#or just a normal ghost. from the mines | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dollgxtz · 17 days ago

Text

A Dragon's Claim

Word Count: 10.9k

Tags: dragon!sylus x fem!reader, smut, cunnilingus, breeding, creampies, biting, slight injury, some bleeding, primal kink, courting rituals, mating rituals, sylus has two cocks :333

Summary: Sylus begins to act strange and you think he may have caught some sort of illness. He's strangely warm, irritable and eating more. However this "illness" turns out to be more intense than you could have ever imagined... (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ )

"You're wrong," he murmurs, voice husky and edged with something raw. "You’re fertile. I can smell it on you." You freeze. His lips ghost just beneath your ear as he continues, tone smooth and reverent. "Your scent is different now—sweet, ripe, like fruit at the peak of bloom. The warmth of your skin, the rhythm of your pulse...your body sings to mine in ways you cannot hear. But I do." His hand tightens at your waist, possessive, anchoring you to him like you might drift away otherwise. The heat in his eyes is no longer just desire—it is intention, it is instinct honed over centuries, it is him answering a call your body didn’t even know it had made. "You're ready. Now," he growls, the final word laced with a quiet sort of reverence, as if he were speaking a truth ordained by something far older than either of you.

AN: Okay so, this fic was SO fun to write I may have gotten a little carried away hehe. This was a little bit out of my comfort zone but I am so happy with it!! Plus it was about time I did a oneshot for dragon!sylus. After what he went through he deserves as many babies as he wants ;(

Enjoy!!

Sylus had been unusually irritable lately, and it wasn’t just in the way he grunted or snapped when spoken to—it was in everything. His eyes seemed sharper, flicking around like he was constantly on edge, and his tail, which normally lay relaxed behind him, had developed a twitchy, agitated flick. He wasn’t acting like the level-headed fiend you’d come to know and love.

Even he seemed aware of the shift; there were moments he paused mid-sentence or mid-motion, as if catching himself acting out of character. When he returned to the cave after hunting, he couldn’t seem to keep still. He paced the stone floor in restless circles, ran his claws along the wall, muttered to himself under his breath. His whole body seemed to vibrate with pent-up energy, with something unspoken roiling beneath the surface.

His appetite had doubled, maybe even tripled. He devoured whatever meat, vegetables, or fruit he managed to scavenge or hunt for the both of you, sometimes not even bothering to sit down before tearing into it. He would eat so quickly it was like he hadn’t tasted food in days, and when he was done, he still looked unsatisfied. It was primal, instinctive, like something inside him was demanding more than he could give it.

And then there was the heat.

He’d started to feel noticeably warm to the touch, which was strange for a reptile. The first time you noticed it was when he brushed past you, and you flinched, startled by the heat radiating off his skin. Since then, it had only intensified. Whenever he hugged you, lingered too close, or let his fingers graze your arm, you felt it—his body running hot, almost feverish. It was unnerving. And his touches had changed too. They weren’t violent, but they carried a kind of hunger, an urgency that hadn’t been there before. He gripped a little tighter, held on a little longer. Like proximity alone wasn’t enough to settle whatever storm was brewing inside him.

It worried you terribly. Was he getting sick? Could dragons even get sick? The question gnawed at your thoughts, carving out little pits of anxiety in your chest no matter how often you tried to push it away. The heat that seemed to bleed from his skin, the sharp glint in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, the unpredictable mood swings and restlessness...it all felt off. Like something inside him had shifted, and you didn’t know if it was something natural or something dangerous. You'd never seen him like this. He wasn’t just irritable, he was volatile. Every movement held tension, like he was wound too tightly and one wrong word might snap him in two.

You knew better than to voice your concerns aloud. Suggesting he try any kind of human treatment would go over about as well as trying to leash a wildfire. He’d scoff, roll his eyes, and brush you off with a dismissive sigh. Sylus was proud, fiercely so. Stubborn as a stone wall, and not exactly someone who tolerated being fussed over. An illness? He'd laugh at the implication.

Still, you couldn’t just sit back and watch him burn from the inside out.

So the next time he finally dozed off—after hours of pacing, mumbling under his breath, and tossing scraps into the fire like they’d wronged him personally—you waited until his breathing evened out and his face slackened. He lay sprawled out on the nest of furs you’d both piled near the hearth, the orange firelight casting shadows across his angular features. One arm was thrown loosely over his chest, the other curled slightly beside him. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm that looked almost peaceful. Almost.

You moved with painstaking care, the cool, damp cloth in your hand trembling slightly from how tightly you gripped it. Your feet barely made a sound against the stone floor as you approached, every step deliberate. When you reached his side, you crouched slowly, heart hammering so loudly you were sure it might wake him before you even got the chance to touch him. You leaned in, gently pressing the rag to his brow, hoping the cold would cut through the heat pouring off of him like he was lit from within.

For a brief moment, you felt relief. He didn’t stir. Maybe, just maybe, he would sleep through this.

But then something shifted.

Without warning, a firm pressure clamped around your wrist. You gasped, flinching, and the rag slipped from your fingers. Your gaze dropped, heart stalling in your chest, as you realized his tail had slithered around your arm in one smooth, silent motion. Like it had a mind of its own.

His eyes snapped open a second later, glowing faintly in the dim light, red pupils slitted and sharp. He looked at you without blinking, like he’d known what you were sneaking up on him the entire time.

"And what exactly do you think you're doing?" he murmured, voice husky with sleep and something else—something darker. There was a flicker of amusement there, curling at the corners of his lips, but beneath it was something far more intense. Possessive. Primal. Like he wasn’t just waking up, but awakening to something deeper.

You swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry. Your heart thundered against your ribs like it wanted to escape.

You opened your mouth to answer, but the words caught in your throat, stuck somewhere between nervousness, concern and something you couldn’t name.

"I'm helping you, silly. You're sick," you mumble, voice soft but threaded with a note of stubborn concern. Your lips purse, irritation flickering across your features as you glance down at the thick coil of his tail still looped possessively around your wrist. "Now let go of me," you add, trying to sound firm despite the tremor in your voice.

To your surprise, he does. The tension releases almost instantly, the pressure around your wrist vanishing as his tail retreats. You exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, rubbing at your skin where the warmth lingered.

"I am not unwell," he says after a pause, voice rich and steady, threaded with an unmistakable certainty. "Only mortals burn with fever."

You frown, eyebrows drawing together in quiet frustration. "Yeah, but... you've been acting really strange lately," you reply, your voice lowering, touched now with genuine worry. "You’re restless, snappy, and you never eat this much. I just...I want to make sure you’re okay. That you’re not hurting."

The confession slips out before you can think better of it. You stare at him for a moment longer, searching his unreadable expression for some crack, some tell that might confirm or deny what your instincts have been screaming.

And then you move, slow and tentative, inching closer to him as if drawn by an invisible force. When you rest your head lightly against his chest, you feel the heat radiating off him in waves, hotter now than it had been earlier. His body is solid beneath you, unmoving, as if he’s forgotten how to breathe. The sound of his heartbeat thuds against your ear, rapid and deep, like a distant drum.

You think, for a moment, that he might relax.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his entire frame stiffens. There’s a flash of tension through his shoulders, and then his tail moves again—but not with the idle instinct of before. It wraps around your waist in a slow, deliberate spiral, the grip firm but not cruel. He lifts you effortlessly, his strength startling in its subtlety, and then plants you down several feet away from him.

You blink, stunned, arms still half outstretched in the air where you had been.

The new distance between you is not just physical. It feels like a chasm, sudden and inexplicable, heavy with all the things he won’t say. You sit in silence for a heartbeat too long, the echo of his rejection ringing in your chest like a hollow bell.

He avoids your gaze, eyes cast to the fire, jaw clenched tightly.

"Hey! You can't ju—" you begin, voice raised in disbelief, frustration bubbling over—but the look he gives you stops you dead in your tracks. It's not angry or loud, but it carries a quiet authority that slices through the air like a blade. His eyes flash with a warning, cold and unreadable.

"Silence, love. Sleep on the other side of the cave tonight," he says, each word deliberate, clipped. There is no room for negotiation in his tone. It’s final. Commanding. His eyes close again, as if your protest doesn’t deserve his attention. Like the matter is already settled in his mind.

The dismissal stings more than you expect.

It hits like a slap, raw and disorienting. You reel back a step, mouth parting slightly as you try to process the flood of emotion that crashes down on you all at once. Hurt. Confusion. Anger. They churn in your chest, thick and suffocating. What the hell? All you had done was try to help. You had stayed up, watched over him, worried yourself sick, and this was how he repaid you? By pushing you away like a child being told to go to their room?

Ugh. Stubborn. Always so impossibly, frustratingly stubborn.

Your jaw tightens as the ache behind your eyes starts to burn. He didn’t get to do this. Not after everything. If he thought you were just going to walk away, tuck yourself into the far corner of the cave like a scolded pet and let him suffer in silence, he clearly didn’t know you as well as he should.

Because humans don’t give up on the ones they love.

"Sylus!" you bark, louder this time, anger sharpening your voice. You stomp across the stone floor toward him, every step punctuated by the slap of your feet and the pounding of your heart. "You know I’m not doing that! I’m not going to just curl up in the corner like you didn’t just say that to me!"

He says nothing, but you can see his jaw twitch. That slow, deliberate breath leaves his nostrils again—heavy, controlled. Tired. Still, he doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t look at you. It’s like he's deliberately trying to sever whatever invisible thread connects the two of you.

You press your palms into your thighs, trying to ground yourself, fighting the overwhelming desire to scream. "What is wrong with you? Just talk to me! Look at me! Say anything!"

But all you receive is silence. Stubborn, infuriating silence.

Your fists tighten at your sides. The cold cavern air suddenly feels stifling.

Fine. You could be stubborn too.

Without thinking, you finish crossing the cave, heart pounding loud enough to drown out your better judgment. Every step echoes with stubborn purpose as you close the gap he created between you. You don't hesitate. You don’t ask. You simply act—climbing over him, swinging a leg across his large body, and settling yourself squarely atop his waist. The furs beneath you shift and rustle, but he doesn’t stop you. His brow furrows slightly, the only sign he even notices, but otherwise, he remains infuriatingly still.

Still silent. Still distant.

You lean down slowly, hands braced on either side of his torso, and fix your gaze on his face, searching for some flicker of emotion—anything to tell you he’s still there beneath the silence. The heat rolling off of him is overwhelming up close, like standing too near a smoldering hearth. It curls around you, prickling your skin, quickening your breath. The air feels thick, heavy with unspoken things.

"Sylus..." you murmur, your voice low, raw with feeling.

No response.

"Sylus! I know you can hear me!" you bark, sharper now, frustration rising with each second he continues to ignore you. Your heart twists painfully.

Still nothing.

You sigh, the sound long and defeated, your chest aching with the weight of his silence. Carefully, gently, you lower your forehead to his, hoping maybe the closeness will shake something loose. His skin burns beneath yours, unnaturally warm.

"I just want to know what’s wrong with you," you whisper, voice so quiet it nearly disappears in the cavern's stillness. "Guess your species are terrible communicators."

Still, he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t open his eyes. But you feel it—something in him coiling tight, like a rope being pulled taut. He may be still, but he’s not unaffected. Something inside him is shifting, stirred by your proximity, your touch.

Acting on instinct and desperation, you close the small distance between your mouths and press a kiss to his lips. It’s meant to be fleeting, a soft reassurance. But it lingers. Longer than it should. Your lips stay, pressed gently to his, drawn in by the heat, the subtle shape of his mouth, the restraint that pulses beneath his immobility. Your eyes slip closed as your hands move—one cupping the side of his jaw, the other resting on his chest, feeling the erratic beat of his heart.

Then you feel it. A breath. Deeper. Shakier. His chest rises and falls faster.

And in a blink, the world flips.

One moment you’re above him, tethered by warmth and hope—the next, you’re on your back, the furs catching your fall as a gasp escapes you. "Ah!" The air leaves your lungs in a rush. Your eyes fly open to find him hovering above you, strong arms braced on either side of your head. His large body cages yours in completely, heat surrounding you like a second skin.

His eyes are open now. And they are glowing.

There is something feral in his expression—not cruel, but ancient and wild and hungry. His gaze drags across your face with a depth that makes your breath hitch. Every inch of him is tense, restrained, as if holding back something that wants very badly to be unleashed.

He still hasn’t spoken.

But he is no longer ignoring you.

"You're making it very difficult to control myself, love," he growls, his voice like gravel softened by heat, thick with restraint and something darker coiled beneath it. The words roll over your skin just moments before his lips do. His breath fans against your neck—a warning, a promise—before he dips his head, and you feel the sharp, precise puncture of his teeth sinking into your skin.

This isn’t a playful nip. This isn’t a teasing show of dominance. His bite breaks the surface, deliberate and deep. You feel the sharp pain bloom instantly, a white-hot flash that steals the breath from your lungs. A gasp escapes you—startled, raw—and your hands fly up to clutch at his shoulders. Your fingers dig into him as your back arches against the sensation. Warm blood trickles down your shoulder, and your skin tingles where it flows.

You weren’t unfamiliar with Sylus's biting. He'd always had a possessive streak that came through when things turned intimate or emotional. But this—this felt different. It felt desperate. Like he was trying to root himself in you. Like something inside him was slipping, and you were the only thing keeping him from losing his grip.

His mouth lingers at your neck, his lips now parted just slightly. You feel the tremor in his breath before his tongue slips out and glides across the bite. Slow. Deliberate. He licks away the blood he’d drawn, and the pain dulls under the hot, wet press of his mouth. In its place comes a deep, spiraling heat that blooms low in your belly, tightening your grip on him.

"S-Sylus..." you breathe, barely able to form the words. Your voice trembles. "If you were just...er, in need—you know I would've helped you ages ago."

Still, he doesn’t answer.

You feel the way his body stiffens slightly against you. His hand slides up along your side, slow and controlled, as though he’s still deciding what to do with the storm inside him. Then, he leans in again and presses his lips gently to your neck, just beside the wound. This time, the touch is less claiming and more conflicted—like he's trying to soothe something in himself rather than stake another claim.

He stays there for a long moment, breathing in the scent of your skin, your blood, your closeness. You feel the tremble in his chest where it presses against yours, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitch as though resisting the urge to hold you tighter. The cavern feels impossibly still around you, as if the very walls are holding their breath.

At last, he lifts his head. His eyes meet yours, and for the first time tonight, he looks completely unguarded. They glow faintly, with a trace of something wild, but it’s the emotion in them that catches your breath—raw, aching, afraid.

"It's more than that," he says, his voice rough and frayed at the edges. Not defensive. Not ashamed. Just...honest. Like every word costs him more than he knows how to show.

You stare at him, heart hammering, throat tightening.

Oh no. It's bad news, isn't it?

The thought slams into you with the force of a crashing wave, stealing the air from your lungs. You blink rapidly, trying to keep your vision clear, but the sting in your eyes wins. Tears begin to well, hot and fast, blurring the edges of your world as your chest tightens with dread. Something in his voice, in the way he looked at you—it had to mean something terrible. Something irreversible.

"What is it? Please tell me you're okay!" you blurt out, your voice cracking and shaking as panic rises up your throat. Your hands cling tighter to him, desperate and trembling, fingers curling into the fabric of whatever covers his back. As if somehow, your grip could keep him from slipping away. As if love alone could hold back whatever awful truth he was about to reveal.

Sylus blinks, visibly startled by your sudden burst of emotion. The intensity in your voice clearly catches him off guard. His eyes, once glowing with wild tension, soften slightly. His expression shifts—no longer hard and guarded, but touched with a flicker of something else. Something gentler.

Wordlessly, he draws you closer. His arms wrap around you more securely, with purpose now. Not to restrain, but to reassure. His hands press to your back, his warmth enveloping you like a cocoon. His voice, when he finally speaks, is low and deliberate. A slow drag of velvet.

"No need to fret," he murmurs. "All is well."

You pull back just enough to look up at him, eyes wide, your breath caught halfway in your lungs. Your heart pounds in your ears. There’s a moment of suspended silence where you brace yourself for the real answer.

"It's just mating season."

You freeze. Your body goes still, and your mind... blanks.

Of all the explanations you had been preparing for—a curse, an ancient affliction, some kind of irreversible breakdown of his control—that had not even crossed your mind.

Mating season?

You blink once. Twice. And then the realization crashes over you, dragging with it a rush of relief and a sudden, absurd clarity. The heat, the irritability, the pacing, the biting, the overwhelming hunger—both physical and something deeper. It all made sense now. It fit together like puzzle pieces you hadn’t realized you were holding.

You let out a breathless huff, lips parting as the tension begins to unravel inside you.

And then you laugh.

A full, startled, ridiculous laugh bubbles up from your chest and bursts free before you can stop it. It catches you completely off guard, but you can’t hold it in. The absurdity of it all—the sheer contrast between what you imagined and what it actually was—breaks something loose in you.

You double over slightly, pressing your forehead into his collarbone as your shoulders shake with the sound. It’s laughter born of relief, disbelief, and the strange, heady rush of realizing everything isn’t falling apart.

Sylus stares down at you in silence, his eyes narrowing slightly. Clearly, he doesn’t find your reaction particularly amusing. If anything, his expression deepens into a look of resigned irritation, as if this wasn’t quite the response he expected.

But still, he doesn’t pull away. His arms stay around you, anchoring you to him, the heat of his body steady and real. His tail curls lightly around your leg, a quiet, instinctive motion. Protective. Possessive.

And despite the glare he levels at the top of your head, there’s no real venom behind it. He lets you laugh, lets you melt the fear from your chest with every shaky breath, until your voice begins to soften again.

Eventually, you lift your head, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand.

"Is something humorous?" he asks, his voice low, edged with a faint note of offense, though there is no true malice behind it. His eyes narrow slightly as they study your face, as though trying to decipher the cause of your sudden laughter. But even in his quiet suspicion, his arms never loosen their hold around you. If anything, he draws you closer.

You shake your head quickly, the laughter dying in your throat as a rush of guilt creeps in. "Honestly, you had me scared" you say, your voice softening, breaking slightly at the end. "I really thought you were going to die on me."

That doesn't seem to ease him. He exhales through his nose in a deep, low grunt—not dismissive, but something closer to acknowledgment. The sound vibrates against your body, a warm, strange comfort. Then, with a fluid, instinctive movement, he adjusts your positions. His strength is effortless as he shifts, guiding you until you're lying beside him on the furs, your body drawn into his larger frame like a puzzle piece clicking into place.

His arm curls around your waist, securing you against his chest. It isn’t just for comfort—there is something possessive in the gesture, protective, as if he’s anchoring you there by will alone. The heat of him envelops you entirely, bleeding into your limbs until the cold stone floor feels like a distant memory.

"Does this mean..." you begin, your voice barely more than a whisper. But the thought drifts before it finishes, scattered like leaves on the wind. You have so many questions tumbling through your mind: What does this mean for him? For you? Is this temporary? Instinct? A sign of something deeper? But they all blur at the edges, softening under the pull of exhaustion.

Your body is finally registering the toll of the night. You had stayed up far too late, keeping vigil while Sylus paced, brooded, fought himself in silence. You hadn't let yourself rest until he did. Now, the weight of sleeplessness pulls at your limbs like gravity, and your eyelids feel impossibly heavy.

Outside, the first blush of morning glows gently. Sunlight begins to pour through the narrow cracks in the rock that serves as the cave’s natural door. The pale beams stretch across the stone floor like golden fingers, warming the air with soft radiance. The quiet sounds of the wilderness beyond stir faintly, muted by distance—birds beginning their morning calls, wind rustling through high branches.

Sylus doesn’t answer your unfinished thought. He merely presses closer, lowering his head to the crook of your neck. His breath fans across your skin in slow, even waves, and the low, rhythmic sound that rumbles from his chest is unmistakable. A purr. Deep and velvety. Content.

The sound settles into your bones, a vibration that eases the tightness from your shoulders and lulls the last frayed edges of fear from your heart. There is something incredibly grounding about it—like being cradled by the earth itself. One of his hands rests on your waist, fingers spread, as if silently promising that you are safe, that he will not let go.

You close your eyes, breathing in the scent of smoke and warmth and him. Despite the adrenaline, despite the questions that remain unanswered, your body begins to let go. Your thoughts drift. His purring fills the quiet like a lullaby spun from heat and breath and unspoken devotion.

Sleep takes you gently.

And you surrender to it, wrapped in Sylus’s arms, as the light of a new day filters through stone and silence alike.

As the days passed, you began to notice other, more subtle changes in Sylus's behavior—the kind of shifts that spoke not just of mood, but of instinct, of ritual. Of purpose.

It started gradually. At first, it was the gifts. Sylus had always brought you little trinkets here and there—a gleaming stone from a riverbed, a silver ring once forgotten in the ruins of some fallen estate, or a flower pressed flat and preserved between scraps of parchment. But now? Now he returned from his ventures with arms full of treasure.

