#canticle's (bi)centennial celebration

[cant-icle]

you may be full up on prompts... but if not, i've been thinking about akira getting back to his hometown and just... not adjusting. he's a completely different person from who he used to be before the trauma of the arrest, before being uprooted, before the phantom thieves. his old friends abandoned him over a year ago. his parents can't even begin to understand. he's probably got more than a bit of PTSD. idk, i just want angsty "akira can't handle normalcy any more", lol

(a quick note–akira is a Scorpio and his birthday is the 21st of November and you’ll never take this headcanon away from me)

Everyone who knew Kurusu Akira before his parents transferred him out of town for the year agrees that he’s changed.

He was a charismatic child, a dreamer and a dancer, an ace on their tiny gymnastics team, a drama enthusiast in the school plays. No one would have thought he’d be the sort of person to assault someone; no one would have recognized him when he returned if he hadn’t had the same name.

He doesn’t look any different, except for the way he does; the Kurusu that left, all his teachers agree, moved light on his feet, faster than he should, a recipient of banged elbows and skinned knees from the time he could walk. The Kurusu that comes back…slinks. He places every foot with deliberation, with almost unnatural grace, his eyes cataloguing everything that moves behind a mask as still as stone. “A resting bitch face,” Nakayama-san might be heard to mutter, “that Kashiwagi should learn to emulate.”

He might look the same, but his demeanor has changed completely. There’s no sign of the cheerful boy that left them before the end of their first year; the one that comes back for the start of the third might as well just be wearing his face. He’s silent verging on sullen; his attention is perpetually fixed on the window instead of the chalkboard. He has a cat. The cat sits in his school bag and watches everything with unnaturally attentive eyes, and no one can figure out how to bring it up to him so that he leaves it at home instead.

The students are unnerved. The faculty are unnerved. The only one who isn’t unnerved is Kurusu himself, who parts the students in the halls like a knife wherever he goes, leaving whispers in his wake.

Rumor has it, and time proves it, that he spends every lunch on the roof, tucked over in the furthest corner rain or snow or shine. He’s always on his phone— no one ever is brave enough to eavesdrop, but a pair of eagle-eyed second years peek around the corner with a pair of binoculars and report back that, whoever he’s talking to and whatever it’s about, he’s smiling. It’s downright creepy to watch his face transform from that expressionless mask to something mobile and animated; sometimes his teachers catch flashes of it on his face when he looks down at his phone during lessons.

There’s another thing; no matter how little attention he pays during class, if you ask Kurusu a question he’ll always know the answer. That’s the only thing he’ll say, and he’ll only participate if you forcefully call him out. His grades are top-notch— top of the class, in fact, to the dismay and rabid jealousy of the former valedictorian, who now is known to spend hours after school in the library cramming.

Kurusu never spends time in the library. Kurusu spends as little time at school as humanly possible, and once the bell rings he’s out of there, come hell or high water.

As the spring turns towards summer Kurusu gets jumpy; his resting bitch face never changes, but his foot taps sometimes during class, and occasionally someone will catch him whittling his pencils down into something sharp and deadly, or fiddling under his desk with paperclips and string. He looks out the door more often, is out of class first and soonest; once he just leaves class in the middle of a lecture, and Kashiwagi is too stunned to call him back.

The weirdest thing about the new Kurusu, though, is the out-of-towners.

No one knows how many of them there are; they come in a big old beat-up van at any given holiday. For Golden Week there were only three; during the summer there are six.

The first time anyone sees them is the first time they see Kurusu emote since his return— there’s a slim brunette and a bombshell blonde waiting by the school gates, and those lucky few who were there say that Kurusu actually dropped his school bag in shock, right before he was tackled clean off his feet by another blond and sent tumbling across the grass.

Kurusu’s laugh is unexpectedly lovely, for someone who never uses it. Kurusu’s smile is the same. Kurusu with dirt on his palms and grass in his hair,  looking happy like it’s going out of style? That Kurusu is a heartbreaker, and sets several girls from every year scheming. They’re all in for disappointment; any letter that goes into Kurusu’s shoe locker never sees the light of day. He doesn’t even touch them.

During the summer no one sees Kurusu for a month or more; he disappears right out of the school yard, though one third-year says that she saw him getting into the van with several other people their age, and then popping out of a hole in the roof and yelling, arms up, as they peeled out of town. It’s an audacious claim, but she has blurry picture evidence. He shows up again at the very end of the summer, and this time the out-of-towners are all with him— several ladies, lovely in yukata of every pattern and color, a tall thin boy also in a yukata, and the blond that tackled Kurusu across the grass that one time.

Those who see him say Kurusu looks more alive than he has since he came back, suffused with vitality— they say he wins every carnival game he tries his hand at, offloading plushes onto each of the girls with him in turn, that he poses in front of the shrine for the boy in the yukata to sketch him, that he roams through the stalls and up the hill to the observatory hand-in-hand with the blond boy looking utterly at peace.

Fall begins; several official-looking cars park in front of the Kurusu household, one of them containing up-and-coming politician Yoshida-san, who’s come to Inaba to tout his platform. To everyone’s surprise, Kurusu is his assistant at the schoolwide assembly Yasogami High holds for Yoshida-san, standing up on stage like it doesn’t bother him, his neutral face giving away nothing.

But Yoshida-san speaks to him warmly, and Kurusu speaks back just as warmly— they’ve met before, clearly, and when someone in the audience asks Yoshida-san just laughs and says that Kurusu helped him quite a bit during his year in Tokyo.

Helped Yoshida-san?? With what?!

The further the fall progresses, however, the weirder Kurusu gets. In gym they do a couple lessons of self-defense; the guy partnered with Kurusu can’t so much as lay a finger on him. Kurusu moves like he’s water, like he’s dancing, like he’s weightless; when his partner gets frustrated and charges at him yelling, Kurusu barks a laugh and backflips away, parkour-ing around the gym like a goddamn bouncy ball. He ends up on top of the basketball hoop somehow, his feet planted on the rim as he sits square on the backboard, and the smile on his face as he looks down on all of them is a wild, godless slash across his mouth.

The day they learn how to disarm is the day things go south; Kurusu gets the rubber knife away from his opponent with laughable ease and turns to walk away. The teacher is out of the room for a moment, talking to Kashiwagi about something or other, which is probably why the embarrassed opponent makes a move.

He rushes Kurusu from behind, and Kurusu flips the knife in his hand and stabs backward in a single, vicious strike. He impacts the guy square in the solar plexus, sending him sprawling, gasping for breath; the entire gym goes silent, aside from his breaths.

Kurusu spins the knife across his fingers and spins on his heel, taking in the onlookers; he raises his hands as if to say “any other takers?”

There are. There have been a lot of tensions since Kurusu started dominating the room, a lot of people who don’t like the change in the pecking order. Those people step forward; anyone who doesn’t want a hand flees to the edges. No one goes to get the teacher or Kashiwagi, not until Kurusu has a pile of bodies at his feet and his hand in a boy’s hair, dragging his head back, the rubber knife pressed to his throat.

He’s not even breathing hard.

He’s suspended for three days.

The group of defeated boys get their chance for some petty revenge in late november; Kurusu’d had something delivered to the office, and comes back with a box of cupcakes that he doesn’t so much as pretend like he’s going to share; no, the bastard sits there and eats them one by one in front of everyone. They look goddamn delicious, and expensive— they’ve got the logo of a famous Tokyo bakery on them, it must have cost tons to get them shipped fresh to Inaba.

They’re doing timed races in gym that day, and the gym teacher lets everyone get a chance to fire the starting gun. When he’s out of the room, someone hollers “Hey, Kurusu!”

When Kurusu looks over, seemingly on autopilot, they point it directly at him and fire.

Kurusu…bluescreens.

That’s it— he just stands there, hands clenched, eyes empty. His breath picks up; tremors rack up and down his body, seemingly without his notice. It’s really fucking creepy, and he doesn’t respond even when the one who fired tries to brush it off as a joke.

He only really responds when someone— one of the girls— comes up and pats his shoulder to ask if he’s okay.

He flinches violently away from her touch, staggers back, and barely makes it to a trashcan before he pukes.

He’s not in class for the rest of the day. He’s not in class the day after, either. The day after that, a light-haired, dark-eyed defense attorney visits the school to talk to both the principal and the boy who fired the racing gun. The boy who fired the gun is given a three-day suspension, and the rest of the gym class is treated to an impromptu lesson on PTSD, and why you don’t fire a gun at a person who you don’t want to kill.

Which, for the savvier third years, raises a question— who pointed a gun at Kurusu? Who tried to kill Kurusu?!

Kurusu comes back after a few days, but he’s pale and wan, and makes absolutely no attempt to pay attention in class. He’s on his phone constantly, to the point where he often carries it around attached to a portable charger to bolster the battery; the teachers allow it, if only because his grades are still top of the class and he does it silently. He’s probably the least-disruptive person in class at this point. No one has heard him talk since the incident.

Two days before the winter holidays, the blond is back outside the school gates. There’s no tackling this time; Kurusu’s cat jumps out of his bag, and Kurusu just walks forward into the blond’s arms, clinging back tight enough that his knuckles are white.

They don’t move; his classmates walk by rubbernecking in clumps, but it doesn’t look like either of them notice. Kurusu’s face is buried in the blond boy’s neck, and the blond rubs his hand up and down Kurusu’s back like he’s soothing him. Kurusu’s cat winds around both their ankles, talking in its weird purry chirps.

A few of the stealthier second-years decide to trail them from a distance; the blond wraps an arm around Kurusu’s shoulder and walks him right to the train station. They don’t stop by his house or anything; Kurusu gets on in his school uniform and everything and vanishes.

He doesn’t come to class for the rest of the semester.

No one sees him over the winter break.

He’s not in class on the first day after break, either, and eventually word comes down from on high that Kurusu Akira has transferred out of Yasogami High back to his prestigious Tokyo school.

There’s a weird mood through the third-years after that. No one knows if it’s because of the guy who fired the gun— not even the guy himself, who carries some vague aura of guilt for the rest of the semester. Nobody misses him— well, nobody misses him for who he was. He wasn’t a very friendly boy, after all. Who knows how he got all of those weird out-of-towners to follow him around?

No, the only thing Kurusu Akira is missed for is the breath of fresh air he brought to Inaba when he came back, the sheer mystery of his presence. After a few weeks, few even speak his name.

