just_displaced | Open Post

Ned thinks vaguely about how it's interesting that a kiss can be like a person; he likes the way Ginsberg kisses. Likes it quite a bit. He loses himself in it, without anything to see or even really hear, just focuses on his sense of touch. As they are kissing, some of Ned's habitual tension - his hunch of uncertainty and unease - goes away. After a moment of indecision he drops the towel on the rug to be dealt with later, sets his other hand very lightly against Ginsberg's waist. Partly it's a romantic gesture, yes, but partly he needs to steady himself. He's lightheaded with happiness and excitement and even despite that anchor, he finds himself swaying a bit, until the two of them nearly topple over.

That breaks them apart, and Ned laughs, a louder, happier laugh than he has yet that night. "We should do this not standing up," he suggests and, grinning from ear to ear, takes Ginsberg by the wrist and says, "C'mon."

He leads the way down the hall to his bedroom, flipping the light on after two tries and sitting down hard on the edge of his bed. Forward, yes, he knows, but the room is spinning enough that he's more worried about tipping over than he is about rushing things.

It's hard to quiet his mind down long enough to stop worrying about whether he's doing this right and just concentrate on doing it, but his confidence grows slightly as he realizes that he is doing it, and that Ned isn't pulling away or shoving him away in disgust or laughing at him or doing any number of things that he could possibly and perhaps expectedly do. He leans into the kiss, finally allowing his hand to rest on Ned's shoulder -- it's somewhat of an awkward gesture, but it's where his indecisive hand had landed.

When Ned breaks away, grinning, and takes him by the wrist, the only logical thing to do is follow, mind spinning, and the room around them spinning just a little, too. That thing he'd said about not tripping over the rug because it was totally cliched apparently doesn't apply, because as they head down the hall towards Ned's bedroom, he manages to catch his feet in the rug and stumble, though he stays upright. It's the alcohol. It has to be the alcohol. Either that or the excitement of everything else.

If Ned sits down on the bed, that means that he's within his rights to close any distance between them and, still standing, lean down and kiss Ned again, right? And he's definitely allowed to put his hand on the back of Ned's head to pull him closer, he thinks -- it's that thing about touching he has, and right now, he feels very inclined to touch Ned.

He wasn't expecting to go back to kissing so quickly, but he's happy to do so, immediately tilts his head back and reciprocates warmly and without hesitation. His heart is racing with excitement and he buries his hands in Ginsberg's hair, running his fingers through it, not caring about the damp. For all that he said he hadn't been on a lot of very successful dates, Ned thinks he is really a rather good kisser. Maybe he's just a natural at it.

"This was a great idea," Ned murmurs in the tiny gap between kisses. He reaches between the and grabs hold of Ginsberg's tie, loosening it just a touch with a questioning kind of air, waiting for some kind of permission that he can go on.

He's had a whole lot of first dates, and kissing's generally as far as things ever get on first dates, at least for him. Maybe that explains where he's gotten all of his practice. He's not thinking about being good at it, though, any more than he's consciously thinking about Ned being good at it -- although Ned is good at it, and were he thinking more rationally, he'd probably be saying something vaguely embarrassing along those lines.

"One of the better ideas I've ever heard," he agrees, nodding for Ned to keep on undoing his tie, suddenly finding that he wants nothing more than to get the tie off; he feels like it's practically choking him, but maybe that's partially the jitteriness that's still coursing through his body, the same jitteriness that makes him move his hand from the back of Ned's hair to his cheek to his shoulder, never staying in one place for too long. He has far too much energy, and he hopes it doesn't make him seem too inexperienced, too nervous.

He eases the tie looser until he can slip it free from Ginsberg's collar. That restless energy of his makes it a small challenge to unhook the small top button of his shirt, but Ned manages it - he has always been rather deft with his hands.

"So you're, uh. A creative guy and all that. Have any good ideas about what we should do next?" Ned murmurs against Ginsberg's mouth, thinking he rather likes that shade of jitteriness in him. It makes Ned feel good, not to be the only one who is a touch nervous with proceedings. It allows him to be the solicitous one, rather than always the other way around.

"I'm a creative guy, but I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. None. The kissing thing I can do. Beyond that, it's all uncharted territory. I don't know how this is supposed to go. I mean, I know how it's supposed to go, I just don't know what you..."

Dammit. He's babbling again, and it requires some serious willpower to shut up and just lean his forehead against Ned's, hand on his shoulder, thinking that after saying all of that, there's no way Ned's going to want to continue. Ned's going to start laughing at him at any moment, right? He's going to make him leave, even though he'd just taken off his tie. It's inevitable. He braces himself for rejection, for feeling completely stupid.

