Apr 13, 2025
FINISHED SOLO LEVELING A BIT AGO!!! So have some of the little shadow creechurs bc I love them
seen from South Korea
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from Hong Kong SAR China
seen from Russia
seen from Russia
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from Netherlands
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from Türkiye
seen from China
seen from Russia
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Malaysia
seen from Türkiye
FINISHED SOLO LEVELING A BIT AGO!!! So have some of the little shadow creechurs bc I love them
I love rending armor❤️
(Ignore the blue hoodie guy, he’s ugly anyway)
summary: sung jinwoo x reader - boyfriend headcannons. sfw and nsfw included. warnings: fluff, smut, idk this is silly authors note: ty for reading, hope u enjoy. likes and reblogs always appreciated <3 ── .✦ mood board here
sung jinwoo is super introverted and literally so oblivious to anyone liking him so it'll take a while before the two of you get together
but when you do it'll be sooooo good. so so good.
Hey! Enough already! Show some restraint. I hope this doesn't become a problem. - Ore dake Level Up na Ken S2: Arise from the Shadow - Episode 2
in the shadows
author's note ; just entered solo leveling fandom, and only watched anime, so i don't know lore that much yet, as a result it maybe ooc as hell
tw ; reader described as non!human and a little tsundere. just fluff
Igris x reader
────୨ৎ────
you had always prided yourself on being the one thing Sung Jinwoo could count on — whether or not he appreciated it. from the day you were bound to his system, you were there, guiding him, helping him navigate the endless challenges of his rise to power. sure, you’d complain and grumble, maybe tease him more than a proper assistant should, but deep down, you were fond and proud of this guy.
and, unlike the other shadows, you weren’t just another faceless warrior pulled from the void. you had your own personality, your own quirks — and a lot of sass to back it up. your sharp tongue making up for your questionable fighting skills, but you were here as a system assistant in the first place, right?
small, curved horns sprouted from your forehead, curling subtly and gleaming faintly in the dim light of the shadow world. a thin, agile tail swayed behind you as if it had a mind of its own, a pair of leathery wings carried you around effortlessly as you hovered at Jin-woo’s side, whenever he toyed with the system interface.
today had been brutal. the battle was long and relentless, the air thick with the stench of blood and the echo of falling enemies. Jinwoo stood amidst the ruins, his shirt torn and streaked with blood, beads of sweat rolling down his sharp jawline.
“and why is he staring like that?” you asked lazily, floating around him, propping your chin on your hand as you gestured towards a silent figure sitting on the ruins of a staircase..
“who?” Jinwoo replied, wiping sweat from his chin.
“him. tincan.” you nodded at Igris, the silent, imposing knight who had been watching you with that inscrutable helmeted gaze.
Jinwoo barely spared him a glance. “that’s just Igris. he’s always like that. he never talks.”
“well, it’s creepy,” you huffed. then, louder: “hey, nailhead! what’re you staring at?”
Igris didn’t move, only tilting his head slightly as though considering you. then, without a word, he stood, disappearing in a gust of black wind.
“see? he’s weird,” you grumbled, puffing out your chest smugly. Jinwoo only shook his head, used to your antics by now. he let out a soft chuckle, brushing a hand through his damp hair. “you know, i never feel that stare at me. he only stares at you like that. maybe he’s got a thing for you.”
you froze mid-hover, your tail twitching nervously before you lost your balance and fall on the ground. “what a nonsense!! watch your mouth young man!” then quietly “..like he’s capable of feelings. he’s just a big, hollow suit of armor.”
Jinwoo smirked, wiping his hands on his pants. “suit yourself.” with that, he walked off, leaving you flustered and scowling.
