just_displaced | Open Post

"Well. You are pretty cute." Ned might not have intended the statement as a commentary on Ginsberg's potential kitten-like qualities, but he's certainly not afraid to go there retroactively. Slowly, that knot in his chest is loosening, and he finds that he feels better than he has since he woke up this morning. Not yet good, exactly, but at least some portion of happiness has insinuated itself past his defenses to lie alongside the sadness.

"And-" he adds, as if sensing the other man's thoughts, "-you give great hugs. Which is saying something, because I'm not usually a fan." He rests his cheek on Ginsberg's shoulder, can't help but wonder how what he's learned about Ned tonight will color the way he sees him from now on. Even a remark as small as that one becomes weighted, he imagines, with a variety of meanings and possibilities. What he knows will confirm what he probably already picked up on; that Ned is unaccustomed to being hugged.

"I can teach you," Ned echoes, a touch breathless, and he is going to do that any second now. It's just that Ginsberg is warm and energetic and all over him, and it's hard to keep his mind on task when the other man seems so determined to touch him and kiss him, as if nothing else mattered to him right then. So Ned gives himself a moment to just enjoy it, lets his head fall to the side to give Ginsberg better access to his neck, humming appreciatively, low in his throat. One of his hands finds its way back into Ginsberg's hair, holding on gently.

"You're distracting me," he murmurs, and it's meant to be a half-complaint, but it comes out sounding thoroughly pleased. At some point he's closed his eyes, opens his heavy lids to see Ginsberg, red-cheeked and lovely (even with that bruise, which Ned would kiss but for fear that it would hurt).

At last he marshals his mind enough to reach out a long arm and fumble in the bedside table for the tube of lubricant. "It's not all that complicated," he assures, between open-mouthed kisses to any bit of Ginsberg he can reach. "But you're going to- I can't show you while you're doing tha-at..." Which he says ostensibly to get Ginsberg to stop doing 'that' (in this case, running a hand along his thigh and kissing the curve of his jaw). However, the way the last word is interrupted by a small gasp and a shudder that runs through Ned, he's got half a mind to tell Ginsberg to keep going for a little longer.

"Not a fan of hugs?" he asks, faux-shocked, as if he's never heard something so ridiculous, but truthfully, he thinks, he understands it, based on what Ned's told him about his past now. An absent father, and a mother that had died, probably hadn't given him much opportunity for hugging. And it makes sense now, too, that Ned had gone to boarding school, and he highly doubts he got many hugs there, either.

"Well," he says, snuggling Ned a little closer, trying to be as affectionate as possible without stifling him -- because he knows that for someone who isn't usually a fan of hugs, too much contact can be just as bad as not enough -- "There's a couple things I'm good at. I think hugging is one of them. I don't get much of a chance to do it, though, because would you believe it, but people're not usually fond of getting hugged randomly, especially at work. I've almost done it a couple times, but it just never goes over well."

"Did you not want to be distracted?" he asks, and it's undoubtedly a mischievous question that really requires no answer, from the way he bends down to kiss Ned's jaw again, wanting to replicate that little gasp and shudder that makes him feel bizarrely proud of himself. The ability to evoke noises like that from another person, he's starting to realize, could easily be addictive -- there's nothing he wants more than to figure out just how many different noises Ned can make, all of them unique and delightful.

"I'll stop at some point, maybe, and then you can show me," he says, running his fingertips up Ned's thighs and across his hips and stomach, feeling the muscles and bones underneath the skin, mapping out everything and finding every bit of it better than the last bit he's touched. It's hard to convince himself to stop running his hands all over Ned, to stop leaning in for kisses everywhere, but eventually, the desire to please Ned even more wins out, and he stills the motions of his hands, planting one last kiss on Ned's neck -- a kiss that ends with a slight nibble, just to see what the response will be -- and sitting up a little to look at him.

"Okay. I'll be good now, and you can show me." He trails his hand across Ned's chest, just for the sake of continuing to touch him, but he's not quite as energetic and demanding about it as before, perhaps giving Ned the chance to breathe.