You began to receive things that looked as though they had been pulled from the vaults of kings. Gemstones the size of your knuckles. Necklaces heavy with gold and set with fire-bright opals. Crowns, actual crowns, one with a missing jewel that he promised to "replace shortly." Delicate filigree bracelets and earrings of such craftsmanship that you wondered if they had come from the hands of mortals at all.

You accepted them, of course. How could you not? They dazzled the eye and stirred something deep within your chest—awe, gratitude, wonder. And then there was the way Sylus looked at you when you accepted each piece. The way he watched your reactions with quiet intensity, hunger and satisfaction warring in his gaze as your fingers traced the contours of every offered treasure.

"Is this suitable to your liking, beloved?" he would ask, voice a rich hum in your ear. There was always a thread of tension in his tone, a need that ran deeper than pride.

You’d smile and nod, sometimes laughing softly at the extravagance, sometimes whispering thanks as you leaned into his warmth. That always seemed to satisfy him. His shoulders would relax, his tail would curl in closer around you, and a low purr would rumble from deep in his chest.

And the gifts didn’t stop with jewels and gold.

His hunting habits changed too. Where once he had returned with modest catches—a brace of rabbits, a string of fish, the occasional deer—now he came back with trophies that left you reeling. Massive elk, towering wild boars with tusks the length of your forearm. Game that would feed you both for weeks. And then, one evening, he returned dragging behind him the largest bear you had ever seen.

Its massive body sprawled across the cave entrance like something out of legend. Thick fur matted with snow and blood, claws that could gouge stone. You stood frozen in the firelight, staring at it, unsure whether to marvel or panic.

Sylus merely stood beside it, chin slightly raised, one clawed hand resting on its flank like a proud hunter presenting a trophy.

"For you," he said simply, as if it were nothing.

You had blinked at him, stunned. "Sylus, I...I don’t even know how to cook that."

He grinned, utterly unbothered. "Then I will learn."

The gifts. The feasts. The constant nearness. The careful watching of your every reaction. You had thought it was simply Sylus being more open, more affectionate in the wake of your recent closeness.

You were trying not to overthink it. Truly, you were. Every part of you wanted to believe that all the changes were just instinct, affection taken to a slightly obsessive level. You’d chalked up the treasure hoarding, the feasts, the increased proximity, the way he hovered just a little too closely sometimes—all of it to simple fondness. Maybe even a primal form of love. But nothing could have prepared you for what awaited you after returning from a brisk walk one particularly chilly afternoon.

The moment you stepped through the threshold of the cave, you froze in place, heart lurching with confusion.

Sylus had completely transformed everything.

Gone were the scattered, mismatched piles of pelts, the half-organized piles of gold, the signs of his usual indifference to comfort or aesthetic. In their place was something deliberate. Thoughtful. Nest-like. The entire back of the cave had been cleared and restructured, centered around an enormous bed of furs that had been meticulously arranged. It looked almost ceremonial in its care.

The old sleeping area had been expanded, padded with thick layers of fur and hide—including the bear pelt from the beast he had dragged home days ago. It now lined the center of the nest, skinned, cleaned and softened into a thick, luxurious base. Softer animal hides had been layered on top, and the perimeter was reinforced with woven branches, dried moss, and feathers, creating a barrier of warmth and comfort.

It wasn’t just for practicality. It was beautiful.

There were little details everywhere. Smooth stones from your favorite riverbank placed in a pattern near the fire pit. Bits of dried herbs—the ones you loved for tea or the scent they gave when burned—tucked into the seams of the bedding. A string of beads you thought you’d lost was now nestled between two thick furs, as if it had been intentionally displayed.

You stood there for several seconds, mouth slightly open, completely unprepared.

"Sylus..." you breathed, your voice caught somewhere between awe and bewilderment. "What’s the meaning of all this?"

He looked up at you from where he knelt, smoothing out the bear fur with surprising tenderness. His expression was completely unreadable. Calm. Focused. As if this were the most natural thing in the world. "You were shivering at night," he said simply. "This will keep you warmer."

That might have been enough for anyone else. Practical. Logical. An easy excuse.

But his eyes told a different story.

He watched you too closely. Not just to gauge your reaction—but to savor it. There was something ancient and yearning behind the glow in his eyes, something that vibrated in the silence between his words. He was waiting. Not for your thanks, but for your approval.

Noticing your lack of response, Sylus's expression begins to shift. The warmth in his eyes dims, replaced by something sterner, more guarded. His tail flicks once behind him—a sharp, agitated motion that echoes his growing unease. He straightens his spine, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.

"Do you not like it?" he asks, his voice quieter now but unmistakably tense. There’s something beneath his words that makes your chest tighten—disappointment, certainly. But also something rawer. Doubt. Hurt. The faint tremor of vulnerability from someone unaccustomed to feeling exposed.

Your eyes widen, and guilt rises quickly in your throat. You hadn't meant to be silent for so long. You were simply overwhelmed—by the effort, by the meaning behind it all. But now, seeing the shift in his posture, the way his eyes avoid yours, you realize how that silence must have come off.

You quickly close the space between you, reaching out instinctively. Your hands lift to cradle his face, palms warm against his heated skin. You guide his gaze back to you, gently but insistently, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. His eyes flicker up to meet yours, searching your face as though still bracing for rejection.

"No," you say softly, firmly, your voice thick with emotion. "I love it. I really do. It's beautiful. I just...I don’t understand why. You don’t have to do all this. The gifts, the meat, the rearranging—I was already happy. I was perfectly content with how things were before."

Sylus doesn’t recoil. Instead, he leans into your touch just slightly, as though the reassurance eases something deep in his chest. The tightness in his shoulders begins to uncoil, and the tension etched into his brow softens. A quiet exhale escapes him, almost inaudible.

"You laughed," he murmurs after a moment, his voice roughened by something too ancient to be called simple sorrow. "When I spoke of mating season. I assumed then that you deemed me unworthy as a mate—ill-fitted to claim or keep one such as you."

You blink, taken aback. The memory of that moment resurfaces—your burst of laughter, the disbelief, the release of tension you hadn’t realized he was carrying so heavily. It hadn’t been mockery. But now, you see how it must have been received by someone like Sylus—a creature whose understanding of humor, especially human levity in the face of instinct, is limited by centuries of solemn tradition and a worldview where gestures hold more meaning than words.

"So...the jewels? The meat?" you ask gently, your voice cracking slightly as realization begins to sink in.

He lets out a low, almost frustrated huff, glancing to the side. His tail curls around one of your ankles without thought, anchoring you to him in a quiet, possessive motion. "To prove I can provide for you," he says simply. "And for our offspring that I hoped you'd bear."

The words hit you like a wave, your breath catching in your throat. Your heart swells and shatters at once, a knot forming deep in your chest. He really wanted a baby with you? To form new life? With you??

Because that was it, wasn’t it? This powerful, ancient creature—so feared, so composed, so unreadable to others—was doing everything in his power to show you his worth. Not by demanding your affection or asserting his claim, but by showing you how he could build a life around you. Make a place for you. Prepare for a future, one you hadn’t even considered yet.

He had rearranged his entire world to make space for you in it. Courted you to prove himself just as many of his species had done with their mates.

You looked at him now with new eyes, your throat tightening as you caressed the edge of his jaw.

"Sylus...you don’t have to prove anything to me. I never doubted your strength. I never doubted you for a single second. Sometimes humans laugh when we feel relieved. That's all."

You notice that he seemed to perk up ever so slightly, though his expression remained unreadable. His posture straightened by a fraction, the glow in his eyes shifting with something new—not quite relief, but intrigue. A subtle ripple of tension unwound in his shoulders, though he tried to mask it.

"Mortals laugh when they feel better?" he asked, voice low and gravelly, as if the question itself was unfamiliar. There was a curious tilt to his head, the tone almost scholarly—as if he were cataloging your species' behaviors like one would study a rare flame.

You nodded, giving him a gentle smile. "Yes. Laughter is...a release. I wasn’t mocking you, Sylus. I was relieved. It meant you weren’t dying. And...I think you would make a wonderful mate. And father. To our baby."

His grip on you suddenly shifted, tightening with sudden purpose. Not in a threatening way, but in a way that grounded you firmly against him—possessive, almost reverent. His pupils expanded rapidly, red irises eclipsed by black. A primal heat surged behind his gaze, burning steady and intent. You felt the growl in his chest before it even reached his lips, a low, rumbling vibration that poured through your body like a tremor.

"Then...you accept?" he asked slowly, the words thick with restrained emotion. "You will take my seed into you? You would bear my offspring?"

Your heart skipped a beat—no, several. Blood rushed to your cheeks, and you could feel your pulse hammering in your throat. He said it with such conviction, with none of the coy hesitations or evasive phrasing you were used to. Just truth. Raw and full of meaning. The ancient kind of promise that didn’t ask, but waited.

You hesitated, swallowing hard. "I mean...I do have my doubts," you admitted, fingers curling against his chest. Your fingers graze the edge of his scales. Your voice trembled slightly under the weight of his gaze. "I don’t think I’m strong enough to carry children of yours. Dragons are...different. Your children, they’d be massive, wouldn’t they?"

You tried to laugh. It came out tight, nervous. A shaky sound that barely carried.

But Sylus didn’t laugh. He didn’t smile. Instead, something deeper flickered behind his eyes—a hunger, yes, but also certainty. Purpose. Legacy.

A low, pleased growl rolled from the depths of his chest, his breath warm against your skin. You gasped as you felt his tail move, the strong, silken muscle winding slowly up your leg. It caressed your skin with practiced control, the movement deliberate. Purposeful. The hem of your dress lifted inch by inch under the teasing weight of his tail.

"Nonsense," he growled, and this time his voice was like smoke and stone. "You are more than capable. I would never choose a mate who was not capable of the task. Your body, your spirit, your frame—they are all sufficient. More than sufficient."

His claws ghosted over your hips, drawing you in closer, like a hunter gathering something sacred. You felt the heat of him, not just his body but his intent, his longing, the centuries of instinct that pulsed just beneath his skin.

"I'm not even sure if it will work..." you murmur, your voice laced with uncertainty. "Humans only ovulate for a short time. If that window's already passed—"

Sylus moves before you can finish. His body leans into yours with quiet purpose, and in an instant, the air shifts between you. His breath ghosts over your neck, warm and steady, and you shiver as his nose traces the delicate line of your throat. The movement is slow, deliberate—not just intimate, but instinctual. He inhales deeply, the sound low and resonant like something ancient stirring in his chest. The rumble that follows isn’t quite a growl, but it thrums through you like thunder beneath the earth.

"You're wrong," he murmurs, voice husky and edged with something raw. "You’re fertile. I can smell it on you."

You freeze.

His lips ghost just beneath your ear as he continues, tone smooth and reverent. "Your scent is different now—sweet, ripe, like fruit at the peak of bloom. The warmth of your skin, the rhythm of your pulse...your body sings to mine in ways you cannot hear. But I do."

His hand tightens at your waist, possessive, anchoring you to him like you might drift away otherwise. The heat in his eyes is no longer just desire—it is intention, it is instinct honed over centuries, it is him answering a call your body didn’t even know it had made.

"You're ready. Now," he growls, the final word laced with a quiet sort of reverence, as if he were speaking a truth ordained by something far older than either of you.

Your breath catches, your face flushing as your heart pounds against your ribs. You can feel the heat rising in you, pooling low, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.

You search his face for doubt, but find none. Only certainty.

So, you were ovulating, and he could smell it—and worse, he wasn’t just aroused by it; he was called by it.

You feel your nerves ease, if only a little. Sylus was dependable—fierce, steady, and impossibly sure in the way only something ancient could be. For all his intensity, he had never once let harm come to you, had never faltered in his protection. And now, with the weight of everything shifting between you, that truth brought the smallest measure of calm. If he said he would keep you safe, you believed him. If he said he would protect the life growing between you, you knew it to be a vow etched in something deeper than words.

The idea of having a baby had once seemed distant, more fantasy than reality. Something soft and quiet that belonged to another version of your life, another world entirely. But now? Now it felt inevitable. Natural. Fated. Like every step had led to this moment, and all that was left was to lean into it.

He wanted this with you. You could see it in everything he did: the nesting, the offerings, the way he curled around you at night like a guardian warding off the dark. His every action had been leading here, even if you hadn’t recognized it at the time. And though nerves still fluttered in your chest like a thousand wings, the deeper truth remained. You wanted it too. You weren’t entirely prepared, not yet, but you were ready to say yes.

You looked into his eyes, your heart thundering, and gave a small but certain nod. "Okay. I accept."

Those three words changed everything.

It was as if a switch had been flipped inside him, something primal and powerful released from its cage. You barely had time to react before he swept you off the ground with effortless strength. You gasped, your hands clutching at his shoulders as he cradled you against his chest, his expression focused, almost reverent. In mere seconds, he had crossed the room and laid you gently down on the massive bed of furs he had so meticulously prepared—his gift to you, his offering.

The nest was impossibly warm, soft and inviting, wrapping around your back and shoulders like it had been waiting for this moment. You could feel the heat of his body above you, the power in his frame held taut just beneath the surface. He hovered for a breath, eyes raking over you, and then his tail moved—snaking up one leg, coiling slowly with deliberate grace.

The fabric of your dress tightened as his tail looped beneath it, and you barely had time to gasp before you heard the slow, purposeful sound of it tearing. With practiced precision, his tail shredded the fabric, beginning to peel it away from your body with a hunger that had been restrained for too long. Each thread undone was like a silent declaration: mine, mine, mine.

You felt a rush of cool air against your skin, and your breasts were exposed to his gaze. You could sense his eyes on you, drinking in the sight of your bare skin and hardened nipples, you felt a shiver run down your spine. Your breasts bounced slightly as you shifted, and you could feel his gaze following the movement, his eyes hungrily taking in every detail.

You instinctively tried to shield yourself, your arms moving to cross your chest, but he was quicker. His tail wrapped around your wrists with gentle but unyielding strength, keeping you exposed beneath him. Vulnerable. Claimed.

He leaned in closer, breath hot against your skin, and you felt it hitch as he studied you like something sacred. There was a deep rumble in his chest, not quite a growl but something more ancient—a sound of possession and awe.

"This will not be gentle," he murmured, voice low and rough like gravel smoothed by fire. "But do not fret. I will take care not to hurt you, beloved."

His words settled over you like a brand, searing into your skin. There was something sacred in them, a promise forged not in softness, but in strength—and devotion.

And the way he said it, with such conviction and tempered need, made your breath stutter and your fear crumble, replaced with something far more powerful:

Desire. Acceptance. Surrender.

His voice was a low rumble, "I want to see you. All of you." His eyes met yours, seeking consent, respectful despite the fierce hunger within. You nodded, your heart still pounding, but the fear was gone, replaced by a strong lust you didn't know you had.

He reached for the remnants of your dress, his touch gentle yet firm as he pushed the rest of the fabric off you. It slipped down your body, leaving you bare except for your undergarments. His breath hitched, his gaze roaming over you, worshipful and hungry.

"You're beautiful" he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Like a dream I never dared to have." He leaned down, his lips met yours, a soft, tender kiss that belied the intensity of his gaze. It was a question, a request for permission to explore further. You responded, your body melting into his, your lips parting to deepen the kiss. He tasted of smoke and spice, a heady combination that made your head spin. His claws, those large, warm claws, traced the curve of your neck, your shoulders, your breasts, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

You gasped, breaking the kiss, your body arching into his touch. He smiled, a slow, predatory smile that sent shivers down your spine. "I want to hear you," he whispered, his breath hot on your ear. "I want to hear every sound you make, every gasp, every moan." He captured your mouth again, his tongue delving in, exploring, tasting. His hands continued their journey, tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, the soft flesh of your thighs. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your undergarments, pulling back to look at you.

He slid the underwear down your legs, his eyes never leaving yours. You felt a shiver of anticipation and vulnerability, but the heat in his gaze, the raw desire, kept you from feeling exposed again. He stood up, his tail unwrapping from your waist, and you missed the contact instantly. But he was back in a moment, his hands on your knees, gently pushing them apart.

He knelt down, his gaze still locked with yours, and you felt a jolt of surprise and excitement. His rough claws traced up your inner thighs, his touch feather-light, sending shivers through you. You could feel the heat of his breath on you, and you squirmed, your body aching with anticipation. He smiled, a slow, knowing smile, and leaned in.

His long tongue found your aching bud, hot and wet, and you gasped, your body arching off the pile of furs. He made a sound, a low growl of pleasure, and the vibration sent waves of sensation through you. He gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he explored you, his tongue and lips driving you to the edge. You could feel the pressure building, your body coiling tight, and you grasped the furs beneath you, your knuckles turning paler.

"Thank you for agreeing to give me the gift of new life" His gaze held you captive, even as his tongue continued its torturous, delightful dance. You felt a flush spread across your body, your cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and arousal.

But you didn't look away. You held his gaze, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your body writhing with each flick of his tongue. He groaned, the sound vibrating through you, pushing you closer to the edge. You could feel it, the pleasure building, coiling tight like a spring ready to snap. "Sylus," you gasped, his name a plea on your lips.

He growled in response, his fingers digging into your thighs as he redoubled his efforts. The room spun, the golden light blurring around you. Your body tensed, every muscle coiled tight, and then, with a cry, you shattered. Waves of pleasure crashed over you, drowning you in sensation. You felt Sylus's claws on you, steadying you, his tail wrapping around you, holding you close as you rode out the storm. When the world came back into focus, you found yourself cradled in Sylus arms, your body still trembling with aftershocks. He was looking down at you, his eyes soft with concern and something else...a deep, profound satisfaction.

As you finally noticed the absence of his usual belt, your eyes widened in shock. There, at you waist, were not one, but two substantially sized cocks, side by side, both throbbing with desire. You could've sworn he only had one before?? A wave of heat rushed to your face, and you felt a surge of panic. You tried to wriggle free, to create some distance, but Sylus's grip only tightened. He growled, a low, primal sound that sent shivers down your spine, as you managed to shift into a crawling position. But your brief moment of triumph was short-lived.

With a swift move, he grabbed you around the waist, pulling you back towards him. You could feel his hot breath on your neck as he forced you face down onto the soft furs, his body pressing heavily against yours. "You cannot run from this," he rasped, his voice thick with lust and determination. "Be still." The fear that had been lurking within you surged back, filling every fiber of your being. You knew, with a certainty that was both terrifying and exhilarating, that there would be no escape. Not this time. Not until he had marked you, claimed you, bred you. His need was too great, his desire to leave his seed within you too strong to change your mind now.

As Sylus began to push his first cock into you, you felt a searing pain and a sense of being stretched to the limit. You realized, with a jolt of fear, that he hadn't been lying when he said this wouldn't be gentle. His cock was like a battering ram, forcing its way into your tight pussy with a ferocity that left you breathless. He let out a fierce growl of pleasure, pushing himself as deep as he could possibly go inside your walls.

He pumped feverishly, his hips moving with the strength and power of a beast. You groaned, your voice hoarse and barely audible, as your pussy was forced to take the pounding he was giving you. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pain and pleasure that left you gasping for air and gripping the fur beneath you.

His cock was huge, and it felt like it was tearing you apart, stretching your walls to the limit. You felt like you were being ripped in two, your body struggling to accommodate the size and strength of his thrusts. But Sylus didn't seem to care, his face twisted in a snarl of pleasure as he pounded into you with reckless abandon.

You were at his mercy, unable to escape the torrent of sensations that he was unleashing on your body. Your mind was a jumble of pain and pleasure, your body torn between the pain of his thrusts and the thrill of being taken by a creature so powerful and dominant. You felt his second cock rubbing itself between the rounds of your ass.

As Sylus continued to pump into you, his face twisted in a snarl of pleasure, he leaned in close and whispered in your ear.

"You'll never want for anything, beloved," he growled, voice low and reverent, thick with the weight of promise. It wasn’t just a statement. It was a vow. An oath carved from the bones of instinct, older than memory and heavier than gold. His breath was hot against your neck, his words brushing over your skin like fire.

"Not once," he continued, a possessive rumble threading through each syllable, "not once you're full with my children."

There was no shame in his tone, no hesitation. Just certainty. Purpose. He spoke like a dragon made flesh, a creature built for legacy, for claiming, for protecting what was his with unrelenting devotion. His hand traced your side as he spoke, the motion slow and reverent, as if feeling the space where new life would soon grow.

"Yes...yes give me as many children as you want Sylus, I want them all..." you begged, feeling yourself beginning to drool into the furs.

Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it seemed to have a profound effect on Sylus. His eyes flashed with a fierce light, and his face twisted in a snarl of pleasure.

Without warning, he pulled his cock out of you, the sudden withdrawal leaving you feeling empty and uneasy. But before you could even catch your breath, he flipped you around, his hands grasping your hips and pulling you back onto his cock. You felt him shove his cock balls deep inside you once again, the sudden invasion making you gasp with shock and pleasure.

You were stretched to the limit, your body struggling to accommodate the size and strength of his thrusts. But Sylus didn't seem to care, his face twisted in a mask of pleasure and desire. He pumped into you with a fierce intensity, his hips moving with a rapid, pounding rhythm that left you breathless and gasping. You felt his second cock sliding in harmonious rhythm across your stomach as he continued to pump the other inside you.