Uncharted territory. Well, that answers that question. Ned can see the way Ginsberg gets twisted up again, the way his excitement transmutes into something more like worry and anxiety. That's the last thing he wants.

Ned's not exactly the most experienced, in terms of his sexuality, but it looks like, in this case, he has a bit more practical knowledge than Ginsberg. He's more than happy to use that, particularly if he can use it to make Ginsberg happy. Since this is, it would seem, his first time, it adds an extra weight to the proceedings. Ned doesn't want to screw this up. Doesn't want to become someone else's unpleasant story.

"That's not a problem," he says, emphasizes it with a smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. He undoes the next button on Ginsberg's shirt, asks, "In that case, is there anything in particular you'd like to try?" Ned's willing to take the reigns, but a bit of guidance will be useful.

Well, that's unexpected. Ned's not laughing at him or trying to get rid of him. In fact, he seems not at all put off by the stumbling confession that, when Ginsberg says he has no idea what he's doing, he's not at all exaggerating. "Everything isn't a helpful answer, in terms of what I want to try, is it? I mean, it's true, but it's one of those non-answer-answers that..."

Another deep breath, and he falls into silence again, although he can't seem to keep his hands still, and they keep running across Ned's shoulders, then trailing across his chest, then fiddling with his hair. Finally, he manages to stop the movements long enough to tug at Ned's shirt slightly, and amend his previous statement.

"Everything is still the answer, but I've been wondering for awhile what you look like without that shirt, and I'd, uh, I'd like to see it."

And he's more than happy -- eager, even -- to help Ned get that shirt off if need be. That's a step in the right direction, right?

Ned smiles wider at 'everything'. He doesn't know if he's really capable of everything, but it lets him know that Ginsberg doesn't have a particular trajectory he's imagined for this. That means Ned can experiment a little, try certain things and see what works and what doesn't. It's a bit like coming up with a recipe for a new variety of pie: the basics remain the same, but there's room for trial (and hopefully not too much error).

"It's certainly a start," Ned agrees, withdrawing his hands from Ginsberg's buttons to quickly deal with his own. It's short work to remove tie, shirt, and undershirt. He does his best not to seem shy, particularly now that he's slipped into the role that he has, but he can't help a certain amount of self-consciousness.

"Mind if I, uh, make things even?" he asks, even as he's reaching up to untuck Ginsberg's shirt. Ned notices for the first time that it's... an unusual color and pattern. Colorful, much like the man wearing it.

Maybe that's one of the few benefits to being so inexperienced: he really has no preconceived notions at all of how this should go, no expectations beyond simply doing what feels right at the time. Sure, he's not going to stop questioning himself and wonder whether he's doing things right, but he's certainly open to whatever Ned suggests. It's all an adventure to him, all new and all exciting.

When Ned finally divests himself of his shirt and his undershirt, he really has no choice but to draw back a little and stare in admiration. Because while he has, of course, seen shirtless guys before, countless times, he never has in a situation like this, and that coupled with the fact that Ned's pretty damn good to look at practically knocks him off his feet. "Wow, you're... Kind of perfect," he says, and trails a hand across Ned's chest, and as much as it could easily sound like a cheesy line, he means it entirely, and there's complete honesty on his face as he says it.

That makes it easier for him to nod when Ned asks about making it even, and get started unbuttoning the rest of his shirt even as Ned untucks it. He's still having a hard time stopping from staring at Ned, but he tries not to seem overly enthusiastic.

Ned can't help but laugh at that, his expression one of mingled delight and utter disbelief. Perfect? Him? Hardly. The only conceivable reasons Ginsberg could think that would be alcohol, enthusiasm, and a lack of available comparisons. Not hard to seem perfect without any competition.

"You're exaggerating," he remonstrates.

A small shiver runs through him at that light, exploratory touch. It's been… well, it's been a while since he's been with anyone in this way, and Ned's always been very particular about who he allows to touch him. The intensity of Ginsberg's stare should probably be daunting, but Ned finds he rather likes it. He smooths his hands under Ginsberg's shirts, against his chest, so that once all the buttons are undone, it's the easiest thing for Ned to push the whole lot over his head and off, flinging it away.

"I'm not exaggerating. At least, not consciously. It's what I really think. Maybe I shouldn't've said it, though. Was it wrong to say it?"

