Hello author, I hope you doing well and I would like to ask you an one shot if that's not bother you. I'm sorry in advance for the spelling mistakes, English is not my first language. (⊃｡•́‿•̀｡)⊃
Fandom : Bungou Strays Dogs
Theme : slightly angst/fluff&comfort
It's an Mori Ougai x GN!Reader, Friends to Lover ( their love eachother but didn't still confess )
Plot : The reader runs a cafe and has the ability to change and go in people's dreams as long as they knows their names.
Mori often frequents the cafe because Elise enjoys the desserts sold there. Mori and reader are friends because of this.
The reader don't know that's Mori was the Boss of the Port Mafia at the start and Mori don't know about Reader's ability at the start.
So one day, Reader notice that Mori don't feel very well because Mori have nightmares and bad sleep so innocently the Reader wish to make him feel better and decide to change and manipulate the dream's of Mori next night and discover that's the nightmare Mori have is about his past trauma during and the reader decide to comfort him. The reader also discover at the same time that's Mori is the boss of the Port Mafia.
Next day, Mori confront the Reader about this and after an discussion, they confess to eachother.
The end
I hope you would have an great day, goodbye author ! <(￣︶￣)>❤️❤️❤️
Whispered Names I Ougai Mori x Reader
Summary: A quiet café, a tired doctor, and a coffee shop owner with an ability. When you enter Mori’s dreams to offer comfort, you uncover the truth behind his nightmares—and who he really is.
A/N: This...is not my best work. I'm in the middle of finals but I had this started and wanted to finish this adorable scenario. Might edit it later cause some of the dialogues are very cringe. Thank you so much for the request, love! This story was a joy to write, and I hope it brings you the comfort and emotion you were looking for. I really admire your idea and your kindness—please don’t worry about your English, it was perfectly clear and heartfelt! Hope you enjoy!! (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡
TW: themes of trauma, war, death, medical imagery, and implied assassination. Please read with care. (˘︶˘).｡.:*♡
MASTERLIST
The chime above the café door jingled with its usual gentle ring, soft and familiar like a whispered greeting. Mori Ougai stepped inside, posture straight, movements graceful and measured. Behind him, Elise bounced in with barely contained excitement, her eyes lighting up the moment she spotted the rows of strawberry parfaits displayed behind the glass case.
The café was warm and tranquil, a soft refuge tucked quietly away from the chaos of Yokohama’s streets. Sunlight pooled through the windows, casting golden stripes across the wooden floors. You were already behind the counter, drying a mug with a soft towel, and glanced up with a smile that came naturally at the sight of them.
“Welcome back,” you said, voice warm. “Your usual seat today?”
Mori’s lips curved into a polite, familiar smile. “Of course,” he replied, removing his gloves with slow precision. “And Elise, I assume, will insist on the parfait again?”
“Yes, yes!” Elise clapped her hands together and darted toward the window seat, the one she always claimed, already pulling her legs up into the booth like she owned the place. “With extra cream this time, okay? You always forget!”
“I don’t always forget,” you replied with a teasing glance. “But fine—extra swirl, just for you.”
She gave a little victorious “hmph,” folding her arms and watching the dessert case with laser focus.
Mori chuckled under his breath as he settled into the seat across from her, brushing a speck of lint from his coat sleeve. “She’s been talking about this parfait since last week. I believe I’ve been threatened with exile if we didn’t come today.”
“She does have excellent taste,” you said, stepping out from behind the counter with a small notepad in hand, though you already knew their order by heart. “Coffee for you? Black, no sugar, a dash of cinnamon?”
“Always.” He nodded. “You remember better than most.”
“I pay attention.” You offered him a quiet, knowing smile before scribbling the order anyway, more out of habit than need.
As you turned to head back toward the kitchen, Elise leaned over to whisper to Mori—loudly enough for you to still hear.
“You two should just marry already,” she said with exaggerated annoyance. “You keep staring.”
Mori raised a brow and cleared his throat, uncharacteristically flustered. “Elise.”
“What?” she huffed. “I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking.”
You bit your lip to hold back a laugh as you disappeared through the doorway to start on their drinks and dessert.
Behind you, Mori sighed. “Children,” he muttered, but there was the faintest softness in his voice—something not quite annoyance. Something else entirely.
