Can I Test My Theory On You?
Synopsis: When observing a new plant species of Erid's goes awry, both you and Ryland get spores spewed all over you-- and they certainly have an… effect. AKA: Ryland's fib gets both you and himself covered in what has the same effect of sex-pollen.
WC: 5.3k.
AN: Baby's first time writing smut... I got carried away, can you tell? Hah. I also wrote this in one sitting-- sorry, everyone, I'm a repeat offender. Sue me.
Not proofread, we die like Commander Yao.
Male Reader!
"Huh— I think this is actually how they reproduce, rather than dropping seedlings," Ryland hums, shooting a glance over to you before he looks down at his notepad, jotting a few of his observations down.
This species of plant isn't one he's ever seen before on Erid; thus, when the little pebbles started singing about it, he'd gotten curious as any science nerd would— you two are the only humans to ever be on Erid, let alone live here! It's an amazing thing, and he enjoyed it quite a bit.
Even the Me-burgers were heaven compared to coma-sludge, or worse, starvation. It took a little getting used to, yes, but it was great.
"So it only looks like seeds," You pipe up, leaning back on your knees and resting your gloved hands over your thighs, "Quite fascinating. Maybe there was an evolutionary purpose to it?"
"I'm not sure," He admits. "Adrian did say it offered some… unique, functions to an Eridian system— it could be that they used it to achieve a bodily high?"
Tilting his head, he leans forward and runs the tip of his pencil over the underside of one of the leaves, watching the connected branch curl up and, seemingly, die immediately. He winces. "…Oops."
A second later, the branch turns almost a radiant pink, and falls down to rest finally on the rocks in the biodome.
It's strange— he's unsure how a plant so sensitive to touch survived this long on the surface — even moreso how it still lives in human conditions — where even the harsh winds of Erid made it difficult for it to thrive. Sure, yes, it was mostly found in deeper systems where movement wasn't as common as the surface, but the question still stands.
Erid biology was amazing.
"So much so to change its propagating system to be less farmable?" You question, and when he glances over, your nose is scrunched in confusion, "Maybe Rocky left some information out."
Shrugging, he moves to kneel alongside you, letting his gaze flit back over to the offending plant. Some of the petals around the bud of the flower have wilted, changing from pitch-black to a pretty, dead pink; proving how little time you both had before it'd completely wilt.
"Only one way to find out," He muses, feeling a grin slip onto his lips as he digs his gloves out of his pocket and gets them on, "I mean— Distant observation can only get you so far, and it hasn't killed us yet or proved to have a scale of toxicity to humans."
Handing his pen and notepad to you — and blatantly ignoring your faint, disapproving grunt — he shifts closer to the flowering plant, leaning down a little to glance over the underside of the leaves and the flower, before he straightens up.
He continues. "Is this a bad idea? Maybe. But we could also learn from it, so there is a light at the end of the tunnel!"
"Ryland…"
Your voice is low, and not exactly approving— but he shoulders on anyway, straightening his spine and wincing at the ache, spreading his knees to give him a wider sense of balance. Only a few bad things could happen, either way; One, he gets a face-full of poisonous spores and ends up kicking the bucket, and Two: the plant fights back and he gets ill for a few days, but is otherwise OK.
Two sounds optional, but he has some hope for nothing bad to happen.
Are those famous last words?
Maybe.
Is he going to continue anyway, for science?
Yes.
"I've got this, It'll be fine— we did survive space," He nudges his glasses back up with the back of his wrist as he peers over the flower, "Let's not forget that part. Space? Scary, but great. Alien plants? Awesome!"
Is he getting slightly nervous and talking to calm himself down? Also maybe.
Upon hearing your noncommittal grunt, he exhales slowly through his nose, carefully reaching over to the core of the life before him— he knocks into another branch with his elbow on accident, and it dies immediately. A little disheartening, but that's pretty normal for his life, so he continues.
Gently, he wraps his hand around the bud of the flower, softly prying the petals open—
He jerks back as spores shoot upward and all over his face, coughing up a fit as he waves his hand in front of his face. His other digs into the rocks below him, keeping him off of his back.
He starts talking before you have the chance; just to save himself from your impending I told you so. Even when he deserves it.
"Well—" He coughs, pulling his spore-ridden glasses from his face, "That was totally, one-hundred percent, completely expected! I did that entirely on purpose. You know. For science. Gotta test it somehow, right?"
