[ Vasquez groans when Faraday goes right ahead and kicks things off for them, a full-body shudder running through him as Faraday moves along his cock. He leans forward with another curse, pressing his forehead against Faraday's jaw as he recomposes himself with his own helpless chuckle. ]
Trying not to die, cabrón.
[ He drags his nails up Faraday's thigh, gripping the curve of his hip, before he finally rocks back on his own. Drawing out goes slowly, but the next thrust is sharp, pointedly filling Faraday again. God, he's overwhelmed by how Faraday feels around his cock, how he stretches to accommodate Vasquez, and it's fucking perfect.
More curses spill out in Spanish, but Vasquez finally begins to find a rhythm – withdrawing steadily and rocking forward with a quick snap of his hips. ]
[ He starts off a little slower than Faraday wants – the slow drag out, the sharp snap in – but Faraday can't find it in him to complain. Hell, he doesn't have all that many words left in him – most of them seem to have fucked off, leaving him only with oaths and curses and Vasquez's name rattling around in his head.
He rolls his hips to meet every thrust as well as he can, hands roving over Vasquez's back. He can feel the way his muscles coil and flex, can feel each sharp exhale escape Vasquez's mouth to ghost along his neck. He breathes in deeply, inhales the heady cocktail of cigar smoke and cologne and sweat and sex. His skin feels like it's lit up and buzzing at every point of contact, like it's two sizes too small. He feels like he might fucking shatter. ]
God— [ He moans it out as Vasquez starts to speed up, their hips snapping together obscenely. ] Yes, shit, just like that, darlin'.
[ Vasquez loses himself in how Faraday feels, in the radiating heat between them, the pleasure rocketing through his system at top speed. He genuinely doesn't remember the last time sex felt so intense, and he feels drunk on it, swallowed whole and wanting more.
He doesn't need the encouragement, but it sounds fucking perfect spilling from Faraday's lips. His fingers tighten again, and he knows he must be leaving bruises; right now, it doesn't matter. He uses his grip to drag Faraday into each thrust, sharp and rough. Usually, he'd have more consideration for the comfort of whomever he took to bed, but with Faraday, it still feels like a challenge, that relentless struggle against each other.
Vasquez restlessly presses his lips to Faraday's throat again, dragging kisses and scrapes of teeth anywhere he can reach, curses and praise growled in equal measure against his partner's skin. It's all Spanish, all quick and breathless, thoughtless when he's telling Faraday how perfect he feels, how goddamn good he is, how much he's wanted this—
The rough grip Vasquez has on his hips, the way his fingers dig into his flesh, nails leaving deep crescents in his skin—
The sharp, bruising snap of Vasquez's hips against his ass—
The way his cock drives deep into Faraday, over and fucking over—
He told Vasquez he wanted to feel this in the morning, but hell, he'll definitely be feeling this for days. He wonders if he'll even be able to sit comfortably on their plane ride home, and that idle thought shouldn't be as fucking enticing as it is.
He listens to the way Vasquez babbles, the predatory growl in the words, and Faraday hopes it's at least mostly complimentary. Could be that Vasquez is just calling him a goddamn slut in his native tongue; he supposes it doesn't matter much, either way, so long as the trajectory of this night hasn't changed Vasquez's opinion of him or their ability to work together, come morning.
But that's the million dollar question, isn't it?
He pushes it from his mind in favor of now, of the stretch of his body around Vasquez's cock, and he shifts his hips, and—
His cries out, vision going white when Vasquez's cock hits that sweet spot. He digs his fingers into Vasquez's back, his other hand tangling in in those dark curls again. ]
Maybe on a better night, he would have been moving Faraday into a position that made the angle instantly ideal, but he'd been so concerned with being close to Faraday – not to mention Faraday's own impatient demands. But that reaction? Priceless.
Vasquez growls against him with approval, and despite how fiercely Faraday holds onto him, Vasquez readjusts his grip, shifts his weight to support Faraday, enough to keep him just like that. He knows they're both going to come out of this covered in bruises, and he relishes that; as much as he can't wait to see his own marks on Faraday, he's eager to admire whatever mementos he gets to take away from tonight.
Normally, he might be more cognizant of the lasting effects of their tumble, considering their work, but he can't help how his body screams to take and take and take; it's hard to resist when Faraday is practically begging him for exactly that.
