( He gladly accepts the invitation, the kiss going slower while half his attention shifts to the tips of his fingers. They travel along the shapes of a few scars, brushing along those lines just the same as they explore the rise and fall of muscle — which he has in abundance, Jesus Christ. Whichever of those rainbow gods creates genes should be taking notes.
A few are familiar. A few are different, and that gentle pull of curiosity about their origin story gets once again tucked away for a later time — he's already killed the mood once, he doesn't want to commit double homicide. It's forgotten almost immediately anyway with that deliberate push of feeling.
I trust you.
It pulls an audible exhale through his nose, exactly in time with a flood of warmth of his own. Hits him in the heart and the pelvis simultaneously and for the life of him he can't explain why.
Feeling Nate experience that same struggle against the impulse to pull back is... really fucking reassuring, actually. It brushes him with cool and comforting relief; he feels less bad about feeling it himself, knowing he's not the only one. That he doesn't have to explain or justify it, because the person he's with gets it. When he deepens the kiss, when he tries to coax lips apart, it's with a weird sense of gratitude. As much appreciation as there is warmth.
...also, maybe a slightly different version of curiosity. Listen, man, he's not gonna run on facts and numbers, but he still wants to research reactions and catalog responses. That's just his brain. )
[ It's odd, how soothing it is to know that someone else feels just as terrifically anxious as you. There isn't even the usual "I understand" or meaningful audible exchange of words on the subject, just an understanding and appreciation that reflects back at him, an echo without reduction that curls into the far reaches of his limbs and resonates in him like the swirling sound of a singing bowl. A thrumming sensation that fills his head.
Ian's fingers skim his chest, his stomach, all potent curiosity and plucking discordant strings that make him shiver. They're both working at this, they're both trying, they're both a little afraid.
There's an obvious risk to it, in showing his hand once more. A risk to letting him see the jagged edges, maybe even cut himself on them. The rags and bones of the person he still sometimes finds himself trying not to be, compared to the person he is.
But it doesn't take a whole lot of prompting for Nate to open his mouth, to gently fist a handful of Ian's hair, to thumb at the hollow at the base of his skull. He presses in no less eagerly but with a sudden, deep desire to learn again, to commit new information to memory and yeah, he might hum delightedly against Ian's lips knowing full well that Ian is doing the same damn thing. Tit for tat.
Speaking of which- Nate's underutilized hand feels up Ian's chest in return, fingertips dragging his collarbone as he experimentally scrapes his teeth over a lip. ]
( It's... a little overwhelming, to be honest — this combination of feeling and feeling. The shivering pleasure he's getting from the fist in his hair battling for his attention with the more emotional conversation happening beneath the skin. It's a back and forth on a different level, and even more than the uptick in pressure and pace it's the feeling Nate's got that shoots through him. A matching eagerness, a near-identical curiosity and the pressing desire to learn. It just... fits.
It's appealing as all fuck, actually. Breath rushes audibly and quickly through his nose, driven out of his lungs by a sparking heat riding deep and low in him. Any flagging from that awkward conversation is immediately gone, and his fingertips dig in maybe just a little too hard where he's hanging onto Nate's sides.
Can't really crowd him any further into the wall, but it might seem a little like he's trying.
Unbidden, a thought flits in. Stupid, absurd, completely out of place with the rest of him falling down the rabbit hole, but all the same it's just strong enough to get him to pull back an inch and mutter incredulously: )
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A few are familiar. A few are different, and that gentle pull of curiosity about their origin story gets once again tucked away for a later time — he's already killed the mood once, he doesn't want to commit double homicide. It's forgotten almost immediately anyway with that deliberate push of feeling.
I trust you.
It pulls an audible exhale through his nose, exactly in time with a flood of warmth of his own. Hits him in the heart and the pelvis simultaneously and for the life of him he can't explain why.
Feeling Nate experience that same struggle against the impulse to pull back is... really fucking reassuring, actually. It brushes him with cool and comforting relief; he feels less bad about feeling it himself, knowing he's not the only one. That he doesn't have to explain or justify it, because the person he's with gets it. When he deepens the kiss, when he tries to coax lips apart, it's with a weird sense of gratitude. As much appreciation as there is warmth.
...also, maybe a slightly different version of curiosity. Listen, man, he's not gonna run on facts and numbers, but he still wants to research reactions and catalog responses. That's just his brain. )
no subject
Ian's fingers skim his chest, his stomach, all potent curiosity and plucking discordant strings that make him shiver. They're both working at this, they're both trying, they're both a little afraid.
There's an obvious risk to it, in showing his hand once more. A risk to letting him see the jagged edges, maybe even cut himself on them. The rags and bones of the person he still sometimes finds himself trying not to be, compared to the person he is.
But it doesn't take a whole lot of prompting for Nate to open his mouth, to gently fist a handful of Ian's hair, to thumb at the hollow at the base of his skull. He presses in no less eagerly but with a sudden, deep desire to learn again, to commit new information to memory and yeah, he might hum delightedly against Ian's lips knowing full well that Ian is doing the same damn thing. Tit for tat.
Speaking of which- Nate's underutilized hand feels up Ian's chest in return, fingertips dragging his collarbone as he experimentally scrapes his teeth over a lip. ]
no subject
It's appealing as all fuck, actually. Breath rushes audibly and quickly through his nose, driven out of his lungs by a sparking heat riding deep and low in him. Any flagging from that awkward conversation is immediately gone, and his fingertips dig in maybe just a little too hard where he's hanging onto Nate's sides.
Can't really crowd him any further into the wall, but it might seem a little like he's trying.
Unbidden, a thought flits in. Stupid, absurd, completely out of place with the rest of him falling down the rabbit hole, but all the same it's just strong enough to get him to pull back an inch and mutter incredulously: )
Girl From Ipanema.
( You asshole. )