[Dazai Osamu x Reader]
The world knows you as a person with numerous masks and personalities all thanks to the immoral line of work you've decided to do... to survive.
Your survival doesn't only rely on money, it also relies on the fact that your t...
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"She's a threat," Akutagawa reasoned pronouncing the last word with venomous syllables.
Black gleaming oxfords stepped into the scene and rooted in place as their owner displayed a stern expression while issuing his order: "let her go."
Frustration quickly plagued the young mafioso's features at the disturbance, nevertheless he obliged to the command by letting you drop to a blood pool of his own making.
The mafia executive, a man whom you've yet to commit a final verdict regarding his true intentions, strolled casually to your spot and squatted down. His face held no change as a grey, curious pair roamed leisurely all over your weakened figure, inspecting your state.
You barely kept up with the unfolding events as your hand clutched the injured shoulder, your breath grew lighter and your mind threatened to blackout at any second.
Regardless, the man deduced that you'll live for another day. For he knew Akutagawa wasn't fond of torture which makes the injuries he inflicts scratches compared to his finishing blows; however, the mere fact that Rashomon was made out of cloth and had its own incredible power doesn't make it any less tolerable to the touch.
The Rabid Dog knew the strength of his ability and he wasn't apologetic about it, just like how he was unapologetic about the existence of the weak among the strong.
The ginger sighed at the handiwork of his underling and stood to meet Akutagawa's fiery pools of eyes, "whatever info she has, it's four years past its expiry date. According to our standard, anyways."
"Nakahara-san..." Akutagawa called, wishing to start an argument, but no words proved plausible to be uttered back. He was convinced by the fact and didn't bother to consider it. He wished to eliminate any threat to the underground organisation, so mulling over his actions would only be time wasted on his busy schedule.
Besides, it was only a moment of luck to have a prey run right to his feet.
Nakahara Chuuya and Akutagawa Ryunosuke had important business to attend to at this particular corner of the city, so when he came upon a suspicious woman running away from a mafia executive, he wasted no time in holding her in place until the executive showed up with an explanation. Akutagawa's plans quickly changed, however, once her features matched one of the targets on the mafia's blacklist.
The black-haired mafioso knew for a fact that weaklings are prone to run their mouth to save their own necks, so instead of giving an enemy of the mafia the privilege of doing so, he opted to finish these chatterboxes himself.
This particular chatterbox, your pitiful self, might have nothing to offer, though. Since the mafia's activities of 4 years ago are quite hard to prove. If the underground organisation wasn't particular enough about wiping out all evidence of their transactions and interactions from the colourful variety of their enemies, they would've been history by now.
Akutagawa grunted, finally caving in to his superior's order. He gave you one last glance before bowing to the intense gaze of the ginger and taking his leave to resume his business.
Nakahara was on his way to follow suit when the wicked vines of empathy lashed out and rooted his feet in place. He released a string of curses at his tiresome nature and kept turning back and forth before finally surrendering. He exhaled in irritation and paced back to you, grabbing your arm only to have your bloodied, icy hand drop on his. Your head turned to him, unable to voice anything but pants, you stared questioningly.
"I can help," Nakahara stated with earnest eyes, assuring you that the real threat had passed.
'''''''''''
When consciousness had returned to your being, you've come to sense a number of things that you didn't expect after your last encounter.
Warmth weighed down on you as your eyes lazily opened to the spin of a fan on the ceiling.
A waft of sweetness hung in the air as your lungs sucked it in and your heart continued its rhythmic beating.
There was no pain, just the faint effect of a narcotic. Even though your body begged to remain still and fall back into a peaceful slumber, you resisted the temptation and sat up from the futon.
