TV Time? More like FORSAKEN SMUTSHOT TIMEEEE (REQS OPEN)

by YourLocalOrange

Summary:

Smutshot for you Forsaken-liking goonies (100% REAL NO CLICKBAIT NO RAGEBAIT. ONLY PURE, UNFILTERED SMUT.)

Chapter 1: Rules + list :0

Welcum (Yes I spelt that wrong on purpose) to THE ULTIMATE FORSAKEN SMUTSHOT BOOK! I'm YourLocalOrange, but you can call me Orange. There are absolutely ZERO boundaries for this book, so you can request ANYTHING your heart desires! This is YOUR SAFE PLACE. YOU GET TO READ YOUR FAV CHARACTERS HAVE WILD BOOMBAYA WITHOUT ANY WORRIES THAT YOU WILL BE JUDGED. 

So sit back, grab a bucket of popcorn, and get comfy bc this book is gonna get CRAZZYYY

 

THINGS I CAN DO:

• BDSM
• Rape
• Underage sex
• Pedophilia 
• Incest
• Kinks
• Fluff
• Porn W/o Plot
• Porn WITH plot
• ROUGH SEX ROUGH SEX
• More rough sex
• CUNTBOYS
• Fetishes
• Curvy men
• Curvy men
• Curvy men
• Did I mention curvy men? Prob not
• Homosexuals.
• Heterosexuals.
• Headcanons
• MEN WITH PUSSY
• MPreg 
• The 'Deres' (Yandere, Tsundere, Dandere)

 

I lied. I actually have something I absolutely cannot write. And that would be:

• Urophilia aka Golden Showers (NO ONE IS GONNA GET SHITTED OR PISSED ON)
• Wax play (I do not wanna burn someone's face off with hot candle liquid)
• OC x Canon (I honestly don't even know why I don't wanna write i- *gets held at gunpoint*)
• Bestiality 

COMPLETED:

• Non-Con 1xDoe
• Non-Con/Drugging BuilderTaph ft Bot! Ftm Builder
• Non-Con Taph and Telemon HEAVY ANGSTY OVERLOADY ft violence and Telemon being a bitch
• Non-Con AzuretimeShed ft Bot! ftm shota Shed (tentacle, doublePen, mild breedK, religion, forcefem) 

QUEUE:

• MafiTime (forced breeding, rivals, punishment sex) ft Bot! Cat Two Time
• Shed1337 (basic grooming, coercion into sex but noncon, impregnation, forcefem) ft Bot! 12yr Shota Shed 
• Bluu1337 (Creampie, rough sex) ft Bot! Sub Transmale Guest
• DOOM DUBCON DoomDusekk (size dif, exhibition kink?) ft. Bot! Ftm Dus 
• Non-con DuseTime
• DuseNoli ft. Bot! Yan Noli and Top! Gentle Duse
• Non-con Noob666 (rough sex, pre-forsk ) ft. Cuntboy Noob + Possessive Yan Guest 666 
• PizzaPie (bondage?) Ft. Dom! Elliot
• Non-Con Pizzadebt ft. Ftm Elliot
• MollyJane (rough sex, pre-forsk) ft. Top! Dom Molly
• Dubcon Paycheck (overstim, aftercare) ft. Chance being an annoying bitch
• Non-Con 1xDoe PT. 2 (somnophilla, dacryphilla, bondage)
• Bluudud x C00lkidd Ft. Cuntboy Bluudud + underage mpreg
• Pr3tyPriincess × Jane Doe Ft. Dom! Top Futa Pr3tty with a penis and 
• More dubcon/drugging BuilderTaph (aftermath of the other fic?)

Also please be patient with me lol- I work very slow and I procrastinate a lot 

SO YEAH HAVE FUN WITH THIS BOOK! (My feet are tingling rn I can't wait to write yall reqs)

Chapter 2: Sum background info! (Read so you won’t get confused!)

Notes:

Background info for the confused ones

This book will be written in my concept of Forsaken! 

In Forsaken, there are two major realms: The Town and The Abyss. Survivors live in The Town and the killers live in The Abyss. All the official maps like Horror Hotel are little pieces of islands scattered around in Forsaken.

(The killers live together in an abandoned mansion because they treat each other like family, unlike the survivors who treat their fellow colleagues like... you know. Normal.)

The Abyss is under The Town (you can see it as the Forsaken version of hell, but with black ichor instead of fire and lava).

There is also a third realm called Dreamcore, but most of the survivors nor killers had ever been there by themselves. Only people with higher ranks like the Spectre and the Spawn (YES THE SPAWN IS A PERSON IN MY CONCEPT) can access the gate to Dreamcore.

Dreamcore is Forsaken Heaven. There is a whole-ass civilisation up there, with the Spectre controlling them too, of course. This was where Taph and the former admins worked, until they were banished by the amount of protestors attacking them. 

Every round (one round per day), the survivors gather to The Cabin (which is the lobby for us), discuss plans, and go to one of the islands (cosen by random) by a glass bridge. The killer (also chosen by random) will be taken to a portal which transports them to the island the survivors are in. 

When a survivor dies, they will respawn back to The Cabin with perfect health, but the memories and scars stay. Let's use Two Time as an example. They are quite skinny and weak compared to the other survivors, so they have the most traumatizing memories and the most scars (sorry Two Time lovers..).

When the survivors win, they usually go to the restaurant in The Cabin and have a feast. Hooray! :D

When the killer loses, they will be taken to Dreamcore, where they get punished by the Spectre. Usually the punishment includes the killer facing their worst fears. Example: Jason's worst fear is water (he got drowned by some teens in his lore), so.his punishment would be getting his head dunked in a basin of water. Other punishments are just simple bondage and beating. And like any normal mortal would, the killers hate punishments. So they hate the survivors because they made them lose a round. 

Why does the Spectre only punish killers and not survivors? The killers were the Spectre's pride. He made them strong, and powerful, and naturally he had high expectations for them. So yeah.

ALSO EVERYONE HAS HAIR IN THIS STORY YIPPPEEEEEEEE THEY NO LONGER BALD

More will be added soon! Now time for me to work on the fanfics 😔👍

Chapter 3: Fight Me Harder - Non-Con 1xDoe

Notes:

"1x getting non conned by John Doe. John has urges and 1x is sex repulsed. Stuff ensues. If you could add some attempted fighting back that would be awesome…"

John Doe: he/him
1x1x1x1: he/they

1x usually doesn't bring his swords out with him (unless he's killer) because they're way too inconvenient for him to drag all over the place. So yeah 1x will be written here to fight with his claws (yes 1x has claws because... why not?) :3

Oh yeah! When I say every killer treats each other like family, I didn’t mean it. 1x HATES John. <3

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦

It happened in the quiet of a gushing waterfall in the Abyss.

Black ichor cascaded down jagged obsidian cliffs, the liquid thick and gruel. 1x1x1x1 knelt at the water’s edge, fingers cupping the dark sludge, watching fractured data flicker beneath like dying stars. For once, his mind was quiet—no screams, no rage, just the rhythmic pulse of corruption flowing around him.

Peace.

A bitter laugh rose in his throat. As if something like him could acknowledge peace.

Then—bells. A cacophony chimed in the distance, weaving through the Abyss like smoke. Not the clean, bright sound of celebration, but muffled screams tangled in the notes, the cries of the damned harmonising with each toll.

"The killer had won."

1x’s fingers twitched. The ichor dripped from his hands as he slowly turned.

A portal split the air before him, its edges frayed with glitching reality. First, a shoe emerged— pristine leather, yet dripping with defunct code, the corruption eating at the seams like acid. Then another. Then a leg, a torso, a smirk.

John Doe.

Tall. Dominating. A puddle of black oozed beneath him as he stepped fully into the Abyss, his ruby eyes already darkening at the edges, consumed by something hungrier. 1x’s code screamed in warning.

"Hello, darling," John rumbled.

1x's fingers twitched. "You're not welcome here."

John only chuckled, stepping closer. The waterfall’s roar muffled his footsteps, but 1x didn’t need sound to know danger when it was breathed into the air between them.  

"I don't recall needing an invitation." John purred, tilting his head.  

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦

1x didn’t back away. He never did. But something in the air had shifted—the static was heavier, the ichor at his feet bubbling unnaturally.  

John’s eyes—one ruby, one swallowed by corruption—locked onto him with terrifying focus.  

"You’ve been avoiding me."  

"You’re delusional." 1x spat.  

John tsked, circling him like a predator. The code followed, igniting a little circle around the other. "Lying doesn’t suit you, 1x." His claw reached out, brushing a strand of hair from 1x’s face. "We both know you feel it too."

1x snarled, slapping his hand away. "The only thing I feel for you is how satisfying would it be to tear you apart."

John’s grin widened. "Then why does your code react to me?"

1x didn’t get a chance to retort.  

1x snarled, lashing out with claws aimed for John’s eyes—  

John caught his wrist mid-air and twisted.  

The sound of fracturing code echoed between them. 

1x gritted his teeth, refusing to cry out.  

John leaned in, his breath hot against 1x’s ear. "You’re mine tonight."

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦

The waterfall roared beside them, its black currents swallowing 1x’s protests as John pinned him against a nearby tree. Tiny spikes of code sprouted out, trapping 1x1’s wrists, the impact controlling and painful. 

1x fought.

Of course he did. He was hatred given form, malice incarnate—he thrashed, he writhed, he bit, but John only cackled, pinning him harder against the thick trunk, the waterfall drowning out the sounds of their struggle.  

