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morgana-ren · 2 years

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+i do feel like we (u and i) would b able to connect w his anger as well as having more sympathy for him, even if sympathy is smthn i dont rlly feel. but as long as ur comfortable then i woulddd like to ask- not specifically for a sexual assault/incest victim but more just someone that can relate to his anger and having (kinda) similar family trauma :] that way it can b more inclusive and ur not goinf out of ur comfort zone but thank u again omg

"You say the term daddy issues like it's some grand insult."

The liquor burns a hole in the back of your throat and you're pretty damn sure it's fermented sharpie water. Drinking rotgut this acidic cannot be good for you, but when you're destitute and down on your luck, top shelf is hard to come by, and it's fair to say you're not drinking for the taste.

Tomura eyes you warily, watching the bob in your throat as you kick back another shot and the sour-apple face that follows. It's not predatory or threatening; just cautious. Apathetic.

This is the dynamic you have.

Tomura is too off-putting and angry for most people to stomach willingly. It's something you both share. Practically frothing vitriol at the slightest provocation. You think you have a certain immunity to his particular brand of biological cyanide because you stomached a hearty internal dosage yourself.

You talk because he understands. He listens because he deigns it acceptable. It isn't friendship or even acquaintanceship— if anything, it's reluctant kinship. Two toxic creatures being the only ones able to withstand each other's specific breed of venom. Hot and cold. Nothing at all and then too much.

"Well it is, isn't it?"

His pale, lithe fingers curl around the rim of his own drink, nursing it rather than knocking it back as you've opted to do.

You don't count it as drinking alone. You've been told that's bad.

"No, not really. Even the most well of intentioned parents leave us with scars. Kids are like playdough. You pick them up the wrong way once and it hardens and stays malformed forever. Everyone has daddy or mommy issues, or grandparent issues, or—"

"Abandonment issues?" He says with a cruel, mocking lilt to his voice. He's firing arrows blindly hoping to hit a sore spot. Unfortunately for him, where he's firing from gives away his own position.

"Sure, that's one of them," You shrug with a practiced air of nonchalance. "There's also 'mommy was an addict's issues, and 'daddy hit me and mommy didn't care' issues—"

There's a slight twitch below his right eye when you say it. You doubt he even notices.

"—All I'm saying is everyone has 'em in some form. Even the ones that are happy."

"Whatever. All of that pathetic shit is just weak. It has no bearing on anything."

He's lying and he isn't even aware. It has everything to do with anything. It's the tarnished silver cast that molded him into what he is today. A bit hamfisted to call that giant, brutish hand he wears like a shield over his face 'father' and not recognize the absurdity of that statement.

"Whatever you fuckin' say, man. Let he without sin and all that."

He doesn't respond to your provocation. Only studies you through slitted eyes, dry mouth pressed firm in a hard line. So you keep talking.

"All I'm saying is to end up here, it's obvious something went wrong along the way. Every one of these fucks here likes to ignore the seed that bore the fruit, but every time they strike at a hero, they're really just striking out at daddy or mommy and the society that failed them—"

He tenses, coiling like a rattlesnake poised to strike. Looks like you hit a nerve.

"What are you saying?" He hisses, laced with venom that he'll mainline directly to your heart if you say the wrong thing. "Sounds like projection."

"You're telling me you think everyone here had a wonderful past and ended up here anyway?"

You say 'here' as more of a nebulous abstract than a reference to any actual place. Fallen so far through the cracks of society that you have no choice but to seal the breech with a mortar of blood and bone.

"I think it doesn't matter," he spits, that trademark brand of disdain rearing its head again. "Heroes are—"

"Literally just a part of society as it was built. The pinnacle of greatness as it's supposed to be seen. Paragons of justice and good—"

"If you believe that, I should just kill you right now."

More tail rattling.

"I don't. I'm parroting propaganda. You said once it's like a disease and heroes are the symptom. Where else is the perpetuation of society born but in the cradle?"

