With an internal monologue like this it ought to have been impossible to stay in the mood, but despite Ford's best efforts at spoiling everything for himself things were escalating. Tycho's moan stirred something up inside him. The kisses to his jawline were pinpricks of pleasure, because somehow his skin seemed to have become more sensitive under Ty's lips than it had ever been before. Ford's hands fell away as Tycho's face moved down, but he didn't know what to do with them. Every time Tycho kissed him Ford had a fleeting desire to push him away, just to stop the onslaught of sensations for a moment, and he was worried that unless he found something to occupy his hands he would succumb to it and then be forced to explain himself. Ford tangled one of his hands in his own hair, his grip tightening slightly each time Tycho drove him a little further, while the other stretched out across the bed.

He sucked in a breath when Tycho flicked his tongue across Ford's nipple, surprised and tantalized. His guard had fallen too much, because he barely thought before he replied, "And I feel like you would say that to anyone." This was what he'd been thinking all night, but he hadn't been planning to say it aloud. A sentiment like that could ruin the moment, if Tycho decided to force Ford to unpack it all. Ford was going to have to get better at watching what his tongue. He couldn't always count on being able to throw himself into a kiss to keep himself from saying something stupid, if Tycho was going to insist on having his mouth so many different places tonight.

"Poets," he added in an indulgent tone, to cover his slip, "Think everything is beautiful."

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