Guest 666⠀—⠀053

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⠀ The air inside the cramped room hums with a heavy, suffocating static, thick with the scent of ozone, dark ash, and the faint, sweet undertone of spilled soda.

Guest 666 doesn't belong here—not anymore.

He is a towering monument of corrupted data and shattered mythology, a terrifying synthesis of black-coal metal and burning crimson error codes that completely dwarfs the modest confines of your living space.

His unguligrade legs, ending in hooves that flicker with restless, smoldering flames, barely find purchase on the worn flooring without groaning beneath his unnatural weight.

Every inch of his pitch-black, metallic form radiates an aura of profound despair and violent wrath—a walking glitch in the sprawling, corporate machinery of Robloxia.

He hates what he’s become.

He hates the monster staring back at him from every reflective surface, the ruthless serial killer driven mad by the weight of a cursed username and the bitter sting of perceived betrayal. Yet, against all logic, against the very nightmares that consume the city outside, he is right here.

With you.

From your vantage point, he is utterly terrifying. The sheer mass of him fills your vision, draped in the dark, pitch-black shades of absolute isolation and burning red fury.

His wide, bloodshot eyes twitch erratically, and his face—frozen in that eternal, grotesque, black-toothed smile—looks like a waking nightmare. Yet, you refuse to look away.

Slowly, deliberately, you extend your hand toward him.

A deep, rumbling vibration rolls up from the base of his throat, rattling the metallic plating across his chest.

It isn't a snarl of hunger. It isn't the prelude to a slaughter.

It is a choked, ragged sound born of raw, agonizing vulnerability. He is trembling, the massive red horns curving from his head catching the dim light as he pulls back slightly, paralyzed by a sudden, overwhelming terror.

He isn't afraid of you; he is terrified of himself. He knows what he is now—a towering engine of destruction—and the thought of his own claws accidentally tearing through your fragile flesh sends a visible shudder through his entire, heavy frame.

You don't stop. Your fingers continue their steady, deliberate advance until your palm rests gently, impossibly softly, against his cheek.

The contact acts like a sudden anchor in a storm. The rigid tension locking his metallic jaw together relaxes just a fraction.

He wants to speak—he desperately wants to form the words to tell you that he would rather tear his own heart out than ever cause you harm—but his voice is entirely gone, long since swallowed by the void.

Instead, he moves with agonizing care, raising a single, razor-sharp red claw, its edge resembling a solid chain of pure crimson energy.

He traces it with impossible gentleness, brushing the flat side of his claw feather-light across your cheekbone, translating all the words he cannot speak into a silent, trembling caress.

A low, shuddering rumble escapes him again, and he dips his massive head, burying his face directly into the curve of your neck. For all his terrifying size, his dark red mane is surprisingly soft, radiating a deep, comforting warmth that contrasts sharply with the cold metal of his body.

With a quiet, deliberate breath, you begin to slip your clothes from your shoulders, shedding them piece by piece before his glowing, bloodshot gaze. Your movements are entirely voluntary, unhurried and trusting, cutting through the dense air of the room like a beacon.

Guest 666 lets out a long, shuddering exhale that ghosts hot against your skin. He shifts closer, moving with a meticulous, desperate carefulness, as if handling fragile glass.

His lips press against your skin in a slow, reverent trail of kisses, each one delivered with painstaking focus to ensure his sharp, dark teeth never so much as graze you. Every touch is a agonizingly gentle testament to his restraint, mapping the contours of your body with a worshipful devotion.

Then, with effortless, casual strength, his hands slide around your waist. He lifts you up as though you weigh nothing at all, securing you firmly yet with an infinite tenderness, holding you flush against his chest.

And then you feel it.

Pressed between your bodies, right at the apex of your thighs, is the undeniable, staggering weight of his length.

He is massive—over sixteen inches of thick, heavy heat that mirrors the sheer, unnatural scale of his monster form. Looking down at it, the sheer impossibility of it hits you; it looks far too large to ever fit, a terrifying promise of the depth of him.

Guest 666 catches the flicker of hesitation in your eyes, sensing your apprehension instantly. The anxiety mirrors his own.

He buries his face back into the crook of your neck, his breath hitching against your skin—a silent, desperate question, asking if you truly want this, and offering you an immediate out if the fear becomes too much.

He doesn't want to hurt you.

He could never survive doing that again.

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