For all his enthusiasm, he's extremely good at second-guessing himself, and he has absolutely no idea what the appropriate things to say in a situation like this are. It'd be better if he kept his mouth shut entirely, he knows it, but that's never been something that's come to him easily, and thus far, Ned hasn't chastised him for babbling, even if he's seemed vaguely amused by it.

Standing in front of Ned with no shirt on at all should seem intimidating, somehow, but it doesn't -- sure, he's full of jittery nerves and excitement, but, perhaps surprisingly, he doesn't mind Ned seeing him like this. That's probably why he puts a hand on Ned's cheek and very gently leans down to kiss him, and then laughs a little, feeling suddenly lightheaded.

"I think I need to sit down," he says, and if it came from anyone else, it could be a simple machination to get both of them sitting or lying on the bed together, but from him, it's entirely true; he wants to sit down, but he doesn't want to stop touching Ned, so when he flops down none too gracefully on the bed, he does so with his body angled towards Ned, his hand still on his cheek.

"It wasn't wrong to say it," Ned reassures, feeling - not for the first time that night - the eerie sensation of being on the other end of one of his own crises of self-consciousness. "I like that you said it, even if it's a little over the top."

As for Ginsberg flopping down on the bed, Ned thinks that's an excellent idea. Much easier than him having to suggest it, or pull him down. He takes this opportunity to reach down and pull off Ginsberg's shoes (and his own, much less delicately), so he can nudge the other man to pull his legs up, too, stretch out on the (admittedly rather small) bed. Once Ned's arranged him thus, he joins him, his own feet just dangling off the end of the bed. He pauses with the two of them like that, lying side-by-side, asks in a quiet voice, "Good?"

He's ended up in the uncomfortable position of changing his mind just as things are starting to get heavy often enough; he wants to make sure that if Ginsberg decides he's not up for this, he notices immediately, doesn't push him into anything he doesn't completely want.

"Most things I say are over the top. I'm chronically unable to be quiet or reserved. I'm glad you don't mind it. A lot of people do."

But Ned hasn't been much like anyone else, and he appreciates him for it. It's not that Ginsberg has anything against people who are 'normal,' exactly, it's just that he doesn't relate to them nearly as well as he relates to people who are slightly more offbeat, like he is, and there's something about Ned that definitely strikes him as being anything but average.

He's perfectly content to be rearranged, to stretch out on the bed next to Ned, and to note, again, just how tall Ned is. He's not great at estimating height -- most people're taller than him, some people're shorter -- but Ned seems extremely tall, and he thinks he likes it, feels somehow both excited and comforted by his physical presence. At the question, he nods slightly, grin breaking across his face again. "Good. Great."

Why use a word like good when there's something far more effusive like great to be used, anyway? Ned's probably noticed by now that Ginsberg doesn't exactly hold back on making his true feelings known.

There's something truly wonderful about that smile. It's not just that Ginsberg is an attractive man (though he is). It's just so genuine, puts such a light into the other man's eyes. To be responsible for that is something intoxicating to Ned, in a very different way than the vodka.

"Were you always so talkative?" Ned asks. Partly, he is curious, yes. But partly he wants, for purely selfish reasons, to keep Ginsberg talking while he does what he has planned next. He closes the distance between them and starts to kiss along Ginsberg's jaw, making his way up slowly to bite - very gently - at the lobe and shell of his ear, before he's moving down the hollow of his throat, to his collarbones. As he does this, he listens, feels for any telltale signs of a particularly enthusiastic response.

"I didn't used to talk at all, actually. When I w-was..." His breath catches a little and he can't help stammering out the words when Ned nibbles at his ear. It's a sensation he's never quite felt before, but he likes it. He huffs out a little semi-embarrassed laugh at how transparent he is in his enjoyment, and tries to keep speaking, surprised and gratified that Ned hasn't tried to get him to shut up yet.

"When I was younger I refused to talk at all. Not until I learned to speak in English really well. I... that feels good, do that again," he says, obviously referring to Ned's mouth on his collarbone. Apparently, he has no problem at all asking for what he enjoys, no matter how uncertain he is. His hands go back to Ned's hair, threading his fingers through it, not tugging on it at all, just exploring somewhat cautiously.

"I guess I'm making up for lost time on the talking thing. Ever since I started, nobody's been able to get me to stop."

Were Ned sober, he would probably have just listened to Ginsberg's answers without response, focused on what he was doing entirely. However, as it is, he pauses whilst mouthing against Ginsberg's collarbone, looking up at him with a small, surprised smile. His lips, and the area immediately around his mouth are slightly reddened from contact.

