There he went, poetry again, until —
"Oh," Ford gasped, with a mix of surprise (wholly unwarranted, given the direction things had been trending for several minutes) and arousal. He moved both hands to tangle in Tycho's hair.
This wasn't what Ford had planned for the evening. He was supposed to get Tycho off first. The plan may not have been fully formed and articulated in his mind, but now he was exquisitely aware of how they had departed from it. Tycho was supposed to come first because if there was going to be a window where only one of them had their thoughts muddled by exhaustion and the haze of the afterglow, it was supposed to be Ty — Ford needed his wits about him, to keep himself from saying something that would wreck everything later. More than that, there was a sense of debit and credit in the bedroom. Ford wanted to have the upper hand, be the one who was gracious and giving and owed reciprocation, not the other way around. If they were going to end up unevenly matched when it came to the emotional investment of this new relationship, as Ford supposed they would, the least he could do was ensure the scales tipped back when it came to sex.
But it wasn't as though he would stop Tycho. Ford moved his hands idly through Ty's hair as the sensations drove all concerns out of his mind, at least for the moment. He finished too quickly. Neither of them had a pocket watch, so it wasn't as though he could verify this assumption, but Ford was nonetheless convinced that he ought to be embarrassed about coming when he did. It would be apparent to Tycho how out of practice Ford was with this sort of thing, obvious how much he'd been longing to be touched by someone (— maybe, subconsciously, longing to be touched by Tycho in particular).
Ford sighed and stretched one hand down from Tycho's head across his neck and back. He felt the familiar mental inertia settling over him and tried to fight it back. He ought to say something, but anything that came to mind was too telling. That was incredible. You're incredible. I can't believe we're doing this. You're so fucking magical. Tell me the poem you wrote again. No one's ever written a poem for me before. What did I do to deserve you? Fuck, Ty, I —
No; that one was too dangerous even to think. It was the afterglow talking. He'd regret it in the morning. He'd regret it in five minutes.
"Kiss me," he begged.
"Oh," Ford gasped, with a mix of surprise (wholly unwarranted, given the direction things had been trending for several minutes) and arousal. He moved both hands to tangle in Tycho's hair.
This wasn't what Ford had planned for the evening. He was supposed to get Tycho off first. The plan may not have been fully formed and articulated in his mind, but now he was exquisitely aware of how they had departed from it. Tycho was supposed to come first because if there was going to be a window where only one of them had their thoughts muddled by exhaustion and the haze of the afterglow, it was supposed to be Ty — Ford needed his wits about him, to keep himself from saying something that would wreck everything later. More than that, there was a sense of debit and credit in the bedroom. Ford wanted to have the upper hand, be the one who was gracious and giving and owed reciprocation, not the other way around. If they were going to end up unevenly matched when it came to the emotional investment of this new relationship, as Ford supposed they would, the least he could do was ensure the scales tipped back when it came to sex.
But it wasn't as though he would stop Tycho. Ford moved his hands idly through Ty's hair as the sensations drove all concerns out of his mind, at least for the moment. He finished too quickly. Neither of them had a pocket watch, so it wasn't as though he could verify this assumption, but Ford was nonetheless convinced that he ought to be embarrassed about coming when he did. It would be apparent to Tycho how out of practice Ford was with this sort of thing, obvious how much he'd been longing to be touched by someone (— maybe, subconsciously, longing to be touched by Tycho in particular).
Ford sighed and stretched one hand down from Tycho's head across his neck and back. He felt the familiar mental inertia settling over him and tried to fight it back. He ought to say something, but anything that came to mind was too telling. That was incredible. You're incredible. I can't believe we're doing this. You're so fucking magical. Tell me the poem you wrote again. No one's ever written a poem for me before. What did I do to deserve you? Fuck, Ty, I —
No; that one was too dangerous even to think. It was the afterglow talking. He'd regret it in the morning. He'd regret it in five minutes.
"Kiss me," he begged.
Set by Lady!