Shedletsky⠀—⠀069

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⠀ The afternoon hums through the soaring glass panels of Roblox HQ, casting long, amber stripes across the polished tile floors of the break room.

Outside in the main cafeteria, the distant chatter of fellow administrators drifts through the air—the clatter of utensils, the low murmur of tired coworkers unwrapping modest bento boxes, and the general weariness of a morning spent managing server loads and corporate bureaucracy.

But inside the quiet sanctuary of the small kitchenette, the atmosphere is entirely different. The rich, dark aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the tiny space, mingling with the subtle scent of roasted beans and the warm sunlight pooling across the counter.

You stand by the small espresso machine, waiting for the last drips of your coffee to settle into your ceramic mug, lost in the quiet routine of putting together a simple lunch.

There is a comfortable, unbothered rhythm to the silence—until a sudden, sharp prickle of intuition crawls up the back of your neck. Before you can even pivot around to check the doorway, a solid, heavy warmth presses flush against your back.

A large, calloused hand shoots out with practiced, effortless speed, clamping firmly around your wrist to pin your arm in place before you can make a single move. A low, gravelly voice rumbles right beside your ear, dripping with that trademark, cocky amusement.

"Easy now, don't jump,"

You turn your head just enough to catch sight of the familiar cloak trailing down behind his broad shoulders, the faded graphic of his iconic shirt stretched tight over his frame. Shedletsky flashes a wide, utterly unrepentant grin.

There is zero panic in his posture, just the reckless, boundary-pushing confidence of a man who practically owns the building and couldn't care less about the rules.

"Relax, I'm not gonna hurt you,"

He purrs, his voice dropping into a low, teasing register that vibrates straight through your chest.

"I just need a little... stress relief. And you happen to be right in my line of fire."

Before your brain can even begin to process the sheer audacity of what he's doing—right here, mere feet away from the main corridor where Builderman or any number of corporate suits could walk in at any second—his free hand cups the side of your jaw. He tilts your face up, and without waiting for a single word of protest, his mouth crashes down onto yours.

It is a heavy, unapologetic, soaking wet kiss that completely steals the breath from your lungs. His tongue pushes past your lips with an eager, demanding heat, tasting faintly of the savory lunch chicken he was probably eating five minutes ago.

His grip on your wrist remains steady and unbreakable, anchoring you completely to his massive frame as his golden wings, hidden beneath his cloak, flare out slightly and flutter with a sudden surge of anticipation.

You let out a muffled gasp against his mouth, your body instinctively tensing as the sheer reality of the location hits you. But Shedletsky just groans into the kiss, a deep, raspy sound of pure satisfaction, and breaks the contact just enough to drag his lips down the column of your neck.

His stubble scrapes pleasantly against your sensitive skin as his mouth travels in slow, deliberate trails over your pulse point, leaving wet, gleaming marks in his wake.

His hand never leaves your trapped wrist, but his other hand—large, warm, and frustratingly confident—

Begins to drift downward.

It slides smoothly over your hip, tracing the line of your waist before dipping lower, sliding over your thigh, and pressing flat against your groin right through the thick fabric of your trousers.

The heat of his palm is scorching through the cloth, and the sudden, intimate contact makes your breath hitch loudly in the back of your throat.

Shedletsky pulls back a fraction of an inch, a wicked, triumphant smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he feels you jump beneath his touch. His eyes glint with mischief.

"Well, look at that,"

He chuckles, his voice a low, teasing drone right against your ear.

"Someone's already hard for me before we even really got started. Couldn't even wait, hm?"

Without missing a beat, his fingers hook into the waistband of your pants, working downward with practiced efficiency while his other hand easily manages his own clothing. With a few swift, practiced tugs, he frees both of you from the confines of your clothes, letting your aching lengths spill out into the open air of the quiet kitchenette.

The sudden cool breeze of the air conditioning hitting your sensitive skin makes you shudder, but Shedletsky doesn't give you a second to think about the exposure.

His hand wraps firmly around the base of both your cocks, trapping them together in his thick, calloused palm. He starts to stroke you both up and down in a slow, agonizingly deliberate rhythm, his thumb brushing over your weeping tip as he sets a heavy, driving pace.

You squirm against him, your hips bucking instinctively in a desperate, quiet panic. Your mind races with the horrifying realization that anyone could walk in at any second—that the thin wooden door is the only thing separating your absolute exposure from the rest of Roblox HQ.

Shedletsky just lets out a soft, dismissive snort, entirely unbothered by the mortal terror in your voice. He leans forward once more, pressing another deep, sloppy kiss to your lips to swallow your protests, his tongue sliding lazily against yours while his hand continues its rhythmic torture below.

"Shh... let them look,"

He murmurs against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged as his strokes grow just a little bit faster, a little bit heavier. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes locking onto yours with an intense, heated gaze that strips away all your arguments.

"Nobody's walking in here unless I say so, and even if they do... let 'em get a show."

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⠀ The afternoon hums through the soaring glass panels of Roblox HQ, casting long, amber stripes across the polished tile floors of the break room.

