Villain - Tumblr Posts
Hello.This was just an idea that I've made reality.I think i have seen something ike this somewhere,idk.Go ahead and use it it's FREE.Just mention me in the caption on social media, so I can see your masterpiece.USE IT!
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Execu-deceased
Hey! Im really new here, i mean, this is my first post but i couldn't let this moment pass so here i am!
Until Dawn is my favorite game and i like to draw so why not put them both together?
Day 3 is "Favourite Villain" and i drew him... i dont think about him as a real villain, he didnt know what the consequences would be, he deserved a better treatment and a better ending
Anyway, bye! (i just discovered a typo there but i drew it with my finger and broken phone so give me a break pls 😭)
help
I have fallen for him
and I’m probably never getting up ever again
It always annoys me when villains in children’s shows are so pathetic. They’re like “yes I am the most evil thing there is” but the most they do is inconvenience the protagonist, and mostly they just sit back and send some clone to do the dirty work. Like I know these are for children, but I really just want a villain that’s actually evil. I think I’m just looking in the wrong place but I don’t know where to actually look.
When will I get to be the sexy villain that lounges on an ornate throne, smirking evilly in a way that makes the protagonist’s mouth go dry as they start to question what they’re willing to risk for a single touch, and at the end I leave my empire to be with the protagonist but I never leave my evil ways behind and they still accept me for it because I want to live in that world
Lotta True Crime by Penelope Scott
Well I hope this doesn’t seem too impolite
But Ted Bundy was just never that fuckin’ bright
He was just sorta charismatic and white, alright?
And he was so fuckin’ sure he had the right
But he's ugly, and I’m glad he’s dead
'Cause there was no fuckin’ candle in his pumpkin head
You’re not special for winning a game
With someone who you know was never playing
Shane Walsh
Philip Blake *The Governor*
Don & Joe (Claimers)
Simon
Dawn Lerner
Merle Dixon
Alpha
Beta
Owen (Wolves)
BONUS**
(He's not dead yet so he doesn't really count)
Negan Smith
Blame
Work #1 | copyright to saturnfairycat
Author's Note: What's this??? Different from archives again????? This one I feel like is an "official" work, but not for the webtoon- just work of my own. It is pretty long (6 pages on google docs). So here is a debrief before we jump right in. Debrief: Word count: 3,279 Warnings: Death, sensitive content, flashbacks. Enjoy! 🐇
Blame
It’s been weeks. I can’t sleep. I can barely close my eyes without picturing the pool of blood. Shit.
Drowning my cries with wine and celebration, I feel like a siren who never was meant for the sea. Drawn to the one thing that would kill it. I wish it will kill me. Please.
“Gather around!” said my lover. Oh, how beautiful she is. Like the brightest sunflower in a field of them, too beautiful to be plucked from its stem. She belongs where she roots— she will wilt otherwise. A group of wild, curious children squeals as they run up to her, sitting down in front of her with glistening eyes of wonder. She giggled, eye wrinkles forming ever so slightly as her eyelashes flutter down to touch her soft skin.
The hall was full today, everyone was still celebrating the conquest of the kingdom— being the third day in a row. Too quiet at home, too loud in the streets; the great castle hall was the only place left for a crook such as I.
“Now…” she leans down, seeing eye to eye with a few of the kids that were really close to her feet. “Who would like to hear about the great adventures of our hero?!” The kids laughed as they cheered, fueling her craving to entertain. “What adventure would it be today, little ones?”
A lot of them spoke at once, it was inaudible what all the requests were— it was doing my head in. Ringing in the ears, I clench my jaw as I lift my cup for another round of alky. I shut my eyes in frustration, trying to ignore the noise— it’s difficult when they are only a few feet away from me.
The glimpse of a corpse’s mouth filled with tainted blood, drooling down to paint their teeth and chin red welcomes me into the darkness. Their glossy eyes beckon me with guilt, they scream fear. I choke at the thought, drowning in the sea during a storm. My eyes shoot open as I bang my chest rapidly, thundering my racing heart.
She was too busy to notice, glancing left to right as she drank in the requests. She said nothing until one stood out to her.
“The fight between our hero and the villain!” shouted a kid from the back. The surrounding kids registered the suggestion and nodded along before shouting the same thing moments later. Soon, all were shouting the same thing— gaining attention from surrounding adults.