He came often—too often, perhaps—for someone who clearly didn't belong to the quiet rhythm of everyday life. Not that he ever drew attention. Quite the opposite. When Rintarō walked through the café door, it wasn’t with the air of a powerful man. There was no tailored suit, no polished shoes, no slick professionalism that hinted at authority.
Instead, he wore the same worn white doctor’s coat, frayed slightly at the cuffs, like it had lived through more than it should have. His hair, once neatly parted, now fell messily around his temples, and he hadn’t shaved in days—his jaw shadowed with a soft stubble that made him look more tired than dangerous. If anyone noticed, they probably assumed he was just a fatigued hospital worker on a break. Someone normal. Invisible.
But not to you.
To you, he was the man who drank his coffee far too bitter, who hunched slightly when he read from crumpled medical texts in the corner, who only relaxed when Elise laughed with her mouth full of cream. You’d grown used to the image of him like this—unkempt, quiet, a little frayed around the edges—and maybe that’s why you liked him even more.
Here, in this little pocket of the world, he let his guard down. No title. No grandeur. Just a man who always chose the corner booth, who always said your name a little softer than necessary, who always seemed a little sad when he thought no one was looking.
He was rough around the edges, yes, but he was real. And you had come to look forward to that quiet presence more than you dared admit.
You knew so little, really. Only that he often sat silently while Elise devoured sweets with childlike glee, her voice rising with delight as she demanded more whipped cream or argued with him about dessert etiquette. And you? You’d linger longer than necessary at his table, refilling his cup when it was still half-full, offering a quiet smile and a few easy words.
Over time, the distance between you had shrunk—subtly, naturally. You learned he liked lilacs, though he never said it outright, only commented on the small vase of them once with the faintest curve of a smile. You’d noticed the way he paused before answering your questions, as if weighing how much of himself to offer. You respected that. Never pushed.
“Rintarou,” you called him, and he let you—no correction, no deflection.
Friends, you told yourself. That’s all it was. Friends who exchanged soft glances when the café grew quiet. Friends who always seemed to notice each other’s mood without speaking. But there was something in the silences between you—words neither of you dared speak aloud. Something lingering in the way your fingers brushed his when passing his cup. In the way his gaze lingered just a moment too long when he thought you weren’t looking.
No one had said it—not yet—but the space between friendship and something more was growing thinner with every visit.
You slid his coffee across the table, hand brushing his by accident. He didn’t pull away. But his eyes... were tired. More than usual.
You approached the table with his coffee in hand, setting it down with the gentle clink of ceramic against wood. Elise was too busy humming to herself while scribbling in a coloring book to notice anything, but you caught it the moment you looked at him—Rintarou’s eyes were duller than usual, ringed faintly with exhaustion. His posture wasn’t as straight, his shoulders slouched just slightly, and he hadn’t even bothered to brush the sleep lines from his cheek.
“You didn’t sleep well, did you?” you asked softly, sliding into the seat across from him, your tone more concerned than casual.
He looked up, blinking once like you’d caught him off guard. “Is it really that obvious?”
You gave him a small, lopsided smile. “Not to most people. But I’ve seen you when you’re... composed. And this isn’t it.”
His fingers curled loosely around the coffee cup, but he didn’t lift it right away. “You’re observant.”
“I run a café. People tell me things with their faces more than their words,” you said, watching him.
Rintarou was silent for a moment. His gaze dropped to the steam curling up from his cup, and something unreadable passed over his face— almost weariness.
“I just… wanted to check,” you added gently, as if afraid you might have overstepped. “If there’s anything I can do. Or if you just want to talk. Or even if you don’t want to say anything at all—I’m here ‘till closing.”
He looked at you then. Really looked. And in his eyes, there was something raw beneath all that restraint. He gave a short, humorless breath through his nose. “No, I’m alright.” he said, then softer, “but thank you.”
There was something tender in his voice when he said that—like the act of offering had meant more than your words. He finally brought the coffee to his lips, sipping it slowly. You didn’t push, just stood there with him for a moment in comfortable silence.