"What, really?" Ned asks with just a dash of sarcasm, but it's softened by the fact that he's smiling - really smiling, on that day, of all days. How like Ginsberg that is, though, he thinks. Getting the urge to hug people at work, even if he does manage to restrain himself. There's such an energy, such a flamboyance to him that Ned envies at times. He's not like that - whether by nature or by long practice he doesn't know. He thinks it might be the latter. That for so many years he had suppressed and withheld himself, had bleached out all (or most) outward show of eccentricities, that he's stuck that way. So it's nice, to be near Ginsberg, with all his flair. To appreciate it, the way it ought to be appreciated.

"I'm better at them than I used to be." Curious, how easy it is to say these kinds of things, tucked up against Ginsberg like this, the two of them locked up here, away from the messy confusing painful world. "A lot, actually. I used to- well, I couldn't stand them. Or touching people in general. For a long time." It's something he still has trouble with, on occasion, but not now. His sensitivity to it varies from day to day, and sometimes in larger arcs. He's gone through months on end when he couldn't bear it, followed by periods of relative indifference, only to slip back into avoiding touch at all costs. Ned's given up hoping for any kind of permanent progress. As an afterthought, he adds, "Touching you is nice, though." Just so Ginsberg's clear on that.

"Well, you're doing a good job of it right now. I didn't used to like them when I was younger, either. Didn't hug, didn't talk... I was a pretty boring little kid, I think. Or just a weird one."

Funny, now, to think back on that little kid he'd been, when his father had found him. He'd been so quiet, so withdrawn, so shut off from everything, and now look at him. He's sure Ned's noticed by now the enthusiastic way he flings himself at the world, arms wide open, even if the world just keeps rejecting him in a variety of ways. It's hard, he thinks, for anyone to imagine him as being normal, not so loud and flamboyant, not so willing to engage in conflict; he wouldn't believe it about himself, either, except that he'd experienced it.

"Touching you's nice, too," he says, and he means it vehemently, because it's even nicer than touching other people he's had the chance to touch. That's always been so fleeting, and Ned's snuggled up to him right now, not seeming like he's about to rush off in a hurry. And Ned's warm, and comforting, and of course it doesn't hurt that he's handsome, too.

Ned needs that change to catch his breath; Ginsberg might not have much practice at this, but his instincts are good, and even Ned is surprised by how light-headed he feels, how out of breath and aroused just from those wandering, curious touches. When Ginsberg bit him - just a small amount - Ned bit down on his bottom lip but didn't quite suppress a noise of approval.

"Okay," Ned says, mostly to himself, gathering the scattered threads of his composure, "Okay. Right. Yes." He has to try twice to get the cap off the lube, because his hands aren't so steady at present. He meets Ginsberg's eyes, bright and dark and intent on him. Fighting down embarrassment, Ned says, "I'll show you first and then you can copy what I do." The lube is cold on his skin, and there's something so peculiarly erotic about demonstrating this to Ginsberg, about touching himself under that observant look. Ned has to shut his eyes against it, just for now, shifting his legs apart and pressing a finger into himself. His toes curl against the sheets but he manages to hold in the whimper that's fighting its way up his throat - that is, until he opens his eyes a sliver and sees Ginsberg watching him. After that, he hisses a quick fuck under his breath and starts to move his hand, slowly. "You should always- do this first, or it hurts a lot more."

There's no way he could bring himself to tear his eyes away from Ned now, and he only hopes that his gaze isn't too intent, too enthusiastic, because the last thing he wants to do is make Ned feel uncomfortable at a moment like this. He'd felt Ned do all of this to him the previous time they'd been together, of course, but he's never seen anyone do it to themselves, and his eyes are wide and fascinated as he watches, not even realizing that he's holding his breath.

When Ned finally presses a finger into himself, though, there's no way he can stifle the little whispered "Wow," that comes out of his own mouth, no matter how silly it sounds, and when Ned opens his eyes just a bit and looks at him, he has to take a deep, shaky breath, because he's suddenly more aroused from watching this than he'd been from all the kissing and touching they'd been doing before -- and he'd already been pretty damn aroused.