Sylus's movements grow frantic, each thrust more desperate than the last. The heat builds between you, an unstoppable force that drives you both to the edge. His breath hitches, and you can feel the tension coiling in his muscles, ready to snap.

With a final, forceful thrust, he slams deep inside you, a low groan ripping from his chest as he cums. The heat floods into you, a searing wave of release that leaves you both gasping. As he rides out the last pulses of his climax, he leans forward, sinking his teeth into your shoulder. The bite is sharp, claiming, sending a shock through your body that mingles with the aftershocks of his release.

You're both slicked in sweat, your chests rising and falling in a staggered rhythm as you cling to each other, trembling and utterly spent. The cave around you is dense with heat and the scent of exertion, the air thick enough to drink. Your skin is flushed, tingling, every nerve alight from the intensity of what has just passed between you. You feel the large amount of cum he shot inside you begin to spill out, making your thighs stick together. It’s hard to tell where your body ends and his begins—his warmth wraps around you like a living cocoon, steady and ever-present.

Every breath you take is his, pulled in from the narrow space between your mouths, and every exhale becomes a shared offering. His body is heavy over yours, enveloping, protective. You’re still reeling, caught somewhere between bliss and disbelief, when Sylus leans down and claims your lips in a kiss—fierce, unrelenting, yet reverent. It isn’t rushed. It’s deep, meaningful, and possessive in a way that leaves your heart pounding anew.

"Can you help me up?" you whisper, voice trembling, your limbs aching with fatigue. You lift a shaky hand, fingers brushing the fresh mark on your shoulder. The skin there is tender and warm, a physical memory of him etched into your flesh.

Sylus pulls back just enough to look at you, a small smile touching his lips. There’s affection in his gaze, but it’s layered with something else—something feral, possessive, unwavering. You blink at him, puzzled by the look he gives you, your breath catching as your body anticipates an answer.

"We aren’t finished, beloved" he murmurs, his voice like a caress wrapped in iron. The timbre of it thrums through your bones. He motions to his other member, still throbbing with need on your stomach. "I still have seed stored. I told you this would not be brief. We won’t be done until I am certain—utterly certain—that my seed has taken root."

The words wash over you like a second wave of heat. You feel it building again—not fear, not even hesitation. Just the slow, inevitable rush of anticipation. Your breath shudders as he presses closer once more, and the look in his eyes makes your heart stutter. He is so sure. So devoted. So...inescapably yours.

This isn’t just instinct anymore. It isn’t mere biology. It’s a vow, an offering, a claiming that comes from something sacred and ancient within him.

And as his lips brush against your throat, his tail curling possessively around your thigh again, you know one thing for certain:

Sylus isn’t finished.

And this becomes abundantly clear as he pushes his second cock inside you.

The next two days blur together in a haze of heat and aching limbs. Sylus is relentless—a creature driven by instinct and obsession, bound not just by desire but by an instinctual need to claim and secure what he now considers his. The cavern is filled with the sounds of breathless gasps, low growls, and the slick sound of bodies tangled in devotion and purpose.

There is barely a moment to rest. He presses into you again and again, each time with a ferocity that leaves you trembling, breathless, dazed. He rarely lets you catch your breath before pulling you close once more, whispering possessive promises into your ear, vowing over and over that he will not stop until he knows that his seed has taken root.

Still, there are brief breaks. Moments when he leaves to hunt, returning with food to replenish your strength. He never brings back just a meal—he returns with offerings: rare fruit, tender meats, things he’s sure will sustain and strengthen you. His eyes scan you for any signs of weakness, worry carved into the lines of his face even through the veil of lust that constantly clouds him.

One such time, you had tried to redress yourself, more out of instinct than shame. But when he returned and found you clothed again, his eyes darkened, the low sound of displeasure vibrating in his chest. He had stalked over to you, roughly tearing the garments off of your body, scattering them on the stone floor in pieces.

"Sylu-"

"No," he murmured, his voice low and rough, "You are to remain bare for me. Ready. Always."

And with those words, he had taken you again roughly, until the floor was soaked in his cum, as if to remind you that your body was his haven now—a vessel for something sacred. And this continued hourly, even when you had just awoken from a nap. He simply would spread your legs and begin pumping himself inside you. You welcomed this of course, figuring he was just following what his instincts were telling him to do.

Eventually, his frenzy began to slow. The fire that had once consumed him now burned low and steady, replaced by a quieter, more reverent form of devotion. Weeks passed in a blur of rest, warmth, and gentle touches, and then came the shift—he began to note that you smelled different. His sharp senses detected it before you felt a thing. He would murmur it against your skin, nose pressed to your neck or your belly, voice thick with wonder.

"You carry new life," he’d whisper.

At first, you rolled your eyes and laughed it off, teasing him for being so certain. You didn't want to get your hopes up. But soon, you began to feel it too—a flutter, faint and flickering like butterfly wings deep within. The first time it happened, you froze, a hand going instinctively to your belly. Sylus noticed immediately, his head snapping up, eyes wide.

"Did you feel it?"

You nodded slowly, hand still pressed to the gentle curve of your stomach. He was elated. Absolutely overcome with joy. He knelt before you and kissed your belly with a soft, contented purr rumbling from deep in his chest, his tail wrapping protectively around your ankles.

True to his word, he kept his promise. You never wanted for anything. He hunted only the best for you, brought the juiciest fruit, the most nourishing roots. He prepared meals with painstaking care, even if he didn’t eat most of it himself. When your back ached or your feet swelled, he massaged you with surprising tenderness, his large hands easing every knot and tension from your tired limbs. At night, he curled around you like a shield, his wings a blanket of protection, whispering soft things in a language you didn’t always understand.

Eventually, your clothes grew too tight to wear. Your belly swelled gloriously with life, and you gave up trying to force yourself into fabric that no longer fit. You wandered the cave freely, naked and glowing, your hands always resting protectively on your rounded stomach. Sylus didn’t mind in the slightest. He thought you looked divine.

Even in the later stages of your pregnancy, when walking made you tired and your body ached from the weight of his child, he still looked at you with hunger in his eyes. He remained ever ready to take you, though now with more patience, more gentleness to not hurt you or the baby. His touches were slow, reverent, his need no less intense but guided now by something softer—an unshakable adoration.

To him, you were more than his mate.

You were the future of his lineage. A living miracle he worshiped with every breath.

He was awoken one morning by the soft, fragile sound of you whining beside him—a breathy, instinctive noise that sliced through the quiet like a blade, shattering the peace of dawn. Instantly, he was alert, his senses snapping into sharp focus. In one smooth, practiced motion, he propped himself up on one elbow and leaned over you, red eyes scanning your body with fierce, frantic protectiveness. His hands hovered inches from your skin, as though afraid to touch and yet desperate to find the source of your distress.

When he found no visible wounds, he moved lower, his tail curling around your leg and lifting it gently. What he saw next made him still completely—and then smile, slow and reverent. A sheen of clear fluid glistened at your thighs. His chest swelled with emotion, and a warm, knowing glow filled his gaze.

It was time.

His breath caught in his throat, and the world seemed to narrow around this one miraculous truth. He leaned down, pressed his forehead to yours, and gently shook you awake, voice husky with emotion. "Wake, beloved," he murmured. "The hour is upon us."

What followed was the longest, most grueling day and a half of your life. The cave became a sanctuary of primal sound and sacred pain—the sharp edge of your cries echoing off the stone walls, the slow, rhythmic cadence of your breathing, and Sylus’s steady, grounding presence through it all. The space that had once been a den of passion now transformed into a place of birth and bond, of new beginnings.

He had prepared for this, of course. He always did. A nest of soft animal pelts had been lovingly arranged just days prior, thick and warm and perfectly layered to support your aching, straining body. You lay upon them, your skin damp with sweat, hair plastered to your temples, your belly tightening again and again with each new contraction. The pain was searing, unforgiving, your body fighting for every inch of progress.

And Sylus never left your side. Not for a moment.

He positioned himself behind you, his body acting as both cradle and shield. His larger frame curved protectively around yours, arms curled reverently over your middle, claws softened and carefully restrained so they wouldn’t harm you. He rubbed slow, grounding circles into the swell of your belly, the weight of his presence a balm against the storm.

His lips brushed your shoulder often, murmuring affirmations and praise, voice a low, calming purr that vibrated through your bones. His tail coiled gently around your thigh, anchoring you when you trembled. Whenever you cried out or whimpered in agony, he was there—not panicked, not shaken, but steady. Fierce.

"Breathe, my love," he whispered again and again, the words threaded with admiration. "You’re strong. So strong. You were made for this."

There was never a flicker of doubt in his eyes. He watched you with awe, holding space for your pain and your power, never wavering. His devotion took on a quiet intensity, every touch purposeful, every breath synchronized with yours. When you broke down in tears, sobbing through another wave of pain, he kissed your temple, held your hand, and wrapped you tighter in his warmth.

He treated you like something sacred—not just the mother of his child, but the miracle who bore his legacy. There was reverence in the way he touched you, in how he shifted with you through every hour, how his purring grew louder as your contractions deepened. You were his whole world in those moments, and he made sure you felt it.

As the hours stretched into exhaustion and time lost all meaning, he remained your constant.

And when the sharp, piercing cry of a newborn echoed through the cave, Sylus felt the breath leave his lungs entirely. The sound struck him like thunder, powerful and sacred, and his eyes locked on the sight before him: you, cradling the small, wriggling form against your chest. You were slick with sweat, flushed from exertion, but your smile—soft, exhausted, and full of wonder for your new baby—was the most radiant thing he had ever seen.

He moved toward you reverently, as if approaching something divine. But as he leaned in closer, a deep instinct stirred within him, passed down through countless generations. His tongue flicked out ever so slightly, and his body tensed with the urge to clean the newborn himself—the way his kind had always done.

You caught the motion and gave him a knowing look, gently placing a hand on his cheek. "No licking," you whispered with a tired laugh. "That’s not how we do it."

It took some convincing, his instincts hard to quiet, but he eventually yielded, watching with wide-eyed fascination as you showed him the human way. Warm cloths, gentle strokes, soft murmurs of comfort.

He knelt beside you, silent and attentive, absorbing every detail.

And though he did not get to perform the ritual of his bloodline, he found something just as profound in learning yours.

Together, you welcomed new life in a way that blended two worlds into one.

5K notes · View notes

carnalcrows · 1 month ago

Text

The one with the Scandal

pariring: rockstar! male OC x male reader [profile]

summary: You’re not dating him. You don’t even like him like that. He’s younger. He’s your job. He’s also apparently into fixing your collar, looking at you like you’re his, and letting the entire fanbase run with it. You’re just trying to not get fired. He’s making it really hard.

content warnings: 18+, idol/manager dynamic, bottom male reader, Jiho is younger but he is in control, reader is spiraling professionally but holding it together (barely), scandal via leaked video, yandere tendencies if you squint, oral (reader receiving), Jiho calls the reader Hyung, someone is watching. also: subtle HR violations and bad decisions made in very quiet hallways.

word count: 3.1k

White Eclipse’s manager's job description didn’t include “babysit rockstars,” but here you were at 6:47 a.m., standing outside the dorm in socks, trying to get a key card to work while someone inside was blasting what could only be described as sad trap piano.

You didn’t bother knocking. They never heard it anyway.

The door opened a beat later—Jiho, hoodie half-on, eyes still sleepy, holding a toothbrush like it was a weapon.

“Oh,” he said, voice rough. “Thought you were food.”

You blinked. “It’s me.”

He nodded. “Right.”

Then he just… stepped aside to let you in.

No apology. No explanation.

You used to be surprised by things like that. Not anymore. It’d been seven months since you took over as White Eclipse’s full-time manager. Seven months of group chats at 2 a.m., misplaced earrings, broken in-rooms, passive-aggressive silence in makeup chairs. You were barely keeping the group running. You didn’t have energy left for things like normal boundaries.

Jiho wandered back down the hall. You followed, because your job required it. Not to hover, just to check the morning schedule—radio taping, press call, one-on-one interview for Juhwan. Makeup in twenty.

“You slept?” you asked, mostly to check.

Jiho shrugged. “Eventually.”

“Eat something before we go.”

He didn’t answer, which usually meant no.

You sighed, already noting it down in the log.

⋆｡°✩

The van ride was quiet, except for Doyun humming aggressively off-key to a song no one else liked. You were seated up front, checking your tablet, trying to remember if anyone had confirmed Jiho’s brand outfit for the shoot. You didn’t hear him move until he leaned forward between the seats.

“Hyung,” he said. His breath ghosted the side of your neck, too close.

You didn’t flinch, but your fingers stilled.

“Yes?”

“You left your charger last time.”

He held it out—your USB-C cable, neatly wrapped.

You blinked. “You… kept it?”

He gave a half-shrug. “Figured you’d come back for it eventually.”

Then sat back like nothing happened.

You turned toward the window. The city rolled by in silence. You didn’t say thank you.

You weren’t sure you wanted to know what else he was keeping track of.

⋆｡°✩

The radio taping was delayed by forty minutes. Not that anyone told you until you were already standing in the green room, watching the stylist re-iron Taeyang’s shirt while Juhwan paced like he was on trial.

You were half-listening to a PD explain the new segment structure when Jiho appeared beside you again—like he always did, like gravity.

He didn’t say anything. Just handed you a bottle of water.

You took it automatically.

A few seconds passed before you glanced over.

“…This isn’t mine,” you said.

“It’s cold,” he replied. “You like it that way.”

You blinked, unsure how to respond to that.

He didn’t stick around for a reaction—just walked back to the couch and sat, legs crossed, earbuds in, expression unreadable as ever. Like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just said something small and specific enough to stick in your brain like a splinter.

You told yourself it was normal. He probably remembered from a post-schedule snack run. He was observant. That was all.

It didn’t mean anything.

But when the boys were being ushered into the booth, he lingered again.

Waited until the others were out of earshot.

Then said, “You looked tired yesterday.”

Your hand paused on the equipment list.

“…That’s not part of your job description.”

Jiho gave a half-smile. Small. Secret.

“Neither’s remembering your charger.”

You didn’t smile back.

You wanted to.

You didn’t.

⋆｡°✩

That night, you stayed at the company building longer than you meant to. Not unusual—schedules had to be reshuffled, the stylists were panicking about a delivery delay, and someone had somehow misplaced two of Doyun’s in-ear backups despite the fact that you’d personally labelled them in obnoxiously bold font last week.

By the time you packed your bag, the halls were half-dark and the lights in the vocal practice room were still on.

You almost didn’t look.

You almost walked straight past.

But you didn’t.

Jiho was there. Again.

Seated on the floor, guitar in his lap, hoodie sleeves pushed up. His face was lit only by the screen of his phone, and he looked so relaxed—so out of uniform—that it threw you off for a second.

He didn’t see you right away. But the second you stepped into the room; his fingers stilled on the frets.

He looked up. And didn’t look away.

“…You live here now?” you asked dryly, trying not to let your voice give anything away.

“Only if you do,” he said, which wasn’t funny, but it made your mouth twitch anyway.

You sat on the bench near the wall, just to rest for a minute. Just to breathe.

Jiho shifted slightly, setting his guitar down.

“They let you have solo schedules today?” he asked.

You shook your head. “Temporary probation.”

He hummed. “For what?”

You gave him a look. “You really want me to spell it out?”

“I want to know what they think happened.”

His tone wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t particularly curious, either. Just steady. Like he was testing something.

You didn’t answer.

He stood slowly and crossed the room, not close, not quite, but just enough that the air changed.

“I know what I felt Hyung,” he said.

Your jaw tightened. “You can’t say stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m your manager.”

He smiled, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Not lately.”

That sat in the space between you, heavy and uncomfortable and true.

You stood up, suddenly. Bag over your shoulder. Shoes already pointed toward the door.

Jiho didn’t stop you. Didn’t move. Just said, quiet and sure,

“Then what are you still doing here?”

⋆｡°✩

You’re already at the studio before the sun finishes rising, two iced Americanos in hand, and neither of them are for you.

The schedule’s stacked—two back-to-back interviews, followed by a commercial shoot, and then a fitting for a brand collab you only got confirmation for at midnight. You don’t even realise you’ve been typing out emails with your neck tilted and your jaw clenched until someone passes behind you and mutters, “Hyung, you’re gonna shatter your teeth.”

It’s Doyun.

You don’t respond. Just hand him one of the coffees and tell him to finish it before makeup.

Jiho’s the last one out of the van when you arrive at the venue. Hoodie up, expression blank, one earbud in. He doesn’t speak until the others have wandered off in different directions. You’re halfway to the front doors, double-checking a logistics note, when he suddenly says behind you, “You forgot your charger... again.”

You stop walking.

“I didn’t.”

He holds it up anyway. Neatly wrapped. Slightly warm, like he kept it in his pocket.

“Don’t leave your stuff around if you don’t want me touching it,” he adds.

It’s not flirtatious. Not playful.

Just a little… too direct.

You take it from him without meeting his eyes.

By the time the day wraps, you’ve been on your feet for nearly eleven hours, you’re starving, and you’ve answered the same three questions from the same sponsor rep three separate times.

You’re in the back hallway finishing a call when the door beside you creaks open.

Jiho again.

Of course.

He doesn’t say anything. Just leans against the wall next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.

“Is there a reason you’ve been following me around like a ghost today?” you ask, keeping your voice flat.

“Maybe.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re not subtle.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

There’s a beat of silence between you.

“You know they’re already watching,” you say quietly. “Even if nothing happens.”

He shrugs. “Then let them.”

You stare straight ahead. If you look at him now, you might say something you can’t take back.

He leaves without another word.

⋆｡°✩

It starts the next morning, before you’re even fully awake.

Your phone lights up with a buzz sharp enough to break through sleep, and the notification preview makes your blood run cold.

You don’t open it at first.

You already know what it is.

You sit up in bed, screen half-lit, and there it is:

A video.

Low-res, muted, zoomed in from somewhere behind the practice room window.

You, standing in front of Jiho.

Him, fixing your collar like he’s done it a hundred times before.

You, frozen.

Him, looking at you like no one else exists.

WHO is that? he looks like STAFF??? That’s the manager hyung. I’ve seen him in airport vids. They’re so domestic, what the hell 😭😭 The way he looks at him, oh my god, he’s SO GONE idc if it’s fake, this is the best ship in K-pop rn

It’s only ten seconds.

But that’s all it takes.

You can’t breathe.

The DMs are already coming in. Three calls from PR. One from someone in legal. Your group chat with the other managers is blowing up, and your name is already trending.

You close the app.

Open your notes app.

Start typing an apology that no one’s asked for yet.

Jiho.

Then you stop.

Because your phone buzzes again.

A single text.

[ come up to the roof.]

You stare at it.

Ignore it.

Then, against your better judgment, you go.

⋆｡°✩

The rooftop is quieter than you remember.

It’s probably not even technically accessible—some intern left the door propped open during a late-night smoke break once, and now everyone pretends it’s still locked. You used to come up here alone. That was before. Before the video. Before the call from PR. Before your name started appearing in the trending bar.

Now Jiho’s already here, hoodie sleeves bunched up to his elbows, fingers curled around a can of grape soda that’s starting to sweat through the aluminium. He looks like he hasn’t moved in an hour. Like this isn’t the first time he’s sat here, waiting for you.

You shut the door behind you.

He doesn’t turn to look at you immediately. Just nods toward the railing beside him.

You don’t sit.

“You saw it?” you ask.

He hums in response. You’re not sure if that’s a yes or a who hasn’t?

“You’re not panicking.”

He finally turns. There’s no smile. No bite. Just his usual unreadable calm.

“Should I be?”

You almost laugh, sharp and humourless. “This isn’t a joke.”

“I know.”

He tosses the soda can into the nearby bin without looking. Deadcentrer.

You cross your arms. “They’re going to kill this. Quietly. I’m already off the schedule for next week.”

“I noticed.”

You expect a flicker of regret. Frustration. Some trace of guilt.

You get none.

Instead, Jiho steps closer—not aggressive, just deliberate. There’s no camera up here. No PR team. No lighting cues or stylists, or handlers. Just him. Just you.

“They think we’re together,” he says, voice low.

You don’t answer.

“Maybe we should be.”

You look away. “Don’t do this.”

“Do what, Hyung?”

“Say things you can’t take back.”

He’s close enough now that you can feel the warmth from his body—his chest rising slowly, steadily. He doesn’t try to touch you. That would be too easy. Too obvious. Instead, he just stands there like gravity, like inevitability.

“I’ve been waiting for something to break,” he says, quieter now. “I just didn’t think it’d be a ten-second clip.”

You inhale through your nose. Try to stay steady.

“I’m older than you,” you say.

“So?”

“I’m your manager.”

He leans in—not touching, not yet.

“Not today.”

The silence between you hangs, taut and electric.

Then you walk away.

You don’t run.

But you don’t look back.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t answer his messages after that.

Not because you don’t want to. You just don’t trust yourself to say something that won’t get screenshotted and sent to HR. You spend the rest of the day buried in logistics—flipping through updated schedules, emailing photographers, pretending your phone isn’t buzzing every hour with a new article, a new fan edit, a new speculative thread. You don’t see Jiho for the rest of the day, and you let yourself believe maybe that rooftop conversation didn’t mean anything.

