Isn't that sweet...

Because Steve had been waiting by the door when you arrived, barely giving you enough time to put your bag down before he'd pulled you into his arms with a kiss worthy of a cheesy rom-com montage, murmuring, "I love you. I missed you," against your lips, again and again, before declaring that forty-eight hours apart was never, ever happening again.

Your next move is slow and elicits a sharp inhale from the boy beneath you. You aren't in any rush to move; instead, you settle your weight, shifting your hips in a languid, rhythmic circle. You could sit here all day.

The sensation is a heavy, humming heat that radiates from where you are joined, a slow-motion slide that feels more like a homecoming than a physical act. You feel him react to you: to your every breath, your every move. 

He makes a sound—halfway between a sigh and a prayer—and his fingers dig slightly into the small of your back, anchoring you to him as if he’s afraid you might finally decide to let go.

"Thought you were tired," he murmurs, though his voice is thick, lacking any real conviction. He isn't asking you to stop; he's barely breathing, his eyes fluttering shut behind those crooked glasses, simply absorbing the feeling of you with a slow, deliberate patience.

"Mmm, no I didn’t," you whisper, the lie tasting sweet because he knows it's a lie and he doesn't care. 

The truth is, you had both crawled into bed an hour ago, limbs heavy and eyelids drooping, convinced that the sheer exhaustion of the weekend had won. 

You’d barely managed to pull one of his oversized grey t-shirts over your head—the fabric smelling of laundry detergent and that specific, warm scent that was wholly Steve—before collapsing against his chest. You had been too tired for anything more than a few kisses and a long shower, but the thought of an inch of air between your skin felt like an intolerable distance. You had murmured a request, a soft, "Can I sit on you?", thinking it would be a way to feel his heart against yours until you drifted off. 

And how could he ever say no to you, especially when the request was hardly a hardship for him? 

"You're a menace," he breathed, though the way he arched his hips upward told a completely different story. 

"A menace who loves you," you counter, leaning forward until your chest brushes his. You don't move to get off; instead, you shift your weight again, a slow, grounding press that makes Steve’s breath hitch and his eyes snap open. 

The moonlight catches the gold in his pupils, his gaze hazy and completely undone. He doesn't try to push you away or suggest the sleep you both desperately need. Instead, his hands slide from the small of your back to your hips, his grip firm, guiding the rhythm with a slow, instinctive patience.

He lets out a long, shaky exhale, his head falling back against the pillow. "You're actually trying to kill me, aren't you?" he murmurs, though he's smiling, that soft, crooked expression that always makes your heart ache.

He looks like he's floating, anchored to the earth only by the quiet weight of you. 

"Could never," you murmur.

Your fingertip grazes the line of his cheek, tracing the soft curve of his jaw before he turns his face into your palm, catching your wrist and pressing a sleepy kiss against the inside of it. You pepper his face with tiny, feather-light kisses—one on the bridge of his nose, one at the corner of his mouth, one on the temple. Everywhere you have missed so dearly.

"You're so needy," he whispers, though his arms wrap tighter around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His thumb drifts absently over your side, back and forth, back and forth, the motion so mindless it feels like something he'd do even in his sleep.

He sounds dazed, his voice trailing off into a soft hum of contentment as you murmur sweet nothings against his skin; telling him how much you missed the way he sounds when he's sleepy, how much you love the familiar weight of his hands on you.

You aren't just staying put for the physical heat; you're anchoring yourself to him, refusing to let the world outside the bedroom door exist.

Refusing to allow anything but this warmth, him, and you to exist.

It starts almost subconsciously—a slight tilt of your hips, answered by the instinctive arch of his back. What had once been lazy and rhythmic becomes something faster, more desperate; a quiet, unspoken conversation between the two of you, each movement an answer to the last. 

You can't stop. You don't want to ever stop. Not when you're this close, not when every little sound he makes feels like something you could spend forever hearing. The sleepy hitch of his breath, the quiet little groans he tries and fails to swallow, the way your name slips from his lips like it's the only word he can remember.

And every time you pause, even for a second, his fingers flex against you, a tiny, unconscious reminder that he doesn't want the distance either.

You missed this.

You missed him.

And now that you have him beneath you again, warm and familiar and entirely yours, you can't bring yourself to imagine letting go.

Not for forty-eight hours. Not for even one.

loverboy steve masterlist ♡

P.S. wanna see more clingy reader or loverboy Steve? send in some ideas! ♡

P.P.S. also hi! how are we all? been a little while...