That night, you sat alone in your quiet apartment, troubled by the image of him. Your ability was a rare one. You could enter and influence dreams, as long as you knew someone’s name. And Rintarou Mori—you knew his name. You had never used your ability without telling someone. But this felt... different. He looked like he needed rest more than anything else. You only wanted to help.
So you closed your eyes, whispered his name, and fell into sleep.
The dream was a suffocating void, alive with pain and regret.
You found yourself in a makeshift field hospital, the air thick with antiseptic and screams. Young Rintarou—his once-crisp white coat stained by sweat and mud—raced between bloodied stretchers. He’d been a war doctor first, stitching wounds and administering morphine under relentless shellfire. Here, his hands shook as he tried to save soldiers he’d never know again.
Then the scene blurred, shifting to a dingy back-alley clinic, flickering lanterns casting half-shadows. He’d worked there next, an underground doctor tending to the city’s worst and desperate. His coat hung heavier, the fabric threadbare, but his eyes burned with quiet determination as he patched bullet wounds by candlelight.
Finally, the memory twisted, hard and sharp, dragging you into the dim, echoing halls of the Port Mafia’s headquarters. The air was cold, still, and heavy with finality. There, in the shadows of power, Rintarou knelt beside a frail figure collapsed on a silk-draped bed—his predecessor, the old boss. The man’s hair was ghost-white, slick with sweat, his breath shallow and rattling like wind through cracked glass.
You watched, heart tight, as the old man’s eyes snapped open. His voice came in a fevered whisper, slurred and manic: “Kill them… kill them all…”
And Rintarou—his expression unreadable, his face like carved porcelain—leaned in close. With steady, surgical precision, he withdrew a blade. Not a weapon of war, but a surgeon’s knife—sterile, deliberate, clinical.
Without a word, he drew it across the old man’s throat.
The blood was quick and silent, soaking into the sheets like ink. There was no cruelty in the act. No pleasure. Only cold necessity—and a trace of sorrow so deeply buried it almost went unnoticed. The boss’s last breath rattled like a judge’s gavel.
You stepped forward, the memory still settling around him like ash. The air was heavy with blood and silence—too many silences. The soldiers he couldn’t save. The desperate voices from that backroom clinic. The soft, wet sound of a throat being opened by his own hand.
They flickered in and out of focus—ghosts circling him, bound not by malice, but by memory. And Rintarou knelt at the center of it all, unmoving. Not resisting. Just… enduring. Shoulders stiff. Eyes blank. A man who had learned to carry his sins in silence because he thought no one else should have to.
You knelt beside him, your presence a ripple in the stillness. One hand reached out, brushing his sleeve—just enough. Not to erase what had happened, but to offer something else.
With the faintest pulse of your ability, the scene around you began to bend and soften. The dark walls of the Mafia’s inner sanctum melted away, brick by brick, and were replaced by open sky. Cold stone gave way to soft grass. The air warmed. Light returned.
And yet… he didn’t move.
Even in the dawn you offered, Rintarou sat frozen—jaw tight, fists clenched in his lap, as if terrified that letting go of the past would dishonor the dead he carried with him.
You looked at him, truly looked. Not as a doctor. Not as a killer. But as a man who’d lived through more than anyone should—and survived it alone.
And for the first time, in the quiet hum of his dream, you whispered, “You don’t have to keep reliving it to prove you remember.”
He didn’t answer, but his breath hitched—just once. And in that stillness, you saw it:
He heard you.
The next morning, Rintarou arrived alone.
No Elise. No usual easy pretense. Just him—standing in the doorway of your café with shadows under his eyes and something heavier in the set of his shoulders. The morning sun lit the edges of his worn coat, and though his hair was still tousled and a faint stubble clung to his jaw, there was nothing unkempt about the look in his eyes.
Sharp. Direct. Measured.
You met him behind the counter, offering his coffee without a word. But he didn’t take it right away.
“You,” he said quietly, eyes never leaving yours, “were in my dream.”
You stilled.
His tone wasn’t angry. Not quite. But it carried a weight that settled in the space between you like a blade laid gently on a table.
“I don’t remember everything,” he continued, tone calm but direct, “but I know enough. You changed it. You saw it. You saw me.”
Your throat tightened. “I didn’t mean to invade your mind, I swear. I didn’t even know—at first—that it was that kind of dream. You looked so… tired. I just wanted to help.”