Laughing awkwardly, he avoids looking over at you as he sits up, shaking his head to be-rid himself of the shock. In spite of his obvious embarrassment, he feels your hand curl around his shoulder, then the warmth of your body next to his— for some odd reason, it feels a lot more present than before.
Like, fever-adjacent warmth.
Was he getting sick already?
Your voice cuts through a haze in his brain he wasn't even aware was there— Yeah, he's totally getting sick.
Darn it.
"You alright? Ingest any? Get any in your eyes, your mouth?"
Blinking rapidly, he shakes his head again, humming a low mm-mm as your face comes into view, your eyebrows furrowed in concern. Your hands warm his already hot face as you brush some of the colored spores off, and all of a sudden, saliva puddles in his mouth at your touch.
You'd removed your gloves? When and why did you do that?
Sure, sue him, his mouth would water a little any time you did something remotely attractive— but not this much.
"That's…. weird," He mutters, swallowing, "I think I'm getting sick."
The rocks shift beneath your knees as you adjust, and he can't help but watch your expression, to stare at your face. The little scar that marks the flesh from below your jaw to beside the corner of your mouth, the way you huff and tilt your head when you're confused, the way your jaw clenches and your mouth curls back when you're angry…
Your mouth is moving. Are you talking to him?
Who is he kidding. You don't talk to yourself like he does.
"Ryland— Your pupils are blown to high hell," Your grip shifts down to his jaw, tightening as you turn his head however you please, "You're confident you didn't swallow any?"
…Wait a minute.
Oh, no.
"I— I think we were wrong," He gasps, quickly shoving you away the instant his brain makes the connection; not because the touch or your proximity hurt — quite the friggin' opposite, actually, because he already feels like he's dying now that you're not touching him — "It's contact triggered, not ingestion; I— uh, I already feel hot. Super hot. Not-Good hot."
You stumble to regain your balance, falling backward onto your rear into the rocks below next to the abandoned pen and notepad. Guilt pools in his stomach as he observes as it happens, but heat instantly suffocates it at the faint show of your teeths points from behind your lips, and the way your shoulders move as you push yourself back up.
He watches the unreadable expression leave your face in favor of something more restrained— he knows this one, though. You always look like this when you're focused, or you let your past training take the reins for a minute.
Now that he's staring, he finally notices the spores that are on you.
Shoot.
"Any other symptoms? Headaches, nausea, uh, loss of feeling or motor-function?"
You continue rattling off important questions, but he's not really listening. He should be, but it feels like he can't— his eyes stay glued to your mouth, then flick away only to land on your hands as you quickly get out of your spore-infested jacket.
You've got such nice hands. Very sturdy. Very masculine. Very reliable. Very—
Suddenly, his brain kicks back into gear; he's supposed to be doing the same thing.
"No, negative, not at all— I, um, I just feel kind of toasty, and…"
Well, he'll be honest — with himself, anyway — and think that he did not want to say that last part. Instead, he focuses on setting his glasses aside and getting himself out of his cardigan, of which has the most spores clinging to the yarn.
"And?" You continue, tossing your jacket over the offending plant to avoid any more spores escaping, "And what? Ryland— We know fuck-all about this plant, we don't have time to waste; hell, we could grow another goddamn limb and be utterly clueless to prevent it— so, I'd really like to know what the hell you're feeling before I feel it too!"
He swallows.
If he was a braver man willing to test your patience, he would've said something like, language, Captain! but, he knows he's not. And, well, he'd rather enjoy keeping his fingers. You threatened to cut them off the last time he royally pissed you off.
…But there really is no way to lighten up the word aroused, is there?
He opens his mouth once, then twice, only to close it shut right after. It doesn't help you're less than four feet away, gorgeous as all heck, breathing just as heavy as he is.
He's sweating.
"I— ugh, I'm— Sexually influenced! I'm feeling Sexually… influenced. Heavily. Horribly." He winces.
O… Kay. That was arguably worse.
He can't bring himself to look at you; your silence was enough, and it only makes your out-of-sync breaths seem louder. It doesn't help his brain, which, if you were curious, felt like sludge that could leak out of his brain if he thinks too hard.
The symptoms must've finally kicked in for you, because your silence continues, where he knows you would've questioned his wording were you…. uninfluenced.