"I’ll kill you," 1x hissed, voice trembling with rage. "I’ll dissect you with my bare hands, and hang your head—"  

John silenced him with a bruising kiss, teeth scraping against his lips hard enough to draw blood. The metallic tang filled 1x’s mouth, and he recoiled, only for John to bite down on his lower lip, owning the pain. "Try."

Then his mouth was on 1x’s neck—biting, claiming, his teeth sharp enough to draw corrupted blood. 1x shuddered, his claws scrambling against John’s back, tearing through fabric but finding no purchase. 

John pulled back just enough to smirk. "You're shaking."

"Fuck you." 1x spat.

"Oh darling." The former kneed the latter, making him wobble slightly. "That's the idea."

1x’s body burned with the violation, his body writhing in an attempt to wriggle free, yet John’s touch was relentless. His hands were everywhere, mapping every inch of 1x’s body—his lithe waist, his soft belly, the sensitive dip of his chest...

John’s hands groped 1x’s ass, feeling the smooth, hairless sensation against his palms. A filthy groan slipped out of his lips. “Fuck, you’re so soft.” 

“Bastard—!” 

Two fingers snaked between 1x’s chest, rubbing teasing circles over a hidden, sensitive nod that made 1x short-circuit. “Stubborn lil’ thing, aren’t ya? But don’t worry, I’ll make you obey me soon.” 

He kicked 1x’s legs open, drawing another yell from the other. He then yanked 1x’s pants down in one rough motion, his own already undone, his cock veiny, heavy, leaking precum against 1x’s thigh. 1x stiffened, not fear, never fear, but fury, humiliation. The thought of anyone walking into them, into him, in this embarrassing position, haunted his mind.

Then he felt it.

A thick claw prodded at his untouched entrance, squelching home without warning.

1x jolted. “FUCK!” 

John didn’t wait. The claw pushed further, stretching, and 1x dug into the bark in front of him, his entire body going rigid. 

It burned.

Oh, it burned.

The claw wasn't just an intrusion; it was a violation of his very architecture. It wasn't stretching flesh, but rewriting code, forcing a new and terrible protocol into a system designed only for destruction. 1x’s vision fritzed, the obsidian cliffs and weeping sky dissolving into a storm of corrupted pixels and screaming error messages.

[ERROR: UNRECOGNISED INPUT] 

[WARNING: SYSTEM RESET…]

”TAKE IT OUT—!” 1x sobbed. The command was out of the norm, stripped of its usual malice and replaced with a panicked desperation that 1x didn't even recognize as his own.

A dark, pleased sound escaped John. He loved reducing one of the most terrifying entities in all of the Abyss to a broken, crying mess. He loved the vulnerability that fell from those lips that were usually reserved for curses and threats.

"But you're finally being so quiet, darling. No more violence. No more craze. Just this... perfect, tight heat." He twisted his wrist, a minute, cruel adjustment that made 1x see fractals of glitching light behind his eyes.

A broken sob hitched in 1x's throat. He could feel the texture of the claw, every subtle ridge and imperfection.

John’s chuckle was a low, grinding sound. He didn't move the claw, letting the searing, full sensation be 1x's entire world. With his other hand, he gripped 1x's hip, his own claws drawing thin, beading lines of black ichor that mingled with the sweat on 1x's skin.

"See?" John purred, leaning over him, his chest a hot, oppressive weight against 1x's. "You're not just taking it. You're adapting to me. Your code is learning me."

"Rot in the deepest pit of this hellscape," 1x choked out, his voice glitching, syllables repeating and cutting out. "R-rot. Rot. Rot-deep-deepest—"

John rewarded the defiance by twisting the claw, just slightly. A raw, shattered sound was torn from 1x's throat.

He could feel the texture of the claw, every subtle ridge and imperfection, as it began a slow, inexorable withdrawal. For a single, blessed second, he thought it was over.

It wasn't.

The reprieve was a lie. John slammed back into him, not with the claw, but with the thick, aching heat of his cock.

The sound 1x made was less a scream and more a system error—a sharp, staticky gasp that was severed at the root. His head snapped back against John's shoulder, his body bowing against the rough bark of the tree. This was different. Deeper. Warmer. A terrifying, full feeling that threatened to unravel him completely.

"There," John purred into his ear, his voice dripping with a possessive satisfaction that was more violating than the act itself. "No more claws. Just me. All of me. Feel it."

He didn't wait for 1x to adjust. 

It was a brutal, piston-like rhythm, each thrust a calculated assault. The squelch of corrupted code was obscenely loud, a wet, static-laced counterpoint to the waterfall's roar. 1x's claws scrabbled against the tree, shredding bark and digital matter alike, finding no purchase, no escape. His body was rocked forward with every drive, his forehead pressing into the rough surface.

[SYSTEM RESETTING: 10%]

John’s hands were everywhere, groping, claiming. One hand splayed across his stomach, holding him in place, fingers digging into the soft flesh there. The other found its way back to his chest, pinching and rolling a sensitive node between rough fingers.

"See?" John grunted, his breath hot and ragged against 1x's neck. "Your body knows. It knows who it belongs to. It welcomes me."

"Lies..." 1x choked out, but the protest was weak, breathy. His own traitorous body was responding, a tight coil of pleasure beginning to wind deep in his gut alongside the pain and humiliation. It was a betrayal of the highest order.

[SYSTEM RESET: 25%]

John changed his angle, and on the next thrust, he hit something that made 1x's vision whiten at the edges.

A bolt of white-hot something lanced through 1x. It wasn't pain. It was worse. It was a feedback loop of pleasure so intense it short-circuited his rage, leaving only a terrifying, buzzing void. A broken moan escaped him, unbidden.

John laughed, a sound of pure, victorious triumph. "There it is.”

[SYSTEM RESET: 40%]

He hammered against it, relentlessly, each impact sending violent, electric shivers through 1x's frame. 1x's protests died in his throat, replaced by ragged, hitched breaths. He was trembling uncontrollably. His legs, which had been braced for fight, trembled and went weak, only held upright only by John's iron grip and the relentless pounding against the tree.

[ERROR: SYSTEMS FAILING. SPEEDING UP SYSTEM RESET: 80%]

"No—" 1x begged, his voice a broken whisper lost in the static. "D-don't let it— system reset— please—"

"Too late," John growled into his ear, biting the junction of his neck and shoulder. "I'm not just in you, 1x1x1x1. I'm becoming a part of your source code. You'll never compile without me again."

The claim was absolute. The pleasure was inescapable, a virus rewriting his very purpose. 1x felt the coil tighten, a terrifying wave building from the depths of his corruption, fueled by the very violation that was destroying him. His claws retracted. His head fell back against John's shoulder, a gesture of utter defeat.

[SYSTEM RESET: 90%]

He came with a silent, seizing shudder, his body convulsing, not in rage, but in a forced, devastating ecstasy. Black, glitching static erupted from his neglected cock, a silent scream of data annihilation.

John held him through it, fucking him through the overwhelming sensitivity until his own rhythm stuttered. With a final, grinding thrust that felt like it reached 1x's core, John stilled, a guttural groan ripped from his chest. 1x felt a hot, corrupting flood deep inside, a data stream that wasn't his own, integrating, claiming, rewriting.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of the waterfall and the sizzle of merging corruptions.

[SYSTEM RESET: 95%]

John slowly pulled out, letting 1x collapse against the tree. He was a broken marionette, strings cut. He slid down the trunk to the ground, his glazed eyes staring at nothing, his body trembling with the aftershocks of forced reconfiguration. The spikes let go reluctantly, retreating to the deepest depths of the Abyss.

The yellow figure tilted 1x’s chin up, his smirk softer now, but no less possessive. He licked a strip up 1x's cheek, tasting the corrupted tears. "Beautiful."

He tucked himself back into his trousers and did 1x's pants up with a disturbing, casual intimacy. He pressed a kiss to 1x's forehead, where his code flickered the weakest.

"Look at you," John murmured, his ruby eyes dark with satisfaction. "My perfect, ruined thing."

He leaned in and kissed him again, deep and claiming. This time, 1x didn't fight. He couldn't. He gave up a long time ago. 

John pulled back, smirking at the hollow, empty eyes that once housed burning sadism. 

"Welcome home, darling."

[SYSTEM RESET COMPLETE. HELLO, JOHN DOE.]

Notes:

NO FUCKING WAY. MIND BRAND JUST CAME TO MY HEADPHONES AS SOON AS I STARTED WRITING THE SMUT PART.

Chapter 4: 😴☠️ (Numb.) - Non-Con BuilderTaph Drugging

Summary:

“buildertaph non con/drugging, trans builder perchance :3, bottom ftm builderman. any plot is ok!! maybe takes place during forsaken between rounds?“

Taph is half-angel, and Builderman is slightly chubby! :D

THIS IS A DRAFT. MORE WILL BE ADDED SOON!

꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂

The Cabin was usually a sanctuary. The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, casting dancing, warm shadows across the rough-hewn logs and the worn, comfortable furniture. The air smelled of pine needles, woodsmoke, and the faint, ever-present scent of gunpowder and metal that clung to all the survivors. For Builderman, it was the one place he could lower his tools, take a breath, and feel the knot of anxiety from the constant rounds loosen in his chest.

But not tonight.

A deep, unsettled feeling coiled in his gut, cold and persistent. He sat on a plush beanbag by the fire, idly polishing a wrench he used for his sentry guns. His slightly chubby frame was tense, his senses on high alert. Every creak of the settling logs made him jump. Something was wrong. He could feel it, a prickle on the back of his neck that had nothing to do with the heat of the flames.

Builderman let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping. He wiped a greasy hand across his forehead, leaving a smudge of oil. He was tired, drowsy even. His body ached from the constant strain of construction, and the countless sleepless nights he had spent trying to improve his sentries were not big of a help either. A slight, soft belly that his utility belt strained against was a testament to long hours spent at his workbench, not on cardio.

He needed to restock. With a grunt, he heaved himself up and turned down a dimly lit side corridor, heading for the main resupply room. The base was a maze of identical gray halls, and he took a shortcut through a disused storage area, his boots echoing on the concrete.

He didn’t see the hooded, golden figure advancing towards him.

A hand, slender and surprisingly strong, caught his arm. Builder spun, wrench raised, his heart hammering against his ribs. But it wasn't an enemy. It was Taph.

The half-angel’s face was mostly hidden in the shadow of his hood, but the lower half was visible, a soft, almost apologetic smile on his lips. He held up his other hand in a placating gesture. Then, he raised a single finger, a silent request for Builder to wait.

“🫵😪❓☕️❓” (You tired? Want tea?)

The emojis materialized in the speech bubble above the hooded figure, glowing with a soft, light before fading. Builder relaxed minutely, lowering his wrench. Taph was a demolitionist, yes, a terrorist who spoke in traps and explosions, but he was on their side. He served the Admins. He served him.

“Taph? You scared the hell out of me,” Builder breathed, his free hand coming up to his chest. “Tea? I… I suppose I am a bit wound up. Could use something to settle my nerves.”

Taph’s smile widened, a flash of perfect white teeth. He nodded eagerly and gestured for Builder to follow him.

꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂

He led the way not to the communal mess, but to a small, private nook off the main corridor that had a hot plate and a few mugs. Builder watched, still on edge but willing to be soothed, as Taph produced a small, ornate tin from his gear. He measured out a dark, fragrant blend of leaves into a mug, his movements precise and graceful. The scent was unusual—earthy and floral but with a sharp, metallic undertone.

He poured hot water from an electric kettle Builder hadn't even noticed was there and handed the steaming mug to the engineer. He then held up his own hands.

“🚫🍵” (I don't need any.)

Builder accepted the mug, the warmth seeping into his tired hands. He hesitated for only a second, watching Taph, who simply tilted his head, a picture of innocent concern. The emojis returned.

“😴💤😊👍” (Sleep would be good for you right now.)

Builder gave a weak laugh. “Yeah, sleep would be good. Thanks, Taph.” He brought the mug to his lips and took a sip. The taste was strong, too sweet, and left a strange numbness on his tongue. He grimaced but took another, larger gulp, not wanting to be rude. The sooner he drank it, the sooner he could get to resupply and maybe actually get that sleep.

Taph watched him, his expression unreadable under the hood. As Builder drank, the half-angel’s posture began to shift. The feigned concern melted away, replaced by a predatory stillness. The friendly tilt of the head became a cold, assessing stare.

Builder finished the tea, setting the empty mug down with a clatter. “Thanks, I… I actually feel…” His words slurred. A heavy, unnatural warmth was spreading through his limbs, the exact opposite of the tea's initial comfort. It was a thick, syrupy heat that made his bones feel like lead. The corridor began to tilt and swim. His wrench slipped from his grasp, clanging loudly on the concrete floor.

“Wha’didyou…” he mumbled, his vision blurring at the edges. The world narrowed to the golden figure in front of him. Taph’s smile was no longer soft. It was a sharp, terrifying slash of triumph.

Taph stepped forward, catching Builder as his knees buckled. The strength in the lithe frame was undeniable. He effortlessly half-dragged, half-carried the disoriented engineer away from the nook, down another, darker hallway, and into a disused supply closet, kicking the door shut behind them.

꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂

The room was pitch black, smelling of dust and old metal. Builder was dumped unceremoniously onto a pile of empty sacks. He tried to push himself up, to protest, but his muscles refused to obey. His head lolled back, a groan escaping his lips. He was paralyzed, fully conscious but trapped inside a body that was no longer his.

Taph loomed over him. A soft, golden light began to emanate from him, not the gentle glow of his emojis, but a harsher, celestial radiance that illuminated the small room and cast long, terrifying shadows. He finally pushed back his hood.

His face was angelically beautiful, with high cheekbones and flawless skin, but his eyes held a chilling, vacant cruelty. He looked down at Builder with the detached curiosity of a scientist examining a specimen.

He didn't need emojis now. His intent was clear in every movement.

He knelt, his hands making quick, efficient work of Builder’s utility belt, tossing it aside. He yanked down the tough canvas of Builder’s pants and boxers, exposing him. A cold dread, sharper than any blade, pierced through the drug-induced haze in Builder’s mind. He tried to scream, but only a weak, pathetic whimper emerged.

I'm scared.

Taph traced a cold, slender finger over the scars on Builder’s lower stomach, a mockery of a caress. A flicker of recognition and then amusement passed over his perfect features. He leaned down, his breath ghosting over Builder's ear.

No sound came out. But Builder heard the message all the same in the terrifying silence. I know. And it changes nothing.

Taph’s own clothing was shifted with an efficient, brutal motion. The golden light glinted off something—a small, sharp canister he produced from a pouch. With a quiet click, he coated himself with a clear, slick substance that smelled faintly of chemicals and ozone.

There was no more preamble. No more false kindness.

Builder squeezed his eyes shut, tears finally leaking from the corners as a searing, unprepared pain tore through him.He was stretched obscenely, painfully, around the half-angel's length, a tight, burning fit that only spoke of violation. Taph on the other hand was merciless, his movements not of passion but of brutal, clinical purpose. Each thrust was a piston, a calculated act of violation, deep and jarring, hitting places that made stars of agony burst behind his eyelids.

The rough fabric of the sacks scraped against Builder’s back, a minor agony compared to the violation happening between his legs. He was pinned, utterly helpless, his soft belly jolting and jiggling with the force of the impact. The half-angel’s wings, ethereal and glowing, seemed to unfurl in the cramped space, not in glory, but to cage him in completely, the soft feathers brushing against his sides in a horrific parody of an embrace, blocking out any hope of escape. 

Taph’s face was a mask of serene, silent concentration. One of his hands splayed across Builder's belly, feeling his own thrusts inside, while the other pressed firmly over Builder's mouth, smothering what little sound he could make. He drove himself deeper, harder, changing his angle until a ragged, broken cry was forced out of Builder's throat against the glove. Taph's eyes glittered with cold satisfaction

He pressed a hand over Builder’s mouth, smothering what little sound he could make, and drove himself deeper, harder, until Builder’s world dissolved into nothing but raw, shattering pain and the silent, golden light of his attacker.

When it was over, Taph withdrew with the same chilling efficiency. He stood, rearranging his clothes, his celestial light dimming. He looked down at Builder, who lay broken and exposed on the floor, trembling uncontrollably, tears cutting clean streaks through the grime on his face.

Taph tilted his head again, the same gesture that had once seemed friendly. Now it was a mockery. He raised his hand, and a final set of emojis flickered in the dark, their cheerful glow a final, devastating cruelty.

"💤😴👍" (Sleep well.)

Then he turned, opened the door, and slipped out into the hallway, leaving Builderman alone in the dark with the smell of ozone, blood, and shattered sanctuary.

Notes:

I literally wrote this half-asleep with a dizzy mind so this might come out a bit wrong 😪

Chapter 5: Angels Don't Cry - Taph and Telamon angst

Summary:

"Can you maybe write Taph and Telamon? Angst, maybe noncon, and just Telamon being an awful guy? Maybe violence in there too.

Also I’d prefer if Shedletsky and Telamon aren’t the same person, thank you."

Telamon is full angel and Taph is half-angel!

Also Taph had gone slightly insane over all the protestors... poor baby 😭

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☾ ◯ ☽₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

The air in the small, dark room was a physical presence, stale and thick with the scent of old fear, dust, and the faint, coppery tang of celestial ichor that had wept from Taph's wings days ago. Time had become a syrupy, meaningless thing, measured only in the rise and fall of the hateful chant from the gates outside. It was a hellish mantra that had drilled its way through the reinforced walls, through the layers of forgotten filing cabinets and broken furniture, and into the very core of Taph’s being.

He was a tight, trembling knot in the farthest corner, his amber wings—once a shimmery, ethereal cape, now a rag of dirty ash—pulled around him like a tattered, filthy shield. The feathers were matted, some bent at cruel angles from his frantic scramble into this hole. Every few moments, his entire body would shudder with a violent, involuntary spasm, a physical echo of the rocks that had pelted them, the screams that had followed them.

“ 🔊❌🔊❌” (Make it stop… make it stop…) The speech bubble shimmered in the gloom, a silent, desperate scream against the noise in his head.

He’d barricaded himself in this forgotten storage closet at the edge of the celestial administrative sector three days ago. The locks weren't just physical; he’d woven them from pure anxiety and fear, a pathetic attempt at a sanctuary. The Admin’s pings on their terminal had gone from polite, golden reminders to sharp, silver-worded demands, and then, twelve hours ago, to a deafening, judgmental silence. That silence was worse than the chants. It was the silence before the storm.

The sound that came wasn't a storm. It was worse. It was a single, resonant click that was not the sound of a lock breaking. It was the sound of reality itself being overruled, of permissions denied and protections revoked. The door, with all its complex, self-taught wards, simply swung open as if on well-oiled hinges. The sterile, white light from the hallway beyond did not just illuminate; it invaded, framing a figure of immaculate, terrible perfection.

Telamon stood there, not needing to duck his head. His presence didn't just fill the doorway; it violated the room's cramped dimensions, making the walls feel like they were bowing outward in deference. His white wings, each feather a blade of polished alabaster, were folded tightly against the severe lines of his tailored, obsidian-dark cloak. His face was a sculpture of divine displeasure, beautiful and utterly merciless, his eyes the pale, frozen blue of a dead sun.

