There’s a brief, heart-dropping second where Vasquez doesn’t move, doesn’t react, and Faraday realizes what a giant goddamn mistake he’s made. His grip loosens slightly on Vasquez’s sleeves, and apologies start piling and piling on the tip of his tongue, ready to toss out in rapidfire succession.
Unnecessary, it turns out, as something seems to spur Vasquez forward, as he climbs into Faraday’s lap, a calloused hand curling over the line of Faraday’s jaw. His own hat falls away, tumbles somewhere to the floor, where it’s sure to lie forgotten for a little while yet. The kiss is fierce and bruising, a little too sharp, a little too much teeth – and later, Faraday will chalk it up to inexperience. To desperation and nerves and a frantic sense of want that had struck him like a shot to the gut.
Faraday’s always been an impulsive son of a bitch. It’s why he rode out when Sam taunted him with an impossible job. It’s why he stuck around when the odds were stacked entirely against them. It’s why he charged the Gatling gun, with little more than his mulish determination and a handful of prayers.
For once, though, it seems his impulsiveness has paid off, and when Vasquez backs off, Faraday is still gripping his sleeves, breathless and dazed. He licks his lips, head tilting back slightly as Vasquez brushes a line, up and down, up and down. (It really has no right feeling as nice as it does, he thinks, but it does.)
He snorts out a quick laugh, something obviously distracted and distant, but he flashes Vasquez one of his customary smirks. “You oughta know by now that I don’t do nothing unless I want to.”
It all seems so suspiciously good, if Vasquez ignores so much else, but his mind is running like crazy and he's gaping at Faraday where he's lying and Vasquez is breathing hard, and he has no idea what to do other than keep touching him because he's not being shoved away.
The clumsiness and the badness of the kiss faintly registers for him, a mental note being made that he's going to have to make that better, but no, no, this is the point.
"You like women," he says. "I've only seen you like women, I even flirted with you and you never did anything back," he protests, the confusion clear on his face and in his tone. He's gaping at Faraday, unsure what's changed to make this happen, but his heart is leaping in his chest as he starts to think about things like how he doesn't have to leave, the fact that they can keep travelling together, that he can keep touching Faraday.
Maybe. He has to understand why they went from demands about Vasquez keeping secrets to this.
"I need to know you're not doing this just to keep me around," he says sharply. "Because if it's so that I won't leave and not because you don't want it..." He trails off, not bluntly saying he doesn't want it then either, because maybe a part of him wouldn't entirely mind? Maybe he needs more self-respect, is what he's realizing.
Fuck, Faraday looks good down there with his dazed look, his lips wet, and that languid line to him. It's going to become a problem in his trousers soon enough, but he can't convince himself to get up.
He comes back to himself as Vasquez speaks, as he lays down truth after little bit of truth. And Faraday—
Well, shamefully, his cheeks color with it again, embarrassed to have it laid out before him like that. Hell, Vasquez is really going to make him try and explain himself, isn’t he? And Faraday hardly knows what he’s doing, what he’s feeling, because emotions and sentiment are complicated topics. He swallows thickly, gaze darting away. Holding Vasquez’s gaze while he tries to sort through this aloud is practically impossible. Bad enough the man has his weight against him, pinning him more or less in place. And maybe in a different moment, he’d feel trapped by it, but not now.
“I don’t...” he tries, voice hoarse with hesitance, but that’s a false start. He licks his lips, tries again, “I’ve never...”
Jesus goddamn wept. He can feel his face heating, and after he takes a deep, rallying breath, he forces the words out in a rush:
“I’ve never been with a man.”
It hardly seems like an explanation, admittedly, but after another breath to compose himself, Faraday continues on; he traces the woodgrain of the floorboards with his eyes.
“I didn’t... when you— flirted, I didn’t think... I thought it was— I thought it was a joke.” Which was more or less in line with their usual modes of conversation, half-truths and mischievous smirks. At any given moment, half of what either of them said was probably bullshit. “I hadn’t considered it a possibility.
“And I do like women,” and this comes out almost a little defensively, like Vasquez might accuse him of lying, but he backs away from that tone quickly enough. He lets out a shuddering breath, head bowing further. Then, slowly, hesitantly, “But I... I think I... For a little while, now, I think I’ve—”
He trails off, frustrated with his inability to say it outright, and he huffs out a sharp sigh. His cheeks feel like they’re burning when he finally grunts out, “You’re not so bad.”
By which he means, I think I like you, too, but apparently too much honesty makes Faraday want to vomit.
That look in Faraday's cheeks is entirely too flushed and too good for him, given that he's having troubles with keeping his own desires under wraps,
"I've been with enough men to know what to do," is his low response, his voice hoarse with desire. There's a dark look in his eyes because Faraday looks ridiculously good right now. He keeps stroking his fingers over the warmth of Faraday's neck, wanting to lean down and kiss him again, but he has to be patient.
When Faraday says 'you're not so bad', he laughs. It's a low and loud and wonderful thing and he's lighter than he has been in ages to feel it. "Querido," he murmurs, happy to finally get to say that again and mean it, and to also have Faraday understand it. "You're pretty awful," he says bluntly. "You drink and smoke and gamble and swear and snore," he says (even if that last is a lie, seeing as it's Vasquez who does the snoring).
Still, even as he's saying all this, he's closing the space between them, a determined glint in his eye.
"And you don't know how to kiss," is his last accusation, living for what that might provoke out of Faraday, now that he's only inches away from him and those flush cheeks of his.
Faraday isn’t the type to embarrass easily, but here he is, fighting down the urge to fidget like he’s a child caught out while trying to steal sweets. His face burns red hot with his discomfort. He’s never felt this vulnerable and exposed before – and that’s including what little he remembers of charging the Gatling gun, where he knelt in the grass with a chest filled with lead.
Apparently, Faraday has a much easier time facing down certain death than he does rejection. Who would’ve thought?
And still Vasquez keeps up that brush of his fingers, and Faraday bites down on his lower lip, enjoying the hell out of it. Vasquez’s hands are rough, calloused, but his touch is surprisingly gentle. Faraday unconsciously leans into it, forcing his grip on Vasquez’s sleeves to relax. Predictably, he’s left the fabric twisted and wrinkled, and he looks momentarily sorry for it, smoothing his palms down Vasquez’s arms to rest on his elbow.
