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bullet-splatter. drumming footsteps. steadfast clicking. tinnitus-esque ringing. triumphant soundbites. noli’s crosshair scans over the battlefield before honing in on a distant head. instinct fuels his finger through a half-second window. with a single mouse input, a man is dead. his K/D ratio flourishes. the score goes up in his team’s favor. an animated, purple skull guffaws at the bottom of his screen. silently, his mastery points go up.
speakerphone icons light up at the corner of his monitor. as the round concludes, his teammates roar with praise. “you’re cracked, dude!” one of them shouts. another floods the chat with excited exclamations—multiple, confident claims about him ‘clutching up’ and ‘being the best sniper NA.’
he leans back in his chair with a smug smile. impish superiority courses through him: static-charged, acid-magenta and, most of all, undetectable. sagely, he guides his team as the final round begins. his mic relays his composed commands, but catches none of the illicit glee bubbling in the back of his throat. he talks of counter-picks and proper positioning so earnestly. winning is simple, he insists; work smarter, be faster and never cheat. hold hands with fairness and show it the world. get married to playing by the book.
the ui on his second monitor is mischief incarnate. sliders, textboxes and buttons sit neatly beside one another—bundles of malicious code turned sleek and lightweight. a click is all it takes to tank someone’s ping or change their bullet trajectory. there’s also crashing their game, flagging their account or making their team auto-lose, but those are drastic options for pettier men.
make no mistake—noli is petty. the pettiest. more than that, however, he’s subtle. any exploiter ought to be.
filler: panoramic shots of the upcoming map are followed by a cutscene of his avatar, jester-like in appearance, gearing up. to pass the time, he fiddles with a numbered remote sat by the base of his monitor. of its four buttons, he presses the third one.
bullet-splatter. drumming footsteps. steadfast clicking. xX_SHADOWLORD29_Xx asking: “dude, what’s that in the background?”
he looks over his shoulder. the room is just lit up enough for him to discern the trembling silhouette laying on his bed.
rhythmic buzzing. stifled, pathetic moans. seven torn between trying not to come again, and rutting against the vibrator settled upon his stupid, swollen clit.
the white-hot glare from across the room dishevels immediately. seven’s anger works karmically against him. he rolls onto his side and whimpers measly nothings into his hand. meanwhile, his hips buck wildly and the slick between his legs pools. it’s a pretty sight. he’ll have to clean the blankets later.
noli’s smile is wide and cruel. “just my dog. don’t worry—if it keeps barking, i’ll shut it up.”
that gets the rise noli was looking for. seven tenses, wet folds clenching around nothing, body torched with a fiery blend of anticipation and fear. unluckily for him, the game is done stalling. noli swivels his desk chair right around. seven’s opposed pleads fall on deaf, headphoned ears.
one kill, two kills, ten kills, thirty. he’s a midnight sharpshooter striking terror from the backline—cheeky, silent death from unchecked vantage points. he continues fidgeting with the remote inbetween objectives. button ‘3’ is the default. ‘1’ and ‘2’ are for when the game demands his utmost attention. ‘4’ is for when he breaks into conversation with his teammates, ensuring seven knows he’s being heard.
and heard he is. as they cross the second checkpoint, alienabyss_01 turns their player model towards him and voices their concern: “if you need to hop off for a little, that’s okay. i’ve got a cat, i know what it’s like.”
when he turns back, he catches seven raising an arm in the air. c00lgui hovers just in front of his palm. his fingers smear over the panel in a vain, desperate attempt to better his situation. he’s trying to set repeatClimax to false and vibeFrequency to zero respectively—two variables that, when turned off, prevent him from becoming the dog-brained whore he’s destined to be.
that just won’t do.
“you’ll fair fine without me,” he hastily gets up from his chair.
“you’re not going to mute?” alienabyss_01’s voice flees as he slips off his headphones.
