming against the soft of your lips. 

“More than okay,” he said hoarsely, fingers still laced tightly with yours — grounded in familiarity in the face of this gravitational shift.

“Okay,” you smiled, pinching his chin with your other hand - flitting small kisses against the length of his jaw and angling his lips towards yours. The space between so small but electric, sparking against the sensitive skin. He murmured your name, soft and pleading, before your lips met his. 

Kissing Caleb felt like the universe had exploded - stars and cosmic dust swirling between as gravity rearranged, realigning into a place that was you and him and this moment only. Something new yet familiar. His hands once hesitant now desperate pulling you into his lap, wrapping his arms around you, kisses becoming rushed, tongue tentatively brushing against yours.

Letting go was harder, Caleb chasing after your mouth - planting small kisses to your chin, the corners of your mouth.

“Just wait,” he whispered, resting his forehead against yours. “Don’t move.” 

You ran your fingers through his hair, drawing lazy circles at the nape of his neck. “Why?”

“If you move, I’m worried I’ll wake up and this will all be some dream.” He whispered into your skin, hands playing with the ends of your hair. 

Cradling his jaw, you moved him towards you again - kissing the worried space between his brows, the outer corners of his eyes, then lightly on lips. “I’m here.” Then, with a soft pinch of his chin again, “This is real.”

[snailmp3]

(⁠ ⁠；⁠∀⁠；⁠)🫶

[sweeterthanficstion]

— twelve dates 'til christmas || l.s.k ⋆⁺₊❅.

christmas party / fake relationship / re2r leon! ❆ for @leonsecretsanta event! ❆ gift for @calbloodypigeon ! <3

tags: no outbreak au, rookie leon, journalist reader, gn reader but if i've accidentally missed something please let me know so i can fix it up! --- lots of stupid hallmark christmas cliches, heavily inspired by how to lose a guy in 10 days.

summary: when the leads you're chasing for your feature article for the local paper have gone ice cold, and you've just about given up hope, the rpd's newest rookie shows up like a christmas miracle and proposes a deal that might just save you. or blow up in your face.

word count: 6.1k --- i know i went over the word count IM SO SORRY 😭

a/n: CAL! HI! i'm SO beyond sorry this is late, i fucked up the timings so bad and stupidly miscalculated how much time i had left to finalise this and then i got roped into my own christmas fiasco so i was RACING against the clock to try get this out asap. BUT i hope you like it regardless!! i saw re2r leon as your wild card and my eyes LIT UP!! this was such a pleasure to write, i absolutely love writing rookie leon! (also yes i know the twelve days of christmas technically come after christmas day but shhhh) anyway, hope you have a wonderful christmas!! lots of love, amber xx

masterlist⭑AO3

It starts with a faulty office printer and a burnt cup of coffee.

You stare pitifully at the cup of coffee in your hand—if you can even call it that anymore. Half empty and completely unsalvageable, the acrid smell lingers in the break room like some unwelcome ghost of Christmas caffeine. If only you hadn’t slept through your alarm this morning, you could’ve avoided the morning rush (since it seems that nobody in Raccoon City knows how to drive through snow), and made a good cup of coffee to accompany you for the day instead of having to fight the shitty office coffee machine instead.

With a half-hearted sigh you turn the mug over and dump its contents into the bin, watching forlornly as the liquid soaks through shredded paper and old protein bar wrappers instead.

“Bad morning?” One of your coworkers, Claire, quips from across the way. A perfectly fine cup of coffee sits on her desk in a mug that reads Journalists do It With Integrity! 

You shoot her a withering glare, but before you can deliver any sort of witty remark, the printer across the room coughs out a single sheet of crumpled paper, and promptly dies. 

“Bad week,” you mutter, running a hand down your face before stalking towards the offending machine. 

The office, already buzzing with the chaos of holiday deadlines, feels like it’s working entirely against you. The case you’ve been chasing—a string of thefts tied to the Raccoon City holiday markets—has gone ice cold. Your editor is breathing down your neck for a feature piece that you can’t write without new leads. You’ve got twelve days left, twelve days until your editor wants that final copy on her desk.

And now the printer has decided to stage a mutiny. Just your luck.