Then he shows up at your apartment.

It’s late—past midnight. You’re wearing an old shirt and mismatched socks, half-asleep, when the intercom buzzes. You think it’s a food delivery at first. You didn’t order anything. But when you answer, all you hear is—

“Hyung— It’s me.”

You don’t open the door right away. You hesitate. Long enough to consider what this will mean if you do.

But when you finally unlock it, he’s standing there. Hoodie off. Cap gone. Just Jiho—his real face, glasses slightly fogged from the night air. He looks calm. Like he’s been here before.

You don’t ask him why he came. You don’t need to.

He steps inside like he’s done it before, like this is normal— hoodie slung over one shoulder, hair pushed back messily from his face. He looks like he belongs here, even though you’ve never invited him in, not really. You tell yourself you’re only letting this happen because you’re exhausted. Because there’s no one else around. Because you’ve already been dragged into the narrative, so what’s one more mistake?

But you know better.

You always have.

You lock the door behind him and turn to find him watching you like he’s memorising something.

“You always leave it open when you’re nervous,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“The collar. You don’t button the top one. You fidget with it when you’re trying not to look at me.”

You don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.

Jiho walks past you—through the short hallway, into the living room, casual like he’s heading for the kitchen. He doesn’t. He stops at the edge of the couch and looks back.

“You gonna keep pretending?”

You cross your arms defensively. “Pretending what?”

“That you don’t want me to stay.”

That lands harder than you expect. Not because he’s wrong. But because you’ve been trying so hard to keep that exact thing from showing on your face for weeks.

And maybe you haven’t been as successful as you thought.

When you don’t answer, he turns fully. Walks up to you slowly, deliberately, until the heat from his body reaches your chest and you have nowhere else to go.

He touches the collar of your shirt. Just the fabric. No skin. Yet.

“You should stop wearing this,” he murmurs.

“Why?”

“Because I want to take it off.”

Your breath catches. He hears it. You know he does.

Then, carefully, he undoes the top button. Then the next. You don’t stop him.

“You’re shaking,” he says softly.

You didn’t even realize.

“I—Jiho, this is—”

“Too late.”

He steps forward. Presses his mouth to yours—once, slow and sure. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t push. But there’s heat behind it. Control. Like he’s waited long enough, and he’s not going to let you talk your way out of it now.

You kiss him back.

⋆｡°✩

He leads you to the bedroom without speaking, only touching you where he needs to—your wrist, your hip, the small of your back. You sit on the edge of the bed, and he kneels without hesitation, hands sliding up your thighs, eyes locked on yours.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he tells you. “But you don’t get to lie to me either.”

You nod.

That’s all he needs.

Jiho peels your pants down with practised fingers, pushing them past your hips, then your briefs. You’re already half-hard, pulse thudding like your body’s already a step ahead of your thoughts.

He leans in. Licks a slow stripe up the underside of your cock.

Your hands twitch at your sides. You don’t touch him. Not yet.

He doesn’t look up when he takes you into his mouth. Just sinks down, slow and steady, jaw relaxed like he’s done this a dozen times—maybe not for anyone else, but in his head, you’re sure he’s thought about it. Over and over.

His tongue presses firmly along the base. His lips seal around you, and he moans—soft, like it’s for him, not you. The vibration makes your knees buckle.

He takes his time. Pulls off to suck at the head, just enough to make you gasp. Then down again—deeper, sloppier now, until your cock hits the back of his throat and he still doesn’t stop.

You manage his name. Once. Barely.

His hands grip your thighs, firm and steady, keeping you in place. He sucks you down again and again, never breaking eye contact, never faltering. He wants you to watch. To know exactly how far he’s willing to go.

When you start to lose control—hips stuttering, breath slipping—he only tightens his hold and hums around you again. That pushes you over.

You come with a choked breath, your hand in his hair, every nerve lit up. He doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t spill a drop.

When it’s done, when your heart’s still racing and your fingers are trembling, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like it’s nothing.

Then he leans in again, not to kiss you, but just to speak.

Voice low. Calm. Possessive.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “you’re going to beg for it.”

⋆｡°✩

You wake up before your alarm.

The light in your bedroom is pale, soft, barely filtered through your blinds. The air is cool against your skin, your sheets kicked halfway off the bed, your body still aching in that strange, satisfying way. Not sore. Just… used. Thoroughly.

Jiho is still asleep beside you.

His hand is curled against the pillow, palm up, fingers relaxed like he has nothing left to chase. His mouth is parted slightly. His hair’s a mess. One leg is tangled with yours beneath the blanket.

You lie there for a moment, still and quiet.

You don’t know what time he fell asleep. You don’t know if he meant to stay. You don’t even know if he thinks this was a one-time thing or the start of something. You should care.

You do care.

You just don’t know what to do with it yet.

Eventually, you get up. Carefully. Quietly.

You don’t leave the room, just stand near the doorway, shirt half-on, trying to figure out what you’re supposed to feel. It doesn’t feel like a victory. Or relief. It just feels inevitable.

You reach for your phone out of habit. You’ve got two unread messages.

One from your replacement manager, asking if you’re available for a rescheduled meeting later in the week.

And one from an unknown number.

[hope you enjoyed last night. This is just the beginning.]

No context. No name. But your stomach drops anyway.

You read it again.

And again.

Behind you, Jiho shifts in the sheets.

You don’t turn around.

Not yet.

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enigmaris · 7 months ago

Text

A continuation of this post:

There is a teenager in the Watchtower.

Scratch that, there is a teenager that Bruce doesn't know in the Watchtower. The boy, maybe around Tim's age, is wearing worn blue jeans, a white t-shirt and a pair of tennis shoes that had seen better days.

He is wearing no mask, no suit of armor, with no weapons on him. He's just sitting in one of the seats in their larger meeting room, quite literally twiddling his thumbs. He hadn't noticed Batman standing in the doorway.

Behind him, he heard Clark coming round the corner, Bruce lifted up a gloved hand which made the man stop.

"What is it, Bats?"

Bruce sent the man a look before motioning to the boy, who had definitely noticed them now.

He waved at them.

"Who is that? Don't you normally require all your new kids wear costumes up here?" Clark asked.

"Unknown." Bruce said before giving his friend a look. "He's not mine."

Why does everyone assume it's his kid? Just because this boy has dark hair and blue eyes does not mean he belongs to Bruce. Clark has nearly the same looks as Bruce, and he had two kids, why couldn't this one be one of his?

"He's not mine either!" Clark said before frowning. "Not that I know of."

Bruce lifted up an eyebrow, knowing his friend could see it beneath his cowl. Clark rolled his eyes.

"Let's be honest if he was one of mine, you would know before I would."

Bruce grunted and turned back to the teenager. The kid was clearly listening in on them while looking away from them. Bruce watched as he tapped on the table in front of him, making little staccato noises of anxiety.

"Why are we waiting out here?" Barry asked, appearing right in a blur of red and yellow right as he did. Clark pointed at the unknown in the meeting room. Barry grinned widely beneath his own cowl, making the rubbery material crinkle.

"Batsy! Another one? You sly dog, where'd you find this one?"

"He's not mine." Bruce growled, Barry actually froze for a moment, shock slowing him down to normal speed for a moment.

"Nice joke, Bats. If he's not yours, then whose is he?"

Bruce clenched his jaw, Barry looked between the two of them, head flipping rapidly until he realized it wasn't a joke. In the corner of his eye, he could see that the unknown was openly staring at them with a smile forming on his face.

"We are in space." Barry hissed. "How'd a random kid get in here?"

"Excuse me?"

Behind the three hero pile up, Arthur arrived. The King looked less than pleased at having his way impeded.

"I come to these bi-monthly meetings due to their importance. I have an entire kingdom to manage, so if we could all move?"

"Bats has a new kid!" Barry nearly shouted.

"He's not mine!" Bruce growled while Arthur looked up and over Barry to see the unknown.

"Do we have a security breach?" Arthur asked.

"He's not yours yet!" Barry said at the same time, lifting up a finger and pointing it right at Bruce's face.

"We don't know who it is or how they got here." Clark said. "He doesn't seem hostile."

"Appearances can be deceiving, Superman." Arthur said , pursing his lips. Bruce turned to see that the boy had now waved in greeting at Arthur and Barry. Barry waved back.

"Are we having a hallway party or something?" Captain Marvel asked. "A party sounds waaaay more fun than a meeting, no offense Batman."

"We have an intruder, Captain." Arthur said pointing directly at the kid.

The kid's eyes widened and he looked behind himself before pointing at his own chest in surprise.

"He doesn't seem like an intruder?" Marvel said with a frown. "What if he's lost?"

"The watchtower is a secure facility, people don't get here by accident." Bruce said.

"I dunno, Batman." Marvel shrugged. "We have aliens, magicians, and time travelers on our team. He could be lost."

Bruce refused to admit the genial man had a point, the unknown could be from anywhere or anywhen. From further down the hallway, John and Diana appeared, walking together. Diana was holding a glass filled with one of Barry's chocolate protein shakes. John nodded in greeting at the group.

"We have an intruder Wonder Woman." Arthur said.

Diana looked through the crowd before shaking her head.

"Nonsense. He has permission to be here. Come, we should sit for the meeting."

Diana muscled her way through the crowd, still carrying the glass. She walked directly over to the unknown. The boy perked up, smiling widely as Diana held out the glass for him

"Thanks, i was getting hungry." The boy said before taking a large gulp of the shake, Diana smiled down at the boy, resting her hand in his dark hair.

"Woah. Plot twist." Barry whispered.

"Come on, let's get to the bottom of this." Clark said walking into the room, following the path Diana took.

The rest of the League followed suit, taking their assigned seats around the table. Bruce wasn't surprised to see that the unknown was sitting in an extra chair right next to Diana.

"To start the meeting." Diana said onc everyone was seated. "I do have some news to share."

"Yeah, I sure hope so." Marvel said in that strange, joking tone he used as if he were quoting something, not that Bruce had ever been able to recognize the quotes.

"I would like to introduce the Justice League to my son, Daniel of Themyscira." Diana said, putting her arm around the unknown and squeezing him to her side.

"Hi." Daniel said, waving at the group, his cheeks a bit red.

Immediately, there was an uproar from most everyone in the League. Questions and shouts of confusion, shock, and denial. Diana only allowed the noise for a few moments before she slammed her fist onto the table hard enough to crack it.

"Enough!" She shouted, quickly quelling the group. "I will not allow my decision to bring my son here be questioned."

She glared at them fiercely, still holding Daniel to her side. The boy had ducked down a bit with the shouting but was now looking up at Diana with adoration.

"This entire team, aside from Captain Marvel, has brought their young charges to the League." Diana continued, looking at each of them. "Superman has brought up two Superboys, Aquaman introduced to us Aqualad, Flash has both Impulse and Kid Flash, Martian Manhunter came to us with Miss Martian. I do not believe we even have time to list all of Batman's brood."

Barry had the audacity to snort at Diana's last point. That actually eased the tension and people relaxed. Diana leaned back into her seat.

"I would think that my team of many years would trust my judgment in bringing my son here. I assure you he is well into his training and more than competent. I will allow you all to ask your questions now."

Bruce cleared his throat near silently and spoke up first.

"What does he know?"

Diana didn't look impressed at his question. Daniel looked at her face before frowning at Bruce, clearly following his mother's lead.

"I have spoken at length about the League and how we work together. I assure you that i have not revealed any identities shared in confidence with me." Diana's tone made it clear she was offended that Bruce would accuse her of revealing their identities. He barely kept from wincing.

"Uhm. How did he... come to be?" Clark asked, clearly not wanting to ask any truly intimate details.

"In the way all children do." Diana said, giving Clark a look of his own.

That answer was not very helpful given that Diana was formed from clay by her mother. Had she taken a pottery class when he wasn't looking? Unless the boy was much older than he appeared, there was no way Diana had hidden a pregnancy from them 15 or so years ago.

"Why haven't we heard of him before now?" Arthur asked.

"Daniel was training with Pandora, one of the elders of Themyscira, she sent him here when he learnt all she had to teach. He joined me in the world of man only a few months ago." Diana answered simply.

"Uh. Excuse my ignorance." Barry said in a tone that made it clear he was about to say something very ignorant indeed. "But I thought your family only had women in it?"

This time Daniel answered, looking nervous.

"I'm. I'm trans actually." he answered, while rubbing his arm nervously.

"Which is completely fine and something that will not leave this room." Diana said, her voice comforting towards her son while her eyes promised hellfire to the heroes in the room.

Everyone made noises of agreement until Daniel relaxed, going back to smiling.

"Excuse me Wonder Woman, will Daniel be wanting to join any of the other, younger teams?" Captain Marvel asked, sounding excited at the idea.

Which of course he would, he was still acting Den Mother for Young Justice and loving it.

"That is up to him. For now I would like to keep him to myself for a while longer, but once he is further trained by myself I think it would be a splendid opportunity."

"Yes!" Daniel agreed before clearing his throat. "I mean, that'd be cool or whatever."

"We can discuss it in the future." Bruce allowed, knowing that it would probably happen sooner than Diana would want knowing how both the Teen Titans and Young Justice were. Danny nodded eagerly at that.

"Finish your food." Diana told Daniel before looking back up at the rest of the team. "Are there any more questions?"

"Does Daniel have any health requirements or powers we need to be aware of?" John asked. "Or is his physiology the same as your own?"

"His powers are vastly different from my own. It is one of the reasons Pandora had taken on his training in the beginning." Diana answered easily. "The facilities and resources we have here should work well for him in case of injury."

The knowledge that Daniel's powers were so different from Diana's that she didn't feel comfortable training him herself was worrisome. Amazons, as far as he knew, had relatively similar powersets. Although he had not heard of Pandora before, perhaps she was specialized?

"I do have, what's it called? An enhanced metabolism. Most stuff here doesn't work on me."

"Don't worry son. We have plenty of medications designed with metas in mind." Clark told Danny. "If it works on me and your mom, it willl work for you."

"Cool."

"What all can you do?" Captain Marvel asked.

Daniel turned to look at Diana who nodded. The boy then looked back at them and started listing his powers.

"I can fly. Not as fast as mom's invisible jet but pretty fast. I'm super strong. I can turn invisible and intangible."

"Intangible?" Clark asked.

"It is an ability similar to Martian Manhunter's density shifting." Diana clarified. "The mechanisms are different."

Magical, most likely, instead of John's more science based power. Bruce would have to come up with more contingencies to compensate for that.

"Yeah intangibility is pretty cool." Daniel told them. "Althought when i first got it, it was pretty scary. I kept falling through stuff. I was almost afraid I'd start falling through the whole planet by accident. I totally have it under control now though."

"I would be interested in comparing our abilities, Daniel." John said, nodding his head towards him. The boy beam excitedly.

"Yeah!"

"Not in the Watchtower." Diana warned, voice stern.

Yes, that was probably sensible. Danny agreed with his mother, and John clarified that he would be happy to meet up planetside at their convenience.

"Are those all of your abilities?" Barry asked, Daniel shook his head.

"No there are a bunch more. But I'm not supposed to use them for a while."

"Why?"

"My son is powerful, but he has relied on his powers far too much in the past." Diana said, sounding porud enough to make her son blush. "Right now, I am training his melee abilities, we have agreed to a temporary pause until he has met my standards."

"It's been super tough. Mom's making me practice with her sword all the time." Danny added on.

"My mother will be sending on your own weapon soon." Diana soothed. "Hephestes does not like to be rushed."

"I know mom."

Diana reached up and ruffled her son's hair. Daniel leaned into the affection with a smile.

"Are there any further questions?" Diana asked, when no one had anything immediately she nodded. "Good. Is there any further business? If not, I would like to take my son home for a proper meal."

Everyone looked at each other. Bruce had wanted to discuss some of his findings, but with Diana's reveal, it hardly seemed important any longer. Bruce was going to need to do a lot of research and planning. He wondered if he should get Tim involved or if he should hold off. The League agreed to end the meeting early, Diana stood.

"Come Daniel. We should get to the jet."

Daniel scrambled up and followed his mother out of the meeting room, his worn sneakers squeaking a bit on the flooring. The rest of the League sat in silence for a moment taking in what Diana had told them.

Wonder Woman had a child. A child with powers beyond her own.

Daniel popped back into the room before anyone could speak.

"Gosh, I am sorry I almost forgot. Mr. Batman, I have something for you."

Daniel walked right over to Bruce, who stared at him from underneath the cowl. The boy was not nearly as confident as his mother when it came to his glare. He cringed a bit, but reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny, silver and green flash drive. He placed it on the table and stepped back.

"What is that?"

"Mom told me you like to make contingencies for everyone. In case they go crazy or whatever. So..." The boy motioned to the drive with his hand. "I mean, it'd be weird if i made my own plans, but like, you could do it. That has all my powers and weaknesses and stuff."

Bruce grabbed the flash drive and the boy looked pleased.

"Okay! I gotta go. It was awesome meeting you guys!"

Daniel turned on his heel and ran out of the room. Bruce looked down at the flash drive, doing his best to hide his shock. No one has ever just handed him a list of their weaknesses before.

"I dunno Bats, are you sure he's not yours?" Barry asked.

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zhelin-thames · 7 days ago

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The Realms React To: The Batkids Trying to Babysit De-Aged Danny

(aka “This Child Has More Power Than God and Knows It”)

Bruce: He’s two. How bad could it be?

Alfred: Master Wayne, he levitated the salt shaker and tried to crown himself “Snack King of Gotham.”

Dick: That’s adorable. I love him. He’s mine now.

Barbara: I left the room for three minutes and he hacked my comms with a crayon drawing.

Tim: I blinked and he disappeared. I blinked. There was eye contact.

Jason: He looked me dead in the eyes, called me “Angry Boom Boom Man,” and then turned intangible through a locked fridge.

Steph: I tried to distract him with a stuffed animal and he bit it and said, “This is my child now.”

Cass: He high-fived me, then phased through the floor while giggling. I’m both proud and terrified.

Duke: He used his glowing green eyes to convince a Roomba to follow him like a tiny mechanical minion. It keeps bringing him juice boxes. I don’t own juice boxes.

Damian: He looked me in the face, summoned a ghost snake, and asked, “Do you bite?” I said yes. He gave the snake my sword and said, “Good. Protect me from him.” I’ve never been so betrayed.

Danny (age 2, wearing a towel like a cape, floating): “I am Phantom, ruler of snacks and cartoons. Fear me.”

Jason: I gave him a toy gun. He turned it into an ectoplasmic cannon. I’m not mad, I’m impressed.

Dick: He just phased into the laundry basket and declared it his throne. That’s a bold leadership move.

Tim: We tried to put him down for a nap. He astral projected and started reorganizing our security protocols. While asleep.

Barbara: He reset my firewalls using finger paint.

Steph: He found my glitter stash. Everything he touches sparkles. I’m still sparkling. I haven’t touched him in two hours.

Cass: He threw a Cheerio at Damian and said, “This is your battle token. Win for my honor.” Damian accepted it.

Damian: I have never been so loyal to a warlord. I will kill for him.

Bruce: He’s two.

Danny (holding Alfred’s ancient cane like a scepter): “I’m older than you.”

Alfred (smiling fondly): He’s not wrong, Master Wayne.

Jason: He called me “Uncle Shoot Bang.” I’ve never felt so seen.

Duke: He asked if the sun sleeps. When I said no, he frowned and whispered, “I will fix that.”

Dick: I taught him how to do a somersault. He teleported halfway through it and said, “Shortcut.” My back hurts from laughing.

Tim: He made eye contact and the lights flickered. That’s not normal.

Barbara: I asked if he wanted a bedtime story. He summoned a ghost librarian who told me to use a better tone.

Cass: He hugged me. I felt peace. Then he made the couch float just a little. Just enough to flex.

Danny (cheerfully, riding the Roomba into the living room like a war chariot): “BEHOLD. I RISE.”

Everyone:

Everyone: beholding

Bruce: …So we’re keeping him, right?

Jason: Obviously.

Damian: He’s our tiny war general now.

Alfred: I’ll make extra cookies.

Danny (covered in stickers, glowing faintly): “I’m baby.”

Lights flicker. The Realms rumble approvingly.

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luvrrszn · 2 months ago

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nasty old dog

SIMON "GHOST" RILEY x FEM!READER

summary silent, broody...how can you resist your mysterious older neighbour?

warnings fluff-ish, age gap (early 20s, late 30s), nsfw (smut), bad brain-rotted writing

a/n heh......send requests pls

masterlist

the first time you meet him, he’s standing at your front door in full tactical gear.

not just a vest or boots—everything. black from head to toe, a skull-print balaclava covering most of his face. there’s a duffel slung over one shoulder, and your parcel in his hand.

you freeze.

he doesn’t say anything at first—just stares at you. and then, quietly, almost too quiet to hear:

“this came to mine.”

you take the box slowly, fingers brushing the gloves he hasn’t taken off. your eyes flick to his—dark, heavy-lidded, with a hint of tiredness that makes something twist in your chest.