“this won’t take long,” he assures—maybe truthfully, maybe not. whether he’s lying depends on how good seven is willing to be.
as he nears the other man whose eyes broil with titillated contempt, the question answers itself: not very.
noli stands at the side of the bed, looming over seven like one would an ant. a similar, fiendish smile finds his face again. seven continues to tamper with the panel despite his presence.
“this isn’t what we agreed upon,” he crosses his arms, feigning disappointment, “i’m hurt, sev.”
“noli, mngh, turn this shit off,” seven shakily demands, “you’re, haah, killing me here.”
“you can do that yourself,” he retorts matter-of-factly, “go on, i believe in you.”
he isn’t wrong. seven’s fingers, however frantic, conveniently skim past the panel’s ‘ABORT OPERATIONS’ button. if he wanted this to stop, it would have by now.
the vibe continues buzzing in the silence that elapses, uncaring of the humiliation seven must feel when he, hilariously, drops his arm.
“that’s what i thought,” noli climbs onto the mattress, as condescending as he is delighted, “you’re just so adorable when you try to grab my attention.”
“fuck me and get this over with,” seven groans. his open legs betray his hostility. noli greedily occupies the space between them. a sick sense of ownership washes over him as he peers down—wicked, unashamed entitlement that makes seven’s wet cunt, peaked nipples and sweaty body all feel like they belong to him. not a single soul else.
“so impatient,” noli chuckles while making a beckoning gesture with his hand. the c00lgui panel, previously cherry-red and floating by seven’s side, slides to him in a purple blur. oh-so slowly, he runs his finger up vibeFrequency’s corresponding slider. the vibe, a small ball of physically manifested code, whirs excessively. seven throws his head back with a drawn-out moan while grasping at anything and everything with trembling hands—first the mattress, then noli’s back. blunt nails dig along his spine. he shivers with a smile.
“and loud!” noli laughs while sparing his monitor a glance, “surely you haven’t forgotten what this is all about?”
if seven cares about being picked up by the mic, he’s too much of a mess to show it. “ffu-fucking asshole, thinking you’re so much better than — hhaah, that’s, ff-fuck — m-me.”
“that isn’t an answer,” noli tuts, “i’ll ask again: why am i doing this to you, sev?”
when his response doesn’t come immediately, noli tinkers with the slider some more. seven curses under his breath, then surrenders. “i messed up our heist. mnff—d-drew too much attention. i need to learn how to be quiet. sssh…subtle.”
“and?”
“you’re the better exploiter,” he concedes, “i can’t even — nnh — compare.”
“anything else?”
“i’m yours? i’m yours. i’m fucking yours,” his slurring precedes the delirious rolling of his hips, “have been, will be, just — ffuck me? please? i need this, i’ll be good, so fucking good, pleasepleaseplease—”
a sharp gasp escapes from his mouth; noli’s slipping saliva-coated fingers in and out of his sopping hole and inwardly curling them where it counts. a tremor rips throughout his body—his legs shake, chest heaves and voice trembles in unintelligible bouts. the vibe alone is one thing. it and bullying his g-spot is another.
“compliant little thing,” noli grins cheek-to-cheek, breathing hot against seven’s ear, “what a good boy.”
for the next minute, seven is the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. damp hair splays over his face, covering eyes already sitting behind foggy glasses. his shirt ramps up to reveal twin crescent scars—proof he’s not just any man, but one sculpted from marble. his eyes are rolled back. his cheeks, flushed. he’s a dazed, dumb animal at the mercy of someone neither good nor evil—just mean. whatever noli wants, he’ll do. isn’t that beautiful?
without any malice, seven looks him in the eye. his ragged breaths are a warning of their own. “noli that’s, — i’m going to, — hhholy fuck,—“
“shh. quiet, remember?” noli coos while cupping his jaw. faintly, his headphones sound from across the room: ‘overtime!’ the game announcer roars. whether his team is winning or not, he doesn’t care to know.
seven nods loosely and, with the last of his strength, quiets down. his hushed whines still border on being too loud, however. charitably, noli kisses him through his mush-brained orgasm. even as seven claws at the back of his head and roams wildly with his tongue, he stays still—stabilizing, pillar-like.
more mercy: when seven’s back hits the bed with a tired, defeated thud, noli turns the vibe slider down. that way, seven can form his delicate little thoughts again.
