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onceonafullmoon · 9 months ago

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Atropine (Whenever I look at you)

Yan! Dazai x Gn! Reader

Reader wears a skirt but has no set gender

Warnings: obsessive behavior and thoughts: bordering on worship, stalking, abusive relationships, kidnapping

Beast! AU implied, from Dazai’s POV so I tried to incorporate the writing style of No Longer Human at some points, also… Happy Valentines!!

Well, it was fine, after all he had a lifetime of chasing you in his arsenal and he felt it was only fair that he had a lifetime of keeping you to match. (Of course, it really wasn’t fair, but since when did the rotten care for fair? That was only for the viritous and right… like you.) Yes, he had all of this lifetime to keep you, and he’d be damned if he let anyone else feel you in any sense including sight, as undeserving as he was.

It all starts in the middle of October, with the biting wind brushing past him and the aroma of cinnamon hovering in the air.

It’s October when he sees you again, although, technically speaking, it was actually the first time he’d set his eyes on you.

Your hair is longer than it usually is—

(“Really, I don’t understand why you don’t get rid of those bangs, isn’t it hard to fight with all that hair in your face?”)

—and you’ve allowed yourself a more stylish outfit than the ones you usually wear—

(“…yeah but skirts are impractical, I’ll flash someone.

…W—what do you mean “good”?! Your such a—!”)

—and you seem more relaxed than you usually are (were, he corrects, were), probably attributed to the fact that you’re not an agency member anymore.

It really shouldn’t surprise him, when he sees you, because of course he would eventually.

But it’s enough to make his heart stop.

Because despite the fact that so much had changed, your same shining smile remained, a testament to your nature, comparative to that of the natural wonders.

You were like the river, rapids would falter and the very ground before you would ebb and weave throughout, but you were a constant.

The universe was a funny thing like that.

As if it were taunting him for his past decisions, for his mistakes, mocking him for his very existence with each step you took away from him, brushing past him like he was nothing.

And he was, wasn’t he?

Both in the literal sense to you and metaphorical sense to himself.

What a wretched joke.

Even he couldn’t bring himself to play the part of the clown and laugh.

Instead, he just stared at you, longingly, in the way that a lovesick school boy would stare at his first love, at your fluttering skirt as you brush by his table without a second thought.

But that wasn’t quite the right way to describe it either, as his eyes held a certain darkness to them, one that was inconsistent with the innocence of a first love.

Because it was him and he was tainted and rotten and the dregs of society and nothing he did was without ulterior motives. That deep carnal desire, the feeling of want, it burned him, it made him feel alive, he wanted you, he wanted you so badly.

In any way possible, in every sense.

And it was almost sickening, the ease at which he was able to conjure up all those images in his mind, like flickering through memories of moments that hadn’t yet occurred, and hopefully would not (but who was he kidding, it’s not like he could resist you).

A cozy domestic scene, the way you would smile that heart achingly nostalgic flustered smile as he pulled you in for another lingering kiss, despite half hearted protests about being late for your work, and then pulling you in for one more just for good measure.

The way you’d laugh at his clowning, the way that he effortlessly made himself into a fool with that contagious laugh of yours, that he would forget that he was anything else in that moment but a jester for your amusement.

Comforting him on the days he couldn’t keep up his act anymore, when he left his stage to show you the pitiful actor he really was, with the tired eyes and the dead expression that he couldn’t bring himself to change.

“I’m sorry.” He’d say, and he’d say it with whatever was left of what honesty remained within his garbage infested soul.

But he wouldn’t need to, because of course you’d pull him in closer to you, both in your arms and to your heart, because that was the type of person you were, the kind sort of naive person he’d dream about ruining, only to find that you were the one to stain him in the end.

At least, in that dream you were.

For the most part, you weren’t so lucky, and maybe that’s why even despite his own knowledge of his debauchery he tried to hide those thoughts deeper inside himself.

But in the end you were still such a precious little thing, weren’t you?

Another scene, a club you exit from in the middle of the night, the smell of cigarette smoke and sweat heavy in the air as he gazes at your slightly stumbling form.

(You’re not drunk, you’ve never really been a drinker after all, but you never could walk in heels very well either.)

And he’s trouble, as he always was (and forever will be), so when he sees you, a pretty young thing with a bit too much innocence in your eyes, he closes in like a shark would on a drop of blood.

He’d greet you with a slight grin on his face, and laugh to himself as you startle at his voice, before greeting him in return with an uncomfortable smile.

You’d say something about wanting fresh air, and he’d be able to tell from just one look at you that you were lying, that the club was never your scene and you were just searching for a way to distract yourself, or perhaps you were just putting up with something you detested for a friend, you were always too sweet like that.

Whatever it was, he could tell that you were right out of your element, and he wasn’t one to miss out on an opportunity presented to him.

“Need some company?” He’d ask, the smirk on his face a little too wolfish, but it was far too dark for you to see anyways, so you’d agree.

And you’d talk and talk and talk, talk into the hours of the night, until you forgot the reason for your nerves to begin with. Until you found a friend within the jester persona that he portrayed, laughing at the antics he put up solely for the purpose of entrapping you.

He’d leave with your number of course, and he’d keep up this charade with you for months, years even depending on how cruel he felt.

One way or another you’d end up letting him come home with you, after all he knew you too well (and he always would, in any form you came to him), and he’d savor every second of the moment.