He's content to watch for some time, seeing the way Ned does it, caught up in the simple pleasure of the sight of it, running a hand across Ned's thigh, but his desire to try for himself surges up quickly, and he moves his hand from Ned's thigh to reach for the lube, too, imitating just what Ned had done. Tentatively, he nudges Ned's hand out of the way, looking at him as though asking for permission, before gently, very gently, as though he's afraid of hurting Ned terribly if he's not incredibly cautious, pressing a finger inside of him, still holding his breath.

Not boring, Ned thinks. As someone who used to be the quietest kid, who refused to interact any more than was strictly necessary, he thinks he knows that Ginsberg had a lot more going on under the surface than people could imagine.

"Can you stay over?" he asks, tries to phrase it as an idle question, without pressure or neediness. He's not quite sure he succeeds, which is why he adds, "I understand if you can't, like if you need to get home or you've got an extra busy day at work tomorrow or you just don't want to-"

Ned moves his hand out of the way, rests back on his elbows and parts his legs wider in tacit permission. When Ginsberg looks at him he gives a tiny nod. There's such care in his movements; Ned knows part of that comes from his lack of self-confidence and from his belief that he's going to mess this up somehow. But it's also, simultaneously, out of a desire not to hurt him, and Ned appreciates that consideration.

"You're doing good," he assures, consciously relaxes the muscles in that area as much as he can. "It feels nice. You can- move it, if you want. If you, um..." Ned reaches between his legs, nudges Ginsberg to twist his arm so it is palm-up, "If you want it to feel really nice, you can sort of hook your finger forward, like..." he demonstrates with his own hand. "And then kind of feel around- ah!" his sentence is cut off by a rather loud cry, and he arches his hips off the bed, hands twisting into the sheets at his sides. "Do that again," he says, and it's meant to be an instruction, but it comes out more like a plea.

He nods, smiles, can't quite hide the fact that he's almost overjoyed in being asked to stay, because he'd been hoping that's what Ned would ask him, been hoping that he'd have a chance to comfort Ned for a prolonged period of time. "Yeah, I'd like to stay."

But because Ned had put all of those qualifications on it, he feels the need to address them all, one by one, ticking off the reasons on his fingers why those possible outs Ned had given him don't apply at all. "There's no reason I'd need to be at home, work is always busy, but if other people can come to work stoned, I can come to work after staying over with someone, and as for not wanting to, now I do think you're crazy. Of course I want to."

He's so eager to follow instruction, so completely willing to do whatever Ned shows him, and he hopes that makes up for the fact that he really has no idea what he's doing. When Ned shows him what to do with his fingers, he imitates the motion, remembering that Ned had done something very similar to him, and just how good it had felt. He wants to be able to make Ned feel that good, too, and the best way to do it is by learning from Ned, who obviously knows exactly what he's doing.

And from the way the motion of his finger makes Ned arch his hips and cry out like that, his instructions have been good. There's no way he could possibly resist doing that again, even if he wanted to, from the desperate way that plea comes out of Ned's mouth, so he does, and then he does it again, wanting to get more of those intoxicating noises. His other hand can't seem to stay still, either, trails its way across Ned's stomach, and for once, he's not saying anything at all, because he's so very focused on this, on making Ned feel good.

He laughs just a little at that; not because he thinks he is crazy, but because Ginsberg agrees so readily, so vehemently. Almost like he really does want to be here. Like everything he's been saying is true, and he doesn't mind seeing Ned in such a low moment.

"We should do something stupid like... watch a movie or play cards or... have you had dinner, I could cook you something?"

Cooking people food is, after all, one of the primary ways of showing affection that Ned knows. It's always worked for him, because it's something he's good at, something that bypasses all his insecurities and neuroses and lets him make people happy.

"We can do all of those things. At once, maybe, if you want, although that might take a lot of concentration, so maybe we should do them one after another. I haven't eaten yet, but you don't have to make me anything. Unless you're going to make something for yourself, in which case, I'd definitely eat something."

And he's not a particularly picky eater, either, although even if he were, he's sure that from what he's experienced of Ned's piemaking abilities, his cooking skills are just about perfect, too.

"We can put something on TV if you want. Something distracting. I bet there's a movie on."

Hopefully a movie that has nothing to do with Halloween.

