just_displaced | Open Post

"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.

There's something that feels almost miraculous -- if he believed in miracles, which he doesn't, not really, but still... -- about the fact that he'd met Ned tonight, about the fact that Ned had actually liked him, about the fact that they're doing this, and about the fact that it feels better than he'd ever imagined it would. And he's had plenty of time to imagine. When you're not doing much except working and living your day to day existence, you have a lot of time to think about all the sex you're not having. It had been pretty great in his imagination, but for once, reality is better than his imagination.

When Ned catches his eyes like that, he doesn't even try to stifle an altogether too loud moan. What's the sense of enjoying himself if he can't let Ned know about it? He's still too flustered for actual speech, still fighting some sense of nervousness that Ned will, somehow, decide that his reactions aren't good enough and stop what he's doing, but the completely unabashed whimper when Ned begins to move his head faster is certainly a vote of confidence in Ned's favor.

It's difficult not to tighten his grip on Ned's hair, so he does, but just for a moment, because then, following his natural disinclination towards staying still, his hand is moving again, stroking Ned's cheek for a moment, just as reverently as the rest of his motions towards Ned have been.

Ned isn't sure why it is that those tiny touches to his cheek feel so particularly intimate. By all the rules of logic, they shouldn't be moreso than having another man's cock in his mouth, but apparently his brain isn't operating on logic right now. They send a shiver down his spine, and he has to close his eyes once more, to keep focused on what he's doing.

He loses himself in the rhythm of it, but never quite stops paying attention to Ginsberg: to the noises he's making, the movements - voluntary and involuntary - of his body, what in particular seems to make his breath catch and his legs tremble. Ned waits patiently for all those little signs that Ginsberg is getting closer to the edge, and when he starts to notice them he pulls off - not out of any desire to be a tease but to ask, rather breathlessly, "You want me to keep going?"

Neither of their brains are operating on logic. Ginsberg's just too overwhelmed by how good everything feels, by the sheer wonderment at the fact that something has made him lapse into silence. He's watching Ned, even if Ned has his eyes closed, propped up on his elbows a little, unable to tear his eyes from him. It's not a sight he's ever seen before -- how could he avoid staring, even if there's a part of him that wants to squeeze his eyes shut and focus only on the sensations? He feels greedy, like he wants to get every possible ounce of enjoyment out of this, and the visual aspect of all of this is important, too.

He can't stay quiet, and he can't stay still, but he tries his hardest not to writhe around under Ned too much, not wanting to squirm to the point that it becomes distracting for Ned. When Ned pulls away, he's so close to the edge, teetering right there, that he gasps loudly, almost surprised at the sudden lack of sensation.

"I... I don't know," he says, not even trying not to stammer. "It just feels so... I wanna do what feels good for you, too. This isn't just about me. Shouldn't just be about me. I don't just want to be taking and not giving you anything in return."

It's obvious, from his near-frantic speech, that he's very worried about this possibility.

Ned runs his hands up and down Ginsberg's thighs; he can see as his look of enjoyment slips into one of worry and wants to dispel any of that as soon as possible.

"I'm enjoying myself. A lot. A lot a lot. Trust me." He emphasizes this with a kiss to Ginsberg's hipbone. "I just meant... you said you wanted to try everything, so maybe we could try something else, if you wanted. Or I can keep going. It's up to you."

"We could try something else. If you want to. I mean, I want to. I just don't have any idea what I'm doing. Which I guess was probably pretty obvious, by now."

There's a self-deprecating tone in his voice, as there always is, but it's a little different than normal; he knows that Ned isn't going to start making fun of him for his lack of experience -- if he'd been intending to do that, he would have done it long ago.

"When you said you weren't very good at that? You're good at it. At least, I think so."

He's aware that his compliment might not hold as much weight, considering he'd also just said that he didn't have any idea what he was doing, but it's a genuine one, nonetheless. Maybe that's why he runs his fingers through Ned's hair and down his cheek again, marveling at just how good he feels.

The compliment makes him laugh, ducking his head forward to kiss Ginsberg's stomach one last time before he gets to his feet. He needs a moment, then, to steady himself: his head is spinning slightly.

"I never thought I'd be the one saying this," Ned says through a lopsided grin, "but you worry too much." He gets rid of the rest of his clothes quickly, and is glad to do so. He's gotten so hard just from listening to Ginsberg, from seeing him and feeling him, that it was starting to get a bit painful.

He fishes under the bed for a shoebox and climbs onto the bed a moment or two later with a small tube of lubricant. That worry of Ginsberg's - though he finds it rather endearing - does shape the way he phrases what he says next. Ned starts by kissing him for a good half minute or so, then pulls back to say, "I know you haven't done this kinda thing before, but do you have a preference for... you know?" He can't bring himself to just out and out say it, so he aims for a metaphor instead, "For who's pitching and who's catching, if you get my drift."

He grins back at Ned, genuinely delighted just to have Ned teasing him like that, not in an unpleasant or judgmental way, but a familiar one, like he can understand it (and he probably can, since Ginsberg can already recognize Ned as a fellow worrier.) "I know I worry too much. It's what I'm good at. It's a particular talent of mine."

He props himself up on his elbows to watch Ned divest himself of the rest of his clothes, unable to tear his eyes away from him, unable to imagine, at this moment, how anyone else could possibly look more perfect -- he's aware that if he said it out loud, Ned would chalk it up to more hyperbole, would be embarrassed by the compliment, most likely, but he's also aware that his appreciative gaze is probably saying enough as it is. And besides, hasn't he already said enough?

