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@fukuchissword
I didn't read the novels that take place in the fourth period so I don't know how much do they know about the previous worlds. But what if people in the fourth period somehow actually know about the seven deadly sins and the seven sinners but only surface level knowlegde and reduce them to one or two traits. I mean exactly like the popular mischaraterizations in real life.
Not only did mama raise a quitter, but she also raised a procrastinator, people-pleaser, doormat, coward, and liar, and you can’t put a price on that
OSS TAROT
18. The moon | 19. The sun
HEAR ME OUT.
NEMESIS SUDOU WITH DID (dissociative identity disorder)
and some of the supernatural encounters she had are actually her alters , like Hansel and Gretel
タワー
Tower
Everytime I see someone complain about stuff in the Vocaloid community (examples: rabbit hole being too explicit or Vocaloid as a genre being stereotyped as either extremely cute or suddenly dark) I just want to drag them into the EC rabbit hole and watch them react like the gates of hell have opened before their eyes.
I've been reading horror and mature fiction since childhood so for me treating Evillious like it's some epitome of dark media or too intense to handle is just, really unrelatable.
タワー
Tower
"do you take art requests? if you do, you should draw adam and seth!!"
"Sorry my request box is closed….Then again, it has been a while since I drew anything EC related, maybe I’ll make this an exception."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I know that my request box is indefinitely closed, but I decided to be a little generous with Tumblr user @fukuchissword and do a request drawing, in part due to me wanting to do some Evillious art again since it's been a long time.
Anyways, they didn't mention how I draw Adam and Seth, so I improvised by drawing them "taking a photo together" with the former wanting the joyful Demon of Sin dead.
what if adam and eve actually acted like siblings and were best friends instead of lovers and never got seperated and grew up together and enjoyed their lives and nothing bad happened to them ever and they could do anything and and and
Hii I was the one who asked earlier abt Levia incarnations , tysm for ur opinion !!
If u don’t mind , I wanna know whats ur reasoning for ur answer ⁉️ im quite interested in Elluka herself so
I mean like I said I don't think either of them are really more like Levia than the other. Elluka is a slackoff who coasts on natural talent, is vain and obsessed with her looks and yet also has 0 shame about how she behaves around others. Levia was a child prodigy highly driven by knowledge, apparently sensitive to social embarrassment (if her relationship with Behemo is indication of anything) and with a high propensity for self-delusion. The things she seems to have in common with Elluka involve being short-tempered, stubborn, and (in Held's words), "hysterical". Elluka also has a desire to do the right thing, is prickly with people but forms enduring loyalties with them, and keeps most of her pain to herself--we can maybe assume that Levia has these traits but we don't really know her that well.
The thing is that Elluka is the character we met first. She is the one we have spent the most time bonding with. Narratively, what we know about Elluka and her personality is a heavy influence in how we then perceive Levia, who has almost no screentime by comparison. Do you see?
Nemesis has the benefit of being a twist incarnation so we spend a bit more time with her as a character before we're influenced by the knowledge that she is Levia, though I'd argue that twist is easy enough to spot a mile away. I think really Nemesis exists to flesh out the negative traits Levia has that Elluka doesn't--fill in the other half of her character, as it were. That's why Levia spends so much time psychoanalyzing her for Allen's/the audience's benefit.
So, in short--Elluka and Nemesis are more similar to Levia than they are to each other. For Elluka it's because we are naturally going to see Levia and think "this is where Elluka gets it from" and for Nemesis I think a huge role of her character is fleshing out the "world-destroyer" aspect of Levia for us.
— FINISHED PAINTINGS
ᡣ𐭩 how you and older toji met
not nsft, mature content
𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑩𝑬𝑳𝑶𝑵𝑮 𝑰𝑵 𝑴𝒀 𝑪𝑳𝑨𝑺𝑺
FEATURING : Yandere!Professor Anaxagoras (Honkai: Star Rail) X Female Reader.
WARNINGS : Contains explicit sexual content, professor/student, psychological tension, obsessive behaviour, dubcon undertones, and possessive intimacy. This is a work of fiction meant for mature audiences only (18+). Do not read if you are uncomfortable with manipulation, non-verbal consent, or dominant-submissive undertones within academic settings.