"Hmph."

His muscles loosen and he turns his gaze from you towards nothing in particular.

"You know from an early age that something is wrong. Maybe not at home quite at first, but that there's something wrong with you. If you don't fit the mold; if you act out too much; if you're too violent or angry rather than a bubble faced cherub child, they make damn sure you know it."

"And what were you?" He says, seemingly disinterested.

"Well, I was told once that I was the most negative, angry child they'd ever seen. And then she started bawling uncontrollably for forty five minutes."

He cackles at that. A genuine, rueful laugh that sets your teeth on edge. He doesn't necessarily mean it as an insult— that's just a convenient side effect.

You shrug again. It's not a weak point. In fact, it works in your favor now. Same as his.

"Well, she wasn't wrong, per se."

His laugh peters out and finally dies behind the swallow of his own mouthful of booze. The next sentiment he says with almost a touch of admiration.

"I guess not. You do like to make them suffer."

"Because they fucking deserve it."

Even now you can feel the curdle of molten rage bubble in the low of your gut. Your jaw ticks and teeth begin grinding, spurred onward by the less-than-helpful encouragement of liquid courage. It's like a sun cradled in your ribs, solar flares lashing out and burning anything they touch when you let it. Keeping it contained is almost more painful than just letting it collapse into itself.

You clench and burn everything you touch, and everything Tomura holds with his entire being crumbles to ash and slips between his fingers. Ironic and symbolic in some ways. Acute pain turned defense mechanism.

Tragic, really. Honest.

Tomura has an immunity to his own quirk, but fire doesn't care what it singes, bearer or victim. Some days, the flames are so hot it scorches and clogs your own lungs like a thick, black smoke. Feed me, it demands, but every time you do, it only burns hotter.

Some days, you wonder what will be left of you when that fire goes out— if there will even be anything left at all.

They say anger is a secondary emotion; that it stems from sadness and grief. The fruit is bitter all the same, but when it's all you have to eat, you learn to enjoy the taste.

You have both long since fallen past the point of questioning whether everyone who angers you deserves to die. You've built a life around that questionable belief instead.

He eyes you with a peculiar look. One you've seen before and immediately, the rest of the night is mapped out in front of you like a blueprint.

"I know,"

He says it with a certain softness. As soft as the embodiment of raw glass and sharp edges can be.

"It's part of why I keep you close."

He keeps his heated stare on you, and you know he won't make any moves further than that. He hasn't drank quite enough to just grab you by the throat and take what he wants from you like he often does, but he knows enough to know he doesn't want to spend the night alone.

"And it's part of why I stay."

Negativity feeds negativity feeds negativity. A twisted form of trauma bonding that you've nurtured into some unholy abomination of desire. You will spend the night breaking each other down in violent and suffocating affection, and build each other back up into some more grotesque form than before.

It's cathartic. And extremely unhealthy. You know that.

Love isn't his hands around your throat until a cosmic spattering of bruises colors your neck or your nails embedded in his shoulders until ghostly skin slicing crimson is all that's left behind in your wake. It's not his fist on your cheek or your wrists ringed red with rope burn with cracked walls and and a broken bed frame. It's not the whiskey tinted breath of 'I love you' he sighs and conveniently forgets the following morning.

He wants to hurt; you know you deserve to be hurt.

That's not love— it's a mockery of it. A twisted reflection of what might have been had it not been burned beyond recognition before the kindling had even sparked.

Happy endings don't come in the form of arson. Happy endings don't end in ash and soot and still-burning cinders.

That miserable fire.

It will consume you both.

#morgana and friends #shigsraki x reader #not nice at all #i like to imagine tomura has a daddy kink in this one for extra irony #sorry i have a really hard time putting emotions into words when im going through a nonfeeling gray period #stereotypical 'comparing anger to fire' thing #not a great piece but think of it like a warm up

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