It's easy to get lost in the kissing, to focus on nothing but that, because there's no uncertainty there; he knows he's perfectly capable of kissing, and of being kissed, and feels very little awkwardness in it. Ned's question has him flustered all over again, though, and he just hopes the flustered reaction is at least somewhat endearing, because he's pretty sure he's going to keep having it this whole time. "I, um, I think I'd prefer to be on the receiving end of the..." He gestures vaguely, and then turns even redder, "Look, see, no idea what I'm doing. None at all! I can't even use your metaphor properly!" Still, he'd gotten the point across, he thinks.

"It's a weird metaphor anyway," Ned says, and though there's amusement in his tone, it is by no means malicious. Still, Ginsberg did get his point across, and Ned kisses him once again. If that's what he wants, Ned is more than happy to accommodate. In some ways, it is the easier option, and probably the safer bet. Ned knows he can do this without hurting Ginsberg, is that glad he's going to be the one doing this for him the first time, with the proper consideration.

"You don't need to know what you're doing. I know." Which is... more confidence than he'd probably be willing to own to, with anyone else, but he wants Ginsberg to feel like he's safe.

"Just relax, okay?" he murmurs, kissing his way down Ginsberg's chest a second time. "I have to get you ready, first." Ned coats his fingers with a liberal amount of the lubricant, rubs just the tip of one finger against Ginsberg's entrance, letting him get used to the idea. Ned remembers the first time he did this; the dynamic had been different. He doesn't want Ginsberg to be as on edge as he was then, adds, "The way this is probably gonna go, based on my experience, is that it's going to feel weird at first, and you're gonna want to giggle your head off. That's fine. But a while after that, it's going to stop feeling funny and it's going to feel really fucking fantastic. So just be patient, okay?"

With that he pushes one finger in, gradually. At the same time he takes Ginsberg's cock back into his mouth to give him something else to focus on.

He can't even begin to express how appreciative he is of Ned's explanation, and how impressed he is that Ned can manage to make the explanation sound not at all condescending -- he could easily see someone saying all of those things in a way that would make him feel stupid, but Ned didn't do that. In fact, Ned hasn't made him feel stupid once tonight; all of the concerns about his intelligence or lack thereof had come from himself. It's a welcome change.

"Okay," he says, at Ned's instruction to relax and be patient. They're both difficult things to do, but he has to remember that Ned knows what he's doing, that Ned's going to take good care of him. It takes some effort not to immediately tense up when he feels the tip of Ned's finger rubbing against him, but he manages not to, reassured by Ned's words, by how slowly and gently he's taking things.

When Ned begins to push one finger inside, he's not quite sure how he feels: Ned was right, it does feel strange, and he can't help the nervous laugh that comes out of him, although the nervous laugh quickly turns into a gasp when he feels Ned's mouth on him. "That's... yeah, that's weird," he admits, a little breathlessly, and then hastens to add: "But don't stop. It's good weird. I think."

Ned can't help it: he pulls away for a brief, amused, "I told you so." He can't help it; he likes Ginsberg's laugh, wants to encourage it in any way he can. There's something about the way he's holding himself that seems to Ned like a deliberate kind of relaxation, if there is such a thing. He's not tense, but he's holding the tension off through conscious effort - that's good enough for now. Ned can work with good weird.

So wraps his mouth around Ginsberg again, starts moving his finger back and forth inside him gingerly, letting him get used to the friction, the pressure. When Ned thinks he's ready - and he probably has been for a while, but he's being extra cautious, since the last thing he wants is to mess this up now - he adds a second finger, hooking both and trying to find an angle that seems to work for Ginsberg.

"Yeah, you told me so, and I'm starting to believe y-you're... always right."

Because there hasn't been one thing Ned's suggested or done this whole evening that's been uncomfortable or downright terrible in any way. For a night that had started out so apocalyptically, it's certainly turning out well. As Ned moves his finger inside of him, he starts to relax a bit more, and this time, it's genuine relaxation as he adapts to the feeling, finding that it goes from being 'weird' to pleasant to downright pleasurable pretty fast. He closes his eyes, concentrates on the feelings and not on any of the thoughts or worries in his mind.

Finding an angle that works for him doesn't prove to be particularly difficult -- all it takes is Ned hooking his fingers like that, and his eyes are flying open, a surprised little noise coming out of his mouth. He knows he probably looks ridiculous, but that doesn't mean he's going to stop gasping in surprise and approval, or tilting his hips towards Ned, suggesting that he very much wants more of whatever it was that Ned had just done.

Ned chuckles at that, though the sound is muffled by the fact that his mouth is occupied in other matters. He likes Ginsberg's eagerness, likes that he's the one who is drawing those noises out of him, wants to hear more of them. Which is why he repeats the movement of his fingers, and again, relentlessly, wants to get him as hot and bothered as possible, because he can. His jaw is starting to ache, so he pulls off, panting hard and pressing a dozen messy kisses to Ginsberg's stomach and hips.

"God, you sound so good," he gasps, and for the first time since they started this, his voice breaks with desire. Ned's fairly certain Ginsberg's ready, and it's a good thing; he's not certain he could wait much longer. He pulls his fingers free and fumbles for the lubricant, slicks himself up with hands that are shaking faintly with anticipation. He positions himself and pauses, warns in a voice that's unraveling at the edges with need, "This might sting a little at first, but it goes away, and I'm gonna go slow for you, okay?"

But it's not quite right, yet, doesn't feel right until Ned reaches forward, hooks a hand behind Ginsberg's neck and draws him up into a deep kiss. Only then does Ned start to push in, cautiously, by small increments.

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