Rintarou studied you in silence, his expression unreadable.
“You went where no one’s ever been,” he said finally. “My memories. My regrets. You saw what I did. What I became.”
“I did,” you said. “And I’m still treating you the same. Still here. That should tell you everything.”
His jaw tightened, like he wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or ashamed. “You saw me kill him.”
You nodded.
A pause.
A beat.
“My real name is Ougai Mori. Rintarou is just what Elise likes to call me.”
There it was. Clear. Direct. A confession offered not with pride, but with unflinching honesty.
The words hung between you like a blade suspended mid-air.
You stared at him for a long moment, trying to match this quiet man—this gentle regular with worn sleeves and a sweet tooth for Elise’s sake—to the shadowed title that made the underworld tremble. And yet... it wasn’t hard. Because you had already seen what others hadn’t: the surgeon’s precision, the commander’s burden, the man beneath the weight.
You exhaled slowly. “So that’s the name behind the nightmares.”
You stared at him, the words settling between you like smoke that didn’t quite sting. It should have frightened you. It should have driven you back. But instead, you stepped closer—barely noticeable, just a shift in breath, in presence.
“…I figured it was something like that,” you said softly, voice steady. “After everything I saw… the weight you carry, the things you’ve done—yes, I know who you are now. But it doesn’t change what I see when I look at you.”
You stepped around the counter and walked up to him. Close enough that you could see the worry he almost—almost—managed to hide.
“You didn’t become a monster,” you said, voice steady despite the storm inside you. “You became a man carrying more than anyone should have to. You made choices that no one else wanted to make. I’m not going anywhere.”
A long silence passed. He looked at you, really looked at you, with those dark eyes that had seen far too much. And for a moment, something softened in them—something fragile and human and achingly real.
“I should have walked away from this place the moment I realized what I was beginning to feel,” he said, voice low. “But I couldn’t. I told myself it was for Elise. For the quiet. The coffee.”
He smiled faintly. A sad, small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “But it was always you.”
Your breath caught.
“I stay because you make me forget,” he continued, “just for a little while… what I’ve done. What I am. You remind me that there’s still something gentle left in me.”
You reached out then, fingers brushing his coat sleeve before taking his hand completely. It was warm. Solid. Hesitant.
“I don’t want you to forget,” you whispered. “I want you to remember—and still believe there’s something worth holding onto. Something good. Something soft.”
His fingers curled around yours.
“…You make me want things I’d convinced myself I didn’t deserve.”
“Then let yourself have them,” you said, voice a little shaky. “Let yourself have this.”
A silence fell again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It was full of something softer. Something waiting.
And then, without another word, he leaned in—tentative, careful, like he was giving you every chance to step away.
You didn’t.
You closed the distance, pressing your forehead to his, your hand still wrapped in his. There was no rush. No urgency. Just the quiet bloom of something long overdue.
When you finally pulled back, he was smiling—not the sharp, practiced smile you’d seen so many times, but something smaller. Warmer. Real.
“I’d like to stay,” he said, his voice barely above a breath. “If you’ll have me.”
June in Alabama is the closest thing you can get to hell on earth without actually dying, I mean there is a reason the south is called Satan’s armpit after all. My dad always said the cold was better than the heat, “you can always add clothes for the winter but you can only take off so many in the summer before its public indecency" was his famous line.
“I know it's hot but can you at least hold the camera right?” Alex said, demanding as always. I get it he wanted this project to be as perfect as possible but hell its 90 degrees in the shade and this stupid camera was already slippery enough without my hands covering it in sweat.
“Yes boss whatever you say boss” I quipped back, earning a look that I can only describe as a mom look from him.
Alex was the brain of this whole operation there was no ifs, ands or butts about it. How he came up with a title like Marble Hornets for a college short film about a guy trying to find himself was way beyond me. I had asked him once when he was working on the script how he came up with the title he’d just shrug and say it felt right all without looking up, which was just Alex speak for don’t second guess me. Alex recruited me and Jay first, I mean it made sense we were both the camera nerds of our film class and had the most experience with them. Brian and and Tim came on next, he needed actors and to him they were the only choice. Brian was more of the quiet type he sat in the front and really didn't say much but Alex for some reason was adamant on having him as the main character. Tim I had known for longer, we had a few intro classes together and turned out our dad’s had known each other for a while. Alex had said both of them were so perfect for their respective roles, they weren't overtly dramatic like most of the guys in our class, Alex himself said Tim had this sort of presence that made you want to keep watching even if he was just doing something simple.
