#It's special villain quirk weed dont ask lmao

[morgana-ren]

Im. I love you? Your answer to that ask is beautiful, also I forgot about the other meaning for weed for a moment and got confused like, 'is morgana-ren a stoner? Beefy weed muscles???' and now i cant help but imagine stoned Shiggy. Specifically him forcefully shotgunning his captive because hes bored and if hes getting stoned she might as well too. Laughing at her when she gets spacey. This is a fun train of thought lol, thanks for inspiring it

I am a ridiculous and incoherent person. My first instinct is to literally reply with complete gibberish to most things. Shaming me has absolutely Z E R O effect because I have no shame. I’m a ridonkulous person. Last time I got high, I just laid in bed singing “Secret tunnel, secret tunnel” for like 3 hours.

To be fair, I would also do that completely buttfuck sober.

Gods I wish I had a gif of Shig smonkin some donk wods, but since I don’t, you’ll have to settle for me writing it.

PSA after the fact: I AM SO SORRY IT GOT A LIL CREEPY BUT TO BE FAIR, IT’S ME AND IF YOU SENDIN ME SHIT YOU KNOW YOU HAVE TO BE REAL FECKIN’ SPECIFIC OR ELSE I’M GUNNA MAKE IT CREEPY also weed hits me way different than it does most folks so it’s really hard for me to be able to accurately describe how it might be to anyone else. SO imagine this is supervillain quirky weed he has special made to calm his...uh,.. never ending rage. also it’s ridiculously longer than I planned. cause I get carried away. anyway love you!

His room is dank and smells like mold and must.

Tight metal bindings cut into your wrists, leaving you raw with crusted blood despite the fact you stopped fighting days ago. Your tailbone feels bruised from constantly shifting on his worn down carpet, your legs prickling and aching from inactivity.

He’s kept you bound here for a while, handcuffs looped through the foot of his bed. You’re not entirely sure how long, since his ratty blackout curtains make it hard to see daylight. He’s got them taped down, blocking out all but the tiniest slivers of light. Like most of his life, his room exists in total darkness.

Time has little meaning here.

He doesn’t leave you alone often, only really exiting the room to bring you food which you refuse to eat. Most of it has been kicked into the corner, the soft buzz of fruit flies accumulating more and more by the day. It frustrates him, but he’s keen on reminding you that he’s patient. You’ll relent eventually.

Truth be told, your willpower is starting to give. Your body is stiff and sore, head perpetually aching from crying. His moods are like whiplash, one second crooning to you how special you are to him, the next backhanding you and calling you a stubborn bitch. You don’t know what he wants from you. If the fates were merciful, he’d get it over with and just kill you.

Ending your life doesn’t seem like it’s high on his list of priorities.

He’s facing away from you now, tinkering with something on his desk by the light of his various computer monitors. You can’t make out what it is, only that he’s been at it for the past ten minutes. Grateful as you are for his lack of attention, it always makes you nervous when he gets preoccupied. It usually means he’s working on some new and exciting way to break you.

You take comfort in the momentary peace, some temporary reprieve from the invasive leer of those horrid crimson eyes scanning over you in the darkness. Whatever he’s doing, there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Only steel yourself against what he gives you when he’s finished.

He reaches into his desk, pulling out a plastic bag of something you can’t make out. All you know is when you hear the ziplock open, a strange scent floods the room. It smells vaguely familiar, but between your fucked up headspace and even worse situation, you can’t really bring yourself to care.

Leaning against the little metal bed leg you’re imprisoned against, you realize just how heavy your eyes are as you rest the back of your head on his threadbare mattress. Fighting off oncoming waves of pulsing anxiety takes most of your energy reserve, and bouts of sleep tend to come few and far between when you’re sleeping in the den of a predator.You’re so tired, so worn down, and you don’t know what else he could do to you that he hasn’t already done or planning to do. It would be a lie to say you hadn’t considered saying that to him, but you feel like tempting the universe or him isn’t a great idea right now. Either way, your eyelashes feel like weights dragging you under into the sea of sleep.

You’re almost there when his chair squeaks and you jolt awake, that overwhelming sense of dread coming over you. Your instincts blare and somehow you just know his eyes are on you again, waiting for you to acknowledge him. He wants your attention, and he expects you to give it.

Dragging your exhausted lids open when you know you’ll have to see that terrifying man is a burden you haven’t grown accustomed to having quite yet, but it’s one you bear anyway. Besides, you know that if he thinks you’re ignoring him, he has no problem forcing you to look at him. It’s easier to just give him what he wants. He hurts you less that way.

So you do, and just like you expected, he’s simpering down at you, holding something you can’t make out in his hands. Gulping comes on impulse; he looks far too pleased and that never bodes well for you.

“Do you know what this is?”

He holds it out and it takes you a second to make it out in the dark, but you know that basic shape.

“I-is that a pipe?”

“At least you know that much.” He gives you a cheeky lip quirk, making heat rise in your cheeks. Palming it in one hand, he uses the other to fish in his pocket, one finger carefully pulled outside the kangaroo pouch of his jacket. Following his movements, your brows furrow and curiosity almost wills you to speak. The words stall in your mouth, however, when you see him pull a cheap lighter out between two fingers.