You try to print out the documents again, but when the printer does nothing but splutter, and kicking it doesn’t seem to work, you decide maybe it just needs new ink.

You’re about halfway through jamming your hand into its guts when a voice, sweet yet awkward, startles you. You hit your head on the way up, only to find yourself staring into a pair of warm blue eyes beneath a mop of golden hair. 

He’s wearing a leather jacket over a navy button-down, his badge clipped to his belt. He looks familiar, like someone you might’ve run into at the bullpen when you’re down at the RPD.

“Uh, need a hand?” he tilts his head, same awkward smile unfaltering.

“I’ve got it,” you say, though you clearly don’t. The printer lets out a final, pathetic whine before dying completely. Well, now you just look stupid.

He grins, the kind of lopsided, sheepish smile that makes him look younger than he probably is. “Guess that’s a no.”

You sigh, looking over your shoulder to catch Claire hiding a smile behind her mug. You fold your arms. “Sorry, can I help you?”

“Names Leon,” He introduces himself, and it all clicks into place for you. This is the RPD’s newest rookie. The guy Claire’s been yapping your ear off about Chris yapping her ear off about. “I’m just dropping off some paperwork. But, uh… I overheard you talking to your editor earlier. You’re working on the market thefts, right?”

Your eyes narrow. “And what’s it to you?”

Leon raises his hands in mock surrender at your scathing tone, the picture of good-natured defensiveness. “Nothing! Just thought you might want some… unofficial insight. Off the record, of course.”

Your skepticism doesn’t waver. “Why would a rookie like you have anything I can’t get from public records?”

Leon hesitates for a moment, as if deciding how much to say. “I’ve been helping out on the case. They’ve got me running reports, talking to market vendors, stuff like that. Not exactly glamorous work, but I’ve been hearing things that don’t make it into the official write-ups.”

Now you’re interested. RPD isn’t exactly known for transparency, you know that much. You also know better than most that a lot can slip through the cracks of “official” documentation.

“What’s the catch?” you ask, suspicious.

Leon shifts, “Well, uh… There’s this Christmas party at the precinct. And I might have mentioned to my coworkers that I was bringing a date.”

You blink. “You’re blackmailing me with case information to play your fake-datw at a cop Christmas party?”

“It’s not blackmail!” Leon protests, his ears turning red. “It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement. You get your story, and I… avoid being the precinct punchline for another year.”

You’re still sceptical, but the desperation in his voice softens your resolve. Saying no to him right now would be like kicking a poor puppy.

You stare at him for a moment, weighing your options. It’s ridiculous, sure, but then again, so is everything else in your life right now.

“Fine,” you say finally, sticking out your hand. “Twelve days. You give me what I need, and I’ll be the best fake date you’ve ever had.”

Leon shakes your hand with a grin, relief written all over his face. “Deal.”

And just like that, the countdown begins.

On the second day of Christmas, Leon sends you flowers.

Big ones. Loud ones. The kind of bouquet you’d expect to see at a wedding reception or an apology press conference. They’re wrapped in glittering gold paper—Poinsettias, as Claire so graciously points out.

“Looks like someone’s got an admirer,” she singsongs, loud enough for half the floor to hear.

Your stomach drops. There, sitting right in the middle of your disaster zone of a desk, is the offending bouquet. It’s massive, covered in festive bells and ribbon, and the card sticking out of it reads:

“To my Christmas angel. – L.”

You mutter a silent prayer to whatever God might be listening, snatching the card up like it might explode before anyone else might see. Your coworkers are already murmuring around you, though, so that seems like a bit of a lost cause.

Claire leans back in her chair, still grinning. “So when were you gonna tell me you’re dating someone?”

“Firstly, that is none of your business,” you snap, grabbing the entire bouquet in a desperate attempt to get it out of sight. The glitter gets everywhere, including your coat, your desk, and, somehow, your coffee. “And secondly—” You start, but backtrack when you remember that the deal you struck with Leon may require some confidentiality. Damn you for not figuring out boundaries sooner. “—that is also none of your business.”

You turn on your heel and you don’t stop moving until you’re outside the building, your fingers already dialing a number you swore to yourself you wouldn’t use unless absolutely necessary.

Leon picks up on the third ring. “Hey! What’s up?”

