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cw // mentions of cannibalism + cults in the description
sydney the cannibal, the irredeemable, the hypocrite, the liar, the oath breaker, the sinner, the butcher, the flesh robber, the library keeper
lord when @digenerate-trash first put the idea of cannibal + cult leader!sydney during an apocalypse in my head, i had never found peace since. so here's my interpretation of sydney in the forgotten au!
Wilbur: Who's the lucky- who's the lucky lady, who's Missa, what's she like?
Phil: It's a dude. *laughs*
Wilbur: Phil, you didn't tell me you were bi, and also polyamorous.
Phil: Definitely not.
Wilbur: What does Kri- what does Kristin think of your- of your... husband?
Phil: SHE'S NOT CANON IN THIS UNIVERSE! And we- and it's not like that, it's not like that- it's uh, we're- it's platonic, we're just dude's hanging out protecting an egg-
we as a fandom do not talk about this scene enough. what the fuck is this. why did he feel the need to install this? so he could stare at his boybestfriend all day without having to get up?
bsd fic authors i understand yalls pain SO well right now why is it so fucking HARD to write dazai. like i have a whole fucking spreadsheet dedicated to tireless analysis i have done on my part so i can accurately characterize him but he is such an unpredictable and morally gray character that it's hard knowing his limits and boundaries and where he draws the line for himself.
There’s a very specific type of antihero I’m noticing that loves committing atrocities for the heck of it, but figures out that their in-universe moral coding means they can only karmically get away with committing atrocities if it’s for their family (to save them, help them, etc).
And their response is to build the BIGGEST FOUND FAMILY EVER so they can get away with committing EXTRA ATROCITIES.
I like to think error is the kind of guy to say he’s awesome, compliment himself n shit, but fucking crumples and blushes to hell and back when someone genuinely tells him he’s cute or agrees with him when he says he is
like. imagine being his friend or something, and he brags that he’s Sans Abomination #1 and u go “oh yeah, ur the best :)”
you get so confused when he blushes and yells at you for it. like
Error: UGH, you weren’t supposed to agree!
You (genuinely confused): …but what else was I supposed to do?
Error:
You:
Error, throwing up his hood angrily with error signs clouding his sockets: …N-NOT DO THAT!
babe would you still love me if we were superheroes and you were in danger and i went absolutely bonkers and crossed every moral boundary imaginable to protect you at literally any cost?
Enjoy my five am ramblings because I woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep. No plot, just tooth rotting fluff.
It’s one of those perfect mornings, where your nose is just a little bit chilly in the early air but the rest of your body is bathed in the cozy heat of a shared bed. It’s still dark outside but if you look close you can see a faint orange hue on the horizon, about to overtake the city in a wave. There are no press conferences or contractual appearances today so you indulge in the sweet lazy satisfaction that comes from knowing you can easily slip back into slumber for as long as you wish. You’ve always been that combination of early waker but late riser. You’ve never been able to sleep in but you don’t mind because it means you have ample time to observe him.
He barely needs to sleep at all with all the V that runs through his veins. You didn’t even know he could sleep during the first year of your dalliance. Neither of you have yet acknowledged that whatever this is has long evolved past the fuck buddies arrangement you made ages ago. It was only after you found him catnapping on the couch one day after a particularly rough interview that you realized there was a difference between needing to sleep and needing to sleep. So you began coaxing into bed with you, not for sex, but to encourage him to rest and allow himself that comfort. Once he began to let his guard down, you discovered that he can sleep like a rock, all those years of denying himself such a basic need has left him powerless to escape its clutches.
You don’t mind. Especially if it means you get to hear his cute little snores that he doesn’t realize he does. You won’t tell him, he’d only get sour and insistent that he would never. It’s almost like your own little secret. It’s such a inconsequential thing but you feel like it belongs to you and nobody else. No matter what happens, you can keep that tucked away inside you like a candle on a stormy night.
You reach out and gently brush a lock of his hair back into place. He looks so innocent and boyish in sleep. All of the sharp cunning and cruel edges fade away until he appears as harmless as a kitten. It would be hard to recognize him as the indestructible man who always has a tinge of iron in his scent no matter how much he showers. Your fingertips gently brush the gentle skin of his cheek and wonder what could have been if Vought hadn’t dug its talons into him. You doubt he would be as cruel but it amuses you to think he’d keep that sharp wit. Maybe, without intent to maim.
He practically purrs at your touch although he remains deep in slumber. He always seems to know when your hands are on him. You give a light scratch at the closely shorn hair of his undercut, enjoying the way he huffs and snuggles deeper into his pillow. You would keep him like this all the time if you could, and you’re willing to admit that the reasoning is entirely selfish. You chuckle at the thought of you saving the world simply because you know how to cuddle. Surprisingly, the soft noise causes one blue eye to crack open hazily.
The way he looks at you takes your breath away. All of that sly malice and creeping paranoia, all of that decades old pain and fresh indignity, all of Homelander, is gone from his gaze. He has that look of contented shyness that comes from someone enjoying something they aren’t entirely sure they have the right to but that they shamelessly indulge in nonetheless. He looks so young, with all of that baggage briefly stripped away. You wonder again what he could have been if he had been raised properly. You’re especially fond of the image of him as a little league coach, telling a group of downtrodden kids after a loss that they’re heroes for trying. It’s a ridiculous fantasy, but you feel like you’re entitled to a little silliness.
“G’morning” he slurs out, voice still gravelly from sleep. He wraps an arm around your waist to effortlessly tug you against his chest. He buries his face in your hair and inhales, huffing your scent like it’s some kind of drug. It’s always so interesting to see how his senses inform his behavior. He’s incredibly tactile, always wanting to cover you in his scent or drown himself in the sound of your heartbeat. It intimidated you at first, how attuned he was to you. None of your other lovers even noticed if you cut your hair, much less be able to warn you before a migraine hits purely because your scent would reflect the disturbance in your brain chemistry. You worried that such an intimate knowledge of your body would push him away, but he revels in the fact that he knows you better than any human grunt could ever dream of.
It’s easy to lose yourself in these moments and forget the work that goes into this relationship day by day. You are not immune to his petty jabs or his sour temper. He’s never hurt you physically but his ruthless tongue has left you sobbing in the bathroom more times than you can count. He’s testing you, trying to find the breaking point where your love will no longer be enough to withstand him. He’ll never find it but it doesn’t make the battles any less exhausting. It’s why mornings like this are so precious to you. These moments are why you let your heart be bruised over and over.
You love him, probably more than you’ve ever loved anything. You think he knows even if he doesn’t trust in that knowledge.
He shifts, rolling on top of you in one smooth motion. Your legs spread instinctively, expecting him to slip inside for an early morning romp. It tears your heart in two when instead he uses it as a way to snuggle in even closer, to have as much skin to skin contact as possible. You remember when every touch was a calculated effort to get in your pants, because it’s the only way he had ever received reassurance or comfort from touch. You’ve noticed lately that he’s started to enjoy contact for its own sake, not just as a means to an end. You aren’t deluded enough to think you can fix him, or that the love of one person is enough to erase an entire lifetime of emotional neglect. So you don’t try. You simply love him for the sake of it.
It’s for this reason that he allows himself to be vulnerable, even if he doesn’t realize it. There is no agenda. There’s just two people who are no longer alone. Sometimes, that’s enough.