Michael Imagine: Playing
He was not impressed.
His eyebrows knit together in concentration, biting his lip
hard enough to bleed as he gripped the controller with white knuckles, eyes
glued to the screen as if it read the secrets of the world.
He has enough concentration to move mountains with the way
even his breathing stills, using every ounce of his being to focus on the rapid
movements of his fingers on the controller.
“No – no, no, no, no!”
His voice is a roar as his eyes widen in disbelief before
they’re squeezed shut, controller thrown to the ground as he buries himself in
the pillows and cushions of the couch, moaning slightly with his hands covering
his eyes in defeat.
“No… I – how… I – ugh.”
He’s a mess of incoherent groaning, which was getting
progressively louder by the moment as the TV screen played sounds of jubilant celebration
for the winner – you.
You slide over on the couch next to him, poking at the small
band of exposed flesh of his stomach, a cat smirk on your lips as you nudged
him playfully with the controller.
“Care for a rematch, Mikey? I mean, it was just one – no,
two – no, five – or was it ten? – losses in a row, I mean you have to win some day, right?”
Your voice is deviously sweet, practically cooing in his
ears with malicious self-satisfaction.
He groans louder in an attempt to drown out your words,
batting you away with flopping arms.
“My ego… my pride…”
“All down the drain – with what, only a loss by an eighty
point margin? It’s not that bad,
babe. I mean, sure, a few middle schoolers
play better than you but it could be worse.”
You’re practically purring in his ear now, and you delight
in the dramatic sobs that begin to escape his lips.
“I mean, really Michael – it could be worse. I’ve said it
each time and you just keep on progressively losing by a larger margin each
time so you’re literally doing worse –
at this rate, you might even pass rock bottom. Hey, you know they might have a
badge for that – achievement accomplished!”
You’re enjoying this too much, laughing loudly before
collapsing on his stomach, turning your head on the soft skin, waiting for him
to uncover his eyes again.
When he finally does, a single green eye is squinting at you
in an angry glare.
“You’re bad for my self-esteem, woman.”
“Oh, honey – it’s not me, it’s you. Literally.”
He flicks your forehead and you yelp slightly, pouting at
“But seriously, Michael – don’t you think I’ve tried to let
you win five games ago? And yet despite my best efforts to be at my very worst,
you still end up losing.” You sigh
dramatically, turning your head away on his stomach, leaving a fan of hair tickling
his skin. “I suppose some people are just hopeless.”
He shoves you off his stomach and you fall off the couch
with a small crash and a loud shout, a sound that brings a small smile to
Michael’s face despite the obnoxious music of the TV screen declaring your win.
You leap back onto the couch before he has the chance to
step on your face with his smelly feet – you’ve learned your lesson, thank you
very much – propping your head on your elbows as you fold yourself on the
couch, staring at him like cat with the controller dangling from your fingers.
“Ready to play, sweetheart?”
He’s simultaneously aggravated and attracted to the purr in
your voice as you roll the words around, head cocked with a mischievous glint
in your eyes.
He grumbles, but he picks up his own controller – an indication
for yet another try at redemption.
“I’m going to win this time – “
“You’ve been saying that for the past seven times, Michael.”
“Eighth time is the charm. Watch me.”
“Watch you lose? Gladly.”
He side glares at you, already sitting up and leaning
towards the screen in the determined stance that you were so used to at this
“Seriously, who taught you how to play – Yoda? Freaking Voldemort?”
“Don’t be mad just because I keep on slaying you.”
“I’m going to wipe that smug grin off your pretty little
“Oh, please do.”
You’re smirking now, and he’s too busy staring at your
hooded eyes and pointed mouth that he doesn’t even realize he’s running
straight into a wall.
The loud buzzing of yet another game finished – and lost –
jolts him out of the reverie that you’ve captured in and he curses when he sees
the score on the screen.
“Yet another new record, Michael.”
“What? No – I demand
a rematch! You were distracting me!”
“I wasn’t doing a thing, love – well, of course besides
“You’re a cheat.”
“And you can’t keep your eyes on the prize.”
“I was staring right at it.”
This time he’s the one smirking, leaning towards you,
leaving the controller on the other side of the couch as he advances.
“I said I was going to wipe that grin off your face.”
His voice is too deep to be innocent, the smile on his lips
You try to tell yourself that this is just a tactic to throw
you off in your game, but the controllers are completely ignored and he’s
practically looming over you on the couch, just a breath away with a voice that
was dipped in mischief.
“I think it’s my turn to win.”
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