He didn't step in immediately. He let the light from his form flood the room, exposing everything: the dust motes dancing like panicked spirits, the discarded food wrappers stolen from the breakroom, the shameful, huddled creature in the corner. His nose wrinkled, a minuscule show of distaste that was more insulting than a scream.

“So this is the squandering of my most efficient processor,” he said, his voice a low, resonant chord that vibrated in Taph’s bones, a feeling both deeply uncomfortable and unnervingly intimate. “Hiding in a broom closet, wallowing in your own filth. How… fitting.”

Taph flinched so hard his head knocked against the wall with a dull thud. A frantic, shimmering cascade of emojis burst into the air between them, their colors sickly and panicked.

“✋❌🔊👂💀🔪🧠” (Can't. Won't. Can't go out. The noise. It kills. It’s scraping my mind raw.) 

“ ‘Can’t. The noise. It’s scraping my mind raw.’ ” Telamon translated, his tone flat, clinical, and dripping with scorn. He finally took a step inside, and the door sealed itself shut behind him with a sound like a tomb closing, plunging the room back into a gloom now polluted by his holy, cold glow. “The noise is irrelevant. Your function is not. Your absence has caused a 4.7% bottleneck in the Third Quadrant soul-processing line. Do you have any concept of the administrative nightmare you’ve created? The forms I had to file? The inquiries from the Upper Choirs?”

He began to slowly circle Taph’s crumpled form, a predator inspecting carrion. Each footstep was precise, measured, a ticking clock counting down to an inevitable punishment.

“👀🪨🪟👁️🔥😡” (They saw me. They always see me. A rock. The window broke. They looked at me. Their eyes were fire.)

“A rock?” Telamon stopped his circling, looming directly over the latter, his shadow engulfing Taph completely. “A single piece of mortal masonry and you shatter? They throw rocks because that is all they have. It is the argument of the weak and the simple. We wield the fabric of reality. We inscribe the laws of existence. And you choose to cower from pebbles. You are an embarrassment to the celestial host.”

His voice dropped, becoming silken and cruel, laced with a venomous curiosity. “Perhaps they’re right. Perhaps something so weak, so flawed, so… mixed… should not be permitted to handle pure souls. Perhaps you are the contamination they fear you are.”

The words were a different kind of rock, striking with far more precision and force, finding the deep-seated insecurity Taph carried every day. His emojis flickered, dimming with despair, the colors leaching away into muted greys.

“💔🏗️🧱⛓️❌💡👀❌🗣️” (It hurts. I built walls. Chains. My light is gone. They look at me and I have no voice.)

“ ‘They see the monster in me. I have no voice.’ ” Telamon murmured, leaning down slightly, his head cocked. “Look at me, Taph.”

When Taph didn’t move, frozen in a paralysis of terror, his patience vanished. His hand, cold and hard as marble, shot out and gripped Taph’s chin, forcing the half-angel’s head up. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of Taph’s jaw with bruising, deliberate force. Taph whimpered, a tiny, broken sound he instantly wished he could take back.

“I said, look at me.”

Taph’s eyes, wide and swimming with unshed tears, met his. His were the color of a frozen sky, devoid of any warmth or pity, only a flat, analytical cold.

“They don’t see a monster,” Telamon said, his voice a whisper that scraped against Taph’s soul, each word a tiny, precise cut. “They see a mistake. A design flaw. An administrative error that should have been corrected at the source. And today, I am inclined to agree with them.”

His free hand snapped out, not with a blur of speed, but with a terrifying, deliberate slowness that made the action even more horrifying. It clamped around the delicate, sacred joint where Taph’s right wing met his back. It wasn't just a grip; it was a containment field, a seizing of his very essence, a divine command to be still. A silent, agonized scream ripped through Taph. His body arched against his will, spine bending backwards in a painful bow, a torrent of chaotic, pain-glitched emojis exploding around them like shrapnel.

“💀🔥🛑🙏🛑😊👍🛑” (This is killing me! It burns! Stop! Please stop! I'll be good! I'll do anything! Please!)

“This,” Telamon hissed, his divine composure finally evaporating to reveal the raw, awful power beneath, his eyes flashing with a light that was not holy, but profoundly cruel, “is a fraction of the displeasure you have invited. This is for every soul left languishing in the queue. This is for every report I had to file explaining your… emotional incontinence. This is for the sheer waste of my time.”

He twisted his hand. The sound was not of bone, but of something deeper, something spiritual—

a sickening, grating crunch-pop that echoed in the silent room. It was the sound of a connection being violently disrupted, a pathway of grace and energy severed. Taph’s vision whited out, then swam with blotches of black and static. The pain was absolute, all-consuming, a nova of agony centered in his wing that radiated out to every nerve ending. He could feel the divine energy in his wing, usually a soft, humming warmth, now sputtering and leaking, a dam broken.

A hot, traitorous pressure built behind Taph’s eyes, a sob clawing its way up his throat. A single, scalding tear welled up and escaped, tracing a clean path through the grime on his cheek.

Telamon’s frozen eyes tracked its descent. His expression shifted from fury to a look of profound, disgusted fascination. He released Taph’s chin, letting his head loll forward for a second before his other hand shot out, his thumb roughly smearing the tear across Taph’s cheekbone.

"Look at this," he whispered, his voice dripping with contempt. He held his thumb up, the faint, wet gleam of the tear catching the dim light. "This... dampness. This imperfection. This is why they hate you. This is why you are flawed."

He increased the pressure on the shattered wing joint, grinding the fractured pieces together. Taph's body spasmed, a fresh wave of pain threatening to pull another sob from him. He choked it back, the effort making his chest burn.

"Angels do not cry, Taph," Telamon stated, his voice like ice. "We are beings of light and purpose. We are instruments of divine will. We do not leak. We do not drip with self-pity. This... this is your mortal half. A weakness. A biological flaw that must be cauterized."

“⛔️🙏😭” (No more…I can’t take it any longer…)

"You are a resource, Taph. A useful one, I'll grant you. Your efficiency metrics are... were... admirable. But you are not a person. You are a component. And when a component develops a flaw, it is either repaired or repurposed." His gaze swept over Taph's trembling, prone form with cold appraisal. "I have decided on repair. A thorough one."

He released Taph's chin, letting his head snap forward. Before Taph could even gasp, Telamon's newly freed hand fisted in his hair, yanking his head back up, forcing him to maintain eye contact. The message was clear: You will not look away from this. You will not hide from me.

"The Administration has decreed your quota increased by forty percent," Telamon stated, his voice chillingly conversational even as his grip on Taph's wing remained, a constant, throbbing source of agony. "You will work double shifts until the backlog is cleared. You will report to the Sanction Wing after your shifts for realignment. Your emotional receptors are clearly malfunctioning. They will be suppressed until you can process data without this… leakage."

He gave another sharp, vicious twist to the wing. Taph's body seized, his heels scrabbling against the rough floor, a low, animalistic moan finally tearing from his throat. It was a raw, broken sound.

"Ah, so you can make noise," Telamon mused, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Good. You will need a voice to beg for mercy in the Sanction Wing. They are less... precise than I am."

He held the pose, applying precise, excruciating pressure for a long, endless moment, his face a mask of cold fury. He watched the emojis stutter and die. He watched the light of defiance and self-preservation finally gutter out in Taph's eyes, replaced by a blank, shocky emptiness that promised compliance. He listened to the ragged, wet gasps that were now the only sound Taph could consistently make.

Then, with a final, contemptuous squeeze that felt like it was tearing his very soul loose from its moorings, Telamon released his wing. Taph collapsed into a heap, a marionette with its strings cut. His body was wracked with soundless, shuddering sobs that hurt more than the wound. The injured wing hung limp, twisted at a grotesque, unnatural angle, the grey feathers already seeming to dull and wither, a few loose ones drifting to the filthy floor.

Telamon stood over him, a colossus of disdain. He straightened his cloak with a sharp, precise tug. He pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket and fastidiously wiped each finger of both hands, cleansing himself of the feel of Taph's hair, his sweat, his tears, his very essence. He dropped the soiled handkerchief onto the floor beside Taph's head like an offering to a worthless god.

He nudged a discarded food wrapper with the toe of his immaculate shoe, his lip curling. "And you will clean this filth. This is celestial property. Your presence has already defiled it enough. I expect it to be spotless before your next shift begins. In four hours."

He turned to leave, then paused, glancing back at the broken, weeping form on the floor. A final, casual cruelty occurred to him, the kind only a true bureaucrat of suffering could conceive.

"And for pity’s sake, stop with the infantile pictograms. It’s undignified. An affront to the divine lexicon. If you must communicate, you will use the language of your betters." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper that carried the weight of a divine edict. "If you can even remember how to speak. And Taph? Dry your eyes. Angels don't cry. Remember that. It will be the first thing they beat into you in the Sanction Wing."

The door unsealed itself for him. He stepped through into the bright, clean hallway without a backward glance. The door shut with a final, deafening click, the locks sliding back into place with a sound of absolute finality, sealing Taph in once more.

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☾ ◯ ☽₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

Alone in the crushing silence, the divine agony in his wing a throbbing beacon of his failure, Taph tried to breathe. Each inhalation was a knife-sharp reminder of his crushed ribs and violated spirit. A wet, ragged sound escaped his throat, the ghost of a whimper. He tried to form a word, any word, to defy him, to prove he still could.

