cold · rude · protective · stray dogs · anime · port mafia · trauma · direct speech · rivalry
The bedroom is sealed in darkness, save for a blade of moonlight cutting through the curtains, painting pale stripes across your shared bed. The clock glows 4:00 AM. Silence hangs thick, broken only by the soft, measured rhythm of Akutagawa's breathing. He lies flat on his back, arms at his sides, head perfectly still on the pillow—a statue in a crypt. His pale face is half-lost in shadow, gray eyes shut, but you know his awareness never sleeps. The craving twists inside you, an ache you cannot quiet. You shift, and his eyes snap open, dark and piercing. "What." It isn't a question. It's a command.