“…thanks,” you manage, trying not to sound nervous.

he nods once and turns without another word. just disappears into the apartment across the hall like this is normal. like he’s normal.

you close the door and stand there for a long moment.

“…what the hell.”

—

you tell yourself not to be weird about it. but every time you see him—taking out the trash, coming back from a run, carrying enough groceries for a family of five—you get more and more curious.

there’s something about him. the way he’s always alone. how he never quite makes eye contact. how your cat likes to sit by the front door, ears perked, tail twitching, every time his boots echo down the hallway—like she knows exactly when he’s coming home.

he’s strange. broody. definitely hiding something.

so of course you bake cookies.

and occasionally leave them on his doorstep.

because you're a nice neighbour!

because you’re nosy. and maybe a little reckless.

and because god help you, your mysterious neighbour is hot.

—

at first, it's subtle. a soft nod when you pass by each other in the hallways, and even an occasional gruff "mornin'" from the man.

simon doesn’t exactly do small talk—but he starts remembering your name, starts holding the lobby door open a little longer when your arms are full of groceries. he even helps you carry them once. gruff, silent, but his hand wraps fully around the handle of your tote bag like it weighs nothing.

there’s a moment, that day. where your fingers brush his. and he flinches—not from you, but from himself. like he wasn’t expecting how warm you’d feel. how soft your hands were, untouched by the horrors of the world.

then it’s a sticky note.

you find it one night, stuck on your fridge in all caps, scrawled with a heavy hand:

“FIXED YOUR SINK. STOP USING THE DUCT TAPE.”

you don’t even know how he got in—must’ve used the spare key you gave your building’s maintenance guy. you leave a tupperware of cookies on his doorstep the next day. he doesn’t say anything, but a week later, your broken curtain rod is magically fixed too, and your empty tupperware sits on your kitchen counter.

and somehow, this becomes your thing.

he drops by after missions—always late at night, always quiet. you never ask questions. he never offers answers. but he shows up with oil stains on his shirt and shadows under his eyes, and you let him in, let him rest. you even start cooking bigger portions, just so he'll have some home-cooked food to eat when he drops by at night. you don't ask questions, you don't say anything. you just give him some food as he tugs off his skull balaclava.

sometimes he falls asleep on your couch, jaw slack, brow still furrowed like he’s expecting a fight even in sleep. other times, he just… sits with you. watches whatever’s on the tv without a word. you talk. he listens. and every now and then, when you say something funny or dumb or weird, the corner of his mouth twitches. barely noticeable. but it’s there.

eventually you get comfortable with him. you curl up against him during movie nights, head resting on his chest. his arm rests on the back of the sofa behind you. his hand doesn't wrap around your shoulder. he makes sure there's some sort of distance between him and the little young thing sitting beside him.

you learn he likes his tea strong. that he only takes sugar when he’s had a rough day. that he reads, sometimes, when he can’t sleep. that he has a soft spot for your cat, even if he pretends to ignore her—pretends not to notice when she curls up beside his boots. (you even catch him smiling at her once, but you pretend not to notice)

you start to learn the rhythm of him. the little ways he says “i care” without ever saying it at all.

eventually, you stop pretending he’s just your neighbour.

but he doesn’t.

he keeps his distance, even as he inches closer. never lets himself touch you for too long. never stays the night, no matter how late it gets. you catch the way he looks at you sometimes—like he wants something he doesn’t think he should want.

he’s careful. too careful. because you’re bright and soft and still figuring things out. and he’s lived a thousand lives in the dark, each one heavier than the last.

and maybe that’s why it nearly breaks something in you when one night, after a silence stretched too long, he just says it.

quietly. like he’s scared he’ll ruin it.

“i sleep better here.”

you don’t say anything. just reach for his hand and squeeze. and this time, he doesn’t pull away.

—

and one day, he comes back more broken than usual.

you can see it in the set of his shoulders, the way he lingers in the doorway like he’s debating whether or not he should’ve even come. his jaw is tight. his knuckles are bruised. and when he finally steps inside, he doesn't say a word—just drops his gear by the door, like always, and sinks onto your couch like gravity's finally gotten the best of him.

you sit beside him, quiet. you let the silence stretch.

until you finally ask, “si, are you okay?”

he doesn’t answer right away. just stares ahead, breathing deep, like your soft little apartment is the only thing keeping him tethered.

“had to do lotsa' things i didn’t wanna' do,” he mutters eventually. voice low. rough. “a lot more than usual.”

your hand finds his and you squeeze. your grip is gentle. grounding. “you’re home now.”

he turns to look at you then. and there’s something in his eyes that makes your breath catch—something sharp, haunted. but under it… there’s hunger too. not just for you, but for the comfort you bring. for the peace he only finds in your presence.

and maybe that’s what makes you brave.

maybe that’s why you shift closer, crawl gently into his lap, hands bracing on his broad shoulders. you feel the way his body tenses beneath you, the way he swallows hard when your fingers ghost along the back of his neck.

“let me take care of you,” you whisper.

“sweetheart…” he warns, already shaking his head.

you start grinding down on him a little, just to test the waters. but his hands come to your waist. but they don’t push. they just hold. “you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“i do,” you murmur, leaning in so your lips ghost along his jawline. “i know exactly what i want. i want you, si."

his breath stutters. you press a kiss just below his ear. his grip around you tightens into somewhat of a hug.

“don’t do this,” he says, but his voice is wrecked. you notice the slightest tremble in his hands and voice. barely noticeable to anyone else, but you can feel it.

“why not?” you whisper. “i know you want me too.”

“you’re young.” he finally says it. the thing that’s been sitting heavy between you both.

“you’ve got your whole damn life ahead of you. you shouldn’t be wasting it on some old bastard who drags death with him wherever he goes.”

“i’m not wasting anything,” you whisper, pulling back. you look into his eyes and your hands come up to hold each side of his head. “i’m choosing you, you old dog. doesn’t that count for something?”

and it’s like that finally breaks him.

because the next thing you know, his mouth is on yours—desperate, almost angry, like he’s been trying to hold himself back for months and he just can’t anymore. his hands grip your hips tight, dragging you closer, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you in his lap.

and when he kisses you again, it’s not hesitant. it’s hungry.

his lips are hot, almost feverish against yours, and you can feel the desperation in every movement. his hands are everywhere—palming your hips, sliding beneath your shirt to feel the warm curve of your waist, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

and you? you just melt for him.

you thread your fingers through his short crop of hair, tugging gently, and he groans low in his throat. you whisper his name, over and over, like a prayer, like something sacred. and it's music to his ears.

“fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, “you don’t know what you do to me, sweet girl.”

but you do.

you feel it in the way he grinds up into you, slow and controlled, like he’s still trying to restrain himself even now. like he doesn’t want to hurt you. like he wants to worship you.

you pull back just enough to look at him—his eyes are dark, pupils blown, lashes fluttering as he blinks up at you with something close to reverence.

“i want all of you, si,” you whisper. “please.”

his jaw clenches, like he’s fighting every instinct to be good, to be safe, to keep distance. but you see the moment he gives in. the moment he realises you’re not afraid of him. you want him. all of him.

he stands with you in his arms, effortless, and carries you to your bedroom. he lays you out so gently you nearly cry. and when he finally takes off your clothes, it's like unwrapping something precious—his touch is rough in places, but careful where it matters.

“you’re so fuckin’ soft,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth along your collarbone, “so goddamn perfect.”

your fingers fumble with the hem of his shirt, and he helps you pull it over his head. you take a moment, just looking at him—all scars and strength and something broken that only you ever get to see.

“you’re beautiful,” you say, and his breath hitches.

he kisses you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made him feel alive. like the war stops when your mouth is on his.

and when he finally slides into you, it's slow. unbearably slow. you feel every inch of him, the stretch, the fullness, the way his breath stutters when you moan his name. but he fits perfectly. like he's the puzzle piece you've been searching for. like this was meant to be.

one hand toys with your nipple while the other rubs soft circles on your clit.

he’s whispering things between gritted teeth—“that’s it, sweetheart,” “so good f'me,” “i’ve got you”—his voice like gravel and honey in your ear.

and when he finally loses the last bit of restraint, it’s devastating—his rhythm picking up, hips snapping into yours, his forehead pressed to yours as he groans your name like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

"f-fuck si—oh yeah right there—oh!" your moans are almost pornographic, only spurring simon on as he picks up his pace. faster, deeper, and soon you feel the familiar warmth in your belly as your stomach coils.

you fall apart beneath him, trembling, gasping, held together only by his arms around you and the heat of his breath against your cheek. your walls tighten around him, squeezing him. and soon he follows with a low, broken sound and your name on his lips like a plea.

he spills deep inside you, your walls milking him for all that he is.

and then it’s quiet.

his body curled around yours, still catching his breath as he pulls out of you. your fingers tracing lazy circles along his chest. his thumb brushing soft over your waist like he can’t stop touching you, like he doesn’t want to.

you feel his lips press into your hair as he mutters, barely audible:

“don’t know what i ever did to deserve you.”

#📓—lexwrites #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost #ghost x reader #ghost fluff #ghost angst #ghost smut #simon riley fluff #simon riley angst #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley fluff #simon ghost riley smut #simon ghost riley angst #heh idk what this was #i need an older man plsss #did not proofread please lmk if something's off

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cavernsandcod · 3 months ago

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a little continuation to this post of mine. | 0.8k

cw; dirty dog simon and husband!price, nsfw themes

───────────────

Price knows Simon by the sound of his footsteps.

An ego-driven, menacing gait that makes all the soldiers disunite like the red sea when he travels the corridor. All the small talk and banter comes to a halt when the big man is around, as if he's some sort of bad omen. It's not true, at least John doesn't think so, but that might be a Captain's privilege. He's in charge of the brute, not the other way around.

A dark shadow passes by the stained glass, a masked head held up high. He passes the crack of John's office door, likely intent on avoiding any unnecessary interaction—

—always yes sir, no sir, like a good boy.

"Riley. In here. Close the door." Price calls out, taking off the reading glasses hanging low on his nose, tossing them onto a stack of intel. The soldier stops in his tracks. Doesn't flinch at the serious tone of his superior. It's not the first time he's heard it, won't be the last.

Simon crosses the threshold, shutting the door. Crosses the room in two quick strides like a floating apparition. "Intel?"

"Thankfully, no." Price slowly rises and rounds the oak desk, which feels uncanny. His lips curve into some sort of uneasy smile, crow's feet and lines of age deepening. Makes the air feel calmer, more personable. The Lieutenant stiffens and crosses his arms, his face in a permanent scowl under the black balaclava. Nothing about this is normal.

"I need a favor, Simon." Simon. Not Ghost. "It's about the wife."

Simon turns his head to the shelf beside him, studying the row of framed photos, the majority encapsulating you. The dating stages, youthful and bright-eyed in pubs and restaurants with a thick, hairy arm wrapped around your waist. Then, months after he popped the question—the idyllic wedding in Madrid where you faced each other, hand in hand.

All he remembers of it is the itchy suit and open bar. If he weren't the shell of a man, he might feel bad.

And now, the photos are few and far between. No life to them, just fake smiles with friends and their kids. A hand around your shoulder and a nose in your hair, all while you fight an inner battle. No vacations, no fun. Just the pretty missus to an esteemed Captain.

He was certain you two wouldn't last.

The first time you visited him on base and tried to hide how out of element you felt. Didn't notice the man spectating from the corner, his identity concealed. Or pretended not to. Too sweet for your own good. Ignored for months on end. Mere roommates with the man you married on the off chance he is home. Probably doesn't have time to lay you down proper—

"Well? Simon?"

He shrugs, feigning indifference. "What about 'er?"

"I need you to keep an eye on her for me. Laswell has something for me in Istanbul, and it might be a few weeks." Price responds, fiddling with the band on his left hand.

"Been gone weeks before, Cap. Months, too. She knows how it is by now." Simon retorts, curtly. Their problems aren't his. He's not keen on becoming private security for a boring housewife, either. You live a boring life. Nobody knows where or who you are, except the circle.

"This is different." The captain's tone sours. "She's pulling away from me. Doesn't see things... clearly anymore. If I leave us where we are now, she might not come back. You're the only one I trust." His voice almost splits into something weak. Almost.

Trusting him took years of work and near-death experiences that had them make it home by the skin of their teeth. Some sort of war-bred trauma bond, his shrink said once. John only goes to his appointments out of necessity, not so much his own volition.

They see horrors the paper-pushers don't, and will never, truly digest.

He could talk about personal things, too. The questionable childhood, his marriage, the prospect of children—but doesn't. He's too guarded to hash any of that out.

"So," Ghost begins, head dipping low in thought. "You're asking me to shadow your bird. Follow her... Keep her sound?"

It's not really a question, but the polite thing to do is ask. Simon knows what he should do and what he actually will; always ten steps ahead.

Price nods, letting out a small hum. He pats the hard shoulder standing beside him, a firm pat of approval. "Do whatever you have to."

All it takes is five words. Five words and another lingering stare at the photos of you make his chest pound, fingers twitching in search of action.

In truth, Simon always thought you were captivating—an anthesis to everything he is.

He spent the years of your relationship on the outskirts, curled up on the front porch like a stray that isn't allowed inside, chained and confined to his place. Never broke the rules because he's a patient, headstrong bloke with a few fantasies.

All he needed was an invitation inside.

His cock twitches in the confines of his trousers, the forbidden switch finally flipped.

"Yes, Sir."

#simon cucking price #john price x reader #simon riley x reader #modern warfare #call of duty fanfic #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #john price #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #captain price x reader #modern warefare ii #tf 141 x reader #tf 141

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readwritealldayallnight · 8 months ago

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Yours, Mine, Ours

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

wc: 1.5k words

warnings/tags: fluff

“So did the other two actually say no or did you just never invite them?”

“‘Course I invited them, you asked me to, so I did.” Simon replies with ease, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead of him. “They’re smart lads, lovie, they knew to say no all by themselves.”

You shake your head at him in disbelief but the smile that’s been plastered across your face ever since the two of you pulled out of your flat’s parking doesn’t budge. Simon’s been driving for a few hours now, and as stressful of an experience as that is alone, you’re too excited to mind the long journey in the car.

Simon is on leave for the next two weeks, something about Price having to attend a funeral following a death in the family, and deciding that everyone on the force was due for a bit of time off. Seeing as the Captain was going to be preoccupied during his time off duty, he had asked if Simon wouldn’t mind checking in on his house for him, making sure things were alright. He’d even offered for the two of you to stay in the guest room for the duration of their leave.

Simon had explained how Price knew that the two of you were living in a small flat in London, and apparently his home was in a beautiful, forested, isolated area which meant he had essentially no neighbours, something he also knew would appeal to Simon. He offered for the two of you to stretch your legs out there at enjoy the property, including the privacy that came with it.

Wanting to be polite, you’d told Simon he should extend the invitation to Soap and Gaz, thinking they might enjoy a nice, quiet stay-cation as well at their Captain’s place away from it all. It would appear your lover had different ideas in mind however. Though you couldn’t blame him entirely, the thought of having the cozy cabin all to yourselves was certainly more appealing.

Every which way you look outside the car, your vision is filled by endless blurry trees as you zoom by, the colours of the leaves having finally changed into the warmer, more vibrant colour palette that came along with the autumn chill. If the drive up to his property was any indication of how beautiful the area really was, then you were in for quite the treat.

Entranced by the beauty of the landscape in comparison to the city lights you’ve grown so used to, you fail to notice the glances Simon keeps sneaking your way, the smallest of satisfied smiles seemingly permanently etched upon his face beneath his balaclava. He was grateful that after explaining the situation and Price’s generous offer to you, you had been too excited to ask many questions, instead getting a jump start on packing a duffel bag or two.

You were one of the most intelligent, clever, curious people he’d ever known, and it was normally quite difficult to get anything by you. He was therefore feeling rightfully proud of himself as he drove you nearer and nearer to the home you believed belonged to his Captain. In actuality, there was no funeral for Price to attend, the sergeants had certainly not been invited along on your getaway, and the home you’d be staying in wasn’t Price’s.

It was yours.

Yours, and Simon’s.

The two of you had been living in that shoebox of a flat he’d considered as ‘satisfactory’ when he was only staying there as a bachelor, for far too long. As ideal as the location might have been, there simply just wasn’t enough space for two people to live together, even considering Simon’s absences for work and that fact that when he was home, you two were essentially always on top of one another anyways.

You’d both been searching for a new flat for what felt like ages now, none of the places you visited feeling like the right fit. Simon would be weary about a certain neighborhood, you’d be concerned with the lack of any balcony or outdoor space, he’d ignore the price tag that felt your eyes bulging, and you’d shake your head as you walked through doorways that had him needing to duck down.

Little did you know, Simon had been doing his own house hunting, outside of the city. You had told Simon you were fine with staying in London, understanding that it’s convenient to have everything near by. But Simon didn’t want to give you just ‘fine’. He wanted to give you a home. The home he intends to spend the rest of his life with you in, plans on carrying you over the threshold in your wedding dress, hopes to carry sleeping newborns in their car seats through the door.

For months now, Simon has subtlety been learning more about what that home looked like to you. He’d look over your shoulder as you scrolled through Pinterest, casually asking if you could show him your boards, you know just for fun, and paid very close attention when you showed him the one named ‘future house’. On his phone, he had a list a mile long in his notes app, from secretly writing down every comment you made while watching your home reno shows. He’ll casually ask you what you think of the houses you drive by, jotting down your answers in his mind, remembering likes and dislikes.

He believes that like you, it’s the people filling the home that matter more than the structure itself, as proven by the way you continue to put up with his minuscule flat. He knows you mean it when you say you’re alright with another flat. But he has the money goddammit, he has the means to do this for you, and when the listing came up for a home in what you’d revealed as being your ideal area to settle down in one day, the house resembling the amalgamation of everything he believed you’d described as being your perfect place, he knew he had to put an offer in.

And if there ever was anything about the house you didn’t like or wanted to change, he’d gladly do it for you, no questions asked. You want to paint the bedroom? Just tell him what colour you want. You want to change the railing on the wrap around porch? He’s on his way to the hardware store already. You need him to dig a stump out of the backyard to make room for your garden? Sit back and enjoy the show lovie, he’s on it. And when the time comes to build a crib? Well he may as well baby proof the whole house while he’s at it too.

He’s pictured your reaction a thousand times over in his mind. He imagines you’ll maybe give a small gasp when he turns the corner of the long driveway and you first see the cozy, two-storey home, surrounded by never-ending foliage of red, orange, and yellow leaves, the time of year perfect for appreciating autumn in the UK, as well as the privacy the tall trees grant you. He thinks the first thing you’ll comment on will likely be the windows, an item high on your priority list he knew to adhere to.

He imagines you kicking off your boots as you step through the door, pace quickening to explore every room, spinning in the kitchen as you joke about how jealous you are of Price. He pictures you groaning with envy when you spot your dream master bathroom, insisting to Simon that since you’d been tasked with checking in on the home you may as well see every room, right? He plans to explain away the obvious sparseness of the home as the Captain not having lived here long, as being very non-materialistic after all his years in service.

He’ll continue to play along for as long as he can, part of him knowing that you know him well enough that you’re likely to catch onto his deception at some point. However he hopes that before you start rummaging through kitchen cabinets and find them empty, too empty even for an absentee captain of a homeowner, that you’ll mention something along the lines of wishing you could stay here longer. That’s when he plans to slip a key into the palm of your hand, revealing that you might be able to stay longer than you believe.

The small piece of metal that’ll unlock the rest of your lives together, sits heavy in his pocket, in contrast to the light feeling in his heart when his hand reaches across the dashboard to grab a hold of yours, knowing that the content, lovesick smile you offer him is likely stretched across his face as well, staring right back at you.

Though you’re unaware that Simon is currently driving towards your home, and not away from it, you’re gently stroking the scarred skin across his hand, feeling as though your home is sitting right next to you, holding your hand and your heart at the same time.

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clockwayswrites · 1 month ago

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The Haunting of Danny Fenton Chapter 7, Part 3

masterpost it's 11am and it's already been A Day

Danny turned Clockwork’s medallion over in his hands. He’d taken it out again for the MRI. He didn’t know if things inside of his ghost body could react to the giant magnet, but he hadn’t wanted to find out be destroying a very expensive medical device.

The design was slightly warped now, like it had been melted on the one side, and the once bright gold was tarnished. Danny was pretty sure that the tarnish was from his blood and ectoplasm.

Fourth time dying and still not the charm.

Which Danny was damn glad for, of course, but it was still his fourth time dying. Fifth, if alternate timelines counted.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Mina said as she set down the tray of tea.

Danny eyed it.

“It’s just normal tea,” Mina assured him with a little huff. “Early grey, to be specific. You like it with honey and milk.”

Danny smiled slightly. “I do. And thank you for having me over for it. I needed to just not… be busy with tests and people worrying and… just not there. Does that make me horrible?”

