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.
If you reminded Vasquez that only an hour back, he'd been flirting with the idea of taking the bartender up to a bed and doing exactly this, he'd be completely lost, because now that he's had Faraday (in their bed, in his mouth), there's nothing else he could imagine wanting.
The hands on his sides, in his hair, they draw out soft little sounds of pleasure, even if he grunts with unhappiness at the comment that he's only 'alright'. A touch huffy, even if he knows Faraday is only probably teasing, he makes a face.
Of course, that grumpy face melts away when Faraday reaches his hand down. Selfish and greedy and wanting this so badly, it takes everything in him to reach down and wrap his fingers around Faraday's wrist to stall his movements. "Joshua," he murmurs, voice low, "we can go slower than this if you want."
That's a little because he's terrified if they go too fast, they won't go anywhere else, and he wants so much more of this. Bowing forward to press slow kisses up the line of Faraday's neck, he doesn't let go of his wrist yet.
The last thing he expects is for Vasquez to stop him, and he freezes for an instant, at a complete loss for how to proceed.
The obvious thing would be to ignore Vasquez, of course; Faraday had already thrown himself into this thing headlong, as he tended to do with most things, and his cavalier attitude had spurred him on this far to a surprising amount of success, but—
Now that Vasquez is giving him the choice, he isn’t entirely sure. A part of Faraday worries that working Vasquez with his hand is going to be nowhere near as satisfying as Vasquez’s mouth had been for Faraday, but he’s not entirely ready to commit to getting to his knees for the other man, just yet. The way the other man mouths at his throat drives him to distraction. The hand still in Vasquez’s hair tightens a little, until he smooths back to cup the back of his head. He licks his lips, tipping his own head back to give Vasquez more space to work.
“What’re you gonna do, then?” Faraday croaks out. Vasquez’s beard is rough against his neck as the other man kisses him, but Faraday is still surprised to find that he likes it. “I’m s’posed to just leave you hangin’?”
The shivers down his spine at the touch of his neck are doing plenty for now, but Vasquez isn't without other ideas. If he's truthful, he's had more than enough fantasies to get them started, but he needs to treat Faraday like a spooked horse -- or, even, like Jack. Too much, too fast, and he's going to scare him away or into a reaction.
"Who says I'm going to stay unsatisfied, huh?" he demands, nipping at Faraday's skin as if to reprimand him before he eases away to lie on his back, reaching down to loosen his trousers and push them off even more, so he can wrap a hand around himself.
"You're so good at talking," he says, and it's not even a sarcastic quip. It's true. He likes Faraday's silver tongued charms that get them benefits just as often as they get them into trouble. "I want you to talk to me," he coaxes. "Tell me what you like to feel, to do, to have in bed," he says, as he starts to work himself with rough strokes, knowing he won't last very long. "We'll work to the other things eventually," he says, sounding determined.
Maybe he'll eventually start to believe himself, even.
The sharp little bite, the way Vasquez eases back, leaves Faraday worried; for a second, there, he truly thought he had done something to force Vasquez to fold, not even an hour into whatever this relationship might be. It would naturally follow, he thinks. Faraday does tend make a mess of things. He props himself up onto an elbow, a protest forming on the tip of his tongue, but—
Faraday glances down, sees Vasquez wrapping a hand around his length. Unconsciously, Faraday licks his lips, almost nervous, and he breathes out a laugh at Vasquez’s request.
Talking. Talking he can most certainly do.
But Faraday’s never been very good at doing exactly as he’s told, and after a moment of consideration, he sits up fully, moving to kneel in front of Vasquez on the mattress. The positioning is a little awkward, their knees knocking together, but Faraday reaches up to cup the back of Vasquez’s neck, leans in to slot his lips over Vasquez’s. The kiss isn’t anywhere near as combative as before, though it’s still heated, still insistent. And whenever he pulls back for breath, he talks, as Vasquez had asked.
