This Was So Sweet, I Want To Be This Loved As Well

This was so sweet, I want to be this loved as well 🥺💔

My Peace

“You took my hand, added a plan, you gave me your heart.”

simon x reader list

Warnings: smut, blood, violance, swearing, fluff, angst, mentions of torture

You sighed as Simon sucked the side of your neck. Biting down hard as he rolled his hips in you. You felt his hard cock lay against your thigh. His hand trail down your leg gripping the meaty part of your thigh. His hand will run up to you stomach holding it there for a moment. “Fuck y/n, what have you done to me?” He whispered, grunting as he felt his cock rub against you.

You giggled that lead into a long sigh as he played with your panties. You were soaked, you knew it just from him moaning loudly. He slipped his hand down your panties and inhaled deeply. “Christ my love,” He mumbled dipping a finger into your cunt. “Fucking soaked.”

“Just for you Simon.”

You opened your eyes once more as the man in front of you carved the knife into your arm. You had to be in your safe space, your safe space being him. Simon. It was hours of the man torturing you. Water boarding, cutting, cigarette burning, he even started to break your fingers. You knew your ribs were shattered. Blood seeping through your nose and wounds they made.

The bastards didn’t let off for more than 10 minutes. Making sure to scare you and try to get you to give the information. Instead of focusing on here you thought of Simon. The last private moment you had with him. Yes it was sex however, it was the best moment you could think of. You also thought about the way he would softly chuckle when you tried to make jokes. The way he would stare at you. You had to disassociate yourself from being tortured. You had to think of your peaceful place.

It happened fast, you were retreating back to the LZ with civilians but it was too late. “Bravo this is Bravo 9-0 we are surrounded! You gotta take off!” You yelled as the solider that stayed with you shot back to the enemy.

“What? No we are comin’ to ya!” Ghost yelled back.

You shook your head, shooting back as the solider covered to reload. “Negative! I repeat negative! You have to get out of here!” You yelled again. When you turned your head, RPG came into view. “Fuck! RP…” Then black.

You kissed Simon as he lined up his cock into you. Pressing against your entrance. “I love you.” You whispered holding his cheek.

At first Simon was shocked, at first you thought he was going to zip up and leave. Then he crashed his lips into you pushing fully in. You gasped at the feeling, his cock ripping you open in the most painful satisfying feeling. He slowly pulled out to slam back in. Simon’s breathing was becoming more pants as he picked up more. Grabbing every part he could reach, loving how you would wrap around him. Hold him near you. feeling your heartbeat thump harder. Faster.

You jolted awake, your head bobbing forward. “There ya are.” You glared up, softly. You knew that voice. Your body shivered. Simon.

“Simon.” You whispered as you felt the restrictions become weakened.

Simon held your cheeks as Soap broke the ropes and chains. “It’s me baby girl,” He tried lifting your face to look at him. “Open your eyes.”

You sighed and tried to but to close them back. “It’s,” You moaned as you felt him shift you. “Ow.”

Simon looked over at Soap. “Let’s get her out of here, take point.”

“Fucking hell y/n,” He whispered into your neck. “You feel…fuck…You feel amazing.” He bucked harder into you as you held onto him gasping from the contact. You gasped louder as he started to go faster feeling your pussy clench around him. His mind buzzing with nothing but pleasure.

How did he deserve her? Have her say those fucking pretty words? He couldn’t be loved? He couldn’t love? Yet here he is, feeling his heart flutter anytime you laugh, look at him, talk, moan, cry. He loved being around you. Being close to you. Never in his life has he felt this way especially with a solider that worked beside him.

He grunted loudly as he hit that one spot you craved. “Si fuck right there don’t stop please pleeease!” You cried clinging onto him for dear life. Seeing stars as he kept pounding into that spot over and over. Your body on fire.

“Price we are losin her!” You heard Simon yell as the movements of what you think a car.

Your body felt like it was burning all over. You groaned anytime someone put pressure on anything. You opened your eyes at some points seeing Simon, his eyes panicked, his hands bloody. You wanted to reach for him to tell him you are okay.

You didn’t even remember how you got into the medical bed. Simon next to you holding your hand. “Si.”

“I’m right here, I’m never gonna leave,” He struggled saying anything feeling his spine tingle his skin flaming. God how you made him feel was out of this world. He wanted to say something more. Give you more. Feel you more. He didn’t know how to. He moaned loudly. “Fuck my good girl taking me all in.”