Ned had been prepared, if he needed to, to play up his reactions to help Ginsberg gain his confidence. Not to fake anything, certainly, and not to lie if Ginsberg was doing something incorrectly or hurting him. But he'd half had it in his mind that he'd consciously be a touch louder with his moans, a little more generous with his movements. Turns out, that well-intentioned and generous impulse hadn't been necessary. With Ginsberg fingering him like that he twists his hands into the sheets and just holds on as if for dear life, mouth falling open and eyes screwed shut. He's not saying anything, but the sounds spilling from his lips - without any art or construction on his part - are very appreciative.

It's hard for him to channel his thoughts in the right direction, but he adds after a minute or so, "You c-can put... use a second finger. Even better." Very coherent, Ned.

He's not sure that this should be taking his breath away the way it seems to be taking Ned's breath away, because he's the one doing it, not the one having it done to him, but no matter whether it makes sense or not, he's having a hard time catching his breath, so intent on listening to those noises Ned's making and seeing the way he's gripping the sheets like that. "You're so..." he manages, but hell if he actually knows what he's trying to say -- it's complimentary, he knows that, but what the actual words are he has no clue -- so he just breaks off into reverent silence, focusing entirely on Ned instead.

Ned's instruction is eagerly received, and he does as Ned asks, adding a second finger, still moving very slowly, but the excitement obvious on his face, on the way he immediately starts attempting to replicate the motions he'd been doing before, with just the one finger. If that had been good, and Ned says this will be even better, he can only imagine what kind of reaction Ned will have to it, but he knows he's desperate to see it.

"How about cooking first, TV after, and cards last." Ned knows he'll have to get up to make Ginsberg dinner, and he's actually happy about having a task, something to focus his mind on, someone to be with him. But that means moving out of his arms, and he's reluctant to do that. So he clings for just a minute more before, with a squeeze of gratitude, he pulls away, nods in the direction of the kitchen, wordlessly asking Ginsberg to follow.

Once they're there he starts pulling things from the cabinets, glad of the activity. As he does, he finds himself saying, "At the school I'd sneak out of bed all the time to cook at night. Most of the time I made pies, but I taught myself to make other stuff, too. This is a recipe I came up with when I was like, thirteen. Don't worry, though," Ned darts a glance over his shoulder, smiles, "It's good. You'll like it."

"Okay, sure, that sounds like a great plan. Anything you want."

Coming from someone else, that almost might come across as sounding sarcastic -- people very rarely say that unless they're being comically deferential or mocking someone, at least, in Ginsberg's experience -- but coming from him, he really means it. Whatever Ned thinks will be the best route towards feeling better is the route he wants to take, and he follows Ned willingly into the kitchen, grabbing one of the chairs from the table and turning it around to sit on it backwards, arms crossed across the back of it to watch Ned as he cooks.

"I like just about everything. And believe me, I trust that your cooking's good. It has to be better than mine, anyway. I mean, I try, but I can only manage the basics. You wouldn't be impressed."

Ginsberg really is a fast learner; Ned's breath is coming in quick, harsh rasps, now. It's been a while since he's done this with anyone and he'd forgotten how intense it can get, lets himself get lost in it, moving his hips back against the small movements of Ginsberg's hands, wanting more, not remembering how to articulate that. When he feels himself a familiar tightening in the pit of his stomach he has to check himself, stutter out a quick, "Okay, okay, hold up."

He lets go of the sheets, brings a hand up to Ginsberg's hair to pull him down into a kiss, passionate with an edge of desperation to it. "Gimme the-" he can't seem to remember how to speak properly right now, so he just sits up and grabs the lube himself. After he puts a generous amount onto his palm, he coats Ginsberg's cock with it by stroking it with quick, almost brusque movements. Ned knows some of his impatience must be coming across, and some small, still-rational corner of his mind hopes Ginsberg doesn't mind.

"You know what t-to do, right?" he asks, wrapping one leg around Ginsberg's back, lining his cock up with his entrance and then smiling at him, bright and dizzy. "Just go slow at first, okay?"

As soon as Ned tells him to hold up, he stops what he's doing, lets himself get tugged down for that kiss, can't help but tilt his hips forward and moan low in his throat at the feeling of Ned's hand on him. "Y-yeah, I think I can figure it out," he says, in response to Ned's question, his answer breathless and excited and just as eager as Ned seems to be.