What didn't make sense to any of us is why out of all places Alex insisted on filming out here in the middle of absolute nowhere, trees were all around us along with the cicadas which would definitely destroy the audio. The weird thing was the lack of anything else, no birds or wind or any other thing you would expect in nature, just us and the bugs.
“Okay,” Alex said, clapping his hands once. “Let’s reset. From the top.” His new catch phrase was slowly but surely becoming the bane of mine and Jay’s existence. Sure we had loads of tapes, a weirdly large amount but it would be a pain in the ass to go through and edit all his footage.
Jay shifted beside me, adjusting his grip on the second camera like it had personally wronged him.
“You ever get the feeling,” he muttered, “that places like this remember people?”
Jay looked at me and pushed his hair back, the strands still sticking to his forehead that was slicked in sweat. I snorted and gave a dry laugh.
“Yeah. I’m pretty sure this park knows us by name at this point. If Alex keeps making us reshoot, eventually it’s gonna start asking for royalties.”
Jay let out a weak laugh, then wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
“If this place remembers people, I hope it forgets me fast.”
He replied with a chuckle and took a large gulp from the almost empty water bottle.
“Not a chance,” I quipped. “We’ve been standing here since 11am. The trees probably think we live here now, granted that wouldn't be too bad the rent is probably free.”
I mumbled as I reset the camera to the correct angle and made sure the lens was focused.
“Careful, if you make that joke and Alex hears you he’ll turn this into some survival Mad Max style movie,” Tim said from behind me leaning up against a tree with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He looked like the heat wasn't even affecting him, if anything he looked more annoyed that we had been out here all day.
“Well then we’d have a reason for all of this suffering, I mean hell we’ve must have done 10 takes for a 5 minute segment,” I groaned and walked over to him, taking the cig out and taking a puff for myself.
“Hey those things can kill you, do you know how pissed Alex would be if one of his camera crew died?” Tim said with a sarcastic tone.
I let out a slight cough and replied in a similar tone, “If this cigarette kills me instead of the heat you can just bury me under that tree with a nice stone. Here lies Miverva, cause of death one cigarette and heat stroke.”
“You always get like this when it’s hot?” Tim said with a small smile as he took back the almost burnt out cigarette.
“Only when I’m seconds away from melting into the forest floor,” I said. “Why, you offering heat-stroke advice?”
“No,” he said, meeting my eyes for a second longer than necessary. “Just surprised you’re still standing.”
“Spite,” I replied immediately. “And caffeine.”
For a moment, the cicadas filled the space between us, loud and relentless. Then Alex’s voice cut through the trees again, calling us back into position. Tim pushed off the tree and moved into place, passing close enough that I caught his quiet, almost amused,
“Hang in there, Minerva, it would be a shame if the prettiest thing out here died.”
silly idea, re2 leon meets and makes friends with nemesis
leon isnt stars so nemesis has no reason to hurt leon
long as he doesnt touch that stars badge of course :}
Buddy Cop Apocalypse (Leon and Nemesis)
🧟♂️✨ CRACKFIC SPOTLIGHT ✨🧟♂️
LEON & NEMESIS: BUDDY COP APOCALYPSE - A Resident Evil One-Shot
What if Leon S. Kennedy’s first day in Raccoon City meant making friends with the city’s scariest bioweapon? Chaos, comedy, and unexpected bromance await!
Author’s Note:
Big thanks to the anonymous requester for this adorable, chaotic prompt—this one’s for you! Hope you enjoy Leon and Nemesis causing mayhem and redefining the meaning of “first day jitters.” If you have more ideas or want a sequel (Jill cameo, anyone?), drop your suggestions below!