Vasquez drags his teeth over Faraday's jaw, panting against his cheek. ]
—perfect, you're fucking perfect—
[ And it's back to Spanish, back to the more unintelligible sounds of pleasure.
Vasquez might usually pride his own stamina,but everything is more intense right now. His nerves are singing with this, with how tightly Faraday is squeezing his dick, how Faraday sounds, and Vasquez almost wishes he could watch Faraday falling apart. But in reality, being any farther from Faraday than this is intolerable. ]
Well, he supposes, the good news is that he won't have to die from the shame of having fucked up this friendship and partnership, because Vasquez might kill him right the fuck now. Vasquez hits Faraday's prostate with near unerring accuracy, and Faraday cries out with it, want and need lighting up his veins like wildfire. He holds Vasquez close, his leg still hooked around Vasquez's waist, desperate for the friction of Vasquez's stomach against his aching cock. God above, Faraday thinks he's going to burst apart at the seams with the way his orgasm builds and builds and builds, dancing just out of reach.
He feels like he's lost the ability to fucking talk, which is a miracle in itself, given his silver tongue and enjoyment of his own voice. All he can manage are fierce, half-formed swears and cries and groans of pleasure. He wants to offer his further encouragement, but all that escapes him is a chant of yes, yes, fuck, yes—
God, it's fucking good. It's fucking perfect – a sentiment that Vasquez apparently shares, and the dark growl in his voice goes straight to Faraday's dick, drags out a vicious swear. ]
Shit, oh God, darlin'—
[ And in a better moment, he might go red-faced for the whine in his voice, the wordless plea.
Right now, Faraday is too far gone to give a single shit.
Because that praise tips him over, and he throws his head back, crying out as his orgasm slams into him – too quick for him to offer a proper warning. His cum splashes over their stomachs, hot and thick, and his fingers twist in Vasquez's hair, dig into his back, desperate for an anchor before he's swept away. ]
[ Looking at Faraday, Vasquez genuinely never would have been able to imagine how good he could sound like this. He probably never thought Faraday was capable of these intoxicating, overwhelming responses. Not for the first nor last time, Vasquez wishes he could see the look on Faraday's face while he's losing himself, because he sounds and feels—
—perfect. Utterly perfect.
The way they're wrapped around each other is good for a lot of things, but not for the freedom to wedge a hand between them for Faraday's cock. Luckily for them both, they're so damn close, practically crushed together, and that seems to afford Faraday just enough friction.
And thank fuck, because Vasquez had no idea how much longer he'd be able to stave off his own orgasm.
Vasquez gasps against Faraday's throat as the other man tightens around him in every fucking way – pulling at his hair, digging marks into his skin, squeezing the goddamn life out of him through his cock. He crushes Faraday to him with a groan, shuddering against him as he manages a couple more savage bucks of his hips before his climax slams into him like a freight train. Vasquez wraps himself tighter around Faraday as he shakes through every golden wave that swamps his system, until he finally goes utterly boneless.
He manages not to completely collapse against Faraday, but he still holds his partner close, his face tucked against Faraday's throat as he tries to catch his breath.
Futile, probably, but he's so busy basking in the afterglow that he doesn't care. ]
[ Vasquez keeps fucking him through his orgasm, keeps fucking him through the aftershocks, then just— keeps fucking him. Thankfully not for long – God, Faraday might have actually expired if Vasquez decided then and there to try and drive him to another orgasm – and when Vasquez pulls him in close, when he comes, Faraday murmurs a few less than coherent encouragements.
And at last, they're both spent, sweaty and panting, and Vasquez's breath is hot and damp against his throat. Faraday forces himself to relax his grip in the other man's hair, tries to smooth away what must've been a sharp sting with quick strokes of the pads of his fingers over Vasquez's scalp.
With another partner clinging as close as Vasquez is, Faraday would make some quip about feeling smothered, about not being able to breathe. But— maybe he's just too cowed to speak, doesn't know what the fuck to say for fear of shattering the moment and inviting real life back in.
Or maybe it's just that he's goddamn exhausted, breath coming in rough, uneven gasps, aching in all the best goddamn ways. ]
[ In that moment, all Vasquez can think about is holding Faraday. He needs to pull away, needs to give Faraday space, but Faraday starts running his fingers through his hair, and Vasquez just melts. He feels preserved in this weird bubble, like the moment can only exist so long as they don’t pop the tenuous walls surrounding them.
