Ned grins, delighted by the sound of that laugh, by the light of sheer joy in Ginsberg's eyes. Much, much better than seeing them filled with worry or uncertainty, and he did that.

"Depends who you're doing it with," Ned says, leaning into those kisses and touches, shivering now and then, his skin sensitive and flushed. He's torn between different desires: he wants to talk with Ginsberg and revel in his happiness and wonder, but he also wants to get off. So much so that his dignity is somewhat starting to slip by the wayside; when Ginsberg presses close to him he bites his bottom lip against a groan, hips arcing forward of their own volition.

"Told you I knew what I was d-doing," he says, words broken by a stutter and a gasp when Ginsberg kisses a particularly sensitive spot on his neck.