His chest clenches with the warmth in Vasquez’s laugh, in the affection that he imbues the endearment with, and Faraday finally risks a glance up. Soon enough, though, Faraday’s expression turns flat and unenthused with each criticism, and he has half a mind to shove Vasquez straight to the floor. He doesn’t, though, obviously; not with the way Vasquez is leaning in so close that they share breath, and for a quick second, air catches in Faraday’s lungs, breath held and eyes transfixed on that infuriating smirk, and—
Faraday’s always been a competitive bastard, and with that final bit of criticism, he scowls at the other man.
But he’s always had something of a mean streak, too, which is why when he surges forward, he doesn’t immediately set to kissing Vasquez, and instead bites at his lower lip – almost like admonishment.
Vasquez barks out a laugh of delight when instead of a kiss, he gets a bite. The heat in his expression doesn't dwindle, instead kicking up in heat for the audacity of it and how very Faraday it is. "So is that a request to be taught? I think yes," he murmurs, after he lifts a thumb to rub back and forth over his lower lip, like he's considering this.
Sliding back, he slides his palms under Faraday's back to coax him into a sitting position, adjusting his straddle so that his ankles press into the small of Faraday's back as he sits in his lap, making himself as comfortable as he would be on top of a horse.
He's still in disbelief, still unable to believe this is possible, but with Faraday's cheeks so flushed and red, he doesn't want anyone else to see this but him. The jealousy is stoked quickly, but he puts it out as he cups Faraday by the neck and tugs him in slowly.
It's not quite how he'd kiss another man, but not how he'd kiss a woman either. There's a tenderness in it, born of what he feels for this man and how it's grown, so when he does finally slide in for a kiss, it's exploratory and slow, like he's intending to learn this man like this, in the privacy of their room and...
Laughing against Faraday's lips, he eases back when the bubble of amusement can't be stopped and it ruins the kiss.
"We only have one bed," is what he says, smirking. He can't believe that only a few hours ago, they would have expected that to be a problem.
Faraday resists Vasquez’s direction, at first, apparently determined to be a difficult bastard to the last, but at length he moves where he’s led. He swallows thickly as Vasquez settles more securely in his lap, feeling oddly exposed and self-conscious, even if he’s been in positions like this more times than he’s willing to count. But all those times were with women, of course, which makes this turn of events unique.
He swallows thickly at that look Vasquez gives him, something possessive and watchful that would be worrying on anyone else, but oddly attractive on Vasquez. Slowly, he lets Vasquez pull him in, expecting another fierce, desperate sort of kiss, but—
It’s nothing like that.
And this is new, too – brand new, in fact, because he no one has ever kissed him like this. Sweet and attentive in a way that makes Faraday nervous, that kicks up an odd sense of unease in his gut. He’s not used to anyone, man or woman, treating him so gently, and he hasn’t a single idea what to do with that.
Thankfully, Vasquez pulls away before Faraday’s agitation can ruin the moment, and Faraday breathes out a laugh at the comment.
“Seems to be the case,” he agrees. Then, a little slyly to mask the way his nerves kick up, “You intendin’ to put it to good use?”
He studies the offending item of furniture behind them considerately, giving a hum as he stares at it like it might somehow reach out and bite him. The truth is that he's still leaping at the idea of having the ability to touch and hold and kiss, he doesn't need to push them towards anything else, even if a part of him desperately wants it.
Laughing a little, but not at Faraday, it's a soft huff as he reaches through his hair to tame offending curls (he hasn't had a cut in ages and it's starting to get unruly) before he moves his fingers to scratch at Faraday's scalp and do the same. "Maybe. Maybe not," he admits, because if this is so new to Faraday, he doesn't want to spook him off.
Maybe it's not exactly the same as a horse, but it is very close, he thinks.
"Just this once," he decides, "I'm going to let you have control and not bicker with you. Maybe," he admits, because he still thinks that something might happen to make him argue. "What do you want to do? Anything you want," he promises. "Or half of it or a quarter, we do that."
He licks his lips, trying to calm the anxious wave that sweeps through him. World’s greatest lover he may be, but in this, he’s woefully inexperienced. He hasn’t felt this uncertain since he was a young man, just setting off on his own, learning how to smile and flirt and wink, learning how to deal cards and charm folks.
Vasquez’s fingers card through Faraday’s hair, and Faraday finds himself unconsciously leaning into the touch, eyes going half-lidded with how good it feels. It’s a generous offer that Vasquez is giving him, something patient and kind – and again, that agitated feeling kicks up in his gut. Faraday’s fingers tangle in Vasquez’s sleeves again, grip tightening to conceal his nerves, and he tries for a lazy shrug.
“As I recall,” he says, his voice carefully tempered to sound easy and relaxed, “you were the one who seemed so insistent on tryin’ to teach me something. You tryin’ to back down now?”
Maybe he's being goaded, but Vasquez isn't about to forget that Faraday admitted that he hasn't done anything with another man. That he should be the first one (and the last one, if his selfish possessive streak that's also jealous has anything to say about his encounters) is something he's not going to be upset about.
Still, the last thing he needs is to go too hard, too fast, and risk Faraday changing his mind about all of this. He uses the tug of his shirt and thinks that maybe he can just ease Faraday in.
Sliding back a little, he moves his fingers to Faraday's buttons, absently toying with them, even if he doesn't unbutton them just yet. "Guero, there's too much to teach in just one night," he points out, and with a glint in his eye, he thinks that he can at least start somewhere familiar.
Pushing at Faraday's shoulder hard enough so that his back will hit the bed, he stands and takes his boots off so that he can crawl after him, but instead of returning to his shirt, he gets a hand at the hem of Faraday's pants, smirking wickedly from his position.
"I could shave a little more, if you can wait," he offers, and while it may be a bit sharp and amused, he means it. If Faraday wants Vasquez to be clean-shaven for when he puts his mouth on him, to help his mind, he's willing. He'll look like he's a boy again, but he's willing.
Even if he tries not to, Faraday watches Vasquez's every move, like he expects a trick, like he's sitting at a card table, watching for double- or bottom-dealing. He licks his lips, glancing to Vasquez's hand as it wanders down the buttons of Faraday's vest, and when the other man pushes him back, Faraday resists – at least for a brief moment. But the other man isn't shoving him, just guiding him, and wary as Faraday is, he lets himself be pushed onto the bed.