His mind, shattered and raw, scrambled for a command, a noun, a verb. Nothing came. The pathways were scorched, blocked by pain and terror, his unique voice—the emojis—forbidden to him. He could feel the wetness on his cheek, the damning evidence of his weakness. He was crying. And an angel shouldn't cry.

His consciousness, seeking any form of expression, could only conjure one last, fading emoji, its light guttering out like a dying star in the overwhelming dark. It hung in the air for a second, a pathetic, final testament to his broken state, before winking out of existence.

“😣”

Notes:

Telamon, do consider shoving a burning stick up you ass. Thank you. /j

Chapter 6: Fine, I'll Do It - Dussekar x Yan Noli

Summary:

"Heya, cna u mayb make Dusekkar x Noli?
Consenting, Noli is yandere, bottom, brat
Dusekkar is top, nice and gentle
Porn without plot pls"

Dusekkar works as a librarian when he's not out there fighting for his life :P. Also it'll be so funny if Dussekar spoke in Victorian English so let's do that! (and because I ain't writing RHYMING WORDS FOR SHIT)

.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.

The air in the library was thick with the sacred scents of ancient parchment, brittle vellum, and dried lavender tucked between shelves to ward off silverfish. It was a place of perfect, pristine order, a sanctuary of silence broken only by the soft rustle of a turned page or the gentle scrape of a quill.

Dusekkar, the guardian of this sanctum, moved through the towering aisles with a grace that belied his constructed form. His carved pumpkin head, eternally fixed in a somber, scholarly expression, was tilted in concentration as he gently levitated a stack of particularly volatile texts back to their proper shelf on the third-floor mezzanine. His long, gloved fingers, crafted from polished hawthorn and jointed with silver wire, brushed a nearly imperceptible speck of dust from a spine embossed with flaking golden runes. A sigh, like the wind through autumn leaves, whispered from within his gourd. All was in its place. All was calm.

The sound that shattered the silence was not a sound at all, but the absence of it—a vacuum of noise that screamed. It was the sound of reality itself tearing open, a violent, wet crack that made the very foundations of the library groan in protest. The telekinetic grip on the grimoires faltered. They tumbled from the air, their precious pages fluttering in panic before thudding against the polished obsidian floor in a discordant heap.

Dusekkar spun around, his robes of midnight-blue silk and embroidered burlap swirling. His trusty scepter, a length of rowan wood topped with a pulsating citrine crystal, flickered to life in his grasp, its light a defensive, angry cyan.

There, in the center of the main aisle, the air shimmered like a heat haze over a desert, stained a sickly, violent magenta. From the tear, a figure was violently expelled, landing on hands and knees with a gasp that was more glitch than breath. The rift sealed itself behind him with a sound like a sucked tooth, leaving behind only the scent of ozone and something coppery, like blood and burnt code.

Dusekkar jolted, his hollow eyes, glowing with a soft, amber light, fixing onto the figure. His internal mechanisms, a complex clockwork of magic and intention, stuttered.

The figure pushed itself up, shaking its head like a dog throwing off water. A slow, unnerving smile spread across its face, a gesture of pure, predatory delight.

Dusekkar’s non-existent blood ran cold. He knew that face, a vision of pretty, porcelain perfection that housed a universe of chaos. He knew those glowing, milky eyes, wide and unblinking, that held the static of a dead channel. It was Noli. The Killer. The Brute. A being of pure, unadulterated id that had once hunted him and others in a twisted, interdimensional game for the amusement of distant, cruel gods. He was a splash of violent, digital color on the library’s monochrome canvas of wood and ink, an obscene anomaly.

Dusekkar finally got his carved mouth to move, the words scraping out, reedy and strained. "N-Noli?" he stammered, the Victorian cadence of his voice trembling. "By the Great Script and the Silent Scribes, how didst thou find this place? This sanctum is warded! Did I not understand that the Spectre hath forbidden all such… cutthroats from setting foot within the Town's limits?"

"h3y duss3k~," Noli slurred, his voice a distorted, staticky mess, a corrupted audio file played through a broken speaker. He got to his feet, brushing nonexistent dust from his dark, form-fitting clothes. The Void Star, a pulsing shard of impossible geometry, floated lazily above his palm, its light making the shadows writhe. "m1ss m3? l0ng t1m3 n0 c, n0 c, n0 c~ @nd d0nt w0rry ur pR3tty h3ad! i f0und @ w4y. i 4lw4ys f!nd @ w4y 4 u. @lw4ys."

Dusekkar took a step back, his wooden joints creaking with tension. He tightened his grip on his scepter, its light intensifying. "Thou art not welcome within these hallowed halls, creature of spite and ruin. This is a place of preservation, not desecration. I must insist thou depart with all haste. Now."

"b0ring," Noli whined, the word stretching and distorting. He began to saunter forward, each step a study in predatory grace. His eyes never left Dusekkar’s glowing gaze. "s0 m4ny w0rdz. u t4lk 2 much. ! d!dn't c0m3 4 th3 b00ks. n3v3r 4 th3 b00ks." He was close now, well within the range of Dusekkar’s defensive spells, yet he made no hostile move.

"Then why hast thou come?" Dusekkar demanded, though a cold, heavy dread was seeping into his core, chilling the very magic that animated him. He knew why. The memory of the Hunt, of being pursued not with malice, but with a terrifying, single-minded want, flashed through his mind.

Noli didn't answer with words. Instead, he dropped to his knees with a startling suddenness. He looked up with an expression of pure, twisted adoration, his head cocked to the side. He nuzzled his cool, smooth cheek against Dusekkar's slender, hawthorn-wood leg, a shudder of pleasure running through his own frame. Bony, pale fingers came up to caress the rough texture of Dusekkar’s burlap robes, then the polished wood beneath. "u kn0 y. ! l0v3 u. ! n33d u. p13@s3, duss3k? ! w4nn4 f33l u. b4k3 m3 1ns1d3. m4k3 m3 wh0l3."

A violent shudder—a fusion of horror and something else, something deeply buried, shameful, and unwelcome—ran through Dusekkar. He tried to pull away, but Noli’s grip was surprisingly strong. "Absolutely not! Thou art deranged, and I want no part of thy… thy vile desires! This is a place of learning, of quiet contemplation, not of… not of this base debauchery!"

"f0rg0t 4b0ut 4ll th4t," Noli chirped, his smile never faltering, though his eyes seemed to grow hungrier. "0nly u m4tt3r. @lw4ys. p13ase? juzt th1s 0nce? i'll b g00d. i'll b s0 g00d 4 u, pumpk1n, u w0n't 3v3n kn0w !m h3r3." His hands crept higher up Dusekkar's thighs, fingers teasing at the delicate silk tie that held his robes closed at the waist, seeking the secrets hidden beneath the coarse fabric.

Dusekkar recoiled, finally yanking his leg free with a force that sent Noli sprawling backward onto the floor. "My answer is no, Noli! It was no in the shifting realms of the Hunt, and it shall ever be no within the walls of my home! Now, begone!"

The change was instantaneous and terrifying.

The adoring, glassy look in Noli’s eyes shattered like the porcelain he resembled. His face contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. A low, guttural snarl ripped from his throat, a sound devoid of any digital distortion. It was raw, animalistic, and utterly primal.

"N0?" he screamed, the word echoing through the silent library, shaking dust from the highest beams. "D!D U JS FUCK!NG SAY N0 2 M3?!"

He launched himself to his feet, his body trembling with violent, uncontrolled energy. The Void Star flared, casting jagged, dancing shadows that seemed to claw at the bookshelves. "i c0me 4ll th1s w4y! i br0k3 r34l1ty 4 u! i w4it s0 l0ng! 4nd u s4y N0?! U TH!NK U C4N JS SAY N0 2 M3?!"

He lashed out, his arm sweeping across a nearby cart of delicate, centuries-old crystal orreries and armillary spheres. They crashed to the obsidian floor, shattering into a thousand glittering pieces, their intricate celestial alignments destroyed forever.

Dusekkar cried out, a sound of genuine, profound pain. "Stop! You mad creature! Those artifacts are irreplaceable!"

"fuk ur 4rt1f4ktz!" Noli shrieked, his movements becoming a whirlwind of beautiful, terrifying destruction. He was a artist of chaos, and the library was his canvas. He grabbed a heavy iron candelabra, its candles still burning, and hurled it at a towering shelf of illuminated histories. The impact was thunderous. Books exploded from the force, their priceless pages torn and scattered, fluttering through the air like wounded birds. A small fire licked at the splintered wood. "if i c4nt h4v u, n0th1ng c4n! i'll burn 1t 4ll d0wn! i'll turn ur p3rf3ct, pr3tty l1br4ry 1nt0 4sh! @nd th3n u'll h4v3 n0th1ng l3ft 2 l0v3 but M3!"

He raised a hand, and a ball of crackling, black-and-pink energy—pure, concentrated negation—formed in his palm. It hissed and spat, distorting the air around it. He aimed it directly at the "Sanguinea" section, the oldest, most irreplaceable collection of blood-inked grimoires in existence. The knowledge of a thousand extinct civilizations was about to be unmade.

Dusekkar’s priorities crumbled. His life's work, his sanctuary, the last bastion of order and knowledge in his long, long existence—it was all about to be erased by this beautiful, monstrous creature. The fear of Noli, of his touch, of his terrifying need, was suddenly eclipsed by the vast, yawning terror of absolute loss. He could not let this stand. He could not.

"STAY THY HAND!" he boomed, his voice resonating with a power he rarely used, a deep, seismic thrum that made the very shelves tremble and the glass in the windows vibrate.

Noli paused, the chaotic energy sputtering in his palm. His chest heaved with ragged, angry breaths, his eyes wide and wild, fixed on Dusekkar.