She grins, raising her hands to get them to calm down. “What a wonderful suggestion! It is personally my favourite tale, too!” She gets comfortable in her seat, looking up for the first time to meet eyes with mine. Her eyes twinkle, if it was any other day— it would’ve made my stomach do backflips. But today, it makes me sick. I dig my nails into my thighs, forgetting that my leather pants were made by her, forgetting that I cared for such sentiment.
She looks back down excitedly, her voice pitches as she announces: “I remember like it was just yesterday, but there is still the chance I will get things wrong! But fear not! Our brilliant hero is here to correct me if I am mistaken.”
She gestures to me, I hide my bewilderment as both children and adults alike turn their heads in my direction. I clear my throat, raising my cup in acknowledgment. It was her turn to clear her throat, receiving all their attention once more. My shoulders relax a bit, trying to ease tension for what is about to happen next.
“Now… It was a beautiful night.” her arms gracefully entailed her words, mesmerising them into the story. “...After finding out where the villain was hiding— we decided to give them the pleasure with a visit this time round.” She smirked darkly, setting the mood even more. “For once, they didn’t expect us— but the sly fox still had tricks up their sleeve.”
My heart was hammering against my ribcage; my head felt light as blood rushed to my head. The audience wasn’t the only ones imagining the tale, I was as well.
The smell of cinnamon and mint when we sneaked into their house— the hazy atmosphere from the mist that was indulged with candles, the sound of vinyl in the background. The threat of my knees caving in as I crept up the stairs; the perverted feeling that clung to my skin as framed pictures past the corner of my eye. My friend’s hand tightly grabbed onto the back of my shirt, following me like a leech that was scared to be shaken off their host.
Millions of thoughts had rushed to my head, I had calculated every single outcome possible.
All but one.
“He howled like a siren, drawing us in.” my lover pretended to claw at one of the kids that had started to lean against her leg. “He was bathing, we had chosen the perfect time to strike!” The audience laughed at his mockery. My breathing stifled at their response. For once, her storytelling didn’t hold any justice.
He was soaking in soapy water, rosemary and bubbles were floating on the surface. He sang. And oh stars, he sure knew how to sing. He put the vinyl that was playing downstairs to shame, he sang like the heavens were listening. We stood in front of the half-closed bathroom door, witnessing his shadowed figure massaging his scalp. He sighed as he caught his breath, he swayed with the beat in his head.
This isn’t the villain I know. I remember thinking at the time. Who is he?
“We charged forward, ordering him to surrender.” Her tone strengthened as her face turned stern, perfecting the role of acting. “His face painted fear, we thought we had caught him at last!”
Lies.
His face was struck with horror and shame. My friend pushed me aside, slamming the door open as he pointed his sword at him. The others heard the commotion and were making their way up the stairs as he froze in place. I stood where I had been the whole time, like a mere bystander that got off to seeing people suffer. His face grimaced with betrayal; his eyes were screaming out with shock— how was it possible for heroes to stoop lower than the villain?
I hissed as I lifted my cup once more, sight being blinded by the high ceiling lights. My throat burned; my legs shook.
She continued.
“We had him cornered! He was scrambling! But we trap and crush cockroaches with no trouble.” She raised her voice: “He ought to surrender! But he didn’t?!” She glanced at some of the adults. “He ended up playing dirty.”
He grabbed at the shower curtain as more of us entered the bathroom, he yanked it down to cover his waist— his tattoos kissed the edge of his shoulders in the moonlight. He scowled at us, cursing our bloodlines as he stood up. I looked away, staring down the dark hallway in panic— this isn’t what I planned to happen. Just as my eyes lost sight of him, he lit the bathroom on fire.
Perfumed smoke forced its way down my throat. I inhaled the sweet, charcoal scent as I gasped for air. Everyone ran out before being engulfed, stumbling downstairs to seek lower ground. The dried flowers and herbs were scattered on the bathroom floor, flames dancing across each petal as it blazed. I stared bewildered, looking up to see equally fiery eyes. He looked at me in fear for the first time; he looked at me in disgust.
“We rushed to safety, planning the next steps forward…” She had risen now, acting out movement and grace. “Our hero was still upstairs, eyeing down the weak villain.”
He overpowered me with ease.
He stood out of the bathtub, clinching the shower curtain as he crushed the burning herbs with his bare feet. He never broke eye contact as he started walking out of the bathroom. My legs finally moved, stepping in front of the burning bathroom. Towering over me, he looked down with pity— his hair dripped water that fell onto my ashamed face.
