#diabolical really

[ittybittyfanblog]

Ok, so another fic blurb! (loosely inspired by the recent banner hehe) | press here for filth

What if...... Sylus, the beast tamer, the liberator of the caged and broken, has a pet of his own? 

What if, in this scenario, you are the beast in question—his wild, fickle, untamed little plaything?

He doesn’t mean for it to happen. He caught wind of a trafficking ring auctioning hybrids of varying types—a setup he knows all too well, having freed countless creatures from similar fates on planets far away. And it's only supposed to go about one way, bringing along the kind of chaos he excels at: quick, efficient, brutal.

He will play the instigator, the matchstick to the pyre, and watch as the oppressed tear their captors apart. Blood will spill, chains will break, and he will revel amidst the pandemonium, a spectator to the glorious enactment of rightful vengeance.

But then—he sees you.

The runt of the pack, small and unsure, trembling in the eye of the storm he unleashes. Hackles raised, little fangs bared—not in defiance, but in fright.

You don’t fight. You don’t flee. You only flinch at the sound of slaughter, shoulders drawn tight, tail coiled around yourself like you can somehow disappear from it all. There’s something about the way you cower at the roar of violence, how you huddle in on yourself even as freedom crashes down around you, that makes something in him snap. Something visceral ignites in him.

An unfamiliar, wretched need to protect curls inside his ribs.

He can’t leave you here. He won’t.

And before he can even think to stop himself, his body moves on instinct, eviscerating anything in his way, cutting a clean path to where you stand frozen in fear. His hands find you, steady. Certain. 

He doesn't let you look—doesn’t let you see the finale of the insurrection that has made you shake in fear. The next thing you know, you’re in his arms, pressed against the unyielding heat of him as he makes a swift exit.

And the next thing he knows, you’ve already claimed him as yours.

It’s different this time, you think. You barely know this man—your unforeseen savior—but something about him calms the noise in your head, stills the frantic pulse in your throat. An inexplicable sense of security settles deep in you, and you swish your tail in contentment, loop it possessively around his leg—pressing your face into his neck, just breathing him in. Marking him in your own way. 

Warmth. Steel. Something sharp beneath it all.

Something dangerous. 

Powerful. 

Safe.  

And when you burrow deeper, seeking, instinctive, Sylus exhales like you’ve punched the air from his lungs.

He knows he can’t let you go.

His pretty beastie. His precious, skittish thing.

He doesn’t call you a pet. That word is foreign on his tongue, wrong, too close to what he stands against. And the last thing Sylus wants is for you to feel like you’ve simply exchanged one owner for another. No, never that. 

But then you look up at him with those wide, trusting eyes—innocent and somehow sly at the same time—pressing your body against him like you want to nestle under his skin.

You, his restless little distraction, his playfully insistent creature; always demanding his time, expecting the infamous leader of Onychinus (not that the title means a thing to you) to indulge you.

And he does.

Because he never gives you a reason to think otherwise—never denies you anything. Always so willing, so devoted to your happiness.

____

It starts small.

Or maybe that’s what he tells himself.

Maybe it starts when he catches you preening in front of the mirror, grooming yourself with little licks, arching your back, testing the stretch of your limbs—and something about the way you move makes him clench his jaw and avert his gaze. 

Maybe it starts the first time you crawl into his lap without a second thought, tail curling idly around his wrist as you press close, heedless of the tension thrumming beneath his skin.

Or maybe it starts when you purr for him, soft and endearing and so achingly sweet, whenever his hands find themselves mapping the smooth expanse of your back. 

He shouldn’t touch you the way he does.

It’s indulgent, the way his fingers trace your spine, stroke the soft patch of fur at the base of your tail.

It’s indulgent, the way you stretch beneath his touch, arching, sighing, rubbing yourself against his palm like you need more.

It’s indulgent, the way he lets you.

And it only gets worse.

Because now, you’ve started seeking him out.

It’s innocuous at first. Always pressing against him whenever (and wherever) he’s seated, stealing his warmth, basking in his protective embrace. Curling around him like you belong there, lazy and spoiled, like you already know he won’t push you away.

And he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. 

Because when you tuck yourself against his side and let out that soft, pleased little “mrrr,” it does something terrible to him.