Despite his enthusiasm, despite how turned on he is -- evident from the flush on his face and the quickened breathing, from the way he's trembling slightly as every bit of contact he has with Ned, no matter how minor -- it doesn't seem difficult to go slowly, partly because he doesn't want to hurt Ned, partly because he wants to relish every little bit of it, feel every intoxicating moment of pressing into Ned.

And just that simple, slow movement of burying himself deep inside of Ned is enough to make him gasp and let out a jumbled, nonsensical torrent of swearing, his head dipping forward for a moment and his hair falling into his eyes, one hand on Ned's chest to brace himself. It's better than he'd imagined, and for a long moment, he doesn't move at all, but when he finally does, mindful of Ned's instructions, it's slow and gentle.

Ned can't help but smile at that stream of obscenities, reaches up to brush the hair out of Ginsberg's eyes, because he wants to see them, wants to be able to look at him as they are sharing this. He knows it's sappy, knows it's not exactly the ideal of masculinity that everyone seems to buy into. But that emotional connection, that interplay between the two of them, is almost more important to him than any of the rest of it.

"Perfect," he murmurs, covers Ginsberg's hand with his own and keeps it pressed to the center of his chest. "You're doing perfect." His heart is beating quickly in his chest, and he shifts his hips to meet Ginsberg's once he starts to move. Ned's characteristic honesty manifests itself again when he gasps, "'s been so long since I've-" but the rest of that sentence is cut off by a whimper, low in his throat.

"What's-" he's trying to keep talking, to give Ginsberg the reassurance he expects he needs that it's nothing to worry about, that he's not messing things up the way he was afraid to, "-what's the verdict? Pretty, uh. Pretty good both ways, right?"

"The verdict is, uh... that..."

Wow, he hadn't quite expected to be so lost for words, but then, why shouldn't he be? This is the first time he's doing this, and he couldn't possibly have imagined how good any of this would feel -- and he'd spent a lot of time thinking about it and imagining it. He's happy to meet Ned's eyes, not at all concerned about it being sappy, because the fact that he's connecting to Ned in some way, the fact that Ned really seems to care about him, that matters in a way he'd have no way of articulating.

"Pretty good both ways," he breathes out, finally picking up the pace a little, not disguising or feeling at all embarrassed by his ragged breathing, his little moans and whimpers, by the way he's clutching Ned's chest like he wants to be as close to him as possible. He leans down for a kiss, a not-particularly-coordinated one, a bit sloppy, but full of enthusiasm nevertheless, trying desperately to express just how good Ned feels, how perfect all of it is.

When the phone rings in Ned’s apartment around four in the afternoon that Monday, he’ll pick it up to hear a voice he probably doesn’t recognize -- a man, almost too gracious-sounding, just a little too friendly -- asking him whether he’s “friends with Michael.” A few seconds later, before Ned has a chance to respond, a woman’s voice in the background will audibly and somewhat irritatedly say, “Well, if he were friends with him, he wouldn’t call him Michael, would he?”

For a moment, there’ll be the sound of two people wrestling over control of the phone, and then all of a sudden, a woman will be speaking to Ned, sounding somewhere between exasperated and concerned. “Hi, is this Ned? Are you friends with Ginsberg? This is Peggy Olson, one of his coworkers, and I wouldn’t have called you except you’re the only friend he ever talks about, and Stan isn’t here today, and I didn’t think he’d want me to call his father.”

At this point, Ned might want to start getting concerned. Or baffled. Either reaction, really, would be appropriate.

Ned doesn't get a lot of calls, particularly in the middle of the day, so his curiosity is already piqued when he picks up the phone. His baffled amusement gradually gives way to an awful, gnawing worry as soon as Peggy announces her name. He has heard Ginsberg speak about her enough to remember who she is. From the sound of his descriptions, she's not really one of the ones who goes in for pranks in the workplace. Besides, there's an edge to her voice that doesn't sound faked to him.

Always quick to jump to the worst possible scenario, Ned replies, tightly, "Yes, I- that's me. What happened? Is he okay?"

Open Post

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject