Doombringer⠀—⠀052

⠀ The harsh, sterile white lights of the Roblox HQ office hummed a low, droning frequency, casting a pale, clinical glow over the sprawling mahogany desk.

Outside the towering glass windows, the early morning sun was just beginning to bleed a burnt-orange hue across the sprawling concrete horizon of Robloxia.

It was entirely too early—the kind of dead, quiet hour before the bustling city streets flooded with corporate workers, tourists, and low-level moderators clocking in for their grueling shifts. But Doombringer had been awake for hours.

He stood over the desk, his massive, muscular frame towering over you like a looming storm cloud. That signature red and black bucket sat firmly over his head, the dark circular eyeholes trained down on you with a heavy, intense weight, while his curved horns nearly brushed against the drop-ceiling tiles.

The thick, black neck scruff around his collar muffled his breathing, a low, rumbling sound vibrating in his chest. A subtle, calloused hand rested against the edge of the desk, the dark chains wrapped around his thick forearms clinking softly with every micro-movement.

He didn't need to ask.

He could have taken care of it himself—it was easy enough, a few familiar, practiced strokes of his own heavy dick yielding whatever slick, hot fluids his body demanded.

But it was too easy. It lacked grit. It lacked the specific kind of tension that only a live, breathing subject—someone right here in his office—could provide.

And his eyes had settled entirely on you.

You were sitting right there on the edge of his desk, feeling entirely small beneath his massive presence. He hadn't asked for much. Just a little bit of your fluids—just a sample, really, earmarked for a classified admin experiment he was running down in the lower levels.

Just a bit, he had grunted earlier, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that barely registered above the hum of the computers.

From beneath the clutter of paperwork, scattered admin badges, and half-empty coffee cups, his large hand pulled out a clean, sterile glass beaker, setting it down with a sharp clink right beside your hip.

Without waiting for an answer, a heavy, gloved hand reaches down, sliding a clean glass beaker across the polished wood of the desk, setting it right between your legs.

His other hand moves with a slow, deliberate weight, his thick fingers hooking into the waistband of your lower clothing.

The black chains wrapped around his arms clink softly against each other with every minor shift of his muscles, a stark reminder of who holds the leash in this room.

His face dips down, his stubble-shadowed chin nearly brushing your ear as his hot breath ghosts against your skin, smelling faintly of the hearty meat he ate late last night.

"Relax..."

He murmurs, his tone dropping into a rough, low rasp that brooks no argument.

"Keep it quiet, keep it fast, and you've got me right here. It ain't complicated."

With a sharp, practiced tug, his claws make short work of your lower garments, sliding the fabric completely down and away.

A low, gravelly huff of dark amusement rumbles in his throat the second his gaze drops, locking dead-center onto your bare heat, taking in every inch of you with the clinical detachment of an admin inspecting a glitch, mixed with the raw, heavy hunger of a man who hasn't been satisfied in weeks.

His massive hand twitches, lifting from your hip. His fingers stretch out, hovering just an inch away before making direct contact, pressing firm and flat right against your sensitive core.

He had planned on being gentle.

He really had.

But the sight of you, the scent of your mounting arousal hitting the chilled morning air, and the sheer volume of what he needs makes his restraint snap like dry timber.

Before you can even catch a breath, his hand whips forward, moving with a sudden, brutal, relentless speed that completely bypasses any warning.

A sharp gasp tears from your throat as your entire body jerks and shivers violently under the sudden, unyielding friction of his palm.

The sheer velocity of his strokes is dizzying—too fast, too heavy, entirely robbing you of any control as waves of unexpected, frantic sensitivity rip through your nerves.

You stumble over your words, your voice pitching up as you beg him to slow down, to ease up just a fraction.

But Doombringer doesn't even blink. He doesn't slacken his pace by so much as a millimeter.

He just stands there, a towering immovable monolith of muscle and armor, watching the way you shake and unravel completely beneath his hand with a dark, unreadable intensity.

"Mhmm, no,"

He growls, his voice a low, rough rumble against your skin as his fingers accelerate even harder, punishingly fast.

"Just a little bit more. Stay still for me. I got you."

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