(It snaps his unraveling restraint, thread by thread.)

-

-

-

His adorable, darling kitten. His. The moment he laid eyes on you, he knew. And oh, there is nothing he wouldn’t do for you.

His sweet little thing….. who’s getting bolder with each passing day. Pushing. Teasing. Learning exactly what makes him falter.

His baby, who goes into heat at certain times of the month and expects him to help—because he always helps, doesn’t he?

So it’s not your fault when you arch your back so shamelessly beneath his touch, when you shudder as his fingers find that sensitive spot on your tailbone.

It’s not your fault when you grind needily into his lap, rubbing yourself against his hardening cock in slow, lazy motions, feeling the change in his breathing, the sharp exhale through his nose (something that excites you to no end).

It’s not your fault when you whimper so prettily, let your tongue flick over his pulse, nip at his skin in playful challenge.

And it’s certainly not your fault when you feel it—massive, hot, and unmistakable beneath where you’re situated on top of him. 

The air between you shifts. Thickens.

His fingers tighten, grip bruising as he stills you.

His breath is slow, painstakingly measured—and he knows he’s fighting a losing battle.

Sylus, torn between the animalistic desire to give you everything you ask for, and the absolute immorality of wanting to render you useless, to force you down on all fours and thoroughly fuck you, breed you on every surface in this damned house, and the last, fraying threads of his restraint wavers.

Then his precious little pet mewls for him.

And it’s like a switch flips inside him.

A breaking. A liberation.

That’s all it takes.

Because when you whimper his name, voice desperate and pleading, hips pressing forward so insistently—when you beg him, hiccuping, to do something, please, please—

Sylus gives in.

[freedelusionshere]

Claire got the information about the restaurant being called The Bear from Neil Fak.

Neil Fak is her Carmy intel hookup. OMG I want this weirdness to be addressed so badly in S4.

[sugurugetos]

THE RINGS OF POWER 2.08 — Shadow and Flame

[lesiasmadness]

I KNOW IT'S JUST A STORYBOOK BUT DAMN

[uhcasual]

All illustrations for The Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation: Volume 3

Made some hq scans of MDZS illustrations.

Full resolution available for download here (tumblr compresses images a little)

Illustration Artist: Marina Privalova (Baoshan Karo)

[Vol. 1] - [Vol. 2] - [Vol. 4] - [Vol. 5] [Vol. 5 - Russian edition exclusive illustrations]

[lonestardust]

Carlos doing His Thing.

[random-lil-illing]

i had a vision,,, asexual dps fans what do we think

[entomologize]

Fun fact: The diabolical ironclad beetle traded away the ability to fly in order to become essentially unsquishable.

Driving a car over them would just push them down into the dirt, still whole. Trying to stick a pin through wouldn't be successful without a drill. These guys are tough.

Every part of the beetle's exoskeleton seems to enhance its armor. The flattened body shape distributes pressure to even the load, the multilayered material is strong yet flexible enough not to crack, and the unique interlocking seams between wing cases function better than most joins designed by humans:

It'll be exciting to see what new materials might be possible using these concepts!

Sources: Jesse Rorabaugh, Po-Yu Chen, & Jesus Rivera et al.

[danielsarmand]

Perfect 10 Liners EP17

[lizardsmp3]

im so sick of dan. why would you say that your favorite dinosaur is a brontosaurus because it's quote unquote tall calm and has a long neck and THEN ADD "LIKE PHIL"

[sainz100]

🩵🩵

[mythmerth]

even though I’ve shipped a lot of characters in the past I don’t think I understood the true essence of otps until merthur arrived in my head

[charlesemersonwinchesteriii]

if Crozier had a nickel for every time someone close to him kept a mortal wound secret from him he'd have two nickels which isn't a lot but it's definitely enough to give him some very specific trauma for the rest of his life

[beastsovrevelation]

Crowley in Good Omens (2.01)

[lesiasmadness]

Local archeology professor gaslights son out of death by heart attack

Idk I liked this bit of dialogue closer to the end of Diabolical box, so I drew it

[snowyshuanghua]

mdzs headcanon of the day #591 !

song lan has a natural resting sad face, but whenever he eats he looks so DEVASTATED for no reason