“Don’t you ‘what’s up’ me,” you hiss, pacing in the cold December air. “What the hell were you thinking sending me flowers? To my office?”

Leon hesitates for a second, and you can almost hear him cringing through the phone. “Uh, I thought it’d make things more… believable?”

You stop in your tracks. “Believable?”

“Yeah! You know, if people saw that you’re, like, dating someone, it might help sell the whole… thing.” His voice trails off, and there’s a pause before he adds, quieter, “Was it too much?”

“Too much?” you echo, your own voice rising in disbelief. “It’s not even lunchtime and I’ve already been asked twice if I’m engaged. At least take me to dinner first!”

There’s a beat of silence on his end before he says, “Okay. Let’s do it.”

You stop in your tracks. “Do what?”

“Dinner,” Leon says, like it’s obvious. “Tomorrow. You said I should take you to dinner, so… I’ll take you to dinner.”

You blink, your annoyance faltering for a second, only to give way to mild confusion. “Are you asking me out, or are you making this part of the deal?”

“Can’t it be both?” 

You’re not sure if it’s the cold or the sheer absurdity of the situation that makes you smile, but you sigh and say, “Fine. Dinner. But you’re picking the place, and it better not be one of those sad 24-hour diners cops hang out in.”

Leon laughs, the sound warm enough to cut through the winter chill. “Deal.”

On the third day of Christmas, Leon takes you to dinner.

And yes, it is a sad diner.

It’s the kind of place that looks like it hasn’t updated its decor since the 70s, with faded garlands drooping from the light fixtures and a suspiciously sticky Rudolph figurine parked on the counter. Which is fine, in honesty. It’s perfect for this not-date, because that’s what this is. Not a date. Absolutely nothing about this screams romance.

Well, except maybe the crooked twig of mistletoe hanging over the entrance, but even that you’d pointedly avoided much to Leon’s amusement.

“So, remind me what I’m doing here,” you hum, pushing around your leftover pancakes on your plate. Leave it to Leon to convince you pancakes for dinner is an entirely acceptable meal choice.

“Well, we’re on a date,” Leon states matter-of-factly.

Across from you, he looks all too comfortable. You, on the other hand, feel like you’ve just agreed to help pull Santa’s sleigh blindfolded.

“Yeah, well, a date’s pushing it, rookie,” You all but scoff, setting your fork down before meeting his gaze properly. “Look, if we’re gonna do this, we probably need to set some ground rules.”

Leon raises a brow, lips curving into a half-smile, “You’re serious? This isn’t Fight Club.”

“Can’t believe you just broke the first rule of Fight Club,” you shoot back, matching his half-smile with your own self-satisfied one. “Okay, first off, who gets to know?”

“That this is fake? No one,” Leon says all too firmly, “I don’t need this blowing up in my face.”

“Likewise,” you hum. “Okay, next, how often are we gonna see each other outside of office hours? Are we really trying to sell this?”

“Well a coffee or two wouldn’t hurt,” Leon suggest. “And, uh… Physical stuff?” He asks, a generous blush dusting his cheeks.

You can’t hide your smile. “Afraid to hold my hand or something?”

“No! No— just… Don’t want to make this any more awkward than it has to be.”

“Alright, so no kissing unless absolutely necessary. And I’m talking someone-shoves-us-under-mistletoe-and-starts-chanting levels of necessary.”

He lets out a laugh, soft and boyish, and you can’t help but feel the corners of your mouth tug upwards.

On the Fourth Day of Christmas Leon takes you ice-skating. Well… Sort of.

You’d come to pick up some paperwork about the Christmas Market case Leon had promised you—an errand you figured would be quick and painless. No mingling, no unnecessary chit-chat, and absolutely no run-ins with anyone who might make this fake-dating charade any harder than it has to be.

The first hiccup comes the second you step into the precinct. You immediately spot him, leaning against the reception desk with an easy grin, chatting with some colleagues. You only recognise one of them, from the photo sitting on Claire’s desk no-less. Chris Redfield. The woman beside him, who’s donning a festive antler headband, looks oddly familiar as well, though you can’t quite place it.

Fantastic. Just what you needed.