“th-that enough for you?” seven asks—dizzy, worn and, most importantly, used.
noli grins. “is it ever?”
seven groans, but doesn’t protest any further. emboldened, noli searches through the c00lgui panel. a button press here, a string of code there and… voilà.
in a flash, his boxers are gone. replacing them is the cool press of physically manifested code wrapped around his hips. he flicks the bulbous head of the strap-on and watches as the area of impact glitches out. “what size are we feeling today, dear?”
“whatever makes me pass out the fastest,” seven mutters with the beginnings of sobriety. his snark is back, but it won’t last for long.
“eight inches then,” noli chuckles. he configures studSize accordingly. with its new length, the strap flops on top of seven’s stomach. he shivers at the unique, fuzzy sensation dancing upon his skin. its dimensions aren't exactly comforting, either. the strap ends where his womb begins.
“don’t think too hard,” noli suggests.
“you make that easy,” seven snorts.
noli grabs the malleable shaft and lines it up with seven’s twitching entrance. there’s no need for the bottle sitting on the nightstand—code comes pre-lubed. if you want it to, anyway.
noli watches intently as the tip pushes past seven’s lips and into his greedy hole. he hungrily swallows each inch, hissing as noli fits into his tight walls, inadvertently making the other man yearn for a real cock. wouldn’t it be wonderful to feel his snug, velvet heat? to shape and fill it with his own flesh? he can only dream.
as noli bottoms out, seven locks his legs around his hips to make sure he’s never too far away. in response, noli makes small, premature thrusts—letting seven know just how full he is.
“you’re almost there. just a little more, alright?” noli whispers while rubbing the curve of his thumb against seven’s engorged clit. bottom growth is such a beautiful thing.
seven makes a noise that’s somewhere along the lines of approval. noli upgrades his movements from stifled to slow, but firm. seven takes the gentle ramming against his cervix without argument. his mouth is fixed in a small ‘O’ shape, and his moans are faint by virtue of him being absolutely spent.
“feel me. know you’re mine,” noli breathes, the closest thing to what most people consider turned on, “don’t ever forget who you belong to. sear it into that empty head of yours.”
seven nods absentmindedly. words are hard, so he settles on meek, barely audible cries. noli smiles at a job well done. not everyone can render witty, self-important seven into a mewling mess.
a few more thrusts, and a familiar shudder surges through seven’s body. noli can’t feel but see his hole constrict around the strap’s girth. stars cross his vision as his brain turns into little more than a garden of nerves.
“there you are,” he murmurs softly while wiping away tears, “you did so well.”
all seven can do is sigh in relief. noli pulls out with care, then makes short work of the vibe and strap-on. once both items are gone — banished to some pocket of existence until further use — he helps seven clean up. the sheets are swapped, the bed is made and the pillows are fluffed. seven rests his weary head on one, retired for the night. noli plants a kiss on his nose bridge right as sleep takes him, savoring the peace that will no doubt be gone tomorrow. his bank account is already prepared for a litany of guilt-tripped purchases.
eventually, noli returns to his desk. his team did, in fact, fair fine without him. the victory screen gives him a serviceable smidge of dopamine. truthfully, video games aren’t his thing. at least, not first-person shooters. they’re juvenile tests of muscle memory wrapped around equally simple anti-cheats; every new, shiny title is more repackaged slop. he’s impartial to them the same way he is to sex. if he can’t control anything — anyone — what’s the point?
“seems like you all did well enough,” he says while sliding his headphones over his ears.
the party is silent. alienabyss_01 and xX_SHADOWLORD29_Xx are uncharacteristically shy. despite the fact they all ranked up, there’s no fanfare. someone’s mic picks up their pc fans.
finally, one brave soul speaks up. he doesn’t care to read their username. “that didn’t sound like a dog.”
noli smiles. “i don’t know what you mean.”
