The Hawthorne Way
Fandom: The Inheritance Games
Ship: Libby/Nash
Summary: Being dangerously ticklish seems to be the Hawthorne way, and Nash is nothing if not a Hawthorne through and through.
“Lihibby- Libs no,” Nash huffs out, his low, Texan timbre rumbling in Libby’s ear. He’s trying really hard to keep up his whole cool as a cucumber act, but the twitching in his fingers gives him away. His hands, laid flat on Libby’s back, haven’t been still since she started her little game.
“What’s the matter?” Libby asks innocently, nuzzling her face into his neck. Her hands trace the contours of his hip bones under his shirt, fingers dipped under the waistband of his sweatpants. She digs in with a barely-there touch at the top of his hip, and he snorts, squirming minutely.
“You’re-” Nash grits his teeth when Libby starts to trace her fingers over his stomach, and Libby absolutely revels in it, “you’re a sadist.”
“I might be,” Libby takes her head off Nash’s chest so she can smile at him, blue hair falling in her eyes, “but at least I’m not a ticklish cowboy.”
Nash had held out a lot longer than Libby thought he would. She’s been a quiet observer for about a dozen Hawthorne tickle fights, and knew by now that his brothers couldn’t hold out for the life of them. Jameson’s the hardest to break of the other three, and all it takes with him is a taser to the ribs and he’s down for the count. Nash? Well, Nash is proving to be much better at this game than his brothers are, and Libby can’t help but realize she’s never seen the other Hawthornes take advantage of their older brother’s ticklishness.
She wouldn’t have gone into this blind, of course. She’s been watching. She’s been waiting.
She had heard the comments the other Hawthornes would make towards Nash when he tickled them. Wait until the three of us get the upper hand on you. You’re just as ticklish. Don’t pretend your ribs don’t make you shriek. All of these taunts aimed towards Nash, it was only reasonable that this would be the conclusion.
So here they are, midday cuddle session on the couch in one of Hawthorne House’s many lounges, Libby trying to get her cowboy to crack. But Nash is good. He’s really good. Years of being a big brother have helped him develop some defense mechanisms, like holding out for so long that the tickler gives up.
It’s a good thing Libby’s had years of being a big sister.
She stops teasing Nash, her head returning to its place on his chest, her fingers going still at his sides. She is patient. She knows how to wait someone out. When Nash starts absentmindedly humming and playing with her hair, she waits. When one episode of Grey’s Anatomy rolls into the next one on the flatscreen, she waits. When Nash starts to draw shapes on her back, she waits. She waits until she finally hears the familiar sound of his breath evening out, his fingers relaxed on her back in a way that she knows means he’s on the edge of sleep.
Libby might be sunny, but she’s never been above being a little bit evil.
With renewed vigour, she claws both hands into Nash’s ribs with her long, freshly manicured nails, and scratches up and down in unpredictable spurts. Nash flinches, and she can feel the way his shoulders tighten, and how his hands on her back spasm.
He had been lulled into a false sense of security, but he doesn’t have time to complain, or, more accurately, congratulate her on such a slick move.
Grayson was right; going for his ribs does make Nash shriek.
“Lihihibs!” Nash screeched, squirming underneath her, “noho!”
Nash is trying to curl in on himself, bringing his elbows to his sides in an attempt to block out Libby’s practiced fingers, but it doesn’t go unnoticed by Libby that he’s not actively pushing her off, that his hands are still gripping her biceps without pushing her away
“Lihihibby! Bahaby, noho!” Nash squeals when she manages to wedge her fingers, delicate and graceful, between their bodies. The front of his ribs don’t get quite the same reaction as the sides, but Libby thinks she’s getting warmer when her fingers go lower to tickle his toned tummy.
“What’s the matter?” Libby whispers teasingly, pushing herself up with her elbows so she can whisper it closer to his ear, “a little bit of tickling isn’t bothering you, is it, darlin’?” She drops the ‘g’ in a vague imitation of Nash’s accent, of what he loves to call her, and she notices the way the flush spreads up his neck.
When her fingers finally touch his tummy, Nash arches his back, a choking, sputtered laugh forcing its way from his lips. She can tell from the tension in his hands how hard he’s trying not to squeeze her, he would never hurt her, even when he’s lost his pride to Libby’s incredibly skilled fingers.
“Plehease babygihihirl! Ihihit- no- fuhuhuck!” Nash makes a sound that Libby’s certain she’s heard from all three of the other Hawthornes at some point while observing their tickle fights– that adorable half-whine half-scream heard only when a Hawthorne is getting their belly tickled. All of them, with their entirely different laughs and personalities, and yet none of them can quite handle that one spot.
“You Hawthornes,” Libby giggles, skittering her long nails up and down Nash’s sides, “you’re all the same.”
Nash is giggling in a way Libby has never heard him before. Every time Nash laughs it’s booming belly laughter, deep and rumbly, and almost always brief, or wry. These giggles are airy and desperate, peppered with snorts in between, and they make him sound, and look, a lot younger.
“You’re so ticklish,” Libby teased, her voice a low hum of amusement. “Who would’ve thought? Mr. Calm and Collected, all serious and mysterious, but then… this.”
“Shuhut up!” Nash shouts on instinct, before correcting his own manners “wahait! I dohohon’t mehean that. Sohohorry prihihincess.”
It’s a miracle Nash is managing speech at all in his state– torso now halfway off the couch from his bucking, one hand on the floor to brace for impact– let alone have enough of his senses intact to apologize for responding rudely to Libby’s taunts. Libby kind of wishes he hadn’t; in their entire time knowing each other she has never seen him so out of control, but now she’s seen too much, and she’s addicted to watching him come undone from something as simple as her nimble fingers on his torso.
She feels high off of his laughter and the image of his red face, eyes closed and laughter lines visible, and it makes her lightheaded, like she imagines the whole thing is making him too.
Her devious fingers dig into his hipbones, and he warns her seconds too late.
“No Lihihibby nohot there!” There’s an urgency in his voice that she finally understands once they’re suddenly on the carpet, next to each other now instead of her head on his chest, and she digs in again, chasing the just a little bit more.
The sounds of his heels digging into the floor is much louder than it had been on the couch, with the hardwood floors protected only by the thin carpet. He doubles over unsuccessfully, but Libby stops when she can hear his voice getting hoarse, and notices that he’s struggling to get out all of his begs and pleads.
When her fingers release him, his body relaxes against the floor, chest huffing in and out with leftover giggles. He throws an arm over his face, motioning with the other hand for Libby to come over to him.
She lays her head on his chest, returning to their earlier position, still just as comfy though now on the ground, and she listens as his breathing returns to normal. He moves his arm just a little bit, so he can send her a glare with no heat behind it.
Libby laughs, and swats his arm, “it’s not like you tried to stop me.”
Nash’s regular lopsided grin returns, smug, self-satisfied, sexy, “gotta let my princess have some fun.”