He's on the edge of a petulant shit-show of a sulk, but Vasquez reels it back with every deep inhalation of a cigarette, moving from where he's positioned to knee Sweeney in the balls again to a lazy straddle of his thighs, sitting back against loose boxers to stare down at him, far from impressed.

"Make the most of it?" he echoes, wrinkling his nose. He settles the cigarette in his lips (oral fixation that he has), and absently exhales to the side, trying not to shiver for the hoarseness in Sweeney's voice, but struggling to not be affected. "Tell me how I should be looking at being robbed of my body, then?" he challenges. Spider-walking his fingers up Sweeney's bare chest, he cranes his neck to one side. "God, that you are," he breathes out the words, pinching when those fingers get to a nipple.