The gentleness of Vasquez’s touch always catches him off-guard, makes something warm clench in his chest, makes it hard to breathe. Faraday isn’t used to that type of tenderness, that type of care, nor is he ever entirely sure if he deserves it. There’s a depth to Vasquez’s gestures that Faraday still doesn’t quite understand, and he still doesn’t know what to do with it all.
The other man’s token protests earn him a flat look, an unimpressed scoff, though the insistent press of Vasquez’s lips help to keep Faraday’s usual annoyances at bay. Their hands fumble with one another’s clothing, and Faraday shoves the shirt off Vasquez’s shoulders. He yanks his own shirt up and over his head, baring his mottled, patchwork skin.
(It’s easier, these days, letting the old scars show. Faraday still finds them unpleasant reminders of his brush with death, and more than that, vain creature that Faraday is, he finds them downright homely. Vasquez never seems to mind, though, and with time, Faraday’s become more and more comfortable with leaving them exposed.)
Faraday tosses their shirts aside, and he takes a moment to appreciate the sight beneath him. He smooths calloused hands down Vasquez’s chest, feeling the other man’s heartbeat like a war drum under his palm.
Impatient as he always is, with need and want fanning the flames gathering in his gut, Faraday decides enough is enough and instead goes for the buckle on the other man’s belt, working it loose and yanking the belt from the loops of Vasquez’s pants. All the while, he keeps his mouth slotted over Vasquez’s, turns that gentle press into something sharper, more intense, teeth catching on the other man’s lips, tongues sliding together.
no subject
The other man’s token protests earn him a flat look, an unimpressed scoff, though the insistent press of Vasquez’s lips help to keep Faraday’s usual annoyances at bay. Their hands fumble with one another’s clothing, and Faraday shoves the shirt off Vasquez’s shoulders. He yanks his own shirt up and over his head, baring his mottled, patchwork skin.
(It’s easier, these days, letting the old scars show. Faraday still finds them unpleasant reminders of his brush with death, and more than that, vain creature that Faraday is, he finds them downright homely. Vasquez never seems to mind, though, and with time, Faraday’s become more and more comfortable with leaving them exposed.)
Faraday tosses their shirts aside, and he takes a moment to appreciate the sight beneath him. He smooths calloused hands down Vasquez’s chest, feeling the other man’s heartbeat like a war drum under his palm.
Impatient as he always is, with need and want fanning the flames gathering in his gut, Faraday decides enough is enough and instead goes for the buckle on the other man’s belt, working it loose and yanking the belt from the loops of Vasquez’s pants. All the while, he keeps his mouth slotted over Vasquez’s, turns that gentle press into something sharper, more intense, teeth catching on the other man’s lips, tongues sliding together.