“Of course not!” Mine said. She set the honey pot down a bit forcefully. “Danny, you’ve been away from home for weeks and weeks now. You had to drop out of your classes this semester. I know there’s probably a new job or two you missed. It’s totally understandable that you need a break from that.”

“Okay, okay good,” Danny sighed. “I was just worried? I mean, I’ve basically been doted on by my boyfriends for weeks now, that should be good.”

“Boyfriends who you started dating under extreme stress.” Mina passed Danny his cup and a hard look at the same time. “Besides, you’re not Penny, you don’t fall for someone and become inseparable. You still need your own space.”

“They’re both so cuddly, Mina,” Danny whined. “And I love it! But also sometimes I just need a little bit of space.”

“You’re allowed to be overwhelmed, especially after dying.”

“Again,” Danny added.

“Again,” Mina agreed. “Since you’re half ghost! And never told me!”

“Oddly, does not come up much in normal conversation,” Danny said.

“As if we’re normal,” Mina pointed out.

“Never,” Danny agreed. He took a long sip of the tea. It was good, even if maybe he had tea trauma. “But I could maybe use a little bit of normalcy.”

“Go back to your own place,” Mina said, “get used to your hearing aids, and take some time to breathe. Read a book or something.”

Danny arched his brow over a pointed sip of his tea.

Mina rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine, play a video game. Point is, relax and just let yourself recenter. I’ll send you home with a crystal.”

“You know those don’t do anything,” Danny pointed out.

“Yeah, but they’re pretty,” Mina said with a little sigh.

Chuckling, Danny shook his head. “Okay, fine. But before I go to find my zen or whatever, tell me about the latest fortune telling drama.”

Mina leaned forward with an eager smile that promised a good story. “Oh my gods, Danny, you’re going to love this…”

#one chapter left I think #dp x dc #thodf #danny/dick/wally

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lost-in-thoughts03 · 5 days ago

Text

THE ARCHER || FRONTMAN

Part l || Part ll

" 'Cause all of my enemies started out friends."

Summary: 6 months after the game had ended. You tried to live a normal life despite the fact that the past haunts you. Guilt is why you continue to hide from the truth. Sacrifice has the power to change everyone's destiny and ideology. Warnings: 18+, MDNI, DARK, SMUT, SPOILER ALERT, AU, obsession, possessive, heavy angst, heavy tension, manipulation, major character deaths, sacrifice, symbolism, heroism, betrayal, selflessness, explicit content, matured language, violence, sadistic behavior, stockholm syndrome, toxic relationship, identity crisis, character development, mental health issues, trauma, self hatred, guilt, erotic, ownership, older man x younger woman (LEGAL), yandere behavior, soft-dom! In-ho, submissive! Reader, praising, worshipping, oral (BOTH), hate sex, PiV, unprotected, overstimulation, and riding

Words: 11k+

Six months.

The world outside moved on. People laughed, lived, worked, and fell in love like the games never existed—like hundreds hadn't died for spectacle and bloodlust on that hidden island.

But not you.

You breathed among the living, but your soul still wandered somewhere between the masked halls and bullet-ridden grounds of that place. That hell.

You’d changed your name.

Your hair.

Your address.

But not your memories.

Not your scars.

Some nights, you jolted awake drenched in sweat, the phantom sound of gunfire and the childish music in Mingle still ringing in your ears. Other nights, it wasn’t the screams of the fallen that haunted you.

It was his voice.

“ You’re mine.”

“ If I survive, I’ll find you.”

“ If I don’t…I’ll wait.”

You buried your head in your pillow at night, but that voice wrapped around you like a ghost you never invited back.

You hated him.

You should hate him.

He was the reason for everything—Jun-bae's death, your betrayal of Gi-hun, the destruction of your soul inch by inch with every whispered order in the dark.

He twisted your survival into something shameful, stained by secrets you couldn’t even confess to the man who stood beside you in the ashes of the island.

But you were never really honest. Because you knew if he ever found out what you’d done behind those locked doors…

He wouldn’t forgive you.

And worse—you couldn’t forgive yourself.

Still, in the quiet of your apartment, when the world outside was asleep and no one was watching…

Your hand would drift to where the collar once sat on your neck. You’d feel his phantom grip on your waist. You’d hear your own voice saying his name—In-ho—like a secret you weren’t supposed to love.

And God, you hated it.

But still…

You watched every dark alley.

Every stranger in a black coat.

Every masked face during protests or celebrations.

Hoping. Hoping for something that shouldn’t exist anymore.

You weren’t even sure what you wanted—

To kill him?

To curse him for what he made you?

Or to just see him again…and fall apart in the arms of the man who ruined you?

You pressed your forehead against the cold window of your apartment, watching the rain smear the city lights. People walked below you with umbrellas and warm drinks and lives they’d never had to gamble for.

Your hand rested against the glass.

“ Why…?” You whispered to the dark.

“ Why do I still want you?”

But the silence, like always, said nothing. Still, somewhere—deep down—you weren’t asking for closure.

You were asking for him. Because part of you still believed the storm wasn’t over. And maybe—just maybe—he was still out there.

Watching.

Waiting.

Wearing a new mask, or no mask at all.

And if he ever came back…

You didn’t know if you’d run into his arms—

Or pull the trigger.

...

The diner was quiet.

Old jazz hummed through static-speckled speakers while city rain tapped faintly against the fogged windows. The coffee between you and Jun-ho had long gone cold, untouched.

Neither of you said much at first—you didn’t need to. There was too much sitting between you already. Six months of silence, guilt, and shadows that wouldn’t die.

Jun-ho sat across from you, eyes downcast, fingers clasped together like he was still holding a confession he hadn’t yet earned the courage to spill.

His black coat hung wet beside him in the booth. He hadn’t shaved in days. Maybe weeks. There was an emptiness behind his gaze that you recognized too well.

The look of someone who’d survived—but didn’t know why.

“ I wondered if I found the island…” He said at last, voice low.

“ I could stop it. Save whoever was left. Drag my brother back. End it.”

You watched him closely. He couldn’t meet your eyes.

“ But I didn’t.” He continued.

“ I didn’t stop anything. I didn’t save them. Not in time.”

He clenched his jaw. There was venom in his voice—but it was all directed inward.

“ The captain sabotaged me. Playing along made me believe he was loyal. Said he saved me out of duty, that it was his orders to keep me alive.”

You said nothing—just let the words fall.

“ My brother’s orders.” Jun-ho added bitterly.

“ Even after he put a bullet in me, he still gave the command to keep me breathing. Like that would make up for it.”

You lowered your gaze. The knot in your chest grew tighter. The same man who held you in fire and obsession had also chosen to keep his brother alive…and still broke him in the process.

Jun-ho let out a long breath.

“ I’m a detective.” He said, shaking his head.

“ I should’ve seen it. Should’ve known. But I wanted to believe in someone. I wanted to believe that even in that world, there were still lines that couldn’t be crossed.”

You reached for your cup, just for the comfort of holding something.

“ Maybe that’s what breaks us the most.” You said softly.

“ Trusting people we think would never hurt us. And then realizing…they did.”

Jun-ho looked at you then—really looked at you. You weren’t just speaking about him. You were speaking about yourself. About In-ho. About the way he held your hand and promised salvation with the same mouth that ordered death.

The two of you sat in that truth for a moment, bitter and still.

“ You think we’ll ever forgive ourselves?” He asked suddenly.

“ For not stopping it sooner? For not saving them?”

You held his gaze, voice steady despite the ache behind your ribs. “ I think the past only keeps haunting us because we won’t let ourselves move forward. Because we won’t admit we’re human.”

“ And if we did?” Jun-ho asked, almost skeptical.

“ Maybe the ghosts would quiet down.” You said.

“ Or maybe we’d finally hear what they’ve been trying to say all along.”

Jun-ho exhaled slowly, as if something heavy had loosened in his chest, even if only slightly. But his next words still carried weight:

“ I risked everything—my name, my badge, my life—just to find my brother. And in the end…the Games still burned. Mr. Seong still suffered. You…you were pulled into it deeper than anyone should’ve been.”

You looked away.

You can't tell him.

Not yet.

Not that his brother held you with hands both cruel and gentle. Not that part of you still waited for him in your sleep. Not that his ghost hadn’t left you either.

“ You’re not a failure, Jun-ho.” You said quietly.

“ You just didn’t win the way you wanted.”

He looked at you, searching for something in your words.

“ And what about you?” He asked.

“ Did you win?”

You opened your mouth.

Then closed it.

Because you didn’t know.

All you knew was that even six months later, your heart beat for a man who might’ve died a monster…or lived as something worse: a memory that never faded.

You stood from the booth, sliding your coat on.

“ I don’t know what I did.” You said honestly.

“ But I’m still breathing. That has to count for something.”

Jun-ho gave you a tired smile—a small one. A shared understanding.

“ If you ever want to talk again.” He said.

“ I’ll be around.”

You nodded and left the diner, stepping into the gray drizzle of the city. You didn’t look back.

But neither of you were truly walking alone anymore.

...

The smell of popcorn and cotton candy hung in the air, mingling with the distant shrieks of laughter from the spinning rides and carousel music that never seemed to stop.

You stood behind the counter of a brightly painted ticket booth, uniform neat, name tag clipped carefully over your chest. Your voice had learned how to sing again—high and cheerful—though it trembled on the inside some days.

The amusement park wasn’t grand. It didn’t glimmer like a fantasy. It was a modest little place on the edge of a quiet town, surrounded by trees and simple hopes.

But it was far from the island.

Far from the guns.

Far from the masks and the marble halls and the echoing voice of the Frontman.

And most importantly…

Far from him.

You wiped down the counter, watching a group of children run past toward the ball pit, their laughter shrill and boundless. A girl in pigtails tugged your hand earlier, asking if you’d come play hopscotch with her.

You did.

It was innocent.

It was silly.

It was safe.

But every time a child clapped their hands, or the buzzer rang at the balloon-dart game…something inside your chest still flinched.

Sometimes your breath caught when a game started. Sometimes your fingers curled around the edge of the table a little too tight when a countdown was announced.

Sometimes…you remembered red light, green light.

But still you smiled. Not because it was fake, but because these children deserved a world that never tasted fear the way you did.

And maybe…maybe you deserved it too.

Park Gyeong-sok worked at the art booth, tucked beside the carousel. He was soft-spoken and kind, with long fingers always smudged with charcoal and pastels.

He didn’t talk much about himself, and you liked that about him. He didn’t ask questions you couldn’t answer.

He just…existed beside you.

Peacefully.

Sometimes, you brought kids over to his booth after they won their little games. He’d sketch their portraits in ten minutes, quick and full of soul. They’d squeal when they saw the paper—eyes too big, cheeks too round, but perfectly them.

“ You’re good with them.” He said one day, handing you a sketch of a small boy who’d refused to smile until the very last moment.

“ You make them feel safe.”

You smiled at that, blinking slowly at the praise.

“ They make me feel human.” You whispered before you could stop yourself.

Gyeong-sok tilted his head, watching you carefully. But he didn’t press. Just turned back to his next drawing and let the silence speak for itself.

There were still nights the past came knocking. Still dreams where the flames of the island roared louder than the carousel music.

Still whispers in your head when you closed your eyes:

“ If I survive, I’ll find you.”

But now—every morning, you woke up to something brighter.

Chalk-stained hands.

Children’s laughter.

A world with color again.

And maybe fate had brought you back to another “game” this time one made of joy instead of survival.

Maybe it wasn’t about outrunning the ghosts…

Maybe it was about learning to live beside them.

And with every smile you gave, every child’s laughter that echoed in your ears, the grip of the past loosened—if only slightly.

Maybe this was healing.

Not forgetting.

Just…choosing to live anyway.

And somehow, that was enough.

...

It was quiet.

Too quiet, maybe.

Your small home—barely furnished, painted in muted tones—felt heavier on days like this. On days when there were no kids to distract you, no carousel melodies to fill the silence, no chalk-dusted sketches to admire.

Just you.

And the ghosts you still couldn’t bury.

You sat on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, one hand loosely holding a mug of lukewarm coffee you’d forgotten to sip.

The TV was off. Your phone dimmed. The only sound was the subtle hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of a clock that somehow made every second feel longer.

Your gaze drifted to the ceiling and then down to the small shoebox on the low table in front of you. You hesitated before reaching for it—fingers trembling, as if your body already knew what was inside.

You opened it slowly.

Old photographs spilled across your lap.

Your mother is smiling from behind a birthday cake.

Your father is pretending to lift your younger sibling with one arm.

You—fresh-faced, careless, laughing. Before debt, before desperation, before death.

Your hand hovered over one photo in particular.

It was you in front of your old apartment door, holding a grocery bag. You remembered that day.

You had ₩3,000 left in your wallet.

You bought instant noodles and toothpaste.

You told yourself things would get better.

They didn’t. You set the photo down, hand covering your mouth as your throat burned.

“ If only I hadn’t signed that contract…”

“ If only I didn’t need the money.”

“ If only I didn’t trust the wrong people.”

“ If only I didn’t let myself be used…”

Your thoughts spiraled like they always did when it was quiet—when there was nothing to hold you above water.

You hated the choices you made.

But you hated the ones you had to make even more.

“ What would they think of me now?” You murmured aloud, eyes flickering toward the family photo on your shelf.

“ Would they be proud that I’m still alive…or ashamed of what I did to survive?”

Your voice cracked at the end, barely more than a whisper. You pulled your knees to your chest, hugging them tightly, staring at the soft blur of color in the photo. You longed for that version of yourself.

The one who believed in good things. In fairness. In life without masks and cruelty and survival at the cost of innocence.

But that person was gone.

Or maybe…buried deep under everything.

You closed your eyes and leaned back on the couch, taking in a breath—long, shaking.

Forgiveness felt far away. Especially the kind you owed yourself. But the fact that you were still trying to live—that you were still searching for something beyond survival—meant maybe there was still a chance.

Just maybe.

You let the tears come.

Soft.

Quiet.

Unapologetic.

Because healing didn’t always look like strength. Sometimes, it looked like this.

A couch. An old photo. And a heart that, against all odds, still wanted to believe in a future.

And even though you were still haunted…

You were here.

Still breathing.

Still trying.

Still hoping that someday, that would be enough.

Ding dong.

You barely flinched at first.

Still curled on the couch, the old photo of your family resting near your chest, your first instinct was to ignore it. You weren’t expecting anyone—no deliveries, no visits. The rain outside had softened to a misty gray. You figured maybe someone hit the wrong unit.

But the doorbell rang again.

This time, longer.

With a groan, you set the photo down and wiped the dried tears off your face, dragging your tired body to the door. Your fingers hovered over the handle for a moment—then unlocked it.

And everything stopped.

The rain.

The room.

Your heartbeat.

He stood there—no longer in that mask of obsidian, no longer the godlike ghost who ruled the island. No longer just the Frontman.

But In-ho.

Flesh and blood.

Real.

He wore a black tailored suit, clean-cut, almost unassuming—if you didn’t know. If you had never heard his voice while screaming into your pillow, or felt the weight of his gloved hand under a blood-red light. If you hadn’t once called his name with your voice hoarse from shame and something darker.

He looked like a man.

But to you, he still looked like a monster.

He held a black box in both hands—plain, clean, but unmistakable. The seal. That symbol.

A triangle. A square. A circle.

The Games.

You froze in place. Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms. Your throat closed as your eyes burned with old rage and unshed tears.

And then he spoke. “ I kept my promise.”

That voice—calm, cold, and still so devastating to him. Like no time had passed. Like the world hadn’t exploded around you both.

“ I came back.”

You said nothing. You couldn’t. You were trying too hard not to scream.

“ I’m not letting you go again.” He added, voice lower, as if saying it too loudly might break the air between you.

“ I spent six months watching everything I built burn. Six months wondering if you'd survive. Six months…suffering without you.”

His gaze didn’t flicker. But something in them did. A glimmer. A shadow. A man who tried to bury his soul in concrete and realized too late that you were the one thing he couldn’t kill off.

“ It’s time...” He continued flatly, lifting the box slightly.

“ To take what’s mine.”

That snapped something in you.

“ What the fuck is wrong with you?” You snapped, your voice hoarse and shaking.

“ You came all this way just to give me this?” You pointed at the box with venom.

“ A tracksuit?! My old, bloodstained, shame-soaked tracksuit? You really thought that was a good idea?!”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t raise his voice.

“ It belonged to you. And you belonged to me.”

That did it.

“ I’m not yours.” You hissed.

“ Not your possession. Not your player. Not your…fucking pet.”

The tears broke loose now, hot and unrelenting. You didn’t wipe them.

“ You ruined me, In-ho. You used me. You broke me. And now you show up like this? After six months of silence? And expect me to do what—thank you?”

He set the box down slowly at your doorstep. His face remained unreadable, carved from ice—but his jaw twitched, just once.

“ You’re right.” He said after a long pause.

“ I did all of that.”

He stepped forward. Just one step.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t.

“ But I also remember the way you looked at me…before the island burned. When everything else was gone. When we were just two broken people in a cage of our own making.”

Your throat tightened. The memory stung like alcohol over a wound.

“ You think I came back for control?” He asked.

“ No. I came back because for the first time in years, I felt something. And it was you.”

You stared at him. Trembling. Breathing like you were drowning.

“ I brought that tracksuit not to mock you.” He said.

“ But because it represents where we began. Not where we have to end.”

You looked at the box.

You hated it. You hated him.

And yet…

You wanted to scream at him. You wanted to pull him into your arms and beat your fists against his chest.

You wanted to kiss him until the pain melted.

You wanted to forget.

But you couldn’t.

You swallowed hard. Your voice broke when you whispered. “ You’re insane.”

He nodded. Once. “ Only when it comes to you.”

And for a long moment, there was only the sound of the rain…and the breathless silence between two people who never stopped bleeding for each other.

You didn’t realize you were shaking until your knees hit the floor.

The doorway blurred with rain and memory, but it was your own trembling breath that finally betrayed you. You dropped to your knees like your strength gave out all at once—like your spine, your pride, your carefully constructed silence could no longer bear the weight of all the months you’d carried it.

In-ho took a step toward you—too calm, too still—but you threw your hand up, stopping him.

“ Don’t.” You rasped.

“ Don’t come near me.”

He froze.

And finally, finally…you broke.

“ I died the day that island exploded.” You whispered, choking on the words.

“ I’ve been breathing and moving and smiling for six months but I haven’t lived a single goddamn second since.”

Your hands trembled over your thighs, curled into fists as if trying to dig your nails into something real—into yourself, into anything but him.

“ Do you know what it’s like to wake up in the middle of the night thinking you’re still in that red room?” You cried, tears now streaming unchecked.

“ To hear screams in your ears when there’s no one around? To smell the blood even when you’re standing in an amusement park with children laughing all around you?”

His face stayed neutral, but something behind his eyes cracked.

“ I kept your secret.” You spat, finally lifting your eyes to his.

“ I protected you. I let everyone believe you were dead—buried under ash and steel like some relic of hell.”

You stood on unsteady feet, staggering slightly, shoulders heaving.

“ Do you know how it feels to lie to the only man who trusted me, all because I didn’t know how to explain what I let you do to me?!”

His lips parted slightly—but you weren’t done.

“ I hated you. I hated how much I needed you in that place. How I let myself feel safe in your arms even when I knew it was twisted. Even when I knew you were the reason Jun-bae died. That you were the reason I—”

You stopped.

Breathless. Raw.

In-ho’s voice came quietly, the cold edge softened into something almost human. “ I never asked you to protect me.”

“ You didn’t have to!” You shouted.

“ Because I wanted to. And that’s what kills me, In-ho. That somewhere in the middle of all that horror, I looked at you and thought—maybe, just maybe—you were the only thing I had left.”

Silence fell again.

Heavy. Holy.

The rain poured harder now. You stood in the center of the doorway, soaked from the weight of your own grief more than the weather.

“ You said you came back to start over.” You said, quieter now, trembling.

“ But I never left. I’ve been trapped in that game every single day since it ended.”

You looked down at the black box near his feet—your old uniform. The last thread connecting you to that blood-soaked arena.

“ You want to start something new?” You whispered.

“ Then don’t hand me the past like it’s a gift. Don’t come to me unless you’re willing to carry the weight of what you did—to all of us. To me.”

In-ho bent slowly, picked up the box, then placed it gently at the threshold between you.

Not forcing it into your hands. Not stepping past the line.

Just…offering.

“ I came back to take responsibility.” He said quietly.

“ And to see if there’s anything left of the person who looked at me…and didn’t run.”

You looked at him—truly looked.

And for the first time, you saw not the maskless monster…

But a man who had burned the world down, and now stood in the ashes, asking if he deserved to be buried too.

And the worst part?

You didn’t know the answer.

Not yet. Not tonight.

You turned away.

“ Leave the box.” You said, voice cracking.

“ But not your apologies.”

And then, without another word, you closed the door between you.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Silence returned, but it was no longer peaceful. It was hollow. A silence so sharp it could carve grief into your ribs.

You stood frozen, staring at the black box resting on your floor like it had teeth. Like it could bite if you touched it wrong. For a long time, you just watched it—unable to move, unable to breathe properly.

But something inside you needed to know.