Dividers by @designlikenonsense ♡

Because Steve had been waiting by the door when you arrived, barely giving you enough time to put your bag down before he'd pulled you into his arms with a kiss worthy of a cheesy rom-com montage, murmuring, "I love you. I missed you," against your lips, again and again, before declaring that forty-eight hours apart was never, ever happening again.

Your next move is slow and elicits a sharp inhale from the boy beneath you. You aren't in any rush to move; instead, you settle your weight, shifting your hips in a languid, rhythmic circle. You could sit here all day.

The sensation is a heavy, humming heat that radiates from where you are joined, a slow-motion slide that feels more like a homecoming than a physical act. You feel him react to you: to your every breath, your every move. 

He makes a sound—halfway between a sigh and a prayer—and his fingers dig slightly into the small of your back, anchoring you to him as if he’s afraid you might finally decide to let go.

"Thought you were tired," he murmurs, though his voice is thick, lacking any real conviction. He isn't asking you to stop; he's barely breathing, his eyes fluttering shut behind those crooked glasses, simply absorbing the feeling of you with a slow, deliberate patience.

"Mmm, no I didn’t," you whisper, the lie tasting sweet because he knows it's a lie and he doesn't care. 

The truth is, you had both crawled into bed an hour ago, limbs heavy and eyelids drooping, convinced that the sheer exhaustion of the weekend had won. 

You’d barely managed to pull one of his oversized grey t-shirts over your head—the fabric smelling of laundry detergent and that specific, warm scent that was wholly Steve—before collapsing against his chest. You had been too tired for anything more than a few kisses and a long shower, but the thought of an inch of air between your skin felt like an intolerable distance. You had murmured a request, a soft, "Can I sit on you?", thinking it would be a way to feel his heart against yours until you drifted off. 

And how could he ever say no to you, especially when the request was hardly a hardship for him? 

"You're a menace," he breathed, though the way he arched his hips upward told a completely different story. 

"A menace who loves you," you counter, leaning forward until your chest brushes his. You don't move to get off; instead, you shift your weight again, a slow, grounding press that makes Steve’s breath hitch and his eyes snap open. 

The moonlight catches the gold in his pupils, his gaze hazy and completely undone. He doesn't try to push you away or suggest the sleep you both desperately need. Instead, his hands slide from the small of your back to your hips, his grip firm, guiding the rhythm with a slow, instinctive patience.

He lets out a long, shaky exhale, his head falling back against the pillow. "You're actually trying to kill me, aren't you?" he murmurs, though he's smiling, that soft, crooked expression that always makes your heart ache.

He looks like he's floating, anchored to the earth only by the quiet weight of you. 

"Could never," you murmur.

Your fingertip grazes the line of his cheek, tracing the soft curve of his jaw before he turns his face into your palm, catching your wrist and pressing a sleepy kiss against the inside of it. You pepper his face with tiny, feather-light kisses—one on the bridge of his nose, one at the corner of his mouth, one on the temple. Everywhere you have missed so dearly.

"You're so needy," he whispers, though his arms wrap tighter around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His thumb drifts absently over your side, back and forth, back and forth, the motion so mindless it feels like something he'd do even in his sleep.

He sounds dazed, his voice trailing off into a soft hum of contentment as you murmur sweet nothings against his skin; telling him how much you missed the way he sounds when he's sleepy, how much you love the familiar weight of his hands on you.

You aren't just staying put for the physical heat; you're anchoring yourself to him, refusing to let the world outside the bedroom door exist.

Refusing to allow anything but this warmth, him, and you to exist.

It starts almost subconsciously—a slight tilt of your hips, answered by the instinctive arch of his back. What had once been lazy and rhythmic becomes something faster, more desperate; a quiet, unspoken conversation between the two of you, each movement an answer to the last. 

You can't stop. You don't want to ever stop. Not when you're this close, not when every little sound he makes feels like something you could spend forever hearing. The sleepy hitch of his breath, the quiet little groans he tries and fails to swallow, the way your name slips from his lips like it's the only word he can remember.

And every time you pause, even for a second, his fingers flex against you, a tiny, unconscious reminder that he doesn't want the distance either.

You missed this.

You missed him.

And now that you have him beneath you again, warm and familiar and entirely yours, you can't bring yourself to imagine letting go.

Not for forty-eight hours. Not for even one.

loverboy steve masterlist ♡

P.S. wanna see more clingy reader or loverboy Steve? send in some ideas! ♡

P.P.S. also hi! how are we all? been a little while...