────୨ৎ────
later, when Jinwoo finally left the shadow world, you took it as your cue to reclaim your rightful position as the system’s most important entity. you were the assistant, the navigator, the closest thing to a leader these shadows had while Jinwoo was gone. and what better way to assert your dominance than lounging on the throne itself?
you sprawled lazily across the dark, jagged seat, one leg draped over the armrest and your wings curled comfortably behind you. you fiddled with a shadowy orb in your hands, tossing it up and catching it with ease as you tried to stave off boredom.
still, Jinwoo’s words wouldn’t leave you alone. you found yourself glancing around the room more than usual, half-expecting those glowing blue eyes to pop out of the shadows.
and of course, they did.
you felt it before you saw it — the familiar sensation of being watched. your tail flicked nervously as you froze mid-throw, the orb dissipating into mist as you glanced around the room. your eyes landed on a familiar figure standing in the shadows, scanning the room. there he was, lurking at the edge of the shadows, as silent and menacing as always.
“hey, tin can!” you called, trying to mask your unease with bravado. “didn’t i tell you to stop staring? you’re making me nervous!”
Igris didn’t reply. he never did. instead, the faint sound of metal echoed through the room as he stood up and took a step closer.
you frowned, narrowing your eyes. “what is your deal, huh? why don’t you ever talk? who am i even yelling at?”
he kept moving forward, his slow, deliberate steps making your confidence falter with each sound.
“h-hey! stop! i-i mean it!” you snapped, but your voice lacked its usual bite.
by the time he reached the throne, you had pressed yourself back into the seat, your wings curling around you protectively. but instead of whatever terrifying move you expected, Igris did something completely unexpected.
the imposing knight lowered himself to one knee in front of you. slowly, reverently, he leaned forward, resting the cold, smooth surface of his helmet against your lap.
your breath hitched, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to do. a soft, rhythmic sound emerged from beneath his helmet — a low purring noise that reminded you of a contented cat.
“w-what the hell…” you muttered, staring down at him, utterly baffled.
cautiously, you raised a hand, letting it hover over his helmet. “you’re such a freak, you know that?”
when he didn’t move, you hesitated for another second before finally giving in. your fingers brushed the metal, and then you stroked it lightly, your touch was awkward and unsure at first. his purring grew louder, and you couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped you.
“you’re so weird, nailhead,” you murmured, a small, fond smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.
and though you’d never admit it, you didn’t mind the company. not one bit.
────୨ৎ────
These two are so dear to me
✧Bloodline✧
Synopsis: Seven nights alone. Seven nights with a shadow knight who kneels like you’re sacred and touches like you’re forbidden. You’re Sung Jinwoo’s sister. While Sung is gone hunting, he leaves his strongest shadow soldier: Igris, to guard you. What starts as quiet protection turns into something intense and secret… until Jinwoo comes home early, keys jingling, and Igris vanishes mid-cuddle. You’re left marked, aching, and waiting for the next time he returns. Pairings: shadow knight! Igris x f!reader (Sung Jinwoo’s Sister) Content: [[MDNI!!]] 18+!!, NSFW, sacrilegious imagery, eldritch monster-fucking/ tendril play, double/multiple tendrils in double penetration, cumming/squirting, voyeurism??, power imbalance, shadow soldier shenanigans Word Count: 3,000+ Author's Note: Sung’s sister A/U. Sorry for the late Kinktober post 😭 I was swamped with work + school + planning some events and couldn’t finish it. I wanted it to be a certain way and couldn’t post it half-baked. I hope the wait was worth it. Here's my masterlist for Kinktober ‘25. It was fun!
The apartment feels emptier than it has any right to, though you’ve wandered these rooms alone before. Your brother, Sung Jinwoo has been gone for seven days, maybe more, time slips like water through your fingers. He spoke of portals, how they twist time, stretching days into eternities for him while the world outside lingers.
"I'll be back soon," he said, that crooked grin hiding the weight of his absence.
And in turn, you only know the weight of quiet, the way shadows stretch longer in corners, and the subtle chill that follows you from room to room.
At first, you think you’re imagining it. You fill the silence with your freespirit. Barefoot, you hop up off the couch, drifting across the cool floor in only an oversized t-shirt slipping off one shoulder and a cute pair of panties. The kitchen is dim, and you hum to yourself while pouring a glass of water, stretching slowly while leaning against the counter top, the only sound is the rushing water spilling from the faucet. From a near window, moonlight spills across your shoulders in a harmless shimmer.