“Move, bunny,” he said quietly.
“N-no,” I fired back.
He sighed— with one hand, he shoved me aside. His feet planted onto the cool wood boards, looking down the stairs while thinking to himself. I charged forward, breathing rapidly as I aimed my hand to hit the back of his neck. He caught my hand without even regarding me, turning around moments later to slam me on the corresponding wall— arm restricted above my head.
“I am warning you,” he said. “That’s enough. I am done with you.”
He let go of me, walking down the dark hallway that was now filled with smoke.
“They fought as they escaped the smoke, but the villain was leading her down a trap!” She was standing behind me now. As she played out the scene, she slowly made her way to me in a way for me to contribute. “But oh, nothing was too witty for our lovely hero.” Her soft hands cupped my shoulders, I winced at her touch.
I remember reluctantly running after him, coughing up my certainty as he neared the door at the end. He stopped to open the door, I stopped to keep my distance. The door revealed stairs, leading upwards— to the attic. He turned to me, his face blank like the dead.
“Are you coming?” he questioned.
I followed as my answer.
The attic was undoubtedly his office, papers were everywhere and ink bottles were stacked on the shelves. The church-like stained glass window shone a shadow of colour on the floor, and he walked into the light. He looked down at a particular piece of paper beneath him, before stepping over it and crossing the other half of the room. He opened the wardrobe leaning against the parallel wall, the doors swang open with a thud— making me jump.
It was filled with cloaks and suits, majestic outfits for a majestic villain. He picked out a deep sapphire suit, attached to a dark red cloak. He paid me no regard once more, walking to a part of the room that was secluded. His muscles flexed as his face drew frustrated; his chest heaved when he stepped on his papers by accident. I stared out the window as he disappeared, still too shocked to speak or move on my own accord.
He gritted his teeth when he came out, dressed to impress. He must have found fitting shoes back there because his swollen feet were now replaced by clicks and clacks. His coarse fingers brushed through his damp hair, staring me down as he reached for his pocket.
“He had a secret weapon, see! Our villains have always been known for their bows and arrows, but this villain was especially known for his–”
Poison.
He drank from the small bottle that came from his pocket, dark lashes lifted as he spat it out towards my face. I finally moved, dodging the deadly splash as I drew out my sword— my eyebrows furrowed as I leaned down to an attacking stance. And all he did was smirk, he tossed the glass bottle aside as he drew out his own sword— it was green, no— not the blade, but the poison that covered it.
“They fought while we were clearing the fire— as they fought, the house shook from their attacks.” She pretended to wobble, holding on to me dramatically for support, receiving hearty laughter from her crowd.
“Just like old times, huh?” he shouted. He swung his sword towards my neck, which I reflected by swinging my sword back using my core strength. We were inches apart as we battled, our swords intertwined and made a horrible noise. I kicked at his abdomen, retreating slightly to catch my breath.
“I remember how you used to loathe me,” he paused. “How you were dead-set on defeating me.”
He doused his blade in more poison before continuing. “I always wondered why.”
I paid him no mind, swinging my sword forward as my heels tried digging into the floorboards. His face furrowed, irritated that I did not reply— he deflected my blow with his blade. We were in a stalemate once more, my arms shook against his strength. He looked down at me again, in pity. His nondominant hand lets go of his blade to grab at my face, making sure I wasn’t going to look away from him.
“Why do you use your arrogance but never your words?” he sighed.
“...He was getting tired— mostly due to the fact he swallowed his poison by mistake,” my lover smirked. “It didn’t take much more for our hero to take him down— especially considering that he was spending no effort in his usual mind games.”
“I’m quite disappointed in you, little hero,” he said mockingly. “How is it that you only wait for the perfect stimuli and then take action— rather than being your own person and making your own choices without environmental factors weighing you down?” He shoved my face away, he shifted his body weight onto his hip so he could exert more powerful blows. I was coughing, struggling to keep up with his strikes and lashes. “Provided by the fact you stood there stupidly as you watched me stroll around my office changing into my clothes.”
“How is it, you blame everyone but yourself?” he added. “Oh, don’t give me that look. I know your lovely little reputation of being a selfless, kind saviour— but in reality, when things start burning up in flames…you attempt to point fingers at everyone around you for ‘forcing’ you to make the choices you did.”
He kicked at my blade, my wrist bends unnaturally as I feel a tendon snap. I glared at him, with less anger but more fear. He used it as his fuel, as his saving point— he was playing chess with my mind… and winning.