Dividers by @designlikenonsense ♡

Because Steve had been waiting by the door when you arrived, barely giving you enough time to put your bag down before he'd pulled you into his arms with a kiss worthy of a cheesy rom-com montage, murmuring, "I love you. I missed you," against your lips, again and again, before declaring that forty-eight hours apart was never, ever happening again.

Your next move is slow and elicits a sharp inhale from the boy beneath you. You aren't in any rush to move; instead, you settle your weight, shifting your hips in a languid, rhythmic circle. You could sit here all day.

The sensation is a heavy, humming heat that radiates from where you are joined, a slow-motion slide that feels more like a homecoming than a physical act. You feel him react to you: to your every breath, your every move. 

He makes a sound—halfway between a sigh and a prayer—and his fingers dig slightly into the small of your back, anchoring you to him as if he’s afraid you might finally decide to let go.

"Thought you were tired," he murmurs, though his voice is thick, lacking any real conviction. He isn't asking you to stop; he's barely breathing, his eyes fluttering shut behind those crooked glasses, simply absorbing the feeling of you with a slow, deliberate patience.

"Mmm, no I didn’t," you whisper, the lie tasting sweet because he knows it's a lie and he doesn't care. 

The truth is, you had both crawled into bed an hour ago, limbs heavy and eyelids drooping, convinced that the sheer exhaustion of the weekend had won. 

You’d barely managed to pull one of his oversized grey t-shirts over your head—the fabric smelling of laundry detergent and that specific, warm scent that was wholly Steve—before collapsing against his chest. You had been too tired for anything more than a few kisses and a long shower, but the thought of an inch of air between your skin felt like an intolerable distance. You had murmured a request, a soft, "Can I sit on you?", thinking it would be a way to feel his heart against yours until you drifted off. 

And how could he ever say no to you, especially when the request was hardly a hardship for him? 

"You're a menace," he breathed, though the way he arched his hips upward told a completely different story. 

"A menace who loves you," you counter, leaning forward until your chest brushes his. You don't move to get off; instead, you shift your weight again, a slow, grounding press that makes Steve’s breath hitch and his eyes snap open. 

The moonlight catches the gold in his pupils, his gaze hazy and completely undone. He doesn't try to push you away or suggest the sleep you both desperately need. Instead, his hands slide from the small of your back to your hips, his grip firm, guiding the rhythm with a slow, instinctive patience.

He lets out a long, shaky exhale, his head falling back against the pillow. "You're actually trying to kill me, aren't you?" he murmurs, though he's smiling, that soft, crooked expression that always makes your heart ache.

He looks like he's floating, anchored to the earth only by the quiet weight of you. 

"Could never," you murmur.

Your fingertip grazes the line of his cheek, tracing the soft curve of his jaw before he turns his face into your palm, catching your wrist and pressing a sleepy kiss against the inside of it. You pepper his face with tiny, feather-light kisses—one on the bridge of his nose, one at the corner of his mouth, one on the temple. Everywhere you have missed so dearly.

"You're so needy," he whispers, though his arms wrap tighter around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His thumb drifts absently over your side, back and forth, back and forth, the motion so mindless it feels like something he'd do even in his sleep.

He sounds dazed, his voice trailing off into a soft hum of contentment as you murmur sweet nothings against his skin; telling him how much you missed the way he sounds when he's sleepy, how much you love the familiar weight of his hands on you.

You aren't just staying put for the physical heat; you're anchoring yourself to him, refusing to let the world outside the bedroom door exist.

Refusing to allow anything but this warmth, him, and you to exist.

It starts almost subconsciously—a slight tilt of your hips, answered by the instinctive arch of his back. What had once been lazy and rhythmic becomes something faster, more desperate; a quiet, unspoken conversation between the two of you, each movement an answer to the last. 

You can't stop. You don't want to ever stop. Not when you're this close, not when every little sound he makes feels like something you could spend forever hearing. The sleepy hitch of his breath, the quiet little groans he tries and fails to swallow, the way your name slips from his lips like it's the only word he can remember.

And every time you pause, even for a second, his fingers flex against you, a tiny, unconscious reminder that he doesn't want the distance either.

You missed this.

You missed him.

And now that you have him beneath you again, warm and familiar and entirely yours, you can't bring yourself to imagine letting go.

Not for forty-eight hours. Not for even one.

loverboy steve masterlist ♡

P.S. wanna see more clingy reader or loverboy Steve? send in some ideas! ♡

P.P.S. also hi! how are we all? been a little while...