✧ SYNOPSIS : You never meant to catch the attention of Professor Anaxagoras. You were just another name on his list—until his gaze found yours in the second row and never let go. At first, it was academic. Specific. Focused. But when the syllabus began to mirror your thoughts and your name echoed in every lecture, it stopped feeling like coincidence. Now, every word he speaks feels like a test you didn’t agree to take. Every stare, a quiet unraveling. And when you’re finally left alone in his office, with nowhere else to run, you learn exactly how far obsession can hide beneath professionalism—until you’re pinned under it, breathless, and marked as his. You should have walked away. But you didn’t.
WORD COUNT : 2163
Enjoy :>
—
The first time Professor Anaxagoras walked into the lecture hall, you didn’t expect to feel anything. After all, he was just another name on your schedule—an elective you’d added last-minute, the sort of course you assumed would be all dense theory and dry readings. You didn’t know what he looked like. You hadn’t bothered to search his face. But the moment he entered the room, the air changed. Something about the way he moved—precise, purposeful—cut through the student chatter like a blade through silk. He carried no laptop. No bag. Only a leather folder and a pen that gleamed faintly in the light. His coat was folded over his arm, and his shirt cuffs were perfectly buttoned, his collar sharp. Not a single thread was out of place. His eyes swept the hall, cold and unreadable.
And then they landed on you.
It wasn’t the look of a professor cataloguing his students. It wasn’t casual, or vague, or passing. It was direct. Exact. Like he’d been looking for something and found it—there, in the second row, right where you sat. You weren’t fidgeting. You weren’t even making eye contact. But still, his gaze lingered. Long enough that your skin prickled under your jacket. You glanced down at your notebook, fingers curling slightly, unsure why your heartbeat had suddenly picked up.
When he finally began to speak, it wasn’t to the room. It felt like it was to you alone.
“This course will not be easy,” he said. His voice was smooth and deliberate, every syllable calculated. “You are expected to think critically. Speak precisely. And above all, to remain present.”
He let the last word hang in the air.
You looked up.
He was still watching you.
—
It wasn’t a one-time thing.
By the second week, it became clear—he had memorized your name without ever asking for it. You’d never introduced yourself. Never approached him. Yet each lecture, without fail, he’d pause mid-explanation and say it aloud. Always at a moment when your head was down, or when you were trying to disappear behind someone else’s shoulder.
“Miss L/N,” he would say. “Your thoughts on this?”
It didn’t matter if you had been paying attention. It didn’t matter if you had your hand up. The question was always yours. You’d stammer your way through an answer, half-formed and shaky, trying not to blush under the weight of his gaze. And every time, he would respond the same way—without praise, without smile. Just a calm, measured “As I expected.”
It wasn’t flattery. It wasn’t even encouragement.
It was like he already knew what you were going to say.
Like he’d studied you long before this.
—
The others noticed, of course. How he singled you out. How his eyes returned to you, again and again, even when you stayed silent. At first, it became a joke. Someone whispered behind you once, “He’s got a crush.” You laughed along nervously, brushing it off. Professors had favorites. It didn’t mean anything.
But then he started using you in his examples. Hypothetical arguments where “Miss L/N” was always the subject. Always the focal point. Always under his lens. It wasn’t just academic anymore—it was pointed. There were lectures where your name came up four, five times in an hour. It was subtle, wrapped in professionalism, buried in metaphysics. But it didn’t feel like philosophy anymore.
It felt like he was watching you think.
—
You tried to hide. You changed seats. Sat in the back one day, behind two taller students. He still found you. His eyes slid right through the others like they were mist. The moment he asked his first question, he called your name.
Another day, you skipped class entirely. You told yourself it wasn’t because of him. You just needed a break. Time to catch up on other work. But when you returned next week, there was something new in his voice.
“I see you’ve rejoined us, Miss L/N,” he said at the beginning of class. No warmth. No sarcasm. Just quiet finality. “Good. I prefer when my students remain… consistent.”
You swallowed hard and didn’t respond.
But for the rest of that lecture, he never looked away from you.
Not once.
—
Things changed after that.
You started noticing him outside the classroom. At first, it was little things. A glimpse of his coat near the faculty building when you were heading back from the library. His voice—quiet, composed—floating from a corridor when you thought you were alone. You told yourself it was coincidence. He worked here. You shared the same campus.
But then it became harder to explain.
One evening, you stayed late in a quiet corner of the humanities wing. You hadn’t told anyone. No friends, no messages. But when you stood to leave, you nearly jumped.
He was at the end of the hallway.
Just standing.
Not reading. Not typing. Just… there.
Your breath caught. He didn’t speak. He didn’t wave. He just nodded slowly as you passed.