He flicks it a few times with his thumb, sparking the light and sending small cinders dancing across the his lap. After a few tries, it finally holds. The light across his face only makes him seem all the more sinister, exacerbating the shadows that reside in the craggy, marred flesh of his cheeks. The flame dances in his pupils and the orange tinged shine glimmers off the edges of his weirdly perfect, jagged teeth. It’s extremely unsettling.

He lets the flame die, picking his pipe back up and tapping it on the desk once or twice.

“I don’t do this often. I usually prefer to keep a clear head.” He lazily arches back in his chair, inhaling the dank stench of the sticky green plant packed in his pipe before returning his gaze to you. “But in some cases, I find it can help you relax.”

Bringing the pipe to his face, he wraps his chapped lips around the bit and sparks the lighter again. You watch as the flame is sucked toward the bowl, igniting the contents and bringing them to a dull simmer.Thumb twitching on the carb and pinkie pulled away, he inhales, letting his head lull back on the seat of his chair. After a few seconds and a suppressed cough or two, he leans forward and exhales, sending a splay of thick, billowing smoke directly into your face.

You turn your head, watery eyes clinging shut, but it’s not enough to keep the acrid stench from clogging through your sinuses. It constricts your throat, compelling an instinctive cough from deep in your chest. Whatever it is he’s smoking, it’s strong.

His high pitched laugh echoes off the barren walls of his room as you scrunch your nose and try to disperse the smoke pooled in your face. When the air finally clears, he’s leaning toward you, arms resting on his knees with the pipe in one hand and his lighter in the other. The little embers still burn beneath the lip of the bowl, little grey spirals rising up from the still burning plant clusters.

He holds it out to you (as if you could take it with your hands restrained behind your back), hyena-grinning as you scowl up towards him.

“You should try a little. It might make you a little more-” Pausing, he pretends to be in thought. More mockery, you really wish you were desensitized to it by now. “-friendly.”

“I would have been friendly if you hadn’t kidnapped me like some sort of psychopath!”

He rolls his eyes at your outburst, languidly pushing himself off of his dilapidated computer chair and crouching down next to you instead. You know better than to kick at him, he won’t hesitate to break your legs to keep you in line. All you can do is stare at him nervously as he shakes his shaggy pale hair out over his forehead, still sporting that unnerving expression. His scarlet eyes burn arguably brighter than fire from the pipe, and exponentially more threatening.

He moves a little closer into your space, bringing the piece back up to his lips and lighting it up once again. He takes a deep inhale this time, even deeper than the first. Chest puffed and breath held, his lanky arm reaches out back behind him places the still-burning pipe back on the desk, gaze never leaving yours.You figure he’s going to blow it in your face again, either to be annoying or to try and give you some sort of shitty second rate high to make you more malleable.

It’s obnoxious, but not even close to the worst thing he’s done to you.

Yet, his cold, dry fingers grab at your jaw, forcing you to keep your attention on him. A chipped nail from his thumb prods at your lower lip and you realize he wants you to open your mouth. You could tell him to go fuck himself, but that only gives him what he wants, if only for a moment. Instead, you choose to glower at him.

If looks could kill, he would probably keel over, but unfortunately you live in a world where he has the upper hand. He squints at you, something you know would be equally as furious as your own grimace if his features had the freedom to express it. The fingers on your chin clamp down, digging into your soft skin in a bruising grip. The more you defy him, the more he punishes you, and his large hands have more than the power they need to cause you pain.

Eventually you feel your jaw start to crack. You try to hold out, try to stay your ground, but it becomes too much. Between his brutal strength and your already weakened condition, it’s no use fighting him on something he really wants.

You open your mouth, if only to cry in pain, and he immediately crashes his lips against yours.Teeth clack as you try to shake him off, but it’s too late. He’s breathing his air into your lungs, caustic mixture of the taste of the weed and the bitter scent of his breath swirling deep inside you. You try to heave it back at him, but the damage is done. Smoke barely seeps from the tiny cracks he allows between your faces, and your need to breathe is stronger than your ability to fight, so eventually, you relent.

You gulp the air he gives you down, just wanting him to get the fuck away from you. You can feel his lips quirk in a smile as you fight the urge to spit up from the foul scent of his exhale, ripped and bloodied lips scratching against yours. Eventually when he does pull away from you, you go into a hysterical coughing fit and between your bouts, you can hear him cackle.

You finally manage to calm yourself, but whatever it is he’s made you inhale, it’s strong. Stronger than anything you’re used to. Even second hand, your head is already humming, and you can feel your chest tighten against your will.

“You feel it, don’t you?” High pitched giggling and a weirdly gentle brush of a hand across your buzzing, swollen cheek. You go to swat him off, hissing in pain when the metal edge round holding you back cuts into an already existing cut. “Soon you won’t have any fight left in you at all.”

He leaves you alone for a minute, door clicking behind him. You catch your breath in his absence, eyes scanning your surroundings. You look for something, anything he has left within your reach that you can use to escape. It’s what you do during the exceedingly brief moments he’s not around, and so far, it hasn’t yielded any results, but you refuse to give up.

