( It would be an outright lie to say Ian's not ridiculously into that warning tone, that clear threat written in his expression. Sometimes he does it just to get that. Most of the time it's for pure selfish delight, but sometimes he's angling to provoke exactly this.
His teeth sink into his lower lip in a manner most incorrigible, eyebrows hiked up, and — yeah, he clearly wants to go there. )
I'm not scared. I know something you don't know.
( Conspiratorially, the sound of a man with a Great Secret. )
[ His hands have stopped moving, at least, and for that Nate is eternally grateful, but the expression on Ian's face gives him cause for concern. He's delighted, pinched with his teeth in his lip in anticipation, that look of sheer and unbridled glee that Nate loves fiercely for all the devastation it tends to wreak. Up to something, and not of a mind to hide it. ]
Oh?
[ The palm around Ian's wrist shifts, thumb rubbing against his pulse as if trying to determine his tell, his motives. A fruitless effort when he's as predictably unpredictable as they come. ]
( It's a classic, and really, shame on him for not seeing that coming. Has he made Nate sit through the Princess Bride yet? There's no way he's left that off of the old movies he shoves down Nate's throat sometimes.
Nate's got his left wrist, but his right flits in with the grace and dexterity of a hummingbird — if a hummingbird was ridiculously swol and worked with its hands all day.
[ It's the last thing that leaves him before Ian's other hand darts into a ticklish, sensitive spot and Nate arches away from the contact as though his skin were burning.
Thank goodness they've already finished eating, because Nate's elbow slams into the coffee table and he hisses, grabbing for Ian's other wrist. He's never had an outright problem subduing Ian if necessary, though he's still a significant opponent, but another part of him wants to see how things play out of he lets him have this. ]
( Oooh, damn, that one sounded like it hurt. Nate earns exactly one second of faltering before it's abundantly clear he's fine, and then comes the onslaught. Catching wrist number two means he's yanking wrist number one away, twisting up onto a knee, trying to take the high ground. )
You don't got the moves.
( He declares confidently, despite knowing full well Nate definitely has the moves. He's got so many moves it was kind of stupid for him to think a coffee table was gonna incapacitate him when he makes a living surviving an area of two dozen people that want to murder him.
[ He absolutely has the requisite moves, it's just a matter of deciding whether or not he wants to employ them for something as low stakes as Ian wanting to demolish him with tickling. There are worse fates, and it's been a long day, and therefore Nate doesn't altogether mind the new pressure from above, making a show of fading strength in the onslaught. ]
You'll never...take me...alive...
[ He informs him dramatically, sagging weakly and doing an extremely poor job of hiding the afflicted sounds of agony. With a last, exaggerated groan Nate falls over, back on the floor, face contorted in a mask of pain.
( Nate hits the floor with such exaggerated ham it's a genuine struggle not to laugh. It's become a point of pride to not devolve into cackling whenever they do something like this -- and as well as he's managed to swallow it down in his throat and in his chest, he can't quite stifle the expression on his face.
Nate goes down, Ian goes partway down with him. His back hits the floor, and Ian hovers over him just above his chest, legs gone out long and slipped comfortably between Nate's during the dramatic descent. )
I accept your surrender.
( Announced gravely, before he lowers himself down a little farther on his forearms. Nate's shirt slipped up an inch or two at some point, and he dips in to press his lips against the skin there. )
When historians talk about this day, they'll say you fought bravely 'til the end.
[ Nate shifts more comfortably beneath him, legs spreading to accommodate, unable to maintain the façade long enough before unmistakable fondness slips through. It's a stupid game but it serves to lighten the load and as Ian ducks his head to press his mouth to the space over Nate's sternum, he sighs. It's the little things he can come back to again and again that make the rest of what he does tolerable, because someone is waiting for him.
And tickling him, unfortunately.
Both hands immediately push into Ian's hair, without prompting or thinking, and Nate gets a waft of that cucumber melon scent they came out with last month. A slow grin stretches across his face. ]
( He says grimly into Nate's shirt, inching down to rest a little more weight on him. When his hands slip back under Nate's shirt, it's back to something peaceful and nice rather than an act of treason. He lifts his chin enough that it might dig in a little, just for a second. )
I know a teenager who got a grand piano dropped on them from a second story window.