[ao3feed-pegoryu]

canticle's (bi)centennial celebration

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2QyFOYw

by canticle

Since tumblr is threatening to shoot itself off the rails at any given moment, I've decided to archive a series of fills I did to celebrate 200 followers earlier this year! Each chapter will have it's own title and description, as well as a short content warning, if necessary.

Words: , Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Persona 5

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: Gen, M/M

Characters: Kurusu Akira, Sakamoto Ryuji, Sakura Sojiro, Phantom Thieves of Hearts

Relationships: Kurusu Akira/Sakamoto Ryuji, Kurusu Akira & Sakura Sojiro, Kurusu Akira & Sakamoto Ryuji, Kurusu Akira & Phantom Thieves of Hearts

Additional Tags: Fic Collection, Sickfic, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals, Whump, Domestic Fluff, Light Angst, Alternate Universe, (several of them), Intercrural Sex, Touch-Starved, Dissociation, Long-Distance Relationship, Pining

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2QyFOYw

[ao3feed-p5-boyslove]

by canticle

Since tumblr is threatening to shoot itself off the rails at any given moment, I've decided to archive a series of fills I did to celebrate 200 followers earlier this year! Each chapter will have it's own title and description, as well as a short content warning, if necessary.

Words: 15270, Chapters: 14/14, Language: English

Fandoms: Persona 5

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: Gen, M/M

Characters: Kurusu Akira, Sakamoto Ryuji, Sakura Sojiro, Phantom Thieves of Hearts

Relationships: Kurusu Akira/Sakamoto Ryuji, Kurusu Akira & Sakura Sojiro, Kurusu Akira & Sakamoto Ryuji, Kurusu Akira & Phantom Thieves of Hearts

Additional Tags: Fic Collection, Sickfic, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals, Whump, Domestic Fluff, Light Angst, Alternate Universe, (several of them), Intercrural Sex, Touch-Starved, Dissociation, Long-Distance Relationship, Pining

[cant-icle]

I have an idea if you want to use it. A shadow somehow turns Akira/Ren into a little kid and the thieves have to take care of him for the day until it wears off. I think it could be so cute

“Wuji,” the small child says definitively, his jaw set in afamiliar, adorable way, and Futaba cackles again so long and hard she fallsover.

The situation merits a little hysteria; this is a new andunwanted affliction from a type of Shadow none of them have ever seen before.Even Futaba hadn’t had any clue what it was going to do until it pointed atJoker and screamed something hollow and unknowable, and they’d barely escapedwith their skins intact and their de-aged leader safe and sound, if tiny.

But as it turns out, toddler Akira is fucking hysterical.

Even though he’s only been small for an hour or so, he’s gothis clear preferences—he hasn’t left Skull’s side for more than a few minutes,and those few minutes were spent investigating the tail of Fox’s metaverseoutfit. He finds Queen a little frightening, apparently, because every time sheso much as looks at him he ducks behind Ryuji’s legs and presses his face intohis thigh, and he doesn’t like the texture of Ann’s suit, or how bright it is,but he did stretch his arms up to touch the ears of her mask and grinned as hedid so, so she’s not too disappointed. He adoresMona, but Mona won’t stay still long enough for Akira to get a hold of him.

He still has a grasp on who everyone is when they take theirmasks off, at least; Ryuji makes the stupidest face every time tiny Akira says “Wuji”in that high-pitched toddler command voice he has. Right now he’s perched onRyuji’s shoulders, his arms wrapped around Ryuji’s forehead. His metaverseoutfit shrunk with him. Futaba’s already taken so many pictures. They’re waiting in the closest safe spot theycould find; they don’t feel comfortable travelling any farther, not withoutknowing what it could do to Akira.

Futaba’s had a scan running for the past few minutes,looking for answers, and when she finally gets some she’s both relieved anddisappointed at what she finds. “It’s not permanent,” she announces to everyone’ssigh of relief, “but it is gonna last a while. A few more hours, at the veryleast. He should be okay to leave the metaverse.”

“Are you sure?” Makoto asks. Now that she’s got her mask offher face, Akira keeps looking at her curiously. Every time she looks back heducks his face into Ryuji’s hair. Ann keeps slapping a hand over her mouth sono one can see her smiling. “We shouldn’t be too hasty, we wouldn’t want to doanything—“

Akira says “Hungry,” in a small, plaintive voice. Just like that,everyone turns to him; he blinks, then shoves his face back down into Ryuji’shair and says it again, even quieter. Ryuji pats his shin with one of the handsthat he’s using to hold him steady and hisses “Hey, we got anything?”

Everyone checks their pockets, but they hadn’t planned onthis, and usually Akira keeps all their foodstuffs anyway. “Guess we’re headingout then,” Ann says with forced cheer. “Akira, honey, what’re you hungry for?”

He looks like he’s thinking about it very seriously. “Umm...”he says, then hesitates; Ryuji gives him another pat of encouragement. “Rice.”

“Just rice?” Makoto says with raised eyebrows. “You can havemore than rice, if you want.”

He “umm...”’s again, longer and louder this time, wiggling alittle on Ryuji’s shoulders. The indecision is incredibly cute. “Dunno.”

“Alright, rice it is!” Futaba says, grinning wide. “C’mon,everyone, our fearless leader wants snackies!”

“Snackies!” Akira echoes in delight, drumming his heelsagainst Ryuji’s chest. “Snackies!”

“I’m going to die,” Ann says in a muffled voice behind herhands. “I’m going to die because of this. Is it actually possible to diebecause something’s so cute? Because I’m going to.”

Yusuke hasn’t said a single word since Akira grabbed hold ofhis tail; his nose has been buried in his sketchbook, and there are stars inhis eyes. The muse has him hard;Makoto has to lead him into the Monabus, and even then he barely thanks her.Ryuji peeks over his shoulder to look, but all he can catch is a mess of lines.

At least tiny Akira isn’t one of those kids who gets fussyin cars; in fact, the second the Monabus starts purring along he’s out like alight, stretched out between Ryuji and Futaba with his head in Ryuji’s lap. “Ican’t do this,” Ryuji hisses, and his face is making like six differentexpressions, like he doesn’t know how to feel. “I ain’t good with kids—“

“You’re doing fine!” Futaba tells him encouragingly. “It’snot like he wants to hang off of any of us instead—“

“He really loves his Wuji,” Ann adds from the seat ahead ofthem, twisted half over the back to take a picture of sleeping Akira. “Don’tthink I’m ever going to let either of you two live this down.”

Ryuji groans.

At least it’s easy enough to get him out of the metaverseand get some food into him; they grab some food to go from the diner in Shibuyaand eat in Inokashira Park, where Akira falls on his fried rice like a childpossessed and ends up eating half of Ryuji’s beef and broccoli as well, andbits and pieces of everyone else’s food to boot. He likes Makoto’s spicychicken, but turns up his nose at Ann’s crepe, and when he’s done he seatshimself in the cradle of Ryuji’s crossed legs and watches the duck-boatspaddling by with sleepy content.

At this point, even Makoto’s pulled out her phone to take asneaky picture or two. “I do feel a little bad,” she admits.

“It’ll be worth it for the expression he makes once he’sback to normal,” Futaba assures her, and little Akira just sighs and tucks hishead into the crook of Ryuji’s arm.

When he changes back it’s very unceremonious; at one momenthe’s a napping toddler, in the next there’s a puff of smoke and he’s a suddenlyvery awake teenager, and Ryuji isyelping beneath him.

[cant-icle]

Congrats on 200 followers! I have a prompt: in which early game Akira is very stressed™ because it's taking 5evr to clear out Kamoshida's Palace, and Shujin politics/rumors are getting to him despite his best efforts to not let them, and things are rather awkward with Sojiro so he's worried that even the tiniest slip up will get him kicked out, and budgeting is hard between paying for gear, transportation, food, baths, and laundry -- and Ryuji tries to make him feel better. Preferably sfw please

(i banged this out during lunch 2day cause i felt guilty ๏_๏)

“Hey man, y’wanna stop and grab a bowl of ramen with me?” Ryuji asks, a grin on his face, and tries to keep the grin from dropping off his face into a disappointed pout when Akira shakes his head. It’s not personal, he knows it’s not personal, and maybe he’s been getting a little too invested in his brand-new friend—shit, it’s only been a couple of weeks, but he’s been trailing around Akira like a puppy hoping to go out for walkies or to play fetch. Maybe the guy needs some space?

Ryuji tries to give him some. He really does.

But Akira’s the first friend he’s had in so long, and after a day of radio silence he texts again, this time for training. Akira accepts this invitation—maybe he just hadn’t been hungry that day?—but something’s off; they barely run for ten minutes before Akira’s bent double, both hands on his knees, heaving like he’s just run a marathon.

“Dude,” Ryuji says, concerned, “you alright?”

“Yeah,” Akira pants, “just—probably not the best idea to run on an empty stomach.”

“Uh, yeah, no dude, your body needs fuel!” He thinks he sees Akira’s shoulders hunch just a bit at that, and he’s still pale when he stands up. “Here. C’mon. Let’s go get somethin’ into you so you don’t feel so awful—“

“I really can’t,” Akira mutters. He won’t look at Ryuji; his arms are crossed over his chest, and he keeps shifting back and forth like he wants to get away but is too polite to leave. It makes Ryuji feel like he’s missing something, something real important, but all he can do is choke out a forlorn “hey, okay man, uh, see you tomorrow?”

At least Akira still smiles at him when he leaves. Maybe he is being too pushy.

Or, maybe not; he comes across Akira at lunch, pacing, with both fists buried in his hair; he’s on the roof talking to Morgana, and he hasn’t noticed Ryuji propping the door open, halfway out. “No, but what if—the subway pass is crucial, I can’t walk here, and laundry and bathhouse are crucial too—no, listen, I know, but we’re using up our medicines fast too, and we need to make another palace run in the next two days, because if we can’t secure the infiltration route then we’ll need another day to rest up before we give it another shot, and we’re getting really close to the deadline, Mona, I’m on probation, if he expels us I’m gonna be out on the street—“

Ryuji backs out of the door and closes it gently at that; he sits at the bottom of the stairs with his elbows on his knees and his head resting on the wall, deep in thought.

