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."
Vasquez reaches out for the rag, finally sitting up once he's found some energy within himself to do it. He takes his time with it, not taking his eyes off of Faraday while he works the rag, setting it on the bedside table when he's mostly clean.
Sitting up (if a bit reluctantly), he reaches for where he's discarded his shirt, tugging it back on even if it's a wrinkled mess, followed by his underpants, sitting on the edge of the bed only to light up two cigarillos, handing one out to Faraday before he slumps back against the headboard. He must look a mess, with his lips swollen and shiny, his hair a disaster, but the sheer satisfaction on his face shows that he's happy it happened.
"This morning, I didn't think you wanted any of this," he points out, with a gesture of his smoke. "Now you're talking about again? I had to make sure."
Once Vasquez starts getting himself decent, Faraday all too happily follows suit. He was a good-looking man, once, with only a handful of scars to recommend him; now, though, he feels like he must be a frightful mess. Vasquez might be accustomed to the sight, as is Faraday, but that doesn't necessarily make it a pleasant one.
Faraday pulls on his shirt, tugs on his underwear and pants, and sits on the edge of the bed, his back pressed against Vasquez's knee. He doesn't fare much better than Vasquez, really, his own lips similarly swollen, with a bit of sweat glistening on his brow. Vain man that he is, he tries to straighten his hair a bit, for all the good it'll do him.
He takes the proffered cigarillo – Faraday typically preferred his own cigars, but he had never been one to turn down a good smoke – and he rests it between his lips. He calms a little, pulling in a mouthful of smoke. At Vasquez's words, he breathes out a small, barely there chuckle.
"Trust me, compadre," he replies with a small, crooked smile, "no one's more surprised 'bout all this than me."
Somehow, though, he manages to sound pleased about it. He takes another pensive drag from the cigarillo, letting the smoke drift out from between his lips to the ceiling.
Slowly, he says, "I think I'm good, though. If you're good, that is." He pauses for a second, then adds a little pointedly, "Which means if you try'n' skip out on me, I'm trackin' you down and beatin' the hell out of you. Hear me?"
Vasquez does make a disappointed noise when Faraday starts to busy himself in getting himself dressed, his own legs still mostly bare as he stretches them out on the bed, smoking with the ease of someone who hasn't managed to get feeling back to all his limbs. Reaching out with a hand, he slides his thumb in a rubbing circling motion against Faraday's hip as he tries to pluck and pull at his shirt, getting close enough for a kiss.
"I'm not going anywhere," he vows, his voice low and rough. Smug as anything, he lays back on the bed and thinks that they're not going to have as much luck roughing it in the future, not now that they've done this, not when there's so much more to do.
The very thought of actually fucking Faraday, letting him fuck him, gives him a shiver, but he can be patient and wait. "Wouldn't want to give you any reason to have to do work," he jibes, but the touch and the smile on his lips counters any words.
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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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Sitting up (if a bit reluctantly), he reaches for where he's discarded his shirt, tugging it back on even if it's a wrinkled mess, followed by his underpants, sitting on the edge of the bed only to light up two cigarillos, handing one out to Faraday before he slumps back against the headboard. He must look a mess, with his lips swollen and shiny, his hair a disaster, but the sheer satisfaction on his face shows that he's happy it happened.
"This morning, I didn't think you wanted any of this," he points out, with a gesture of his smoke. "Now you're talking about again? I had to make sure."
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Faraday pulls on his shirt, tugs on his underwear and pants, and sits on the edge of the bed, his back pressed against Vasquez's knee. He doesn't fare much better than Vasquez, really, his own lips similarly swollen, with a bit of sweat glistening on his brow. Vain man that he is, he tries to straighten his hair a bit, for all the good it'll do him.
He takes the proffered cigarillo – Faraday typically preferred his own cigars, but he had never been one to turn down a good smoke – and he rests it between his lips. He calms a little, pulling in a mouthful of smoke. At Vasquez's words, he breathes out a small, barely there chuckle.
"Trust me, compadre," he replies with a small, crooked smile, "no one's more surprised 'bout all this than me."
Somehow, though, he manages to sound pleased about it. He takes another pensive drag from the cigarillo, letting the smoke drift out from between his lips to the ceiling.
Slowly, he says, "I think I'm good, though. If you're good, that is." He pauses for a second, then adds a little pointedly, "Which means if you try'n' skip out on me, I'm trackin' you down and beatin' the hell out of you. Hear me?"
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"I'm not going anywhere," he vows, his voice low and rough. Smug as anything, he lays back on the bed and thinks that they're not going to have as much luck roughing it in the future, not now that they've done this, not when there's so much more to do.
The very thought of actually fucking Faraday, letting him fuck him, gives him a shiver, but he can be patient and wait. "Wouldn't want to give you any reason to have to do work," he jibes, but the touch and the smile on his lips counters any words.