“...Do you blame me for the death of your lover?”
I ceased.
“What-?”
“And then… there was silence,” my lover whispered. “It was strange, the house wasn’t shaking anymore— and we didn’t hear anything from either of the two.” She glanced down at me, smiling warmly before continuing. “We assumed the hero had won.”
He chuckled, and his laugh progressed to become more and more maniacal as he stared at my mazed face. He held his stomach, his dark curls shook as his shoulders moved with his lungs.
“Don’t try and act innocent now,” he finally spoke out. “I knew that your poor, precious lover was actually dead— god forbid that she should’ve just been laid to rest.” My eyes widened as he continued to speak, my mind screaming at him saying NO. “You blamed everyone,” he said. “And you couldn’t accept that the only person who actually tried loving you died.”
He reached into his pocket for more poison, but soon realised he had none left— and sighed. “Are you a believer in God, bunny?” he questioned. “No? …Hm. Well, do you like to play God, bunny?”
He stepped forward.
“Playing her great God? Digging up her flowery grave and replanting life into a wilted sunflower?” he spat out. “You’re sickening. A grave digger AND a cruel personification of a necromancer.” He came closer. I lifted my arms out in front of my face in shaky fear.
“You forced her to be happy when she took her life because she wasn’t,” he said, looking down at me once more. “Everyone thinks she was just blessed by the Gods in the clouds, giving another chance at life— no suspicion rose whatsoever. How did you revive her? Are you a necromancer?”
I stared blankly at him, breathing heavily as he looked at me with impatience.
“Not going to tell me your pity secrets, huh?” he spat out. “I figured as much, but wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt.” He sighed, leaning down so our noses were inches apart.
“Do you still loathe me, bunny?” he asked. “Well? Do you still blame me for the death of your lover?”
“But then… there was a sudden CRASH!” my lover shouted, slamming her fists onto the table in front of me, all the cups and plates wobbled at the intensity. “We came racing up— fearing for our hero!”
I stabbed him.
I jumped at him, forcing him to crash down onto the wooden floorboards. I clawed at his face while my sword twisted into his intestines. I scratched at his throat as I yelled at him. My mind was hazy, it must have been the smoke at the time. I was angry. Beyond angry. How dare he. How dare he?! HE was the one my lover loved, but he broke her heart by murdering the people from his past… she was a person from his past. She knew them. The dead ones. Every single one of them. Revenge was sweeter to him than love. Toying with people in a way to bring forth meaning and punishment to the word for their sins. She did nothing wrong. Nothing. Just another pawn for his plans.
He reminds me of the devil.
But I loved him. Even before her—I loved him first. She didn’t know, but he knew— and he loved me back. But I pushed him away. I was foolish when it came to love. And he was cold when it came to mercy. I pushed him towards her, she loved him, afterall— because she was a sunflower that looked for the sun, not a siren.
But then, sunflowers became my favourite flower.
They’re bright, special, and yello–
…
…there was red.
…
“We rushed up the strange staircase, smelling pungent chemicals and sourness—” my lover urged. “When we had reached the top, we saw the victory— we saw our hero still alive with the evil man finally defeated.”
No.
Nonononononono. Oh no. Oh god.
No please–
He just laid there. His face facing to one side; his glossy eyes stared into the deep space of nothingness. His mouth was slightly agape, and a pool of blood mixed with a hint of his green poison fell from his lips and down his chin. I sat on top of him, looking down at his lifeless body.
My eyes strayed from what was in front of me to one of the many papers scattered across the floor. It was the same paper as he glanced down at beforehand. It was a sketch of me, drawn specific to detail and flattery. His signature kissed the edge of my shoulder.
“...Do you blame me for the death of your lover?”
“..We saved the kingdom! We brought justice back home,” she announced happily. “We united everyone sane and kind to become one kingdom, so we could work together in harmony.” She pressed her lips together before smiling. “Hail to our hero!”
“Long live the hero!” chanted everyone in the hall.
I wish I had drowned in his poison.
***
Most of the kids were taken by the hand of their parents and went home. A lot of the drunks were snoring near the fireplaces. My lover sang to me as she brushed my hair out.
“You know, you remind me of a rabbit,” she pointed out. “You’re quick, smart, adorable… and have really fluffy hair!”
I stare at her, half registering what she was telling me.
