"You doubt you can?" It's a challenge from Vasquez to Sweeney even though he barely has the words to make that into a sentence, what with the way his body is trying to collapse on him, muscles weak, warmth pooling low in his belly, feeling something the likes of which he's never felt before in his lifetime.

The little breathless exhalations of Spanish are nonsensical, little stammers and whimpers and nonsense, but Vasquez grips Sweeney's hair a little tighter for every suck and lick, scraping when the pleasure builds and builds, and then just holds off, like he's not sure what he wants or needs.

"Fuck me," he decides, blunt and fast. "Come on, to make me come, fuck me."