Archive of Our Own

How the situation began, Akutagawa wasn’t sure, but with an ulterior motive in mind, he decided it didn’t matter. 

Kyouka had explained the situation with her usual brevity. She and Atsushi had been on a mission, interviewing a witness in a suspicious murder case when things went awry. An ability-infused steam, emitted by an unknown assailant, had trapped Atsushi in his full-fledged tiger form. “It was partially my fault,” Kyouka admitted in a whisper, her voice tinged with guilt. “I don’t want to get in trouble during my first month at my new job. All you need to do is watch over him while I go track down the ability user.”

Akutagawa scowled. “Absolutely not,” he snapped. “This is not my responsibility. Go find someone else to babysit your annoying, oversized pet cat.”

Kyouka’s expression darkened, her arms crossing over her chest in a defiant stance. “You owe me, Akutagawa. You treated me like crap, and you never even apologized. You’re lucky I haven’t stopped Atsushi-kun from seeing you at all.”

Akutagawa sighed, his fingers twitching as he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I’d much prefer it if you did keep Jinko away from me, you little brat. I don’t want to see him; he just inconveniently appears whenever the sun is shining. And as for how you were treated while in the Mafia…” He paused, frowning as he bit back the snarky comment he had prepared. “I… apologize. You didn’t deserve that sort of treatment.”

Kyouka’s surprise was subtle, hidden behind a mask of composure, but her fingers stilled in the white fur of the large tiger nuzzling against her side. “I appreciate it,” she murmured. “And if you do this one favor for me, I’ll fully accept your apology.”

Akutagawa scoffed, his pride prickling. “I don’t care if you accept my apology or not.”

Kyouka huffed, her mind working quickly to find another angle. Just as Akutagawa moved to leave the alleyway, she spoke up again. “I’ll arrange a sparring match between you and Atsushi-kun,” she offered, “and invite Dazai-san to watch. I’m sure he’d be impressed to see you defeat his new protégé without spilling any blood.”

Akutagawa’s steps faltered, and he failed to hide the flicker of interest that crossed his face. Kyouka’s smile was faint, but the mischief in her eyes was unmistakable. With a resigned sigh, Akutagawa gestured for the young girl and her tiger companion to follow him to his apartment.

Now, the ruthless dog of the infamous Port Mafia dangled a cut of rope over his arch nemesis’ head, who took the form of a large white tiger and the personality of an easily agitated house cat. 

Atsushi, with his sleek white fur and expressive amber eyes, alternated between swatting playfully at the rope and stalking it with intense focus. Akutagawa couldn’t help but notice the grace in Atsushi’s movements, a stark contrast to the awkwardness he often displayed in his human form. The tiger’s tail flicked in irritation whenever the rope eluded his grasp, and occasionally, a low chuffing noise escaped his throat, a sound that Akutagawa grudgingly admitted might be the tiger equivalent of a laugh.

“This is ridiculous,” Akutagawa muttered, trying to maintain his usual stoic demeanor despite the absurdity of the situation. Atsushi’s tail flicked again, this time with more force, as if to agree with the sentiment.

As the evening wore on, Akutagawa realized with growing irritation that he would need to feed both himself and the tiger. With a sigh, he made his way to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator to find the ingredients for the venison stew he had planned for dinner. He wasn’t particularly interested in feeding the tiger, but he knew there’d be complaints shot his way if he didn’t. 

As he sliced the venison into chunks, he caught a glimpse of Atsushi’s reflection in the kitchen window. The tiger was watching him intently, golden eyes fixated on the meat. Akutagawa couldn’t help but notice how Atsushi’s pupils dilated with each movement of the knife, a predatory gleam flickering in his gaze. Despite the intimidating sight, there was something almost domestic about it—like a house cat watching its owner prepare dinner.

Akutagawa snorted a laugh. “And they call me an animal,” he muttered. “Come, Jinko. Both Kyouka and Dazai-san will have my head on a platter if I let you starve.”

The tiger seemed to consider the offering, his large amber eyes narrowing as he cautiously padded across the room. Each step was deliberate, his powerful muscles rippling beneath his sleek white fur, yet he moved with an almost silent grace, as if mindful of the space he now shared with Akutagawa. When he finally reached the plate of raw deer meat, he paused, lowering his head to sniff at the meal with a mix of curiosity and wariness. Akutagawa, standing nearby with his arms crossed, watched as the tiger took his time, his nose twitching as he assessed the offering.

Satisfied with the scent, Atsushi tore into the meat with a swift, practiced motion. His actions were far more measured than Akutagawa expected. The tiger ate with a delicacy that should be unknown to massive jaws and lethal sharp teeth like Atsushi had. 

And Akutagawa couldn’t help but wonder… This was the beast worth 7 billion yen? This beast, sprawled out on his apartment floor, delicately chewing his food as if he were some pampered house pet, looking ridiculously cute?

Scratch that last part off the record. No matter what form, Atsushi Nakajima was not cute. He was a nuisance, and Akutagawa was going to kill him. 