As Vasquez moves to take off his boots, Faraday takes the moment to unbuckle his gun belt, setting it aside on the nightstand within easy reach – not because he expects he'll need them, but because he's always felt more comfortable with them nearby.
Vasquez crawls back into bed just as Faraday's fingers rest on the knot of his wild rag, tied around his throat, though he freezes the instant he feels the weight of Vasquez's palm at the buckle of his belt. Faraday looks up at the other man, caught somewhere between anxious and startled and intrigued. When it registers to him what Vasquez is offering, exactly, Faraday breathes out a laugh, shaking his head.
"Don't think that'd be necessary," he says, and if he sounds a little nervous, he'll thanks Vasquez not to point it out.
He likes being watched like this, if he's honest. It makes him feel like he's going to do something incredible that Faraday will not have had before, not like this. He grins, lopsided and full of mischief, as he stares at Faraday from where he's settles near his ankles, his long arms reaching up to loosen his belt and nudge it loose.
"I'm already much better trimmed," he assures with a determined glint as he yanks at Faraday's trousers, working neatly to get his buttons loose, grateful he hadn't drank too much earlier.
He thinks this is a good way to start. It's something Faraday knows, but different enough that he won't be thinking about his Maria or his Ethel while Vasquez is working down here, not unless they had some facial hair that he hadn't been told about. "Last chance," is his offer, but it's a quiet thing, recalcitrant and worried as he keeps his hands on the hem of Faraday's trousers, ready to pull them down and push them to the next step.
He wants to be cautious and careful, because he thinks that his heart would never mend the ache if he got so close to this, only to have it taken away (even if he's not entirely sure yet what it is he wants out of all of this).
Faraday feels like he’s balanced on a wire, as Vasquez’s hands rest on the waistband of his jeans, as Vasquez looms over him with that hint of worry, hidden away by the slyness of his smile. Faraday’s nervous – that much is obvious. He wasn’t in the habit of treading onto unfamiliar ground without an exit plan. Hell, he wasn’t in the habit of treading onto unfamiliar ground at all, if he could help it, but—
This would be worth it, he told himself. Or he hoped it would be, because the warmth of Vasquez’s calloused hands, even through the fabric of Faraday’s clothing, makes something hot and dark spiral straight to his stomach. The way Vasquez smiles, knowing and roguish, sends a bolt straight down his spine – and even if being with a man is new to Faraday, he still recognizes that sensation easily enough as desire.
Which, unexpectedly, made things slip a little more into focus.
One of Faraday’s hands found Vasquez’s, and with his palm resting atop, he hooked his own thumb beneath the waistband of his trousers, giving a pointed tug downward – not enough to divest himself of his clothing, but enough to tell Vasquez that he’s starting to lose patience and might just take matters into his own hands.
“C’mon,” he says, trying to sound waspish and impatient. Then, he pauses, mostly for show, and tuts quietly. “Unless you’re havin’ second thoughts about your own capabilities...”
Faraday might as well be beating Vasquez over the head with the challenge, but— maybe that’ll make things easier on both of them, if they turn this into something of a game. Another little competition to throw themselves into.
The crooked and mischievous smirk on his face starts to fade a little when Faraday implies that he's having second thoughts about his ability to please him, turning into a stubborn glint in his eye as he slides down Faraday's body, hands firmly running over his knees and calves and legs, tugging off his boots so that he can climb back up, glancing back up to that tempting glimpse of a hip bone.
Fuck, he's worked so hard not to stare at him when he's been changing or at his most vulnerable (like when the doctor had been changing the dressings), but it's nearly impossible not to look now.
"Remember you said that when I make it so you forget your own name," he warns, like he's insulted that Faraday could even think so little of him. He can see the challenge for what it is, but it still works on him. Grabbing at Faraday's pants, he pulls them to his knees and gives him about two seconds reprieve before he straddles him near his ankles, bent over to take him deep, one hand digging blunt nails hard into Faraday's hip as he slides off with a slick pop, not bothering to say a word before he starts to pay attention to working his tongue over the tip, just until he's ready to take him deep again.
Faraday feels oddly self-conscious, hunted, as Vasquez kneels above him, and he feels that peculiar nervous energy thrum through him, like the moments before a fight, where his fingers itch for a weapon. Instead, Faraday twists his hands into the coverlet, forcing his expression into something approaching calm and confident.
He lets Vasquez strip him down, his heartbeat kicking up to slam against his ribs as Vasquez studies him. He hisses in a startled breath once Vasquez strips him of his jeans and underthings – or at least pulls them down far enough to free Faraday's hardening cock. This time, Faraday doesn't have time enough to feel exposed, vulnerable, before Vasquez is bending over him, the slick heat of his mouth taking in his cock. A startled noise punches its way out of Faraday, trailing off into a groan as he falls back against the bed.
Vasquez is setting an almost relentless pace, almost like he worries Faraday might change his mind, and Faraday swears beneath his breath. His body seems to respond of its own accord, one hand gripping the bedspread, the other reaching for Vasquez. His nails skim across Vasquez's scalp, fingers tangling in those dark, unruly curls. And as much as he tries to keep himself under control, he rocks into the wet heat of Vasquez's mouth and that goddamn clever tongue.
"Fuck," he moans out, and his grip on Vasquez's hair tightens briefly. "Fucking— fucking hell, Vasquez—"
Maybe he's feeling like a little bit of an asshole (when is he not), but when Faraday starts tightening the grip on his hair, starts to curse and get out his name, he slides off and looks up expectantly, sliding his hand in to do what his mouth had been, but with lazy strokes as he jerks him off.
It's such a good sound to hear, so tempting to draw out, which is why he half-leans over Faraday with his slick lips and a smirk, working his thumb in firm drags over the underside of Faraday's dick while he leans in for a teasing nip of a kiss. "What do you want, Faraday?" he replies, voice hoarse.
He knows exactly what he wants, but he's an asshole. He also maybe wants to see what Faraday will do, when prodded like this, building up these things in his head.
Faraday feels dazed, reeling again in a completely different way, lost in the heated glide of Vasquez's mouth on his cock. The instant Vasquez pulls completely off, Faraday makes a low, almost keening sound for the loss – though he hardly realizes the sound has drifted away from him.