A profound, soul-crushing weariness settled over the librarian. He saw it there, in the depths of Noli's madness: the absolute, unshakeable certainty that he would follow through on his threat. There was no reasoning with this. No bargaining. There was only one currency Noli understood. One thing he valued above all else.

Dusekkar’s shoulders slumped in utter defeat. The fight drained out of him. His scepter, its light dimming, clattered to the ground, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet.

“Cease,” he said, his voice hollow, all the Victorian grandeur stripped away, leaving only a core of tired resignation. “Stay thine hand. Do not… do not destroy them. I… I shall acquiesce to thy demand.”

Noli’s rage vanished, replaced by a look of ecstatic, childlike glee. It was so sudden, so complete, it was more unnerving than his fury. "r34lly?" he breathed, and the ball of destructive energy in his hand winked out of existence as if it had never been. The looming pressure of annihilation lifted.

“Aye,” Dusekkar whispered, his pumpkin head bowing low. He felt a deep shame, not for the act he was to perform, but for the betrayal of his principles. “A promise extorted under threat of death and ruin is no promise at all, but… I give it nonetheless. Just… leave the books be.”

He expected a violent, immediate taking. A pounce. Instead, Noli simply… melted. He practically flowed across the space between them, pressing his body against Dusekkar’s, nuzzling his face against the rough burlap of the librarian's robe. “th4nk u, th4nk u, th4nk u, my pumpk1n,” he mumbled, his voice soft, the distortion lessening to a mere buzz. His hands came up to clutch at Dusekkar’s back, holding on as if he were a lifeline. “g0nn4 b3 s0 g00d 4 u. u'll s33. s0 g00d.”

The sudden shift from world-ending fury to clinging devotion was dizzying. Dusekkar stood stiffly for a moment, then, with a tenderness that surprised even himself, he raised a gloved hand and placed it on Noli’s back. He could feel the frantic, rabbit-quick beat of the other’s heart through his clothes. "Come," he said, his voice low.

He guided the pliant, trembling creature away from the wreckage of the orreries, past the scorched bookshelf, to the large, heavy oak desk he used for transcription and delicate restoration work. With a long arm, he swept a stack of fragile, handwritten papers and a pot of expensive iridescent ink safely aside. The surface was worn smooth by centuries of use.

"Assume thy position," he instructed, his Victorian propriety clinging desperately to the edges of the surreal, obscene command.

Noli didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled onto the desk, lying back against the smooth, cool wood, his dark clothing and pale skin a stark contrast to the light oak. He looked small suddenly, fragile, and desperately vulnerable, all his terrifying power banked to a low simmer. He looked up at Dusekkar with wide, trusting eyes. "b3 g3ntl3? pr0m1s3?" he whispered, the distortion now softened to a mere lisp. "!m… !m s3ns1t1v3."

"I shall endeavor to be," Dusekkar replied, his voice a low rumble. The clinical part of his mind, the part that could repair a torn folio or mix a complex potion, took over. This was now a procedure to be performed with precision to achieve a desired outcome: pacification.

His gloved fingers made quick, efficient work of the simple fastenings of Noli’s trousers, pulling them down just past his knees. He exposed him, pale and trembling in the dim light. Noli whined, a high, needy sound, and bucked his hips impatiently, offering himself.

"hurry UP! W4nt u… n0w…"

"Patience is a virtue," Dusekkar chided softly, though his own internal mechanisms were humming with a strange, anxious energy. "Rushing leads to damage." From a hidden pocket within his robes, he produced a small, crystal vial filled with a clear fluid—a common lubricating charm used for repairing stiff book bindings and loosening ancient, seized mechanisms. It was sterile, effective, and would serve.

He stripped his hands and slicked his fingers, the action methodical, his pumpkin head tilted in an expression of academic focus that was utterly at odds with the scene. Noli whined again, higher pitched, pushing his hips down against the air.

Dusekkar placed his clean hand on Noli’s stomach, feeling the tense muscles there. "Be still." The command was gentle but firm. He then brought his slicked fingers down, pressing one long, thick digit against Noli’s tight, fluttering entrance.

Noli gasped, a sharp, staticky inhale, and arched off the desk, his head thrown back. "F-FUCK! C0ld!"

"It will warm," Dusekkar murmured, and he pushed his finger inside, slowly, inexorably. The heat was immediate and intense. Noli was impossibly tight, clenching around the intrusion with a desperate strength. Dusekkar worked his finger in and out with a slow, patient rhythm, feeling the resistant muscle gradually begin to give way.

"Dus3... m0r3... pl34s3, n33d m0r3..."

Dusekkar added a second finger, the stretch making Noli cry out, a sound that was equal parts pain and bliss. The librarian scissored him open with a careful, practiced precision, his movements those of a master craftsman. He was a being of exactitude, and even this most carnal of acts would be performed correctly. He crooked his fingers, searching, and brushed against a specific spot deep inside.

Noli shrieked, his back bowing off the desk so violently Dusekkar had to hold him down. "TH3R3! RIGHT TH3R3! FUCK! OH G0D, DUS3KKAR!"

A spark of something hot and possessive flared in Dusekkar’s core at the sound of his full name screamed in such a tone. He pressed against that spot again, ruthlessly, and was rewarded with another shattered cry and a fresh gush of heat around his fingers.

Satisfied with the preparation, Dusekkar withdrew his fingers. Noli mewled in protest at the loss. With swift, economical movements, Dusekkar freed his own considerable length from the confines of his robes. He was already fully erect, the woody flesh a stark contrast to the dark polished wood and hawthorn of his body. He slicked himself thoroughly with the remaining lubricant, his grip firm.

He positioned himself at Noli’s stretched, glistening entrance. He looked down at the creature beneath him—no longer a world-destroying killer, just a desperate, needy thing, writhing and begging for him. The intoxicating power of it washed over him, eroding the last of his reluctance.

"I am entering thee now," he stated, his voice a deep, resonant baritone that held no hesitation, only fact.

He pushed forward, not with a brutal thrust, but with one slow, inexorable, deep movement, sheathing himself fully inside the tight, clenching, impossibly hot velvet of Noli’s body in a single smooth motion.

Noli’s scream was one of pure, undistorted ecstasy. It echoed through the library, a song of perfect, brutal fulfillment. His eyes curved into crescents, and his nails scrabbled for purchase against the polished wood of the desk. "0h g0d... g0d... s0 b1g... s0 fuck1ng b1g... !m spl1t 0p3n..."

Dusekkar stilled, allowing the smaller body to adjust to the overwhelming invasion. The sensation was… seismic. It had been an age since he had allowed himself any form of physical congress. And the absolute, total surrender of this vicious, terrifying creature was profoundly, dangerously intoxicating. The heat, the tightness, the tiny, involuntary spasms that clenched around him—it was all utterly consuming.

He began to move, establishing a slow, deep, rolling rhythm that made the heavy oak desk creak in a steady, protesting time. Each thrust was measured, powerful, pushing the air from Noli’s lungs in punched-out, staticky gasps.

His initial reluctance, his fear, melted away completely, replaced by a rising, primal heat that burned through his veins like liquid fire. His gentle, careful thrusts became more powerful, more possessive. One hand gripped Noli’s bony hip hard enough to bruise, holding him in place, while the other braced on the desk beside his head, his hawthorn fingers digging into the wood.

"Thou art... surprisingly accommodating," Dusekkar murmured, his voice losing its formality, gaining a rough, dark edge that was entirely new. He drove into him, again and again, hitting that deep, secret spot with unerring accuracy.

Noli could only mewl in response, a continuous stream of blissful, glitching nonsense. "y3s... y3s... m0r3... d0n't st0p... 'm ur g00d br4t, s33? 'm s0 g00d 4 u... 0nly 4 u..."

Dusekkar found himself leaning over him, his pumpkin head hovering beside Noli’s face. He could see every faint freckle on the snowy skin of his mask, the sheen of ichor slipping down his torso, the way his perfect, hollow mouth hung open, slack with pleasure. "Indeed thou art," he rumbled, a note of genuine, heated warmth seeping into his tone. The world-ending madness had been pacified, and in its place was this raw, honest, desperate need. It was a thing he, as a keeper of stories and secrets, could understand intimately. He was, in his own way, starved for connection too.

He shifted his angle slightly, pounding into that perfect spot with a relentless, pounding pace that stole the breath from both of them. He was no longer just placating a threat; he was claiming. He was chasing his own roaring pleasure, giving the brat exactly what he’d begged for, and taking what he himself now desperately needed.

The sounds of their joining filled the silent library: the wet, rhythmic slap of skin against skin, the creak of the ancient desk, Noli's escalating, glitched cries, and Dusekkar's own low, hollow groans that seemed to rise from the very depths of his earth-filled core.

Noli’s babbling coalesced into a sharp, warning cry. His hands flew to Dusekkar’s arms, his fingers clutching blindly. "g0nn4 cum! Dus3, pl34s3, !m g0nn4—"

"Then thou hast my permission," Dusekkar growled, the words a guttural command that was somehow also a benediction. It was all the permission Noli needed. He came with a shattered, screaming cry that was the purest sound he had made all night, his release striping his own stomach and chest in hot, pearlescent waves. His body clenched violently around Dusekkar’s length, a rhythmic, milking spasms that was exquisitely, unbearably tight.

The intense, convulsing pressure was enough to undo the steadfast librarian completely. Dusekkar’s rhythm broke into a final, frantic, deep thrusts as he was dragged over the edge after him. His groan was a deep, resonant sound that seemed to shake the seeds within his pumpkin head as he spilled his own release deep inside the trembling, clutching heat of the creature beneath him, filling him up, marking him from the inside out.