“Working late?” he said.
You tried to smile. “Just catching up.”
He held your gaze. “Don’t push yourself too hard.”
And “You’re more valuable well-rested.”
You didn’t answer.
You didn’t know how to.
—
From that point on, his presence grew more precise. He began assigning readings that aligned exactly with the themes in your private research. Topics you hadn’t spoken about. Ideas you had only ever written in your personal notes. Once, he even referenced a line from your high school essay—an old piece you’d posted online years ago, long deleted.
You didn’t ask how he’d found it.
You didn’t want to know.
The worst part was how calm he remained. How professional. He never raised his voice. Never threatened. Never said anything you could report. But the pressure kept closing in. Quiet. Steady. Relentless.
Like the hand of a clock ticking toward something inevitable.
—
You should have walked away.
You told yourself that the moment Professor Anaxagoras walked into the lecture hall for the first time — tall, deliberate, his coat flaring like ink in water and his eyes, sharp and silver, locking onto you as if the entire class didn’t exist. He didn’t smile. He didn’t blink. He just looked, straight through you, like you were a secret he already knew how to unfold.
You ignored the first time he said your name. Thought it was random. Coincidence.
But then it was every class. Every single week. His voice wrapping around your name like silk on glass — “Miss L/N. Your thoughts?” — no matter whether your hand was raised or your eyes were anywhere near his. Even when you stared at your notes and prayed to disappear, you could feel it. His gaze. Slow. Steady. Starving.
You never stayed after class. You never asked questions. Even when you didn’t understand, you preferred silence to the way his eyes lingered on your mouth when you spoke. Like he was memorizing your lips, not your words.
But now, backed into a corner by a fast-approaching deadline and no time left to stall, you found yourself standing at the edge of his desk as the last student filtered out. Your voice caught in your throat.
“I need to ask about the assignment,” you said, soft. Too soft.
He looked up slowly, pen stilled in his hand. His eyes flicked across your face like he was watching something inevitable begin.
“Of course,” he said. “My office.”
You wanted to say no. But your legs moved before your mind could stop them.
⸻
The office was dim.
Books from wall to wall, ancient and heavy, their spines worn from touch. The scent was sharp: old paper, ink, cedar oil, and something else — something unmistakably him.
You hesitated in the doorway.
“I… I don’t want to take much of your time,” you offered.
“You won’t,” he said. “Close the door, please.”
It clicked shut behind you. You sat on the edge of the chair opposite his desk, notebook in hand, hands trembling faintly. He noticed. He always did.
You explained your confusion about the comparative analysis section. Tried to keep your eyes on the paper, not on the way he watched you — lips parted slightly, hands folded. Listening far too closely. Too still.
“You’re afraid of being alone with me,” he said, not a question.
Your pulse thudded.
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are. But not for the reasons you think.” He stood.
Your heart skipped. Your knees tightened.
“You’re not afraid of me,” he continued, circling the desk, slow like the ticking of a clock. “You’re afraid of what you’d let me do. What you’d beg for once you stopped pretending.”
“I think I should go—”
He walked to the door.
Click.
He locked it.
You stood too fast, panic rising. “You can’t—”
“I won’t touch you,” he said quietly, “unless you ask me to.”
The silence swallowed you both.
And he was watching. That stare — heavy, silver, ancient. Not leering. Not lustful. Certain.
You should have walked away.
But instead, your knees wavered. And you whispered, “Then touch me.”
He was on you in a breath.
His hand slid up your neck, under your jaw, tilting your face toward him with maddening gentleness. He kissed you like he’d been tasting the thought of you for months — slow, calculated, deep. Your breath hitched as his tongue slid into your mouth, claiming the space with possessive grace. You moaned softly, body instinctively pressing into him, your thighs clenching when you felt the solid heat of his cock through his trousers.
His mouth moved to your throat, warm and slow. “Take it off.”
“What?”
“Your blouse. All of it.”
You hesitated, and his eyes narrowed, cold and sure. “You said yes. Don’t lie to me now.”
You unbuttoned with trembling fingers, breath shaking as your skin was exposed inch by inch. His eyes followed every movement, like he was documenting it in ink — the curve of your breast, the line of your waist, your trembling thighs.
He pushed you gently backward — onto the couch lining the far wall. The leather was cool on your back. His hand trailed down your stomach, teasing the waistband of your skirt.
“Open your legs.”
You obeyed.