Once Vasquez's calloused hand grips his length, working him in slow, deliberate strokes, Faraday lets out another low sound – this time something that shares a blood relative with a moan. The contrast from just moments ago, with Vasquez taking him in and working him like a man possessed, to now, with Vasquez taking his sweet goddamn time, leaves Faraday dizzy, and a few broken swears fall from his lips.
Vasquez interrupts his babbled curses with a quick kiss, and Faraday chases after him to bite at his lips again, mean and irritated. With one hand still tangled in Vasquez's hair, he tangles his other hand in Vasquez's shirtfront, trying to yank him down into another kiss.
"Shit," and he hisses it this time, thrusting up into Vasquez's hand, desperate and wanting. He would almost certainly sound annoyed, if it weren't for the rough, thready quality of his voice. "Goddammit, Vas— c'mon."
That's not exactly the thoughtful, cohesive argument Vasquez is hoping for and he makes a little pout with his lips (which doesn't last long, what with Faraday tugging him down against Faraday's body for a kiss). He ends up flush against his side, still fully clothed as he chides Faraday with a clucking of his tongue.
"I told you that I want to know what you want," he sighs, like he's maligning their current situation. He loves the messy, mean kisses, loves how he can use his free hand to pin down Faraday's shoulder and bear in for another heated and clumsy kiss. Right now, he doesn't care much about skill because he's getting to have something he's only dreamed about for so long.
Licking his lips, his gaze is heavy and needy as he stares at Faraday. "Querido," he murmurs, his hand's pace increasing for the need that bolts through him. It won't be a mystery, either, seeing as he's half-rocking up against Faraday's side for some relief. "Do you want to end with my hand? Or my mouth?"
Vasquez's little admonishment is met with a quick, irritated huff – as if to say Faraday can't be bothered to properly respond to him. Mostly because stringing together a coherent sentence is awfully low on his priority list, right now, especially with Vasquez kissing him and touching him the way he is.
He feels Vasquez's arousal against his hip, even through the material of Vasquez's pants. That nickname again, and the dark way Vasquez looks down at him makes a bolt of want shoot straight through his stomach. But it's the question that makes him moan, his hips rocking into the rhythm Vasquez has set.
"Your mouth," he finally manages to croak out, though apparently he doesn't mean to make it easy for Vasquez, with the way he tugs him in for another desperate, bruising kiss.
Grabbing Faraday with a firm hand cupped around the back of his neck, he distracts himself with the kiss. Hours ago, he thought he'd be riding out of town alone and worried for the target on his back. Now, he's in bed kissing Faraday like he's trying to get him to stop breathing, but Faraday wants his mouth, so his mouth he's going to get.
If he'd ever get it back. "Cabron," he huffs in protest, as if he isn't the one leaning back in to pepper more kisses to Faraday's lips, soft and light and teasing in between the heated, bruising endless ones. "I need my lips," he mumbles, eyes half-lidded as he noses up the scruff of Faraday's beard so he can drop slow kisses to the space behind his earlobe, down his neck, tracking over his collarbone.
It's a shame there's still fabric in the way, so he leans back to tug at the hem of Faraday's shirt, trying to coax him to sit up. "Get this off," he insists. "Then I'll finish you off, lo prometo, I promise," he echoes the Spanish with the English instantly.
The protest makes him smile, wicked and sharp, because even as nearly overwhelmed as Faraday is, he’s still something of a stubborn mule, even to the last. But Vasquez shifts, his lips like a firebrand against his the sensitive skin of his neck, and Faraday lets out a shuddering breath. He can feel the tickle of Vasquez’s beard against his skin, and even as alien as the sensation is, Faraday’s surprised to find he doesn’t dislike it.
(He finds it pleasant, even, though he’ll refuse to say so aloud.)
When Vasquez pulls back, tugs at Faraday’s shirt, Faraday can’t help the reflexive way he pauses, the way his mouth goes dry. He swallows around a lump in his throat, jaw clenching briefly, and he’s frozen for a second. Admittedly, it’s— nothing that Vasquez hasn’t already seen, but after the mess with Rose Creek, Faraday is reluctant to bare himself.
Best to get it over quick, he supposes, and he gives a tight, quick nod as he sits up. He undoes the knot of the scarf at his throat first, hands shaking a little with the feeling of want and need bounding through him. He tosses the wild rag to the floor, and he follows it up by kicking his jeans off the rest of the way. Then, at last, he does as Vasquez asked, slowly, reluctantly, pulling off his shirt and vest, revealing the mottled skin beneath. Faraday’s body is a veritable gallery of scars, with the sheer amount and variety he has traveling his form – jagged lines and punched-out dips and ugly, patchwork blotches – along his arms and legs. The worst of the battle is written all over his torso, though, in the bullet scars and the slashes from the shrapnel. And with as early in the day as it still is, the sunlight falling through the slats of the room’s single shuttered window casts all of it in a stark light.
(He wishes they had waited, he suddenly thinks. This might have been easier to bear in the dark.)
He crumples the shirt in his hands to hide the nervous turn of his demeanor, and now he feels vulnerable, naked and laid bare in more ways than one. He grits his teeth, tossing his clothing to the floor, and though he keeps his head bowed to avoid Vasquez’s gaze, he tugs impatiently at the other man’s shirt.
“Least you could do is repay the favor,” he rasps out. Irritation to hide his growing discomfort.
The hesitation almost makes Vasquez say something, but he bites his tongue and lets Faraday take his time. He would've pointed out that he helped the doctor change the dressings and that he'd seen him when he was in even worse shape, so seeing the scars and the remnants aren't going to make Vasquez suddenly decide to change his mind. If anything, the marks make him even more incredible to Vasquez.
He's a hero, he saved their lives and all the children. Vasquez just can't stop thanking God above for the breath that had still been in him when Vasquez had gone to comb the field for survivors. It's that serious thought in mind that doesn't make him laugh or smile or joke.
Faraday is alive. He's alive and his heart is beating and he's making awful jokes and Vasquez couldn't be happier. He strips off his shirt with ease, tugging off his bandanna and hat, but leaves the rest so that he can bow reverently over Faraday's body to do what he'd meant to.