“I tend to like it rougher than this,” he says easily, a smirk curling his lips even as he leans in for another kiss. “Whoever I take to bed, I like makin’ ‘em feel good.” This time, Faraday ducks to nip at Vasquez’s neck, mouthing at the shadow of his jaw. He pitches his voice low, murmuring against Vasquez’s skin. “When we do this again, I’ll have you tell me what you like, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Vasquez feels a little like Faraday managed to find himself some control, not to mention seems to have figured out exactly how to drive him insane with desire. The kisses are going to undo him, his breath hitching in a desperate little cadence as he tips his head to the side so he can part his lips, trying to deepen the kiss, but then Faraday is gone.
Letting out a frustrating groan that masks the whimper beneath it, Vasquez keeps working himself over, maybe not as fast as he normally would, but he keeps getting distracted. "Pinche cabron," he exhales, because as much as he ought to speak English, he hasn't got the brain for it right now.
"Sabes lo que me haces?" he gasps as he works his hand down slowly, biting his lower lip to stop himself from doing something stupid like reaching out to grab Faraday's hand to help, because there's time, there's so much time, they can do that next. "Again?" he echoes, spitting out the word. "We're doing this again, are we?" he asks, managing the words, but barely.
Faraday can’t help but laugh a little, the sound dark and wanting. This time around, Vasquez switching to his mother tongue seems more instinctual than anything – an unintentional lapse, rather than actively trying to keep Faraday in the dark. Vasquez sounds good like that, Faraday’s surprised to realize, desperate and breathless, and it makes something stir low in Faraday’s stomach.
“As I recall,” he says, the words brushing against Vasquez’s neck as Faraday nips at the sensitive skin just beneath the hinge of his jaw, “you’re the one who said we needed to work our way up. Can’t exactly do all that in one night, can we?”
Or at least, that’s what Faraday figured they’d be getting out of this. His experienced was geared more toward spending a handful of days, at most, in a woman’s bed before he moved on from the town, but— with Vasquez, at least, he’s willing to try something a little more long term. A large part of him doesn’t want Vasquez to go, spoiled as Faraday has been by the other man’s constant presence at his side, and a nervous part of him is looking forward to... this. Whatever this might be. But if Vasquez is really just looking to blow off some steam for the night, then—
Well. That just means Faraday’s obviously misinterpreted things, but he supposes he’d be willing to accept it, bitterly disappointing as it may be.
His free hand smooths down Vasquez’s front, feeling along the tensed muscles of his stomach, before his palm rests against the blade of Vasquez’s hip. He slots his mouth over Vasquez’s again, lips parting to invite Vasquez’s tongue.
Faraday sounds fairly sure of himself, which means that he hasn't been scared away by any of this so far. It seems too good to be true, but he doesn't have the mind to protest yet, so he surges up to seek more kisses, more touches, wants to get as much as he can of Faraday. "No, not in one night," he agrees, breathless.
"Could take two or three, or...as many as there are," he suggests, eyes wide and maybe a touch hopeful even if he tries to hide that behind a mask. "Mierda, keep doing that," he encourages, eyes rolling upward with pleasure as he curls his toes into the sheets of the bed.
He surges up into the kiss, demanding with the way he wants more from Faraday. "But we won't always have this bed," he mumbles against the kiss, messy and distracted, because he's working himself into a lather, so close, and he knows that if Faraday keeps kissing him, if he keeps working himself, it's only a matter of seconds. "Joshua," he moans into the kiss, at the hand over his hip, the way it makes his torso flinch a little, and how badly he wants so much more of this.
Good Lord, Faraday’s name sounds good like that. He tended to go by his surname by choice – it reminded him too much of being a child with a skinned elbow, sniffling as his ma tended to it – but he supposes If Vasquez says his given name like that, he doesn’t mind it overly much. It sends a dark jolt straight down his spine, and he makes a low, pleased noise, the sound of it trapped between the press of their lips.
Vasquez’s mouth is warm against his, the kiss shameless and rough in a way that leaves Faraday breathless. The hand at Vasquez’s hip smooths up along his side, back down to his hip, while his other hand tangles into Vasquez’s dark, unruly hair, keeping their lips locked together. He can get used to this, Faraday thinks, and he bites at Vasquez’s lower lip. He feels the way the muscles of Vasquez’s waist jump, the way the other man twitches and moves against Faraday’s touch, and there’s something— oddly pleasing, to realize that even this scant contact has this sort of effect on Vasquez.