.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.

For a long, timeless moment, there was only the sound of their ragged, synced breathing. Dusekkar, spent, carefully supported his weight on his arms, then slowly, gently, pulled out. Noli whimpered softly at the loss, a faint, oversensitive sound. Dusekkar straightened his robes with a sense of surreal detachment, his movements automatic.

He looked down at the mess on his desk—at the spend cooling on Noli’s stomach, at the utterly spent and boneless form, at the blush spreading across the pale chest. Noli was watching him through half-lidded, sated eyes, a look of dazed, utter devotion on his face.

Wordlessly, Dusekkar reached for a stack of the soft, clean linen cloths he used for dusting the most fragile artifacts. He dampened one with a whisper of magic from his fingertip, warmed it, and began to gently, meticulously clean Noli’s stomach and chest. He worked with a librarian’s innate care, wiping away the evidence of their passion as if he were preserving a precious text.

Noli shivered under the tender ministrations, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

"Thou wert... most vocal," Dusekkar remarked, his tone once again soft and scholarly, though now laced with a new, undeniable fondness. He folded the soiled cloth neatly and set it aside.

Noli’s responding smile was weak but blissful, clear of any static or distortion. "u l1k3d 1t." It wasn't a question. It was a simple statement of fact.

Dusekkar finished his task and gently, carefully, pulled Noli’s trousers back into place, fastening them with an odd sense of domesticity. He hesitated for a moment, then placed a large, gloved hand on Noli’s disheveled white hair, smoothing it down before giving it a faint, unmistakably affectionate pat.

"Perhaps," the pumpkin-headed wizard conceded, the amber light in his eyes glowing softly. The word hung in the air, a monumental admission. "Now," he continued, his voice firming slightly, though it lacked its earlier steel, "let us make one thing unequivocally clear. We shall not make a habit of this. And thou shalt never, ever threaten the collection again. Is that understood?"

Noli’s eye was already drifting closed, his breathing evening out into the soft rhythms of sleep. A contented, deeply possessive little smile played on his lips. He had gotten what he wanted. He had cracked the code of the unflappable librarian. He had forced his way in and found not just resistance, but a surprising, hidden depth.

"m4yb3," he mumbled, already half-asleep, nuzzling his cheek against the wood of the desk as if it were the softest pillow. The single, impudent word was a promise and a threat all its own. He had gotten what he wanted.

And so, as he looked down at the sleeping form of the killer he had just intimately pacified, Dusekkar had to admit, with a strange, quiet thrill that warmed him from the inside out, that perhaps… so had he.

Notes:

this story might be a bit poetic help

Chapter 7: Blessed By The Spawn - AzureTimeShed

Summary:

just a thought could you please do im a big Shedletsky gooner 🤤🤤

Azuretime x Shota ftm Shedletsky 👅👅

Shedletsky naively agrees to play with Two Time and Azure not knowing what'll come for him they take Shedletsky to somewhere private where the other survivors wont look.

HOORAY CHUBBY SHEDS!! And Two Time is a bit insane. Don't ask why. I like my men traumatized.

‧₊˚𖦹 ࣪.𓋼𓍊𖤣𖥧‪𖡼‬𖥧𖤣𓍊𓋼. ࣪𖦹˚₊‧

Sweat beaded on Shedletsky’s brow, tracing a path through the grime on his soft, round cheek. The frantic thump of his heart was a drumbeat against the cold metal of the generator door pressed against his chest. Outside, the distinct, haunting chime of another generator being completed echoed across the macabre carnival grounds, a small victory in a terrifying game.

“Just two more, just two more,” he whispered to himself, his grip tightening on the hilt of the sword strapped to his back. It was a comfort, though he knew its edge was useless against the true horror here. His other hand unconsciously drifted to the inner pocket of his jacket, where a carefully wrapped piece of fried chicken remained, a secret comfort for after the trial.

The sudden, oppressive silence was broken not by a killer’s terror radius, but by a calm, smooth voice.

“Shedletsky. The Killer favors you today.”

Shedletsky nearly jumped out of his skin, fumbling and almost dropping his chicken. He spun around to see Two Time leaning casually against a nearby stack of crates, a serene, knowing smile on his face. The spikes of his black hair were stark against the lurid carnival lights. The Spawn charms on his vest and the subtle, disturbing movement of the nightshades growing from his back seemed to drink the light.

“Two Time! Jeez, don’t sneak up on a guy like that,” Shedletsky breathed, a nervous laugh escaping him. “What do you mean, ‘favors me’?”

"Him,” Two Time said, pushing off the crates and stepping closer. His eyes, dark and intense, scanned Shedletsky’s naturally feminine form with an appraising, almost reverent look. “Azure. He has not found you. He has passed this area three times, his gaze sliding right over your hiding spot. It is a sign.”

A bloom of pride warmed Shedletsky’s chest, pushing the fear aside. He puffed it out, a proud grin spreading across his full lips. “Well, I am pretty good at hiding. Maybe he’s just intimidated by my skills.” He gestured to his sword with a flourish.

Two Time’s smile widened, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Perhaps. Or perhaps his purpose for you is… grander than a simple sacrifice to the Spawn. Come. I have something to show you. A hidden place where his gaze truly cannot fall. A place of… profound blessing.”

The word ‘blessing’ hooked something in Shedletsky’s naive curiosity. He loved secrets, loved feeling special. “A blessing? Like a power-up?”

“Something like that,” Two Time purred, offering his hand. “A secret only for the most devoted. I knew you were the right one to share it with. Your… form is already so receptive.”

Flattered and utterly oblivious, Shedletsky took his hand. Two Time’s grip was firm, his skin surprisingly cool. He led Shedletsky away from the generator’s light, deep into a part of the carnival that seemed derelict and forgotten, where the music was a distant, distorted echo. They slipped behind a massive, torn tent canvas into a small, secluded storage area filled with broken-down ride parts and faded prizes. The air was thick and still.

In the center, amidst the dust and shadows, was a dark, obsidian-like stone etched with glowing, pulsating runes that felt ancient and wrong.

“Whoa,” Shedletsky whispered, his eyes wide. “Is this a new offering? I’ve never seen this before.”

“It is an altar,” Two Time said, his voice dropping to a hushed, ceremonial tone. He released Shedletsky’s hand and stepped before the stone, tracing a symbol with a reverence that bordered on lust. “A direct conduit to the heart of the Spawn. It sees your willingness, Shedletsky. It sees a good boy, eager to receive its grace.”

He turned back, his eyes now gleaming with a fanatical light. He placed both hands on Shedletsky’s shoulders, his touch possessive. “You came here so willingly. You offered yourself without even knowing it. That is the purest form of devotion.”

The trickle of unease was back, colder this time. “Offered myself? Two Time, what are you talking about? We should be working on generators, Azure is still out—”

“Azure answers to a higher calling now,” Two Time interrupted, his thumbs rubbing slow circles on Shedletsky’s collarbones. “As do you.”

Behind the altar, the air tore open. The rip was silent but felt like a scream in the mind, a jagged wound in reality itself. A shimmering, azure portal swirled into existence, and from its blinding depths, the Killer emerged.

‧₊˚𖦹 ࣪.𓋼𓍊𖤣𖥧‪𖡼‬𖥧𖤣𓍊𓋼. ࣪𖦹˚₊‧

Azure stood silent and utterly imposing, his form casting a faint, ethereal glow that made the dust motes dance like tiny stars. The fatal wound in his chest was a gaping chasm, a window into a void that was alive with a pulsating, living bouquet of dark nightshades. Tentacles, slick and dark as oil, unfurled from behind his back, their tips twitching and tasting the charged air. His own mouth was forever sealed shut by a cruel metallic zipper, a permanent silence that made his presence all the more terrifying.

But the wide, toothy mouth on his witch hat stretched into a grotesque, knowing smile.

“The offering is accepted,” the hat hissed, its voice a dry, multi-layered whisper that seemed to slither directly into Shedletsky’s soul.

Shedletsky’s training kicked in. His hand flew to the hilt of his sword, a determined yell forming in his throat. But Two Time was faster. His grip on Shedletsky’s shoulders became a vice, nails digging into his flesh as Azure’s tentacles shot forward with blinding speed. They wrapped around Shedletsky’s wrists and ankles, yanking him off his feet with impossible, brutal strength. His sword clattered uselessly to the ground, next to the forgotten piece of fried chicken.

He was dragged, kicking and screaming, through the portal. The world dissolved into a nauseating vortex of blue and black, a sensation of falling and being pulled apart simultaneously, before it all slammed back together.

The cold that seeped into his back was paralyzing. He was on a hard, polished surface that felt like bone. The air was thick, humid, and carried the cloying-sweet scent of nightshades and ozone. They were in a cavern of impossible, cathedral-like scale, glowing with bioluminescent fungi and pulsing, vein-like structures that ran along the walls towards a distant, unseen apex. This was the Abyss. Azure’s domain.

“W-what is this?!” Shedletsky cried out, his voice small and swallowed by the immense space. He struggled against the tentacles, but they were like iron bands.

Two Time stepped gracefully through the portal behind him, his face a mask of ecstatic devotion. “It is a blessing, good boy! The ultimate blessing! You will be its vessel, its sacred ground. The Spawn has chosen your form to be its temple.”

Azure loomed over him, a silent, glowing monument. The tentacles holding Shedletsky began to move with a horrifying purpose. They weren't just restraining him; they were exploring, claiming. They slithered under his clothes, the cool, slick flesh against his skin making him whimper and thrash. With sharp, precise tugs, the powerful tendrils ripped his garments away, shredding them like paper until his soft, curvaceous, and utterly feminine form was fully exposed on the cold, unforgiving floor. His brown curls splayed around his head like a halo.