Not now, but he would. Eventually. Sooner or later.

With a disappointed sigh aimed at his own brain, Akutagawa returned to his cooking. He kept one eye on the tiger as he chopped vegetables and stirred the pot of stew simmering on the stove. As the savory aroma filled the small apartment, Akutagawa couldn’t help but glance over at Atsushi, who had by now finished his meal and was licking his chops contentedly.

When Akutagawa finally sat down to eat, he noticed the tiger had moved closer, now lying on the floor just a few feet away. Atsushi’s head rested on his large paws, his golden eyes half-lidded, watching Akutagawa with a mix of wariness and something else — perhaps contentment, if Akutagawa had to guess. A soft, rumbling noise emanated from the tiger’s chest, a low vibration that was part growl, part purr, as if Atsushi couldn’t quite decide whether to be relaxed or on guard.

“You better not get any ideas,” Akutagawa warned, stirring his stew and taking a bite. “This is mine. You’ve had your fill.”

Atsushi let out a low, almost plaintive sound, his eyes narrowing as he watched Akutagawa eat. The sound was unmistakably cat-like, a blend of irritation and curiosity. Akutagawa couldn’t believe he was in this situation — feeding his sworn enemy and now sharing his dinner with him. Yet, despite the absurdity, he found himself oddly at ease, as if the bizarre turn of events had somehow softened the sharp edges of their rivalry, if only for the evening.

He scoffed at the thought. Something had to be wrong with him.

As the evening wore on, Atsushi’s behavior grew more familiar, and increasingly difficult to ignore. No longer content to simply lie still, the tiger began to follow Akutagawa around the apartment, his movements surprisingly silent for such a large creature. Every time Akutagawa settled in one spot, Atsushi would eventually join him, curling up nearby or resting his head on his paws with a weary sigh, as if seeking comfort in the mafioso's presence.

At one point, Akutagawa sat down to read a book, only to have the tiger nudge his massive head under his arm, nearly knocking the book out of his hands. Atsushi’s eyes were half-shut, his expression sleepy and unmistakably feline. Akutagawa stared down at him, exasperated.

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered, but instead of pushing Atsushi away, he shifted slightly to accommodate the tiger, allowing him to rest his head on his lap. The rhythmic rise and fall of Atsushi’s breathing was oddly soothing, and before he realized it, Akutagawa found himself absentmindedly running his fingers through the soft fur on Atsushi’s head, the texture both foreign and comforting.

The oddly placed pease was welcome because Akutagawa liked cats, not because his feelings for Jinko were anything beyond slight tolerance at best and pure hatred at worst.  

Either way, the peace didn’t last long. 

It wasn’t much later when Atsushi grew tired of sitting still. The same tiger who had been completely calm and content earlier was now pacing the apartment with restless energy, his large paws making soft thudding sounds against the floor, movements increasingly agitated. Akutagawa could see the tension in Atsushi’s muscles, the way his ears twitched at every small noise, his eyes darting toward the door with a wild, impatient gleam, as if he were itching to bolt outside and run until his legs gave out.

“Absolutely fucking not,” the mafioso snapped. “I’m not taking you outside, Jinko. Why don’t you find something else to entertain yourself with? Claw your eyes out for all I care, but I’m not going to be seen in public walking around with an obnoxious tiger worth several billion dollars. I admire Dazai-san, but I refuse to pick up his suicidal tendencies.”

The tiger huffed, clearly unimpressed with the command, and without the ability to voice his frustrations, Atsushi’s restlessness only grew. His movements became more frantic, more destructive, as he turned his attention back to the cut of rope Akutagawa had given him earlier. But instead of playing with it, he tore it apart with sharp claws and teeth, bits of frayed hemp and linen scattering across the floor. Akutagawa watched with a grimace as the rope — his one attempt at distracting the damn tiger beast — became nothing more than shredded remnants.

Gritting his teeth, he summoned Rashomon, the dark tendrils of his ability swirling around him like a living shadow. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the tendrils snaking toward Atsushi, who immediately froze, his eyes narrowing as he tracked the movement with a predatory intensity. But Akutagawa manipulated Rashomon with precision, letting the tendrils dance and weave in intricate patterns, creating a visual distraction that he hoped would catch Atsushi’s attention.

(It was beyond humiliating to use his deadly, highly coveted ability to entertain a giant cat. But such was life in the batshit crazy city of Yokohama.)

And it worked — Atsushi’s restless pacing ceased, and he focused intently on the shifting tendrils, his body lowering into a crouch as he watched with a mix of curiosity and wariness. Akutagawa kept Rashomon’s movements slow and fluid, creating a hypnotic dance of shadows that seemed to momentarily soothe the tiger’s anxiety.

But Akutagawa knew this was only a temporary fix. He needed something more effective, something that would keep Atsushi’s tiger instincts occupied for a longer period of time. As he racked his brain for ideas, his gaze fell on the television in the corner of the room.

A nature documentary. It was an odd thought, but perhaps the images of wild animals in their natural habitats would provide the distraction Atsushi needed.