Finally, after what feels like seconds and ages, Vasquez starts to shift over Faraday, pulling out of him so Vasquez can roll onto his side. (Vasquez chooses not to acknowledge his own involuntary little sound of disappointment as soon as they separate.)
He flops onto his back, looking dazedly up at the ceiling. His lips part in a crooked grin, and then, ]
[ Vasquez pulls out of him, and he can't help the quick noise that punches out of his lungs at the loss. And when shifts away entirely, Faraday—
Lets him. As much as he wants to protest.
He swallows thickly against the better disappointment that claws up his throat.
He's always had a good poker face, though, has always been good about keeping his voice even. It helped him a great deal when he was playing a part during an assignment.
And he puts it to good use now, forcing his voice, hoarse as it is, to level out, injecting it with his usual levity. ]
Just about.
[ He's too exhausted to move, even if he knows he's a goddamn mess, with cum smearing over his stomach and down his ass. ]
[ Vasquez just breathes out a low chuckle, heaving himself up to roll back onto his side. He reaches out thoughtlessly, resting his arm across Faraday’s chest. ]
I guess I will just have to try harder next time.
[ And goddamn, he’s buzzing too much on the endorphins to think about the implications of his words. ]
[ Faraday goes quiet at the easy contact, at those words, maintaining his poker face – that neutral sort of look, with just that touch of good humor in his eyes, tugging at the corner of his mouth.
A slip of the tongue thanks to the afterglow, maybe. Or else this fuck was good enough to convince Vasquez they should keep at it – and that, Faraday privately thinks, they absolutely should.
It's too much to parse with his mind as fuzzy and exhausted as it is, so for now, he just offers a joke, ]
Unless you've got plans to cause a literal explosion, I doubt you've got any tricks that'd do me in.
[ But it just draws another rumbling laugh from Vasquez. He should probably be getting up to clean them both off a little, considering all the sweat and cum... everywhere. Unfortunately, he’s too content where he is.
Vasquez runs his hand lightly along Faraday’s chest and sternum, absently drawing patterns as he meets Faraday’s gaze with a crooked smile. ]
So what do you think? Are you going to be feeling that in the morning or not?
[ Faraday returns Vasquez's gaze with a flat look, as if to ask, Seriously? As if Vasquez couldn't tell just by looking at Faraday, how he still hasn't quite caught his breath, how he's hardly moved a finger, not even in his own favor, how his neck and hips are covered in bright red marks that promise to be vivid bruises.
Flatly, ]
No, Vasquez. I'll be fresh as a goddamn daisy tomorrow.
[ There is, at least, the barest hint of humor in his voice, and he shuts his eyes, focusing in on the lazy designs Vasquez is tracing over his chest.
Easier than holding Vasquez's gaze and staring at that warm goddamn smile. ]
[ Faraday looks like he survived a round or six in the colosseum, so that’s a job well done, in Vasquez’s humble opinion. He gave Faraday exactly what he asked for (with a few provisions of his own).
And considering the intensity of the round, Vasquez is comfortable deciding to allow himself a moment to bask and recover. He closes his eyes with a rumbling sigh, curling into Faraday without a flash of self-consciousness.
(Endorphins, again?)
The responsible thing to do, right now, would be to get their heads on straight and have a conversation about what this means – maybe not even to a significant degree; just enough that they’re clear on how this affects their work. That’s the correct next step, the logical one for the sake of the agency and their partnership. It’s the responsible thing.
Vasquez isn’t feeling very responsible right now. ]
[ Faraday lets out a snort that tries to be unkind, but doesn't quite meet the mark.
And then for the hundredth time tonight, Vasquez catches him fully off-guard by curling in close instead of kicking him out of the bed, as Faraday had expected, as Faraday had been slowly steeling himself for. The distance between the bed and the couch in the living space, which Faraday had claimed for his own the past few nights, seemed interminable, but he could manage it. God knows he's been able to drag himself much further distances after missions had left him half-dead – sometimes literally.
And even with Vasquez cozying up to him like he were doing his best impression of a koala, Faraday thinks maybe he should extricate himself to avoid the conversation lying in wait around the corner. The awkward laughs and reassurances that A.) this was a one-time thing, with no strings attached and no expectations for the future, or B.) that this was fun, and they should do it again the next time either or both of them are keyed-up on a battle high, or C.) this night never happened, and they'd both be best to forget it, or else ask for reassignments to avoid any conflicts of interest in the future.
