#bc he does state that he wants to conceal his status but his behavior conceals NOTHING he is so bocchan that wol clocks him instantly

[ferrocyan]

in my opinion reeq's character design isn't really gendered in either direction, however what i think does matter to him is the sign of class. sorry im not bringing citations but you know how several npcs wear the boulevardier shirt such as the pendants manager in the crystarium and anfrigg in eulmore. they are working people, i believe there are more npcs who wear that shirt too and they are mostly workers (though unlike say the employees of the wandering stairs who wear the orange uniform, the npcs who wear the boulevardier shirt work at higher end establishments). so i think by wearing the boulevardier shirt reeq wishes to present himself as just another working man. which is supported by how he says that he wishes to hide his identity as a rich eulmoran citizen. however he does wear the boulevardier pants and shoes along with the shirt, unlike the pendants manager and anfrigg, both of whom wear sensible slacks with their shirt. the boulevardier pants are wide and ruffly, it looks fancy, and that enhances the fanciness of the shirt. the end result is that reeq looks like a fancy rich boy despite his intentions to disguise that.

so that was all a very long setup for my personal joke which is this: in a modern au reeq would hang out at target wearing a red polo shirt to fit in. however he wears designer pants and $1500 leather shoes with it so it's obvious to everyone else he's only cosplaying being a target employee. thanks for coming to my ted talk

[straymackerel]

idk if your requests are open but if they’re not then feel free to ignore this. 😅 id like to request an imagine with dazai having a long, deep conversation with his new co-worker who happens to be a former member of the port mafia but she left for obvious reasons and only fukuzawa knows for now but ofc dazai being dazai, he’s sharp af so he decided to talk to her bc one, he understands her and second he developed feelings for her shortly after she joined ada. thanks in advance! 🥰

➽─{done! they were actually closed, but this was such a fun request i made it 2k long (✿´ ꒳ ` )}─❥

You often wonder if it was something you said.

Ever since you joined the Armed Detective Agency, all of your new coworkers have been nothing short of friendly and accommodating. All of them––except for the bandaged mystery who can’t quite take his eyes off of you.

At first you thought it was just your imagination. When he answered your questions dismissively, you thought maybe he didn’t have a way with words. When he bailed on group trips to Café Uzumaki––but only when you were going too––you brushed it off as a coincidence. And when you first ‘caught’ him fixated on you, looking you square in the face from his own desk, you hoped he was actually looking at something above your head or next to you.

After all, in the Port Mafia, you always felt as if you were being watched, precisely because you were being watched. Your every move was silently documented, your behavior acutely observed within a larger culture of distrust and suspicion. You wondered if maybe you carried that instinctive unease with you to your new day job. (The only proper day job you’ve ever held.)

But there was no need for deft maneuvers to realize that this intimidating brunette was, indeed, staring you down in silence. He has no intention of hiding it; he’s openly tracking your movements, peering into your essence. And the most unnerving part of all: he’s smirking half of the time. If you didn’t know any better, you would confront him the first chance you got; but your situation is precarious, delicate. You have no business drawing attention to yourself, a former member of the Port Mafia. Sure, the President is already aware of your circumstances, but the Mafia has engrained the virtues of secrecy into you. You hope to keep your past on the down low.

Besides, there’s something off about this brown-haired detective. Something you realized at the beginning of your employment, way before he started staring into your soul. Something you hope you’re wrong about.

So you wait it out, anxiously. Drained by the presence of your colleagues, you find yourself in Café Uzumaki alone one slow-moving afternoon. The paperwork was piling up, the tension in the air almost tangible as Dazai declined yet another offer to do actual field-work with the others in favor of keeping tabs on you (unbeknownst to anyone else). You’d left the office at your earliest convenience, hoping to relax in the corner with your favorite beverage.

It is all you can do to keep from spewing the profane as he invites himself to your table, waltzing in without a care in the world. 

You’re trapped.

Ordering himself a double shot espresso, your coworker ignores your apparent apprehension as he gets comfy in his booth seat. Downing his drink while you’ve barely touched yours, he glances behind him to check out the waitstaff. No words are exchanged until the baristas are out of earshot.