It was better than going outside. He’d never hear the end of it from Tachihara and his sister – maybe even Chuuya, if the executive was in a teasing mood.

With a sigh, Akutagawa retrieved the remote and turned on the television, flipping through channels until he found what he was looking for — a documentary about the African savanna. The screen filled with images of lions, leopards, and other big cats roaming the plains, hunting, and interacting with their environment. 

Atsushi’s ears perked up at the sounds of the wild, his eyes widening as he took in the images. He approached the television cautiously, his head tilted slightly as if trying to understand what he was seeing. Akutagawa couldn’t help but smirk at the sight — the formidable White Tiger of the Armed Detective Agency and the mentee of the infamous Dazai Osamu, now captivated by a documentary meant to entertain ordinary people.  

If Akutagawa didn’t value his dignity, he would’ve called the scene cute. He wouldn’t shoot himself in the foot with that one twice, though. 

The documentary seemed to have the desired effect, holding the tiger’s attention and calming his instincts. Akutagawa, satisfied that Atsushi was no longer a threat to his apartment’s furniture, allowed himself to relax as well. He settled back onto the couch, his earlier frustration fading into a weary resignation. The weretiger was now thoroughly engrossed in the documentary and eventually curled up on the floor, his feline body stretched out as he watched the screen with a sense of contentment that hadn’t been there before. 

Atsushi had never been a tiger in the wild, had he? Akutagawa didn’t think so. Perhaps his intrigue was truly instinct. Adorable. Moderately interesting.  

The rhythmic sounds of the savanna, combined with the gentle warmth of the room, created a lulling atmosphere that Akutagawa found increasingly difficult to resist. The soft chirps of distant birds and the rustle of grass on the television melded with the cozy heat radiating from the small space, pulling him into a state of drowsiness that he stubbornly tried to shake off. His eyelids grew heavier with each passing minute, and he shifted on the couch, trying to find a more comfortable position. But of course, the couch was unyielding, the cushions too firm, refusing to conform to his growing need for rest.

With a sigh of resignation, Akutagawa glanced down at Atsushi, who was already half-asleep on the floor, his large body sprawled out in a position that exuded a strange mix of grace and lethargy. The tiger’s breathing was slow and steady, each exhale creating a soft gust of warmth that Akutagawa could feel even from his perch on the couch.

It was absurd, he thought — stupid, even — but the idea of joining Atsushi on the floor seemed increasingly appealing as his fatigue deepened. Before he could talk himself out of it, Akutagawa slid off the couch and settled down beside the tiger, his body instinctively curling into a fetal position as he sought a comfortable spot on the floor.

The moment Akutagawa settled, the tiger stirred, sensing his presence with an almost uncanny awareness. Atsushi shifted slightly, his massive body adjusting to accommodate the new addition to his resting space. Before Akutagawa could react, Atsushi’s form curled around him, encircling him in a protective embrace. The tiger’s body was warm, the soft fur along his side pressing against Akutagawa’s back, creating a barrier that shielded him from the chill of the room. Atsushi’s thick tail looped around them both, completing the circle and sealing them in a cocoon of warmth and security.

Akutagawa froze, his breath catching in his throat as he felt the closeness of the tiger’s body, the unexpected intimacy of the moment. The soft, rhythmic rise and fall of Atsushi’s breathing became a steady, calming presence, and despite himself, Akutagawa couldn’t help but marvel at the comfort it brought. The once-terrifying aura of the White Tiger, a creature he had sworn to kill, had transformed into something almost domestic — protective, even — a living blanket that chased away the weariness and tension that had plagued him all evening.

Were these the tiger instincts or Atsushi’s? Would he remember this?

Akutagawa wasn’t sure if he even wanted an answer to those questions.

As he lay there, the sounds of the nature documentary faded into the background, becoming nothing more than a distant hum. Akutagawa found himself relaxing completely, his rigid posture softening as he allowed the exhaustion to take over. His head came to rest against Atsushi’s side, the tiger’s fur a soft cushion that cradled him gently. The steady rhythm of Atsushi’s breathing, combined with the warmth of his body, lulled Akutagawa into a deep, peaceful sleep, one hand curling unconsciously into the fur at his side.

If anybody asked, Akutagawa Ryuunosuke was not cuddling with the weretiger. He was drugged and brought here at gunpoint, and that every bit of comfort he found in Atsushi’s presence was an illusion, a trick of the mind. The soft sigh of serenity that escaped his slightly parted lips as he drifted off to sleep? Fake, fabricated, and none of your fucking business.

The night passed quietly, and in the morning when Kyouka returned, she would find them still sleeping soundly in the living room — though instead of Akutagawa nestled within the protective embrace of the tiger, the mafioso had his head buried into Atsushi’s bare chest, arms wrapped around each other and legs intertwined. 

Did Kyouka take a few pictures for blackmail? Yes. Was that anybody’s business besides her own? Of course not. She left the boys to their homoerotic domestic lifestyle normal rival activities and called Kunikida to come pick her up.