Perhaps it would be your first time.

(It was, more often than not in all of his indulgent little fantasies, it was something about taking something from you that he could keep forever that did something for his perverted self.)

But perhaps not.

Either way he would be satisfied with having the chance to indulge in your sweetness just once, your taste, your scent, simply just your feel as he made you come undone for him for as many times as he fell for you (which was simply impossible to count).

And then… he would leave you.

He’d leave just as quickly as he came, a ghost in the night, finding a largely perverse delight in the way that you’d falter so suddenly after his absence, the anguish you feel coursing through you.

Because as disgusting as it was, he loved every corner and crevice of you, he loved you when you were at your highest of highs or your lowest of lows, and he loved you as you were smiling as much as he loved when you were sobbing.

And he’d come back of course, because he could never really bear to leave you, but he’d never stay for you, he’d always leave you on the precipice, wondering whether you ever really had him to begin with.

(And of course you really did, but how could he resist you when he knew you were staring at your wall at midnight, eyes bloodshot from crying, wondering if you were ever going to see him again.)

Because he loved when you were a mess, didn’t he?

He loved when you were begging on your knees for a pathetic thing like him, not because he liked feeling greater than you, but because he loved seeing that beautiful bittersweet expression on your face.

But that wasn’t all of it, that wasn’t the true depths of his depravity.

The final act remained after all, and this one was the most vile and disturbing of all.

It starts off the way he sees you presently, a civilian with far too much beauty catches the eye of a sleazy mafioso in a cafe that paid tribute to the local chapter.

You don’t know of course, most people don’t, but those who do watch with baited breath as he gets up from his stool in the back to saunter over to you with a deceptively disarming grin.

He’d excuse himself and ask if he could have a moment of your time, and you, the angel you were, would let him with a confused smile on your pretty little lips.

He’d flirt with you for a bit, make you grow flustered with that sweet little embarrassed smile that you’d hide your face in your hands to hide.

But this time he wouldn’t need your number to see you again.

After all, with so much power in his hands, why would he need anything as impermanent as that?

It wouldn’t be so hard to find out where you lived, where you worked, where you liked to frequent your weekends at, where you liked to spend time with your friends, who you were friends with, who you detested, (and god forbid) who you loved.

Nevermind the little details about your favorite color and what your favorite book was, after all he already knew those things by heart.

It wouldn’t be hard to schedule an “accidental” encounter with you, brushing by you as you peruse the shelves of your favorite bookstore (its funny how some things would never change), and you would look at him with your pretty lips parted in surprise before you’d smile at him, not so much charmed at his persistence than the causality of a second chance.

It was funny how that worked, how a moment seen as a romantic twist of fate could quickly turn into a chilling horror if only the light was shown on the truth of the matter.

But he would have no reason to reveal that bitter truth to you yet, so he would keep quiet and simply smile at you in turn.

Chances and chances and chances would pile up on top of eachother as he would seek out any sort of way to endear himself to you… and then, when you found yourself finding the slightest bit of trust in him, he’d pull away that final layer and reveal himself wholly to you when he would finally take you for himself.

He could imagine it very well, your betrayal, your anger… all of it when you’d find yourself in a room unfamiliar, bound and gagged as he would monologue joyfully about every little thing he had planned out from the beginning.

And better yet, the sense of horror you would feel as he would continue rambling about all the things that he was going to do now that he had you.

Finally, he’d pull off your gag and watch as you would stutter out your words rightfully calling him out for what he truly was all this time.

He’d look at you as you tear up, a grin on his face, although if you really looked at him, you’d see it was really just empty, simply a mockery of emotion.

“That’s right, I am a monster. The very worst one.” He’d say softly before he would make his advance on you and then…

And then indeed. Because he already had several ideas on what to do, depraved things that he would subject you to, but the only question was which ones…

Well, it was fine, after all he had a lifetime of chasing you in his arsenal and he felt it was only fair that he had a lifetime of keeping you to match.

(Of course, it really wasn’t fair, but since when did the rotten care for fair? That was only for the viritous and right… like you.)

Yes, he had all of this lifetime to keep you, and he’d be damned if he let anyone else feel you in any sense including sight, as undeserving as he was.

Those tormented emotions that only he could bring to light didn’t really belong to him, but he would savor them more than any other could possibly imagine. And he was sure to believe in that if nothing else.

So, with that he pulls himself from his most rousing daydream and sets his sights on you sitting at your little table, a coffee at your lips and your legs crossed showing the slightest hint of skin as your skirt subtly rises, and pulls himself up from where he sits to make his way over to you.

“Excuse me, may I have a moment of your time?” He asks as he finally crosses that short yet impossible distance to meet you.

And you.

You blink up at him with those breathtaking eyes and those lashes that catch the evening sun, and you say.

“Um… well, sure. What is it?”

Despite the shame he should feel, his lips hook up into that same mischievous smile, because of course you would.

“...I just wanted to say that you’re the most breathtaking person I’ve seen in my life.”

And when you smile that sweet little embarrassed smile, he feels a perverse thrill running through him.

#bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #bsd dazai #yandere dazai #yandere dazai x reader #dazai x reader #oh yeah also forgot to add this but—#I chose the title bc 1. atropine is derived from the belladonna plant and 2. it causes dilation of the eyes #something something loved things causing eyes to dilate something something

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