“Well, you certainly seem to have a vested interest in me,” you say in the most nonchalant manner manageable––nervous because of his constant surveillance, but also because he’s quite handsome for a borderline stalker.

“You can drop the tight-lipped smile,” Dazai replies, eyes darkened.

You lower your voice, hackles raised. “How much do you know?”

“I suppose it’s all speculation, but my hunches are rarely wrong. You chose to work at a detective agency after all.” Though he’s avoided your question, the look on his face tells you everything you need to know. Eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth upturned, he most definitely has your former occupation pegged.

“What gave it away?” is the only thing you can think to say.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Perhaps it will aid me in playing detective,” you quip. He chuckles dryly.

“Oh, where to start. That concealed weapon you carry––it’s not issued by the Agency. Though its outline is comparable to our standard Beretta 92FS Inox sidearm, there are some subtle differences, even when it’s tucked away and wrapped in cloth.” You raise your eyebrows, surprised that anyone would notice.

“The way you move soundlessly and seamlessly,” he continues, not bothering to pause. “It’s obviously second nature. You hardly make a sound if you can help it. And then there’s your understanding of the underworld, even though you try to hide it. You obviously know much more than you let on; your knowledge is too convenient. You claim to know just the perfect tidbit or two for a case, having overheard a street vendor or a barkeep, but the expression on your face is all too telling of a certain sense of pride. Such a seemingly mild-mannered sweetheart as yourself. Did you know that when you flinch at violence, you always react a hair slower than everyone else, as if you’re simply following suit? Also––”

“Okay, OK, I get it,” you say, defeated. “So that’s the reason why you’re leering at me every day? To add to this never-ending list of yours?”

“Well...” Dazai’s voice trails off. His features relax for the briefest moment, more alarming than reassuring to you. And then that nagging thought resurfaces. That is, the very first thing that came to mind when you were first introduced to him. Again: something you hope you’re wrong about.

“You’re quite suspicious yourself,” you interject. “Let alone your little stalker habit... you have the same name as him.” The corners of his eyes crease. 

“That’s an odd way of putting it,” he says with a hint of mirth in his voice, and not a smidgen of denial. Fuck.

Logic dictates that you should be scared shitless right now, sitting across from one of the most dangerous men in Mafia history. Logic dictates that you should’ve used more covert methods of uncovering his past. Straightening up, you tell yourself not to think about it.

“Well, I was under the impression that Dazai Osamu was only a legend and nothing more. I mean, a teenage orphan prodigy who threw their life as a Mafia exec away, only to disappear forever? Sounds like bullshit,” you state with as much cool-headedness as you can muster.

“I take that personally!” he gasps, twisting his arms every which way in mock offense, as if to shield himself from your harsh commentary. 

“You didn’t consider changing your name?”

“Not even once.” He winks, to which your heart may or may not skip a beat. Are you scared, or oddly enamored?

You push your cup along your side of the table. “How come you turned tail too? You had the status to do literally anything you wanted.” He brushes it off.

“What is this, my interview? The last time I checked, you were the one on trial,” he says, waving his hand like he’s batting your assertion out of the air.

“I’m on trial?” you ask, the cup coming to a stop. “Do the others have suspicions as well?”

“Oh no, nothing in particular to go on. Though Ranpo most definitely has you figured out,” he says, to which you startle. “...but he couldn’t care less, so don’t worry.” You unintentionally sigh relief as he continues: “My colleagues have this peculiar way of testing their new recruits. We call it an ‘entrance exam.’ And before you ask, I’m not responsible for administering yours, but I might be able to push you in the right direction.”

“Any hints?” 

He shakes his head, “Not really. No general tips or tricks. I need some more information,” he says, leaning in a bit. “So tell me about yourself. Why leave the Mafia for the ADA?”

You press your lips together, realizing he’s asking you the very same question he himself dodged moments ago. “I needed a change of atmosphere. And scenery. I wasn’t quite taken up with the constant death threats and daily bloodshed.”

“Oh, death threats? And bloodshed? I don’t suppose you were on the receiving end?” Dazai asks, one eyebrow cocked.