( And then it's back to absently nudging along the seams and folds of Nate's shirt with the tip of his nose. )
[ Nate chuckles, the sound low in the back of his throat as his chest shakes and warm hands start creeping up under his shirt again. The touch is deliberate this time, not tripping over itself to startle him, and the fingers in Ian's hair push dark curls out of his face. ]
Was that before or after the anvil with "ACME" written on it?
[ He inquires politely, relaxing into the floor and bracketing Ian's sides with his knees. The man isn't subtle - never has been, but that's just one of many things Nate loves about him - when he gets that sharp edge in his eyes, intent and soaked in mischief. ]
[ He knows this game, the one of distraction, that soft, soothing voice compelling him with absolute absurdities until it's all he can dwell on and only then does Nate realize his fly is open. Ten goddamn years and he's as predictable as ever, but Nate knows the angle and feels the draft when his hips and stomach are exposed. ]
You know.
[ He says wryly, clenching and unclenching his fists for that brief pull on the hair in his hands. ]
This has got to be the most romantic conversation we've had to date.
[ You know a person as long as they've known each other, and you pick up tells and preferences as easy as breathing. Ian's beautiful head has always had just the perfect amount of hair to curl his hand in and get a good grip, and better still: he likes when Nate does exactly that.
Hard not to smirk at the ceiling, up until hot breath ghosts over his navel. ]
( Just, the most scandalized, the most offended. How could you? How dare you? He would never, his honor as a scout is being tarnished by the very notion. )
That's an appalling accusation.
( To whit, he'll kindly abandon the waistband of Nate's jeans to swoop back up over him again. He hovers there on his forearms, not quite planking, an eyebrow arching up. )
[ Ah, there it is. That delightful petulance that borders on Ian throwing a bullshit tantrum with how offended he is, how perfectly devastating it is that Nate would ever say such things.
For these reasons Nate looks slightly smug beneath him, making a show of stretching comfortably and eyeing him with a soft, half-lidded gaze. His traitorous fingers smooth over Ian's sides, resting there as Nate's attention flickers briefly to his mouth and back again. ]
( There's a huff, part laughter and part indignation, but... you know what, you can only posture for so long before you just admit what you're after. He does please, as demonstrated by the forward shift and downward swoop to gently catch Nate's lips. Light, barely there, soft as hell.
Probably totally counts as a tease.
He doesn't linger there long; instead, he makes a gentle path toward his jaw, then up toward ear.
[ Ian's still got it, not that he ever lost it. Early on into their experimenting they would sort of test each other, fiddling with person preferences, screwing around for fun without really talking about it, thinking about it too hard. They're miles away from doing things for the sake of learning which is why it's an easy in, when Ian leaves him hanging and starts up the edge of his jaw. ]
You're a monster.
[ Nate sighs, with no conviction whatsoever, lifting his chin like the easy mark he is. His hands slip down to Ian's hips and he shifts beneath him, obliging and eager.
( You're a monster earns a breathy laugh against the side of his neck, clearly too pleased with the assessment. It fades into something more genuine, something more fond. Becomes kind of a nuzzle, with his nose pressing gently along the column of Nate's throat. )
I missed you, too.
( Quiet and sincere, accompanied by the sweeping of his thumbs along Nate's sides.
He always misses Nate when he's gone, starting way back in what now feels like an earlier incarnation of themselves. Months between when they'd see each other, before they ever talked about it. It's a feeling that got more tempered with age, with the miles under their belt together, but it's never really gone away.
He's said it before, somewhere under blankets in the privacy of a hotel room: I just really, really like being around you. )
[ Nate was surviving when they met, but he wasn't really living. Toying with a life fraught with substance abuse, with self-destruction that chipped away at him slowly, day by day, year by year. By the time Ian called him a pretty boy piece of shit Nate had been doing this for over half a decade, dragging his walking corpse through the hours.
What they ended up having brought something else out: the potential for the future, not just the now. No reason to drown himself in alcohol, a warm hand waiting to take his and pull him to bed. Home.
I really, really like being around you, too.
Nate's fingers trail up the length of Ian's spine, one palm cupping the back of his skull as he idly plays with the curls there. ]
And this might sound a little uncouth, [ Nate adds quietly, huffing against Ian's ear. ] But you look so good today it's driving me nuts.
( The sheer unadulterated fondness that runs through him at that is like stepping into a warm bath. Maybe that shouldn't be the first emotion he feels after something meant to be a come-on, maybe it ought to be a different kind of flushing heat first, but... something about it. Just something about the way he says it, Ian's first impulse is damn, I love you.
