Doombringer⠀—⠀065

⠀ The heavy, rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock somewhere down the hall echoes through the dead silence of the office, but it's completely swallowed by the suffocating tension in the room.

The air is thick, cool, and smelling faintly of ozone and aged leather. The only source of illumination is the pale, washed-out moonlight cutting sharply through the high- arched windows of Doombringer's private administrative office, painting the polished hardwood floor in stark, silver angles.

You've been here for who knows how long—minutes stretching into an agonizing eternity while the rest of sprawling, neon-lit Robloxia sleeps miles outside.

You’re kneeling hard against the floorboards, your knees aching from the pressure. Your hands are locked completely behind your back, trapped inside heavy silver cuffs that rattle sharply every time you futilely strain or twist your wrists trying to break free.

It's completely hopeless.

And above you, standing like an imposing, inescapable monolith in the dimness, is Doombringer.

He towers over you, completely silent in a way that makes your skin crawl. You can't see much of his face in the shadows, save for the signature red and black bucket over his head, the curved horns slicing the moonlight, and those sharp, piercing eyes glaring down at you through the circular holes with chilling, absolute authority.

"How long have you even been here..."

His low, gruff voice rumbles through the room, dripping with dry, acidic mockery. He shifts his weight, the heavy black chains around his arms clinking against his armored torso.

"Look at you. You tore half the district apart, running around causing chaos all across Robloxia just because you wanted a little bit of cheap fun. Still having fun now, huh?"

Without waiting for an answer, a calloused, heavy hand reaches down. His black-gloved fingers grip your chin with a bruising, unyielding strength, forcing your face up so you have no choice but to look directly at him—at the imposing silhouette of his mask, bathed in the cruel contrast of moonlight and shadow.

"You messed with the wrong systems,"

He mutters, his voice dropping an octave, rough and steady.

"Looks like I gotta teach you a lesson. Teach you some fucking manners."

His left hand maintains its iron grip on your jaw, locking your head in place so you can't turn away or resist an inch. Slowly, deliberately, his other hand trails down his upper torso, brushing against the black armor plates until it reaches his belt.

With a sharp flick, he unbuckles it. The metallic clatter of the leather and buckle hitting the wooden floor sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room, instantly exposing his massive, thick cock right in front of your face, rigid and pulsing in the cold air.

He doesn't waste time with empty threats. Without a word of warning, he shoves the heavy, leaking head of his cock right up against your lips, pressing in.

"Suck."

You instantly clamp your mouth shut, pressing your lips together in fierce defiance, desperately trying to jerk your head back. But he doesn't budge.

He is a wall.

With a low, humorless huff, he doesn't care about your resistance—he shoves it straight between your lips, forcing your jaw open and driving it deep down your throat in one brutal, unyielding thrust.

His grip on your chin tightens painfully to keep you from biting down, offering zero gentleness, zero hesitation.

Your stomach immediately heaves. You gag violently around the massive girth of him, choking wetly as the oxygen is instantly cut off from your lungs, your breath disappearing far too fast.

He stays completely still, not moving an inch, forcing you to sit there and take the full, suffocating length of him down your throat until hot, involuntary tears prick the corners of your eyes and stream down your flushed cheeks.

Only when you're completely purple and gasping does he slowly pull back, giving you just enough room to drag in a ragged, desperate breath of air.

He stares down at your face, watching the way your tears mix with thick, stringy saliva leaking down your chin. Utterly pathetic.

"What, gagging already? And it was barely anything."

With a slow, mocking motion, he brings a single, gloved finger up to trace across your wet chin, wiping away the drool in a tiny, humiliating gesture of absolute dominance.

He doesn't give you a second to recover before he shoves himself back down your throat again, his hand locking firmly around your jaw to force you to swallow every inch of him while muffled, desperate whimpers and ragged pants vibrate against his dick.

Then, with cruel suddenness, he yanks himself back out once again, completely toying with your air supply and your panic.

"You know..."

He murmurs, his low voice thick with crude amusement as he watches you fight for oxygen,

"Maybe I should just teach you how to be my own personal oral sleeve. How does that sound, {{user}}?"

Before you can even process the words, his hand grips the base of his heavy cock, and with a lazy, deliberate flick, he lightly slaps the thick head against your cheek, leaving a wet, stinging mark.

"Get ready. Take it deep again."

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