“Leon!” you call, keeping your tone as casual as possible. You walk briskly, plastering on a tight-lipped smile, trying your best not to look like a deer caught in the headlights and to very pointedly avoid any eye-contact with Chris.

Leon turns at the sound of your voice, his expression brightening instantly. “Oh, hey! What’re you doing here?”

“Paperwork,” you reply, holding up the empty manila folder in your hand like it’s your golden ticket out of this situation. “You said you’d have it ready for me?”

Before Leon can answer, the woman next to Chris perks up—it’s then you recognise her as none other than Jill Valentine. You chalk it up to the antlers making it hard to recognise her.

“Paperwork? Wait, is this who you were talking about?” She elbows Leon in the ribs, earning a flustered yelp from him.

“What?” you echo, narrowing your eyes. Great, so he's already started mentioning you to colleagues.

Chris leans forward, “Wait, you’re Leon’s partner?”

You feel your stomach drop, the word partner ricocheting around your brain like a pinball. 

Leon is already mid-spiral, his cheeks flushed red as he stammers out a reply. “Well, I didn’t say that— I mean, I said some of that, but not like that!”

Jill crosses her arms, smirking. “Well, now we have to meet you! What are you two doing tonight?”

“Nothing!” you and Leon blurt at the same time, a little too loudly.

Chris raises an eyebrow, exchanging a glance with Jill before grinning even wider. “Perfect. You guys should come ice skating with us tonight, most of the Precinct will be there.”

Your mouth opens, ready to reject the idea outright, but Leon beats you to it.

“That sounds great!” he says, his voice breaking slightly on the last word. Stupid, stupid, stupid. If you could hit him over the head with this manilla folder right now, you would.

“Great,” Jill says, clapping her hands together. “Meet us at the rink at around seven tonight.”

“What the hell was that?” you hiss once both Chris and Jill have had enough teasing and they’re out of earshot.

“I panicked!” Leon whispers back, looking genuinely apologetic.

“You just signed us up for the least romantic fake date activity imaginable.” You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You owe me so much for this, rookie.”

“I’ll buy you hot chocolate?” Leon tries, sweet boyish smile and all. You hate how you feel your resolve begin to soften already.

 “You better make it with extra marshmallows.”

He nods, his expression softening as his smile melts into something tentative yet determined. “Deal.”

You’ve decided you don’t like ice skating. Chalk that up to the fact you haven’t been to the rink since you were eight and using a push-along penguin to keep you upright.

“This is fine,” you mutter under your breath, wobbling precariously as you step onto the ice. “Totally fine. Nothing humiliating about face-planting on ice.”

“You’ve got this!” Leon cheers from a few feet away, his enthusiasm wildly misplaced considering he’s not doing much better. He looks like a newborn deer, legs flailing every time he tries to take a step.

“Don’t patronize me,” you hiss back, gripping the railing like your life depends on it.

Behind you, Jill glides past with all the effortless grace of an Olympic figure skater, followed closely by Chris—who despite a few wobbles—isn’t much worse. They’re laughing at something—probably you and Leon—but you’re too busy trying to avoid an embarrassing collision with the ice to care.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” Leon says, inching toward you with the kind of determination usually reserved for hostage negotiations. “You let go of the rail, and I’ll catch you if you fall.”

He looks just about as stupid as he sounds, you decide. “That’s assuming you don’t fall first.”

He grins, cheeks ruddy from the cold. “Have a little faith, would you?”

Against your better judgment, you release your grip on the rail, immediately flailing as your skates slide out from under you.

Leon lunges to catch you—a valiant effort, truly—which would be heroic if it didn’t result in both of you landing in a tangled heap on the ice.

“Well, that could’ve gone better.” Leon groans, pushing himself to his knees and wincing.

“You think?” you say, trying—and failing—to suppress a laugh as you roll onto your side. Your knees are sore, your pride is bruised, but when you look over at Leon—cheeks flushed, smile sheepish— it all feels a little less mortifying.

“Here,” he says, extending a hand to help you up, and there’s something strangely endearing about the gesture. You hesitate for a moment before taking it, letting him pull you to your feet. He doesn’t let go right away, steadying you as you find your balance.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice softer now.

“Yeah,” you reply, surprised to find that you actually mean it.