"Nene," he murmurs, his hands spanning slowly over Faraday's chest, his thumb brushing over each scar, each bit of mottled skin and jagged line. He lets his lips work them next, gentle and hot as he presses a kiss to each and every one he can find on his descent. "Shhh," he hushes him, against any other protests that might accost him next. He lets some of the humor breathe back into him, grinning fondly as he goes back to what he'd started with.
His mouth on Faraday's dick, but now he goes slower, not wanting to rush this. It's the first time and the only first time he's going to get like this, so as he positions himself back, he grabs Faraday's hand so he can slot it back within the riotous mess of his curls (it's definitely not behaving now), grasping hold of his hips and holding on as he goes back to paying Faraday's dick the kind of attention that it deserves.
Moaning, he catches himself thinking about how badly he's been wanting this and how it's not a dream.
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—”
The only trouble with this is that he wants, so badly, to be able to look at Faraday while he does this. He wants to watch him come undone, he wants to be the one to take him apart until he's demanding and snapping, but he wants to see it. The glances upwards aren't really enough, he fears, but he's going to make them be. He strokes his thumb in gentle strokes, but when he pins his hips down, it's hard, a refusal to let Faraday buck his hips up.
It's a challenge that if he wants more, he's going to have to fight for it.
Sighing with pleasure for the hand in his hair (he's a sucker for it, could turn into a kitten for a firm enough touch through the strands), Vasquez works back to give himself a chance to breath and let his jaw rest from his work sucking Faraday off, something like a bolt of warmth pushing over him for the 'sweetheart' off Faraday's lips.
Madre de dios, he could get used to that. The burst of affection when he realizes he can is swift and his pace increases, the way he takes him deeper, it's all a little faster because he's so quick to show Faraday how much he appreciates him. Taking a hand off Faraday's hips to swat at his knees, he eases back and off, though he doesn't go far. His lips are at the curve of Faraday's high and thigh, staring up at him, half-lidded and teasing.
"I'm...?" he coaxes with a smirk. He knows what he is, he just wants to hear it.
Faraday probably shouldn't be surprised that Vasquez is practically relentless, now that he's given the bastard half a chance, and when Vasquez picks up the pace, when his fingers dig into the hard line of his hips to keep Faraday from rocking up into the heat of his mouth, Faraday groans. He digs his heels into the mattress as he bucks up against Vasquez's grip, trying to dislodge those damned hands, trying to thrust himself into the slick, inviting heat of Vasquez's mouth, but the bastard keeps him distracted with his damned talented tongue.
When Vasquez finally releases his hip and eases off, Faraday curses beneath his breath with the loss, trying to bring Vasquez back with the hand he still had tangled in those dark curls. The effort is a halfhearted one at best, though, and he practically scowls down at Vasquez when he perches above him, smiling that stupid, impish smile.
(It's goddamn unfair, Faraday thinks. Vasquez shouldn't look so goddamn good like that, with his hair mussed, his eyes dark, and his lips slightly swollen.
The sight steals the breath from Faraday's lungs, for a second, and it feels like a punch straight to the gut.)
Faraday licks his lips, trying to maintain an air of defiance, even as he tries desperately to find his voice, to gather up his words and try to imbue them with his usual irritation. A small, distant part of him wonders what a sight he must be, all scarred and mottled and red like a beet, breathless and snarling like a cornered beast.
"You're bein' a goddamn tease," Faraday snaps out, and he privately pats himself on the back for controlling his voice enough to keep the desperate tremor out of it.
(What Faraday had really wanted to say in the moment, though, was, "You're so good. You're wonderful," but like hell is he going to admit it now, with Vasquez smirking at him like that.)
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Unnecessary, it turns out, as something seems to spur Vasquez forward, as he climbs into Faraday’s lap, a calloused hand curling over the line of Faraday’s jaw. His own hat falls away, tumbles somewhere to the floor, where it’s sure to lie forgotten for a little while yet. The kiss is fierce and bruising, a little too sharp, a little too much teeth – and later, Faraday will chalk it up to inexperience. To desperation and nerves and a frantic sense of want that had struck him like a shot to the gut.
Faraday’s always been an impulsive son of a bitch. It’s why he rode out when Sam taunted him with an impossible job. It’s why he stuck around when the odds were stacked entirely against them. It’s why he charged the Gatling gun, with little more than his mulish determination and a handful of prayers.
For once, though, it seems his impulsiveness has paid off, and when Vasquez backs off, Faraday is still gripping his sleeves, breathless and dazed. He licks his lips, head tilting back slightly as Vasquez brushes a line, up and down, up and down. (It really has no right feeling as nice as it does, he thinks, but it does.)
He snorts out a quick laugh, something obviously distracted and distant, but he flashes Vasquez one of his customary smirks. “You oughta know by now that I don’t do nothing unless I want to.”
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The clumsiness and the badness of the kiss faintly registers for him, a mental note being made that he's going to have to make that better, but no, no, this is the point.
"You like women," he says. "I've only seen you like women, I even flirted with you and you never did anything back," he protests, the confusion clear on his face and in his tone. He's gaping at Faraday, unsure what's changed to make this happen, but his heart is leaping in his chest as he starts to think about things like how he doesn't have to leave, the fact that they can keep travelling together, that he can keep touching Faraday.
Maybe. He has to understand why they went from demands about Vasquez keeping secrets to this.
"I need to know you're not doing this just to keep me around," he says sharply. "Because if it's so that I won't leave and not because you don't want it..." He trails off, not bluntly saying he doesn't want it then either, because maybe a part of him wouldn't entirely mind? Maybe he needs more self-respect, is what he's realizing.
Fuck, Faraday looks good down there with his dazed look, his lips wet, and that languid line to him. It's going to become a problem in his trousers soon enough, but he can't convince himself to get up.
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Well, shamefully, his cheeks color with it again, embarrassed to have it laid out before him like that. Hell, Vasquez is really going to make him try and explain himself, isn’t he? And Faraday hardly knows what he’s doing, what he’s feeling, because emotions and sentiment are complicated topics. He swallows thickly, gaze darting away. Holding Vasquez’s gaze while he tries to sort through this aloud is practically impossible. Bad enough the man has his weight against him, pinning him more or less in place. And maybe in a different moment, he’d feel trapped by it, but not now.
“I don’t...” he tries, voice hoarse with hesitance, but that’s a false start. He licks his lips, tries again, “I’ve never...”