Dividers by @designlikenonsense ♡

extraordinary measures — @pathologicalreid

your life hangs in the balance after a brutal attack, and spencer has to hold himself together for the sake of you and your baby.

a long way to go — @pathologicalreid

your family breaks no contact and spencer reminds you that you're doing the right thing.

what goes bump in the night — @pathologicalreid

spencer's struggling with violent nightmares after prison, and you find yourself on the receiving end of his tossing and turning.

on neurotransmitters and receiving pleasure — @miedei

18+ you can't sleep, and spencer takes it upon himself to explain (and enact) how he can help.

nonexistent rizz — @miedei

the team is shocked to see that… early seasons!spencer pulls?? and he has pulled???? (aka, the team discovers that early seasons!spence has a girlfriend).

spencer left his lunch at home and u bring it to the bau and meet the team (not really..) — @drewswife

time gave no compass, were there clues? — @gghostwriter

the three times fate brings you to cross paths with a certain handsome stranger and the one time he purposely crosses with yours.

one single thread of gold — @gghostwriter

the three times penelope tries to solve a spencer reid riddle and the one time she (and the team) meet the reason behind all the changes.

your worst nightmare — @idkwhylou

meeting your boyfriend’s team for the first time wasn’t going to be easy, especially when one of his closest friends is everything you’re not sure you are.

statistically speaking — @certaimromance

being in process to have your first child is already difficult enough, but having spencer nervously ramble facts and statistics about childbirth through every contraction somehow makes it even worse.

breathe — @ithinkreidknows

the making out session is making Spencer very nervous.

love birds — @ithinkreidknows

the bau team had to go to a small town for a case but instead of staying in a hotel they had to rent a house. the rest of the team tease spencer and you.

lucky me — @ithinkreidknows

after an exhausting day at work, your perfect boyfriend picks you up.

diana — @ithinkreidknows

after dating for so long, you will finally meet his mom.

aren't those...hickeys? — @ithinkreidknows

spencer totally forgot about the hickeys you have left last night so when he walks in the bureau everyone starts to question him until he spills the tea.

aftershock — @whisperedmeg

after being held at knifepoint, spencer sits outside the shower, whispering sea otter facts, and touching you like he’s still afraid you’ll disappear.

quiet hours — @whisperedmeg

18+ hiding your relationship with spencer isn’t easy when the hotel walls are thin and the sex is giggly.

surprise — @deerfawnn

garcia and derek go into spencer's apartment, while you're sleeping in his bed. the problem? no one knows you and spencer are dating.

blossoming chestnut trees — @deerfawnn

spencer finally meets you again, this time outside the walls of prison, and somehow, despite everything he’s endured, it doesn’t take long for him to warm up to your kind-hearted nature.

be my angel — @nereidprinc3ss

in which bau fem!reader was injured on the job, but is refusing painkillers at the hospital. spencer thinks he knows why.

warm under the collar — @mariasont

spencer insists he is not flirting. morgan insists that spencer absolutely is. one of them is lying.

heartless — @sweetlikenonsense

new to the bau and already labelled heartless, you surprise everyone when a frightened child chooses you. everyone but spencer.

five reasons to date a genius — @certaimromance

the first time you go out with the team without spencer, they make it their mission to explain why you should absolutely date him. the problem? you already are and have been for months.

cradle song pt.2 — @certaimromance

Glasses fogged up, pushed slightly crooked on the bridge of his nose, and his hair a complete mess, your fingers having run through it so many times that it's sticking up in every direction imaginable. Somehow, he still looks unfairly good.

You reach up, smoothing one particularly stubborn piece back into place. You can't help but chuckle, and neither can he, though his is more restrained. More of a groan as the action makes you move.

This was your idea, and he had been all for it. You’d missed him terribly. A whole forty-eight hours apart–you felt like dying. And you knew he'd tease you for it if he didn't feel exactly the same way. 

Because Steve had been waiting by the door when you arrived, barely giving you enough time to put your bag down before he'd pulled you into his arms with a kiss worthy of a cheesy rom-com montage, murmuring, "I love you. I missed you," against your lips, again and again, before declaring that forty-eight hours apart was never, ever happening again.

Your next move is slow and elicits a sharp inhale from the boy beneath you. You aren't in any rush to move; instead, you settle your weight, shifting your hips in a languid, rhythmic circle. You could sit here all day.

The sensation is a heavy, humming heat that radiates from where you are joined, a slow-motion slide that feels more like a homecoming than a physical act. You feel him react to you: to your every breath, your every move. 