It would take a goddamn miracle for Faraday to be the one to bring it up, which means it'll have to be Vasquez – and Vasquez is too drunk on post-orgasm bliss to bring it up at the moment, which makes now the perfect time for Faraday to stage his escape.
Good Lord. Maybe Faraday is a coward.
Except Vasquez, God damn him, was absolutely right – the bastard had basically fucked Faraday within an inch of his life, and he's too goddamn spent to move. And the sheets are soft beneath them, and Vasquez is so goddamn warm, so refreshingly free with his touch—
God dammit.
Just five minutes, he tells himself as he takes a shuddering breath. Five minutes to commit this to memory, then he'll banish himself to the living room.
He knows the chances of him just passing the hell out are pretty high, especially with the shaky, boneless quality of his limbs, the thick, prickly wave of exhaustion tugging at him, but he decides he'll risk it. ]
[ Vasquez – for all that he's a hyper-vigilant, well-trained, deadly agent – sleeps like the dead. He hasn't honest to god shared a bed with anyone in... years, probably, but he forgot how nice it is to be close to another person; it's hard to fight the promise of rest.
In his defense, they've been on this mission for a few days already, and that tumble in the sheets was brutal – in all the right ways.
Vasquez is too tired to worry about the implications of falling asleep curled next to Faraday, too exhausted to overthink the next step.
(The very complicated next step.)
In less than five minutes, Vasquez is already snoring.
Faraday huffs out a breath – a sigh that tries to sound exasperated but mostly comes out affectionate, God damn his traitorous voice.
Well, maybe this is a blessing in disguise. He waits a few minutes, trying his best to ignore the warm, gentle brush of Vasquez's breath on his skin, to ignore the way sleep smooths out Vasquez's features – just long enough to ensure Vasquez is actually asleep, and not just sort of asleep.
He steels himself, willing his tired, shaky limbs to move as he slowly, carefully, tries to extricate himself from Vasquez's grasp. ]
Faraday's careful shifting, slow as it is, is enough for Vasquez to readjust how he's sprawled out. He rolls onto his stomach with an unflattering little snort of a snore, pillowing his head on one folded arm.
The other arm, however, winds around Faraday's ribs like a stubborn vine. ]
[ He stops when Vasquez snorts, worried that his movements woke the other man up.
He lets out a breath when Vasquez seems to readjust, but then the bastard just grabs hold of him again, and Faraday freezes.
Faraday grits out, ]
Goddamn barnacle.
[ before exhaling a defeated sigh, settling back into place.
Maybe later he'll be willing to admit to himself that he didn't try very hard at all. He's a goddamn spy, for crying out loud, trained in so many forms of close-quarters combat that he has an easier time of disarming a man than he does of remembering the street names on his way to work. He knows how to worm his way out of an opponent's stranglehold; escaping from a sleeping man is a cakewalk in comparison.
But Faraday isn't a very honest man, and he scrubs at his face, resigned.
He spends a few moments berating himself for this bit of selfish weakness before finally drifting off. ]
[ Despite not sharing a bed with anyone in ages, Vasquez still sleeps peacefully beside Faraday. He doesn't end up moving much, either, splayed out and eating up space on the mattress – but still with an arm slung around Faraday through the night.
He also snores, but since he never shares a bed, he never has to worry about bothering anyone.
Did he think about that before passing out?
Absolutely not.
Because of their work, however, he doesn't sleep long. His body is accustomed to waking before six am, and this is no exception: before the sun even starts to peek through the curtains, Vasquez is stirring.
With a sharp, slow inhale, Vasquez starts to open his eyes, initially disconcerted by the fact that his bed isn't empty. And— he's sore? Not wildly, but he still feels like he exerted himself far more than his body was prepared for.
And then the night filters back.
Vasquez tenses under the sheets, his fingers momentarily tightening on Faraday before he starts to draw his arm back. It's his turn to try not to disturb his partner as he starts to sit up. ]
[ Unlike Vasquez, Faraday is absolutely a light sleeper – a consequence, maybe, of a handful of years as a stupid teenager spent sleeping in alleys and doorways or on stoops
He's not sure what wakes him up – the shift in breathing, the rock of the bed, the tensing of Vasquez's grip – but wake up he does, sleepy-eyed but alert.