“You’re my amazing little bunny,” she giggled. “I love you, bunny.”
I bit my lip in suffocation.
“...I love you too, sunflower.”
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🌻
Winged
Work #3 | copyright to saturnfairycat
Author's Note: this is one of my biggest works. I really hope you enjoy this one. This is inspired by the Obsession poem series. Debrief: Word count: 1694 Warnings: gore, horror, death, sensitive topics.
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Winged
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'Do you see her flying?'
Is all of a brusque rhetoric opine. Even the blind could descry such a figure.
Biblically meticulous angels are a frightening, foreign perception for the faint of heart. But a feminine adolescent human with ivory, coriaceous wings? A sight for sore eyes, a sight to behold. Uncorrupted and innocent, dove-like as a symbol of societal freedom and peace. A pleaser designed by birth to conjure movement and enthrallment for the ravenous. A perishable's dream bride, adorned with white like untouched snow on the first night of winter.
Kings have egos. Compelled to order and empower by any means necessary. Vestal subjects have pride. Their crest adorned with white is comparable to celestial tears. Combatants have glory, taking— saving— risking lives by ineludible ordinance. And evil? All they have is revenge.
Scarlet wounds, blood vessels ripped apart unseemly by brute force. A perfect canvas, stained and poisoned by acid rain. Tainted with colour, her dress subsumes the surrounding ichor from the broken statue. If it wasn't for the gore giving away the depiction of clay and adroitness, she would've been a Renaissance angel built to be worshipped like the holiness structure itself. The venerable church has been home to the slain of sin, the keeper of the sorrow and celebration of nuptials. Its outer walls creak and moan at the sounds of howling winds, angered at the sight inside the chambers of salvation. High ceilings may have constructed envy to those whose house is neither grand nor tall enough to withhold such metaphorical heights of a ceiling— likewise a telling of the staircase to the heavens above.
The beams are indestructible by delineation, holding the shouldering weight of the god's misfortune of reckless decision-making. Howbeit, ladders like vines on great oak trees enable worshippers to maintain the tidiness of the “humble” estate; the beams are wide enough to dance to the opera choir singing, whose dedication to the ones living in the unbothered clouds. For someone to climb up the vines to reach the tallest branches on the great oak is a possibility within a thousand coin flips, though ought to question the means behind such a purpose is certain. Revenge is a rather peculiar sin, anyone could imagine it as such. The drive behind it is sorrowful to the do-er, but judgement day does not care for the iniquitous.
Revenge creates motivation, determination is effectual. To train like a knight, one can easily carry a dead weight on their cracked shoulders up the staircase to heaven. To study with pride, one would know what people see as their true saviours— their delusional hallucinatory of an angel. How to dress, how to please. White and lacy as a wedding dress, pure and lush as a celibate.
The victim?
How curious, the devil pondered. Perhaps a pleaser at heart? As such:
A devoted woman to her word, a persona whose love for the weak and vulnerable is overpowering. Like spiked wine, a goblet filled with luxurious liquid gold— misleading from its appearance— a perfect femme fatale. Its insides tell its truth, how we're all the same within— an inescapable peracute. But who said to drink it? Use it for self delectation? What a poor magnificent object, she doesn't want to be mere treasure. She is the perfect vestal subject, what more could you want? Perhaps she is more fitting as a villain, always seeking more. Greedy, much?
Yes, a perfect sacrifice indeed. An impeccable example of the ambition of a “devil”'s revenge. A church can have followers, so a mere cult can be concordant. While the title of being a cult is a fragment of exaggeration, the apostles will work well in such a plan. They, the misfortunate, seek the pained for comfort… paltry sympathy can only do so much, however. But it's only just sufficient enough. Manipulation? How insulting. Ultimately, it is up to those who seek change to take heed. Hide fleetingly, pretend to associate with everyone just like in the old days. The crowd knows when to act.
Evil can kill, there is nothing else to it. Have you ever wondered how it feels to bathe in virgin blood? It's disappointing, such fuss for it is foolish. The only real kick was the twisted face of telling. That face alone is a blank, pitiful canvas turned into the definition of art itself. Oh, you could paint a thousand frescoes with such an expression. It doesn't disturn her prepossessing features, but it does make her look older. Such complicated, big emotions shouldn't even be within reach for such a young fawn. In another life, surely her underlying intelligence would serve others more than just being a lap to cry on, but in this taken existence— her sheltered mind breaks from the sudden intensity of trahison des clercs. This isn't what her story was supposed to be in her eyes. Ah, regrettable unfortunate. ‘Not favoured by fortune, was she?’, the fallen angel cruelly smirked at the thought.