This whole Metaverse shit is a lot more complex than he thought, huh? He’d just go home tired and aching and take a long bath, eat some dinner, and head to bed; sounds like it’s a lot different for Akira, though. He hasn’t asked about his situation yet. Maybe he should, cause if he’s trying to budget his subway pass against his bathhouse money, things’ve gotta be shit for him.

The next day he shoves a bento box into Akira’s chest as they pass each other in the halls. “Ma made too much dinner,” he calls over his shoulder, a delighted feeling bubbling in his chest at Akira’s baffled, grateful look. “Meet me on the top floor for lunch!”

He does, and he eats every bite, and when he says that it’s the best meal he’s had in weeks Ryuji’s heart clenches.

So he brings lunch again. And again. And drags Akira out for beef bowls, and pays for both of them. He’s got some extra cash, anyway, it’s no big deal, and when he explains where the leftovers are going his ma is more than happy to make enough for three.

And maybe he sees the bags under Akira’s eyes getting darker, and maybe he sees Akira start to move a little stiffly after another long afternoon in the Metaverse; so maybe Ryuji sits him down on the stairs in front of him and kneads the stiffness out of his shoulders and neck until he’s limp as putty and half asleep, leaning back into Ryuji’s chest. It makes him feel good, being useful like this; it makes him feel like he’s able to support Akira, and not just tag along behind him.

And then they wreck Kamoshida’s Shadow just two days before the deadline. They’re all beat after the fight, riding on dregs of energy and euphoria, and Akira looks like he’s almost dead on his feet; He wavers a bit with every step, enough that even Ann squints at him with suspicion until Ryuji bolsters him with a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll walk you home,” he says, a solid declaration and not an offer.

Akira smiles at him, something small and sweet, unspeakably tender and open, and rests his head on Ryuji’s shoulder the whole train ride home.

[cant-icle]

prompt: akira getting sick in the early game and worrying about how he's going to take care of himself because of sojiro's throwaway line about how he's not going to take care of him if he gets sick -- except sojiro takes care of him anyway because he's a good dad

It’s not until they leave the Metaverse that Akira realizesthe residual heat in his face and ache in his bones isn’t because of themultiple Agi’s he’d taken. It’s deeper than that, a soreness that drags at hismuscles, that makes every motion twice as hard as it needs to be; he feels likehe’s dragging, trying to wade his way through knee-deep water with the weightof the world on his back.

It’s not good. It’s very not good, in fact, it’s so not goodthat it’s verging on horrific—he can’t be getting sick, not now, not with thefinish line of Kamoshida’s treasure just in view.

He could be wrong—it could just be allergies. He could’vehad a bad piece of yakisoba pan for lunch. It could be his sleep schedule isoff, with what tossing and turning he’s been doing the past few nights.

Ryuji and Ann look at him when he pauses with his hand onthe terminal but he waves them on; he doesn’t want them to worry about him. Notnow. There might not be anything wrong.

Willful denial’s only ever gotten him so far, though; by thetime he’s walked halfway home his legs feel like lead and the world waversaround him, crystallized by the moisture caught between his lashes. He’s not crying, but he’s always…leaked a bitwhen he’s in pain, and his head throbs with every beat of his heart, the weakafternoon sunlight feeling like an interrogation floodlight beaming directlyinto his brain.

Sakura-san is there—of course he’s there, this is his café—hegives Akira a cold nod, and Akira ducks his head and gets upstairs as quicklyas he can. He doesn’t want Sakura-san to see his weakness. He’s already mademention ten times over about how he’s not going to take care of Akira. Akiradoesn’t need him to, either; he’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.

He’s still got a stash of instant ramen cups, though it’sgetting low; he knows he should have dinner, but instead he heads in a slightlywavery line straight for his bed and lies down. Morgana jumps up beside him amoment later—he asks something, but Akira doesn’t really register it, justnuzzles his face into the cool, musty pillow and wads the blankets up, pressingthem into his eyes.

The night is bad; the morning is worse.

He can’t get warm, no matter how much he wraps his blanketsaround himself, no matter how much he tosses and turns; Morgana eventuallyescapes to the couch with an irritated noise, and Akira is both grateful for itand mourns the loss of the extra heat. He’s barely slept by the time the alarmrings, and getting up is physically painful; he’s shaking so bad by the time hepulls his blazer on that he can’t even do up the buttons.

He rests twice going down the stairs, the second time rightbefore the turn that would bring him into the café proper; he can smell curry,and while he knows it should smell delicious it just turns his stomach instead,filling him with queasy jitters.

He tries to scoot out before Sakura-san sees him, but luckisn’t on his side; Sakura-san calls him back and tells him to eat something. He’scaught between a rock and a hard place—he doesn’t want to refuse hishospitality, but Akira’s sure if he put one bite of that curry into his mouththat it would be coming right back out.

Instead he demurs by telling Sakura-san he’s going to belate, wincing at how rough his voice sounds, and closes his eyes as he bows inapology.

When he opens them again, he’s on the floor, and Sakura-sanis staring at him in unabashed dismay, one hand on his forehead. It’s big andcool; Akira’s eyes water at the kindness, and he slits them shut to try andhold it back as he apologizes. His head aches more than the fever shouldaccount for—he must have hit it on the stool on the way down.

He can’t see Sakura-san’s face when he tells Akira not toapologize, but he’s gentle as he helps Akira back to his feet and back up thestairs, and his voice is not unkind as he says he’ll call Shujin and tell themthat Akira is too sick to go in.

Which, he’s not,he promises, but Sakura-san gives him a look, and the bed is so soft and theother side of his pillow is so cool and he aches so much…

When he opens his eyes again the light is dim; there’s a slipof paper with a pill on it and a glass of water next to a covered bowl ofstill-warm rice on a chair beside him. His limbs still feel almost too heavy tomove, his head aches fit to burst; he takes the pill with a sip of the waterand a bite of the rice, but his stomach rebels when he tries for a second.

When he lays back down, Morgana curls warm and purringbehind his neck; when he blinks back to fuzzy awareness again, the rice hasbeen replaced with a fresh bowl, covered with a napkin; there’s another pilland a fresh glass of water, with a note in firm, blocky letters to actually eatthis time.

He finds that he can, now—maybe the pill from earlier isworking, or maybe the sickness has mostly passed. Either way the rice isdelicious, even cool; there’s a taste to it that Akira can’t identify, but it’sjust the thing to fill the sudden gnawing, aching hole in his stomach.

The next morning finds him able to stand up, even if he’sstill weak as a newborn kitten; he tries to make his way downstairs butSakura-san pokes his head through the opening and shakes it sternly. Akiraspends his day in bed recuperating, reading some of the travel manuals he’spicked up in the underground walkway, texting Ryuji and Ann to let them know he’sokay, just sick, and eating whatever Sakura-san brings him.

It’s so unexpectedly nice, what he’s doing, that Akira’sthrown off every time. He doesn’t need to keep coming up here with glasses ofwater and bowls of rice, especially when he has a business to run downstairs;Akira’s just the freeloader, the friend of a customer that Sakura-san hadenough heart to allow into his café for the year. He’s suffused with guilt allof a sudden, enough so that when Sakura-san comes up next, he apologizes in ahalting voice.

But Sakura-san just shakes his head silently, and claps ahand on Akira’s shoulder before he leaves again.

He doesn’t get it. But maybe that’s okay.

And the next time Sakura-san offers him curry, Akira jumpsat the chance to try it.

It’s goddamn delicious.

[cant-icle]

i hope you dont mind another prompt... but........... touchstarved ryuji...

It’s only after he befriends Akira and becomes a phantom thief that Ryuji realizes it’s been a long, long time since someone’s touched him without the intent to hurt him.

Sure, at first it’s only for baton passes, but Ryuji finds that he cherishes even that brief moment of contact, connected for an instant with a person who means him no harm. Even more so when Akira starts getting comfortable enough to slouch a shoulder into him, or stretch out and bang his knee into Ryuji’s; each brief moment of contact is just enough to make him crave more.

It’s pathetic. He hates it even as he yearns for it, spends his time hyper-aware of the distance between him and Akira at any given time. It feels like a reward each time, and he treasures them.

He keeps it under wraps as best he can. Akira’s got shit to deal with other than Ryuji and his weird touch issues, especially as the Phantom Thievery shit keeps ramping higher and higher, as the stakes start to tower over them.

In late November the weather starts to grow cold. Ryuji’s mom leaves before he gets home from school and comes back after he’s already left; they communicate through notes and cold plates of food left plastic-wrapped on the counter. Akira’s basically incommunicado after what he went through at the police station; Ryuji is alone.

The loneliness aches.

Sure, he’s got the rest of the Phantom Thieves, but they’ve been making an effort not to be seen together in case Akechi comes looking, which means Ryuji spends his days and nights alone with just his phone and his thoughts; the group chat is always an option, but after months and months of physical company Ryuji feels the absence like sandpaper.

He can’t do it.

He’s up and out the door and on the train before he can talk himself out of it.

They agreed to stay away from Leblanc, he knows they did, but he can’t— he just can’t, he’s got to— just see him or something, hang out like they usually do, anything. Ryuji hates existing in a void; it feels too much like that long, dark time after Kamoshida broke his leg, the time he doesn’t really like to think about.

There’s no one in the cafe except Boss; he shoots Ryuji a startled look and then nods, gesturing up the stairs. Ryuji takes them two at a time, loud and noisy to announce his coming; by the time he rounds the corner at the top Akira’s rolled over from where he was laying reading on the floor to look at him.

He looks like shit; the bruises have gone all yellow-green, and the scabs on his face have gone dark and raw. He’s wearing a grey hoodie that almost swallows him, makes him look more washed-out and pale than he should.

Ryuji’s never seen anything more appealing in his life. He drops his bag by the stairs and flops down on the floor next to him with a sigh.

Akira regards him solemnly for about ten seconds before he says “You look like shit.”

And isn’t that just a thing?

“You’re one to talk,” Ryuji says, though his throat is a little thick. “How’re you feeling?”

He looks like he thinks about it before he shrugs. “Alright, considering.”

“Alright. That’s...good.” He’s right there. He’s right there not three feet away, and Ryuji yearns to reach out and just— do what? From this close he can see the glazed, blank look in Akira’s eyes; he’s there but he’s not, the same look he’s had for the past three or four days— god, it’s already been that long, it’s only been that long, Ryuji has no self-control.

The floor is cold and uncomfortable. He squirms, then sighs and gives up, resting his head on his hand.