And somewhere between all of this chaos a group of kids barrels past, laughing as they race each other in a blur of neon jackets and mis-matched scarves. You and Leon instinctively jump out of their way, your skates sliding in all the wrong directions. You nearly crash into him again, grabbing his arm for balance as he steadies both of you.

And suddenly, you’re close. Closer than you’ve been all night.

His face is just inches from yours, his breath visible in soft clouds in the frigid air. His cheeks are bitten by the cold, his boyish grin tugging at his lips, and his eyes—God, his eyes—are the kind of blue that could rival a frosted winter’s lake.

You swallow hard, heart giving a little flutter you’d rather not think about. Brushing it off with a laugh, you take a step back, releasing his arm. “Okay, new rule: avoid the speed demons at all costs.”

“Agreed,” Leon says, but his voice a little softer now, his gaze a little firmer.

The rest of the night is chaos, as expected, and by the time you stumble off the ice, breathless and pink-cheeked, you’re smiling so wide and genuine that your cheeks hurt from it all.

On the sixth day of Christmas, Leon comes over for a very professional movie night. 

The plan was simple enough: a low-key night to sort through leads and discuss the finer details of the article. Nothing more than that. Just two friends (are you even really friends?) mocking bad Hallmark movie tropes and terrible one-liners. But—as fate would have it—somewhere between the half-hearted scribbles in your notebook and the opening credits of the first movie, the evening takes a sharp left turn.

Popcorn crumbs litter the coffee table, and the air hums with laughter as you and Leon pick apart every ridiculous trope on the screen.

“New rule,” you declare, pointing at the screen with a handful of popcorn. “No more movies where the leads magically fall in love because of forced proximity. It's lazy writing.”

Leon raises a brow, smiling at you over his mug of cocoa. “Do you just... make up rules for everything?”

You shoot him a look, though your lips twitch in betrayal. “Rules are important. They keep things from going off the rails.”

“Sure they do,” he says, grinning. “But I think you might have a thing for them. Maybe it’s your love language”

You toss a kernel of popcorn at him, which he catches with an annoyingly quick reflex. The movie continues, but your attention drifts, his sweet smile lingering in your thoughts longer than you’d care to admit, and all at once you want to suffocate yourself with a pillow.

By the time the credits have rolled, the conversation has veered wildly away from work and movies. You find yourself talking about everything and nothing between here and there, the space separating you both narrowing in a way that feels very not-professional. Your leg brushes against his and his hand brushes against yours.

You didn’t make a new rule about that. Maybe you should have.

On the eighth day of Christmas, you finally chase down some of those leads for your article. 

Or at least, you try to.

The holiday market is bustling with lights, laughter, and the scent of cinnamon and roasted chestnuts. It’s picturesque enough to be a postcard: striped tents draped in garlands, vendors bundled in scarves, and the faint hum of Christmas carols floating through the crisp evening air.

You’re here for work. This is professional business. Totally, totally.

“Professional” is exactly why you’re letting Leon lead you to a vendor handing out roasted chestnuts in steaming paper cones.

You raise a brow at him. “Seriously?”

“You’ve gotta try them. It’s tradition.” He says as if it’d be crazy to deny him.

And before you can even think about protesting, he’s already handing you a cone, the warmth seeping through your gloves as you eye the chestnuts—then him—warily. You pop a few in your mouth, only to find yourself pleasantly surprised.

“Good, right?” he asks, smug as anything. You scrunch your nose in response.

Next is funnel cake. Leon orders one to share, dusting himself in powdered sugar as he pulls off a piece and offers it to you.

“I could’ve got my own,” you reason, but take what he offers you anyway.

“Well that wouldn’t make me a very good date.”

“Fake-date,” you correct.

“Uhuh,” Leon hums, but he’s not even looking at you when you glance back up at him, already dragging you towards the next stall, and the next. 

“I’m serious!” You call after him, trying to keep up as he weaves through the crowd like he’s trained to do this. Well, he probably is.

You don’t even realise how long it’s been until you're walking past empty market stalls, every other vendor packing up for the night. Leon leads you out into the street, strings of warm white lights swaying gently in the winter breeze.