Jesus goddamn wept. He can feel his face heating, and after he takes a deep, rallying breath, he forces the words out in a rush:
“I’ve never been with a man.”
It hardly seems like an explanation, admittedly, but after another breath to compose himself, Faraday continues on; he traces the woodgrain of the floorboards with his eyes.
“I didn’t... when you— flirted, I didn’t think... I thought it was— I thought it was a joke.” Which was more or less in line with their usual modes of conversation, half-truths and mischievous smirks. At any given moment, half of what either of them said was probably bullshit. “I hadn’t considered it a possibility.
“And I do like women,” and this comes out almost a little defensively, like Vasquez might accuse him of lying, but he backs away from that tone quickly enough. He lets out a shuddering breath, head bowing further. Then, slowly, hesitantly, “But I... I think I... For a little while, now, I think I’ve—”
He trails off, frustrated with his inability to say it outright, and he huffs out a sharp sigh. His cheeks feel like they’re burning when he finally grunts out, “You’re not so bad.”
By which he means, I think I like you, too, but apparently too much honesty makes Faraday want to vomit.
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"I've been with enough men to know what to do," is his low response, his voice hoarse with desire. There's a dark look in his eyes because Faraday looks ridiculously good right now. He keeps stroking his fingers over the warmth of Faraday's neck, wanting to lean down and kiss him again, but he has to be patient.
When Faraday says 'you're not so bad', he laughs. It's a low and loud and wonderful thing and he's lighter than he has been in ages to feel it. "Querido," he murmurs, happy to finally get to say that again and mean it, and to also have Faraday understand it. "You're pretty awful," he says bluntly. "You drink and smoke and gamble and swear and snore," he says (even if that last is a lie, seeing as it's Vasquez who does the snoring).
Still, even as he's saying all this, he's closing the space between them, a determined glint in his eye.
"And you don't know how to kiss," is his last accusation, living for what that might provoke out of Faraday, now that he's only inches away from him and those flush cheeks of his.
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Apparently, Faraday has a much easier time facing down certain death than he does rejection. Who would’ve thought?
And still Vasquez keeps up that brush of his fingers, and Faraday bites down on his lower lip, enjoying the hell out of it. Vasquez’s hands are rough, calloused, but his touch is surprisingly gentle. Faraday unconsciously leans into it, forcing his grip on Vasquez’s sleeves to relax. Predictably, he’s left the fabric twisted and wrinkled, and he looks momentarily sorry for it, smoothing his palms down Vasquez’s arms to rest on his elbow.
His chest clenches with the warmth in Vasquez’s laugh, in the affection that he imbues the endearment with, and Faraday finally risks a glance up. Soon enough, though, Faraday’s expression turns flat and unenthused with each criticism, and he has half a mind to shove Vasquez straight to the floor. He doesn’t, though, obviously; not with the way Vasquez is leaning in so close that they share breath, and for a quick second, air catches in Faraday’s lungs, breath held and eyes transfixed on that infuriating smirk, and—
Faraday’s always been a competitive bastard, and with that final bit of criticism, he scowls at the other man.
But he’s always had something of a mean streak, too, which is why when he surges forward, he doesn’t immediately set to kissing Vasquez, and instead bites at his lower lip – almost like admonishment.
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Sliding back, he slides his palms under Faraday's back to coax him into a sitting position, adjusting his straddle so that his ankles press into the small of Faraday's back as he sits in his lap, making himself as comfortable as he would be on top of a horse.
He's still in disbelief, still unable to believe this is possible, but with Faraday's cheeks so flushed and red, he doesn't want anyone else to see this but him. The jealousy is stoked quickly, but he puts it out as he cups Faraday by the neck and tugs him in slowly.
It's not quite how he'd kiss another man, but not how he'd kiss a woman either. There's a tenderness in it, born of what he feels for this man and how it's grown, so when he does finally slide in for a kiss, it's exploratory and slow, like he's intending to learn this man like this, in the privacy of their room and...
Laughing against Faraday's lips, he eases back when the bubble of amusement can't be stopped and it ruins the kiss.
"We only have one bed," is what he says, smirking. He can't believe that only a few hours ago, they would have expected that to be a problem.
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He swallows thickly at that look Vasquez gives him, something possessive and watchful that would be worrying on anyone else, but oddly attractive on Vasquez. Slowly, he lets Vasquez pull him in, expecting another fierce, desperate sort of kiss, but—
It’s nothing like that.
And this is new, too – brand new, in fact, because he no one has ever kissed him like this. Sweet and attentive in a way that makes Faraday nervous, that kicks up an odd sense of unease in his gut. He’s not used to anyone, man or woman, treating him so gently, and he hasn’t a single idea what to do with that.
Thankfully, Vasquez pulls away before Faraday’s agitation can ruin the moment, and Faraday breathes out a laugh at the comment.
“Seems to be the case,” he agrees. Then, a little slyly to mask the way his nerves kick up, “You intendin’ to put it to good use?”
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Laughing a little, but not at Faraday, it's a soft huff as he reaches through his hair to tame offending curls (he hasn't had a cut in ages and it's starting to get unruly) before he moves his fingers to scratch at Faraday's scalp and do the same. "Maybe. Maybe not," he admits, because if this is so new to Faraday, he doesn't want to spook him off.
Maybe it's not exactly the same as a horse, but it is very close, he thinks.
"Just this once," he decides, "I'm going to let you have control and not bicker with you. Maybe," he admits, because he still thinks that something might happen to make him argue. "What do you want to do? Anything you want," he promises. "Or half of it or a quarter, we do that."
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Vasquez’s fingers card through Faraday’s hair, and Faraday finds himself unconsciously leaning into the touch, eyes going half-lidded with how good it feels. It’s a generous offer that Vasquez is giving him, something patient and kind – and again, that agitated feeling kicks up in his gut. Faraday’s fingers tangle in Vasquez’s sleeves again, grip tightening to conceal his nerves, and he tries for a lazy shrug.
“As I recall,” he says, his voice carefully tempered to sound easy and relaxed, “you were the one who seemed so insistent on tryin’ to teach me something. You tryin’ to back down now?”
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Still, the last thing he needs is to go too hard, too fast, and risk Faraday changing his mind about all of this. He uses the tug of his shirt and thinks that maybe he can just ease Faraday in.
