Date: 2018-09-19 08:33 am (UTC)
peacemakers: (053)
From: [personal profile] peacemakers
Okay, then. Callate Faraday knows all too well, considering Vasquez has turned it on him more than a few times, and he can’t help the little huff of a laugh that escapes him. The rest of what Vasquez says is lost on him, but Faraday thinks he gets the picture.

Shut up and enjoy it.

And, well, Faraday has always been at least a little selfish, and rather than keep arguing, he offers a low, wordless sound of pleasure.

Vasquez’s grip is rough against his dick, and Faraday tips his head to one side while Vasquez’s lips travel the column of his throat. It’s an awkward position for both of them, and his old wounds twitch to signal their discomfort, but considering how wrung-out Vasquez seemed, Faraday isn’t entirely sure if the man has it in him to switch positions. But that’s fine, he thinks, as he rocks his hips, thrusting himself into Vasquez’s calloused palm. That’s just fine. More than fine, so long as Vasquez keeps this up.

His eyes go half-lidded, gaze growing distant, and his focus hones in on the roughness of Vasquez's palm, on the heat and of his mouth, on the rasp of his beard against Faraday’s neck. Dark as it currently is, Vasquez probably misses the way color rises up on Faraday’s skin. It’s not long before the rocking of his hips picks up, trying to force Vasquez into a slightly faster rhythm, and—

"Oh, hell," he murmurs, heated and rough. He lets out a strained noise, rutting into Vasquez's grip. "I'm close, sweetheart, I'm real close—"
peacemakers: (053)
From: [personal profile] peacemakers
He goes where he's led, slotting his mouth over Vasquez's as that golden wave builds low in his gut. Faraday doesn't have much of a mind for speaking in any sort of coherent fashion, but his wordless groans are trapped between the press of their lips.

When Vasquez's almost feverish pace slows to a crawl, Faraday can't help the desperate sound he makes, something startled out of him that he can't quite hold back. Before he can even think to ask if something were the matter, though, Vasquez's hand renews its efforts, and Faraday's teeth clamp down on his lower lip to cage in the strained noise that claws out of his throat.

He spills over Vasquez's hand, gasping and moaning as his entire body seizes. He thinks he shapes Vasquez's name – Ale – but with the way his mind blanks, he's not entirely sure.

When he returns to himself, his limbs are shaking with exhaustion, though the worst of his old aches are sanded away by the hazy warmth that suffuses his veins. He lets his limbs fold under him in a controlled fall as he collapses to the blanket at Vasquez's side. He sits up long enough to retrieve one of the discarded bandannas to wipe the two of them clean, but after that, he flops back down. Throwing an arm across Vasquez's middle, he huffs out a breathless laugh.

He murmurs against the other man's shoulder, "Wouldn't mind endin' more evenings like this."

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