#mml

You’ve grown used to this routine. He games, you hang around—usually scrolling your phone, sometimes reading, other times just teasing him for fun.

Tonight, it starts with a stretch.

You’re curled up on the couch, wearing his hoodie and a pair of soft sleep shorts. You arch your back just a little, arms over your head. The hem of the hoodie lifts—exposing the smooth line of your stomach, a flash of your hip. You feel his eyes on you, quick and fleeting. He doesn’t say anything.

But when he dies in-game a few minutes later, you smirk to yourself.

“You okay over there, baby?” you say innocently, not even looking up from your phone.

He doesn’t answer.

You shift again—crossing your legs slowly, letting the fabric of your shorts slide higher.

Another death.

And this time, you hear it: the soft click of the controller hitting the floor. A quiet sigh. Then nothing.

You glance up—and he’s already moving toward you.

Headset off. Hoodie sleeves pushed up. He doesn’t speak, not yet. He just kneels in front of you, hands resting on your thighs, warm through the fabric.

“What’s wrong?” you ask sweetly, brushing a hand through his hair. “Did I distract you?”

He looks up at you. Calm, unreadable. His glasses have slipped down just a bit on his nose. His lips are slightly parted, breath slower than usual. Still not saying a word.

Then he leans forward—slowly—and presses a kiss just above your knee.

“Keep playing with me like that,” he murmurs, voice low and so quiet you almost miss it, “and I’m not gonna be able to stay calm.”

Your breath catches.

You try to tease again—“But I thought you liked it when I—”

He cuts you off with another kiss. Higher this time. His hands slide up, pushing your thighs apart with gentle insistence. When he speaks again, there’s something darker in his tone.

“Put the phone down.”

You do.

He slides his hands beneath the hoodie, fingertips grazing your skin, pulling you closer to the edge of the couch. He’s still quiet, still controlled—but you feel the tension in him. Like he’s holding something back. Like he’s been wanting this—wanting you—for longer than he’s willing to admit.

“You walk around like this,” he whispers, dragging his mouth up the inside of your thigh, “every day… act all sweet… make those little noises when you stretch, touch my hair when I’m trying to focus—”

You gasp when his tongue traces the edge of your shorts.

“—and I don’t say anything. I don’t do anything. But tonight…?”

He slides your shorts down in one smooth motion, gaze locked on yours.

“Tonight I’m done pretending I don’t notice.”

His mouth is warm, relentless. He takes his time—no rush, no distractions. You can feel how much he wants to savor every second, like he’s waited too long to have you like this. And he watches you the whole time—like your reactions are his favorite game.

Your hand finds his hair, fingers threading through the strands as you moan, soft and desperate. He groans into you, finally letting some of that quiet restraint break.

“Louder,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Wanna hear you.”

You cry out, hips bucking, and that’s when he really loses it.

He stands, eyes dark and intense, and pulls the hoodie up over your head, tossing it aside. Then he leans over you, bracing one hand on the back of the couch as he kisses you—deep, messy, consuming. His lips are soft but his movements are anything but.

“Turn around,” he breathes against your mouth.

You obey, dizzy, bracing your hands on the couch cushions as he kneels behind you. His hands trail up your back, gentle, reverent. And when he finally sinks into you, it’s like a switch flips.

Every slow, careful touch becomes something more primal. His grip tightens. His hips snap harder. Still not much talking—just low groans, stifled curses, and your name whispered like a secret.

And when you start to tremble, crying out with every thrust, he leans forward, wrapping one arm around your waist, the other cradling your chest. Holding you close.

“Mine,” he says, voice barely more than a growl. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you moan, breathless. “I’m yours.”