He blinks at the ceiling, then turns his head to see Vasquez, equally awake.
... God, he can't begin to process this.
So he makes, in his mind, what constitutes a wise decision: He doesn't.
Instead, he scrubs at his eyes, grumbles out, ]
What time is it?
[ Because whatever hour it is, it feels ungodly. ]
[ There's a weird beat of a moment where they both just stare at each other, and Vasquez feels his mind go inexplicably blank. Faraday is in this bed with him, covered in bruises and hickeys, and also incredibly naked.
Vasquez keenly remembers the night before, but that doesn't make this feel any less surreal.
Now that Faraday is awake, Vasquez pulls away properly, sitting up and ruffling a hand through his own messy hair. ]
[ Even with his hands still covering his eyes, Faraday still manages to twist his face into an expression of absolute disgust at that bit of news. ]
Jesus.
[ If Faraday can help it, he's never awake before the sun rises, unless he's coming at it from the wrong way.
But unfortunately for him, he's awake now, and he pushes himself to sit up, hissing a little when the soreness of his body makes itself known. It calls to mind the wild fucking night they just had, and— he might be starting to feel a little queasy again, with all the unspoken questions still lying between them.
Faraday refuses to call himself a coward – he just knows the value of a tactical retreat.
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Trying not to die, cabrón.
[ He drags his nails up Faraday's thigh, gripping the curve of his hip, before he finally rocks back on his own. Drawing out goes slowly, but the next thrust is sharp, pointedly filling Faraday again. God, he's overwhelmed by how Faraday feels around his cock, how he stretches to accommodate Vasquez, and it's fucking perfect.
More curses spill out in Spanish, but Vasquez finally begins to find a rhythm – withdrawing steadily and rocking forward with a quick snap of his hips. ]
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He rolls his hips to meet every thrust as well as he can, hands roving over Vasquez's back. He can feel the way his muscles coil and flex, can feel each sharp exhale escape Vasquez's mouth to ghost along his neck. He breathes in deeply, inhales the heady cocktail of cigar smoke and cologne and sweat and sex. His skin feels like it's lit up and buzzing at every point of contact, like it's two sizes too small. He feels like he might fucking shatter. ]
God— [ He moans it out as Vasquez starts to speed up, their hips snapping together obscenely. ] Yes, shit, just like that, darlin'.
Fuckin' give it to me—
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He doesn't need the encouragement, but it sounds fucking perfect spilling from Faraday's lips. His fingers tighten again, and he knows he must be leaving bruises; right now, it doesn't matter. He uses his grip to drag Faraday into each thrust, sharp and rough. Usually, he'd have more consideration for the comfort of whomever he took to bed, but with Faraday, it still feels like a challenge, that relentless struggle against each other.
Vasquez restlessly presses his lips to Faraday's throat again, dragging kisses and scrapes of teeth anywhere he can reach, curses and praise growled in equal measure against his partner's skin. It's all Spanish, all quick and breathless, thoughtless when he's telling Faraday how perfect he feels, how goddamn good he is, how much he's wanted this—
Thank god it's not English. ]
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The rough grip Vasquez has on his hips, the way his fingers dig into his flesh, nails leaving deep crescents in his skin—
The sharp, bruising snap of Vasquez's hips against his ass—
The way his cock drives deep into Faraday, over and fucking over—
He told Vasquez he wanted to feel this in the morning, but hell, he'll definitely be feeling this for days. He wonders if he'll even be able to sit comfortably on their plane ride home, and that idle thought shouldn't be as fucking enticing as it is.
He listens to the way Vasquez babbles, the predatory growl in the words, and Faraday hopes it's at least mostly complimentary. Could be that Vasquez is just calling him a goddamn slut in his native tongue; he supposes it doesn't matter much, either way, so long as the trajectory of this night hasn't changed Vasquez's opinion of him or their ability to work together, come morning.
But that's the million dollar question, isn't it?
He pushes it from his mind in favor of now, of the stretch of his body around Vasquez's cock, and he shifts his hips, and—
His cries out, vision going white when Vasquez's cock hits that sweet spot. He digs his fingers into Vasquez's back, his other hand tangling in in those dark curls again. ]
Fuck, God, yes, just like that—
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Maybe on a better night, he would have been moving Faraday into a position that made the angle instantly ideal, but he'd been so concerned with being close to Faraday – not to mention Faraday's own impatient demands. But that reaction? Priceless.
