Okay, then. Callate Faraday knows all too well, considering Vasquez has turned it on him more than a few times, and he can’t help the little huff of a laugh that escapes him. The rest of what Vasquez says is lost on him, but Faraday thinks he gets the picture.
Shut up and enjoy it.
And, well, Faraday has always been at least a little selfish, and rather than keep arguing, he offers a low, wordless sound of pleasure.
Vasquez’s grip is rough against his dick, and Faraday tips his head to one side while Vasquez’s lips travel the column of his throat. It’s an awkward position for both of them, and his old wounds twitch to signal their discomfort, but considering how wrung-out Vasquez seemed, Faraday isn’t entirely sure if the man has it in him to switch positions. But that’s fine, he thinks, as he rocks his hips, thrusting himself into Vasquez’s calloused palm. That’s just fine. More than fine, so long as Vasquez keeps this up.
His eyes go half-lidded, gaze growing distant, and his focus hones in on the roughness of Vasquez's palm, on the heat and of his mouth, on the rasp of his beard against Faraday’s neck. Dark as it currently is, Vasquez probably misses the way color rises up on Faraday’s skin. It’s not long before the rocking of his hips picks up, trying to force Vasquez into a slightly faster rhythm, and—
"Oh, hell," he murmurs, heated and rough. He lets out a strained noise, rutting into Vasquez's grip. "I'm close, sweetheart, I'm real close—"
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winterfish
no subject
Date: 2018-09-19 08:33 am (UTC)Shut up and enjoy it.
And, well, Faraday has always been at least a little selfish, and rather than keep arguing, he offers a low, wordless sound of pleasure.
Vasquez’s grip is rough against his dick, and Faraday tips his head to one side while Vasquez’s lips travel the column of his throat. It’s an awkward position for both of them, and his old wounds twitch to signal their discomfort, but considering how wrung-out Vasquez seemed, Faraday isn’t entirely sure if the man has it in him to switch positions. But that’s fine, he thinks, as he rocks his hips, thrusting himself into Vasquez’s calloused palm. That’s just fine. More than fine, so long as Vasquez keeps this up.
His eyes go half-lidded, gaze growing distant, and his focus hones in on the roughness of Vasquez's palm, on the heat and of his mouth, on the rasp of his beard against Faraday’s neck. Dark as it currently is, Vasquez probably misses the way color rises up on Faraday’s skin. It’s not long before the rocking of his hips picks up, trying to force Vasquez into a slightly faster rhythm, and—
"Oh, hell," he murmurs, heated and rough. He lets out a strained noise, rutting into Vasquez's grip. "I'm close, sweetheart, I'm real close—"