You gasped as you looked up at him. His brown eyes piercing into you, his jaw clenched anytime you clenched around his cock. His mouth slightly parted letting out huffs and pants. This is what you lived for, him, all of him. Ghost to Simon. Simon to Ghost. Didn’t matter to you. He was your love. Your peace. “I’m all yours. I’m all yours. No one else.” You reached up to place your hands on his cheeks as you felt that band start to snap.

Simon placed his forehead against yours as his hips started to stutter. “Oh fuck,” He growled gripping your hips hard. “That feels…Oh god.” He mumbled as his pace was brutal.

You could hear both of your juices mixing in together. Both of your sweat sticking to one another. Both of you just intertwined. “Cum for me Si! Please please! Pump me with your cum!” You whined, moaning loudly choking back a sob.

Simon slammed his lips into yours, swallowing both yours and his moans. His body shook as he came hard inside your pussy, having you moan softly. He kept pumping until he couldn’t move. Simon moved his lips to your neck kissing softly. “Stay here.” Simon asked holding you closer.

“Y/n,” He whispered gripping your hand. His eyes roaming everywhere, his stare was like you were not real as if he just believed someone telling him that you were here. “Ya here.”

You smiled holding his hand tight as you could. “I’m here love.”

You could tell it was Simon, his eyes soft, maybe fear in them. “I…we almost lost ya.” He whispered looking away.

You frowned. “But you didn’t.”

Simon grunted in agreement, nodding his head softly. It was quiet for a moment. “I love you,” Your heart froze and your skin warmed. He turned to face you. “I love ya so much that I was afraid of losing ya.”

Your eyes started to tear up. “I know. I know Si,” You reached more of him. He followed your actions, as you moved over he laid next to you. At first he was cautious but then laid down fully. “Stay here Simon. Hold me so you know you didn’t loose me.”

Me, but in wattpad. It’s a disturbing place sometimes.

Virgin!readers have my heart

Birthday Love | Ghost

Ghost X F!Reader

Warnings: None really, the illusion of smut and sex is there.

----

            Ghost, was never one for birthdays – he thought they were a waste… And in all honesty he even forgot when his own birthday was.

            But then you walked into his life, and suddenly he could see what it meant to have a birthday.

            You came into his life, when he needed you the most – the heroic medic that took his life by storm, made him question everything, and made him understand what it meant to be loved.

            Your first year together was filled with many firsts for both you and the masked Lieutenant.

            Ghost, had never been in love – but within that first year… He was so in love, it hurt.

            Ghost had never truly been intimate with another person; it was always a rough fuck, then he forgot about them as he was pulled away for missions.

            But not you.

            He needs to trace and remember each curve of your soft skin – needs to remember your scent and taste and burn it to his memory.

            He needs to pull every moan and cry he can from you – needs to dig his teeth into your flesh and brand you with his love and name.

            You wear your heart on your sleeve, with soft edges and blissful smiles that make everyone around you melt.

            He wonders why you choose him – why did you pick him, to fall in love with…

            How did someone with your ray of sunshine, turn a stone cold killer like him… Into a human being.

            -

            It’s a peaceful morning – fall is in the air, you can feel it creeping in through the small opening of the window.

            The sky is gray with dark thunderous clouds, yet no rain has fallen.

            It was your favorite weather – the calm before the rain.

            Your home sits perched on the edge of the small creek, hidden in plain sight mixed with the trees and colorful leaves.

            Your room – the safe haven, you and Ghost escape too, smells of sex and a lingering mist of whiskey and sweets.

            You’re tangled, naked in his embrace, head resting on his broad tattooed chest, fingers tracing mindlessly over scars both old and new.

            “Mmm, don’t stop that pretty girl,” Ghost sits between sleepiness and wakefulness, his hands drawing small circles across your back and ass.

            You look up at your lover, your best friend and Lieutenant, a sleepy smile gracing your full lips, “Happy Birthday baby,” you whisper softly, your breath warm against his skin.

            Ghost – was never one for birthdays… He always thought they were a waste of time.

            But that was then…

            Now, he has you…

            And now every year… He looks forward to his birthday, knowing you’re there beside him.

            Ghost, gives you a rare smile, pressing a small kiss to your forehead as he hugs you a bit tighter.