He pulls back a little, forehead resting against Vasquez’s, sharing his breath. Vasquez’s reactions has left Faraday feeling a little bold, it seems, and he hesitates only a bare second before he wraps his hand around Vasquez’s length.
“Go on, darlin’,” he murmurs, ducking back in to capture Vasquez’s lips. “I’ve got you.”
"No, n-," he protests for the briefest of seconds before Vasquez inhales a ragged breath, moaning out Faraday's name loudly, "Joshua," with the shock and surprise that's punched out of him the second his hand is on his dick, when he comes in for another kiss. He feels wild and out of control, loose and limbless, like he can tumble and be caught.
There's no holding back now, no warning him. The instant that Faraday's calloused hand had joined his, Vasquez had been a lost man and he comes with a loud cry, meaning that if anyone is in the room next to theirs, there'll be no mystery about what's happening.
Panting, Vasquez collapses back against the bed, staring up at Faraday with wonder, awe, and no small amount of sheer disbelief, laughing like he's been drinking instead of fumbling like a teenager again in a bed in the middle of the day. He reaches up, tangling his fingers in Faraday's short hairs to pull him down on top of him for a kiss, not caring how messy he is, wanting something as slow and heated and perfect as the rolling warmth in his stomach.
"Come here," he insists, because he doesn't want even an inch between them right now, eager for lazy kisses until he has the energy again to move or speak or think.
That’s gratifying, Faraday thinks, grinning against Vasquez’s mouth. They way Vasquez writhes, desperate and wanting; the way he shouts, completely out of control. For a second, he wonders just how long Vasquez has wanted this; months, the man had said, but the way he had moved, frantic, like starved man at a feast, makes Faraday wonder just how long that means.
Vasquez spends, fast and vicious, and it slicks Faraday’s hand, falls hot across Faraday’s belly. When he’s done, it’s charming, the way Vasquez laughs – giggles, almost – and the way he falls boneless back on the bed. Even the way he looks at Faraday like he might actually think Faraday is more than some silver-tongued, half-corned gambler steals Faraday’s breath, makes color rush up his face, when moments ago Faraday might have felt himself bristling with unfamiliarity.
He wants to reach for his scarf to start cleaning up the mess, but Vasquez catches him first, drags him down for a kiss. And with how Vasquez smiles at him, how he stares like he thinks Faraday isn’t quite real – how could Faraday ever deny him? Faraday breathes out a quick laugh, settling atop Vasquez and slotting his mouth over the other man’s again.
And a small part of him is surprised at how easily he’s fallen into this, when just minutes ago he had felt awfully wrong-footed. Faraday is far from self-assured, at the moment, but he’s at least spurred onward by how Vasquez had sounded and looked as he had fallen apart, and how wildly attractive Faraday had found it.
Vasquez can't help how he grins back against Faraday's lips into the kiss, wrapping an arm around Faraday's neck to keep him from going too far, because he's not intending to let Faraday move for at least a minute, maybe two (maybe ten). "No," he says, honest and half-numb. "I don't think I can feel my toes," he admits, laughing brightly.
He absently lets his fingers drift into Faraday's hair, stroking it as he reclines back on the single bed in the room, wondering how this happened, when today he thought he'd be coming into town to win a bet and prove he was more charming by wooing someone else into bed. Apparently, not. His heart is still racing wildly in his chest, but he doesn't want to move.
"I still think this is a dream," he confesses bluntly, because it feels like it can't be real. "Of course, in my dream, you never wear any clothes." He lets his eyes roam over Faraday's body hungrily. "Wait. Never mind, maybe it is a good dream."
Faraday can't help the way he barks out a laugh along with Vasquez, bracing himself with an elbow on the mattress beside Vasquez's head to keep from smothering the other man. He can feel the way Vasquez's heart drums against the inside of his ribs.