Leon’s hands are stuffed into his coat pockets as the two of you walk side by side, your boots crunching softly against the thin dusting of snow on the pavement.

The streets are mostly empty now, save for a few stragglers heading home, but Leon leads you straight into the middle of the road without a second thought. You hesitate for half a second, glancing both ways like a habit.

“There’s no one out here,” he says over his shoulder, that lazy grin curling at the corners of his mouth. “You’re not scared of breaking the rules, are you?”

“Isn’t it your job to enforce rules?” You argue, but follow after him anyway.

When you tilt your head up, you feel the breath escape your lungs all at once. “You can actually see the stars tonight,” you murmur softly in awe, your breath clouding in the cold.

Leon doesn’t say anything right away, but when you glance over, you catch him watching you instead of the sky, his gaze softer than you’re used to. He quickly looks up, clearing his throat as if he hadn’t just been caught.

You don’t know what’s worse: the way his cheeks flush from something other than the cold or the fact that your stomach flutters in response.

And you don’t know what to do with the quiet that stretches between you, either, the sound of your steps filling it up like placeholders. You hadn’t meant for the day to linger this long—hadn’t meant to still be here, walking home with him.

Leon breaks the silence first. “You know, I thought you’d be sick of me by now.”

You glance over at him, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, I am.”

He laughs then, genuine and bright. “Oh thank God, I’d hate for this to actually be enjoyable for either of us.” Sarcasm laces his words in a way that makes you laugh in kind.

He’s grinning like he’s got all the time in the world as he turns to walk backward in front of you, and suddenly all at once this feels like something out of one of those Hallmark Christmas movies you swore to yourself you’d never recreate. 

“You still haven’t thanked me for helping you today.” He says.

“Helping me?” you snort. “All you did was get funnel cake powder on my coat and in my cocoa.”

“Hey,  I got you a quote from the candy vendor, didn’t I?” he defends, arms spreading wide.

“You mean the guy who told us about his grandma’s cookie recipe?”

“Hard-hitting stuff,” he shrugs.

You shake your head, but you’re smiling, and you hate that he notices. He spins back around to face the road ahead, walking a little slower now, like he’s dragging his feet.

“So,” you say after a moment, picking up your pace to fall back into step with him. “Why do you care so much about this Christmas party, anyway?”

Leon doesn’t answer right away. You glance over, and the grin that’s usually on his face has faded into something smaller, quieter.

“Guess I just… don’t want to look like a total loser,” he says eventually, his voice low but even. “It’s been a long first year. People talk.”

You frown at that. “They don’t have anything better to do at the RPD?”

“Apparently not.” He shrugs like it doesn’t bother him, but you can tell it does, at least a little.

The two of you walk in silence for another block, and when you speak again, your tone is softer. “You know, you could’ve asked someone who actually likes you to be your date.”

Leon glances over, and for some reason, his answer catches you off guard. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “but then it wouldn’t have been you.”

You look away too quickly, your chest tightening in a way you can’t explain. He doesn’t elaborate, and you don’t push him for more.

Instead, you both keep walking, the street stretching out ahead of you, the night colder and clearer than it’s been in weeks. The faint glow of your building comes into view up ahead, and for a moment, you wish it was just a little farther away.

On the tenth day of Christmas, Leon does something so absurd you briefly consider chucking him—and his ridiculous ideas—into a snowbank.

Leon shows up at your door, determined and annoyingly cheerful, with a Christmas tree strapped to the roof of his car and a twinkle in his eye that should’ve been your first warning. You don’t have the heart to turn him away or give him a lecture about how this is breaking at least three of your fake-dating rules.

Dragging the tree up the stairs is a disaster, his optimism only barely keeping the whole endeavor from collapsing. Decorating it? Worse. Leon’s enthusiasm for tinsel is unmatched, his ornament selection downright offensive. A plastic Rudolph here, a lopsided snowman there—it’s a full-scale disaster in red, green, and glitter.

By the end of the night, the tree looks more like a festive crime scene, fairy lights as police-tape and all, but you can’t bring yourself to care. The two of you collapse as you both watch the twinkling lights. A ribbon is tangled in your hair; Leon has tinsel stuck to his sleeve. The quiet settles in like freshly fallen snow, and for a moment, you forget this isn’t supposed to feel real.