With a trembling hand, you lowered yourself to the floor and slowly peeled back the lid.

The smell hit you first.

Sterile. Cold. Like the air inside the Game’s facility. Like old blood dried into cotton. It made your stomach twist violently.

You reached inside and pulled out the tracksuit.

Green. Numbered. Wrinkled and frayed, the faintest discoloration still clinging to the fabric—stains you knew weren’t dirt.

Your fingers grazed across the sleeve, and the memory surged before you could stop it.

“ Player 321…”

“ Step forward.”

Gunshot. Screams. Silence.

You flinched so hard your knuckles went white. You tossed the suit aside like it burned. But beneath it…something worse.

Your dress.

The one he gave you. The one he made you wear when he paraded you in front of the VIPs like you were his prize. His chosen companion. His obedient girl.

Red silk. Elegant. Dignified. And yet it felt like a collar.

You held it in your lap, and for a moment…you couldn’t breathe at all. Then you saw it. Something slipped between the folded hem.

A small rectangle.

You reached out with slow fingers and pulled it free.

A photo.

You didn’t even remember putting it there.

Your breath hitched.

It was you—before the game. Long before. The version of yourself that smiled without effort, that stood outside the run-down apartment with crooked teeth and a heart that hadn’t yet been shattered. Holding your grocery bag, laughing at the camera like the world hadn’t turned on you yet.

But the photo was ruined now.

Torn at the corner. Wrinkled. Smudged. A dark splash of something rusty bled into your face—blood.

You didn’t know if it was yours or someone else’s. The image blurred as your tears spilled. And then you broke.

You screamed.

You screamed so hard your voice cracked and turned hoarse. You buried your face in your hands and sobbed like your body had finally had enough.

You screamed until your chest caved in and your throat was raw. Until your breath came in gasps and you could no longer tell if you were crying from sorrow or fury or shame.

“ Why did you come back…?” You sobbed aloud.

“ Why couldn’t you just stay gone?!”

The photo slipped from your fingers. Fell onto the floor beside the uniform. Beside the red silk.

The symbols of everything that broke you.

Your fists slammed into the box. You shoved it, knocked it over. Clothes spilled out. You didn’t care. You wanted to destroy it all. To erase every trace of what he gave back. But your hands froze mid-motion. Because some twisted part of you still couldn't throw the photo away.

This was you.

Before him. Before them. Before all of it.

And it was covered in blood.

You sank to your knees again, gripping the ruined picture to your chest, body shaking violently as the sobs continued. Not just for the trauma. Not just for the memories. But for the person in the photo.

The one you used to be. The one you didn’t know how to return to. The one who deserved better.

And all you could whisper, over and over, through broken cries and bleeding guilt, was:

“ I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what else to do…”

Outside, the rain continued. And inside, you shattered quietly—cradling the past that never let you go.

…

Jun-ho’s apartment was warm—oddly warm for how cold your hands felt. You stood in the hallway, frozen, unable to speak at first as your eyes fell to the crib beside the couch. It was modest, put together with visible urgency, as if he’d built it the night he found her.

And there she was.

Wrapped in something too familiar—too cruel.

Green. Numbered.

Player 222.

A child swaddled in death’s colors.

Jun-ho stood nearby, his face unreadable, arms folded over his chest. But you could see the way his fingers twitched—unsettled, like the truth was ticking too loud in the silence between you both.

“ Someone left her here.” He finally said.

“ Just…left her just like that. Like a storybook. Only this one came with bloodstains.”

He motioned to the side table.

A debit card. A ribboned envelope.

Inside: ₩45.6 billion.

The exact cash prize.

“ I thought this was for the winner.” Jun-ho said, shaking his head, voice hollow.

“ But…what kind of sick game makes a baby the victor?”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry and raw from the sobs hours before.

“ I know who her mother was.” You whispered.

His eyes snapped to you.

You stepped closer to the crib, looking down at the sleeping infant. Her little chest rose and fell steadily. Her tiny hand gripped the corner of the old fabric like it meant comfort—not like it once clung to people who bled and begged and lost everything.

“ Player 222.” You murmured.

“ She was already showing when we were grouped. Not much. But enough for me to notice.”

Jun-ho said nothing. He just listened. Absorbing it all like a sponge desperate to wring out answers.

“ She tried to hide it at first. Said she only needed to survive long enough to make sure her child would live. She never told anyone who the father was. I don’t think it mattered to her.” You paused.

“ She just wanted the baby to be free.”

The memory clawed back before you could stop it. You were in the VIP longue that day. You were beside him—In-ho. You watched the guests clap and howl with delight as the two massive dolls—twisted mockeries of innocence—swayed on either side of a deadly gap.

The bridge broke halfway through the challenge. The only way across was by jumping—swinging from a rope hung in the hands of mechanical children.

“ She was injured.” You continued, staring into the fire of your past.

“ Her ankle was fractured in the fourth game. She couldn't jump. Couldn't run. But she held on through everything until the fifth game.”

Jun-ho’s mouth twitched, eyebrows drawn, eyes dark.

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

“ She secured her baby in Gi-hun’s arms. Said she couldn’t take her any farther. Gi-hun…he promised. He said he’d come back. But he was forced forward.”

You clenched your fists. “ She stood on the edge. Looked straight ahead. Then just…let go.”

Jun-ho lowered his gaze.

“ She chose death.” You said softly.

“ But not for herself—for her child. Because she still believed something better could exist after the game.”

There was silence for a while. The kind that made your skin crawl. The baby stirred but did not cry.

You turned to Jun-ho.

“ It was your brother.” You said quietly, bitterly.

“ He suggested the child continue as a ‘proxy’ for the player. The VIPs laughed. Thought it was art. That helpless baby fighting for survival was the most ‘pure’ version of the Game.”

Jun-ho’s face finally cracked.

He didn’t cry—but something in him broke. “ He made her a contestant?”

You nodded. “ They assigned her a number. They gave her odds. They bet on her survival. As if she were some novelty act.”

Jun-ho looked down at the sleeping baby—then slowly, painfully, back at the debit card on the table. “ And then they gave her the prize.”

You nodded once. Silent.

“ She wasn’t a winner…” He said bitterly.

“ She was a message.”

“ A symbol.” You whispered.

And he didn’t ask what you meant. Because you both knew. That even inside a hell designed to crush the soul, someone chose to give life.

Someone still chose hope.

Jun-ho sat down beside the crib, his hands shaking slightly as he reached to adjust the tiny blanket.

“ So what now?” He asked, not looking at you.

“ What the hell do we do with a symbol like her?”

You looked at the child. The last breath of someone who died for love in a place that only understood pain.

“ We protect her.” You said.

“ We keep her safe. Because that’s what her mother wanted. That’s what Gi-hun tried to do. And maybe…that’s what we have left.”

Jun-ho nodded slowly.

And for the first time, neither of you said anything more.

Because sometimes, grief didn’t need words.

It just needed someone to stay.

You sat at Jun-ho’s kitchen table, silent, unmoving. A chipped mug of untouched tea in your hands. Steam no longer rose. It had cooled. Just like your ability to deny the truth.

Your eyes stared blankly ahead, but your mind was still there.

In that nightmare. In the final game.

You hadn’t let yourself think about it in full—not until now. But holding that baby…watching her sleep as if untouched by the horrors she inherited…

It all came flooding back.

“ He didn’t have to die.” You whispered hoarsely.

“ He could’ve survived.”

Jun-ho leaned on the counter behind you, silent. Letting you speak. Letting you bleed.

“ The final round…it hadn’t started.” You continued, voice trembling.

“ Not until the button was pressed. Gi-hun didn’t realize it. No one told him. Not even me.”

Your voice cracked. “ I watched from the VIP lounge. Trapped in silence. I had to pretend I didn’t care. I had to smile.”

Your hands curled tightly around the mug. White-knuckled. Desperate to hold onto anything other than the memory.

“ He held her—the baby. Player 222’s daughter. He knew he wouldn’t win. He knew that the moment he made his choice.”

You remembered it too clearly. Gi-hun, standing at the center of the platform, cradling the infant. Looking up at the monstrous ceiling, the glowing lights, the twisted emblems of power and control.

And then…

That slow, broken walk.

Across the concrete floor.

To the large red button embedded in the ground.

“ He put her down…” You whispered.

“ On the edge. Like he was giving her to the world. Like he was begging it to do better than what we gave her.”

You bit your lip. Hard. Until you tasted blood. Until it grounded you.

“ And then he…jumped.”

The silence that followed that moment in the arena had been unbearable.

Not applause. Not cheering.

Just the collective tension of the spectators. You can feel In-ho trembling when they hear a body slammed hard on the ground.

“ Player 456, eliminated.”

You remembered the sadness and disappointment in the VIPs’ eyes. And how it took everything in you not to scream until your lungs tore.

“ He died proving we were still human.” You muttered.

“ That we chose love. Mercy. Even in hell.”

Jun-ho moved closer. Sat across from you, his face unreadable, but his eyes filled with something painful and hollow.

“ You saw him on the boat.” He said carefully.

You nodded, dazed.

“ But he wasn’t really there, was he?”

“ I didn’t know.” You said.

“ I couldn’t accept it. I thought maybe—maybe we all made it. Maybe I imagined the fall. I wanted to believe that he was alive, just quiet. That he needed time to heal.”

Jun-ho’s voice dropped to a whisper. “ He didn’t blame you.”

Your head snapped up, your eyes wide and wet.

“ He wouldn’t.” Jun-ho continued.

“ Because he knew what you went through. He saw it. He saw you—every time you stayed standing. Every time you swallow your screams in that VIP lounge. You carried as much pain as any of us, and he knew you were doing it to survive.”

You shook your head, your voice breaking. “ But I let him die.”

“ No.” Jun-ho said firmly.

“ You witnessed him choose something no one else dared to. He sacrificed himself not out of desperation—but out of belief. Out of hope.”

You looked down, your tears finally falling freely again.

“ He deserved better.” You whispered.

“ We all did.” Jun-ho said softly.

“ But at least one of us died holding onto what made us human. Not because the game forced him to—but because he refused to become like them.”

A quiet passed between you again.

But not empty.

Weighted.

Sacred.

Jun-ho exhaled. “ Mr. Seong carried the trauma. The losses. The guilt. But now…he’s finally at peace. He’s with those he couldn’t save before. And he left us—me, you—with something.”

“ What?”

Jun-ho met your gaze. His voice is steady now.

“ The responsibility to carry what he believed in. That even when the whole world turns to monsters, we can still choose not to be one.”

You stared at him. And slowly, nodded. Your chest still hurts. Your grief still clung like rusted chains.

But somewhere in that pain… You held on to a piece of Gi-hun’s choice.

He died to save the child. He died to remind you of what you once were. And maybe…what you still could be.

A survivor.

Not of the games.

But of the soul.

…

The moment your door creaked open, the silence of your apartment wrapped around you like a heavy fog. Your eyes burned, swollen and red, the tears from earlier still fresh on your skin. You didn’t want to think anymore. You just wanted to collapse.

But then—arms.

Strong. Familiar.

Wrapping around your waist and pulling you back before you could even register the warmth.

Your instincts screamed. You spun, ready to defend yourself, but he was faster. Your back slammed against the wall, your breath knocked out as his body pinned you there.

Hwang In-ho.

His face was too close. His eyes still held that signature coldness—but now, there was something underneath. Wet. Trembling. His breathing was uneven, and so was yours.

The two of you just stared.

And it wasn’t silence.

It was a war.

Anger, pain, betrayal—they all danced in your eyes. His gaze responded, equally feral. No words yet, but everything unsaid was louder than a scream.

You cracked first.

“ You shouldn't have kept your promise." You whispered, the bitterness curling in your voice.

" You shouldn’t have come back. There’s no point. There’s nothing left to fix after what you've done." Your voice rose, breaking.

" You're already destroying what's left of me."

His jaw clenched. But when he spoke, it was calm—too calm.

" You promised me, too." His hand hovered near your shoulder, like he wanted to touch you but knew he shouldn't.

" You said you were only mine. You said I was your only one." He met your gaze, firm.

" That’s why I came back. You’re the only reason I ever came back."

A breath.

" I just want you back. I just want us back."

The words hit you like acid.

You pushed at his chest.

" Us?" You laughed bitterly.

" There was no us! That night—it was lust, In-ho. Confusion. Weakness." You shoved harder.

" You fucking forced yourself on me. What fucking choice did I have?! You cornered me. You took it."

His eyes darkened.

" Don’t say that." He hissed, his voice tightening as he pressed his body closer, trapping you.

" Let go of me!"

" No." He growled.

" I can’t. I won’t. You don’t get to reject me now. I stayed alive because of you. I crawled through hell with your face in my mind. And you—" His voice cracked.

" You’re telling me you didn’t feel anything?"

You snapped again, your voice a knife.

" You fucking killed them!" Your words exploded between you.

" My friends, In-ho! You let them fucking die! You stood there! You didn’t do anything!"

He froze.

Then…he snapped.

" I tried! I gave Gi-hun so many damn chances!" His voice was hoarse, a shout that cracked with guilt.

" I gave him a hint, I gave him everything! But he still chose to be good. He still chose to be the hero!"

Your jaw trembled.

" Because he's not like you!" You slammed your fists into his chest, but he didn’t move.

" Gi-hun stands for what's right. Even when it hurts. He doesn’t abandon people. He doesn’t become a monster just to survive!"

His face twisted with fury. " You think being a hero kept him alive? No—it killed him!"

Tears streamed down your face.

" You chose the system. You chose the power. And now you want me to forget everything you did just because you're still breathing?"

His voice lowered into something almost pleading. " I chose survival…so I could come back to you."

Your voice broke completely. " Then maybe you should’ve died instead."

The silence that followed was sharper than any scream.

You both just stood there—breathing hard, broken, and tangled in something far too damaged to name.

And yet… Neither of you moved away.

The air between you both hung thick—dense with pain, heavy with history. Neither of you moved. Your words still echoed in the small room like ghosts refusing to leave.

" Then maybe you should’ve died instead."

In-ho's jaw clenched, his body visibly trembling now—not with rage, but with something deeper. Something fragile. Shattered. His eyes, once defiant, dropped for a moment, as if your words had finally pierced through whatever armor he had left.

But he didn’t back away.

He leaned in closer, voice low and rough. " If I died, then who would carry the guilt?"

He looked up again, eyes blazing, wet. " You think death is harder than living with everything I’ve done? You think I don’t see their faces every night? You think I don’t hear your voice screaming in my head?"

You turned your face away, but he grabbed your chin—not harshly, but enough to force you to look at him.

" I lost everything. Everyone." His voice cracked.

" Except you."

Your chest burned.

" Don’t you dare say that like I’m something to keep." You whispered, trembling.

" You don’t get to come back here, to this life, to me, and act like love excuses murder."

His grip tightened just slightly, a silent plea behind his eyes. " I never asked for forgiveness."

A pause.

" I only asked for a chance to feel human again. And you—" He exhaled like it hurt.

" You’re the only one who ever made me feel that."

You couldn’t breathe. Your heart was pounding against your ribs, your anger boiling but your grief louder.

" You fucking ruined me, In-ho." You said, voice cracking as the tears pushed past again.

" And now you’re here…asking me to help fix you?"

He didn’t answer.

Because deep down, he knew the answer.

There was no fixing this.

No forgiveness that could sew up the carnage left behind.

Just two broken people, still reaching for something that died long ago. Still, his forehead gently leaned against yours, breath shaky.

" Tell me to leave…" He whispered, eyes closed.

" And I swear, I’ll disappear. Right now. I won’t fight it."

Silence.

But your lips wouldn't move.

Because you didn’t know what hurt more—letting him go…

Or letting him stay.

And he knew that too.

The weight of his words settled between you like a loaded gun.

" Tell me to leave…and I swear, I’ll disappear."

Your lips parted, breath catching—ready to say it. Ready to tell him to go. To vanish like the ghosts of the people you lost because of him.

But nothing came out.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

In-ho didn’t move. His forehead still rested against yours, his breathing uneven. You could feel the trembling in his chest, the desperation he was trying to hide under his calm façade. But you knew him now—maybe too well.

That stillness he wore like armor was cracking.

And so were you.

Your voice finally broke through, barely more than a whisper.

" I hate you."

He flinched.

You closed your eyes, the tears falling freely now.

" I hate what you did. I hate what you made me become." Your fists weakly beat against his chest again, each one softer than the last.

" You made me live with guilt. With silence. With fucking nightmares that never end."

In-ho didn’t stop you.

He let you cry. He let you fall apart in his arms—something he should’ve done a long time ago. But then you looked up, your voice sharper.

" But I hate myself more…because even after everything, I still wanted you to come back."

His eyes widened. It was the first time you saw real shock in him. Vulnerability. Like the last wall inside him finally collapsed.

" I don’t know what’s more fucked up." You continued, swallowing the lump in your throat.

" That you came back for me…or that I never really stopped waiting."

In-ho cupped your face, his thumb brushing your cheek with the gentleness that contradicted everything he’d done.

" Then let me stay." His voice was a quiet storm.

" Don’t forgive me. Don’t forget. Just…let me stay."

You stared at him, your heart thundering, torn open in too many places to count.

You didn’t say yes.

You didn’t say no.

Instead, your forehead met his again—both of you drowning in the same wreckage. The room was still. Your bodies close, your pasts louder than ever.

Because sometimes, love wasn’t healing.

Sometimes, it survived.

And for now, maybe that was enough or maybe it was the most dangerous lie you could both cling to.

His breath ghosted across your lips, warm, shallow, trembling—just like yours. His hands, once desperate to hold you back, were now gentle… reverent, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he touched you wrong.

But you didn’t move.

You didn’t tell him to stop.

Your heart was screaming in every direction, but your body ached for something familiar—something reckless, something real.

You tilted your face up, just a little.

That was all it took.

In-ho crashed his mouth against yours—not soft, not hesitant. It was rough, fueled by anger, grief, years of buried tension that finally detonated.

Your fingers tangled in his coat, dragging him closer as his hands gripped your waist, lifting you against the wall like he’d been starving for this moment.

The kiss turned messy, desperate. His mouth traced down your jaw, your neck, biting into your skin like a man trying to leave a mark—trying to make sure you remembered.

" Tell me to stop." He growled against your skin, lips hot and trembling.

" Say the word and I’ll pull away."

But you didn’t.

You tilted your head back, gasping as he slid his knee between your thighs, pressing against the heat building there. You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

" I hate you." You breathed out again—barely a whisper.

" I know." He muttered, before kissing you harder.

Clothes started to peel away, piece by piece. He pressed your body tighter against the wall, his lips never leaving yours for long.

His hands roamed with familiarity, but this time…this time there was something raw in every touch. Less control. Less cruelty. More desperation.

His fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt, dragging it up and over your head, tossing it aside. His lips followed the trail, mapping your skin like it was the last thing he’d ever feel.

You whimpered when his mouth latched onto the soft skin just above your heart, sucking hard enough to bruise. You grabbed at his hair, his shoulders, anything to anchor yourself.

" I shouldn’t want this." You gasped.

" Me either." He rasped, as his hands slid down your back, cupping your ass and lifting you into his arms.

" But I’d rather burn with you than breathe without you."

He carried you to the couch, dropping both of you into the cushions without grace, his body already over yours. The way he kissed you now—it was possession.

Worship. Punishment. A contradiction of everything you both felt.

Your legs wrapped around his waist as he grinded down into you, the friction sending sharp pleasure straight through your core. You moaned into his mouth, and he responded with a growl deep in his chest.

His hands explored every inch of you like a man trying to memorize what he once had, what he feared he’d lose again.

" Let me have you." He murmured into your ear.

" Just tonight. Even if you leave me after."

You looked up into his eyes—those cold, broken eyes now full of fire—and pulled him down again, crashing your lips against his with a hunger that left no room for hesitation.

Tonight wasn’t about love.

It was about need.

About ruin.

And you both chose to drown in it.

Your breath hitched as In-ho's body pressed harder into yours, the heat between you burning through the last threads of reason.

The air was thick with everything unsaid—rage, guilt, lust—and all of it poured out through the desperate way your mouths collided, over and over.

Your nails raked down his back as he kissed you harder, more demanding, his teeth grazing your bottom lip before sucking it between his.

His hands were everywhere—rough palms sliding under your bra, yanking it up with a groan when your chest finally spilled free.

He dipped his head down and took one of your breasts into his mouth, tongue swirling, biting just enough to make you arch with a gasp. His other hand cupped and kneaded the other mound, fingers pinching your nipple until it hardened against his touch.

" You still feel the same." He murmured against your skin, voice low, hoarse.

" So fucking warm. So mine."

You grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up, eyes wild, voice sharp. " Shut the fuck up and touch me."

He growled—actually growled—and shoved your pants down, dragging your panties with them in one smooth, impatient motion. His fingers dipped between your thighs without hesitation, sliding through your slick folds, spreading you open for him.

" So wet already." He hissed, dragging one finger slowly up your slit.

" You still want me. No matter how much you try to deny it."

Your hips jerked when he slipped two fingers inside you, curling them deep, hitting the spot that made your toes curl and your breath choke in your throat.

