"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.
"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.
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.
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'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.
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.
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?"
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.
Ned kisses back eagerly, running his hands up and down Ginsberg's back, feeling the shift of muscles under his skin, keeping him close. He lets out a little hum of encouragement when Ginsberg speeds up, pressing one heel into the bed and lifting his hips, trying to take Ginsberg even deeper. "-'s good. You can try- mixing it up a bit. Fast then slow, that- that kind of thing." There are odd breaks in his sentence, but Ned is happy to be talking Ginsberg through things, glad that he's willing to listen to advice, vague as it may be. He's been with people before who couldn't stand it if he talked while they were having sex, and some people who didn't like it if he made any noise at all. But Ginsberg isn't like that.
Experimentally, lightly, Ned runs his fingernails over the skin of Ginsberg's back, seeing what kind of reaction it will elicit. It's impossible to predict these things based on personality, in Ned's experience. Nothing for it but to test the waters, to keep his eyes and ears open and shape himself in whatever way he can to fit the mold of what it seems Ginsberg likes.
It wouldn't occur to him to be anything but happy and pleased to take what instruction Ned's giving him, and he likes hearing Ned's voice, too, the way it catches a little. That reassures him that he's doing something right, that he's able to make Ned feel good, and that feeling is almost as arousing as the purely physical sensations from what they're doing. So when Ned tells him he can mix it up a little, he's quick to take the advice, interested to see what switching up his pace will do, what new and exciting noises Ned will make.
At the same time, and rather belatedly, perhaps, he remembers that he has a free hand, too, and remembers the way Ned had touched him when the roles were reversed. Ned hasn't instructed him to do it, but somehow, he doesn't think he'll oppose a little improvisation, so he reaches between their bodies, stroking Ned slowly at first, and then a little quicker to match the rhythms of his movements.
The way Ned runs his fingernails down his back makes him shiver, and press a little closer to Ned, if such a thing were even possible. There's no containing his own moans and whimpers, not at all, and he's glad and amazed that Ned can make him so good and he can do the same in return.
It's all too clear that Ned appreciates Ginsberg's initiative; he chokes on a moan, his toes curling, scrapes his fingernails against Ginsberg's back with a little less purpose and a little more sheer instinct. He tries to give a measured kind of approval but it comes out as mostly obscenities and repetitions of Ginsberg's name, pleas to keep doing that, to go faster.
Ned's breathing hard, now, lets his head fall back against the pillows and shuts his eyes. That look in Ginsberg's eyes was starting to get the best of him, and he wants to keep some thread of control over himself, to hold out as long as possible. But he can't shut out those delicious tiny noises Ginsberg's making, or the heat of him. He's moving to meet every thrust and stroke with a jerk of his hips, his little compliments and encouragements dissolving into mere sounds.
Ned's sounds are even more encouragement than his words could possibly be, because they mean that he's pleasing Ned so much that he's not able to speak. He'd never thought it could be so good to please someone else so much, but he's starting to realize that he has quite a taste for it, that every little jerk of Ned's hips and every time he digs his nails in even harder just inspire him to try to make it better, to make it perfect somehow.
"Ned, you're so... You're so fucking perfect," he manages, between thrusts, odd little stutter in his words, and although coming from anyone else it might sound far too dramatic and ridiculous, coming from him, there's no doubt that it's absolutely what he thinks. He bends his head down again to scatter kisses on Ned's collarbone and neck, whatever he can reach, breathing in how good he smells and how good his skin feels, completely aware that his pace has sped up quite a bit by now, but not possessing the ability to slow down.
That quickened pace suits Ned just fine; he loses himself in the rhythm of it, his sense of time and his surroundings becoming blurred and uneven. He should probably be focusing on not making enough noise to startle the neighbors, should be trying to hold out as long as he can for Ginsberg's sake. But it's all beyond him, now.
The orgasm springs upon him more suddenly than he'd expected it would, doesn't give him time to warn Ginsberg. One moment he's in control and the next he is breaking apart, clinging to Ginsberg, shaking under the force of it. There's something half-startled in the cry he hears spilling out of his own mouth.
He doesn't slow his pace to a stop purposefully, but it happens anyway as he feels Ned cling to him and shake like that, as he watches Ned's face and hears the noise that comes out of his mouth, something wonderful and completely inexplicable in all of that. He wonders, for a moment, if he's allowed to feel any pride at all that he'd been the one to make Ned feel that way, that it's him that's worthy of being clung to and shouted over. But at the moment, he's not thinking so clearly, anyway, not with his eyes intent upon Ned's face like that.