Sliding back a little, he moves his fingers to Faraday's buttons, absently toying with them, even if he doesn't unbutton them just yet. "Guero, there's too much to teach in just one night," he points out, and with a glint in his eye, he thinks that he can at least start somewhere familiar.
Pushing at Faraday's shoulder hard enough so that his back will hit the bed, he stands and takes his boots off so that he can crawl after him, but instead of returning to his shirt, he gets a hand at the hem of Faraday's pants, smirking wickedly from his position.
"I could shave a little more, if you can wait," he offers, and while it may be a bit sharp and amused, he means it. If Faraday wants Vasquez to be clean-shaven for when he puts his mouth on him, to help his mind, he's willing. He'll look like he's a boy again, but he's willing.
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As Vasquez moves to take off his boots, Faraday takes the moment to unbuckle his gun belt, setting it aside on the nightstand within easy reach – not because he expects he'll need them, but because he's always felt more comfortable with them nearby.
Vasquez crawls back into bed just as Faraday's fingers rest on the knot of his wild rag, tied around his throat, though he freezes the instant he feels the weight of Vasquez's palm at the buckle of his belt. Faraday looks up at the other man, caught somewhere between anxious and startled and intrigued. When it registers to him what Vasquez is offering, exactly, Faraday breathes out a laugh, shaking his head.
"Don't think that'd be necessary," he says, and if he sounds a little nervous, he'll thanks Vasquez not to point it out.
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"I'm already much better trimmed," he assures with a determined glint as he yanks at Faraday's trousers, working neatly to get his buttons loose, grateful he hadn't drank too much earlier.
He thinks this is a good way to start. It's something Faraday knows, but different enough that he won't be thinking about his Maria or his Ethel while Vasquez is working down here, not unless they had some facial hair that he hadn't been told about. "Last chance," is his offer, but it's a quiet thing, recalcitrant and worried as he keeps his hands on the hem of Faraday's trousers, ready to pull them down and push them to the next step.
He wants to be cautious and careful, because he thinks that his heart would never mend the ache if he got so close to this, only to have it taken away (even if he's not entirely sure yet what it is he wants out of all of this).
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This would be worth it, he told himself. Or he hoped it would be, because the warmth of Vasquez’s calloused hands, even through the fabric of Faraday’s clothing, makes something hot and dark spiral straight to his stomach. The way Vasquez smiles, knowing and roguish, sends a bolt straight down his spine – and even if being with a man is new to Faraday, he still recognizes that sensation easily enough as desire.
Which, unexpectedly, made things slip a little more into focus.
One of Faraday’s hands found Vasquez’s, and with his palm resting atop, he hooked his own thumb beneath the waistband of his trousers, giving a pointed tug downward – not enough to divest himself of his clothing, but enough to tell Vasquez that he’s starting to lose patience and might just take matters into his own hands.
“C’mon,” he says, trying to sound waspish and impatient. Then, he pauses, mostly for show, and tuts quietly. “Unless you’re havin’ second thoughts about your own capabilities...”
Faraday might as well be beating Vasquez over the head with the challenge, but— maybe that’ll make things easier on both of them, if they turn this into something of a game. Another little competition to throw themselves into.
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Fuck, he's worked so hard not to stare at him when he's been changing or at his most vulnerable (like when the doctor had been changing the dressings), but it's nearly impossible not to look now.
"Remember you said that when I make it so you forget your own name," he warns, like he's insulted that Faraday could even think so little of him. He can see the challenge for what it is, but it still works on him. Grabbing at Faraday's pants, he pulls them to his knees and gives him about two seconds reprieve before he straddles him near his ankles, bent over to take him deep, one hand digging blunt nails hard into Faraday's hip as he slides off with a slick pop, not bothering to say a word before he starts to pay attention to working his tongue over the tip, just until he's ready to take him deep again.
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He lets Vasquez strip him down, his heartbeat kicking up to slam against his ribs as Vasquez studies him. He hisses in a startled breath once Vasquez strips him of his jeans and underthings – or at least pulls them down far enough to free Faraday's hardening cock. This time, Faraday doesn't have time enough to feel exposed, vulnerable, before Vasquez is bending over him, the slick heat of his mouth taking in his cock. A startled noise punches its way out of Faraday, trailing off into a groan as he falls back against the bed.
Vasquez is setting an almost relentless pace, almost like he worries Faraday might change his mind, and Faraday swears beneath his breath. His body seems to respond of its own accord, one hand gripping the bedspread, the other reaching for Vasquez. His nails skim across Vasquez's scalp, fingers tangling in those dark, unruly curls. And as much as he tries to keep himself under control, he rocks into the wet heat of Vasquez's mouth and that goddamn clever tongue.
"Fuck," he moans out, and his grip on Vasquez's hair tightens briefly. "Fucking— fucking hell, Vasquez—"
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It's such a good sound to hear, so tempting to draw out, which is why he half-leans over Faraday with his slick lips and a smirk, working his thumb in firm drags over the underside of Faraday's dick while he leans in for a teasing nip of a kiss. "What do you want, Faraday?" he replies, voice hoarse.
He knows exactly what he wants, but he's an asshole. He also maybe wants to see what Faraday will do, when prodded like this, building up these things in his head.
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Once Vasquez's calloused hand grips his length, working him in slow, deliberate strokes, Faraday lets out another low sound – this time something that shares a blood relative with a moan. The contrast from just moments ago, with Vasquez taking him in and working him like a man possessed, to now, with Vasquez taking his sweet goddamn time, leaves Faraday dizzy, and a few broken swears fall from his lips.
Vasquez interrupts his babbled curses with a quick kiss, and Faraday chases after him to bite at his lips again, mean and irritated. With one hand still tangled in Vasquez's hair, he tangles his other hand in Vasquez's shirtfront, trying to yank him down into another kiss.
"Shit," and he hisses it this time, thrusting up into Vasquez's hand, desperate and wanting. He would almost certainly sound annoyed, if it weren't for the rough, thready quality of his voice. "Goddammit, Vas— c'mon."
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"I told you that I want to know what you want," he sighs, like he's maligning their current situation. He loves the messy, mean kisses, loves how he can use his free hand to pin down Faraday's shoulder and bear in for another heated and clumsy kiss. Right now, he doesn't care much about skill because he's getting to have something he's only dreamed about for so long.