The evisceration was excessively long. The risk of blood ruining the white was too prodigious, though such fastidious concerns were needless in the end— her neck provided enough liquid genealogy, painting the front of her dress crimson. The colour of hell, of sin. The tainted heaven, the poisoned goblet. Her wings were made from dove feathers, plucked with attention to detail— a maiden in a meadow, choosing and picking the best of flowers could not compare. The bone structure of the wings was genius, specific bones were chosen from certain organisms to create a grand juxtaposition from angel to bird. Sticking each chosen feather to the structure was tedious, but a hyper-fixed maniac does not sway from such work. Inspired by the Winged Victory of Samothrace, the wings belong on her back. But her impressive bone anatomy is in the way...
...with the scapulae removed, the wings fitted with such grace and ease. Death has blessed her with paleness, such colour is the reminiscence of a statue. But her wasted life must be highlighted, must be remembered. Just like all those Renaissance angel paintings, after all— that is the only perception of angels that people will embrace.
It is always about beauty and selflessness, never should one ought to become a fallen one.
Tough to touch, the rope that scratched up skin with small amounts of friction has proven to be practical. A satirical necklace for her elegant neck— tied down to halt the escape of her soul to the sky above. Wings may have been granted, but freedom of flying is not an option. But one as kind and saving as her needs a taster of such, the vines are no competition of strength with her figure in the devil's grasp. The perception of the stairway to heaven is certainly a sight of lush imagination, except the beams are thrilling as a ballroom for the bride-to-be and the avenger. Humming, content with glee; evil looks down to the church below, to where the mighty cross stands at the front of the sect.
Their creation is more impressive, without the use of a single nail. Prideful, the striking idea of overshadowing the lord himself is great. Tying the knot where evil saw fit, the weeping angel longed for the higher stakes before being pushed down, down to her fate. For a second, the wings may have tried to lift the dead and fly up— but the crushing weight of sorrow brought both down with a crack of bone. Her neck crooked, leaning to the left with no resting place for her head, she floats in front of her lord. Her feet swayed slightly, still savouring the dance from before as blood dripped from her blue-hue toes. Such pale eyes never saw the light of the sun again without the stained church glass praying through.
***
The morning prayers, on time as usual for another hour of adored hope from the public. The doors opened, creaking and moaning its warning. The crowd is loud, chatting and laughing with optimistic cravings for their future. A future that she will never see. The crowd silences, and the cessation of movement brings shock and dread to the hearts of his lord's worshippers. She hangs in front of their eyes from afar, suppressed into death. It was when her guts came with a sickening "splat" onto the ground beneath her feet from her tedious exoneration that broke the silence. It was heaven's gift to them, the insides that paint the truth of the world… which they did not accept. There was then shrieking– some are praying, some have become sick– while the followers, the actors— they chanted at the sacrifice, sang with glee.
All was in chaos until he, the evil, the devil himself— slid down from the oak ladder. One of his sinful hands still grasped at the ladder as his heels clicked onto the cool, stone-tiled floor. Some of his leeching zealots pointed at him, eager to know his final motive.
Why such a plan? Why such a sacrifice?
Sick revenge for mortals that need to be taught a lesson.
Would they finally get it? Would they finally understand the suffering?
No.
They never do. They never pay attention until it’s too late.
Gritting his teeth while his jaw clenches at the strike of realisation, he turns away from the selfish sinners. Has all his cruelty to her been all for nothing? His free, bloody hand carries a singular candle— which he tosses at the corpse. She lights up in flames, her laced dress burning into black ash as it climbs up her strained body. He looks in awe at his doing, the followers are shaken to their core. The thrown candle had crashed onto a parallel wall from directly hitting the “effigy”, miraculously causing arson, thus setting fire to the church itself. All his cruelty to her will not be all for nothing. The church doors slam shut behind the crowd, beckoning them in. As the house of holiness burns up to hell’s temperatures— he, who has been staring at her the whole time, finally questions the followers and himself:
'Do you see her flying?'
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Villain Deku
My version of villain Deku, the villain Dokuhebi: Taipan! (Also known as Doku, meaning poisonous). You can find him in my fic The Dead Cannot Cry
And a quick sketch of loser Shigaraki >:)