He makes a sound—halfway between a sigh and a prayer—and his fingers dig slightly into the small of your back, anchoring you to him as if he’s afraid you might finally decide to let go.

"Thought you were tired," he murmurs, though his voice is thick, lacking any real conviction. He isn't asking you to stop; he's barely breathing, his eyes fluttering shut behind those crooked glasses, simply absorbing the feeling of you with a slow, deliberate patience.

"Mmm, no I didn’t," you whisper, the lie tasting sweet because he knows it's a lie and he doesn't care. 

The truth is, you had both crawled into bed an hour ago, limbs heavy and eyelids drooping, convinced that the sheer exhaustion of the weekend had won. 

You’d barely managed to pull one of his oversized grey t-shirts over your head—the fabric smelling of laundry detergent and that specific, warm scent that was wholly Steve—before collapsing against his chest. You had been too tired for anything more than a few kisses and a long shower, but the thought of an inch of air between your skin felt like an intolerable distance. You had murmured a request, a soft, "Can I sit on you?", thinking it would be a way to feel his heart against yours until you drifted off. 

And how could he ever say no to you, especially when the request was hardly a hardship for him? 

"You're a menace," he breathed, though the way he arched his hips upward told a completely different story. 

"A menace who loves you," you counter, leaning forward until your chest brushes his. You don't move to get off; instead, you shift your weight again, a slow, grounding press that makes Steve’s breath hitch and his eyes snap open. 

The moonlight catches the gold in his pupils, his gaze hazy and completely undone. He doesn't try to push you away or suggest the sleep you both desperately need. Instead, his hands slide from the small of your back to your hips, his grip firm, guiding the rhythm with a slow, instinctive patience.

He lets out a long, shaky exhale, his head falling back against the pillow. "You're actually trying to kill me, aren't you?" he murmurs, though he's smiling, that soft, crooked expression that always makes your heart ache.

He looks like he's floating, anchored to the earth only by the quiet weight of you. 

"Could never," you murmur.

Your fingertip grazes the line of his cheek, tracing the soft curve of his jaw before he turns his face into your palm, catching your wrist and pressing a sleepy kiss against the inside of it. You pepper his face with tiny, feather-light kisses—one on the bridge of his nose, one at the corner of his mouth, one on the temple. Everywhere you have missed so dearly.

"You're so needy," he whispers, though his arms wrap tighter around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His thumb drifts absently over your side, back and forth, back and forth, the motion so mindless it feels like something he'd do even in his sleep.

He sounds dazed, his voice trailing off into a soft hum of contentment as you murmur sweet nothings against his skin; telling him how much you missed the way he sounds when he's sleepy, how much you love the familiar weight of his hands on you.

You aren't just staying put for the physical heat; you're anchoring yourself to him, refusing to let the world outside the bedroom door exist.

Refusing to allow anything but this warmth, him, and you to exist.

It starts almost subconsciously—a slight tilt of your hips, answered by the instinctive arch of his back. What had once been lazy and rhythmic becomes something faster, more desperate; a quiet, unspoken conversation between the two of you, each movement an answer to the last. 

You can't stop. You don't want to ever stop. Not when you're this close, not when every little sound he makes feels like something you could spend forever hearing. The sleepy hitch of his breath, the quiet little groans he tries and fails to swallow, the way your name slips from his lips like it's the only word he can remember.

And every time you pause, even for a second, his fingers flex against you, a tiny, unconscious reminder that he doesn't want the distance either.

You missed this.

You missed him.

And now that you have him beneath you again, warm and familiar and entirely yours, you can't bring yourself to imagine letting go.

Not for forty-eight hours. Not for even one.

loverboy steve masterlist ♡

P.S. wanna see more clingy reader or loverboy Steve? send in some ideas! ♡

P.P.S. also hi! how are we all? been a little while...

Dividers by @designlikenonsense ♡

Glasses fogged up, pushed slightly crooked on the bridge of his nose, and his hair a complete mess, your fingers having run through it so many times that it's sticking up in every direction imaginable. Somehow, he still looks unfairly good.

You reach up, smoothing one particularly stubborn piece back into place. You can't help but chuckle, and neither can he, though his is more restrained. More of a groan as the action makes you move.

This was your idea, and he had been all for it. You’d missed him terribly. A whole forty-eight hours apart–you felt like dying. And you knew he'd tease you for it if he didn't feel exactly the same way. 