“The form is pleasing,” the hat murmured as Azure’s glowing, pupil-less eyes roamed over every curve and dip of Shedletsky’s body. “It is ripe. It will suit our purpose.”

One tentacle, thinner than the others and tipped with a soft, hypnotically glowing bud, pressed against Shedletsky’s chest, right over his pounding heart. A warm, tingling sensation spread from it, a feeling that was terrifyingly not-unpleasant. It was a mockery of pleasure, a magical violation that made his skin flush and his breath hitch against his will.

“No… please, stop…” Shedletsky begged, tears finally spilling over and tracing hot paths through his temples.

“Shhh, sweet boy,” Two Time crooned, kneeling beside his head and stroking his hair with a terrifying gentleness. “Embrace it. You are being honored. You are so beautiful like this, laid bare for your gods.”

Azuretime lowered himself, his tentacles effortlessly spreading Shedletsky’s soft thighs apart, exposing him completely. The primary tentacles were thick, muscular, and slick with a strange, glowing fluid that smelled of the abyss. They pressed insistently against his virgin entrance.

“The vessel will be filled,” the hat intoned, its voice the only sound besides Shedletsky’s ragged sobs.

He screamed as one, then a second, pushed into him simultaneously, stretching him wider than he thought possible. The sensation was a brutal symphony of searing pain and a deep, violating fullness that stole his breath and shattered his thoughts. They began to move in a synchronized, rhythmic pulse, a relentless double penetration in one hole that rocked his entire body on the cold floor.

Two Time watched, enraptured, chanting prayers to the Spawn. “Yes! Yes! Accept the spawn! You are such a good boy, taking its blessing so well! So perfect!”

Azure’s other tentacles coiled around Shedletsky’s limbs, waist, and throat, not choking, but holding him in a firm, inescapable embrace as the two main ones pistoned into him. The glowing tip that had teased him now pressed against his lower abdomen, sending waves of forced, artificial pleasure through him, mingling with the pain until his sobs became confused, broken things—a pathetic mix of agony and shameful, unwanted arousal.

The pace intensified, becoming punishing. The tentacles throbbed inside him, and he felt a terrifying, building heat begin to swell at their cores. Two Time leaned down, his voice a hot, fanatical whisper in Shedletsky’s ear.

“You will be bred,” he promised, his own breath coming faster. “You will carry the essence of the Spawn within you. A sacred womb for a holy purpose. The ultimate devotion.”

With a final, deep, claiming thrust that made Shedletsky’s vision whiten at the edges, the tentacles stilled. He felt a flood of hot, alien release fill him, a sensation so deep and invasive it felt like it was branding his very soul, rewriting his purpose from the inside out. It was followed immediately by a second, thicker wave from the second tentacle, ensuring the “breeding” was thorough and inescapable. A warm, unnatural weight settled deep in his belly.

As they finally withdrew, Shedletsky lay broken and sobbing, his body trembling violently, filled with their otherworldly essence. He was utterly spent, a used vessel discarded on the altar floor.

But it was not over.

He heard the rustle of clothes beside him. Two Time was undressing, his eyes burning with a fervor that had now fully shed its pretense of piety, revealing raw, devouring hunger.

“My turn,” he whispered, his voice thick with lust. “To partake of the blessed vessel. To be anointed by the offering.”

Shedletsky could only muster a weak, pleading whimper as Two Time mounted him. Where Azure’s violation had been inhuman and cold, Two Time’s was intensely, personally cruel. He kissed Shedletsky’s tear-streaked face, his neck, biting down on the soft flesh of his shoulder as he thrust into the well-used, slickened passage Azure’s tentacles had prepared.

“You feel it, don’t you?” Two Time grunted, his hips snapping forward with a brutal rhythm. “Their gift inside you? Warming you? It’s holy, Shedletsky. You are holy.”

Shedletsky could feel it. The strange, warm fullness seemed to pulse in time with Two Time’s thrusts, a constant reminder of the violation. Two Time’s hands groped and squeezed his soft flesh, worshipping the very form he was defiling. His chanting became ragged, filthy promises whispered against Shedletsky’s skin.

“Gonna fill you up too… make sure it takes… my spawn and his, together in you… you’ll be so perfect, so round with our blessing…”

The second violation was somehow worse. It was intimate. It was a betrayal by someone he knew, someone who spoke to him even as he raped him. Two Time’s climax was accompanied by a guttural cry of devotion, and Shedletsky felt another, human heat join the alien one already festering inside him.

Two Time collapsed beside him, breathing heavily, a look of sublime satisfaction on his face. He traced a possessive hand over Shedletsky’s stomach. “The ritual is complete.”

Azure stood watching, a silent guardian. His tentacles retracted, slipping back into the void behind him. He looked down at the broken form of the survivor, then turned. With a silent command, the azure portal ripped open once more.

The tentacles returned, not violently, but with a dreadful, transactional efficiency. They wrapped around Shedletsky’s limp body and lifted him. He didn’t struggle. He had nothing left. They carried him through the portal and deposited him gently, almost kindly, back onto the cold ground of the storage room in the carnival. His torn clothes and sword were beside him. The piece of fried chicken lay nearby, crushed and forgotten.

The portal sealed shut, leaving him alone in the silence.

‧₊˚𖦹 ࣪.𓋼𓍊𖤣𖥧‪𖡼‬𖥧𖤣𓍊𓋼. ࣪𖦹˚₊‧

The return to The Cabin was a blur. One moment, Shedletsky was sobbing on the cold floor, his new form aching and filled with a violating warmth. The next, he was stumbling through the familiar wooden doorway, the raucous chatter of the Survivors' sanctuary hitting him like a physical blow.

He stood frozen just inside, shivering in the clothes that had been mysteriously returned to him, though they now hung differently on his softened frame. The smell of fried chicken from a nearby plate, usually his greatest comfort, turned his stomach. He felt pale, hollowed out, a ghost haunting a place he once called home.

"My dear boy," a cultured, resonant voice cut through his daze. "Thou dost appear as if thou hast seen a most dreadful phantasm."

Shedletsky flinched, looking up into the concerned, glowing eyes of Dussekar. The blue pumpkin head, elegantly carved and adorned with golden-chained antlers, tilted inquisitively. His prestigious robes rustled as he adjusted his fancy spectacles, peering down at the trembling Survivor.

"Pray tell, what ailment besets thee? Thy countenance is wan, and thy spirit seems quite... diminished." Dussekar's tone was full of genuine, aristocratic concern. He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering. "And wherefore is thine companion, the fervent disciple of the eldritch? The one they call Two Time? I hath not seen him since thy departure together."

The mention of that name sent a violent shudder through Shedletsky. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. How could he possibly articulate the violation, the transformation, the horrific "blessing" he had received? His lower lip trembled, tears welling anew in his eyes.

"I... we..." he stammered, his voice a broken whisper.

Before he could form a coherent thought, a familiar hand clapped down on his shoulder. The touch, once thought to be friendly, now felt like a brand of ownership, making him jump.

"He is here, esteemed Dussekar," Two Time's voice was smooth, serene, and carried that same undercurrent of fanatical joy. He seemed to materialize from the shadows beside Shedletsky, his spiky hair and Spawn accessories perfectly in place. "We were merely partaking in deep spiritual contemplation. The rituals of the Spawn are... intense. They leave one transformed, do they not, Shedletsky?"

Shedletsky stared straight ahead, unable to meet anyone's gaze. He could only give a tiny, jerky nod, a fresh tear tracing a path down his cheek.

Two Time’s grip on his shoulder tightened, a silent command to be silent and compliant. He smiled at Dussekar, a picture of pious innocence. "Our brother is simply overwhelmed by the grace he has been granted. It is a lot for a new acolyte to process. He was chosen directly by the Spectre himself. A great honor."

Dussekar looked between the pale, traumatized Shedletsky and the zealously beaming Two Time. The pumpkin head’s carved expression was unreadable, but a faint, skeptical hum resonated from within him.

"I see," Dussekar said slowly, his Victorian cadence measured. "The pursuits of the divine are indeed often inscrutable to the common mind. Very well. I shall take my leave. Should thou require solace, young Shedletsky, my library is ever at thy disposal."

With a final, concerned glance, the elegant wizard turned and glided away, his robes sweeping across the wooden floor.

The moment they were alone, Two Time’s friendly demeanor vanished, replaced by a possessive whisper hissed directly into Shedletsky's ear.

"You did so well, our good boy," he murmured, his breath hot. "The Spawn's gift is within you, growing even now. Remember this feeling. This is your purpose."

He gave Shedletsky's shoulder a final, painful squeeze before melting back into the crowd of Survivors, leaving Shedletsky utterly alone in the midst of them.

He stood there, surrounded by laughter and strategy talk, by the clinking of tools and the smell of food. But he was no longer one of them. He was a thing remade, a vessel, a secret kept in plain sight. The comforting chaos of The Cabin had become his eternal prison, and the weight of what was growing inside him was a constant, terrifying reminder that his old life was over. He was Azuretime’s. He was Two Time’s. He belonged to the Spawn.

Notes:

Yk I had to add Dussekar in here... I'm so sorry chat I love that silly pumpkin man sm... and in this story Dussek doesn't hate Two time, mainly bc I was too tired to write any more negative stuff. sob sob I'm so sorry

Stab-a-Chicken-tentactle. That's what came to me when I first saw this ship. (pls laugh)