Vasquez growls against him with approval, and despite how fiercely Faraday holds onto him, Vasquez readjusts his grip, shifts his weight to support Faraday, enough to keep him just like that. He knows they're both going to come out of this covered in bruises, and he relishes that; as much as he can't wait to see his own marks on Faraday, he's eager to admire whatever mementos he gets to take away from tonight.
Normally, he might be more cognizant of the lasting effects of their tumble, considering their work, but he can't help how his body screams to take and take and take; it's hard to resist when Faraday is practically begging him for exactly that.
Vasquez drags his teeth over Faraday's jaw, panting against his cheek. ]
—perfect, you're fucking perfect—
[ And it's back to Spanish, back to the more unintelligible sounds of pleasure.
Vasquez might usually pride his own stamina,but everything is more intense right now. His nerves are singing with this, with how tightly Faraday is squeezing his dick, how Faraday sounds, and Vasquez almost wishes he could watch Faraday falling apart. But in reality, being any farther from Faraday than this is intolerable. ]
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Well, he supposes, the good news is that he won't have to die from the shame of having fucked up this friendship and partnership, because Vasquez might kill him right the fuck now. Vasquez hits Faraday's prostate with near unerring accuracy, and Faraday cries out with it, want and need lighting up his veins like wildfire. He holds Vasquez close, his leg still hooked around Vasquez's waist, desperate for the friction of Vasquez's stomach against his aching cock. God above, Faraday thinks he's going to burst apart at the seams with the way his orgasm builds and builds and builds, dancing just out of reach.
He feels like he's lost the ability to fucking talk, which is a miracle in itself, given his silver tongue and enjoyment of his own voice. All he can manage are fierce, half-formed swears and cries and groans of pleasure. He wants to offer his further encouragement, but all that escapes him is a chant of yes, yes, fuck, yes—
God, it's fucking good. It's fucking perfect – a sentiment that Vasquez apparently shares, and the dark growl in his voice goes straight to Faraday's dick, drags out a vicious swear. ]
Shit, oh God, darlin'—
[ And in a better moment, he might go red-faced for the whine in his voice, the wordless plea.
Right now, Faraday is too far gone to give a single shit.
Because that praise tips him over, and he throws his head back, crying out as his orgasm slams into him – too quick for him to offer a proper warning. His cum splashes over their stomachs, hot and thick, and his fingers twist in Vasquez's hair, dig into his back, desperate for an anchor before he's swept away. ]
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—perfect. Utterly perfect.
The way they're wrapped around each other is good for a lot of things, but not for the freedom to wedge a hand between them for Faraday's cock. Luckily for them both, they're so damn close, practically crushed together, and that seems to afford Faraday just enough friction.
And thank fuck, because Vasquez had no idea how much longer he'd be able to stave off his own orgasm.
Vasquez gasps against Faraday's throat as the other man tightens around him in every fucking way – pulling at his hair, digging marks into his skin, squeezing the goddamn life out of him through his cock. He crushes Faraday to him with a groan, shuddering against him as he manages a couple more savage bucks of his hips before his climax slams into him like a freight train. Vasquez wraps himself tighter around Faraday as he shakes through every golden wave that swamps his system, until he finally goes utterly boneless.
He manages not to completely collapse against Faraday, but he still holds his partner close, his face tucked against Faraday's throat as he tries to catch his breath.
Futile, probably, but he's so busy basking in the afterglow that he doesn't care. ]
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And at last, they're both spent, sweaty and panting, and Vasquez's breath is hot and damp against his throat. Faraday forces himself to relax his grip in the other man's hair, tries to smooth away what must've been a sharp sting with quick strokes of the pads of his fingers over Vasquez's scalp.
With another partner clinging as close as Vasquez is, Faraday would make some quip about feeling smothered, about not being able to breathe. But— maybe he's just too cowed to speak, doesn't know what the fuck to say for fear of shattering the moment and inviting real life back in.
Or maybe it's just that he's goddamn exhausted, breath coming in rough, uneven gasps, aching in all the best goddamn ways. ]
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Finally, after what feels like seconds and ages, Vasquez starts to shift over Faraday, pulling out of him so Vasquez can roll onto his side. (Vasquez chooses not to acknowledge his own involuntary little sound of disappointment as soon as they separate.)