It's a compelling sight, the other man beneath him, smiling and dazed beneath him. And apparently the man is affectionate while he enjoys the afterglow, fingers carding through Faraday's hair in a way that feels intimate and pleasant. When Vasquez speaks again, when he gives Faraday's scarred form a ribald once-over, Faraday snorts out another laugh.
"Well, in my dreams, there isn't so much of a mess," he says archly, though he hardly sounds bothered for it. "You ever gonna let me up?"
Vasquez gives Faraday a pointed look that says how much he'd like to not let him up and that giving him an option in this case isn't bound to end with Vasquez wanting anything but more, but Faraday does have a point. There's going to be a sticky, uncomfortable mess if they don't clean up, which is basically his fault.
Letting his lower lip slip out for a considerate moment, he finally relaxes his hold on Faraday, stretching his arms above his head and stretching his limbs out as far as they go, yanking the pillow for behind his head, one leg bent and the foot pressed to his knee. "Go on, then, if you're so rushed," he directs with a flick of his fingers.
The smirk on his lips and the amusement is his way of saying how much he wouldn't mind letting his gaze lazily track Faraday's naked body around the room. "We are doing this again," he says firmly. "Just in case you had doubts."
Faraday lets out a short huff of feigned irritation, once Vasquez finally gives Faraday some space, wearing that little pout. He rolls his eyes as he pulls back, slipping out of the bed and looking for something appropriate to wipe his hand and his belly.
He sacrifices his wild rag for it, feeling the way Vasquez tracks his movements with an oddly hungry gaze, and Faraday hesitates, trying to decide if he finds it embarrassing or if he ought to indulge the other man by taking his time. He splits the difference, unhurried but not molasses-slow, and returns to sit on the edge of the bed with the rag, holding it out for Vasquez to wipe himself down.
"You seemed to be the one havin' doubts," Faraday replies almost smugly. "Seemed like you were the one who needed convincin' of that fact."
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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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The hands on his sides, in his hair, they draw out soft little sounds of pleasure, even if he grunts with unhappiness at the comment that he's only 'alright'. A touch huffy, even if he knows Faraday is only probably teasing, he makes a face.
Of course, that grumpy face melts away when Faraday reaches his hand down. Selfish and greedy and wanting this so badly, it takes everything in him to reach down and wrap his fingers around Faraday's wrist to stall his movements. "Joshua," he murmurs, voice low, "we can go slower than this if you want."
That's a little because he's terrified if they go too fast, they won't go anywhere else, and he wants so much more of this. Bowing forward to press slow kisses up the line of Faraday's neck, he doesn't let go of his wrist yet.
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The obvious thing would be to ignore Vasquez, of course; Faraday had already thrown himself into this thing headlong, as he tended to do with most things, and his cavalier attitude had spurred him on this far to a surprising amount of success, but—
Now that Vasquez is giving him the choice, he isn’t entirely sure. A part of Faraday worries that working Vasquez with his hand is going to be nowhere near as satisfying as Vasquez’s mouth had been for Faraday, but he’s not entirely ready to commit to getting to his knees for the other man, just yet. The way the other man mouths at his throat drives him to distraction. The hand still in Vasquez’s hair tightens a little, until he smooths back to cup the back of his head. He licks his lips, tipping his own head back to give Vasquez more space to work.
“What’re you gonna do, then?” Faraday croaks out. Vasquez’s beard is rough against his neck as the other man kisses him, but Faraday is still surprised to find that he likes it. “I’m s’posed to just leave you hangin’?”
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"Who says I'm going to stay unsatisfied, huh?" he demands, nipping at Faraday's skin as if to reprimand him before he eases away to lie on his back, reaching down to loosen his trousers and push them off even more, so he can wrap a hand around himself.
"You're so good at talking," he says, and it's not even a sarcastic quip. It's true. He likes Faraday's silver tongued charms that get them benefits just as often as they get them into trouble. "I want you to talk to me," he coaxes. "Tell me what you like to feel, to do, to have in bed," he says, as he starts to work himself with rough strokes, knowing he won't last very long. "We'll work to the other things eventually," he says, sounding determined.