You laugh a restrained laugh, nodding. “I wasn’t. But those kinds of tactics... they aren’t in my nature. Everything about that job was suffocating, and I just couldn’t do it anymore.” Dazai looks at you thoughtfully.

“It’s interesting, though. You carry your past line of work in all of your mannerisms. Any chance you were born into it?”

You nod again, “Not my choice.”

“What a coincidence.” He flashes a toothy smile, silence thickening the air. You scramble to break it, eager to talk about something else.

“...So? Any advice for my test?”

“I’d be a little more forthcoming if only you’d tell me the full truth,” Dazai responds, and your face falls.

“What do you mean?” Your strained voice comes out meeker than you’d like, and it’s Dazai’s turn to sigh. He leans back into his booth seat, as if a little distance might solve your unease.

“I lost someone. The best friend I’ve ever had. He told me I wouldn’t find what I was looking for in the Mafia, so here I am. And I’m pretty sure you have someone like that too.” How does he know? Why is he telling you this? Your hands––they’re clammy. You turn your gaze to your lap, realizing that he’d dismantle anything but the truth. There are no options but one.

“It was... a family member.” More silence. Is your nose getting red? You hope your nose isn’t getting red.

“The Mafia threatened them?” he prods.

“They were collateral,” you say slowly. You hadn’t expected to talk about them today. You hadn’t expected any of this from a coworker who kept you at several arms’ lengths for days. Another coworker might respond “that’s horrible,” or “I’m sorry for your loss,” but not Dazai.

“Dazai, do you ever wonder if it’s our fault they got hurt?”

“No,” he replies immediately. Then he hesitates. “I mean, yes, and for a very long time, but not anymore. Evil will do evil; if not to our loved ones, then to someone else.” 

He’s right. Of course he’s right.

“But does it make it any easier?” You peer at him, hopeful, and he dismisses your expectations with a quick shake of the head. “Right.” Pause. 

“But you’ve come to the right place. Unlike the Mafia, this is an environment where you can heal. Sometimes the wounds reopen,” he says, “but I promise you that your feelings will go towards something productive.” You swallow, blinking back would-be teardrops. The salty marinade seeps back into you.

Then, under your breath: “Okay.” “Thank you.” 

“Of course. I could talk about this all day.” The tightness in your throat dissipates, the water in your eyes no longer threatening to spill.

“So, the entrance exam? I’ve told you everything now,” you pry. He thrums his fingers, amused.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I figured pretty early on that you would be okay. You’re gonna pass just fine without my help––I only wanted to get to know my new coworker better.” His fingers stop as he gauges your response.

“Wha–?” This guy! He played you, straight to the verge of tears..! Shoulder tense, you jump to your feet.

“Sorry to deceive you. I’ll see you upstairs, then.” Jeez, the bandaged bastard’s already heading out!

“Wait!” Cheeks flushed, you’re unsure why you’re calling out to him, but it makes him stops in his tracks.

“...Yes?” 

“...You’re not gonna tell anyone, right?”

“I’ll think about it.” Dazai’s coy voice is all but reassuring.

“No, seriously,” you plead, eyes wide. “I really need this. God forbid someone else prompts a retelling of my life story.” He turns to face you.

“Then let’s make a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” 

He steps towards you, leaning in to whisper in your ear: “Meet me in front of this building tomorrow at 10 PM. There’s a restaurant I want to take you.” You feel your mouth open, then close by itself. 

This is it. This is why he can’t look away from you. If he was only observing you, he could, would do it without being so obvious. You’re sure of it now. You replay each once-menacing occurrence of eye contact from the past few days in your head, and you notice something new. Hunger? Want? Even greed? You can see it in his eyes right now. Those eyes, they threaten to dance around, maybe even travel a bit... lower. 

(You jest yourself. ‘Once-menacing?’ He’s still menace, still a danger.) He turns away, heading for the door again, not waiting for a response:

“Don’t be late.”

A chill runs up your spine. It’s a mix of fear, and bitterness, and panic, but most of all... 

A growing anticipation.