At the sound of your throat clearing, his gaze flits over to you, and instantly, it's obvious you're feeling the same things he is.
Which, truly, helps his brain avoid functioning altogether.
"Shit," You finally announce, panting through your mouth— sweat slicks the front of your hair as you run your hand down your face, and his thoughts catch on the movement of your Adams apple as you swallow.
"It's kind of awful, right?" He breathes, laughing awkwardly; his voice cracks mid-way, not unlike how it often did when he was going through puberty. Embarrassing. "It's, uh, really bad for you too, huh?"
He wiggles in his spot, trying to get comfortable enough to calm down a little— but all it does is make his jeans grind against a rather sensitive spot he'd hoped to avoid. Quickly, he stills, trying to avoid a repeat offense as he runs his tongue over his bottom lip.
"Yeah," You mutter, nodding slowly, "We should…"
You pause mid-way, your voice trailing off like you'd either gotten distracted or completely lost what idea you had of what you were going to say; and, yeah, he wholeheartedly agrees. He was only trying to keep a brave face, but he felt so strongly he could cry— he wanted so badly it was painful.
"—You, you go inside. Strip before you enter and leave your clothes… outside, by the door. I'll, uh, I'll handle them while you shower and cool off."
"What are you going to do?" The question tumbles out of his mouth automatically, but its concern is true. "We don't— We don't know how long this stuff lasts. We can't be separated forever,"
He's unsure if that last part is him, or the spores' effect talking. Truthfully— he can't bring himself to care a freaking lick (God, if he could lick You…). Swallowing, he continues, "At least not without some difficulties."
"Doesn't matter," You wave your hand in front of your face as you shake your head, as if to brush him off, "Just— just go. I need… to log the— the symptoms, and get rid of the goddamn plant."
He listens, feeling his mouth curl back in slight distaste of the idea. He didn't want to leave; he didn't even want to be this far away from you, let alone so much more he couldn't even see you. It didn't feel right— the idea stung, like physical pain.
"Wha— You can't— you can't touch it!" He blurts, ignoring the fact his voice is in a higher pitch than it usually is, "—Not, uh, without gloves. It's dangerous. And we don't have any fresh ones out here. You should come. Inside. You know… to get new ones? It's bad to reuse them. Very unprofessional."
Why is he saying this?
Okay, yeah, his brain is practically screaming at him to crawl over to you and just do something so he'll stop feeling tether-less, but he doesn't mean to say it. Or imply anything. It just… slips out, on accident. Completely. A complete accident. Yeah.
Yeah.
inhaling slowly through his mouth, he swallows again, crawling backward to put some distance between the two of you, preferably before anything shifts and you both end up in the gravel. Also preferably with you on top of him, with your hands on the back of his neck and—-
"Then I'll figure something out— Ryland, please, just go. We don't know what this stuff… does."
…Right. He probably should get all the spores off of him, huh? They don't seem to be helping. At all. Like, any.
"I'm going," He finally announces, forcing himself to stand even when it's the last thing he wants to do; his knees feel weak, and so does his brain. His mind feels fuzzy when it's not thinking about you or anything to do with… well, he knows what. "I'm going. I, um, promise I won't take too long. Like last time. And the time before that."
"Grace—"
"Okay, okay, I'll stop talking now."
Will he really?
Probably not.
Nonetheless, he puts one foot in front of the other, unable to ignore the heat that gathers in his stomach as he walks past you— your breathing is wrecked, and the sight of your clenched fists and slight shaking do nothing to help his want to stay; for some reason, his brain finds wild comfort (And interest) in the fact you feel a similar, if not the same, way as him.
As he walks, he sucks in an unsteady breath, roughly wiping the spores off of his glasses and onto the bottom hem of his shirt; the further he gets from you, the more it all hurts. The heat gains, and it feels like an invisible iron against his every being, only mounting to the headache now clawing behind his eyes.
I can totally take this, he thinks, using a shaky hand to slip his glasses back on, If he can, I can, right?
Who am I kidding. He's, like, three times stronger than I am.
He runs the front of his palms down his jeans as he steps up to the front door, trying to wipe some of the sweat off of them before he reaches up to undo the buttons of his shirt— this doesn't feel good, either, so he sticks close to the wall and prays no one looks this way.