The first two nights pass like this. You lounge on the couch, sometimes on the bed, scrolling your phone, indulging in some hobbies, reading with one leg draped over the arm of the couch, brazenly shifting in ways you would never in front of anyone.
Your voice even carries, soft and unguarded, whispers to yourself, fantasies unspoken to any living being. And yet, there’s always that small sensation at the vignette of your awareness, like a pair of eyes lingering just beyond vision. You shake it off, blaming shadows, or the way the wind moves through cracked blinds.
It’s on the third night that you notice.
You’re folding laundry, twisting your body just so, when the air changes. A density in the air lingers as dense as a neutron star. An increasing cold bears closer. A presence slides in behind you before you can register: silent, deliberate, wrong. Your pulse spikes as you perceive a ripple at the vignette of your vision.
You spin and exhale, shoulders dropping. Lax.
It’s him.
Igris.
He stands impossibly still, a sculpture of liquid black etched with faint silver and crimson, moonlight pooling in the hollows of his shadow’d armor. No breath, no sound, just those twin abysses for eyes, so patient, ever calculating, unquestionably sacred.
“Holy fuck, it’s just you, Igris…” The words tumble out on a shaky laugh, relief and adrenaline tangling in your throat.
He doesn’t speak. He never does.
But he kneels.
Not a servant’s bow. A knight’s genuflection before an altar. The motion ripples the air; faint bells chime from the outline of his reminiscent metal armor. Runes flare along his chest like dying stars. You realize that the gesture isn’t for you alone: it’s for a vow older than memory, for the light that still clings to your bloodline.
Heart still hammering: Sung didn’t just leave a guard. He left a vigil.
“Igris,” you breathe, the name tasting like incense and fear. He rises: slow and intentional… and steps closer. The space between you shrinks to nothing.
And the apartment becomes an undiscovered cathedral.
…
From that night on, everything about him feels liturgical. When he straightens a fallen book from your table, it is as though he is offering it upon a sacred stone. When he stands guard at the window, light casted behind him, darkened outline of him, the plume of his helmet, glows softly like a comet’s tail. You catch yourself whispering to him as one would to a relic, your voice hushed in awe: thank you… stay… please.
Moonlight turns his armor to constellations. Across the burnished plates you can trace Orion’s belt, the curve of Andromeda; his pauldrons shimmer with star dust that shouldn’t exist in this world. Each time he moves, light scatters as if galaxies shift to make way for him. You think: he’s not only my brother’s shadow; he’s something celestial pretending to be bound by earth.
He treats you accordingly: never a possession, always a charge, something sanctified. When you stumble half asleep in the hall, his hand, unwavering balance, steadies you as though lifting a chalice. When he tucks the blanket over you, the motion carries a veneration of blessings. Even his silence feels like prayer, a discipline learned from eons of watching stars die without weeping.
And still, beneath that holy poise, the air trembles with something… human.
…
The night he steps close enough that your breath fogs against the umbral sheen of his chestplate, you see faint runes glow between the seams: constellations etched in light, pulsing in rhythm with a heart that shouldn’t beat.
The urge to reach out is overwhelming. You imagine your fingers tracing those glowing lines, connecting the stars he wears until you’ve mapped his entire sky.
He stands motionless, yet the atmosphere bends around him, as though gravity itself hesitates out of respect. For a moment, the apartment feels like a transitive cathedral suspended in the cosmos, the two of you the only worshippers alive.
You lower your voice to an embarrassed hush. “You saw me, right? Hear me while I was… reading?.. Didn’t you?”
If he hears, he offers no reply: only bows his head, a knightly gesture laden with veneration, as if you were both relic and enigma. The motion ripples his form, shadow curling like ink in water, runes flickering faintly as though stirred by an unseen tide. It sends a shiver through you, equal parts awe and an ache you can’t name, caught in the gravity of his silent vigil.
Outside, a constellation shifts. Inside, his gaze flickers. Just once, like a dying star choosing to burn a little longer.
And you understand: whatever holiness he carries, it’s perilously close to breaking, drawn toward you by a gravity older than oaths.
