#waking up

"Screech Owl awakening."

Bird legend and life. 1908.

sorry idk why i thought that was funny

Anyways, i am OBSESSED with your whole clingy reader x just as obsessed mike thing and would L O V E to read some more fluff of him loving her clingyness and cuddling in bed 🤗🤗

mike surfaces from sleep in fragments, awareness returning piece by piece until he registers the weight first.

you.

your body is draped over his like you ended up there without thinking and never corrected it. your arm crosses his chest, fingers twisted into the fabric of his shirt, knuckles resting just under his collarbone. one leg is slung over his, anchoring him in place. your face is tucked into the curve of his neck, breath slow and even against his skin.

and he just… stops thinking about moving.

he’s awake, but he doesn’t do anything about it. doesn’t try to shift or get comfortable or even check the time right away. he just stays there.

his eyes still adjusting to the dim light filtering through the curtains. the room is quiet, untouched by anything outside it, like time hasn’t properly started yet.

you’re still asleep.

completely unguarded in a way he doesn’t think you ever are when you’re awake. your expression is soft, mouth slightly parted, drool piled at the corner of your mouth, your weight fully settled into him without hesitation. every so often, your grip shifts faintly, fingers flexing against his shirt before going still again.

he watches you.

his hand lifts slowly, and comes to rest over yours. he presses your palm flat against his chest, holding it there.

your response is immediate.

your fingers tighten, your leg draws his closer, your face pressing deeper into the space between his shoulder and throat.

his breath catches, quiet and sharp.

“i’m here,” he murmurs, voice low enough it barely carries.

the tension in you eases, your weight shifts, heavier now.

he doesn’t move his hand.

instead, his other arm slides around you, slow and sure, pulling you closer until there’s nothing left between you to close. your body follows without resistance, adjusting instinctively, fitting against him like it’s something you’ve done a hundred times.

he tilts his head slightly, his cheek brushing against your hair. for a moment he just stays like that, feeling the warmth of you, the steady rhythm of your breathing, the way your hand remains firm against his chest like that’s where it belongs.

his thumb drifts along your arm, not in any pattern, just movement for the sake of contact.

at some point he remembers. it’s his birthday. not that it really matters right now.

he doesn’t get up. doesn’t check the clock. doesn’t even think about presents or calls or anything like that. all that stuff can wait.

because you’re here. still on him. still holding on.

and that’s all he can think about.

he tries not to move, he doesn’t want to interrupt this.

because he’s already done with the rest of the day before it’s even started.

you’ve moved closer somehow, your grip less tense now but still constant, like even at rest you don’t really let go. your hand has slipped further under his shirt, skin against skin, fingers spread faintly over his chest like you needed more than fabric.

he inhales slowly, his hand tightening over yours without thinking.

your brow creases, just slightly.

“don’t,” you mumble, voice barely formed.

he freezes.

“i-i’m not,” he answers, softer now.

your head shifts, nose brushing his throat, breath uneven for a second before it settles again. “don’t go.”

something in his chest pulls tight.

his hand moves to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there.

“i’m right here,” he says.

it comes out steadier than he feels.

you relax fully after that, your weight sinking into him in a way that feels like trust more than sleep. your arm tightening faintly across him as if confirming he’s still there.

he lowers his head, pressing his mouth briefly against your hair. it lingers a second longer than it needs to.

then again, softer this time, closer to your temple. his forehead rests against you instead, breath quieting, his grip settling into something firm and unyielding.

he notices too much.

the warmth of your palm against him. the slight drag of your nails through his shirt when your fingers shift. the way your breathing changes when he moves even a fraction. how easily you fold into him, like there’s no hesitation in it at all.

you move again after a while, barely there, your hand pressing more firmly against his chest, your fingers curling slightly.

“mine,” you murmur.

it’s soft, half-lost in sleep, but it hits him anyway. his chest tightens, his stomach twists. for a second he feels like he can barely breathe, like his heart is racing too fast for him to catch it.

he leans down without thinking, pressing his mouth against your forehead, then brushing your hair with his lips, again. wanting to make sure you know he’s there.

he can feel your small movements against him, your weight, your warmth, it grounds him, makes the tightness spread into something steadier, heavier, like he’s actually here, holding you.

“yeah,” he says, voice low, rough, and a little caught, because he doesn’t have words for the way it makes him feel. the sound is all he can manage, and somehow it has to be enough.

“i’m yours.”

he presses your hand more firmly against his chest again, keeping it there, like he wants you to feel it.

like he wants proof of something.

you don’t move away.

your body stays exactly where it is, settled into him, your grip still there.

he adjusts slightly, just enough to tuck you in closer, his leg shifting under yours so you’re more secure, his arm tightening around your back.

when you stir, like you might wake, like your hold might loosen, his hand slides up your spine, drawing you back in before there’s room for it.

“i’m here,” he murmurs, quieter now.

your breathing evens out again almost immediately. your fingers relax.

mike stays like that, awake but unmoving, his hold firm, his attention fixed entirely on the weight of you.

he doesn’t worry about getting up.

doesn’t worry about anything outside of this.

just the way you’re pressed against him, the way you reach for him without knowing, the way you settle when he answers.

he keeps his hand over yours, his other arm locked around you, holding you exactly where you are.

Young Sherlock, s1e7

Grown ass dog