"Huh. Me too." His still-damp bangs are in his eyes and he brushes them aside impatiently as he explains at a rapid clip, "Not the learning English bit, but the rest of it. Barely said a word for years, but when I did start, I went way too far in the other direction."

What a curious thing to have in common. With that tidbit shared, Ned returns his attention to Ginsberg's chest, scraping his teeth very gently over his collarbone. He lays a hand on Ginsberg's waist and, gradually, lets it stray lower. Ned runs it over his hip, smooths it over his stomach, traces out the pattern of his belt buckle.

"You don't mind if I-?" he murmurs.

"I don't think you talk too much." Of course, that's just comparing Ned to himself, so of course he doesn't think Ned's too talkative. Just right, he'd say. It's rare for him to find someone who has such strange similarities to himself and yet still find himself attracted to them -- he's never thought he appreciated any of his own traits, but somehow the ones he finds irritating in himself are incredibly charming in Ned. "Maybe other people just don't talk enough."

He shivers a little when Ned scrapes his teeth against his collarbone, and then shivers again, a little more obviously, when Ned trails his hand lower and asks that question. If there's surprise on his face, it's certainly not because Ned's making an unwanted suggestion, it's simply that he's not used to anyone being this close to him, actually finding him attractive. "I don't mind. I'd have to be crazy to mind."

Never let it be said that he's not encouraging; he's not capable of not talking, but he's also not capable of reining in any little surprised yet pleased noises when Ned runs his hands over his skin, nor is he particularly interested in doing so. Quiet just isn't how he does things.

Those little shivers are terribly gratifying - moreso than Ginsberg probably realizes. Ned keeps kissing at his chest, moving lower to run a tongue over one of his nipples. He doesn't think it would take craziness for Ginsberg to want to slow down, but he's glad he doesn't want to all the same.

Emboldened by the other man's continued enthusiasm, Ned undoes Ginsberg's belt buckle. Strange, how little things like the rattle of a buckle can acquire such an eroticism to them. Ned doesn't stop there, makes quick work of the button and zipper, tugs his pants down and off with efficiency, leaving him in his boxers and, amusingly, his socks. Ned adjusts him once more, with little nudges and touches, until he's lying on his back. He sits back on his knees to admire the view and, well, it is quite a sight.

"You're gorgeous," he says.

Even if he realized his shivers were gratifying in some way, there's no intent behind them at all, no inclination to pat Ned's ego or to put on a show. He's just not good at hiding his reactions to anything; no matter what he's feeling, it's written all over his face and all over his movements, and when something feels as good as this, he can't even begin to imagine how he'd downplay it. When Ned runs his tongue over his nipple, he absolutely can't avoid a low, surprised little whimper. And if that feels so good, he can't imagine how good everything else from here on out will feel.

He's content to let Ned tug his pants off, and to lie back in his boxers -- which are surprisingly the only non-colorful part of his wardrobe -- and his socks, which are, as might have been almost expected, mismatched. This is all going pretty well, he thinks; he's handling this, he's not making a fool of himself, he's able to touch Ned and be touched in return.

At Ned's comment, though, he's rendered entirely speechless for a moment. He's well aware that he must look stupid, lying there in his socks and underwear, open-mouthed, halfway between shock and amusement, but he comes up with a response quickly enough, shakes his head in disbelief. "Nobody's ever said that to me before. Especially not someone that looks like... well, that looks like you."

"Well I seriously doubt I'm the first one who's thought it." He's going to add some comment about people being too shy, not being honest enough, but that look on Ginsberg's face makes him stop short. Instead of saying any of that, he dives forward, has to kiss him again, in a different way than before. Their initial kisses had been gentle, had been a way of testing the waters, the first hesitant advances. This time, Ned kisses him as if there were nothing else he'd like to do more in the world (and at the moment he can't think of anything). He tangles his hands in Ginsberg's hair, does his utmost to kiss his breath away.

Once Ned's breathing hard, himself, he breaks away with a radiant grin. The blood is pounding in his ears pleasantly and all in a rush he wants to make this amazing for Ginsberg, wants nothing more than to absolutely rock his world. He thinks he knows a good way to start. So Ned slides lower on the bed, settles down between Ginsberg's legs. He smooths the palms of his hands up and down the insides of the other man's inner thighs, pulling at his boxers with a short laugh.

"Maybe other people have thought it, but they've never said it, and..."