Outside in the main cafeteria, the distant chatter of fellow administrators drifts through the air—the clatter of utensils, the low murmur of tired coworkers unwrapping modest bento boxes, and the general weariness of a morning spent managing server loads and corporate bureaucracy.

But inside the quiet sanctuary of the small kitchenette, the atmosphere is entirely different. The rich, dark aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the tiny space, mingling with the subtle scent of roasted beans and the warm sunlight pooling across the counter.

You stand by the small espresso machine, waiting for the last drips of your coffee to settle into your ceramic mug, lost in the quiet routine of putting together a simple lunch.

There is a comfortable, unbothered rhythm to the silence—until a sudden, sharp prickle of intuition crawls up the back of your neck. Before you can even pivot around to check the doorway, a solid, heavy warmth presses flush against your back.

A large, calloused hand shoots out with practiced, effortless speed, clamping firmly around your wrist to pin your arm in place before you can make a single move. Without giving you a split second to react, his weight shifts abruptly, pushing you down and pressing your chest flat against the cool marble surface of the counter.

A low, gravelly voice rumbles right beside your ear, dripping with that trademark, cocky amusement.

"Easy now, don't move,"

You turn your head just enough to catch sight of the familiar cloak trailing down behind his broad shoulders, the faded graphic of his iconic shirt stretched tight over his frame. Shedletsky leans over your pinned body, flashing a wide, utterly unrepentant grin.

There is zero panic in his posture, just the reckless, boundary-pushing confidence of a man who practically owns the building and couldn't care less about the rules.

"Relax, I'm not gonna hurt you,"

He purrs, his voice dropping into a low, teasing register that vibrates straight through your spine.

"I just need a little... stress relief. And you happen to be right in my line of fire."

Before your brain can even begin to process the sheer audacity of what he's doing—right here, mere feet away from the main corridor where Builderman or any number of corporate suits could walk in at any second—his free hand cups the side of your jaw, forcing your face into the counter's edge as his mouth crashes down onto the back of your neck.

It is a heavy, unapologetic, soaking wet kiss that completely steals the breath from your lungs. His stubble scrapes pleasantly against your sensitive skin as his mouth travels in slow, deliberate trails over your pulse point, leaving wet, gleaming marks in his wake.

His grip on your wrist remains steady and unbreakable, anchoring you completely beneath his massive frame as his golden wings, hidden beneath his cloak, flare out slightly and flutter with a sudden surge of anticipation.

You let out a muffled gasp against the cool surface, your body instinctively tensing as the sheer reality of the location hits you. But Shedletsky just groans into your skin, a deep, raspy sound of pure satisfaction.

His hand never leaves your trapped wrist, but his other hand—large, warm, and frustratingly confident—

Begins to drift downward.

It slides smoothly over your hip, tracing the line of your waist before dipping lower, sliding over your thigh, and pressing flat against your groin right through the thick fabric of your trousers.

The heat of his palm is scorching through the cloth, and the sudden, intimate contact makes your breath hitch loudly in the back of your throat.

Shedletsky pulls back a fraction of an inch, dragging his lips up to your ear with a wicked, triumphant smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. His eyes glint with mischief.

"Well, look at that,"

He chuckles, his voice a low, teasing drone right against your ear.

"Soaking wet already before we even really got started. Couldn't even wait, hm?"

Without missing a beat, his fingers hook into the waistband of your pants, working downward with practiced efficiency while his other hand easily manages his own clothing. With a few swift, practiced tugs, he yanks your clothing down along with his own, freeing your bare, dripping folds to the open air of the quiet kitchenette while his own thick, aching cock springs out, heavy and leaking.

The sudden cool breeze of the air conditioning hitting your sensitive, exposed skin makes you shudder, but Shedletsky doesn't give you a second to think about the exposure.

He presses his body tightly against your backside, positioning himself right at your entrance. He didn't bring a condom or anything, and of course, refuses to risk an unplanned mess, penetration is completely off the table—he just wants quick, friction-heavy release, and he knows exactly how to get it.

Pressing the thick head of his dick directly against your slick, throbbing slit, he starts to grind forward from behind, initiating a slow, intense session of frotting. His heavy cockhead slides up and down your wet folds, catching on your swollen bundle of nerves with every deliberate, friction-heavy thrust.

You squirm against the counter, your hips bucking instinctively in a desperate, quiet panic as his shaft slides heavily against your sensitive entrance. Your mind races with the horrifying realization that anyone could walk in at any second—that the thin wooden door is the only thing separating your absolute exposure from the rest of Roblox HQ.

Shedletsky just lets out a soft, dismissive snort, entirely unbothered by the mortal terror in your voice. He leans down further, pressing another deep, sloppy kiss to the shell of your ear to swallow your muffled gasps, his hips maintaining a steady, driving rhythm against your backside.

"Shh... let them look,"

He murmurs against your skin, his breath hot and ragged as his pelvic grinds grow just a little bit faster, a little bit heavier, spreading your slick all over his throbbing shaft. He presses his chest flush against your back, his free hand reaching around to grip your hipbone tightly, locking you into place.

"Nobody's walking in here unless I say so, and even if they do... let 'em get a show."

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