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.)
Faraday's scowls and demands aren't exactly making him want to fight back. Maybe because he knows where he's standing (or lying, more accurately), he can take him apart with his mouth and a few touches. In fact, that little absent thought makes his fingers drift to where he usually only touches Faraday's hip and leg to help ease away the pain. Here, he drags his thumb slowly over the scars with a gentle touch, rubbing in fond circles while getting his chin comfortable on the curve of Faraday's hip.
"Am I?" he responds, licking his lower lip and thinking he should speak just a little more, because his voice is pleasantly hoarse right now, what with his recent actions. "Maybe I want to see you," he says, which is no tease at all and the earnest look in his eyes says as much. "Maybe I'm only teasing because after months and months of only dreaming about this, I can have it, but I have no idea what it looks like," he points out.
That still doesn't mean he's planning to blue ball Faraday, which is why he presses a few firm kisses to Faraday's hips and lower stomach before laying his tongue flat and long as he works it up the underside of the shaft to wrap his mouth around Faraday again.
This time, though, he doesn't put his hands on Faraday's hips -- sets them on the bed beside him instead, a truce to show that he might like to tease, but only to a point.
Infuriating bastard, Faraday thinks, still scowling at Vasquez, where he perches on his hip. The other man's voice is like a purr, low and heated in a way that makes Faraday's chest twist. His gaze flits over to where Vasquez's hands curl over his hips, his thighs, tracing over the ugly knots and rills of his scars, and for a few seconds, Faraday's self-consciousness over the appearance of his body stands at odds with how good it feels to have Vasquez's rough hands smooth over his skin.
Faraday swallows around the lump in his throat, and he rasps out, "You gotta damn well do it to find out what it looks like."
But it's nowhere near as defiant as he had managed earlier. In fact, he sounds breathless, his voice similarly pitched low. Inviting, almost, and warm with anticipation.
And Vasquez doesn't disappoint, finally licking up Faraday's cock, and Faraday groans with it. And when the slick heat of his mouth is on him again, Faraday's back arches a little off the bed. His grip on Vasquez's dark curls tightens, though he quickly tries to ease off in deference to the way Vasquez's hands sink into the mattress – still bracketing his hips, but not actively keeping him in place, like he meant for this to be some kind of torture.
Tentatively, Faraday rocks his hips – little incremental movements, and largely involuntary. Last thing he wants to do is make the other man gag on his length and make this experience all that more unpleasant. He shuts his eyes, mouth falling open a little as he pants, falling into a rhythm. He swears to himself, broken oaths and whispers that barely have more heat than actual shape.
He won't argue that it's hard to see what it will look like from down here, but he wants to. Vasquez finds it nearly impossible to fight the urge to continue to bicker and retort, but it soon grows easy to forget with Faraday rocking into the warmth of his mouth. Everything fades away and he doesn't want to argue anymore.
He just wants Faraday to keep fucking his mouth, adjusting himself a little, though as he rocks his hips against the mattress, it's purely to give himself a bit of relief from his own aching issue, having been hard since they started this.
He wants to touch so badly, but from here, he's limited. Instead of gripping his hips, he moves his palms to Faraday's thighs, dragging calloused fingers up and down the warmth of his skin as he works (coughing and having to ease back every time Faraday goes just a little too deep; maybe years ago when he was better at this, he could go deeper, but it's been a while).
Not so long that he doesn't know a few tricks, like the soft hum he lets loose when he's as deep as he can go, or the way he lets his fingers drift up the inside of Faraday's thigh to work his balls, not hard, but a firm press as he leans up to hopefully work him a little faster than before, to give him no chance to think or speak, only for him to come.
Oh hell, Vasquez is good at this, and reluctant as Faraday usually is to allow the other man to feel any sort of vindication, a few broken words of praise still fall from his lips – a nonsensical sort of babbling, bubbling past his lips as he gasps and pants.
His pulse pounds in his ears, near thunderous, and he groans, rocking his hips in time with Vasquez's attentions. Whenever the other man eases back, whenever he coughs, Faraday has mind enough to offer a quick, sincere little apology, quiet though it may be, and he's more mindful to restrain himself.
It's relentless, the way Vasquez works him, the way his mouth and tongue and hands drive him closer and closer to the edge. He can hardly tell if it's too soon or not soon enough, but a molten heat quickly builds low in his gut, growing and growing and growing, and Faraday groans with it, starting to lose the rhythm.
