#bsd ango sakaguchi | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

writingnightmare · 2 months ago

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I don’t know why I did this to myself, but it was nice to write. I’ve always wanted to explore who Ango Sakaguchi is as a character, and I really want to do more. He’s definitely an underrated character, and one of my personal favourites in the series.

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Characters: Ango Sakaguchi

Content summary: To sum Ango up into one word, a challenge issued to you by your friend, but things were never quite that simple. He is a man of many complexities and contradictions. Slight character analysis.

Warnings: Light![ANGST] with comfort, Guilt

Tags: [SFW], [ANGST], [COMFORT], [L!FLUFF]

Word count: 1.5k

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The Man made of Porcelain - Ango Sakaguchi x Reader

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥, 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯, 𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥.

𝘐𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦 𝙖𝙘𝙘𝙚𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙙.

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“One word Y/N, one word to describe Ango,” your friend challenged, sitting beside you at the bar. Warm lights shone down on you both, igniting small flames of light in your hair, drowning away your stress from work as you gazed at your friend’s infectious smile. As simply as she had framed the question, it wasn’t that simple to you. It never was. Ango was a man of many qualities, to describe him in one? It seemed impossible. You loved every facet of his complex and contradictory being, with all your heart no doubt.

Ango Sakaguchi was a man made of porcelain. Strong, brittle, soft, yet sharp.

Every morning, he was soft and loving. Pressing a kiss to your forehead and mumbling apologies as he climbed out of bed, more than agreeing with you when your tired voice broke the quiet air, claiming it was far too early. It was, it always was. Waking every morning for work, it was always too early, no matter the time. It was never enough time for him to take in the sight of you. Your messy, tangled and twisting around your face, the small crinkle you got on your nose when something in your mind was bothering you, the way your lips moved ever so slightly with every breath.

The way he looked at you when you begrudgingly opened your eyes, with just reverence and adoration, you never quite understood what he was seeing, but it didn’t matter. He looked at you and saw his person, his world, his home. You were everything. His hands ghosted your body, leaving trails of stardust and warm white light in his wake, his love palpable through the smallest of actions.

At work, he was strong and dependable, a man of stoic, composed, and calm. The voice of reason, but often also the voice of compassion. His job is one of immense pressure, impossible choices, and danger; it was something he couldn’t escape. Behind the quiet and quick typing of keys, rested the weight of a city on his shoulders, the weight of all the lives that lived within the bounds of Yokohama. His colleagues saw the calm, careful, sleep-deprived man. The man that would bring you to every work event, the small flame of love flickering behind his eyes at every action you did, every word you said, every kindness you offered. What they didn’t get to see, was the storm that rumbled inside of his mind.

It was also a job filled with heartache. Watching thousands of slowly dying sunsets, setting on the lives of those he crossed paths with. Be it by his hand, or another’s; it was filled with dead and despair. All too often he would be sent to a scene that emanated the scent of death and decay, blood and iron burning his nose as he had to carefully navigate every crime scene with care. He felt as though he was cursed to be the messenger of death itself at times, as even unwillingly he would bring heartache, despair, and tragedy to the doorsteps of unknowing families; delivering the news of their loved ones passing felt as if it could crush him at times.

He was detached from his work, calculated even, that’s what he told himself anyway. Yet he was all too crushingly emotional at times. The weight of his memories, his job, his past deeds pressing down on his brittle body constantly. The burden of his own actions, betrayals he had committed against people he had somehow loved, in spite of his objectives being inherently bloodstained. His mind seared with guilt-ridden memories, of smiles and warmth, unique understanding and spirited conversations, and ones in which the strain and tension could not be remedied by words nor action.

His own actions had driven his friendships to such a state, that much was clear. Yet as he grappled and grasped at the storm, a whirlwind of harsh words, a blizzard of self-hatred and loathing, the calm, composed, and stoic man slowly broke. On days such as this, when he came home he was an inconsolable, destroyed man. He felt as though any God there was had truely forsaken him.

You could tell as soon as he walked in, calling out a quiet, “I’m home, love.” His voice was full of fragility, marred with unspoken feelings, taunted by the memories he hated but dare not forget. On nights like this, he was brittle, delicate, his facade breaking and crumbling; his beautiful illusion of stability and endurance shattering under your touch and words. He was so beautifully raw, his skin soft and fragile like porcelain, ready to break under the slightest touch.

You approached him with care every time, hands delicately reaching up to cup his face as he gave you a tired smile, eyes struggling to hide the blustering storm that raged havoc in his mind. His skin was cold under your light touch, and he slowly leant into you, arms wrapping around your form.

“How was work? I made us dinner,” you mused, eyes bright and smile soft as you gazed up at the man you adored. He saw how you looked at him, and it was something he could never understand. You admired him as if he was a sanctified man, your view never once clouded by the weight of his past actions. With you he felt as if his humanity was there, his benevolence restored; fragile and flimsy, but there nonetheless.

His head rested in the crook of your neck, taking comfort in your warmth as he dropped his briefcase, uncaring of the noise it made. You knew every time he came home like this he was never hungry, yet your uneaten labour never drew outrage against him, something he wouldn’t have blamed. You were unwaveringly gracious in his mind, with a capacity for love he dared not believe existed until he met you.

“I’m sorry, I’m not hungry tonight,” he murmured, and you simply nodded, grasping his hand to lead him in towards your shared bedroom. As you curled up with him, arms holding him as if to shut the outside world out, you spoke once more, and his steadfast grip on his emotions finally crumbled.

“Are you okay,” you whispered, eyes meeting his as he paused, taking in a shuddering breath. His eyes burned as he buried his face into your shirt, his body tense as tears dripped from his eyes. “It’s okay, we can stay here as long as you need.”

How could you be so patient with a man like him? He couldn’t understand it; it wasn’t something he deserved, not after what he had done. The storm in his mind raged on inside the bedroom, his tears falling, filled with repentance as he let out muted apologies. Nothing would ever be enough to fix what he had done, not properly, and that devastated the man in a way he couldn’t quite articulate. “I’m sorry…I’m so sorry,” he whispered, but you knew it wasn’t to you. They were words to the many ghosts who stood around your room, the phantoms of people he cared all too much for, to ever discard them. You weren’t sure how long you laid there, it could have been mere minutes, or hours, time never flowed properly when you were with your love.

By the time he looked back up, his tender cheeks were red from crying, hazel eyes bleary as he looked into yours. He lips pressed to yours in a hesitant kiss, one filled with love and dedication, tenderness and devotion. You reciprocated delicately, nimble fingers lightly dragging against his scalp, a feeling that he loved. When you pulled apart, his eyes, once dull and desolate, were brighter, staring at you with unadulterated love.

“What did a terrible man like myself do to deserve someone like you?” His voice was barely audible, but you heard him nonetheless. You stared at him for a moment, before pressing a kiss to each of his cheeks, and a third for his forehead.

“You can tell me every terrible action you’ve ever done Ango, and I will love you anyways. One mistake does not outweigh the good you’ve done,” you whisper, lips grazing his skin as you spoke. He wanted to believe you, to believe his road of guilt could lead to a road of redemption and good, but in the depths of his mind he couldn’t. For now, your words quelled the raging storm, the storm clouds dispersing in his mind. He knew they’d be back, they always came back; but for now, he just wanted to be with you.

You were brought back to reality as your friend laughed next to you, eyebrow raised in amusement. “You’re thinking hard about this one Y/N, it can’t be that hard.” You smiled lightly, letting out a small breath through your nose as you leaned onto the bar. You smiled genuinely at them, cheeks flushed from the alcohol you had been drinking.

“In one word? I don’t think I could.”