            “Thank you baby doll.”

I ended up crying too, my hormones are crazy istg.

where you cook for Simon but the food's not all he eats

PAIRING: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader 

WARNINGS: food description. established situationship.  domestic and angsty.  also exactly what it sounds like.  18+ only.

LENGTH:  3.4k

The horror of developing feelings for someone with whom there was no chance of reciprocity was that the heart didn’t care.  The heart continued to free-fall and make a constant and consistent fool out of you. 

_____

The horror of developing feelings for someone with whom there was no chance of reciprocity was that the heart didn’t care.  The heart continued to free-fall and make a constant and consistent fool out of you.  

In all fairness, you had tried your best to stop it, anticipating how things would end.  You’d thought about asking for some space—as though Simon Riley didn’t routinely leave for weeks, if not months— hoping you’d find the reset button in your chest that would restore the status quo.  

And then he’d come back from…wherever his job had taken him this time around, asked if he could see you. 

You were quite proud of how you’d resisted for an entire quarter of an hour before responding.

Sunday roast at mine?

What do you need me to bring?

Just be there.

You spend the rest of the week daydreaming about prepping vegetables and cooking  meat, as though your heart didn’t threaten to burst out of your chest, as though you weren’t thrilled at the opportunity of doing this domestic thing for him, with him, as though everything would be okay if he just ate a home-cooked meal with you.

It wasn’t like the two of you hadn’t eaten together before.  But you couldn’t help but feel that this was different.  

You cooked over 200 covers at work everyday.  Fuck, you’d gotten into this profession—given up so many things to get good at your job—to feed people. To make people happy using the food you put in front of them.  You knew you were good at it.

But cooking a meal for Simon?  Pretending you were someone to him, feeding him on a Sunday afternoon, pretending to be the pinnacle of domesticity?  It was almost too much.

It was almost too much because it was exactly what you wanted.

_____

Sunday turns out to be the perfect day for your lunch.  Thunder and lightning rage outside your kitchen window, trying brilliantly to outdo one another and you decide that you’ve never been more glad that he’s with you. 

You’re honing your knife while he hovers at your elbow, scrutinising your movements. 

“So…” you start, and instantly want to kick yourself for being a fool.  When has being cagey ever gotten you anywhere with him?  “When was the last time you ate a home cooked meal?”

He grunts and shifts on his feet.  He’s leaning against your kitchen counter while you stand beside him, working on it.  He’s so effortlessly sexy, it irritates you to no end.  “You ‘ave something to say about ration packs, dove?”

“As a tax-payer that funds them? No.  As someone who cooks for a living?  Mm,  yes.”  You notice how his eyes follow the movement of your knife across the chopping board.  “How does it work, do you guys get normal meals when you’re on base?”  

“Jesus, watch your fingers!” he grunts, and your eyes slowly turn back to the chopping board, secretly pleased.  “And what the fuck do you mean, ‘course there’s food on base.”  Oh, he’s nice and annoyed now.

Time to strike.

“I meant, like, good meals.  Satisfying, nutritious stuff.”

“Sure,” he shrugs.  Then sighs and his chin juts out to motion at the meat he’d helpfully stuck in the oven for you.  “Nothing like this, though.  Not fancy.”

You snort, and it’s an unattractive noise that leaves you.  “This is a roast lunch, Simon.  This is not fancy.  Fanciest part of this is the Yorkshire pudding, and only because I’m making it from scratch.”

“Could’ve bought it made, dove,” he points out, decidedly unhelpfully.        

“Heh, no.”

He keeps you company in the kitchen the whole way through.  When you tell him to go sit down, maybe put something on on the telly, entertain himself for a bit, he shakes his head.  Came here to be with you, yeah?  So he stays.

He asks intelligent questions about your work, what you do, but also why you do things a certain way.  Some answers come easy, but others you need to think about.  He stays silent during that time, never pushes, content to wait while you think about your answer.   

Eventually, the two of you fall into silence—but it’s what you recognise, what you’re comfortable with.  He’s not much of a natural conversationalist and you cherish being in a kitchen with your own thoughts—not a luxury you’re often afforded.  

“Why aren’t you workin’ today?  Thought you didn’t take Sundays off.”

“Hm?  Oh I don’t.  I can’t, usually, it’s one of the busiest days of the week.  But I haven’t really taken a weekend off in like 6 months, thought I’d do it now.”