"Vas—" apparently he still has mind enough to offer a quick warning, the words frantic and breathless. His free hand scrabbles to grip the bedspread, his fist tangling and twisting in the sheets. "Vas— Alejo— I'm gonna—"
Now comes a point when he has to make a decision. It's been a long time and while he'd very much like to swallow, Vasquez is wary that he's going to end up coughing and choking, which is far from a very sexy thing. On the other hand, he thinks he could manage and when Faraday murmurs his name like that, it makes him want to try.
Just like that, he makes an impulsive, split-second decision. Even though Faraday is warning him, is acting like he's about to tip over the edge, he only seals his lips tighter.
He's going to make Faraday tumble over the edge and he doesn't care at what cost to his throat or his dignity. Curling his tongue before he flattens it to slide up the shaft and then back down, he resettles to work near the tip so he doesn't end up actually choking from his own position.
Oh fuck, he thinks, and distantly he hears himself whisper the same words aloud. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh sweetheart—
And he spills over, tumbles off that edge, and that molten wave crashes over him, practically whites-out his vision for a few seconds. Faraday thrusts up into Vasquez's mouth and comes with Vasquez's name on his lips (Alejo—). As he rides out that wave, a few broken oaths slip from him, praising and reverent and groaned.
When he finishes, he falls back against the bed breathless and stunned, sweat making his hair stick to his forehead. For a few seconds, he feels too dazed to move, like someone punched the air from his gut. He'll need a few seconds to catch his breath.
He's not exactly perfect at this right now. There's a lot of coughing and spitting and sputtering, but he still manages to swallow Faraday down as best as he can, still feeling the white hot rush of pleasure and amazement and another funny feeling in his chest that he's not sure he can put a name to, but feels a whole lot like an affection he didn't think that he'd feel anytime soon (something like love, but he's not saying that).
Licking his lips, he moves away, wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, uses the sheets to help the rest, and then begins to work his way up Faraday's body. He's fucking achingly hard, which isn't exactly a good thing for his desperation, but as he brushes kisses over Faraday's hips and up his chest, he pays more attention to the mottled bits of skin and scar, until he's nearly flush with him.
Absently, he pushes the few sweaty pieces of hair from off of Faraday's forehead, staring at him like he's a chupacabra or something else mythical and not to be believed.
"I like my name on your lips," he says, his tone hoarse and insistent. He keeps on sliding his fingers through Faraday's hair, his own wild and frizzing, making him look like he's just tumbled from bed. "Querido," he murmurs, near to softly humming the word. "Not so bad from a Mexican, is it?"
Faraday is still breathing heavily as Vasquez sidles up the bed, and Faraday rests his hands against the other man’s sides, smoothing up the lean muscle as Vasquez finally meets his gaze. Faraday licks his lips, gaze roving over Vasquez’s face – and he looks good like that, with his hair disheveled and eyes dark. Even that smug look Vasquez is wearing is wildly attractive, when in a normal moment, it would make Faraday want to punch that look right off his face.
And even now, Faraday can’t quite help but make the easy jab, and he shrugs a shoulder. “It was alright, I guess.”
Though the delivery is belied by his own breathlessness, by the dark, satisfied thread in his voice. He smirks a little, reaching up to run a hand through Vasquez’s hair. His other hand slides down the plane of Vasquez’s stomach, fingertips ghosting along the other man’s hard length.
“Would be ungentlemanly for me to not return the favor,” he says, though he imbues the words with far more confidence than he actually feels.
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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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"Am I?" he responds, licking his lower lip and thinking he should speak just a little more, because his voice is pleasantly hoarse right now, what with his recent actions. "Maybe I want to see you," he says, which is no tease at all and the earnest look in his eyes says as much. "Maybe I'm only teasing because after months and months of only dreaming about this, I can have it, but I have no idea what it looks like," he points out.
That still doesn't mean he's planning to blue ball Faraday, which is why he presses a few firm kisses to Faraday's hips and lower stomach before laying his tongue flat and long as he works it up the underside of the shaft to wrap his mouth around Faraday again.
This time, though, he doesn't put his hands on Faraday's hips -- sets them on the bed beside him instead, a truce to show that he might like to tease, but only to a point.
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Faraday swallows around the lump in his throat, and he rasps out, "You gotta damn well do it to find out what it looks like."
But it's nowhere near as defiant as he had managed earlier. In fact, he sounds breathless, his voice similarly pitched low. Inviting, almost, and warm with anticipation.