Leon S. Kennedy’s first day on the job wasn’t just hell—it was, frankly, stupid. Raccoon City had lost its mind. The police radio was all static, the sky glowed red with fire and sirens, and zombies moaned behind every door. The air stank of rot and fear. Most people would’ve found a closet, locked the door, and cried. Leon, unfortunately, was not most people. He was out of ammo, out of hope, and sprinting for his life down a dark alley that—thanks to fate and Umbrella’s questionable urban planning—led straight into a brick wall.
He spun around, expecting to see a slow, groaning corpse. Instead, he saw a mountain—a leather-clad behemoth stitched together like a kid’s failed sewing project. Shoulders as wide as a car. In one massive hand, it carried a rocket launcher like it was a baguette fresh from the bakery. The thing’s head swiveled, its mouth split open, and it exhaled in a guttural rumble: “STAAAAAARS…”
Leon’s hands shot up, badge raised like a cross to a vampire. “I’m not S.T.A.R.S.! I’m just a—rookie! Leon! Please?”
The monster’s red eyes flickered, scanning the badge, then Leon. It grunted, unimpressed. An awkward silence stretched between them. Leon’s brain short-circuited. Was he going to die? Be launched through a building? Or…?
Nemesis—because, obviously, it was Nemesis—looked past Leon at the growing herd of zombies behind them. With zero warning, he stomped forward, seized Leon by the collar, and flung him—remarkably gently, for an 8-foot death machine—behind a dumpster. Then Nemesis waded into the undead crowd with the subtlety of a bulldozer, scattering limbs and torsos like he was mowing the lawn. Leon watched in slack-jawed awe, heart hammering. Nemesis moved with brutal, monstrous grace. It was terrifying… but also, if Leon was honest, kind of impressive.
A minute later, Nemesis plodded back through the gore. He reached into his belt, produced a first-aid spray, and pressed it into Leon’s shaking hands. “Uh. Thanks?” Leon managed, blinking at the green canister. He was so confused.
Nemesis grunted, the sound vibrating in his chest. Leon was pretty sure that was Nemesis for “Don’t mention it.”
Their partnership was the stuff of fever dreams. Leon, half-dead and covered in grime, trailed after his massive new friend through the ruined city, mind spinning. Was this really happening? Was he honestly following a B.O.W. through zombie hell because it seemed safer than going it alone? The absurdity didn’t escape him, but every time he glanced at Nemesis, the monster just grunted, and Leon somehow felt a little less doomed. The rules became clear fast:
Don’t mention S.T.A.R.S.
Don’t touch the S.T.A.R.S. badge Nemesis kept on a chain like a childhood trophy.
Always accept healing items—even if it’s the weird blue herb that tastes like grass clippings.
Don’t ask questions about the rocket launcher.
If Leon tripped or lagged behind, Nemesis would grunt and gesture him forward. Once, when a flaming zombie staggered into their path, Nemesis simply picked it up by the head and yeeted it through a squad car window. The resulting explosion almost set Leon’s eyebrows on fire. Another time, Leon found a soda machine jammed and smacked it in frustration. Nemesis lumbered over, punched the machine once, and a cold can rolled out. Leon offered him the drink in gratitude. Nemesis stared at it, then crushed the can effortlessly, a faint look of confusion on his monstrous face. Leon tried not to laugh.
Between chaos, Leon sometimes attempted small talk, even as his mind reeled at the madness of it all:
Leon: “So, uh… do you have a name? Or just ‘Nemesis’?”
Nemesis: “…STARS.”
Leon: “Yeah, figured. That’s a no.”
Other times, he rambled just to fill the silence:
Leon: “You know, I thought my worst day would involve a parking ticket. Not, uh, bio-weapons and undead chihuahuas.”
Nemesis: (grunts, hurls a zombie dog into a dumpster)
Leon (nervous laugh): “Yeah, you get it.”
They crossed Raccoon City’s hellscape together: fighting through back alleys littered with bodies, ducking under burning debris, climbing over overturned buses. At one point, a group of zombie dogs cornered Leon. Before he could even draw his empty pistol, Nemesis stomped forward, roared, and sent the entire pack fleeing, tails between their legs. Leon had never been so grateful for unethical science in his life.
They even stumbled across an abandoned news van, radio blaring static. Leon fiddled with the dials, hoping for help. Nemesis watched, curious, until a faint voice crackled through: “…S.T.A.R.S. sighted near…” The radio was promptly crushed by a giant hand. Leon sighed and shrugged. “Not a radio guy, I get it.”