“And you’re spending your time off from cooking by cooking.”  It’s a statement of fact, but his voice has an edge.

You stay silent at first, the motion of your knife methodically working across the chopping board both familiar and reassuring.  “It’s…different.  Cooking at work and cooking at home.  I wouldn’t fucking bother with this usually, true, it’s cereal and beers for me on Sundays, but you have not had a decent roast in some time.”  You shrug.  “I’m more than happy to spend my day off changing that.”

The oven beeps, and he moves wordlessly to pull the meat out,  the rich fragrance of the red wine the meat was cooking in instantly permeating your house.  Checking the internal temperature quickly, you direct him to put the meat back in and close the oven door.  “About 20 minutes on the meat, then half an hour to rest.  We’ll pop the Yorkshires in while the meat rests and then all we’ve got to do is roast the pine nuts.  You want to help me make the spuds?”

“Yes,” he mutters, gruff.

“Yes, chef,” you correct, and instantly freeze, your eyes going wide.  Shit.  

Through the periphery of your vision, you see his body slowly turn towards you, his arm outstretched.  He grabs your forearm and jerks him to you.  “You like being called that in your kitchen?”  His voice is raspy but soft, and it makes you shudder, makes your breathing shallow.

“It’s a sign of respect,” you whisper.

“I respect you,” he whispers back.  The hand on your arm winds its way around and rests on your ass.  “Respect you so much, sweet girl.  Look at you.”

And if anyone, anyone else, had said those words, you’d be put off, offended.  By all means, they should be mocking, condescending.  But his voice pours so much…reverence into the words, he could almost be singing a love song to you.  It jars you, the warmth with which he says the words, makes you want to retreat and hide, as much as it makes you preen.  

He doesn’t give you the opportunity to do either.

“Love seein’ you work. So controlled.  Organised.”  He bends down to you to peck you on the cheek through his balaclava, and your eyes close involuntarily.  “You’re gorgeous, chef.”  With that, he releases you, and steps back. 

You take a second to remember how to breathe, then turn back to work with a flushed face.  Your skin feels warm, and your fingers have a slight tremor to them.  This is what Simon does to you.  He says a few words to you but so ardently and with so much quiet sincerity that your heart overflows.  It makes you feel like an unmoored boat at sea.  Free to roam the ocean, see sights beyond imagination, free to fight against a storm but come apart anyway.  He is both.  He is everything.

The feeling that washes over you then makes you pause, but only for a split second.  Of course you feel the way you feel.  It’s not just sex for you (was it ever?) but what about him?.

You don’t know what he’s thinking, you reason.  Maybe this has turned into not-just-sex for him too.  You choose to stay quiet.

What you don’t know about his feelings can’t break your heart.

_____

Lunch is subdued.

Correction: You’re pleased with how lunch turns out, lunch is fine, but Simon is subdued.  Well.  Maybe subdued isn’t the right word, but he looks thoughtful. Reflective, even.   

He eats quietly, the mask sitting on the gentle bridge of his nose, exposing his lips and his lower cheeks.  He even goes for seconds, which makes your insides feel exactly like the warm pomegranate molasses you’ve been experimenting with at work.  

After you’re both done, he offers to  clean up—bringing you a glass of wine and practically pushing you out to your living room.  The day’s excitement (and your broken sleep from the night before) finally catch up with you, and you acquiesce easily, though not before you turn around quickly for a sneaky view.  Simon’s got his sleeves neatly folded up, his tattoo on full display.  He cleans the dishes with a precision you would normally use to plate up at work.  His concentration never wavers, his motions calculated and steady and…you shouldn’t be surprised.  

But, he’s a soldier, you reason.  Precision is what he does for a living.  More importantly for you, Simon has made you come on his hand, on his tongue, on his cock enough times for you to know quite well by now that he can focus on a task, give it his absolute attention, and that he can keep doing it for hours on end.  The thought makes you rub your thighs together, your insides warming.

“Alright, dove?”

Simon’s voice is closer than you expect, and you jerk out of your daydreaming with a start.

He stands behind you, his hand slowly landing on your shoulder, and you lean your head back over the headrest of your settee to look at him, his features equally as lovely from your upside down perspective.  The mask has come back down over his face, but his eyes are soft.  “You look cosy.”