And Vasquez doesn't disappoint, finally licking up Faraday's cock, and Faraday groans with it. And when the slick heat of his mouth is on him again, Faraday's back arches a little off the bed. His grip on Vasquez's dark curls tightens, though he quickly tries to ease off in deference to the way Vasquez's hands sink into the mattress – still bracketing his hips, but not actively keeping him in place, like he meant for this to be some kind of torture.
Tentatively, Faraday rocks his hips – little incremental movements, and largely involuntary. Last thing he wants to do is make the other man gag on his length and make this experience all that more unpleasant. He shuts his eyes, mouth falling open a little as he pants, falling into a rhythm. He swears to himself, broken oaths and whispers that barely have more heat than actual shape.
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He just wants Faraday to keep fucking his mouth, adjusting himself a little, though as he rocks his hips against the mattress, it's purely to give himself a bit of relief from his own aching issue, having been hard since they started this.
He wants to touch so badly, but from here, he's limited. Instead of gripping his hips, he moves his palms to Faraday's thighs, dragging calloused fingers up and down the warmth of his skin as he works (coughing and having to ease back every time Faraday goes just a little too deep; maybe years ago when he was better at this, he could go deeper, but it's been a while).
Not so long that he doesn't know a few tricks, like the soft hum he lets loose when he's as deep as he can go, or the way he lets his fingers drift up the inside of Faraday's thigh to work his balls, not hard, but a firm press as he leans up to hopefully work him a little faster than before, to give him no chance to think or speak, only for him to come.
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His pulse pounds in his ears, near thunderous, and he groans, rocking his hips in time with Vasquez's attentions. Whenever the other man eases back, whenever he coughs, Faraday has mind enough to offer a quick, sincere little apology, quiet though it may be, and he's more mindful to restrain himself.
It's relentless, the way Vasquez works him, the way his mouth and tongue and hands drive him closer and closer to the edge. He can hardly tell if it's too soon or not soon enough, but a molten heat quickly builds low in his gut, growing and growing and growing, and Faraday groans with it, starting to lose the rhythm.
"Vas—" apparently he still has mind enough to offer a quick warning, the words frantic and breathless. His free hand scrabbles to grip the bedspread, his fist tangling and twisting in the sheets. "Vas— Alejo— I'm gonna—"
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Just like that, he makes an impulsive, split-second decision. Even though Faraday is warning him, is acting like he's about to tip over the edge, he only seals his lips tighter.
He's going to make Faraday tumble over the edge and he doesn't care at what cost to his throat or his dignity. Curling his tongue before he flattens it to slide up the shaft and then back down, he resettles to work near the tip so he doesn't end up actually choking from his own position.
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And he spills over, tumbles off that edge, and that molten wave crashes over him, practically whites-out his vision for a few seconds. Faraday thrusts up into Vasquez's mouth and comes with Vasquez's name on his lips (Alejo—). As he rides out that wave, a few broken oaths slip from him, praising and reverent and groaned.
When he finishes, he falls back against the bed breathless and stunned, sweat making his hair stick to his forehead. For a few seconds, he feels too dazed to move, like someone punched the air from his gut. He'll need a few seconds to catch his breath.
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Licking his lips, he moves away, wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, uses the sheets to help the rest, and then begins to work his way up Faraday's body. He's fucking achingly hard, which isn't exactly a good thing for his desperation, but as he brushes kisses over Faraday's hips and up his chest, he pays more attention to the mottled bits of skin and scar, until he's nearly flush with him.
Absently, he pushes the few sweaty pieces of hair from off of Faraday's forehead, staring at him like he's a chupacabra or something else mythical and not to be believed.
"I like my name on your lips," he says, his tone hoarse and insistent. He keeps on sliding his fingers through Faraday's hair, his own wild and frizzing, making him look like he's just tumbled from bed. "Querido," he murmurs, near to softly humming the word. "Not so bad from a Mexican, is it?"
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And even now, Faraday can’t quite help but make the easy jab, and he shrugs a shoulder. “It was alright, I guess.”
Though the delivery is belied by his own breathlessness, by the dark, satisfied thread in his voice. He smirks a little, reaching up to run a hand through Vasquez’s hair. His other hand slides down the plane of Vasquez’s stomach, fingertips ghosting along the other man’s hard length.
“Would be ungentlemanly for me to not return the favor,” he says, though he imbues the words with far more confidence than he actually feels.
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