You spent the eleventh night at Leon’s place. It was his idea to go over the finalities of this agreement, set your story straight in case anybody at the party asks too many questions. Make sure you're both on the same page.

But when you rocked up at his little studio apartment, it felt like he’d compensated for much more than a quick flashcard night.

Cinnamon scented candles burned and flicker, accompanied by a plate of cookies on the counter. Your half-crumpled notes quickly joined, as well as two cups of cocoa that have long-since gone cold.

“Alright, one more time, how’d we meet?”

Leon props his head up on his palm, looking like he’s had more than enough of your pointless flashcard game. “Coffee shop. You spilled hot chocolate on me, laughed, then walked away.”

“I offered to buy you a replacement!” You shoot back, hitting him atop the head with your stack of cards.

He winces dramatically, swatting our hand away. “Well I think it’s more believable if I pretend you didn’t and you bicker back. Y’know, like an old married couple or something.”

You reach for your cold cocoa to hide the way you splutter. “Woah, rookie, I only signed up for a fake-date, not a fake-wedding too.”

Leon grins, but something about him still looks oddly distant.

He kicks his feet off the barstool, takes your cup of cocoa and his to clean them away. “Have you finished your article at least?”

“Nearly,” You hum, but you’re more lying through your teeth. You’ve barely worked on it despite all the extra input Leon’s given you. Something, something, a very distracting Christmas fiasco got in your way. “I should be done by the end of the week.”

“And what happens once it’s done?” He asks, and you know in your right mind he means what happens to you. Promotion? New story? Next assignment? But instead your mind stupidly jumps to the idea that he’s asking about the both of you. What happens to us? written between the lines in invisible ink.

“Well, I suppose I find a new story to chase.” You clear your throat, “and you?”

“Go back to handing out speeding tickets,” Leon smiles through a sigh, “and I guess we drop this whole fake-dating thing, huh?” He asks, and you refuse to let yourself believe there’s any hope in his voice.

“Don’t see a reason to keep it going,” you shrug, to which Leon simply nods.

“Anyway, don’t try changing the subject on me,” you clear your throat, shuffling back through your pile of cards. “Next question: what’s my favourite holiday tradition?”

Leon shelves the now clean and dried mugs, “stealing Christmas cookies when no one’s looking.” He hums smugly over his shoulder.

You blink, “I never told you that.”

“Don’t need to, I pay attention.” He grins, pointedly flicking his gaze to the now empty plate of cookies. But you’re still hung on his words, the casual admission throws you entirely off kilter, and it seems by the twelfth day he still has you feeling that way.

You feel entirely out of place standing in the RPD. The precinct is sparkling with every Hallmark Christmas cliche imaginable—oversized tinsel, plastic mistletoe (that you’re still doing your best to avoid), and a garishly large tree that stands off to the side, completed by a shining white angel on top. 

Leon, of course, has dressed the part. And damn him for looking so good in a navy suit and deep red tie to match your own attire. His presence is steady when you feel out of depth—it’s funny how he does that, despite usually being the one who requires an anchor.

“Are you alright?” He asks, leaning closer to be heard over the obnoxiously loud Christmas music. His voice is low, warm, entirely too distracting. 

“Fine,” you lie with a sickly sweet smile, downing the last of your punch, “totally fine.”

Leon doesn’t buy it, and you’re starting to think he’s getting too good at reading you (which is your job, not his), but before he can press any further, your worst nightmare seems to come to fruition.

You're pulled then pushed, and before you can register what’s even happened you're colliding with Leon’s chest.

“Mistletoe,” he mutters, and when you finally lift your gaze you catch the offending sprig. Jesus Christ.

Honestly, this is your fault. You should’ve accounted for something like this. Nothing like a good bit of rookie hazing at a work party, right? Dammit. The rest of the precinct seems to cheer and chant, and you’d foolishly thought you’d left this behaviour behind in high school. 

God, you wish the ground would part beneath your feet and swallow you whole right now—

“Well, this doesn’t break any of your rules, does it?” Leon asks then, and you can hear the smile in his voice, something about the way he says it makes it sound like he knows the answer.