Even now, with his body temperature wildly higher than It needs to be and under the influence of some strange spores, the humiliation doesn't go away. The pain doesn't, either, instead running the opposite direction and only continuing to mount.
Dropping his shirt, he jerkily undoes the clasp of his belt, roughly yanking it out of the denim loops and letting it join his shirt. He can't decide whether the lack of fabric grinding against his skin feels better or worse— he's so sensitive it feels like he's on fire.
He toes off his shoes, kicking them off to the side before he reaches down to the button of his jeans; unable to help it, he shoots a look over the scars of his left shoulder, letting his gaze naturally find you. You're handling the plant now, moving it over to the entrance of the Bio-dome so Rocky or Adrian can take it out when they come over next.
Even from this distance, thanks to his glasses, he can see the ragged rise and fall of your shoulders as you breathe.
He has to force himself to re-focus. Peeling his jeans off, he steps out of them, quickly opening the front door and stepping inside— as the door slams behind him, he winces, slowly letting go of the knob and moving forward, past the kitchen, the screen room that Rocky refused to not add, and finally into the bathroom.
Stepping over his dirty clothes from yesterday he forgot to pick up, he sinks down to rest on the side of the tub to catch his breath, reaching over to turn the cold water on, and…
Nothing.
"You've got to be kidding me— Seriously, shower? Now is the time you decide to break? When I need you most?"
Dropping his arm, he hangs his head and squeezes his eyes shut. The shower had a habit of refusing to work; something about a hose kinking somewhere within the fresh-water system and here, both you and Rocky had explained. More than once.
He groans, but with how broken and defeated it is, it's more like a ruined whine or a grumble.
Deciding for the next best thing on the how-to-stop-overheating list, he, rather quickly, makes his way back to the kitchen and pulls the fridge open. And laying inside, limply against a frozen thing of Me-burgers, is his Holy Grail.
The bag of ice.
Yanking it from the fridge, the closest the fridge door, reaching up and pushing the coolness of the ice against his too-hot face— then, he steps over to the kitchen island, moving the thing of ice to rest on the back of his neck as he drapes himself over the cold counter-top.
It's heaven.
Pushing his forehead into the counter, he stretches his arms out in front of him, forming desperate parallel lines of cold-seeking embarrassment. Sure, the shower was dramatic and temperamental, but it doesn't mean he's screwed. At least for now— his tummy is still searing hot with want, even in spite of what he tries to do to prevent his brain from controlling him any more than it is.
He tilts his head, panting against the surface of the counter as he presses his cheek into the cold; the bag of ice slips, and he has to reach back and fix it before it falls. Before laying his arm back down, he lifts his head just high enough to pull his glasses off, setting them aside and returning to his earlier positions.
He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to calm himself down.
It does nothing.
All he can think about is you.
If your groans sound different when you feel good, if he could make you feel good, how nice it'd be if you just come back and fuck him sensles—
His head pops up immediately at the sound of the doors hinges whining as they open; he makes eye-contact with you just as fast, and you both pause. You're stripped down to your underwear like he is, panting like you just ran a marathon, face dusted pink in a blush he's sure he matches on his own face.
"I thought you were supposed to be in the shower?" You blurt, your voice breaking weakly.
He blinks. "It decided to… quit working."
"Again?" You question, leaning back against the door and squeezing your eyes shut, just like he was moments before. "Shit."
"Yeah," He nods slowly, straightening out and sliding the back of ice over the counter, a free offer. "The, uh, the ice helps. Some."
As you step forward, drop the pen and notepad onto the counter and snag the ice, his gaze slips southward, to your stomach. You've a few scars there; a jagged, wide one from your front to the side, a few smaller ones in clusters, a medium sized one that cuts down below your underwear's waistband.
You're still muscular, though. Where he'd, admittedly, gained a few pounds back after regaining access to food upon the touchdown on Erid, you still held yourself pleasantly— that, or he hadn't noticed much of a change, if at all.
You were good-looking. Always had been, really, but after years together on Mary — and the VERY close proximity that came with — and seeing you handle stressful situations with a sexy amount of control… well, you might as well be a Greek God.
An Adonis, if you will.
"My eyes are up here, you know. I can practically see the thoughts in your head."
He raises his gaze instantly.
"S— Sorry," He fumbles, his mouth opening silently, but he finds no valuable excuse to defend himself with. "…Sorry."