Which is to say, the heat still hits, it's just second. )
That is... so uncouth.
( He agrees, smiling into Nate's throat. It takes effort to school that down enough to press his lips to it. )
Fortunately that's a really attractive trait on you, you pull it off. It compliments your shoulders.
[ It's the way he responds that tickles Nate so deliciously, that slightly-hoarse, deeply-amused observational tone with just the slightest edge of smugness. He can picture Ian's face perfectly, even buried in his neck as it is. ]
You like when I'm a no-good lowlife with a hard-on for you.
[ Nate informs him, matter of fact, and gives his hair a little tug. ]
[ Petulant and obviously playful, nothing that hurts in the slightest given the kinds of wounds he's sustained in his time. It earns another sharp tug on his hair, the Adam's apple bobbing in his throat with a thick swallow. Places he's sensitive, places he likes, places he's trying to cover up with some whining because of the way it bring heat into his face.
Nate shifts his legs, knees drawing up to bracket Ian's sides. ]
You bite any harder and the paps are gonna come up with some speculative headlines.
( He settles in like he belongs; legs out long between Nate's, held comfortably by his knees on either side, probably too much weight settled on top of Nate's chest, and an arm slipping up to curl under one of his shoulders. It's in his top 3 positions, hands down. )
Tell 'em it was that— one weird guy that hits on you real hard every time. What's his name?
( That sure is a shirt blocking his path toward collarbone. He nips at the hem absently, tugging at it with his teeth. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
His teeth sink into his lower lip in a manner most incorrigible, eyebrows hiked up, and — yeah, he clearly wants to go there. )
I'm not scared. I know something you don't know.
( Conspiratorially, the sound of a man with a Great Secret. )
no subject
Oh?
[ The palm around Ian's wrist shifts, thumb rubbing against his pulse as if trying to determine his tell, his motives. A fruitless effort when he's as predictably unpredictable as they come. ]
What's that?
no subject
I am not left handed.
( It's a classic, and really, shame on him for not seeing that coming. Has he made Nate sit through the Princess Bride yet? There's no way he's left that off of the old movies he shoves down Nate's throat sometimes.
Nate's got his left wrist, but his right flits in with the grace and dexterity of a hummingbird — if a hummingbird was ridiculously swol and worked with its hands all day.
Gentlemen, it's war. )
no subject
[ It's the last thing that leaves him before Ian's other hand darts into a ticklish, sensitive spot and Nate arches away from the contact as though his skin were burning.
Thank goodness they've already finished eating, because Nate's elbow slams into the coffee table and he hisses, grabbing for Ian's other wrist. He's never had an outright problem subduing Ian if necessary, though he's still a significant opponent, but another part of him wants to see how things play out of he lets him have this. ]
Don't make me- pin you to the damn floor-
no subject
You don't got the moves.
( He declares confidently, despite knowing full well Nate definitely has the moves. He's got so many moves it was kind of stupid for him to think a coffee table was gonna incapacitate him when he makes a living surviving an area of two dozen people that want to murder him.
But.
Right now that part doesn't exist. )
Throw the white flag, man, I'll go easy on you.
no subject
You'll never...take me...alive...
[ He informs him dramatically, sagging weakly and doing an extremely poor job of hiding the afflicted sounds of agony. With a last, exaggerated groan Nate falls over, back on the floor, face contorted in a mask of pain.
Wearily, hoarsely: ]
I yield.
no subject
Nate goes down, Ian goes partway down with him. His back hits the floor, and Ian hovers over him just above his chest, legs gone out long and slipped comfortably between Nate's during the dramatic descent. )
I accept your surrender.
( Announced gravely, before he lowers himself down a little farther on his forearms. Nate's shirt slipped up an inch or two at some point, and he dips in to press his lips against the skin there. )
When historians talk about this day, they'll say you fought bravely 'til the end.
no subject
And tickling him, unfortunately.
Both hands immediately push into Ian's hair, without prompting or thinking, and Nate gets a waft of that cucumber melon scent they came out with last month. A slow grin stretches across his face. ]
There are worse ways to go.
no subject
( He says grimly into Nate's shirt, inching down to rest a little more weight on him. When his hands slip back under Nate's shirt, it's back to something peaceful and nice rather than an act of treason. He lifts his chin enough that it might dig in a little, just for a second. )
I know a teenager who got a grand piano dropped on them from a second story window.
