Heyy, I was wondering if you can write a fluffy one shot for Akutagawa x fem!reader? One where their already in a relationship and reader and Akutagawa are on a mission and the reader gets injured?
(You can switch things up if you want 🤗)
The Rabid Dog's Failed Attempt at Bread I Akutagawa Ryunosuke x Reader
Summary: Akutagawa wrestles with his crippling domestic ineptitude in an effort to look after you after you get hurt on a mission.
A/N: To the wonderful reader who requested this six months ago… I?, so so so sorry for the delay😭! Life intervened, but I promise the wait was worth it for the amount of soft, grumpy Akutagawa I got to squeeze in here. Thank you so much for the patience and the fantastic prompt! I hope you enjoy watching Ryunosuke grapple with a frying pan as much as he grapples with his feelings, love! 💕💕
MASTERLIST
The walk back to the safehouse was silent, but it wasn’t the brooding silence of a predator stalking prey. It was the brittle, suffocating silence of a panic attack barely contained.
Akutagawa refused to let you walk. The moment the threat was neutralized and he saw the blood soaking through the sleeve of your white blouse, Rashomon had wrapped around you like a protective cocoon, lifting you effortlessly. But halfway back, he had dismissed the ability and gathered you into his actual arms, needing the tactile proof of your weight against his chest.
He kicked the door of the apartment open, his breathing ragged—not from exertion, but from the constriction in his lungs.
"Ryu, please," you whispered, your head resting against the rough fabric of his cravat. "You’re trembling."
"I am not," he lied, his voice cracking.
He carried you straight to the bathroom, setting you down on the edge of the tub with a gentleness that bordered on reverence. The harsh fluorescent light washed over him, highlighting the sheer terror in his pale eyes. He looked younger like this. Stripped of his composure, his hair messy, his eyes wide and searching.
He knelt between your legs, his hands hovering over your injured arm. He didn't touch you yet. He just stared at the red fabric, his fingers twitching.
"I should have killed him sooner," he rasped, the self-hatred dripping from every syllable. "I was... arrogant. I looked away for one second to clear the path, and he—" He cut himself off with a wet cough, covering his mouth.
"Hey." You reached out with your good hand, taking his wrist. His skin was ice cold. "Look at me."
He didn't want to. He looked at the floor, at the tiles, anywhere but your face.
"Ryunosuke."
Slowly, he lifted his gaze. The misery in his expression broke your heart.
"It’s a cut," you said softy. "It’s not fatal. It’s not even deep. I’m right here."
"You are bleeding because of me."
"I’m bleeding because we have a dangerous job. You protected me from the other ten guys. Now, are you going to help me clean this, or do I have to do it one-handed?"
The question snapped him back to reality. "No," he said quickly, almost desperate. "I will do it. Don’t move."
He moved to the cabinet, gathering the supplies. When he returned, his movements were painstaking. This was the "Rabid Dog" of the Port Mafia, a man who could slice through steel beams in a heartbeat, yet he was struggling to open a bottle of antiseptic because his hands were shaking so badly.
He took a deep breath, steeling himself. He cut your sleeve away with a tiny, precise manifest of Rashomon, peeling the fabric back to reveal the gash. He flinched at the sight of it, his jaw tightening until a muscle popped.
"This will hurt," he whispered. "I am sorry. I am so sorry."
"It's okay, Ryu. Just do it."
He cleaned the wound with agonizing slowness, blowing softly on the skin whenever you hissed in pain. He treated you as if you were made of antique porcelain, something precious and irreplaceable that he was terrified of shattering.
When he began wrapping the bandage, he finally spoke again, his voice barely audible.
"I don't know how to do this."
You looked down at his bent head. "Bandage a wound? You do it to yourself all the time."
"No," he said, securing the clip. He rested his forehead against your knee, his hands still clutching your arm. "I do not know how to... preserve things. My ability is destruction. My hands are for breaking. Every time I touch you, I’m terrified I will leave a stain."
