It’s different, now that he knows what those name mean, and something twists in his chest when Vasquez uses them. Faraday takes a second to appreciate Vasquez as he tugs off his shirt. The sight is familiar enough with the time they’ve spent together, but now, Faraday recognizes the tight clenching of his chest, the warmth that spools in his gut, as something akin to desire, and the realization is heady and almost freeing.
Faraday lies back, slowly, reluctantly, and lets Vasquez explore his body – though the reverence in it all does little to soothe the coil of unease twisting in Faraday’s stomach. Vasquez’s hands are rough but warm, purposeful in their touch, and the deliberate attention the man pays to the scars disfiguring Faraday’s body makes something ugly and defensive snap in him like a caged animal.
The press of Vasquez’s lips, though, and the tickle of his beard against Faraday’s skin, does a little more to calm him, and his eyes go half-lidded with the warmth of it. Still, Faraday catches that fond smile, and his jaw clenches with it, caught somewhere between pleased and self-conscious. (Faraday doesn’t do gentle, is wholly incapable of it, he thinks, which means he has no idea how to handle the tenderness undercutting Vasquez’s every touch, every word, and every look.)
He lets Vasquez guide his hand, and he cards through Vasquez’s dark hair, nails running lightly over the scalp. He swallows around the lump in his throat as he feels those calloused hands wrap around his hips – which means that Vasquez keeps Faraday from bucking desperately up into his mouth, once Vasquez’s lips wrap around Faraday’s length, once the heat of his mouth is surrounding him again.
A similar groan punches its way out of Faraday, and he rocks his hips, trying to seek out more of that heat, but Vasquez keeps him in check well enough, keeps him from lifting off the bed entirely. His hand twists lightly in Vasquez’s unruly curls – not gripping or guiding, but just feeling, cupping the back of the other man’s head as he works. Faraday’s other hand grips the bedspread, and he brings up his knees a little.
“Oh, hell,” he moans, the words falling from his lips unbidden. He’s hardly aware he’s speaking, lost in it all as he is. “Oh, shit, sweetheart, that’s— you’re—”
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winterfish
no subject
Date: 2018-01-25 10:42 pm (UTC)Faraday lies back, slowly, reluctantly, and lets Vasquez explore his body – though the reverence in it all does little to soothe the coil of unease twisting in Faraday’s stomach. Vasquez’s hands are rough but warm, purposeful in their touch, and the deliberate attention the man pays to the scars disfiguring Faraday’s body makes something ugly and defensive snap in him like a caged animal.
The press of Vasquez’s lips, though, and the tickle of his beard against Faraday’s skin, does a little more to calm him, and his eyes go half-lidded with the warmth of it. Still, Faraday catches that fond smile, and his jaw clenches with it, caught somewhere between pleased and self-conscious. (Faraday doesn’t do gentle, is wholly incapable of it, he thinks, which means he has no idea how to handle the tenderness undercutting Vasquez’s every touch, every word, and every look.)
He lets Vasquez guide his hand, and he cards through Vasquez’s dark hair, nails running lightly over the scalp. He swallows around the lump in his throat as he feels those calloused hands wrap around his hips – which means that Vasquez keeps Faraday from bucking desperately up into his mouth, once Vasquez’s lips wrap around Faraday’s length, once the heat of his mouth is surrounding him again.
A similar groan punches its way out of Faraday, and he rocks his hips, trying to seek out more of that heat, but Vasquez keeps him in check well enough, keeps him from lifting off the bed entirely. His hand twists lightly in Vasquez’s unruly curls – not gripping or guiding, but just feeling, cupping the back of the other man’s head as he works. Faraday’s other hand grips the bedspread, and he brings up his knees a little.
“Oh, hell,” he moans, the words falling from his lips unbidden. He’s hardly aware he’s speaking, lost in it all as he is. “Oh, shit, sweetheart, that’s— you’re—”