“You’re such a pest,” Akutagawa hisses out as he drags you up the stairs of his apartment block, his pale fingers digging harshly into your waist with your arm limply slung over his shoulder. The smell of tequila lingers on your clothes, clogging up his senses and making him want to cover his mouth and nose. Still he just hauls you up, step by step as you slump into him.

Akutagawa doesn’t know why you called him. Why you didn’t call your precious Dazai-san instead or even that foul tiger brat Atsushi. Even Rampo would’ve been a better decision than him. But he has no insight into your mind; how it works is beyond him. Where he deals in logic and reason, you do things for the hell of it, a reckless streak that makes him seethe because it almost always bites him in the ass.

“Detective Agency scum,” he hisses out under his breath as he reaches his apartment door and shoves the key in. You’re starting to blink your eyes open sluggishly, and there’s a crooked grin on your lips that he hates, makes his chest uncomfortably tight and his fingers curl deeper into your waist as he drags you inside.

You’re supposed to hate him — he’s Port Mafia and you’re ADA. Opposite ends of the spectrum, with different ideals, different lives, different agendas. And yet you always call him when you get like this — a little too messy for your own good, a flush high on your cheeks, your lips curled into a grin. And sickeningly, he always fucking answers. Sometimes he thinks about letting it ring. He never does.

You try make for his bedroom but Akutagawa yanks you back, lips curled back in a snarl.

“Don’t even, last time you threw up on my sheets,” he grits as he drags you through the white marble floors and gentle glow of his lamps into the sitting room, dumping you on his black sofa, staring down at you, his gunmetal grey eyes narrowed on your slumped form.

“You’re such a fucking pest,” Akutagawa mutters harshly as he tugs you upright so he can shove a bottle of water from his glass coffee table into your hands.