Maybe he'll eventually start to believe himself, even.
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Faraday glances down, sees Vasquez wrapping a hand around his length. Unconsciously, Faraday licks his lips, almost nervous, and he breathes out a laugh at Vasquez’s request.
Talking. Talking he can most certainly do.
But Faraday’s never been very good at doing exactly as he’s told, and after a moment of consideration, he sits up fully, moving to kneel in front of Vasquez on the mattress. The positioning is a little awkward, their knees knocking together, but Faraday reaches up to cup the back of Vasquez’s neck, leans in to slot his lips over Vasquez’s. The kiss isn’t anywhere near as combative as before, though it’s still heated, still insistent. And whenever he pulls back for breath, he talks, as Vasquez had asked.
“I tend to like it rougher than this,” he says easily, a smirk curling his lips even as he leans in for another kiss. “Whoever I take to bed, I like makin’ ‘em feel good.” This time, Faraday ducks to nip at Vasquez’s neck, mouthing at the shadow of his jaw. He pitches his voice low, murmuring against Vasquez’s skin. “When we do this again, I’ll have you tell me what you like, and I’ll see what I can do.”
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Letting out a frustrating groan that masks the whimper beneath it, Vasquez keeps working himself over, maybe not as fast as he normally would, but he keeps getting distracted. "Pinche cabron," he exhales, because as much as he ought to speak English, he hasn't got the brain for it right now.
"Sabes lo que me haces?" he gasps as he works his hand down slowly, biting his lower lip to stop himself from doing something stupid like reaching out to grab Faraday's hand to help, because there's time, there's so much time, they can do that next. "Again?" he echoes, spitting out the word. "We're doing this again, are we?" he asks, managing the words, but barely.
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“As I recall,” he says, the words brushing against Vasquez’s neck as Faraday nips at the sensitive skin just beneath the hinge of his jaw, “you’re the one who said we needed to work our way up. Can’t exactly do all that in one night, can we?”
Or at least, that’s what Faraday figured they’d be getting out of this. His experienced was geared more toward spending a handful of days, at most, in a woman’s bed before he moved on from the town, but— with Vasquez, at least, he’s willing to try something a little more long term. A large part of him doesn’t want Vasquez to go, spoiled as Faraday has been by the other man’s constant presence at his side, and a nervous part of him is looking forward to... this. Whatever this might be. But if Vasquez is really just looking to blow off some steam for the night, then—
Well. That just means Faraday’s obviously misinterpreted things, but he supposes he’d be willing to accept it, bitterly disappointing as it may be.
His free hand smooths down Vasquez’s front, feeling along the tensed muscles of his stomach, before his palm rests against the blade of Vasquez’s hip. He slots his mouth over Vasquez’s again, lips parting to invite Vasquez’s tongue.
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"Could take two or three, or...as many as there are," he suggests, eyes wide and maybe a touch hopeful even if he tries to hide that behind a mask. "Mierda, keep doing that," he encourages, eyes rolling upward with pleasure as he curls his toes into the sheets of the bed.
He surges up into the kiss, demanding with the way he wants more from Faraday. "But we won't always have this bed," he mumbles against the kiss, messy and distracted, because he's working himself into a lather, so close, and he knows that if Faraday keeps kissing him, if he keeps working himself, it's only a matter of seconds. "Joshua," he moans into the kiss, at the hand over his hip, the way it makes his torso flinch a little, and how badly he wants so much more of this.
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Vasquez’s mouth is warm against his, the kiss shameless and rough in a way that leaves Faraday breathless. The hand at Vasquez’s hip smooths up along his side, back down to his hip, while his other hand tangles into Vasquez’s dark, unruly hair, keeping their lips locked together. He can get used to this, Faraday thinks, and he bites at Vasquez’s lower lip. He feels the way the muscles of Vasquez’s waist jump, the way the other man twitches and moves against Faraday’s touch, and there’s something— oddly pleasing, to realize that even this scant contact has this sort of effect on Vasquez.