And he does. Because if Leon’s good at one thing it’s remembering the finer details. No kissing unless absolutely necessary, you’d said. Like someone-shoves-us-under-mistletoe-and-starts-chanting levels of necessary, you’d said.

Okay, now you really want the ground to swallow you up.

Leon seems to pick up on your unease, and ever the gentleman drowns out the obnoxious chanting of his colleagues to focus on you.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he offers.

You shake your head. “It’s part of the deal.” You say firmly. You’re not going to back down now, you’re a stickler for rules, deals, and contracts. Totally not because you’ve been wondering what Leon’s lips might taste like for the past five minutes. Totally.

He counts you down, which feels stupid, but does actually help quell your nerves. What doesn’t help, though, is the way his hand slides to your jaw and his lips slot against yours so effortlessly. You forget the world exists, heart beating out of your chest before you let yourself melt into it, your own arms looping around his neck just before he pulls away.

He’s got blush on his cheeks, his eyes bright, smiling widely like he’s just one the powerball. And suddenly, all at once, your brain catches up to your heart and you realise how none of this seems to feel fake anymore.

Three days later, and your article had gone live that morning. Your editor had been quick to praise it, Claire more than proud when she’d shown up with a mini Christmas gift basket for you. But still, as the day wore on, the victory felt hollow. The article might have just been your best work, but now that the dust—or snow, rather—has settled, all you can think about is Leon and the strange ache left in his absence.

You glance out the window of your tiny office, the skyline glittering with holiday lights. It’s quiet, save for the distant hum of the city and the rhythmic tapping of your pen against your desk.

“You know, I expected a little more Christmas cheer from the person who just saved Christmas,” a familiar voice says.

You jump, spinning around in your squeaky office chair to find Leon leaning casually in your doorway. He’s dressed down from the last time you saw him after the party, his leather jacket slung over one shoulder, but the sight of him is enough to send your heart racing.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, your voice caught somewhere between surprise and something softer.

“I was in the neighborhood,” he shrugs, pushing himself off the cubicle wall and stepping inside.

You raise a brow. “The precinct is five blocks away.”

“Exactly,” he says with a grin. “Neighborhood.”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. He steps closer still, and you feel the air shift.

“Look,” he starrs, running a hand through his hair like he’s still trying to work up the courage. “The other night, you said that after this was over, we wouldn’t have to see each other again.”

You swallow hard, your heart already knowing where this is going but your mind refusing to believe it. You remember how casually you’d thrown that out there, as if the thought hadn’t stung more than you cared to admit. “Yeah. I remember.”

“Well, I don’t want that,” he says simply.

Your breath hitches, but he keeps on going.

“I don’t want to go back to pretending this was all fake,” he continues, his voice steady but his eyes searching yours. “Because it might’ve started that way, but it didn’t end that way—not for me.”

The words hang in the air like softly drifting snowflakes, fragile and perfect, waiting for you to catch them.

“Leon…” you try, but your voice falters.

“I know,” he cuts in quickly. “I know this wasn’t the plan. But plans change, right? Rules get broken—and I know you hate that but hear me out—if there’s one thing I’ve learned these past twelve days, it’s that maybe breaking a rule or two isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

You laugh softly then despite yourself, a mix of nerves and something lighter. “You do realize you’re ruining my perfectly crafted narrative, right? Fake dating, falling in love…” you click your tongue, “this is all so cliché.”

He grins, stepping closer until there is almost no space left between you. “Then let’s give it a good ending.”

Before you can even give what he’s said a minute of thought, his hand is on your jaw again, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that’s unhurried and undeniably real.

When he finally pulls back, he stays close, his forehead resting against yours. “So,” he hums, his voice soft and teasing, “how’s that for a rewrite?”

You can’t help but laugh, your chest light for the first time in days. “It’s a start.”

The city sparkles outside as you stand there, snowflakes fall, the faint hum of Christmas carols from the office speakers bleed with the quiet rhythm of his breathing. Whatever comes next, you know one thing is for sure: this story isn’t over yet.

likes n reblogs r very much appreciated <3

[doctorshealing]

FRIEND ELLIOT

graphics , stamps , userbars

—𖥔 All are F2U with credits.

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( couldnt find art owner for III, dm if you know who! )