He flops onto his back, looking dazedly up at the ceiling. His lips part in a crooked grin, and then, ]
You still alive, guero?
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Lets him. As much as he wants to protest.
He swallows thickly against the better disappointment that claws up his throat.
He's always had a good poker face, though, has always been good about keeping his voice even. It helped him a great deal when he was playing a part during an assignment.
And he puts it to good use now, forcing his voice, hoarse as it is, to level out, injecting it with his usual levity. ]
Just about.
[ He's too exhausted to move, even if he knows he's a goddamn mess, with cum smearing over his stomach and down his ass. ]
Despite your best efforts.
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[ Vasquez just breathes out a low chuckle, heaving himself up to roll back onto his side. He reaches out thoughtlessly, resting his arm across Faraday’s chest. ]
I guess I will just have to try harder next time.
[ And goddamn, he’s buzzing too much on the endorphins to think about the implications of his words. ]
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A slip of the tongue thanks to the afterglow, maybe. Or else this fuck was good enough to convince Vasquez they should keep at it – and that, Faraday privately thinks, they absolutely should.
It's too much to parse with his mind as fuzzy and exhausted as it is, so for now, he just offers a joke, ]
Unless you've got plans to cause a literal explosion, I doubt you've got any tricks that'd do me in.
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[ But it just draws another rumbling laugh from Vasquez. He should probably be getting up to clean them both off a little, considering all the sweat and cum... everywhere. Unfortunately, he’s too content where he is.
Vasquez runs his hand lightly along Faraday’s chest and sternum, absently drawing patterns as he meets Faraday’s gaze with a crooked smile. ]
So what do you think? Are you going to be feeling that in the morning or not?
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Flatly, ]
No, Vasquez. I'll be fresh as a goddamn daisy tomorrow.
[ There is, at least, the barest hint of humor in his voice, and he shuts his eyes, focusing in on the lazy designs Vasquez is tracing over his chest.
Easier than holding Vasquez's gaze and staring at that warm goddamn smile. ]
Smug bastard.
[ Somehow, the insult comes out almost fondly. ]
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[ Faraday looks like he survived a round or six in the colosseum, so that’s a job well done, in Vasquez’s humble opinion. He gave Faraday exactly what he asked for (with a few provisions of his own).
And considering the intensity of the round, Vasquez is comfortable deciding to allow himself a moment to bask and recover. He closes his eyes with a rumbling sigh, curling into Faraday without a flash of self-consciousness.
(Endorphins, again?)
The responsible thing to do, right now, would be to get their heads on straight and have a conversation about what this means – maybe not even to a significant degree; just enough that they’re clear on how this affects their work. That’s the correct next step, the logical one for the sake of the agency and their partnership. It’s the responsible thing.
Vasquez isn’t feeling very responsible right now. ]
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And then for the hundredth time tonight, Vasquez catches him fully off-guard by curling in close instead of kicking him out of the bed, as Faraday had expected, as Faraday had been slowly steeling himself for. The distance between the bed and the couch in the living space, which Faraday had claimed for his own the past few nights, seemed interminable, but he could manage it. God knows he's been able to drag himself much further distances after missions had left him half-dead – sometimes literally.
And even with Vasquez cozying up to him like he were doing his best impression of a koala, Faraday thinks maybe he should extricate himself to avoid the conversation lying in wait around the corner. The awkward laughs and reassurances that A.) this was a one-time thing, with no strings attached and no expectations for the future, or B.) that this was fun, and they should do it again the next time either or both of them are keyed-up on a battle high, or C.) this night never happened, and they'd both be best to forget it, or else ask for reassignments to avoid any conflicts of interest in the future.
It would take a goddamn miracle for Faraday to be the one to bring it up, which means it'll have to be Vasquez – and Vasquez is too drunk on post-orgasm bliss to bring it up at the moment, which makes now the perfect time for Faraday to stage his escape.
Good Lord. Maybe Faraday is a coward.
Except Vasquez, God damn him, was absolutely right – the bastard had basically fucked Faraday within an inch of his life, and he's too goddamn spent to move. And the sheets are soft beneath them, and Vasquez is so goddamn warm, so refreshingly free with his touch—
God dammit.