“Food coma,” you smile.  “Lunch okay?”

“Lunch was great, pet,” he says and your relief makes your eyes close of their own accord.

His hands move over your shoulders firmly, massaging the tension from them, and you completely sink into the seat.  His hands are calloused, rough, but so warm.  His fingers work the muscles in your shoulder, kneading them and releasing knots in your shoulders you didn’t even realise you had. 

“Oh, oh, mm” you groan, and you can’t even tell your spine from your settee anymore. 

“Christ, dove,”  he murmurs. “What did you do to yourself?”

“On my feet 13 hours a day,” you gasp, as his hands move on to the muscles in your neck. “Horrible posture.”

“Pretty girl…let me take care of you.”  The words are a whisper that makes your eyes open. 

His words are innocent enough, but the way he looks at you makes the muscles in your stomach free-fall and your heart clench in anticipation. 

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats. And without breaking eye contact, he walks around you, taking your empty wine glass from your hand and setting it on your coffee table, and lifts you bridal style into his arms, walking slowly towards your bedroom. 

It drives you insane, the slow walk, the eyes that burn into yours. Something’s changed. You’d thought he was contemplative before, lost in his thoughts over lunch, but whatever he was thinking about then, he seems to have made up his mind.

He sets you on the bed lightly, and within seconds he’s on top of you, kissing you. The kiss starts out slow enough, his mouth gentle but unyielding against yours. If you had your way, you’d kiss this man until the heat death of the universe, and even then, you’d only let him go because the matter you were both made of had fused with each other forever. 

He continues to kiss you, his hands moving over your body, manoeuvring you slowly, so he ends up kneeling on the floor in between your spread legs. The lace that covers your cunt is past the point of no return, completely soaked and entirely ruined, just by the burning thought of what Simon’s about to do to you. 

“This okay, yeah?” His words are followed by his hands rubbing up your thighs, green eyes almost black with how dilated they are, looking up at you through his lashes. “Tell me if it’s not.”

“More than okay,” you pant.  His attention has moved to the soft underside of your jaw, where his mouth keeps moving, all tongue and teeth on the sensitive skin.  Arousal moves through you like liquid lava—burning hot, obliterating all doubt and thoughts equally. 

“Will you—can I put my mouth on you?” He asks, his words slightly muffled behind your jaw. 

His thumbs move just under the edge of your top and rub against your hip bone, while his teeth bite your bottom lip.  “Yeah…yeah okay, Simon.”

_____

Simon Riley, you surmise, must be a really good soldier.  Well.  He’s certainly got the physique for it—the man is cut—and he’s got the discipline and the attitude.  But what he’s got in spades is the ability to follow through.

The man’s knees and back must hurt.  He’s a big man, much too big to be comfortable hunched over your pussy the way he currently is.  In spite of it all, he shows no signs of discomfort, looks like he’s completely content to eat you out for hours without any signs of stopping.

This okay, darling?  You like that, like my tongue inside ya?  Gonna come in my mouth, yeah?  Gonna use me to get off?  

He’s coaxed an orgasm from you already, the sensation of it almost bitter-sweet on your tongue.  The first one is always intense with him, you find.  It’s the sweetest push and pull, and he’d pushed you to your limit with it, had sucked on your clit like he was trying to pull it from your body.  When you’d come down, blinking at him, the scar around his lip was even more pronounced with the arrogant smirk bracketing his mouth.  You’d asked sweetly, then whined, then begged to suck his dick, sit on it, touch him, something, anything, but he’d shaken his head.

Took such good care of me already, sweet girl. No one–no one’s ever…So good to me, such a good girl, let me do this please let me do this for you.

He’d gone back for seconds for the second time in the day.

You rise on one elbow, the other hand going up to his head.  No hair to fist on account of the balaclava, but you run gentle fingers over his fabric-covered head anyway.  

He freezes, two fingers inside you, tongue hot on your clit.

“What,” you pant.  “What is it?”

He removes his fingers from you, and your long drawn out whine would be embarrassing if you were working with more than two brain cells.

He’s strangely nervous, his eyes darting to yours and away in a split second.     

“I–I like you touching me.”

“Uh–okay.”

“I like you touching my hair.”

That shuts you up.  The room is lit by the hint of an afternoon sun and so you’re not exactly sure where this line of conversation is going.  Obviously, you want to see his face.