The realization ignites something reckless in you. He’s been watching, unseen, every unguarded moment to yourself: your stretches, your sighs, your quiet declarations, your secret touches…
Now, knowing he’s there, you want to unravel him, to see how far the void can bend. You understand: his holiness is not fragile. It is armored.
So you stop asking.
You command.
You step forward, until your bare toes touch the edge of his shadow. The darkened moonlight gleams across your collarbone, your throat, the hollow between your breasts.
You lift your chin, voice low, steady, older than your years.
“Igris. By the light in my blood, the same light that forged your oath, I release you from silence.”
The runes along his chestplate ignite. Not a pulse, a flare. That familiar sound of distant bells cracks the air. You do not flinch.
“You have watched. You have guarded. Now kneel and witness.”
His form trembles. Not from desire, nor weakness, from conflict. The vow screams. The bloodline sings. You raise your hand, palm up, and offer.
“I am not your master… I am your altar. Take what is freely given, or break trying to refuse.”
The shadow armor ripples like a tide. A single tendril unfurls, not tentative, hesitant, coiling in the air between you like a question. You answer by stepping into it. The tendril brushes your wrist. Cold. Electric. Then wraps, not gripping, anchoring, as if the void itself needs permission to exist in your presence.
You lean in, lips brushing the edge of his helm. “Show me,” you whisper, “what a knight does when the relic begs to be touched.”
His form fractures. Not breaks, fractures. Runes blaze white hot. The crimson plume flares. A second tendril rises, then a third, slow, worshipful, but now unleashed.
They do not ask.
They obey.
The first coils around your waist, lifting you an inch off the floor. The second slips beneath your oversized t-shirt, tracing the line of your spine like a prayer written in darkness. The third, a different, impatient tendril as it slides your bottoms off, revealing another cute panties… the tendril quickly sliding between your thighs, pausing at the edge of your panties, waiting.
You meet his abyssal gaze.
He meets your angelic eyes: pupils burning like the sun, and he: the wings flying too close.
“Now,” you breathe. “Now you may break.”
And the void obeys.
His form shifts, shadow coiling tighter, as if warring with itself. The runes along his mimicry of armor, plates of liquid darkness, pulse brighter, a constellation mapping a forbidden sky. You reach out, fingers brushing the edge of his “pauldron”, not metal but a silken void that hums under your touch. A further tracing of his form and you feel a warm, softened nebulae: his neck and the contact sparks, electric and quick, like plunging your hand into a starless sea on a scorching day. His eyes, twin abysses, deepen. A weakened, indulgent expression you’ve never seen on him… and the air grows heavy, charged with an adoration that feels like sin. You plant a savory kiss on his helm and a warmth invites you deeper into his cosmic essence, a magnetism so visceral…
You don’t stop. Your fingers trace a rune, its glow flaring as if alive, and his form that becomes metamorphosed: he trembles, shadow rippling like water disturbed by a stone.
“Touch me… Igris,” you whisper, voice a sacred incantation, daring the abyss to answer. For a moment, he’s still, the lovesome tendril, an ephemeral hand grazing your collarbone, the tightening on your body, and another inching to pull your panties off. Though, it’s not a human touch; it’s the caress of a galaxy, silken yet immense, trailing down your throat with the care of one handling a rare relic.
Your breath hitches, body arching instinctively as the void folds around you. Not behind you: through you. In one liquid motion, Igris shifts: shadow armor melts, reforms, presses flush against your back. His chestplate, once a wall, now liquefies into a second skin of star flecked darkness that molds to every curve, every breath.
The crimson plume brushes your nape like a dying comet’s tail. His runes pulse against your spine, constellations branding your skin with light that shouldn’t exist.
A full body eclipse.
He consumes you.
You consume him.
Tendrils strengthen and deeper from his form: curling curiously beneath and over your breasts like incense coils, lifting closer, claiming his altar; another teasing the soaked lace of your panties before ripping it away in a single, reverent tear. The lace falls like shredded vestments. The void kneels to sin.
You are the altar.
He is the priest who defiles.
The friction is deliberate, warm, impossible: cold void ignited by your heat, a paradox that burns where shadow meets flesh. You feel all of him. every rune, every pulse, every star in his armor now pressed into your back, throbbing in time with your heart.
