#traumahealing

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?”

After talking about Tamlin... let’s talk about Rhysand!

No, really. Let’s talk about him — because for a character who’s literally written to be the fantasy, he sure gets called toxic a lot.

It’s a conversation that keeps resurfacing in fandom spaces: “He’s manipulative.” “He hides things.” “He has too much power.” And sure, if you squint hard enough and remove all context and character development… you might be able to argue that.

But here’s the thing: Rhysand isn’t toxic. He’s complicated. And there's a very big difference.

🧠 First of all: He was introduced as a mask. Let’s not forget A Court of Thorns and Roses was written through Feyre’s point of view — and Rhys, at that point, wanted her to mistrust him. He wasn’t trying to be liked. He was trying to protect his people, himself, and Feyre, in the only way he could under Amarantha’s rule. The Rhys we meet at the beginning is not a complete man — he’s a cornered animal with claws out.

🌟 But the deeper we go, the more we see the real version. By A Court of Mist and Fury, we learn that Rhysand is one of the only characters who respects Feyre’s autonomy. He gives her choice, time, space. He doesn’t lock her in a house, doesn’t silence her pain, and certainly doesn’t pretend to know what’s best for her. He challenges her, but never controls her.

💔 He understands trauma — because he lives with it. Rhysand doesn’t arrive in the narrative as a knight in shining armour. He’s broken, strategic, full of pain — and still able to offer gentleness. Unlike the male love interest in book one, he never tries to rescue Feyre from herself. He helps her become who she wants to be, not who he wants her to be. That's not toxic — that’s healing.

📜 "But he kept things from her!" Yes. Because trust is something that’s built, not automatic. Because he wanted her to choose him, not feel obligated to him. Because sometimes, people make the wrong call — even when their intentions are good. And importantly: when Feyre does confront him, he listens. He apologises. He grows.

🧸 Being powerful doesn’t make him a threat — how he uses it is what matters. Rhysand has immense magical, political, and personal power. But not once does he use it to force Feyre into anything. That’s the point. He could, but he doesn’t. Because real love is consent, balance, and agency. He’s an example of strength that chooses restraint.

🌠 At the end of the day, Rhysand is a fantasy. Yes, he’s written to be alluring, clever, strong, and just a little bit smug. But above all: he’s written to be safe. The man who waited. The man who saw her breaking and didn’t rush to fix her — he knelt, and said: I’m here if you want me.

That’s not toxic. That’s emotional literacy in wings and starlight.

Who here relates?