Akira stares at him for a long time after that, long enough that he gets a little self-conscious, long enough that he starts looking anywhere and everywhere but him. From his position on the floor all he can see is Akira and the detritus around him— open pocky boxes, empty ramen cups, easily-consumed snack foods left empty or half-eaten all around the room, like Akira would get halfway through and then lose interest and set them down where he stood.

It gives him a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach. What is he doing here, coming and seeking things out from Akira when he’s feeling like this? Why didn’t he come sooner? Why isn’t he the one offering the helping hand here?

What could he even do?

He’s working himself into a fine fit of recrimination when Akira reaches out and sets his fingertips very lightly on Ryuji’s face.

Ryuji freezes.

It’s nice.

It feels good.

It's pathetic, isn't it? His best friend is lying here on the floor after he was effin’ beat, and he's the one reaching out and offering comfort.

But...this is the softest touch Ryuji's felt in years. This is the first time in so very, very long that there hasn't been any ulterior motive or undertone of promised violence.

So he leans into it, chases the touch, and watches a spark light in Akira’s eyes.  Akira always feels better when he has a project to work on— he must have felt awful, spinning and chasing his own tail stuck all day in this attic.

He wriggles forward ungracefully, like a worm against the wooden floor, just to slip his other hand beneath Ryuji's head so that for a moment he's cradled between Akira's palms; both of Akira's thumbs stroke over Ryuji's cheekbones, gently brush over the dark circles underneath his eyes , almost a match for Akira’s own.

For a moment Ryuji’s guilt is overpowering, a sick, slick knot in his throat. He almost moves away, but Akira moves first. Another awkward wriggle puts him right in front of Ryuji, close enough to reach over and fist a hand in the back of his shirt, close enough to tug and make Ryuji close the distance. Then they're pressed up against each other from chest to knees, and Akira shoves a calf in between Ryuji's own and hooks him even closer.

He's shivering, just a bit— he can't control it, not when Akira’s hands move on him, his fingers carding through his hair and tracing elaborate patterns on his back, his breath feathering across Ryuji’s face. Ryuji’s own arm lies crushed awkwardly between them, until Akira shoots him a pointed look— He cautiously drapes it feather-light across Akira, who looks satisfied and continues what he’s doing.

It's overwhelming in the best of ways. Every touch feels like a tiny firework pressed to his skin, explosive and sparkling. Every drag of his fingers feels like they leave a tangible trail in his skin, like the weight and pressure lasts and lingers, like if he looked he could see every place Akira's put his hands like neon signs.

His face is wet. He doesn't realize until Akira’s hand leaves his back and his thumb touches his face, light as a feather. He's...leaking. He gets a hand in between them to scrub the tear away, and would  move further except for the fact that Akira still has a hold on him like a particularly stubborn barnacle.

There's no point in resisting the will of Kurusu Akira. Ryuji drops his arm back over his waist and tucks his face into the space beneath Akira’s chin, and breathes, and drifts.

When he wakes up there’s a blanket over them, the TV is on, and Futaba is perched on the couch playing video games and shooting them faux-disgusted looks. Akira just shakes his head and sits up to crack what sounds like every bone in his body, but once he’s done he folds back over the top of Ryuji’s head until Ryuji's almost wearing him like a cloak.

Things are a little better after that. Ryuji doesn't go home that night — he stuffs himself full of Boss’s curry and wraps himself around Akira until in the dark they can't tell where one of them ends and the other one begins. Akira rucks up his shirt and traces patterns up and down the bare skin of his back until Ryuji is boneless and drooling into the pillow, his brain misfiring in fits and starts. They talk, just a little; Akira tells him to come back tomorrow, screw the plans they made and screw subtlety. Ryuji would agree to anything if it meant that Akira’s fingers kept swirling in spirals and stars under his shoulder blades, but even he is leery enough of Makoto’s retribution to hesitate.

Then Akira drags his nails down Ryuji’s back in a long, slow stroke, and Ryuji’s brain goes fuzzy enough that he calls plausible deniability for anything he might say for the rest of the night.

[cant-icle]

:D Thank you for answering my question!!! Okay this prompt might be a little strange and a little spooky. But what if Akira could see ghosts and the phantom thieves were literal phantoms. Akira goes to tokyo and People r cruel. But on first day at Shujin he meets a blonde kid and befriends him. Rumors about the scary transfer happen but now people also say that he goes off into corners n talks to himself.He finds the only living person at shujin who likes him isnt really a living person at all..

He says his name is Ryuji.

No one else can see him; Akira’s barely able to some days,with how translucent and wavery he looks. He stands at the stairway leadingdown to the first floor most days, shoulders against the wall and cold fire inhis eyes until Akira’s out of class. It took him three days to realize thatRyuji, as much as he wears the uniform like everyone around, probably isn’t astudent of Shujin Academy anymore.

Honestly, Akira prefers his company, even more so when Ryujishows him how to break onto the school roof. It’s less breaking than it isRyuji stepping through and fussing with the lock—the perks of being a phantom,Akira guesses. Lunches and afternoons are much more bearable with a secretplace to retreat to and a new friend to talk to.

Ironic, isn’t it, that the only person in this fucking citythat isn’t afraid of him is already dead?

Ryuji’s pretty talkative for a dead boy. He walks with alimp, and sometimes out of the corner of his eye Akira sees splashes of blooddripping down from his temple to stain his shirt. He scowls fiercely when Akiraasks about it, though, and the music Akira has playing from his phone cracklesin time with his voice when he details how Kamoshida Suguru, the gym teacher,crippled him with a blow to the leg and then, when his back was turned, whenRyuji was trying to crawl away, another to the back of his head.

He was never charged; the school passed it off as“justifiable self-defense,” and Ryuji’s been stuck haunting these effin’ hallsever since.

“He treats this place like it’s an effin’ castle and he’sthe goddamn king,” Ryuji tells him seriously, pale and washed-out in thesunlight; he’s so much easier to see indoors, but he likes it out here on theroof with Akira; Akira gets the feeling that Ryuji’s been trapped in thosehallways for longer than he wants to think about.

Sometimes they’re joined by another pair of flickeringshadows, neither ever as clear as Ryuji or as talkative—in fact, he never hearsthe black-haired one speak, and the second blonde only glares when Akira triesto address her. Ryuji tells Akira not to take it to heart—Suzui Shiho is justanother one of Kamoshida’s victims, and Takamaki Ann is tied to her like aguideline—wherever one goes, so does the other, and Shiho is stuck here untileither she’s removed or Kamoshida gets his just desserts.

Akira aches to help them. He watches them shimmer in thelight like an oil streak, watches them pass through walls and doors; if hesquints, he can almost see the moment when they fold through reality to do it.

It’s stupid, but he wonders...

The next time Ryuji passes through a closed door, Akira putshis hand on it and shoves, just lightly. Of course it doesn’t move, but Ryujipokes his head through and laughs at his efforts, making a joking grab for hishand as if to—

it connects

Akira goes straight through, wispy and insubstantial as acloud, and suddenly it’s Shujin thatlooks like an oil slick smeared across the world and Ryuji who looks solid and real and as shocked as Akira.

But then he grins with a smile full of daggers, because thepossibilities here are endless.

They test it out again; another touch from Ryuji has himshivering back onto the physical plane. They can do it three or four timesbefore Akira starts getting nauseous, and while he’s intangible, while he’s aphantom, no one can see him.

He walks through the school in wonder—almost everything ismuted but for a few people, bright and sparkling in his vision; Kawakami-senseiis one, and when he passes by her he catches an uneasy aura around her, full ofgrief and guilt. Kamoshida, on the other hand, feels neither of those things,and flares red and angry in Akira’s sight.

He doesn’t like that. Not at all, not with Ryuji behind himwith blood on his face, not with Suzui behind Takamaki, their eyes blank whitevoids, their mouths gaping snarls. There’s a bright core to Kamoshida a samethrobbing red as his aura, and something in Akira yearns to reach out and touchit.

So he does.

Kamoshida shudders at the touch, shoulders hunching in as helooks around nervously, and something flares bright-hot-angry in Akira’s veins. It’s not right, what he did, what he’sstill doing. It’s not right.

He curls his fingers around that bright hot core , and he yanks.

For an instant he can see two Kamoshidas, one solid and real, one wavering and intangible,and in that moment the three ghosts behind him strike.

Lightning crackles up and down Ryuji’s arms as he leapsforward, his fist impacting straight into the phantom-Kamoshida; Suzui andTakamaki are barely a second behind, Takamaki little more than a pillar offlames, Suzui a form barely held together with wind. They strike withconcentrated force hard enough that the tangible Kamoshida rocks back and away,Akira losing his grip on the core of Kamoshida’s being, and the phantomflickers out of existence.

That’s okay. He knows what to do now.

With Ryuji’s help and Takamaki and Suzui’s encouragement (“Callme Shiho,” Suzui murmurs to him shyly, smiling a little when Akira grins ather) he writes a card, a calling card detailing each and every one of Kamoshida’scrimes and sliding it under his office door.

He signs it, “The Phantom Thief of Hearts.”

As soon as he’s read it Ryuji grabs onto Akira, and Akiragrabs onto the core and lets Ryuji, Shiho, and Takamaki (“Ann!” she says withvicious satisfaction after she lands another blow, “I think at this point wecan go to Ann.”) get to work.

The phantom-Kamoshida is reeling by the time they’re done;the tangible Kamoshida is in tears. They leave it at that, unwilling to makehim a ghost and tie him to the school as well.

There’s an assembly three days after that. Kamoshida confesseshis crimes in front of the entire school, and that afternoon when Akira leaves,Ryuji follows like an untethered balloon grinning wide and wild and free.

  They don’t stop there.

Shiho and Ann bring him rumors of a number of ghostsspiraling endlessly around an old ramshackle house; turns out it’s the abode ofone Madarame Ichiryusai, who (according to the ghosts, who to a one arecomprised of his old students) worked his students to literal death and stoletheir works for his own. The newest ghost, a tall, stick-thin boy whointroduces himself as Kitagawa, tries to make a case for his old sensei, butfaced with Ann, who is literally steaming, and Shiho, hair tossing in an unseenbreeze in her agitation, cuts himself short.

“He killed you,”Akira tells him, not ungently, not without sympathy. “I’m not here to getrevenge on him; I’m here to bring him to justice, for you and everyone else.”