And he feels all of you: every careful shiver, every gasp, every clench of need.
Mutual.
Cosmic.
Unholy.
“More,” you plead, guiding the shadow lower, your hands trembling as you tug the shirt upward, baring yourself to the moonlight and his gaze. The runes flare brighter, pulsing in time with your quickening breaths, as if the void itself breathes with you.
The intrusion is immediate, wicked—no more teasing, only claim. A thick, excessily fulfilling tendril, forged from the heart of his fractured form, thrusts into you with the precision of a blade through silk, filling you irrevocably in one cosmic surge. It’s not gentle now; it’s devouring, pulsing with the rhythm of collapsing galaxies, stretching your walls with a pressure that borders on divine punishment. You cry out, back arching against his eclipsing chest, the runes searing into your skin like brands of forbidden scripture.
Another circles your throat, not choking, collaring: a dark rosary that tightens with every moan.
A third lashes across your breasts, the tip flicking hardened peaks like a tongue forged from night, drawing hot blooded sparks that make you arch, writhe, offering endlessly more...
The void devours. Heart, mind, and soul is his to absorb: his to fulfill. And it pours into you: cool silk turning scalding, absence becoming overabundance, every thrust desecration to the sweetest extent.
A breath of the void brushes your cheek, then presses. Igris kisses you with the weight of a dying star, a silent supernova of warmth blooming where shadow meets skin. Adoration exhaled from the abyss, relief after centuries of vigil, sealed in one wordless, searing contract.…. The kiss burns, tendrils unfurling from it’s heat.
A tendril circles your clit, vibrating with eldritch intensity: shadow steel grinding against your most sensitive nerve, drawing sparks that explode behind your eyes and shaking yelps from your lips. The vibration locks, pulses, a knight’s gauntlet tightening its grip.
You buck, thighs trembling, lady unraveling under her sworn shield. A second tendril, thick as a lance, rests at your entrance: courteous, patient, never breaching; only promising.
Igris advances. It slides in: slow, chivalrous, inch by iron inch stretching, filling, claiming the keep.
Your walls clench around shadowforged girth, cold steel warming to your pulse. Igris pumps. Deep and measured to the bounds of your pleasure.
Each thrust a salute, each withdrawal a bow. The runes on your back pulse in cadence,
heraldic sigils flaring with every stroke. Your hips rise, grind, lady yielding to her shield,
honor crumbling. The lance curls, strikes true... once, twice, unerring, unrelenting, unwieldy, unforgivingly and you shatter within. A climactic surges: walls spasming, gushing, soaking the shadow…
Your cry is a broken oath, ringing off vaulted stone.
The lance keeps pumping, milking every tremor, until your knees buckle, your body limp, your mind fogged with stars.
Only then: still impaled, still trembling— a third tendril rises from behind. Gauntleted. Silent. It prods your ass curiously… circles the tight ring, teasing, waiting, never forcing.
You feel it and your hips wiggle, instinctive, desperate, pushing back against the pressure. Your head nods, frantic, eyes glazed, lips parted in a silent please.
“Please…” a whimper,barely a breath.
The tendril advances and presses in: slow, slick, unyielding, stretching your ass with the courtesy of a knight’s final charge. Double lancing you in total surrender.
The paradox deepens: cold feel warming to flesh, absence overflowing with presence, the oath bound knight claiming his lady in silence
His form tightens around you, shadow armor liquefying further, tendrils multiplying: one coiling around your throat like a rosary of night, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur with stars; others pinching your nipples, twisting with knightly discipline turned profane. You’re suspended now, fully off the floor, impaled and enveloped, his crimson plume whipping against your cheek like a flagellant’s lash.
“Igris fuck ” you sob, voice a broken psalm, hips bucking wildly against the relentless assault. The tendrils thicken, pulse, vibrate in unholy sync, one curling deep inside to stroke that hidden spot with merciless accuracy, the other plunging in counterrhythm, building a crescendo that shatters your sanity.