Because Steve had been waiting by the door when you arrived, barely giving you enough time to put your bag down before he'd pulled you into his arms with a kiss worthy of a cheesy rom-com montage, murmuring, "I love you. I missed you," against your lips, again and again, before declaring that forty-eight hours apart was never, ever happening again.

Your next move is slow and elicits a sharp inhale from the boy beneath you. You aren't in any rush to move; instead, you settle your weight, shifting your hips in a languid, rhythmic circle. You could sit here all day.

The sensation is a heavy, humming heat that radiates from where you are joined, a slow-motion slide that feels more like a homecoming than a physical act. You feel him react to you: to your every breath, your every move. 

He makes a sound—halfway between a sigh and a prayer—and his fingers dig slightly into the small of your back, anchoring you to him as if he’s afraid you might finally decide to let go.

"Thought you were tired," he murmurs, though his voice is thick, lacking any real conviction. He isn't asking you to stop; he's barely breathing, his eyes fluttering shut behind those crooked glasses, simply absorbing the feeling of you with a slow, deliberate patience.

"Mmm, no I didn’t," you whisper, the lie tasting sweet because he knows it's a lie and he doesn't care. 

The truth is, you had both crawled into bed an hour ago, limbs heavy and eyelids drooping, convinced that the sheer exhaustion of the weekend had won. 

You’d barely managed to pull one of his oversized grey t-shirts over your head—the fabric smelling of laundry detergent and that specific, warm scent that was wholly Steve—before collapsing against his chest. You had been too tired for anything more than a few kisses and a long shower, but the thought of an inch of air between your skin felt like an intolerable distance. You had murmured a request, a soft, "Can I sit on you?", thinking it would be a way to feel his heart against yours until you drifted off. 

And how could he ever say no to you, especially when the request was hardly a hardship for him? 

"You're a menace," he breathed, though the way he arched his hips upward told a completely different story. 

"A menace who loves you," you counter, leaning forward until your chest brushes his. You don't move to get off; instead, you shift your weight again, a slow, grounding press that makes Steve’s breath hitch and his eyes snap open. 

The moonlight catches the gold in his pupils, his gaze hazy and completely undone. He doesn't try to push you away or suggest the sleep you both desperately need. Instead, his hands slide from the small of your back to your hips, his grip firm, guiding the rhythm with a slow, instinctive patience.

He lets out a long, shaky exhale, his head falling back against the pillow. "You're actually trying to kill me, aren't you?" he murmurs, though he's smiling, that soft, crooked expression that always makes your heart ache.

He looks like he's floating, anchored to the earth only by the quiet weight of you. 

"Could never," you murmur.

Your fingertip grazes the line of his cheek, tracing the soft curve of his jaw before he turns his face into your palm, catching your wrist and pressing a sleepy kiss against the inside of it. You pepper his face with tiny, feather-light kisses—one on the bridge of his nose, one at the corner of his mouth, one on the temple. Everywhere you have missed so dearly.

"You're so needy," he whispers, though his arms wrap tighter around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His thumb drifts absently over your side, back and forth, back and forth, the motion so mindless it feels like something he'd do even in his sleep.

He sounds dazed, his voice trailing off into a soft hum of contentment as you murmur sweet nothings against his skin; telling him how much you missed the way he sounds when he's sleepy, how much you love the familiar weight of his hands on you.

You aren't just staying put for the physical heat; you're anchoring yourself to him, refusing to let the world outside the bedroom door exist.

Refusing to allow anything but this warmth, him, and you to exist.

It starts almost subconsciously—a slight tilt of your hips, answered by the instinctive arch of his back. What had once been lazy and rhythmic becomes something faster, more desperate; a quiet, unspoken conversation between the two of you, each movement an answer to the last. 

You can't stop. You don't want to ever stop. Not when you're this close, not when every little sound he makes feels like something you could spend forever hearing. The sleepy hitch of his breath, the quiet little groans he tries and fails to swallow, the way your name slips from his lips like it's the only word he can remember.

And every time you pause, even for a second, his fingers flex against you, a tiny, unconscious reminder that he doesn't want the distance either.

You missed this.

You missed him.

And now that you have him beneath you again, warm and familiar and entirely yours, you can't bring yourself to imagine letting go.

Not for forty-eight hours. Not for even one.

loverboy steve masterlist ♡

P.S. wanna see more clingy reader or loverboy Steve? send in some ideas! ♡

P.P.S. also hi! how are we all? been a little while...

Dividers by @designlikenonsense ♡