"I'm kidding," You laugh, but it's breathless, and not all there, like you didn't truly find anything funny. He knew, feeling like this, he couldn't. He watches you pull the ice from your throat, then as you slide it back over to him, rest your forearms on the counter, and sink down to rest your forehead against the tops of your arms.
Your voice is slightly muffled when you continue. "…Haven't exactly been an angel myself."
"What's that mean?" He questions, swallowing the saliva pooling in his mouth at the free sight of your scar-littered, muscular back— he presses his lips together, leaning against the cold edge of the counter to try to feel like he's regained Some control of himself.
He hasn't.
You say nothing as you straighten back up, instead, you wordlessly make eye-contact with him; but you break it as you look down to his lips, back to his eyes, his lips again, then down his front and over to the burn scars over his forearm and upward on his left side.
Heat blooms everywhere he can feel you look.
It should freak him out— he was under the influence of hormone-altering spores, he should be running away screaming and locking himself into the bedroom and keeping distance from you. So you could both rough this out on your own and pretend it didn't happen.
But… It's not.
Quite the opposite, really.
"What'd you do to the plant?" He questions breathlessly, pulling the ice away from his face and leaning over the counter to hand it to you— he's not sure what gets him more; the touch of your hand brushing his as you take it, or the cold lick of the counters edge right above his crotch.
He wants to grab you, to yank you over to this side and kiss you so hard it hurts, but he refrains.
It's a feat within itself, really.
"Put it by the door," You mutter, raising the ice to press against your cheek, "With a note for Rocky."
He nods, chewing on his bottom lip as he drops his hand, pressing the heel of it against the edge of the counter. His fingers curl, gripping it tight in an attempt to clear his head from the thoughts running rampant— What it'd be like for you to fuck him here in the kitchen, in the living room, in the bathroom, in the shower…
"And— And the clothes?"
"In a spare storage tub... 'Cept for your belt, and mine. They're still by the door."
He nods again.
Sure, it's wildly risky to just be conversing like it's a casual Thursday when you're both… like this, but the pain is gone— almost completely, aside from the ever-present inferno of his body temperature. He doubts that's going to go away today, but as long as it doesn't hurt, he'll try not to think about it.
He doesn't think you want to be in any more pain, either.
It really stings. Moreso than the ache in his gut, or the throbbing between his legs.
He glances up when he catches you move in his peripheral, accepting the bag of now-slightly-melted ice and watching you move around the island, over to the fridge.
God, your back is insane.
"How long do you think this'll last?" He murmurs, pressing the ice against his tummy— he twitches, sensitive. More than usual; it feels like every part of him has heightened receptors to touch, even his own.
Hm. He tacks it into his brain to record as a symptom, later.
You shrug, prying the fridge open and pulling two waters out from inside of it, "I'd have a better shot at getting back to Earth than figuring that out, G."
"Well…" He laughs awkwardly, licking his lips, "At least we're in it together, right? I doubt this whole… 'having odd reactions to an alien plant species that totally wasn't my fault' thing would be as fun if we weren't? I mean, that's a bright side?"
You shake your head, nudging the fridge door closed with your knee before you turn, handing him a cold water bottle as you push yours against your neck. "I don't think I ever want to have 'fun,' again in my life. I've had enough for one lifetime."
"Whaaat? You don't want to get sick on an unexplored planet in another life? That's awful, [Name]. A complete insult to me and my alien affections!" He accepts the water with a small nod of a thank-you, inhaling slowly at your proximity— it's the closest you've been since he shoved you off of him earlier, and he can't help but notice it.
But he's being sarcastic, of course. If he isn't, he doesn't think he could bring himself to look away from you.
Not that he can anyway.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Ryland— I'd love to get stranded with you every lifetime, I was just kidding!"
Now it's your turn to be sarcastic; and he can't say it turns him off any. Actually, the mock sympathy only makes his heart beat a little faster— the way your mouth curves down into a pitying, fake frown, how your eyebrows draw together and your head tilts…
And the way you say his name?
Stick a fork in 'im. He's done. He's over his head.
Yeah, he can't get it out of his brain.
His lips part as he swallows, feeling the volcano roar in his stomach; he continues staring, influenced and suddenly shameless with need, staring so intently he watches your expression changes the second it happens.
You go from mocking, to curious, to unreadable.