Licking his lips, his gaze is heavy and needy as he stares at Faraday. "Querido," he murmurs, his hand's pace increasing for the need that bolts through him. It won't be a mystery, either, seeing as he's half-rocking up against Faraday's side for some relief. "Do you want to end with my hand? Or my mouth?"
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He feels Vasquez's arousal against his hip, even through the material of Vasquez's pants. That nickname again, and the dark way Vasquez looks down at him makes a bolt of want shoot straight through his stomach. But it's the question that makes him moan, his hips rocking into the rhythm Vasquez has set.
"Your mouth," he finally manages to croak out, though apparently he doesn't mean to make it easy for Vasquez, with the way he tugs him in for another desperate, bruising kiss.
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If he'd ever get it back. "Cabron," he huffs in protest, as if he isn't the one leaning back in to pepper more kisses to Faraday's lips, soft and light and teasing in between the heated, bruising endless ones. "I need my lips," he mumbles, eyes half-lidded as he noses up the scruff of Faraday's beard so he can drop slow kisses to the space behind his earlobe, down his neck, tracking over his collarbone.
It's a shame there's still fabric in the way, so he leans back to tug at the hem of Faraday's shirt, trying to coax him to sit up. "Get this off," he insists. "Then I'll finish you off, lo prometo, I promise," he echoes the Spanish with the English instantly.
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(He finds it pleasant, even, though he’ll refuse to say so aloud.)
When Vasquez pulls back, tugs at Faraday’s shirt, Faraday can’t help the reflexive way he pauses, the way his mouth goes dry. He swallows around a lump in his throat, jaw clenching briefly, and he’s frozen for a second. Admittedly, it’s— nothing that Vasquez hasn’t already seen, but after the mess with Rose Creek, Faraday is reluctant to bare himself.
Best to get it over quick, he supposes, and he gives a tight, quick nod as he sits up. He undoes the knot of the scarf at his throat first, hands shaking a little with the feeling of want and need bounding through him. He tosses the wild rag to the floor, and he follows it up by kicking his jeans off the rest of the way. Then, at last, he does as Vasquez asked, slowly, reluctantly, pulling off his shirt and vest, revealing the mottled skin beneath. Faraday’s body is a veritable gallery of scars, with the sheer amount and variety he has traveling his form – jagged lines and punched-out dips and ugly, patchwork blotches – along his arms and legs. The worst of the battle is written all over his torso, though, in the bullet scars and the slashes from the shrapnel. And with as early in the day as it still is, the sunlight falling through the slats of the room’s single shuttered window casts all of it in a stark light.
(He wishes they had waited, he suddenly thinks. This might have been easier to bear in the dark.)
He crumples the shirt in his hands to hide the nervous turn of his demeanor, and now he feels vulnerable, naked and laid bare in more ways than one. He grits his teeth, tossing his clothing to the floor, and though he keeps his head bowed to avoid Vasquez’s gaze, he tugs impatiently at the other man’s shirt.
“Least you could do is repay the favor,” he rasps out. Irritation to hide his growing discomfort.
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He's a hero, he saved their lives and all the children. Vasquez just can't stop thanking God above for the breath that had still been in him when Vasquez had gone to comb the field for survivors. It's that serious thought in mind that doesn't make him laugh or smile or joke.
Faraday is alive. He's alive and his heart is beating and he's making awful jokes and Vasquez couldn't be happier. He strips off his shirt with ease, tugging off his bandanna and hat, but leaves the rest so that he can bow reverently over Faraday's body to do what he'd meant to.
"Nene," he murmurs, his hands spanning slowly over Faraday's chest, his thumb brushing over each scar, each bit of mottled skin and jagged line. He lets his lips work them next, gentle and hot as he presses a kiss to each and every one he can find on his descent. "Shhh," he hushes him, against any other protests that might accost him next. He lets some of the humor breathe back into him, grinning fondly as he goes back to what he'd started with.
His mouth on Faraday's dick, but now he goes slower, not wanting to rush this. It's the first time and the only first time he's going to get like this, so as he positions himself back, he grabs Faraday's hand so he can slot it back within the riotous mess of his curls (it's definitely not behaving now), grasping hold of his hips and holding on as he goes back to paying Faraday's dick the kind of attention that it deserves.
Moaning, he catches himself thinking about how badly he's been wanting this and how it's not a dream.
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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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It's a challenge that if he wants more, he's going to have to fight for it.
Sighing with pleasure for the hand in his hair (he's a sucker for it, could turn into a kitten for a firm enough touch through the strands), Vasquez works back to give himself a chance to breath and let his jaw rest from his work sucking Faraday off, something like a bolt of warmth pushing over him for the 'sweetheart' off Faraday's lips.
Madre de dios, he could get used to that. The burst of affection when he realizes he can is swift and his pace increases, the way he takes him deeper, it's all a little faster because he's so quick to show Faraday how much he appreciates him. Taking a hand off Faraday's hips to swat at his knees, he eases back and off, though he doesn't go far. His lips are at the curve of Faraday's high and thigh, staring up at him, half-lidded and teasing.
"I'm...?" he coaxes with a smirk. He knows what he is, he just wants to hear it.
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When Vasquez finally releases his hip and eases off, Faraday curses beneath his breath with the loss, trying to bring Vasquez back with the hand he still had tangled in those dark curls. The effort is a halfhearted one at best, though, and he practically scowls down at Vasquez when he perches above him, smiling that stupid, impish smile.
(It's goddamn unfair, Faraday thinks. Vasquez shouldn't look so goddamn good like that, with his hair mussed, his eyes dark, and his lips slightly swollen.
The sight steals the breath from Faraday's lungs, for a second, and it feels like a punch straight to the gut.)
Faraday licks his lips, trying to maintain an air of defiance, even as he tries desperately to find his voice, to gather up his words and try to imbue them with his usual irritation. A small, distant part of him wonders what a sight he must be, all scarred and mottled and red like a beet, breathless and snarling like a cornered beast.
"You're bein' a goddamn tease," Faraday snaps out, and he privately pats himself on the back for controlling his voice enough to keep the desperate tremor out of it.
(What Faraday had really wanted to say in the moment, though, was, "You're so good. You're wonderful," but like hell is he going to admit it now, with Vasquez smirking at him like that.)
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