"W-what... what do I do now?" he asks, and he knows it's a dumb question, because he should be able to figure it out from here, shouldn't he? But he's gotten so used to Ned's instruction, somehow expected to be walked all the way through it, and all he seems capable of doing right now is staring reverently at Ned and running his hands up and down Ned's chest like he wants to touch every inch of free skin available. He's not even moving.
Ned's head is spinning with a delightful kind of vertigo. "You can k-keep going," he exhales, even though he's shuddering hard at every one of those light touches to his chest, the entire surface of his skin feeling hypersensitive to touch. But he doesn't care; he wants Ginsberg to keep moving. "I don't mind."
In an effort to encourage him, Ned shifts his hips back against Ginsberg's, biting down hard on his bottom lip to keep in a whimper. It's almost too much to bear, too intense, but part of him kind of likes it. "Just do what you like," he says, and while the words themselves might sound passive or self-sacrificing, there's a heat and hunger behind them that Ned doubts Ginsberg will miss.
That's all he'd really wanted to hear; the words are encouragement enough without the way Ned shifts his hips, but he's not going to complain about that motion either, not when he's already so close to the edge himself that all of his muscles are tensed and twitching slightly. The hand that isn't stroking its way across Ned's chest reaches up to cup his cheek in an oddly gentle motion, a gesture that he's pretty sure is altogether too emotionally open, but that he wouldn't change for the world.
And he does want to keep going, so he begins to move again, trying to be a little less frantic now, seeing the way Ned's body responds to all of those touches, idly runs his thumb over Ned's lower lip after seeing Ned bite at it like that to hold in a sound. There's no holding in his own sounds, and there's no way he can come up with a coherent response to Ned's instruction to do as he likes, so he just lets himself concentrate on the intense sensations he can feel building inside of him.
When he comes, when those building sensations finally break and wash over him, it doesn't exactly take him by surprise, but it's so intense that he can't let out any noise at all, unlike the constant whimpers and moans he's been letting out through the rest of this. Instead, he's completely quiet, eyes firmly shut and mouth open in a silent cry, almost immediately collapsing onto Ned as soon as he feels like he can move again.
Ned can barely keep his eyes open, dizzy with overstimulation, but he does, just a sliver. He wants to watch Ginsberg's face, see every fleeting expression. When he comes at last Ned holds his breath, waits for him to finish and sink down on top of him in a boneless heap. One he has, Ned slips carefully out from under him, staying close, tangling their legs together. He presses his forehead to Ginsberg's, kissing him through the come down, brushing away the tufts and tiny curls of hair that have gotten stuck to his neck, his temple.
As always, he's grateful that Ned is so willing to stay close, isn't bothered by how excessively cuddly he can be. Other people might be bothered, he thinks, by the way he clings, but he's never had the opportunity to find out. But here Ned is, pressing close, brushing his hair out of his face, and he's calling him beautiful. He doesn't normally think of himself as a lucky person, but at the moment, he feels pretty damn lucky.
He can still barely speak, but he smiles a little at Ned's comment, kissing him softly before responding. "I'll always be amazed at hearing that from someone like you," he half-mumbles, his eyes sliding shut for a moment despite his best efforts to keep them open.
"If I stay right here, I'm gonna fall asleep," he says, an attempting at a warning to Ned that, if he wants him to get up, he'll have to make him get up right away. He doesn't feel inclined to get himself up, though, not when he's feeling so sleepy and so comfortable, running one hand down Ned's arm.
"'s that such a bad thing?" Ned asks. Every muscle in his body feels warm and relaxed, and his thoughts are pleasantly blurred around the edges. Sure, it might be the middle of the afternoon, but why should that stop them? "...can take a nap and then do it again," he suggests, his inhibitions still delightfully absent.
He touches the tips of their noses together, a lazy, wide smile plastered all over his face, drapes himself around Ginsberg and lets out a contented sigh. He is, for that moment, deliriously, perfectly happy. He can't think of a single thing he could want that he doesn't have, right then.
He's pretty much mumbling now, but it gets the point across well enough. He scoots as close to Ned as he possibly can, his breathing slow and steady, liking that he can feel Ned's heartbeat, and finally lets his eyes drift closed. He's not intending to fall asleep as quickly as he does, but within several minutes, he's slipping off into a relaxed, contented sleep, snoring just a little, completely lost to the world.
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"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.
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"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.
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"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."
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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?"
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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.
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"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?"
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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.