Somehow he gains another ghost tethered to him, and Yusukebrings the north wind with him, an icy, howling gale that freezes the phantom-Madaramewhere he stands when all five Phantoms appear in front of him.

Madarame confesses his guilt on live television, andattributes his change of heart to the Phantom Thieves. Rumors spring up hereand there; eventually, Akira starts seeing more and more ghosts pop up at thecorners of his eyes, though it takes a long time for one to grow bold enough toapproach him on its own.

In his spare time now he flits through the metaphysicalreality with his new friends; the ghosts come to him, and he regains justice ontheir behalf. The rumors of the Phantom Thieves grow, and grow, and grow.

In June he meets the student council president of ShujinAcademy, one Niijima Makoto, who questions him fiercely; since she can’t proveanything, she lets him go, and he thinks nothing more of it until Shiho comesto him, frantic, and tells him that Niijima has gotten in way over her headwith an actual Mafioso.

It turns out that phantoms can do a hell of a number on aroom now; Ryuji shorts out the lights in delight, making them flickerominously, while Shiho flips cups and sends papers scattering everywhere.

It turns out that Akira can pass on his intangibility; hegrabs Niijima’s arm and drags her into the metaphysical with them. It turns outto be a fantastic move, as with her help the six of them bring Kaneshiro to hisknees.

He confesses everything to the police. The name of thePhantoms grow and grow, and this time Akira gains a friend that the rest of theworld can see.

He gains another not a month later; the ghost of one IsshikiWakaba materializes in front of him outside the café one day and all butdemands his help. It’s a bit of a struggle to break into his current guardian’shouse, but well worth it when he lays his hand on Sakura Futaba’s arm and letsher reunite with her mother, at least for a few moments. Isshiki-san had beenmurdered, it turns out, and Futaba had blamed herself and shut herself away inher guilt; this meeting goes a long way towards relieving her of it, enough sothat she shows up in the café later that evening to Sakura-san’s clearsurprise.

Between Futaba and Makoto, between Ryuji and Ann and Shihoand Yusuke, Akira’s days and nights are full; he’s content, if not happy, untilhe comes across a man that sends alarm bells blaring through his skull andmakes Isshiki-san howl in a way that sends chills up his spine.

Shido Masayoshi is surrounded by the ghosts of those he haskilled; Shido Masayoshi is the reason Akira is in Tokyo in the first place, renouncedby his parents and shunted into a city he doesn’t know for a crime he didn’tcommit.

Each and every one of Shido’s ghosts has heard of Akira’scoming. Each and every ghost cannot wait to see him fall.

Akira is so, so eager to oblige them.

[cant-icle]

hhhhhhhhhhhhhh hhheard you were taking prompts...? ryuji sickfic please? a hurt/comfort fic touching upon his insecurities all the while physically having a bad time... a fucking terrible time. caretaker? im kinda leaning towards akira or ann...pick your poison (if you do this thank you!! i can never get enough sickfics i love those...)

hurgles this isnt great and i apologize D: 

Akira’s late.

He’s never late, and inwardly Ryuji knows that it’s reallynot a big deal, that he’ll be back in the country as soon as he can, thattravelling with Yoshida-san is great for his upcoming career in politics andall that, but Ryuji’s felt like absolute shitfor the past two days and his absence is really starting to grate on the fewnerves he has left.

He’s never thought that he’s like, a clingy jackass oranything—he’s happy to do his stuff and have Akira do his own, long as Akiracomes home to him—but he hasn’t felt this bad in a long time, his head fuzzedand his bones aching and his body heavy and his lungs full of sewage and rot.He hasn’t been this alone in a long time either, not since moving into their sharedapartment.

It was only supposed to be a week, an internationalconference on some shit or other, a great opportunity, Ryuji understands, but hewas supposed to be back days ago andthe flu season this year is hitting everyone hard and he’s working two jobs tomake his ends of the rent meet and he’s tired and lonely and nothing tastes right and—

“Sakamoto-kun?”

Right. He’s been crouching here with his forehead againstthe shelf shoving canned vegetables around for...a while, if the groove in hisforehead has anything to say about it. His supervisor is hovering over him, agirl just a little older than him, and her eyes are concerned. “Sakamoto-kun,are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

He wants to say yes. He’s in no shape, monetarily, to bemissing work shifts, but he also hasn’t had anything to eat since....he doesn’teven know, just that he didn’t eat breakfast this morning and didn’t eat muchlast night with his stomach roiling like it has been. The way his vision fuzzesjust lightly at the corners tells him that if he tries to stand up as fast ashe wants to he’s gonna be in for a world of hurt.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment, grimacing at how rough hisvoice sounds. “I’m good, Inoue-san. Sorry.” He’s not sure what he’s apologizingfor. He’s apologizing for everything anyway.

His shift eventually ends; he drags himself onto the subwayand down the streets and up the stairs to his (empty, cold, lonely, dark)apartment, fumbling uselessly with the lock for nearly a minute and a halfbefore he inserts the key. His stomach is roiling and his mood is in the gutter,even more so when he sees the dirty clothes on the floor, the pan that hecooked plain noodles in for dinner two days ago filmy and gross still in thesink, and no wonder Akira doesn’twant to come home, not to filth and mess and a useless boyfriend who can’t evenmanage to keep things neat and tidy over a week—

“Stop it,” he growls low and rough under his breath, alreadykneading into the meat of his thigh over his scar. He’s got too much to do toclean up in case Akira comes home tonight to stand around and loathe himself.

He goes and stands in the shower till the hot water runscool instead, and even hot enough to turn him red as a lobster he’s still cold.Every inch of his body aches like he’s been steamrollered. There might be someleftovers in the fridge he can scrounge together for dinner, but instead hejust towels off his hair and goes straight to bed.

Akira doesn’t come home. Ryuji wakes and the world is thinand filmy, tenuous like a soap bubble. He doesn’t have to work; he rolls overand sinks back into his hot, gross pillow, and dreams.

He hasn’t had a fever like this since he was a kid. Everybreath rattles; every rattle drags at his throat, leaves him parched and achingfor water. His lips feel chapped and cracked, no matter how many times he wetsthem. His dreams are wild and fearful, crazy kaleidoscopes of memories andthoughts that spiral together until Ryuji can barely tell what’s real from what’simaginary, what happened in the past from things he’s only thought about.Kamoshida swings the bat over and over; he hits Ryuji’s leg, his arm, his head,Ryuji stands up and hits him back, punches him in the face over and over untilhe sees blood and bone, Ryuji lies and whimpers and takes it until the batswings one time too many.

Then he’s in Mementos again, knocked spinning and dizzy onhis ass by an attack that leaves him drained. He’s in a palace and there’s aShadow controlling him, turning him against his team. He brings his bat downonto Mona and watches him splatter across Okumura’s sweatshop, he winds up andhits Ann so hard her head pops clean off her shoulders, he knocks Yusuke downand takes his shotgun and hits Akira with a lead pipe over and over and overand over and over and over and over until there’s just red, everything runsred, and his hands are red and his arms are red and it’s all over his face andin his mouth his eyes his nose his ears everything is copper and lava and bloodand he raises a hand but nothing is there no one is there and he drowns drownsdrowns in a sea of crimson and copper

 there’s a hand on his brow, cool and soothing; there’s avoice above him that brings him to the precipice of awareness, familiar andbeloved, but he’s in too deep; he sinks back down, but all that awaits him issoft, deep blackness.

 The next time Ryuji wakes, there’s a cool wet washcloth onhis forehead and he feels...not great, but not as bad. Every breath still achesand the world still feels film-bubble-bad, but when he cracks his eyes openthere’s a fuzzy black head above him that resolves itself into Akira’s face. “Youawake?” Akira says, soft and low.

He’s such a sight for sore eyes. Ryuji squeezes his shut inhopes that it’ll prevent the tears from escaping, but it doesn’t. Akira makes astartled noise and wipes one away, very gently. “Hey, babe, it’s alright,” hemurmurs. “You’re gonna be alright.”

He brings Ryuji chicken soup and glasses of cold water,sponges the fever-sweat from his face and neck and arms, curls up beside himand reads from his stupid law books out loud until Ryuji grates out a genuinewish for death, and then he just laughs at him. His hands are always cool andsupportive, and Ryuji’s grateful, so sograteful, but all the while there’s an underlying current of guilt.

It wasn’t’ meant to be like this. He was supposed to comehome to a clean apartment and dinner and Ryuji there happy and beaming, notcoming home to take care of Ryuji’s sick, useless ass. He knows Akira doesn’tcare, doesn’t mind in the slightest, but still...

There’s nothing he could have done, but he’s still guilty.

[cant-icle]

If you aren't already too swamped with prompts, could you please write some whump about Akira bringing home a nasty injury, either from the Metaverse or not, and trying to deal with it himself but overestimating his medical skill and winding up sick as hell from the resulting infection, resulting in Sojiro/Morgana/Takemi looking after him? Thank you for your time and also all those wonderful fics you've shared with us! (It's probably obvious but Aftermath is my favorite)

just a heads up: warning for semi-graphic description of injury and infection, improper wound care, mild dissociation due to shock and blood loss, if you cut yourself for gods sake do NOT do what akira does in this, lmao

He’s rocking back and forth in a chair up on the roof, waiting for everyone else to show, when he slips.

It’s a good thing Morgana isn’t there to scold him, because he tumbles all the way down to the ground, the chair clattering down onto its back behind him.

If only it hadn’t been such a nice day for April, he wouldn’t have folded his jacket up and rolled his sleeves to the elbow to bask in the sun. If only he hadn’t rolled his sleeve up, he wouldn’t have sliced his left arm all along the side on the sharp metal corner sticking out of the air conditioning duct.

The pain doesn’t hit for a long, hazy moment. Akira just stares at the ragged edges of his parted skin, the pink meat exposed underneath, the bright red beads welling up in the bottom like—

Shit, there’s the pain, and now that he’s noticed the pain, he’s noticing just how fucked he is.

His first reaction is panic, but right on the heels of that comes a cold, icy clarity that can only be from his new counterpart, the one his awakening in the Metaverse revealed to him. It’s that little bit that corrals the parts of him that want to scream, that want to hunch down on the roof and watch the blood drip through his fingers. It’s that bit that wraps his school jacket around his arm—black won’t show the blood— and gets him downstairs to the nearest bathroom.

Shit. It’s worse than he thinks; he sticks his arm under the faucet in the bathroom and the corners of his vision go blank and hazy. He sways on his feet, but he keeps his arm under the cold water until it feels numb.

The water never runs clear.

This is a problem that he can’t solve in the school bathroom where anyone can see him and start spreading more rumors. Thank every god that Morgana’s off with Ann right now; if he wasn’t, if he had to watch this…Akira doesn’t know what he’d do.

He knows a very little bit of first aid, and he knows the first thing he needs to do is stop the bleeding. So he pulls wads and wads of paper towels from the dispenser and meters of toilet paper from the nearest stall, wrapping himself clumsily. He’s so very lucky that this isn’t on his dominant side.

Even as he wraps, the paper towels tinge pink, then red. He’s bought himself some time, but not a lot.

The black blazer hides the blood admirably, but he can’t hide how bulge-y his arm looks or how stiffly he carries himself. His arm is radiating agony now, enough to make him lose his focus, enough to make every step fee jarring and painful. The cold icy part of him lays out a set of steps that he needs to follow before he gets home.

Step one: subway. Wounded arm held as tight to the body as possible, head ducked, draw as little attention to himself as possible because if someone sees the wet patches, or smells the blood…

Step two: convenience store in Shibuya. Buy paper towels, rubbing alcohol, taffy candy, and a stretchy wrap. Smile and demur at the cashier when she makes conversation, mention something about stocking up your first aid kit. Pick up antibiotic ointment in the underground mall in Shibuya to draw less suspicion.

Step three: answer texts. Difficult one-handed, but bullshit some excuse as to why he’s left the rooftop. Something something needed at home. Sure. That works. Keep balance when he staggers. Try and ignore the pain spreading.

Step four: realize he forgot painkillers. Too late now.

Step five: slip past Sakura-san and all his customers. Laughably easy; he looks up when the door opens, makes some comment about not getting into trouble. Nod tightly and speed up the stairs.

Home safe, somewhat. Sakura-san could walk up the stairs any moment, but he feels secure enough to wrestle off his jacket (and even that sends pain shooting up his arm and behind his eyes like stars, he’s never hurt this much before, not even when he fell off his bicycle and sprained his ankle when he was seven) and unwrap the makeshift bandage, which is getting uncomfortably red.

Peeling off the last soaked paper towels, the ones closest to his skin and sticking to the ragged edges of the cut, hurt so much that he retches bile up into his mouth. He swallows it back with difficulty and drops the last bloody paper towel onto his crumpled blazer with the rest.

This will be the difficult part.

He dumps the rest of his laundry onto the floor—he doesn’t have any towels, or any access to a sink other than Leblanc’s commercial bathroom, and if he were to commandeer it for this Sakura would kick him out on the street before he could so much as blink. So—kneeling over his laundry, with shaking hand, he uncaps the rubbing alcohol and pours a hefty dollop onto the top of his cut.

The next thing he’s aware of is Morgana’s frantic voice and the smell of rubbing alcohol, blood, and vomit. He lifts his head—why is his vision so hazy? Why can’t he focus? Morgana is nothing but a tiny black lump, a still point in the wobbly, nausea-inducing blur. There’s a paw on his face and pain in his arm and—

oh, right.

At least the bleeding has slowed. He thinks he can safely say that the cut is clean, which is good because the rest of the rubbing alcohol has trickled out into his clothing. Everything reeks. Everything is dim; it must be moving onto evening time.

The paw pushes at his cheek a little harder. Akira opens his eyes as far as they can go. Hey, Mona-chan. Why are you yelling? Don’t yell, Sakura-san will come up here and see and then neither of us will have a bed to sleep on.

Where are you going?

Bye, Mona-chan.

He struggles upright, but retches when he gets there. There’s nothing left in his stomach; he was saving his lunch money to do laundry tonight. That’s going to be a hard excuse, walking downstairs with clothes smelling like rubbing alcohol.

Oh, first, arm. Or, paper towel, then—no, antiseptic ointment, then paper towel? Yeah, that sounds right.

Cold.

Hurts.

Hurts, ow, ow ow ow, hurts so bad, but he has to wrap it so he can wash his blazer before he goes to sleep—

there. done. Sloppy, but done, and agony radiates up and down his arm like fire, and he can barely move his arm, but it’s done. Done done done. Oh, welcome back Mona-chan. Help get the clothes into the basket, we have to do laundry.

Why are his ears ringing so bad?

The world is spinning. His head is spinning, or maybe his body is the thing that spins and everything else is standing rock-solid. He feels….bad. Bad in a way that maybe he should worry about, but he has things to do, he has to wash his clothes so Sakura-san doesn’t see the blood and the mess and kick him out, because as bad as he feels now he’s sure it’d be worse if he was sleeping in a subway corner.

Okay, legs, come on.

Walk a little circle—okay, wow, moving is not fun or nice. Take a minute. At least the laundry place is right around the corner, right?

Walk a little circle again. Shaky, but okay. Alright. Laundry—oh, no, he’s not going to be able to carry it in the hamper, but maybe if he puts it in the—a bag, Mona-chan, do we have a bag? Bigger than your bag? I can’t carry you and the laundry in the bag, you’ll get all wet and gross.

Mona-chan, please don’t yell, he’ll get mad…

Okay, yes, that’s a bag, that’ll do, if Sakura-san asks we’ll just say we don’t want the smell in the café, right?

Right.

Okay.

Stairs. Not fun. Rest halfway down. Rest all the way down.

Okay.

Past Sakura-san, don’t look, don’t look don’t—aw.

Yeah, no, not feeling well, not contagious, won’t stay long, just laundry, bye.

Okay.

Rest just outside the café where he can’t see. Oh, okay, sitting. Head between knees, breathe, breathe, it’s okay.

Okay.

Stand up.

Stand up.

Stand up.

Okay.

.

.

.

Okay. Up. Drag the bag if you can’t lift it. Step. Again. Follow Mona-chan, he knows the way. Step. Again. Corner. Step. Again. Lift the bag up just over the doorsill.

Okay.

Load the clothes, piece by piece. Sitting can wait till the machine is on. Pick up the shirt you dropped.

Pick it up.

.

.

.

get off the floor.

okay.

let mona start the washer, he’s got it. he has the wallet. how can he feed those yen coins in—oh he’s biting them. okay.

put your head between your knees and breathe.

.

.

.

breathe.

.

.

.

breathe.

.

.

.

put the clothes in the dryer. sit back down.

breathe.

.

.

.

okay. Okay. Clothes in the bag. Wrinkles don’t matter, not now. Mona don’t lean, you’ll knock me off balance. I just feel bad. Tell you later.

Bag over the shoulder.

Back to Leblanc—oh no, Sakura-san is waiting outside.

No, sir. I didn’t realize it was so late—

—is he going to hit—

oh. his hand is cool.

oh—no, I can carry—oh, okay. Um. Thank you? Mona, hop in, you can’t hold the door.

Okay. Stairs. Just follow Sakura-san up as fast as you—

.

.

.

breathe.

Breathe. Okay. Slowly, then. Don’t meet his eyes. You don’t want to see his expression.

Yes, sir. Right to bed.

What? Stay home tomorrow? I can—I’m not that—

Well, um, I wouldn’t call it “fainting”—I really—

Oh. Okay. If—I won’t make noise, I won’t disrupt the café at all. I’m sorry for the trouble.

No thank you. Yes, sir. I’ll drink some water in a while.

Yes, sir.

Goodnight.

…okay. Okay, Mona-chan, I’ll show you, you’ll see when I change.

…Yeah. Tripped on the roof. Yes, I cleaned it, yes, it hurts, no I don’t have any—

No, I don’t want you to steal any for me!

No, I won’t ask Sakura-san, he’s got to be furious already having to carry all my stuff up—

Mona, please, I’ll talk to you about it tomorrow, but I feel really bad—

.

.

.

breathe.

shift off your arm.

breathe.

okay.

He sleeps.

He wakes up dizzy and parched; there’s a glass of water left on a chair in easy reach. It’s dark; he doesn’t know what time it is or how long he’s been asleep, but he drains the glass.

He sleeps.

He wakes up slightly less dizzy but almost as parched, with a hunger gnawing inside him strong enough to feel like a physical ache. There’s a plain bowl of rice on the chair, and the water glass is refilled; he reaches for the rice, but the ache in his arm brings him up short.

Bandages should probably be changed, right? Especially when his wound was bleeding as much as it had been. Best not to eat anything until he changes it, in case he starts retching again.

Morgana butts up against his side when he digs the paper towels out from where he stashed them, narrowing his eyes as Akira starts to unwind the ace bandage around his forearm. Every motion hurts, and peeling the bloody bandages off hurts enough that he retches again, grateful for the lack of anything in his stomach.

He explains what happened in short, terse sentences. The cut doesn’t look any better in the cold morning light; the skin around it is red and inflamed, and the very edges of the wound are a gross grey color. That’s what happens when you get a deep cut, right?

There’s no rubbing alcohol left, so he just draws another line of antibiotic ointment down the center—swallows down his retch—and wraps it back up with a liberal padding of paper towels.

Even with almost half the roll, it still feels like agony.

By evening he feels a little more like a regular person; by the next morning, Saturday, he feels well enough to head to school, though his arm itches and aches and he feels weaker than he really should after a full day of rest. They’ve gotten the treasure and they’re still waiting for the results, so maybe he can pass off the residual queasiness in his gut as trepidation towards that? At least he doesn’t have to go around swinging a knife in the Metaverse anymore.

Ann and Ryuji both look at him curiously, but they don’t say anything, and he declines both offers to hang out when he heads home.

It’s on Sunday that he realizes he might be in real trouble.

There’s….goop. Really thick, really green. It smells awful, and his arm feels like it’s on fire, enough that Akira slips into the Leblanc bathroom before it opens and desperately drapes cold wet paper towel after cold wet paper towel over the back of his arm. He can’t bear to put anything over that ragged, gaping wound. Not yet. Maybe the fresh air will do it some good? He can’t—he doesn’t know what else to do.

He just stands there, staring at the wound, until he catches a flash of movement in the mirror and looks up to see Sakura-san looking down, bemused dismay and dawning horror on his face.

It’s way, way too late to hide it. All he can do is make excuses—the door was locked, he couldn’t go to the bathhouse until Sakura-san got there, he was going to clean the sink out, he promises, see, he hasn’t even touched it yet, just wetted down some paper towels and—

and Sakura-san doesn’t yell.

He doesn’t yell, and he doesn’t kick Akira out; his brows draw down, making him look thunderous and angry, but his voice is gentle when he asks what happened and why Akira hadn’t asked for help, and he almost looks pained when Akira explains in the smallest of voices.

His voice is quiet, and his hand is gentle but firm when he clasps it onto Akira’s shoulder and guides him just down the street to—oh, and he is a goddamn idiot, because Takemi-san’s clinic has been an option this whole time, hasn’t it?

Getting his wound cleaned is not fun. Takemi-san looks at him like he’s an idiot and talks to him like he’s a moron, but her hands are quick and deft, and she doesn’t cause him any more pain than is strictly necessary. She even gives him a local anesthetic and some painkillers before she stitches up his arm, since she has to trim the hard, ragged edges of the cut away anyway so the skin can grow back together cleanly.

He’s going to have a scar. There’s no way around that, and honestly he deserves it. But what else could he have done? Ask for help? A laughable idea, one that he does laugh at when Takemi-san presents it to him. It’s possible the painkillers she gave him worked a little better than intended, because this time the furrow in Sakura-san’s brow doesn’t bother him at all.

He’s got pills now, antibiotics and painkillers, lots of them, all of them big and scary-looking, and Takemi-san stares him dead in the eye when she tells him to take all of them. He firmly believes that she will, somehow, know if he misses a dose. And these pills are…not cheap. He winces when she tells him what her services will cost—he’s got some savings, but this will pretty much wipe them out.

But Sakura-san pulls out his wallet and pays without a word, making Akira go pale with dread even through the haze of the painkillers. That is a lot of yen to hand over for an acquaintance’s child, one you don’t even want around in your store.

He apologizes quietly on the walk back home, but Sakura-san just grunts and tells him to sit at the counter when they get back. He makes Akira curry and coffee, then sends him back upstairs to lie down and rest. He gets the same again for dinner that night, and Sakura-san tells him gruffly to take the leftovers in the fridge for lunch tomorrow. It’s a kindness that surprises Akira, and one he doesn’t feel like he deserves, but he’s grateful.

Sakura-san checks his bandage morning and evening, and he visits Takemi-san twice in the next two weeks—once to have the sutures removed, once when he’s finished his round of antibiotics, to make sure the infection has passed fully. It’s healed clean, but the scar is ugly and red. Good, Takemi-san says, maybe it’ll serve as a reminder to ask for help when you need it.

Maybe it will. Akira runs his fingers over it—it’s still tender and sensitive to the touch, and it hurts if he presses on it, but that’s okay. A reminder is a good thing.

Sakura-san greets him gruffly when he walks in the door. Akira thinks he’s learning how to read his face now; he glances at Akira’s left side, and Akira rolls his sleeve up and twists his arm back and forth. Sakura-san nods and motions for him to head upstairs. There’ll be dinner again for him tonight, probably, even if it’s just the café leftovers. Either way, he’s grateful. There is some kindness to adults, if you’re lucky.

[cant-icle]

Congrats on your follower count! Prompt: the PT's can't get Akira's name cleared at the end of the game (for whatever reason). So they break him out of jail themselves. (Wacky heist jailbreak shenanigans? Post-victory angst as the PT's collectively realize they're now ALL on the run from the law maybe forever? Sexy sunny beach vacation after they flee the country and settle in Hawaii? Your call!)

In the end it’s as simple as this.

They know when they’re failing. They know that failure isn’tan option, and they know that there’s a world beyond what they once knew, andthey know that they would stop at nothingto get Akira back.

Makoto’s research turns from lawful to esoteric. Yusuke istasked with materials—he’s the one with legitimate access to Kosei, and Koseiis the one with legitimate access to some of the more fanciful materials theyneed. Haru gathers clippings and blossoms and dries flowers on the roof in thecold winter light, and Ryuji and Ann visit Takemi-san’s clinic once a week.

She’s surprisingly on board with her part—as tangentally asthey know each other, they came across each other during the early days oftrying to get Akira out—and doesn’t ask them what the blood is for. She won’ttake more than half a liter from them at a time, and monitors their healthalmost obsessively; they’re eating a lot of steak and spinach lately, which hasAnn furious and Ryuji thrilled.

Futaba is the only one who keeps her eyes on their originalgoal. She’s had access to the prison cameras since less than a week into Akira’sincarceration, and watches them obsessively. She watches what he does, when hedoes it; she watches him grow thinner, pale and wan as the months grow by, andeventually she gathers the others and says “We have to do it now or never atall.”

So Ryuji gets in touch with Iwai, the owner of the gun storein Shibuya, another one of Akira’s confidants they met tangentally; after atense conversation and some hurried explanation, he has the wheels of hisconnections running.

Makoto tells her sister; after all the work she did to putAkira away, and then all that she’s done to try and get him back out, shedeserves to know. Sae isn’t thrilledwith their plan in the slightest, but she does what she can to prepare thingsfrom her end.

And then the time comes; they spread several thick plasticsheets on the floor of the attic under Sojiro’s watchful, baffled eyes thatturn alarmed when the pouches of blood come out. But he doesn’t say anything,even then.

Futaba’s already had Yusuke draw the glyph circle onto thesheets in sharpie, so they each take a paintbrush to fill them in. Haruscatters dried orchids and wolfsbane, nightshade and belladonna, carvedmandrake roots and devil’s trumpet flowers tucked at each of the inner verticesof the slow-growing pentagram.

They all agreed that Makoto would stand out to negotiatewith whatever came through. When the bloody glyph is complete, she stands backin her own sealed circle and watches the others settle in. “Let me know when you’reready,” she says, holding the folder with the incantation in it betweenwhite-knuckled hands.

As one, the other five prick their thumbs and set them tothe sealing marks in the glyph.

The ring lights up with white fire.

“Holy SHIT—“ Ryuji yells, almost unheard under Sojiro’sshout and Ann and Futaba’s shrieking. None of them move, though. Makoto startsspeaking, and though her voice is weak at first it gains in strength until thewords coming out of her mouth are no longer words but beats of power,throbbing, viscous, dripping form her mouth to tangle in the fire, and sigilsform in the wisps of the fire.

The pressure and the power builds, and builds, and builds,and—

Г̴̵̦̼̹̣̻̣̣̖̋͌̐ͧ̈́ͤ̈́̌ͦͣ͒̈̃͒͑͂ͭэ̎͌ͮ̆͋ͤ̀̆͂̍̐̍ͭ͝͏͖͔̻͔̰̗̦̻̳͈͖̯͔̼̺͉̱р͂̋͑̈́̋͆ͯͣͥͥͣ̉͋̓͑̎ͤ̿͏͎̳̫̣̗̤̗͘͢э̃ͫͩͫ͗̓̉̀ͤ̔̽͊̀͟͏̴̵͇̬̲̰̹̲э̸̧̬̣̗̳͔̪̱͎̫͉̪̙̞̙͓͈̱͓͖̣̣̓̉ͬ̐̀ͦ̈́͑͊̉̆̎̊́̓̅ͤͬ̈̎̽̽́͗ͥ̀ͥͪͪ̂ͪͦ̀̚̚̚͘͡͝н̸̸̧̰̝͚̙̹͈͖̫̤͔̩̥̼̥̏̋̔̒͂̆̆͆ͯ̒͑̍̈́̎̍̔͞ь̷̻̰̦͉͇̠͇̻̺̥͙̰̥͕̥̞̩͎̬̠̪͙̳ͪ̉̅̾͋̀̈́͗̓̃̌ͫ̾͑̿́͟͞͠б͓̻̭̥͚̤̮̠̱̳͇̲̹̼͕͈͚̂̂̔ͬͣ͋͗ͬ͌̃̍ͬ́̓ͯ́̓ͪ̏͢и̸̊͂͂ͫ̄ͮ̓͋̂̔̿̀̚̕͏̻̜̦͇̻̼̤͖͔̩͕͙́т̡̂͗ͧͥ̈͌̂͂ͣ̇ͮ̆̎ͥͤ̌͡͝͝͏̞̖͕̹̩̥̫̲̞͓ͅү̴̶̧̻̠̞̻̝͔̜͍̙̗͙̳̮ͦͥ͌̇͋̓ͦ̓ͯ̎͋̿̚͢ү̴̧̭̠̠̣̳̯̝̙̖̲̩̹̬̮͉̩̱̥̀ͥͣ̆ͤͣͫͦ͑̎͌́мͪͦ̈́ͫ̔̐̎̓̋̔ͩ̇ͤ̌̈́̈́ͪ͏̨̹͈͉͓͉͎̥̖͓̥͡ж̸̵̧͗͑̔̋͒̂͛̊̅̑̑̈̍̅͏̪͖͚͙̭̜̖̯̥͔̱л̨̠̗͙̳̙̦̻̤̫̰̖͑͂ͤ̑ͨ̽̆̅̂̽ͫ͆̓̋ͩэ̵̢͈̖̝̰̯̰̥̦͛ͪ̏͋ͧ̓̋ͭ̈́̓̔͜͞ͅг̷̴̡̙͖̬̲͆̔͐ͤ̅̉͑̄͘͝д̨̗̙̝͚̳͓̙̱̙̼͙̓́̅ͬ̉ͬ̃̉͋̔̽̓̆͑ͩ́̚͟͞͠с͋̐ͯͣͤ̔͆͂ͦ҉̸͍͈̯̫̜̣̣͢͞э͙͇̯̝ͮͣͬ̒̋ͥ̍ͫ̄͋ͬ́̉ͪ͆̅ͦ͒͜͞͠͞н̶̢͙̖͈͕̱̤͔͓̖ͩͩͬͭͤ̆ͥ̐̋̔ͬ̇ͦͫ͝͝

 When they come to, the glyph hasburned to char, consuming the organic material and leaving ashy black stains onthe plastic, and Akira lays unconscious in the summoning pentagram.

(Sae calls Makoto two hours later,exhaustion in her voice, to tell her that Kurusu Akira has committed suicide inprison. They hve the body and everything. Makoto tells her it’s okay, their newfriend Amamiya Ren will be happy to replace him.)

[cant-icle]

Idk if you're still taking prompts, but there's a line in "touch" that I really like a lot and would love to see expanded into a scene! "the hit had knocked Joker flat on his face for a few seconds that had felt like an eternity, and he’d limped all the way to the nearest safe room before they could patch him up."

Every step is agony.

He’s doing his goddamn best not to show it, but the nimbusof pain in the small of his back aches and throbs in time with the beating ofhis heart. He feels blood spreading hot-sticky-warm all over his back; he’snever been more grateful to be wearing black clothing than he is now. Nothingis going to show on his thick black coat.

The others are watching him; he tries to even out his gait,but one step with his back straight leaves him dizzy and breathless withnausea; he doesn’t realize he’s leaning against the wall until Skull’s hand ison his shoulder, eyes worried behind his mask.

He waves him off. He can’t afford to show weakness, not now.

Or so he wants to think, but by the time they round two morecorners of Futaba’s tomb he’s cold and clammy with the pain, a tremor in everylimb. Damnit, damn it, damn thatshadow, the god in a box, the one with the power to turn them into rats and then slam its disembodied fist into them—

He sways dangerously, and Ryuji catches him. He doesn’t ask,and Joker doesn’t tell him no, just loops his arm around Ryuji’s shoulder andlets him bear some of his weight.

Even after a Diarama his back still aches bright-hot, andwhen Queen asks him if he wants to call it a day he agrees without hesitation.Ryuji hangs back at the entrance to Mementos; when he offers his hand, Akiratakes it, and laces their fingers together hard enough that his knuckles turnwhite.

Ryuji squeezes back just as hard, and doesn’t let go.

[cant-icle]

For the 200 follower promptaganza can I request an angsty (although with a happy end) Werewolf!Ryuji x Akira/Ren fic please?

“Look, I’m not expecting you to want to talk, but I feellike we need to. There’s some things we should discuss before you just shut meout completely, right? You’re my best friend. I...though we were getting to becloser than that, even. Can you...will you call me back? Please? I miss you.”

Akira hangs up the phone and barely keeps himself fromthrowing it at the wall. It’s been threedays. Three entire days sincehe’s so much as seen Ryuji, three days with no response over the phone orthrough text, and the anxiety would be clawing its way up his throat if Annhadn’t told him she’d visited him yesterday.

He doesn’t know what he did wrong, that’s the thing—if he did something, Ryuji should’ve toldhim, so he could’ve fixed it and not just ghostedhim. And it’s not like—he doesn’t even know where Ryuji lives, Ryuji always comes to Leblanc to hang out, so it’s not likehe can bring over some soup if he’s sick.

He’d thought—he’d really thought that maybe, they might begetting somewhere that night in Inokashira Park, when Ryuji’d put his hand ontop of Akira’s and leaned in, and the full moon was so beautiful in his eyesthat Akira’d blurted something stupid—

Is that what thiswas all about? The stupid thing he’d said? Something like “The full mooncouldn’t compare to your eyes,” god,Akira cringes so hard thinking about it that his shoulders touch his ears.Okay, yeah, if someone said that to himmaybe he’d ghost them for a while. But still!

It sucks, and he sucks, and his life sucks, and it’s makingPhantom Thievery very difficult without his right-hand man at his, well, righthand. He gets knocked on his ass three times during a single fight in Mementosbefore Queen all but drags him back to the Mona-Mobile.

He’s not sulking.

(He’s maybe sulking.)

When he tries to slink off at the entrance to Mementos, Anngrabs his arm. “You’re this torn up about it?” she says like she already knowsthe answer.

“He won’t answer any of my messages,” Akira mutters,scuffing his shoe along the floor with his hands in his pockets. “I don’t knowif he’s dead or sick or hit in the road somewhere or arrested or—“

“I can guarantee that he’s none of those—or, well, most ofthose. He might’ve been hit in the road.”

“Ann, don’t saythat—“

“Ugh, boys andtheir feelings,” Ann groans, and tugson his arm. “You probably would’ve found out sooner or later, but if you’regonna be distracted enough in Mementos that you’re getting your butt whooped bya Pixie—“

She leads him to a line that leads out towards the edges ofthe city. It’s still early in the day; the train isn’t packed enough that theyhave to stand, but Ann refuses to answer any of his questions and spends theentire ride messing around on her phone.

They ride for almost an hour and a half, long enough thatthey pass the suburbs and get into fields and forests, and the train car is allbut empty when they disembark. It’s hot; hot enough that Akira regrets wearinghis overshirt and rolls the sleeves up as high as they’ll go.

The road, once they leave the station, is unpaved. Ann leadshim down it for nearly twenty minutes, confidence in every inch of her body,every step that she takes. Somehow, she looks more like she belongs out herethan she does in Tokyo.

She leads him to a house, big and sprawling, that backs ontoa long field backed by a deep, dark stretch of forest. Akira expects thatthey’ll knock, but Ann just opens the door and walks right in, bold and brazenas you please, toeing off her shoes once she gets inside. “Ann,” Akira says,low and uncertain, “what—“

That’s when the biggest fucking dog he’s ever seen in hisgoddamn life steps into the hallway, its claws clicking on the linoleum, it’sears tilted up and at them. It’s big and black and bushy and one of the mostbeautiful things Akira’s seen in his life. “Holy shit,” he breathes in awe and delight (and a little bit ofapprehension,) “Ann, look at how big that dog is, what the fuck.”

The dog laughs athim.

Literally. It drops its jaw and huffs, front paws shufflingback and forth on the floor as its tail swishes once-twice behind it. “Oh mygod,” Akira groans, dropping down to his knees. For a brief moment he doesn’treally care where he is or what’s going on, because if there’s anything KurusuAkira loves in his life, it’s dogs.

(Don’t tell Morgana.)

“Hey, do you—is it friendly?” He looks up at Ann, who hasboth hands slapped over her mouth looking like she’s trying not to laugh athim. “Ann, is it—“

The dog laughs at him again and clicks its way down thehallway, shoving its face into Akira’s. He’s greeted with a muzzle full of verysharp, very white teeth as the dog sniffs his face, his ears, his hands, andfinishes off with a big sloppy lick right across his glasses. Ann loses herfight with laughter at that, even more so when the dog shoves its head into thegap between Akira’s arm and his side. Seriously, it’s huge. It dwarfs him while he’s kneeling—it’s gotta weight at leasta hundred kilo, easy.

He’s finger-combing his way through the dog’s thick ruffwhen he realizes that Ann’s further down the hall, talking to someone. He leansback and up to look, but the dog rolls over and exposes its belly veryappealingly – welp, his belly,clearly—and wriggles in invitation, distracting Akira enough that Ann andwhoever she’s talking to are almost on top of him before he looks up again.

“Akira,” Ann says, laughter in every line of his body, “I’dlike to introduce you to Sakamoto-san, Ryuji’s aunt. Ryuji, get off the floorand stop making an idiot of yourself.”

Akira stands and makes polite introduction before Ann’ssecond sentence sinks in. “You, um, named your dog after your nephew?” heblurts out before he can help himself. Sakamoto-san, Ann, and the dog laugh at him.

Or, well...now that Akira’s looking closer, it looks morelike a wolf than a dog—it’s got the big triangular ears, the long, slendermuzzle, the narrow eyes and very large teeth. Maybe a mixed-breed? A wolf-dog?They have that sort of thing, right?

Wolf-dog-Ryuji follows him around the house whileSakamoto-san makes pleasant talk and insists that they stay for lunch; eachtime Akira stops, dog-Ryuji shoves his head under Akira’s hand. Dog-Ryuji istall enough that Akira can rest his hand on his back and ruffle his fur whileAkira is standing; dog-Ryuji is also shedding fit to burst, leaving long, softfur all over his hands and his leg.

Out of habit, he takes his phone out and levels it atdog-Ryuji; dog-Ryuji tilts his head and drops his jaw, just a bit, in a caninesmile. It’s a cute picture; he saves it and sends a copy to Ryuji out of habitwith the caption met your namesake today.

Across the room, attached to a charger on the kitchencounter, Ryuji’s phone goes off.

As it turns out, dog-Ryuji isn’t a namesake. As it turns out, it’s a wolf, and it’s alsoregular Ryuji.

“Hold up,” Akira blurts in the middle of the explanationSakamoto-san tries to give him, grabbing onto Ryuji’s head and staring himstraight in the eye. Ryuji makes a grumble in the back of his throat and foldshis ears back in appeasement, shuffling his paws and wagging his tail. “So youmean—all this time you’ve been hamming it up, watching me make an idiot ofmyself—“

Ryuji nods, and drops his jaw to grin a little wider. Hiseyes are the same, a warm chocolate brown. “I would’ve thought you’d be blond.”

“Nah,” Ann says, “he dyes his hair. It doesn’t carry overwith the transformation.”

Akira has a lot of questions. Like, a whole lot of them. “Is this why you ran off the other night?” heasks, a little tentative. Ryuji whines and pushes himself up onto his haunchesto drape his forepaws over Akira’s shoulders. He then proceeds to swipe histongue very messily over Akira’s face, over and over and over again until he’showling in laughter and his glasses have been knocked off somewhere.

They’ve got a lot totalk about, that’s for damn sure, but in the meantime it’s nice to have Ryuji’shead warm and heavy on his lap, and it’s nice to run his fingers through Ryuji’sthick fur and scratch behind his ears hard enough to hear his tail thumping onthe ground behind them. Ryuji’s just as cute a wolf as he is a human; so whatif he goes all furry a few times a year? It’s something Akira thinks he canbring himself to deal with.

(things i wanted to fit in but couldn’t figure out how:

ryuji’s extended family has a massive property outside of tokyo bc werewolfism runs in the family, it’s basically a pack house for the times when they have to be transformed

in this the full moon is a very strong call; they can resist it for one moon, but no more than that, and if they forcibly stay human for too long they’ll be stuck as a wolf for like a week or so when they can’t resist anymore (like stretching a rubber band too far or smth whatever this is just a small prompt why am i trying to plot)

[cant-icle]

i’m, uh, going real overboard with this whump request and i might have to post it last so people don’t expect the same wordcount for everything lmao

[cant-icle]

Congrats on the 200 followers!!! You're one of if not my favorite p5 fanfic writer. Just a question but would you prefer if people send you prompts not on anon? (I promise I'm following you I'm just shy lol...)

hi nonnie!! thank you so much!! you are absolutely more than welcome to send prompts on anon if that’s what you’re most comfortable with-- honestly, all of my prompts so far have been anon!