( And then it's back to absently nudging along the seams and folds of Nate's shirt with the tip of his nose. )
no subject
Was that before or after the anvil with "ACME" written on it?
[ He inquires politely, relaxing into the floor and bracketing Ian's sides with his knees. The man isn't subtle - never has been, but that's just one of many things Nate loves about him - when he gets that sharp edge in his eyes, intent and soaked in mischief. ]
Or the case of dynamite?
no subject
( He reprimands sternly, looking up again and oh-so-sneakily rucking Nate's shirt up a few inches while he's got the opportunity.
With a thousand-yard stare and all the manufactured grief he's capable of: )
I'll never forget the sound of A-flat minor.
no subject
You know.
[ He says wryly, clenching and unclenching his fists for that brief pull on the hair in his hands. ]
This has got to be the most romantic conversation we've had to date.
no subject
Uh-huh.
( He agrees easily, dipping down to absently, lazily kiss along the neat dips between muscle. )
Top three, no contest.
no subject
Hard not to smirk at the ceiling, up until hot breath ghosts over his navel. ]
You're teasing.
no subject
( Just, the most scandalized, the most offended. How could you? How dare you? He would never, his honor as a scout is being tarnished by the very notion. )
That's an appalling accusation.
( To whit, he'll kindly abandon the waistband of Nate's jeans to swoop back up over him again. He hovers there on his forearms, not quite planking, an eyebrow arching up. )
I mean. I could be. If you asked nicely.
no subject
For these reasons Nate looks slightly smug beneath him, making a show of stretching comfortably and eyeing him with a soft, half-lidded gaze. His traitorous fingers smooth over Ian's sides, resting there as Nate's attention flickers briefly to his mouth and back again. ]
Tease, if you please.
no subject
Probably totally counts as a tease.
He doesn't linger there long; instead, he makes a gentle path toward his jaw, then up toward ear.
Finesse. )
no subject
You're a monster.
[ Nate sighs, with no conviction whatsoever, lifting his chin like the easy mark he is. His hands slip down to Ian's hips and he shifts beneath him, obliging and eager.
Conspiratorial, as though it were a secret: ]
I missed you today.
no subject
I missed you, too.
( Quiet and sincere, accompanied by the sweeping of his thumbs along Nate's sides.
He always misses Nate when he's gone, starting way back in what now feels like an earlier incarnation of themselves. Months between when they'd see each other, before they ever talked about it. It's a feeling that got more tempered with age, with the miles under their belt together, but it's never really gone away.
He's said it before, somewhere under blankets in the privacy of a hotel room: I just really, really like being around you. )
no subject
What they ended up having brought something else out: the potential for the future, not just the now. No reason to drown himself in alcohol, a warm hand waiting to take his and pull him to bed. Home.
I really, really like being around you, too.
Nate's fingers trail up the length of Ian's spine, one palm cupping the back of his skull as he idly plays with the curls there. ]
And this might sound a little uncouth, [ Nate adds quietly, huffing against Ian's ear. ] But you look so good today it's driving me nuts.
no subject
Which is to say, the heat still hits, it's just second. )
That is... so uncouth.
( He agrees, smiling into Nate's throat. It takes effort to school that down enough to press his lips to it. )
Fortunately that's a really attractive trait on you, you pull it off. It compliments your shoulders.
no subject
You like when I'm a no-good lowlife with a hard-on for you.
[ Nate informs him, matter of fact, and gives his hair a little tug. ]
But I bet you say that to all the boys.
no subject
( He's got no qualms admitting that. )
About being a no-good low-life with a hard-on, not about the boys. Although...
( That part's a joke, which he'll make clear by kindly biting at the skin beneath his lips. Playfully hard, just enough to garner a reaction. )
no subject
[ Petulant and obviously playful, nothing that hurts in the slightest given the kinds of wounds he's sustained in his time. It earns another sharp tug on his hair, the Adam's apple bobbing in his throat with a thick swallow. Places he's sensitive, places he likes, places he's trying to cover up with some whining because of the way it bring heat into his face.
Nate shifts his legs, knees drawing up to bracket Ian's sides. ]
You bite any harder and the paps are gonna come up with some speculative headlines.
[ Which, for the record, he does not mind. ]
no subject
Tell 'em it was that— one weird guy that hits on you real hard every time. What's his name?
( That sure is a shirt blocking his path toward collarbone. He nips at the hem absently, tugging at it with his teeth. )
(no subject)
(no subject)