The curtains likely mean that there’s presumably a window behind there. If you can just get free, you might be able to jump out. Problem is you’re stuck with your hands restrained behind you on a metal bed post. It doesn’t matter how much you kick and scream, no one ever comes, so it’s probably safe to say whoever is below or above you doesn’t give a shit. You need to get out of these cuffs.

He smokes, at least occasionally. He’s probably got a bobby pin around here for scraping. If he’s anything like your mates, they probably litter the floor. To be fair, even if you get one, you don’t really know what to do with it. You could try your hand at lockpicking?

Heh. Hand. Get it? Cause all those hands?

Focus.

The biggest problem right now is the handcuffs. Technically, you could get out of them, but you’d have to disjoint your fingers to do it, which takes away from your already pathetic chances at escaping. It hurts to move your wrists, let alone yank on them. Why the fuck did this asshole have handcuffs anyway? Unless he’s doing some kinky shit in his down time. You wouldn’t put it past him, he’s obviously a weird guy. He seems like the type to be into some dirty stuff. You don’t know who with, but there’s probably villain fuckers out there he could find and take advantage of. Gross.

You audibly laugh.That’s funny.That’s really funny. You don’t know why, but the thought makes you giggle uncontrollably. Your mind refuses to stay on track.

Fucking focus!

Somewhere far away, you hear the door open and his heavy footsteps off to the side of you. Too late. You’re still laughing.

“Hey Shigaraki-”

He’s leaning down next to you, fucking with something behind you. Your hands. He’s messing around your hands. He’s cold. Why are his hands always so goddamn cold? Is that why he’s a villain? Cold hands? That would make you a villain too.

Your head feels several sizes too big, and you can’t help but think about how he smells like dust. Everything feels slow. You can feel your heart pumping. You can hear it too.

“-You should like, just let me go.That would be kinda cool. My hands hurt.”

You don’t notice they aren’t even cuffed anymore, or that he’s scooping you up in his arms and gently placing you on his bed.

“Don’t try to fight, now. You need a tolerance to before it’ll feel normal. You’ll only hurt yourself, and that would be such a shame.”

You can tell he’s mocking you again, but you just chortle because the words are processing like a slurry. The back of your head feels so soft. It’s definitely not the awful metal he’s made you crick your neck on the past little while. He’s touching your arms and it tickles. Flashes of his face play in your mind a little slower than they’re probably actually happening. It’s terrifying, but the fear doesn’t register. You wanna touch his face. You bet it feels funny.

You can hear the click of handcuffs again, and you know he’s cuffed you once again (so rude), just somewhere new now. Your fingers grip and you feel metal bars. A bed frame. Again. Uuugh. You kick your feet a little and they bounce off the mattress. Bouncy.

There’s a weight shift near your feet, and before you can really understand what’s happening, he’s on top of you, face hovering less than an inch above yours. Your cheeks are burning as his flaxen hair tickles and curtains you, and no matter how hard you want to, you can’t stop staring at his eyes. They’re so fucking intense you swear they scorch you. Like an abyss, you feel yourself being swallowed inside them as they stare long into you. Hate. Rage. So much embodied negativity you can practically feel it. Panic blooms in your chest but your body is reacting too slow. All you can do is squirm.

“Shh-” He’s caged your head in his arms, and his breath is glossing your cheek, just as sour as before but somehow you know what’s about to happen is much worse than forcefully smoking you out. “This’ll be much better for you if you relax and give in. Who knows? You could even enjoy it.”

He grinds his clothed pelvis into yours, and while somewhere inside your head, sirens are blaring, all your body can process is pressure against your most sensitive area. You whine, and he takes the opportunity to press his lips to yours again. Your mouth is slack and moist, so it’s nice and easy for him to slide his slimy, disgusting tongue down your throat. With your brain short circuiting from both shock and whatever he’s made you consume, your body doesn’t have enough control over its facilities to fight back.

He kisses you long and hard, if you can call whatever he’s doing to you kissing. It’s more like he’s trying to devour you. Sloppy, wet, and possessive, like he’s trying to choke you with his essence. It could have been a minute. It could have been hours. You don’t know.

When he does finally pull away, you can feel your stomach lurch as he laps at the string of spit that connects you to him, but you only blink your eyes wearily despite your extreme bodily reaction. You feel sleepy, or more accurately, your eyelids feel kinda heavy. Really heavy. Something visceral is telling you to stay awake, to keep fighting, but you just can’t. You can hear yourself speak but you don’t even know what you’re saying. You don’t remember.

“You’re cute like this, all spacey and stupid.” He flicks your forehead and your eyes flicker back open, but only briefly. “I guess it hit you kinda hard, huh? Sorry about that. I should have warned you. It must’ve slipped my mind.”

He presses his mouth to yours again, a little softer this time. You’re almost out at this point, everything feels so heavy. So sluggish. You barely feel his long, thin fingers glide slowly up your shirt.

“I think you could come to like it here with me if you stop being stubborn. But that’s okay. I forgive you. Like I told you before. I’m patient. I’ll do whatever it takes.”