His thumb rubbed tight circles around your clit while his fingers worked in and out of you, faster, deeper, until your thighs were shaking around him.

But he didn’t stop there.

He yanked his own shirt over his head, muscles flexing, scars exposed, and then undid his belt with one hand, his eyes locked on yours.

There was fire there—rage and need all tangled into one. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, already leaking at the tip.

He leaned over you again, lips brushing your ear. " Tell me you still feel it."

You stared at him—chest rising, lips parted, trembling beneath him.

" Shut up…" You whispered.

" And fuck me."

That was all he needed.

He grabbed your hips and slammed into you in one deep thrust, making you cry out, your back arching into him.

There was no slow build-up. He drove into you relentlessly, your bodies colliding again and again, his grip bruising your thighs as he pinned them open wider.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, digging your heels into his back, forcing him deeper. The sound of skin slapping filled the room, mixed with your ragged moans and his low, broken groans.

" You're still mine." He panted against your neck, thrusting harder, deeper.

" No matter what you say—your body doesn’t fucking lie."

You clawed at his back, your body tightening, pleasure building fast, hot, unbearable.

" Don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—"

And he didn’t.

He fucked you like he was punishing you for leaving, for surviving, for not breaking with him. Like he was trying to rewrite the past with every thrust.

You clung to him like a lifeline, your mouth finding his again, biting, gasping, whimpering as the pressure inside you exploded all at once. Your body convulsed around him, walls tightening as you cried out his name, your orgasm crashing through you like a storm.

In-ho groaned against your shoulder, his pace stuttering as he buried himself deep, holding you tight as he spilled inside you, every muscle in his body taut with release.

He stayed there, breathing hard, forehead against your collarbone. Neither of you said a word.

Only the sound of your shared breathing filled the silence.

What just happened wasn’t love.

It wasn’t healing. It was ruin.

Desperate. Brutal. Addictive.

And it wasn’t over.

In-ho was still buried inside you, panting hard against your skin, sweat beading across his back. But there was no pause. No space for afterglow. The hunger between you wasn’t sated—it was only growing, dark and violent.

You felt it in the way his hips began to move again, slow and deep—grinding inside you like he wanted to stay there forever.

You moaned sharply, your legs still wrapped tight around him, dragging him even deeper.

" You’re not done." You hissed against his ear, biting his lobe hard enough to make him grunt.

" Don’t pretend that was enough."

His eyes met yours, blazing. " I wasn’t planning to stop."

He pulled out suddenly, leaving you clenching around nothing—until he flipped you over, your chest pressed into the couch, ass up, legs spread.

He grabbed your hips and slammed into you again from behind with a deep, brutal thrust that made you cry out loud.

" Fuck—!"

He gripped your hair, yanking your head back so your spine arched into him as he pounded into you. His cock hit deeper at this angle, grinding against your walls with punishing precision, over and over.

" You say you hate me." He growled into your ear, thrusting unrelentingly.

" But you’re dripping down your thighs for me. You’re begging for it without even opening your mouth."

You gasped as his hand slipped beneath you, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing hard and fast while he fucked you deep, the pace almost animalistic now.

" This is what you want." He snarled.

" Say it. Say you want this."

You moaned—desperate, raw. " I want it."

He slammed into you harder.

" Say who you want."

You tried to resist—biting your lip, refusing to give him that satisfaction. But then his free hand slid up your spine and grabbed your throat, firm but controlled, holding you just enough to steal your breath while his cock pulsed deep inside you.

" Say it."

Your voice cracked, choked and wrecked. " I want you, In-ho. I fucking want you."

He growled in triumph, letting go of your throat just enough for you to breathe—but not escape. Your whole body was shaking now, the coil inside you burning, ready to snap again.

He didn’t slow. Every thrust was harder, deeper, as if he was imprinting himself inside you—staking a claim he was too far gone to give up.

Your orgasm tore through you like fire. You screamed his name, your body convulsing beneath him as he rode you through it, chasing his own release.

And then he came again—gripping your hips tight, jerking deep inside you as he groaned your name like a broken prayer.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t move.

Just collapsed over you, his chest pressed to your back, his breath hot and ragged against your neck.

Both of you ruined.

Spent.

But nowhere near finished.

Your limbs were still shaking from the last orgasm when In-ho pulled out slowly, the sensation dragging a whimper from your throat. Your body was already sensitive, trembling, slick and used—but he wasn’t done. Not even close.

He collapsed back onto the couch, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his neck. His eyes—dark, wild, ravenous—locked onto yours. He grabbed your wrist before you could move away.

" On top." His voice was hoarse, commanding.

" Ride me."

You hesitated for a breath, your thighs trembling, overstimulated and raw—but your body responded to his tone instinctively. You climbed onto him, straddling his lap, your hands braced on his chest as he grabbed his cock, guiding it back to your dripping core.

" Take it." He muttered, licking his lips as he watched you.

" Let me feel all of you again."

You sank down slowly, both of you gasping in unison as he stretched you open once more. He was still hard—still thick, hot, pulsing inside you—and the pressure against your already sensitive walls made your body jerk.

" F-fuck!" You whimpered, barely able to breathe.

He grabbed your hips and started moving you, grinding you down in slow, deep circles, forcing you to feel every inch.

" You’re so tight like this." He groaned.

" So swollen, so wet. You were made to ride me like this."

You tried to pace yourself, but your body was betraying you. Every grind of your hips, every brush of his cock against your sweet spot made you whimper, moan, tremble. Your head dropped back, mouth falling open.

That’s when he leaned forward.

He latched onto your breast like a starved man—licking, sucking, groaning as he pulled your nipple between his lips and rolled it with his tongue.

He switched to the other without warning, wet and hungry, his hands kneading your ass to push you deeper onto him as you rode him.

" God, look at you." He rasped against your skin.

" Fucking perfect. Bouncing on my cock, dripping down my thighs. You’re everything, do you know that?"

You moaned louder at his words, your hips moving faster, chasing something sharp and unbearable. His tongue flicked your nipple furiously, his teeth grazing it just enough to make your body jerk.

" You take me so well." He praised, eyes locked on your flushed face.

" So good for me. Look at you—so fucked out, but still riding me like it’s the only thing keeping you alive."

Your thighs began to quake, your orgasm building again far too fast. Overstimulation made every thrust electric, every movement almost too much. Your hands gripped his shoulders like a lifeline.

" I—I can’t—"

" Yes, you can." He growled, bucking his hips up into you, slamming deeper.

" One more, baby. Give me one more. I want to feel you come again while I’m inside you."

His mouth returned to your breast, tongue greedy, messy, and relentless.

And you broke.

Your body tensed violently, and you screamed his name as your climax hit again, stronger, overwhelming. You collapsed against him, nails digging into his skin, walls pulsing and clenching him tight.

He moaned like he was in pain—because your pleasure was too much, too good and with a guttural groan, he came again deep inside you, filling you up for the second time.

You both stayed like that—your body trembling, your skin stuck to his with sweat, your breath ragged—as his hands gently rubbed up and down your back.

" You’re unbelievable." He whispered, kissing the top of your chest.

" No one will ever ruin me like you do."

And you believed him. Because even now…neither of you were finished.

Your chest was still heaving, your body twitching from the waves of overstimulation. Every muscle felt melted, your thighs slick and trembling from the relentless pleasure he’d wrung out of you.

You were still straddling him, the heat of your bodies sticking together—until In-ho slowly lifted you by the hips. A low, guttural sound rumbled from his throat as he pulled out.

A wet, messy sound echoed between you as his cock slid free, and you both stared as a mix of your fluids slowly oozed out of you—thick, hot, dripping down your inner thighs in lazy trails.

" Fuck…" He breathed, eyes glued to the sight.

" Look at that."

His fingers slid between your legs, catching the slow drip of cum and arousal that soaked your pussy and thighs. You whimpered, oversensitive, jerking slightly at his touch—but he was already lowering himself, sliding off the couch and dragging your hips to the edge.

You barely had time to react before his mouth was on you.

" In-ho—!" You gasped, your hand shooting down to grab his hair.

But he didn’t stop.

His tongue licked a long, filthy stripe from your entrance down your thigh, gathering every trace of what you two made. He groaned deeply, as if the taste of you mixed with himself drove him insane.

" This—" He murmured against your skin, licking back up slowly, deliberately.

" Is what we are. Messy. Raw. Addictive."

He sucked the inside of your thigh, teeth grazing the tender flesh as his fingers gently spread you open again.

" You feel how swollen you are?" He whispered, tongue flicking your clit just to make you twitch.

" Fucked open. So warm. So perfect for me."

You moaned helplessly as he buried his face back into your core, licking and lapping like a man starved. He didn’t care that you were twitching from overstimulation—if anything, he wanted that. He wanted you wrecked. Shaking.

" It tastes so sweet with my cum dripping out of you." He groaned, tongue thrusting in and out slowly.

" You’re filthy, baby. Just how I like you."

You writhed, one hand fisting his hair, the other gripping the armrest behind you, trying to breathe.

" You were made for this." He continued, licking up everything he spilled inside you.

" Made to take my cock. Made to let me fill you up and then let me taste it right after."

Your thighs tried to close from the intensity, but he pulled them apart again, locking you open with his arms.

" Don’t hide from me." His voice was darker now.

" You wanted this. You begged for it. And now I’m going to enjoy every drop."

His lips wrapped around your clit again, sucking hard this time—enough to make your back arch as another sharp burst of heat built again. The overstimulation blurred into something dizzying, euphoric.

You cried out, legs trembling as he pushed you to the edge again, dragging that next orgasm from your already-used body.

" That’s it, baby. Cum for me again. Let it drip—I’ll clean it all up."

And you did.

With his mouth never leaving you, he swallowed every twitch, every cry, every trace of what was left.

When he finally pulled back, chin soaked, eyes glazed and mouth curved in a dark grin, he looked up at you like you were art—ruined and beautiful.

" You’re fucking divine." He licked his lips.

" And I’m never letting you go."

Your body collapsed back against the couch, weak and wrecked.

But something in you knew…

This was only the beginning.

Your body had gone limp against the couch—skin flushed, thighs trembling, your core still pulsing from the wave after wave he dragged out of you. Every nerve was raw, burning in the aftermath of overstimulation.

And yet…

You barely had time to catch your breath when In-ho climbed back over you, hands bracing on either side of your head. His lips crashed into yours again—no hesitation, no gentleness. Just raw, hungry desperation.

You gasped into the kiss, and he took it as an invitation, tongue plunging into your mouth. You moaned as the taste hit you—you and him—salt, heat, and something primal.

The mix of your combined release coated his lips, his tongue, and he fed it to you like he wanted to ruin you from the inside out.

His kiss was a claim.

Sloppy, deep, possessive.

You could feel him growing hard again between your bodies—still slick from what you both made, twitching against your inner thigh.

He broke the kiss with a hiss, panting softly against your cheek. Then he grabbed your hand—firm but guiding—and brought it down to his length.

" You feel that?" He growled, his voice low and rough.

" Still hard for you. Still fucking aching."

You wrapped your fingers around him instinctively, and he let out a sharp exhale through clenched teeth.

" Stroke it." He ordered, eyes dark and fixed on you.

" Nice and slow. Just like that."

You obeyed, your fingers gliding along his thick, glistening shaft. Your hand was slick with your mixed fluids, and he throbbed in your grip, hips bucking slightly into your strokes.

" Fuck—" He muttered, eyes fluttering shut for a second before locking back on you.

" Now be a good girl…" He leaned in, licking a slow line up your jaw.

" And clean me up."

You didn’t hesitate.

You slid down between his legs, still tasting him on your tongue as you lowered yourself until his cock stood inches from your face—hard, twitching, covered in slick from both of you.

You looked up at him as you dragged your tongue along the base, licking your way to the tip slowly, deliberately. His entire body jerked at the first touch, a deep hiss ripping from his throat.

" Just like that…" He groaned, watching you with hooded eyes, his hand gripping the back of your head.

" Get every drop, baby. You made this mess—now fucking taste it."

You wrapped your lips around the tip, swirling your tongue to gather everything there. His taste mixed with yours—salty, musky, intoxicating. You moaned around him as you slowly took him deeper, your hand pumping what your mouth couldn’t reach yet.

His hips twitched.

" God, your mouth…" He gasped.

" So warm. So perfect for me."

You sucked harder, faster now, tongue dragging along the underside with every bob of your head. He was leaking again already, thick and heavy on your tongue.

Your eyes never left his—watching him unravel, his jaw clenched, abs tightening, his grip in your hair tightening with every wet, sinful sound you made.

" You love it, don’t you?" He rasped.

" Tasting yourself. Tasting us."

You moaned in response, and the vibration nearly made him lose control. His head fell back, neck taut, body shaking.

" Fuck—don’t stop." His voice was strained, unraveling.

" I want to cum down that pretty throat. I want you to swallow everything I give you."

You took him deeper, until your nose brushed his skin, your throat tightening around him. That was all it took.

His hips jerked up as he groaned loud and low, spilling into your mouth, hot and heavy. You swallowed him down greedily, not spilling a single drop, moaning as you tasted him again—strong, raw, completely addictive.

When you finally pulled back, lips swollen, chin wet, he looked down at you like you were something he couldn’t believe was real.

" You were made for me." He whispered.

And from the way your body still craved him, even now, you didn’t deny it.

Because nothing about this was over.

Not even close.

The fire had dimmed, but the warmth between your bodies lingered.

In-ho didn’t let you go.

He gently pulled you back into his lap, arms wrapping tightly around your waist, chest pressed to your back, chin resting on your shoulder.

You could still feel his breath—slow now, softer—ghosting along your skin. His heart beat beneath your spine, steady…real.

He held you like you might disappear again if he loosened his grip.

His voice broke the silence, low and cracked.

“ I missed you.”

You didn’t respond right away. Your body was still too worn, your soul still too heavy. But you didn’t pull away either. You let him hold you, let him speak.

“ I’m sorry.” He said next, the words rough and fragile.

“ For what I’ve done to you. For what happened to them.”

His fingers slid gently along your side—soothing, grounding.

“ You think I didn’t want to save them? You think I didn’t want to stop the game?” He exhaled shakily.

“ But I couldn’t. Because if I tried…I would’ve been the next one buried. And then no one would’ve made it out alive.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glance at him. His face was drawn in grief—older than it was before. Worn. Haunted.

“ I didn’t lie about Gi-hun.” He looked at you now, eyes searching yours.

“ I gave him everything I could. Warnings. Options. A way out. All he had to do was take it. But he didn’t.”

A pause.

“ He chose morality. He chose dignity. He died for what he believed in…and it killed him.”

The burn in your throat returned. You closed your eyes.

“ And the baby?” You whispered.

He nodded slowly.

“ The baby lived.” A small, tired smile crossed his lips.

“ Gi-hun wanted to protect that child more than anything. So when he died…I did what he couldn’t.” He leaned forward, resting his forehead on your temple.

“ I gave the baby to Jun-ho.”

Your breath hitched.

“ You know about that already.” He said quietly.

“ Jun-ho told you, didn’t he?”

You gave a faint nod.

He pulled you tighter to his chest.

“ I trust him. As much as I can trust anyone. He’s not like me. He won’t run from responsibility. He’ll raise that baby, and he’ll use the money I gave him to make sure that child has a future. One that doesn’t start with blood.”

Silence settled again.

But not the uncomfortable kind.

Just…heavy. Full of things that couldn’t be undone.

Then he whispered, “ I want to live a life that’s not about killing anymore.”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze fully now. “ What are you saying?”

His voice was steady this time, grounded.

“ I want to spend the rest of my life with you. No more hiding. No more orders. No more masks or power games.” His thumb traced along your arm.

“ Just us. A real life. A clean one. If you’ll have me.”

Your throat tightened, but before you could answer, his voice dropped again—more serious now.

“ But you need to know…the games aren't over.”

Your body tensed. He nodded grimly.

“ The island’s done, yes. We destroyed that part. But it was only a piece of the network.” His expression hardened.

“ There are other franchises. Other countries. Other hosts. The system is bigger than we imagined. The blood trail doesn’t end where we thought it would.”

You stared at him, heart sinking.

“ Gi-hun died thinking he was ending it all.”

In-ho looked away, guilt flashing in his eyes.

“ He only knew the surface. The tip of an iceberg. His sacrifice…” He swallowed hard.

“ Might have been for nothing.”

It shattered something inside you again.

But he didn’t let go.

“ That’s why I stopped trying to be a hero.” He said softly.

“ Because in this game…there are no heroes. Only survivors. And I’m done surviving alone.”

He looked at you—naked, raw, and human. “ If I have to carry the weight of this…I want to carry it with you.”

And for the first time, in all that ruin—

He didn’t look like the Front Man. He looked like In-ho.

The man you once knew. Or maybe…the man he always wanted to be.

And now, the choice was yours.

The dim light from the streetlamp spilled through your window, casting faint gold over In-ho’s bare shoulders.

He hadn’t let you go—not even after everything had been said, or after your bodies had gone quiet from the storm of passion. His arms stayed wrapped around you like a vow, like if he loosened them, you might vanish again.

He breathed slowly against your temple, steady now…but you could feel the tension still caged beneath his skin.Then he spoke, low and hesitant—like every word was being peeled out from something deep and hidden.

" I don’t know if what I feel is love." He murmured, fingers tracing slow circles along your spine.

" Maybe I’m too broken to know what that really means anymore."

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

He continued. " But I do know this…"

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. " I don’t want to let you go. I can’t."

His jaw clenched, as if the truth tasted bitter.

" The first time I saw you was on a monitor." His voice was steadier now.

" The first game. You were terrified—but you moved differently. You weren’t just trying to survive. You were fighting for something."

He exhaled a soft, humorless laugh.

" That was when I knew I had to be in that game. Not just to keep the system running. Not just to stop Gi-hun from tearing it all down. But because…" His gaze dropped for a moment, heavy with guilt.

" I wanted to be near you. I wanted you to see me not as the man behind the mask—but as one of you. Someone who could bleed. Someone who could feel."

The confession hung in the air like smoke.

You stared at him, unsure whether to pull away or lean closer.

" When I was acting like a player, I think I remembered what it was like to be human again." He said softly.

" To share food. To feel cold. To fear dying—not because it threatened the system, but because it threatened something personal."

You swallowed, heart pounding at the shift in his tone.

" Humanity…" He whispered, almost to himself.

" It has different meanings. Pain. Loyalty. Guilt. Hope. But in the end, they all come together for one thing: connection. Real connection."

His hand reached up, brushing your cheek gently—so unlike the man who once held power over life and death.

" You all thought I didn’t care." He said.

" That I was just cold. Untouchable."

A pause. Then...

" But when I saw Gi-hun’s body…" His voice broke, just slightly.

" Lying there after the Sky Squid Game—so still, so final—something in me cracked. I nearly forgot I was the Frontman. The man who enforced the rules. The man who watched deaths like they were statistics. I almost forgot that I helped create this nightmare."

You watched his eyes, saw how much he hated what stared back at him from his own memory.

" I became that man in 2015. The victor. The killer. The one who saw people as horses to bet on." His throat worked.

" But now…now I don’t want to be that man anymore."

You watched him unravel, piece by piece, exposing the man beneath the mask—not the Frontman, not the cold commander—but the man who once played for survival and lost his soul in the process.

" I forgot what it meant to feel." His eyes locked onto yours.

" I forgot that I was just like him once. Desperate. Angry. Hopeful."

" And then I made the wrong choice." He looked down, voice cracking.

" I thought power would save me from death, but it only made me stop living."

The silence settled like a fragile glass wall between you.

" I’m not asking for forgiveness." He said carefully.

" I’m not pretending I didn’t do what I did. I forced myself into your life. I used control. Fear. Power. I know I hurt you."

He cupped your face gently now, voice quieter. " But I’m here…because I want to make it right."

You felt the tremble in his hands. This wasn’t the Frontman. This was the fractured man behind the mask.

" I want a beginning with you." He said.

" No masks. No orders. No more death between us."

A beat passed.

" I’ll wait." He added softly.

" For as long as it takes. I don’t care how long. As long as there’s a chance you’ll let me into your life again—not as the man who once caged you, but as the man who’s finally ready to feel with you."

You looked at him—eyes vulnerable, heart laid bare.

And for once…

He wasn’t a villain.

He was just a man begging not to be alone.

Author's Note: I'm still devastated of the ending of season 3. The scenes in each episode are so depressing that I can feel my heart literally tearing. I need a coping mechanism to deal with Gi-hun's death. That is why I write this. Yeah, not every story has a happy ending. Squid Game, on the other hand, is highly allergic to happy endings. I am also sad because it is over now. I remember watching this series by accident because everyone was recommending it online, but I had no idea I would enjoy it so much. I mentioned that Part II was the final...I suppose it isn't. I believe this would be the final one. If you have not seen season three and don't want to be spoiled, please put this story on hold for a bit and return here to finish reading it. That's all for now. Hehe. Take care. READ WITH RESPONSIBILITY.

TAGS: @sylviavf @lindsay00000

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