His hands slid beneath the fabric. No rush. No sudden movement. Just long, warm fingers pushing your underwear aside, slipping between your folds and finding you soaked.
“Of course,” he murmured. “Just as I expected.”
His thumb circled your clit with slow, deliberate pressure as two fingers sank deep into your cunt. You gasped, arching, his body pressing between your knees to hold you in place.
“You act so untouched,” he growled, mouth near your ear. “But this—” he curled his fingers just right, and you choked on a moan “—this is what you’ve been needing.”
Your orgasm crept up sharp, your thighs trembling, eyes rolling back as he kept his strokes precise, expert, relentless. You came hard, moaning his name in broken, breathless syllables. He didn’t stop until your body slumped, shaking and wet.
Then he stood.
And undid his belt.
Your eyes widened as he freed himself — thick, flushed, dripping with arousal. He stroked himself once, twice, and then leaned over you, grabbing your hips.
“You’re going to take all of it,” he murmured. “You’ll feel me for days.”
He guided his cock to your entrance, the thick head pressing slowly, stretching you inch by aching inch. You whimpered, biting your lip, hands digging into the cushions.
“Eyes on me.”
You looked.
And he thrust fully in — one deep, hard stroke that made you cry out. He groaned, hands gripping your hips tight as your walls clenched around him.
“Fuck, you feel—” he hissed, cutting himself off. He began to move, slow at first. Deep. Measured. He watched your face as you gasped and writhed beneath him.
His thrusts grew sharper. Harder.
Each one slapping against your skin, cock dragging across your most sensitive spots with unrelenting precision. You couldn’t stop the sounds. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.
“You’re mine now,” he whispered, leaning close, his breath hot on your lips. “Every part of you.”
You came again — a sudden, uncontrollable climax that left you sobbing into his shoulder. He fucked you through it, groaning at how tight you were, how your body locked around him like it didn’t want him to leave.
“I’m going to fill you,” he growled. “I’m going to watch you walk into class knowing you’re full of me.”
Your legs wrapped around him. You couldn’t speak. Just nod.
And with a final, brutal thrust, he came — spilling deep inside you, moaning your name like worship.
⸻
He didn’t pull out for a long time.
He stayed above you, breathing hard, brushing hair from your face with reverent fingers. His cock still twitching deep inside your soaked cunt.
And then, as if nothing had happened, he whispered,
“Next time, come earlier. I don’t like to rush.”
happy father's day to him btw
Fuck everyone I'm just gonna learn mothy's writing style and write the three heroes novel myself at this point
Evillious chronicles Doodles+ Snow
Sorry guys i have art block
I've probably posted about this before but one thing that I think is so interesting is how two dimensional Arth's presentation is in That King Was Born From Mud, and at this point I have to believe it's intentional.
In that song Mothy def portrays Arth's conquest as pure selfless liberation, a war fought "out of love" and "justice" that he'll keep fighting in "even if all the people of the world are tormented by despair." Though of course he never really mentions who Arth loves, and who he is fighting for aside from his nuclear family, and of course his children weren't born until after the establishment of the nation of Lucifenia iirc. Meanwhile in the songs about the Three Heroes, their moral ambiguity is stressed. Neomaria of the Inverted Gravestone emphasized Mariam's identity as a murderer and childhood environment where she was raised to be a killer as key to her character even with amnesia, and why she is good as a hero. Swear an Oath on That Bridge accentuates Elluka Clockworker's apathy for those around her and capricious decision making that irrevocably impacted the lives of many. And of course A Hero's Armor is Always Crimson is the most explicit of all, with the core themes being the alternate way to frame a "war hero"-- as a "war criminal," and constant discussion of Leonhart's crimes involving indiscriminate slaughter and kidnapping among others. All of the heroes are desensitized to the lives of some and the murder they commit, while believing they value life and are fighting for righteous reasons, and are complicated people with political goals.
So personally I think it would make zero sense for Mothy to unilaterally praise Arth and genuinely intend the song to be taken at face value-- ie, he really is a Good Guy, a Selfless Leader who conquered a region but for a good reason! I think his song is meant to be understood as his own justification for his actions, and is permeated with his viewpoint. The fact that it situates his love for humanity alongside his inhuman nature is a central theme I think. He really does love humanity, and he does genuinely believe it is right to instigating a bloody war in order to promote a new government system with him at the top so he can help everyone perfectly. Well, those who are still alive of course. Idk I think a lot of people don't contextualize his song with that of the other heroes.
a hero's armor is always crimson.