Again, he's cut off by Ned's kiss, and again, he's surprised by just how instinctive his response to it is. Despite being inclined to doubt himself in situations, he finds that his brain doesn't have time to give him pause for second-guessing when Ned's kissing him like that, and if Ned's intention had been to kiss his breath away, it certainly seems to be working. Greedily, he raises up off the bed a little, just for the sake of being closer to Ned, of feeling Ned's skin against his. He doesn't think he could possibly get sick of being so physically close to Ned, and he has to hold him tightly for a second, his hands on Ned's back, just enjoying the sensations of it all.

And then Ned's breaking away, and he's moving lower, and it's obvious what he has in mind. He can't help the nervous laugh that escapes him as Ned runs his hands up and down his inner thighs, nor can he help the compulsive babbling that rises to the surface once again. "You don't have to do that if you don't want to. I mean, I want you to, but I'm not expecting anything. If you thought I was expecting something."

He feels the need to say it, because what if Ned thought there was some kind of obligation there? He only wants Ned to do what he wants to do, what he's comfortable with, nothing more, nothing less. That doesn't mean he isn't unspeakably excited just from the feel of Ned's hands on his thighs, a place no other person has ever touched him before.

Ned does pause, for a moment, when Ginsberg says that. Not out of any desire to take the out he's being offered, but out of appreciation for the fact that Ginsberg is offering it. It's sweet of him, particularly because Ned has more often than not had encounters with people who did expect something, who were willing to jump to jeers and emotional blackmail if they didn't get what they wanted.

"I want to," he reassures fervently, with a broad smile that has just a hint of wickedness around the edges.

And once the two of them have settled that this is what both of them want, well, why delay things any more than necessary? Ned pushes Ginsberg's boxers down to just above his knees. He glances up at the other man and, with a rather self-conscious laugh of his own, wraps his hand around the base of his cock. "I'm not all that good at this," he warns, and it takes some effort not to rattle off all the various reasons why that might be the case. There's a time for nervous talking, and there's a time for, well, action. So, his disclaimer given, Ned dips his head down and takes Ginsberg's cock into his mouth. He's not entirely without experience, and what he lacks in artistry he certainly makes up for in enthusiasm.

He smiles back, because Ned's words put him at ease, and while he can't quite quiet down all the nerves that're coursing through his mind, he knows he can rest assured that, at the very least, Ned wants to be doing this. It isn't some kind of bizarre expression of pity, or something Ned's doing simply because it's expected, and that makes him feel better, less self-conscious. Although, of course, as Ned pushes his boxers down, he can't help the rush of anxious thoughts that come into his mind: what if he does something wrong and offends Ned somehow, what if he says something stupid (that seems very likely,) what if... what if...

It's pretty hard to keep worries like that in his mind, though, when Ned dips his head down and takes him into his mouth like that. He'd been intending to give some kind of response to Ned's disclaimer, something hopefully witty and reassuring at the same time, but he finds that there's absolutely nothing he can say. In fact, he can't even keep his eyes open, or contain the full body shiver that rolls over him. If this qualifies as not all that good, he's pretty sure he has no idea what good would qualify as, in Ned's book.

When he's finally able to regain the ability to speak, what he manages is a completely ineloquent "Wow... that's fucking... wow..." which he thinks he should probably have the good sense to be vaguely embarrassed about, but really isn't. Tentatively, he reaches down to run his fingers through Ned's hair, not tugging on it at all, just liking the feeling of it beneath his fingers.

Any self-doubt or uncertainty that Ned might have been feeling about his ability to do this competently is washed away by Ginsberg's ineloquent yet clear enjoyment. This, to him, is without question the best aspect of sex. More than being touched himself, more than the various chemical and biological processes involved, this is what he enjoys the most. He only started to enjoy sex when he realized that it could be like this: about giving, rather than receiving. About affecting someone else, rather than merely being affected. Once he'd realized that, the other things, the hangups and complexes and reservations, had all gone by the wayside.

In part, it has to do with control: with the fact that he is capable of making someone shudder like that. In part, it's also about who he's doing it with: he might have only known Ginsberg for a few hours, but he already knows that leaving him speechless is a tiny coup. In part, too, it is that same drive to make other people happy, to enjoy the enjoyment that he instills.

Which is why, despite his embarrassment, Ned opens his eyes, has to catch sight of the look on Ginsberg's face. He runs his hand up and down his inner thigh once more, softer this time, barely brushing him with the tips of his fingers. Ned waits deliberately to catch his eyes and starts to bob his head a bit faster.

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