Release doesn’t crash: it erupts. A supernova of ecstasy rips through you, your body convulsing again in his eclipse, walls clenching around the invading shadows as you cum, soaking the void that drinks it like holy water turned wine. Your cries echo as blasphemous hymns, swallowed by his darkness, every spasm milked by tendrils that refuse to relent, prolonging the orgasm into waves of perilous bliss.
He doesn’t stop.
The priest feasts on his defiled altar.
A final tendril manifests: his essence, concentrated, throbbing like a heartbeat from the abyss, and joins the fray, stretching you impossibly further, tripleclaiming you in a union of flesh and nothingness. You cum again, harder, vision whiting out as the runes explode in light, his form shuddering with you in mutual, cosmic rupture.
The lingering tendrils bow, curling inward like courtiers after a dance, brushing your skin with the reverence of silk gloves. One lingers at your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw with the softest pressure, as if memorizing the curve of his cherished, satisfied relic.
Your body glows with rune prints: his sigils, faded to starlight, healed in your warmth, now a quiet vow etched in flesh.
He withdraws slowly, tendrils retreating like banners furled at dusk, but never fully gone: the absence leaving you shuddering… Though one coils loosely around your wrist, a shadow gauntlet turned bracelet, steadying your pulse.
His form kneels: not in submission, but in courtly grace. The crimson plume sweeps the floor, a knight’s cape pooling at his lady’s feet. He leans in, helm tilting, and presses a silent kiss to your forehead: voidwarm, star soft, a promise without words.
“Stay,” you whisper, voice raw, fingers curling into the edge of his shadow.
The runes pulse once, gentle, like a heartbeat answering yours.
He settles beside you, shadowarmor dimming to a quiet vigil, one tendril draped across your waist not claiming, simply holding.
Outside, the stars settle.
Inside, his gaze lingers, soft now, a flicker of light in the abyss, promising this forbidden rite has only just begun to bloom.
…
You’re curled against Igris on your bed, sheets tangled, city glow bleeding through cracked blinds. His shadowarmor has dimmed to velvet, crimson plume draped over your hip like a blanket. One tendril loops loosely around your waist, another brushes your hair, slow, reverent strokes: a knight petting his lady after battle.
Your cheek rests on his chestplate, rune prints on your skin fading to embers, warm, matching the pulse beneath the void. You murmur, half asleep, “Don’t leave yet…”
His helm tilts, tendril tightens: a silent I’m here.
Keys jingle in the lock. Igris stiffens. Shadow ripples. Tendril squeezes once, then vanishes, gone in a blink, poof, rune prints doused cold.
You yank the blanket over you, curl into a ball, force slow breaths, and pretend to sleep.
The living room door creaks open and Sung shuffles in, bag thuds, boots scuff, and sniffs. A different… scent than the neutral one he usually comes home to.
“Smells like... ozone in here.” he murmurs to himself. He pads to your room and peeks through the crack. You freeze, fakesnoring, eyes shut, blanket to chin. He sees you curled up, no glow, just a silhouette of a hair frazzled sleepin’ sister. Had the light been shining bright, and had he not been absolutely exhausted from his hunt, he would’ve seen your ripped panties, your clothes thrown about… but he sensed your peaceful presence and it was enough.
“Huh…” he mutters and quietly closes the door.
…
In the living room, Sung flops on the couch, scrolls through his Leveling HUD and sees a notification unlike any he’s seen. An icon of Igris’ face with an anger bar filled.
“Why is my shadow pissed?” he grumbles, poking the mark. “You were on break, man. What did the laundry offend you?”
The bar twitches, progresses angrier.
Sung shrugs, swipes it away. “Weirdo.”
…
You bite the pillow in your room, rune warmth fading, already counting the hours until Igris comes back.
© crystallinesilk2025~
Dividers: @enkeli-moonsys, @cursedcarmine with edits and originals by me @crystallinesilk
Taglist: @noyaswrld *comment to be added to my taglist (:*
People...I think I broke my Pinterest algorithm 😂 my whole feed is now jinwoo and igris being cute together 😍
I mean I'm not complaining but it does mean that you get to come along for the ride as well 😂