He pulls back a little, forehead resting against Vasquez’s, sharing his breath. Vasquez’s reactions has left Faraday feeling a little bold, it seems, and he hesitates only a bare second before he wraps his hand around Vasquez’s length.
“Go on, darlin’,” he murmurs, ducking back in to capture Vasquez’s lips. “I’ve got you.”
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There's no holding back now, no warning him. The instant that Faraday's calloused hand had joined his, Vasquez had been a lost man and he comes with a loud cry, meaning that if anyone is in the room next to theirs, there'll be no mystery about what's happening.
Panting, Vasquez collapses back against the bed, staring up at Faraday with wonder, awe, and no small amount of sheer disbelief, laughing like he's been drinking instead of fumbling like a teenager again in a bed in the middle of the day. He reaches up, tangling his fingers in Faraday's short hairs to pull him down on top of him for a kiss, not caring how messy he is, wanting something as slow and heated and perfect as the rolling warmth in his stomach.
"Come here," he insists, because he doesn't want even an inch between them right now, eager for lazy kisses until he has the energy again to move or speak or think.
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Vasquez spends, fast and vicious, and it slicks Faraday’s hand, falls hot across Faraday’s belly. When he’s done, it’s charming, the way Vasquez laughs – giggles, almost – and the way he falls boneless back on the bed. Even the way he looks at Faraday like he might actually think Faraday is more than some silver-tongued, half-corned gambler steals Faraday’s breath, makes color rush up his face, when moments ago Faraday might have felt himself bristling with unfamiliarity.
He wants to reach for his scarf to start cleaning up the mess, but Vasquez catches him first, drags him down for a kiss. And with how Vasquez smiles at him, how he stares like he thinks Faraday isn’t quite real – how could Faraday ever deny him? Faraday breathes out a quick laugh, settling atop Vasquez and slotting his mouth over the other man’s again.
And a small part of him is surprised at how easily he’s fallen into this, when just minutes ago he had felt awfully wrong-footed. Faraday is far from self-assured, at the moment, but he’s at least spurred onward by how Vasquez had sounded and looked as he had fallen apart, and how wildly attractive Faraday had found it.
“You alright, there?”
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He absently lets his fingers drift into Faraday's hair, stroking it as he reclines back on the single bed in the room, wondering how this happened, when today he thought he'd be coming into town to win a bet and prove he was more charming by wooing someone else into bed. Apparently, not. His heart is still racing wildly in his chest, but he doesn't want to move.
"I still think this is a dream," he confesses bluntly, because it feels like it can't be real. "Of course, in my dream, you never wear any clothes." He lets his eyes roam over Faraday's body hungrily. "Wait. Never mind, maybe it is a good dream."
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It's a compelling sight, the other man beneath him, smiling and dazed beneath him. And apparently the man is affectionate while he enjoys the afterglow, fingers carding through Faraday's hair in a way that feels intimate and pleasant. When Vasquez speaks again, when he gives Faraday's scarred form a ribald once-over, Faraday snorts out another laugh.
"Well, in my dreams, there isn't so much of a mess," he says archly, though he hardly sounds bothered for it. "You ever gonna let me up?"
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Letting his lower lip slip out for a considerate moment, he finally relaxes his hold on Faraday, stretching his arms above his head and stretching his limbs out as far as they go, yanking the pillow for behind his head, one leg bent and the foot pressed to his knee. "Go on, then, if you're so rushed," he directs with a flick of his fingers.
The smirk on his lips and the amusement is his way of saying how much he wouldn't mind letting his gaze lazily track Faraday's naked body around the room. "We are doing this again," he says firmly. "Just in case you had doubts."
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He sacrifices his wild rag for it, feeling the way Vasquez tracks his movements with an oddly hungry gaze, and Faraday hesitates, trying to decide if he finds it embarrassing or if he ought to indulge the other man by taking his time. He splits the difference, unhurried but not molasses-slow, and returns to sit on the edge of the bed with the rag, holding it out for Vasquez to wipe himself down.
"You seemed to be the one havin' doubts," Faraday replies almost smugly. "Seemed like you were the one who needed convincin' of that fact."
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