He watches every single one of them have their turn.
He gets two seconds to gasp until you're crossing the kitchen and cutting it off with a kiss.
The warmth blooms upward from his stomach to his chest as you groan into his mouth, and he fumbles to set the ice down as he kisses back— it's clumsy, hot, and quick; it's a physical need rather than a want. He can barely hear the sound of the bag of ice slipping off the counter and onto the floor over the rush of blood in his ears, but he doesn't care.
You continue moving even as you're connected, forcing him to walk backward as he kisses you until a shudder wracks his spine at the cold edge of the counter bumps into his lower back, but whatever chill there was is instantly staved off the moment your hands find his waist, fingertips digging into his skin.
Kissing has never felt so fucking good.
It's like a full-body satisfaction— whatever warmth or pain he had before is synthesized into pleasure, then doubling that into euphoria.
He returns the passion as you tilt your head, making his head tilt back a little until he pushes back, feeling your chest rise and fall in an out-of-sync rhythm against his own; though it's instantly forgotten as his body shivers, his chest tightening pleasantly as you grind against him.
Whining into your mouth, he chases you as you lean your head back, barely registering as you pull his glasses off of his face and set them aside.
God, you feel good.
"This— This is," He pants, swallowing harshly, "Really, really unhygienic."
Your arms box him in as you pull them from his waist, settling them on either side of him on the counter as you pull back, slide a leg between his own, and come closer. An open-mouthed, choked gasp is yanked from his throat at the friction, and whatever care he has disappears.
It's not like you answer, anyway— you just duck your head down and kiss him again, nudging your knee further between his own to, apparently, give him more pleasure as you move your arms to coil around his middle.
And to heck if it doesn't work.
His hand slides up as he hooks an arm around the back of your neck, keeping you in place; if you moved away now, he'd cry. Literally. His other drops to grip along your hip, his fingers brushing a scar there— it must be sensitive, too, because you hum into his mouth and push him further into the counter.
It doesn't hurt; you'd moved your arm down, so your forearm pressed into the counter instead of his back. It didn't snake any lower, but it makes you lean down a little more; and when he grinds his hips again, it feels like heaven.
Actual heaven.
"Don't— Don't move," He gasps, panting into your mouth as his hand tightens around your hip, "Right there, please, don't move,"
He's never felt so sensitive in his life.
You seem to realize that, too, because you prey on it; as he ruts against your leg and yourself, your arm tightens around his lower back, pulling him even closer. You moan into his mouth as he kisses you back with fervor, and it only eggs him on— he arches his spine just slightly, making you chase him and lean over him more.
This feels even better. You do— whether it's the spores or you making him feel so good — like he hasn't ever before, with anyone else — he doesn't know, but he doesn't care about it much now.
"mmng— I—"
He can barely talk in-between kisses; sometimes they're deeper, sometimes they're more superficial but within rapid fashion— he doesn't care. They all work him toward that edge, tighten the coil in his tummy he's chasing—
"Don't stop—"
The moment you pull away to catch your breath and mouth at his neck, the coil snaps.
A broken whine is yanked from his throat as he ruts his hips, squeezing his eyes shut and leaning forward to nudge his nose into your shoulder. His hold on you tightens as he breathes in short, heavy inhales, continuing and tailed by ruined groans and whimpers, his thighs tightening around yours when you move.
You're panting against his neck, whatever noises you're making being muffled by the fact you've got your teeth in him— the sting feels better than he'd ever thought he'd be into, so he lets it happen, slowly relaxing in sync with you as he comes down from his high, but he still lets his hips roll experimentally.
You moan.
"Did y—?"
"…Uh-huh."
That's hot.
You're still breathing heavy by the time you retreat into his neck, not allowing either of you to come down completely or catch your breaths until your pushing your mouths together again, and he can faintly sense the feeling of your nose bumping into his as you tilt your head.
"Wanna go again?" You murmur, pressing a little kiss to the side of his mouth.
He nods, only to clear his throat. "Y— Yeah. The, uh, the bedroom this time, though? Please."
Is he going to last the entire night?
Maybe not. He's not the most… sexually active guy in the world, but God could you make him be.
Is he also sure you'll stop one-hundred percent the moment he's done?
Completely.
"I love you," He mumbles, leaning forward and dropping his face into your shoulder. "Love you."