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Experimentally, lightly, Ned runs his fingernails over the skin of Ginsberg's back, seeing what kind of reaction it will elicit. It's impossible to predict these things based on personality, in Ned's experience. Nothing for it but to test the waters, to keep his eyes and ears open and shape himself in whatever way he can to fit the mold of what it seems Ginsberg likes.
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At the same time, and rather belatedly, perhaps, he remembers that he has a free hand, too, and remembers the way Ned had touched him when the roles were reversed. Ned hasn't instructed him to do it, but somehow, he doesn't think he'll oppose a little improvisation, so he reaches between their bodies, stroking Ned slowly at first, and then a little quicker to match the rhythms of his movements.
The way Ned runs his fingernails down his back makes him shiver, and press a little closer to Ned, if such a thing were even possible. There's no containing his own moans and whimpers, not at all, and he's glad and amazed that Ned can make him so good and he can do the same in return.
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Ned's breathing hard, now, lets his head fall back against the pillows and shuts his eyes. That look in Ginsberg's eyes was starting to get the best of him, and he wants to keep some thread of control over himself, to hold out as long as possible. But he can't shut out those delicious tiny noises Ginsberg's making, or the heat of him. He's moving to meet every thrust and stroke with a jerk of his hips, his little compliments and encouragements dissolving into mere sounds.
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"Ned, you're so... You're so fucking perfect," he manages, between thrusts, odd little stutter in his words, and although coming from anyone else it might sound far too dramatic and ridiculous, coming from him, there's no doubt that it's absolutely what he thinks. He bends his head down again to scatter kisses on Ned's collarbone and neck, whatever he can reach, breathing in how good he smells and how good his skin feels, completely aware that his pace has sped up quite a bit by now, but not possessing the ability to slow down.
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The orgasm springs upon him more suddenly than he'd expected it would, doesn't give him time to warn Ginsberg. One moment he's in control and the next he is breaking apart, clinging to Ginsberg, shaking under the force of it. There's something half-startled in the cry he hears spilling out of his own mouth.
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"W-what... what do I do now?" he asks, and he knows it's a dumb question, because he should be able to figure it out from here, shouldn't he? But he's gotten so used to Ned's instruction, somehow expected to be walked all the way through it, and all he seems capable of doing right now is staring reverently at Ned and running his hands up and down Ned's chest like he wants to touch every inch of free skin available. He's not even moving.
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In an effort to encourage him, Ned shifts his hips back against Ginsberg's, biting down hard on his bottom lip to keep in a whimper. It's almost too much to bear, too intense, but part of him kind of likes it. "Just do what you like," he says, and while the words themselves might sound passive or self-sacrificing, there's a heat and hunger behind them that Ned doubts Ginsberg will miss.
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And he does want to keep going, so he begins to move again, trying to be a little less frantic now, seeing the way Ned's body responds to all of those touches, idly runs his thumb over Ned's lower lip after seeing Ned bite at it like that to hold in a sound. There's no holding in his own sounds, and there's no way he can come up with a coherent response to Ned's instruction to do as he likes, so he just lets himself concentrate on the intense sensations he can feel building inside of him.
When he comes, when those building sensations finally break and wash over him, it doesn't exactly take him by surprise, but it's so intense that he can't let out any noise at all, unlike the constant whimpers and moans he's been letting out through the rest of this. Instead, he's completely quiet, eyes firmly shut and mouth open in a silent cry, almost immediately collapsing onto Ned as soon as he feels like he can move again.
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"You are so beautiful," he murmurs.
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He can still barely speak, but he smiles a little at Ned's comment, kissing him softly before responding. "I'll always be amazed at hearing that from someone like you," he half-mumbles, his eyes sliding shut for a moment despite his best efforts to keep them open.
"If I stay right here, I'm gonna fall asleep," he says, an attempting at a warning to Ned that, if he wants him to get up, he'll have to make him get up right away. He doesn't feel inclined to get himself up, though, not when he's feeling so sleepy and so comfortable, running one hand down Ned's arm.
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He touches the tips of their noses together, a lazy, wide smile plastered all over his face, drapes himself around Ginsberg and lets out a contented sigh. He is, for that moment, deliriously, perfectly happy. He can't think of a single thing he could want that he doesn't have, right then.
Shall we call this a wrap, then~
He's pretty much mumbling now, but it gets the point across well enough. He scoots as close to Ned as he possibly can, his breathing slow and steady, liking that he can feel Ned's heartbeat, and finally lets his eyes drift closed. He's not intending to fall asleep as quickly as he does, but within several minutes, he's slipping off into a relaxed, contented sleep, snoring just a little, completely lost to the world.