"You’re not staining me," you murmured, threading your fingers through the black tips of his hair. "You’re fixing me."
He stayed there for a long time, kneeling on the hard tile, just breathing in your scent, letting your fingers scratch lightly against his scalp. It was his form of surrender.
By the time you made it to the bedroom, the adrenaline had completely crashed, leaving you both exhausted.
Akutagawa helped you change into one of his oversized shirts, his movements efficient but shy, averting his eyes to give you dignity despite the intimacy of the moment.
When you climbed into bed, he didn't turn his back to you like he usually did. Tonight, the distance was unbearable for him.
He laid on his side, facing you, pulling you in until your forehead was pressed against his collarbone. You could feel the frantic rhythm of his heart beating against his ribs; it hadn't slowed down since the mission.
"Ryu?"
"Sleep," he commanded, though the word lacked any authority. "I’ll watch."
"You need to sleep too."
"I can’t." He tightened his arm around your waist. "If I close my eyes, I see the blade again. I see it hitting your neck instead of your arm."
You shifted, wincing slightly, and pulled back just enough to cup his face with both hands. You ran your thumbs under his eyes, tracing the permanent dark circles there.
"I'm safe," you promised. "I'm warm. I'm in your bed. Feel this?" You took his hand and placed it flat over your heart. "I'm not going anywhere."
Akutagawa let out a shuddering breath, his eyes fluttering shut. Under your palm, the tension slowly began to bleed out of his frame.
Suddenly, the air around you shifted.
From the back of his shirt, Rashomon emerged. But it wasn't the jagged, red-eyed beast. The black fabric poured out like liquid silk, expanding and fluffing up until the entire bed was surrounded by a wall of darkness.
The tendrils curled inward, draping over the two of you like a weighted blanket. One soft strip of fabric wound itself around your uninjured wrist, while another nuzzled against your cheek, stroking you with a texture like velvet.
"It... likes you," Akutagawa muttered, a faint flush dusting his pale cheeks. He kept his eyes closed, embarrassed by his own ability's betrayal of his emotions. "It’s calm when you’re near."
"It’s soft," you smiled, snuggling into the embrace of both the man and his ability. "It knows you're safe now, too."
Akutagawa hesitated, then buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. He pressed a singular, trembling kiss to the pulse point there, not sexual, just a desperate confirmation of life.
"Do not scare me like that again," he mumbled against your skin, his voice thick with sleep and lingering fear. "I can endure pain. I can endure ridicule. I cannot endure a world without you in it."
"I promise," you whispered, kissing the top of his head. "Goodnight, Ryunosuke."
He didn't answer, but Rashomon tightened slightly around you, holding you fast, as the Rabid Dog finally allowed himself to drift off, anchored by the steady beat of your heart.
The morning sun filtered through the blinds, but it wasn't the light that woke you. It was the distinct sound of a small, frustrated yelp, followed by a faint scent of singed flour.
You rolled over, wincing slightly as the movement tugged at the fresh bandage on your arm. The space beside you was cold. Akutagawa was gone.
Curiosity piqued, you slipped out of bed. You padded down the hallway, tracing the smell of battle to the kitchen.
When you peered around the corner, you had to bite your lip to stop a laugh from escaping. Akutagawa was currently engaged in mortal combat with a stovetop.
Akutagawa was in his sleep clothes, his hair a chaotic mess of bedhead. He stood rigidly in front of the frying pan, glaring at a misshapen patty of eggs as if it were an enemy spy he was interrogating.
The sight was made even more surreal by Rashomon. The ability had manifested several tendrils to aid in his task: One gripped a spatula, moving with a jarring mix of precision and confusion. One held a teacup, currently over-steeping the tea into a dark brew. And a third was frantically holding up a cookbook, desperately trying to keep the page open while Akutagawa consulted the instructions.
"It demands low, constant heat," he muttered to himself, a sound of genuine devastation. "Why is it expanding unevenly? This is… highly irregular."
He tried to flip the omelet with Rashomon’s spatula-arm, which moved with the speed of a striking viper—too fast. The egg tore into shreds.
"Dammit," he hissed under his breath.
"Morning, Chef," you called out softly, leaning against the doorframe.
Akutagawa jumped, spinning around so fast his hair whipped across his face. Rashomon flared out in surprise, narrowly avoiding knocking the teacup out of the air. He instantly tried to regain his stiff composure.
"You are awake," he stated, stepping sideways to block your view of the stove. "Go back to bed. You shouldn’t exert yourself."
"I'm fine, Ryu. I heard a crash. What are you doing?"
"I am providing sustenance," he declared, using his foot to kick a small, charred piece of toast under the counter. "You require proper nourishment for tissue repair."
You walked over, wrapping your good arm around his waist from behind. He stiffened for a second before his body relaxed into your embrace, though he kept his gaze fixed on the battlefield that was the counter.
"You really don't have to," you murmured. "I can just do a simple—"
"No," he interrupted firmly. He turned slightly so he could look down at you. "You can’t. And I must."
His gaze became distant, layered with a quiet vulnerability. "You know I never learned such… domestic arts. Survival required resourcefulness, not recipes... You are always the one who manages the warmth of this apartment." He paused, a cough catching in his throat. "But you’re injured on my watch. Therefore, I must ensure you’re cared for. This is my duty."
"It’s not duty, Ryu," you smiled, reaching up to smooth his messy hair. "It’s care. And it's very sweet."
"Ridiculous," he scoffed, his cheeks flushing faintly, but he didn't pull away.
He resignedly slid the mangled egg onto a plate. "Here. It is… aesthetically compromised," he admitted. "But it is edible. I tasted it to ensure it wasn’t poison."
He guided you to the small dining table, pulling the chair out for you. He placed the plate down with the gravity of a man presenting the single most important artifact in existence. The eggs were rubbery, the toast was dark, and the coffee was black as pitch, but he had sliced an apple into perfect, intimidatingly precise rabbit shapes.
"Would you like tea? I’ll get you tea." he stated, marching back to the counter to retrieve the potent tea before you even had the chance to turn the offer down.
He set the cup beside you. His focus was entirely on your good arm, watching every movement you made. When you reached for the cup, he slapped his hand down gently on yours, stopping you.
"Careful," he warned. "Don’t strain yourself."
He watched you eat with an intensity that made you feel like you were being analyzed for weakness. You took a bite of the egg, forcing a cheerful smile.
"It's…good, Ryu. Very... high protein."
Akutagawa let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since he woke up. His shoulders dropped slightly, easing some of the tension. "Acceptable."
Suddenly, the air around you shifted. Rashomon, which had been hovering near the ceiling, slowly drifted down. The black fabric gathered itself and nudged gently against your uninjured shoulder, patting you lightly before settling against your back like a warm pillow.
"It's thanking me for surviving your cooking," you teased.
Akutagawa looked away, sipping his own tea (which he drank without wincing, despite its strength). "It is merely reflecting my subconscious protective instinct," he insisted, though a slight, almost imperceptible upturn of his lips betrayed him. "Now finish your breakfast. I must ensure you are dressed before I commence my next mission—finding suitable pain medication."
He reached across the table, his pale fingers tracing the edge of your bandage. The touch was feather-light, filled with a silent promise.
"We will handle the medication after you are rested," he decided, his gaze intense. "But for now, finish your breakfast. I want you to feel strong before you face the rest of the day."
He watched you take another bite of the egg. When you finished, he rose, circling the table to stand behind your chair. He leaned down, placing a quick, chaste kiss on the crown of your head, the closest he would come to outright expressing the depth of his relief.
"Come," he murmured, his voice softer now that the high-stress mission of cooking was over. "It is time for the next operation: ensuring my charge is comfortable and ready for rest. Your only duty today is to heal."
He took your hand—the uninjured one—and led you away from the chaotic evidence of his devotion, back toward the comfort of the bedroom.