As the night dragged on, they took shelter in a ruined convenience store. Nemesis blocked the door with a shelf, then settled in the corner, ever-watchful. Leon sat on a crate, patched up his arm, and munched on a suspiciously unexpired protein bar. Occasionally, Nemesis would glance at the chain around his neck, the S.T.A.R.S. badge glinting in the firelight. Leon didn’t ask—he’d learned his lesson.
Leon glanced over, mustering a tired smile. “You know, for a bio-weapon, you’re not so bad. Kinda wish you were around during training.”
Nemesis let out a deep, thoughtful grunt.
Leon shifted, feeling awkward. “…Or not. Got it.”
By the time dawn crept over the carnage, Leon was limping, caked in mystery goo, but alive. Nemesis, apparently satisfied with his non-S.T.A.R.S. companion, got to his feet, gave Leon a last, solemn nod, and lumbered away into the smoldering city. At the alley’s end, he paused, turned, and flicked a spent first-aid spray can at Leon—a casual salute from one survivor to another.
“Good luck out there, big guy,” Leon called, genuinely meaning it. He watched Nemesis’s massive silhouette fade into the smoky light.
Somewhere in the ruins, Jill Valentine shivered, sensing a disturbance in the force—Nemesis was supposed to hunt S.T.A.R.S., not make friends with rookie cops.
Leon’s first day was still hell. But at least he had a story no one would ever believe. As sirens wailed in the distance and sunlight crept over the ruins, Leon took a deep breath and realized that surviving alongside Nemesis had changed him. Maybe, he thought, finding hope in this nightmare meant trusting even the unlikeliest of allies. Raccoon City wasn’t completely hopeless after all.
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Chapters: 2/?
Fandom: Stranger Things
Relationships: WIll Byers/Mike Wheeler
Characters: Will Byers, Mike Wheeler, Jonathan Byers, Nancy Wheeler, Dustin Henderson, Lucas Sinclair, Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Steve Harrington
Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Angst, Will Byers Needs a Hug, First Kiss
After Vecna, the chasm between Will and Mike is filled with the static of shared trauma and things left unsaid. When a careless word from Mike and a shattering confession finally break the silence, Mike must unlearn everything he knows about love to finally see the boy who has been fighting monsters all along.
Have y'all read this yet? It's by @setepenre-set (on Ao3 and tumblr) and it's gorgeous. It's an AU where Roxanne goes to shool with Megamind, told from Roxanne's POV. It blatantly points out the issues the movie brings up and is a sorta fix-it fic. Better yet? It's a series with seven stories total. Setepenre-set does a fantastic job of writing the characters and explaining the events through Roxanne's eyes. They keep the mindset of a kid without making it seem dumb or slow. I absolutely adore this fic.
ZETH, WHAT FIC? GIVE ME THE LINK, I WILL FIGHT IT, NO ONE DARES TO MAKE YOU CRY ON MY WATCH
NO DON'T FIGHT THE FIC. It was gloriously painful in the best way 😭✨✨ I reread it again to see if it will hurt just as bad as the first time and it did! HNGGGGHHH please give my rice a man a chance at a second life! I'll give him the happy, peaceful life he deserves uhuhuhu😭💖💔
It's Sober to Death by Fascination_Street on AO3 pipz. Come give it a read if you wanna have your hearts squeezed like mine 🥺
random thought abt gojo x reader fics, is there like any established (even if not) relationships fics where megumi is mentioned? I feel like I want to read something about y/n being like a mother figure to megumi and tsumiki while being in a relationship with Gojo??? Please recommend some fics for me to read, guys : (
idk if you read fanfiction but there's a new nxj fic on ff net i thought i'd bring here for any roomfriends! it's called "wedding weekend" and it's basically about nick/jess during the weekend of schmece's wedding :) just wanted to let you know. anything to keep us occupied and hopeful during the hiatus!
Thank you for the heads up roomfriend! I used to read a lot of nxj fan fic but I gotta admit that the last one I read was Lifting Fog. I’d try to catch up on our staple “readings” this extra long hiatus. :-)