Just five minutes, he tells himself as he takes a shuddering breath. Five minutes to commit this to memory, then he'll banish himself to the living room.
He knows the chances of him just passing the hell out are pretty high, especially with the shaky, boneless quality of his limbs, the thick, prickly wave of exhaustion tugging at him, but he decides he'll risk it. ]
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In his defense, they've been on this mission for a few days already, and that tumble in the sheets was brutal – in all the right ways.
Vasquez is too tired to worry about the implications of falling asleep curled next to Faraday, too exhausted to overthink the next step.
(The very complicated next step.)
In less than five minutes, Vasquez is already snoring.
... still latched onto Faraday. ]
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... Well.
... ... Shit.
Faraday huffs out a breath – a sigh that tries to sound exasperated but mostly comes out affectionate, God damn his traitorous voice.
Well, maybe this is a blessing in disguise. He waits a few minutes, trying his best to ignore the warm, gentle brush of Vasquez's breath on his skin, to ignore the way sleep smooths out Vasquez's features – just long enough to ensure Vasquez is actually asleep, and not just sort of asleep.
He steels himself, willing his tired, shaky limbs to move as he slowly, carefully, tries to extricate himself from Vasquez's grasp. ]
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Faraday's careful shifting, slow as it is, is enough for Vasquez to readjust how he's sprawled out. He rolls onto his stomach with an unflattering little snort of a snore, pillowing his head on one folded arm.
The other arm, however, winds around Faraday's ribs like a stubborn vine. ]
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He lets out a breath when Vasquez seems to readjust, but then the bastard just grabs hold of him again, and Faraday freezes.
Faraday grits out, ]
Goddamn barnacle.
[ before exhaling a defeated sigh, settling back into place.
Maybe later he'll be willing to admit to himself that he didn't try very hard at all. He's a goddamn spy, for crying out loud, trained in so many forms of close-quarters combat that he has an easier time of disarming a man than he does of remembering the street names on his way to work. He knows how to worm his way out of an opponent's stranglehold; escaping from a sleeping man is a cakewalk in comparison.
But Faraday isn't a very honest man, and he scrubs at his face, resigned.
He spends a few moments berating himself for this bit of selfish weakness before finally drifting off. ]
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He also snores, but since he never shares a bed, he never has to worry about bothering anyone.
Did he think about that before passing out?
Absolutely not.
Because of their work, however, he doesn't sleep long. His body is accustomed to waking before six am, and this is no exception: before the sun even starts to peek through the curtains, Vasquez is stirring.
With a sharp, slow inhale, Vasquez starts to open his eyes, initially disconcerted by the fact that his bed isn't empty. And— he's sore? Not wildly, but he still feels like he exerted himself far more than his body was prepared for.
And then the night filters back.
Vasquez tenses under the sheets, his fingers momentarily tightening on Faraday before he starts to draw his arm back. It's his turn to try not to disturb his partner as he starts to sit up. ]
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He's not sure what wakes him up – the shift in breathing, the rock of the bed, the tensing of Vasquez's grip – but wake up he does, sleepy-eyed but alert.
He blinks at the ceiling, then turns his head to see Vasquez, equally awake.
... God, he can't begin to process this.
So he makes, in his mind, what constitutes a wise decision: He doesn't.
Instead, he scrubs at his eyes, grumbles out, ]
What time is it?
[ Because whatever hour it is, it feels ungodly. ]
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Vasquez keenly remembers the night before, but that doesn't make this feel any less surreal.
Now that Faraday is awake, Vasquez pulls away properly, sitting up and ruffling a hand through his own messy hair. ]
Early.
[ He finally glances at the nightstand clock. ]
5:45.
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Jesus.
[ If Faraday can help it, he's never awake before the sun rises, unless he's coming at it from the wrong way.
But unfortunately for him, he's awake now, and he pushes himself to sit up, hissing a little when the soreness of his body makes itself known. It calls to mind the wild fucking night they just had, and— he might be starting to feel a little queasy again, with all the unspoken questions still lying between them.
Faraday refuses to call himself a coward – he just knows the value of a tactical retreat.
Which is why he gruffly announces, ]
I need a shower.
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The tiny flash of pride is overshadowed by the gaping unknown sitting between them. ]
Don't use all the hot water, eh?
[ Because Faraday is definitely not the only one who needs a good shower. ]
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