You’re curious about his face, his body, God, you haven’t even seen something as uncontroversial as his shoulders.  The flatteringly tight t-shirts he wears are almost always dark and it’s not like he ever takes them off.  You’ve seen his Adonis belt in flashes.  You’ve seen his cock, obviously.  His forearms, his lips.  Of course you’re curious.

But most of all, more than anything else, you’re respectful of his boundaries.  So you try your best to make him feel safe, never ask about the mask.  You don’t need to know his life’s history to know that pain and grief are old friends.  It may not be clear on his face—not that you’d know if it was—but it’s there in the way he holds himself, in the way he withdraws sometimes, in the way he’d told you not to expect more from him before he’d ever fucked you.     

The memory makes you wilt a bit, and it doesn’t go unnoticed.  You put your tongue in your cheek and raise your brows at him, questioningly.

He huffs and shakes his head, almost disbelievingly.  “Will you…if I take it off, will you keep your eyes closed.”

It’s phrased like a question, but ends up sounding more assertive than anything.  

“I will, I promise.  I won’t look,” you whisper.  “But…would you like to cover my eyes anyway?  There’s some scarves in my closet you can use.”

He gulps.  Nods.  Stands up stiffly and grabs the first scarf he sees.  

He doesn’t make eye contact with you the whole time he covers your eyes, but just before your vision goes dark, you catch the way his throat works hard and his eyes are shiny, the way they are when he’s inside you.  

Your eyes finally covered, you shift under him, expecting him to turn his attention back to your aching cunt, but there’s only quiet and hushed rustling of fabric.  You feel his hands just barely touch your hair with feather-soft touches and an index finger wraps itself around a strand.  He breathes deeply and you feel warm lips on your cheek, before he moves down to your jaw bone.  You feel his lips move but you can’t hear his words, can’t read his lips to know what he’s saying.  His lips move back to give you one last kiss, just on the corner of your lips, before he scoots down all the way, reaching up to put your hand in his hair, and going back to eating you out.

Simon moves with an urgency now, his legs spread wider, so your cunt is at his eye-level.  He’s more desperate, licks you with more fervour.  His tongue runs tight circles on your clit, one finger, then two pistoning inside you, finding that spot that has an absolutely devastating effect on you.  Each thrust of his fingers pulls a gasp out of your open mouth, his lips so persistent but so gentle on your clit, and suddenly, you wish that you’d never met him, never started this thing that’s going to destroy you when it ends.

You feel tears in your eyes and a lump in your throat, and your whimpers must get his attention because he speeds up slightly, hitting that spot inside you just right and you grind against his face once, twice, three times, while your pleasure washes over you.  You let out a small sob, and his hand around your hip tightens in response, but his mouth doesn’t stop moving against your cunt, and you think you get away with it.

You should've known better, though, as the scarf is removed from your eyes in a second, and you feel him hovering over you.  You squeeze your eyes shut, your hand quickly going up to your eyes to cover them, wanting to give him that extra bit of comfort that you can’t—won’t—look at him without his permission.

“Pet? What’s–what’s wrong?”  His voice is hoarse, and you know he hasn’t put his balaclava back on because you hear every peak and trough of his tone.  “Did I hurt you?” he says, and his voice breaks a bit.

“No,” you whisper immediately, your eyes still leaking traitor tears.  “I’m sorry, I’m okay I promise, I just came really hard.  That’s all.  It’s the hormones,” you add, and your small, forced laugh sounds unconvincing, even to you. 

You hear him sigh before his hand tries to tugs yours away from your eyes.  You resist a bit, then give up, squeezing your eyes shut even harder, until you have a head rush.

“Sweet girl.”  The tone of his voice doesn’t sound like he believes you, but thankfully he doesn’t push it.   Instead, he melts into you, giving you sweet, open-mouthed kisses on the edges of your lips, sipping your tears, his entwined hands moving behind your neck so he can use the leverage to turn you to your side.  

You face each other, just making out for what feels like hours.  You’re so, so tired, so exhausted from the long day and the roller-coaster of emotions you always feel around him.  Your heart’s in it, but your kisses slow, turn lazy, drawn out.  You’re soon hovering on the edge of consciousness, in the dream-like state where you’re aware of your surroundings but missing context when he pulls away from you slightly, and whispers against your lips.

You don’t know what he says.

You don’t find out for a long long time.