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The sun came up hours ago, and Sollux should've climbed into his recuperacoon by now. With his shades drawn he can block out most of the light; the only thing he's interested in is the glow of the screen in front of him.
Music pounds into his headphones, canceling all external noise, and he's focused entirely on the quick movements of his fingers on the controller. He grips it tighter during particularly challenging spots, when dense bursts of enemies threaten to overwhelm him, but he's played this so often that he always makes it through.
He's got three extra controllers poised around him, held in place with his psionics. There's one resting at the back of his head, the most innocuous of the trio, settled lightly against the collar of his shirt. It sends pulsing waves up along the nape of his neck, making the short, fine hairs there stand on end.
The other two are far busier; the telepathic energy shines more brightly with the additional effort. He has to lean back in his chair to accommodate them, a towel spread underneath his ass to protect the seat from the genetic material dripping down his inner thighs.
The second controller is braced on his lower abdomen, buzzing pleasantly against his muscles as they draw tight from the bolts of heat that curl through the pit of his stomach. His bulge has long since slipped out to curl around the plastic; it holds firm, the tip sliding along the surface to find the spots that emit the strongest vibration. It's coated in slick yellow, ready to penetrate something, anything, but today he's left with this.
But it's hardly a disappointment. This is his favorite way to get off, even if it is fairly time-consuming.
The third controller is lodged in the entrance of his nook. This is the one with the broken control stick, with the triggers that don't quite click in the right way, and it's been retired from actual gaming and is now used exclusively for this purpose. He doesn't need four controllers for anything else -- it's tremendously rare that anyone comes over to his hive to compete in person.
The music thrums through him, and he mentally moves the controller. He lets out a shuddering sigh and allows the synesthesia to consume him, wonders if this is how Terezi feels when she's touching herself. It's not something he'd ever ask, but in the privacy of his own mind, it's something he can fantasize about for a while.
The latest onslaught is more aggressive than earlier in the stage, and the controllers rock almost violently. It's trickier to concentrate on taking out the enemies now that all he wants is to keep fucking himself, to permit his release, but he's determined to finish the level before he finishes himself off.
Besides, if he loses, he'll have to start over, and the vibrations won't be nearly as intense.
He watches the monitor through half-lidded eyes, his breath coming in shorter gasps. His nook contracts around the hard plastic, leaking fluid all over it, slippery on his flushed skin. His bulge constricts around the second controller, throbbing in time with the heavy drumbeats. His chest quickly rises and falls from exertion; his heart pounds with the soundtrack, the buzzing of the controllers, the pulsing of the glowing graphics.
He feels tight, every nerve set on edge, and it's so difficult to pay attention to the game when he just wants to pull that goddamn controller deeper, to fill himself with it, to bend someone over and fuck the hell out of them, to pail so hard he has to clean the stains out of the carpet for weeks--
The stage is almost over; he knows from experience. The time limit sends a thrill running along his spine, and he ups the ante, sinking back into the chair and spreading his legs wider. Eager, he drives the controller as deep as it can go (which unfortunately isn't much), pumping it faster and harder to make up for its shallow penetration. There's an intense red glow that's centered at his nook, and an equally fervent blue one curled around his bulge and its accompanying controller.
His stomach is in knots, he's aching, he wants it; he jacks himself off with his psionics now, stroking hot along his length, playing with the tip, not teasing anymore. He wants to finish, and sends the energy up into his nook, a long, thick, imaginary bulge that presses firmly against the best spot in there, filling him completely.
He grinds down against the chair, against the bulge that's not there, jerking off his own wantonly. The buzz of the controllers is all he can feel, all he can hear; it's drowning out the music.
Sollux cranes his neck back against the first controller and nearly drops the one in his hands. He groans loudly, just enough to hear through the headphones, and comes hard, shuddering through his release. He continues to rock on the controller until he's totally spent, his genetic material gushing wet and slick from his nook, wave after wave of pleasure coursing through his body.
His bulge remains tightly curled around the second controller, pulsing with the dwindling remains of his orgasm, and with finesse that comes only from sweeps of practice, he completes the level flawlessly.
Sollux lets his eyes fall closed and struggles to catch his breath. Tragically, the controllers have all gone still now that he's done with the level, but it still feels good to have them in place. He smiles to himself, and sits motionless for a moment, listening to the repetitive music of the stage select screen.
Once he's recovered a bit, he turns off the monitor (no need to wipe his hands first -- they're perfectly clean), dumps the three spare controllers in the towel and folds it over them. He'll clean it up in the evening.
He stands, pulls off his headphones and then his shirt, and climbs into the soothing comfort of sopor, feeling safe and very fucking sated.